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The Dragon's Hump - Part the Fifth

The abducted princess' disdain for Serval Lancet had slowly transformed into love. Probably because he no longer used his poking stick for poking her in the back to make her march around in the woods.

It has been 15 years since the last installment of Brigands of the Bog, the epic series of sprawling fantasy novels by acclaimed author Jack R. R. Pendarvis. VICE is especially proud to present The Dragon's Hump, the 11th and final book in a series that many have called "the only work of its kind written entirely under the effects of gin." All 1,000 chapters will be presented here in weekly installments, after which The Dragon's Hump will be published in a single volume, in or around 2031, shortly after the death of the author.

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“… and that is how the Misfortunate Scythe came to be lodged steadfastly in the Tree Stump of Instant Remorse,” said Serval Lancet in his famous soothing tones. “It is believed that only the man who is the purest of heart will be able to pull it from its place.”

“That’s a stupid story,” said the Princess Mur, who was lying on the ground in her sackcloth. She made sackcloth look good. “Why would anybody want to pull something called the Misfortunate Scythe out of something called the Tree Stump of Instant Remorse? Seems like asking for trouble.”

“Ah,” said Serval Lancet. “Methinks you have been cloistered too long within the walls of your fancy castle to truly know the vainglory of men.”

In truth the abducted princess had enjoyed Serval Lancet’s bedtime tale. They had been lost in the forest for a number of weeks and her disdain had slowly transformed into love. But she couldn’t let him know that. He was bound by his sacred office to deliver her to the scheming Lord Hexulon for punishments untold.

Still, Serval Lancet, in his priestly garb, was so gentle with the orphaned wingbat they had nursed together. Even as he had recited the old legends, he had teased it playfully with his poking stick, which he had waved in the breeze so that the sickly creature might chase it back and forth to build up its strength. He no longer used his poking stick for poking Princess Mur in the back to make her march around in the woods, so that was an improvement.

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His eyes twinkled as he watched the wingbat flit to and fro in the perfumed air of eventide. Princess Mur knew they would have to return it to the wild when it was hale enough to survive on its own, and that Serval Lancet’s proud heart would be secretly broken. Life sure was complicated!

As if to underscore that very fact, the priest’s eyes had drifted from the capering wingbat and now lay uncomfortably on the fetching sight of the Princess Mur herself, all laid out and disheveled in a hot way in her dirty sackcloth.

“If you will excuse me,” he said, rising from his place at the small but cheery fire. He knew he could not defile his honorable vestments with thoughts of carnal love!

Back into the underbrush he went for some mortification of the flesh, as usual. That was getting to be a drag. Even the Holy Writ of the Tall Stonemason decreed it perfectly natural for two hot people to want to get frisky with each other. Yet Serval Lancet shook such notions from his hallowed head. He walked until he was very far away from the campsite, looking for thorns or other unpleasant vegetation to aid in the necessary ritual.

The last thing he expected to see was the golden glimmer of an ancient scythe beneath the mellow gaze of the three Folan moons. Moreover, this scythe, engraved expertly with crazy runes, was embedded irrevocably in a stump of great gnarledness.

Could it be?

Serval Lancet had no time to consider the astonishing possibility.

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“I’m going to need to borrow that princess for a while,” said a strong, melodious baritone. Serval Lancet turned toward the commanding voice and spied a hooded figure standing in the gloom.

“A brother of the faith!” he said. “Boy, am I glad to see you. I need to talk about my problems.”

“Hold thy tongue lest thou speak unthinkingly!” came the considerate reply. “Although I am disguised in the unflattering robes of your profession, I am in reality the notorious brigand Claron Pard!” admitted the mysterious figure, throwing off his hood and being handsome all of a sudden. “I have been eavesdropping on you through the trees. I do beg your pardon. But you see, I need entrance to the Great Hall tonight, for I must deliver a message to the King. A princess by my side will certainly ease my way past the royal guard.”

“You will not have her!” shouted Serval Lancet, improbably filled with manliness.

“I see you are in love,” observed the brigand with something like quiet respect.

“Yes!” said Serval Lancet, admitting it for the first time. Talking to this handsome brigand was turning out to be great therapy after all.

In a swift gesture of unsurpassed grace, without even a thought, Serval Lancet grabbed the convenient scythe with which to defend his ladylove. He was happy to discover that the handle bore notches for easy gripping. As soon as he took care of this character, he was going to quit being a priest and go back and find the princess and do all the weird things he had always wanted to do, assuming she was OK with it.

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Though it appeared to be stuck so deeply within the black and ruinous stump, the cunningly crafted farm tool slipped from its place with ease, ringing with a clear, angelic tone into the night. Due to its unusual curvature, the Misfortunate Scythe—for that is just what it was—swung around in a surprising manner, causing Serval Lancet to cut off his own head in one clean stroke. Aside from being possessed of strange magicks, it was a really sharp scythe.

“This must be happening for a reason!” cried out Serval Lancet’s head as it spun gracefully through the air. By the time it landed at Claron Pard’s feet, it wasn’t saying anything, for Serval Lancet, though pure of heart, was just as dead as anything could ever be.

“What a night!” said Claron Pard.

Previously - Part the Fourth, Part the Third, Part the Second, Part the First

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