Chapter 1: The Bane of Gorsglen

Enter the young upstart named Arcadian.^[1]

A warrior of much raw skill, he was still inexperienced and naive in the ways of combat. He was afraid of what would happen to his hometown of Bragn should Brandhard usurp the throne of the Griffon Kingdom.

Many years ago, the Thane of Bragn slew a popular Griffon captain. Surely, his city would be targeted for special horrors to be visited upon it, should Brandhard become King. He decided that it would be he who would kill the Butcher of the Mountains. Instead of challenging Brandhard right away, he instead asked his Thane to grant him the necessary training.

The Thane refused at first, since he did not see the point in wasting his resources training an inexperienced warrior who was only going to be killed anyway, when instead he should be building up his forces and defenses for the inevitable griffon invasion.

To gain his blessing, Arcadian asked what he might do instead. The Thane told him that he would consider it if he slew the Bane of Gorsglen. The monster was a fearsome kelpie responsible for the death of anypony who entered Gorsglen. A crew of ten soldiers had already failed to kill it, resulting in three of their deaths.

The Thane said that if Arcadian could kill the kelpie and bring back its fangs, then he would fund Arcadian's training.

So Arcadian armed himself as best he could. He took a longsword, a heavy steel helmet, and clothed himself in wooden armor, with a thick cloth undershirt.

As he left the city, he came to the edge of the Gorsglen. To his surprise ran into the wild-mare, Gille Dubh. He saw she had one hoof stuck in a deep rat-hole, and, in his generousity, he assisted the wild-mare—even though the sun was in the afternoon sky, and it meant he would have to fight the kelpie in the dark. She thanked him for his aid, and wondered where the young stallion was off to, dressed in fighting garb.

He replied that he was tasked with killing the Bane of Gorsglen. She told him that the kelpie would have no trouble killing him if he went in dressed like that. She offered to teach him how to kill the kelpie himself, in return for a small favor. He asked her what the favor would be. She requested that he fetch a particular herb from Gwyll Cave, the leaves of the bluefern that grew in the entrance.

He agreed, but he was fearful. He had heard tales of the gwyllgi, a terrible black dog with red eyes and fiery breath that lived in the cave and attacked nighttime travelers. However, he deemed this first step necessary to his overall destiny. She offhoofedly mentioned to him that to harvest the bluefern successfully, he must light no fire.

Arcadian left for Gwyll Cave, and when he arrived it was early in the night. He edged his way towards the cave entrance, holding aloft his torch. He saw no evidence of the gwyllgi, but he could not find the bluefern from outside the small cave. Arcadian took a few steps so that he stood at the entrance of the cave and he was amazed. A veritable garden of bluefern lay in the first few yards of the cave. It seemed more of a shiny black than blue in the torchlight, though. He then remembered Gille's advice, and he reluctantly extinguished his torch.

Not a moment later, he heard padded pawsteps behind him, and, in the barest starlight, he spotted a pair of red eyes and a sleek black coat jaunting toward him. He let out a shout, and for a moment the eyes stopped and searched the area.

Arcadian too stopped himself, for his first instinct was to charge the gwyllgi, but this puzzled him. The gwyllgi inched further towards the cave, listening and looking for the source of the sound. After a minute, it seemed to give up and continued on its way. Arcadian quietly backed against the wall, and to his astonishment, the gwyllgi continued past him, jaunting into the cave without a care.

Arcadian knew not why the gwyllgi did not attack him, like it did in the stories he heard. In the tales told by surviving travelers, the gwyllgi was a vicious assailant, relentlessly attacking the ponies, until they had proved to the creature that they would be able to fight him or until they galloped as far away as they could, all the way to the gates of Bragn. It did not match with how the creature was acting now.

He then heard the soft breathing of snores and decided not to push his luck. He silently gathered as much fern as he could fit in his mouth, stuck it in a bag, and tip-hoofed out until he was out of earshot of the cave. He galloped hard all the way to Gille Dubh's wild-house.

Gille Dubh's wild-house was a small cottage that bordered the southern edge of the Gorsglen. She was a mare who lived on the outskirts of the civilized lands. She had no regard for the laws and trappings of the life of the towns and farms and mead halls. Her mother raised her as a wild-mare, and a wild-mare she remained.

As such, she was familiar on the ways of Ceffyl Dwr, god of mysticism; she knew the ways of Brighid, goddess of healing; but especially was she expert with the ways of Cernunnos, the god of nature. Her cottage was built of birch trees, and she kept a fantastical garden, all hidden behind a grove of ash. It was far out of the way and magically protected against beasts, faerie, undead, eterns, and demons of all sorts.

What she especially treasured was an inherited compendium of much herbal and mystic knowledge, which she consulted often on the state of the wilds—and which she stubbornly refused to hand over to the Thane, much to his chagrin. That sort of knowledge would be fantastic power in his hands, no doubt, but Gille Dubh was not much for the trappings of civilization or the petty ambitions of thanes.

Arcadian, for his part, had heard much of Gille Dubh and of her mother before her. They were dismissed as mere wild-ponies and shunned when they did come to town to fetch more exotic ingredients, like bottled wintermist, or Dawntree sap, or salt from the Ulster mines. Few associated with Gille or her mother, except the merchants whom she gave good, if difficult, business. The Thane thought of her as a mild annoyance, but the authorities tolerated her as she prescribed remedies for occasional sicknesses which plagued the town of Bragn.

Gille Dubh cared not about what the town or the Thane thought of her. She was contented enough with the ways of Cernunnos. However, she was deeply upset when the kelpie moved into the quaggy part of Gorsglen. It upset the wildlife, ate the fish and deer, and made trouble with the town. Kelpies are unnaturally aggressive and carnivorous, as they are demons, actually Hellish in origin. It made the inner parts of Gorsglen too dangerous for her to move through, forcing her to take longer routes to reach the more northern parts of the glen. So Gille was greatly irritated with its presence, and she wished that the town guard would live up to its boasts of their protection and service for once, and to kill the demon.

So that day, when Arcadian came upon her with a hoof stuck in the hole, Gille was terribly embarrassed. She had no wish to owe anything to this peasant-ish stallion with a ridiculous-looking wooden suit of "armor" and a thick helm (likely worn to compliment his thick skull). However, she had no wish to be responsible for a death either. She saw that he was in no way ready to face the demonic kelpie just by looking at him.

In a moment of quick thinking, she offered to tell him how to slay the kelpie in return for some fern—an ingredient which she could easily get herself anytime. She was half-hoping that he would scare himself into giving up the quest because of the sheer imposing nature of the fire-breathing gwyllgi. The gwyllgi was a much less daunting opponent than the kelpie would be (the gwyllgi would only fight until convinced it could not win, whereas a kelpie would fight until it killed the attacker and dragged it down into the quag to devour its flesh).

As such, when the dumb colt knocked on her cottage door with fern sticking out between his teeth, she was almost so shocked that she couldn't say anything. Gille invited the colt in, and took the bluefern from him and set it in her jar, which Arcadian didn't notice was half-full of such fern. He related the story of the gwyllgi and laughed that the beast must be the dumbest creature alive for not observing him.

Gille gritted her teeth at that insult to a fellow wild creature. She told him that actually, the gwyllgi was basically blind in the dark. It can only see the presence of light, and it is usually attracted to bright sources of light, like a moth to a lantern. The daytime blinds it, and total darkness is not much better. After a moment of thought, Arcadian realized that it was the absence of his torchlight that really saved him from a fight and thanked her for her tip (Gille cursed herself silently for letting that advice slip out inadvertently).

Gille saw that she would now have to tell the colt how to fight the kelpie and groaned inwardly. She would not enjoy it, but she was not one to go back on her word, or to let a debt go unpaid. She told Arcadian to sleep on the bench, and that the next day would be spent learning the best way he could hope to kill the kelpie by himself. He agreed, and he slept there.

The next morning, Gille Dubh was not in the house. Arcadian puzzled over her disappearance. After breakfast, he passed the time by looking through a well-used tome upon her desk, and he saw that this was a valuable text of magical herbs and ingredients. He enjoyed reading it, until by chance he noticed the jar of bluefern, filled near to the brim with more bluefern than he had brought back. It occurred to him that Gille Dubh was not interested in whether he survived, and that perhaps she planned on shorting him the advice he would need to kill the kelpie. He was furious with this, but another idea occurred to him.

The tome of herbs was clearly of great value to Gille. To insure himself, Arcadian took the book and buried it stealthily in a location he marked so that he could remember it. He covered up the site well enough so that a pony could not tell that it had been dug up.

He then returned to the cottage to find Gille furious over her missing book. She demanded that he return the book or else, but he reminded her that she was not honest with him about the bluefern. He offered her this deal for her book: she would teach him well how to defeat the kelpie, and upon his safe return, he would take the book to her. Else, if she did not teach him or if she taught him poorly and he was killed by the kelpie, she would never see the tome again.

Gille Dubh was outraged by this scheming, but she conceded that Arcadian had pretty well checkmated her. She had been absent for the entire morning, so he could have hidden the book anywhere in a large radius. It would take her months to search the land for it, with no guarantee that she could recover it. She grudgingly accepted his deal, and she taught him how to defeat the kelpie.

Her first lesson was that what he wore would be useless against the kelpie. His heavy suit of armor and absorbent clothes would in fact be detriments, as the kelpie's favored method of killing was to surprise its foes near water and to drag them down to drowning deaths. Only failing that would it resort to combat, first pounding hooves, then biting by teeth. In that case, Gille said, its target will be your neck, to spill your blood the fastest and leave you gasping for breath.

What he must do instead, she told him, would be to wear no armor, but take his shield and keep the demon's tactics in mind.

Her second lesson was that his longsword would be a hindrance in his fight. Kelpies are fast and fearsome. The best weapons against them would either be a long pike, which would keep the pony at a distance from the demon, or a short sword, which would be maneuverable and do the most damage. A longsword combined the worst aspects of both weapons and was thus totally useless.

Instead of the clunky longsword, she instead produced a short sword, oiled with a mixture of marjoram and dry powdered wolfblood. She said that the weapon would be the best he could do in his fight against the kelpie, short of a battalion of pike-wielding stallions.

Her third lesson was that Arcadian would not last in a straight one-on-one fight with the demon kelpie. It was an intelligent and powerful creature, and even if the tide turned against it, it would simply disappear into the mire, and later hunt its adversary down on its way out of the glen to kill it then. He must instead play to the creature's nature and plan his battle wisely.

To this effect, she handed him a hastily made map of the natural home of the kelpie, a part of Gorsglen that was much wetter and danker than the surrounding glen. He asked if kelpies had any particular weaknesses. She snapped at him that the book he had hidden would be much more knowledgeable than she. This caused Arcadian to feel somewhat guilty, but Gille regained her composure and told him that she remembered that kelpies wounds healed quite quickly, unless the wounds were burned by open flame.

Arcadian thanked her for all her help, and Gille taciturnly wished him good luck with his battle. As he entered the woods and began his trek deep into Gorsglen, she made a prayer to Cernunnos for the wilds to protect him, as they would be protected by his actions—though her proud spirit rebelled against every word of it.

Arcadian made his way into the heart of Gorsglen, where the devious kelpie made its lair. The soil became soggier, and the tree cover less dense. The ash and oak gave way to willow and cypress, and reeds and grasses replace the bushes and ferns. The air, once hearty, now became fetid. There was unnaturally little sound, besides the squish of his hooves against the moss and marsh. He realized that this was because the kelpie had eaten or scared off the wildlife, and he shivered.

Finally he came to a knoll overlooking a large, dark slough, surrounded by overhanging willows across the peaty waters. Upon consulting the map, he observed that this must be where the Bane of Gorsglen called home. He lit his torch, held it aloft, and drew his sword. He tasted its leather and steel, and he felt the drumming beat of his heart. He was ready to do battle with the dreaded Bane of Gorsglen. He walked midway down the slope, as close as he dared to the water's edge, and shouted a challenge to the demon:

"Foul creature of the water, plague upon the wilds, and demon of Destructae, come forth! Your days are numbered, and the number the fates have given you totals a paltry sum. You have, cowardly, killed too many of my brothers and sisters. You have poisoned the wells of the wilds with your unnatural bile. I say come forth, and receive your final death! I shall not leave until one of us has passed on, and let me assure you, it will not be me who meets with Sleipnir, the decider of fates. You are but a slime, a mold which, while dangerous in its moist corner, is nothing of consequence in the open air, under sunlight, against the fire of righteousness. Come forth, nasty demon and meet your end!"

At the end of his challenge, a sudden movement caught his eye, and he spun to his right to see that a white beast was preparing an assault from the cover of the marsh reeds. Its plans of a sneak kill preempted, the creature hissed and galloped straight out of the brush right towards Arcadian. He could see what the Bane of Gorsglen was in its full form: a white horse twice his height, with dead, glaring eyes and bleached fangs. Its mane was a dripping slime of frogspit, and its coat was pale, except for where it was stained with blood. It charged at Arcadian and for the moment, it frightened him so that he felt he could not move for the sheer terror that filled his heart.

He thought of Gille, and at the moment right before the creature lunged at his throat with its fangs bared, its neck twisted incredibly too far, he rolled deftly out of the creature's way and cut its hind leg as he did so. The creature stumbled, not expecting this tiny creature to change his position so late, and turned to face the pony once again. It snarled at the warrior, clutching its sword in its mouth and holding aloft a torch. It would not attempt another charge like that.

Arcadian thought of how he would take on the demon. He cursed himself for not planning his attack better, not following Gille's lesson two. His mind worked furiously on how he could possibly escape this situation, as he dodged the next couple of blows the kelpie rained down on him. It first bit at him, then reared up and clobbered him with its massive hooves. It would then attempt a tackle or a bite. It began trying these tactics in multiple combinations, and Arcadian was having difficulty dodging them as the fight went on.

Suddenly, his back hoof touched water, and he realized that the kelpie was trying to drive him into the slough where it could drown him with ease. He struggled to rotate the alignment of the battle, but the kelpie adamantly refused to be flanked. Arcadian panicked. He would be soon overwhelmed and murdered by the Bane of Gorsglen, and he would not be able to even cry for help.

As a stroke of good fortune, Arcadian noticed that the creature was not healing from the blows he had managed to deliver. He figured that perhaps if he could do enough damage to the kelpie, perhaps it would lose its concentration and make a fatal mistake itself. He had both back hooves in the water, and in a moment of desperation, he moved to open himself up. Arcadian feinted to move left, and as the kelpie strafed to keep him away, Arcadian sped to the right, cut the kelpie along the side, and kept moving before doing a quick turn at the base of the knoll. The kelpie, distracted by this troublesome prey, forgot about its carefully planned tactics and charged towards him, dead eyes wide open, threatening to swallow the colt all by themselves.

The kelpie charged at Arcadian and missed him when he rolled again to the side. The kelpie turned to face him, taking a moment to size up the situation. Arcadian, seizing his opportunity, bellowed at the creature, "You are but the spawn of a bullfrog, demon. Prepare to be vanquished like vermin!" at which point he threw the torch, striking the creature square in the face.

This time Arcadian charged at the creature, while it was still shrieking in anger. In panic, the kelpie reared up to crush the pony once and for all. Arcadian slid below it and dodged the hooves as they came down, plunging with all his might the sword into the creature's underside.

He took it and slit the belly from chest to stomach, spilling out its blackened intestines. The creature screamed, and Arcadian slid out from underneath the kelpie just in time before it collapsed on the ground, entrails hanging out of it.

Arcadian swiftly retrieved his torch and saw the kelpie trying to crawl pathetically slow back to the sloughwater to heal. He took the torch and jammed it into the creature's insides. The wounds were quickly cauterized, and the kelpie was unable to heal them back. He drew the sword from its belly.

He took it in his teeth, and muttered through his clenched jaw, "Vermin like you deserve no mercy."

With that curse, he plunged the sword through the beast's head, and the kelpie crawled no longer.

Arcadian cleaned the sword of the kelpie's black blood, and he also pulled the teeth from the kelpie's mouth, the proof of his niomhas laoigh. He remembered reading in that tome that kelpie blood and kelpie mane had some special properties. To show his gratitude (and deep regret over his underhanded actions) to Gille, he cut the mane off of the kelpie and collected as much blood as he could in his waterskin.

It was evening when Arcadian returned at last to the home of Gille Dubh. She was in the middle of chopping very fine leeks, which were of the best season for magic when they had just turned their deepest green, when he knocked on her birchwood door. She was surprised that he had returned. Even accounting for her prayers and lessons, she did not expect him to survive.

She welcomed Arcadian, who had returned her the book—dirt-covered and a little smelly—and apologized for his distinctly ignoble actions. He thanked her profusely for her aid and credited her ultimately with his survival. She took the compliments in stride, but when he produced for her the mane and blood of the demon kelpie, she felt so terribly sheepish that she merely nodded and wished him well on his quest.

For her part, meeting Arcadian was an experience which changed Gille in a small way. She felt much kinder dispositions towards the townponies, and her heart was lightened by the news that Gorsglen would be free of the demonic predator. As for Arcadian, she felt a grudging warmth for the colt. He was perhaps not so thick-skulled as her first impression gave her, and he was at least courteous in afterthought.

This would not be the last time their paths crossed, but that is not the tale now.

Upon his return, Arcadian immediately sought the audience of the Thane, who received him with much skepticism. Truth be told, the Thane told him, he was doubtful that Arcadian had so killed the Bane of Gorsglen. What proof was there that he had slain the beast? Arcadian produced then the enormous, daggerly fangs of the creature, and asked if the Thane thought that these monstrous teeth came from a mere wolf.

The Thane was astounded, and his court, which was present, greatly impressed. Arcadian, they proclaimed, had done what ten town guards could not. He slew a great demon, and he prevailed against it enough to rob it of its teeth.

The Thane agreed, and he told Arcadian that he would have all the training that he could muster. He knighted Arcadian as a sire in honor of his victory, and he gave him the epithet Neckbane for his slaying of what was in fact a kelpie.

Sire Arcadian rejoiced with the town of Bragn. In his heart, he knew though that his legend was only beginning, and that his greatest tribulations still were undiscovered. For the day, though, he celebrated with fillies, and dance, and food, and wine, and whisky, and beer, and so Bragn had an early holiday.

Chapter 2: The Earldom of Strabane

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For the months of Feabhra and Marta, Arcadian trained under the guard captain MacGaith and his stallions. They drilled for days, at the ends of which Arcadian was always thankful for a night's sleep. And yet, he felt that, while prepared now as a staunch warrior capable of fighting alongside Connacht's best, he was not much closer to his great quest, his sprioc deiridh.

He confessed this to the Thane of Bragn, who agreed that Arcadian was fit to fight any day alongside his men, but the Thane knew little about how Arcadian Neckbane could prepare for a fight against the tyrant griffon Brandhard. The Thane confessed to Arcadian that the clan chiefs of Connacht were not ready to unite under a common cause, and as such, the Thane would not be able to convince any to provide the necessary funds for his exploits.

Though it looked grim for Arcadian, the stallion suggested that perhaps a fighting journey—known as the heroic lochragh oireach which virtually all the heroes of legends partook in—including Ciollus, the god of war himself—would allow him some time and experience further in the wide world. The Thane acquiesced and, after some thought, recommended Arcadian to journey north himself, first through the familiar lands of Connacht, and then pursue his sprioc deiridh all the way to the Griffon Kingdom.

In particular, the Thane said, he knew of the mighty Clan Norhest in the lands of Ulster. They were not only experienced warriors in Ulster, but professional soldiers. There they would teach him not merely to fight, but to strategize. The Thane told Arcadian of his own clan, called Clan Ceallach, which was based not in Bragn but in the border town of Carraig. Through his connections with the local princes, the flaith, the Thane could write Arcadian a recommendation that would get him to Bromachbaile, a town under the control of Clan Norhest.

Clan Norhest, in Ulster, was one of the mightiest clans in all the lands of the capall. The descendants of the Norhest were over two hundred strong, and they spread their reach far across the east of Ulster, controlling no fewer than seven thanedoms directly and four more by mere influence. The Thane of Bragn assured Arcadian, the clan-chief of Norhest must remember his friends in Clan Ceallach—such a powerful chief (and a thane in his own right) would never forget his friends.

For his journey, the Thane declared he would provide Arcadian with not only food and water, but also with a sum of gold for Arcadian to establish himself there, as well as two of his finest stallions for safe escort. He swelled with pride, announcing that Arcadian was the best hope they would ever encounter for securing the lands of Connacht from the griffon threat.

Arcadian agreed to this arrangement, and he thanked the Thane for his generosity with gold, stallions, and praise. The Thane gave Arcadian his full blessing, announcing to the court, "Sir Arcadian, you already have the gold and stallions yourself. You have a golden eye for truth, and you have the heart of ten stallions and more. The praise then is no more generous than what is rightfully yours. Go in greatness, my peer, and may Ciollus draw his blade in your defense."

The next day, all was prepared as the Thane had promised. Arcadian and two guard stallions, burdened and armed in Bragn's most lavish array, left the town and trotted north on the road.

It occurred to Arcadian to look for Gille in the crowd giving him well-wishes, but he hadn't time to search nor to deviate from the lochragh oireach he had begun.

On the ways to Bromachbaile, Arcadian passed Sruthgorm, ruled by Thane MacLaidh.
And he passed Sruthmor, ruled by Thane MacSlaim.
And he passed Cuindlis, ruled by Thane MacOgain.
And he passed Carraig, ruled by Thane Ceallach.
At this time he came to the edge of the lands of Connacht, and Arcadian could see the character of the lands of Ulster begin to take over.

Where before were rolling hills and spacious deciduous forests, the land became to slope down at a low angle, and the woods began to thicken. From the light green leaves of the white oaks and great alders and sweeping ash trees that defined the familiar lands of Connacht, now was the land forested by dense conifers, silver fir and dark spruce and black pine, as well as groves of beech. The roads became narrower, but more and more was it paved with gravel instead of the mere dirt roads of Bragn. After passing Clefkirk Hill, the way cleared so that the Vale of Ulster lay before the band, with the thick forests matting the floor of the great wide valley.

In Ulster, on the way to Bromachbaile, Arcadian passed Omagh, ruled by Thane Baird.
And he passed Glenarm, ruled by Thane Gareg.
At this time, Arcadian and the two guard stallions parted ways. They returned to Bragn, while Arcadian continued north on his road, and within the day he reached the destination.

Arcadian came upon the town of Bromachbaile, ruled by the powerful Thane Owen Norhest. It was a walled town, with armed guards and a great watchtower in the center. The guards allowed him in, but when he explained his business, they laughed at his accent. The Connacht ponies, they said, were a sorry, backwards lot who were only good for brawling, drinking, and drunken brawling. Arcadian swallowed his pride well, and he said nothing of this slight.

In Bromachbaile was a great number of capall. There were at least twice the number of ponies in Bromachbaile as in Bragn, perhaps even more. The crowds of them moved at a great pace, and Arcadian heard a multitude of conversations, all in their peculiar Ulster accent.

Arcadian went to the town's center. Therein stood the great tower as well as the thanehall. Arcadian sought the audience of the Thane of Bromachbaile, and the Thane received him in private audience, away from the court of Bromachbaile. The Thane asked Arcadian what business he had with him, and Arcadian revealed the recommendation from the Thane of Bragn and told the nature of his sprioc deiridh.

The Thane of Bromachbaile, whose name was Owen the Full of Clan Norhest, knew of the griffon tyrant named Brandhard. The butcher had slain three of his best warriors and dearest friends. While he possessed no love for the barbarian and feared the troubles Brandhard would herald if he wore the crown of the Griffons, Thane Norhest greatly doubted the ability of this connacka to fight such a fearsome tyrant as he.

On the other hoof, the Chief of Clan Norhest knew that the ramifications of disavowing his friendship with the Thane of Bragn would provoke the powerful Clan Burke, the clan which backed Clan Ceallach in Bragn and one of Clan Norhest's chief rivals. Chief Norhest knew that his stallions would match well against Clan Burke. However, he had no desire to make war while the griffon threat loomed.

Thane Norhest expressed his doubts, saying, "Though a colt be you, Arcadian, likewise are you a Sire, and I respect your deeds as you tell me. However, I cannot provide for you what you desire. My forces are gathered for what I must do to secure the seat of the Earl"—which is the throne given to a lord of many thanes—"and I cannot spare the least of resources."

Arcadian said to the Thane, "Great chief and Thane, perhaps I may still yet serve my lochragh oireach. What I seek is to not merely to do battle, but to make war. I offer you my service in your warband that I might gain the experience I need to match the winged butcher of the mountains."

The Thane was pleased by the young stallion's suggestion, but he cautioned Arcadian that his warriors were not the feisty fighters of Connacht, but professional soldiers of Ulster. If he wished to join the ranks of the fiefban of Clan Norhest even as an officer, he must be prepared to fight as Norhest clansponies did.

Arcadian swore that he would not fail Thane Norhest, and that he would fight as well as any of his fiefban, Ciollus give him the strength. At this, Thane Norhest finally agreed to enlist Arcadian and ordered that the contract be written up that very day so that he may leave as soon as may be arranged. The contract was signed, and the council arranged.

So beforth was Arcadian upon the camp of the fiefban which camped outside the western gate of Bromachbaile. He presented his contract with the sergeant of the fiefban, who took him to the armory they had erected for the homing of their materials of war.

Arcadian was astounded. Never before had he seen so many weapons at once—for in Connacht, the tradition was that for arming a son, the responsibility, by creation or commission of weapons and armor, belonged to families and clans. A family would pass down a sword or helm for generations, and it would be repaired when they could. Each such wartool carried the marks of earlier generations, and when there was an emergency, when all able stallions were called to arms to defend a town, the unarmed would smith and strap their own wartools.

In Ulster, however, tradition was different. The Ulster thanes were entirely responsible for keeping a regular army and having enough arms for all the ones needed. Their armaments were built to take punishment, and like in Connacht, they were meant for a single warrior. However, the sergeant explained to Arcadian, a professional soldier, once inducted into a fiefban—and once suited with a personal suit of armor and given his sword or mace—it was nearly unheard for that stallion to leave the service, until death or retirement.

The sergeant fit a suit of armor to Arcadian, in full Ulster tradition (this consisted of a sturdy helm, a chainmail shirt, and a thick plate cuirass, all over a light cloth bearing the Clan Norhest heraldry), and he took Arcadian's short-sword and fastened wooden shield, and he gave him instead the starry mace and the great kite shield of Clan Norhest.

At the camp, Arcadian was drilled for three days. He found himself tested even beyond the limits of his training with the guards of Bragn. He learned the great strategy and tactics which the Ulster clans had perfected in their warfare. Among the ones Arcadian learned, there were such fighting styles and moves that not only made sense for Ulster, but Arcadian began to see how they could be applied in other situations.

Strategy 1. The thick woods and flat terrain of Ulster mean that if marching straight through the woods, while only guessing the location of the enemy forces, the armies could miss one another. Therefore, in forest combat, the soldiers march not in columns, but spread wide to sweep the woods in broad strokes. When individual sections encounter the enemy, they engage fiercely alone. It is forbidden for neighboring to come to aid, should a section be defeated. Instead they are ordered to march forward, in the hopes of securing separate victory.

Strategy 2. If a victorious enemy breaks through the first sweep, they might encircle the splintered forces which remain. Therefore, a second line must always follow the first, tighter and more focused, to patch holes in the first line and to drive back enemies who seek to encircle them.

Strategy 3. The roads were much too narrow for skirmishes along them. Only thieves and bandits attacked from the trees, but no fiefban could afford to wage a lengthy battle over control of a road. The roads are paid therefore equally by rival thanes and never fought over. Instead, if a clan seeks victory over another, it will initiate a siege of a town.

Strategy 4. If the town is taken, there will then be merely a siege of the inner castle, if there is one. Rival clan members who live in the town often fight until they see fit to surrender. Unless they surrender, no mercy ought be visited upon the rival clan. A thane is never executed in victory. He is ejected from his seat in shame and replaced by a worthy friend of the new clan in charge. All other capall are spared, and there is no razing of the town.

Strategy 5. If a siege is to be broken, the ones who siege do not attack the rescue forces on the road. Instead, they wait until the reinforcements come right to the gates of the city.

Tactic 1. The weaknesses of enemy soldiers depend on the conventions of the clan they serve. However, common to beginning soldiers is fear of the dark forests. Silence is therefore advised until you are face-to-face with the enemy.

Tactic 2. At the first charge, a new recruit becomes knock-kneed at the sight of a veteran warrior and becomes distracted by any sign of expertise. Unlike the other lands, death is equally as common as retreat in battles in Ulster, if not even rarer. Therefore, a good warrior lets loose a great cry of rage and war upon first meeting the enemy to encourage them to turn tail.

Tactic 3. If the fight does not desist, never turn your flank on the enemy. Always press forward and keep blows raining down, even if they do not cut or crush the enemy. Instead of being a knife which grows dull with every strike, be a hammer which does not desist and does not wane in power. Eventually the enemy will fall, just as an iron bar will become a sword with great heat and great blows.

"Be fierce," the sergeant told him. "Be persistent, be like the unyielding river which does not turn from the rock, but instead wears it to a pebble."

After learning such tactics, Arcadian felt much smarting. He was a warrior in truth. However, he needed service to prove his worth and to repay the great Thane, Owen Norhest of Bromachbaile.

At the camp, Arcadian became familiar with the seventeen soldiers there, with whom he developed strong friendships. Among them was a warrior of Clan Norhest named Valian.^[1] Arcadian gave good company to Valian Norhest, who revealed to the former that he, in fact, was the next in the derbfine (the succession) of Clan Norhest, being the oldest cousin of Chief Owen Norhest. Valian boasted that, although he was born under no grand sign, that he would unite the lands of the east under Clan Norhest and create one great Earldom out of the five there.

Arcadian remarked that Valian would make a better Earl of all Ulster. Sir Valian asked of Arcadian how he could mark such a future, when none since the days of the High King Rex Invictus had ever united the Vale.

Arcadian told Valian that Clan Norhest, allied with a worthy partner in Connacht, could easily unite the disparate clans of the Vale under a single earldom. Valian joked that such an earl would be more like a king. Both enjoyed such boisterous talk, but there was a battle which awaited both. Such matters would be attended to later.

On the fourth day, the sergeant gave the orders which had come from the captain in the field. The captain requested the presence of all eighteen on the battlefield at once, as three other clans had camped around the earl-manor outside of the town Strabane. All three vied with Clan Norhest's claim on the Earldom of Strabane, and none had given ground yet.

The captain wrote that an immediate reinforcement could turn the tide of the rivalry, as two of the other clan's fiefbans were far away from the towns controlled by thanes friendly to them. The last clan, Clan Fairhill, could be reinforced in two days.

The captain wrote, with much eagerness, that if all eighteen could come within a day, then an attack might be mounted on Clan Fairhill's camp, as well as on the other two. The strike, be it fierce and be it soon, would give the rival fiefbans pause about their ability to lay claim to the earl-manor. The warriors agreed to march, and by midday, all set out for the town of Strabane.

The morning next, the company reached Strabane at its west gate. The guards welcomed their troop, but warned them to stick close together and to stay near the west gate.

Arcadian inquired about the nature of this advice, and the guard revealed that the Thane of Strabane was also the Earl of Strabane. At the moment, the council of Strabane filled the hole of authority until a claimant on the Earldom of Strabane became clear.

The council was officially neutral, and they allowed all the clans to come into the town. However, there was no way for the town guards to realistically stop the rival clans from fighting in the streets. They said, therefore, for the sake of peace and safety, they would allow the clan warriors to enter the town, while encouraging them to avoid killing each other.

After purchasing food and drink from the townsponies, the troop set out into the forest south of Strabane, whereupon the reached the camp of the Clan Norhest fiefban. There they met the Captain—one named Shruw—who told them that the best time to strike would be at twilight the same day. He advised the troop to rest until then, as they would be his front line when the strike began. The troop thanked him. The soldiers rested, but Arcadian and Valian did not.

Arcadian confided to Valian that it would be less of a trouble for them if the town Strabane refused to service any of the fiefbans. Valian agreed, but he asked how that could be managed. Arcadian assured his friend that he had thought of a way, and he asked Valian to search for some form of ashes and to mix it with wet wax.

In this manner, Arcadian and Valian removed their armor all except for their underclothes, which they kept folded in their packs, and they painted their bodies with the ashes to give the appearance of possessing the sores of the Wasting Sickness. They then stole away secretly to the camps of each the other clans—Clan Norfast, Clan Fairhill, and Clan Keady—and from each taking only enough clothes to mark them as fellow clansponies. Donning each mark, they traveled to the five gates of Strabane, crying out for mercy from the guards.

The guards, alarmed at the sight, inquired, "But what terrible thing has happened to you soldiers, that you are marked on your skin with awful bruises and a tepid gauntness?"

Arcadian and Valian, dressed in the outfit of the clan which frequented the gate, wailed and cried out, "Ach, but we are struck with the terrible Wasting Sickness! But we are not alone. Many other in our camp have fallen to this terrible sickness, and many more are likely to fall ill from our presence. Please, sirs, allow us into town so that we may fetch some herbs to remedy our troubles."

The guards at each gate refused adamantly, saying, "Take your disease away from Strabane! We cannot let you or your fellows in for your stay in our woods! Begone from the gate, and relay this message to your captain!" Arcadian and Valian, to fully weave their tale, pleaded long and with many tears with the guards at each gate, but they did not relent. When they returned to the camp of Clan Norhest, all the gates of Strabane were barred and locked, and they intended to remain it so until the battle had ended.

Captain Shruw saw the state of Arcadian and Valian, and he asked them what terrible fate they had managed to invite on themselves and how in a single day they could become so malformed, thinking that they intended to escape the duty of the front line. Upon revealing their actions, Captain Shruw was heartily amused and declared them both to be fine strategists as well as sources of pride to the name of Clan Norhest. Verily, with the closest supplying town now closed off to the camps, all the other three clans would suffer the weight of supplying their fiefbans over greater distances.

At the beginning of the twilight hour, the fiefban of Clan Norhest made its preparations for the strike. Captain Shruw revealed that he had sent false messages to be intercepted by the other three clans, wherein he entailed his plans to make a double strike on Clan Keady and Clan Norfast with the majority of his forces, then to feint a takeover of the earl-manor opposing Clan Fairhill.

Captain Shruw himself would lead the charge against the camps of Clans Keady and Norfast, but he would only take the fewest of stallions, sixteen for each attack, and he would fall back quickly after fifteen minutes of fighting, as though routed. Instead of trying to take the earl-manor, the bulk of the fiefban would be directed at besieging the camp of Clan Fairhill, thirty-seven of their finest soldiers against the fifty-one of Clan Fairhill, all by surprise.

Captain Shruw wished them all luck in their tasks, and he prayed for Ciollus to watch over them in battle and to grant them victory. With the prayer concluded, the groups separated.

Valian and Arcadian positioned themselves at the front. Valian confessed quietly a doubt as to whether they could rout the larger force, but Arcadian reminded him to have faith in Ciollus and to fight with his best fire.

After five minutes of traditional Ulster advancing, they arrived at the camp of Clan Fairhill. The guards did not see their initial advancement. Arcadian cried out first, and he led the charge out of the woods to the clearing of the camp. Arcadian reached the low stockade of the camp and leaped over it with a great effort, which inspired his comrades, who also leaped over the stockade instead of entering by the open gates of the camp.

The guards were caught by surprise and fumbled with their swords. Arcadian took his starry mace, and he swung it at a guard, knocking him square in the side of his helm. The guard fell over, unhurt, but shocked so that he stumbled back up and immediately ran to the tents. The alarm was raised. All the guards had been pushed back into the tented area of the camp.

Valian and five others charged along the outer edge of the tents, six more along the inner edge, and Arcadian and the remaining twenty-five marched through the tented area. They roused any struggling Fairhill soldiers with stinging blows and loud war cries. In twenty minutes, all the Fairhill fiefban was fighting to get back in their own camp.

The captain of the Fairhill ponies, named Cean Fairhill, ordered the full retreat of the Fairhill Clan, and his soldiers followed him leaving the battle. Valian wanted to give chase, but Arcadian told him, "Besides, they will be back, and they will return in stronger formation. I saw that we encountered maybe forty-two of their force. Likely, thinking we were merely to dig in on the hill of the earl-manor, they sent their patrols out to harass the other clans. When they regroup, they will be back with full numbers." Valian agreed to this counsel.

Three Fairhill capall had fallen during the attack. As custom in Ulster, they were laid out on a great sheet, with their armor respectfully positioned next to them and their garments folded. They took not their gold and possessions, nor did they steal or destroy what belonged to Clan Fairhill. This was excepting food rations which Clan Norhest raided from the Fairhill supplies and the gates to the camp, the hinges of which they smashed to pieces.

The attack force returned summarily to the camp of Clan Norhest, whereupon Captain Shruw did meet them. They related their successes and the bravery of their deeds, for which Shruw commended them. He said to the fiefban, in its wholeness gathered there, "Today we have sealed our victory. It is destined for Clan Norhest to have the Earldom of Strabane. All the task that remains is to ensure that the victory is not unsealed by misfortune. Clan Norhest is proud to have such warriors as you, and I submit that Owen Norhest will give the same praise."

That night, in the camps, there was much rejoicing, with beer and wine and bread and cake, but only in one camp was there truth in the celebrations.

The day next, Clan Fairhill sent a party to the town to replenish its food supply, for the Norhest fiefban had raided half of their stock. Also, their reinforcements were due to arrive later in the day, and they required even more food than they had provided.

Surprised were they, then, when the gates were firmly shut. They asked the guards if one of the clans had taken the city, but the guards refused this and instead commanded them to leave the gates until their sickness had been cleared from their camps. The Fairhill party denied the presence of any sickness and demanded to be let into Strabane, but none of the town guards would relent.

Such was the experience of Clan Fairhill, as well as for Clan Keady, and as well as for Clan Norfast. None were allowed into the city, and the next day, they were refused again at the city gates. Clan Fairhill and Clan Norfast, both long distances from their best supply, withdrew their contention for the earl-manor on the eve of the second day. Clan Keady, smaller and more determined, refused to withdraw its claim on the Earldom for another three days.

For those three days, Arcadian and Sir Valian led fierce charges on their camp and fought hard over the hill of the earl-manor. They scored many a victory, and even the blows they received were naught but scratches. For every brave Norjest stallion who fell and was mourned, two of the Keady Clan had fallen in front of him.

On that final day, Clan Keady sent a messenger to the camp of Clan Norhest, announcing its withdrawal of the Keady claim on the earl-manor. Captain Shruw sent his thanks and well-wishes to Clan Keady, but there was uncontained rejoicing in the Norhest fiefban. At the news, the camp was packed and half the fiefban moved into the keep of the earl-manor.

And so the day was won for Clan Norhest by Arcadian the Brave and Valian the Vigilant.

Chapter 3: The Adventure in Skye

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On the same eve, Arcadian confided his sprioc deiridh to Valian. He was full of fear at what Arcadian told him his quest engoaled.

He said to Arcadian, "Nay, brother. It is a sure road to death which you take. The butcher of the griffons kills all who approach him, and he cooks their bones in a roaring fire, and he uses such capall as we for his stew. It is folly to challenge him. Why not stay here with Clan Norhest and prepare to fight him when he comes to us?"

Arcadian shook his head, and he told Valian, "What then, when he arrives at our doorstep? Will he be any less fearsome with the armies of the Griffons at his flanks? Will he be less of a butcher with axe swung at our heads and with his talons in our eyes? Will he be any less of a tyrant when his beaks have torn out the throats of our fillies and our mares? Nay, he must be stopped, or else he will become not merely a butcher, but a king of many butchers."

Valian, reluctant, agreed to his friend's pronouncement, but he said to him, "Do not attempt to fight the butcher as you be. You cannot defeat him now." Arcadian wondered whether he could ever be ready. Valian thought, and at the thought that found him, he laughed in triumph.

He suggested to Arcadian that the great warriors of Skye teach him. Arcadian knew not of the lands of Skye, so Valian described the ponies there. He described them as fierce warriors of the highlands—not so fiery as the connachtae and not so flinty as the ulstrae, the stallions and mares of Skye were proud and free.

They valued themselves not as communities like Arcadian's people or as authorities like Valian's, but as individuals. As such, they were the fiercest warriors in single combat that ever walked the land. Valian reasoned with Arcadian that on his travels northward, he must first stop in the lands of Skye anyway, before he can travel onward to the grey peaks of the Griffons.

Arcadian agreed to this advice, though he knew nothing of the Highlands of Skye and was only cursorily familiar with the Vale of Ulster not long before. He and Valian took the confidence of Captain Flagheah, who agreed that the Skye-ponies would be excellent teachers of Arcadian. To aid in his lochragh oireach, the captain wrote a letter, detailing the great services Arcadian had performed in the service of Clan Norhest and his worthy Thane Norhest—soon to be Earl Norhest—and a recommendation for the provision of a journey to the lands of Skye.

Arcadian made a request then for a recommendation also to be written for his comrade Valian, which Captain Flagheah granted. He asked that Valian be promoted to an officer's rank, since he could think of no more deserving a fellow in the fiefban.

The captain wrote out both letters and let the friends return to Bromachbaile.

The two reached Bromachbaile within the day, and council was given by the court of Thane Norhest. He read their letters and, in most hearty thanks, gave each brave stallion applause. He said to them, "Verily, you have bitten your steel, and now you have served what you promised. Therefore, Sir Arcadian of Bragn, I release you from your contract and dub you a favored peer of the House of Norhest. May Ciollus ever watch over you in your lochragh oireach."

He said to his nephew Valian that he too was deserving of the promotion, and he granted him the title of Captain of the Earl-guard and the peerage of flaith in Clan Norhest. Owen said, "You have proven yourself a fine warrior, cousin, and you shall be ready for your thanedom, which I foretell shall come. The wisdom inherent in the derbfine has not yet failed Clan Norhest."

Valian and Arcadian thanked the noble Thane Norhest, who made declared that the proceedings ought be made as follows: 150 gold bits should be ready for his departure, a silver dagger bearing the heraldry of Clan Norhest should be given to Sir Arcadian as memento of his friendship, all food and wine for the journey to Skye should be packed, and a special letter of passage be signed with his name, so as to grant the protection of Owen Norhest to his travels.

All was prepared as the Thane enlisted, ready for Sir Arcadian to begin his journey on the following morn.

Valian and Arcadian celebrated the night before with stout beer and beautiful fillies, but they confessed sorrow at their parting of ways. Valian spoke concern that Arcadian would, in spite of all his tribulations and preparation, not return from his lochragh oireach and be slain by the griffon.

Arcadian assured Valian that he would not fail in his sprioc deiridh. Both agreed that the days would feel worse for the loss of the other's company.

Arcadian swore that, should he slay the griffon Brandhard and fulfill his sprioc deiridh, without delay he would return through Bromachbaile, and that they would rejoice the griffon's death together.

Valian made a toast to their fortunes and boldly said that for all the griffons cared for their mutton, they were yet fonder of their ewes. Many laughed, as no griffon yet held the high esteem of a capall.

This would not be the last time their paths crossed, but that is not the tale now.

On the morn of departure, Sir Arcadian of Bragn left by the north gate of Bromachbaile on the road to Skye. A mournful departure he made with Sir Valian then, he now took the north road alone.

He knew not the feeling of solitude on the roads of Ulster till then. This was an especially solemn one, as trees make grave and silent companions.

Arcadian passed Mullaghbrack, ruled by Thane Keady.
And he passed Tynan, ruled by Thane Killigan.
And he passed Creggan, ruled by Thane Ban, the last town which was of the Ulster vale.
At this time he came to the edge of the lands of Ulster, and Arcadian began to see the nature of the highlands of Skye.

The woods became less dense, until they finally fully stopped at the feet of the highlands. The thick spruce and pine gave way to open fields of mountain grass and flowers, with patches of red mosses and yellow ferns, and with a stand of mountain alder every so often.

The land sloped upwards steeply, and when Arcadian came out of the forested Vale, he came face-to-face with the steep sides of the Highlands looming before him. The road was no longer paved in gravel, but instead it was narrow dirt paths lined with stones which wound back and forth to reach the hilltops of Skye.

In Skye, Arcadian passed villages such as Burnmuir, ruled by Thane mac Millan, and Auch, ruled by Thane mac Ross.

He came to the relatively level part of Skye, the Langbrae, and he could see from a vantage on the road, a great many lochs and meres, dotted by villages and small forests, replete with snowed peaks of the mountains framing the scene.

Beyond the green highlands of Skye, he could see the foreboding range of snowy spires which signaled his approach toward the Griffon Kingdom. It was much closer now to him, and it reminded him of the magnitude of his task.

In Skye, he yet passed the towns of Cairnnard and Inchbreck, ruled both of them by the Clan mac Leod. He sought there the blessings of the Thanes for his quest, but he found none willing.

The guards of the Clan mac Leod ridiculed Arcadian for his connaghta accent and his olster dress, and they mocked him for his sprioc deiridh. How can a puny colt such as he, a southerner through and through, hope to ever defeat the Butcher of the North? They laughed and told him to roll back downhill to his home before Brandhard rolls his head for him.

Sir Arcadian was not pleased by these happenings, but he continued unfazed through the lands of Skye until he came near the northern border with the Griffon Kingdom, and he stopped in the town of Drumkirk, ruled by Thane mac Colm. He spent the day asking for somepony who might teach him the ways of the warriors of Skye, but not one heeded him.

One Skye mare, however, took an interest in his request. She declined his request based her own ability to train him, as she was a mere tradesmare, but she asked him perhaps if he had tried the mac Dours of the city Irvine. He submitted that he had not and inquired about the mac Dours.

She said to him, "The mac Dours are the clan that rule Irvine and the mountain of Cairndarroch. They are the fiercest warriors in all of Skye, and they have no fear of pony, beast, or demon. Speak to the Thane of Irvine, and you will be granted your requests." Arcadian profusely thanked the mare for her counsel. He left at once for Irvine, which was situated high up on the slopes of Mount Cairndarroch, so far that the summer snow nearly reached the eastern gates of the town.

In Irvine, Arcadian sought the audience of the Thane. When he was granted such audience, he was shocked to see that the Thane of Irvine was a mare, whose name was Devina mac Dour. He confessed this surprise to the Thane, and she laughed, "An ea? What, fair-haired connaghta, you have not seen a Thane who was also a mare? For truth, it seems that tales of fiery Connacht fillies are not so true as rumor tells."

Arcadian responded, "No, my wise Thane, the rumors are more true than you could believe! It is only that our fillies are rarely taken with thanedom."

Thane mac Dour explained that for Irvine, it was tradition to only have female thanes, but it was also encouraged for the other towns under the rule of Clan mac Dour. She said that they thought that, while males were the mightier warriors, it was better for a mare to act as the ruler. Few other clans practiced this particular tradition, she said, but it was still not uncommon for clans in Skye to employ mares as their best thanes.

Arcadian said that perhaps this was a wiser course than to the Connacht way of having solely male rulers, but Devina declined. She said that likely the character of Connacht fillies was that they refused the trappings of the thanedom on purpose. The mares who became thanes could only do so because of the character of the capall in Skye, male and female. As for Ulster, she mocked, no mare would ever wish to become the thane of such a narrow-minded lot, as she would be beset at every decision by the hard-headed Ulster colts.

Thane mac Dour said, "Truly no more stubborn males exist than the Ulster lot, outside of Kilmore and Drumlin." Arcadian asked the Thane who Kilmore and Drumlin were, for he had never heard their names before.

"Kilmore mac Kettle and Drumlin mac Stewer," she snarled. "They are two terrible brutes of stallions. They waylay my clansponies for their valuables, and they steal sheep from the herders. They make drunken messes when they come into town and start ol sairts a bourach. Clan Gregor backs them, so I kinnee give the word to the guards to arrest them or to put them down. When I seek audience with them, they either mock me behind my back, or they come to court to mock me to my face."

She confessed that her wits were nearly at an end, and that meant something, she told him, because there is no end to the wits of the mares of Skye.

Sir Arcadian sympathetically related his own troubles, and she took great interest in his sprioc deiridh. She listened intently to his descriptions of the trials he overcame so far during his lochragh oireach, and when he came to his request for the blessing he would hope to receive from a clan of Skye, Devina mac Dour clapped her hooves together and told him there would be no need to continue, as she was already fully behind his quest. Verily, she told him, she detested the griffons and their plundering ways. She also greatly feared what horrors the Butcher would visit upon her ponies, their lands located so close to the Griffon Kingdom.

Thane mac Dour told Arcadian that not only were her clan's properties at his disposal, but that she would also personally provide for his training. Sir Arcadian thanked her greatly for the honor, but she again declined his thanks, saying that she would be more deserving of his thanks upon his safe return from slaying Brandhard the butcher.

She gave him a full stay in the Clan mac Dour great hall, and she recommended that he sleep well and seek out her beloved nephew for the training as soon as he pleased. Arcadian thanked her, and to sleep he went, feeling the cool, invigorating breath of the summer Skye winds in his head.

The nephew whom Devina mac Dour spoke of introduced himself to Sir Arcadian. His name was Stedhart mac Dour, and he explained with pride that he was known far and wide as the most savage highland warrior in all Skye. He sported a wild, matted black mane and equally wild eyes, but he enjoyed Arcadian's company and spent a week teaching him about the ways of Skye and its proud fighters.

He gave advice about how the warriors of Skye fought not as companies, nor as militias, but as small bands of individuals. Each warrior had to be a great warrior capable of holding his own with no less than a bear, or else he must not take up the sword at all and should instead return to the hearth and be a family stallion. In Skye, anypony could try to be a warrior, but not anypony could be a great warrior.

His first point of advice was that a land had character. Stedhart explained that no soldier fared equally well on all footings, so long as he did not practice on all footings. Uphill, downhill, on level ground, by the mere, at the foot, on the peak, and across the slope, a brilliant warrior must know all. Being weak on any particular footing meant that in a situation where such footing was unavoidable, death would be certain.

Death must never be certain for a warrior, Stedhart explained, or none would fight.

His second point of advice was to use not only the land to his advantage, but also to use the enemy to his advantage. Stedhart told Arcadian that each enemy had its own character. To defeat a wildpony, you must know how the wildpony makes use of the forests. To defeat a mountainpony, you must know how the mountainpony makes use of his slopes. To defeat a lochpony, you must know how the lochpony makes use of the shoreline.

In this case, Stedhart said, you will have to know how the griffon Brandhard makes use of the peaks, as his lair is the Hall of Sigur in the griffon stronghold of Stainfell, which sits ravenly atop Mount Hjalmur.

His third point of advice was for Arcadian to never underestimate the enemy and to never underestimate himself. The enemy becomes always a powerful foe should you for one second think him not. The enemy gains strength from a lack of respect for his abilities, and then he shall surely win. As well, you are never so weak as you think. The warrior gains strength from a healthy respect from his own abilities, and then you shall surely win.

Stedhart and Arcadian trained on the open slopes of Cairndarroch for a fortnight. By day they practiced, and they drilled, and they hiked on the braes, and in the evening they ate with the court of Thane Devina at the great table in the Feast Hall. They slept well in the night, and by morning both were early enough on the mountain to wake the bullfinches.

On the eve of the last day of the month of Bealtaine, Sir Stedhart and Sir Arcadian trudged up the road to the gates of Irvine. They had suffered a long day of training and eagerly awaited the warmth and comfort of the Feast Hall.

All at once, though, a figure galloped towards them and called out, stumbling on the rocky outcrops but not ceasing its shouting or frenzied movement. In the evening dim, Arcadian could not see the figure who called out so loudly to them, but Stedhart mac Dour said, "Great Epona, it is Lug mac Fairsky. What news of village Turriff do you bring?"

The figure came into the light of their torches, and they could see by his face that no good news could he relate. He wailed, "Sorrow, cousin Sted'! Great sorrow, and more to come, if we are nee rescued."

What sorrow has befallen Turriff, they asked. Lug said, "Only the sorrow a demon could bring! We are being slaughtered by a Tachbealan!" At this, Stedhart became pale, and he told Lug to quickly rouse the guards of Cairndarroch, but that he and Arcadian would venture ahead to distract the demon. He agreed, and the three crossed in their paths.

Arcadian galloped to match Stedhart's pace. He asked what the Tachbealan was. Stedhart said to him, "The Tachbealan is a demon, one which was the vengeful spirit of a murdered foal. It is a great monster with a powerful body and an insatiable appetite for the flesh of capall. They are a rarity, but they may devour an entire village in a single night. It takes an army to destroy the foul thing." By the voice which Stedhart spoke, there was no levity to be found in his words.

They came to the village of Turriff. The lights were all dark, and by the light of their torches they could see no presence in the town. Stedhart remarked that this was strange, and that perhaps the monster awaited in one of the buildings. They continued to find the common hall in Turriff, with blood staining the stone steps and the door knocked open.

Stedhart exclaimed, "Aha! So the beast is made its lair within the common hall. Be warned foul demon, o murderous Tachbealan. I, Stedhart mac Dour, will end your bloody terror as now I live and breath!" With that he charged into the hall, and Arcadian followed him.

Behind them the doors were slammed shut, and both were knocked to the ground. While so prostrate upon the floor, they became shocked at the sight of two burly stallions standing over them. Stedhart recognized them as the scoundrels Kilmore mac Kettle and Drumlin mac Stewer, and he demanded to know how they defeated the Tachbealan.

The two gave loud laughs, and the one named Kilmore said, "You are nee so sharp, Stedhart, brave though you behave. There is nee Tachbealan."

Stedhart was too astounded at the trickery to speak. Arcadian gritted his teeth and asked what they wanted.

The one named Drumlin smiled, and he said, "We want your heads on pikes, my friend. It shall be the perfect warning of what will come if Thane Devina mac Dour ever threatens us again. None shall oppose us, so long as we have cowed the Thane and so long as we have the backing of Clan Gregor. The lands are ours to plunder, burn, or rule as we see fit."

Arcadian grimaced, "Aye, but you'll have to kill us for that. And we don't intend on dying." Kilmore drew his longsword, and Drumlin readied his axe.

They said to him, "Intended or nee, it's what's coming to you."

Drumlin made the first move, a slicing axe chop to Stedhart's head. Stedhart rolled across the floor out of the path of the axe, and he righted onto his hooves. He drew his sword and dared Drumlin to come at him again, "Go ifreann leat!"

Arcadian did not wait for Kilmore to swing. He first footed steady, before drawing his Ulster dagger and slashing at Kilmore's flank. He drew blood, and Kilmore howled.

Drumlin pulled his axe from the floor and readied it for a blow. Stedhart took the next swing, to cut Drumlin's head. Drumlin dodged the blow and thwacked the axe handle against Stedhart's chest, knocking the wind out of him.

Kilmore made an overswing, which Arcadian blocked, but it was such a heavy blow, it took all his strength to keep the blade away from his head. Kilmore shoved his shoulder against Arcadian, which forced him to step backwards to avoid the arc of Kilmore's second swing.

Drumlin swung his axe in two tight arcs, pushing Stedhart back into a corner of the common hall. He feigned a swing from the left, which Stedhart went to block, and instead banged Stedhart's face with the butt of the axe handle. Stedhart staggered back into the corner, where he struggled to stay on his hooves.

Arcadian saw that his friend was losing his fight, and soon the two stallions would finish him, then they would surely team up on Arcadian. He had to find a way to turn the fight around. He spied an abandoned pike leaned against the far wall, left by a village guard.

Kilmore was looking for an opening, so Arcadian gave him one. He went for a lunge, but purposefully missed Kilmore and leaving himself with an exposed flank.

Kilmore took the opportunity and thrusted his sword at Arcadian's exposed side. Arcadian, however, was not in fact off-balance, but spun around to face Kilmore's own exposed side, and he stabbed Kilmore right through the ribs.

Kilmore howled in pain, as the sword had penetrated right through his torso, but it had not given him the instant death of a blow to the heart.

He squirmed around for a minute before bleeding out and his head *thunk'd* against the wood floor of the common hall.

Since retrieving the sword would take too long, Arcadian went for the pike on the wall, pulling it off and charging to aid Stedhart.

Drumlin belatedly realized that his companion had fallen and reoriented himself, but before he could move, Arcadian rammed the pike through Drumlin's neck. He choked on the weapon, and the blood spewed profusely out.

With desperate gasps fading out into soft gurgles, Drumlin's life left him.

Arcadian pushed Stedhart back up onto his feet after sitting down from the sheer stress of their encounter. Stedhart surveyed the carnage, and he complimented Arcadian, "Ach aye, but it seems you've made a fiercer and more prudent warrior than I."

Arcadian shrugged and said, "Fiercer, I wouldn't count on. On a battlefield, seeing them coming, you would have easily bested the both of them."

Stedhart disagreed, "Nee, I've told you befair, a warrior must be ready at all times, or else he is nee so good as a mere peasant with a sharp stick." He stood by himself, now able to stay steady. He walked over to Drumlin and bucked him in the face as extra insult.

Arcadian removed his sword from Kilmore's ribs, and he wiped it clean on the dead stallion's mane, giving his own personal insult as well.

He surveyed the scene, and he joked to Stedhart, "For this, Devina will probably renounce her thanedom and pronounce us Earls of the Langbrae."

Stedhart countered, "For this? Ha! Devina would give you her hoof in marriage for this slaying!"

Both laughed well over this, and they left the common hall with the corpses of the two stallions lying therein.

Such was how Arcadian and Stedhart defeated the brutish rogues called Kilmore and Drumlin.

Chapter 4: The Adventure in Fetlar

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When Arcadian and Stedhart returned late to the Feast Hall in Cairndarroch, Thane mac Dour meant to berate them for causing hassle to the guards and cooks over their absence. Instead, the sight of them drew concern as they had the blood of their enemies upon them.

She demanded that they tell her what tribulation had red-sheathed them so.

They told her of Kilmore and Drumlin's deceit, how they had been lured to the village of Turriff—which was empty all day because of a festival in Drumkirk. They told her of how they managed to slay the two rogues, she laughed in glee and declared the turn of events "lichtsome indeed."

"Never have I heard of such a great plan come to such waste! A fine job have you twae done here," she clapped exuberantly.

A serious look came upon her, and she spoke grimly to them, "Howe'er, this can nee be stood by the twae of you. Clan Gregor and their thanes will seek vengeance for your actions. I would nee think of letting you to their hooves, as you are both held fond in my heart, but it is nee the best for Cairndarroch if you remain. You twae should leave for the village of Glencoe. There, you should come under the protection of Clan Kenzie, who are rivals of Clan Gregor."

Stedhart spoke, "My Thane, perhaps it should only be I who goes to Glencoe. I know the way best, but Sir Arcadian is a guest in our town. How can they think to revenge the deaths upon a stranger?" Thane Devina said that Clan Gregor was internally divided and that there were those in their derbfine who sought to make open war upon all other clans. No warranty of safety could be made, even for an honored guest.

Arcadian himself now spoke, "Perhaps, wise Thane, it would instead be better for me to leave Skye." Stedhart and Devina both refused, but Arcadian insisted, "You have been more than kind to me, and I am thankful, but my sprioc deiridh awaits me. I did not come here to settle and marry—although absent the griffon threat, I would consider such." Thane Devina sighed, accepting what Arcadian said.

He spoke to Stedhart, "My friend, you have taught me well the ways of the truly great warrior. I am prepared now to fight the Butcher of the Mountains and to slay him as I always was meant to do." Stedhart nodded, and the two clasped in friendship before Stedhart himself departed for Glencoe.

Thane Devina walked to Arcadian, and she said to him tenderly, "Siúil a rún, Arcadian of Bragn. No day shall pass without our prayers to the gods on your behalf. May you return safe and victorious from your lochragh oireach with a pure heart and the head of the griffon. I hope to see you again."

With these words they parted. Thane Devina made preparations for Arcadian's departure as quickly as they could muster: 350 gold bits, food and milk for the journey, a coat of bear fur for the vicious cold of the mountains, and a steel locket with the heraldry of Clan mac Dour to remind him of Skye.

Arcadian asked the captain of the guard of where his destination should be. The captain advised Arcadian to make his way to the Skye border town of Fetlar, ruled by Thane Frasur, and from there, he could cross the border of the Griffon Kingdom through the Egersund Pass. So he left the town of Cairndarroch and wished the town and the ponies of Clan mac Dour well.

This would not be the last time their paths crossed, but that is not the tale now.

Skye was mostly behind him now, and Arcadian began to find the land rockier and less pleasantly green. It was the midsummer month of Meitheamh, and the snow began already to fall in the towering mountains ahead. What he saw before him, leaving the heart of Skye, was a great range of harsh mountains with rocky sides and great peaks reaching into storm-clouds. The snow came down halfway from pinnacle to base, and the winds began to blow ever harder.

Arcadian traveled through the late night and by dawn he had reached the town of Fetlar. Ponies in the town were not yet stirring, and the guards waved him through. After all, he had upon him the garb of Clan mac Dour. They assumed he surely must be in town on clan business.

Arcadian was tired from his nightlong traveling, and he went to the nearest inn in Fetlar, called the Warm Hearth Inn. He drank an ale there and did sleep some time by the roaring fire.

When he awoke, it was midday, and a young colt was loudly speaking to a guard. The guard dismissed the colt and left the inn, with the colt looking mighty disappointed and fretting. Arcadian asked the colt, who, from his strong accent, was from the land of Sutherland, was his troubles.

The colt explained that his name was Torrent mac Lief, of the Clan Lief in Sutherland, and that he was in dire straits, but the local guards refused to help. Arcadian felt pity for Torrent, having been dismissed by Skye guards himself, and asked him to explain his situation, since Arcadian felt he could help.

“Lass nicht, ma sister an mysel, we waur travellin’ tae see th’ stoatin’ fair in Delbrough, allawae frae beck in uir haem in Sutherlain, but on th’road huir, we waur attacked. Some beasties loch leek mingin' ape things.”^[1]

Arcadian asked him what he thought the beasts were. “Trows, they seemt loch. ‘Twas a rammie when they attacked. Thaur were fower ae them an' only twae ah us. They owerhailt us. Ah coods nae keep 'er frae kidnappin' aughtlins! Ah huvnae seen 'er since 'en.”^[2]

After a few minutes of deciphering the colt’s strong Sutherland accent, Arcadian gathered that Torrent’s sister was kidnapped by some sun-shunning creatures known as trows.

He asked Torrent if he knew where they took the filly, and he said to him, “Aye, I dae hae a wee bittae rumpgumpshin. Efter they hud beaten me, Ah followed th' bou-backit beasties. They went by a shaw by th’ calfward, 'en then a quakin-bog, passin' a bickerin’ burn, an' finally they hae a middenhole in a borrae. She's lochways in thaur.”^[3]

“Ah overheard th' menseless, glaikit creatures talkin'. They want a quean fae a scodge. It nettles mah sides 'at th' guards willnae lift a hoof tae sae 'er. She’s ainlee a wee lass, an’ Ah was supposed tae protect ‘er.”^[4]

Arcadian promised Torrent that he would come with him to save his sister from the Trows, at which he brightened up considerably.

“Ah dunnae ha’ tae much in th’way ae plack, but lit me buy ye a bevvy.”^[5] Arcadian accepted this modest payment, as it seemed that the poor colt had little else with which to express his gratitude. They downed an ale each, and then set out to find the kidnapped filly.

Walking the east road out of Fetlar, Arcadian and Torrent took thirty minutes to arrive at the scene of the attack. True to Torrent’s description, the tracks of the Trows led straight through a muddied calfward. They followed the tracks through a copse of trees, then through a peaty bog—one which was oddly silent—passing a flowing stream, and finally coming to a halt at a little wooden door in the side of a barrow.

Torrent told Arcadian that the day would be the best time to strike, as Trows are not able to bear the sun or else they turn to stone until sunset. Arcadian decided it would be he who would enter first, and Torrent could cover him in case he needed to make a quick escape.

They opened the small wooden door into the barrowhole, a small home of tunnels barely large enough for a single stallion to stand upright. Quietly, they sneaked and peeked down every corridor. Twice they saw Trows working, though they did not see the intruders. One was cobbling a shoe, and the other tending to a stew.

Torrent whimpered, but Arcadian whispered that his sister would not likely have been butchered by these creatures, not if they wanted a servant. Torrent agreed, and they kept on searching as quietly as they could tiptoe.

Finally, they came to a locked door, which try as they might, they could not open without forcing the lock. Torrent listened at the door, and he told Arcadian he could hear his sister’s snores. Arcadian thought of a way to rescue the filly without arousing the Trows, but he could think of no way.

Torrent thought of barring as many doors as they could before the trows raised the alarm and breaking the door to rescue his sister. Arcadian agreed that this was as good a plan as could be made, and he gave to Torrent a small wooden club to fight with. At the entrance, they propped open the door, and from there to the cell, they shut as many doors as they could.

When they turned the corner to the cell, however, they found two Trows and an open cell door. The Trows, after a moment of mutual surprise, shouted an alarm call, yelling in their faerie tongue that pony thieves and killers were upon them. All around the colts heard the alarm raised, and the Trows advanced on them with crude bronze daggers and tin shields, making a great racket to draw their fellows.

Arcadian took his sword and used the flat side of the blade to smack the head of one Trow, knocking it out cold. Then he tackled the other one, holding it by its neck against the wall of the dirt tunnel, ordering Torrent to check the cell. Torrent followed, and he exclaimed that it was empty.

Arcadian struck the second Trow like the first, leaving both unconscious. Torrent reasoned that they must have taken her somewhere else in the barrowhole. They braced themselves for the onslaught, as three more Trows rounded the corner, sporting makeshift scrap armor and thrashing their stumpy limbs.

The two capall backed up through the tunnels, Arcadian holding off the daggers of the Trows and Torrent searching the barrow for his sister. At last, they came to the final room, an eating area, that had no exit save the tunnel they came down in, and Torrent loudly lamented their fates.

Arcadian, thinking quickly, told him to grab the small table in the center and to give it to him. Torrent did so, and Arcadian used the table as a battering ram on the Trows.

The Trows were surprised at first, but then they gathered their strength and began to steadily push back on the table. Arcadian held them, and held them, and held them. The Trows pushed as hard as they could, reaching their limit of physical strengths and leaning all their weight on the table.

At the door of the room, Arcadian deftly stepped to the side and let go of the table, causing the three Trow to stumble forward over each other. They plopped in a wretched pile on the floor, and before they could react, Arcadian and Torrent bounded away through the very same tunnel, cheering their good fortune and the stupidity of the faeries.

Both exited the barrowmound, excited at their narrow victory, but Torrent soon returned to lamentation. Since they could not find his sister, he cried out that they must have taken her to some dark place and stored her remains.

Before anything more could be said, a loud voice called from the trees, saying, “Brither, be nae such an ourlich jessie. Ah’m nae deid, fae mam’s sake.”^[6]

Both saw a young filly, with an auburn mane and the accent of a Sutherlander, leap from the top of the barrowmound down to the others. Torrent's face instantly turned to fury. He said to her, "Ye camsteirie muirhen, wha’ are ye loch! Whaur were ye when we keeked in your cell?"^[7]

She replied, "Ah got th' key lest nicht frae th' Trows, 'n' Ah planned on lettin' meself out this mornin'. Ah didnae count on ye mixtie-maxtie fools barging in."^[8]

Torrent grew even more angry, "Mixtie-maxtie! Aye, that's a way tae blether! Ah ought tae gie ye such a bardy. Ye suidna dunnit! Ye shuid ae stayed pat."^[9]

The filly became upset herself, and she shouted, "Ye blasted eejit, 'twas a megrim tae pick a rammie wi' a tribe o' Trow 'n' follow me doon a rabbit-hole! Ye kinnae handle bein' shown up! Ye'r a proud, shauld nochtie, 'n' ye'v pat this stranger in mair danger than he deserves."^[10] Arcadian was surprised to be referred to favorably by the filly, who gave him a kind look, before prancing off towards the forest defiantly.

Her brother shook in rage, and he called after her, "Ye unwicelike huggerie! Ye vauntie kimmer! Ye dinnae deserve tae be rescued, ye ungrateful wifie."^[11]

She disappeared from their view, and Torrent lost his breath for yelling. Arcadian told him that it was no use to indulge in anger, as they had accomplished what they came to do. The Trows were not likely to come after them in the daytime, and by nightfall, the two of them ought to be far away.

Torrent calmed, and he agreed with this. Trows are not particularly vengeful faeries, he said, unlike merrows.

Arcadian inquired what merrows were and how Torrent knew they were vengeful. Torrent got a strange look in his eye, told Arcadian that his uncle Drest encountered a merrow once, and said that he'd rather not relate the story because it was "tae tairible a tale fae noble company." Arcadian felt complimented by being referred to as "noble company" and mystified by what kind of a too-terrible story was being withheld, but he let it be.

The two began to journey back, crossing the stream—or as Torrent called it fondly, "a weesome bickerin' burnie"—but something crept into Arcadian's mind. It was an unease, a familiar silence he felt back in the bog which gave him pause. Something about the bog made him fearful and apprehensive, and he could not place why.

Suddenly he remembered, and he insisted to Torrent that they must catch up with his sister immediately. Torrent asked why, and before Arcadian could answer, both heard her scream from the other end of the bog.

Torrent and Arcadian galloped as fast as they could to whence the scream came. On the way, Arcadian drew his sword and lit a torch, which slowed him down. Torrent came to his sister first, and what he saw made him yell in terror. When Arcadian came into sight of them both, he saw and did not yell.

What had made the sister scream was the attack of a kelpie, this one twice the height of a pony, with a scrawny belly and sunken eyes.

It went to bite the sister, who was sprawled on the peaty ground, only half-conscious but squirming to get away. Torrent stood by his sister and bucked the beast in the jaw. It screeched and reared up to crush Torrent beneath its massive black hooves.

Arcadian yelled to the creature to draw its attention, "Foul beast, sniveling coward, come for me! I have slain one of your pathetic brethren before, and I fear you not. I am Arcadian O'Bragn, Neckbane, and you shall fall beneath my blade before you do so much as touch that filly!"

The creature, to Arcadian's surprise, paused after his pronouncement, regarding first Arcadian, then the prostrate filly on the marshy fen, bleeding from the side of her head. It snorted, and backed up into the bogwater, glowering at Arcadian with fierce eyes. Before its head went under, it turned and swam deep into the recesses of the bog.

When the last bubbles left from the creature's watery descent disappeared, Arcadian breathed a sigh of relief.

Torrent tended to his sister, but he threw a shocked look at Arcadian. He asked why Arcadian didn't tell him that he was the hero from Bragn, the one who slew the Bane of Gorsglen.

Now it was Arcadian's turn to be shocked. "You've heard of my town Bragn and of Gorsglen?"

Torrent snorted derisively. He said that only a hermit would not know of such a tale, spread far and wide through Sutherland by way of bartalk and marely rumor. There was much respect in the land, he said, for this peasant stallion in Connacht who slew a giant fire-breathing kelpie the size of a mountain and with the strength of a giant, while using only his bare hooves to stake an entire oak tree through the demon's heart.

Arcadian laughed, and Torrent admitted that the tale became a little outrageous by the time he heard it, but it was still an enjoyable story told in mead-halls and gossip-corners.

Torrent then asked Arcadian that if he really was the slayer of the Bane of Gorsglen, why had he not told Torrent right off?

Arcadian explained his sprioc deiridh to Torrent. He told him of his battle with the Bane of Gorsglen, his trials in the Vale of Ulster, and his training in Skye. He told Torrent that he was getting dangerously near to the end of his lochragh oireach, and that it would be much riskier to tell of his intentions the closer he got to the Griffon Kingdom.

Torrent agreed, and he told him that the capall in Sutherland had heard of the Butcher of the Mountains, too. He wished Arcadian great luck on his quest, and he told him that if Arcadian ever needed any favors while in Sutherland, he could always count on Clan Lief.

The stallions then saw that the sister was beginning to regain consciousness. Torrent greeted her with good humor, thinking to put her in a pleasant mood for the return journey, but to their surprise, she did not look pleased at all. In fact, she looked very afraid.

She gasped and pointed vigorously with her hoof. Arcadian spun around to see the kelpie, which had silently crept back out while they were distracted, rearing up to bash the hero in the head.

Thinking quickly, Arcadian took his sword from next to him. He fell backwards to put some space between him and the kelpie, and when its hooves crashed down onto the soggy soil, its head bent over in an attempt to bite his throat.

Arcadian pointed his sword directly at the kelpie's head and jammed the blade right through its mouth into its skull. The creature made a *herk* sound, stumbled to the side, and after a moment of trying to stay upright, completely collapsed.

Its eyes blanked, and a trickle of black blood began to leak out of its gaping mouth.

Arcadian told Torrent, who was shaking in fear, to gather wood to burn the creature's body. As he did so, Arcadian, with some effort, pulled his blade from the kelpie. He could hear its skull crack as he did so, and when the blade left the body, the beast's black, forked tongue hung limp out its mouth.

Arcadian cut the head from the kelpie as proof of his deed, and he once again took as much blood as he could from the beast.

Torrent and Arcadian took the wood and made a pyre upon which they heaved the body of the beast. They lit the pyre, and the smoke reached high into the sky. Torrent and Arcadian spoke of feeling great relief from this, but his sister watched the fire with grimness.

All three returned that evening to the town of Fetlar. Torrent wanted to boast of their achievement, but Arcadian advised him to wait for an audience with the Thane.

The three went to the Great Hall in Fetlar, wherein Thane Frasur recieved them with impatience and rudeness. He said to them, "What possibly business have ye brought before me? A connachta and two sutters? Speak on! I have little time for the petty concerns of outsiders, while the Griffons threaten our peace."

Arcadian told Thane Frasur that he was the hero from Bragn, the slayer of the Bane of Gorsglen, at which the Thane and the court laughed. He asked, "You are the Neckbane of Bragn? Bless me! I did not realize. Excuse me if I do not take leave of my throne to kiss your hoof."

Arcadian asked him if he too had a problem with a kelpie taking residence in a nearby bog. The Thane said grimly, "Yes, indeed. What of it? I grow tired of your gossiping, unless you truly are the hero from Bragn."

Arcadian asked what the Thane might give for the kelpie in Fetlar to be killed.

The Thane snorted and said, "It is a terrible demon and a devourer of innocents, but I hardly think you are stallion enough to slay the beast, connachta. I will make you this offer, since you seem in earnest," he leaned in to speak to Arcadian in a condescending voice, "I will throw you a banquet in your honor and give you 600 gold bits. With that, you may leave this town and settle in the most faraway land imaginable! Take a ship with your two sutter friends and leave for the Island!"

The court laughed along with the Thane's jabs. Torrent was beginning to be quite irritated with the proceedings, but Arcadian was entirely calm. He said innocently, "Are you in earnest, or are you making light of me, good Thane?"

The thane raised his eyebrows; Arcadian was challenging him to live up to his word. He said, loudly for all the court to hear, "My fine connachta, who wears the armor of an ulstra and the philibeg of a teuchter, I swear upon the heart of Brighid, the goddess of truth, I mean every word of what I tell you. Now, begone with you. Slay the creature while the sun is still out."

He waved Arcadian and his friends off with a dismissive hoof motion.

Arcadian smiled. He said, motioning to Torrent and his sister to ready the bag, "My benevolent thane, I need not to venture out more into the bog, for I have visited your sloughwaters and have already slain the beast!"

At this, Torrent and the sister pulled the heavy head of the kelpie out of their sack, lifting it high over the heads of the court-flaith and then tossing it at the hooves of the Thane, who leapt back onto his throne in horror.

The court-flaith alternately gasped, wailed, and laughed. The kelpie's blank eyes stared at the Thane, and its tongue still hung out of its fanged, broken jaw.

Arcadian bowed low to the Thane, who turned a bright shade of red and gritted his teeth at being manipulated so. However, a Thane does not go back on his word, not when he has sworn on the heart of Brighid—and especially not when the court bore witness to it.

He swallowed his pride and announced to a hushed court, some flaith suppressing irreverent giggles, "My courageous connachta, I see that I was too hasty in my judgement of you and your friends. Truly you have the worth of a hero, and you have slain a demon which has made travel on the road to the east a perilous one. I am true to my word, and tonight, Fetlar will feast in your honor. We will spare no expense to make this celebration a truly spectacular one."

He turned to his chief advisor and told him, "Let it be known that today is a holiday, and that the curfew shall be suspended. We shall hold a great feast in the hall, and the bards and dancers shall make it a merry night. Bring out the ale and mead, and let there be rejoicing in Fetlar!"

The court murmured in excitement and approval, but the Thane sighed inwardly at this thought, as all the expense of the festivities would come out of his coffers, including the bounty promised to Arcadian.

At this, the court pulled Arcadian and his two companions into their midst, asking eagerly for them to relate their daring adventures and wild stories, which they did most gladly.

That night, the torches lined the streets, and the town of Fetlar celebrated much, just as the Thane promised. There was ale aplenty, and there was cake and stew and bread and cheese and fruit to eat in voluminous quantities. The bards sang songs and a jester told some very off-color jokes to the party guests in the Great Hall. Outside were musicians and the ponies of Fetlar made merry with drink, dance and jokes in the lighted streets.

Inside, Arcadian sat near the head of the great table and conversed with the flaith of Fetlar and nearby manors. From them he learned much of the lands of Skye and Sutherland, and he learned of the state of the border with the Griffon Kingdom. They told him that the griffons were becoming much bolder in their attacks on the capall on the border. The griffons stole sheep and goats from herders, and occasionally robbed caravans or stole valuables right from a pony's homestead.

Even those griffons who supported King Hakon instead of the usurper Brandhard were not as well-disposed to the ponies of Skye as they were before. They sometimes refused to let them trade in their cities and arrested them on frivolous charges. The flaith told Arcadian that King Hakon had even increased the number of official raids by his kingdom on the ponies just so that he wouldn't lose his reputation in the face of the sheer brutality of Brandhard the tyrant.

Arcadian had told them of his sprioc deiridh, but he told them it belonged to a friend of his. They told him that his friend would surely be killed, and that Arcadian himself would be better suited to taking on Brandhard.

Arcadian took comfort from their frank admissions, loosened as the ponies were by ale and good spirits, and thanked them.

Later in the night, as most of the flaith went to the middle of the Great Hall to dance to the lively music or else kept to the corners to be intimate with another capall, Arcadian was absorbed in his ale. He did not notice Torrent's sister approach him until she leaned over his shoulder and pecked him on the ear.

He started, and she giggled.

He said to her, "Miss, you should be celebrating with the others." She shook her head and propped her head up with her hooves on the crest of his chair. Arcadian considered for a moment, then said, with an apologetic tone, "I never did catch your name, lass. What is it?"

"They cawl me Colleen mac Lief," she smiled at him. She edged closer to him, so that she was now perched on the arm of his seat and leaning in close to speak to him. "Now tha' ye'r weel-faured wi' th' nobles 'n' th' Thane, hae ye git any taem fae a Sutherlain filly loch me?"^[12]

Arcadian said, "Surely I do. What do you wish to say?" To his surprise, Colleen plopped in his lap and embraced him fully while he was still seated.

She said, "Aye, 'tis naught but a bawherr taem Ah ask frae ye. Haud me fur a wee while, 'n' blether tae me sweetly." She stared into his eyes and pleaded to him with hers.

Cautiously, Arcadian returned the embrace, watching the dance while holding Colleen. She looked at him curiously and said, "Tha' was a brave thin' ye did fae me in th' quakin'-bog 'n' in th' Trow-hole. Ah thank ye muchly fae'r't. Ye didnae huvtae listen tae mah brother when he creed loch a wee bairn fae help."^[13]

Arcadian stroked her mane and reprimanded her, "You are much too harsh on your brother, and too soft on me. I was only doing a good deed, nothing more."

Colleen nodded, "Och aye, but isnae tha' wha' aw heroes are defined bae? Daein' good deeds when nae a body else will? Ah dare nae sae tha' a single other capall would hae riskt their life tae sae a bow-houghed kimmer they kent nae."^[14]

He remarked, "Bow-hough'd? You speak too poorly of yourself."

She countered, "An' yer tae good fae th' sel o' ye! Tae stoaner on meself, eh? Dae ye fin' me brinkie, an ea?"^[15]

"You're a right fine filly, I think. Your family must be proud," he murmured in response. She leaned in close to him to whisper in his ear.

"Aam thinkin' ay havin' a new bairntime, awa' frae my fowk in Sutherlain. Mebbe start a body here, or in some else lain. wi' a dashin' young hero. It's only a norrie now, but mebbe wi' th' reit colt..."^[16] She trailed off, getting rather close to Arcadian's face.

He smelled her breath, and responded, "I think you're a little drunk."

Colleen laughed boisterously, making some of the other capall glance over for a moment, "Aye! Ah main be bitchfou! Ah had some penny-wheaps meself, an' Ah kinnae bevvy tae much liquur afair Ah gang wild!"^[17] At that, she planted a big kiss on Arcadian's face.

Arcadian glanced over at Torrent, seated at the far end of another table. He was turned away at the moment, but Arcadian said anyway, "I wonder what your brother might think of this. I think he might be uncomfortable."

Colleen waved it off, totally unconcerned, "Let him. Ah dunnae care wha' he thinks ae me." She returned her attention to Arcadian. "Ah'm nae behavin' undecent. Ah'm jist havin' a good time wi' me rescuer."^[18]

She waited a moment for him to kiss her at this point. When he didn't, she took the initiative herself and kissed him on the lips very furiously.

He pushed her away and told her that he really couldn't make love with her tonight. He was going away on a journey, from which he might not return, in the harsh lands of the Griffon Kingdom, and she interrupted him, saying, "Ach, Ah hae heard it, yer sprioc deiridh. Wha' reck, Ah'm nae carin'. We can still hae a good romp now. Wudnae ye loch a plaesunt nicht afair ye sinder us?"^[19]

She leaned in very close to him now, so that he could see nothing else but her intent face staring right into his eyes. "Ah coods gi' ye pleasin' smourichs, an' Ah coods widdle in yer lap until ye taek me scratcher." To emphasize, she kissed him lightly on the lips and made small noises while wriggling in his lap.

Colleen continued, whispering softly, drawing out every Sutherland-accented word, "We coods gi' bare-scud in th' Thane's scratcher frae midnicht till day, or ye coods taek me in mah wyliecoat in a mirk wynd. We coods hae a bonnie buck inna th' weeoors."^[20] She played with his belt buckle and nipped at his ear.

"By th' gods, am Ah waukit. Let's thrummle."^[21]

After taking a moment to calm himself, Arcadian firmly pushed Colleen to the edge of his lap. He said to her, gently, "Colleen, I cannot."

She looked at him as though he was insane for five full seconds, then sighed, "Are ye uggit wi' me? Think ye tha' Ah'm a huggerie kimmer?"^[22] Arcadian assured her that no, no, he didn't think that. He just did not feel right about taking advantage of a filly like her while she was drunk and naive.

She sighed again and looked away, saying, "Aye, Ah suppose. Both ae us suidna. Ah wist we coods. It seems such a sham tae allaw our affections to wynt. Alas."^[23]

She paused before leaning once again towards Arcadian, who braced for pushing her away again. However, she merely leaned in close to tell him confidentially, "It's nae th' ale talkin' when Ah say Ah wan' tae buck. Back in th' quakin'-bog, when ye slew th' beest, ye gae me... ye gae me..." She motioned to her torso, and said, "Ye gae me wooer-babs. In my wame, in my intimmers. Ah kinnae explaint, but Ah wanted tae biggen wi' yer bairns..."^[24]

She smiled helplessly at Arcadian. She told him to have a good night, wished him luck on his adventure, and kissed him on the nose before taking her leave to rejoin the festivities.

Arcadian was stunned by the whole exchange, and as he let out the deep breath he was holding in, he realized that of all the trials he had encountered thus far in his lochragh oireach, what he just endured was the one that required the most of his willpower yet to overcome.

The festivities went on for most of the night, but Arcadian took his leave and collected his gold from the Thane before dawn, heading out on the north road towards the Griffon Kingdom, while Colleen and Torrent slept through morning and midday after the late-night feast. They were not able to wish Arcadian well on the final legs of his lochragh oireach.

This would not be the last time their paths crossed, but that is not the tale now.

And thusly was Arcadian's adventure in Fetlar concluded.

Author's Notes:

^[1] A nicht is the Sutherland word for night. Likewise, stoatin’ and mingin' are both Sutherland for "excellent, excessive" and for "smelly, obnoxious, foul" respectively.
^[2] A rammie is a brawl. To be owerhailt is to be overpowered. Here, aughtlins means "at all."
^[3] To have rumpgumpshin is to have gumption. To be bou-backit is to have a bent back. A shaw is a thicket. A calfward quakin-bog. A bickerin' burn is a noisy brook. A middenhole is a hollowed-out area in a heap, and a borrae is a barrow.
^[4] Someone who is menseless is stupid. Likewise, if they're glaikit, they're stupid. A quean is an impudent filly. A scodge, or "scodgie," is a suspicious person.
^[5] A plack is a coin.
^[6] To be ourlich is to look miserable. A jessie is an effeminate stallion.
^[7] To be camsteirie is to be perverse or contrary. A muirhen is a female grouse. To keek is to look a little bit.
^[8] To be mixtie-maxtie is to be confused or jumbled.
^[9] A bardy is a scolding.
^[10] megrim shauld nochtie
^[11] To be unwicelike is to be foolish, and to be vauntie is to be proud. To be huggerie is to be slovenly. A kimmer is a filly, and a wifie is a mare.
^[12] To be weel-faured is to be well-favored.
^[13] A bairn is a foal.
^[14] bow-houghed kent
^[15] stoaner brinkie "an ea?"
^[16] bairntime in some else lain. norrie
^[17] To be bitchfou is to be drunk. A penny-wheap is a cheap drink. Afair means "before."
^[18] Wha' reck, sinder
^[19] bare-scud scratcher wyliecoat mirk wynd bonnie buck weeoors
^[20] waukit thrummle.
^[21] uggit huggerie
^[22] suidna wynt
^[23] quakin'-bog, wooer-babs. In my wame, in my intimmers. The rest is too rude to translate here.

Chapter 5: The Wolves of Rainright, Pt. 1

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Arcadian traveled north to the Griffon Kingdom, mere miles from the bases of the forbidding range of mountains the feathered creatures called their homeland.

He saw the last groves become mere stands of trees, then finally all that stood on the land were solitary windswept pines. The road became gravelly, and the wind swept hard across the land. Again the land sloped upwards, much harder than it did in Fetlar. The road crisscrossed to wind its way up as the two nearest peaks, snowy towers of grimness, spread apart just enough to leave a gap which became the most convenient place to build a road for traveling.

The Griffons in their tongue called it Egersund, and in the narrow pass was the Griffon border city of Fauske. It guarded the entrance from the ponylands to the south, and it was a monstrous walled city, with an impressive Keep and an armed guard that never slept. It was one of the greatest prides of the griffons, this city, aside from the capital city of Mrohthlingar, the Keep of Arkenfell, and the Keep of Stainfell.

Arcadian of Bragn came to the broad steel gates of the city of Fauske. Not a single solitary soul had he seen from Fetlar to hence.

The city walls towered high above his head, a great many more stories than he had ever seen. The walls were colored an imposing grey, and the humongous steel doors themselves were of a dark, unwelcoming hue. A great wind blew from the mountainside, and Arcadian felt a great chill. He pulled his fur pelts closer to him and worked up the courage to work the great steel knockers.

*Knock* *knock* and another *knock* later, a squawking voice shouted above him, "Who goes there!" Arcadian looked up and saw a helmed, beaked face leaning over the parapet.

Arcadian stepped backwards to let the griffon guard get a full view of him, and he said, "I am Arcadian, and I am a capall with business in the Griffon Kingdom!"

The guard shot him a look of irritation, and said, "What sort of business, litla? Don't you know that today is a no-entrance from the hesturlandur?"

Arcadian said, "I am on much more important business than whatever prevents you from letting me in. Do open this gate, good sirs."

The guard sneered at him disbelievingly, but called for his fellow guards to open the gate. Sure enough, the gates swung open, and two other griffon guards snickered as he passed through into Fauske.

Fauske was a city unlike anything he had seen before. The houses were built differently, the streets were paved in large stones, and even the clothes the citizens wore were of a much different fashion. Oh, and how many of them were walking the streets! For the first time in his life, Arcadian was nearly lost in the crowd. He could not see the end of the street for all the crowd.

Neither was the crowd merely griffons; occasionally he would see a capall going about some business. He called to one or two of them, but they shrugged him off. To Arcadians eyes, they looked terribly worried and angry, occasionally glancing around in suspicion.

The griffons themselves were dressed for the wintry cold, even though they had much more protection in their feathers than the ponies did in their coats. One pair of ponies looked much different from the capall, and he judged by their strange language and their rich clothing to be Equestrians, the strange westerners with pastel coats and colorful hair.

He paid no attention to them though, and he continued ambling through the streets of Fauske. He was clueless about the next step for him take. He knew not who the thane of Fauske was, whether he or she would receive him or not, or even if the griffons had thanes!

He could not even read the strange language that the griffons wrote in on their signs. He found himself on the corner of Trasiga Vägar and Isiga Gata without the faintest clue what to do next. He saw in the corner of his eye a sign which, though he could not read the runes that spelled the name of the establishment, clearly bore a symbol only inns possessed.

Arcadian stepped into the inn, unnaturally full for midday. Some of the griffon patrons stared at him for a moment, then resumed their conversations and drinking, casting glances his way every so often. A griffon tender polished his treasured silver goblets on the bar, but when he saw Arcadian step in, he brought out his pewterware.

Arcadian said nothing of this obvious slight and instead ordered a stiff drink. The griffon filled the pewter cup to the brim with a foul-smelling mead that looked like it had been rotting in the cellar since the last century. Arcadian swigged it and held back a grimace.

So far, it seemed the Griffon Kingdom was intent on testing him.

He asked the innkeep what the rooms in the city went for, and the griffon gave him a price Arcadian considered almost extortionate, and he told him so. The griffon innkeeper slammed his talon'd fist down on the bar and told him if he didn't like griffon prices, then the pony could sleep in the trash bins for all he cared. Arcadian realized that the griffon was not willing to negotiate the price and pushing it would probably result in being thrown out into the street. He agreed and paid out for a room for the next night, saying nothing more of the incident.

Arcadian went to his room and checked his supplies. He had enough food for the next two days, and he had enough gold for what he'd thought was to be twenty-five nights. At the rates the griffons were charging him, he perhaps only had seventeen nights to make it to Stainfell on Mount Hjalmur.

He gritted his teeth. He might possibly be stranded in the midst of churlish griffon ruffians with no money to leave, and that would be a sorry end to his journey.

He sat in his room for a good while, thinking about his predicament. He had not worried much about planning his journey wisely, but now that he had entered the lands of griffons, he must think twice over his every move.

Griffons were proud creatures, even by capall standards. Whether from Connacht or Skye, Ulster or Sutherland, all capall were sensitive towards insults on their honor and their kin.

Griffons, though, were an unpredictable lot. They were brash and cutthroat. They would as soon shake your hoof as bite your tail. If he said the wrong word, Arcadian figured he would find himself at the edge of a griffon's blade before he reached the north gate.

What should his course of action be, he asked himself. That innkeep was extremely unpleasant, and he knew innkeeps were generally the friendliest ones in town. If that's the welcome he can expect from the best, what might another have in store? Arcadian felt utter distaste for the griffons, and it manifested as bile in his throat. He promptly spit it out.

"No spitting in the rooms!" He heard the innkeep yell from downstairs. How he had heard Arcadian over the ramblings of his customers was anypony's guess.

Arcadian decided that the prudent course of action would be to seek out the griffon in charge to secure safe passage directly to Stainfell. He originally hadn't wanted to reveal his intention to fight their hero—and he felt extremely reluctant about his decision now—but he saw that he was not left with viable alternatives. It would be a long shot to convince the thane, or lord, or mayor of Fauske to give him special escort, especially if Fauske was a city that supported King Hakon.

On the other hoof, if he didn't get an escort, or at least papers granting safe passage, he would be at the mercy of every hoodlum and troublemaker on the road to Stainfell. Being waylaid was not something he looked forward to.

He trotted downstairs to speak with the innkeep. The common area of the inn had become strangely, quietly empty and as hirelings swept and put away benches, the innkeep was furiously locking away his silver. Arcadian asked who was the Thane in Fauske.

The griffon snorted, "Thane? We have no thanes, horsa, but you're welcome to speak with our Jarl. He is the noble who lives in the Keep yonder. You haven't got the faintest chance of seeing him today though. By the gods, if you can get an audience with him, I'll declaw myself."

Arcadian asked what the name of the Jarl was. The innkeep said, "Hell if I tell you."

After some mild pleading, the innkeep told Arcadian that the name of the Jarl was Ulricus the Nebbstreik. Arcadian knew not what the epithet meant, but he noted it. It would be respectful to address the Jarl by his full title after all.

Arcadian exited the unpleasant inn, and stepped into the stone street. The crowds had thinned out, and he could now walk with comfort among the traffic. He noticed that all the traffic was now one way towards the north, and that the general mood of the passersby had become intent and intrigued.

He decided first he would see where everypony, or every-griffon, was rushing. Twice was he nearly tripped over by a careless griffon hurrying along. He righted himself each time though and kept on pushing forward.

Arcadian then came to a dense crowd formed around the northern side of the wall. In a massive open space, hundreds of griffons gathered in a mass of feathers and fur. They were all so much bigger than Arcadian that he couldn't see over them. He shoved through the crowd to get to a lamp post on a corner, and he climbed up it a little to see over the griffons' shoulders.

He saw that the town guard captain, dressed in a fine robe of bright cyan, was announcing some news from a stage. He was too far away to hear him properly, but he could hear the crowd next to him disseminate the tidings.

"Oh, that cannot be true!"

"How dreadful is that! I planned on taking that road next week."

"I was going to walk it tomorrow! How lucky I am."

"Wolves, he says?"

"Ah, the Captain wouldn't know a wolf from a sheep-dog."

"Would you be willing to bet your life on that?"

"Hush now, he's saying it's closed."

"Closed until further notice? That will strangle my business. Why can't Torkil just take his guards and kill the beasts?"

From this and other gossip, Arcadian gathered that the road north had been closed due to a great pack of giant wolves which had killed over half a dozen unwary merchant griffons traveling that route. Captain Torkil was to enforce, by the Jarl's orders, a complete closing of the road until further notice.

Captain Torkil and the Jarl also had an offer to the griffons: they would be accepting requests to open the north gate for any heroes that wished to take on the giant wolves and secure the road.

Arcadian perked up at that mention. Here at last was his best chance for continuing through Fauske. He had to travel the north road anyway, as there were no other roads except the south one he came in on. Besides, taking on giant wolves would be the perfect way to flaunt his warrior skills and to burnish his lochragh oireach with another deed.

Captain Torkil had said that any heroes willing to try their talons at the task to go to the Keep and apply with the guards there. After applying, they would be granted audience with the Jarl. As the crowd dispersed, Arcadian looked for the Keep and, once he spotted the massive structure, made a note of where it was.

He hopped off the lamp post and weaved through the crowd, making his way up the hundred-fifty-three steps that formed the front porch of the Keep of the Jarl. The Keep's gates stood large before him, with guards lining each side and cyan and gold-emblazoned banners flying overhead, emphasizing the ultimate strength of the griffons.

About thirteen griffons came through with him, all strutting ahead of him in the halls of the Keep. Some wore fantastic gold baubles, others mere chain-mail, and a few were decked out in heavy plate armor and wielding massive weapons. All were larger than Arcadian, and boasted confidently to each other that they alone would be more than a match for the giant white wolves.

A dirty capall maiden dressed in servant's rags clung to the hall's wall to let them pass and humbly kept her eyes down, but when she saw Arcadian trailing behind them, she looked at him in shock and horror, as though he were completely insane. She pulled him aside and hissed, "What are you doing, following these brutes?"

He told her that he was applying for the Jarl's blessing to kill the giant white wolves. She shook her head vigorously, and in a barely controlled whisper said, "They'll tear you to pieces before the wolves do. Leave now, and go home to Connacht."

Arcadian refused. He forced her to let go of him and trotted to catch up with the griffon braggarts. They filed into a gilded room, in which a marble podium stood, supporting a richly adorned, solid silver throne.

Upon that throne sat a great griffon, with yellow eagle eyes, a scimitar beak, and striking cyan feathers. He tapped his black talons against the arm of his throne and waited for the heroes-in-waiting to quiet down. This was the Jarl Ulricus, and he was a great and terrible lord. He was harsh because he ruled a border city, and he had no patience for ponies, or for meddlesome troublemakers. He prided himself on keeping Fauske in complete order. He thought it self-evident that he was by far the greatest Jarl in the Griffon Kingdom.

For these reasons, he frothed with fury at the wolf problem. How dare they force him to close his north gate? He did not want to send any guards out to kill the wolves, lest some civil unrest erupt in Fauske. He hit upon the solution when he realized that the ones most likely to cause trouble in town would also be the most eager to fight the wolves.

Ulricus sent out Captain Torkil with the message that there would be great rewards for any volunteer who would take care of the problem. He sincerely hoped that from the mighty griffon warriors who frequented his city, at least one would manage to kill the wolves.

Finally, those careless barroom brawlers and haughty sword-slingers would be good for something.

At length, Ulricus stood and he made a grand speech to the heroes gathered there. Arcadian eagerly awaited his orders. His voice swelled and boasted and it filled their hearts with enthusiasm. The griffons beside Arcadian cheered and whistled at the right moments, but Arcadian himself felt very odd. Ulricus' voice made for a moving speech, but he spoke in the Griffon language, and Arcadian could not understand a word he said.

All the griffon warriors had ignored him hitherto, and it seemed that the Jarl had not even registered his presence. He did not once regard Arcadian during his speech. The stallion figured that he would interject at the opportune moment to request the Jarl for permission to take on the wolves.

Ulricus made his speech in ten minutes, and at the closing, he said magnificently, "Har du goden krigmenn noget a spryja?"

Arcadian took this to mean the Jarl would take questions now, and he said, "Aye, sire. I wish to address your magnificence upon this subject."

The Jarl swiveled to address Arcadian's outburst, and he could see Ulricus was entirely stupefied. Upon seeing the capall, somewhat shoddily dressed, in his highlander outfit and his assortment of clothes picked up along his journey, the Jarl narrowed his eyes and clicked his beak.

"Hvad, puny foal? How dare you interrupt me while I am speaking to my subjects? Remove yourself from my presence! I speak now to only the warriors who are here to save this city." He reinforced this message by stomping his rear paw on his podium. He wheeled back to face, pointedly refusing to regard the pony any longer.

Arcadian slammed his buckler down on the cold stone floor with a terrible *crash*, echoing throughout the castle.

The griffons glared at him, the attendants had mouths agape, and Arcadian could see fury in the Jarl's eyes burn more fierce than the fires of Gehenna. Arcadian heard the tramps from the far-off halls, signifying the approach of the Jarl's guards to arrest him promptly. But he did not back down.

Instead he stepped twice forward and said, "My fair and benevolent Jarl, Ulricus the Nebbstreik, I am one among these warriors who wishes to offer my loyalty and services to your magnificent hand, and to slay these foul winter wolves in your name!"

He knelt before the Jarl and bowed his head, not knowing what to expect.

At this point, the Jarl lost his snarl and instead assumed a face of astonishment, which slowly grew into a smirk, then a full grin, before breaking into full, harsh laughter. The other griffons followed suit, whooping and convulsing in merriment.

Several guards came in the room, led by Captain Torkil, but upon being greeted with such a sight, they merely stood awkwardly, trying to figure out what was happening.

At long last, the Jarl spoke through his patronizing grin, "Oh, is that so, little pals-boll? You seek to kill the wolves yourself? You want to compete with these brawny, experienced griffons of honor, in your pony rustnig and with your pony sverd and on your little pony hovar? You want me to pass up these krigmenn for your puny self? You would die of cold before you saw the beasts! You would lose your way as soon as the city gates closed behind you!"

"You are a fool," he continued. "You are a sorry little thing, and you have no place here. It would be a waste of my breath to even order the opening of the gates for you. Return home, little one, and find some errands to run for your thanes. Fix your walls, slay your pests, farm your land. I will leave the wolves to real warriors."

Arcadian had never been more angry in his life than just then, at what the Jarl said, but with great effort he controlled himself and asked, "Why, wise Jarl, do you dismiss my service thusly? Though it is true I am of less experience and smaller in sheer size than these honorable warriors whom I am humbled to stand near, is that a reason to refuse? Why should your greatest warriors be troubled for something a pony can do for you instead? It would be more convenient, rather than waste the efforts of great griffons on such a frivolous excursion."

The other griffons snickered. The Jarl raised his head haughtily and said, "You dare to presume that a true griffon warrior would refuse to battle a beast because of mere inconvenience! That would be an insult of great proportions, pals-boll!"

"No," he shrugged, "I would never let a lesser animal take away a griffon's birthright to do glorious battle! We say here in the Griffon Kingdom, never send a pony to do a griffon's job."

Arcadian felt his shoulder sagging at this. The proud griffons would never let him prove himself, not so long as one of their own was willing to go. There were thirteen proud warriors there in the room, and one of them would likely kill the wolves before Arcadian got a swing at them.

Ulricus said something in his language to the other griffons, and announced in capallian, "Since we have thirteen contenders, plus our horsa friend here, I will hold a raffle to decide the order of attempts. I am a fair Jarl, and all contenders"—he gave a wink to the griffon warriors, and they dutifully snickered—"will have an equal chance."

All the warriors wrote their names on scraps of parchment, and a raffle was held. The order was written down and announced by Captain Torkil then and there.

As it turned out, Arcadian was sixth to go out of fourteen. The ones who were seventh and onward griped very loudly, but the five first ones assured them that one of them would be sure to kill the wolves before the pony ever got a swing at them.

The first one granted right to leave was a steely-looking griffon with a battle-hammer and a long scar across his face. He left after his name was read, Captain Torkil escorting him to the north gate in all haste. Ulricus told the rest to take the rest of the day off and to wait in case their turn came.

Arcadian left the Keep, returned to the Warm Heart Inn, went to his room, and drew a hot bath. The day was a difficult one, and it had been a while since he had a hot bath.

The next day, Arcadian returned to the castle to see how the battle-hammer griffon had done. To the surprise of he, the Jarl, and the rest of the court, the warrior had not returned since that day. The Jarl announced at midday that it was likely that the brave warrior had been slain. All lowered their heads in honor of the fallen.

Ulricus then gave the second warrior on the list leave. This next one was a Talon-Spear warrior, a mail-sporting, pike-wielding griffon from the river cities, used to long voyages and sea-going raids. He was grey-eyed and sharp-beaked. He too was escorted to the north gate.

Again, all the rest were dismissed for the day. This time, Arcadian took his time to explore the city of Fauske.

He visited its kirk, dedicated to the gods of the griffons. These gods were called the Vanir, and they were managed by priestesses called the völur, who carried great staffs of authority and saw into the realms of beyond. They invited him to make an offering to the Vanir for fortune and glory, but Arcadian politely declined.

He visited the Fauske markets, where he saw a good many things being sold. He found Capallian bronze, Allemane wood, and Equestrian grain all being sold there. A fellow capall told him that the market was a little less full today than usual because of the closing of the north gate. The wolves' effect on the trade which was the lifeblood of Fauske would eventually bleed the city to death, so said he.

He visited with the other capall he met in the city. Though they were not talkative, they were pleasant enough responding to Arcadian's inquiries. Some lived in Fauske year round, and some took seasonal caravans back and forth between their homes down south. However, they confided, they had noticed that even their regular presences in Fauske were getting significantly more resentment from the locals.

Arcadian returned to the inn and ate dinner. He thought perhaps he would make a more friendly host out of the innkeep, so he told him about the list of heroes who were in line to take a swing at the giant wolves. Instead, the innkeep spat in Arcadian's mug of milk, hissing that a mere capall should always go last to give the krigmenn the best shot at honor.

Arcadian shrugged and tossed out the milk. Every hour he spent in the Griffon Kingdom, it seemed, he grew more and more used to the poor treatment. He consoled himself in thoughts of decapitating the tyrant Brandhard and parading his severed head through the streets of Fauske triumphantly. However, he realized that was naught but fantasy at the moment.

He struck up a small conversation with a married couple, blacksmiths both. They were surprisingly friendly to him, and they boasted to him the superiority of griffon metals which were granted to them by the god of steel, Stenhjarta, in the days of the earth-forming. Modestly, Arcadian complimented their work, and the griffons thanked him much for it. He wondered if they were in need of work done, since he might need a way to support himself in a few days, if the wolves were not killed. They told him they could, in fact, use a hoof doing chores so both husband and wife could spend all their time working metal. They bid him good eve and left his company then.

Arcadian finished his dinner and slept with more comfort than the previous day. At least he knew he had a way to earn money should he run out before the wolves were killed.

The next day, once again all the contenders gathered in the Keep to await the return of the hero, and once again he did not return. The Jarl was most puzzled at this, and he clacked his talons impatiently until midday came. He frowned and then announced that it seemed the second contender had also been slain. All bowed their heads in respect for the fallen.

Ulricus gave the third contender permission to exit through the north gate. This hero was a yellow- and white-feathered griffon, boldly dressed in flowing red robes and a suit of gold-plated armor over his shimmering full mail coat. His fur was sleek, and his feathers were trimmed. He drew his golden sword in earnest, and Captain Torkil led him to the north gate.

Once again all the rest of the warriors were dismissed until midday the next day. The rest of the day Arcadian went for a long hike along the south side of Fauske. The mountains had mists surrounding their snowy peaks, and he could see far away, the fogbanks rolling, silently crashing like pillowy waves, into the Langsbrae of Skye.

He thought of the purple heather that lined their mountainsides. He thought of the mysterious Ulster forests. He thought of the wide glens and friendly cities of Connacht.

He thought of his friends whom he had left on his journey, and he thought of his home in Bragn, and as the sun set on the western peak, he wept alone.

Chapter 6: The Wolves of Rainright, Pt. 2

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The dawn came uneventfully, and Arcadian took it in with a baleful grimace. That night, he had laid out his bedroll on the mountainside and slept in the cold air. He regretted it by midnight, when the freezing winds came blasting across the mountainside, and so he kept a fire burning at his feet as best he could. Although, he mused, it was still yet a preferable experience to but a moment of conversation with the innkeeper.

Arcadian returned to the city, let back through the gates by the guards who recognized the "litla pals-boll" who had made such a scene in the Jarl's court and presumed to have the same valor as a dozen Griffon warriors. He let the contemptuous remarks pass without challenge.

Arcadian paid for a mug of mead at the inn. The innkeeper regarded him disdainfully but said nothing. Arcadian paid for the drink and said nothing either. After a few harsh gulps gave him throat-ache, he pushed away the last drops of the vile stuff. He decided to pay the blacksmith couple a visit, to see what coin he could earn in the last hours of the early morning.

The two were awake, to his astonishment, and their furnace was fully ablaze. They remarked to him that they expected business in the next few days, from guards who need their swords sharpened or new arrows made. New armor would be their prime business. If the heroes didn't slay the beasts, they explained, the last resort would be an armed company of city guards, who would need sufficient equipment.

Naturally, they grimaced, in between smoking blasts of air and heat, and over repeated blows of steel on steel, they would be ready to supply them.

"Supposing," Arcadian asked cautiously, "That one of the heroes slay them and nothing more is needed, what will you do?"

The great griffon-wife shrugged her feathered shoulders and chuckled, "Well, we'll be a few days ahead of schedule, and none the poorer. Listen, horsa, you want a job? Sweep the shop and scrub the lantern. It'd be worth a few bits to me."

Not one to shirk work, Arcadian donned an apron, picked up a broom, and swept. For the whole morning, he ran errands and did chores for the pair, and they complimented him on his work. They told him if he wanted to stay on as a helper, they'd be more than happy to apprentice him.

Arcadian smiled at the thought. Not a year ago, an apprenticeship with a blacksmith—a griffon blacksmith moreover—would have been the chance of a lifetime. Now, for a hero, especially one with a sprioc deiridh, it seemed below him.

That would have been rude of him to say aloud, however, so he politely declined, saying it would be an honor above his worthiness, and, much as he might wish to accept, there was a duty he was bound to. They asked what duty, and he replied (not untruthfully) it was an errand of his thane. Arcadian did not want to lie outright to these good folk, but to his relief, they accepted his explanation and did not press the matter.

He worked until midday, at which point he realized himself late for the Jarl's pronouncement; he had yet to see if the third hero had returned. Hurriedly, he bade the couple good day, and promised to return to work the next day if the north road remained closed.

Arcadian rushed into the Jarl's hall, only to find the Griffon contenders gathered in whispered huddles and a weary-looking Ulricus pacing back and forth behind his throne. Moments after his entry, the captain of the guard Torkil entered through one of the side corridors. Ulricus looked hopeful.

Captain Torkil whispered a curt report in the Jarl's ear, one Arcadian couldn't hear, but Ulricus' face fell at it, and he gnashed his beak in frustration. The other griffons ceased their muttering as he took to the throne. At length, he announced that there had been no sign of return from the third hero, and so he too had been slain.

Instead of a moment of silence, there was at once a din of confusion and tumult in the chamber. One of the contenders exclaimed that if three Griffons, hardy heroes all, had failed to slay the foul beasts, why should the rest of them march off to certain death? Better to send them two-by-two, one suggested, or better yet, as a band of three or four!

The Jarl Ulricus slammed his taloned fist against his throne's armrest and bellowed for quiet. The warriors acceded, and he glared over a snarl of great anger, with gold eyes piercing.

"They are but wolves! Stupid, nasty wolves! You cowards!" He growled. "How dare you question your Jarl? Do you think you brutes know better than I how to rule this city? I will not have my pride dashed against the stones because a few of you are trembling in your boots."

He continued to speak to them, in a slow ember of rage, "The three warriors who have fallen may not have been great enough to slay the beasts, but they at least had the courage and honor to face their foes on the battlefield. They faced them alone, with the strength of only their own claws to help. Are you so weak and pitiful that you, like a horsa, would call an army to exterminate vermin?"

He leaned back in his throne. The Griffons lined before him said not a word, but Arcadian sensed in them a growing swell of anger and pride. The Jarl had their full attention and had made his point. None of them would back down from a fight to the death.

Arcadian was in awe of their immutable pride, but when he turned his thoughts to his own chances, he suddenly realized he was afraid. Whatever pack of wolves that could kill three full-grown, well-armed Griffons would make short work of a small pony.

Fear gave way to despair. There was now no chance to pass through the northern route to the next city, much less any chance to face against the tyrant, Brandhard the Mighty. He would languish here in Fauske until it dried up, then return to... return where? To Skye, and be killed in revenge? Back to Connacht, where he would be ashamed to admit the failure of his quest and endure scorn for the rest of his life?

Perhaps he would live a life on the road, find a new town and settle with a new name. Maybe a blacksmithing apprenticeship wouldn't be so beneath him after all. Arcadian's mind whirled with questions with answers that only made him despair more.

The Jarl gave his orders and sent out the fourth contender. This warrior was a swordsgriffon with red eyes and black feathers. He claimed to know no fear and promised to end the lives of every wolf in their pack to avenge his fallen brothers.

The others cheered him on, and the Jarl looked cautiously hopeful. Arcadian watched him exit with the city guards escorting him out. Torkil followed them out, but he was in no hurry and his pale blue eyes wandered to Arcadian and settled on him for a long moment.

Arcadian did not think much of it, except that it was strange. Ulricus dismissed the warriors all from his court, and Arcadian followed them out.

He strolled through the streets of Fauske. It was early afternoon, and the sun gave mild warmth to an otherwise chilly city. The city walls stood fast against the piercing winds, but it was still a cold air that Arcadian breathed in.

His walk took him to the north wall of the city, where he saw the fourth contender awaiting the opening of the gates. As the guards heaved open the doors of the gate, Arcadian could see the griffon's countenance. While the griffon warrior had looked so steely in the Jarl's throne room, he was now visibly nervous. Arcadian pitied him, but at the same time he felt no eagerness to take the griffon's place, though he would be ashamed to admit such cowardice.

The doors swung open as far as the guards felt inclined to push, and the latest contender took a moment's pause to gather himself, then strode through, setting himself on the road north to face the dire wolves. Arcadian watched his figure walk resolutely away from the city until the gate slammed shut again.

Suddenly, someone grabbed his shoulder, and Arcadian reached for his blade, but the assailant's grip was too strong, catching him off balance. Arcadian struggled as best he could, prompting the assailant to cry, "Desist, horsa! I need to speak with you."

Surprised, he turned to see who had apprehended him. He found the bright orange eyes of the Captain of the Guard scrutinizing him. The griffon wore an austere look, but Arcadian detected some apprehension in his voice. He judged the Captain as best he could and allowed himself to be led into the nearest alley. Once out of plain sight, he wrenched free of the griffon's grasp and asked what the meaning of this was.

"Don't speak to me in that tone, hesturlandur," the Captain growled. "This is not your city, and you are very far from home."

Arcadian bent his head low and apologized, "I am truly sorry. I forgot my place as a guest in your lands and a lesser in station." Astonishingly, the Captain did not seem pleased. Instead, he clicked his tongue against his beak and waved impatiently.

"Your platitudes don't interest me, horsa. What does interest me is your history," he eyed Arcadian intently. Taking a moment to check the street for passers-by, and finding none, the Captain continued. "You likely know who I am."

"Yes. You are the honorable Captain of the Guard," Arcadian answered. "Captain Torkil, that is," he added.

"Ja, ja, selvästi," Torkil responded, clearly growing more restless. "I am the one whom the great Jarl employs to keep this city safe."

"Do you think that I am making this city unsafe by my presence? I did plan to continue on my way north as soon as possible, but I did not anticipate-" Arcadian began.

"Enough!" Torkil half-shouted. "You deceive me by presenting your intentions so innocently and your spirit so humbly." He leveled his gaze straight at the pony before him. "I know who you are, Arcadian O'Bragn. I have learned of your deeds, Neckbane... and I have a fair guess as to your ultimate destination."

Arcadian's throat ran dry, and he began to sweat. It was not his expectation to be figured out so soon, and panic took him. His mind raced, but his body could not muster any will to act, so he simply stood there, wide-eyed and stock-still.

Torkil leaned in close to speak. "I must tell you that your quest is doomed to failure, if not by now, then before the end of it. However."

"However?" asked Arcadian weakly.

"However. It is not my business what your end goal is, where it lies, or whether it succeeds. My concern is the safety of this city, and by extension, the protection of our roads," the Captain drew himself back to give the full emphasis of his words, while Arcadian was flooded with relief. "Three fine warriors have we sent out. None have returned, and I suspect the latest contender will fare no better against the wolves."

"Pardon me, but your Jarl Ulricus commanded that the warriors take on the threat alone."

Torkil hesitated. "The Jarl is a great griffon. There are few griffons in the whole of the kingdom who match him in valor, wisdom, and prowess... but he is stubborn. He is a good Jarl, but his warrior's pride prevents him from seeing the necessary course to take. That is where you come in."

Arcadian wondered aloud what Torkil meant. Torkil replied, "You are small, nimble, adventurous, and on a quest of your own. We must find out the nature of this threat, since it cannot be merely wild wolves which have slain our heroes. Tomorrow, when our warrior does not return, I shall allow you out of the north gates. You shall follow the contender some distance behind, and when he does battle with the creatures, you will observe. If he dies, you will return and make a full report." Arcadian mused on this idea. It seemed wise to him, and yet.

"Naturally, there must be something you wish to give in payment for this," said Arcadian. Torkil looked pleased; Arcadian was perhaps starting to meet his expectations.

"Indeed, hesturlandur. You wish to continue on your journey? Upon your return and report, I shall have papers of passage drawn up for you. A map will be given to you of the most efficient country road to take, and we shall pack you full of provisions for the journey. You will be able to take up your journey once again," Torkil concluded. Arcadian considered this a good plan, and he wholeheartedly agreed, until Torkil added another stipulation: "Your report would be an inestimable service to us and a savior from certain death for you."

Arcadian felt his chest swelling with the pride of his homeland and his people—as well as a bit in himself—and he articulated as calmly as he could what this meant to him. "It seems, Captain Torkil, that you assume my primary interest in seeing this done will be to avoid the threat of death by way of battle. I assure you, this is not so. Forsooth, my quest is one of near-certain death. Why then would you assume I am averse to death more than dishonor?"

"You want not the reward? Will you do as I ask?" Torkil inquired.

"I will do what you ask, and I will graciously accept the reward you wish to grant me," Arcadian firmly replied. "But I mark it on my sacred honor that I would just as well fight these monsters that trouble you as I would a Neck-demon. Indeed, I'd prefer to prove worth than depart under the mantle of cowardice."

"A noble sentiment, hesturlandur," sighed Captain Torkil, wrapping his cloak around his feathered shoulders. "Be ready tomorrow for your scouting. I will be ready with your papers of safe travel, and I shall lead you out of the city once you have made your report."

With that, the Griffon left Arcadian in the alley, pondering his fortunes.

Arcadian awoke late the next morning, in a more or less agitated state. The day before he had spent his spare time working for the blacksmith griffons, and they had granted him the gracious accommodation of sleeping on their shop floor. It was less comfortable a sleep than the inn-room, but still yet more pleasant of a stay.

Still, he was in no mood to dally. He had his way forward now, and he would not let himself sleep away his chances. He gathered his equipment and his belongings, bade his Griffon hosts farewell and thanked them profusely for their generosity.

To his surprise, they seemed downcast at his farewell. In truth, they had grown affectionate for Arcadian and were sorry to see him go, but they did hide it as best they could. They told him that they would pray to the Vanir for his safe deliverance. At such an admittance, Arcadian nearly welled up with tears himself, but he bade his last goodbye and departed before any such emotion showed.

Arcadian rushed to the Jarl's keep and entered the throne room in as dignified a haste as he could manage. He saw that the Griffon warriors had arrived only shortly before him and were getting comfortable in their usual spots. The Jarl himself had not arrived yet, but Captain Torkil had staked out a position beside the throne, flanked by four loyal guards.

Arcadian tried to catch Torkil's eye, but the Griffon steadfastly refused to move his eyes from the main door. The pony shrugged and positioned himself well a bit further away from the other contenders. Arcadian intended to follow the Griffons to the gates, and by that he would need to be close behind the entourage when they escorted him.

At last, the Jarl entered the room through a rear door, in full noble dress. His rings glinted splendidly, and he wore a rich blue coat, trimmed with the fur of a snow-tiger. He wore his Jarl-crown, a silvered circlet with a gleaming sapphire inset.

The majesty of his dress contrasted strongly with the stoniness of his face. Ulricus looked as though he had not slept that night, and he carried a snarl that seemed like it had been permanently etched in his beak. Little weighed on Ulricus as much as his pride. Torkil looked visibly concerned, but Ulricus took no note of him—nor anypony for that matter—and strode to the throne. The warriors dutifully hailed him, and he took the throne. He said nothing, but growled deeply.

Another morning of waiting passed. At last, it was midday, and the Jarl pinched his forehead with his talons. Taking a moment of silence for the departed hero, Torkil then announced that since the warrior was undoubtedly killed, it fell to the next contender to achieve what the others could not. Ulricus growled again at this, but Arcadian perked up.

The next contender was a griffon of great stature, broad shoulders and thick limbs. Over his ash-colored feathers, he wore a full suit of plate armor and wielding a massive battleaxe. He whistled loudly and broke a cheer for himself, giving the solemn warriors a good laugh.

Torkil led the escort out of the throne-room, and as the contender passed Arcadian, he winked and said to him, "Fear not, horsa! I'll bring you back a pelt, and you may tell your kin how you slew a wolf!" Snickering followed, but Arcadian knew better than to take offense.

Right before leaving, Torkil stole a glance at Arcadian. He took that as his sign to follow. While the rest of the contenders joked and chatted in the room, Arcadian snuck behind the throne and quickly followed the escort down the stone corridor. Arcadian carefully tip-hoofed behind Captain Torkil and the contender, remaining a good fertach[1] behind. He crept along the hall-walls, dancing between the flickering torchlight and the bright light cast through the arrowslits. After a couple turns, three cross-corridors, and one stairwell, the corridor led to an unassuming wooden door. Arcadian let the Griffons leave before following.

Arcadian blinked in the bright light of the still-cold morning. When his sight returned to him, he found himself at the top of a narrow stairway, running alongside the northern wall, and at the bottom, there stood the North Gate of the city. It was being opened by the griffon guards for the newest contender. He looked much less hearty than before, shivering even under his ruffled feathers and fur. Captain Torkil spoke some words of encouragement in their tongue, and the contender nodded, bracing himself.

Arcadian trotted to the bottom of the stairs as the contender passed through the gates. The griffon stopped on the other side, not looking back, staring into the unforgiving north-winds. His body shuddered, and Arcadian could see the fur on his rump stand. The griffon straightened his shoulders and began to trek just as the gates closed. Arcadian marveled at the griffon's courage, remembering how he had been joking while being led to what would most likely be his death.

Captain Torkil's talons on his shoulder shook Arcadian from the solace of his own thoughts. The captain's face was grim indeed, with a look of pain sharper than his talons. If only that had been the only time he had seen a brave griffon to certain death; once was enough, but five times was too many for even a stoic griffon as he.

"I am ready for my task," Arcadian said, hoping to draw the griffon's mind to a more hopeful topic.

"You should be ready," Torkil grimaced. "You have had well long enough to prepare. I can find gladness in your continuing to show up." That insult stung Arcadian, more than any he had received thus far. If he showed it, though, Torkil took no notice.

"We will wait ten minutes," the captain continued, "before allowing you to follow. He nor the wolves must catch your scent. In all likelihood, the wolves will be somewhere near the Egergrind, a small but wide chasm which cuts into the valley, or else catch him before then. If you follow the road until the pass widens, there will be a path that leads west towards the mountainsides. Follow it. It will take you to a hill from which one may view the Egergrind from its southwestern end, upon the slopes of the Egersund. There, you can see the bridge very well, as well as the immediate surrounding area. You must get there as quickly as your legs will carry you."

"And then what shall I do?" asked Arcadian.

"Then, you shall watch the Egergrind and observe. If the champion is killed, return only after you have observed enough to report something useful. If he is not, return anyway, and no word of our arrangement shall pass beyond the two of us."

Fair enough, Arcadian thought. "I shall do as you say."

"See well that you do, hesturlandur. The griffon kingdom rewards well its benefactors... and delivers swift punishment on its traitors and usurpers." Torkil growled as he said this, though, strangely, not really focusing on Arcadian—rather, he seemed to be thinking of some unpresent, spectral threat.

After ten minutes had passed, Captain Torkil ordered the gates opened, and Arcadian clopped through, shivering too against the bitter winds that threw his cloak around and left hoarfrost on his very soul. Torkil bade him a half-hearted farewell and safe return, and the gates clanged shut behind him.

Arcadian surveyed the landscape of the northern part of the vale. The city of Fauske stood at the pinch of a dale, but the pass widened beyond it. It bowled out into a slightly wider valley, before turning slightly west and emptying out into a distant river vale. Between the mountains and Fauske, Arcadian could make out a bit of a dip in the road, but from his position he could not see much of anything past the bend in the valley.

So he trotted along on the north road, following Torkil's instruction. When he came to the first cross-path, he galloped west, knowing that by this time, the griffon must already be nearing the wolves. He galloped hard for fifteen minutes, finally coming to a place which he guessed was the one which the captain was describing.

It was a flattened hillside, emerging from the mountainside like a buttress on a castle. From here he could survey the landscape more properly, since it was high up, and past the west-bend in the vale.

Arcadian nestled down on the sparse grass to better observe. Arcadian could see now what that dip really was, and he knew it had to be the Egergrind. It was a great ravine running straight from near the foothills where he was across to the other side of the vale. It completely blocked crossings, save for one about a mile north of him.

From what he could see, it was a sturdy wooden bridge across the ravine, and there he could see the hero approaching. And at the bridge, he could see what monsters troubled Fauske and its griffons—seven giant ice wolves, each bigger than a full-grown stallion. Even from a distance, he could see how they breathed winter with every feral growl. They lingered on the far side of the bridge. He could see the ash-feathered griffon, bearing his great axe, slowly moving toward the pack, crossing the sturdy bridge over the Egergrind.

Most curiously, he saw a great, imposing white figure. He seemed to Arcadian as a great, upright bull, bearing his own battle axe and, oddly, handling the wolves without much fear. The figure turned to see the griffon and called to him—the words indistinguishable to Arcadian—to which the griffon responded with what sounded to be a challenge.

A laugh resounded from the upright bull, and at a gesture, the ice-wolves leapt at the griffon. The warrior swung his mighty axe, felling one ice wolf with a terrible shriek, and catching one on the backswing. A few backed off, but then three others crept up behind and pounced the griffon.

Arcadian saw him valiantly throw them off, but the others pounced while his back was turned, and try as the griffon might to keep himself free to attack, the wolves did not relent. They attacked in a mangy wretched pack, and for a minute, all Arcadian could see was the fur of wolves and an occasional talon ripping at their faces. Arcadian found himself overwhelmed and had to look away for the rest of the struggle.

The fury died down at a command from the bull-figure, and Arcadian looked back. The wolves had torn out the hero's throat and otherwise maimed the griffon. Even from where Arcadian lied, he could see they had torn the griffon nearly apart.

The bull-figure strode over to the griffon's body and seemed to examine him. Then—to Arcadian's utter horror—he bent over and shoved the body over the side of the bridge into the shallow chasm below.

Arcadian's mouth was agape at this foul desecration of the dead, and, worse, when he followed the path the body had taken, he saw a more terrible sight: the piles of the four warriors who had come before. It wasn't enough that none were granted their glorious victory; they couldn't even be afforded a hero's burial by this brute and his monsters!

The thought incensed Arcadian to his core. Whatever thoughts he may have had to take Torkil's bargain for all it was worth had faded. He would fight this beast, and he would slay him, to revenge his profane treatment of the bodies of these fallen warriors, leaving them to rot slowly at the bottom of a rocky ravine, still in their armor and with weapons still in hoof.

Arcadian solemnly trotted back to Fauske. At a cry from the guards, the gates opened for him. Torkil stood waiting there, but Arcadian had not the heart to tell him outright. Torkil scoffed at his reticence.

"Come now, hesturlandur, surely your mouth can work itself better than this. Perhaps some strong griffon ale can melt the frost freezing your jaws shut," he joked. Arcadian could not disagree, so they entered the inn where Arcadian had stayed previously.

The innkeeper greeted Torkil warmly, but gave a disgusted look to Arcadian who followed closely.

"That horsa's been causing trouble, hasn't he? I suspected it from the first I saw of him, Captain," he sneered expectantly. "He's a coward and a ungrateful wretch. Which crime did he commit?"

Torkil looked down his beak at the innkeeper and clacked his talons together. He was not much in the mood.

"This horsa has been of a service to the city of Fauske," the captain scowled, turning the innkeeper's countenance to one of shock. "More so than you have been, goblet-scrubber. He has committed no crime, but you, on the other claw, have... by delaying a guard of the city his service!"

A pony could have poured all the ale in the world into the innkeeper's mouth, it was agape so. Arcadian almost smiled, despite himself. Torkil slammed his claw on the table.

"I demand two full mugs of your finest ale! If you delay, you do a crime against the good of the city!" He bellowed at the poor innkeeper, quaking in his finery. "Now make haste, before I lock you up like the criminal you are." The poor innkeeper scurried off, and brought back two frothy mugs of golden ale, which Torkil took with a baleful eye.

"Now, be quiet with you," he growled, and the innkeeper disappeared into his cellar.

Arcadian drew from his mug and felt heartened by the golden elixir. His tongue did indeed feel loosened, and he sorrowfully told Torkil all of what he had seen. He told how valiantly the griffon warrior fought, even against a ferocious foe, and how utterly profanely his corpse had been treated, and he relayed how all of their bodies piled at the bottom of the chasm, unburied, rotting away in their armor. He described the wolves as best he could, and he mentioned the upright bull—at the mention of this, Torkil startled.

"Bergtyr? In this part of the land?" He muttered, contemplative. "Strange."

"Horrible, more like," Arcadian scowled. "How disgracefully he treated them shames even me, a mere pony. Valiant warriors such as they deserve better."

"This is true..." Torkil sighed. He ruffled his cloak and spoke again, "You have done your part, I shall fulfill mine. Here is a small payment in geld, what I know is horsa-custom, as an advance. Before tomorrow, I will have provisions readied for you, a map drawn up, and the Jarl's protection for your travels. You need not return to his court, for it shall be all waiting for you by the end of today. You may leave through the north gate at sunrise tomorrow."

Arcadian kept to himself, and Torkil thought nothing of it. True to the captain's word, provisions were packed and sent to Arcadian's room at the inn—surprising the innkeeper, who nevertheless kept quiet around the pony. Along with them came a map and some hastily drawn-up papers for safe passage, written and signed in the Captain's name, though, Arcadian noted, lacking the official seal of a Jarl.

Arcadian mused on all that had happened that day, before sleeping in a comfier bed than he had hitherto slept in while in Fauske. It heartened him greatly, and he slept soundly.

Chapter 7: The Wolves of Rainright, Pt. 3

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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!"

Chapter 8: Farewell to Fauske

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Rainright lept forward with a suddenness that surprised and alarmed. This towering bull was much more agile than his bulk suggested to Arcadian. The glint of the raised axe shocked Arcadian, who jumped backwards just in time to avoid Rainright's swing, a deft overhead attack. In the moment Arcadian righted himself, Rainright's axe plunged deep into the wooden beams of the bridge's floor, with sickening crack, splinters spinning out on either side of the now-cleft boards. Arcadian felt his blood flush out of his face. If that had connected, he would have been split right through his helmet and his head annihilated into a mushy mess of pieces, like an apple in a press.

The bull regarded him out of the corner of his eye, as he applied his great strength and, with a short heave of breath and effort, yanked his axe out of the bridge, the weapon and the bull none the worse for the miss. The steely double-bits of the great-axe reflected the naked sun as effervescent crescents, across the bridge and into the chasm.

Arcadian gripped his sword in his teeth and fell into a ready position. This would be a fight that tested him, most certainly.

Rainright wasted no time again, and Arcadian watched him as Rainright began another swing of his axe over the rails. Another swing like that, Arcadian surmised, and he'll be off-balance. That's my chance. As Rainright's axe arced towards him, Arcadian ducked well-down under the swing and sprung into a charge directly towards the Bergtyr. He thrust his sword center-on.

The Bergtyr's eyes suddenly locked on Arcadian's, with a secret smile inside them. Arcadian's widened. Too late, Arcadian realized that Rainright was not off-balance at all.

A feint!

Rainright whirled his arm out of the way and used his arm and axe-handle to knock away Arcadian's sword. All of Arcadian's teeth hurt at the strength of this, but before he could even cry out in pain, Rainright violently shouldered the pony directly in the chest, knocking him clear a dozen paces. Arcadian felt every ounce of breath excluded from his lungs and stumbled back upwards. He felt like a smith's bellow at the end of a pump, and his legs trembled from the aftershocks of that blow.

Four loud thuds reverberated through the planks, and Arcadian scrambled to his hooves to see Rainright winding into another overhead slash. Arcadian dodged leaping backwards, too shaken to even attempt a parry. Rainright wound into yet another overhead slash, and another, and another, and another. He was a whirlwind of axe blade, and bovine muscle, and blood-crusty furs, and bronze plate. All the colt could do was back up again and again, taken by the speed and power on display. He absolutely could not allow any of them to make their mark upon him, or there would be no recognizable Arcadian left to bury.

It was soon apparent to Arcadian this was a fastly diminishing strategy for the winded pony. Arcadian was beginning to run out of bridge, and his body was starting to feel the strain of being forced backwards repeatedly in such close order. Every leap took his entire length and strength of leg to maneuver himself outside of Rainright's reach, and then he was only barely so. Rainright slashed again, and boldly, Arcadian once again leapt backwards, but this time, he was ready. In one motion, he removed his shield from his shoulder and kicked it fiercely. The round shield spun like a discus and hit true his aim, directly striking the bergtyr in his face with a loud crack.

The mountainous minotaur yelled and stumbled back, grabbing at his now-bloody muzzle—Arcadian had broken his nose. Wasting no time, Arcadian seized his chance. He charged, stumbling, and headbutted Rainright in his unprotected stomach.

Rainright groaned again and stumbled backwards himself, still clutching his bleeding nose. His axe clattered onto the bridge. Arcadian quickly bucked the weapon into the ravine and looked back eyes-wide, heart pounding in triumph.

Now we are equally-matched, he thought gleefully. However, seeing the bergtyr right himself, snorting blood, and grimacing in anger at the pony, Arcadian corrected himself: Slightly more equally-matched.

Rainright, bent over in a little pain, began to run forward. Arcadian backed up into a defensive posture, before Rainright stopped well short of him, instead kicking Arcadian's shield into the ravine.

Arcadian cursed himself for a moment, but only just so.

On the end of the bridge, the great wolves, sensing their master in pain and seeing their opportunity, leapt up and yelped. Before they could start towards Arcadian to tear him apart, Rainright turned and boomed a command in his own gutteral language. It echoed across the mountainsides and up from the ravine, and all of the wolves again froze. Frightened, tired, and tensed though he was, Arcadian could not help but marvel and respect this level of control his foe exercised over his pack.

Rainright turned back, glaring, and Arcadian nearly cowered. Sizing up the bergtyr's remaining strength, Arcadian could feel panic creep into his mind. Though bruised and battered, and even a little weary, Rainright was in overall good shape and even without a weapon, he was still a martial force to be reckoned with.

Arcadian wished to himself that he'd taken that moment to attack, rather than letting Rainright recover. He was making too many mistakes, giving his opponent too much leeway. Doubtlessly, he thought, Rainright was coming to the same conclusion as he, given the way the bergtyr now seemed to be scrutinizing the pony with a clearer eye.

Without warning, Rainright lunged. He threw his hand out and grabbed for Arcadian's mane, which the colt dodged again. Missing, Rainright leapt forward, throwing his arms out, attempting to grab Arcadian in a bear-hug.

In these close quarters, however, Arcadian knew he held the advantage, as long as he kept moving and never let Rainright get a grip on him. He ducked and weaved nimbly, avoiding grapple after grapple.

Once again Rainright threw his arm out to grab for the left, and Arcadian weaved right. Rainright swifly threw to the right.

Another feint!

He grabbed Arcadian by the foreleg, and his immense strength tightly gripped the colt so badly that he felt like it was about to be torn off. Arcadian yelled, and Rainright began to pull him upwards even as he struggled not to be thrown over the edge.

Instinctually, Arcadian used his sword, its bit-handle still gripped in his teeth, to slash at the only place he could reach: Rainright's arm. One slash wasn't enough, but the second slash forced Rainright to drop him and cry out against the sharp, stinging pain that was the well-known due of a blade. Arcadian was free of the bergtyr's grip, and the battle was his again.

Arcadian rolled out of the landing, gathering bruises all the way. Rainright bellowed loudly and aggressively again, and Arcadian readied himself, although he subtly caught an undefinable weirdness in this bellow, unlike before. Rainright charged him again, exactly as before, and made an utterly clumsy bear-grab over Arcadian.

Neatly, Arcadian took the opening and dodged underneath this grapple, and right around the charge.

Rainright stopped and turned around, facing the pony with an unusual confidence. An air of smugness alarmed Arcadian. What had changed? He looked around, before realizing what he'd been tricked into doing. Rainright had maneuvered him into being between the bergtyr and the wolves on the far side of the bridge. There would be no escaping by endless dodges, and Rainright would surely not let him escape to a better vantage after all this. Arcadian would once again be trapped, and it would only be a matter of time before Rainright could land the killing blow, and leave the rest to his wolves.

Angrily, Arcadian grimaced, fully cursing himself for his naivete. How could he have forgotten the advice of Stedhart? The first understanding of the Warrior should always be his terrain! No warrior could survive long forgetting the land on which he fought, and here Arcadian was, letting his foe retake the advantage of position.

Oh! he thought, would that Stedhart were here to aid me! He would not be made a fool of so easily as me.

Arcadian felt he was like a wet, naked animal, shivering in the wind, in that moment, wishing for even a scrap of clothing or a hillock behind which to shelter himself from the harsh gale of Rainright's martial power.

Arcadian brought his thoughts back into focus. He knew that he must focus, he must think—and think before acting. What did he know? Arcadian pondered his situation.

Rainright has been making mistakes, it's true, but he was lightning-quick to change his plan of action in response to my reactions, though Arcadian. In spite of his size and weight, he moves very fast when he wants to.

Arcadian watched as Rainright reached down and pulled out, from a scabbard that he'd not noticed till now, a small sword.

No, Arcadian realized with a sinking feeling, no, a normal-sized sword for a Griffon, taken from one of the rotting warriors at the bottom of the Egersund. He would not be one of them. He caught his breath and readied once again. Rainright began his advance. Arcadian met him, and they began to fight, this time with greater purpose.

Arcadian let his eyes take in Rainright's movements and attacks in their fullness, rather than focusing only on whichever motion seemed most threatening. He reacted and parried Rainright more firmly, losing neither balance nor position. The two traded stabs, slashes, and parries on that bridge, watchfully waiting for any new surprises. After a while, none came, though Arcadian noticed that Rainright, for his part, was attacking more conservatively with this sword than he had been with his great-axe.

Perhaps he's less familiar with the weapon. Or perhaps he just wants me to think he's inexpert with a sword. Arcadian let a sigh escape himself, a little too loudly, but kept parrying appropriately. Rainright seemed to take that as a sign of growing tiredness from his opponent. Arcadian let his down parry slightly slip off, and the bergtyr, to his delight, took the bait.

Rainright rapidly pulled up the sword and stabbed at Arcadian's left eye; before he reached it, he overstepped his balance just enough, and Arcadian followed up immediately. At once he parried and side-stepped, letting Rainright's momentum carry him past the pony, and slashing deeply into the bergtyr's unprotected other shoulder. He sprinted into position and whirled around, sword at the ready.

Now he'd done it! At last. The wolves were now no longer at Arcadian's back. He could retreat freely as need be, and there was nothing Rainright could do—nothing that Arcadian would allow him to do—to change that.

Bleeding from both arms, Rainright reeled around, his wide eyes betraying a growing irritation. He snorted angrily, pawing the bridge. Arcadian felt no threat this time. He was ready. Pounding the bridge heavily with heaving hoofsteps, the bergtyr rushed back at Arcadian and began thrusting, slashing, at a rapid tempo, faster than anything yet.

Arcadian parried and dodged, but he assessed the bergtyr easily. He was trying to pressure Arcadian, to get him flustered, so that he would make a fatal mistake. Arcadian resolved to do no such thing and confidently responded to each provocation with caution and defensiveness. Rainright thrusted wildly towards Arcadian's neck. Arcadian stepped forward and parried him deftly, pushing his griffonian sword up and out. While the bergtyr was off-balance, Arcadian slashed down his chest, cutting across his massive pectoral muscle and through his top abdominals. It was his deepest cut yet.

Rainright yelled loudly, wincing and staggering. Blood seeped out of the slash and down his front. Arcadian surveyed his opponent carefully, patiently, his blade dripping now with a goodly smear of blood. Rainright's eyes bugged near out of his head, his wide nostrils full of enraged steam, his teeth grinding, but Arcadian watched as his eyes continued to travel up and down the pony. Even in this state of pain and anger, this bergtyr could still keep enough cool to size up his opponent and weigh his options.

Perhaps he will cede? hoped Arcadian. No, no, he banished the thought. He knew as well as Rainright that there was no ceding to be done, no way to back down. There was no place for this bergtyr to retreat, nowhere for him to move on to. The ancestral homelands of this race were as gone, as lost and buried in gods-know-where, as the great Crowning Stone of Cavalon.

Arcadian felt a twinge of an indescribable melancholy that he studiously pushed aside. Rainright had straightened up. Arcadian watched as he let his left arm go limp, nursing his cut pectoral. He put his sword up and bellowed again, in what was by now a familiar pattern, he rushed at Arcadian. This time he swinged maniacally fast. The slashes came almost twice a second, and Arcadian parried as best he could, keeping up with the onslaught only just enough.

He saw Rainright go for what was an obvious upward slash. Before he could stop himself, Arcadian jutted his sword down and attempted to parry—a stupid mistake, he was not ready.

The slash glanced off Arcadian's sword, and knocked it loose from Arcadian's grip.

Alarmed, Arcadian's gaze followed his sword every moment of its arc. It fell and scraped a pace to the edge of the bridge, where it teetered slightly but remained on the floor.

Arcadian dodged back and attempted to reach for the sword, bending down. Rainright wouldn't allow it if he could help it. He slashed across, warning Arcadian off, but Arcadian ducked underneath and bit the sword-handle, picking it up as he moved. It was a messy recovery—he'd chewed off some of the wood of the planks in the process, nearly getting splinters in his lips, and his teeth hurt from the sudden, awkward impact on the floor.

Once again, Arcadian noticed he was between Rainright and his wolves, but he knew it was necessary. Better than being swordless.

Rainright did not pause this time, but pushed forward into his rapid slashing. The bergtyr was losing strength and needed a quick kill, Arcadian knew that. But the colt knew he himself was under a constraint—yet again, he had only so much time, and length of bridge, before he would be at the mercy of the wolves.

The time to strike was now.

At long last, his opportunity came. Arcadian ducked out of a sloppy slash. This was the opening he was waiting for. Arcadian kicked off his back legs and rushed inside Rainright's reach, the bergtyr caught completely off-guard by this sudden invasion.

Arcadian dashed up, leaping with all his might from the bridge, upwards and plunged his sword deep into Rainright's chest. The force of his blade's thrust Arcadian could feel piercing bone, blood, and lung. Dropping off him, Arcadian's teeth almost caught on the bit-handle, which had the effect of twisting the blade further in place, enlarging the wound. Arcadian knew that it was a fatal blow.

Rainright shouted in agony. Trembling, he dropped his own sword. He swayed in his heavy furs and armor as he rocked back, shocked, painfully regarding the blade in his chest, around which blood readily began pooling and soaking his tunic.

The bergtyr, in his distress, used both of his arms, further opening the slash wounds in his shoulders and pectorals, grabbed at the sword lodged in his chest by its hilt, looking as though he were summoning the wherewithal from the heavens to pull it out. Arcadian hurriedly looked around and bit into the griffon's sword dropped only moments before. It was somewhat too long for a capall to handle and difficult to grip by the mouth, as griffons wielded their weapons by hand, but he managed it.

He looked back at Rainright, who had on the most horrible, agonized expression Arcadian had ever seen. He moaned, oddly quietly, in shock and pain. His rough hands, slick with blood, were grabbing at the sword, but with the weakness from all his wounds, the depth of the sword's piercing into his body, and the flood of wet, warm, slippery blood coating the leather on the hilt, he was unable to get any kind of grip. He could only pathetically grab at it weakly before his blood-covered fingers would slip off.

Rainright staggered backwards towards the railing. Moaning more weakly, tears now involuntarily leaking from his eyes, he started to instead try to wedge his fingers between his wounded body and the crossguard. To Arcadian's immediate alarm, he began to pull it out, but only managed a few inches, before the pain was apparently too much. He moaned louder, and the anguish in his voice made every muscle in Arcadian's body totally tense.

Miserable, the bergtyr stumbled and staggered back, leaving a small trail of blood drops before him, settling his arm on the railing. He looked at Arcadian, who looked back at him. His expression was unreadable. He staggered forward, groping towards Arcadian, for whom it was a moment before he realized, I'm still in danger!

At once, Arcadian charged into him headfirst with all of his strength, hitting Rainright like a wagon of bricks. He knocked into Rainright hard enough to break the rails, and the bergtyr crashed backwards and quietly fell into the depths of the Egersund.

Arcadian's momentum into that headbutt caused him to stumble and trip, facefirst onto the bridge, just short of falling with the bergtyr. Arcadian almost couldn't believe it. He was alive. Shaken, bruised, tired, but alive. He wobbled to his feet and carefully peeked over the edge.

He could see, on one of the many rocky surfaces at the bottom of the ravine, that Rainright had fallen backwards onto the stone. He was not moving at all.

Arcadian looked up and over towards the camp on the near side of the bridge. The wolves were frozen, hesitating at the edge of the ravine. They were looking back and forth between the body in the Egersund and Arcadian, panting, but they were not moving. Arcadian couldn't hear them, but they may well have been moaning and whining for their master. He couldn't tell, but it didn't matter either way.

He needed to send the message.

Arcadian yelled out indistinctly towards the wolves. They all fixed their gaze on him. He stood up tall, defiantly, and raised his griffonian sword up. He looked meaningfully across at the wolves, then, just as before, he banged his sword against the railing.

*thud*

...

*thud*

It was a full minute of tense silence, before the wolves finally removed their gaze from Arcadian and retreated, first loping, then picking up speed and running, running as a pack away towards the mountains. When they disappeared, and didn't return for what felt like an age, but was more likely a quarter of an hour, Arcadian shuddered, sighed in relief. He gathered himself and his things and crossed the bridge.

Arcadian clomb down into the ravine as carefully as he could manage, as the steep, rocky sides had few hoof-holds. By the time he came to the bottom, he saw that the last breaths of life had already gone from Rainright. Arcadian edged close to the Bergtyr's corpse. There he lay in his armor and furs, proudly, but his body lay contorted with a look of agony and sorrow on his face. Arcadian knelt out of respect. He saw the hilt of his sword sticking out of Rainright, and with some struggle, removed it. Arcadian then sadly went to cut the beast's horns, as he remembered that the Jarl Ulricus would not accept his story without a trophy to show.

Arcadian spent the better part of the day removing the unburied corpses from their sordid pile, heaving them into a line (they were, after all, full-sized Griffons with armor, and he was only one pony), and draping their own capes upon them, as a shroud to protect them from the elements. He reasoned that the Griffons would prefer to bury their own, so he did not dig graves, but merely let them rest in a mournful line of fallen warriors.

After climbing out of the ravine, Arcadian searched the camp. In the tent, he came upon a small chest of treasures. Therein he saw a number of jewels, trinkets, and other strange things. Arcadian knew not what to make of it, save perhaps that they were trophies or prizes that Rainright took from his defeated foes. Thinking this, he decided to leave them there for another to find and possibly return them to their rightful owners. A small bag of silver coins was all of note that he took, and one strange, Capallian-designed bronze medallion with arcane symbols and a design of a silvered equine leg, which seemed to bring back memories of a story he could not quite place. In any case, it was clearly the belonging of a capall, and had no place in the possession of any griffon, he surmised.

The young stallion found little else. There were merely the bare possessions and simple trappings of the nomadic herding life. Some furs to sleep on, a rustic tent, an iron pot, and bone tools. Arcadian thought of what a lonely existence this must have been for the beast, and it saddened him to contemplate, but soon hunger and exhaustion distracted him. What to eat?

Arcadian checked the deer stew on the fire, which he had left cooking, but the mere smell of flesh repulsed him. Instead, he contented himself with a loaf of bread and some carrots he had kept in his pack. At the end of the meal, the stars had come out, and the coming of darkness convinced Arcadian to spend the night at the camp, rather than trying to return and set out again in the same day. He thought it wrong to sleep in the tent, so he laid out his bedroll and slept under the stars.

The next day, Arcadian awoke fresh and relieved from the day prior. Little by little he felt better about his position, and sorry though he was to slay a somewhat noble beast, he knew that the right thing had been done and the preceding Griffon warriors had been thoroughly avenged. He returned to Fauske before noon, and as he came to the gate, he cried out for the guard to let him in.

"Come back, have you, horsa?" One of the guards scoffed, but they opened the gate all the same. Arcadian galloped past them, running through the streets and up the stairs to the Jarl's keep. At once, he burst into the throne room. Captain Torkil and Jarl Ulricus spun around from where they stood, equally shocked to see him. The other contenders too jumped back a pace when they noticed him. One cheered, "Well met, young horsa!"

"Bah," another harshly whispered. "The hesturlandur has merely come to formally apologize for his cowardice, or else lie."

Another seemed to agree. "There's no way he could have taken on a Bergtyr all by himself." The Jarl and Captain neither moved nor spoke to any of this, so Arcadian stepped forward and unpacked his bag.

"Behold, my Jarl," Arcadian announced, pulling out the Bergtyr's horn for all to see. "The beast is dead—his name Rainright—and his wolves fled into the mountains when they saw how he perished. I do not believe they will trouble you any longer. The dead we must morn, and they yet lie unburied, but the way is clear. I have done as you asked, and I wish to continue on the North road."

Ulricus stared through Arcadian. His eyes were locked on something beyond the room, and his beak opened and closed slightly without making noise. Arcadian could not tell what the Jarl was thinking, but he was clearly too stunned to speak. Captain Torkil recovered far more quickly, and he went to Arcadian and clasped him on the shoulders.

"Well done, young colt," he proclaimed. "Your valor is matched only by your fidelity, and I wager you have the courage of the least Griffon warrior. Let it be known that the North Gate is reopened. I shall announce it to the city, as the Jarl wills it." Torkil looked to Ulricus, who, hesitating, silently nodded his assent, a haggard expression of both defeat and relief on his face.

The other warrior Griffons then applauded Arcadian. The one who first whispered even spoke mildly, saying, “Not bad… for a hesturlandur.”

Arcadian of Bragn exited the Jarl's keep with the other contenders, contemplating his newfound freedom and planning the steps next. To the crowds in the city squares, he could hear the guards crying out that the North Gate had been opened, thanks to the heroic courage and ferocity of the Griffon warriors. A slate-feathered swordsgriffon turned with a look of irritation and bewilderment on his face, and he asked Arcadian if that bothered him. To him, Arcadian shrugged.

"Surely you would prefer to be rightfully known as he who saved this city?"

"It’s not important that I be celebrated for the deed. It is only important that the deed is done," replied Arcadian, and the Griffon had to agree.

As Arcadian descended the city road away from the North Gate, shadows began passing over him, as exuberant Griffons took to the skies to see the open road and seemed to be celebrating in flight. He smiled half-heartedly. He wished he could share in their acrobatic displays, but alas, he was no pegasus. As a terraped pony, he had to make do with his own four hooves and the strong legs which worked them forward and backward.

Walking to a corner, one alarming large shadow passed across him, and Arcadian felt the whoosh of a Griffon's body in flight not far above his head. Steeling himself, he looked up, to see Captain Torkil confidently drop and land before him on the worn cobble, wearing a highly dignified gold-embossed helm and a face of what could only be described as a strange pride. Arcadian regarded him and bowed his head respectfully.

"Sir Captain."

"Arcadian," began Torkil, with poise. He thought a moment, then started again, "Sir Arcadian of Bragn, you left in too great a haste. The Jarl's business with you has not quite concluded."

"I see. Will the Jarl please pardon my departure?" Arcadian said drily. Torkil ruffled his feathers a bit, but Arcadian had only so much patience in him, after yesterday's bloody ordeal. "I only wished to return to my quarters to rest and repair."

Torkil nodded curtly. The smile had mostly faded. He drew himself up a little bit, and his eyes regarded Arcadian with another emotion that the pony really couldn't place. It was certainly a thoughtful look, but what the Captain was thinking exactly, Arcadian could not then guess.

"You will continue on your way through the Griffon Kingdom once you are able, I know," continued the Captain. "The Jarl thanks you for your service to this city and wishes you speed in your travels."

Torkil paused.

"Safety, moreover, is wished upon you."

Arcadian bowed again, tiredly.

"I desire both, and accept the Jarl's gracious well-wishes. May he rule with health and happiness," he responded, using an old capallian blessing.

"Naturally, the Jarl accepts your well-wishes also."

The Captain seemed distracted, and they both hesitated a quiet moment. The wind blew over the city, which was otherwise a bustle of business and excitement, and the flapping of banners and swaying of signs and barking of dogs were all that filled the air between them. Arcadian began to wonder if he should depart, as Torkil's eyes alighted on something else, and his brow cleared considerably.

"In any case, horsa," he returned, "your papers of safe passage will be ready for you by tomorrow morn, and the great Seal of the Jarl Ulricus shall ensure your welcome across this land. You may leave with any of the departing merchant caravans and be received into the arms of any lawful"—a word he emphasized a little too much—"authority under the King. The rest of your reward, you have, save additional payment which my guards will present you at the Gate."

Additional payment? Arcadian was astounded at the unexpected generosity. He shook his head as though shaking off the surprise, and he profusely thanked the Captain, who waved him off.

"I'll not hear of any protestations, hesturlandur. It is your due," Torkil demured and, signalling the end of the conversation, began to flap his wings as the prelude to flying away. "Fare you well, Arcadian, and may you see your destination in one piece."

Arcadian bowed and waved as Captain Torkil flew a little bit into the air to land somewhere on the next block, presumably to speak to somepony else. Had he other city business to attend to? Arcadian did not know, and he thought nothing of it, but continued on through the city, his hoofsteps a little lighter for the meeting.

Arcadian went to the smiths and greeted them warmly. They ceased their labor and met him with great smiles. They cheered him as he mentioned the opening of the Gate.

"We heard the news," they told him, "from a crier."

Arcadian smiled and commented that they must be glad the Griffons finally managed to slay the beast. Knowingly, the smiths looked at each other.

"Ah, Arcadian," the husband confided. "When we heard, we supposed it was you who accomplished the deed, and, by your humble deference..."

The wife laughed, and the husband nodded.

"By your humble deference and your safe return, we now know it was you!" said she.

Arcadian, stuttering, attempted to deny it, but they wouldn't hear him, over their trusting laughter. He gave up and joined them in their cheering. The smiths then heaped praise on him for bravery in the face of what must have been frightening and bloody combat with a merciless monster. Arcadian repeatedly denied any bravery and refused their praise, to equally little avail.

At last, he dolefully told them that he needed to prepare himself for the journey, as he would be leaving with the first caravan of the next day. They sighed with disappointment, then invited him in and insisted they serve him their dinner—lentils, radishes, cheese, and bread. Arcadian, growing hungry in the midday sun, agreed wholeheartedly, or wholestomachedly. Thus they ate together for the last time, Arcadian and the Griffon smiths, and enjoyed themselves greatly.

Before long, Arcadian departed the smiths and returned to the inn, which had suddenly become quite empty of a number of its former patrons. Arcadian had difficulty finding the innkeeper, and asked one of the servers where he might be found. The server pointed him in the direction of the cellar, and Arcadian crept up to the side of the door, to see the brooding innkeeper swilling some wine and dourly regarding his barrels of salted fish, no doubt some logistical problem circulating through his feathered head.

At Arcadian's polite cough, he swiveled his head and locked eyes with the pony. He frowned, but said nothing and drank expectantly. Arcadian told him what he'd told the smiths, that the Griffons had cleared the north road, the Gate was reopened, and that he would be leaving tomorrow, after paying for one more night at the inn.

The innkeeper's frown deepened, though he relaxed at the news of the Gate's reopening, thinking of the resumed trade and travel through Fauske. He went up and took Arcadian's money and counted it.

"Good," the inkeeper sneered at Arcadian, pocketing the coins. "At last, those doltish swordsgriffons have, for once, done something useful," he remarked before turning away, "and rid me of you."

Arcadian felt serene and noted that to himself. Not but two or three days ago, he would have taken such offense that he would be shaking with anger, but this day Arcadian felt no insult at all. He chuckled to himself and left the innkeeper to his duties. Upstairs, he prepared his packs and then fell asleep with the window open, and the cold breeze blowing across his face.

Thus did Arcadian defeat Rainright and spend his last night in Fauske.

The Legend of Arcadian

by DustyDominic

Prologue

Chapter 1: The Bane of Gorsglen

Chapter 2: The Earldom of Strabane

Chapter 3: The Adventure in Skye

Chapter 4: The Adventure in Fetlar

Chapter 5: The Wolves of Rainright, Pt. 1

Chapter 6: The Wolves of Rainright, Pt. 2

Chapter 7: The Wolves of Rainright, Pt. 3

Chapter 8: Farewell to Fauske