The Case of the Bitter Draught: The Wolflock Cases, #4

The Case of the Bitter Draught © Rhiannon D. Elton 2020

The Wolflock Cases: Book 4

Second edition

ISBN: 978-0-648763-60-4 (paperback)

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by Australian Commonwealth copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, at Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

info@rhiannoneltonauthor.com

Cover compiled by Rhiannon D. Elton

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cataloguing-in-Publication information for this title is listed with the National Library of Australia.

Published in Australia by Rhiannon D. Elton and Pelaia Adventures

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Declaration of Intention

MERRY MEET,

The purpose of the books the author writes is to give representation to as many peoples, creatures, and landscapes as they can. Although written from the perspective of a Caucasian teenage boy, the author hopes to offer a light into the harmony of different cultures and creeds of people. The author’s aim is to promote harmony, understanding and compassion in all areas, while also inspiring readers to stand up against injustice and be critical thinkers in life.

While the author does their best to research, interview and highlight the best parts of people, they are only human and can make mistakes. The author asks you gently educate them by sending them an email in order to discuss anything that may have caused harm to a group of people unintentionally.

The author believes that the cure for ignorance is education, but please approach the topic cordially in order to avoid any knee-jerk cognitive dissonance.

Finally, the viewpoints displayed in the books comes from a particular character and is not necessarily that of the authors. The author seeks to display flaws, growth and human nature on many levels, and hopes that you will analyse the character of the protagonist without adopting any negative behaviour from them.

Merry part, and merry meet again.

Dedicated to the Wounded

AND THOSE WHO HAVE taught me the pain of addictions and their cure, which lays in unconditional love and the love for oneself.

(Excerpt Leevia Asurae’s essay on The Ruins of the North and Their True Origins)

The Krieger Zwerg Watchtower is a tower built in the 40th year of the reign of the Evil King Stathan by the newly rescued inhabitants of the North Grothien silver mine. It is said that it was built by Svartálfar (Mountain Dwarves), but there is no primary evidence suggesting this is accurate.

It became an essential lookout post for war ships heading to Shiriling, giving the rebellion the ability to ambush King Stathan’s forces. It is said he lost twelve legions of soldiers before he could be convinced to cease his attacks by river and sea.

Although now a post office, scholars still regularly make sketches of the thousands of sigils carved into each stone in order to further magical research. The reason for this is due to the suspicion that the Krieger Zwerg had some of the best distraction, illusion and defensive magic still known to this day. All claims have been currently unverified, but studies are hopeful...

CHAPTER 1

Mischief at the Markets

WOLFLOCK HATED MABON.

As far as he was concerned, it was a silly festival. It only existed to remind farmers to do whatever it was they needed to do and make everyone who wasn’t a farmer feel bad. The day was as long as the night, but it only made the night feel longer than it should.

Everyone played balancing games, ate freshly harvested Autumn foods and talk about how thankful they were. The focus was meant to be on what they have sown and reaped for the year. Wolflock had terrible memories of his aunties telling him that everything he was thankful for wasn’t something he should be thankful for. They always said he should be grateful for his family, friends or other nonsense. Wolflock’s only friends for years had been his sister, Myna, and his horse, Brennan, which he didn't feel the need to thank. None of the house staff were interesting enough to hold his attention, and his father was always shut away in his office working. So, he didn’t believe they deserved any extra gratitude.

He remembered his old nanny would pick out the most atrocious frilly outfits. The kind of garb he couldn’t get up to any mischief in if he didn’t want to tear the delicate dangly lace. His father was the wealthiest of his siblings, which meant he was socially obligated to have the entire Felen family come stay with them for a fortnight or longer, which to Wolflock was a fortnight too long. It was a requirement to lay out far too much food at the Mabon dinner to show how abundant the year had been. Before they ate, everyone would be forced to join hands and tell the room what they were thankful for as if it were some kind of competition in humility.

Only his father took the event seriously. He often said practical things like, Our dedicated staff... or the health of our horses.... He also always said, My wife and children..., which was probably why he always went first. The impending sense of gloom created by the empty seat to his left would be dispersed by the time Wolflock ruined the evening. His aunts would say stupid things like My amazingly clever daughter, even though his cousins had no intellectual aptitudes. Nor did they have any desire for extended education either. Sometimes they’d fawn over their new husbands and mewl something stomach churning like, The love of my life, when next season they’d change partners like they did fashions.

Then it would come to Myna, who knew exactly what to say, even from the age of three. She would be grateful for whatever immediate gift their aunts had brought her, as well as recite the uses of the last Mabon’s gifts and how she’d used them. Wolflock would roll his eyes as far as they would go and make gagging faces to no one’s amusement.

Then it would be his turn.

Firstly, he would be stumped. Nothing he said would be good enough. His horse would be scoffed at because he said it every year. His musical instruments would be sneered at because no one had gifted them to him recently, and he refused to play them for his family’s amusement. His books incurred eye rolls because good boys didn’t spend all day reading. It would always happen the same way. Wolflock would say he was grateful for something he actually was grateful for. One of his aunts would roll their eyes and snap, You can’t be grateful for that! and Wolflock would retort with why he was more grateful for that than anything anyone else around the table had said.

And it would be on.

Everyone would start yelling except for Myna, who would be trying to soothe the situation while also getting smug glee at the drama. Their father would ask the youngest children if they would pass the gravy while calmly eating his meal.

So, when the Captain announced that their last stop for the better part of a month would allow them to pick up supplies for that evening’s Mabon celebrations, Wolflock felt like someone had poured egg yolks down his back. Memories of hiding away in the stables for as long as possible, complaining to Brennan that he was grateful for nothing and wished his mother was here to tell them he was allowed to say whatever he wanted to say, came flooding back to him. His body grew tense and his mind sparked with every way this could go wrong.

He sat at dinner that evening, feeling sullen and without an appetite. Mothy hadn’t attended dinner with everyone else as he was still recovering. Wolflock thoroughly believed that his friend’s slow recovery had more to do with him still being tended to by Nü than with him still being ill. He picked up a bowl of vegetable stew for Mothy and left the buzzing excitement of the dining hall. He was too agitated about the next evening’s events to try to maintain pleasantries.

As he descended the stairs to the cabins, he heard Nü’s tinkling laugh.

... And that’s when I realised curry has more power than anyone should ever be allowed to wield.

Nü snorted and guffawed like a donkey, making Wolflock chuckle. He opened the door without knocking and Nü jumped up in surprise, tearing her hand from Mothy’s. Both their faces turned three shades pinker.

Wolflock smirked.

Brought you dinner, Sir Sickness. I figured you wouldn’t want any, Nü, since you normally make your own.

Mothy coughed and his face lightened. Brilliant! I’m starving. Is this ok to eat, Nü-mei?

Nü went to speak but stopped, her lips parted, and her sharp dark eyes blinked wide in surprise. She blushed even more and, after a moment, giggled behind her hand.

Did I use that right? Mothy grinned as Wolflock pressed the stew into his hands. Nü’s been teaching me how to speak central Xiayahn.

Is that so? Wolflock raised an eyebrow. I bet it takes a long time to get your tongue around those tricky pronunciations.

You did use it right, Nü interrupted, shooting Wolflock a warning glare. But do not let my father hear you call me that. He will... well... he will think we are engaged.

Mothy choked on his stew and Wolflock burst out laughing.

It means ‘pretty’ though, right? We call people pretty and sweet down South all the time! Mothy protested.

Nü giggled her chime-like laugh again, That is fine, but in Xiayah we only use that term with people we are very close to and have known for many years. I will go and make my own dinner now.

Can I still call you Nü-mei when your father isn’t around? Mothy leaned forward, his eyes glittering with hope.

Nü stood by the door, her plain green and brown dress contrasting with her porcelain skin and her obsidian hair. She rested a dainty hand on the doorframe and barely looked back over her shoulder. She bit her lip, smiled, and nodded before she slipped out, closing the door behind her.

Wolflock looked from the door to Mothy and started to feel his previous frustration grow again. Was Mothy really going to pass him off during this wretched festival too?

I guess I’m just superfluous now.

I do not know what that means but you can be anything you want to be, Mothy sighed and rested back on the bedhead wall.

Wolflock shook his head, leaning back on the wall adjacent. There was a long moment of quiet before Mothy started eating his food.

Captain says we’re having Mabon celebrations after we stop at the last port tomorrow.

Sounds good. Should be fun. You gonna buy anything?

Wolflock shrugged.

I might do an hour’s work or so and pick up some presents for everyone. You should join me.

Wolflock shrugged again. He’d never had to buy presents for anyone except for Myna, and even then, they were only the books he knew she’d like.

The food should be good. They might pick up a roast.

Wolflock pulled a face. He could already smell the sickly sweet pork roast with undercooked crackling his aunts would insist on making. Wolflock liked pigs. They were cleverer than goats or sheep, so he didn’t enjoy eating them. Also, the fresh meats tasted bland, so they often had to be salted far more than other meats. He wasn’t particularly enthused about anything too sweet or too salty.

What are you looking forward to?

Irritated by the question, Wolflock heaved himself up and took up Mothy’s empty bowl.

For it all to be done and dusted.

Mothy followed him out with no shoes on. Let’s play cards. I’m bored and I want the company.

Wolflock rolled his eyes as they emerged back onto the deck under the starry night sky. "You know