Lingeria

by Daniel Kozuh

  “I like all of those words,” Roe said.

  “I agree. I can’t wait to meet Kroü,” Norman added, quite relieved that he did not have to spend another night sleeping on the ground.

  Norman and Roe were helped on to the back of two horses.

  Kroü was the sworn protector and king of Helkie. Despite his rank, he was more interested in adventure and romance than amassing land and wealth. He craved the field of battle like a meal and was welcomed like a celebrity in every town in Lingeria.

  After a short ride down a trampled road, the travelers came to a squat brick bastion with minimal defenses. Every window was bright with the glow of a fireplace that beckoned to them in the cold, gusty winds of evening. The passengers dismounted at the gate and sentries speeded them into the dining hall.

  The room reminded Norman of a summer camp mess hall. Long oak tables and simplistic wooden benches lined the room. They were set with matte metal dishes and wooden serving platters. Behind the main table hung a wall-size flag, decorated again with the symbol of Maidair, the mighty Barshte.

  “Huzzah, huzzah, and welcome,” came a jovial voice from the other side of the room. A slovenly man in a knight’s linen underclothes came limping across the room, like a man suffering from gout. The man had glassy sunken eyes and sagging leathery skin that hung off him as though he had been deflated – he reminded Norman of an aged arthritic baseball player attempting a desperate comeback on a reality show.

  “You must be The Author!” the man wrapped his arms around Norman, who accepted the strange hug but did not reciprocate. The man then planted his lips against Norman’s cheek.

  A troop of men, sat at the lower tables, continued their drinking and conversing. The fat man suddenly screamed at them, “On your knees, you ungrateful swine! Do you now know who this is?!”

  The other knights threw themselves to the ground and the room went silent.

  “No, no, that is okay. No need for that,” Norman said to the men. He turned to the man before him, “I’m sorry, and you are …”

  “Why, it is I, Kroü The Valiant, but of course!”

  ****

  When he was thirteen-years-old Norman got the chance to meet his hero, Tom “The Bomb” Hartwig. Hartwig played third-base for the Philadelphia Phillies in the late seventies, early eighties, and was one of only five players to ever hit for the cycle three times in their career. In 1980, he was the home run leader in all of Major League Baseball. While Norman grew up in Pittsburgh, he was a die-hard Phillies fan, on account of his paternal grandfather’s love for the team. Tom “The Bomb” solidified and embodied that fandom.

  In August of 1981, just weeks before the Halliday family crumbled, Norman and his family took on last special weekend trip to Philadelphia as a unit. They even splurged to stay at the historic Bellevue-Stratford Hotel. Late in the night, unable to sleep as his parents screamed at one another in the adjoining room, Norman was exploring the nooks of the ancient inn and found himself walking past the hotel restaurant. There, at the bar, surrounded by a throng of beautiful, laughing ladies, was The Bomb.

  The Bomb was a giant of a man – six-foot-six and well over two-hundred pounds. He had a dome of auburn hair, with a few playful curls at the back, and a perfect mustache like an arching bridge spanning his mouth.

  While typically a very introverted child, Norman couldn’t pass up the opportunity to meet “The Bomb” and tell the man how much he meant to him. Norman’s gut clenched and his heart raced, as he adjusted his Philly’s cap and approached the bar. All he could hear was his breathing and all he could feel was his heart slamming in his chest.

  Norman joined the group but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Instead, he awkwardly stood with them, like he’d been there all along. The women took notice and their laughter died down into annoyed silence. “The Bomb”, who had been guzzling his beer, set his glass down.

  “Yeah, kid?”

  “M-m-m-m-mister ‘The Bomb’ … I mean, Hunter …” Norman’s kneecaps were quaking. “I just w-wanted to t-t-tell you -”

  “Kid, c’mere,” “The Bomb” said. Ecstatic, Norman managed to walk forward. “The Bomb” turned the boy around and put his massive mitts on Norman’s shoulders. “Imma teach you something. You see all these beautiful women, here?” He huffed into Norman’s ear.

  The women smiled. Norman blushed and nodded.

  “Any man in their right mind would know how lucky they are to have any one of these ladies. Right?”

  Norman nodded again, confused.

  “That man would do everything in his power to keep her. Treat her right, buy her presents, take her on vacations. Anything not to lose her. You’d do that, right?”

  Norman nodded.

  “Now, lemme show you a magic trick.” “The Bomb” theatrically shook his arms out and picked up a full shot of whiskey. He pinched the shot glass and lowered it in front of Norman’s face. “You see this shot? Now, watch this.”

  “The Bomb” chucked the booze into the face of the woman in front of him.

  “Ta-daaaa,” he sang. “She’s still here.”

  He was right – the woman didn’t slap him, swear, or storm off.

  All Norman wanted to do was reach for a cocktail napkin to dry her off, but he didn’t. He froze.

  “The Bomb” asked, rhetorically, “And you know what I’m gonna do to her, after you leave?” He leaned into Norman’s ear and whispered the most vulgar language the young boy had ever heard, and a few words that ushered Norman into manhood.

  The Bomb exploded into gruff laughter and the women around him laughed, too. Even the poor soul who was soaked in Wild Turkey forced a smile. Norman broke free of his former idol’s grasp and left the room.

  “Hey, kid! Come back,” “The Bomb” shouted. “Don’t you want my autograph?!”

  Norman learned then that you should never meet your heroes, even the ones you create. Therefore, he wasn’t particularly surprised (although he was a little chagrined), to find that Kroü The Valiant had become Kroü The Glutton.

  ****

  Kroü sprawled across his sturdy, high-backed ironwood chair, with his legs slung over the armrest. His special guests hesitantly took their seats at his side, while plates of meat were bussed in from the kitchen.

  Norman couldn’t stop looking at the joke Kroü had become – this was Lingeria’s mightiest hero. Kroü was meant to be an emblem of good; a fearless fighter who stood up for all that was noble and just. He was Kroü, son of Gerthan the Stern, heir to the line of Maidair defender of The Fjord Of Ehor, son of Klaftan, son of Thesion, son of Crispin; known in the north as Kroüganthan, and in the south as Prothitine: Smiter of the Anacoths, Deliverer of The Kingdom Coin, Diviner of Theandar, The Charming Wanderer, The Brilliant Slasher, He The Massive, The Wind Barker, The Everlasting Potent; he who vexed the Galloping Ghoul of Gaoul; sailor of the spikey waters; vanquisher of the Fearsome Ferrets of Faundale; talker of tongues; imbiber of The Five Poisons; The Singer of Cimper; The Widow Saver; cousin to Francis; Leader of the Dawn; Silverfish slayer; he who climbed Mount Pank, swam Lake Girth, ate the Monstrous Mushroom of Mimby, dove to the bottom of Ra’adale Reef to procure the Pearl of Yan’ush, and lifted the Cask Of Tombliton;

  “…of the lineage of Daael, idol of wind and thunder, whose forefathers included Feasion, Faerinon, and Fantidlion; god to the snake-women who call him Braaasen; breaker of the Elegant Codex; expositor of omens, exorciser of spirits, exterminator of Dragons, exonerator of the innocent, extrapolator of arithmetic, exhaler of Ershantz; Winiweigh; Rider Of Centaurs; Puncher of the Sphinx; He Who Should Be So Lucky; baker of hearty breads; Betrayer Of The Black Eyed Bug Of Byacron; he that muzzled the Dog-Headed-Scrivener, plucked a feather from a Phoenix, kicked an imp, and saddled a sea-goat; bitten by cannibals, Scyllas, Vampires, Vampire Bats, children, spiders, and a bigger-than-average vole; sings sweeter than sirens and dances better than pixies; grower of beards, plucker of eyes, and harvester of maidens; beheadeder of Arnk,
the plural-headed-pig of Triston; brightener of days, bringer of dreams, and binger of ales; winner of wars and keeper of peace, he whose symbol is the mighty Barshte Of Maidair, may its tail ever grow!” And with that Kroü downed a glass of wine in a single swallow.

  Kroü had basically sung his entire curriculum vitae to the room over the course of five minutes, most of which Norman never wrote and had a hard time believing. It was obvious by his goons’ glossed over stares that they had heard this rant on a nightly basis but had to endure it before they could eat.

  “That is quite the résumé you got there, Kroü,” Norman responded, when the famed warrior finally finished. Kroü’s dinner guests blinked their bleary eyes – it was obvious to Norman that they’d heard Kroü’s boasts before, on more than one occasion.

  “Yes, well, I have lived a full life. There is, however, one title I have yet to claim.” Kroü glanced past Norman. “That being ‘Husband of the mercenary, Tahra’.”

  “You would lose your tongue before you spoke the proposal,” Tahra said.

  Kroü let out an embarrassed laugh. “That’s our little thing we do.

  “Yeah, she seems to have that thing with a lot of guys.”

  Kroü refused to let up. “Come, Tahra, let me make a proper lady out of you,”

  “I’ll make you one, first,” Tahra said, stabbing a knife into a slice of beef and bringing it to her mouth.

  The meal continued and Kroü ate like a pig, drank like a fish, and belched like a manatee. While Norman consumed well past his fill, he only drank water. Curiously, he found he had no taste for the beer or wine this night. Roe didn’t seem to ever stop eating. Janey found a massive turkey leg and a spot near the fire pit. At one point, an inbred Alaunt attempted to snatch the bone from her, in a show of dominance. Janey, who had barely uttered one bark of defiance since Norman had known her, curled her black lips at the medieval mutt and snapped, fiercely. The Alaunt quickly scuttled away, to pick on some Spaniels.

  “I just want to thank you,” Kroü said leaning too close to Norman’s ear. “Or ensure benedictions be given unto you. For … creating me, I guess.” The man barely spoke a word without food flying out of his grease-smeared mouth.

  “I didn’t create you,” Norman said. “Especially, current you.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Kroü asked, leaning forward to dig around in a pile of glistening meat.

  “I mean …” Norman was trying to be delicate. “I mean that you are Kroü! You rattle off all these achievements – battles you’ve won, monsters vanquished –”

  “Hear, hear!” Kroü toasted himself.

  “But now, it looks like you are only battling heart disease.”

  Kroü’s eyes grew uneasy. “Well, you know, once you’ve beaten all the enemies, bad guys are few and far between. People who fear don’t fight.”

  “There is a cloud, literally sucking the life out of the land,” Norman said. “And we are pretty sure this Wrence The Wizard is connected with it.”

  “Watch your tongue, sir,” Kroü chided. “Wrence is a good friend and better man!”

  “He seems like a tyrant to me.” Norman found himself becoming less and less intimidated by this slob.

  Sitting back in his chair, Kroü wiped the grease from his mouth with his bare palm. “Do you know, for all of the hundreds – no, thousands – of lives I’ve saves, how many ‘thank yous’ I’ve received?” Without letting Norman answer, Kroü formed his fingers into a zero, and peered through it at Norman. “All I have is this dumpy little castle, while Wrence, who doesn’t do nothing for nobody, is up there in his glittering palace. I tell you, that guy is doing something right.”

  “That isn’t how I created you. I modeled you after some of the most benevolent men from my world. You don’t do it for the rewards!” Norman shouted.

  “I don’t? Ha!” Kroü launched into a fit of laughter that rolled into a coughing fit. “For an omnipotent God you are way off! I would barely get out of bed if it wasn’t to make a profit. And between you and I, that fat wizard pays me handsomely to slumber all day and drink all night.”

  “Entertainment!” Kroü shouted, “This room needs lively performance. How about a story from our honored guest, The Author?!”

  Kroü clapped in Norman’s direction and the room cheered, eager for a tale.

  “No, I can’t, really,” Norman said. “I’ve been walking all day. I got the meat sweats coming on.”

  “If you are supposedly The Author, you should have no trouble spinning a fantastical fiction to tickle our ears,” Kroü chided.

  “I am really tired …”

  “I insist,” Kroü slammed his hand on the table. Norman looked up and saw that the exits of the room were being casually guarded. “This shall be a command performance,” Kroü said, with a sneer. “And I command it.”

  Norman stood and the room applauded. He humbly put his hand up to quiet them and smiled.

  The room silenced, quickly. Norman’s body was instantly bathed in sweat as, again, he was forced to improvise before a crowd – a crowd much rowdier and more dangerous than a room full of Whittles.

  Norman could knock over a bottle of ink and a short story as pretty as a stained-glass window would pour out but put him in front of a crowd and he became a mumbling, monosyllabic mess. His ideas were filtered through a distortion pedal of anxiety and self-doubt, producing a concert of “ums”, “ahs”, “likes”, and “you knows”.

  His mind whirled and, finally, fell on a topic. “This is, um, a true tale about a fantastic battle, between pirates and giants.”

  “Oh, I like it already,” Kroü announced.

  “The two armies were fighting over possession of a giant diamond. A diamond so large, the war was conducted on top of the diamond, itself. It was the greatest jewel ever known. It was called ‘The Fenway Diamond’, and it was so big that forty-thousand spectators could sit on it, as they watched the armies fight at the command of an evil umpire … I mean, emperor. The giants had monsters on their side like Bucketfoot, Big Hurt, The Mexicutioner, The Flyin’ Hawaiian, Hoot, Lefty, Pop, and The Great Bambino. But the pirates had their own glorious warriors, like The Man of Steel, Rapid Robert, Muscat, Tomato Face, Mr. Murder, Big Six, and The Iron Man.”

  The room barely followed him. As he tried to make baseball sound more fantastical, Norman noticed how heavily guarded this dinner party was – every exit was blocked by guards from the inside, as if to prevent someone from getting out, rather than stop someone breaking in. He was beginning to suspect that they were not actually dinner guests, but rather ignorant prisoners.

  “Each side had a brave fighter, armed with an enchanted orb, which he would hurl at his enemies. The orb would curve, slide, and change course, at the thrower’s impulse. Other players – I mean, fighters – came to battle with only a solid wooden staff that they would use to …” Norman mimicked a batter’s stance and swung his invisible bat, “… whack the orb off the diamond and into space. But if they were hit, or even touched, by the orb, they were out … They were snuffed out of existence and sent into to a hellish purgatory. The clash for the diamond lasted for nine full days and nights.”

  Kroü was getting really into the story. He slapped the table. “Yes! And then tell them about how I came in?”

  Norman looked at Kroü. “What?”

  “Tell my men about how I came in!” Kroü leered at Norman. “Go on, tell them.”

  Norman cleared his throat, finally understanding what Kroü was asking. “Yeah, right, so …” Norman searched his mind. “In the middle of the seventh day, when it seemed the unruly giants had all but beaten the men, the captain of the pirate army made a desperate call to the bullpen. And there, grappling a bull to the ground by the horns, was Kroü.”

  The room exploded into cheers. Kroü stood up and let the love wash over him.

  “And, so -” Norman started again but was cut off.

  The host took over. “And so, Kroü knocked all of the orbs into spac
e, bested the giants, vanquished the evil emperor, and hid the diamond under Mount Piras.”

  “Yep,” Norman said, exasperated. “That’s how it went, all right. Good story. Time to go, guys.”

  “What?!” Kroü complained. “But we have jugglers coming up next. Jugglers!”

  “Sorry,” Norman said, scooting between the table and wall, “Got a lot of walking to do. Come on, Roe.” Norman yanked at Roe’s shirt collar and the little man shoved as much meat into his mouth as it would allow. Tahra was perfectly happy to leave.

  “Guards!” Kroü shouted, like a petulant child. “They are trying to leave!”

  Norman figured that Tahra must have been itching for a fight. She was on top of the two door guards, before they had time to draw their swords.

  The fearsome warrior slammed one guard into the stone archway. The other, she kicked with such force that the heavy wood door swung open when he crashed against it.

  “Janey!” Norman yelled, almost forgetting.

  Calamity Jane gripped the bone in her jaw and trotted after her fleeing master.

  ****

  Tahra led the little band down a narrow parapet, their footsteps echoing around the chamber. She stopped and pointed to her right. “This way.”

  “You been here before?” Norman asked, teasingly.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Tahra said.

  They ran out into an open bailey and a few arrows embedded themselves in the ground by Norman’s feet. “Which way, Tahra!?”

  “There,” she said, pointing across the courtyard, and took off in a sprint.

  Her companions followed, quickly, as archers hidden behind keeps and on ramparts fired their arrows down upon them.

  They entered another covered hallway. Now, Tahra seemed lost. She looked left and then right, and then left again.

  To the left, the shadow of an advancing mass grew on the stone wall. Tahra chose right. Behind them, Kroü led the charge, with a rabble of drunken legionnaires following.

  “There!” Tahra pointed to the castle’s exit.

  The team picked up the pace and fled over the cobblestone bridge.