Durrtan’s Quest

by Christian R. Bonawandt

The water’s chill sank deep into Durrtan’s flesh, icing his very bones. His hands and elbows were raw from climbing the slick rock wall. Fighting against the current had made his shoulders and thighs sore. At last Durrtan forced his bulky form through the opening the imp had mentioned. Once out of the falling underground river, Durrtan gasped hard breaths of relief. His soaked body slapped the cavern floor. For a moment, Durrtan lay as though dead. It was a moment of much needed rest. This quest, this noble quest that had been bestowed upon him by his unseated lord, had taken much out of him.

Lying still, while his heart returned to a slower, easier pace, Durrtan felt the lure of the Sphere of Gerumhand. It came as a throbbing, a beating in time to Durrtan’s own blood. Or was his blood beating to the pulse of the Sphere?

Excitement overcame Durrtan, breezing away the cold and wetness. His whole body was eager now to fetch the Sphere. That was his quest, after all: To fetch The Sphere of Gerumhand so he could use its power to defeat the Barbarian King who had conquered his home and deposed Lord-Thane Normunbrand Brazenhammer.

With renewed energy, Durrtan bounded to his feet. The dark of the cavern penetrated his soul. Drawing a deep breath, Durrtan cast a fire spell — the only spell, really, that he could cast with any success. A tiny flame appeared in his calloused and bleeding palm. Slowly its light spread, revealing to him his surroundings.

Strangely, though, its heat spread as well. Soon a mild, moist breeze touched Durrtan’s chest, warmed from its path over the magical fire. It carried an acrid scent, hinting of meat, rot, and gingivitis.

Durrtan looked passed the flame. It was no breeze that touched Durrtan’s bosom.

A wyvern! A fargging wyvern!

Thinking quickly, Durrtan’s hand seized the axe slung on his back. Then Durrtan realized he had a flame spell in effect, which he could hurl at the wyvern. Then Durrtan realized he might mess up the words before the wyvern devoured him. Then Durrtan realized he was thinking too much, while the wyvern was wasting no time charging toward him. The wyvern opened its massive, razor-toothed maw and uttered a shriek-like roar. Wyverns were essentially smaller, girly, versions of dragons and didn’t breathe fire. These facts didn’t make this wyvern any less hungry, nor any less vicious.

Durrtan spun on the heels of his hide boots and dove for the underground river, remembering too late that it was not so much a river as it was a waterfall.

Fargging waterfall!

Durrtan slid down the rock wall he had scaled but seconds ago. The jagged cavern wall assaulted his back, shoulders, legs and other parts a noble warrior would never admit were assaulted. He landed with a splash and a thump in the shallow pool where the imp was waiting for him.

“My hulking, humble friend not find the opening Milkik speaks of?” the imp asked. Even with Durrtan sitting down, the imp did not stand above him. Scrawny in frame, with gnarled arms, yellow eyes and pointed ears, the imp was as ugly a sight as they came. The shadows on its face, cast by the meager torch in its hand, only emphasized the creepy angles of its face.

Rubbing his backside, underside and private side, Durrtan said, “I found the fargging opening.” He paused, forced himself to his feet. “Found the fargging wyvern, too.”

The wyvern was the last of Gerumhand’s Six Traps. The imp’s secret entrance was a shortcut that bypassed five of the traps. The wyvern, however, could not be bypassed, as it lived in the room where Gerumhand had left all his worldly possessions.

Fargging wyvern!

Durrtan considered how he could get the Sphere now that the wyvern would be waiting for him at the mouth of the secret entrance. A moment later, his head pounded like a smithy’s hammer. Thinking was never Durrtan’s strong point. Nor was magic. Fighting he could do, but was better when he was drunk. Unfortunately, he had run out of mead two days before reaching the cave. Besides, he didn’t climb so good drunk. Not that he had tried, but Durrtan imagined it would be rather difficult. Especially with the fargging waterfall.

This noble quest was proving disappointingly difficult. Durrtan was eager to do his lord’s bidding, and anxiously awaited the day he would return with the Sphere and defeat the Barbarian King. More so, however, he awaited the day Lord-Thane Normunbrand would return to power and shower Durrtan with gold and gems and land. All of which would lead to the ultimate prize: lots and lots of women. Big women, small women, dark women, fair women... Durrtan was not picky.

“What does Milkik’s huge, hulking, friend want to do?” the imp asked.

The voice shattered Durrtan’s wonderful daydream. Now stuck in reality — damp, cold, aching reality — Durrtan was forced, once again, to think.

“I’ll need to distract the wyvern while I climb that fargging wall again,” Durrtan said. “Just get it the farg away from the opening so I can get in, get my axe and hack it to pieces?”

The imp chuckled, pointed yellow teeth appearing in the dim light provided by his torch. “How does the impressively-large friend of Milkik intend to distract — “

Only after the imp went crashing through the waterfall into the secret entrance did Durrtan realize that it was a good plan. The wyvern uttered its shriek-like roar, which was soon drowned by the imp’s actual shrieking. At first Durrtan just wanted the imp to get eaten because it had laughed at him. Now, as the imp ran screaming around the room with the wyvern on its heels, Durrtan could climb the wall and ready himself to slay the beast. Not thinking had once again proved more useful than thinking. Yes!

Once again Durrtan plunged through the curtain of water. Renewed vigor coursed through his veins as he drove himself against the push of the falling river. His head and shoulders went numb from the constant slam of cold liquid. Muscles quivered and his skin broke and bled from new and old wounds.

At last inside the opening, Durrtan wasted no time drawing his axe. The imp darted about the cavern, its torch clutched fiercely for both protection and light, appearing to Durrtan like a maniacal firefly.

Wait, shouldn’t the fire have gone out when the imp went through the... ah, forget it.

The tiny glint of the wyvern’s black eyes and its plentiful rows of teeth was all Durrtan had to identify it. Another fire spell would have taken too much time. Axe overhead, Durrtan charged. The imp, noticing Durrtan, paused, veered right and headed for him. The wyvern followed promptly.

Durrtan leaped to side, avoiding the imp. He brought his axe down with all the strength his shoulders and arms would give him. The wyvern’s skull stood no chance.

The wyvern bit Durrtan’s axe.

Fargging wyvern!

Axe clutched firmly in its jaws, the wyvern pulled back from Durrtan. Durrtan held tight. This was his favorite axe. He had named it after his two favorite things in the whole world: Cleavage. The fargging lizard wasn’t going to eat his Cleavage.

The wyvern reared. Durrtan’s feet rose above the ground. The ground was lost in darkness, as the imp, with the only source of light, was resting several feet away. Desperate, Durrtan kicked wildly. Part of his boot met with the soft underside of the wyvern’s neck. A short gurgle leaked from the beast.

Sudden, stinging pain ignited in Durrtan’s feet and then backside as he met unexpectedly with the unforgiving cavern floor. With two smacks and a series of clicks, the wyvern’s clawed forelegs touched down as well. Another shriek-roar was followed by the horrid stench of halitosis. Gagging, Durrtan rolled on his side to avoid the wyvern’s snapping jaws. He rolled again, this time coming up on his knees and then his feet. He couldn’t see the fargging thing, but sure as breasts were soft could he smell it. What could it possibly be eating that caused such atrocious breath?

Devoid of most light, Durrtan let his nose guide him. He guessed where the wyvern’s head was and swung. He caught a whisk of its breath as its skull avoided the blow. The smell grew faint as it drew back, then raged toward Durrtan. Durrtan reacted with a quick thrust of his axe into its face.

With painful redundancy, the wyvern bit Durrtan’s axe, this time to the handle. Durrtan slipped his fingers off of his precious Cleavage before they were severed by bone-grinding teeth.

After a quick check to make sure he hadn’t soiled himself, Durrtan sprinted into the enveloping darkness. He heard Cleavage clank against the cavern floor as the wyvern gave chase.

Thankfully, the chamber was devoid of the upward-protruding stones that had littered the other areas of the cave. Durrtan raced blindly around the room, seemingly imitating the imp’s earlier experience. Except Durrtan wasn’t shrieking. He wasn’t a girly-man. He only ran so he wouldn’t be eaten.

A thought struck Durrtan. It hurt, but he recovered and used it. The imp, too stupid to put out the torch, stood out like a sailor’s beacon on a fog-filled night. Durrtan rushed for the tiny being. The imp picked up on the plan and ran away from him.

“Wait, imp!” Durrtan shouted.

“No! Big not-friend wants to feed Milkik to wyvern!”

The wyvern’s breath was hot and moist on Durrtan’s neck. The small hairs of his arms leapt straight as though trying to flee his body. “Yes,” Durrtan responded, “It’s a good plan.”

The imp shrieked. The wyvern shrieked. Feeling left out, Durrtan shrieked too. For a second they ran in circles around the room, the imp followed by Durrtan followed by the wyvern.

Getting used to this thinking thing, Durrtan paused and dove right. The wyvern continued after the space of air that followed the imp. Moments before hitting the ground, Durrtan’s shoulder struck something hard, likely made of stone. Very well, so there was one of the upward-protruding things.

But it wasn’t one of those things. This thing moved. The scrape of its base against the cavern floor made the wyvern pause. Even the imp slid to a halt.

The light from the torch showed it just enough. A small pillar of marble, the height of a man’s chest. It had been in the center of the room the whole time, just out of Durrtan’s view until now.

So close to it now, the enchanting pulsation of The Sphere of Gerumhand gripped him. The pain and aches of Durrtan’s quest floated away like sand in the wind. His body, more so even than his mind, was drawn to its power. The Sphere of Gerumhand increased a man’s strength tenfold, made his flesh as tough as steel armor, and even increased one’s sensitivity to the workings of magic.

Durrtan stood and touched the Sphere. It was slightly larger than his fist. A portion of it was embedded in the marble pillar. Legend said Sphere was carved from a demon’s heart using tools made from dragon bones. Durrtan could feel the tiny arcane carvings that gave the Sphere its power.

The wyvern roared. Not a shriek this time, but a full I’m-going-to-eat-you roar. Anxious to harness its power, Durrtan seized the Sphere. He pulled, hoping to wrench it free of the pillar. When it didn’t budge, Durrtan placed both hands on the Sphere and kicked the pillar.

The wyvern charged. Choosing life, Durrtan bolted away from the Sphere. His feet gave out, and Durrtan fell on his knee. Pain coursed up his arms. The power of the Sphere held his hands fast.

The wyvern shrieked as it drew closer. Durrtan pulled harder, hoping either the Sphere or his hands would come loose. The beast neared, jaws open, bad breath streaming forth. Its mouth went for Durrtan’s hand. Durrtan fell again, taking the pillar with him. All the force he could muster into his arms was not enough to keep the marble stand from slamming onto Durrtan’s chest. The dull thump it made reminded him that for all Durrtan’s strength, his skin and muscle were but living flesh, easily torn by sharp fangs and claws.

Durrtan squirmed and writhed, but the marble pillar held him firm. This was the end. Why had Durrtan accepted this quest? He loved his lord, but he loved his life a lot more. Durrtan was too young to die. Newly past his twenty-sixth winter, Durrtan had hardly achieved much of what someone his age should have. All of Durrtan’s meager accomplishments flashed before his eyes — only thirty-two women in all. There was twenty times that number that he could romp with in his homeland alone. There were too many breasts he hadn’t seen, too many thighs he hadn’t been between! What an unfair fate!

The wyvern’s mouth, longer than Durrtan’s forearms, clamped down. Stone and tooth scraped against each other. A piece of a tooth spit into the darkness, its path written in the clatter it made against the cavern floor.

Again it shrieked. The wyvern retracted its long neck. It had bitten the marble pillar. After a brief shake of the head, the wyvern thrust forward for a second attempt at the pinned Durrtan.

Panic made his blood cold and his skin hot. He blurted a string of random arcane words. A momentary, blinding flash confused Durrtan. The wyvern roared again. This time it stepped back several paces.

Durrtan’s heart settled to a less painful pace. The telltale tingling in his fingers confirmed that Durrtan had in fact cast that spell. Reaching down into recesses of his body and soul, Durrtan unleashed a second spell. A streak of concentrated fire shot from his mouth hand, striking the wyvern between the eyes.

Again the beast shrieked. Durrtan launched a third fire dart into the open maw. Its roar melted into a gurgle. Blood spattered onto the cold cave floor in an even pattern while the wyvern stumbled, tottered, and fell.

The imp brought its torch to Durrtan. At last he could see the object he had been sent to find by Lord-Thane Normunbrand Brazenhammer. Despite being hidden in a cave for hundreds of years, The Sphere of Gerumhand appeared as lustrous as freshly polished marble. The pale gray-silver reflected Durrtan’s image as though it were a looking glass.

As he stared, the Sphere slid free of the pillar. At last, The Sphere of Gerumhand was accepting Durrtan as its wielder — a little fragging late, but, whatever. He clenched it firmly in one hand. Power rippled through Durrtan’s limb, making his muscles quiver, his bones rattle. The hairs on his arms and neck and back and other places stood firm. The marble pillar felt as light as wood. Durrtan shoved the silly stand aside.

“Giant, beefy friend of Milkik killed the wyvern, found his ball,” the imp said.

“You are truly a master of the obvious,” Durrtan muttered.

Energy snaked through Durrtan, wriggling and writhing like giant worms of power. Eager to test his new might, Durrtan reached out for the imp’s torch. The fire slithered from the torch into Durrtan’s free hand. He shaped and twisted the flames like clay, made it larger, hotter, brighter.

“The Barbarian King cannot possibly defeat me now,” Durrtan bellowed. His voice bounced from the cavern walls, both mocking and praising him. “Lord-Thane Normunbrand Brazenhammer will see his throne restored! My noble quest is nearly complete.”

Durrtan burst into a torrent of laughter. The flames in his hands blazed brighter and crackled as though joining in his amusement.

A glint caught Durrtan’s eye. Curiosity dried his laugh. He cast the light of the fire toward the cavern’s ceiling. His mouth fell open. Hidden in nooks and crevices above the perimeter of the room were piles and stacks of gold coins, jewelry and gems, a treasure of hundreds of years, secretly hidden by Gerumhand in his final days. It was a just reward that Durrtan take a few for his troubles. Surely his lord would reward him almost as handsomely once Durrtan returned and defeated...

* * *

The sun’s midday light no longer hurt Durrtan’s eyes as he exited the mouth of the cave with his sixth bundle of treasure. His horse, Pussyfoot, neighed as his master secured the sack to her saddle. “This is probably enough to last me some time,” Durrtan said to the imp.

“What destination for Milkik’s obscenely rich friend?” the imp asked.

“South,” Durrtan said, his gaze drifting dreamily in that direction. He patted the sphere in pocket.

The imp nodded dumbly, then shook its head. “Doesn’t grotesquely powerful friend of Milkik come from the north? What about the noble quest?”

Cleavage in hand, Durrtan mounted Pussyfoot. “My quest, Milkik, is for women. And, south, there’s plenty of them and no fargging barbarians.”