"You got a lot of nerve coming in here, human." The crocodile walked around Bardulf, sizing him up. On his hind legs, the croc was as tall as Bardulf. "What have you got on your mind? What do you think is gonna happen here today?"
“I think I’m going about my business, and that is finding you guys.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Bardulf stated. “What do I call you?”
“You can call me Sir, or you can call me Ray. It depends on how lucky you feel, human. I might call you lunch because I don’t give a fuck about your name. Now tell me what you think is about to happen.”
"I don't think anything is going to happen. I know what's going to happen. When those crocs behind me try to sneak up and pin me down, I'm going to put them on the ground. I'm going to tie their tails together before you other fellows can even react. When you do try to counter my moves, I'm going to throw you in the water and ruin your pretty little suit.” Bardulf smiled before continuing. "Or, you could just tell me where to find the key to the red castle."
Ray laughed like Bardulf had just said the funniest thing he'd ever heard.
"No, man, it ain't like that,” he said. “We know you're the guy who beat up a bunch of punk-ass alligators trying to find some shoes. King Croc liked that and said when you show up to bring you to him. So, we’re going to take you to see King Croc and he is gonna tell us what is gonna happen today. But, you’re probably going to be lunch anyway. Just cause he liked what you did doesn’t mean he likes you. Beating up alligators is bad for our rep, too."
“That’ll work,” Bardulf agreed. The crocodiles moved to form a wall around him and Ray the Croc led the way. They walked deeper into the swamp. No one spoke a word.
King Croc sat on the throne made of bones that Bardulf couldn't name. Unlike the other crocodiles, he didn't wear a sharkskin suit. He wore animal furs covering a purple linen shirt. In lieu of a crown, he wore a leopard skin fedora. Based on wardrobe choices alone, he knew King Croc was a man he could reason with.
"So, Bardulf, what kind of death wish brings you into my swamp today?"
"I'm looking for something," the barbarian said. "I'm told you've got it."
"You were in my swamp before, looking for something,” the king leaned toward the barbarian. “Are you still looking for alligator shoes?"
The crocodiles laughed. King Croc leaned back and took it in.
"No, I'm not looking for alligator shoes this time. A wood nymph told me you have what I want."
"I know a lot of fine ass nymphs, but not a single one that would send you my way." The king of the crocodiles stood up and stepped down from his dais. He was taller than the others and almost had shoulders.
"Well, I made her sap flow, and she told me what I needed,” said Bardulf squaring up to the crocodile.
"I hope you don't think you're going to get some crocodile shoes, Big Bardulf." All the crocodiles laughed again. Bardulf had a sudden flash of memory. He’d been here before, but had never gotten any farther. He decided he’d try something he used at prep school.
"No, but I bet I can tell you where you got your shoes," Bardulf said.
"Oh you can, can you? I'd love to see that." More laughter from the crocodile court. They were chumps like that, Bardulf thought.
"Yeah, but I won’t do it for free."
"What do you want if you can tell me where I got my shoes?"
"I want you to give me the key to the red castle."
King Croc was silent for a moment. He reached up and scratched his chin, no easy feat for a crocodile’s stubby forelegs. His head came back up and he smiled, which could mean either it was meal time or he was amused. Hard for a human to judge, Ramekin or no.
"Bardulf, you're a type of crazy I’ve never known before. The red castle will open up all kinds of whoop-ass on you,” said King Croc. "What on earth do you want with that kind of trouble?"
“That's my business, King Croc," replied Bardulf. "With all due respect, of course."
"All right," said the big crocodile. "You want that kind of trouble, I'll let you have it. You have to tell me where I got my shoes."
"And I have your word you will let me leave this swamp in peace with the key to the red castle?”
"If you want to go mess around in the red castle, that's your own way to get killed. I don't have to bother. Now tell me where I got my shoes."
Bardulf tucked his thumbs into his belt and gave King Croc a firm look.
"You got your shoes," said Bardulf in an even tone. "On your feet."
King Croc eyes narrowed to deadly slits. Bardulf was sure there would be trouble. The other crocodile shifted nervously. The king’s smile broadened, then disappeared. He stalked back and forth for a moment, then stopped and turned on the barbarian and stared.
King Croc began to laugh. The other crocodiles joined in.
The king’s laughter subsided, and he wiped away a crocodile tear. "You sure got me there, Bardulf." He gestured to the crocodile in the white sharkskin suit. "You fools go get this man his key."
"And then you walk him to the edge of the swamp and let him go free," said King Croc. "He ain’t stupid enough to ever come back here again."
Taxing Problems
“Father, it seems fairly obvious, doesn’t it?” Natalie asked as she moved over to the map with the Northern Marches. “You always told me that big problems require big solutions.”
“Yes. I said that, and it looks good in cross stitch, but reality is a little more nuanced than that, dear.”
“We have twenty-thousand fighting men in marching range,” rumbled Duke Farley. “But, even if we were to sneak up on it, I doubt we could do much damage before it flew away.”
“True,” said the king, looking at the map. “We could move more men into place before we attack, but that would take time we don’t have.”
“I don’t care what the wizard says, a magic sword is the trick,” Farley punched his fist into his open hand. “Every tale of heroes versus dragons ends with a mighty hero and his magic sword. We need one of those, not twenty-thousand regular soldiers.”
“Dear Father, dear Uncle. You’re looking at this the wrong way. The dragon knocked down a castle, so we need to look to that kind of strength.”
The men looked at each other. King Fosdick arched an eyebrow.
“You’re suggesting we use siege engines?” asked the king.
“Yes, Father,” she said. “Each battalion has twenty heavy crossbows and five scorpion bows, so that means we can attack the dragon with eighty heavy crossbows and twenty even heavier crossbows. To be sure, we can move a ballista up there, which should kill the dragon with one well-placed shot.”
“Hmm.” The King rubbed his beard and thought. “It could work, couldn’t it, Farley?”
“It certainly could!”
“My plan is to move the troops into place, arm everyone we can with bows and shoot every missile we can at it in one coordinated barrage. We aim all the heavy crossbows, scorpion bows, and ballistas at one side, that way we are sure to kill the dragon quickly.”
“That seems like a solid idea, Princess,” said Farley. “However, maybe we can find a position where we can cover the dragon on more than one side and not get caught in our own fire. That would make it easier to adjust to enemy counter moves.”
“Too bad we can’t tether it so it can’t fly off,” mumbled the King. “Anyway, I have go back to running the kingdom. Farley, take Princess Natalie with you, so she can learn how to run this sort of thing. If you don’t, she’ll just steal away in the middle the night and meet up with you when you can’t send her back. Yes, dear, I know you’d do that. All the plucky maidens did that in the stories I read you when you were young.”
Natalie came over and kissed her father’s hands. He hugged her and turned to leave.
“Oh, please don’t leave City Fosdick defenseless when you go,” he said over his shoulder as he left.
King Fosdick walked down the corridor in search of his
accountant, Exchequer Barster. Kingdom Fosdick might have a dragon problem, but that wasn’t as critical as the money problem. Rebuilding was a simple, time consuming matter. Not having money to run the kingdom would be just as catastrophic.
The exchequer was in the vault in the castle’s second cellar, behind a door with a sign reading “Broken door. Please use another entrance.” This was a clever ruse the previous exchequer had used to deter thieves and visitors. It worked better than a real lock, because that was the power of brain magic.
“Majesty!” he said looking up from his papers. He stood and bowed. His hair was an unkempt mess of brown and grey. He wore a red and gold robe with more than a few ink stains, which was all fine with King Fosdick, but a cause of distraction for Queen Prunella and the ladies of the court. They maintained that beneath it all was a handsome man and it was a shame that was hidden under such a shambles.
“Barster, a very strange barbarian just left to find and rescue Queen Prunella,” the king said as he walked over to the exchequer’s desk. “And I’m not entirely sure about how we’re going to reward him. That damn McTaggart fellow stole so much money, no one could afford to pay taxes. I want him to rescue the queen, I’m just not sure how to pay the standard amount.”
“Yes, Majesty,” the Exchequer fiddled with some papers and looked back up at the King. “McTaggart is quite a problem.”
“Was, actually. The same barbarian killed the bandit. The one who is off to rescue the queen.”
“Oh? Good for him.”
“Yes.” The king replied as he picked up a quill from the Exchequer’s desk. “The thing is that McTaggart robbed us blind, but never spent any money. I had him watched by some very good people and no ever saw him send it out of Kingdom Fosdick. It must be somewhere. I suppose I’ll have to get people to run around trying to find a treasure map or something.”
“Um,” Barster looked down at his figures and back up at the King. “No need for that, Majesty.”
“Really? Why do you say that?”
“It’s here. Right behind you,” he answered with a gesture of his arm.
The King turned around and saw the room behind him was filled with bags and vessels of various sizes and colors.
“In there? In those?”
Barster the Exchequer nodded.
“How much?”
“Everything he took from the people of Fosdick, Majesty. Except for a small amount he sent back home to his mother. He’d always include a letter telling her that people liked his music and she’d be proud of him. He never sent a lot of money, but it was steady and she was grateful for it.”
King Fosdick the Twenty Fourth’s mouth opened. He closed it and rubbed his eyes briefly.
“McTaggart told his mother he was a bard?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
The King paced in front of the exchequer’s desk and stopped in front of him.
“How do you know all this?” he asked.
“I wrote the letters for him.”
“You wrote the letters for him?”
“Yes, Majesty,” said Barster, shifting his weight. “I read her letters to him, too. It was his mummy, after all. Even a brigand has a mother who loves them.”
“I suppose we can discuss this later,” replied the king. “Can we return the money that wasn’t supposed to be collected as taxes and be in good shape again, right?”
“Um, like most things, Majesty, that’s easier said than done. But I’ll do what I can, but it won’t be an exact accounting. On different business, you’ll be interested in this.” Barster handed the King a bundle of papers. “It’s an accounting of Kingdom Fosdick’s involvement with Kingdom Fangnar.”
“Just tell me how bad it is,” said Fosdick, handing the papers back.
“Well, it depends on what you mean by ‘bad,’ I suppose. King Fangnar has the majority of your knights. He is supposed to be paying you to use them, but he hasn’t for forty-seven months. That has made Kingdom Fosdick even more broke than it was before.” The King leaned forward as the Exchequer continued. “Fangnar agreed to the inflated charges you leveled on him because he believed he could prosecute his war quickly and now he owes you more than Kingdom Fangnar is worth.”
“And, that means, what?”
“According the treaty you both signed allowing him to lease your knights, you may take possession of Kingdom Fangnar. That includes all titles, lands, powers, and so forth belonging to King Fangnar. Too bad he’s got all your knights. You don’t have the knights to enforce your claim, so I’m not sure what you can do, Majesty.”
“Just so, Exchequer,” King Fosdick turned to leave. “Whatever would we do without our knights?”
Nymph Mania
The wood nymph was lying on one of the rocks storming the castle. She had one hand in a pool of water, but was mostly just getting sun. Her legs looked a little mossier than Bardulf remembered, but still shapely and sexy.
The large stone key rested on the Ramekin’s broad left shoulder. He brought it down to the ground when he got in front of the wood nymph. The barbarian paused, got an eyeful, and waited for the beautiful dryad to talk.
"Bardulf, I hope you didn't have to hurt King Croc too much to get that key."
"No. I didn’t need to,” he said. “For a crocodile, King Croc is a reasonable being.”
It was getting dark so Bardulf made camp for the evening. He reached into his pack and got some charcoal because looking for firewood with the wood nymph around was just asking for trouble.
"Do you really want to make camp around here, Bardulf?"
"Why is that, Drusilla?"
The wood nymph sat up and pushed her hat back on her head. She arched an eyebrow and replied, "Drusilla?"
"That's your name, isn't it?"
"Yes, but how did you know?" She slid off the rock and moved toward Bardulf.
"I have my methods," said the Ramekin. "Besides all you dryads are named Drusilla or something."
"Why, Bardulf, that's just species-ist."
"Nah, it's just profiling," said Bardulf as he set up a fire. "Besides, I was right. You can't be mad at me if I'm right. It's against the rules."
"That doesn't change the fact that you don't want to set up camp around here, Bardulf." Drusilla walked around and put her fingers across drug her fingers across a few rocks. "There are all kinds of beasties around here. They won't take kindly to a human camping out in this spot. Magical creatures don't like it when non-magical creatures come around."
Bardulf straightened and looked at the wood nymph taking another moment to appreciate her fine shape. Moss or no moss. He snapped his fingers, and she turned to look at him. Her eyes grew wide.
"You know who I am."
"You're Bardulf," she said with a nervous laugh. "You're just Bardulf."
"I can talk to rocks. I can make your sap flow. And I goddamn well got the key from King Croc. Who am I?"
The wood nymph adjusted her Daisy Dukes and put a hand through her curly, green hair.
"You're the Ramekin," whispered Drusilla.
"Who am I?" Bardulf reached into his pile of charcoal and picked up a large piece. It was the skull of a large reptile. "What is my true name?"
Drusilla looked away and turned back to him.
"Bardulf the Ra-ra-ramekin," she stammered.
"That's right," he said. "Now go get Bardulf some brisket, goddamn it."
Early the next morning, he picked up the key and walked toward the gate of the red castle. Drusilla stayed behind, citing urgent wood nymph business in the forest. He wasn't sure what that meant, but he was sure she wouldn't go in the red castle.
Bardulf stuffed the key into the keyhole. As he pushed it in, the door fell back and landed with a giant thump on the ground as it smashed into pieces. He stood up, scratched his head and wondered if he could've just pushed the door open anytime.
Stepping into the castle, he looked around. Something caught his attention just out of the top of his field of vision. The red d
ragon was coming toward him, talons extended and looking for trouble.
With the wizard’s warnings fresh in his head, the Ramekin ducked and ran to the castle keep. The dragon overshot him, collided with the curtain wall of the castle, and crashed in a heap on the ground. While the beast was down, Bardulf dashed into the keep and closed the door.
He entered a dark and musty room, its only light came in from tiny slits high on the wall toward the ceiling. Bardulf looked around, found a torch, and lit it with a flint from his pouch. The torch sputtered to life, casting a dim light over the large room.
The chamber was empty, but the barbarian recognized he was in the right place. There was a large motif on the floor featuring a red sword impaling a red dragon, blade pointing to the opposite door. Bardulf strode over and opened the door, which swung open silently. He took two steps in and the door closed behind him with a solid noise.
"Magic," he spat the word out as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. Where there was magic, trouble followed. No one knew that better than him.
He stalked through the hallway alert for danger. After he had taken more steps than he thought he could in the hallway, the barbarian heard a cackling sound. It was a disturbingly familiar sound.
"Wizard! Is that you?" Bardulf stopped and waited for a response, but there was only more cackling followed by a dry cough.
"Come closer, stranger," came a dry voice. "It's been a long time since I had any visitors. At least visitors with two legs and no wings."
Still on edge, the barbarian crept closer to the voice directly ahead of him he found that the corridor opened sharply into a large hexagonal room. There was a spindly figure sitting cross legged toward the center of the room. He was surrounded by scrolls, books, and old pizza boxes.
"Who are you?" Bardulf asked. "You sound like Mort the Wizard."
Fat Barbarian: A Humorous Fantasy Adventure (Fat Barbarian Saga Book 1) Page 4