Barf the Barbarian in the Tower of the Anas Platyrhynchos: The Adventures of Barf the Barbarian, #1

By Michael White

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. He was a thief, a reaver, a slayer. He was a man with great melancholy 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...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike White
• Release date: Mar 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215539248

Michael White

Ex-drummer, Ex-software author and Ex-flares wearer Michael White was born and lives in the northwest of England. In a previous life he was the author of many text adventure games that were popular in the early 1980's. Realising that the creation of these games was in itself a form of writing he has since made the move into self-publishing, resulting in many short stories and novellas. Covering an eclectic range of subjects the stories fall increasingly into that "difficult to categorise" genre, causing on-going headaches for the marketing department of his one man publishing company, Eighth Day Publishing.Having accidentally sacked his marketing director (himself) three times in the last two years, he has now retired to a nice comfortable room where, if he behaves himself, they leave him to write in peace.In his spare time (!) Michael likes to listen to all kinds of music and is a big fan of Steven Moffat, whether he likes it or not.Michael is currently working on several new projects and can be contacted at the links [e-mail], or via my own website on http://mikewhiteauthor.wordpress.com, or via twitter on @mikewhiteauthor.

Book preview

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. ****

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*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

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THE FIRST BIT

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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 did not match the rest of the city, which 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 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 and 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 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, appearing, 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 and sailors 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. 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