The Legend of Arcadian

by DustyDominic

Chapter 7: The Wolves of Rainright, Pt. 3

The day next, the warriors gathered in the Jarl's throne room.
As they waited for noon, Ulricus and Captain Torkil took their usual positions upon and beside the throne. The Jarl looked more haggard than before, but he had a certain gleam in his eye. Today he did not clack his talons and instead folded them together patiently. He rested himself against the back of his throne and kept absolutely silent while the warriors chattered.

Captain Torkil observed his Jarl uneasily. He'd kept the deal with Arcadian from the Jarl—in fact, he had not told Ulricus of his spying scheme at all. Torkil planned to speak with each contender privately, to forewarn them of what they were facing, but the more he pondered it, the more unease he felt. Perhaps the wisest course of all would have been to tell the Jarl of the Bergtyr and his mastery over the wolves, so that they could send a troop of soldiers and heroes both, and employ the best warriors for the task, so that northward trade, the lifeblood of the city of Fauske, could resume.

But the Jarl was stubborn, and he was proud. Torkil knew this better than any-griffon. Ulricus could not have been told, or else he would have forbidden the whole scheme.

It became apparent to the Jarl's court that the previous contender had not returned. A moment of silence was proffered in honor of the fallen warrior, but it was a qualmy silence. Nervous murmuring soon renewed after Jarl Ulricus resumed his pose. His keen eyes swept the room. Calmly, piercingly, he asked, "And where is our little horsa friend? Has he come to face his death?"

The room went quiet as the Griffons turned to each other and looked around. Indeed, Arcadian was not among them. The Jarl's eyes glinted triumphantly. Captain Torkil shifted, betraying only the slightest nerve.

"So it seems he has not the courage to fight as a true warrior," the Jarl snarled. "It is to be expected though of that cowardly race." The other Griffons nodded in agreement. Torkil bit his tongue, wondering if he ought to speak. Before he could, a voice came out from the back of the room:

"Nay, good Jarl, I have come to fulfill my pledge."

---

Sir Arcadian of Bragn stood at the entrance, in his armor and gear, defiantly drawing himself up.
The Jarl's face fell, but he regained his composure, casually smoothing his feathers, and spoke dismissively. "Aha, so you have come. Very well, hesturlandur."

"I have news yet to report, good Jarl. They are woeful tidings indeed," said Arcadian as he trotted to the throne. The Griffons muttered at this, and Ulricus raised an eyebrow. Arcadian turned to speak to the Griffon warriors behind him. "What news I have is this: I have seen the beast we are fighting. It is not merely a pack of wild wolves, but rather a pack of wolves led by one of the Bergtyr."

The Griffons chirped amongst themselves in shock and consternation.

"A Bergtyr? In these parts?" one asked. Arcadian looked back to the Jarl Ulricus, who glowered at Captain Torkil. As for him, the captain maintained a stony face. Arcadian supposed that the Jarl had guessed who'd let him observe the monster.

Arcadian continued, "Verily, it was a Bergtyr who has set his wolves on his challengers. He cleaved them with his great-axe and left their corpses to rot at the bottom of the Egergrind. He would give you neither fair fight nor proper burial, as he gave nonesuch to the great Griffon warriors who've died at his hands already." The Griffons were most roused at that, gripping their weapons and cursing the Bergtyr, and Arcadian noted that even the Jarl Ulricus became agitated. He knelt down before the Jarl's throne.

"Jarl Ulricus, you were gracious enough to offer me free passage in exchange for my service as a scout, and for this generosity I am most grateful. However, I pledged to you that I would take up my sword against this foe, and I shall fulfill my pledge, even should it cost my life." Both Ulricus and Torkil were visibly startled by this offer, but before they could speak, one of the Griffons cheered out.

"Quite brave, lytla horsa! You may be a hero yet."

Then another spoke against him, saying, "Bah, he's no hero. As soon as he's out of sight from the Gates, he'll sneak away north, and we'll not hear from him ever again."

Ulricus grinned. He stood from his throne, gesturing forcefully with his talons. He spoke with disdain and harshness, saying, "Very true! How might we know if our horsa actually slew the monster? How might we know if he would even fight at all? I know verily that the passions take strongly with hesturlandurs, and fear is often chief among them."

These words riled Arcadian, but he knew that any reply would be taken as evidence of "strong passions," so he bit his tongue. Ulricus continued, "Therefore, young hesturlandur, your papers of safe travel shall not be granted, unless you return with evidence of your battle... the Bergtyr's horns should suffice."

Captain Torkil stepped forward. Choosing his words, he spoke carefully, "My good Jarl, your wisdom is inestimable, but the hesturlandur has already fulfilled his end of the bargain. Surely, holding his papers of safe travel hostage is not needed. He could have escaped the city when you deemed him worthy of scouting ahead, but he did not. Changing the terms of a guarantee is unworthy."

The Jarl's gold eyes pierced Torkil's when he said this, but Ulricus did not interrupt. When Captain Torkil finished, his voice was steely, and his expression was stony.

"Captain Torkil, were I you, I would hold my tongue. The horsa has not been obligated to face death until now, so what he has done previously is no guarantee that cowardice will not overtake him."

"Moreover," the Jarl turned to Arcadian, with a beaky smile. "If you do not slay the beast—if you make a mockery of your pledge and slink away from honorable battle—I shall put out a warrant for your arrest across the kingdom as a liar, a cheat, and a blaggard."

Arcadian bowed his head. "Worthy Jarl, you shall not need to even draw up the warrant. I shall return with that of which you ask me, or I shall die in honorable, glorious battle." A few of the other Griffons applauded him at this statement, another laughed approvingly, but a mere glance from the Jarl Ulricus ended it.

“Very well, horsa,” the Jarl sneered, sitting back on his throne. He clacked his talons on the armrests. “Be off!”

---

Arcadian trailed behind Captain Torkil as he was led to the North Gate. A number of the Griffons followed behind, curious to see the capall really go off to his certain death. They came shortly to the Gate. Torkil called out to the guards-griffons to open the gate for the next contender, and it creaked open a second time for Arcadian. The Griffons stood many paces behind him, watching him as he gazed out from the city. Beyond the Gate, the road lay waiting for his hooves to trod, and beyond that road, his destiny too awaited. Torkil turned to Arcadian with an apologetic expression.

"I must ask your forgiveness, young hesturlandur," he said. "I promise you that I truly intended to fulfill my end of the bargain. I had no intention of forcing you to fight the Bergtyr... but I cannot defy the will of my Jarl."

Arcadian shook his head. "I had always intended to fight the beasts, Captain. The difference it makes to me is a lost day of travel, nothing more!"

Torkil chuckled. Then he leaned towards Arcadian, and spoke softly, so as to be out of earshot of all the other Griffons, "Arcadian of Bragn, I should not hold it against your honor if you took the road I spoke of and left without confronting the beast."

At this, more than anything else thus far, Arcadian felt the burn of insult inflaming him. He gritted his teeth, snarling, "Nay, but you would expect it of me, would you not?"

Taken aback, Torkil sighed. "Then be very careful. The Bergtyr as a race were fearsome creatures of strength and masters of the wild. A mere swing of his mighty axe could cleave even a Griffon in two."

"Worry not," Arcadian said. "I go not to battle unprepared."

"Be that as it may, young hesturlandur," Torkil replied. "Be that as it may... farewell, pals-boll." He swung around, flourishing his cape. Seeing no reason to delay, Arcadian stepped out of the city and began walking. The Griffons watched him to the last as the Gate creaked close with an ominous rumble.

---

Arcadian walked the road as he had the day before, but his hoofsteps were laden with trepidation. The sky was pure blue, and the cold north wind blew through his mane and chilled him to his heart. The road seemed to move under his effortless trot, and Arcadian realized he had already come to where the hillside path departed the main road and led up the imposing mountain ridge past the Egersund.

He stopped.

Arcadian, hitherto unquestioning about leaping forward into danger, now stood paralyzed on the crossroad between battle and escape. Should perhaps this be the fight that he loses? After all, if he were to die here, there would be none to remember him. He was on a cold mountain plain, far from home, his song yet unsung and his legacy yet unmade. Worst of all, his death would mean the end of his sprioc deiridh. If he died here, he would not be able to fight the tyrant Brandhard, as he had set out to do. What then of the ponyfolk? What then of the fate of Bragn?

Arcadian shuddered, holding in an anguished cry, remember so keenly the sorrowful departure of his beloved Bragn. Would he see himself glorified in deadly battle, at the cost of his homeland's destruction? In a flurry, thoughts came to him of Bragn sacked, of cottages aflame, and of ponies slaughtered by merciless Griffon marauders. He could not bear to think of it.

Then, Arcadian took hold of himself and became angry. What sort of hero was he to be then?

"Am I so vulgar?" Arcadian shouted. "I yearn for Bragn, 'tis true, but these yearnings would blind me! Nay, a hero would I be. For no sake would I abandon a valiant stand against a monstrous enemy. 'Tis righteous!"

The crisis faded. His mind was resolute, and more and more he felt his spirit grow bold. The main road it would be, and the Bergtyr he would face. Stiff though his legs were, Arcadian began to push them in order to force a steady trot. Being a hero is no easy task, Arcadian admitted to himself. Even then, he felt such fear in him that he had not felt since his first battle in Gorsglen, against the foul Neck-demon. Yet he knew that he must press on.

At once, he remembered the lessons of Gille Dubh, how she taught him to fight the Neck-demon, as well as Stedhart's lessons, how he taught him to be a versatile warrior. Pondering these recollections, Arcadian began to smile to himself. He had begun to form a plan.

---

Arcadian trotted along the road. Before long, he came to the mound he had used as cover before. He crawled again on his belly to the top of the mound, so as not to be seen. Across the small plain, he sighted the bridge which forded the Egergrind. On the far side of the bridge, he could see the Bergtyr's tent. Smoke rising up told Arcadian that a fire was burning outside. He saw little else.

Arcadian paused. He could see no wolves near the tent, nor anywhere between him and the bridge. The land across the Egersund seemed empty too. Where was the pack, he wondered. Had they moved on at last? Would he only have to fight the lone Bergtyr?

Slight movement at the campsite caught his attention, and Arcadian strained his eyes to see. A lone, dark figure emerged from the tent. As it stood up, revealing its full size, Arcadian realized it was the Bergtyr. Two white wolves followed him out of the tent and sat down near the fire. Arcadian watched as the Bergtyr seemed to pet them, then go about his business. Arcadian watched him as he chopped wood, then as he stoked the campfire, and then don what the soft glinting told Arcadian was his armor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arcadian spotted some movement, and he quickly turned to look across the vale. Four massive white wolves had emerged from a copse of trees far off to his right. He saw that they were dragging what looked to be an animal corpse—he guessed it to be a deer—down the mountain slope. Arcadian tensed. He kept absolutely motionless as he watched the wolves drag the deer corpse first down the slope, then to the bridge, then across the Egergrind to the camp.

The Bergtyr greeted them and lifted the deer corpse onto his broad shoulders. Taking it, Arcadian watched as he skinned, gutted, and butchered the remains of the deer. Sickening, he thought, but he took deep breaths to steady himself. It always disturbed him to see meat-eaters going about their sordid businesses, but Arcadian knew that it was the way of things. The Bergtyr took the cuts of meat and distributed some to the wolves. Then he seemed to take some and cook it on the campfire.

Arcadian felt his bones ache. How long had he been lying there, tensed? He looked at the sun, and he saw that it was climbing higher than he expected it to. He gritted his teeth. It was loathsome to his heart, but he knew he could not put it off forever. It was his heroic duty. And it was as good a time as any.

Arcadian peered again at the campsite. Six wolves, he counted. As far as he knew, that was as many as there were. He crawled back down the mound, then stood up. A deep breath, and another. And with a third, Arcadian steeled himself and began to amble towards the bridge.

The wolves had settled down on the other side of the bridge, but soon enough, they all saw Arcadian. In fact, soon after he emerged from behind the mound, Arcadian could feel their ever-hungry eyes trained on him. Though Arcadian came closer and closer to the bridge, trotting up the road, they lied silently, watching him, ears perked and forward facing, but not a one of them moved.

Arcadian bit his lip, but he kept the pace. The Bergtyr, more visible with each hoofstep, did not notice Arcadian until he was less than 100 paces from the bridge. He looked up from the campfire, and upon seeing him, he sat down on a rock. He watched Arcadian's approach with a perceptible incredulity, but Arcadian kept the pace.

At last, Arcadian arrived at the bridge, and there he stopped. He caught his breath, and a moment passed.

The Bergtyr did not move. The wolves stood up, alert, but they did not move either. Arcadian stood facing them from afar. He waited. The wolves stood still, waiting for the Bergtyr to give them the command, Arcadian realized. With that command, they would tear him apart.

The command didn't come. The Bergtyr continued to sit quietly on the rock.

Arcadian began to tire. The fear and excitement coursed through his blood. He was totally on edge, and his patience was wearing thin. He ground his teeth and shuffled his hooves. Still the Bergtyr sat quietly, unmoving.

No more, thought Arcadian. With a flourish, he pulled his sword out. He held it aloft in the sunlight, where it glinted. The wolves started at this movement, looking to the Bergtyr for his command, but he was still silent. A moment passed, and Arcadian raised his shield. No word came, and no movement followed. Arcadian looked back and forth from the wolves to the Bergtyr for a sign. He saw none.

He took his sword, and raised his shield. And he hit the shield once with it. Then twice.

---

*thud*

...

*thud*

---

At last, the Bergtyr stood. The wolves pawed the ground anxiously. One began to trot towards the bridge. The Bergtyr shouted something, breaking the silence, and the wolf froze in its tracks. It turned to look at the Bergtyr curiously, but the Bergtyr motioned for it to return. Reluctantly, it followed, joining the others on the far side of the crevasse. Arcadian observed all this in wonderment.

The Bergtyr began to walk. He strode out of his campsite and made his way to the middle. Arcadian, understanding, began to walk across the bridge, as it creaked beneath his hooves. The Bergtyr's stride was a steady beat of heavy thumping, putting to shame Arcadian's pitter-patter hoofsteps, and as he drew closer, his sheer enormity became clear. He stood thrice as tall as Arcadian and twice as broad. His armor was of dull steel plates, glinting only in the numerous scars and dents where steel had polished steel, sewn to rough hides and thick furs, covering his shoulders and back. His eyes were deep brown, his hair was matted and coarse, and his bull nostrils snorted visible steam in the cold afternoon air. His horns, each as long as one of Arcadian's legs, came to terrible points above his head. His great-axe, though worn and notched, still looked sharp, and the sight of some dried blood on the blade made Arcadian weak in the knees. Altogether, he was an impressive sight, and dread crept into the pony's mind at the continual reminder of the monster's sheer size.

The two made their way to the very middle of the bridge, where they stopped a few hundred paces apart. From there, Arcadian could see the battle scars ranging across his chest and face. As the Bergtyr drew himself up, shouldering his massive axe, he looked Arcadian up and down. The pony could tell he too found him quite a sight, though for likely less complimentary reasons.

"Who are you?" The Bergtyr's booming voice echoed across the Egergrind.

"I am Arcadian of Bragn, pony warrior and neck-bane," Arcadian replied loudly, adding the titles in the hopes of perhaps making an impression. The Bergtyr, however, did not look particularly impressed.

“Why do you come here, Arcadian of Bragn?”

Arcadian breathed deeply before answering, “I come to slay you, beast, so that I may continue on my noble quest, and so that I may honorably avenge these fallen warriors.”

The Bergtyr let loose a booming laugh, “Ha ha ha!" He rocked his head back, and his entire body shook with the violence of that laughter. Still grinning, he asked, "Is that right, little pony? You would fight me for honor and glory?”

“Who are you then?” Arcadian countered, more than a little peeved. The Bergtyr wiped his eye and drew himself up again.

“I call myself Rainright,” he answered.

“And why are you here?” said Arcadian. He nodded to the wolves. "Surely there are plenty of places to hunt, and the seasons are passing quickly. What business have you blocking the roads and slaying Griffons?"

"I have every business slaying Griffons, foal," Rainright retorted. He swept his hand across the landscape. "This was all my land, you know. The Griffons are not its true masters. They are invaders, conquerors, slave-masters. We are the true masters of these wild lands."

"We?" asked Arcadian. Rainright sighed.

"I am of the race the Griffons call the 'Bergtyr' and the Perytons call 'Minotaurs.'" The great beast shifted his weight, heaving his great-axe to rest upon the other shoulder. "But I believe you capall call us the the 'Bantarbh,' and our southern brethren the 'Donntarbh.' What all have in common is a terrible grudge of violence against us! The Perytons expell us for ancient grudges, the capall make war against us out of fear, and the cruel Buraq made us their slaves, but the Griffons are the worst."

His bovine face contorted in snorting rage. "They crushed us beneath their talons and scattered our nation across the land, ever since they killed our last king many centuries ago! When they see us, they kill us, and then they take our herds, our only sustenance!"

He made a fist and shook it at the mountains. "I would see every Griffon killed, as they have so killed my people! So that the last of us are nomads and wanderers! So that the few of us left live in mountain-holes and marshlands and desolaces! So that we can no longer thrive, but instead must persist under persecution!"

Rainright then took a deep breath and seemed to calm down. He regarded Arcadian carefully. "And that is why, pony, I am here. I am nearing the end of my life, young Arcadian, and I would at long last see my revenge upon the cruel Griffon race."

Arcadian could not find words to answer him, save for a meek ejaculation. "I see."

Rainright looked at the sky, and his face sagged. Arcadian knew not how to continue. The Bergtyr turned to him. His eyes were wary, and Arcadian was reminded of the danger he was in. He readied his weapon.

"Young Arcadian, why don't I let you pass on? I have no quarrel with your kind," the beast said. "I'm here to slay Griffons, not ponies. You may as well continue on your quest, whatever it may be."

"No!" shouted Arcadian, more loudly than he intended. He recovered, "No. I cannot do that."

"Why not? What do you owe to these Griffons that you would seek your death?"

"I would seek death or victory in glorious battle. I could no more turn from my path to honor and valor than you would from your path to revenge and slaughter," Arcadian said forcefully. "It is how it must be, and I accept my fate." The Bergtyr clicked his tongue and shook his head.

"Very well, colt," Rainright chuckled. With a mighty heave, Rainright brought his axe off his shoulder and took it in both hands, readying it for battle. "Let it never be said that you were not valiant this day."

"Likewise," Arcadian said, readying his sword in his teeth. "Have at you!"