Dogspit & the Drakkengard Knight

Hello all!

Nothing new too much. Except that, with dread & trepidation, I'm getting a Twitter-X account. I know, I know! I can hear your revulsion.

But the damned popularity contest that is the Internet. Discord still in progress.

Anyway, here's another short story.

If last one was 'Orcs and Soap Opera', then this is 'Buddy Comedy High Fantasy World Tour.'

Enjoy!

“Dogspit & the Drakkengard Knight”

Imagine, dear traveler, a most loathsome village of timbers and logs. A nasty, dirty, depressed hole in the ground, filled to the end with maggots and flies. A fine blessing from Quixxal! A rank smell and an oozy stench there, or gross, grainy, sand clumped together with unmentionable effluvium. There was not a place to sit down without it going smushed, nor was there food to eat. A miserable little thorpe, surrounded by trees that drooped in depression at their unlucky lot of shading that wretched hole-in-the-ground. It was not a hole for goblins, Yrch, or hobfolk. Even pigs gagged at the sight of that brown-and-green mush which did not dry out in the sun.

No, that thorpe-in-a-hole—no, more a dorp than a thorpe. That dorp-in-a-hole was inhabited by a most greasy, sweaty race, called man. Short and weak, compared to giants, the ancestors of those men fled from their greatness, and built a respectable town under the trees. They cut down the tall trees to make great houses of seasoned timber; their sons and daughters did nothing to keep them. Their grandsons and granddaughters stayed more and more away from the world, shrinking to be unnoticed, until the respectable town shrunk to a hamlet, then a thorpe, then a dorp, then a pile of unwashed dirt.

Dirt was their bread, for they were unwashed, uneducated, superstitious, degenerate, slightly inbred dirt farmers, unworthy of respect and incapable of anything respectable. They had each other, and that was their curse, not their blessing. Fools, untouched by light; they were the laughingstock of the reasonably wise.

Shlump-shlump-argh! Shlump-shlump-argh! It was a truly bizarre sound, one uncustom to carpenters, that bizarre sound of pounding raw iron nails into rotten wood, with your bare hands. From afar, one could mistake the sight as a hunched over man striking the gross bones of a great beast. It was supposed to be a barn. The mannish thing was named Dogspit, after the dog who brought game to his family, before the family ate the dog.  He was a lad who looked far too old for his teen summers. His hair was as brown and patchy as old wood, his clothes were held together by mold (and worse), and his face was pallid, puffy, and mean. He would have made a fine, jowly scholar, and given about as good advice.

“Might was well pound them in with my head!” cried Dogspit. Wunk. “Argh! That’s worse. I’ll show you, you stupid nails! Argh! Arh!”

He was sitting on a carpenter’s horse, trying to fit a cross-joint. His father had tried and gave up. His grandfather did the same, and his father before that, and yet the father before him was a fine architect. It was the family inheritance, you see, to try and make that barn over five or so generations. For, you see, Dogspit’s father left his mother for another woman, next door, because her family didn’t have to deal with barns. Her family had even less than Dogspit’s family, so there was less things to take care of. Dogspit’s father could not have been happier—until he was disinherited, and left everything to Dogspit. Then his mother found another man, his uncle (a distant cousin), and the uncle took everything of Dogspit’s that wasn’t too much trouble to look after. The barn was the only world left for Dogspit.

“Mummy getting big with cousin-babies,” said Dogspit. “Uncle doesn’t know they’re not his. Not mine. I’ll never have mine. I’ll never have mine that can be taken by others. Nobody smart enough to cheat me. They smart, I punch. They dumb, I steal.”

He was lost in his angry mumblings when there was a voice from afar.

“Hello? Is there someone is this forest?”

“I don’t want any,” said Dogspit, though not loud enough to be heard. Instead, he tried driving the nails in with his feet. There was not much room for more nails. “Yeargh!!!”

“I dare say, there is a fellow in this forest!” cried the voice, who was now nearer. Dogspit didn’t care. He’d get lockjaw, again, and show it off, to show how tough he was. “Huh-huh, yeah, tough out the lockjaw, make them all be afraid of me,” huffed Dogspit. “They’re all dumb. Not like me.”

He was only a mostly dumb creature. He did live in a forest, so his ears learned how to tell a wind-rustled leaf apart from a leaf shooed away by a boot. What was that? Metal? In this forest?

“You got coin on you, stranger?” said Dogspit. He looked at his foot; the nail had not gone deep. It was just in a sensitive place.

“I have nought food, a sack, nor money in my belt,” said the stranger. Dogspit sniggered at the word ‘sack’.

“You’ve come to the right place, stranger. We don’t have those either, except the sacks between our legs,” said Dogspit. “But you’re lying. I hear you clinking. You’ve got coin on ye.”

“That would be my sandals,” said the stranger, from the other side of a bush. Why the bush had ever deigned to grow so close to so gruesome a construction, I cannot say, but from that bush emerged a splendorous sight.  A knight, in full-plate armed, with a broad white heater shield slung about his back and his longsword at his side. He wore a soft, sky-blue tabard from neck to knee, over his armor. Dogspit thought his flat-topped helm looked like a bucket with bird wings stapled on. Then Dogspit remembered to be afraid.

“Ah!” He fell from the carpenter’s horse, his pants a little more soggy. “Blimey!”

“Don’t be afraid, friend,” said the knight. He approached, and squatted down to Dogspit’s level.

“Afraid? Pfht? Of you? Har-har-har!” chuckled Dogspit. “What are you, a poncey knight dressed like a flower? Your head’s a bucket. Do you take a leak in it, and put it on your head? Har-har-har.”

“Do you need a hand?” said the knight.

“No, but you need one to take a leak, har-har-har.”

“What’s your name?” asked the knight.

Dogspit became confused. He had no interest in the knight. “Don’t bother me,” he said. “I’m busy.”

“I’m the Drakkengard Knight,” said Drakkengard. “If you want, I can help. I havne’t built a barn in a long while.”

“No, its my barn,” mumbled Dogspit. “I got it, I earned it. Its mine.”

“All right then,” said Drakkengard. “Though I have a question. I’m looking for an old chapel, to the Old High God. I was told it and a town was here.”

“Wrong place, stranger,” said Dogspit. He squeezed his pants dry, and wiped his hands on the rotten timbers. “Ain’t nothing here but Skumthorp.”

“Precisely!” said Drakkengard. “I heard from the other towns that the name may have changed to that.”

“Other towns?” said Dogspit. He looked as if the Drakkengard Knight had said he was Dogspit’s long-lost sister.

“Well, they were not charitable in speaking,” said Drakkengard. “But I know from my travels that all the other towns worship the New Gods, and I am here to fetch the tablets of the Old High God.”

“Ain’t no gods,” said Dogspit. “They’s just things clever people say to trick dumb people.”

“Who told you that?”

“My mummy,” said Dogspit.

“How well is she carrying your half-brother?”

Dogspit’s face streamed between fear and amazement. He retreated to what he knew.

“What? Did you pork her? That how you know? Har-har-har-argh!”

The Drakkengard Knight struck him with a mailed fist. “You shall not disrespect your mother, no matter her misdeeds,” he said. With the same mailed fist, he grabbed Dogspit by the shirt. It fell away in the knight’s hands. So, then the knight grabbed Dogspit by the neck, and, with surprising gentleness, lifted the haggard lad to his feet. Drakkengard shifted his grip, to hold Dogspit by the scruff of his neck.

“Walk with me, lad,” said the knight.

Dogspit felt lighter than he ever had in years. They weren’t long years. He’d never been grabbed in this way except by Big Bug Buggerer, who threatened to break his neck if he squealed. Maybe, he felt lighter, because he went slack? Or maybe a part of him was ready to die, and the rest of him hadn’t caught up yet. The sky-blue tabard hurt his eyes; it was too clean in that green-brown place. It looked soft as clouds, but it felt sharp to Dogspit’s eyes. They darted to the knight’s belt—a proper sword belt. On one side, his sword, and on the other, a funny metal ball that bounced on the back of his hip. Dogspit grabbed at it with a sly hand, and slipped the knight’s grip.

“Hur-hur-hur!” chuckled Dogspit to himself. He’d learn how to slip out of bad spots. He ran, half-naked through the ugly woods, the metal ball clasped in his greedy hands. He took a secret way to a copse of trees that overlooked the scummy town. They milled about in sloven drunkenness, like normal, each taking their whiskey from the public still. Dogspit would come to it later, after he pilfered what he wanted when they got blackout drunk.

Yes, one may think of him as a ratty magpie in his nest, for Dogspit collected many bits and bobs (mostly rocks) over his years. Some teeth, a knife, a lewd wood carving—but nothing like the shiny ball! It was made of more pretty metal than Dogspit had ever seen, and there was something more. It was like, parts of it were see-through, shiny like the metal and yet not metal. Was this ‘glass’, that Dogspit’s brother-uncle had once spoken of? Metal and glass, with a weaved pattern of vines along each side…Dogspit slammed it on the ground.

“Something shiny in there. Shiner I ever seen,” he said.

He smashed it against the ground, rocks, the trees; he even bit it!

“Ow! Bad tooth. Why aren’t you breaking?” The metal ball looked untouched, and that meant the shiny thing was inside. Dogspit squinted through the ‘glass’. What was it? He held it up to a beam of sorry sunlight. Nothing! It was…it was like the sunlight refused to go inside. But still, there was a shiny thing in there. It was soft …and mesmerizing. Dogspit stared at it all the long day. The hours went by to night, to stars, to daybreak again. For Dogspit, it was like a dream that did not end, until he fell asleep.

Dogspit awoke to a rustling outside. “Hooshugof,” he groaned. A small bright bird was flicking through the boughs of that haggard copse. It was arranging sticks in the eves. “Shove off, you,” said Dogspit. “I’ll eat your eggs for lunch. This is my hiding spot.” The bird twitched its head from side to side, eye-to-eye. Perhaps it was considering its options? It gave a weak chirp, and flew away. “Yeah, that shows you,” said Dogspit. He stretched out his crooked back. The rocks and sticks dug in less than usual. He scratched himself, under his shirt.

“Wot? Wot’s this?” For his old ugly shirt was ripped away by Drakkengard, and he slept shirtless. Not so! A clean shirt, bright white and softer than clouds was on his person.

“Ugh. Is this linen?” he groused. He peeled off the article and tossed it on a nearby branch. “Wait a tick.” He peered into the funny metal ball again with its ‘glass’ panes. The shiny thing was gone.

“Ooo, that knight cheated me,” said Dogspit. “Give him a piece of my mind. These hands can’t pound iron nails for nuthin’!” He threw out his scraggily chest. A cold wind just then pierced through the copse. “Blimey!” He looked about, and then remembered he took off a perfectly good shirt. As he took it off the branches and placed it on, he saw a glint within the metal ball. He rushed to it again, but it was gone. “I’ll find out what you are,” he said. “But first, see if any whiskey is left in the still.” He looped the metal ball around his thin belt and set off for Skumthorp.

He crossed the open field—more a patch of open dirt—that separated the forlorn forest from the copse. As it was open to everything, even if but briefly, Dogspit was seen by a traveling group of strangers. Stranger still, he did not see them.

“Hello, sirrah!” called a man. Dogspit was taken aback—nobody called him ‘sir’ before. These outsiders knew their place. “That’s right, I’m a big sir to you,” he called. Despite the pricking of his thumbs, he stood there, bold and brazen. It was a small group of strangers, all in traveling cloaks, who were headed by a barmy old man in a cart. Except, it wasn’t a cart as Dogspit had seen, because it was backwards facing, yet pulled by horses. The old man’s horses were the boniest jades Dogspit had ever seen—they were hairless from mange, and their teeth stuck out. Even weirder, the old man was standing in his cart, next to a driver who held the reins.

“The cart is supposed to face the other way,” said Dogspit.

 “It’s a special cart, my clever man,” said the old stranger. His huge driver said nothing. “It’s called a chariot.”

“Don’t look like a cherry,” muttered Dogspit. “What do you want, stranger?”

“Knowledge, dear fellow,” said the strange man. He seemed old and dumb enough to Dogspit. “Why are your clothes black and purple?”

“No, no, don’t focus on the surface of things,” said the old man. “The surface is a lie. You look within for knowledge, and you look without. All is knowledge, if you think about it.”

“I know you look funny,” said Dogspit. “But you’re a stranger, so you don’t know much. I know lots.”

“Indeed, you do,” said the old man. He took an amulet from his chest, of either brass or copper. It looked like an eyeball cut in half, with one half looking in; the other half was lolling about on its own delicate chain, like a gross wind chime. “I believe you can help me with that.”

“Wot’s innit for me?” said Dogspit.

“Why, whatever it is you desire,” said the stranger. “What do you have in mind right now?”

“…Uhh. I don’t know innit. I’v never thought of that before.”

“Come! Come, hop in my chariot. You can think about it on the way.”

Without thinking, Dogspit did so. It felt strangely roomy in that chariot, for Dogspit, the strange old man, and the chariot driver had at least a hand’s space between each of them. Dogspit had time enough to stare at the old man—old, and wizened, in fine, smooth robes of black and purple (like bruise) and trimmed in silvery metal. The old man was quietly grinning the whole time, but seemed lost in thought somewhere else. His hulking driver felt like a tree to Dogspit, a thing that was big that you moved around while traveling. Even stranger, he wore a mask of metal!

But it was to the old man’s amulet that drew Dogspit’s eye. It made him go cross-eyed just looking at it, for one moment, the two halves of the eyeball-amulet looked at each other, then away, in different directions—and, at one moment, at Dogspit himself. He blinked…

…And when he opened his eyes, he was at the outskirts of Skumthorp. The same bent trees that shaded Dogspit from birth now shaded him again.

“Hey, this is home,” he mumbled.

“It is? My, a clever boy you are,” said the old man. His hood was down, now. His head was bald, not from old age, but from mange and liver spots. His teeth were worse—not from rot, but from malnutrition. “You’re about to see something special, my boy, as a reward. Stay.”

Dogspit felt too scared to disobey. The chariot and the few guards on foot waded into the soggy, mossy ground that was the floor of the village. Everyone had gathered around the town whiskey still, and was having their communion of moonshine. Perhaps twenty-five souls or more were there, and not even new freaks would break their routine. They put down their cups.

“Hibba-jibba-do-wang-do,” said a man.

“Amen,” said the crowd. Tipsy, but not enough to lose home, they turned to disperse, when they say Dogspit and his strangers.

“What you doing, you runt?” said Big Bug Buggerer.

“Yeah, you too good fer us?” said Big Bear Buggerer, his brother-uncle-nephew-cousin. “Why you stupids in the cart like that? It’s supposed to be the other way.”

“Shut up,” said the old wizard.

The silence slapped the stupor out of Skumthorp. They hadn’t had a brawl in a while.

“What shall I do with them, my clever boy?” said the old wizard. “You want to get revenge of them.”

“Yeah! Uh, no—uh, yeah!” said Dogspit. “Them two! Get Big Bug over there.”

“How?”

“I ain’t got no clue,” said Dogspit at last.

“Hurr hurr hurr,” rumbled the Big Buggerer twins. “That’s always Dogspit. He ain’t got nothin’! Hurr hurr hurr!” They pointed and laughed, even Dogspit’s own half-pregnant mother. The old wizard, next to him, joined in on the laughter, in a wheezing, deflated whinge.

“Hrnn hrrn hrrrn,” he went. “I see, I see, you’re stupid like the rest. Why did I think any better? You’re just a dumb talking brute, from a village of dumb, talking brutes. Animals, that’s all you are. And, I shall reveal your animal self to you. To you all!”

The air distorted from unseen whispers. The old wizard grinned his slimy grin, and raising his amulet, he chanted a few words that none knew. The trees recoiled, as by an invisible wind, and a fel-dark cloud cast itself over the village. The old wizard belted a shrieking shout—lighting flashed from his amulet into the crowd! Dogspit trembled at the fearful sight, and wept at the noise. For, his family and town, his kin and kith, were changed into half-men and half-shapes. Big Bug became hairy and Big Bear became bug-like, and all the rest grew webs and fins and fingers and hooves and teeth and claws, with limbs twisting backwards and new limbs sprouting out of old.

“Hrnn hrrnn hrrnn!” wheezed the wizard. “Dance, you animals, dance!” At his command they did, breaking limbs and growing new ones. “Beasts! Appetites, you are now under my control. Are you hungry? Hunger you shall have, until you starve, unless I get what I desire. To the midden mire!”

In writhing agony, the transformed town waddled over to a pit, part marsh and part sewage. The pit was once a great foundation, judging by its shape.

“Dig!” cried the old wizard, still in his chariot; Dogspit was too locked to move. “Dig, grub, burrow, scrum. Uncover what you covered in filth! Eat it for measure, for there is treasure under that mire.” At the wizard’s command, the thorp did in sickening measure. By bile deeds, they excavated the pit. At the bottom was two great tablets, both as tall as a man, though still covered in slime. “Bring them,” commanded the wizard. “My clever, frozen boy, do you know—no, you don’t, so I’ll tell you. This, is old magic, older than the stars and mightier than any enchantment. It is the knowledge primordial! Secrets of creation, ready to be unlocked—by me! I was hoping you would be clever enough to see that. Maybe you will be, after the shock has worn off. I do delight in apprentices. The clever ones are useful, always, and become seekers themselves. You, though, and many of the dumb ones—well, I always need someone to push my chariot.”

Dogspit was too damned terrified to make any sense of it. The old wizard and his eyeball amulet looked like flabby skin draped over a mushroom with one hideous bright spot. “Do I want this?” he blurted out.

“Yes, yes you do, my boy. I was the same, when I first met the arcane,” said the old wizard. “But enough! Beasts! Lick the tablets clean.”

At the command, they did so. They had placed the tablets upright before the wizard in his chariot. Dogspit would have jeered at them, had not his mother been foremost; now she was half an ape, inside and out. He burst into utter misery on seeing her disgusting delight.

“Yes, yes,” said the old wizard, in a dirty tone Dogspit understood too well. “A pretty ape, isn’t she. She’ll—ahh!!! Ahh!!! What is this? The knowledge.”

Dogspit did not understand, again, for after licking the tablets clean, there was nothing upon them, save flat old green bronze.

“They ate it! They ate the knowledge!” shrieked the wizard. “Fine! Cut them open. We’ll pry the miserable little secrets out of their piles of guts.”

The few foot guards drew out swords and cleavers. They hacked a former man apart like beef, and another, and another. Dogspit collapsed backwards at the sight. When he fell to the chariot floor, he felt something hard impact his side—the metal ball! “What am I supposed to do?” he cried.

At that moment, Dogspit heard a cry. It was not a roar or a rumble, nor a shriek of rage, but loud and clear, as a trumpet-blare. “I have heard the cry!” Dogspit tumbled out of the chariot—it seemed smaller now—and a…lightness brought him to his feet without him thinking. There, across the way, was the Drakkengard Knight, shocking-bright, white shield and sword in hand.

“A man? Kill him, my beasts!” shrieked the wizard. The miserable wretches did as they were told. As a pack, they leapt upon him; as a slavering horde, they sought to consume. Drakkengard swung once, and three lay dead; again, and three more; thrice, and nine were hewn. As men to slaughter, he cut them; as lambs they lay dead. The speed of his assault broke through to the guards, who had slaughtered more in their way. One he bashed with his beaming shield, a second he punted, a third he hewed—alack! Metal bit into metal. His sword bit into a metal band.

“What is this! Lo, iron husks, brittle bones bonded by belts,” said Drakkengard. Dogspit saw it was true—the guards were old skeleton bones in iron mail! “A necromancer.”

“That’s ‘sorcerer’ to you, imbecile brute!” cried the old wizard from his chariot. He raised his eyeball amulet to the air again. Dogspit had none of it! He took the metal ball from his side, and with mighty heft, chucked the thing into the sorcerer’s skull. Crack! It hit into the meat of the neck, but something broke. The wizard recoiled, his amulet in the air. Lightning sprung upwards, a fountain of bolts, then forked downwards back into the chariot. It exploded to pieces! A wheel flung from the axel, and gouged Dogspit in the side. He lost consciousness…and awoke again on the ground.

He never felt a pain like this before—or so a distant part of himself thought. Pain if he moved, and pain if he stayed still. It was like his waist wanted to unravel, and his bowels wanted to stay inside, and they wrestled in hideous contest. That distant part of him saw the chariot driver stand up, half a skeleton bound in iron and mail. The Drakkengard Knight came upon the driver and bashed off his head.

“Boy,” he said. “Boy! Do you live?” said the knight. Yet, the knight did not come to him, but rummaged through the wreckage. He found something, and returned to Dogspit. “You’re dying, boy. What is your name?”

“Dogspit,” he hacked.

Drakkengard chuckled. “You want to die with a name like that?”

“No—yes—I—” said Dogspit.

“Do you want to pass?” said Drakkengard.

“No—I’m—afraid. The pain—”

The Drakkengard Knight got on his knee beside him. “Bind your life with mine, and you shall live. My vows shall be your vows, and you shall be sustained by them, as I am. Take my hand upon you.”

Dogspit did not know if he did, but Drakkengard took him by one feeble hand, and with his mailed palm placed another on the boy’s dying head. Dogspit saw a soft light at the knight’s side, warm and tender…was it from the metal ball on his belt? He drifted off to a dream…

“Dogspit! Dogspit, you lazy squire, enough napping.”

As if he had dozed off, Dogspit saw he was, again, on the ground. He pushed himself upright; he did not notice the new shirt and new breeches! From his reclination, he saw that Drakkengard had piled the mangled bodies onto a pyre. Dogspit looked about. “Where’s Skumthorp?”

“Still here, but not for long,” said Drakkengard. “I could not find enough good timber, so the town sufficed.”

“Wot? You pulled down our houses,” said Dogspit.

“Yes,” said Drakkengard. “And those blank tablets are the pyre-dais. Their word had rotted off. Let them be the altar.”

“Wot?”

“Come, you dull squire,” said Drakkengard. “Say your farewell.”

Dogspit got up, and walked over. He took one glance. It was enough, lest he see his mother.

“You killed them,” he said feebly.

“Yes,” was all Drakkengard said. “Look, squire. Look! The preparations are done.”

Drakkengard placed his shield aside, and took his sword in hand. He raised his blade to the heavens and cried “By the stars of heaven and mercy, this flesh shall be avenged!”

And fire came down from the heavens, and consumed the pyre.

[The End]

...But More to follow!