Originally wrote this for a potential anthology of my own, but that seems unlikely to happen, so here it is.
Sir Edric and the Taming of the Fire Demon
Sir Edric stared at the fire demon’s prison. The inferno spirit was nowhere to be seen, and its lair was cold and vacant. He gazed in confusion at the stone dwelling, before deciding a goblet of wine would soothe his worries and enliven his mind, readying his wits to do battle with the enigma before him.
The cook was dead, of course. Killed by flying baboons as he wandered home on his monthly night off.
That’ll teach me to be generous to servants.
Worse still, Dog had been poisoned. His manservant was a fine chef, but had been unfortunate to drink a bottle of wine Sir Edric had given to him. Dog’s excellent nose had soon detected the poison, intended for his master, but not before it had laid him too low to offer his culinary expertise.
And, to cap it all, Corkwell was offering to provide dinner. He did not look forward to the prospect of force-feeding himself chunks of incinerated meat marinated in ash. To avoid putting his innards through purgatory, he had therefore decided to educate himself in the ways of the oven.
Its mysteries were not entirely unknown to him. But then, any buffoon could work out which end of a sword did what, and that didn’t make him a swordsman. The oven was a magnificent modern addition to his kitchen, a concept imported from Andelias and available only to the wealthiest of men. It was also intensely frustrating.
He sipped his wine and pondered the problem. Inspired by the divine beverage, the answer struck him like a haddock across the face.
“Sod the oven. I’ll just use the hearth.”
The heart was large enough to roast a whole pig, and he was tempted to try, for the heavenly porker provided not only pork, but ham, gammon and bacon too. On the other hand, he knew from watching Dog cook whilst travelling that larger things took more time to cook, and he wanted to practise the art, that he might master it before Corkwell arrived.
Fortunately, he had committed an avicidal massacre during the morning, and had a ready array of winged corpses upon which to develop his mastery of the hearth. He rammed the spit up a dead bird’s posterior, lit the hearth, and replaced the spit over open flames.
“Bugger.”
He removed the spit, plucked the partridge, then put the featherless fowl back over the hearth. A mere two goblets of wine later, he checked the partridge, and found it was wonderfully cooked on one side, and all but raw on the other.
During the next hour or so he experimented relentlessly, roasting multiple birds at once and taking them off at intervals to inspect their fitness for consumption. Pausing only for a spot of wine and cheese, he proceed to investigate the optimal spices and herbs, brandy and wine to accompany his dishes.
When Corkwell wandered in, he looked up from his important work and noticed darkness had fallen.
“What’s all this?” she asked, gesturing at the pile of used crockery, bloodied utensils and assorted bottles of alcohol and jars of spice littering the table.
“I,” Sir Edric pronounced, “have been conducting a substantial examination of the best way to cook a bird. It’s been surprisingly engaging.”
Corkwell, a bag over her shoulder and sword at her hip, leaned against the wall. “Wait a minute, you’ve spent the entire day working out how to cook a pigeon?”
“Many pigeons, Corkwell, not just one. And partridge.”
She sighed. “Oh, Edric. Gods know where you’d be if you hadn’t inherited a fortune to pay for servants.”
“Honestly, Corkwell. The cook was killed and Dog’s malingering in the cellar. I’ve spent all day mastering the art of cookmanship, and being met with profound ingratitude is a mite disheartening.”
“You haven’t left this room all day?”
“Well, I did take a small break for cheese and wine, to renew my strength and stiffen my resolve.” He pointed at the silver platter. “And what did you do?”
She dumped the bag on the table. “I bought two pies at the bakery.”
“Oh.”
Sir Edric and the Taming of the Fire Demon
Sir Edric stared at the fire demon’s prison. The inferno spirit was nowhere to be seen, and its lair was cold and vacant. He gazed in confusion at the stone dwelling, before deciding a goblet of wine would soothe his worries and enliven his mind, readying his wits to do battle with the enigma before him.
The cook was dead, of course. Killed by flying baboons as he wandered home on his monthly night off.
That’ll teach me to be generous to servants.
Worse still, Dog had been poisoned. His manservant was a fine chef, but had been unfortunate to drink a bottle of wine Sir Edric had given to him. Dog’s excellent nose had soon detected the poison, intended for his master, but not before it had laid him too low to offer his culinary expertise.
And, to cap it all, Corkwell was offering to provide dinner. He did not look forward to the prospect of force-feeding himself chunks of incinerated meat marinated in ash. To avoid putting his innards through purgatory, he had therefore decided to educate himself in the ways of the oven.
Its mysteries were not entirely unknown to him. But then, any buffoon could work out which end of a sword did what, and that didn’t make him a swordsman. The oven was a magnificent modern addition to his kitchen, a concept imported from Andelias and available only to the wealthiest of men. It was also intensely frustrating.
He sipped his wine and pondered the problem. Inspired by the divine beverage, the answer struck him like a haddock across the face.
“Sod the oven. I’ll just use the hearth.”
The heart was large enough to roast a whole pig, and he was tempted to try, for the heavenly porker provided not only pork, but ham, gammon and bacon too. On the other hand, he knew from watching Dog cook whilst travelling that larger things took more time to cook, and he wanted to practise the art, that he might master it before Corkwell arrived.
Fortunately, he had committed an avicidal massacre during the morning, and had a ready array of winged corpses upon which to develop his mastery of the hearth. He rammed the spit up a dead bird’s posterior, lit the hearth, and replaced the spit over open flames.
“Bugger.”
He removed the spit, plucked the partridge, then put the featherless fowl back over the hearth. A mere two goblets of wine later, he checked the partridge, and found it was wonderfully cooked on one side, and all but raw on the other.
During the next hour or so he experimented relentlessly, roasting multiple birds at once and taking them off at intervals to inspect their fitness for consumption. Pausing only for a spot of wine and cheese, he proceed to investigate the optimal spices and herbs, brandy and wine to accompany his dishes.
When Corkwell wandered in, he looked up from his important work and noticed darkness had fallen.
“What’s all this?” she asked, gesturing at the pile of used crockery, bloodied utensils and assorted bottles of alcohol and jars of spice littering the table.
“I,” Sir Edric pronounced, “have been conducting a substantial examination of the best way to cook a bird. It’s been surprisingly engaging.”
Corkwell, a bag over her shoulder and sword at her hip, leaned against the wall. “Wait a minute, you’ve spent the entire day working out how to cook a pigeon?”
“Many pigeons, Corkwell, not just one. And partridge.”
She sighed. “Oh, Edric. Gods know where you’d be if you hadn’t inherited a fortune to pay for servants.”
“Honestly, Corkwell. The cook was killed and Dog’s malingering in the cellar. I’ve spent all day mastering the art of cookmanship, and being met with profound ingratitude is a mite disheartening.”
“You haven’t left this room all day?”
“Well, I did take a small break for cheese and wine, to renew my strength and stiffen my resolve.” He pointed at the silver platter. “And what did you do?”
She dumped the bag on the table. “I bought two pies at the bakery.”
“Oh.”
