Tag: medieval

The Butter River

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In the morning, we walk to the river of melted butter that runs through our village.
Others are already there, waiting for the Buttermaster to proclaim the river clean.
He inspects the flow, confirms that our upstream neighbors are still neighborly, and measures some samples in his testing apparatus.
A light shines green.
“Safe!” he shouts.
We cheer.
Lined up on the shore, we dip our toast and biscuits into the river and savor each bite.
“The river is good,” I say.
My family grunts their agreement.
Nobody double-dips here – that is impolite, unsanitary, and a crime punishable by flogging.

The Mad King

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King Rasmussen The Mad
For centuries, that name has haunted us.
If you listen carefully, you can still hear his living corpse shout and scream bloody murder from within his ruined castle.
Trapped inside a warlock’s time-bubble, his dying moment has been preserved for all eternity.
Sure, by law, he is still king. And we must obey his orders.
So that’s why we have hired deaf laborers to seal him up forever. They are filling in the cracks of the castle, and then they will pile dirt on the stone
Maybe we’ll plant some apple trees when it’s all over.

Blacksmith

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Son, I know you want to be a blacksmith, but come over here and take a look at these swords in the display case.
Each and every one of them has a history:
Forged in hellfire.
Slew twenty dragons.
Once owned by a king.
Enchanted by the Grand Mage of the Mountain
The truth is, they’re just ordinary swords.
But the human mind is a strange thing. Give a man a sword, and it’s just a sword. But give him a sword with a history and he fights better.
And he’ll pay for that, too.
Forget blacksmithing. Go into sales.

The Scurvy Dog

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“Stowaway! Stowaway!”
“Grab the landlubber!” shouted the Captain. “Make him walk the plank!”
The crew grabbed the man and the First Mate slid the plank out, but it fell overboard and floated away.
“Well, shiver me timbers,” said the Captain, “What will we make him walk now?”
“We could make him walk the dog,” said the First Mate.
“Yarr,” said the Captain, releasing the stowaway and handing him a plastic bag. “Be sure to pick up all the dog crap.”
“Why?” asked the stowaway.
“We don’t want this to turn into a poop deck, you see,” said the First Mate.

The Iron Baby

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The Iron Baby was a real baby that legend says turned to iron when his witch-mother burned at the stake.
A curse is upon us: ignore or abandon this shrieking monster, and the town will be destroyed.
Each family takes care of the monster for one night, passing it along Harvest Road to the next family when dawn breaks.
Turkel the Blacksmith’s family was next. He’d had enough, so he hammered a horseshoe into a pacifier.
The shrieking… stopped.
As the people prepared a feast to celebrate, the woods caught fire.
Strange winds pushed the flames towards the town square.

Roast Duck

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During the winter, the King’s servants and advisors moved into the central rooms to converse fuel.
The oddest couple was the pairing of the court wizard and the head chef.
One night, the alarm was raised: ice demons at the gate!
The wizard grabbed a spell book and raced to the fight.
Without looking, he flipped to the page with Firestorm.
He read off a recipe for Roasted Rosemary Duck instead.
“It’s a cookbook?” he muttered.
The chef handed him another book. “I think this is yours,” he said.
They won the fight, and feasted on Roast Duck to celebrate.

By The Axe

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Lying under a massive oak, his crushed chest filled with one last gasp of air, Earl remembered what his father told him many years ago.
“Live by the sword, die by the sword,” he said.
“But I don’t use a sword,” said Earl. “I use an axe.”
Earl’s father frowned. “I don’t know how you’ll die,” he said. “Maybe you should switch to a sword?”
“Swords aren’t very good at chopping down trees,” said Earl.
“Then I guess you’ll die by the tree,” said Earl’s father. “Live by the axe, die by the tree.”
“Timber,” whispered Earl, and he died.

Dwarf

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It was when the third henchman died in a cave collapse I really got suspicious.
Our Dwarf is no Dwarf, but a very short human.
Perhaps I should have known before then, like when we’d ask him to parlay with creatures Dwarves are well-known for conversing with.
Instead of talking to them, he’d draw his axe and charge them.
He was also lousy at identifying gemstones.
“Ooh, pretty!” he’d say, stuffing them in his pockets.
“What is it?” would ask the paladin.
“Well, it’s mine now,” he’d say, grinning.
Now I realize the greed was just a cover for ignorance.

Two Knights

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Two knights lay in a pile of wrecked armor, shattered lances, and bent swords.
“Yield?” wheezed Sir Humphreys.
“Never,” coughed Sir Boltac.
Boltac looked around for a weapon to use, but they were all damaged.
“We could use fists,” suggested Humphreys.
“Fists are for knaves,” said Boltac. “We are men of honor.”
Humprheys agreed, and winced as he tried to get up.
“We must settle this somehow,” moaned Humphreys.
“Thumbwrestling honorable enough?” asked Boltac.
“Sure,” said Humphreys. “En garde!”
Dusk came, and two knights lay in a pile of wrecked armor, shattered lances, and bent swords, nursing their broken thumbs.

Salacis

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Prince Salacis was wise, beloved to the people, but loathed by his own advisers.
Fearful of his unchecked power, they stabbed him in the throat with a dagger.
But Salacis survived. Much to the advisors’ regret, I must say. They were all hung and left to rot.
The royal surgeons could not remove the dagger from his neck, so they wrapped it with gold foil and encrusted it with jewels.
For forty more years, Salacis presided over the land, commanding all with a raspy voice. Brilliantly, too.
When he needed advice, he consulted the rotted-away corpses, swaying in the breeze.