The Pint of Innocence

By Edwin C. Mason

Jowan, a master mage of the Uala Guild trapped in the rival city of Pnastre must overthrow the masters of the land to free the people. First, though, he must find a source of power because he's exhausted his meagre supply and power is illegal in Pnastre.

This is a 3400-word short story and this e-book also contains the short stories "The Lake" and "Masks"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edwin C. Mason
• Release date: Jun 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781927857106

Edwin C. Mason

Edwin C. Mason was born in 1964 in a house half full of books and dedicated his early years to similarly filling the other half. Now he dreams of filling other people's houses the same way. He started writing in 1977 after reading "Pirates of Venus" by Edgar Rice Burroughs, and in the intervening years he has made every mistake it's possible for a writer to make. He lives in Toronto with his dreams and delusions.

Book preview

The Pint of Innocence

Edwin C. Mason

© 2013 Edwin C. Mason

all rights reserved

GND Publishing

Toronto ON, Canada

Smashwords Edition

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Contents

The Pint of Innocence

The Lake

Masks

Also by this Author

About the Author

The Pint of Innocence

Author's note: This story rose from a challenge I received on www.thefantasyforum.com to write a fantasy story with a beer-based magic system.

18 Osapia, 14th Year of Thunder.

I hid in the dark beneath the stairs, a hunk of wood my only weapon. No choice in the matter: I had no beer.

The creaking on the floorboards above had alerted me to the danger, driving me to what little protection the stairs provided. So far my fugitive existence had driven me.

Foolish and more that a beer mage of the Uala Guild should cower in his covert night after night, that he should labour by day in disguise, that his flowing hair be cropped, his crimson wristbands be hidden. Pasco hadn’t suffered these cruelties. Rather he had turned his back on power and guild and way of life to offer love spells on a street corner. He said he was happy.

Dust drifted into my face to stick to the sweat there. Osapia was hot here in Pnastre where the Red Guard ruled the Tetrarch, and the basement of this riot-burned home was stifling and more.

A stair above me creaked. I raised my club, trying not to picture what my opponent might carry, sword or knife or.... The wall pressed against my back.

From above, a voice drifted down. He’s here, I tell you. Who was he talking to? How many did he think he needed to kill a beerless man?

A second voice snorted in the darkness, then the first continued.

You wanted to see him, not me. I’ll help, but....

All right, the second voice spoke now, and hinted at a memory. My ears aren’t trained, not like my tongue and nose, but I thought I knew it.

As they came, I counted the steps, cringing when they stood directly above my head. Could they know? Would the stairs sound different to their ears?

Could they hear me breathe? Breathe? Hah! I panted, or near enough. Slow breaths, calm. Strike at the knee as it comes into view.

A heel of crusty bread and an onion filled my stomach. Not what I wanted for my last meal. Would I get anything better in a Pnastrian prison? Worse, if anything. They might not feed me at all unless they chose to take me to the slave block.

Mage? The first voice called. They say you’re a beer mage. I have need of you.

Clumsy trap