‘”You go straight to town …” nag nag …”Don’t stay at Blimeydilly’s …” nag nag …’

How ever Tubberwood B. Clanc tried to imitate his lovely wife, it failed miserably. Amialda had considerably higher pitch, not to the level of risking the glassworks but bright if not even radiant. Her muttering husband managed to sound like the guard of the Southern Bridge at best, Theork Gumul, who dwelled under that bridge and was in a constant hangover. Tubberwood smiled remembering his old brother-in-pints. Theork was a perfect guard, his belching caused a shockwave that tended to scare the trespassers and their horses and the following stench took their memory and they turned back believing they had already crossed the bridge. And Ye Gods of the mountains, if he had any pea soup brewing in that cannon he called his bowels.

The muttering accompanied the steps along the mud road and the handicraft products in Tubberwood’s backback were heavy and mostly pottery. Of course, made by Amialda. Raising pigs and five kids was enough for him but he was the one to take care of the marketing for Amialda’s skilfully crafted pottery. Blimeydilly’s it was, after the pottery would be sold, that was for sure. Ten more miles to saunter, under the grey skies. Slight headwind brought some odd odors and even some clamor in its humble gusts. Just sounds and smells of forest road life. Tubberwood was in his thoughts, it could have been about tax returns—he used to be very precise with the taxes—or then simply about Telluranda Haupt, another wife in his neighbourhood. It took some time to notice he had company.

‘Not again! Don’t ye have any better to do?’ Tubberwood grunted to a pair of two-feet slugs slushing and sloshing along him, actually making small jumps now and then and turning their antennae eyes constantly around.

Lone travelers were popular company to these Mouldoornian slugs who used to pursue the best traditions of big fishes following ships at high seas. Since Tubberwood was just three feet and four and his sword short of one feet, he decided to let go. Especially after he took his hand near the sheath and both slugs hissed shortly. The long version of their hiss would produce a squirt of blinding venom so Tubberwood decided to be just another ship in the wide open forest. Even for the journeying loner there were three constants in the universe: Death, taxes and slugs.

Tubberwood stopped. Something in that middle one in the last sentence. Taxes. So he had been thinking about Telluranda Haupt, not about the taxes. What was it about the taxes? He had filled the forms to the best of his ability. No, they had been filled perfectly, since the kids had been put hanging from the wall hooks for the time he needed to concentrate. Tubberwood’s eyes sought a suitable piece of a tree stump and he sat down. The slugs glimpsed at each other and hissed shortly but the pig farmer was now strictly in his own world, calculating and trying to recall the correct form concerning the deduction for pork feces. Finally he had a couple of scrolls on his lap and the pen in his mouth as his gaze followed a pair of scavengers circling up in the sky. He did not pay any attention to the closing ruckus and clamor coming his way. Nor did he pay any attention to grunting and shouting, yelling and screaming among the clamor. He did pay attention to the two slugs slushing and sloshing away with a speed of not that of a typical slug, but then he again concentrated to deduce the pig feces from the window tax. A head with a helmet fell in front of him. A goblin’s head. The taxes were now more important than a goblin’s head without the rest of the body. Couple of arrows whizzed past. Tubberwood just sat there but lifted his finger to check the wind. An ugly and slimy face of an armored orc appeared in front of him and roared as the sword was raised.

‘Do you mind?’ Tubberwood muttered and waved his hand in front of his nose as the roaring was suppressed to a squeak due a longsword struck into the back of the aforementioned orc.

Tubberwood did not notice this, he had finally an idea:

‘Ah-a! It is correct. I knew it, I knew it,’ he jubilated and lifted the scroll above his head, in the middle of a bloody battle between the goblins and orcs.

‘I seem to have forgotten myself,’ Tubberwood muttered, stunned and still holding the scroll up. A goblin in shining armor approached from amidst the battling creatures. It did not raise its sword but rather dragged it behind. The goblin had a golden crown and couple of arrows sticking from its chest. It fell in front of Tubberwood and muttered something.

‘What’s that you saying?’ the pig farmer bent over the dying king, ‘don’t ye have anything better to do? I must be on my way.’

‘Take this sword, my son. You’ve well deserved it. Farewell, I’ll be with my ancestors soon, tell yer mother …’

‘I’m sorry, you have mistaken me for somebody else,’ Tubberwood said and turned to leave but at the same moment as the spirit left the goblin king, a bright celestial chorus sang shaking the ground and the king’s large sword jumped into the air, stopping there and pointing down right at Tubberwood.

The rest of the battle went suddenly quiet. The goblins looked at Tubberwood and went to their knees while the orcs stayed just staring at the little pig farmer with a glimmering sword hanging above him. Then the orcs started running and goblins sang. Tubberwood was a bit nervous and took a sidestep. The sword followed. Tubberwood swallowed and the sword fell. Closing his eyes he screamed.

The goblins stopped singing, it was not very angelic anyway. One of them approached carefully Tubberwood and helped him back up to his feet.

‘Your Highness, you are now the carrier of The Sword of Nuthin!’

Tubberwood B. Clanc felt around his body and found himself intact. He felt the sword, it was now lodged between his back and his backpack. He tried to draw it off but to no avail.

‘Well. It feels more than nothing. Thanks anyway but I don’t want it. I order you to take it away!’

‘No can do, your Highness. First of all, you’re not my king and second, The Sword of Nuthin has chosen you,’ said the goblin and joined the rest of his troops now withdrawing back into the darkness of the forest and leaving heaps of dead or dying behind them.

Tubberwood stared after him muttering and took the backback off to insert the scrolls there. The sword stayed glued into his back. Tubberwood sighed, prepared himself and continued his journey with even greater burden in his back. He did not get a hundred yards away before the Mouldoornian slugs returned. He tried to saunter nonchalantly but his nerves were still quite tense and he exploded.

‘Now listen you …’ he started and the slugs prepared for their long hiss but suddenly turned away and slushed and sloshed into the forest for good.

‘I say …’ Tubberwood was proud for a second about his might but then he noticed that he was holding The Sword of Nuthin in his hand. It glimmered nastily but then returned its everyday, a bit duller outlook.

‘Hurm,’ said Tubberwood, ‘perhaps you are of some use after all.’

He returned the sword onto his back. It felt warm for some time. Tubberwood B. Clanc strolled happily forward, proud of his success with the taxes. He was so happy that Telluranda Haupt settled her bosom into his mind for a moment. From among that bosom also Blimeydilly’s loomed above the happy traveler. He tried to calculate the price he was going to squeeze from some belligerent human for the sword. The town was now not far away, what could go wrong anymore?

An arrow whizzed into a tree stump next to Tubberwood B. Clanc.

‘Hold there,’ a sharp voice declared and an elf stepped to the front of stunned pig farmer, ‘what is your business here?’

‘My own business,’ Tubberwood said to the elf who was taller than him, with long golden hair and sharp ears.

His eyebrows seemed to make odd movement all the time, like he was calculating the possible movement of the target. Tubberwood continued:

‘I’ve just driven off armies of goblins and orcs. And a couple of Mouldoornian slugs. You better watch out.’

The elf watched around the little pig farmer like thinking if this was serious. Then his eyes stopped into the sword. Actually Tubberwood felt the warmth of the sword as he was getting impatient and he knew it was glimmering. The elf withdrew a few yards. The sword settled. The constant movement of the elf’s eyebrows had ceased and he said more peacefully:

‘Of course. I believe you. You have The Sword of Nuthin.’

‘I know. And now, if you please, I must be on my way.’

Suddenly the elf was down on his knees:

‘Sire, I beg your highest pardon for interrupting your journey but there is one issue I beg you to help with. It is of uttermost importance.’

Tubberwood B. Clanc was already strolling past the elf, who started following. The Sword of Nuthin started to glimmer a bit but the elf was tenacious, however giving a bit berth to the little pig farmer.

‘Sire, you happen to know The Bowl of Petrified Oat Porridge?’

Tubberwood kept walking:

‘Maybe. I use to scare my kids with stories about it.’

‘I have it with me.’

‘Piggies. The children’s lore says it, if it exists, is in the rest in The Fountain of Frozen Frackies; and it is never to be removed from there.’

Suddenly the sword turned red hot, Tubberwood screamed and tried to take it off but the sword was already hovering in front of the elf, who held a glowing bowl in front of him. Tubberwood was stunned for a moment but then settled.

‘Good, you can have both of them,’ he said and turned to leave, only to see The Sword of Nuthin glowing in front of him. It was actually pointing at him in close range. Tubberwood took a sidestep to walk past it. The sword moved with him and came even closer until its tip softly touched his belly. Tubberwood went nervous.

‘It cannot be taken by anyone but you. And now The Sword of Nuthin has chosen you for this mission,’ the elf declared.

‘But I don’t wanna! Why must the bowl be there anyway?’

‘You don’t remember? It keeps this world together. The Gods of the mountains are already nervous and ready to open the gates from the Dark Worlds if they must. The Bowl of Petrified Oat Porridge must reside in The Fountain of Frozen Frackies!’

The mind of the little pig farmer was not certain if it could handle this data. It was a children’s lore. But then again, he was against a glowing bowl of uneaten porridge left by some mountain God aeons ago, and a sword that seemed to carry a mind of its own.

‘Will you then join me?’ Tubberwood started but the elf was nowhere to be seen, the mud road was empty.

The sword was again on his back. He was holding the bowl which was not glowing anymore but a hardened breakfast that you could kill someone with. Or everyone, apparently. Anyway, good thing was, he did not have a clue which way the Fountain was. Until he noticed a deviating path starting to glow, illuminating part of the darkest forest.

Tubberwood B. Clanc sighed and started his voyage.

To Part 2