The Dwarven Sorcerer

The Dwarven Sorcerer Ch 32

Thrack sat by the inn's fireplace, burning away the last of the chill that had seeped into his marrow. He mopped up the last of the mutton stew with some sweet bread while Kline licked the sticky honey from his fingers. Normally he would have enjoyed the stew, it was filled with large pieces of mutton, potatoes, loads of barley, and dried fruit but he ate without tasting it.

He was freshly bathed and had changed into new clothes he purchased from a local tailor that had no dwarf-sized clothing so he had to make due; the tunic was a little tight around the chest and the trousers were a bit long but at least they were dry. His armour and hammer were cleaned and polished in the locked room he had rented. His hair was tied in a tight braid and his beard was combed and oiled. He felt empty like there was a hole in his heart. Thrack let out a sigh, a deep sigh, the kind of sigh that reached down into his soul, the kind reserved for those who are barely hanging onto the faintest of hopes. He stared out into the busy common room, staring at nothing, staring at the darkness, staring at his future. He drank.

He finished his third ale and Dick, the innkeeper, hurried over with a fourth.

Thrack looked up at the tall thin man with dark, sunken eyes. "You don't happen to know about any wizard colleges or the like anywhere, would ya? Other than the Whyte Tower, of course."

"Now that is a quandary," he said, absently scratching his unshaven chin. He frowned in thought. "I only know 'bout the tower 'cause it's so close, if you catch my meaning."

"How about any other place that might have a bunch of wizards or the like?"

"A bunch of wizards?" The innkeeper thought for a moment longer. "Nah, can't think of nothing like that."

"Oh," replied Thrack. He felt the last ember of hope burn out and drank his ale.

Thrack sat quietly, filling the hole in his heart with drink since he had nothing else to do. It turned out that the dwarven coin he carried could go a long way in human cities and Thrack had plenty of silver and gold, the money he had to buy a cure. It was more than enough to drink himself into oblivion. With no plans, no hope, and nowhere to go, Thrack stayed in the inn, sitting at a table, staring at the small room, and ordered drink after drink.

Kline sat on the table eating the sweet honey and bread and drinking a thimble of milk alongside the dwarf. The brownie looked more and more like a miniature dwarf every day. He wore armour similar to Thrack's looked like it was made of scavenged objects he found on their travels, he carried a tiny war hammer and even had a beard.

Do Brownies normally grow beards? Thrack wondered, not for the first time, but he didn't know enough about the strange creatures to guess either way. He shrugged away the thought and poured his ale down his throat before ordering another one. He got good and drunk before stumbling up the stairs to bed.

Thrack's tongue was pasty and thick. He groaned as he rolled out of bed, falling to the floor with a loud thunk. The room was filled with the smell of sweet and sour ale. He crawled to the chamberpot, wrapped his arms around it and vomited.

He stumbled down the stairs, nearly tripping over the last few steps and ordered a drink. His empty stomach tried to reject the liquid breakfast but he forced it to stay down and ordered another one. He drank until he passed out at the table, woke up several hours later, his face sitting in a pool of warm ale. He got up to piss and vomit and to do it again. He vaguely remembered talking to someone but couldn't picture a face.

He wandered the streets, swaying as he went. He walked past shops selling random human trinkets and other poorly made garbage that couldn't compare to the superior dwarven goods. He paused to look through the window of a shop selling strange-looking marionettes when he was slammed hard from behind.