Collected Tales of the Warrior Chef

By Christopher C. Dimond

Join an unlikely duo on their fantastical hopepunk adventures!

 

Sonia is a pragmatic wagon driver accustomed to a lonely life on the road. But when she’s assigned the most peculiar of guards—the eccentric “Warrior Chef”—she’s faced with an opportunity to change everything. As they travel together, she slowly warms to his infectious zeal for seeking adventure and magical ingredients. But while the Chef’s fighting prowess and medicinal knowledge might surprise her, his talent for finding trouble tops them all!

 

Whether facing down bandits, chasing a magical map, or holding the line against ravenous beasts, this collection of six tales—narrated by Sonia herself—chronicles how an unlikely friendship blooms between two very different characters on their journeys overflowing with humor, drama, and optimistic charm.

 

Story 1: An Introduction to the Warrior Chef

When their trade route is attacked by bandits, will the Warrior Chef’s martial and culinary skills be enough to keep them safe, even in the face of a ravenous dragon?

 

Story 2: The Warrior Chef and the Sickness in Shaom

When they encounter a mysterious plague in Shaom, how far will the Warrior Chef go to escape the town and the specters of his own past?

 

Story 3: The Warrior Chef and the Magical Map

Magic maps. Mischievous deer. Marauding predators. Just another day with the Warrior Chef on his endless quest for rare ingredients!

 

Story 4: The Warrior Chef and the Hungry Gobalinas

When deceit and cultural barriers ignite chaos over a valuable harvest, the Warrior Chef must intervene.

 

Story 5: The Warrior Chef and the Series of Unforeseen Consequences

A bout of illness and mishaps threatens to overwhelm even the mighty Warrior Chef.

 

Story 6: The Warrior Chef and the Deronas Blossom Harvest

Far across the Green Islands lies a rolling paradise that blooms but once every seven years: the famed Hills of Deronas. And this year, the mystical blossoms are calling for stalwart defenders to protect them against a ravenous hoard…

 

So grab your copy of The Collected Tales of the Warrior Chef to join Sonia and Chef on their adventures today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: UDW Publishing
• Release date: Mar 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9781948619332

Book preview

Story 1

An Introduction to the Warrior Chef

Don’t touch my yaks.

The man standing beside my wagon turned to me in surprise and smiled. From his dress and the large pack he wore across his back, he looked like a vagrant or a wanderer. But in his left hand he carried a large wooden staff that broadened at one end, more similar to a giant baking peel than a walking staff.

They’re beautiful creatures, he said with an easy smile. I’m sure they’d make a delectable stew.

I expect my eyes almost bulged. You what? I managed even as one hand subconsciously moved toward the short sword at my waist.

But rather than backing down in chagrin, the other man broke into a great laugh. I’m kidding! Just kidding. He turned back to my yaks and offered one hand for them to sniff. It’s an old chef’s joke. But they are quite beautiful.

I was still sorting out my angry reply when another voice interrupted.

Ah, good!

I tried to contain a groan as I turned and plastered on a half-smile for Resgaul, the merchant I worked for.

He grinned at me. I see you’ve already met your guard.

I frowned. My guard? I don’t need a guard.

The road to Mala had been getting rougher over the past few years, but not enough so that the sword I carried wouldn’t serve me just fine. I patted Yuna, one of my two yaks, and turned to continue hitching her to my wagon.

A little woman like you? Resgaul countered. Nonsense. I need to be sure my wares are safe. I wanted three men, but the chef here was all I could find.

I shot the vagrant a strange glance. You’re a guard and a chef?

The man gave me a casual shrug. Wandering chef, generally.

Trying not to scowl, I turned back to Resgaul.

The miserly trader just grinned. You mean you don’t recognize the great Warrior Chef?

I shrugged with an unimpressed frown, still struggling to believe what I was hearing. It was bad enough Resgaul didn’t trust me with his shipment—but to hire a chef as a guard? A warrior chef?

The chef gave me that easy, charming smile again. I hated it.

I’ve been called many things across many lands. But perhaps tales from the distant mainland haven’t yet reached these remote islands, the chef said, his voice rich and confident.

Of course, I was still annoyed with him. Besides, we weren’t that far from the continent. Oh, I’ve heard plenty of grand tales from the mainland. Just none so ridiculous as to feature a warrior chef.

Resgaul’s eyes bulged at my slight of his new hire, but if the wanderer felt even the slightest bit crestfallen, it didn’t show. Instead, the warrior chef broke into a grin. Then I have a whole new land to traverse, unfettered by my previous glory. New, grand cities to serve and explore!

I shot him another strange look before trying one last time to convince Resgaul I didn’t need an escort.

No, no, no! he insisted. This might be your wagon, but these are my wares! And I demand you travel with an armed guard.

I glared at him with a vague gesture toward the sword at my hip, but he remained adamant.

The roads are getting dangerous out there! I don’t want to hear that you’ve lost my goods to bandits on the way to Mala. Or worse!

Well, he was the one paying for the trip. So I resigned myself to the strange wanderer’s company for a few weeks. Fine. But when I get back, I’m picking up Beayers again for the run to Namyas.

Resgaul groaned. If you must. He’d never liked Beayers’s fee. But Resgaul cared more about his wares arriving intact than who delivered them. Just be quick about it! I need you back here with my return shipment by the end of next week!

I scowled but kept quiet. It wasn’t the first time Resgaul had demanded the impossible. And it was one of his politer requests. At least it gave me the excuse to ignore the chef as I moved to hitching Yenna, my second yak, before making a final inspection of the wagon. As he often did, Resgaul hovered longer than necessary, but I ignored him too. Only once I was confident my wagon was ready did I turn back to the two men.

Remember—the end of next week! Resgaul repeated by way of parting.

I’ll be back when I can, I said, tapping Yuna on the shoulder so that she and her sister started the large wagon forward with a groan of wooden wheels and axles.

One week! Resgaul shouted to our backs as the chef fell into stride beside me.

Is your employer always so preoccupied with hastening your expeditions?

Yeah, usually, I replied. But that doesn’t mean I listen to him, especially when he asks for things that simply can’t happen. It might be his cargo, but it’s my wagon. I shot the wanderer a pointed look. "And that means once we’re on the road, it’s my rules. You understand?"

The man nodded absently. That does sound most appropriate to me.

Honestly, I’d expected him to dispute the idea. So when he didn’t, I just nodded once in agreement, thinking there was just a chance he wouldn’t be quite as awful a traveling companion as I’d feared.

Needless to say, now I know him better.

The first day went smoothly enough. The wanderer chef kept mostly to himself, falling into an easy, almost effortless stride to match pace with my large wagon. I worried he would complain about not stopping for lunch, but when it became clear I had no intention of delaying our transit, he simply pulled a snack out of one small pocket and kept walking without comment.

We made good progress that day, but the twilight was thickening around us by the time I pulled the wagon over to make camp.

Would you care for some dinner? he asked, startling me as I worked to unhitch my yaks from the wagon’s yoke. I fear there isn’t time for a proper stew or a hearty soup, but I could still make something to help warm the heart.

I gave him a surprised scowl, wondering what he could really accomplish before we lost the last of the evening’s fading light. But I nodded. That sounds nice. Though you should be warned that if Resgaul promised you food as part of your payment, you’ll be sorely disappointed. He always skimps on the nonessentials. And he considers our trail rations to be nonessentials.

The chef gave me a bold grin as he whipped the straps of the large wooden pack off his shoulders. I’m sure I’ll manage something. Then, before I even realized what he was doing, he’d unfolded the pack into a small, waist-high cooking station, complete with cutting board and miniature stove. Then he pulled a medium pot from a hidden compartment and filled it with water from the wagon.

I continued settling my yaks for the evening, content that the chef’s work was keeping him out of my way, at least. Once I’d finished tending to my girls, I turned back to find the chef tasting the concoction he’d created in his little pot.

He gave me another grin before spooning a serving into a wooden bowl and offering it to me with an extravagant flourish.

I accepted the dish with some hesitancy—though, in truth, I was so hungry by that point that its taste wouldn’t have much mattered. Even Resgaul’s standard fare would’ve been enough. Even so, I didn’t expect much.

But when I tasted it…

Well. I was mistaken.

I could claim that my eyes widened in surprise or that I stiffened in shock and delight. But I honestly don’t remember. I was too absorbed with the amazing flavor experience, unlike anything I’d had on the road before. It was just a simple broth with thin slices of Resgaul’s cheap dried meat and boiled rice thrown in for texture, but there was subtlety and complexity to the dish I’d never before tasted. It was rich and sumptuous, with just the right amount of salting and a hint of earthy sweetness under it all, such that it would have dazzled in even the finest of restaurants. I was amazed and delighted by what this wandering chef had managed with Resgaul’s basic rations—and, I assume, his own additions—to say nothing of having managed the feat in such a short time.

Whatever my reaction, he must have read it on my face. But rather than boasting or bragging as I’d feared, he just flashed me a warm and content smile. I’m glad you like it. I’ll be sure to leave you enough for seconds.

The next morning, we set out early after a simple meal of warmed oats. Somehow, the wanderer chef managed to make even that basic dish a sensory experience, adding tiny leaves of wild mints, I think, from beside the road to add both flavor and texture. And it was the same the next morning, and the morning after for a week and more, as each day, the strange chef added something new and delightful to our basic breakfast oats.

As we continued down the road one morning, the chef once more fell into an easy stride beside the wagon. I was still lingering in the warm afterglow of our breakfast, this time served with wild berries sprinkled across the top.

Is that something you usually do? I asked with some curiosity. Gathering berries from beside the road, I mean.

He gave me a smile. Only when I can. Such is the life of a wandering chef, always on the search for the finest of ingredients.

I laughed. "I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but berries gathered from the roadside hardly sound like the finest of ingredients."

He gave me a wry smile. Oh? Then would you dispute that they added to the dish?

A touch of color rose in my cheeks at the reminder of that magnificent porridge. Well, no, I suppose not. I can’t really imagine how anything could have made it better.

He shrugged with an infuriatingly smug grin. Then it seems to me that, in that moment and for that dish, those baby sherrai berries were the finest of ingredients.

I scowled, quite sure I didn’t want to see that grin again. But before I could ready a response, the chef paused midstride with a strange, distracted look in his expression.

An instant later, a tree beside the road ahead shrieked and groaned as it came crashing down across our path.

Yet before the sickening thud of the earth had even passed, the chef was in action. Ambush!

Sweeping his large baking peel up in both hands, he dashed ahead of the wagon. That was when I spotted the two highwaymen advancing upon us from the forest beside the road, one of them carrying a strange foreign sword and the other a pair of long daggers.

Get the wagon to safety! the chef cried as he intercepted the attackers, spinning his peel overhead like a fighting staff.

I took a frantic look around and gave a frustrated scoff. There was no safety to get the wagon to—they’d blocked the road quiet surely, and the surrounding forest was too dense to maneuver a wagon through.

But that didn’t mean I couldn’t fight.

I reached for the short sword at my hip and brandished it in front of my yaks. I’d once heard stories about bandits and highwaymen killing horses to ensure wagons couldn’t escape, so I’d never been willing to take any chances. I was protecting my yaks first and foremost. Besides, as I watched in startled awe, it became clear the wanderer chef didn’t need any help.

The swordsman lunged at him again, and the chef parried with a confident flick of his staff. Then he brought the peel around to catch a lunge from one of the daggers in the hands of the other highwayman, who’d tried to creep around the fighting pair and attack the distracted chef. But Chef wasn’t distracted at all, and that fighting peel of his caught three more rapid strikes from the paired daggers while also countering strikes from the sword with its other end.

Judging by the grace and rapidity of our attackers’ moves, they clearly weren’t inexperienced with their weapons—indeed, far from it. But the chef outshone them both.

After a few moments, he brought the rest of his body into the fight, dodging one attack before counterstriking with a combination of staff and elbow or deflecting a dagger strike whilst landing a back kick at the same time. At one point, he even lunged in close to the swordsman and trapped the man’s blade long enough to wrap one foot behind the other’s before he swept through the man’s chest with his peel, pitching the swordsman to the ground in a rough throw. Then he spun and lunged at the other fighter, putting both ends of his staff to work against those double daggers in a rapid flurry of⁠—

I heard a shuffle behind me, and I spun.

At first I didn’t see anything. Then I spotted a boy’s head as he ducked inside the back of my wagon. Chef! I cried.

The boy’s head snapped up with wide eyes, and he dove for the rear of the wagon box, hauling a large bag over one shoulder.

There’s another in the wagon! I shouted, turning to give chase.

Negu, run! came a distinctly feminine voice from the bandit with the twin daggers.

The warrior chef dove at the swordsman as he regained his feet and shoved the man back again. Then the chef spun and sprinted after me, surprising me again as he overtook me with just a few strides. By then, the boy had scrambled down from the wagon box and was rushing toward the forest on the far side of the road.

I grunted and tried to put on more speed, sure the boy would outrun us both.

I was only half correct.

With a great heave, the warrior chef launched his fighting peel through the air, landing it between the boy’s legs so that when the long handle dug into the ground, it spun and tangled the boy’s feet. He gave a brief cry as he fell, rolling a few times at the edge of the road.

I caught him a moment later and pinned one arm behind his back so he couldn’t escape. Then I looked up, expecting the other two brigands to be close behind. Instead, I just found Chef’s back as he surveyed the empty road on the far side of the wagon.

He cast a glance over his shoulder, ensuring I had the boy under control. Seems the other two have already vanished. He gave a great sigh as he turned and joined me in pulling the boy to his feet.

The kid was even younger than I’d expected, probably only ten or eleven years, and his clothing was worn and dirty, far more so than just the single tumble at the side of the road could explain. Even his hair was disheveled and filthy. But it was his eyes that were the most startling, filled with an angry defiance that conveyed just how little the world had given him.

The chef knelt in front of the boy. For a long time, he simply held that angry gaze, and the miniature brigand stared right back. Then the chef finally spoke. Your parents can’t feed you enough, can they?

A flicker of something else ignited in the boy’s eyes. For a moment, I wondered if it was a different kind of anger. Then the boy’s stomach growled as loud as a wild quarix cat.

Chef nodded. Come on, then, he said brusquely. Let’s get you a nice lunch.

I think the boy’s confusion matched my own as the wanderer chef turned and set his pack on the ground, quickly pulling the oiled canvas from the box and folding the legs out to prepare the cooking station. A moment later, he had a small fire going. I think the young bandit was still confused about what was happening when the chef set the bowl with his finished dish in front of the boy.

But I was still confused too. While the boy began to eat—cautiously at first then, after a few bites, setting himself to the elegant meal with fierce abandon—I pulled the chef aside.

What are you doing? I snapped in a harsh whisper. His parents just attacked us! And he almost got away with a chunk of Resgaul’s shipment. How can you just give him a meal now?

I remember the chef turned to me with a look so simple and earnest I couldn’t possibly doubt his sincerity. Because the boy is hungry.

But— I broke off with a sigh, unsure how to continue after his befuddling answer. His parents would have left us both dead by the side of the road if it meant they could take my whole wagon. You can’t reward that with kindness.

The chef’s eyes narrowed. Who said this is kindness? When I feed a hungry child, I am acting out of necessity, not sympathy. Besides, his parents weren’t trying to kill me any more than I was attempting to maim them. They had more skill than that. They very artfully distracted me so their son could sneak away with a bag of pilfered supplies. He glanced over at the boy, who had just finished his meal. The child’s gaze was still lingering on the empty bowl. More? Chef asked.

The young man’s face lit with hope, and he nodded hesitantly.

The wandering chef snorted. As I said. This is necessity. He quickly dished out seconds, this time a double serving for our hungry young brigand. Then the chef sat and watched the boy eat. Slowly, he said after a moment of observing the child devouring his meal with even more enthusiasm than before. There’s plenty here for you. Savor it. Live the experience of every mouthful. Appreciate the flavor and texture, as well as what it offers to sustain your body and mind.

The boy shot him a confused look but did slow a little in his assault.

Are your parents as hungry as you are?

The child shot him another look, his mouth too busy to answer with words. But there was an answer in his haunted gaze all the same.

Chef frowned. Then we’ll need to feed them as well. Perhaps a simple two-course dinner for you and your parents. Do you think they would accept that?

The boy answered with an eager nod, his mouth still full.

I pulled on the chef’s shoulder, dropping my voice so the child wouldn’t hear. Why are you doing this? We don’t have time to linger here, and this changes nothing for them.

He gave me that expression of honest surprise once more. "This could change everything for them. Have you ever met a man on the verge of starvation? A