The Wolves of Reinhard, Pt. 2

The dawn came uneventfully, and Eric 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.

Eric 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.

Eric paid for a mug of mead at the inn. The innkeeper regarded him disdainfully but said nothing. Eraich 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," Eric 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, Eric 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.

Eric 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. Eric 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.

Eric 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 Eraich 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 Eric 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.

Eric 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. Eric'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. Eric 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 Eric and settled on him for a long moment.

Eric did not think much of it, except that it was strange. Ulricus dismissed the warriors all from his court, and Eric 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 Eric 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, Eric 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. Eric 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. Eric watched his figure walk resolutely away from the city until the gate slammed shut again.

Suddenly, someone grabbed his shoulder, and Eric reached for his blade, but the assailant's grip was too strong, catching him off balance. Eric 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 Eraich 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."

Eric 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 Eric 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," Eric 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-" Eric 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, Eric O'Bragn. I have learned of your deeds, Neckbane... and I have a fair guess as to your ultimate destination."

Eric'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 Eric 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 Eraich 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."

Eric 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." Eric 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 Eric. Torkil looked pleased; Eric 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. Eric 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."

Eraich 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," Eric 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 Eric in the alley, pondering his fortunes.

Eric 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 Eric 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, Eric nearly welled up with tears himself, but he bade his last goodbye and departed before any such emotion showed.

Eric 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.

Eric 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. Eraich 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 Eric 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 Eric, 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 Eric knew better than to take offense.

Right before leaving, Torkil stole a glance at Eric. He took that as his sign to follow. While the rest of the contenders joked and chatted in the room, Eric snuck behind the throne and quickly followed the escort down the stone corridor. Eric 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. Eric let the Griffons leave before following.

Eric 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.

Eric 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 Eraich could see the fur on his rump stand. The griffon straightened his shoulders and began to trek just as the gates closed. Eric 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 Eric 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," Eric 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 Eric, 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 Eric.

"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, Eric 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 Eric -- rather, he seemed to be thinking of some unpresent, spectral threat.

After ten minutes had passed, Captain Torkil ordered the gates opened, and Eric 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.

Eric 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, Eric could make out what seemed to be 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.

Eric nestled down on the sparse grass to better observe. Eric 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 other side of the. 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 Eric 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 Eric -- 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 lept 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.

Eric 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 Eric could see was the fur of wolves and an occasional talon ripping at their faces. Eric 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 Eric looked back. The wolves had torn out the hero's throat and otherwise maimed the griffon. Even from where Eric 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 Eric's utter horror -- he bent over and shoved the body over the side of the bridge into the shallow chasm below.

Eric'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 Eric 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.

Eric solemnly trotted back to Fauske. At a cry from the guards, the gates opened for him. Torkil stood waiting there, but Eric 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. Eric could not disagree, so they entered the inn where Eraich had stayed previously.

The innkeeper greeted Torkil warmly, but gave a disgusted look to Eric 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. Eric 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.

Eric 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 were 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 was startled.

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

"Horrible, more like," Eric 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."

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

Eric 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.

Author's Note

[1] A fertach is an old Capallian measurement of length, about ten Equestrian feet.