I wrote this story in hopes of getting in a coffee themed anthology. The story was rejected, but ultimately made it into Allegory Magazine. I really love playing in worlds that mash up elements of traditional and urban fantasy because I’m a fan of both—and because the potential for absurdity is very high, indeed. So, here it is…the story of a crabby old dwarf in a coffee shop just trying to get through his day.

 

A TASTE FOR ADVENTURE

by Wendy Hammer

A dwarf can only take so many variations of, “We don’t see your kind around much these days. . .” before uncertainty kicks in. 

Was leaving the mines the right decision? 

Maybe the beard is out of control. How bad could a visit to a barber be? 

Is it time to take the CPA exam or is it too soon after tax-season?

Wouldn’t that idiot look better with a broken nose? 

Darfich unclenched his fists. Assaulting Javamancy’s new barista wasn’t going to make him feel better for long. Instead of lashing out, he mustered up a weak smile, and said, “Most of us stay underground or stick to the outer boroughs.” He tilted his head toward the menu-board, hoping to get back to business. “Say, how about a triple ristretto and one of those big oatmeal-raisin cookies?” 

“. . . I mean, it’s just weird, you know? You’ve got the axe and everything. And, hey, are you wearing, like real chainmail underneath that shirt?” The kid rattled on, not pausing to listen or to think. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m cool with all sorts, but, you know . . .”

Darfich let his raised eyebrow do all the talking. 

The barista finally checked himself, closed his mouth, and got to work. It wasn’t pretty. He acted nervous, handled the change clumsily, and his sweaty fingers lingered on the dwarf’s palm for at least five seconds too long. 

Darfich wiped his hands on his pants and moved aside to wait. He hoped the kid could pull a good shot because his other skills were less than stellar. “Expert at goading customers and possesses a stunning lack of self-awareness” were not usually big selling points on your average résumé.  

The dwarf trudged over to the end of the counter and stared at his feet, the walls, anywhere but at the kid making his drink. A snort of laughter drew his attention. 

The barista’s face had changed from its previously bland good looks into–a perfect mirror of Darfich’s own. The dwarf goggled at the sight of the familiar crooked nose jutting out from a bristling red beard shot through with gray. The white line of a scar, earned from taking a sword swipe to the face nearly two centuries ago, now also snaked across the barista’s forehead. The goofy grin his double sported wasn’t right, and it was creepy to see his head on such an oddly proportioned body, but Darfich couldn’t deny that otherwise the copy was perfect.

He frowned. When did I get so old?

Darfich touched his face to reassure himself it was still there, and was ashamed at succumbing to the impulse. Of course it was. 

It would take more than a stupid trick to best him. He might be mostly retired from the field, but he wasn’t gone yet. His irritation spurred him to investigate. He inhaled and frowned. 

Shifter. It figured. They were the biggest wankers in the uncanny kingdom. Not even the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee could mask the stink of that magic. 

He should’ve known.

Darfich bared his teeth and said, “Best wipe that look off your face right now, son, or the most you can hope for is that I have a sit-down with your boss. Wizards have strong opinions about proper conduct in their places of business, and Wolguren is fiercer than most.” He let the statement sink in before adding, “Take that as you will.” 

He watched with satisfaction as the face in front of him melted and reformed. The grin was long gone. 

“Sorry, brah. My bad.” The barista wouldn’t make eye contact. 

Darfich walked away with cup and cookie in hand. He claimed a table with a prime view out into the square. He didn’t spill a drop on his journey and considered that a victory.

The espresso was gorgeous, as usual: full bodied and dark with a luscious layer of mahogany crema. 

Perfection. 

Darfich was glad he hadn’t decided to make the barista bleed. With a bit more training, the kid would probably turn out all right. 

The dwarf turned his thoughts away from violence. He settled in, sipped, savored, and watched the sun sink toward the horizon. 

The barista’s observation hadn’t been wrong. There were fewer and fewer of his kind around. Most of them were genuinely happier underground, traveling topside only when necessary. Some did try to make a real go of it in the city, but many discovered that it could be a colder and darker place than even the deepest pit in the mines.

Darfich took a fierce bite of his cookie, and chewed without tasting it. The trick to success was maintaining an iron resolve and finding something solid to hang on to. For him, it was his job, the companionship of a few old campaign buddies, and . . . coffee. 

He didn’t know if it was psychological or not, but coffee never tasted as good in the Stone Halls as it did in the city. Here, it had nuance and backbone. There, it seemed to go weak and muddy. And espresso? Forget it. Above or below, the only place for a shot of that caffeinated wonder was at a real coffee shop. 

Darfich wouldn’t have ventured out of the comforts of home if Javamancy didn’t serve up something truly phenomenal. Wolguren put a lot of energy into sourcing his beans and roasted them in-house. His mundane concoctions were of the highest quality, and business had always been very good. Once he’d developed the specialty brews, the magic stuff, Javamancy immediately became the top coffee shop in the city. 

The local Were packs and prides had been the first to develop a taste for his creations. They craved that rush of caffeine and adrenaline. Wolguren had clinched his victory once he’d perfected a meld of blood and coffee. The Vamps raved about the edgy drink and flocked to the ‘Mancy. 

After that, everyone wanted to get a fix, wanted to see and be seen there. Wolguren worked hard to make that possible by insisting Javamancy remain a neutral zone. No one doubted the wizard could back up his policy, and they all fell in line without fuss. His power kept things tidy, and the coffee never stopped flowing. 

Darfich knew firsthand how formidable the cranky old sod could be. They’d defeated a Dark Lord or two together, had crawled through a multitude of dungeons, and had slain countless monsters in their escapades. 

Those had been good times. 

He finished his espresso and closed his eyes, contented. His peace didn’t last long. 

Darfich was almost immediately reminded why he didn’t usually come to Javamancy after dark. During the day, the clientele was a mix of artists and business drones, old adventurers, and the odd graduate student or two. At night it was a whole different story. The supernaturals, practitioners, and paranormal investigators all came out in force. 

He knew the nocturnal crowd pulled their weight. He’d heard tales of thwarted demon invasions, averted Faerie Court wars, closed dimensional portals, and toxic spell dump clean-ups. He knew that serious disasters had been averted through their efforts time and again. He supposed he owed credit for that.

But that didn’t stop him from being thoroughly annoyed by the lot of them.

He glared at the first wave of the night. They were all muscles, cleavage, angst, and leather. They may do good things for the city, but there was so much drama it grated on his nerves.

He watched as two heated arguments broke out on opposite sides of the place. The make-out sessions that immediately followed were equally intense. He rolled his eyes. 

Things had seemed simpler back in his heyday.  

Two women took the table next to his. The scent of tea and spices wafted from their cups. He couldn’t help but listen in on their conversation. 

“What? He just fell right into the trap? You didn’t have to glamour him? No curses or hexes necessary?” the blonde one squealed. “How did your familiar react?” 

The darker one shrugged. “Just as you’d expect, Fee. She took it like any cat would. I’d get attitude no matter which way things turned, but she let me know she was less pleased than usual.” The witch smiled. “I think she was looking forward to getting her claws into that ghoul.” 

Fee nodded sagely, and drank some tea. She looked over, noticed Darfich, and nudged her friend. She whispered, “Oh my Goddess, Diana! Look at that dwarf sitting there all alone. Poor old thing. Do you think we should invite him to sit with us?” 

Darfich tried not to flinch and resisted the urge to walk away. 

Diana shook her head ever so slightly. “I’ve heard they’re pretty proud and touchy. I wouldn’t want him to think we’re patronizing him or anything. But, maybe we could, I don’t know, cast a little love charm for him? It couldn’t hurt, right?” 

Darfich was saved from humiliation by a great blast of air outside. The few trees scattered along the periphery of the square lost a good share of their foliage. Trash blew into the next block. A planter or two tipped over, and windows shattered. The noise was awful, a bass freight train blast that made his back molars ache. A crush of heat and darkness erased the bleary smear of stars. 

No one knew why–until the dragon touched down. 

About a hundred years had passed since the last documented sighting of one of the beasts, and it had been a disappointment, a pitiful mewling specimen, easily dispatched by some spoiled prince nobody really remembered. No dragon of any real size had been spied for twice that long. There were few left who knew much about dragons beyond mere tidbits of lore, but one thing was clear to even the most ignorant: the older dragons got, the bigger and crankier they grew. 

The creature that landed outside in St. George’s Square must have been ancient. It was massive. Terrifying. Glorious. 

And, from, the looks of it, it was in a mighty foul mood. 

The dragon came perilously close to filling the square. Each shimmering golden scale looked as big as a manhole cover. Eyes, blue as the core of flame, glared out from a thick crust of ochre residue. It blinked and a chunk of the stuff broke off and fell to the stones of the square. The dragon yawned and revealed double rows of teeth. From where Darfich was sitting, he could see straight down its mighty gullet. 

It took one raspy roar to break the stupor of the crowd in Javamancy. 

The Were-pack in the front acted as one unit. As soon as their Alpha downed his drink like a shot and shouted, “Hells, yeah! Let’s get that bitch!” they all followed without hesitation. They transformed on the run, and it was beautiful in a meaty and uncomfortable sort of way. 

Darfich thought about saying something, but shrugged. They’d learn soon enough. 

Or not. 

The werewolves hurtled out the door and tried to surround the dragon. A few of the more nimble members managed to get a nip in, but it had about as much effect as an infant trying to gum an anvil. The dragon dispatched the group with three swipes of its tail and a bite or two.  

The vampires were reckless in a different way. They tried to take advantage of the chaos caused by the Were’s attack to make a getaway. Most of them were torched in mid-air when the dragon blew fire in graceful arcs and pinpoint strikes. All that was left when it was over were greasy puffs of ash and a lone stiletto heel. 

Diana and her fellow witch exchanged glances. They nodded and stood up, wiping their hands on their cloaks. 

Darfich spoke up. “Whatever it is you’re thinking of doing . . . don’t.” 

They gaped at him. 

He heaved a sigh and got to his feet. He reached around and grabbed his axe. “With all due respect, this is probably a job I’m better suited for.” 

Darfich hoped that he moved with slow heroic dignity as he exited the building, instead of what he felt like: an old dwarf waddling out to meet potential doom. 

He stepped out into the square and walked straight for the dragon. It had lowered its head so that it rested on the ground in front of him. Black smoke curled lazily out of its nostrils. Darfich could tell he’d been spotted, but neither made a move toward the other. 

If he was going to fall, at least it would be to be a worthy opponent. Even through a haze of fear, the dwarf could feel the creature’s majesty. On impulse, he bowed before it. 

A low rumbling growl vibrated in the dragon’s throat as it lifted its head. 

Darfich braced himself. He trusted his axe and arm, but surviving a head-on blast of the dragon’s incendiary breath was unlikely.

 

“Well met, Master Dwarf,” the dragon said. Its voice was the deep crackle of coalfire and stone dragged across stone. “I am pleased to see not all have lost their manners.” It inclined its great head. 

Darfich had anticipated many things: incineration, decapitation, ingestion, and expiration among them. Conversation, however, was a complete surprise. It seemed like a bad idea to try to attack now. 

He cleared his throat. “The young ones have had little time to learn how to get along, Sir Dragon. They have no experience being in such august company.” He felt like a gilded ass for sounding like that, and for the first time regretted avoiding Court. Lordlings may be preening fools, but they could turn a phrase with the best of them. 

The dragon grunted and shifted its bulk. “I had hoped that the world would have grown more during my long sleep.” Its eyes moved around, obviously taking in the scene, before narrowing peevishly. Another clod of yellowed resin crumbled and fell. 

Darfich swallowed. A dragon just awakened from hibernation would be on edge and a little fuzzy-headed. It was a dangerous combination, but one that might be played for time. He suspected that the next state would be dominated by hunger. There would be no reasoning then. 

The dragon yawned again. 

Darfich knew that look. It sparked hope. He had one shot to make it through this.  “If it please you, I’d like to offer a gift.” He bowed again. 

The dragon perked up. “Something to add to my hoard, you mean? Golden armor perhaps? Diamonds clear as rainwater? Rubies red like heart’s blood?”

“I was thinking of a somewhat more ephemeral pleasure, but one that is treasured by most.” 

The beast pouted for a moment, but curiosity and greed conquered impatience and disappointment. It nodded. 

“I won’t be long.” 

The dragon did not need to make another threat. 

They both knew the score. 

Darfich hustled into Javamancy and got down to business. He found the barista cowering behind the counter. “I need your best brew and I need it immediately.” 

The kid stared at him for a beat or two, but to his credit he quickly rallied. “I’d go for today’s Dark Roast. It’s got full body, solid caramelization, and notes of chocolate, honey, and raisin.” He stood up and motioned to one of the self-serve urns. 

“Got any large bins? A garbage can, maybe?”

The barista nodded and didn’t waste time answering. He ran into the back and came out with a large wheeled waste container, something much like a portable dumpster. “It will hold liquid and can handle some heat.”

Darfich grinned and the two of them emptied the coffee urn into the bin. It barely covered the bottom. The thin film of liquid looked pathetic. He was doomed.

“We can help with that,” Fee said. 

The dwarf had forgotten the witches. His grin widened. 

The two women chanted and gestured. The spell’s song was lively, with a bubbling beat. The liquid in the bin multiplied and grew. Soon, the container was filled. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air, thick and mellow. 

Darfich began to push, but it was slow going. He wasn’t sure if he could control the forward motion, but he couldn’t risk irritating the dragon by making it wait. He strained. 

A heavy sigh broke his concentration. 

It was explained when his double took a place at his side. The transformation was more complete this time, allowing the shifter to pick up some of his Dwarven strength. The bin moved more surely and with more speed. 

He’d have to amend his opinion of the barista, Shifters, and the properties of enchanted spandex. He didn’t want to see the Shifter walking around in the altogether, especially while in his current form. Darfich’s budget couldn’t handle all the extra therapy bills. 

He gave the barista a nod and smiled when he got the same in return. 

Yeah. The kid’s all right. 

When the two witches brought their strength to bear, the task became light. The group moved out into the square to face the dragon. 

Darfich could tell when the aroma caught the dragon’s attention. It inhaled, drawing the scent deeper into its lungs. A dragon’s smile can strike fear into the bravest of hearts, but it was a welcome sight this time.

They pushed the bin up as close as they dared.

“This is the best coffee in the city, Friend Dragon, and I hope you find it a worthy offering. Please drink.” 

The dragon looked suspicious, but the smell was working its own magic. 

Diana pulled a small chalice out of her pocket and scooped out some of the steaming liquid. She took a drink and passed it along to the others. 

When nothing untoward happened, the dragon stuck out its enormous tongue, and scooped up a large serving of the coffee. Its eyes widened and a sound much like a purr escaped. The dragon went back for another sip. 

The bin was empty by the third pass. 

“More,” it said. 

The witches chanted and the few drops remaining multiplied and filled the container. 

As the dragon drank, its eyes brightened. Its wings flexed and its mighty talons tapped out a lively jig.

“Again.” 

They obeyed.

After two more servings, it finished at last. “This coffee drink pleases me greatly. I thank you.” The creature stretched. “I feel refreshed and find that I’m anxious to return to my treasure.” He fixed the group with a stare. “Your bravery and generosity do you credit. I will let you live.” 

They did not get the chance to respond before the dragon launched itself into the air and was gone.

Sometimes there was an advantage to being almost beneath notice. 

 The barista shifted back into his original form and heaved a sigh of relief.

Darfich let his muscles relax. He’d been so tense he could feel cramp starting to set in. 

The witches gave each other a hug and then bestowed the same favor on the two males. Darfich shuffled and snorted with discomfort, but found himself smiling just the same. 

The barista let out a whoop, a sound filled with unconscious joy. He spread out his arms, and took a huge breath. “Dudes! That was awesome.” He glanced at his fellow adventurers. “Right?” 

Darfich blinked. He was about to say something about preferring a quiet night with a good book, when he realized it was a lie. He threw his head back and laughed. 

The others joined in.  

“I think that calls for a celebration. What do you say? Cappuccinos are on me!” The barista looked hopeful.

Later, when he’d dabbed the last bit of foam from his mustache, Darfich felt certain that he’d had a taste of something better than espresso. He leaned back in his chair and looked at his new companions. 

He’d heard rumors of a kobold infestation and a fabled treasure to the West. Rumor had it that a motel clerk possessed some vital information. 

He felt a surge of excitement. It could be a fine adventure, and he’d be sure to pack extra coffee for the road.