The Volcanic Simmer

Could any mortal spine survive hoisting eighty tons of iron-plated muscle and spiraled horn over a forty-yard precipice before three thousand gallons of seasoned stock boiled away into scorched mineral slag? Gijsbert van der Meulen did not pause to ask the question. He drove his scarred heels into the pumice rift, clamped his forearms around the alpha ram's chest, and pulled the beast’s brisket flush against his breastbone.

Sulfur embers fell in red streaks from the sky. Above the canyon, the imperial war scow Gilded Halberd tilted into the yellow smog, its rudders groaning as the vessel veered away from the smoking mesa. The drifting artillery fire had missed its mark, leaving the lower terrace choked with gray dust and the sharp reek of alchemical pitch.

Between Gijsbert's arms, the colossal ram shrieked. The sound rattled through the rock like a collapsing mine shaft. Two spiraled bronze horns tore gouges across Gijsbert's leather jerkin, shedding sparks against the thick hide of his forearms. The beast drove its hooves into the stone shelf, straining forward to crush Gijsbert against the cliff wall.

Gijsbert planted his left boot in a fresh basalt fissure. The two quarts of marrow broth he had swallowed burned through his gut, flooding his arteries with molten heat. His mass-expansion qi surged into his latissimus and thighs, thickening his frame until his calves resembled squared stone pillars.

He refused to resist the beast's forward momentum. Instead, he dropped his hips four inches below the monster's center of mass.

The ram lunged with all eighty tons of its charging weight.

Gijsbert took the impact directly into his diaphragm. Stone dust sprayed from beneath his boot soles as his knees absorbed the shock. He did not yield an inch of stone. He locked his fingers in a gable grip beneath the animal's thick armpits, hooked his right foot behind its front right knee, and snapped his hips backward into the rising thermal current of the chimney vent.

Basalt cracked like musket fire beneath his feet.

With a roar that tore the sulfuric smog in half, Gijsbert arched his spine into a clean martial parabola. His lumbar muscles contracted with the force of an uncoiling ballista. Eighty tons of horned titan rose from the ledge, its hooves kicking empty air as Gijsbert vaulted the entire beast over his head.

The monster flew backward across the forty-yard chasm, eclipsing the orange sun.

Forty yards above, on the high terrace, Femke Kaatjes balanced on the balls of her feet. Her eight-foot ash vaulting pole rested across her palms. Behind her, seated in the notch above the roaring volcanic fissure, the six-ton bronze cauldron boiled with furious vigor. Three thousand gallons of spiced water rolled in deep golden waves, sending plumes of garlic, charred marrow, and cracked ginger into the sky.

"Brace the runners!" Femke shouted toward the fire notch.

Lord-Marshal Reinier Sluishuis leaned his full aristocratic weight against the ironwood paddle, wedging the stout shaft against the pot's bronze rim to brace the cradle. His immaculate white tunic was spotted with grease and charcoal soot. His silver signet ring tapped against the ironwood as he planted his heels into the terrace rock.

The ram dropped out of the smog like a falling mountain.

The beast struck the open mouth of the twenty-foot cauldron squarely in the center.

A tremor rippled across the mesa rim, dislodging scree into the gorge below. Three hundred gallons of scalding foam exploded upward in a white geyser, perfumed with roasting fat and simmering cartilage. The bronze vat groaned against its stone cradle, vibrating violently as the spruce chocks held true. The beast's massive bulk sank through the bubbling surface, its spiraling horns catching on the wide rim and wedging its shoulders beneath the boiling broth.

The thermal blast washed over the terrace, warm and thick with the essence of prime mountain game.

Femke vaulted over the edge of the parapet, landing lightly on the kettle's rim. She drew two fist-sized bundles of wild juniper berries and dried volcanic peppercorns from her hip pouch and dropped them straight into the churning vortex around the beast's neck.

"Three inches left of true center," Femke muttered, adjusting her grip on her ash pole. "We lost half a tub of preliminary surface fat on the north splash. A careless toss."

"It landed inside the rim," Gijsbert called out from below.

His voice rose from the sheer cliff face. Digging his boots into the fractured basalt fissures, Gijsbert hauled his massive bulk up the sheer stone face with thick, calloused fingers. His clothes were shredded, his shoulders caked in ash and grease, but his broad face gleamed with ruddy satisfaction. He threw one heavy leg over the crest, pulled himself onto the terrace, and sat heavily on a split boulder. His stomach growled loud enough to echo against the far canyon wall.

"The simmer has taken hold," Femke said.

She dropped her vaulting pole, seized the wide copper skimming basket from the supply sledge, and stepped directly into the scalding cloud of steam. With smooth, practiced sweeps of her arms, Femke skimmed the dark impurities from the bubbling perimeter, guiding the foam into a stone drainage gully. She scattered dried wild scallions and another handful of cracked volcanic peppercorns across the boiling vortex, letting the heat bloom the oil into fragrant amber pools.

"Maintain the perimeter rotation," Reinier said from beside the runners, his patrician voice clipped as he held his ironwood paddle upright. "If the sulfur vapors from the vent touch the surface oil, the finish will turn bitter. Keep the chimney draft clear."

Femke paused, the skimming basket dripping clear broth back into the cauldron. She glanced at the aristocrat, then toward Gijsbert.

Gijsbert chuckled, rubbing his bruised ribs with the flat of his thick palm. "Listen to him. One afternoon around cedar smoke and he speaks like a master sauce-maker."

Reinier cleared his throat, keeping his eyes fixed on the golden broth swirling around the beast's submerged vertebrae. "I am merely applying basic principles of imperial supply chain preservation. Spoiling thirty cords of prime marrow through poor ventilation would constitute a logistical disgrace."

Femke dipped a wide cedar bowl into the clearer currents near the rim, pulling up two quarts of rich, steaming broth flecked with droplets of amber fat and cracked pepper. She turned and shoved the bowl directly into Reinier's soot-streaked hands.

"Drink it," she ordered. "You held the chocks. You guarded the draft. Kitchen rules apply to everyone who stands near the fire."

Reinier stared down into the bowl. The surface reflected his smudged cheekbones, his unkempt hair, and the drifting smoke of his retreating command scow far in the distance. The aroma rose thick and intoxicating, carrying the concentrated strength of eighty tons of mountain beast distilled over volcanic heat.

He lifted the bowl to his mouth and drank.

His throat worked as he swallowed the broth in long, steady gulps. Red color flooded back into his pale, soot-streaked cheeks. His spine jerked upright, the tremors vanished from his hands, and his posture stiffened into rigid military attention as the caloric heat took hold. He lowered the wooden vessel, his knuckles steady against the rim, his eyes wide as he stared into the swirling golden depths of the cauldron.

"Remarkable balance," Reinier murmured, his breath releasing a cloud of peppery steam.

Gijsbert picked up his own carved trenching bowl, scooped two gallons of thick broth from the kettle, and leaned back against the warm basalt slab. Across the western sky, the silhouette of the imperial war scow disappeared into the low cloud bank, leaving the wild planes undisturbed. The scent of roasted marrow settled over Braam-Duin, heavy and rich, filling the quiet crags of the mesa with the promises of the next hunt.