Swords & Heroes Story #28

Quazaar the Eliminator by Stephen L. Antczak

Jul 18, 2025

When Stephen first sent this story in, it was 8600 words and, while I enjoyed the humor, the adventure, and the rapport between the two main characters, it was just too long for this particular venue. I wasn’t sure if he’d agree, but I mentioned that if he could get the story down to about 4000 words, I’d definetly consider it! And Stephen was gracious enough to send in a revised version, which is presented below. This means there is some story left over for future telling, and according the author, he has plans “to continue the adventures for Quazaar with the hopes of collecting them together and turning them into a fix-up novel at some point in the future.” Which I think is a great idea! Until then, let me introduce to you a new hero to our pages, Quazaar the Eliminator! + Ed.

Quazaar the Eliminator by Stephen L. Antczak

I. Fame or Fortune?

“I don’t solve problems,” Quazaar said. “I eliminate them. There’s a difference.”

Hanging from a hook behind him was a scabbard, within which was his broadsword, Deathscream. Even cocooned in leather, the blade hummed a tune Quazaar could hear below the din of the tavern.

“And I’m good at it,” Quazaaer said. “Very good.”

“The best,” added his companion, Raygon.

“Maybe,” Quazaar said.

“Definitely,” said Raygon.

“Shut up.”

“I’ll fetch us two more ales,” Raygon said. He went over to the ale slop bucket on the opposite side of the tavern.

“I have a problem I want you to eliminate,” said the man who stood nervously across the table from Quazaar. “A big, ugly problem.”

“What are you offering?”

“Fame, and maybe fortune.”

“Fortune, I like. Though not the ‘maybe’ part. What good is fame?”

“Fortunes can be squandered, or stolen, or lost, but fame is forever.”

Raygon returned with two large tankards of ale. “I told the barmaid these were on you,” he said to the young man.

“Fame, or fortune?” Quazaar asked his friend.

“Fame,” Raygon said.

“Why?”

“Fame is an attractor of all things good in the world. Fortune is an attractor of all things rotten.” Raygon raised his mug in a toast.

“Of course, I can pay you,” said the man. “In silver.”

“How much?” Raygon asked.

“Enough,” said the man.

“What’s the problem you need solved?” the rogue asked.

“Eliminated,” Quazaar corrected.

“Bartog the Brute,” the man said. “He’s half ogre, half human. Bigger and meaner than any human, smarter and meaner than any ogre.”

“How much silver did you say?” the Eliminator asked.

“How many coppers have you spent since you’ve been here?” the man asked.

“A lot,” replied Raygon.

“Was it enough?”

“To meet our needs these past three days.”

“For the weight in copper you have spent here, you will receive the same weight in silver. Bartog the Brute comes into town every market day, the next of which is on the morrow. He arrives midmorning and proceeds to take what he wants without paying.”

“I’ll eliminate your problem,” Quazaar said.

“Excellent! Please enjoy yourselves this evening,” the man said. “I have indicated to the owner of this fine establishment that I will cover your expenses.” He turned to go.

“Wait,” Quazaar said. “Your name.”

The man turned back. As he related the following, Quazaar and Raygon drank their beer.

“I am Lord Jurren Bartog. Bartog the Brute is my half-brother. His ogre father lay with my mother after taking her during a raid twenty summers ago. My father and his men searched for months until they found the ogre village near the edge of the Southern Swamp. They attacked and killed them all. My mother was alive, and pregnant. She begged my father to spare the child she bore some moons later, herself dying in the process. My father swore an oath that he would raise the child as his own, and so he did. Until Bartog the Brute, at the age of ten summers, killed my father by smashing in his head with one blow in a fit of rage over being told to clean his room. I have been waiting for someone to come along who can help me rectify the error my father made all those summers ago by not killing the babe that violently pushed its way out of my mother’s womb.”

The man turned and left them without another word.

“All I requested was his name,” Quazaar said, “not his life story.”

Raygon fetched them two more large tankards of beer, foam spilling down their sides. “This is the good stuff,” he announced.

Quazaar drank. He couldn’t tell the difference between the ‘good stuff’ and what they’d been drinking before. He liked it, though. He liked beer. He liked it a lot. When the foam settled, he noticed that the liquid he had before him now was a bit darker than the beer he’d been drinking earlier. Perhaps it was better.

“I took the liberty of ordering us each a liver and onion pie,” his companion said. “Here’s a thought. We spend the rest of the evening eating and drinking all we can, then stock up on as much as we can carry and leave town. We’ll be well away before this Bartog the Brute shows up, and we’ll have plenty to get us to the next town without having had to pay for any of it.”

“If you wish to slip away, do so,” Quazaar said. “I intend to eliminate Bartog the Brute and collect my silver.”

“Okay, perhaps while you are distracting everyone with your attempt to eliminate the Brute, I can pay a visit to Lord Bartog’s abode and avail us of even more silver, or perhaps even gold. In my experience, where there’s silver there is often gold.”

“Do as you wish,” he said. “Your business is your own. My business is with Bartog the Brute.”

“Do you really think you can kill this brute?”

“I can kill him.”

The liver and onion pies were brought to their table by a handsome woman.

“I’m Lillana, owner of this tavern,” the woman said. “Lord Bartog says to treat you as his guests, and as he’s the lord of this town, that’s what I’ll do. However, Lord Bartog is known to forget his debts whence they come due, so bear that in mind. If he should not pay before you leave, I’ll squeeze it from your flesh if I must.”

“Noted,” Quazaar said.

Lillana replied with a wink and left them to their food.

There was silence at their table as they ate and drank, save for the gentle hum of Deathscream.

II. The Star Blade

Falling stars were a common sight in the clear night sky during the chill of early autumn. Quazaar would often lie awake in his bedroll and stare up at the black sky, making note of the constellations he’d learned as a child.

He’d learnt his father’s trade, that of a blacksmith. He’d learnt to fashion everything of metal a village needed: horseshoes, chains, clasps, cookware, arrowheads, ax heads, saw blades, knives, nails, spikes, tools of all kinds. Occasionally, the nearest Imperial garrison would demand swords, armor, javelins, crossbow bolts, shot for slings.

Unfortunately, the village where Quazaar lived already had a blacksmith, his father. Thus, at the end of his apprenticeship, he was forced to leave and find a different village that needed his skills.

The elderly blacksmith was unwilling to cede his forge.

“Without it, I am nothing,” he said. Despite being elderly, he was all sinuous muscle. His white beard was singed black at the edges and his bald head scarred by the touch of flickering firebugs, the glowing embers that fluttered up from the hearth.

“The people of this village wish you to step aside,” Quazaar told him. “A horse broke its leg because of your faulty work on its shoes.”

“I know the rider of that horse,” the blacksmith said. “An adventurous fool who tears across the countryside as fast as an animal can carry him.”

“Even so,” Quazaar said. “The village council has decided.”

“You’ll have to kill me.”

“I do not wish to kill anyone.”

“Don’t worry,” the elderly blacksmith said. “You won’t.”

The fight was to occur on the next market day when the sun was at its zenith. As the one being challenged, the blacksmith had the choice of weapons. He chose the two best hammers from his forge.

Quazaar spent his remaining coppers on a large breakfast and warm beer, figuring that regardless of the outcome he wouldn’t need them anymore. If he lost, he would be dead; and if he won, he would be the new blacksmith.

The tavern owner was a widow who had retained her beauty in her near-to-middling years, and asked Quazaar if he’d ever ‘been with’ a woman. Sensing that she didn’t mean ‘in the presence of,’ he told her he had not.

“Then there is one thing you must do before the sun is high,” she told him.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Millowen. Call me Millow.”

From that moment until he found himself sworn by the village council as the new blacksmith, having killed a man for the first time, all was a tumult in Quazaar’s mind.

One night, after spending several hours with Millow he returned to the blacksmith’s house at the edge of town where the low wall separated it from a wide prairie. Snow had fallen. The prairie was a blanket of white. The clouds had cleared. The sky was lit by a spread of stars. Quazaar, warmed by beer and Millow’s favor, stood outside and looked across it and wondered at the beauty of a world that could create such a tableau.

A shooting star caught his eye. He watched it arc across the sky. It did not flare out but continued to streak downward, screaming like death itself, until it slammed into the deep snow, sending up a white geyser and a muffled bang. Birds across the prairie lit into the sky, their dark wings flickering in the light of the stars.

Quazaar started out onto the prairie towards it, then stopped and decided it would be best to wait until morning. It was the hour of white wolves and bears, although he suspected any creature would probably have been scared off by the fallen star. Still, it would be best to wait. He would get some rest by the hearth, drink warm cider, and leave at first light with the sledge and chains from his smithy.

The next morning, he found the fallen star in a deep crater with sloping sides. He shuffled down, and at the bottom was a sizzling, spherical rock that glistened as if gold and jewels were set into its surface. He wrapped chains around it, and the metal of the chains began to glow from the heat, first red and white, but they did not melt.

He struggled to hoist the chains over his shoulders as he climbed up the side of the crater and lost his footing. Without thinking, he stuck out his arm to break his fall and his hand landed on the surface of the fallen star. Flinching back, expecting it to be burnt black, he was amazed to see that nothing had happened. It hadn’t felt hot to the touch. Holding his hand over the parts of the chain that were touching the fallen star, however, he could feel intense heat emanating from them.

This was indeed an interesting material, but could it be worked in the same manner as iron? Quazaar wanted to find out.

He trudged back up the side of the crater, dragging the lengths of chain behind him. The fallen star was not nearly as heavy as it looked. But it felt solid. He briefly puzzled over this as he pulled. He felt the chains slacken slightly when the fallen star had crested the lip of the crater.

By midmorning he had managed to get the sphere into his workshop.

It was impervious to his hammers, but, once he pressed his hand to it, remembering that it had not burned his flesh before, it responded. He found he was able to mold it, like clay although it took all his strength.

What shape to mold it into?

Given its unusual properties he decided it needed to become a sword, and a sword is what it became.

He wrapped the hilt in leather as tightly as any hilt he’d ever wrapped, and held the sword aloft, sunshine glinting off the blade like a shattered rainbow. In the process of cooling, the blade had attained a glowing white sheen to it. Quazaar had never seen another sword like it.

A sword like this, he thought, deserved a name.

He’d heard of swords having names. There were the swords of legend, like Thunderclap, and Dragontooth. The emperor had a sword called Moonblade, supposedly forged from the metal of one of the moons. How one could get metal from a moon, Quazaar did not know. Nor did he wonder about it for very long.

What should he name a sword forged from the exotic metal of a fallen star?

Later, at the tavern, he showed Millow the sword and told her about the fallen star and how he had forged it.

“It is certainly deserving of a name,” she agreed. “Have you thought of what you will call this star blade?”

III. Bartog the Brute

“Bartog the Brute?” Quazaar asked the mountain of a man, or runt of an ogre, depending on one’s point of view.

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m Quazaar.”

“Stupid name.”

“Quazaar the Eliminator,” Raygon chimed in helpfully. “That’s his full name.”

“Even stupider.”

“Are you Bartog the Brute or not?”

“No, I’m Princess Fairy Godmother Up Yer Ass,” came the reply.

Quazaar cast a look at Raygon.

“That means yes.”

Bartog had moved on to a wagon selling furs. “I’ll take ’em all,” he said.

“Wonderful!” exclaimed the proprietor of the wagon. “Fifty silvers, or one gold if you have it.”

“I have it, didn’t say I would pay,” the Brute said. “Just that I’d take ’em.”

“No,” said Quazaar.

The half-ogre slowly turned to face Quazaar. “You again.”

“You’ll pay for those,” the Eliminator said, “although they won’t do you much good since you’ll be dead before the sun moves the span of my thumb.”

“Lord Bartog must have sent you,” the Brute replied. “He is a coward. With his men-at-arms he might have a chance against me, but he remains hidden behind locked doors until I’m gone.”

The Brute squared himself before Quazaar and ripped open his leather jerkin as if it were made of taffeta. “Go on, then. Relieve me of my misery.”

Quazaar pulled the star blade from its sheath.

“And now you shall meet your doom at the tip of my sword, Deathscream, forged from the metal of a fallen star!”

“Deathscream is the name you have given your star blade?” Bartog asked.

“Yes.”

The Brute threw his head back and barked out a loud, belittling laugh.

In anger, Quazaar thrust the star blade at the big bully’s chest. But the half-ogre was quicker than one would expect. He grabbed Quazaar’s sword arm, then turned and threw Quazaar across the square to smash into the gurgling stone fountain at its center. The fountain had been carved in the shape of four pissing dwarves, each holding a flagon of ale aloft in one hand, while the other was being used to direct the stream of water.

Quazaar landed in their midst, breaking off one of the flagons. A stone dwarf pissed on his head. He reached for his sword, but the star blade was no longer in his hand.

Bartog the Brute’s eyes flew wide as he looked down and noticed the blade jutting from his chest. He looked confused for a moment, then he fell backward and hit the ground, his eyes staring blankly up at the sun, which had moved about half the span of Quazaar’s thumb.

Quazaar pulled himself from the fountain and strode across the square, gripped the hilt of his blade and pulled it from the brute’s body.

“Murder!”

Quazaar saw Lord Bartog striding towards him, sword in hand, red cloak billowing. Behind him were half a dozen men with swords and gray cloaks.

“You murdered my half-brother, Bartog the Brute!” Lord Bartog accused.

“Yes, just as you asked,” Quazaar said. “You owe me some silver.”

“Twenty-three copperweight of silvers,” Raygon said, stepping out of the crowd that had formed around Quazaar and Lord Bartog.

“I did not hire you to kill my half-brother,” Lord Bartog said. “I hired you to solve the problem of his bullying ways.”

“I told you, I don’t solve problems,” Quazaar said.

“He eliminates them,” Raygon added.

“Semantics!” Lord Bartog shot back. “You were not commissioned to kill my half-brother, and now you are under arrest for murder.”

“So, this is how you get out of paying us,” Raygon said. “Clever.”

Lord Bartog ignored him.

“You know the penalty for murder in the Empire?” he asked Quazaar.

“I do,” Raygon interjected. “If he pleads guilty, the penalty is exile. We’ll take that deal.”

“I refuse to accept guilt for something I did not do,” Quazaar said.

“Did you kill him?” Lord Bartog asked.

“I did kill him, but it was not murder.”

“Was it self-defense?” Lord Bartog asked. “Did he attack first?”

“No,” Quazaar answered.

“Then it’s murder. Now, go quietly away from this town. You are hereby exiled.”

“No.”

“If you will not leave, we will cut you down where you stand.”

“Go ahead and try,” Quazaar said. “At least with you, it will be self-defense.”

“That’s not how it works,” Lord Bartog said. “Not that it matters, for you will be dead ’ere the sun moves the span of my thumb.” He said that last bit with a sneer.

Lord Bartog’s men spread out, flanking Quazaar.

“Raygon,” Quazaar said, “watch my back.” Hearing no reply, Quazaar looked to where Raygon was standing, but his companion was no longer there.

“You’re all alone,” Lord Bartog said.

“Good,” replied Quazaar. “Prepare to meet your doom by the blade of…the Starblade!” In truth, he’d intended to say ‘Deathscream’ but Bartog the Brute’s taunts had made Quazaar rethink that.

Lord Bartog attacked.

All became a clamor of clanging swords, oaths, cries of pain, begging for mercy, and a blur of flashing steel and the white unearthly metal of the Starblade. Quazaar fought with the full strength of Bartog the Brute because the Starblade had given the brute’s strength to him. And the blows he’d received, the gashes and cuts and slices across his arms and legs and one across his back were already healing. It ended with Lord Bartog’s hands in the air, a gash across his face, his expression a masque of terror.

“Spare me and I’ll give you whatever you want!” he yelled.

“Simply what you owe me,” Quazaar said.

Later, at the Bartog Estate, Lord Bartog looked with astonished despair into the empty trunk within which he’d hoarded his family’s treasure.

“It’s all gone!”

Quazaar had an idea who’d slipped in and taken it while Lord Bartog and his men had attempted to arrest him. No matter. He still demanded satisfaction.

“But there’s nothing,” Lord Bartog said.

Quazaar unsheathed the Starblade.

“Wait!” Lord Bartog yelled. “There is something of greater value you can have.”

He led Quazaar down to the stables, and to a corral within which stood the finest black and white stallion anyone had ever seen, standing as tall as Bartog the Brute, with muscles that rippled with every movement. He was adorned with ornate silver livery that Quazaar could see weighed somewhat less than he’d been promised.

“That’s not enough silver.”

“The horse is yours, too.”

“What use do I have for a horse?”

“A good horse is the most precious possession any man can claim,” Lord Bartog protested.

“I have two legs. I don’t need of a horse.”

“Take it to one of the larger towns in the Empire,” Lord Bartog said. “You’ll be able to sell it for three times as much silver as I owe you.”

Quazaar was aware that there were those who greatly valued a good steed. He did, however, notice that this one did not bear a saddle and mentioned as much.

“He is not yet fully broken,” Lord Bartog said. “The best steeds are also the most spirited. It will take a true horse-master to break this one.”

“Why should I go through the trouble of going to a city and trying to sell him?” Quazaar asked.

“I can’t do it,” Lord Bartog said. “I am far behind on my taxes. If I go to any city or large town I may be clapped in irons and what’s left of my holdings will be sold off. It is only by reputation that I am safe here, until I can pay what I owe. Now, though, I fear my reputation may be in ruins, thanks to you.”

“You’re welcome,” Quazaar said.

“Take the horse and consider yourself paid for your services.”

“Fine.”

Quazaar opened the gate to the corral, and the magnificent steed eyed him warily. He approached slowly. The horse turned to face him, not allowing Quazaar to flank him. As Quazaar got closer, the steed reared up and flashed shining, razor-sharp shoes on its hooves. How could a horse be shod yet not broken? Quazaar was no horse expert, but this did seem odd. He unsheathed the star blade.

“I could kill you and just take the silver you wear,” he said to the horse. He briefly wondered if the Starblade would transfer the horse’s speed and strength to him, and who knew what else. Would he then be able to gallop across the plains as a horse does? And such strength! It was tempting.

The horse lowered its head and reached out with its snout to sniff at the star blade. It then shook its head, turned to the side, and walked slowly out of the corral. Once it was outside the gate, it stopped and turned to look back expectantly. Quazaar sheathed his sword and walked up to stand by the horse’s head, looking it in one dark brown eye.

“We have an understanding,” he said.

The horse snorted once, and Quazaar started walking. It followed, and stayed with him as he walked to the tavern at the edge of town.

“Wait here,” he told it, and went inside.

Lillana brought him a beer.

“No,” he said. She set the beer down on the table anyway. “I have no coin.”

“Where’s your friend?”

Quazaar bristled at the word ‘friend.’ He’d had no illusions about Raygon being a rogue and thief, but had not expected to be abandoned by him the one time he might actually have needed his help. He hadn’t, of course, but he might have.

“Not my friend,” he said. “He stole the coin I was to be paid for my services today. When next I see him, I will take back what’s mine unless he has spent it all. If he has, I will kill him. However, I can’t stay another night as I can’t pay you for the room. Also, I killed Bartog the Brute, and all of Lord Bartog’s men. Now I have a horse to sell. A very fine horse with silver livery.”

“Why sell the horse if it is so fine?”

“I need coin, don’t I?”

“Do you?”

“Are you giving me this beer?”

“No. This one you’re going to earn before you leave and I never see you again.” She laid a hand on his forearm.

Quazaar didn’t argue.

He drank the beer. It was the good stuff.

Quazaar the Eliminator © 2025 by Stephen L. Antczak (3800 words). All rights reserved by the author. You may restack this story via Substack but please do not republish elsewhere. Banner and clipart by Gilead, used by permission.

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