Fat Barbarian: A Humorous Fantasy Adventure (Fat Barbarian Saga Book 1)

by Richard Hedley

  Just as the sword said those words, the black dragon swooped down, headed directly toward the Ramekin. He drew the swords and rolled to avoid the out reaching claws of the black dragon. The dragon missed and spun around for another attack. The barbarian stood, but his timing was off. The black dragon pivoted in a flash. It reached out, plucked the swords from his hands, and flew into the sky.

  Behind him, he heard a roar and turned to face it. The blue dragon had doubled in size and was bearing down on him with the speed of death. Its taloned hand reached out and at slashed the barbarian.

  Bardulf was ready. He lunged out of the way, grabbed his Icon and pressed it.

  Return to Sender

  Bardulf was lying on a cold, flat surface. He moved his hands around and realized he's lying on wood. It was rough and somehow familiar. This wasn’t what he expected from the afterlife, so he opened his eyes and saw a ceiling with white plaster spaced with brown timbers. One good whiff of stale alcohol and cheap cologne confirmed he was on the floor of Tavern Fosdick.

  Bardulf looked for Aargh and Mace, but they were gone. Figures, he thought. That goddamn black dragon flew in, straight out of nowhere and took them. Because it’s a fuckhead.

  The barbarian stood and stretched his mighty arms, trying to bring life back into his limbs. The old wizard at his usual table. Bardulf didn’t see any other patrons. There was an unfamiliar man behind the bar. He staggered over, threw down some money for a flagon of ale and the piss yellow crap the old man preferred.

  He took the drinks over to Mort. The wizard ignored him until he had sucked down some of his pale ale.

  "A black dragon took the swords from me, Baels attacked me, and the Icon brought me back here.” Bardulf took a drink and continued. "What must I do to regain the swords and complete my mission?"

  "If a black dragon took your swords while you are in Blue Castle with the blue dragon, where do you think you can find the swords?"

  Bardulf thought for a moment. “Set’s asshole?”

  "You can call it that, if you wish, but surely you mean the black castle."

  "Yes! Yes!" Bardulf said. "The goddamn black castle. Where is that?"

  “Beyond the Boggy Swamp,” said the wizard.

  “I hate that place,” said Bardulf, shifting in his seat. “I told King Croc I’d stay out of his swamp.”

  “Wrong swamp, barbarian. You must learn to keep track,” said the wizard. “King Croc is in the Swamp du Stink. The Boggy Swamp is the other way.”

  Bardulf the Ramekin thought for a second, smiled again, and nodded. “It’s still a swamp.“

  “You would be wise to realize there is a difference between things. And while you're in the Boggy Swamp, you must find the magic H." The wizard took another sip of his pale ale. "The magic H will allow you to enter the black castle. It is a castle with no doors, no gates, no way in, except by flying over the walls or using magic to walk through them.”

  "What then, O Mort the Wise?"

  "Then you must be very careful and use all your stealth retrieve the red and blue swords. You can then use them to knock the dragon unconscious while you escape the castle. You must guard the swords properly. Failure to do that will cause you to lose all that you have worked for.“

  The old man in yellow fell silent, and took a drink of his beer. Bardulf waited for him to continue, but he knew the wizard had said all he would say.

  The landlord returned. He saw Bardulf in the corner, smiled like a shark, and started toward him.

  “I see you’re back, you fat fuck,” the landlord, arriving at the table. “You need to settle your tab.”

  Bardulf handed the man a fist full of coins. The landlord smiled, told him to fuck off, and went back to the bar.

  “How is all this possible?”

  The wizard was silent for a moment, then he spoke. “Magic. Time is an illusion caused by the existence of history.”

  Bardulf contemplated this answer for a half a second before concluding it wasn’t worth his time to consider things he’d never understand.

  “Have I used the Icon before?" he asked.

  "Many times,” said the Wizard. “You haven’t taken this seriously. The Icon is losing its power. You must be serious or you’ll never finish the Adventure.”

  "What happens when I finish the Adventure and rescue Queen Prunella?"

  "Only the Goddess can say what will happen to you, but it is said this land has been cursed. The only way to lift the curse and allow us to continue with our lives is for you to rescue Queen Prunella. That is the only way the kingdom will thrive. Complete the Adventure and we might uncover the truth.“

  "Then I must rescue the queen," Bardulf chugged his porter and put the mug down with a hearty smack. "Wish me luck."

  “Good luck, son,” Mort croaked. Bardulf watched him do his disappearing act again. It seemed odd to watch him vanish into nothing, but the old man was a wizard and they do strange things.

  As the barbarian walked to the door, he thought about the things that had happened to him. They didn’t seem real. If he could use an Icon, could others do it too?

  Did other people do it and create another branch of reality?

  Even more surreal than that, the Wizard Mort had just called him ‘son.’ He shook his head, resolved to buy a sword and hit the road.

  Drusilla Again

  A few steps down the road to the Boggy Swamp, Bardulf heard a familiar giggle and smiled. Part of him wanted to call out her name, but he knew the rule. A wood nymph must reveal herself of her own will, you cannot call her name unless you want to invoke her wrath.

  So, he continued down the path. After a time, he saw a clearing a short distance from the trail and headed for it.

  In the clearing, there are flowers, birds, and a squirrel. Also, standing there at the edge all curls, cleavage, and cowboy hat was Drusilla the wood nymph. They exchanged smiles and Bardulf approached.

  "Sup, baby,” Bardulf asked, playing it as cool as he could. “How you been keeping yourself?"

  "Hello, Bardulf, I see you have finally found the path to the Boggy Swamp."

  "Yes, I need the swords to finish the Adventure, but the black dragon stole them. I have to go through the Boggy Swamp and get the magic H to rescue them."

  "Rescue them? You make them sound more like people than swords, honey."

  "Well... they're talkative magical swords. And yes, ‘rescue’ is the right word. Those assholes are my companions. Even if I didn't need them for my quest, I wouldn't let them rot like that." Bardulf pulled the sword he bought while in City Fosdick and displayed it. "This is a sword, it is steel. With this sword I can slay my enemies, even conquer kingdoms. You can trust sword to be a sword and that is a great comfort in my life. But those two magical swords, Aargh and Mace, they are different. They talk, they bicker, and sometimes I think they lie like little boys. I cannot conquer a kingdom with them, but I need them to save Kingdom Fosdick."

  Suddenly, the sound of the horn filled the air. Bardulf looked left and right. Then he followed Drusilla's gaze behind him. There were two men on horseback armed with axes at the edge of the clearing.

  One horse reared up and the rider struggled to control it, the other rider bolted forward, holding his axe high in the air, headed straight for Bardulf and Drusilla. With his left hand, the Ramekin motioned for the wood nymph to hide in the woods and she bolted for the safety of the trees. He stepped forward to meet the oncoming attacker.

  Moving to his left, he put the rider’s horse between him and the weapon. The rider was committed and couldn't adjust. Bardulf stood firm, his sword in both hands on his right side, and swung up to meet the oncoming horseman. He connected, he felt armor crumple and bones splinter. A spatter of blood filled the air as the man's flesh split. The lifeless rider clung to the horse for a few seconds before falling to the ground.

  The Ramekin readied for the next attacker. The horseman saw what happened to his to his companion and held his axe above his head, ready to swing
the broad blade down on either side.

  The mounted warrior galloped toward him, wide to his left. The barbarian countered by taking a few quick steps to a flat rock and jumping on the top of it, removing his attackers height advantage.

  The rider wheeled his mount around to face the Ramekin and lowered his axe as leaned forward to lead with the sharp point protruding from the haft, using the axe as a lance. He spurred his mount and rushed toward Bardulf. Like the other rider, he had no battle cry, just relentless momentum.

  Bardulf turned to face his enemy head-on. As the enemy got closer, he stepped forward and reached out, twisting out of the way of the attack while he grabbed the haft of the weapon, and blended his movement with the oncoming horseman, leveraging him out of his saddle and sending both men spilling onto the ground.

  Leaping up, the barbarian swung his weapon. It cut through empty air as the as his opponent rolled out of the way and leapt to his feet. Both men stood, holding their weapons aloft, sizing up their adversary. The barbarian knew the armored man would be bold, believing his armor gave him an advantage, but speed would be Bardulf’s ally.

  The armored man struck first, but he sidestepped the attack, knowing that trying to deflect the heavy weapon would be futile. He made a two handed stab, but his opponent trapped the barbarian's sword with his axe.

  The men stood locked for a moment, Bardulf squatted and pushed up, shoving his heavily armored opponent to the ground. As the man smashed into the ground, his arms splayed out. With blinding speed, Bardulf thrust his sword down, stabbing through his attacker’s leather gorget, ending the man’s life and nearly severing his head.

  Drusilla ran over to Bardulf and embraced him.

  “You were magnificent,” she exclaimed, planting a kiss on his sweaty, bloody cheek.

  “Yes. Yes, I was. After all, I am the Ramekin.”

  “About that,” Drusilla paused, trying to collect her thoughts. “Isn’t a ramekin a small dish for baking or individual servings?”

  “Yes, but that is not me. I am the Ramekin. It’s capitalized and means I’m amazing.”

  “How did you get that name?”

  "That is a tale for another day. I pulled a powerful nobleman out of a fire and he awarded me the name Ramekin," said Bardulf. "Except, it wasn't a literal fire, but there was combustion involved. And he wasn't a nobleman."

  Drusilla's face lost all expression. "I see you finally found the path to the Boggy Swamp."

  Bardulf scratched his head for a minute as he wondered why Drusilla was repeating herself.

  "Yes, I'm on my way to retrieve my magic swords from the black dragon. But, I suspect you knew this already."

  "Of course, silly," the wood nymph said. "That's the only reason for you to come to the Boggy Swamp. If the black dragon steals the swords, you must go through the swamp. It’s not like those two knights who just attacked you."

  "They might be knights, but I could fight them all day."

  Drusilla's face went blank again. "You will face many pitfalls as you go through the Boggy Swamp. There you will find the magic H you seek and you can use it to rescue the meek."

  "Was that supposed to be a quatrain or something? It was pretty damn weak. It only had two words that rhyme."

  Drusilla shook her head back and forth as if to dismiss a strange thought. "I hate it when that happens," she said. "I feel like I lose myself and suddenly have to say something stupid."

  "Welcome to my world." Bardulf reached over and gathered Drusilla into his arms. She squirmed and backed away.

  "I'm sorry, Bardulf, we don't have time for that right now. Now that you're here, the clock is ticking and you can't pretend this is just a game anymore. You must be careful and quick, and you have to save Queen Prunella. If you don't, all the lands will perish, and that means more than you know."

  "Well, then. I guess I have work to do." Bardulf said as turned and walked toward the Boggy Swamp.

  Unexpected Dragon

  “The dragon?” asked the farmer. “I mean, m’lord. He’s dead.”

  “Dead? How? We haven’t killed it yet!” Duke Farley dismounted and stood in front of the farmer. The farmer had a pitchfork with some dung on it in his right hand.

  “Oh, I’m not sure about that, but it would be Isabelle’s handiwork,” replied the farmer. His face split with a huge grin. “She’s so clever, she even taught our Jeremy how to read and he isn’t sure how to empty a bucket of water.”

  For a moment Farley tried to puzzle out how the man strung that sentence together. It made no sense, but its meaning seemed clear. He decided he’d try to get the man to confirm what he thought was said.

  “Isabelle killed the dragon?”

  “Well, not 'exactly,' exactly, but you know, near enough.” The man shifted, some dung fell off the pitchfork and landed between the two men. “You see, she couldn’t do it without help. You know, building the thing. And, naturally, there was the baron having to talk to the beastie. And the dragon had to go along with it or it wouldn't work. You know our Baron Gill, he could talk the shoes off a plumber. He even persuaded the dragon to let your family go.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that. But, why in the Realms would the drag—” Farley stopped himself and continued as he mounted his horse. “Never mind. I can see you’re a busy man. I’ll just sort it out in town. Good day.”

  Farley heard the man yell after him. It sounded as if he had said something that sounded like ‘dragonmen,’ but he was sure that wasn’t it. After all, he thought, everyone knows there’s no such thing as dragonmen.

  On the way to the village, he saw Princess Natalie returning and detoured to meet her.

  “Princess Natalie,” he said with a salute. “Were you able to assess the situation in City Farley?”

  “No, Uncle. But, I have information that might be even more important,” she replied as she pulled a green head from her bag. “Dragonmen are real and in the area. I had to kill one. Some locals got the other.”

  The group of soldiers heard her and reacted with a low murmur.

  “You're right. That changes things, Highness,” he growled. Another complication, he thought. Why do dragons make things so cumbersome? The Princess must be more of a warrior than he had thought if she’d kill one of these legendary monsters.

  “More change comes in news from City Farley,” he said. “We have word the dragon is dead. We are going there to investigate while the army makes ready to attack it, in case we aren’t so lucky.”

  As they rode, Princess Natalie reported the details of her encounter with the dragonmen, including their location, and their abilities. The Duke sent a rider back to the army to inform them and pass on instructions that they were to search the area for more of the evil brutes. Someone was also to go to the Hendercram farm to check on them, help where possible, and get information from the two men who’d aided the princess.

  By the time they sorted all that out, they arrived at the city.

  The Duke handed Natalie his field glasses. She looked at the dragon and handed them back.

  “That’s one dead dragon, Uncle,” she said in a light voice as she turned to mount her horse. “The danger is over.”

  “So it would seem,” he replied, gathering his mount’s reins. “I want you to stay here while ride into town and—” He turned around to face her and realized he was addressing empty air. The princess, a mind of her own as always, was galloping toward the town.

  “I wish my son were here,” he rumbled to himself as he galloped off to try to catch her. “He needs a lesson on how to be impetuous and reckless.”

  By the time Duke Farley got to the village, all he could find was the princess’s horse. A man was standing there, holding the horse’s reins with a blank look on his face.

  “Where is the princess, my good man?” Farley asked.

  “The princess?” the man replied after a few blinks. “What princ— Oh, her. Right. Just a few moments ago, in a very nice set of leather armor. Why she wasn’t outf
itted in something more substantial like you are, Admiral Farley, is beyond me.”

  “Where, not when,” the Duke said as he dismounted. He recognized the man holding Natalie’s horse. He was Cruk, the village idiot. Just his luck. He rephrased his question. “Where did the lady go, Cruk?”

  “LLLLLL,” the idiot trilled as he looked at the clouds. His empty hand raised level with the ground and stayed there, palm up. “Yes. She was a lady, alrighty. In a hurry for some curry. Have you got time for a table?”

  “What I don’t have is time for this,” growled the Duke.

  “He’ll be okay if he calms down, m’lord,” said a soldier who had dismounted with the Duke. He grabbed a piece of horse shit and put it in Cruk’s hand. “You just have to put something in his hand. That does the trick.”

  Cruk looked at his hand, spat in it, and threw the dung into the air. Bits of it landed on the duke, but he didn’t care.

  “Not shiny!” he cried. “It won’t fly!”

  “Oh, right, end of the month. Sorry, Cruk,” the soldier said. He turned to Duke Farley and continued. “It’s the end of the month, m’lord. He wants money. Give him a few coins and he’ll be okay. It’s like magic.”

  The Duke reached into his pouch, pulled out a pair coins, and placed them in the idiot’s hand.

  Cruk turned toward the Duke.

  “Right you are, m’lord. That’s quite soothing, especially after that damn dragon.” He put the coins in his pocket and continued. “Princess Natalie went that way. She was looking for Isabelle, so I expect she’s at the school. Clever woman, that Isabelle. She edited my latest poem, you know. ‘Ode to a Yarken Bass,’ I call it. Hopefully, it’ll win the Snooker Prize and I can take time off from idioting.”

  “Time off?”

  “Can’t be an idiot all the time, m’lord.”

  “Some manage.”

  “Yeah, but not professionally. I’ve got standards to not maintain,” Cruk continued, casting a wary eye on the Duke’s dirty armor. “I’ve found that writing poetry keeps my mind off of things. And I don’t have to groom myself with filth if I don’t want to, though some still expect it in a poet. Nice, the way the two field dovetail.”