That evening Zand returned to collect his free meal. The barkeep smiled at him as he entered and waved a hand toward a seat at the bar. Zand nodded and took the indicated seat. A larger than usual mug was placed in front of him, then the barkeep opened a new bottle of mead and filled the vessel. He shook the bottle and heard the remaining liquid, then set it next to the mug.
“There’s goat stew with wild onions and tame potatoes,” the barkeep said, laughing at his own joke. Zand joined in laughing, though he wasn’t sure what was so funny.
A large bowl full of meat and vegetables was placed before Zand, as well as a hunk of fresh, brown bread. Zand couldn’t remember the last time he ate fresh bread, and he had to force himself to not wolf it down in three gulps. The barkeep laughed and let him know he could have a second piece, if he wanted. Then he walked away and tended to the fire.
Zand ate and drank, then did some more. He took the offer of a second piece of bread and wiped the bowl clean with it. When his mug and bottle were empty, he reached into his pouch and fingered the remaining money. The barkeep spoke up, rousing Zand’s attention.
“If you’d like, I can spare a standard mug of honey ale.”
“Yes, that’d be wonderful.”
After the mug was set down, the barkeep spoke low, so as to not be overheard, “That old man was my father, well, not my true father, but the man had a large hand in raising me. So I thank you, truly and deeply, for helping me tend to him today. It means a lot to me.” After clearing his throat, the barkeep continued, “My name is Varl. Might I have your name?”
“My name is Zand. I am glad to have been able to help, and thankful for the payment provided.” He took a sip of the honey ale before continuing, “ How is he?”
Varl looked down, sadness in his eyes. Then shaking his head, “He lost too much blood and was too old. He regained consciousness for a time, and we spoke of things I will not repeat. He also told me of what happened, and that I will repeat. He had been travelling back from visiting his daughter’s family in a town to the south. He had arranged passage with a trading caravan, hoping to avoid the long walk by riding in a cart with some potatoes. Unfortunately, caravans attract bandits and the guard was overwhelmed. The bandits didn’t care about some old man, and let him escape on foot. The arrow was from their opening volley, which only found him by chance. Still, they caused his death. I know you’ve been looking for a proper mercenary job. And while I cannot afford to pay a group of adventurers to wipe those damned bandits from the very memory of the land, I can recommend you to the local militia and they can pay in gold. What say you?”
Zand took a long swig of ale. He let the words swirl in his head. He did seek adventure, but join a militia? No one said he’d have to join for life.
“Count me in.”
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Several days later Zand was riding in the back of a covered wagon with some other members of the militia. On the outside the wagon looked normal, but the inside was reinforced to keep the men safe from arrows. It wouldn’t do to have them skewered before they’d even had a chance to act. The entire merchant caravan was a ruse, with each man a member of the militia or a member of the city watch. Some of the more slender men had been dressed in bright scarves to look like women, which would usually be a part of a caravan. There would also be children, but it would be expected that they ride in the covered wagons. The sacks were loaded with leaves to give the appearance of goods, and the barrels were filled with water, mostly. No ale was allowed, so that the men would be fresh and keen when the time came.
The caravan had been on the road for two days now, and the likelihood of attack should have been low. The trip would be two weeks long and the best time to strike is in the middle. That assumes the bandits were thinking ahead, but not all bandits had effective leadership. That was good for the kingdom, but it also meant that Zand could not let his guard down at all during the trip. Besides, the old man’s caravan had been attacked less than one day’s walk from town.
***********************
The caravan made it without issue, which was actually problematic. It was assumed that within the first 3 days they would be attacked, so only 6 days worth of food had been brought. And while many members of the militia and city watch could have easily hunted for food, they had to maintain the illusion of their caravan. After 3 days, everyone was cut to half rations. When the terrain allowed for it, a small hunting team was permitted to hunt, but were required to bring back something special. Again, to maintain illusion. No caravan of merchants would resort to eating striped rat or crow. No, only a wild deer would suffice. Deer were of course hard to hunt, which meant the team came back empty handed. Several wild pigs were spotted, but were left alone.
The commander called for Zand on the fourth night.
“I understand you have magical abilities. Tell me, can you create food?” The commander asked.
“It is not something I have ever tried to do. If you would like, I can attempt to this evening in my tent, but I can make no guarantees anything will come of it. Other than my getting a terrible headache,” Zand replied.
“Mmmm, yes. Please do. And if you can create enough food for twenty men, even better. Dismissed.”
Zand returned to his tent and thought of possible foods he might try to make. He wanted cheese most of all, so he decided to start there. He pictured a small wheel of goat cheese in his head and placed his hands apart as if to hold it. He tried to imagine its taste and texture, the smell and the weight of it. His eyes were closed as he focused intently, but his curiosity got to him. Opening one eye, he spotted something floating in the space between his hands. He tried to grab it, but found only his other hand. Whatever it had been, was no more. He wrote it off as hunger-induced hallucination and tried again.
After several more attempts, all Zand had successfully accomplished was giving himself a headache as he feared. He carefully tried to channel the rising magic to his muscles, but most of it dissipated harmlessly into the aether. His muscles tingled a bit where the magic touched them, but he did not notice any real benefit. Feeling exhausted, Zand got into his bedroll and fell quickly asleep.
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I hope you're enjoying this story. I also have a zombie e-book on Amazon that I'm rather proud of.
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