OP Max Mage - Chapter 1

The tomatoes were overpriced.

Max turned one in his hand. Firm enough, good color, but two copper bits? For one tomato? He'd been coming to Mirella's stall for three years. The price had never been higher than one and a half. One and three-quarters that one time after the flood, but that was the flood.

"Supply problems," Mirella said. She wasn't meeting his eyes, which meant she knew it was robbery and was charging him anyway. "The roads east have been bad."

"The roads east are always bad."

"Worse than usual. Monsters in the Greenwood." She shrugged. "Caravans aren't running."

He set the tomato back. Fine. He didn't need tomatoes today. He'd wanted them for a focaccia experiment, olive oil and slow-roasted tomatoes pressed into the dough before baking. His mother used to make something similar, though she'd used whatever was cheap at the time, which was never tomatoes. Usually onions. For whatever reason the memory had come and he slowly let it fade away. 

Not at two copper bits each. The experiment could wait.

The market was busy. Farmers from the outer villages had come in early, carts clustered near the eastern gate, and the whole square smelled like hay and manure and, underneath that, bread from somewhere. Spiced meat. That cloying perfume the cloth merchant burned, the one Max had never liked but had never said anything about because what was the point.

He moved on to Garrett's stall.

Garrett had the good flour today. Northern wheat, stone-ground. Max bought ten pounds and haggled the price down by pointing out a tear in one of the sacks. Garrett grumbled. Max waited. Garrett accepted. This was how it went.

"Heard there's trouble in the Greenwood," Max said.

"When isn't there."

"Mirella's charging two bits for tomatoes."

"Mirella." Garrett tied off the sack, fingers quick from decades of practice. "Mirella would blame the roads if her cat died. But yeah, something's off. Patrol came back short three men last week."

"Short?"

"Three men went out, didn't come back. Coalition's sending someone, supposedly."

Max tucked the flour into his pack. Heavy, but he was used to it. "Someone good?"

"Who knows. People say there's a Mithril-rank in the area, but…” Garret paused, waving a hand. "People talk about all sorts of stuff."

"We don't rate Mithril attention out here," Max said.

"We don't rate anything out here."

Max adjusted the pack straps. He'd reinforced them himself after the stitching gave out. The whole thing was patches now. It worked.

"See you next week."

"If we're still here." Garrett smiled, probably joking.

The other stalls went quickly. Salt from the southern flats. Honey from the beekeeper with the lazy eye, the one whose bees always seemed calmer than anyone else's. Rosemary, dried, in a paper packet that smelled like summers in the mountain villages where Max grew up. He didn't need rosemary, but he bought it anyway.

He was looking at eggs when the screaming started.

Not good eggs, either. The shells were thin. Calcium deficiency in the feed, which meant pale yolks, which meant weak flavor. The vendor wanted premium prices. Max was trying to figure out how to say "your chickens are malnourished and you should be embarrassed" in a way that wouldn't start a fight.

The screaming didn't register immediately. Market days were loud. Someone was always yelling about something.

"Those chickens need oyster shell," Max said. "The eggs are suffering."

The vendor wasn't listening. He was a young guy, and Max didn't recognize him. He was staring at something over Max's shoulder. His face had gone the color of old cheese.

Max turned.

Oh.

The troll was maybe thirty feet away. Big one. Eight feet, probably more. Grey-green skin, mottled, with those oversized hands the forest breed had. Small eyes. It was dismantling a fish cart.

That explained the screaming. And the sudden empty space in the market where people used to be.

The fish merchant was sprinting toward an alley. Fast, for a man his size. Fear did that.

Max watched the troll eat a salmon. Whole. The bones crunched.

"Huh," he said.

The troll looked around for more fish. Found Max instead.

Max was still holding an egg. He'd forgotten. He set it back in the basket, careful, because the shells were thin and eggs shouldn't be wasted even when they were disappointing.

The troll rumbled. Hunger, maybe. Or territory. Max didn't speak troll.

"The fish cart's right there." He pointed. "I don't have any fish."

The troll took a step. The cobblestones cracked under it.

Three years ago, Max would have run. Sensible thing to do. Join the crowd, find a doorway, let someone else handle it.

But he'd learned a few things since then. Basic spells. Enough.

The troll charged.

It was fast. Covered the distance in these loping strides, mouth open, teeth like broken stones, claws out. Max raised his hand and thought about barriers.

The troll stopped.

It just stopped. Like it had hit a wall. There was a shimmer in the air where the impact should have been.

Max watched the troll stare at the shimmer. It reached out with one massive hand, touched it. Tentative. The way a child might touch a stove after being told not to.

Nothing. The barrier held.

"You should probably go back to the forest," Max said. "There's not much food here. Well. Fish. But you ate most of it."

The troll hit the barrier with its fist. Then both fists. It threw itself against the shimmer, roaring, and the sound shook the remaining stalls. Max felt nothing. His barrier was solid. Probably. It had held against rain once. A falling branch another time.

"The Coalition will send someone eventually," he said. "They won't be as patient."

The troll stopped. Looked at Max. Looked at the barrier. Back at Max.

Something shifted in its eyes. Not intelligence, exactly. Recognition. It had found something it couldn't smash or eat.

It ran.

Max watched it take off running back toward the eastern gate. The guards there scattered, which was smart. You didn't get in front of a retreating troll.

He lowered his hand. The barrier dissolved. It always did that, lasted exactly as long as he needed it and then stopped. Efficient, he supposed. He wished he had more control over duration. Real mages could hold shields for hours.

The market was quiet.

Max turned back to the egg vendor. The kid still hadn't moved.

"About the eggs," Max said. "One copper bit for a dozen. They're not worth more."

Nothing.

"One copper bit. Final offer."

The vendor nodded. Slowly. Like something had rusted in his neck.

Max picked out twelve eggs, choosing the thickest shells. Left the copper bit on the basket's edge. Packed the eggs on top of everything else, cushioned by the rosemary, because otherwise they'd crack on the walk home.

People were drifting back. Checking corners. Looking at Max for some reason.

A woman approached. Middle-aged, clutching her shopping basket like a weapon. "Did you see where it went?"

"East gate. Back to the forest, I think."

"Just like that?"

"It seemed upset. Maybe the fish wasn't fresh."

She stared at him. Max wasn't sure what else to say. Trolls were simple. They wanted food and territory and to be left alone. This one had probably been pushed out by whatever was stirring in the Greenwood. It hadn't been attacking, really. Just scared and hungry.

"I need to get home," he said. "Bread to make."

He walked away. His apartment was above a disused cobbler's shop, fifteen minutes if he didn't stop. He usually stopped. Thornhaven had interesting buildings if you looked.

Today he didn't stop. The flour was heavy and the dough needed to start before midday. Bread took time. Yeast didn't care about your schedule.

He was thinking about hydration ratios when he passed the guardhouse.

"You. Baker."

Max stopped. A young guard, leaning out of the doorway. New, probably. Max didn't know him.

"Yes?"

"Was that you? In the market?"

"I was in the market. I needed flour."

"The troll. People are saying someone stopped it. Bald fellow."

Max touched his head. He shaved it because flour stuck in hair. He'd expected it to grow back in the winters, when he baked less, but it never did. He'd stopped thinking about it.

"It stopped itself," he said. "Decided to leave. Trolls do that."

"People are saying you used magic."

"I know a few spells. Nothing special."

The guard frowned. "You're registered?"

"Copper-rank. Three years."

"Copper." The frown deepened. "And you stopped a troll."

"The troll stopped itself. I just encouraged it to leave before real trouble came."

Someone shouted inside the guardhouse. Paperwork. Shift change. The guard glanced back, gave Max one more uncertain look, and disappeared inside.

Max kept walking.

His apartment was exactly as he'd left it. Small. Cluttered with baking things. The sourdough starter on the windowsill, bubbling in its clay pot. He'd kept it alive for almost four years now. Wild yeast from a spring rain. It had developed this flavor he'd never been able to replicate, tangy and complex, with something almost fruity underneath.

He unpacked. Flour in the bin. Salt in the jar. Honey on the shelf. Rosemary hanging to dry. Eggs in the cold box, and they really were substandard, the vendor had overcharged even at one copper, but they'd do for enriched dough tomorrow.

Max washed his hands. Checked the starter. Good. Ready.

He began to make bread.

Flour by feel. The northern wheat was coarser than usual, so a little more water. Hydration was everything. Too dry and the bread came out dense. Too wet and it wouldn't hold shape. Perfect lived in a narrow window.

As he mixed, Max found his mind wandering to the troll.

Forest trolls didn't come this close usually. Something had pushed it out. The Greenwood trouble. Monsters displacing monsters, like floods pushing animals uphill.

He felt bad about scaring it. The barrier had probably been overkill. A loud noise might have worked.

Done now. The troll would find somewhere. The market would go back to normal. Mirella would keep gouging on tomatoes until the roads improved. Thornhaven moved in predictable patterns. Max liked that. Patterns let you plan. Let you know when to start the dough so bread was ready for dinner.

He kneaded the dough, watching it go from shaggy to smooth, sticky to elastic. This was the part he loved. The transformation. Raw things becoming something more.

When it was ready, he shaped it into a ball, set it in an oiled bowl. Four hours. Maybe five. He'd check it.

He washed his hands again and sat by the window.

The city spread below. Red roofs. Grey stone. The distant green smudge of the Greenwood, past the walls. Somewhere out there, his troll was finding a new hiding spot. Somewhere, whatever had scared it was still stirring.

He thought about this for maybe thirty seconds.

Then he got out his recipe journal. The rosemary. He could try a fougasse, that leaf-shaped bread from the south. Would need to adjust for the moisture in the herbs.

The bread rose. The afternoon went. The light through the window turned gold, then orange, then grey.

He shaped the loaf. Scored the top. Slid it into the oven he'd spent his first adventurer's wages fixing. The heat was right, that perfect zone where steam formed but the crust wouldn't burn before the inside cooked.

He waited.

Somewhere in the city, guards were filing paperwork about the troll. Merchants were calculating losses. People were talking about the bald man who'd faced down a charging monster and made it stop.

Max didn't care about any of that. He was watching bread bake. Listening to the crust crackle. Smelling yeast and wheat and heat becoming something nourishing.

The bread came out perfect.

He ate two slices standing at his counter. Butter. Honey. Still warm. The stars were coming out over Thornhaven.

Tomorrow he'd go back to the market. Try Mirella again on the tomatoes. One and three-quarters, maybe. Worth a shot.

He went to bed thinking about bread.

Outside the walls, in the dark, things were moving. Too many legs. Too many teeth. Hunger that didn't stop. They pressed against the Greenwood's edges, testing. Looking.

Hopefully they wouldn't find anything. And if they did, hopefully another adventurer could handle it. Or Max could, he supposed, if it came to that.

Nothing was worse than monsters interrupting your shopping. Unless they showed up right when you were about to take that first bite. That would be worse.