“I heard he punched a wyvern, right in the snout!” declares Mugg, a gnome with a voice the volume of a man three times his height and the posture of someone standing on a barstool, which, in fact, he is.
Next to him, Brewgore, a barrel-chested half-orc, slams his mug on the bar and leans in. “Yeah — a red one! Dontcha know they breathe fire?”
Mugg rolls his eyes so hard his whole head tilts. “You idiot! It was a green dragon what spits poison. Jung Todesburg hates heat. Ain’t nothing hotter than a red dragon.”
With a theatrical huff, Mugg smacks Brewgore upside the head, his tiny hand making a wet slap. Brewgore blinks, unbothered.
From behind the bar, Mike, a tall lean human in a spotless white apron, doesn’t look up from his glass. “I heard it was a brown dragon that interrupted his solo while he was a singing strongman with the circus Drovka.”
A moment of confused silence passes before Slick, a jittery goblin with too many pockets, pipes up from his barrel-stool. “I heard he’s on a quest to reclaim his ancestral accordion. With it, he can charm dragons and curse nobles with eternal hiccups.”
Mugg blinks owlishly.
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of! Who cares about hiccups? It should curse them with molding crops or rotting toes!
Slick holds up a single green finger and explains. “Hiccups are the most annoying uncontrollable behavior! He won’t taint himself with that kind of evil without getting to enjoy causing it with his fists. Obviously.”
Brewgore leans in again, jabbing a finger. “That doesn’t matter because it’s actually the red wyvern!! He punched it because it tried to steal his grandmother’s battle-fur which he never takes off on account o’ its magic powers.”
Everyone at the bar falls silent as Jung himself bursts in the door in a flurry of dust and bellowing.
“It’s hotter than Hades’ tits in here!! Someone pull a few logs off that fire.”
He flings his fur cloak onto a table, causing a cluster of werewolf hunters to scatter, yelping and scrambling. With one hand he tears off his horned helm, and with the other he waves wildly at the bar.
After a brief pause, Mugg leans over, whispering from the side of his mouth, “Definitely a green dragon.”
=======
“It’s like my great-aunt Alevtina the Axe-Thrower always said,” Jung declares, thumping his stein on the table and sloshing foam over the rim. “‘Eat the potato before the potato eats you!’”
He gestures wildly as he speaks, his shaggy hair whipping around and narrowly avoiding the puddle of ale pooling around his stein on the rough wooden table.
“Now take this cabbage-piss soup away,” he bellows, swinging the stein at no one in particular, “and bring me a Dark ‘n’ Stormy if you can’t manage a decent ale!”
His companion, a slender, spindly middle-aged man in a brocade waistcoat, nods vigorously. As Jung continues, the man discreetly covers his own stein with a napkin — just in case any stray droplets go airborne.
“Yes, of course…” he murmurs, spinning one ring-laden wrist in lazy circles in the air. His white lace sleeves billow dramatically as he casts about for a convincing reply. “Mr. Jung, when the ale whispers to you… it’s few the man who… makes… mojitos.”
He finishes the sentence with a weak flourish and braces for impact.
“HAHHAAAA!!”
Jung’s booming laugh startles the few patrons who haven’t yet fled the tavern to avoid his mercurial temper.
“You, Laszlo the Leaky, my dear friend, have the best wisdom west of the Cliffs of Chaos!”
Under his breath, the man sighs, “It’s actually Larry. Larry the Long-Legged, sir. I’m actually the mayor.”
Mike the barkeep arrives with a fresh drink, his expression tight as he sets it down.
“It’s on account of the curse, Mr. Jung.” He shakes his head in despair. “We can’t keep no ale in the keg. I’m losin’ my shirt every night.”
He glares sideways at Larry, then elbows him roughly. “You’re the mayor. You fix this.”
Larry clears his throat, attempting dignity but mostly summoning a wheeze.
“Ahem. But sir, could you… possibly… do something about the keg? The price of ale keeps rising, the supply is constricted by this terrible curse, and—” His voice climbs to a pitiful wail. “—I’m going to be driven out of office!”
Jung leans in suddenly, face grave.
“Tell me about this curse that threatens my supply of ale.”
Mike busies himself furiously with a rag, at another table within earshot. Larry, cornered, stammers.
“It’s—it’s a curse! The ale… it’s almost alive! It whispers terrible things to all nearby. And once it starts, after the first sip, every batch nearby tastes like boiled cabbage and despair!”
Jung nods solemnly.
“I have heard of this before. My priest’s stepfather Andrei — he was a bit of a layabout, but a good man to help bury the bodies — once spoke of just such a curs-ed brew. It ruins regular ale nearby and whispers horrors to its enemies. It could only be defeated by drinking it. Every. Last. Drop.”
A hush falls over the tavern.
Mike freezes mid-wipe. Larry stops blinking.
“…But,” Mike begins weakly, “that’s not just one keg. That’s half a dozen barrels. It’s eight months’ worth of production!” His towel stops moving. His jaw hangs open.
“So you see, Mr. Jung, sir,” Larry blurts out, “we simply must have someone of your particular talents address this situation!”
Jung rises to his full imposing height and lets out a snort.
“I have no fear of a cursed drink and its useless whispering! And you puny lot could not be up to the task of drinking this much. Look at you! A mayor who wilts like boiled spinach! A barkeep who cries into his own soup! That gnome—” he points at Mugg, “—couldn’t finish a thimble without falling off his stool!”
Mugg straightens up. “Hey now—” Brewgore hastily covers his mouth and holds Mugg back. Mugg acquiesces just a bit too easily to be believable.
Jung nods, thinking aloud. “I will seek the wisdom of the elders. Tomorrow I begin a journey up the mountain. At midnight on the night of the new moon, I will harvest the secret mushroom and brew it into a bitter tea. Drinking this tea will begin the ceremony that will allow me to contact—”
“But sir!” Slick calls out from the bar, waving frantically. “The kegs are in the brew house. It’s the stone annex out back. There’s not even a lock on the door.”
Mike glares. “So you’re the thief. It was locked…”
Jung throws up his arms in delight. “Yes, my friends!! What a wise sage sits among us!”
He claps Slick on the back without looking. Slick squeals and topples off his stool with a clatter, lying face-down on the floor and staying there.
Mugg and Brewgore shoot him identical glares, each wondering how long Slick had kept this knowledge, and free ale, to himself.
“Let us set out immediately!” Jung declares. “I will talk some sense into this cursed keg. And if I can’t?”
He slams his stein down, foam flying.
“I drink it all down!”
He turns and claps Larry hard on the shoulders, sending him sprawling. Larry recovers quickly, straightening his waistcoat with a whimper and scurrying outside after Jung.
Mike leans on the bar, stares into the middle distance, and quietly cries into his towel.
=====
Later that night…
Jung wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, belches thunderously, and claps his hands together, the sound echoing through the empty brew house. A few stray drops of ale flick from his hands as he grins, displaying several blackened and missing teeth.
“And that my friends, is how the bear slides to victory in the motherland,” he announces to no one in particular.
Nearby, Larry, muddy and dazed, straightens his crumpled mayoral sash and begins hastily packing anything not nailed down into a loose sack; papers, a ladle, and a small cask labeled Experiment #42.
Jung bounds out the door without another word, satisfied that he has saved the day — or at least secured his future access to quality ale.
A few drops of the dark ale, spilled from his hands, trail behind him. They slide across the tile floor, unnaturally swift, and seep through the cracks at the back door. Outside, they slither into the mossy earth, vanishing into the forest beyond.
========
Under the shade of a tall oak at the forest’s edge, Mugg, Brewgore, and Slick huddle unmoving over a shallow puddle of ale glistening between the roots.
Brewgore leans in, whispering. “The puddle’s talkin’. D’ya hear that, Mugg?”
Mugg squints. “Says it’s got unfinished business with Jung…”
Slick perks up. “Or that I left my toothbrush at the bathhouse again.”
_____________
Excerpted from “The Cursed Keg of Collinswood” by M.S. Dirgewood. Originally published in Two-Fisted Teutonic Fantasy, Winter 1974.
_____________
AI was used to create this post’s image but not the story, and never our music or album art.
No responses yet