Brims bane, p.1
Brim's Bane, page 1
Brim's Bane
Kano Barlowe
Published by Kano Barlowe, 2024.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
BRIM'S BANE
First edition. September 1, 2024.
Copyright © 2024 Kano Barlowe.
ISBN: 979-8990559813
Written by Kano Barlowe.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Brim's Bane
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
Epilogue
About the Author
To Matt.
For being the first fan and first reader that wasn't family. You proved to me that others want to hear my creative voice.
1
Warm.
A stone pit tucked against the wall cradled fire that crackled and sent spirals of smoke up the chimney. Snow drifted in light flakes beyond frosted windows, but the wood-and-stone walls gave no quarter to winter and held within them an oppressive heat.
Samomsyl wiped the sweat from his brow and rolled up his sleeves. Hunched over a small desk nestled in the printing room’s dark recesses, he squinted at the words of a theological essay stamped into paper. Shadows flitted across the bone-white page as the letters swam through his mind, a practice as familiar as the crackling of the fire behind him.
“Sam, come here,” Ryland called from the inking tables.
Sam laid the parchment down with care before approaching the print master’s assistant. Ryland’s thick arms bunched as he pressed round leather pads into the black oil spread across the mixing dish. Beside the burly man, Sam felt more akin to a child than an adult; he couldn’t help comparing his shorter stature, thin frame, and hairless chin to Ryland’s massive size and masculinity. Each flex of Ryland’s muscles taunted Sam’s wiry structure.
“Yes, Ryland?” Sam mumbled.
“I can hardly hear you,” Ryland teased with a voice as robust as his frame suggested. His words were thick, as though his mouth were full, yet its heavy bass vibrated throughout the room. “Master Williams will return from the merchants soon. Did you finish organizing the manuscripts?”
The hulking man glanced at Sam with beady black eyes as he pounded leader pads against the ink. Heavy thumps reverberated off the walls; Sam could feel the rhythm rattle his bones. The sensation of being so vulnerable, so weak, revolted him. He clenched his hands to stop their trembling, then retreated to his desk, where neat rows of folded manuscripts lay. Each treasured tome was stacked, ready for delivery to the bookbinder down the street to be packaged between leather covers.
“A few pages left...” In contrast to Ryland’s, the feebleness of his tenor voice caused him to trail off.
If Ryland noticed, he gave no sign. Instead, he nodded. “Excellent. Finish that up, then we’ll eat.” His voice was laden with what sounded like genuine approval.
Sam rifled through the last papers, arranging each leaflet to ensure its order was correct. Organizing manuscripts was complex, but he’d spent many weeks studying the proper technique. He pressed a flawless crease into each parchment’s spine with a smooth, flat stick before sliding the folios into their proper place.
Once he completed the final manuscript, he stepped back and released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. As he flicked sweat from his brow to the dust-covered floor, his hand, steady for once, threatened to betray him and surrender once more to the trembling. It was no surprise; he trembled more often than not these days.
Sam felt Ryland’s eyes burning into his back, and self-loathing rose in his throat like bile. Shoulders hunched, he retrieved a bowl and kettle from the shelf beside his desk before making his way to the hearth to join the large man at a plain wooden table.
Meat glistened in the firelight, catching Sam’s eyes—Ryland’s meal. His mouth moistened. Hands shaking, he tore himself away from the sight and hung his kettle over the nearby flames. With his bowl of dry oats gripped in knuckle-white hands, he waited for the teapot’s hiss and watched the firewood burn. His thoughts drifted back to the meat.
Ryland hummed as he ate, pausing for a moment to glance from Sam’s bowl to his face. “Oatmeal again,” he said. “Ever get tired of it?”
Sam continued to gaze deep into the fire, silent. He looked past the flames, fixing his eyes on the ash and cinder at its core. Searing heat licked his cheeks, leaving his skin warm and red. On cold winter days, the fiery embers reminded him of oil lamps burning, gathering soot for ink—a glowing heat surrounded by darkness.
He gripped the bowl tighter to his chest and replied in a whisper, “I have bread on occasion.”
He cast a brief look at his mentor’s feast and wondered what kind of meat the man devoured so casually—and, more importantly, how much it cost. With the pennies Sam earned each week, he could hardly afford a good loaf of bread—like the one Ryland now tore a piece from—let alone meat.
How much does he make? Sam wondered, and not for the first time. Does his wife work, too?
His eyes flicked down to the gray, bland oats in his bowl. Self-piteous disdain seized his thoughts, stopping his breath in his throat. Smaller, weaker, he felt like the hill one might stand on while gazing upon the mountain in awe.
A bitter taste filled his mouth, and his jaw clenched. The feeling passed as it so often did—not gone, but buried in a shallow grave, a hair’s breadth beneath the surface. He suppressed a sigh and looked up, only to meet Ryland’s quizzical stare.
“Want some?” Ryland offered his plate to Sam with a voice steeped in pity.
Sam dropped his eyes to the table, muttering, “No, thank you.”
Ryland frowned, then opened his mouth to reply, but the squeal of the kettle cut him off. All too eager to avoid conversation, Sam snatched the kettle from its hook. He bit back a wince as his careless fingers brushed the burning brass. His fingertips singed into a bright, rosy red, but he withheld even the slightest exhale, fearing that Ryland would laugh or mock.
Sitting back, he poured hot water across the surface of his dry oats, drowning the grain under its steamy waves. Hot mist rose from the bowl, billowing over Sam’s face and further dampening his already slick skin. He stirred the watery mush and watched the liquid absorb into the grain. It softened, fattened, and expanded. Dull firelight glinted off the congealed lumps in a poor imitation of Ryland’s mouth-watering feast.
A blanket of silence fell over the printing room, with only the sounds of crackling flames and soft chewing to break the stillness. The usual taste of bland oatmeal gave a dull, numb comfort amidst the quiet. Muggy air enveloped Sam and leeched what little energy he’d gained from the lunch. His eyelids grew heavy, slowing with each blink as the darkness behind them called to him—deep pools of ink, luring him to an eternity of sleep.
In the ink were whispers, whispers of heroes setting out on grand journeys, with sword in hand, to battle monsters. In the ink, his hands were steady, his voice full. In the never-ending black, he could be more than... this—if only given a chance. He could—
“So...”
Sam’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Ryland’s voice.
The large man cleared his throat. He seemed to be searching for something to say, some bit of conversation to ruin the quiet.
“Any plans after work? Gonna see anyone?” There was a playful air to Ryland’s words.
Sam shrunk in his seat, and his thoughts of inky darkness slunk back into the shadowy corners of his mind, making room for reality. He prodded the oat sludge in his bowl before replying.
“I went to chapel this morning,” he said, jaw clenched, waiting for Ryland’s disapproval.
His mentor made no move to hide it as he sighed. “So, sitting in the corner and fleeing before anyone can talk to you... that’s what constitutes seeing anyone?” Ryland grunted. “Do you even have friends, Sam? Talk to anyone besides Williams and me?”
The achromatic meal had never captured Sam’s attention before the way it did now. He stared into its abyss and wondered if he could fall into it—run, escape, shut out the scrutiny. He opened his mouth to reply, though no words came out.
Ryland shook his head, eyes brimming with disappointment. “What about that stable girl you mentioned the other day?” he pressed.
Sam’s fingers tensed around his spoon.
“You gonna bag her without so much as saying hello?” the older man continued, tearing a chunk of glistening meat from the bone. “You’re not exactly new to town anymore; being shy isn’t some shield, either. You’re a grown man.”
Sam didn’t look up from his oatmeal. You’re not my father, he thought. Stop pretending like you care. His teeth grated behind closed lips. He imagined sinking into the gray lumps in his bowl—a soft, wet, mushy world, an empty, colorless void to hide within. Anything but this conversation. He closed his eyes once more.
Across the table, Ryland shook his head again. His shoulders slumped, and he sat back in his chair. “I’ll drop it,” he grumbled, “but this conversation isn’t over. Got it?”
Sam hid in the void of his eyelids, but he nodded, hoping it would persuade Ryland to silence.
It appeared to work. Ryland muttered to himself for only a moment before returning to his meat. The comfortable quiet coiled around
“Follow me,” Ryland ordered, leaving the table’s quiet bubble.
Sam obeyed, abandoning the comfort of his muted world as he followed Ryland to the inking station.
Reaching the table, Ryland gestured to the leather pads hanging from their stand, heads wet with ink. “Keep working ink into the leather.”
The printer lumbered to the press and plucked moist parchment from its rack. He maneuvered with a delicacy that Sam had never seen from a man of his stature before—slotting the wet paper between the tympan and frisket, then locking the wooden frame with clicks and squeaks. Master Williams had arranged the text before departing, so Ryland rolled the printing table to rest just beside Sam to await ink.
Sam began the arduous task of stamping. He pressed the leather pads down into the oily black, careful to do everything just as Ryland taught him. The muscles in his thin, spindly arms burned as the thud, thud, thud rattled against his eardrums, and ice-cold sweat trickled down his pale skin.
He wondered what he looked like to Ryland, what his mentor thought of him; did he look like a shaking and sweaty little beggar, or a mangy dog Master Williams allowed in to be kicked and thrown rotten scraps to?
His jaw set. He was no mangy dog, no beggar—given the chance, he would prove it. The quality on the page would reveal his talent, and the words stamped in his ink would speak of his ability as a worthwhile printer.
Ryland loomed over Sam as he pressed, nodding. After several minutes, Sam felt Ryland’s hand on his shoulder. He met the printer’s eyes, and a spark of hope flickered in his chest—there was approval in Ryland’s expression.
Let me work the press, he thought—begged—in silence. Give me a chance.
“Give them here,” Ryland commanded. He held his hands out to receive the pads.
Sam deflated and passed them to Ryland. He watched his mentor space the ink evenly across the letters, the work of a skilled craftsman. Sam knew the steps by heart. He’d memorized each movement many times over, but his eyes followed the leather pads anyway as he picked at the frayed edges of his sleeves. When will you let me show you?
“Why don’t you go wait in the shop for Master Williams?” Ryland applied the ink to the text before wheeling the table toward the press. “You can help him with inventory when he’s back.”
Sam nodded but waited a moment longer, praying behind sealed lips that Ryland would change his mind and offer him a chance to work the press.
Ryland paused as he latched the lettering into the piston. He squinted, then turned to Sam, whose heart leaped into his throat.
“Good job on the ink, by the way,” his mentor commented, then returned his attention to the lettering.
Sam’s heart sank into his chest as the piston lurched down with a heavy thud into the paper. It took every meager muscle in his body to keep him from crashing to the floor—another disappointment. Without a word, Sam turned away and wandered out to the shop.
The bookstore was much cooler than the printing room and smelled of crisp paper and oiled leather. Stairways hugged the adjacent wall leading into Master Williams’ quarters and down into the cellar. A large desk crammed into the back corner had a ledger and newly printed books scattered across its surface. Beside the desk sat an unopened crate of books from the bookbinder, freshly produced for Master Williams to inspect later. The shop was bright as afternoon light glimmered through frost-encrusted glass. It matched the village of Bertrand perfectly—a small, cramped room fit for a small, cramped town.
Sam approached the desk and peered out of a nearby window, rime creeping on the pane’s edges. He surveyed the wintry expanse, searching the murky gray clouds in the sky for the impending storm. Even from the edge of town, he could hear the faint ringing of the foyer priest’s handbell as he marched through distant streets, exclaiming news of a blizzard that would arrive that night. Roofs of nearby shops and homes were visible through a thin line of oak trees down the dirt road—smoke billowed from wide chimneys, the black smoke bursting in the air before trailing into the clouds. Stray snowflakes fluttered in the air and danced among the blackened fog.
Sam’s eyes lingered on the stables farther down the road. Small shapes moved back and forth near the fences. His heart thumped in his chest.
Tearing his eyes from the window, Sam plucked a book out of the crate on the floor instead. It opened in his hands with warm, satisfying crackles from its leathery spine. The beautiful white pages were still crisp as he ran his fingers across their newly printed faces. As he admired the volume, his imagination wandered beyond the shop, beyond the winter, beyond Bertrand. He could see it—a bookstore in the bustling city outside Castle Bisclavret, grand compared to the quaint storefront surrounding him.
He closed his eyes and pictured his own expansive shop in a lively city. His apprentices surrounded him, each exclaiming how loved and valued they felt as he bequeathed them all their own unique printing presses. People came and went, clamoring for him to print their words and singing praises to the highest towers of Bisclavret that Samomsyl Holgata was the finest printer along the Marryat.
The door rattled open, jolting Sam out of his grandiose fantasy and back into the humble shop.
“Boy,” Master Williams’ aged voice was raspy. A dry cough burst from his mouth. Sam waited for it to quell, familiar with the man’s burdened lungs.
“Come take this,” his master said after a moment. In his arms was a large box that rattled with glass.
“Good afternoon, Master Williams,” Sam murmured, rounding the desk to take the box from the wizened man’s knobby arms. “Ryland’s working.” Several glass jars of freshly made ink lay tucked in the crate’s recesses; a strong odor of burnt wood rose from the viscous liquid.
“Glad someone is doing something around here.” Master Williams coughed again. He shot Sam a stern look behind his narrow spectacles. “Do I pay you to stand around? Hurry up and unpack downstairs, boy. Get!” He waved his hand before limping into the printing room.
“Yes, Master Williams.” Sam did his best to bow with the box in his arms, though he could hardly bite back the curses that threatened to breach his tongue. I could actually be worth something if you taught me how to use the press, he thought. He scowled, hiding behind the wooden crate in hopes it would obscure his animosity. He fled toward the stairs.
The damp cellar door swung open with little resistance. He strode into the musty room and placed the box on the sorting table. One by one, he took glass jars from the crate before arranging the stark black ink vials on the shelf beside bright blues he thought smelled faintly of blueberries. After emptying the box, he took it back up the stairs, through the front door, and out into the frosty air.
Snow clung to Sam’s unruly black locks as he marched through ankle-deep snow to the back of the shop. A light breeze swept through the trees, carrying tiny snowflakes playing in time with the tinkling of wind chimes from the village. His dark coat fluttered at its worn, stringy edges. The old, thinning wool did little to stop the cold air from welcoming itself against the bare skin beneath.
Behind the shop stood Ryland’s lamp shed. Its windows glimmered brightly from the dozen wicks burning oil inside, with bowls held mere inches above the flames to collect soot—a new experiment Ryland learned during his last visit to Castle Bisclavret. It was surrounded by a thicket of trees that bled into the forest beyond, and just beside the shed sat stacks of wood and crates to be chopped later that week.
Sam approached the pile and discarded the empty crate with a careless clatter. He rubbed his hands together, his pale fingertips a reddish-pink, and breathed puffy white air against them. Though he shivered in the cold, the fresh air eased his nerves, allowing him to exhale a sigh he’d suppressed through most of the day. Even as droplets of sweat froze across his flesh, he felt more at peace there, on the snowy brink of the woods. Allowing himself that moment, he finally turned away from the shed to return to the print shop’s warmth.
