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

by Richard Hedley

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “You said he was a butler! That’s some racist shit, right there.”

  “Butlers aren't a race. They're a bunch of people who serve tea, suck up, and lecture rowdy young men about the importance of good manners.” Bardulf put the sword on his back and started walking toward down the road.

  “It’s the way you said it, bitch.” Bardulf felt the sword wiggle a little, like it was crossing arms it didn’t have. “Seriously, you have a problem with stabbing folks.

  “You're the one I want to stab, Fred.” He was so busy arguing with his sword, he missed the sign and took the path that read ‘Castle Fangnar This Way.’

  King Fangnar

  “I can sense the dragon here,” said Bardulf as he eyed the huge castle at the end of the road.

  “Really? Have you got some sort of magic dragon sense now?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Why do you think the castle has a motherfucking dragon in it?”

  “There isn’t a village and there is smoke coming from it.”

  “Maybe they like to cook food in the castle,” said Fred. “You do realize that requires a fire and fires make smoke, right? Besides, that isn’t ‘sensing,’ so much as it’s ‘observing.’”

  “I’m using my senses to observe,” replied Bardulf as he walked toward the castle.

  “Okay, but why do you want to stay on the road where we're real visible, if you think there’s a dragon there?”

  Bardulf paused and pivoted to head off the road.

  “I was about to head for the stream down there,” he replied. “I bet the stream feeds into the castle. They’d have to get water from somewhere.”

  “Look, I’ll be quiet and shit and let you be all illogical on your own.”

  They walked a few steps in blessed silence. Bardulf was thinking he’d outsmarted the smart-ass sword. Maybe he'd confused it into silence. He was wrong.

  “What if They get their water from an aquifer?” Fred asked. “And does a dragon worry about those things, because at first you were talking about—”

  “I changed my mind,” Bardulf interrupted. “Because, I bet it’s Castle Fangnar. King Fangnar is Queen Prunella’s father and he might know where she is.”

  “I can get behind that plan. It's stupid, but I'll go along,” replied Fred. “But, look, what's wrong with the front door? Do we have to go through the woods like a heavily armed bear?”

  “Is that another fat joke?” He said as they came over a rise and descended toward the stream.

  “No, it's—” said the sword, squirming. “Hey! That’s Brooke!”

  “It looks more like a stream.”

  “Look, motherfucker, you’re the one with a tree for a girlfriend. You ought to recognize Brooke, the Mistress of Streams. She’s a friend to magic swords.”

  Bardulf didn’t respond and kept walking down to the brook, angling toward the castle. As he got closer, the stream bubbled as a female figure rose from of the water.

  “Hello, Fred,” she said, her voice was light as a gentle stream.

  “Hey, watergirl,” he replied, wiggling a little bit. “Big B, why don’t you get me off your back so I can take a better look at Brooke.”

  Bardulf drew the sword. He wasn’t sure how to hold the sword in this instance, so he held it up by the blade. Fred didn’t complain, so he figured it would work.

  “Who’s your friend, sweetie? He looks like the Ramekin.”

  “Him? Oh, he doesn’t matter,” Fred replied. “We gotta to get in that castle over there. Can you show us the way?”

  “Sure thing, honey. Follow me.”

  With that, Brooke dissolved back into the water. Bardulf shrugged and walked into the stream. He returned Fred to his back so his hands would be free. A short distance down stream the water got darker and deeper. He paused, wondering if he could walk through it.

  “What’s wrong?” said Fred. “Scared of a little water?”

  “I’m not scared of water,” the Ramekin replied through gritted teeth. Having someone on his back, literally and figuratively, didn’t help the barbarian’s patience. “It looks deep and I don’t know how to swim.”

  “You can’t swim?” asked the sword, his voice creeping with incredulity. Bardulf could swear the river made giggling noises.

  “I didn’t say I can’t swim,” he replied as he started toward the bank. “I said I don’t know how to swim.”

  “Suck in some air, big guy,” Fred said. “You’re about to get a lesson from Brooke.”

  Bardulf felt a big wet shove against his back. It enveloped him and took him under the surface. The water pushed him down, his lungs burned, screaming for him to take a breath, which he thought would be a stupid idea. What the hell kind of survival instinct make you want to inhale water?

  The water changed directions and took him up. When the barbarian’s head broke the surface, he gasped for air. Brooke’s figure came out of the water and looked down him.

  “You really need to learn how to swim if you’re going to be take being a barbarian seriously. It’s as important as knowing how to ride a horse, you know. The surface of the world is mostly water and you don’t want it to be your enemy.”

  He felt the water nudge him toward the edge of the pool.

  “I will,” he responded as he pulled himself up. “It never came up before.”

  “You just had a lesson, but you need more. Learn to swim.”

  “Yeah, Bardulf,” Fred added. “You don’t want to just be a little bitch around water do you? And let me tell you, girls and water are a great combination.”

  “Never change, Fred,” said Brooke as she disappeared into the water.

  Bardulf looked around at where Brooke had deposited them. It was a cave of some sort, but the buckets made him think it was still in use. Also, there was also a huge iron gate barring the way out of the room. They don’t grow naturally.

  “She needs to come back and take us somewhere else, B,” said Fred. “Those bars ain’t made of yummy noodles, so I don’t see how you’re gonna get us out of here. You can’t eat them.”

  He walked over and examined the gate for a moment. It was locked on the outside with a chain securing the door to the rest of the bars. The barbarian grunted at the locked door, turn his back to it and kicked the door twice. It flew open.

  To Bardulf's relief, Fred remained silent. He was sure that some kind of comment involving a joke involving the words 'fat,' 'ass,' and 'donkey' would be coming.

  They walked down to the corridor into an open room. There were a number of boxes and strange looking contraptions, but he recognized one thing. A petard, a large explosive used to bring down castle walls and other major obstacles.

  If he was going to deal with another dragon, he figured a bomb might come in handy, so stuffed the petard into his pack before continuing through the castle. It wasn’t long before they came to stairs leading up.

  The people they encountered in the castle didn't say anything, so the pair stayed silent. Fred asked why he hadn’t killed anyone yet. Bardulf told him killing people was Fred’s job, but right now his main job should be to be quiet. Fred decided there was sense in that and complied.

  Around a corner, Bardulf saw a large audience room with a huge bearded man sitting on a throne. Smoke billowed from his nose and he laughed, gesturing for the soldier in front of him to leave.

  “Dragon,” muttered Bardulf as he ducked back around the corner.

  “How do figure that?” Fred asked.

  “He blew smoke out of his nose.”

  “Maybe he was smoking a hookah pipe or something.”

  Bardulf grunted.

  “I know that grunt,” the sword said. “You’re gonna kill him because he’s a smoker.”

  “No,” he replied. “Because he’s a dragon. He might have Queen Prunella, holding her for the Sorcerer.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “Then he isn’t,” Bardulf replied. />
  Castle Fangnar

  Looking into the throne room, Bardulf saw two entrances on the opposite side under a gallery that seemed to mirror the one he was on. He knew he wanted to confront the dragon on its throne, but jumping down would be a great way to break a leg. He ducked back into the corridor and looked for a stairway going down.

  After taking a turn, he stepped out to parapet. He’d taken a wrong turn, but…

  “Say, Bardulf, isn’t that King Fosdick’s army out there?” Fred asked.

  “Yes, I think you’re right,” he replied as he turned his head. “It looks like Duke Farley is with them. They don’t seem happy with this castle.”

  “I suspect they are more unhappy with the people in the castle,” Fred wiggled a little as he spoke. “Look over your left shoulder.”

  Bardulf looked as saw the dragon disguised as a person walking along the parapet closest to Duke Farley. What Bardulf thought might be dragon horns turned out to be a crown. The thing turned, raised his arms, and spoke to the army at his gates.

  “Greetings, rabble! You stand before my mighty castle today, preparing for death,” it said, lowering its arms. “You have saved my army the trouble of marching south to hold your beggar king responsible for the kidnapping and death of my beloved daughter, Karen.”

  “That’s Queen Prunella, you idiot!” yelled one of Fosdick’s soldiers.

  “Oh, no matter. My army of knights is marching here right now, and it is three times the size of yours. You have no chance, except to throw yourselves on my mercy and join my fight against your deranged, murderous King Fosdick!”

  The men in the castle cheered. The soldiers in the field jeered. Bardulf scoffed at them both. Armies settle nothing, he thought. They never have. Things are only settle in a fight between two men.

  “Former King Fangnar,” yelled Duke Farley to the man standing above him. Bardulf realized what was happening. King Fangnar wasn’t a dragon. “You are hereby and forthwith served with a notice of non-payment. According to the Accords you signed with good King Fosdick. The knights you boast of marching this way are his knights, the Knights of Fosdick, and loyal to him. You stand no chance. Save yourself and the ruin of your people by surrendering now.”

  “Ruin of my people, HA! Your knights are now my knights and loyal only to me. I have left Fosdick alone only out of contempt. Your pitiful army is no match for my castle. Soon it will be crushed, the knights will be the hammer and this castle, the anvil. You have spoiled your chance for survival and you all stand to ruin and death. Soldiers of Fosdick! Flee your feeble army and run back to your farms!”

  Duke Farley’s flag bearer dipped the flag, trumpets sounded, and the army rushed the gates. A few of Fangnar’s soldiers walked by Bardulf.

  “I do love playing ‘Drop the Rock,’” said one of the soldiers as he passed.

  “They aren’t serious. These idiots don’t even have a siege engine. How can you lay a proper siege without a catapult?” another replied. He and a man behind him were carrying a bucket of hot tar. Bardulf assumed they would pour that on the men below.

  “No catapult means the siege is kaput,” the last man said.

  Bardulf watched the army at the gates. It was pathetic. They had no catapult or ballista. They didn’t even seem to have a battering ram. How did they expect to win the castle if they couldn’t get in?

  He noticed something else strange. The men had raised their shields above their heads, which made sense. But when they did, they revealed they were armed with rocks. When they got to the castle, they smashed the rocks against the wall, laughing the whole time.

  The defenders rained arrows, hot tar, and rocks down on them. This did nothing but bounce off the attackers’ shields and make them laugh even more. After a time, they backed off and moved out of range of the defenders. Some pointed off in the distance where there was a dragon shaped object coming toward the armies.

  Bardulf walked over to the castle gate and examined the area above it before walking back to the fellows with the boiling tar. It had a fire under it. Bardulf excused himself, removed the petard, and ignited the fuse.

  “What are you doing?” asked one soldier.

  “Oh, just evening the odds a bit,” he replied as he rolled the barrel of explosives toward the top of the castle gate where it got stuck in a murderhole, blew up, and obliterated the gate.

  The attackers looked on and pointed.

  “To arms!” yelled Duke Farley whirling on his horse. His soldiers ran to retrieve their weapons.

  “KILL HIM!” a sharp yell came from behind Bardulf. He turned and saw King Fangnar pointing at him and men running toward him. The king then turned and headed down a staircase. Bardulf presumed that was the quickest way to get to him or something. There was no way a fierce king like Fangnar would run away after blowing so much hot air at Army Fosdick.

  Running back the way he came, the barbarian flew past the gallery where he first saw King Fangnar spewing smoke in the throne room. A few steps later he came to a stairway and climbed down, emerging in the throne room. He came face to face with King Fangnar.

  “Traitor!” the king yelled.

  “Monster!” Bardulf returned as he drew his sword.

  The king cast his gaze around, looking for a weapon, but found none.

  “You wouldn’t stab an unarmed man, would you, barbarian?!”

  “No, but I’ll decapitate a motherfucker every day of the week!” Fred yelled as Bardulf’s arm followed the sword as it arched toward Fangnar’s neck.

  The king’s head fell to the ground and rolled to Bardulf’s feet where it stopped and looked up at him with wide, dead eyes. The headless body fell, creating an immediate pool of blood on the floor.

  “I thought you were against senseless killing, Fred.”

  “Seems to me like you did all the killing there, B,” it replied. The blade quivered, flicking blood off it like a dog shaking off a light spring rain.

  The building shook. A huge stone fell and blocked the door behind the body of the king. Bardulf looked up and saw a green dragon flying by. He had to get out there to fight it, so he ran back the way he came, sure he could get out there and kill the foul beast.

  He ran out of the throne room and stopped, unsure of where to go to get somewhere to fight the damnable dragon. To his left he heard a crowd of people yelling incoherently. He turned that way and ran since dragons make people yell incoherently. As he approached an open stairwell going down, he heard a musical voice.

  “Bardulf!”

  He slowed and Brooke’s watery form flowed out of the doorway and stood in front of the barbarian and his sword.

  “This is not your fight, Ramekin,” her voice came like the music of water flowing over rocks.

  “It sure the fuck is!” yelled Fred. “I love killing some dragon motherfuckers!”

  “I’m sure you do, Fred Gorgeous.” She reached up her hands, folded Bardulf and his sword into her well hydrated embrace and brought them down to the stream which flowed beautifully toward Castle Fosdick.

  Tavern Fosdick Again

  Brooke took the barbarian and his sword to a stream just outside of Castle Fosdick.

  “Warrior, in this journey, though it was brief, I have taught you to swim.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Fred, keep well. I believe we will meet again before the Age is through.”

  “It’s always fun, Brooke. Tell Creeke I said ‘Hey.’”

  Brooke dissolved into the water.

  Before long, a surprisingly dry Bardulf entered Tavern Fosdick.

  “Bardulf, I never thought I’d be happy to see you, you fat bastard, but I am.” The landlord of Tavern Fosdick said as Bardulf walked in. “Haven’t seen Astra in weeks. We need you to find her or all is lost.”

  Astra once had the Ramekin’s heart, but she’d never had his willie. Bardulf felt a flood of conflicting emotions: love for Astra, anger over her rejection, concern for her and all who loved her, his growing affection for Drusi
lla, the emptiness in his soul when he thought of his unrequited love for Astra. Finally, his over-riding emotion won.

  “I’m already trying to free the queen. How am I supposed to search for Astra, too?”

  “Free beer.”

  “Done.”

  He walked through the dark tavern to where Mort the Wizard sat like a stuffed vulture.

  “Greetings, wizard.”

  “Ramekin.” Though he had a half a flagon of pale ale in front of him, the wizard’s voice still sounded like a desert wind. “You’ve made great progress. You are now prepared to go into the dungeons of Castle Fosdick. There you must take the Gate, find and defeat the Sorcerer, rescue the Queen, and, it appears, that useless tottie of a barmaid.”

  “What do I need to know to accomplish this dangerous mission?”

  “There will be perilous obstacles.”

  “Yes.”

  “It will be dangerous and challenging.”

  “Could you say something helpful, motherfucker?” said Fred. “Look, I’ve got to go with this fool and I want to know what I’m going to be getting into.”

  “Hehehe,” cackled the wizard. “Probably a lot of bodies, Fred the Sword. Or should I call you Fred Gorgeous?”

  “How did you’’— Never mind. You’re a wizard and know much that is hidden, blah, blah, blah,” the sword said.

  Bardulf sat down, put Fred on the table in front of him, and motioned for the landlord to bring food and drink to the table.

  “You still have to pay for food and his ale, big Bardulf,” said the pub master, as he set the meal down on the table. Bardulf replied by dropping a few crusty coins into the man’s hands.

  The wizard was silent as he attacked the meal like a dog chewing fleas off his mangy leg, but with more disgusting sounds. Soon, the damage was done and the old man’s feasting ended. He smeared food debris around on his face with a greasy napkin and belched.

  “Is this guy broken?” asked Fred. “He’s worse at eating than you are and you’re a nasty motherfucker.”