Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Sheep!

Part 1 - "The Incantation"

Introduction …

It’s a good day, friends!

Welcome to the release of Burt! The Barbarian in “Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Sheep!” The story is dropping in FOUR parts:

Part 1 - “The Incantation” - Today, 8/4/25

Part 2 - “The Realization” - Wednesday, 8/6/25

Part 3 - “The Culmination” - Friday, 8/8/25

Part 4 - “The Exhalation” - Sunday, 8/10/25

I wrote this story as a submission to Baen’s Fantasy Adventure Awards. Unsurprisingly, a story featuring a boss-level demon named Balthrog Cannondong engaging in a banter-laden member-measuring contest with a smug barbarian sporting a mountain of unearned confidence didn’t make it into the top tier of submissions.

Particularly when they stated they were looking for stories in the style of Tolkien…

LOL. Fair.

That being said, I had a blast writing these characters, and this project pulled me out of a writing slump when a lot of things were going sideways for me. Because of that, this is a work I’m quite proud of, and I hope you enjoy it!

Now let’s have our two main characters, Burt and his sorcerer buddy Durok, introduce the story for you …

Enjoy!

Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Sheep!

Part 1 - “The Incantation”

Burt the barbarian did not play bingo, but if he did, his bingo card would not have had a square labeled, "Be assaulted in your sleep," or "Murder a co-worker with a wooden donkey carving."

Actually, that last one would have been a legitimate possibility.

The bandits gripping his feet and dragging him down the cold and jagged dungeon steps were out of breath. Moments earlier, Burt dreamed of the red-tressed object of his affection during his peaceful evening. What’s-her-name, the fair maiden from the Verdant Vale, knocked Burt’s brain silly in a far more effective way than the brash fools dragging him into the dungeon depths. Days ago, he informed his step-father that he was putting down the axe, taking a bride, starting his family and settling down as a sheep farmer. Her name mattered less than the fact that she swept him from his feet.

For the first time ever, Burt wanted to do something other than pillage, burn, and loot.

With each step, Burt’s skull smacked against the next as he descended deeper into the bowels of the Baron’s dungeon. His snug gag and the burlap sack over his head provided little relief on impact. He recalled the days he spent as a young boy, newly adopted by the Baron, cleaving rats with a dulled axe on these same steps to practice his swings.

He did not know why his step-father was upset with him, but it was not the first time that he’d been dragged to the dungeon in the middle of the night, bound and gagged. Burt smiled at the fond childhood memories between dull head smacks and tried to enjoy the ride as he waited for the surprises to come. It was close to his birthday, after all.

"Pull harder, ye rats!" shouted the man who Burt assumed was the leader.

A groan echoed in the twisting stairwell, and Burt felt a grip tighten around one of his ankles as he thumped down the damp staircase. "Aye, I’m tryin’," another voice whined. "Dim-witted oaf tried to shove a lit lantern up me arsehole! I think he broke something."

"Aye, only thing breaking was half the lantern in your arsehole, fool! Ye may explode the next time there’s beans down yer throat. Now shut it! Pull that beefy bastard harder! Warlock’s waitin’."

Burt’s shirtless body slid across a slime-covered landing before descending further down more granite steps. He felt his stomach twitch at the grotesque muck smeared across his bare back. The only things Burt disliked more than boredom and not cleaving something with his axe were grime and germs. He was hopeful soap and a hot drawn bath awaited him at the bottom of the steps, but a nagging voice in his head told him there was indeed a possibility that a tub of steaming, sudsy spring water wouldn’t be waiting in the Warlock’s chambers.

An ear-piercing creak echoed in the stone stairwell, and Burt felt himself yanked through an entryway before being dumped along the corner of a chilled stone wall. Glass shattered somewhere across the expansive space before a raspy baritone voice called out, "What? What is this intrusion?"

Burt heard more footsteps, and the unceremonious thud of a body beside him. The muffled blast of lungs expelling every bit of breath marked the end of the commotion.

"These two," the bandit sneered. "Baron needs you to deal with ‘em. Murder off the table, understand? Some of your traitorous Crimson Veil witchcraft should do the trick, dungeon dweller."

"Watch your tongue, cretin. I could snap my fingers and turn it into a slab of shite," snapped the Warlock.

Footsteps approached and Burt closed his eyes in the burlap head sack. He focused on gaining an audible feel for the layout of the room. "Well, well, well," remarked the Warlock, the soured stench of his breath permeating through the sack over Burt’s head. "The bloody musclebound buffoon and …"

Burt heard footsteps, then what seemed like a swift kick followed by a pained grunt. "The pitifully average sorcerer. Lucky day for me, yeah? Two thorns in the side, ready to be pruned. Let the Baron know I’ll deal with his boy. Probably already forgot about you, aye, Durok?"

Burt opened his eyes and tried peering through the rough fabric of the burlap sack on his head. Durok was his friend, a sorcerer long ago aligned with the witches of the Crimson Veil, lending himself out as a mercenary for whoever would feed him a hearty meal. They’d been on many raids together through the years, Burt as the Baron’s adopted golden son, and Durok as an older mentor who worked on the cheap and had rudimentary sorcery skills, along with his famous appetite for seasoned stew. Being in the dungeon with a friend was of some comfort, even if the situation puzzled him.

"Leave me to my work," barked the Warlock.

A few grumbles and footsteps faded in echo, and an uncomfortable silence fell in the expansive stone chamber. Burt heard Durok shuffle beside him, and from across the room there were faint sounds of mumbling and random commotion.

Burt listened as the Warlock seemed to narrate to himself while rummaging through his possessions. "A bit of aether. Yes. Nightshade? Naw, too dangerous, that. Wormwood. Could work, could work," he murmured.

"Sigil. Something unique. Aye, you bloody idiot," he called out in Burt’s direction, "shame they didn’t bring yer axe, eh? Right irony, that would’ve been. Stuck in an eternal nightmare by the same object you been usin’ to do the Baron’s bidding? Half-wit. Looks like I gotta go pawing through the Baron’s loot. Don’t go nowhere," he snickered.

The echo of footsteps drifted into the distance.

Burt twisted, turned, and shuffled. He pressed his head against the nearest stone wall, scraping his face along the hard surface from inside the burlap sack and dislodging his gag until it fell to his neck.

"Durok? Durok!"

The wiry, aging sorcerer shimmied and slid his face along the floor until his gag pulled free. "Burt? We haven’t much time. Don’t let him catch you talking, his temper is legendary. What happened?"

"I broke a lantern in half trying to cram it up someone’s backside."

Durok grunted, working his head against the floor to free himself from the sackcloth. He slid out of the hood and shook his head, clearing most of his scraggly beard away from the front of his face. "That’s very exciting, but why? They attacked you while you slept? Why would your father send you to the dungeon?"

Burt raised an eyebrow as he worked his way out of the sack. The cloth hood fell to the ground and unleashed his long mane of dark brown hair across the stone floor. "I do not know. I’m not sure why I am tied up, either. At first, I assumed a hot bath. A gift for my upcoming marriage, but I am beginning to suspect something else."

"Obviously, you thick-headed fool, look around," replied Durok. He turned his head to look beyond the chamber door, then focused back on Burt. "I don’t know what he’s up to but it’s not good, my friend. Did you do something? Burn something? Pillage the wrong … village? Think! Anything?"

Burt shook his head. "I slept. Dreaming of my red-headed maiden, my future wife. The woman who shall birth a thousand of my offspring from her loins, her womb—"

"Stop," Durok replied. "Please, don’t say another word."

Burt finished his thought. "Penetrated by my meaty appendage."

Durok made a gagging motion.

"My manhood is truly massive, Durok. I shall re-populate the Verdant Vale thrust by loving thrust into my fair maiden’s quiveri—"

"Your meaty appendage will not help us here. Can you focus for a moment?"

"It might," Burt countered. "You’ve never seen it."

"Burt, stop it! We don’t have time for your nonsense. Listen, we have to think. Why do we have to be dealt with? What does that even mean?"

The massive barbarian shook his head and took in the surroundings of the Warlock’s chambers. It was dark, save a few torches along the walls and a large sconce burning in the center of the room. An alchemy table held many objects and glinting glassware stacked in a makeshift mess. A large mirror adorned the far wall, casting light to the ceiling.

"Wait," Durok mumbled. "You told the Baron? About the girl?"

Burt nodded. "Of course. He is my father. I told him that I intend to marry her. My days of pillaging are at an end. That girl — the fairest in the Vale — she shall be my bride. Once she ceases to be upset with me for locking her in the animal pens. Father was happy for me. He told me to rest well. Tomorrow we plan a grand wedding!"

Durok closed his eyes and shook his head. "Oh no. Burt. He means to—"

Footsteps echoed closer and the rapid-fire, raspy mumblings of the Warlock filled the room. "Right. Patchouli and sheep’s milk. Rancid, but it’ll do. Still in the skins, even. Aye. Boxwood twig. Ash and soil fetched from the volcanoes in the fire lands. Yes, yes. Last of my stash, special occasion though. And the demon’s ward, wicked little thing, that."

The Warlock shuffled into the room, ignorant of the un-sacked heads of Burt and Durok. He placed a random armful of objects on the alchemy table and spun around, reaching for a massive wooden crate on the floor. The lid lifted open with a rusted screech as he sighed and reached inside. "Now for the centerpiece, something unique. Eh, this pile of junk! Messes everywhere!"

Burt and Durok flashed a glance at one another, then attempted to peer over the alchemy table to spy what the Warlock was rifling through. He continued his rambling self-talk. "Silvershade Blade? Too risky. No. No weapons. What’s this? Well, I’ll be. Misplaced that, I did. No, none of this junk works. Something different, something unique. The right anchor for an eternal ritual. Ah! Yes. From the Isle, even. No chance on them discoverin’ this one, it’ll be a thousand years before these two smoothed-brains find this anchor."

Burt strained to spot what was in the Warlock’s hands, and his soft grunt echoed through the chamber. The Warlock turned, spotting Burt and Durok staring. "What’s this then? Tryin’ to wiggle out like a pair of little maggots are you? Lookin’ for a show?" He stomped over to the duo, his frantic hands covering their heads with the burlap sacks left on the floor.

"Where is my father?" Burt shouted. "Why are we down he—"

Burt took a solid, hard kick to his abdomen.

"Quiet or I’ll summon leeches on your eyeballs!" The Warlock stomped away, back to the vicinity of his alchemy table. "You know, I was there when the Baron plucked you from that village twenty some years ago. Grand raid, that was. Violent as violence gets. Took a real shine to ye, he did. Even as a little one you killed four of his men with bare hands. Foolish boy. Such wasted potential. You thought he’d let you be happy? Live life with sheep roaming and pig shite underfoot? And with that pure, unsoiled little red-headed wench? No more setting fire to the Vale on behalf of father? No more pillaging? No more coin? Dumber than I thought, oaf."

Some glass shattered and the sound of flint scraping filled the stone chamber. The warlock continued. "Shame it is. She’ll make a proper whore for him, though, once he breaks her with his repugnant … proclivities. Your father could make the holiest man wish for hell if he witnessed such deviancy."

The Warlock cleared his throat. "Speaking of—"

A flash of light and wave of heat washed over Burt and Durok as the Warlock began chanting, calm and paced. "Ash and heat and bards of gloom, notes of dissonance untuned, demonic cannons forever lewd, blanketed by festive mood."

Durok whispered to Burt, "Brace yourself. Be ready for anything!"

The Warlock continued, his voice growing louder with each word of his incantation. "Sour sheep and dead-nettle stench, eternally, these two torment! This consecrated gift shall sing—"

A single, high-pitched, stringed note reverberated in the chamber as Burt winced and braced himself.

"—torment in hellish song shall ring!"

A second blast of heat and light flashed. For a moment, Burt thought he was on the surface of the sun.

He kept his eyes closed. He was standing unbound but blinded by the brightness. Incense reeked, bagpipes shrieked, and strings wailed among a concert of bleating sheep. The sticky sheen of sweat coated every inch of his body. He lowered his arm from his eyes, attempting to adjust to the scorched environment and blazing sun. Random voices screamed, but not from pain. They sounded happy.

It sounded like cheering.

Burt felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and could make out Durok standing beside him, trying to adjust his eyes as well. Burt leaned on his friend as he took in the sights and sounds.

The pair were standing in the middle of an expansive fairground. Around them were ramshackle tents and dread-locked fans wandering around in an aimless stupor. Some were cheering, others were face down in the dirt, passed out on the trash-strewn ground. Among the malodorous hell-hippies were a variety of knee-high, impish demon spawn, gnarled red-skinned fiends and various hellish creatures undulating to the discordant tunes blaring in their ears.

Burt sniffed the air. "Is that —"

"Patchouli," groaned Durok. "And the unwashed. Vile."

Burt gagged. "Repugnant odor! Like flowers sprouted from camel arse!"

Durok adjusted his vision and surveyed the scene. He winced as a blast of fetid air carried the discordant song to his ears. The sorcerer snatched at a dirty piece of parchment from the ground beside his feet and read it aloud to his friend.

"Warlock Entertainment Presents the first annual Eternal Noise Festival at the Forever Fairgrounds and Sheep Farm." He exchanged a confused glance with Burt, then continued, "Standing room only. Featuring thousand-year performances by the Dave Methuselah Bard, Fisch, Boobs Traveler, and Grateful Death."

Burt raised an eyebrow. "I refuse to listen to a fish play music. Boobs Traveler sounds promising, though. What is this foul magic? Are we dead?"

Durok shook his head. "Banished, more like. There is more. A special guest appearance by the demon Balthrog Cannondong." Durok let the parchment slip back to the ground and let out an exasperated sigh. "I’m afraid we’ve been banished to the worst hell that irredeemable Warlock could conjure. Not circles of fire and physical torture. That piece of revolting shite trapped us in the most sinister, soul-crushing prison possible."

Burt’s brow scrunched in thought. "A child’s modern dance recital?"

Durok set his gaze on a giant stage in the distance and narrowed his eyes. "Worse, somehow. A never-ending outdoor jam bard festival."

Part 2 - “The Realization” drops in two days! Until then …

If you enjoyed Part 1, let me know! I loved writing these characters, and truly hope you enjoy them as much as I do!

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