"That's a name I haven't heard in a very long time, barbarian." The figure stood and revealed itself to be a skinny old woman with scraggly gray and black hair. "I remember Mort the Wizard well, but by another name. Or someone like him. It's hard to tell after enough years."
Bardulf remained silent as he edged around the room. The figure stared at where he had spoken last.
"I have no business with you," the barbarian said. "I am here to get the red sword. Tell me where it is, I will be on my way."
"You know where it is already, Bardulf the Ramekin.”
"How do you know me?" asked Bardulf.
"That which is hidden is my business," said the old woman. She spun to face Bardulf. "You are here to take the red sword so you can free Queen Prunella. You are also here to be my doom and my salvation."
"Riddles. Always the riddles with you people, you wizards,” said Bardulf as he approached the old woman. "Witch, you are near to death already, that is a doom and a salvation."
"Says I, you aren't so different," The woman laughed and threw a handful of powder into the fire in front of her, causing it to flash up suddenly. "You're the Ramekin, that's magic enough."
Bardulf's eyes flashed with anger, and for a moment he considered dashing her brains with the torch. His anger settled. He took a different tack.
"The red sword is in this castle, isn't it?" Bardulf stepped over a pile of scrolls and let the torch's flame drop toward them.
"Even you wouldn't dare," said the crone. “No sense threatening me. I can't give you knowledge you already have."
Bardulf grunted and left the room.
Dragon Sword
The barbarian walked back down the hallway toward the first room in the castle and stepped back into the main chamber. Stopping at the motif on the floor, Bardulf reached his hand down as if to grab the sword. His fingers passed through the floor surrounding the weapon and found the hilt. He grabbed the sword out of the floor and held it up to examine it.
"Finally," exclaimed the sword. "I didn't think you were ever going to figure it out. I mean how hard could it be? I've been lying there forever, waiting for you, or someone like you, to come and get me. But every one just walks right over me. I suppose they all got killed by the dragon. But at least you've got me. I wonder if I'll go back here after Reddy kills you. I hope so. I'd hate to be sitting around like a piece of rubbish."
Bardulf set the torch down and rubbed his temples with his free hand.
"A goddamn talking sword. Just my luck."
"You can call me Aargh," said the sword. "Let's go kill that dragon, it's easy. All we have to do is sneak up on it and stab it with me."
"How do I sneak up on the dragon?" Bardulf asked.
"We go out that other door and we’ll be right behind it. Just walk right in, stab it, and it's dead. Eezy-peezy-lemon-squeezie," said Aargh. "What’s your name? I mean, I can see you’re supposed to be a barbarian and all, but I can’t just go around saying ‘Hey, barbarian’ all the time, can I? It would get really confusing if we find other barbarians."
“I am Bardulf the Ramekin. Call me Bardulf.” He liked the idea of killing a dragon the easy way. The hard way would be hard.
“That’s a nice name,” said the sword. “Say, if you don’t mind my asking, what is the deal with being called ‘Ramekin’? I mean you don’t look ceramic or anything.”
“It’s a long story, but it is a tribute to my valor and strength,” he replied as he walked toward the door leading to the dragon. “The serving dish isn’t capitalized, my appellation is.”
“Oh, a barbarian with a vocabulary! This is going to be fun. I like words, too. I use them… well, I use them every time I talk.”
They arrived at the door, Bardulf opened it and stepped through. He was behind the dragon, making it an easy target.
"OH SHIT!" yelled the sword. "That’s a HUGE fucking dragon!"
The red dragon whipped around at a blinding speed and attacked the barbarian with its fiery breath. The Ramekin leapt out of the way of the rancid flames, falling on his side. The red dragon took a step toward him and lashed out with its right claw. He rolled underneath the attack, leapt to his feet at the dragon’s unprotected side, and slashed into the red dragon with the red sword. The dragon howled in pain and as it turn to face him, wrenching the sword from the Ramekin’s grasp.
The easy-peasy "stab it and it's dead" plan wasn't happening.
Bardulf jumped up, grabbed the dragon by its neck, and swung himself over. Straddling the dragon, he pulled his knife and stabbed the beast in the eye. The blade deflected as if he had tried to stab stone.
“Excuse me, Bardulf,” yelled the sword. “You can’t hurt it that way. I’m the only thing that can hurt the red dragon! I thought we had this conversation earlier.”
The barbarian dropped his useless knife, turned and slid down the dragon’s back toward the sword. He grabbed the weapon from the dragon’s side as his feet hit the ground. Narrowly avoiding the monster’s talons, he ducked around and brought the blade up and back down with all his strength, bisecting the dragon’s shoulder. The beast yelled its death cry and collapsed in a bloody heap at the barbarian’s feet.
Bardulf held the sword up to talk to it. "What the hell did you do that for?"
“Leave me in the dragon? That was all you, mate.”
“No! Why did you yell?”
"Did you see the size of that thing?" Aargh asked. "It scared the shit out of me."
"You're the red sword, how could the red dragon possibly scare you?"
"Well, you know, she was a lot smaller when I first met her. There she was with her brother, the blue dragon, and they were all cute little duck-shaped bundles of fire and energy. She was a little thing."
"What do you know about the blue dragon?" asked Bardulf. “He’s the next part of my quest.”
"Well, obviously, he’s blue. He lives in a blue castle."
"Anything else?"
"He's a dragon!" Aargh hummed for a moment and continued. "Obviously, you need more information, so let me think for a moment. I remember, if you tickle his belly, he'll pee."
Bardulf leaned the sword against a wall, took off his pack and rummaged through it.
"Oh, but wait, he's a lot older now, so he probably doesn't do that anymore. Unless he's really old and can't control his bladder anymore. But does that happen to dragons? It doesn't happen to swords, but we don't have bladders. Do dragons have bladders? I guess they would because the pee had to come from somewhere."
The barbarian pulled a leather strap out of his pack and fashioned it into a half scabbard and belt. He girded the belt, picked up the chatty sword and went to put it in make-shift scabbard.
"Wait, what are you doing?" asked the sword, alarm rising in its voice. "I have some very important information about the blue dragon and all kinds of other things! You can't put me in a scabbard or anything because then I won’t work. And you have to take me with you if you're going to finish your quest. No, look, I see what you're doing and it's really a bad idea. You're going to waste a lot of time if you don't listen to me. The blue hrmm-mmrr."
"That will shut you up," said the barbarian admiring his handiwork. "Yes, I will bring you along, but I can't have you talking the whole time. Maybe if you're good, I'll take the gag off of you soon."
Word Exchange
King Fosdick was shuffling some the endless paper he had to deal with and wishing it could be like the old days, when his great-great-grandfather, Fosdick the XX had ruled. There was paperwork, but he had people to do it for him and he could lose his temper whenever he wanted. Things had changed quite a bit for Kingdom Fosdick since King Fangnar had expanded his kingdom. At first, it was all fun and games— just a violent way of exchanging lands with other kingdoms.
Then Fangnar the Younger came to power and ruined everything. He decided that it if he captured a knight, he’d ransom the chap for all he was worth. Ordinary soldiers were just meat to be murdered if they were captured. The new King Fangnar m
ade war into a brutal enterprise. It took a while for other kingdoms to catch on, but by the time they did they were part of Greater Fangnar. Fosdick escaped the same fate by being a reliable helper and marrying his daughter.
King Fosdick XXIV was sure those days were about to end. Fangnar was just looking for a reason to invade and his missing daughter, Queen Prunella of Fosdick, was likely to give him an excuse.
His kingdom’s future now depended on the actions of a strange barbarian and the plan of an unknown knight, Sir Gerund. The former was off to rescue the Queen and he expected the latter any time now to discuss an army of commoners.
As if on cue, a figure rounded the corner and walked in through the open door. He bowed to the king and as the man stood, Fosdick took full measure of him. It didn’t take long.
“That explains it,” said King Fosdick, leaning back in his chair.
“Majesty, I believe the accepted surprise greeting is ‘Oh, my. You’re a dwarf,’” replied the diminutive Sir Gerund. An attendant with a stool followed him into the room.
“No, I couldn’t understand why you weren’t off with King Fangnar’s army,” the King replied. “My brother monarch believes that people who fall outside of the norm in any way need to be put to death because they weaken the species. You would stay away because you want to live.”
“I am quite fond of living, Your Majesty,” he said as he climbed up on the stool. He produced a silver box, offered it to Fosdick, who declined with a shake of his head. Gerund removed a cheroot and his man lit it for him.
“I have many conditions, you see. My life is to be a short one, in more ways than one, but I wish it to be memorable. I want to smile when death comes for me as you smile after just having had great sex. My sole goal is for my life to have been fun and meaningful. One without the other is a waste.”
“That philosophy goes a long way to explain some of the stains on these papers,” Fosdick said, gesturing to the paperwork he was just looking at. “One cannot argue with your conclusions about the value of a full-time professional, army. I can argue with the hygiene of your papers.”
Lord Rumsfeld entered the room.
“Majesty, the advisers are assembled and await your presence.”
The King led the way into the throne room, followed by Lord Rumsfeld, then Sir Gerund and his man. The group in the throne room turned to the King and bowed as he entered.
King Fosdick turned to the guards, and they closed the doors with an ominous thud. He turned back to face the gathering of peers.
“Exchequer Barster has informed me that Kingdom Fangnar and my brother monarch are in violation of the treaty governing his use of our chivalric forces,” the King said as he walked around the outside of the group toward his throne. “Bishop Monk, as our legal advisor and head of our church, please advise the gathered assembly on the… the… whatever.”
The King sat on his throne and wondered what the word was he was searching for.
“Um, yes, Majesty,” the Bishop’s voice sounded like a broken reed instrument. “It’s true. They are in violation and, according to the treaty, Kingdom Fosdick is entitled to receive full restitution. His valuation is correct. At this point, the amount owed, along with the usury your grandfather demanded, amounts to more than the value of all the lands ruled by King Fangnar. Plus, he’s never gave you the dowry you were promised.”
“But,” the cleric squeaked as he turned to the gathering. “I’m not sure what we can do about it. Kingdom Fosdick is skint broke.”
“No longer,” replied Exchequer Barster. “Since Hugh Taggart’s death, it has come to his Majesty’s attention that the thief had been storing the money he stole in the treasury. I can’t say anything more about that, but we have money now.”
“Enough to enforce our claims?” asked King Fosdick.
“Well, I… no.”
“We of spirituality do not get involved with military affairs,” said the Bishop shifting in his place. “But in this case, we have found that the worship in Kingdom Fangnar has taken a foul turn and the people are in sin. We may aid in the financing and rallying of forces, great king.”
“Oh?”
“We have a significant fund to help finance the claim Kingdom Fosdick has on the lands forfeited by treaty. Furthermore, we shall offer all who see the campaign through, this special ribbon,” the Bishop held up a strip of blue, green, and yellow with a religious symbol embroidered on it. “It is Sir Gerund’s idea.”
“Men will fight for a strip of cloth?”
“They will. I’m sure if it,” said Sir Gerund, blowing cheroot smoke down to the ground. “Especially, if it promises them spiritual favor.”
“Remarkable.”
“It’s part of the plan for the standing army, my liege,” he continued. “I’m developing a line of the things. I’m quite sure the soldiers will compete with each other and fight more bravely if it rewards them in this manner. Even more, if we punish cowardice and bad behavior.”
"It also helps that King Fangnar has ordered the execution of captured soldiers, Majesty," added the Lord Rumsfeld. "Added incentive."
The King was silent for a moment as he looked around the room. It was hard to judge if others agreed, but the soldiers kept exchanging glances.
“How can you be sure, Gerund?” the King asked.
“Simple, Majesty,” he took a step into the middle of the group and blew smoke up into the air. “Remember the system used in school. When you behave well and do well on tests, you get Gold Stars, candy, and your name on a list saying you’re a good student. If you didn’t, you get a whack and detention. We’ve been training young people in this system for decades and then abandoning it when they get out of school. I say we use it for the military.”
The room fell silent. All the gathered peers exchanged glances.
“You two, over there,” the King addressed the guards. “Did you hear the idea? What do you think of it?”
“Us?” one guard asked. “Oh, yeah. It sounds good to me. It would be nice to get a pat on the back from time to time. Sure. I’d charge a pike line for a little acknowledgement. What about you, Ding?”
“Oh, for sure,” said the other soldier. “Walk into a room with a chest full of ribbons so folks know you aren’t just some mud foot who's in the army for three hots and a cot? Brilliant. The totties will love it. Um, Your Margerstry.”
“That settles it, Sir Gerund. Proceed with the awards. You might even make a few up for things like being in the army when something happens. Maybe one for just not being a screw up. And you might look into making up more ranks, too.”
“More ranks, my liege?” Sir Gerund said as he coughed on some smoke. “That’s brilliant.”
“So, it is decided,” King Fosdick said as he tried to remember what they were talking about. His brain was reeling from the idea that soldiers would fight for ribbons and ranks. It should be all about devotion to King and Country. He got the thread back and continued. “As soon as we know where we stand with the green dragon at Castle Farley, the army will proceed there, join them, and march on Kingdom Fangnar. Who shall go?”
“I’ll go, Your Majesty,” the Bishop replied. “The Clergy shall exhort the troops to fight the heretics of Fangnar.”
“I will go, too, Majesty,” said Sir Gerund.
“Oh?”
“Getting with the men is the best way to figure out how to make the new ranks and rewards work, Majesty.”
“Fair enough,” the King said as he stood and stepped down from the dais. “Lord Rumsfeld, I wish you to go along as well. You can represent our wishes the best as you know my mind on these topics.”
The King walked into the center of the group before continuing.
“If Fangnar wants to fight, and I expect he will, we fight him. Be sure that you have gotten a message to our knights, so they can choose to remain honorable or paint themselves as traitors. While a siege of Castle Fangnar is possible, you should know that is not the sort of delay we need. We have a
n entire kingdom and the lands Fangnar conquered to bring to heel.”
The groups muttered in agreement, then Rumsfeld spoke up.
“I’m sure Duke Farley will wonder about the plan, but what will you do with Princess Natalie, Majesty?” he asked.
“One crisis at a time, Rumsfeld. One crisis at a time.”
Lion Bastards
On the second day, the forest thinned out and became grassland. Blue Castle shown in the sunlight as it sat on a hill not too far away from where Bardulf stood. It looked impressive to him, as far as castles go, but not as blue as he’d expected. The castle wasn’t even a little blue; it was rock colored, but there were blue banners from the ramparts. A bridge spanned the river between Bardulf and the castle.
In front of the bridge, nearly a hundred feet away, right at the edge of the valley, was a pride of lions. Bardulf thought they looked stately, but might not be effective as a guard force-- antelopes and some catnip and you’re past them. The big cats were blocking the path to Blue Castle. Bardulf could tell they were asleep. After all, they were cats and they weren’t eating. He slipped back into the forest. This was no time to fight lions.
He had options, he hoped, because he had neither catnip nor antelopes. The size of the valley meant he couldn't go around the lions. Attacking that many lions was equally foolish.
Aargh squirmed at Bardulf's side, begging for attention. Bardulf usually ignored it, but this time he drew the sword and brought it up to his face. Maybe it had something worth hearing.
"Now, sword," Bardulf said. "We're going to talk. Unless you want me to leave the gag on, you only speak when I speak to you. You only talk about what I want you to talk about. Do you understand?"
The sword’s pommel nodded an affirmative.
"How do I get into Blue Castle," asked the Ramekin.
"That's simple enough," Aargh replied. "When the lions are asleep, you can just walk right over them. But there's more to it than that."
Fat Barbarian: A Humorous Fantasy Adventure (Fat Barbarian Saga Book 1) Page 5