Unfortunately, that was not the last time we saw Bard. Myth and I left the tavern an hour later and we ran into him about a mile outside of Harrow.
Bard did not greet us. He was too busy being beaten up by three bandits.
Two of the bandits were holding Bard’s arms; one held his left arm and the other held his right arm. The third bandit was punching Bard in the tummy repeatedly.
“Where’s the map, Bard!” shouted the third bandit. Bam! He punched Bard in the tummy. “You said you’d get the map, Bard!” Pow! And another punch. “We want the map, Bard!” Wham! And another one…
Let me pause here to describe these bandits.
The one holding Bard’s left arm was a short man with a pockmarked face and scraggly hair. His teeth—those he still had—were a shade of brown that resembled… Well, you know when your tummy is really upset and you have to visit the outhouse repeatedly? Think of the shade of brown that results from those trips to the outhouse—his teeth were that color. Every time the third bandit punched Bard, the dung-toothed bandit would giggle, “He-he-he.” In fact, I do not think that I ever heard him say anything except, “He-he-he.” Perhaps that was the only sound he could make.
The bandit holding Bard’s right arm was the dumb-looking one. He was the tallest of the three, although he was still shorter than Myth by several inches. This dumb-looking bandit had a potbelly that hung out of his tunic. And his mouth never closed. Perhaps he had never figured out how to breathe through his nose. Regardless, his perpetually open mouth was a big reason why he looked so dumb. But when he spoke, he stopped looking dumb and just became dumb. “Der,” was, by far, the most used word in his limited vocabulary.
And the third bandit, the one punching Bard, was the ugly one, which was quite a feat considering how his fellows looked. The ugly one had a pockmarked face, just like the dung-toothed bandit. But in between the pockmarks, the ugly one’s face teemed with greasy pimples, some of which were puss-filled. His nose, either due to birth or to an unfortunate encounter with a fist, was turned upwards like a pig’s snout. No teeth were in his mouth to speak off, just a few jagged nubs that had once been teeth.
Now, Buster, you might be wondering why I have spent so much time describing these bandits. Do you remember those bawdy romance novels Myth liked so much? Well, here were real bandits—no silken hair and no well-oiled chests, just a dung-toothed one, a stupid-looking one, and an ugly one. No busty Maiden—no matter how dense she was—would attempt to tame this lot. Rather, the busty Maiden would take one look at these brutes and then run home to Daddy, screaming the whole way. So you see, Buster, bawdy romance novels are just silly.
Now, where was I? Oh, yes. The bandits were punching Bard and shouting about a map…
Then the dumb-looking one spotted Myth and me. “Der,” he said, letting go of Bard and pointing at us. “Who’s dem, Boss?”
The ugly one turned towards us. “Well. Well. Well. What have we here, boys?”
“He-he-he,” cackled the dung-toothed one.
“Der,” said the stupid-looking one. “You wants us ta rob dem, Boss?” Then he picked his nose. “Der,” he added as he studied the object that he had excavated from his nose.
“Iz,” said Myth, “you know what to do.”
Dropping our packs, we prepared for trouble.
You see, Buster, Myth and I had already worked out a plan for dealing with bandits. Myth stood her ground, pulling her daggers from their sheaths. Meanwhile, I raced down the road a little ways, putting some distance between the bandits and myself. Then I loaded a bolt into my crossbow, ready to shoot the first bandit who tried to hurt Myth.
The ugly one paused upon seeing that we were not two helpless women. “Not yet,” he told the stupid-looking one. “It would be rude to disfigure these ladies before we introduced ourselves.”
He bowed to Myth and me. “Greetings, fair ladies, I am Lawless Tom. And my associates are”—he pointed at the dung-toothed one—“Ducky.”
“He-he-he,” giggled Ducky.
“And this fine fellow,” said Lawless Tom, gesturing towards the stupid-looking one, “is And Dan.”
“And Dan?” said Myth.
“Yes,” replied Lawless Tom. “He was the last of a set of four children that his mother gave birth to. When naming the babes, his mother—exhausted from the labor—said, ‘Stan, Fran, Ann, and… and Dan.’ Alas, his father was a simpleton. Since his wife had said ‘and’ twice, he assumed the second ‘and’ was part of the babe’s name. Thus, my worthy colleague was named And Dan.”
“Der,” said And Dan. “Da had jam for brains.”
“Enough about that, though,” said Lawless Tom. “If you pretty ladies would be so kind, please hand over your valuables. I’d take no pleasure in defiling your fair skins with a multitude of wounds, but I won’t hesitate to do so.”
Myth pointed a dagger at Lawless Tom. “You can try to rob us, but it won’t end well for you.”
“Now. Now. Now,” said Lawless Tom. “Don’t be daft. You are but two feeble women. Whereas we are three strong men who enjoy the sight of blood—so long as it belongs to someone else.”
“He-he-he,” added Ducky.
“Der,” said And Dan. “Dey don’t look so helpless, Boss.”
Lawless Tom waved away And Dan’s observation. “Nonsense.”
“An’ dat one,” And Dan continued, pointing at Myth, “dat one’s purty tall, der.”
…You may remember, Buster, that when we met, Myth had been, “a bit over six feet tall.” Since then, she had grown at least an inch or two, which I thought was quite rude. I was stuck at being exactly five feet tall; my body stubbornly refused to grow even a smidgen taller. Why did she have to be a hog and do the growing for both of us?
Anyway, back then the average man was about five feet eight inches tall. And the average height for a woman was five feet four inches. So Myth towered over just about everyone. And Dan was proving to be smarter than he looked, which was not that hard: Myth was “purty tall…”
“Nonsense,” said Lawless Tom, not as confidently as before. But he rallied himself by pointing out, “She’s not even properly attired. Just look—her jerkin doesn’t even have a boob plate.”
…Boob plates—blech!
Long ago, some foolish writer dreamed up a heroine who wore armor with a boob plate affixed to it. That heroine—or more specifically, her boob plate—became quite popular, especially among pubescent males. Her boob plate became so popular, in fact, that it is still widely assumed that female adventurers wear boob plates in real life.
Now, a boob plate is supposed to be a piece of metal that a woman wears over her chest. And it’s shaped in such a manner as to fit snuggly around the curves of a particular woman’s breasts. So basically, it’s a metal undergarment welded onto a suit of armor. What a stupid idea!
Please put your hand over your chest, Buster. Now breathe in and out. See, your chest rises and falls as you breathe. Imagine trying to breathe when your chest is confined in an inflexible metal coffin. And think about how difficult fighting would be. Any woman silly enough to wear a boob plate would probably wind up dead. And yet, the myth of the boob plate persists!
A sensible woman who carried a sword or daggers when she traveled would do what Myth did: she bound her breasts. Every morning, Myth wrapped a bandage tightly around her chest before we set off. From a distance, Myth looked just like a man when she wore her jerkin. But Myth did not care if people thought she was a man. Making certain that her breasts did not get in the way if we had to fight was more important.
I, on the other hand, did not bind my breasts. But that made sense, because I did not wear armor; it was too cumbersome and I was too petite. Armor would have hindered me more than it would have helped me. And besides, I carried a crossbow—I was not going to become involved in a swordfight.
Both of us were acting sensibly. But boob plates are not sensible. Boob plates—blech! They are the armor equivalent of a bandit with a well-oiled chest.
Anyway…
And Dan proved yet again that he was the true brains among the bandits. “Der. But deys got weapons.”
“Nonsense,” replied Lawless Tom. Pointing at me, he went on, “The short gal has probably never even fired that crossbow.”
“Short!” I shouted.
“Now you’ve done it,” added Myth.
“Oh, that is it!” I roared.
Pointing at a scarecrow that was guarding a nearby field, I said, “See that scarecrow?”
I aimed my crossbow at the scarecrow and pulled the trigger.
Twang! The bolt sped towards the scarecrow.
Thunk! It struck the scarecrow just below its tummy—right where its legs met the rest of its body.
In unison, the three bandits lowered their hands to the same spot on their bodies. I thought that was a silly thing to do because a hand would not stop a bolt.
Now that Ducky had released him, Bard scrambled over to Myth and cowered behind her.
“Der,” said And Dan. “Maybe we should let dem go.”
“Yes,” replied Lawless Tom. “I do believe you are correct, And Dan.” Addressing Myth and me, he said, “Well, fair ladies, today is your lucky day. My associates and I cannot spare the time to assail you. A pressing appointment demands our attention.”
“He-he-he,” added Ducky.
“Come on, lads, we’re off,” said Lawless Tom. Glancing at Myth and me, he added, “Quickly now.”
The bandits began to retreat as swiftly as their dignity allowed.
“Hey!” Myth called out to them. Stepping to the side, she nudged Bard with her foot. “You forgot this.”
“You can keep him—a gift,” replied Lawless Tom.
Myth looked at Bard and said, “I don’t want him.”
The bandits did not answer her. But as they hurried away, And Dan said, “Der. What about dat treasure, Boss?”
“Later,” replied Lawless Tom as he picked up his pace. “I have a plan.”