Book 2: Chapter 48: The Octamillenial Brewing Contest
And so I found myself in the Arena of Minnova once again. Hopefully for the last time.
I thought back fondly to that day of the Barck Beer Brawl. That had been… almost exactly one year ago, come to think of it. It was just me and Balin against the world then. Things had certainly changed.
First of all, a two-dozen dwarf contingent of bag-pipers was currently marching around the wall of the arena blasting a rousing rendition of ‘Pomp and Circumstance’, or something equally pompous. It was quite entertaining, especially with all the jets of flame erupting from a bigger bagpipe the size of a cello.
And this time I wasn’t alone. The Thirsty Goat and our hangers-on took up a good sized section of the Arena. In the stands behind us, Rumbob, Beatbox, and the rest of the pro-drinkers were setting up some kind of cheer device invented by Beatbox’s youngest daughter (he was still banned from tinkering). Emerelda twirled her red braids and waved at me; I gave her a wide smile back. Behind them were a dozen faces I recognized from our recent weekly axeschlaggen night. I spotted Aqua’s father Tom and his wife and waved at them. Tom was wearing Thirsty Goat gear and seemed excited by the atmosphere. Richter and Johnsson sat on a small cask of Liquid Gold they’d smuggled in for post-win celebrations and were cheering the bagpipers on. A second cask full of secret pretzels sat under my own tooshie.
Then there were at least another couple rows of regulars. In fact, there were a lot of our regulars. They well outnumbered our cluster of employees, and I spotted Berry’s manager Amethyst alongside Aqua running up and down the stands selling Thirsty Goat branded gambesons. Two gold per piece.
No sense in wasting a good chance for hustle.
Looking out over the competition, it was easy to spot the individual breweries by their new logos.
There were:
Caskitt’s Full Cask
Rudd’s Ruddy Bloodbrews
Drum’s Rusty Battleaxe
Icewhite’s Moon over Minnova
Cimon’s Drunken Duck
Crackle’s Crackin’ Brews
Fault’s Faultless Brews
The other breweries were in attendance as well, but not worth mentioning. Each section was teeming with brown-robed apprentices, and they all had branded gear similar to our own.
I could smell Malt’s involvement in that.
In fact…
“Oy, Malt!” I shouted down to the sands of the Arena.
The small white haired and steel-armoured figure down below squinted up and waved. He shouted back unnaturally loudly with his Ability. “I greet you on this most auspicious day, Brewer Pete!”
“‘I greet you on this most auspicious day’ to you too. Why’re ya down there? I thought this was being run by tha city!”
“I’ve been asked to announce as the Guildmaster of the Brewer’s Guild! They bribed me with tarts!”
“What kinda bribe…” I muttered, as the elderly dwarf cheerfully hobbled over to the raised platform in the center of the Arena.
There wasn’t anything big this time. No picnic tables or black armoured attendants. No makeshift market or kitchen counters.
There was a single raised platform in the center of the arena with a large ornate picnic table and three separate chairs. A fancy lectern stood to the side with a stool behind it. The same enchantments that had allowed us to see zoomed in scenes of the cooking contest were set up to give the entire arena a close-up of the seats. The largest and fanciest chair had the symbol of Minnova on it. The chair to its right was inset with the symbology of the Gods, and the chair to its left had a pair of crossed axes with a beard overlaying them chiseled into the backrest.
Sooooo, the Grand Lord, Prophet Barnes, and Louis Blackbeard - who, it should be noted, wasn’t a Titled anything. Not even a [Politician]. From Johnsson’s stories about him, I still couldn’t believe he was a noble. Doc Opal had taught me waaaaaay back when that dwarven nobility was earned, but that was clearly as much a crock-of-shite as any such claims back on Earth. Old money and big clans ensured nobility was kept within old money and big clans. Sure, dwarves like Bran could earn nobility through impressive work and fame, but they were few and far between.
No wonder there was a little civil-disturbance pressure cooking in Kinshasa. I was going to need to visit one of the Great Charter rallies at least once.
“Hey… is that who I think it is?” Aqua caught my attention and pointed to one of the knots of brewing apprentices.
I squinted. “Who?”
“Is that our goatboy? He just ran under that banner of a moon over the spreading tree of Minnova.”
“Who?”
“You know! The [Therian] who applied to the brewery but fought with Penelope?”
“Who?”
“Are you a godsbedamned owl!?”
“Caw-CAW!”
Aqua punched me in the shoulder.
I rubbed it absentmindedly. “Owww. Ya mean Jack be-nimble, jack be-quick, jack ran away from a goatly tiff? Aye, I see him!”
Jack was indeed settling into his seat amongst the apprentice brewers of Moon over Minnova. All the white hair in that section made him stick out like a sore thumb.
Aqua hissed. “He joined Icewhite?? That traitor!”
“He never signed on with us. He’s not a traitor. Just a poor judge of character.” I sniffed. Nobody who had such terrible things to say about Penelope could be a good person. Him joining Icewhite’s Moon Over Minnova confirmed it.
“Speaking of which. Is Annie good to go with Penelope?”
“Aye. And she’s got Balin with her.”
All of the breweries were required to send in a single goat-driven-cart with a cask of beer. That was the way the Sacred Brew had been delivered to the dwarven mines since time immemorial. All the casks had to be the same, and the goats were all covered in armour to help keep them anonymous.
It had taken the better part of the month to get Penelope to wear the stuff. Bribing her with Liquid Gold and brushies had helped.
We were lucky the armour still fit. She was starting to bulge out of it.
“Oh! Oh! It’s startin’!” Richter pointed to where Malt was now standing in front of the lectern.
The bagpipes screeched to an ear-splitting crescendo then died, and the din of the crowd died with them. Malt’s Ability enhanced voice echoed out in the quiet. “One and all! I welcome you to this celebration of our Sacred Brew! The Guild of Brewers thanks you for your attendance, and our great country fer the chance to show our craft! We have eight of our finest breweries competing this day for the distinction of the greatest brewer in Minnova! I am your host today, the Guildmaster of the Brewers Guild, Master Brewer Malt!”
There was applause and cheers.
Malt continued, “Today we have three citizens of our beloved city and country providing their esteemed opinions! They will be judging our contestants on the brew that ‘best defines a dwarf’!”
He then launched into the rules we’d been given, along with the format for the competition. I quickly grew bored and tried to find a way to sit comfortably with a warhammer strapped to my back. I’d taken to carrying Slate Goldstone’s hammer when I went out, and it was a bit unwieldy.
As he drew to the end of his speech, Malt raised a hand and pointed to the portcullis in the arena wall. “And now, I’d like to announce the first of our judges! The Thorned Rose of Crack! Slayer of the Brindlewurm! Killer of the Emperor-vine! [Undying Fortress of Tiara]! Grand Lord Grafter of Minnova! Please rise and join me in ‘Minnova the Spreading Tree’!”
Whew, the old codger was really selling it! Those must have been some tarts! I’d seen the Lord at the Beer Brawl and he hadn’t been so -
As the portcullis rose, there was a palpable feeling of danger. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and beside me Johnsson hiccuped. Then the Grand Lord of MInnova stepped through. Power radiated off him like a wave, and the sand of the arena stirred. He was wearing the same ruby-red high-necked elvis plate-armour I’d seen him in at the Beer Brawl, but everything else was transformed. He wore a white cloak made of some kind of animal fur affixed to his armour with golden chains, and he had an enormous sword strapped to his back. His black beard was long and straight, with a sheared square bottom and his moustache was an even bigger handlebar than Balin’s!
A mithril circlet on his head was etched with runes, and his eyes glowed white from some kind of Ability. His gaze swept over the stands and I felt frozen in my steps like prey before a predator. He was flanked by a pair of steel-shod Highwatch, and as they strode across the sand the bagpipes fired back to life. It was a heady tune full of patriotism and literal fire. In the noble’s stands, a gout of flame rose to the sky, and I spotted a mage weaving sigils in the air with a wand. At her direction the fire crackled into a flowering tree, and the crowd began to sing. It was a deep, thrumming tune, each note like the weight of mountains.
The Spreading Tree
Our roots run deep.
Through erd, and rock, and stones.
Minnova of our ancestors,
It dwells within our bones.
Not cutting leaves
Nor biting thorns.
Could hold our fathers back!
Our mothers fought to found this place
Here in the depths of Crack!
Eight thousand years
Eight thousand more.
We journey in the dark.
Though branches seek to block our path,
They bleed when we cut bark.
Beseech the Gods
To Bless us all
And give thanks for our home!
Minno-ova, Minno-ova,
A place for all who roam!
Minno-ova, Minno-ova,
We watch the ways for thee!
Minno-ova, Minno-ova,
Ho-ome of the tree!
For a moment I was back in Vancouver, watching the good old hockey game. We were singing Oh Canada in the stands of Rogers Arena. Sammy was wearing an orca hat almost as big as her head and Caroline’s face was painted blue. The Canucks were losing again.
Then the world snapped back into focus. The blue was Aqua’s beard, and the orca hat was a goat stenciled carefully on a Thirsty Goat banner.
I cheered with everyone else, my voice only cracking a little, as the Grand Lord sat in his ornate chair in the center of the stage.
Malt’s voice called out again and this time his voice was solemn. “Our next judge. Master of Minnova Cathedral. The voice of the Gods in central Crack. [Doorkeeper of the Pinnacle]. Prophet Barnes.”
And then there was silence, like a switch had been thrown. Not even a cough, except for a single drunken dwarf who cheered then screamed as he was tossed out a window. The figure of Prophet Barnes walked out onto the sand. He was wearing his white robe of office with the gold stitching and was flanked on both sides by blue mithril-armoured guards.
To the dwarf (and gnome), everyone in the stands raised their hands in the pointer-and-pinky-finger-straight-up with-the ring-finger-down-and-middle-and-thumb-fingers meeting-in-the-middle holy-sign. The eerie stillness continued until the elderly Prophet arrived at the table and sat. He and Lord Grafter nodded at each other as the crowd let out a collective breath.
“And finally, coming to us all the way from Kinshasa to provide input from the capital nobility! Son of the Duke of the East! Baron of Copperfort! Louis Blackbeard!”
The dwarf that entered next was the complete opposite of Prophet Barne’s simple self assuredness, and lacked the Lord’s regal power. He wore a set of black clothes. Like, an actual suit uniform, not chain, or padded leather, or scale mail, or any form of armour I could see. The cuffs and seams of his suit were lined with silver thread, and his belt had some kind of dark purple ruffly lacey thing running underneath it. His black beard almost dragged on the floor as he walked, and it was weighted down with a mass of jewelry tied in amongst a myriad of knotwork. A white ruff billowed out from beneath his collar and framed his beard, making it really pop.
From what I could tell, he was tall for a dwarf, almost the same height as Jeremiah. Oh, no, skip that, his shining, black, steel-toed boots had high heels.
He only had a single guard with him, a figure in fancy golden armour. Said guard carried a shield and mace and looked pathetically out of place as he moved in next to the businesslike Highwatch and deadly church guards.
Balin wore it better.
The crowd… cheered-ish. And then it was time.
“May the Luck of Barck be with our contestants!” Malt called in the first goat, and a dappled brown unigoat trundled in through the portcullis bearing a cart laden with a single cask.
*Bing!*
New Quest: The Best Brewer Part 1
Go win your contest.
I expect something delicious.
Obtain the title of Best Brewer in Minnova: 0/1
Rewards: [Pete’s Miniature Remembrance]
Do you accept?
Yes / No
Obviously I clicked 'yes'.
This content is taken from fr(e)ewebn(o)vel.𝓬𝓸𝓶