Folly of the Lord-Errant
a humorous fantasy story by Roman Durkan
The story within should be taken with many grains of salt, and perhaps some fiber as well. The language is a middle-English hybrid with British spellings, replete with every extra “u” one could hope for, but forgive me if it does not use British quotes—that’s just going too far.
Should you choose to continue, know that the words are prone to some vulgarity, not to mention the entire premise of the story. If you can look past all that, you will be treated with some fine British humor (humour?) storytelling of the ilk of Douglas Adams or Terry Pratchett.
With your hopes now thoroughly drawn in both directions, I will allow you to continue to the story, after the obligatory photo. Godspeed.
p.s. If you find this or any other of Underside’s emails truncated in your folder (probably by gmail,) first, I’m sorry, sometimes we go long. Second, click through to Substack site or app and you will find no such difficulties. Thank you, and remember to add Underside to your contacts to avoid the dreaded spam troll!
Folly of the Lord-Errant
by Roman Durkan
Through humbly-framed windows, sunlight crept its way into what most would usually consider a spacious and homely tavern room. Indeed, for a pair of bleary eyes now opening, the first thing visible would be the finely-woven drapes and well-polished rafters above. Such fine handiwork could only be the result of diligent and humble folk making this inn so hospitable.
A turn to the side, and the next sight becoming apparent was the piles upon piles of emptied kegs, shattered plates and trays, and various unidentifiable stains on every other surface already accumulating their own ecosystems.
“Baaaaaakh! Time to get up! Look on your works wrought upon that mattress, ye mighty, and despair!”
Lord-Errant Brystvorter, noblest of all the warrior brethren of Kronn, was becoming acutely aware of his posture. It was one that had him slumped off the side of his bed with his half-exposed backside greeting the sunlight as it beamed inward. Above, his companion raven Blumin perched himself on a beam, looking on with all the pleasant disposition a creature like himself carried—which is to say, very little.
“What…time is it?” He groaned, trying to figure out just how his arms had gotten into rather awkward contortions.
“Time for you to get a sundial. I tried to wake you, but you just wouldn’t budge! You look like a pork chop that’s given up on existence!”
“Wonderful…” Brystvorter murmured as he clambered out of bed, trying to summon any sort of strength to his knees. The last evening was a fog—he remembered he had come here after a rather important mission to an old temple somewhere, and had decided to indulge himself… or so he could assume. What half-formed memories were emerging largely involved various sizes of kegs, and a big plate of oh-so-succulent bison surrounded by a dozen juicy varieties of cabbage, laden with euphorically aromatic whisky sauce…
The next thing that struck him was the sensation in his bowels—as if someone had planted therein a great boulder chained to weights of lead. Immediately, his knees discarded any strength he had willed for them, and he keeled back onto the floorboards, groaning.
“I… think… I went a bit too far last night….”
“Yes. Yes, you certainly did. Now hurry up and get yourself sorted!”
“In… a minute….”
The Lord-Errant could see his sanctified silver armour lying in a corner, blade and shield beside it—clearly, he guessed, he had been out for something important.
But as to what… well, that remained in the fog with everything besides the bison and whisky. Any further effort to pry vanished as the leaden sensation in his lower body became not only akin to a mere boulder, but a veritable vortex cast from etheric singularities in its downward pull. The open commode door on the other side of the room began to beckon with upmost urgency, even if he would have to crawl inch by inch. No, his purpose would have to wait—after all, if it was something truly urgent, he would remember….
#
Across the vast crimson dust plains of Aggergor, before the Dark Stygian Chasm of Black Opaqueness, there stood massed a force united in righteousness and unity as had never been before.
Beyond the chasm laid the loathsome keeps and strongholds of the cursed foe—the Dominator, the Potentate of Pain, Kurvon. So it had been this sovereign of sin and tastelessness who had decimated the Ursines of Consideration, he who had torched the greatest of forests merely to erect on their place poorly spelled signage as “apology,” and he who had sent forth his legions to commit further unspeakable assorted acts of property devaluation.
But defiant before his dark armies was an alliance as diverse and resolute as could be mustered, unified in their singular will to end his reign. Forming the centre of the assembled cohorts were the barbarian warriors of Tehowar, filled with the lust for glorious combat, and never lulled by the baubles nor decadence of civilised men (like soap.) Beside him were the elven Fae Mazons of Kazetta, clad in armour that shone with glyphs symbolising all their eons of history and glory. Behind them too were contingents of yet more allies—the Quarterlings of Fneghr, the Fern Folk, and even, perhaps to universal chagrin, the Stoat Men. The great dynasties of Easteron had also pledged to join, but too late had all their realm spontaneously and inexplicably sunk into excessive expanses of mud.
And at the fore, the Tehowar Chieftain himself, Maskumus, was the first to cry defiance across the chasm. Lifting his blade aloft as he turned to the army behind him, he exuberantly let loose a primal litany that sung praise to his gods as much as it gave spite to the foe.
“Grraaarygh! Behold! None said we would maketh it so far, and yet, here we stand! None said we would prevail, and yet here we art, staying alive! Larggggh! LARGGGGHHH! LAARGGGHHHHH! STAYING ALIVE! STAYING ALIVE!!!”
“So says my eloquent friend!” Aladriena, Apex Huntress of the Fae Mazons, stood alongside him, as weapons and shields shook like tremouring rocks. “Yes, for we have the means to cast outside the shrouds of dark sorcery that our despicable enemy hath cowered behind! So our greatest Lord-Errant brings for us the Lantern of Exmach-Nia, whose holy light will dispel yonder evil as water does fire! Look to the horizons for when he soon joins us, and then, we finish what we have started!”
“So it shalt be! Not long now, honoured warriors! Let thy blades cry for blood! Let thy loins stir at the mere thought of removing vile heads from the necks of every single peon of evil! None should ever bathe from when the last falls, the better to admire the blood flowing o’er every cranny of—”
“Yes, what my esteemed ally means, be strong, for soon, we shall march unto salvation!” Aladriena quickly cut in, letting the thrice-blessed glyphs along her holy blade shimmer before the ranks. “Remember what we fight for, and we cannot perish!”
As cheers sprung out over the fields, she turned back to her fellow leader, lowering her voice to a slightly concerned murmur.
“Um, when did Brystvorter say he was going to show up again…?”
“He merely spake he would be here cometh the morning.” Maskumus shrugged. “Worry not, for provided the Lord-Errant is making way as we speak, we are guaranteed to see Kurvon wailing for his father’s brethren…”
#
Reaching the edge of the toilet seat had been a challenge akin to dragging a boulder hewn of densest osmium across a desert. But, after what had felt like an eternity, Brystvorter had made it, dragging himself up. Though his body, sculpted to perfection, had withstood the arrows of marauders and the poisons of undead monotremes, it had never been taxed to such sinew-stretching degrees.
This, he was all too aware, was merely the beginning of his most urgent struggle.
“How long have you been sitting there now?” Blumin clicked from above, as Brystvorter anxiously awaited any possible movement below. “And you still don’t remember what you had to do?”
“I remember something about meeting… one of the barbarian chieftains, I think?” Brystvorter mumbled apologetically, shifting about. “I mean… it will have to wait either way, won’t it? I can’t show up clad in the sanctified armour of a Lord-Errant, and then spend even more time to take it all off in front of such mighty comrades just so I can sort myself out….”
“Kllaakh! If only I had a brush, I would gladly render you on canvas as you are now. It would be an inspiration to the people, knowing that such champions as you are still but men! Men who know not the meaning of consuming healthy fibre!”
“…remind me why I have kept you around?”
“Because none else look good in black as I, fool!” quoted the raven.
“Oh, I guess that figures, then. Well, can you at least make yourself useful and find a potion for… erhm… accelerating this process?”
“No. Do I look like an alchemist to you? And besides, look what you did to these chambers—how would I find one lying around even if I could? But… it is as I have often said, you know I could summon more energy to help you if, but once, you could give me a few of those sun-roasted peanuts grown in the Kronn temples, klk?”
“Absolutely not. They’re very fattening, and I can’t use a raven weighed down like that!”
“Tsk, tsk.” Blumin sighed. “Akh, little I can do about all this, then… best to fix what you have wrought, I say!”
“Are you sure it was me that did it?”
“No, it was the ghosts of ripped pyjamas that caused all those beer stains to appear everywhere. Knyehheheheh!”
“You must be truly revered among the avian kind, friend, for… oh. Ohhhhhhh, hold on—by all the crusaders of Kronn, I think it’s starting…!”
#
Morning had definitively come and gone above the plains of Aggregor. For the thousands still waiting, the consequences of standing around wearing plate metal and tight leather for so long were becoming very apparent. Unrelenting itchiness, boredom, and sweat washing away the layers of previously-dried sweat made even standing ready an annoying challenge. Efforts to stave off this excruciation by song seemed to work at first, but sooner or later inevitable arguments about cover versions would rear their heads, and made it all for naught.
And for Aladriena, her hopes that her senses would become numb to the detergent-denied loincloth of Maskumus were being proven inexorably futile.
“He definitely said morning?” She glanced aside to him, glowering.
“Aye… erm… be not looking at me, for I am not his personal squire.” Maskumus grunted, eyes flicking back and forth.
“No, but for something as important as this, I would have expected at least a written note somewhere.” Aladriena sighed.
“Aye, and was it not thine responsibility either? Did thou expect me to do all the labour?” Maskumus glowered.
“I expected at least appropriate diligence. Oh… wait… is it because this would involve reading, and not clobbering things with big metal sticks?”
“Now, thou should just—”
Both paused, and turned to the sound of flapping, leathery wings. From across the chasm, a gargoyle with skin akin to volcanic ash sprinkled upon badly-burned baguettes came gliding towards them, to land on the nearby soil. Anyone looking upon it would instantly see a foul emissary of the despised foe, dispatched to deliver words of deepest evil.
“Hullo there, chaps,” it thus spoke. “We couldn’t help but notice a mite of a delay in proceedings. Is there anything we can do to help matters along?”
“We’re… fine.” Aladriena spoke quickly. “Merely engaging in pre-battle exercises. One can’t ignore the importance of toning the calves before carnage, right?”
“Oh, most agreeably so,” nodded the gargoyle. “Still, I would recommend particular brands of protein-based potions to fully completely the workout. If you’re ever in the area around the Caldera of Destitution, I also know a positively delightful spa where the fruit shakes are just to die for—”
“Enough! We need not words of trickery, nor thy wicked temptations of fruit shakes!” snarled Maskumus, hand gripping his hilt. “Though, ah, we shall nevertheless be sure to tell thee when we are prepared!”
“Well, I certainly look forward to it,” said the gargoyle, spreading its wings again. “Whenever you’re ready, no need to rush. I’ll inform my employer of matters—cheerio for now!”
“There certainly was no need for language like that.” Aladriena turned sternly to Maskumus as the emissary flapped away. “Not in parley, unless of course I need a dictionary to explain what that means….”
“Thou cannot reason with such a vile foe! Fucketh parley!”
“And occasionally, compromise is necessary to attain a wider goal!” Protested the huntress.
“All I hear is useless talk, talk, talk—when all thou needs is a sword, and a neck of the enemy to slice! For mine are people of action!” Maskumus shook his hilt for debatably overdone effect.
“Yes, I guess that’s typical of your ilk, unlike those who actually try to get something constructive done.”
Maskumus opened his mouth for another less-than-pleasantly toned response, before turning toward rising clamor in the ranks. It appeared some of his own warriors were finally voicing their exhausted patience at being placed next to the Stoat-Men. One last irritated glance at Aladriena, who returned the look, preceded him wading in to investigate.
#
Many questions raced through Brystvorter’s mine. Why was all this straining for naught? Why had he not made sure the cabbage alongside the bison was cooked properly? And for that matter, had he drunk all that ale first, or later? And did that even make a sorry bit of difference?
“Come on!” Blumin cawed. “Who took the head of the Summoner of Kleen? Who ripped the chrono-talisman off the hated Fleyvaflehv? Did not you, krak-krhak? Fight it! Show it who is the lord here!”
“Rnnnghghghghhg… is it past noon already?!”
“Not important! Conquering that almighty blocker of bowels is your destiny now!”
“Hrrrgghh… you’re right… oh… ohhhh… yes, I think… ah, a thousand curses on whoever invented starch—”
It was then that the truest agony, beyond the psychic onslaughts of any eldritch sorcerer from beyond time, began.
#
The dispute betwixt the barbarians and the Stoat-Men had been just the beginning. Standing around for such an interminable time had begun to remind many among the ranks why they in fact didn’t make a usual habit of fighting alongside the accompanying groups. The Fern Folk were complaining that the Quarterlings served only to get tripped over, and the latter in turn complained that they were fed up being only able to get a good view of people’s thighs. The Fae Mazons could not take the decidedly lowbrow and crude battle-chants the Tehowar seemed to enjoy, and the Tehowar felt that they were simply being far too stifling over a bit of fun, mocking their demand for any actual focus.
All in all, it had left Maskumus in a rather foul mood when he returned to the forward line, with Aladriena still looking acutely irked at his presence, as she spoke between one of her warriors. It did not seem to have helped that his very physical efforts to bring back some cohesion had in fact made things worse, and now some of the Stoat-Men had decided to just moult on the spot and kick the resulting hairballs toward the Tehowar.
“I take it there was no luck?” the Apex Huntress uttered, betraying an ever-so-slight smile with as much sympathy as an undead hyena.
“What does thou think?” Maskumus snarled, looking back to the discipline-discarding soldiers he had just been walloping. “I see not any good ideas from thee.”
“Well, for one, you could try a different tact once in a while—you know, like I mentioned already.”
“Spareth me—why aren’t you trying it, then?” Maskumus glowered, shimmering with a mere pretence of concealing his contempt.
“Because thanks to your dull attitude, there’s no use now.” Aladriena smiled with barely-concealed condescension.
“More excuses, eh?”
“Well, I shouldn’t be too surprised. And that’s not all…”
She jabbed a thumb at the warrior of hers nearby, looking on with a haughty look.
“It was just bought to my attention that six or so cycles ago, in fact, it appears you posted a poem within the walls of Kronn’s temple—‘slatterns art naught but wrenches and deception’. How charming! Turns out you can write after all!”
“Thou went through all that trouble, just for that?!” Maskumus spluttered.
“I mean, it’s about as good as your taste in loincloth, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised!”
No more could the barbarian leader take. A twitch crossed Maskumus’ face, before something finally snapped within, and he drew his blade, first trying to utter a laconic phrase that would honour the warrior wit of his ancestors.
“Erm…FUCKETH THEE!”
He failed. Nevertheless, he surged forward, a feral cry coming unbidden to his lips:
“YARRGGGGHHHHHH!”
#
“BLARGGHHHGGGHHHHG!”
The ordeal for Brystvorter now finally reached its crescendo.
Groaning like that of a heifer about to give birth to a quartet of litters filled the tavern room. At a point of despair he had not considered physically possible, Brystvorter crawled back along the floor, trying to find something to ease his pain. So clammy were his hands from the exertion, that every scrap of toilet paper had dissolved in their palms like the hopes of mortals before cruel and laughing primeval gods.
The reek that filled the air cannot be described. Not for lack of vocabulary, but to even have an inkling of its noisomeness would induce unto anyone instant gastroenteritis.
“May all forgive me,” the Lord-Errant groaned. “Is it… what, afternoon now? I think… I made a big mistake….”
“What mistake?” Blumin clicked. “In your menu selection, Lord I-Can’t-Feed-My-Companion-Nasty-Peanuts? Or just life in general?”
“Enough! That does it, you little—oh. Ohhhhhh, nhgghh—ohhh no! Why, why have all the spirits of good forsaken me—”
A newfound and most urgent burst of energy sent Brystvorter scrambling back to the toilet, slamming himself upon it once more. So laden was it that no more could be taken—with a groan of splintering wood, it finally collapsed through the floor. Plummeting downward like a hell-forged hammer of daemonkin into the lower floor, it crashed and shattered right into the tavern’s kitchen. Not since the quest to retrieve a certain glaive had such a disaster been witnessed. Scrambling over each other, any remaining guests and staff made desperate rushes for escape, many traumatised instantly.
Hearing the gagging and wailing below, Brystvorter turned away from the massive gaping puncture he had punched through the building’s structure, so weary that even confronting the worthiness of continuing felt like too much work.
#
The blade of chieftain and huntress met, as their set-aside tolerances for one another disappeared like dust on the wind. As swiftness countered brute force, so finally did the Tehowar decide that pretending they had any tolerance for the incoming hairballs was worthless. The Stoats would scatter as barbaric swords came rushing their way, in turn tripping over the Quarterlings, who were already spiking the canteens of the Fern Folk with spices harvested from only the ugliest of sea urchins.
“All you had to do was use your head for something actually thoughtful!” Aladriena bellowed to Maskumus as the chaos ensued.
“Aye, and I could not take thy smugness when I was actually trying to do something!” The barbarian roared back, spitting foam in his rage.
“Do what?! Make a mess of everything?!”
“More than what you were doing—breathing in thy own gods-smoten flatulence!”
A great flash of energies erupted from both swords, as the spirits of both their peoples seemingly channeled themselves through each enraged strike…
#
By now, Brystvorter was unconcerned if anyone still remained in the tavern, be they dead, alive, or discombobulated beyond existence. Despondence wracked his very form as he crawled over to the nearest window, hoping at least to catch some urgently-yearned-for fresh air. At the very least, he reasoned, things could not get worse.
Opening the window made him thankful that his spirit and his physical state had both sunk to the deepest depths they possibly could anyway.
Waiting on the meadow outside the tavern was an enormous twenty-foot tall spider, carried atop a horde of smaller dog-sized arachnids. Under any other circumstances, this would have shocked him greatly—but the familiar pattern of eyes and regal abdominal markings instead inspired sinking feelings of familiarity. For he knew he looked upon Queen Sthgralth, Mother of Spiderkind, and she appeared most vexed indeed.
“Brystvorter? Yes, it is you!” the great spider thundered, pointing a pedipalp his way. “Oh, by the thousand strands of the Great Web, I have waited so very long for this day!”
“How… how did you find me?” mumbled Brystvorter.
“Never you mind! That doesn’t matter right now. What does matter is that you broke my heart! All those nights we exchanged poems and finest meals, all those times you promised me dearest marriage. And, when the time came to finally consummate our cherished love, you chose to run! Run, like the pretentious coward you are!”
“…you were going to bite my head off!”
“I thought it would grow back! How am I to understand your long-winded mammal biology?”
“…look, fine, I admit it, I only did it because my temple needed funds, and I thought the money from tell-all interviews would, erm, help that, and then….”
“It’s far too late for excuses, vertebrate!” Sthgralth sobbed, wiping away tears of venom running down her fangs. “For all the pain you visited upon me, I return tenfold! Alright, lads—work him over!”
Brystvorter sighed, and then simply slumped to the floor in resignation, as one by one lesser spiders came marching into the tavern and up the stairs.
“Alright, guv, you ‘eard the lady—consider yerself in for a roit propah good time!” From outside the door, their voices came. He glanced around to see where Blumin was, and failing to see the corvid, flopped his head back again.
At the very least, he now decided, it had been a very consistent day.
#
From atop a peak overlooking the Plains of Agreggor, the gargoyle emissary watched with patience as the distant assembled forces below fell apart amid jealous blades and unquenched vendettas. Truth be told, it had unfolded even quicker than expected.
Joining him now, a towering figure clad in crimson robes, masked with an onyx visage carved in the likeness of demonkind—Kurvon himself, who also looked down on the distant sight with self-evident smug satisfaction.
“Just as you foresaw, they devour themselves. A flawless strategy, my lord.” The gargoyle looked to him, rubbing its hands. “But how did you ensure that their champion would not come?”
“I had my means,” Kurvon’s voice rumbled, as he turned to face the raven now gliding down towards them. A mailed hand extended thirty pieces of the finest sun-roasted peanuts for the bird to pick from. “Thus I divined the path of least resistance in ensuring the Lantern of Exmach-Nia would never shine before my realm.”
“Aaak, yes…” Blumin chirped from the dark lord’s hand, looking among them. “All I had to do was to suggest just the right choices from the menu! The peanut-denying bastard never thought about it for a moment! So confident in his warrior greatness was he, that he never even thought about properly washing down all that thick bison steak! Knya, hah, hah!”
“There is more to it all.” Kurvon chuckled, looking back to the dust-choked, ravaged battlefield. “For it is as I have always suspected—all that is needed for evil to triumph, is for good to be full of shit.”
Yes, all that for a crude joke. If that doesn’t give a new perspective to “underside,” I’m not sure what will. At any rate, should you wish for an apology, please direct all queries to the chap below.
—Luke
Meet the Author:
Having been writing since a young age, Roman Durkan has experimented with all manner of fiction, from the serious to what many have described as “totally gonzo.” Amid all this, one could say that he had his share of experiences with the underside of life from wrestling with technology to escorting drunken friends around city streets after missing a train home, to say nothing of all the joys of existence in the times of pandemic.
You had me from the line "a dozen juicy varieties of cabbage". Very clever and witty throughout. And with the occasional laugh-out-loud funny. Enjoyed it greatly.