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Book 3: Chapter 59: The Redlip Riot (1)

Bodies littered the ground around me as I dragged myself beneath Whistlemop’s carriage. I kept an iron grip on the Goldstone warhammer, my one and only life line in this pit of the Nether. It’d served me well these past few hours, and it would serve me well until I finally walked into the halls of valhalla.

Or climbed that stupid Godly mountain. Whatever.

“Go on Pete, I’ll nae make it!” Malt groaned from beside me. He was stashed up behind a wagon wheel, a pair of unconscious dwarves serving as camouflage. His ankle was swollen and looked either horribly sprained or broken.

“No dwarf left behind.” I hissed, daring to peek out from under the cart. “Where’re Godsdamn Richter and Berry! They should be in the backline supportin’ the rest of us!”

“Berry ran off with that tall elf when the fighting started. I don’t know where Richter is.”

“That little traitor!”

“Now, now, she’s a young woman in love. *cough*. I heard Annie somewhere over there. If I know her, and I’ve known her since she was knee high to a gnome, she’s probably rallied the defense.”

“Can you move?”

“I can try.”

There was a muffled hiss from a pile of bodies ten meters from the cart. The dwarves were all unconscious and in various states of disarray, but all shared one feature in common – comically swollen ruby red lips. Malt and I tensed, then relaxed as a familiar whistley voice whispered forth. “Pete?”

I turned back to Malt, offering my hand as I pulled him to his knees. I surveyed the road, but we looked to be in the clear at the moment. I pointed east, deeper into the market. “I think she’s that way.”

“Pete, it’s me, Whistlemop.” The pile of bodies shifted. “I’m stuck! These drunken coal-heads weigh a ton! Help!”

“On the count of five, run.” I told Malt. “Lean on me if you need to.”

The pile rocked violently. “Dammit! I know you can hear me Pete! HELP!”

“Should we help him?” Malt whispered.

“He’s safer under there.” I muttered. “And he won’t be able to keep up. Besides, this is all his fault.”

The pile shifted again. “Gods! They stink! And that had better be beer soaking into my good suit! I swear to Yearn, Pete, if you leave me here – “

“No dwarf left behind. Five – four – “

“PETE!!!!!” The pile shrieked.

“threetwoone – RUN!”

—

Two Hours Earlier

Ah, release day. The only thing more fun than back when Boxing Day meant stuff actually went on sale. Seriously Canadian Tire? Twenty dollars off a two-hundred dollar grill? Twist my arm whydontcha.

As per usual, we were announcing at Whistlemops’ cart in the Grand Market, while Schist revealed his brew at the Guild’s permanent Main Street storefront. It was just a stone’s throw away, in part so folks could make it in time to try both of our brews. We were set up on grocer street, where Whistlemop mostly sold Whistlemugs and other glass sundries for cooking and eating.

Kinshasa’s Redwall Grand Market was similar enough to Minnova’s Grand Market with one key difference – it wasn’t a square. Instead, there was one enormous strip running the length of Redwall Gate to Blackwall. At quarter intervals, another wide street ran perpendicular to the Main street, creating in effect another Main Street. They were so incredibly wide that there was plenty of space for caravans, bazaars, street vendors, and more.

Each of the large side streets was themed; one for blacksmiths, arms and armor and weapons, another for butchers and bakers and other food stuffs, and so on and so forth. One entire street was dedicated to city services, including city hall, the guard station, the fire hall, et cetera.

Kinshasa’s University of Archis also had such a street to itself, with the thoroughfare serving as the University\'s grounds, and all the apartments below the stores providing student housing. The mage’s tower of the Academy was actually the tallest building in Kinshasa, dwarfing even the church’s cathedral.

Today was about spectacle, and we had set up quite the spectacle. Dwarf Draconis and his musical accompaniment were lined up atop Whistlemop’s cart. Draconis was in his usual tight red and orange scale pants and not much else.

The ostentatious little capitalist Whistlemop was in his best rainbow suit today, complete with a new top-hat of indeterminate magical means. His Whistlemugs had been doing quite well in Kinshasa, assuming that the accounting he’d recently made me read was all correct. He’d been making an absolute killing with special edition mugs for each round of contests.

“Did you hire additional security, Whistlemop?” I asked, as I looked out over the bustling crowd with apprehension. “I don’t see the dozen adventuring teams I asked for.”

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“Do you have any idea what that many adventurers cost? I got three.”

“Three!?”

“Pete. You said your beer knocks people out. I think even six is too many. Maybe we can get them to move unconscious drunks off the road to earn their keep.”

“Whistlemop, you haven’t seen how dwarves can get. Hang tha cost, yer gonna regret not having more guards.”

Whistlemop rolled his eyes. “These are dwarves, not psychotic goats from the pits of the Nether.”

I sniggered, even as my brows creased with worry. “You’ll never live that down.”

“I’ll get that goat back one day, mark my word.”

“Penelope’ll eat yer sad little excuse of a beard for breakfast.”

“Hpmh, either way it’s too late to get more. I still think six will be enough.”

I frowned. “I hope yer right.”

The crowd filling the surrounding street had already reached at least a thousand souls, and we were still a half-hour from the announcement. Thankfully, the general atmosphere was festive, with dwarves excitedly comparing their tankards and whistlemugs and other various beer paraphernalia. I was happy to see blue boxes here and there for empties, and they were being put to proper use by the civic-minded Crackians.

I took the time to check on our massive stockpile of barrels and bottles. With judicial use of [Rapid Aging], this was quite possibly the most beer that the Thirsty Goat had ever produced. I was actually starting to look forward to the competition ending; it was getting to be a bit too much work!

Richter gave me the thumbs up as I approached. “It is all working, Pete.”

“No problems with the temperature after the move?”

“No.”

I walked around the party-sized tent we were keeping all the beer in. It had cooling runes inscribed on all the sides. They’d been expensive, but doppelbocks tasted best cold. One of the competitors back in the first round had even won using magically chilled bottles, but this was a lot cheaper.

“Any word yet from Riverside?” Johnsson asked.

“Nope. I’m sooooo curious.” I didn’t whine. “Any guesses?”

“Beer that explodes in your face.” Richter said, instantly. “Mages always love explosions.”

Johnsson shook his head. “Nah, it’ll be a brew that turns your fists into rocks, or maybe your head.”

“I think it’ll be simple, just like ours.” Annie proclaimed. “Schist’s a brewer first, too. I think it’ll be a regular Sacred Brew with a bit of a twist. Something extremely sour, or super spicy, or extra sweet. A brew that hitshard. I just hope it isn’t high alcohol like ours…”

“Not salty?” I asked.

“Please, that was last round.”

We went through our pre-sale day checklist one last time, and then the hour arrived. Annie whispered to me as Dwarf Draconis strutted about on his ‘stage’ atop Whistlemop’s cart, “Are our permits in order? We did get that strongly worded letter from the city about the last time.”

“Aye. I upgraded us to a ‘public show’ rather than ‘public speech’. It cost more for the permit, but it should be fine.”

Any further conversation was stymied as the flaming bagpipes roared to life, screaming the tune to Thunderstuck – thanks to your truly – while an enormous bass drum pounded the beat.

“My Kinshasan brothers and sisters! Who’s ready to see a show?” Draconis roared above the din, clearly making use of [Project Voice]. Geeze, everyone had that bloody Ability!

The crowd roared back, and Draconis activated his signature flames as he breathed fire into the air.

What followed was something straight out of the WWE as Draconis put on a show, jumping and leaping and launching flames every which way. A fire marshal from Earth would’ve had a heart attack.

After a solid minute of pointing, laughing, shouting, and swearing, a voice echoed out over the crowd.

“You think you own this street, Draconis? I was burying my shit here before you were born, and I’ll add you to the pile if you don’t get outta here!”

Draconis swung to face the offender, and the crowd’s gaze swung with him.

“Badgerlord!” Draconis shouted, his face a rictus of rage. “You filthy animal!”

“Aye, and I’ll get even filthier when I take a bath in yer guts!” A dwarf standing on a nearby rooftop screamed back. He was wearing pitch black hide armour with a white tunic. He also had massive shoulderpads with black and white stripes, and a big metal coif topped by a badger head.

“Looks like roast Badger’s on the menu tonight!” Draconis raised his fists. “Come over here if yer dwarf enough. Though I guess not, since yer just a lowly badger!”

“Argh! I’ll rip off yer b – “

*blaaaaaahh* [Translated From Primma Donna Goat] “My sensitive royal ears!

I clapped as the crowd roared their approval, solid B-Movie acting there. Good show, good show.

Badgerlord jumped down off the roof onto Whistlemop’s caravan, and the pair of luchadwarfs began to wrestle. It was toned down from their regular show – a wagon-top wasn’t a proper ring – but it was still impressive choreography.

Choreography that Draconis was meant to win. After five minutes of slapping, punching, kicking, and screaming, Badgerlord, the Lord of the Badgers, collapsed to his knees.

“Can nothing stop you, Draconis?” He groaned, before collapsing off the cart and onto a safety tarpaulin set up for the purpose.

Draconis wiped a sweaty arm across his brow. “Nothing on this Erd can, Badgerlord, except maybe another dragon.”

At that point he held up a comically enormous bottle of our new Dragonator. The bottle was a dark green, with the image of a vicious looking red dragon painted on the label.

“Like this! The Dragonator! It’s the only brew that’s capable of takin’ down even me, The Dwarf Draconis!”

With that he lifted the novelty bottle to his lips and drank long and deep. He full on chugged the friggin’ thing!

The entire staff of the Thirsty Goat winced. Draconis hadn’t actually tried any of the Dragonator yet, because he wanted his initial reaction to be as honest as possible. We’d warned him…

He coughed once, and a wisp of smoke came out with it. He glanced down at our little group with eyes as wide as saucers.

“Oy, that’s –“ was as far as he got before his eyes rolled back, and black smoke rocketed out of his open mouth and into the sky. It looked like his soul was escaping his body. Without another word he toppled like a tree right off the cart and onto the tarpaulin. Badgerlord gave a muffled *oof* as Draconis landed right on his midsection.

There was deadsilence in the market, which was broken as somebody in the audience asked, “Is he dead?”