The Legend of Arcadian

by DustyDominic

Chapter 8: Farewell to Fauske

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.

Comments

[Starlight Nova]

(A Cycle of the Four Kings story—part of the Chronicles of Cavalon universe.)

I didn't know this was a crossover.

[DustyDominic]

11335252
It's not a crossover. It's not crossed over with anything.