Barf the Barbarian in The Tower of the Anas Platyrhynchos (The Chronicles of Barf the Barbarian Book 1)

by Michael White

  THE TOWER OF THE

  ANAS PLATYRHYNCHOS

  Michael White

  (Copyright © 2016)

  Copyright © 2016 by Michael White / EDP. All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author/publisher or the terms relayed to you herein.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or being found in possession of a talking sword is entirely coincidental.

  The author can be contacted via the links below.

  Website: www.mikewhiteauthor.co.uk

  Email: mike@mikewhiteauthor.co.uk

  Twitter: @mikewhiteauthor

  Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B006Y7JHCK

  By The Same Author

  Paul McCartney’s Coat and Other Stories

  Liverpool

  Anyone

  A Challenging Game of Crumble

  Into the Light

  Book One: Lost in Translation

  Into the Light

  Book Two: The Road of the Sun

  Back to The Light

  Book One: The Shadow Lords of Old

  A Bad Case of Sigbins

  Bee’s Knees

  The Adventures of Victoria Neaves and Romney:

  Book One: Victoriana

  Book Two: The Strange Case of the Denwick Beauchamp Fairies

  Book Three: The Vanished Man

  Book Four: The Clockwork Thief of Crickenden Broadwick

  Book Five: Romney’s Day Off (June 2016)

  Book Six: The Abbot Bowthorpe Dependables (July 2016)

  The Complete Adventures of Victoria Neaves & Romney

  Scrapbook

  The Waiting Room

  Overboard!

  Tales of the Supernatural

  Six for Hallowe’en

  Mysterious Tales

  Six of the Best

  The Fae Wynrie

  An Unremarkable Man

  Here Be Dragons!

  Over the Hills and Far Away

  Vallum Aelium

  COMING SOON:

  Montague, Hetty & Boo In

  The Mystery of the

  Hither Charcote Phantom

  Genesis Space Book One:

  Ascent to Heaven: The Church of Man

  HYPERBOLEA

  Know, O prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Hairyass, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars - Hyperbolea and Bongia with its dark-haired women and towers of spider-haunted mystery, Stingia with its shadow-guarded tombs, Funkia whose riders wore mantles of silk and gold.* But the proudest Kingdom of the world was Aquaviti, reigning supreme in the dreaming west.

  Hither staggered Barf the Barbarian, black-haired, sullen-eyed, intellectually challenged and ale-addled. He bore before him his magical sword, Humdinger, ** and was often accompanied by the female warrior known only as the Red Sonja***. She followed him partly as he was a thief, a reaver, a slayer, yet she mostly accompanied him more out of curiosity than anything, for he was a man with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, and of him the prophecies all said that one day, o prince, he would tread the jewelled thrones of the Earth under his sandaled feet. ****

  *The Funkian raiders were extremely fashion conscious, but also equally lazy. Basically any old bit of tat would do as long as it shone when the sun hit it.

  ** Trademark of Hyperbolean blades New Disneyia Inc.™ applies worldwide.

  *** Real name Sandra. It just didn’t go with the sword.

  **** The prophecies don’t actually say UNDER as such. In fact, it is reported in “The history of feats and Majics of Hyperbolea” More as a health and safety incident. Yet the Aquavitins were nothing if not ones for embellishing a tale...

  THE TOWER OF THE

  ANAS PLATYRHYNCHOS

  THE FIRST BIT

  Torches flared murkily on the revels in the Shambles where the thieves of the city held carnival by night. It was a place where the revellers could pursue their passions to their fullest, for here there were no limits to the lengths to which the criminals of the city would not descend. Well spent coin given to the city guard and the tavern owners alike ensured that. The shambles had its own code, but it did not match with that of the rest of the city, and that suited both parties perfectly. It was often said that it was always the case that a visitor would wipe their feet only when leaving The Shambles, not when entering it.

  The streets were filled with drunkards roaring at each other as they crawled, addle-brained through the narrow streets, the houses hanging overhead as if peering down into the crowds below them to select their latest victim. Here thieves eyed the passing drunkards and revellers greedily, the pickpockets and cutpurses waiting for crowds to gather and mingle with to ply their grasping trade. Occasional flashes of steel glinted in the inadequate torchlight, squeals of women and the screams of men from the darkened alleys and inns that passed as places to get rest, eat, sleep and more.

  Following the main thoroughfare along with the carousing crowds of drunkards and thieves, here were the drinking houses and the dens of thieves; the flesh pits. Their open doors and flung open windows were illuminated from within by smoke-addled torches, the sight of dark eyes within these rooms that glowed from inside as if pleasure and abandonment lurked waiting therein. These bawdy houses, when entered, showed the clientele to be as varied yet as villainous as those outside. The clamour of stale ale and liquor, the sweat from the crush of bodies inside almost dripping from the walls. Here the strident-voiced scantily clad women also plied their trade, their shrill voices reaching out into the darkness of the streets and houses as they were argued with, tussled over like possessions or prizes to be fought for and won.

  Here it could be seen that there were many races of men and women, the dark skinned Zingonian rogues seeming to proliferate in every corner, the native men from Clump with their equally dark skin and short stature, seeming as a race to almost always stomp their way from one place to another, giving rise to the expression, “As loud as a Clumpian boot maker". Also there were the white faced devils from Assmania, of which the least said the better, and the large eared travellers from far Disneyia, sailors too from the Cape of the Mouse and the Popcorn Isles.

  In one such den the noise of the gathered revellers seemed twice as loud as that of any other, for this place was at the centre of the Shambles, and it was known as, “The Rook”, renowned over the whole lands of Hyperbolea as a den of thieves, murderers, whores, and braggarts. It was a typical night, and the Rook was doing its very best to live up to its name.

  In the centre of the room sat a wine-sodden merchant from the Barren Lands, a jewelled dagger resting carelessly at his hip, a raised goblet of wine in one hand, holding court as the crowds gathered around him keen to hear the drunken tales of his escapades and his no doubt exaggerated or fabricated brushes with death and fierce Majics.

  “I will have her over the Zingonian border by daybreak, and a merchant awaits her arrival with coin in hand at a caravan there. The merchants of Stingia are careful with their coin they say, but this one seems to have his desires set on a Zingonian wench for his own purposes and devices.” />
  “And you have found such a comely wench?” asked a roguish looking man from the red lands of Ketchupia, his thick beard bristling with the thought of it as he slopped wine upon himself, swaying and slurring as he listened.

  “I have at that.” said the merchant, “And a pretty baggage she is too if I say so myself.” He blew a loud wet kiss into the air and the crowd about him chuckled as he did so. “Indeed, I believe that some of the lords in Stingia would trade the secret of the tower of Anas Platyrhynchos itself for an hour in the company of her no doubt considerable charms.”

  A touch on the tunic of his sleeve made him turn his head, scowling darkly at the interruption as he did so. He noticed for the first time a tall, well-built man standing beside him. His skin was brown from exposure to the sun, his eyes blue and earnest in expression. His pauper’s tunic could not, however, conceal his broad shoulders and well-muscled and heavy arms. A shock of wild black hair crowned his broad forehead, his hair touching his shoulders and beyond. From his belt hung a long broad sword in a worn yet smooth leather scabbard.

  The merchant drew back a little. The man did not seem to be of any civilised race that he knew.

  “You spoke of the tower of Anas Platyrhynchos.” said the stranger, speaking Zingonian in a strange yet understandable accent. “I have heard many tales of this tower.” he continued, “What is it’s secret and what is an Anas Platyrhynchos?”

  The merchant smiled. The newcomer did not seem to be threatening in any way, and the crowd did seem to be lapping up his story so far. The ale was helping loosen his tongue and perhaps his wits too.

  “Well, now.” he said self-importantly, swigging at his wine again, dark purple droplets of it sliding down his jowls and onto his voluminous robes. “Any fool knows that therein this tower resides the priest Yobo, and within his possession is the great jewel known only as the Anas Platyrhynchos’s Heart. It is said that the jewel is of inestimable value and is the secret of this Yobo’s power.”

  The stranger seemed to consider this for a while, chewing his bottom lip as if he were lost in thought. The crowd watched him for a while, careful not to catch his eye in case he returned the look, for he had an air of ferocity and hunger about him. It was only when the merchant glanced closer at him and sniffed at the ale-drenched tavern air did he realise that the huge man seemed to be lost in thought, and was, more importantly, apparently chewing a mint.

  “This is a tower I have seen in the upper city.” he said, swallowing the mint loudly. “A great garden surrounds it which is in itself enclosed within high stone walls. No guards have I seen and the walls do not seem difficult to climb. Why has this great gem not been stolen?”

  The Zingonian merchant sat as if in a trance for a second or two, wide mouthed at the stranger’s simple-mindedness. This could not last forever, though, and he suddenly burst into guffaws of mirth, his face reddening and the laughter swelling as his eager audience joined in with his merriment.

  “Harken to this fool!” he said eventually, wiping tears from his eyes in an exaggerated manner. “He would steal the Anas Platyrhynchos’s heart!” He paused, downing more wine swiftly and gasping to catch his breath as he spoke again. “And who is it to whom I am talking then?” he asked, “The prince of thieves himself no doubt.”

  The tall man said nothing at once, but then leaned in closer to the merchant, a gleam in his eyes that the fat man began to realise was beginning to look vaguely dangerous.

  “I am Barf the Barbarian of Crimeria.” he said, and the crowd hushed apart from a number of “oo's’” and “aa’s”.

  “Light-fingered bastards, Crimerians.” someone whispered from the back of the room, “Have the teeth out of your head so they would, given half the chance. The bloody name tells you all you need to know.”

  Barf’s cheek twitched and he drew his sword from its hilt, the long thick blade shining in the half-light as he held it up for all to see.

  “I heard that.” said the sword and there was the sound of a stool being pushed over rapidly followed by the definite sound of feet very quickly making for the door.

  “This is my sword, “Humdinger”,” said Barf, holding it at an angle to his chest for all to see. “As you can see it has a certain Majic about it.”

  “Pleased to meet you all.” said the sword, “Which one are we going to kill first then, Barf?” it said and the entire crowd took a step backwards. The merchant, who was seated, had no such means of escape.

  “Nice sword.” he said and Barf nodded.

  “So, tell me, merchant.” said the barbarian, ignoring Humdinger’s request for blood, “Why has the gem not already been stolen? Is this city a city of fools or cowards?”

  The crowd in the inn visibly bristled at this. There was a definite collective thinking occurring in the room. True enough the barbarian from Crimeria was built like a Phallian outhouse and did seem to be wielding a talking sword, but there were only so many insults a home crowd could take, and this man seemed to be pushing his luck very hard indeed.

  “Learn wisdom, Crimerian.” he spat, wine slopping onto the rough wooden table as he slammed his goblet down upon it. “Know this. In Zingo, there are more bold thieves than any other city anywhere else in the world. If a mortal man could lay his hands on this gem, then long ago would it had been gone. The walls are not so high, yes, and there are no guards except within the gardens of a night. No human guards, that is. Believe you me, barbarian, the gardens are guarded and guarded well. Yet ever were you to elude the guardians therein then still you would find a garrison of soldiers in the first level of the tower. You would not be able to gain access to the jewel, for it is held by the priest in the tower high above.”

  Barf paused and popped another mint into his mouth.

  “For the life of me I can see no reason at all why you would withdraw me from my scabbard if you are not going to use me.” said the sword and Barf grunted, sheathing the sword rapidly, his hand gripping at the pommel of the blade as if eager to withdraw it again soon. There came the sound of muffled curses from within the scabbard, and then, following what may just have been a loud theatrical sigh, silence.

  “Yet if a man could somehow make his way through the gardens then why not come at the gem from the upper tower and thus avoid the soldiers below?” said Barf. The merchant grinned widely.

  “Listen to him now!” he said, playing to the crowd gathered about them which appeared to be growing, “The barbarian would turn himself into an eagle to soar to the top of the tower and the balcony there, despite it being some one hundred and fifty feet above the ground and the walls of the tower as smooth as glass!”

  Barf stood looking at the crowd around them both, his ears listening carefully to the derisory jeers that were all pointed in his direction. As if he was treating their conversation as some form of theatre the merchant filled his goblet and waved it around in the air in celebration almost, the dull metal of the container catching the light of the solitary wax candle that flickered and glowered at them all from its holder placed carelessly on the table. He was not used to such a gathering and was unsure of what he was to do next. Subsequently, he reached into a small pouch in his belt and removing a mint from there, popped it in his mouth and began to chew.

  “Come now!” shouted the merchant, rousing the crowd around them, “Tell these poor fellows, who were no doubt mastering the art of thievery long before you were born, tell us all my barbarian friend just how you would steal this gem?”

  “There is always a way.” smiled Barf with conviction, “If the desire be coupled with courage.” He paused for a second. “A magic talking sword helps too I suppose.”

  “Mumph!” said Humdinger from within the scabbard. The merchant, however, seemed to take this a personal slur, standing up and pushing Barf heavily in the chest. The crowd around them both grew ugly, jeers filling their ears and the noise increasing in volume.

  “You dare to tell us our business, Crimerian?” asked the merchant, “Get gone, I say!
Begone from my sight!”

  Barf swallowed the mint he had been chewing and moved close to the merchant who stood before him, his fat face crimson with rage. Barf, however, seemed perfectly composed.

  “So, you mock me and then lay hands on me?” he said and Barf pushed him back, sending his goblet to the floor, wine showering through the air as it fell.

  “Heathen dog!” shouted the merchant, “I will have your heart for that!” He reached into his robe and Barf tutted loudly and reaching forwards, pinched the wick of the candle on the table between his fingers. The room was instantly plunged into darkness.

  The room filled with the sound of upset benches, the drum of flying feet, oaths and shouts from both inside and out, some fading, some growing louder, but one yell cut through the din, being a scream of pain that was suddenly silenced.

  When a fresh candle was lit the room proved to be barely full at all, most of the occupants of the room having left by either the door or the wide-flung open and broken windows. There were one or two remaining guests hiding under tables and smashed chairs, obviously unable to find their way from the room to the street beyond.

  The centre of the room, however, was deserted except for the slashed body of the merchant, who lay beside the table, his eyes open yet unstaring at the ceiling of the room, his body already growing cold.

  Of the barbarian, there was no sign.

  THE MIDDLE BIT

  Barf left the sights and sounds of the Shambles, the drunken revelry and the violence behind him. It was growing late and he felt a headache coming on. He passed several people on his way and they parted the crowds to avoid him, not just because of his size, but because of the expression on his face too, which was a look of extreme vacancy coupled with a sincere and overwhelming need for sudden and very bloody violence.