Chapter 27: 27. Festivities

Alcohol wasn't a novel concept for the ferals. But the booze they were familiar with was grainy and lumpy with a nauseatingly bitter taste. It was made from fermented berry nuts, which were normally poisonous prior to months of fermenting.

The clear rum Mira made was like nectar of the gods in comparison to larka—the feral ale-like substance they consumed. And it was the cherry on top that sent the feral’s excitement into overdrive for the festival.

The event had been scheduled for early afternoon, and by midday, the fort was abuzz.

Officially, the day would be known as Winterclaw Day. Mark had wanted to come up with something more creative but settled since the goal was to create a sense of identity and pride for Fort Winterclaw, and it seemed practical to keep it simple.

He also planned to do something Henric Dawn was adamantly against: keep the outer walls' doors open during the festival. Before making the decision, he had consulted with his tribunes. They had either agreed to the idea or remained silent.

It was a bit controversial since security was the fort’s only real selling point besides trading with its storeroom. This had been fairly easy to maintain with such strict control of people to and from its walls, but that needed to change.

Of course, Mark had no intention of rushing into changing his closed-gates policy immediately, but the jovial atmosphere created by their victory over the cultists seemed like the perfect opportunity to test it.

But he also had another plan, which he had not consulted his Master-At-Arms over. It was the name of their barbarian brethren. If he was going to foster unity between the people, they were going to need to stop calling them ferals.

Citizens would be perfect. But that would no doubt cause too many issues with the Imperials since it was what they called their own and would contradict the Law of Hierarchy. So Mark had settled on commoners for their new name.

It would no doubt still anger people, but since the term had no legal or religious significance, it should be manageable.

If everything worked out as he hoped, the festival wouldn’t just be a celebration but an opportunity to show off how good life was within the fort, and hopefully not just attract the ferals living around it but earn some loyalty from them.

And not just that. The festival was likely to be a large financial boon. Mark intended to give his guests their first cup of rum away for free, but after that, they would be counting every coin.

***

The night started with ferals gulping liquor and blowing balls of fire. Jaryox juggled knives surrounded by a crowd of spectators and acolytes handed out the free rums Mark had promised.

Ferals from the surrounding areas streamed into the fort and joined early, most bringing their entire families. There was little doubt that some of the people were spying for the cultists within the walls, but that was a sacrifice he would need to make if he wanted to prove that he wasn’t afraid of them.

The people looked more upright than he remembered. Their faces beamed, and their guards were lowered. For the first time, he was seeing these ferals experience a more civilized version of life. One where they weren’t constantly looking over their backs.

As the crowd grew, Mark raised his hands to the sky and brightened the air with crackling bursts of thunder that cast a bluish glow across the faces of awe-struck spectators. Kids pointed at the spectacle and called to their parents as smiles bent across their dirty faces.

Mark would have preferred fireworks, but their stores had no gunpowder and he wasn't sure if it was even invented in this world.

Smiling and waving at the crowd as the sparks of lightning left his hands, Mark stepped back and disappeared into the thong of activity.

He made his way to the center of the festival, where, standing atop stacked crates, Weed Eye flailed his fingers as a crowd gathered around him.

“And that’s when the big Imperator blast ‘em,” he said, jumping for cinematic effect, causing several kids to squeal. “And then again. He be blastin’ ‘em so hard he blast himself off of him’s own feet. Fried little cultists rollin’ through the snow. And then he got up he did. Wiped the blood from his gob and says, “I’ms tha King ‘ere! Feel me thunda!” and blast ‘em again—he did.”

He’s taken a little creative licensing on the story, but it works. Mark smiled and stepped away from the performance. As long as the man was making him look good, he wasn’t about to interfere with the style of his performance.

“Don’t think I'd forgotten,” Henric said, passing through the crowds as he approached, waving a pack of cards in one hand and holding a bottle of rum in the other.

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“Why did Mira give you an entire bottle?”

“What, this stuff?” He grinned with rosy cheeks as he raised the bottle. “It’s from my private supply. Been saving it.”

“What have I started,” Mark groaned.

“And it’s all mine,” Henric pressed the bottle to his lips.

“Are you two finally playing that game of cards Henric has been hounding you for?”

Mark turned to see Mira wading through the crowd with Treff a step behind.

“It looks like we’ve got a party forming,” Mark eyed the two.

“It is your festival, Imperator. Surely you’re going to enjoy it a little as well,” Mira smiled.

“Don’t worry, I am. In my own way.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll share. Come on, let me pour you one incy wincy little drink to get you started, Imperator,” Henric said, pushing his bottle toward Mark.

So, this is what the steely-faced Henric is like when he’s drunk.

“You’ve got me for a game of cards. But no alcohol. Someone needs to remain clear-headed tonight.”

“No fun. But whatever, more for me,” Henric said, taking a swig.

“So, what's the stakes?” Grunted Treff as he crossed his sinewy arms.

“Stakes?” Mark said as he turned to the butcher.

“We’re playing cards, no?”

“Well, there’s still a bunch of questions I’ve been waiting for the Imperator to answer. We could start there,” Mira said. “I’d be happy to take those if I win.”

“Hey, let's pull the breaks up a little.”

“You say the strangest things, Imperator. Can’t we pick that curious brain a little? One minute, I think I know you, and the next, you go and—well, change. It’s getting hard to keep up. I just want to get to know my Imperator a little better,” Mira’s lips curled into a cheeky smile as she pulled another bottle from her robes. “Besides, it’ll be fun, and it’s not often we get a chance to celebrate.”

Henric pulled a table from one of the festival stalls, kicked a couple of stools into place, and slapped down the pack of cards. “There, perfect.”

“So, that’s the stakes? Just questions?” Treff grunted as he took a stool.

“I never agreed to that,” Mark said.

“Hmph, I prefer crowns,” Treff nodded.

“Wait,” Henric raised a hand. “Questions aren’t such a bad idea. As long as you tell the truth, I can work with that.”

“And what about me? What do I win?” Mark slumped. Fighting back too hard was likely to cause more suspicion than just answering the questions. Besides, it wasn’t like he actually had to tell the truth. Not that they were likely to believe him if he said he came from Earth. They would be more likely to assume he had some kind of brain injury.

“Our unwavering loyalty?” Mira twirled a finger on the table.

“Don't I already have that? And how much have you had to drink already?”

Hic Mira blushed. “Only a few rums.”

I've got a bad feeling about this.

“Fine. But we play one of my games.”

“Yours?” Henric raised a brow.

“It's just something I came up with. It's fun, trust me.”

“Something you came up with? How would you know that it’s fun? Come on, let’s just play something normal like Togiwart.”

“Just give it a chance. Has everybody got a few iron coins?”

The others nodded.

Mark grinned, shuffled, and passed out two face-down cards.

“Now, don't let anyone see those.”

Mark had already seen Imperial playing cards. And they were remarkably similar to the ones on Earth. Not the same, of course. But close enough that he could bend the rules of Texas Hold’em to make it work.

The game took a little explaining, but Treff and Henri picked it up well enough. Mira, on the other hand, somehow managed to fumble her way into good hands despite seemingly not knowing what she was doing.

They played the game with the coins, and Mark allowed them to spend ten to ask a question.

“So, how do you like my game, Winterclaw Hold‘em?” Mark said after winning several straight hands.

“You just came up with that name, didn’t you?” Henric chuckled.

“I’d like it more if I won,” Treff grumbled.

“It's my game. I get to name it,” Mark shrugged.

“Iiiiii like it,” Mira slurred, slumped over the table with a wide grin as she flipped pocket dragons—the face card Mark had assigned the value of ace to.

“She’s the only one that can beat him,” Treff growled below his breath.

“Bad hic luck, boys,” Mira said, pulling the pile of iron coins toward her. “That means I get another question.”

“It doesn’t have to—ah, whatever. Alright, go for it,” Mark said as he flipped his cards over.

“Ever been married, Mr. Imperator?”

Mark was quietly happy that Mira had only asked him questions. Henric probably would have had harder ones. And if she had ever been intending to try and figure him out, that thought had well and truly vanished with the last few rums.

“No, I haven't.”

“May the God-Lord forgive us,” Henric palmed his face. “We already knew that, Mira.”

“We did?”

Treff waved his cloth coin pouch, “And now, I’m broke.”

“Nothing to buy out here anyway,” Henric gulped down the last of his rum. “Been fun, at least.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Mira cupped her mouth.

Brushing his hands after taking Mira to her bed with the help of Henric and Treff, Mark walked back through the festivities.

There had been a few fist fights, but not so much as a weapon drawn all night. Mostly thanks to Trumus' boys, who patrolled all night. All of his tribunes now had at least one or two others that worked for them, but it was Trumus who had instilled a real sense of discipline in his.

“Weedy Eye,” Mark said, approaching the crates where the old man still spun his tales. “Mind if I?”

“Here that, people? The Imperator wants to speak to ye. Be respectful and all that. He the one we owes for all this,” he said, flailing his arms through the air. “All yous, Imperator,” he nodded and stepped down.

Clearing his throat, Mark climbed atop the crates. “Welcome to my Fort, good people of the Frontier. Today marks an important milestone in our relationship. One that I hope fosters a mutual understanding that helps us work through the tribulations ahead.”

Mark noticed puzzled expressions twisting his audience's faces.

“What I mean is—working together, we win! No cultists or baby thieves will scare us. No one will divide us! Together, we are strong! And to celebrate this fact, I henceforth dub all people of the Frontier that are loyal to Fort Winterclaw commoners of this land. You shall no longer be referred to as ferals!”

The crowd cheered. Mark wasn’t entirely sure how much of an effect the name had on them, but he was certain most of them were happy about where things were going, regardless of whether or not they understood every word he spoke. And even if they didn’t realize it now, he was certain they would learn to appreciate what he did for them.

Hopefully, my Imperials won’t get their knickers into too much of a twist over this.

Men cheered one another, women held up their children, and barbarian musicians blew horns and drummed.

We’ve come a long way, but this is barely the beginning.

“Now walk with pride, commoners of Fort Winterclaw!”