“Crimson blade of the warrior fell,

Fell in ferocity, he cleaved them well.

None as good as this shining son,

He won’t quit the field ‘til the battle’s won.

They call him Joe! The Bold-est of them all!

They call him Joe! And never will he fall!

They call him Joe…”

—The Ballad of Sir Joe the Bold, author unknown.

“Come with me, my companions, to witness my greatness,” exclaimed Sir Joe the Bold, madly racing into the heart of the goblin lair. For a mere mortal man, such bravery would be foolhardy, but not for the legend, Sir Joe the Bold. The armored knight named Joseph Hyacinth Mulfinger was six foot, six inches of pure, unalloyed muscle and sinew and everyone knew it. They knew because he fit the mold, visually. They knew because he told them, repeatedly. They knew that he bore the title; hero of the land of Fereal.

And if ever he should fail to do so the task would fall to me. I’m Garbeaux, called “Golden-Voiced”, bard in his employ, though he only deigns to be possessive if another noble compliments my work. Though, usually, it’s less possessive and more … insulting. Indeed, I graduated from bard college for this. Four years of preparation with the goal of singing songs, courting fair ladies, and retelling the adventures of great heroes. Sadly, being a hero’s bard, contracted to only one great man, means you are always the second fiddle in every situation. That is to say that I wasn’t having much luck with any of my own heroic endeavors. I’m not great with a blade, skilled in magic or deft with tools because, whenever I try to use them, the task is taken from me by the man whose story I tell. So, instead, I’ve just been following Sir Joe for the past two years; writing of his exploits and documenting his adventures. Just. His...

“Focus Gabby,” yelled Sir Joe. I hated being called Gabby. He knew that. “You fall behind! Aheh, yes.”

I called back to him; “Sure thing boss!” Boss, because, well, no one pissed Sir Joe off. Not on purpose. Why? Because no one pissed him off and lived. Boss, because pissing him off was pretty easy to do, and we were in a place where if a bard who didn’t fight disappeared it would seem only natural.

“We must rescue the Holidays for the people or their spirits will be broken!” yelled Joe. The goblins had broken into the king’s castle and stole every supply for the winter holiday, from the tree to the kissing sprigs, whatever those were. The King offered a 100 gold piece reward to save the holidays. The furry green bastards didn’t even celebrate the same holidays as we civilized folks; they just did it so we wouldn’t have them! “For the Holidays! Haha!” Steel flashed in his hands.

Sir Joe tore through four of the largest goblins, nearly simultaneously, with a vicious and continuous slashing of Foe Cleaver. Foe Cleaver was his mighty magical sword, claimed in one of his many battles, before my time. The goblins looked shocked as they fell to pieces. You would too if someone parted out you and three of your mates all at the same time. It was, objectively, impressive..

“Write that down, I’m going to go on ahead,” yelled Joe as he charged boldly forward. I pressed parchment against the stone wall and scribbled madly with my lead pencil in an attempt to capture the moment.

“Aren’t we supposed to follow him,” asked McGrue, focused on me. He was the new ‘muscle’, padding out our troupe so we could command higher fees. A mere six foot four of somewhat impressive muscle, he was there to make Joe look even more impressive by comparison, a fact not made clear to him until after he was hired. Ignoring his skillset and background he was pressed into the visual role of savage warrior. He was wearing a loin cloth and a light hide shirt over his muscled orc frame. “I’d rather keep moving! Damn! It is cold in here.” His uniform had originally been just the loincloth but he fought for the shirt. It was exploitative but he, like all of us, needed the money.

“Speak not of your problems,” said Ammon, the Dark Sorceress as she strutted past, her four inch heels clicking whenever she stepped. Her ‘wizardly’ attire would have caused most back alley prostitutes to be ashamed, yet she seemed unbothered by the cold most likely due to her elven blood. Her dark skin, covered in mystical runes, told an ancient story of demonic pacts and dark powers.

The story Garbeaux told the world was that Joe had defeated her in a battle of wits and she was forced to serve him now, which was why she wore the prominent collar; an eldritch thing adorned in wicked thorns. The reality of it was a bit darker; she just liked wearing the thing.

“Not all of us have spells, witch,” spat McGrue, ready for combat yet without any combat to be had. “I’m a trained fighter. I should be up there swinging, not back here, freezing my bollocks out of my loincloth.”

Looking to Ammon, eyes as kind as I could muster, I told her “You know he can’t hear us, right?”.

Her eyes lit up. “Like thank the goddess, my feet are killing me,” hissed Aimee the elf, hired as an actress to play Ammon. Sir Joe was not a complicated man. When he hired for his troupe, if he didn’t like your name, he just gave you a new one. But, perhaps for reasons pertaining to memory, the new name always kept the same first letter as the old.

“Sorry, but I have to ask; being out in the field, nearly naked, that doesn’t bother you?” I asked with genuine concern.

She adopted her patronizing look and booped my nose with a perfect finger, “Well, sonny, I’m a one hundred year old elf, and we don’t care about trivial differences in temperature. Our feet on the other hand are quite delicate.” She extended a perfect foot of perfect toes.

“You still have magic,” said McGrue somewhat less upset. “Magic you could maybe share?”

“You think the skinflint lets me use magic to be comfortable?” said Aimee, taking a knee so as to remove one shoe and massage that foot. “I can’t for me and certainly not for you.”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

McGrue grumbled and stepped closer to her, she was about to protest but the massive orc scooped her up. She bit her lip. Aimee liked being manhandled, which is why she was here in the first place. The woman wanted to live dangerously but, like all of us, she was only allowed to pretend, while being paid only scale! Scale seems like a lot of money to a cobbler or a seamstress but, traveling, eating at a different tavern every night, it was expensive!

The energy between them was best suited to privacy so I felt the need to bring them back into the moment. “We need to catch up with Joe,” I said. It wasn’t hard to follow the action, even when he was out of sight; the goblins screaming as they always do beneath Foe Cleaver. He should be about done by now.” We arrived just as Sir Joe was delivering his typical spiel.

“You are doomed, foul creature, for you face the wrath of Sir Joe the Bold!”

“And his companions,” I yelled. “We’re here too. Aren’t we, gang?”

“Oh, sure,” replied Sir Joe as he set about slaying the remaining few goblins. He was really making a show of it, armored monument that he was, swinging steel with unnecessary flourishes. He favoured spinning decapitation strikes that sent goblin heads flying, usually aimed, unerringly, into the head of another goblin.

Leaning into Ammon and myself, McGrue muttered softly “it wouldn’t be so bad if he weren’t looking at us the whole time he’s killing goblins. Gods, at least pay attention to what you’re doing, man.” Aimee stifled a giggle beneath the hood of Ammon while I tried to remain stoic.

After a dozen or so such aerial headbutts this group of goblins had finally had enough. Racing towards the nearest door they attempted to make their escape, our door, where we were. Action!

“Finally,” growled McGrue, unslinging his mighty ax. He was more a short sword from behind type but he got into the role; raising it high with a mighty battlecry!

But, as they drew close, the terror in the eyes of the goblins faded to a dull absence. McGrue lunged just as a spray of daggers tore into them from behind and they fell at his feet, his ax still dry. Joe’s skill with throwing knives was second to none and each dagger found a goblin’s heart, not a motion wasted.

“Fear not McGrue, I saved you,” said Sir Joe with a certain sinister air causing everyone’s blood to run cold. Joe got all the experience points from his quests and he refused to share those with anyone. He was a certified level nineteen warrior, fast on his way to level twenty. When that happened he would be declared Epic, raising his status to a place occupied by the very few and with immense benefits. A single goblin might only count for a few points but he didn’t care.

“Um, Thanks Joe,” said the orc after a moment. McGrue didn’t harbor any illusions who was going to win in a fight between himself and Joe. Or everyone else in the troupe. Or all of them and every goblin in the dungeon against Joe. The man couldn’t be killed. Still, frustrating. “My ax has bloody blue balls.” he muttered softly.

Teeth bared Joe pointed a calloused finger my way “Mark those down, Gabby. All of them. Count the heads if that helps.” He then waded back into the fray, crossing the chamber just as a fresh batch of goblins entered from the other side. He was amazing to watch from a distance. Up close he was terrifying. Dozens more goblins led by a single massive chief tried desperately to stop him but Joe slashed, kicked, punched and in one case bouldered the goblins to death. The boulder started out embedded in the wall so that was extra impressive.

“How did he lift that?” asked Aimee, her shoes were off and she was rubbing her feet again.

“Must be a magical gauntlet,” grumbled McGrue who could not have lifted that “not sure what kind could dislodge it from the wall though”. I’ve been watching Sir Joe for years now, his epic displays of prowess grew boring as the years passed. For them, this was still pretty new, for me, I just wanted to survive long enough to finish Joe’s song. The song completed I would be given five thousand gold, a massive sum, but first I had to write his whole story. When he reached the pinnacle of Epic status I would become a merchant prince. Until then I was a pauper.

We moved enough to keep Joe in sight. He picked up a large goblin, perhaps a hobgoblin, and used it to beat another goblin to death. Foe Cleaver had remained sheathed since Joe grew bored with aerial decapitation target practice. The, no doubt, mighty goblin warrior squalled like a baby as he was used as a deadly weapon. “My brother!” he cried in common as he was used to kill his own brother.

Honestly, it grew kind of dull, even to McGrue and Aimee. Sir Joe wasn’t really ever threatened so he was just fooling around. At one point there were no more goblins in sight and so he held the last one by the wrist and slapped him to death. With each slap he’d say “scream” or “go on, scream.” I imagined that was to attract more goblins. It didn’t work. Struggling with how I would make this part interesting I tracked his kills and took notes. What does tormenting the helpless rhyme with?

But that went with the territory, only a handful of things could even harm Sir Joe and the likelihood of the goblins having some adamant or mistletoe was near zero. Finally, entering into the feculent royal chambers, Sir Joe and the Goblin King were enjoined in battle. I laid my scroll out on a dry patch of stone, preparing to do my best to capture the moment. The King was clearly the best fighter here and he lasted one whole second before getting impaled. I’d not yet made a mark.

“And with that the foulness of Goblin King Hiradak is forever erased from the world,” said Sir Joe, spending a moment to decapitate the corpse before plopping down on the King’s throne. “Except for the part of my song where I killed him, of course. That needs special attention paid as you write, Gabby. I worry that you won’t make it punchy enough, ouch, we should really make the King’s lines something better, like … Why does everything taste purple?”

“Okay. Er, yes, Sir Joe.” I replied walking into the room and surveying the carnage. “So the King’s role should last longer then, his dialogue should be more than a single shout cut short. ‘Purple’, you say? Like grape?”

Joe fairly choked with rage. “No! You toeheaded, effeminite runt, aren’t you listening? Everything tastes purple, not grape!”

“Right! Of course, it tastes like a color. Of course it does.” I supplicated myself to Joe because, again, survival. McGrue was carrying Aimee who couldn’t possibly walk in those shoes on what was now difficult terrain due to intestines and other wet chunks being everywhere. “Any other notes?”

McGrue set Aimee down and she immediately assumed her role of Ammon once more; a matter of posture and attitude. She, mostly, just had to look pretty if there were no other audience to witness the goings on. Unburdened he then got down to the looting. Though he wasn’t allowed to keep any of it, none of us were, he sure liked to look. He found a small golden scepter, “Hey, Joe do you think that … maybe I could keep this? Maybe Garbeaux could throw a bit into the song about how McGrue killed a child and stole it or something? It could even be a girl child.”

Sir Joe said nothing, so McGrue pocketed the treasure, a real no-no, but he could see the visor in Joe’s helm which meant Joe could see him. That felt like permission!. Experimentally, he picked up a clearly magical helmet. “And this … uh, probably helmet of “True Seeing? Joe the benevolent could clearly award it to the pitiful McGrue?” Any moment now Joe was going to stand up and beat down the orc for his temerity. I wrote down these unrealistic requests and waited for the other armored boot to fall when the mighty Sir Joe the Bold finally moved; he tipped forward, hitting face first on the filthy floor and falling very still.

Shocked, I couldn’t move, though Aimee immediately started strutting over (her shoes made other modes of walking impossible) as McGrue, the closest, dove onto Joe. Turning him over and pulling at his helmet with a struggle. “What?” he grunted with effort. “Stuck!?” With a mighty effort and a horrific sucking sound the helm came free, lifting up and dangling behind his head.

McGrue recoiled, releasing Joe. So distant was the idea that something could be wrong that I moved only as Joe hit the floor anew. Beneath the steel plate and mailed coif Joe’s face had swollen and turned purple, his eyes blank and distant. As I drew near, falling to kneel by him, seeing that the soul had fled the mortal coil, I could not help but cry out. We all cried out in shock at the impossible “Sir Joe the Bold is dead!”