The Labors of Baron Bragg

Part 1

Once upon a distant time, there was a little castle that contained this as well as that. It was the home of Baron Bragg, a stately fellow in his prime who knew how to handle both his fief and his sword. He possessed a few acres of decent land, a handful of servants and soldiers, and a firm belief in bachelorhood. Baron Tim Bragg was a generally happy man.

So it was that one splendid summer’s day, in the very dark ages, a man came riding up to the baron’s castle. His dusty clothes were torn in strategic places, the poor jade he rode had several bleeding gashes, and upon reaching the castle gates, the hapless man collapsed and fell off the horse in a pitiful heap. The horse promptly died and fell the other way.
A stalwart guard by the name of Leonard Loose marched off to the human wreck and resolutely dumped a bucket of water over him.
"Huff!" crooned the victim and came to a sort of half-life.
"What are you, and why are you like that right here of all places?" Leonard asked gruffly and poked the man in the belly with a short sword.
"The Ba... Ba..." the man tried to no avail, but rallied impressively to state: "The Baron must be warned! They will cruurgh!"
Leonard carefully wiped the blood off his blade and sheathed it. "I can’t stand mumblers," he mumbled while assuming his regular sentry. "And nobody has any business saying that our nice baron is in danger. Curt!"
A fat head appeared around the corner, frantically chewing on a piece of gristle. "Yes, Sir?" it said and swallowed, in that order.
"Get those bodies out of here."
Leonard turned his attention to the rolling hills again, happily scratching his stomach.

Part 2

On a hillock sixty furlongs from Baron Bragg’s castle, a man in black attire sat atop his enormous war horse and looked immutable. Distractedly, he fingered his black steel morning star and muttered to himself. A few dozen yards away, his faithful followers awaited their orders, but Ron the Utmost had not yet received all the scouting reports. He was forced to hold back and observe until the situation was completely under his control.
He could have been happier.

Tim Bragg poked around dejectedly in his pork stew with turnips while his private jester Peter made a fool of himself as best he could. However, the baron’s thoughts were elsewhere; these peaceful times were too peaceful. If nothing happened soon, he would likely lapse into a coma from pure boredom. Something had to be done! But what? The baron sighed and filled his spoon with turnips and pork.
He looked sternly at the turnips. They gave no reaction. That put the icing on the soup.
"I’ve had enough!" the baron hollered and sent his turnips in a beautiful arc through the hall, over Peter, past the beer barrels, out a window and down in the courtyard, from where a hoarse cry could soon be heard if you knew what to listen for.
"I’ll start a war against Elderberry County tomorrow unless anyone has a better idea!" howled Baron Tim, puffing and fuming. All those in attendance discreetly vacated the hall.
A spoonload of lukewarm pork stew with turnips landed with a resounding "schlosh" inside Leonard Loose’s chainmail collar and disappeared downward. Leonard stumbled, and with a surprised moan he fell face first into a pile of otter droppings.
He could have been happier.

Part 3

Two men struggled laboriously along the muddy road to the baron’s castle. One was a good deal taller than the other, who in return was so much wider, and both leaned on a sturdy oak staff. Their cloaks were as thick as they were black, and with the hoods pulled down, observing the men’s faces was difficult. They did not have to go much further now.

Ron the Utmost sat half-heartedly punishing one of his men, waiting for a final report, when the rain started to fall. Seconds later, a bolt of lightning roared down from the nearest cloud and shattered a nearby aspen into tiny splinters. Ron smiled gently and renewed his efforts with the red paint and ocean salt.
His confidence was returning.

Tim Bragg tightened the last little leather strap on his muscle cuirass and drew his sword to give it a closer inspection. After Leonard polished the rust off, it actually looked pretty impressive, but it was after all an heirloom from the baron’s great grandfather.
"Are my men prepared for battle, Peter?" he asked curtly.
"Uh... well... maybe so..." said the fool after a short but embarrassing silence.
"What do you mean?" roared the baron, now visibly annoyed.
"..." Peter explained and ran for the closest door. The baron watched with a funny tingle in the pit of his stomach as his till then so trusty old jester tumbled out from the twelfth floor of the east tower. Somebody should wall that old doorway up.

Part 4

"This is insufferable! Where are the others hiding, Curt?" Baron Bragg yelled at one of his two remaining soldiers. Curt shuffled his feet and mumbled something indefensible. The baron took two steps towards the cringing man and took a firm grip of his collar with one hand.
"Don’t tell me that you don’t know, because then!"
Two men of various sizes chose precisely this moment to tramp in through the main gates, leaning on a huge oak staff. Curt seized the moment eagerly.
"L-l-l-look, baron! A couple of strangers!" he said and then used his newfound freedom for a relieved jog home.
"And who are you?" Tim Bragg screamed, red as a cooked crawfish. Nothing seemed to be like it should today.
The shorter man threw back his hood and smiled shrewdly. The taller one said: "We are your last hope, Baron Bragg."

An army of very macho men dressed in black, covered in clinking steel plates and wielding a wide array of big weapons, covered the valley from rim to rim as far as the eye could see. The thunderstorm helped improving their already quite impressive image.
Leading this host, a proud Ron the Utmost guided his jet black war stallion Tom. "Soon," he thought, "soon I will see the castle."
Ron was looking forward to a relaxing battle against an evenly matched enemy. He had no idea how satisfied he would be.

Part 5

Baron Tim Bragg was having a rough day. Never before had he been as confused as he was now, and his deepest wish was that it would never happen again. First the boredom, then the mutiny and now – two men with a staff, one uglier than the other, and both claiming to be his only hope! It looked a lot like rain, too.
Not only had he had enough; he had had more than he ever asked for. The baron, red-faced and with little wisps of steam rising from his ears, strode up to the taller man, head-butted him senseless and ate their oak staff.
"What in the name of traditional square dancing are you doing, you knucklehead?" the shorter man wondered quietly while ducking under the baron’s wild sword slashes and parrying the odd kick with his shins.
"Bringing order to my castle!" the nobleman yelled back and aimed a left hook at one of the ugliest chins he had ever seen. The cloaked man found it appropriate to stick his fallen comrade-in-arms in his pocket and run off. So that’s what he did.

The time had almost come when Ron would get his cherished battle with all the goodies that went with it. The post-battle pillaging was a standing favorite with the soldiers, but Ron himself would be glad to trade his spoils for two or three juicy duels on moonlit hilltops any day of the week. Or night if he really had to have moonlight.
He listened happily to the rain beating on his full helmet and played with Tom’s spiked and riveted reins. Life was actually bearable at times if you had your own little invasion force to lead into tough battles every now and then. Ron was sure that the baron and his men would put up a suitable resistance before passing away. Oh, the mere thought brought a warm smile to his face and made the inside of the all-enclosing helmet feel cozy and nice. And there’s the castle, even!
A small shape with a large bulge approximately where the inside pocket should be came running Ron’s way as he was riding along at the head of his host of thousands. Ron gave a snappy halt command and studied the newcomer. Unknown to anyone else – because of the helmet – his handsome features took on a surprised look.
"Angus! What are you doing here?" he said and fell of his horse.

Part 6

Tim Bragg was alone once again. He did not like it at all. Every time his soldiers ran away like that, it meant that something large and mean was coming to his castle, and that he would have to handle it himself. Complaining of boredom was one thing, but this was getting silly already. The baron stomped resolutely up the stairs of his highest tower and stood spying out the land.
"This looks calm... but... what is that?" He squinted slightly and stared hard at a small dark spot on the horizon. A raindrop landed on his nose, but he was too focused to notice. Several seconds passed by, some of them making chatty comments on the situation to each other. Then the baron gasped "Ron!" and jumped out the window.

Angus the Handyman glanced over his shoulder, reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly larger but less alert man than himself. This man was hastily deposited at Ron the Utmost’s feet, and an awed "oooohhhh!" spread throughout the army. Everyone recognized Inner Marshal Ottoman Sleaze and his magic staff. But the staff was missing.
"There you are," Angus whimpered, half beside himself with desperation, and capped it with a forceful "So there!"
"But... this cannot be true, Angus. Both of you should be at extreme risk of extinction!"
The little man snorted disdainfully and poked Ron in the stomach with a passing farmer. "We are, but not extreme enough. Now let us beat up barons together, y’all and us," he said while doing so. Ron considered the proposal, gazing at the distant castle. He forgot all about Angus when a roundish figure dropped down from the highest tower, hit the ground, bounced up and closed in on Ron with amazing speed. Ron could hardly believe his eyes.

Part 7

"There can only be one man that fat and that stupid in this county," Ron gasped excitedly and raised his big, black meat cleaver. "That’s the baron! Forward, men!"
The armored mass behind his cast a quick eye at the rapidly advancing baron, turned on its heels and ran in the same direction as he did. Left behind were Ron, Angus and sort of Ottoman, none of whom knew what they would do now. They looked at each other, at the baron, at Ron’s army and back at the baron. Then they shrugged in unison and charged Baron Bragg.

Tim Bragg was a man endowed with some unusual talents. Not only could he survive a fall from any height (as long as he landed on his stomach), but he could also sharpen a codfish and throw darts blindfolded. All at once. It is less known, but still a fact, that he briefly held the world record in the 1,300 yard dash. Now he came careering in the general direction of the three tricksters on the valley floor like an adrenaline-packed locomotive in top form, and he had obvious plans on using more force than necessary in the not very distant future.
Three men and a horse assumed a precarious battle position on top of an appropriate hillock. The little globular power pack whistling towards them was starting to make itself pretty obvious. Angus coughed and double-checked his battle spatula. Ottoman, like the Inner Marshal he was, told a joke about two firs and an oak. Ron smiled.
"Here he comes, guys," he said softly and raised his cleaver in defense when Tim Bragg came huffing and puffing up the hillside with adrenaline spraying from his ears.

Part 8

Decades later, there were still stories circulating about the Battle of Pyre Hill, where Baron Bragg, the official County Hero, finally earned the reputation he had already deserved for so long. None of the local farmers’ sons or princelings have since excelled the good baron, though many felt the calling to try. Indeed, Tim Bragg is a name spoken respectfully in the Fjording Valley. Or else.
Eyewitnesses claim that Angus the Handyman dropped his spatula in the confusion ensuing when he realized that Baron Bragg was too hard-boiled to fry. This caused consternation in the defending ranks, especially since the spatula weighed in at twenty-eight pounds and landed on its owner’s foot.
"Hepp! He shouted doggedly and ran home to get a Band-Aid.
By now Baron Bragg was an obviously aggressive fact. Inner Marshal Ottoman Sleaze promptly decided to lose, which was easy. Legend has it that his last words were "...and who uncorked it?" but this is speculative at best. It also matters little what you say to an enraged four hundred pound baron with a large sword, which despite its venerable age had no difficulty parrying Ron’s famed Outer Hook and counter with an Upper Swing.
"Ron!" the baron hollered indiscriminately. "Long time, no see!"
"Ri – humph – right," answered the black knight, craftily keeping his helmet on.

CLANG!

"Sturdy helmet, that. Whoops. Where’d ya get it?" With surprising celerity, Tim Bragg dodged a bucketful of moldy coleslaw. Ron reached for another bucket.
"Built it myself. Goodness, you’re fat these days, Timmy."

Suddenly, there was only silence. Only a week later, after his cuirass was extracted from his right ear, did Ron realize his mistake, but he could have asked anyone. Nobody – nobody – calls Timothy Nicholas Bragg "fat" and leaves smiling.
Ron the Utmost’s best surgeons spent four weeks putting him together again, while Tom, his once-proud war horse, found a new career as sandwich material in the Bragg castle, and never again would the Fjording Valley be harassed by men like Ron the Utmost or Angus the Handyman. So Bragg got bored and invaded Elderberry County instead, but that’s a different story.

THE END!