Winestruck

This little story here is a extract from one of my larger stories, about Frandal the winemaker and how he got caught up in all sorts of trouble.

“Remind me Frandal, what’s the most important part of making a wine?” asked Benari, Frandal’s teacher. He knew Benari hadn’t forgotten, he was testing Frandal to make sure he’d listened to his lessons.

“The most important part is patience” he sighed, picking berries from one of the many bushes in the garden of their rich family’s house. Not ‘their’ family to be exact, but the family they worked for; making them alcoholic drinks.

Benari frowned. “It’s not yet time for the fruits to bloom to their fullest. Another example of where patience is needed; an attribute our employers don’t have” he carried on looking, only picking a few fruits that had luckily grown to an appeasing colour.

In truth they weren’t ‘employed’. They were more similar to spoils of war. Frandal had lived far to the east in the town of Rainfast; named after it’s unfortunate weather. The townsfolk always used to complain about it. Frandal enjoyed the rain though. To him it sounded like hundreds of lost souls harmlessly trying to be reunited with the earth. Now whenever it rained it reminded him of home; of better times.

Benari had worked for Frandal’s family, employed by his father. An actual employment, not slavery. Benari had been paid well, and he had made wonderful wines for the family.

Eventually, however, the war had swept their way. The kingdom of Capiera had invaded their land and claimed their town. Frandal’s family had been slain.

Benari was about to be struck down as well until he pleaded “wait, wait, I am but a winemaker” he said. Amazingly they stopped their swords. “I just make alcohol” he continued. “try some if you like. All the wines and beers and meads in this house were made by me” he boasted. The men had looked at each other and decided not to kill him. They would spare his life; to take him back to their city as their own personal winemaker. When the men had turned to Frandal, only young lad back then, Benari had told them he was his apprentice. They had let both live.

And so it was that the Veldon family had taken them prisoner to a city near the sea, on a jagged mountainside. The city was aptly named ‘The Shattered Glass’ in reference to the mountain’s treacherous cracks.

Frandal had argued against Benari many times; wanting to escape; wanting to avenge his family; wanting anything but this. Eventually, however, as the years went by he accepted his fate and started to learn what Benari had to teach him.

“No one kills one who can make alcohol” Benari had told him one day. “Something everyone has in common is a deep desire to drink. We supply their drink. If the day ever comes when a man pulls a blade on you, you tell him you make alcohol”

And so, years later, Frandal now being Seventeen years of age, the sounds of war, of blood and fire, rang horrifically familiar to both of them.

They heard shouts from the house. “What’s going on?” came the cries.

It seemed the family wasn’t used to being warred upon, they knew what it was to war on other people, but didn’t recognise it the other way round. Many of the people in this town had been in the war to conquer Frandal’s old home; surely they would fight off their attackers?

As they rushed back to the house they saw this wasn’t so. The building was aflame. A door was kicked open and a body fell out of it, sliding off the end of a wickedly jagged blade. A dark skinned man; wearing only leathers, followed the body out; another viscous lighter-skinned man behind him, this one holding an axe in each hand.

“Let me handle this” Benari whispered. He strode forward confidently.

“Now now, this must be a mistake” he said, with a nervous smile on his face.

The dark-skinned one strode forward and cut through him, sending his body crashing to the ground, almost in two pieces, blood flooding forth.

Frandal fell to his knees in horror. He felt the air catch in his throat. Fear had him in it’s tight grip.  He was next.

The men first bent down to look through Benari’s pockets, looting their kill.

Deep down Frandal could feel a spark of anger. He barely noticed it through the chilling fear. Yet somehow he was on his feet, rushing towards them, fist raised high.

Stop you fool! He said to himself. He didn’t seem to have control of his body. Tears rushed down his cheeks as he raged forward, jumping at the dark one with the sword.

Then, suddenly, the axe-wielder’s booted foot was in his stomach. He doubled over in agony, tasting sour bile in his mouth. A second blow, from foot or otherwise he couldn’t tell, sent him to the floor.

“You’ll get your turn young one” one of them snarled with a strange accent.

They talk our language he thought, surprised by the savages. Perhaps he still had a chance. He tried to roll over, taking a few tries to do it, and tried to gasp out some words, but with all the wind gone from his lungs, and him still struggling to breath more in, he could only manage raspy croaks.

The dark one with the blade that looked like the teeth of a monster’s mouth, dripping with blood, came forward.

The other one put his hand on his shoulder to stop him, one of his axes hanging at his belt.

“The boy is trying to say something” he said, this one’s voice less barbaric; more normal.

“So?” the dark one replied, obviously wondering why it should concern him.

“Let’s do him the mercy of hearing his final words. I wonder if they’ll be any good” he said with amusement.

The dark one tutted, rolling his eyes, but stopped to let Frandal regain his breath. Taking his opportunity, Frandal coughed out vigorously “I.... I make wine!”

The two looked at each other, then burst into laughter.

“Wouldn’t have been my choice” the light one laughed, shrugging.

“I woulda done better” The dark one said as he raised his sword.

“Wait wait!” Frandal pleaded. The one with the blade sighed wearily.

“I am but a winemaker” he continued, hardly believing he could remember the words after all these years. “I just make alcohol”. That word seemed to gain the axed man’s attention. “try some if you like. All the wines and beers and meads in this house were made by me” he said, motioning to the burning house behind them, realising how foolish he must seem.

“One thing our troupe lacks is someone who can make us drinks” the man admitted.

“We have ol’ Creppy for that” rasped the dark one.

The other spat on the floor. “That old bitch’s drinks are foul. Besides, Reck’s group keep most of them to themselves. Maybe this boy can us make something better”

The dark-skinned one looked unconvinced. “He tried to hit me” he said, as if that should settle it. He turned back to Frandal.

“True, you never let go of your pride do you? If someone even offends you, you won’t rest til the man is dead.... or the woman raped”

The man’s sword came down, a viscous bloodthirsty smile on his face. Frandal closed his eyes, expecting death.

It didn’t come.

He opened his eyes.

The man’s sword had hit the ground beside him, and as Frandal looked up confusedly he saw the light-skinned man grinning down at him, his hand holding an axe that was digging deeply into the other’s back. He gruesomely pulled it free, blood spattering over him accompanied by the gruesome sound of splitting bone.

“Come on then” he said cheerily. The sound made Frandal want to vomit. “You’ve got wine to make”

Frandal couldn’t believe his luck. He stood. The man grabbed his arm roughly and pulled him with him.

“I hope Reck lets us keep you. Him and his are the only one that likes old Creppy’s shitty drinks” he sighed. Suddenly he laughed madly.

“W.... what’s so funny?” Frandal asked weakly, looking up at the man who towered a good foot above him.

“I just realised, Blattrick back there” he said, referring to his dead partner. “he said ‘he tried to hit me’. His last words certainly weren’t any better than yours”