He pushed the doors open, his steps heavy on the stone floor. As soon as the doors banged shut behind him, all the sound inside of the tavern silenced. At least a hundred pairs of eyes were on him. Ignatius allowed himself to linger and surveyed the crowd. Dark witches, dark wizards, large Orc half-breeds with swords just as big as themselves slung across their backs, Trolls running along the bar top, their green hair the only colorful object in all the grayness. He did not see a Gnome, though there were a lot of creatures scattered throughout the wide expanse of the tavern.
They looked at him until he turned away and slapped coins on the bar top. A nearby Troll somersaulted over his hands, talking gibberish. “Firejuice,” Ignatius said. The closest creatures to him gasped; two Goblins and a Dark Elf—an odd pairing.
“Did he just—” one of the Goblins said.
“He did,” the other one answered.
The barmaid was a pretty young woman, and her shirt was unbuttoned low so her hearty cleavage was exposed to the patrons. Judging by her overstuffed pockets, which jingled with coins from all over the land, no doubt her appearance was definitely playing to her favor.
“Firejuice, sire?” she asked in an unbelieving tone.
“Aye,” Ignatius answered.
The eyes were on him again as a hush settled over the crowd. Good. This was what he wanted. Earn their respect, make them think he was one of them, and they’re lips wouldn’t be so sealed.
So he dug into his robes again and slapped another coin onto the bar counter. The sound it made traveled the vast tavern, echoing off of its walls.
“Better make it a double,” he said.
“Sire—” the barmaid continued, but was cut off by a large, barrel-chested man with more hair in his beard than was on his head.
“Listen, my friend, if you want to die, you can go outside of my place. We’ve had enough death here to last a thousand lifetimes,” the man said.
Ignatius lifted his head up so his eyes bored into the man’s. “What’s one more death?”
“Let him drink, Rogerius! He’s got the gold, doesn’t he?”
The owner’s upper lip peeled back to reveal tobacco-stained teeth as he snarled.
Suddenly a chant of “LET HIM DRINK! LET HIM DRINK!” swept over the crowd. Pints of ale banged the tabletops, feet stomped, Trolls were launched into the air by the vibrations, playful smiles on their faces.
“Yes, Rogerius, let me drink,” Ignatius said; now it was his turn to smile.
Rogerius shook his head and waved the barmaid on. She looked as if she was tasked with beheading Ignatius instead of simply serving him. In a strange way, she kind of was.
Beneath the bar the maiden went, and from a locked cabinet she pulled free a dusty glass bottle and set it in front of Ignatius. The fire trapped within the liquid swirled and pulsed, as vibrant and deadly as flying too close to the sun.
On the outside, Ignatius remained calm, even as the crowd got up from their seats—some of them good seats that they had probably fought over—and pressed up against him. Somewhere among the sea of patrons, bets were being taken. Not bets on whether Ignatius would live or die, but rather how long until he eventually did die from the Firejuice.
The barmaid turned her head as she twisted the cap off the bottle. The fumes alone were known to singe the nostril hairs and eyebrows of anyone who got too close. From just below the counter, above the shelf the Firejuice came from, she grabbed a glass and set it next to the bottle.
Her skin had gone pale. “Sire, you’ll forgive me if I do not pour this for you.”
Ignatius raised a hand and nodded.
Some of the color rose back into the barmaid’s cheeks.
“Thirty on thirty seconds!” someone yelled to his left.
Ignatius took the bottle, the heat emanating through the glass hot enough to irritate his skin, and just as he was about to pour, a particularly drunk ranger-type slapped him on the shoulder, startling him. The man reeked of stale ale and his own urine. “I’s known the one who slain the dragon this here Firejuice is made from! I’s known him well. Bardol, his name was. Great, great warrior.” The ranger wobbled, and soon he was swallowed by many arms of the crowd as they swept him back, out of Ignatius’s face.
It’s amazing the things people will do for you when they want to see you die, he thought bitterly. Dragons. Not even I have seen a dragon.
“DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!”
“LAST CALL FOR BETS! LAST CALL!”
“FIFTY ON A MINUTE!” someone growled.
“ANYONE ELSE?”
“I’m going to disappoint a lot of people if I don’t die,” Ignatius whispered. No one could hear him over the roar of the crowd. That was okay. Respect went further than money in Oriceran. That was true. He’d known that since his days serving the King of Dominion, Maria’s father—an honorable man who’d treated his daughter Zimmy well, and who had died a horrid death.
“King Ancel, this is for you,” Ignatius muttered. He raised the glass. It was full nearly to the brim with that poisonous, liquid fire. “And for the dragon this drink has come from. May you both rest well.”
The crowd broke their previous decibel level, their cheers so loud, they rattled the windowpanes.
Ignatius brought the drink to his lips. He could already feel the layers of skin singe there. He closed his eyes and tilted his head backward.
Now the crowd went silent. Someone dropped a coin on the floor; it had sounded loud enough in that silent room to carry across the worlds.
The Firejuice tore down Ignatius’s throat like magma tearing down a mountainside. He gulped and gulped, eyes spouting tears, nose running, vision blurring. Already, the fumes had gone to his head, and the poison began to overtake his bloodstream. It had been many years since he’d drank Firejuice, and if he had a tolerance then (and one can never build up much of a tolerance to
