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REAL BARBARIAN HEROES

All art on this page (c) Richard Thompson - cheers Rich!  I'll never forget that steamy night in Barbados....;)

WHO ARE THE REAL BARBARIAN HEROES?

Mainly Hoff, although Albaran, Muslio and Kanas have all appeared.  But Hoff is the star.  Imagine a slightly less smart, and frequently luckless, Conan-era Arnie.  Always broke, happy to take any adventure offered to him, Hoff never seems to come out at the end of it any better off, but he keeps trying.

WHERE DO THEY HANG OUT (AND WILL I HAVE TO BUY THEM A DRINK?)

At the moment, the RBH's seem to be hanging out in the archives of that fine webmag Quantum Muse ( www.quantummuse.com ) and on my computer.  And if you're buying them a drink, I'll have a vodka and coke.   I am, technically, their boss, though they might argue with that.

WHAT HAVE THEY BEEN UP TO RECENTLY?

Usual.  Fighting, drinking, killing stuff for money.  Oh, you actually want to know?  Ok...

HERO TAKES A FALL

Has just been re-written and republished by Daikaijuzine at http://www.daikaijuzine.com 

The galloping hooves slowed to a halt outside. Pettersen already had a flagon in hand and was drawing a quart of ale for the hero when the tavern door flung open, sending a breeze whipping around the bar to momentarily dim the oil lamps. He stood framed in the doorway by the moonlight, a great bear of a man, bulging muscles glistening with oil. He wore a skimpy leather vest, and his pockets bulged with what Pettersen hoped was gold.
The hero removed his helm and tucked it under one arm. His other arm was wrapped around an attractive, dark-haired woman whose head barely reached his armpit.
“I have returned!” the hero boomed, taking a step forward and beaming expansively.
One of the old men in the corner glanced up from his dice game and snorted loudly, the only one to acknowledge the hero's dramatic appearance. The newcomer's brow furrowed, as if a smell had drifted under his nose that he was at a loss to identify. 

THE CAVES OF OTRECHT - http://www.quantummuse.com/jan06_caves.html

Hoff slunk towards the cave-mouth, set in the mountain wall high above him and accessible only by a long and twisting path hacked roughly through the bushes. His destination was the legendary and sprawling caves of Otrecht, and the mythical treasure contained within that only he could find. He had set up camp a little way back in the foothills, where he had spent what he hoped would be his last night plagued with dreams of the fabled Sword That Goes Ting! Being the Chosen One, he had discovered, meant a lot of travel and a distinct lack of sleep. But now, at last, his quest was nearing an end.

THE BUTTER-KNIFE SAMURAI.- Appeared in issue one of Art and Prose - www.artandprose.com 

Erita pouted, hands on ample hips. “The Butter-knife Samurai is the bravest, most handsome, and most mysterious warrior in all Chanhoyu. He can kill a man with flames from his eyes. They say he’s bedded over three thousand women without -” she threw Hoff a loaded glance, “without once having to pay for the pleasure. Which reminds me…”
Hoff was already up and edging for the door, covering his modesty with his crumpled breeches. “I’m a bit hard up at the moment, Erita. How about I pay you next time?”
“That’s what you said last time, Hoff! How am I supposed to make a living?”
Hoff thought as quickly as he could. It wasn’t often he came up with smart ideas, but he was proud of this one. “Why don’t you bet on me?” he suggested brightly.
“Bet on you?”
“Against the Butter-knife Samurai. You have wager-shops in Futo, don’t you? Put coin on me to defeat him. If he’s as great as you say the odds should be good, and you’ll end up with all the money I owe you, and more.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And if you don’t win?”
Hoff scratched his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve never lost a fight.”

THE FELINE QUEEN - Published in Quantum Muse May 2006, and can be found at http://www.quantummuse.com/archives_fantasy.html#may06 

Gus sighed. “It keeps on happening,” he said. “I’m one of the castrato of the court of Queen Liezuka of Xiwome. I’m returning to her, carrying jewels as a gift from the Overking of Otreybu.”
Hoff didn’t know what a castrato was; he assumed it had something to do with cooking. But something in Gus’s eyes was shifty, and Hoff doubted he was telling him all he knew. “I’ve travelled all over the world,” he said, “and I’ve never heard of Xiwome, or Queen Liezuka.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Gus looked glum. “Few men have ever seen Xiwome, even fewer the Court of the Feline Queen, and returned to the outside world to tell of it.”
“Why? Is it very dangerous?” Hoff’s interest was aroused at once. If it was dangerous, and he hadn’t been there, it was somewhere he should go. It was what being a barbarian hero was all about.
“Dangerous? Xiwome itself is not dangerous. But the Queen --” Gus looked around nervously, nostrils quivering. “If you saw the Queen, you would not want to leave either. She is an enchanting creature. She has the softest fur, the longest tail, and all six of her breasts are as soft, as round, as the finest silken cushions. No man can resist her charms, and no man can tame her.”
To Hoff’s ears, this sounded like a challenge he could enjoy. “No man can tame her because -- how many breasts, did you say?”

And a new extract from the most recent Hoff story, which mainly ponders the heavy subject of beer, and the acquisition of it... 

LUKEWARM IN LYNHELM

Hoff tipped out his purse with easy confidence. No wizard coins or Bangalurian zlotti in there today, just old-fashioned gold and silver, good currency anywhere on the continent. Petersen tested one of the coins between his teeth, and grunted his approval. “What’ll it be, then?”
“Flagon of Harlot’s Gusset, I think.” Hoff’s mouth watered as he watched Petersen dip the leather flagon into the barrel, reaching down until his arm vanished up to the shoulder, and bringing up the frothing, dripping, pint. He placed it in front of Hoff with considerable ceremony.
Under the lamplight, the ale gleamed like a tankard of rubies. Hoff took a long, careless draught, letting the liquid splash down his chin and onto his pectoral muscles. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and licked his lips. “Slips down a treat! Why don’t you draw one for yourself, Petersen? On me!”
Petersen sighed. “I wish I could, old friend. But the barrel’s almost empty, and that looks like the last pint of Harlot’s I’ll ever draw.”
Hoff choked on the last of the ale and put the flagon down quickly, wishing he had been more careful in his quaffing. “You’re not closing down, are you?”
“I might have to.” Petersen picked up the flagon and began rhythmically wiping it with the cloth that hung over his shoulder. “The brewery in Lynhelm is in trouble. They can’t deliver any more, and that means no Widow’s Muffler, no Foaming Stoat--”
“No Harlot’s,” Hoff finished for him. He dunked a finger in a small puddle of the ruby ale, and sucked it noisily. “Can’t let that happen,” he mumbled.
Petersen sighed. He seemed intent on wiping the bottom clean out of the flagon. “What can we do?”
Hoff chuckled, a low rumble that started deep in his chest. “I’m a barbarian hero, Petersen. I can do anything.” He pushed to his feet, six foot nine of gleaming muscle and sinew with a pink ale-foam moustache. He half-drew his broadsword.
“I hope you’re not going to start waving that thing about in here,” Petersen snapped. “Last time it took three months to repair all the damage.”
Chastened, Hoff let go of the sword, and the heroic speech he was about to declaim died on his lips.
Petersen snorted. “You were about to tell me it’s your heroic duty to charge off to Lynhelm and find out what’s going on. To save my business, right?” Hoff nodded. “Won’t happen. You’ll charge off to Lynhelm all right. Then you’ll find the brewery, fill your belly with Harlot’s until it leaks out of your ears, pass out in a whorehouse, and wake up tied to the back of a camel halfway to Bangaluria. Trust me, I‘ve seen you on a drinking binge.”
Hoff shuffled his feet. “Just because that might have happened before --”
“Three times, by my reckoning. Last time it was when you went off after that princess who turned out to be a wrestler --”
“I’m trying to forget that. More beer would help!”
“Is there something between you and camels that you’d like to tell me about?”
“--doesn’t mean it’s going to happen again!”
“Sure.” Petersen rolled his eyes. “And your sudden attack of heroism has nothing to do with the prospect of losing your favourite drink, does it?”
“Of course not.” Hoff edged towards the door. “I suppose I’ll be off, then…”
Arms folded, Petersen glared at him.
“I won’t, you know --”
“Out!” The screwed up bar towel whizzed past his ear. Hoff ducked, and ran.