A Novel

The Alchemist of Goreau — Chapter 2

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The Alchemist of Goreau is a fantasy novel set in late 1800’s in a mountainous Central European country with magic, incredible and unbelievable situations, and a healthy dose of humor. The story follows Donwillo, a mid-twenties alchemist struggling to make a name for himself in the world. When the world starts to crumble, he’s the most likely suspect. Follow his journey as he seeks to clear his name.

Are you ready to join Donwillo on a fantastical journey?

Read Chapter 1 here:

Chapter 2: Hired Hands

The air was a mixture of hot beer breath, body odor aged and steeped in thick winter clothing, and the occasional waft of sweet alpine air as it poked its head in through the tavern door and quickly left as it realized it wasn’t welcome.

Das Weiswasser was the place for rowdy fishermen, tradesmen, and lumberjacks to congregate for a raucous good time during the short winter days. And it was where Greck and Balif, in service of the Absolutum, found themselves this evening.

They sat in a wooden booth facing each other, their shoulders shifting like tectonic plates when they brought beer mugs to their lips.

Foam clung to Greck’s mammoth beard like a climber to a mossy rock.

Balif’s hairy wrists left one imagining him part-man part-wildebeest.

They’d been drinking so much that when Greck shifted his weight he sounded like a water filled bed.

“What’re we doin’ here?” asked Greck, his words sliding off his tongue crooked.

“We, *hiccup*, done goofed,” replied Balif.

Greek took a tall drink and made short work of it.

“Oh yeah,” Greck said somberly, as if he knew what Balif was talking about.

“We did the thing then?” he asked.

“Too many stabbings, yep. Unpermitted ones. We blew through our allowance so they sent us out to the boonies.”

“We do love stabbing, don’t we?” asked Greck earnestly.

Balif nodded.

Greck collected his thoughts, which was no small job.

“So, no more stabbing, then? Is that our ticket out of here?”

Balif nodded again.

“But a little roughhousing,” suggested Greck, “that would be fine?”

Balif didn’t like where this was going. Mostly because he was in no mood to backup his unpredictable partner in a bar fight. All Balif wanted was a nice calm evening of heavy drinking to forget.

Greck and Balif had met at Henchmen Training a few years before. They had caught eyes while in the midst of a training brawl involving heavy maces and full strength head bashing. They were the only recruits with mad grins on their faces. They both knew they were destined to be partners at that moment.

When they graduated they were thrilled to be placed on assignment together. Unfortunately, their similar habit of escalating situations quickly got them in trouble.

Since they’re reassignment to Goreau, Balif had tried practicing introspection. This was a first for him.

“If Greck is always trying to stab people, and I’m always trying to stab people, who is going to stop us from stabbing people?” he thought.

“One of us has gotta sit back once in a while and ask ourselves, is stabbing really the correct course of action here? And if Greek won’t do it, then I guess it falls to me.”

This gave Balif a profound sense of moral superiority over his partner.

“Do you remember our first job together?” asked Balif.

Greck tried to remember what the word “remember” meant.

“We had to go intimidate that jeweler into giving us a big gold necklace for the Absolutum to wear to a feast.”

Greck’s eyes lit up like a candle behind a frosted window.

“Was a good job,” Greck finally said.

“Right. We came in, knocked some displays over, grabbed him by his sweater vest, dragged him up to the roof and held him over the chimney.”

“Why did we do that again?” asked Greck.

“Because, we’re henchmen, idiot. We hench, men.”

Balif laughed so hard at his joke the chandelier shook.

“I don’t get it,” said Greck, drooling a little.

Not getting the joke made Greck feel insecure. Feeling insecure returned his settings to factory, which meant he was about to compensate for his inferiority complex by slinging skulls into each other like a set of dominos.

The volume of the tavern had risen gradually, the way it does in large drunk gatherings. Greck employed his powers of observation to detect rifts he might leverage into a brawl, but his powers of observations were underpaid.

Barnard the bartender who was always clicking his tongue at the bawdy jokes, inappropriate come on’s, and general deplorable characters, could not contain a smirk that revealed he secretly enjoyed the debauched camaraderie.

Greck had excelled in Instigating 101.

He’d cheated off the best student’s paper and then given those answers away to three other people. He then changed a few of his answers to be different.

When the teacher discovered four identical answer sheets he failed the others and Greck got the highest grade by default.

Still, rowdy as the bar was, Greck was having trouble spotting a rift to exploit.

Everyone was far too agreeable.

“Gonna have to do it the hard way,” he muttered climbing out of the booth like a drunken sailor over the mast.

“Please don’t,” said Balif, knowing his words were powerless to stop Greck.

“We’re supposed to lie low,” Balif said to no effect.

Greck pretended not to hear him as he walked up to the bar and stood between two patrons conversing jovially.

He butted in, planting himself like a blasting cap.

He started lifting the men’s hands and waving them like marionettes while he hummed, “dat da dat da dah.”

The men’s expressions changed to annoyance.

“Good,” he thought, “this’ll be easy.”

He grabbed their beers and gulped them down at the same time, spilling most of the good stuff and covering his face in foam. Then he leaned in to kiss the one on the left, and immediately ducked as the man took a swing at him, clocking the other patron in the face.

Greck skipped away, prancing through tables, giving noogies, slapping hats off heads, squeezing a few cheeks and nipples, and then, when the assaulted victim turned to look he was pointing seriously, angrily, at somebody else.

He was at the top of his class once again.

The bar couldn’t contain itself.

Balif smashed a chair with his deltoids as it came flying into his back. He hunkered down, having spent the last of his paycheck on his beer, he didn’t want it to go to waste.

Greck tiptoed through the tulips, so to speak, like a Fraulein through a sunlit meadow. He radiated bliss.

Surprisingly light on his feet, Greck was buoyed by the furious energy that surrounded him. The bubbling rage as fists were thrown, objects were tossed, and fellows were slid down the slippery bar headfirst, carried him like the wings of an angel.

“My talents are unappreciated,” he thought, breaking a table over a lumberjack’s head.

“Timber!” he shouted as he did so.

A few burly, weathered fishermen congregated in the corner, having diagnosed the problem. Greck didn’t see them coming as they worked in tandem to crunch his various bones and bring him to the floor, where they piled all the furniture in the room on top of his body.

Balif glanced over. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” he said helpfully, “he’s a professional instigator.”

The fisherman looked at Balif like he was crazy, which was a pretty astute observation. Except, he happened to be correct in this moment.

Greck let himself be buried under the heavy oak tables and then, after a moment, let out a roar cry he’d been practicing and sent broken wooden shards flying every which way as he rose from the wreckage.

Balif rolled his eyes.

Barnard stood on the bar, no longer enjoying the rowdy camaraderie. He had his hands outstretched as if palms alone would still the carnage.

A few off duty constables were passing by when they heard the commotion.

They saw a very large human exit the bar window at maximum velocity.

They felt compelled to investigate.

They opened the tavern door to the sight of complete bedlam.

“Looks like a bit of fun,” said one to the other.

“Should we do something?”

“Are you on duty?”

The question needed no reply. They heel turned and went on their way.

They found, not far from them, a hole where the statue of the city founder used to be.

“That’s unusual,” said one.

“What is?”

“That,” he said pointing to the hole in the ground, where the earth seemed to have taken a deep inhale and forgot to exhale.

“Oh ya, that.”

“What should we do about it?” asked one.

“What can be done? We’re no earth experts.”

“True,” the other replied. “What do we know about earth?”

The other nodded in agreement.

“Lovely night,” they both said in unison.

Back at the bar, Balif had finished his drink and was waiting for Greck to punch himself out. He’d learned long ago that was the only way to handle Greck when he got in one of his moods.

“You tired yet?” he hollered to Greck who was spinning an angry fellow like a lanyard.

Greck was wobbling.

“Won’t be long now,” thought Balif with some relief.

The bar quieted as the scene wound down. Anyone who hadn’t passed out, been knocked out, or was sent flying into outer space through the window had made their exit. Soon, all could be heard were the soft grunts and moans from injured patrons face down in pools of ale and blood.

Barnard had been knocked out by a series of flagons to the dome.

Balif found a few unfinished beers, downed them, and just as Greck was about to fall over from exhaustion, Balif walked by and grabbed him like a dancer partner doing a dip.

He hauled Greck out the door, grunting in effort, and walked him to the room they were renting.

He nearly stepped in a sinkhole.