Distantly, someone shouted, “What’s the time? What’s the time? He’s gonna drop. HE’S GONNA DROP! PAY UP! PAY UP!”
No.
Ignatius exhaled, his breath coming out of him like a jet of flames from a dragon’s mouth, and slowly the world came back into focus. Ugly faces crowded around him, their lips parted in silent gasps.
“Just passed a minute, gents!” the bookie shouted.
Ignatius swayed as he tried to stand. He almost lost his balance on more than one occasion, but he grabbed hold of a man next to him who was mumbling, “Fifteen more seconds, old man. Fifteen more seconds. Hold on for fifteen more seconds!”
But the fifteen seconds ticked by, then thirty, then forty-five. Finally, Ignatius was still on his own two feet at a little past two minutes, and the bookie was saying that no one bet past a minute, forty-five—because no one in their right mind would bet that far. No man, woman, or creature had ever drank a double of Firejuice and lived to tell the tale.
At least, that’s what they had thought.
Ignatius Mangood was no mere man, after all.
With the world coming more and more into focus, Ignatius climbed up on his barstool and stuck his hands up and out like a man accepting applause, except there was no applause for Ignatius then. Not yet, at least. Everyone was stunned into silence.
As Ignatius scanned the crowd, he thought he caught fear in the eyes of some of the patrons. Good. That was what he wanted. If not respect, then fear.
“I seek a Gnome!” Ignatius said. It burned his throat to talk, but he did it anyway. The crowd hung on his every word.
“Ain’t no Gnomes here, wizard!” someone shouted back. “They ain’t allowed inside.”
Ignatius thought this place not too strict on enforcing whatever rules it had, judging by the crowd below him.
“He goes by the name of Gelbus! He was a librarian, a keeper of secrets in the Light Elves’ castle.”
Nothing.
Slowly, the crowd watching him began to disperse. They turned away and found their tables again, bringing their cups to their lips. If death was not involved, they wanted no part of it.
Ignatius felt like a fool, standing up like he was. He got off his stool and sat back down. Did I drink the Firejuice for nothing? Oh, no… it was starting to hit him harder than before. The bar was as tilted as the look the bar’s owner gave him. Ignatius offered a weak smile, and the man turned away, heading into a backroom.
Have I failed my mission so early?
He pulled his hood down over his brow, shrouding his features in shadow, then dug into his pocket again and asked for a cup of ale, something to wash the Firejuice down; though he knew he’d be feeling it for days to come.
The barmaid gladly poured the ale. He told her to keep the change. She smiled a very practiced smile.
Ignatius sat at the bar, ignoring the swell of distant conversation filling the room. He just needed to get his feet back under him. He’d be better in a few minutes…he hoped.
He sat in silence as the Trolls started a game of straw jousting right in front of him. They each stood on small brown bottles and ran in place until the bottles lurched forward to one another. Before the bottles would clink, they’d stab each other in the chest with the straws, fall on their backs giggling, get back up, and do it again. It took three times before one of the bottles rolled off the bar and shattered on the floor. No one seemed to mind.
He never understood Trolls.
A wise person once said that no one ever did understand them, and Ignatius was almost one hundred percent sure that it was a rare Oriceran truth.
“Front row seats to two Trolls trying to kill each other with plastic straws. Maria would be so proud. C’mon, Ignatius, it’s time to adapt and find that Gnome,” he murmured to himself.
There was a time in Ignatius’s youth when he was offered the secrets of dark magic. Had he accepted those secrets, he believed he would not be in his current predicament.
No, you’re smarter than that. If you followed down the dark path, you wouldn’t be here at all. You’d be worse off, and you know it, Ignatius.
It was true.
“Wizard,” someone said from his right, much too close for comfort. With the Firejuice coursing through his system at light speeds, the voice sounded much too distorted.
Ignatius startled, his hand slipping down so his wand was easily accessible. He turned, his vision still swimming, and saw a black-haired woman, her hood drawn over her head. Under her eyes was the dark makeup native to a tribe of dark witches on the outskirts of the Dark Forest, a group completely fine with coexisting among Arachnids.
“Step back, witch,” Ignatius said, a snarl on his face.
The witch offered a sly smile. “The Firejuice is really taking its toll on you, is it not? Perhaps the bets are not completely off.”
“Leave me be,” Ignatius said. She was right. His insides were twisting with fire.
“Don’t be so hasty to get rid of me, wizard. We may be of use to each other.”
Ignatius turned to face her.
A trilling came to his right, and one of the Trolls—who was covered in seed, shells, and grime from rolling around the floor—was pulling itself up the side of Ignatius’s ale. He waved the Troll away with the back of his hand gently, much to the Troll’s displeasure.
“Buy your own,” Ignatius said.
The Troll stuck his tongue out and blew raspberries in Ignatius’s direction, showering his mug with Troll spit.
“Gross,” he murmured, taking the mug with a shaky hand and wiping it off with
