The Drawing of the Dark

by Tim Powers

Duffy blinked, impressed by the old man’s speech. “And that’s why the Herzwesten is one of the most important centers, eh?” “Possibly the most important.” Aurelianus peered at the Irishman, as if gauging how much revelation he could take at one sitting. “Being Irish,” he said slowly, “you’ve doubtless heard of Finn Mac Cool.” Duffy nodded. “There actually was such a man,” Aurelianus said. “He was the High King of these people I was speaking of, the nomadic beaker people—call them Celts if you like, it’s not entirely inaccurate—and he died here.” He pointed at the floor. Duffy automatically peeked under the table. “Here?” “He’s actually buried under this building,” Aurelianus told him. “You mentioned the old Roman fort that used to stand here; it was built around this brewing cellar, which had been producing beer for two thousand years when the first Roman saw the place. The brewery was built thirty-five centuries ago, to be a marker over Finn’s grave.”

Here's the basis of a roleplaying campaign!

Bugge had leaned forward then. “Who’s the man?” he asked. “The one who hasn’t come, though the hour has?” “It is the man who will lead you. Listen to me now, you complacent fathers and householders, and don’t make up your twopenny minds that what I’m saying is necessarily a fable. Do you recall the stories of Sigmund, who drew out Odin’s sword easily from the Branstock Oak when no other man in the Volsung’s hall could budge it with his best efforts?” “Certainly,” Bugge had nodded. “And I also recall what became of that sword when the one-eyed god inexplicably turned on him. Odin shattered it in battle, and Sigmund, left unarmed, was killed by Lyngi’s spearmen.” The magician had nodded. “That’s true. Now listen, Odin has allowed—ordered, rather—Sigmund himself to return to the flesh, to lead you in pushing back Muspelheim’s hordes.” The men around the table had been skeptical, but afraid to let Gardvord see it. “How will we meet him?” piped up one of them. “You must sail up the Elbe, through various tributaries and overland crossings, and finally down the Danube. When you have reached the city that is built around Balder’s barrow, you’ll know it, because,” he paused impressively, “Sigmund will actually rise from the water to greet you. I suspect the barrow is near the city of Tulln, but I can’t be sure. You’ll know the spot, in any case, by Sigmund’s watery resurrection.

Roleplaying possibilities galore.

Mothertongue frowned at Duffy’s tone. “There are matters awaiting my decisions,” he admitted. “But you’re not to give these men alcohol; they’re clean-living Christians … underneath it all.” “Of course they are.” A cask of beer was carried out a minute or so after Mothertongue’s exit, and Duffy filled twenty-two mugs. “Drink up, now, you clean-living Christians,” he told the northmen, unnecessarily.

Beer.

Stop to mourn for every good man that’s died for us and you’d never get from bed to the chamber-pot.

Duffy nodded civilly, reflecting, though, that the surest way to get Aurelianus to talk about chickens was to ask him about cheese.

I know many people like this.

Duffy watched the wooden chest bobbing slowly away downstream. “Noon?” he repeated absently. “What’s so special about noon?” Aurelianus tried standing up again, and made it this time. “All these magics involve a breaking or violation of the natural laws,” he told Duffy, “and those laws relax just a little, are weakest, at noon and midnight.”

Two witching hours.