The Underpaid Adventures of Asmund, Son of Alef, Wielder of Grimhilde, Hater of Geese (Chapter 1 - Another Day, Another Princess)
Princess Silga of the Golden Fields called out to her rescuer from her lockaway: ”Noble Argon, save me from the squalor of this dungeon - and beware the Guardian!”
The adventurer cleared his throat. “The name’s Asmund, Princess,” he called back.
“Oh,” she replied. “Sorry, I don’t know how I got that wrong.”
Asmund Alefson sighed and placed his hand on the worn leather hilt of Grimhilde, his magic sword. He knew the typo in his last batch of flyers would be a problem. And because the double order of five hundred super-saver parchments were non-refundable, everyone from Krampfwich to the Frigid North thought Argon Appledean was coming to slay whatever needed slaying, rescue whomever needed rescuing, and also teach discount adventurecraft classes for juveniles and adults.
To the printer’s credit, they did make him look fetching on the posters. And at least word did get around the kidnappers’ circles that Asmund was coming, even if they didn’t get his name right.
It didn’t matter. Princess Silga was in sight. A narrow stone bridge was all that remained between him and the end of his quest. Underneath the treacherous pathway was a spiky death, waiting for anyone who might slip.
The silence, though awkward, allowed him the chance to listen for any enemies - and the dreaded Guardian he’d heard so much about.
How many of his friends lay at the bottom of the pit, having answered the call to arms before him, and what rates did they negotiate? If he wasn’t careful, the Guardian would drop him to his death as well. The thought put a damper on what had otherwise been a nice day.
But then, he thought, some of his competitors and rivals must be down there, too, slain by the Guardian. A dungeon spike pit wasn’t always a bad thing, it seemed.
He prepared his most heroic voice. “Princess - you have to tell me the Guardian's weakness! Garramand of the Burning Mountain said you would know!"
“Weakness?” Silga asked. It was a strange question, no doubt - if she’d known any weaknesses she might have exploited them herself. “I know of no weaknesses, fine Asmund! Only that it was bred from the fiercest stock after a hundred generations, and fears no men! You must overcome him!”
Asmund hesitated. Whoever was calling to him was trying a bit too hard - she (or he) might just be someone pretending to be Princess Silga. It could be a bandit luring him into a trap to rob him of his last copper whistles, just like in the first rescue job he’d ever attempted when he first struck out on his own. The old princess honeypot was the worst kind of intrigue a sellsword could fall prey to.
Worse - if he really was in a honeypot, he’d have to start his search for Silga from the beginning, only without enough money for a hot meal and a bed because the kinds of bandits who tried the princess honeypot rarely had enough cash on them to make them worth smiting.
“Do we have to keep talking like this?” Asmund asked, seeing if he could reveal the potential ruse with a change of tone. He hoped the bandit didn’t practice any casual princess dialects.
Another silence filled the air, punctuated by a loud sigh. “Look, Asmund, I’m stuck in a dungeon, and you’re nitpicking my tone. This isn’t my first kidnapping - I know how I’m supposed to act, so will you just let me have this one?”
“Al… alright, Princess,” he said, clearing his throat again. He resumed speaking from the depths of his chest, and felt grateful for all the musical lessons he’d taken in his middle grades. “The Guardian’s reputation is no matter; I will save you from its dastardly clutches!”
“That’s better, thank you,” Silga said. “Save me, fine Asmund!”
A low wail echoed through the caves. It was guttural and rough, and Asmund steeled himself for the coming battle. He could always fight men - men had fears, families, things that gave them pause when the swords were drawn and the moment of truth came. Many of them turned around to flee at the first sign of professional heroism, leaving behind their sometimes useful camping equipment.
The foul creatures that made their homes in dungeons, on the other hand, clawed at him to their last breaths. Gremlins, ghouls, werepeople, normal people who had been poorly disciplined and probably had icy relationships with their parents after falling in with the wrong crowd - they all went down fighting and cursing. Or, whatever the monster equivalent of cursing was. At the end of it all he was usually left with bruises and stingy bounties that could barely be called rewards. He had scars all over his back, arms and legs, and a particular nasty strip under the shade of his formidable chest to prove it.
What lurked there in the dark, to make its final stand against him?
The entire place looked as if it had been dug out by the claws of some massive beast. On the walls that lined the chasm, there were great sconces whose flames lashed the sticky air. Their placement didn’t make sense to him. Who replaced the fuel, and how tedious and dangerous was that job?
He’d been in far better dungeons than this one. Grand galleries that laced between and around one another, leading into grand chambers with easily maintained lighting. Some of them even had hidden passageways that led to treasure, or at least some shirking guard’s liquor stash.
This place had a narrow staircase leading to a single room with a spike pit. There weren’t even any guards on the way in. Guardian or no, a sentry was essential to a successful kidnapping.
Amateur hostage takers, every time, he thought. A well-planned dungeon, even if it were filled with monsters and lacking in loot, could at least provide some measure of the old romantic adventure-stuff that the bards sang of from times past, when heroes like Crux Skullcrusher actually played at heroics for free. What a time that must have been - how did they pay for food?
When he stepped forward, he could feel the air flutter. Feathers twirled and floated through the columns of light that came through the ceiling, tumbling and gleaming against the gray outcroppings that held the torches; he had to admit that the skylights were a nice touch, probably the only thing about the cave that made him feel particularly adventurous.
He wondered what kind of creature he was going to face. A gryphon, perhaps. Or maybe a manticore. Worse yet - plumed serpents, the kind whose massive bowel movements tended to stick to their down. The list of feathered evils was long and more than a little disgusting; fighting smelly creatures with poor instincts for hygiene wasn’t high on his list of adventures worth having. Then, he couldn’t remember the last time he actually enjoyed his work.
"Uack."
What’s that? he wondered. It's near.
"Uack!" came the call, yet louder.
Asmund drew his blade.
"UAAAACK!"
The war cry echoed through the cave and shook the air in Asmund's lungs. He began to recite the Moonlight Incantation he gleaned from the diary of Borromog, King of the Werewoods. His sword glowed white with the power of the heavens; Moon Magic could pierce even the thickest armor plates on the rockiest golems - as long as Grimhilde wished it, anyway. She tended to get bored in all but the most gruesome battles. But, if the Guardian was all it had been made out to be, Grimhilde would make short, bloody work of it.
The fluttering intensified, when a barrel-chested, long-necked fiend with black markings about the eyes - killer eyes - alighted on the bridge. It stood a dozen yards ahead of him, tall and proud, its wings tucked under itself like the lapels of a royal costume, looking as if it had made the invitation for Asmund to come. This would not be easy.
Asmund took slow, careful steps forward. "In the name Boor above, In the name of Gus below, and by the house of Alef, I will slay you, beast, and return the princess to her rightful home in the Golden Fields!"
"Wait, what?" the princess called out.
Asmund squinted. "Princess?"
"Did you say you were going to slay it?"
He kept his sword up. The Guardian shook its tail feathers in a frightening display, daring him to come closer. Though, now that he was closer to it, he could see that the top of its head barely reached his hips - it could still be dangerous if it managed to shove him off the walkway.
"Well, of course," Asmund said. "I'm Asmund, son of Alef, wielder of Grimhilde, hunter of beasts and bandits alike, for rates as low as a hundred fifty silver harmonicas per day of adventure.”
"Okay, Asmund, we know all of that, we’ve seen your leaflets and heard it from the bards. But all I said was that you had to beware the Guardian, you don't have to kill him. He’s just doing his job. Look at him - he’s just a little territorial.”
He looked down at the stone walkway. It was barely three feet wide, slippery, and there were no railings. The squat bird, though short, was just as wide as he was at the waist, and would not be letting him through without a fight. He was at an impasse.
"Well, I mean, how do you expect me to get around him?"
"Just go around, by Boor’s rainbow fingernails, you're just like the other twenty ‘adventurers’ who came and tried to do this," she said.
"Hey, don't you insult them, some of them were probably my friends," he snapped back, straightening up and lowering his blade. "They're at the bottom of this pit because they dared to save you.”
“No, they’re not, they left me here and said ‘better luck with the next guy, I’m not getting paid enough for this,’” Silga pouted.
“Oh.” Asmund scratched his head. “Your father said I’d be receiving three gold kazoos for this, he’s good for it, right?”
“Are you serious right now, Asmund? I’ve been waiting two weeks for a bath, and all they gave us was a barrel of gruel that even the mold won't touch. Get us out of here!”
"Us?"
"Yes, us. Me, Franz, and Olaf."
Two pair of hands stuck out from the bars of the neighboring cell, and waved hello.
"What are they doing here? Are they princes? Will someone pay me in golden kazoos to rescue them? I do bulk rescues, they'd probably like my rates.”
"I'm a baker," Franz said.
“I’m Olaf,” Olaf said.
"He's not a prince," Franz added.
Asmund pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Never mind," he said. "I'll save everyone, just let me deal with this demon goose and be done with it."
"UACK!" the Guardian called as it pinched a particularly tender section of Asmund's inner thigh.
"Ow, son of a whore," he said.
"Don't bring his mother into this," Franz called out.
"Not very noble, Asmund," the princess jeered.
“I’m Olaf,” Olaf added.
He rubbed the wound, and could already feel a welt forming. "Well, it's a good thing I'm only trying to save your lives, and not impress your sensibilities," he said sarcastically, putting up his sword again. "I dare you to try that again, beast!"
The Guardian stared at him and hissed. He didn't know birds could make that noise.
"You know what? To Gus with this.”
Asmund walked straight up to the Guardian, which stood its ground. Shoving it away with his foot, he received ten hard pecks and bites to all the soft areas between the worn folds of his armor by the time he reached their cells.
"What, there's no padlock?" he asked, shooing the bird away from him. “Oh god, it stinks here," he said as he realized why the floor was so slick near the cells. The bird continued to harass him.
He undid the latches and opened up the cells. Olaf and Franz patted him on the back and began walking out, carefully navigating the goose droppings.
"Good, uhhh, good job," Franz said, eyeing Asmund cautiously as the bird was now half-perched on his shoulder, pulling at his hair. "We'll just get out of here, now, while it’s distracted with you.”
"I'm Olaf," Olaf said, waving goodbye as he and Franz strolled across the bridge.
"Well, Princess?" he asked, shielding his face and squinting while the goose continued its assault.
"Well, what?" she asked.
"Are you coming?"
"Oh," she said. "I thought you were supposed to carry me."
"What?" he said, straightening up again as the bird took the opportunity to bite his nose. “Ow,” he cried out. “Carry you how? I've got this shitty bird pecking at me, and that pathway is much too narrow and slippery to be messing around with silly wedding traditions."
"Wedding?" she asked, recoiling. "Did my mother say that I had to marry you? I swear if she’s trying this again, I’m only twenty-three.”
"You know what I mean, carrying a maiden through the threshold, that stupid something-or-other," he said, batting the Guardian away. "You can walk, let's go."
Silga eyed the goose droppings that littered the corridor. ”Can you at least carry me to your steed?"
"I walked forty miles here from the Burning Mountain, because Geirsson died, eaten up by a jotun named Hank!"
The princess sighed. "Fine," she said, "I didn't really want to ride a horse that much anyway." She exited the cell with her arms crossed, and her nose curled as she held her breath and walked as delicately through the goose shit as she could.
"I really don't understand why I can't kill it," he said, shoving the bird away with his foot after it voided its bowels onto his left boot.
"It might have children, Asmund, you'd make them orphans," she snapped at him. "It's not like it kidnapped me in the first place, it had nothing to do with it."
He yelped as bird broke skin on his earlobe. "Can you pick up the pace, Princess? He's just getting angrier."
"Would YOU rush across this bridge? It's tiny, I could slip, and then oooh, your quest would come to an end and you'd simply be known as Asmund, Killer of Princesses, Hater of Geese."
"Okay, okay, take it easy," Asmund said. This is worth at least five gold kazoos, he thought as the Guardian screamed at him from behind.
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The Underpaid Adventures of Asmund, Son of Alef, Wielder of Grimhilde, Hater of Geese by Vichet Ou
Comedic Fantasy
Adult/New Adult
~78000 words
In a commercial fiction market full of bloody, darker-than-dark stories of murder and intrigue, the Underpaid Adventures ask what living day-to-day in such a fantasy world would actually be like if one had to concern themselves more with food and shelter than the next werewolf attack. Part Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, part Lord of the Rings, the story takes Asmund Alefson and his apprentice and ex-princess Silga Goldenfield across the named lands while they try to keep a roof over their heads. With the meteoric rise of the Heroes' Guild looming over their disappearing job market, both of them have to decide what being an adventurer means to them. One thing's for sure: professional heroism isn't anything like what they used to describe in the tales of old that filled Asmund and Silga's childhoods.
Vichet Ou is a native Philadelphian and child of Cambodian immigrants whose stories always include food and music, usually in that order. His writing style could probably be described as casual, funny, and/or strange, but he likes to pretend that's on purpose. In his spare time, he enjoys teaching competitive ballroom dance, and food, and music - though not always in that order.