“This is true of all things, wizard. Even a midnight trip to the privy can be hazardous.”
“Enough!” rasped the wizard. “Then you must obtain the blue sword. For that you must go to the blue castle.”
“Is there a blue dragon to defeat there?”
Mort was silent for a moment. The landlord put a plate of fried alligator in front of each of the men. There were sides of fried okra and fried potato as well. The plate reeked of hardened arteries.
“Concentrate and ask again.”
“Is there a blue dragon to be defeated in the blue castle?”
“The vision is hazy,” said the wizard waving his free hand. “What I do know is that you must go to the blue castle, get the blue sword, and then your path to the Sorcerer will be revealed.”
Bardulf, though a barbarian, was familiar with the ways of magic wielders; he knew they could be subtle. His father was a one and he was supposed to be.
“Is there more, wizard?”
The wizard cackled, like an amused, dry cough. “Of course. You must also obtain the blue sword.”
“You said that.”
The wizard paused and took a drink of his pale ale, had a bite of fried gator, and some more drink. He let out a dry belch and Bardulf could have sworn a cloud of dust came from the wizard’s mouth.
“Oh, I’ve got it. There might be a spirit that bars your way by stealing and hiding the swords.” The wizard picked up his ale again. “And, if you are clever, you will find a magical do-hickey that allows you to be invisible and pass through walls.”
“Is there anything more I must know before starting this quest?”
“Adventure. This is an Adventure, a sort of game that follows the rules laid out in the Adventurer’s Handbook, which you would find in your rucksack, if you ever bothered to open it. You have begun this Adventure many times, Bardulf the Ramekin, yet you still fail to take it seriously. You possess special magic and you don’t use it. You must learn. If you don’t you will wither.”
The wizard reached out a hand and an icon appeared in the air.
“Place your hand on the Icon, Ramekin, and it will return you to where you were when you touched it, if you press it in a time of need,” croaked Mort. Bardulf complied.
“You are the only one who can see this quest to the end. The path will be more dangerous as you progress, but time is drawing short. I implore you to become serious. Your quest can only begin after you slay the Sorcerer and return Queen Prunella.”
Bardulf considered this, broke wind at both ends, stood, and left the decaying and dusty yellow wizard.
Gathering Fire
The Princess’s guards bowed as King Fosdick re-entered the map room and found his daughter and brother in a conversation about logistics, of all things.
“We need to position supplies in strategic areas. The logical places are under control of the dragons,” Natalie said.
“Except MY castle, niece,” he rumbled, pointing to his castle in the Northern Marches. “You won’t find a dragon in MY castle. They’ve tried often and been repulsed every time.”
“That’s true, but we can’t put all the supplies in—Hello, Daddy,” she stopped her sentence as soon as she noticed the King. “What brings you back?”
“A green dragon as big as eighty horses,” he replied walking over to his brother. He placed his hand on the Duke’s massive shoulder. “It’s bad Farley. The damn thing attacked your castle, knocked it over, and turned it into a nest. They say it burned several villages.”
The light behind Farley’s eyes turned to fire with his anger. He smashed down on the table in front of him with his left hand.
“BASTARD DRAGONS! All these years and we’ve still got dragons! What do they want with us? And now, they’ve attacked our family! What do you know about this, brother? Does my wife yet live? My children? My people?”
“The news is just coming in, Farley,” the king replied in a calm voice. “We don’t know more than what I’ve just told you.”
Princess Natalie turned deathly pale, even more so than usual. She spoke with a tremble. “Eighty horses? That’s the largest dragon we’ve ever seen. And Auntie…”
“The damn things can only be killed by magic weapons,” said King Fosdick. “I’ve got a fool of a barbarian going off to rescue your mother. He might not understand it yet, but he will have to go through the dragons to save her. Perhaps he can find the right weapon for killing this green dragon.”
“It sounds like nonsense to me,” replied Farley, picking up the table he knocked over.
“It is,” said a croaking voice from the corner. The three turned and saw a mysterious figure in tattered yellow robes. King Fosdick recognized the shade as one particular to nicotine and found around heavy smokers. The figure’s voice and subsequent cough confirmed his suspicion.
“Who are you and what do you want?” the king asked. He heard Farley and Natalie walking toward him.
“The other dragons in your kingdom are magical dragons,” the man said. He was so still the breeze from the window ignored him. “This dragon is natural. He is both more dangerous and easier to slay.”
“And you are…” said the king, his irritation and impatience growing.
“My name is of no consequence.”
“Perhaps. Your lack of name has a consequence, old man,” the ruler of Fosdick motioned to one of the princess’s guard who stepped next to the yellow man, sword in hand.
The old man shrugged his shoulders. A little dust came off his robes and fell on the sword. The blade turned dark red and fell into a pile of rusted metal shavings.
“Mort,” said the wizard. “I am called Mort.”
The princess and the duke exchanged a quick glance.
“I suspected as much, wizard,” replied the king in a flat voice. “I know exactly who you are. You’ve been advising my barbarian, Bardulf the Ramekin.”
“I am,” he croaked. “And he is working on your behalf, thus, it is you who benefits from my advice, wisdom, counsel, and gravitas.”
The Princess coughed lightly.
“Umm, ‘gravitas,’ what is that?” asked Farley.
“Dignity, solemnity, seriousness, that sort of thing,” replied Fosdick with a wave of his hand. “Pray, continue, O Mort.”
The nicotine stained wizard fumbled with his fingers for a moment, muttering. Perhaps he is beginning some enchantment, thought the king. Enchanters are known for that kind of thing.
Natalie coughed even harder before getting it under control.
“Oh, yes,” the wizard said snapping his fingers and stirring up more dust. “The green dragon in your Northern Marches is a natural creature. You can kill it with ordinary weapons.”
“But it’s huge,” said Farley. “It’s the size of eighty horses! And what of my family? How are they? Can they be rescued?”
Mort motioned toward the map.
“Wait, what the hell is that stench?” the Princess asked through renewed coughing. “It smells like someone set the muck pile on fire and put it out with a bucket of horse urine. It’s awful! Can’t any of you smell it?”
King Fosdick looked back at his brother and his broken nose, shrugged, looked at Natalie and then back to the wizard. The wizard shrugged his shoulders and appeared to shuffle his feet. All was quiet for a moment.
“All right,” said Mort. “It’s me. When I haven’t been in your tavern, I’ve been in countless others. You see what happens when you’re in a smoky, boozed-up room all the time. Yes, I reek of smoke and spilt ale. Cost of being a legendary wizard, I suppose.”
“A legendary wizard named… Mort,” Natalie said. “Excuse me, but shouldn’t you have a more exotic name?”
“That’s not my real name, girl,” he croaked in response. “Wizards and magical beings can’t just go around using their real names. We must find one that suits us. Do you think ‘the Sorcerer’ is a real name? That’s just what people started calling him. It fit, because he was an evil sorcerer. I
chose the wizard name Mordar Khram, but people couldn’t pronounce it, so they just called me Mort the Wizard. After a while, it stuck. Childish, but it was better than the alternative.”
“I expect others called you ‘Doodlebug the Crap’, didn’t they?” asked Farley, laughing. “I can see that happening. But, I would never do that, O Mort the Wise.”
“This is why I don’t talk much.”
“Do all wizards hang out in bars?” Natalie asked.
“Not all—”
“Let’s get back to the matter at hand, shall we? I’ve got subjects in peril and my brother’s castle has been destroyed.”
“Maybe you should get a new robe,” suggested Natalie, suppressing a cough.
“I, um. It doesn’t work like that,” Mort said. He shifted and continued. “Green dragons are natural creatures and can be killed with normal weapons.”
“It’s huge!” exclaimed Farley. “How are you going to get a sword far enough into it to kill it?”
“I’m a wizard, not a sword person or whatever you call them. How should I know?” The wizard shifted in the shadow and continued. “Your family and subjects are safe, for now. The dragon will hunger soon and that is when you may worry.”
With those words, Mort the Wizard appeared to meld with the shadows until he vanished.
Robbin’ Goblin
Bardulf the Ramekin left the tavern and City Fosdick. He was questing for the red castle and all he knew it was ‘beyond the forest,’ and nothing more. The Swamp Du Stink was mostly to the West, so he reasoned the forest was to the East. He headed down the eastern road, a wide rutted path that would be home to brigands, highwaymen, and trolls. The prospect brought a smile to the barbarian’s face.
He had only his broad knife, a wicked weapon that could pass for a short sword on a smaller man, his pouch, rucksack, and leather armor, consisting of a light leather shirt and heavy leather tassets. It was light equipment, but enough for the task. The red castle was too close to require serious provisions.
The cleared land around City Fosdick’s walls rolled down and into the forest after a few hundred yards. A few lesser used paths went off in different directions, going to outlying farms that skirted the city. The red castle peaked above the trees a few miles away.
An ordinary castle would have been farther away, but the red castle didn’t obey to laws of good sense. It was a magic castle because it was the home of a dragon. So much the better for an Adventure such as this, Bardulf thought.
A few minutes into the forest, a group of small, blueish creatures came out of the forest and surrounded the barbarian, four blocking his path and two blocking his retreat. Their ugly faces and foul odor told him what they were.
“Goblins,” he spat, drawing his knife. “What do you want?”
“We’re goblins,” the lead one said. He wore mottled green and brown vest, pants, and hat. Bardulf knew he was the leader because the goblin spoke and he had a sporty hat with a feather. He was the only creature without a weapon in his filthy paws. “We want your money and your life.”
“Isn’t it customary to say ‘your money or your life’?” the barbarian noticed the creatures had bows at the ready and sheathed swords. This could be a problem. They had the range. He needed to surprise them.
“We aren’t much for customs,” replied the goblin. “As to your life, what I mean is that we want you to dedicate your life to the cause of economic justice throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? I’m Goblin Good!”
“No. I will be on my way,” he said as he edged to his left.
“Not so fast, human,” said Goblin. “You see, you are part of the problem or part of the solution. Far too long goblin-kind has suffered under the unfair economic boot heel of the moneyed interests of the lands. As a human, you take part in that system, so if you give up your money and swear to forsake the oppression of your people, I shall allow you to live and go in peace.”
“If not?”
“You shall stay,” the little blue creature said, pausing for dramatic effect and putting his hands on his hips. “In pieces!”
Bardulf jumped to his right, landing behind a goblin archer. He picked up the hideous blue bastard up by his collar and held him up as a shield. He slashed down with his knife, felling a second goblin. The goblin in his hand caught some arrows with its chest, causing it to squirm and gurgle. He flung the whiney little bitch at the two goblins who had been standing behind him. He took another step and grabbed Goblin Good by his scrawny neck and crushed his wind pipe.
The Ramekin flung the corpse at the furthest goblin archer while pivoting and decapitating the last of the four goblins who had been standing to his fore. With two large steps, he was standing between the two remaining goblins who lay beneath their slain comrades.
“My teacher always told me not to hit a man when he’s down. A kick is easier,” he said, smashing the nearest monster’s neck with his boot as he stepped over to the remaining goblin and thrust his sword through its open mouth. “Stabbing is pretty goddamn good, too.”
He threw the corpses into a pile on the side of the road. He could have burned them, but that would waste good carrion for the less picky scavengers of the forest.
Bardulf arrived at the red castle three hours later. Once, there had been a path leading up to the castle entrance. Now there were only weeds. The castle gate was not hidden. There was a large stone arch over a door with a large keyhole set in a door made of petrified wood. It didn’t move when the barbarian tried to open it.
“Where there is a locked door, a key is not far away,” he said to himself. He began looking for a place someone would hide a key. Stone castle, stone door, so the key would probably be around some stones, he reasoned.
Bardulf looked for rocks big enough to hold a key that would fit in the keyhole. He saw a group of big rocks close by the forest and walked toward them. When he got closer, he noticed that one rock had a face on it. The barbarian looked at the rock's face and thought he'd seen stupider things, so he might as well try talking to it.
"Hello, Mister Rock, have you seen a giant key around here? I need a key to open the gate to the red castle."
"Who are you?" asked the rock. Like most rocks, it spoke slowly.
"I am Bardulf the Ramekin.”
"Are you a barbarian?" it asked. "Are you here to defend the castle?"
“Yes, to your first question. No, to the second. I'm here to get the red sword. It's in the castle. So, I need to get in the castle."
“Be warned: we are storming the castle. Do not get in our way," said the rock. It continued after a pause. “Bardulf the barbarian, you might be able to help us. You could open the gate for us. One of us had the key, but things are so chaotic here and we are moving so fast, I don't know where it is."
"Okay," said the barbarian, straining to see any evidence of movement. There wasn't any. Rocks move slower than they speak.
The Ramekin looked through the rocks. He was careful to put them back closer to the castle than when he picked them up, but there was no key. He stared at the rocks. Then he stared at the castle and was about to look again. Just then he heard a light giggle behind him.
He turned around and saw a beautiful green wood nymph behind him, in front of him now. She was wearing a pair of Daisy Dukes, knee-high boots, a thin white halter top, and a cowboy hat sitting on top of her green hair.
"Are you looking for something, fearsome barbarian?”
"I'm looking for a key," he answered, folding his arms and smiling. "A key to that door in the castle. But, now I might be looking for something else."
The wood nymph giggled. "What on earth could you be looking for if not looking the key?"
"Well," said Bardulf, walking toward the wood nymph. "It depends on what you're offering, my dear. I know you wood nymphs can be very tricky, but you're fond of wood and I’ve got some serious wood now. “
“Honey, if you can make my sap flow really, really good, I'll tell you where to fin
d the key to the red castle."
He took the wood nymph in his arms and gave her a passionate kiss. Their hands explored each other and Bardulf was grateful that she didn't feel like a tree. He knew this was an illusion, but it didn't matter. He reached down and undid her shorts and slid them down.
"Oh my!” The wood nymph said as she grabbed him.
She turned around, bent over, and the barbarian started to work.
Later, he was lying against a tree with the wood nymph curled up beside him, her tangled, mossy hair spread across his torso as she used his chest as a pillow.
"This has been fun, but I really need to find that key."
“Oh, it’s back in the Swamp du Stink,” she said. “I thought you knew that. King Croc has it.”
“Well, shit. Back to the Swamp du Stink I go.”
King Croc
The swamp was as big a pile of crap as Bardulf remembered. Logs, moss, dead trees, and a general stench. And there were lots of bugs. There were crawling bugs, flying bugs, walking bugs, swimming bugs, giant bugs, and endless numbers of little stinging bugs. For a barbarian, he was picky about these things.
Walking through a cloud of flying bugs, the Ramekin got a feeling he was being watched. He looked around, but saw nothing. He walked along the edge of the water, occasionally stopping in the sun for relief from the biting insects and to check his legs for leech flies.
This time the barbarian took a left as he entered the Swamp du Stink. The alligators were on the right-hand path. Crocodiles and alligators just don't mix. So it stood to reason that the crocodiles were in the opposite direction.
After an hour of traveling through the swamp, he found the crocs. Actually, they found him. He walked into a clearing and seven crocodiles came walking toward him from all directions. Bardulf was surrounded.
The crocs wore sharkskin suits. This was real sharkskin though, not worsted wool or anything like that. The largest crocodile was wearing a white suit. Bardulf surmised it was made from a great white shark, which made the crocodile look both impressive and uncomfortable. The fin on the back was a nice touch.
Fat Barbarian: A Humorous Fantasy Adventure (Fat Barbarian Saga Book 1) Page 3