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

by Richard Hedley

  The barbarian made a small grunting noise to agree with the sword.

  “You must go into the dungeons under Castle Fosdick,” said Mort. “There you will seek a portal to the land of the Sorcerer.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “You gonna leave me behind, B? How the hell are you going to kill the Sorcerer without the sword that kills him?”

  “Okay,” Bardulf said with a sigh. “How do we get to the dungeons under Castle Fosdick?”

  “The path is hidden to me,” said Mort. “You must ask the lord of the castle.”

  “You want us to ask King Fosdick to send us to the dungeon?” Fred asked. “I can see how this could end up badly.”

  “Fair point, Fred.” Bardulf looked up at the wizard. “Is there another way?”

  “NO!” exclaimed Mort. He raised his wizard finger, a giant puff of smoke surrounded the table, and the world turned grey for Bardulf and Fred.

  The grey mist swirled around the warrior and his sword. When the fog lifted, they were standing in the throne room of King Fosdick.

  The empty wooden throne sitting atop a dais. Behind it was a dusty red velvet curtain and the flag of Kingdom Fosdick. Bardulf looked around and saw a few other pieces of dust covered cloths. There was a field mouse in scurrying along a wall.

  “Unless Fosdick is ruled by a mouse, I think we missed our grand entrance, Big Guy,” said Fred.

  “Yeah,” said Bardulf. “When I met the king, he was in his office doing king shit.”

  “King shit? Is there queen shit and Jack shit to do, too?” the blade asked. “I’ll tell you I’m an expert at doing Jack shit.”

  “Tell me about it,” the Ramekin pointed Fred at a door on the right side of the throne room, close to the throne itself. “I bet that door leads to the office. We can still make an entrance.”

  Bardulf strode to the door and found it locked.

  “It’s locked, B.”

  “No shit.” Bardulf looked around and saw two large, dramatic, double doors on the other end of the throne room. This had to be how the masses got in and out, thought Bardulf, as he stalked toward them with an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

  The doors didn’t budge when he pushed them.

  “That greasy old wizard kinda fucked this up. Don’t they teach you ‘if you’re gonna drink, don’t teleport’ in wizard school?”

  “I don’t think Mort went to Hogwarts, Fred.”

  Just then, the side door opened and a stooped woman came in, a bucket in one hand, a mop in the other. Her head was covered with a lavender babushka. She set her bucket down, turned, and closed the door. She turned back and stood straight, eyes wide. Bardulf recognized her as the old woman who told him how to find the Swamp du Stink.

  “Ooo! You’re not supposed to be here!” she cried. “You’re supposed to be slopping out the privy next to the library! Do you see books or shit buckets here? Where did you get that scraper? I’ve never seen one like it. I bet you can really get the nasty crusted on crap off with that! Who would think the king would have such a prob—”

  “I was locked in here by mistake,” Bardulf said as he walked toward the old woman and the door she was standing in front of.

  “Locked in! Locked in!” She laughed a little and continued. “Locked in. More like you thought this was a nice place to take a nap while I slaved away. Doing all the cleaning and polishing, washing and waxing, all day long, every day. You and your type, you kids always— hey, you stole a sword to scrap poop! Oh, my. You probably think all of this is beneath you, you do. You think if you can just get a sword, you’ll go out, kill a few monsters, rescue a fair maiden and it’s all wine and massages after that. Never do you think that old Emmy used to be a fair maiden who was rescued by a barbarian. Yes, I was.

  “He came in, all muscles and weapons, killed that stupid minotaur with his foul breath and constant demands on my coochie, boy that was nice of him. Well, we ran off and it was great until he drank all the gold. I had to do what I could to keep home and hearth together. And you know what he did? I’ll tell you. It was always, ‘I’m going on a quest to slay the demon of Bahh-farsh’ or whatever, but the only demon he’d slay was the sobriety demon down at the tavern, leaving me with the wee bairns, the diapers, and bills to pay. Some romance that turned out to be. Look at me now. I’m only thirty seven and I look like an old woman. Hard work and worry, that’s what I’ve got now. I’d have been better off if he’d have just left me in there as a slave to that creature’s basest desires.”

  She stopped talking and squinted at the barbarian. “Oh, you’re that tat from a few days ago, the one headed for the swamp.”

  “I am. Now if you will excuse me, good woman. I must meet with the king through that door.”

  “As long the king you’re meeting is the king of the powder room, you go on. And stop slouching around! There’s work to do!”

  Bardulf crept around the cleaning woman, opened the door and entered the king’s office.

  To the Dungeons

  A commotion at the door caught King Fosdick's attention.

  “Look who’s back,” said King Fosdick. “Bardulf the Barbarian! You defeated the Sorcerer and have brought back my dear wife, Queen Prunella. Obviously. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m in the middle of the Adventure, good King Fosdisk.”

  The royal butler looked up. His eyes grew wide and he took a step away from the door. “Guards! Defend the King! The barbarian has a blade!”

  The guards lowered their halberds and moved between him and the King. They paused and then advanced on Bardulf. Before the barbarian could attack, the sword jerked his arm back to a defensive posture.

  “Wait up, y’all,” said Fred. “I’m not here to hurt anyone and neither is this blood-thirsty motherfucker. Just don’t go provokin’ or he might get to pokin’!”

  A chill settled over the room.

  Bardulf gathered his wits first. He looked at the purple sword.

  “Dude,” he said. “Have you suffered from a stroke or something? ‘Don’t go provokin’ or he might get to strokin’? Are we in a seventies porn action flick or something?”

  “Pokin’” said one guard. “I’m pretty sure he said ‘pokin’”

  “Yeah,” said the other guard.

  “I’m not sure it matters what he said, your king is in clear danger!” said the butler.

  “No, I’m not. This man is no danger to us,” said King Fosdick.

  “He seems like quite the fearsome barbarian,” said a musical voice to Bardulf’s right. He looked over and saw a lovely redhead in a low cut green dress.

  “Bardulf, that’s my daughter, Natalie. You may call her ‘Princess,’ but if you even consider touching her, she might take your head for a trophy.”

  “Oh, father,” said Natalie with a demur tuck of the head. “Is Bardulf really dangerous?”

  “No. At least, not to us. Unless, he becomes 'vexed' and then he can be a terror. That's the rumor, at least,” said the king. He filled his wine cup and leaned back in his chair. “Bardulf here is no threat to us. In fact, since he hasn’t succeeded in any regard on his mission, he’s no danger to anyone.”

  “I had to kill a few dragons to get the sword that will kill the Sorcerer,” the barbarian replied. “So, the rescue is a work in progress.”

  Bardulf reached over and picked up the king’s wine cup. “Typically, I prefer my wine in crystal, or at least glass, but this will have to do,” Bardulf said as he emptied the king’s cheap ceramic cup. “I have to go to the dungeon, Mister King.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we can arrange that,” said King Fosdick as he motioned to his guards. Bardulf felt a heavy smack to the back of his head and lost consciousness.

  He opened his eyes and regarded his new surroundings. It was a dark room, and he was lying on some lumpy stones. They'd put him in a cell. His sword was gone and he was dressed in a flimsy loincloth.

  “Ho, Ho, Ho! Fresh meat!”

  Bardul
f turned to see the source of the voice. A man with a similar linen loin cloth leaned against the back wall of the cell. The man’s head was a mass of white hair, as was his chest, back, and an enormous gut.

  “Well now, meat,” said the man. His voice was a deep baritone. “What have you done to be thrown in here to my tender mercy?”

  “Nothing, fat ass,” the barbarian replied. “Tell me how to get out and I won’t have to get all culinary on your ass.”

  “You sound like the rest,” the man gestured to a large pile of inhuman bones. “But you will be nothing but food in the end.”

  Bardulf took a step forward and swung a haymaker at the man, who ducked under the punch with surprising speed and grace. He jumped, extending both his hand to deliver a deadly punch to the barbarian’s chin before the barbarian could recover from his wild swing, but it was his turn to be surprised. Bardulf leapt back in a flash and planted a leg thrust kick to his opponent's sternum, knocking him back to the wall as he doubled over.

  The barbarian pressed his attack with a knee to the white haired man’s face. There was a satisfying thunk and Bardulf could feel the man’s nose break. He responded by leaping up and pushing Bardulf’s leg up violently, throwing the barbarian on his back.

  Without pausing a second, the other prisoner jumped at Bardulf, seeking to bring the fight to the ground, but Bardulf rolled out of way. As he stood, the bone pile was on the barbarian’s left. He reached over and grabbed a stout looking thigh bone and drew it back to swing on his opponent.

  “Donner!” yelled the man.

  Confusion stopped his swing.

  “What?” Bardulf brought the bone down between them in a guard position.

  “That is Donner’s thigh bone. It’s precious. He was… a good friend. Please don’t break it.”

  “It should be fine,” the Ramekin said as he thrust the bone up to the other man’s chin. “Your face is what I aim to break.”

  The head of the femur smashed the fat man’s jaw, sending blood and teeth flying. The force of the blow propelled the pale white man into the bars. He slumped to the floor, with a broken nose, jaw, and neck.

  “Oh, gosh!” Bardulf turned around and saw Princess Natalie standing there, her bosom heaving with her heavy breath.

  Bardulf regarded her for a moment.

  “You’ve never seen a dead body before?”

  “Oh, heaps,” she replied. “I’ve seen plenty of men beaten to death, too. One man that Hugh McTaggart— never mind. I hurried down here because-”

  “Because you didn’t expect me to survive long against this man.”

  “No. No one does.”

  “I am the Ramekin.”

  “Okay.” She held up a key and said, “I’m going to let you out, Mr. Ramekin.”

  She opened the door and Bardulf walked through.

  “Let’s get your things,” the princess turned and walked down the hallway. “There is something going on with my father. I’m not sure he wants to find my mother and you seem to be the best person to figure out what’s going, save her and fix whatever is wrong in Kingdom Fosdick. Here’s your stuff. And some other stuff.”

  Grabbing his clothes, he looked down at his loin cloth and wondered if he should find a more private place to dress. You never know how a princess will react. She looked at him and shrugged.

  “I’ve seen a few dicks in my life. Don’t go getting modest on me. And we won’t be having sex. Get dressed.”

  Bardulf complied, then reached into the large pile of assorted objects and pulled out Fred.

  “What the hell?” the sword said. “Thanks for getting out me of that shit pile. Really. Glad you didn’t hurry. Those racist motherfuckers threw me in here with your nasty underwear and shit. Then— oh, hey, beautiful. I’m Fred. You’re Princess Natalie. We weren’t introduced earlier because this nasty motherfucker was too busy pissing off the king.”

  The princess looked at Bardulf and raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, it’s a talking sword,” he replied without needing to hear Natalie’s question.

  “Talking swords are powerful magic. I hear in order to imbue a sword with a soul and speech, it must have all manner of magic first. Flight, True Edge, Flame, Glow, Detect Magic, and so many others. They’re rare as can be!”

  “I wish.”

  “Hey, there’s a dead guy over there,” Fred said. “Don’t tell me you killed someone else. He looks like a jolly old guy. Is killing your only go-to move?”

  “Yes,” Bardulf said. He saw Princess Natalie’s face contort in confusion. “Fred is a pacifist talking sword.”

  “I’m not a pacifist. Look, I just don’t believe in unnecessary killing. You, on the other hand, never met a person you didn’t mind killing. You might be next, Princess. Maybe, you should go back to your nice castle and arrange your shoe collection.”

  “Is he always like this?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I can see why you kill so many people. Okay, to find the Sorcerer, you’ve got to go through the Gate. It’s through those doors.”

  Bardulf looked at the doors. He wouldn’t have seen them if she hadn’t pointed them out. The Gate thing was new, but not a big deal. Just more magic nonsense.

  “I have to get back to the castle now, or father will get suspicious.”

  It’s a Push

  Bardulf watched Princess Natalie sashay up the stairs and into the castle.

  “I thought we were in the dungeons, B,” said Fred.

  “We are.”

  “Looks more like a wine cellar to me,” Fred said.

  “Even better," Bardulf said as he looked around.

  The interior of the dungeon was lit by a series of lanterns, giving the place a warm and friendly glow. The door to the Gate was to his left, but off to his right, the barbarian saw what he was looking for: the Royal Wine Collection.

  He strode over to it, selected a dusty bottle, leaned Fred against the wine rack, unscrewed the wine bottle’s top, and poured the contents down his throat. He resealed the bottle and put it back.

  Fred remained silent as the Ramekin picked him up. The barbarian strode over to the doors. He pulled on the handles, but they only jiggled in response. There didn't seem to be any way to pull the doors open.

  Bardulf took a step back and examined the doorway.

  “Try looking under the mat.”

  “What?”

  “Look, I hear people often leave spare keys under the mat.”

  “Do you see a mat, Fred?”

  “No.”

  “Okay then.”

  The barbarian examined where the doors met the wall. He discovered there was a lip carved in stone around the outer edges of the doors. The portal had been sealed somehow.

  “This will take time,” Bardulf said. “I can’t just pull it open. The wizard said it would be difficult to seek the Sorcerer. Maybe I can chisel the stone away and pull the doors open that way.”

  “Good idea,” said Fred.

  He put the sword down so it leaned against the door as he rummaged through the cellar looking for a chisel.

  “Hey, Bardulf!” said the sword. “Look at this shit!”

  Bardulf looked up. The door was opening inward. He grabbed Fred and pushed the door open.

  The interior was lit by the same lanterns that were in the dungeon-cum-wine cellar, so they walked right in. Before them stood a wide tall staircase, spiraling up around a central hub.

  “That’s not right,” said Bardulf.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It goes too high! Look, the Princess walked up a dozen stairs, tops. This is hundreds of stairs.”

  “So you’re saying it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Not a stitch.”

  “You’re holding a talking sword.”

  “So?”

  “Magic is afoot, Bardulf. The Ramekin should know that.”

  “Oh, now you want to sound all portentous.”

  “I have my moments, motherfucker.
”

  Bardulf walked over to the step and started up the stairs. As they twisted around the broad axis, he paused before stepping out of view of the door that pushed. He stepped up, out of view of the door, and the scene shifted.

  The barbarian and his sword were now standing in a meadow.

  “We’re out.”

  “Yes, sword. We’re out.”

  “Out-standing in our field.”

  Bardulf shook his head and wondered if the swords he’d picked up were cursed. They certainly made him want to curse.

  In front of them was a woman, short, curvaceous, and thick— not fat, just not thin. She wore a simple dress, dark hair in a loose bun.

  “Well met, Adventurers,” she said. “I am Gnorma, Spirit of the Land. You have come far in your Adventure. Beyond this field you will face a foe such as none you’ve encountered before— a creature of wit and guile. You must defeat this opponent to prove yourself able to kill the enemy beyond the Sorcerer.”

  An Icon appeared before the barbarian, identical to the Icon Mort had given him earlier. He pressed it without waiting for further instructions.

  “You think you know what will happen,” Gnorma said. “Now, I must tell you that isn’t true. You have just added a trial to your long journey. Next time a Spirit summons an Icon, perhaps you should wait to hear what they have to say.”

  There was a giant sound, so vast and deep it shook the ground. There was a shimmering behind Gnorma and a giant blue figure appeared. It had the body of a cat, lying on its stomach with its head raised, eyes fix on the Ramekin. Bardulf recognized the face immediately. It was Baels the Blue Dragon.

  “Greetings, oh my killer,” it said. “I have three questions for you, fool. You must answer all correctly if you are to survive. If you don’t answer them, you shall die.”

  “Fuckballs,” muttered Bardulf. “Sometimes this feels like a stupid game.”

  “First, What goes on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, three legs in the late afternoon, and oh about six as things really get late?”

  “That’s easy. A person!” replied Bardulf. “Crawls on for as a baby, walks on two legs until old age, then a cane makes three legs, a walker would be six legs.”