The Warlock and the Ogre

The Tale of the Warlock and the Ogre
A B-24 Fairy Tale by Simon, AKA StabOfHappiness


Once upon a time, there was a nasty Ogre who was menacing the farms of a large village, carrying away livestock and squashing the farmhands that tried to stop him. One morning, the Mayor of the village gave an announcement: he would give whoever brought back the Ogre's head a pail filled with gold coins and his daughter's hand in marriage.

The Warlock, scoffed and reviled for his magical trickery, heard the Mayor's speech and was instantly enticed. The Mayor's daughter was beautiful and kind, the one girl he was unable to seduce despite his efforts to do so, and he was strapped for funds now that the people of the village had become used to his magical trickery and were harder to sweet-talk out of their belongings. The Warlock set out to defeat the Ogre immediately.

That evening, he reached the Ogre's cave in the forest to learn more about his foe before he would strike. However, while he was hiding in the bushes, the obese giant caught him by the leg and hoisted him in the air!

“Please, mighty one, please don't eat me,” the Warlock begged, casting an enchantment on his garments to appear filthy, “I taste gross and nasty!”

But the Ogre looked at him, sleepy-eyed and pained, and said, “I don't eat humans. They are small, mushy, and have too many bones, and you are the least meaty human I've seen yet. The farmboys were tiny and squishy, but even they had more muscle than you do. Come back in a few days, for I have eaten three horses and I am too tired to play with you.”

The Ogre then unceremoniously dropped the Warlock into the mud, kicked some dirt on him, and crawled into his cave. There was a great thud, and a few seconds later, restless, mumbling snores were heard.
The warlock, offended, humiliated, and covered in mud, had noticed as the Ogre was leaving that the back of the giant's neck was covered in dark, distended blood vessels. Reminded of his days working to become a wizard, he began to smirk, and then sneer, and then he giggled in delight.

“Sleep well, Ogre. I have plans for you.”


The first thing he did when he returned home was search around at the market place. It did not take him long to find his old friend, the shapeshifter known as Brother Wolf, in human form, haggling with the butcher to no avail.

“Oh, my good Brother, how are your kids?” the Warlock asked in a sing-song manner, as was their personal custom since they first met as children.

“Tender enough, my Master,” Brother Wolf growled, signaling he was in a sour mood, “Though the lamb here looks nearly as delectable as my best goat. However, the price is much too high! I'd have to sell my mule for a sliver of that chop! My pups are going to go hungry. Can you convince this stubborn man to lower the price for me?”

“I'm afraid I cannot do so today, Brother, but I know the cause of this problem and I came to you for help solving it. You see, I need a mighty bow to fell the Ogre who has stolen the livestock, and your family makes very good bows.”

“Master,” Brother Wolf chuckled, sarcastically, “that is a wonderful idea. After all, you've done so much for me as of late, though for the life of me I cannot remember what it was exactly that you did.”

“Oh, Brother,” the Warlock replied, smugly, placing an arm around Brother Wolf's shoulders, “Surely you haven't forgotten the time I helped you steal from the dragon of caves, have you?”

Brother Wolf's bravado shriveled. “Well, alright there was that one time.”

“What about the time I helped you impersonate King Arthur? Surely you remember how much work I put into the crown and cape, which you lost when that plan went up in smoke.”

“W-well, I mean...” Brother Wolf stammered.

“And what about that time I seduced the old Witch under the guise of a traveling bard so you could steal her medicine for your kids?”

“Fine!” Brother Wolf snarled, “I'll make you the biggest bow that God Himself ever did lay eyes on in three days! The sinew of our best goat, the wood of our grandest tree, me and my daughters will use for it! Then we're even, got it!?”

“Very well. Thank you, my dearest Brother!”

“Don't try your luck, Master,” Brother Wolf growled as he stormed out of the marketplace, out of the village, and into the woods.

The Warlock smirked as he pocketed the wolf's belongings. Those would be very useful tomorrow.



The next day, the Warlock made the long trek out to the home of his former teacher at the edge of the swamp. After sprucing up his appearance with a humble, innocent glamour and praying to God for safety, he entered the ancient, looming treehouse.

“What do you want, Warlock?” the ancient crone snapped, venom in her words. “Have you finally come back to repent? To learn proper magic as you once claimed you desired? Or do you just find me so irresistible that you decided you would risk immolation to see me again, three weeks late to my one-hundred and eighty-second birthday?”

“No, Mistress,” the Warlock said, as somberly as he could in spite of his shuddering, awful memories plaguing his thoughts. “I come to humbly request your wisdom, for I am on a quest to slay the Ogre which has been pillaging our farms and without your knowledge, I am powerless against him.”

The Witch almost laughed. Almost.

“And why should I help you, Son of Snakes? Do you think me willing to aid you in this, your hopeless,  most pointless quest yet? What could I, or anyone else, possibly hope to gain from helping you slay this Ogre?”

Silently, the Warlock held out an empty medicine bottle and some gold coins, still covered in a a little shed fur. The Witch took it, examined it, and placed it into her satchel.

“Very well, I will aid you in this most foolish of errands. What is it you need to know?”



Outside the hut, the Warlock carefully drew a picture of the Ogre's neck, hoping the Witch did not notice him working his enchantments to make the drawing look at all legible.

“Varicose veins, the poor baby. No wonder you were able to to see them so well, in spite of your attention span. You could barely go moment without sleeping during one of my lectures, and you were somehow even more pathetic-”

“W-what I need to know, wise one,” the Warlock said, opting to risk being hexed to death for cutting her off instead of dying of shame on the spot, “is how hard I need to strike the Ogre here to slay him.”

“A giant like him? Peh! You would need a ballista bolt to kill him! Give it up, Warlock. You threw away your chance at the Mayor's daughter the moment you betrayed my trust. Your fairy dust will not so much as tickle the big oaf!”

The Witch began clambering back up the ladder.
“If you want love, the pig herder's wife seems wrinkly enough for your tastes!” she cackled wickedly.

And on that discomforting note, the door slammed closed. The Warlock hoped that the bow Brother Wolf was working on would be big enough.



After walking home all night long, the Warlock made it back to the outskirts of the village, feeling rather crestfallen. He had no idea where to find a ballista bolt, and he was quite short on funds after bribing the Witch. However, just before he gave in to despair, he saw a most unusual sight: a knight, quite literally in shining armor, astride a white horse, carrying a most beautiful, aerodynamic lance, striding ahead towards the village, followed by a large train of squires and attendents.

“Who is that?” he whispered to one of the last farmhands, shoveling cow manure into a wagon.

“He said his name is Sir Percival, one of King Arthur's knights, and he's come to slay the Ogre that's been killing my brothers! Isn't that great, Mister?”

“Yes it is wonderful, little one!” the Warlock beamed.

This is awful, the Warlock thought. If Sir Percival were to slay the Ogre, then HE would get the gold, and more importantly, the girl. Furthermore, he was in possession of exactly the thing needed to defeat the Ogre, and he most certainly wouldn't part with it just because he was asked politely.

And then the Warlock had another wicked idea.

“Young man, may I buy that shovel from you?”

“I don't think the Farmer would be too happy if I sold his shovel for a couple of coppers, Mister,” the boy replied, warily.

“Would you do it for a gold piece?”

“...Golly, that's more than I make in a month. It's a deal, Mister!” The young lad gave the Warlock the reeking, rusty shovel and ran off to the marketplace to waste his ill-gotten gains.

The Warlock took the long way around, working his magic as much as he could on that shovel. That was the very last of his coin, and if this hare-brained scheme of his fell flat, he would have nowhere else to go.



At the other end of the market place, he called out to the great knight. “Greetings, Sir Percival! I hear you have come to slay the Ogre that has been terrorizing our village!”

“Indeed, I have, strange merchant,” said the knight proudly.

“Oh, but are you sure you can do it? You may have slain many monsters, but this giant will be your nastiest yet!”

“I am blessed by God Himself! Surely, this little Ogre will be no problem!”

“You sure?” the Warlock continued to badger him. “That little Ogre is fifty feet tall, and forty feet wide!”

Percival stopped his horse and looked at him, shocked. “...Really?”

“Oh yes,” the Warlock lied. “We used to have a dragon problem, but before we could send a letter for help, the Ogre came and swallowed it in one gulp!”

“I am confident,” Percival reassured the Warlock, looking anything but, “That with God guiding my lance, I will win the day.”

“Sure, with God's help, anything is possible, but thou shalt not test the Lord, thy God, yes? No, that skinny old lance will not do. You need a better weapon, and I've got just the deal for you!”

“What is that you are holding, merchant?” Sir Percival asked as the Warlock proudly displayed the most beautiful, shining tool he had ever seen.

“This, good knight, is the brand new Shaftblade,” the Warlock exclaimed, “the most powerful, most versatile, most lethal monster-slaying implement developed yet! This little beauty was designed by our most prodigious blacksmith in the hopes that someone truly skilled and strong would be able to put it to use! Look upon its curvature, its heft, its piercing blade! It has an edge so sharp, it cleaves sunlight, as you can see from the shining sparkles. With this, you would be invincible!”

Sir Percival was amazed. “Such a weapon is surely too good to be true! How much are you asking for it?”

The Warlock grinned a most delighted grin. “Normally, we would charge 800 gold pieces for just one of these, for the design takes ages to practice and impeccable strength, dexterity, and fortitude to craft, but out of gratitude for volunteering yourself to take on this most invincible of foes, I would be happy to offer you this mighty blade and merely take that old lance off of your hands. You won't be needing it with a Warshaft at your side and our village has little use for such a mighty weapon compared to all the kingdom's worries!”

“Truly? Why, thank you, kindly merchant! I accept your offer and will use this against the Ogre Sunday, in two days. Tonight, I will be resting at the inn. May God smile upon you and your kindness!” And with that, the knight left the Warlock with his lance, carrying away the shovel, whose enchantments were already very slowly unraveling.

“God bless you, Sir Knight!” the Warlock replied. “Heh heh... God bless him alright.”



Before daybreak, the Warlock passed by the chicken coop and stole a few feathers lying on the ground and stuffed them in his pocket. Then, after collecting the lance, the great bow delivered to him by Brother Wolf's daughters, and an old hacksaw he “borrowed” from the carpenter almost a decade ago, he marched off to the entrance of the cave where the Ogre caught him before, nearly staggered by the weight of the tools.

There, he removed the laces from his boots and tied the chicken feathers to the hilt of the lance. Then, he began weaving one of the grandest enchantments he had ever attempted in his whole life.

“Oh mighty arrow, speak to me,” he commanded, and in the whispering recesses of his mind, he heard a quiet, but very strong voice speak back.

“An arrow? I? I am the great lance owned by Sir Percival, blessed is he. I was to slay the Ogre today, as I have slain dragons and demons and elves and giants many times before. How can I ever be an arrow?”

“Do you not see the feathers attached to your tail?” the Warlock asked, stroking the feathers he had fastened to the lance with a glamour, silently cursing his younger self for falling asleep when his father tried to teach him how to tie knots and nooses for the gallows. “Only an arrow has feathers tied to their tail, and you are a most magnificent arrow. Yes, you are the arrow that shall pierce the Ogre's neck.”

Unable to determine a proper response to this, Percival's lance agreed. “Very well! I shall be the most powerful arrow the world has ever seen! I shall strike true for you, Master!”

The Warlock then covered himself in leaves, and he waited. He waited for hours. And as he waited, he began praying.

He prayed to the leaves to offer him shelter, for he was nervous and noticeable. He prayed to the bow to aid him in its pulling, for he was too weak to draw the string. He prayed to the arrow for accuracy, for he was shivering and unwieldy.
He prayed, and he poured all of his glamours into the bow and arrow, and the moment the Ogre left his front door, it was over in a second.

The Ogre fell to the ground with a mighty crash, and the Warlock beheaded his corpse with the hacksaw. With the giant's head in his hands, he ran back to the village as fast as he could.



As promised, the Mayor gave him a pail of gold coins, and three days later, he was holding hands with the Mayor's daughter before the altar, to the joyous, if slightly confused cheers of his neighbors, but before the priest was finished running them through their vows, a farmhand arrived in a massive panic, bearing urgent news.

“What is it you want?” demanded the Warlock, dressed in the finest ensemble the Mayor had to offer him. “Can't you see you are ruining the happiest day of my life with your screaming and blithering!?”

“It's an emergency! There are two ogres now, much bigger ones, and they're holding the village hostage until they get the head of the one who slew their son! Worse, they clobbered Sir Percival, who tried to fend them off with a shovel of all things! What in the name of God's thundering arse is going on!?”

“Oi, didn't the groom kill the Ogre?” the pig-herder asked.

“Yes, this wedding was the reward,” the Mayor replied.

“Percival ran off with a shovel?” the cow-farmer asked. “Is that where my shovel went after that lousy thief sold it for sweet-rolls!?”

“The Warlock sold him the shovel!” the butcher cried out. “He took his lance and gave him a shovel!”

“That dog picked my pockets,” Brother Wolf barked!

“Let's beat him black and blue and toss him to the ogres!” they all cried out, grabbing chairs and pulling knives!


“HEY, IDIOTS!!!” shouted the Mayor's daughter.

The entire crowd turned to face the bride, stunned into silence.

“How are you going to catch him if he's not here?”

And sure enough, the sound of the church doors closing echoed through the large room.


As they burst out of the building, the last they ever saw of the Warlock was him sprinting away, screaming at his shoes to carry him away from the village as fast as they could.