... And A Shiny New Sword - The Tale of Garbus the Malcontent

Chapter 1: Attend the loo before reading!

The music was loud. Loud and joyful, two things that our noble hero Garbus would have preferred to be without. But the beer was good.

It was the first time I ever met him, and even that was a chance meeting. I never intended to approach someone of his reputation, and beside the fact that I had better things to do than being beaten to an inch of my life by an ill-tempered warrior, I had respect for this man. Without ever meeting him in person, I heard a lot about his adventures and deeds that he had done for the kingdom. Retelling his story that I heard from third or fourth hand made up a significant part of my income.

So in between two songs and a lot of cheering and applause from the crowd in the tavern, the only thing I could see was a broad shouldered person sitting at the counter all on his own, having his back turned on me and holding on to a mug that was big enough to drown a cat in it. Throughout my performance he had not looked at me once, never had turned his attention to me. My professional pride was hurt. I would have thrown something at him, so at least he would turn around once and look at the bard who is giving a performance here. But the sword he was carrying on his back was big and intimidating, and it just told me without words: Don't! Just... don't!

So I didn't. But the longer I played and sang, and the less attention I gained from that one patron that emptied this mug in one sip and had it refilled instantly by the barmaid, the stronger grew the urge to at least talk to him about it. Everyone else in this room was enjoying my music. So why wasn't he?

Finally I took a break, collected a bit of money from the bystanders and went to the counter to get myself a mug of ale. I stood deliberately right next to the man, but did not look him in the face when I started talking. "My good fella, how come you do not enjoy yourself like the others? We have song, we have dance, and it is a beautiful day."

The man next to me raised his enormous mug right to his lips, put his head back and let the entire content run down into his mouth. He didn't even seem to swallow in between. I would have looked at him a little closer at this moment, but the thought of having two gallons of beer running through that body made me feel like my bladder was about to explode. Had I taken a closer look, I might have thought twice before speaking to him again.

"You know," I started, blissfully unaware of whom I was addressing, "most people would feel privileged to attend a bard's performance. Honored, even. And they show a little gratitude by watching him and giving him just a tiny bit of appreciation by clapping or singing along or dancing."

"I'm busy," was the grumbled answer, with a voice of a man who would wrestle a bear as a morning sport. The barmaid caught my eye, and her looks tried to warn me, but despite my usual attitude towards attractive women like her, this time I ignored her. My reputation was at stake - though ironically, I didn't act like it.

"Busy doing what, my friend? Taking down the booze supplies of this tavern on your own?"

The barmaid looked terrified as she heard my words, and she hurried to fill up the mug once again. At this moment it dawned me. Judging by the size of the mug - which I had never seen before given out in any tavern, so it must have been the man's own - he was drinking light beer, otherwise he would not be sitting here anymore. Not after two fillings. But... the barmaid did not fill it up from the beer barrel. She emptied an entire bottle of pear schnaps into this container and filled up the rest with cider. The first warning bells that this was not an ordinary man began to ring in the back of my mind.

Still, he would not look at me. "Anything I do, I do alone." The words, though growled like thunder over the mountainside, had a strange sadness to it, a melancholy that was rare with such a big and strong fellow. His mug stood freshly filled before him, and without hesitation he emptied it once more. The mug hit the wooden counter again, and the man let out a mighty belch. "How many?" he asked the barmaid.

The barmaid filled up my tankard of ale and urged me with her gestures to go back performing, but I wasn't done yet. She turned to the man. "That was seven so far. You still got five. But we're out of pear schnaps."

"What else have you got?" And he wasn't even slurring. While I finally looked at him, I couldn't believe what I just heard. Seven? Of these??? My bladder signalled me to retreat and take a leak in his stead, because someone would have to. It looked like I wasn't alone in this sentiment, since the barmaid's face told me that she urgently had to go herself.

"We have rum... honey brand... cherry brand... and something that Fastin has worked in his spare time. He calls it the Fastin Wheat Punch." With an apologetic look she presented him the various kinds of corked bottles.

"Sounds good. In that order, please!" The mug was filled up once again, and I finally dared to ask him:

"Say... what exactly are you trying to accomplish here?"

He finally turned around and looked me directly in the eyes. I could finally see his face in its entirety, and in my mind two possible paths opened up: On one of them my life would end within the next five seconds, in a brutal and painful, yet spectacular way. On the other, which was only slightly more optimistic, I would become this man's travel companion, maybe even his friend and advisor, following him into the deepest, darkest places of the world and fighting monsters and evildoers and facing dangers that would haunt my nightmares forever. And the choice of the path was not mine... it was his.

Two things were for sure. I would not continue my performance tonight. And my bladder finally caved in to the urge I had felt before.

"What I am trying to accomplish..." He spoke slowly, giving every word the blunt force of a punch in the gut. "This tavern simply cannot give me enough change for a gold crown, so I have to drink the rest of what it's worth."

I looked at him... looked at the enormous mug... looked at the bottles that the barmaid had aligned in front of him... looked at the barmaid who returned my gaze with an expression that I often saw in women's faces, which said: Well there! Now you've done it. Now he's really pissed. Usually that was the look when I faced those women's husbands on the morning after when I couldn't climb out of the window fast enough. "Tried to warn you," she said. "That's Garbus."

I heard the words. They reached my mind, but they still failed to connect to anything. Until they finally clicked. "Garbus? Wait... the Garbus? I mean... the Garbus Garbus?" Was this real? Was I standing before the one true hero of Nivella, the man who had defeated the dire wolves of Wolverton and raided the tombs of Armandori to find the Staff of Lyceron, an artifact that would grant its wielder unlimited stamina in an area that I cannot speak openly about, since there could be children listening?

His deep blue eyes fixated me. "So you've heard of me? At least one has."

"Heard of you? I mean..." As slowly as the pee ran down my left leg, I became fully aware of the situation I found myself in. Here I was, talking to the one man in this kingdom that had fought dragons, demons and all sorts of hell spawn in between, and someone who didn't seem in the mood for a little chat. For whatever reason which was entirely his own, he didn't find it in himself to enjoy what I was doing for the crowd in here, and it would have been best to let him be.

So I did what I always do in a situation like this, facing overwhelming odds and looking for the solution with the best outcome for my own wellbeing: I chose the wrong solution and made everything even worse for me.

"I am truly sorry if I offended you, good sir. Ehm... can I get you a drink?"