The Legend of Arcadian

by DustyDominic

Rating: teen
Tags: Adventure, Violence, Death, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Alternate Universe, Original Character
Length: 28318

The adventures of a pony from a far-off land & his quest to defeat a ruthless Griffon warrior.

Far from the land of Equestria lies another land, far across the westerly seas, shrouded in ancient mystery and strange culture.
It is a wild land of broad vales, rolling hills, misty shorelines, thick forests, and windswept highlands.
It is a land of pride and of tragedy.
It is a land of warriors and kings.
The land is called Ceomhar, upon the arcane continent known as Cavalon, and its ponies are called the Capall.
Though it has been conquered and subdued in the Modern Age, it still retains a rich history of legend and myth.

One such legend is that of Arcadian O'Bragn. His deeds were many and great, and they were recorded many times over, chronicling his adventures in the land of Ceomhar. One such piece of the legend is here, wherein Arcadian takes on the bloodthirsty Griffon warrior, Brandhard the Mighty.

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

Published 2012-10-10 18:00:01 UTC
Last updated 2022-08-18 00:13:41 UTC

Chapter 1: The Bane of Gorsglen

The Bane of Gorsglen

Enter the young upstart named Eric. [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, Eric 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 Eric could kill the kelpie and bring back its fangs, then he would fund Eraich's training.

So Eric 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.

Eric 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. Eric 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.

Eric 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. Eraich quietly backed against the wall, and to his astonishment, the gwyllgi continued past him, jaunting into the cave without a care.

Eric 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.

Eric, 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 Eric 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 EEric 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, Eric 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 Eric 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. Eric 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, Eraich 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 Eric 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 Eric 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 Eric 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.

Eric 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.

Eric 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 Eric. 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 Eric 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.

Eraich 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 Eraich 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. Eric 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, Eric 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. Eraich feinted to move left, and as the kelpie strafed to keep him away, Eric 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 EEric and missed him when he rolled again to the side. The kelpie turned to face him, taking a moment to size up the situation. Eric, 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 Eric 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. Eric 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 Eric slid out from underneath the kelpie just in time before it collapsed on the ground, entrails hanging out of it.

Eric 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.

Eric 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 Eric 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 Eric, 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 Eric 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 Eric, 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, Eric immediately sought the audience of the Thane, who received him with much skepticism. Truth be told, the Thane told him, he was doubtful that Eric had so killed the Bane of Gorsglen. What proof was there that he had slain the beast? Eric 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. Eric, 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 Eric that he would have all the training that he could muster. He knighted Eraich 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 Eric 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 Bragn had an early holiday.

Author's Note

[1] Though the proper capallian spelling of the name is Eiric O Bran, I have decided to go with the ordinary spelling of his and all other capallian names for the sake of ease of reading.

Chapter 2: The Earldom of Strabane

The Earldom of Strabane

For the months of Feabhra and Marta, Sire Eric trained under the guard captain MacGaith and his stallions. They drilled for days, at the ends of which Eric 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 Sire Eric was fit to fight any day alongside his men, but the Thane knew little about how Eric Neckbane could prepare for a fight against the tyrant griffon Brandhard. The Thane confessed to Eric 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 Eric, 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 Eric 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 Eraich 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 Eric 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 Eric, 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 Eric with not only food and water, but also with a sum of gold for Eric to establish himself there, as well as two of his finest stallions for safe escort. He swelled with pride, announcing that Eric was the best hope they would ever encounter for securing the lands of Connacht from the griffon threat.

Eric agreed to this arrangement, and he thanked the Thane for his generosity with gold, stallions, and praise. The Thane gave Eric his full blessing, announcing to the court, "Sire Eric, 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. Sire Eric 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 Eric 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, Eric 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 Eric 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, Eric passed Omagh, ruled by Thane Baird.
And he passed Glenarm, ruled by Thane Gareg.
At this time, Eric and the two guard stallions parted ways. They returned to Bragn, while Eraich continued north on his road, and within the day he reached the destination.

Eraich 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. Eraich 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 Eraich heard a multitude of conversations, all in their peculiar Ulster accent.

Eraich went to the town's center. Therein stood the great tower as well as the thanehall. Eraich 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 Eraich what business he had with him, and Eraich 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 to Eric, "You are a sire colt, 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."

Eric 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 Eric 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.

Eric 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 Eric 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 Eric 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.

Eric 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 Eric, 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 Eric, 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 Eraich'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, Eric 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 Eric learned, there were such fighting styles and moves that not only made sense for Ulster, but Eric 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, Eric 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, Eric became familiar with the seventeen soldiers there, with whom he developed strong friendships. Among them was a warrior of Clan Norhest named Albert Norhest. Erich gave good company to Albrecht 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. Albert 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.

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

Eric told Albert that Clan Norhest, allied with a worthy partner in Connacht, could easily unite the disparate clans of the Vale under a single earldom. Albert 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.

Eric 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 Flagheah 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 Eric and Albert did not.

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

In this manner, Eric and Albert 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 made secret trips to the camps of the other clans -- Clan Norfast, Clan Fairhill, and Clan Keady -- from each taking only enough clothes to mark them as members of those clans. 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?"

Erich and Albert, 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, sires, 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!" Eraich and Albrecht, 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 Flagheah saw the state of Eraich and Albrecht, 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 Flagheah 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 Flagheah 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 Flagheah himself would lead the charge against the camps of 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 Flagheah 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.

Albert and Erich were positioned at the front. Albert confessed quietly a doubt as to whether they could rout the larger force, but Eric 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. Eric cried out first, and he led the charge out of the woods to the clearing of the camp. Eric 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. Eric 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.

Albert and five others charged along the outer edge of the tents, six more along the inner edge, and Eric 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. Albert wanted to give chase, but Eraich 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." Albert 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 Flagheah did meet them. They related their successes and the bravery of their deeds, for which Captain Flagheah 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 meat, 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, Sire Eraich and Sir Albrecht 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 Flagheah 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 Eric the Brave and Albert the Vigilant.

Chapter 3: The Adventure in Skye

The Adventure in Skye

On the same eve, Eric confided his sprioc deiridh to Albert. Albert was full of fear at what Eraich told him his quest engoaled.

He said to Eric, "No, 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 to combat. Why not stay here with Clan Norhest and prepare to fight him when he comes to us?"

Eric shook his head, and he told Albert, "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? No, he must be stopped, or else he will become not merely a butcher, but a king of many butchers."

Albert, 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." Eric wondered whether he could ever be ready. Albert thought, and at the thought that found him, he laughed in triumph.

He suggested to Eric that the great warriors of Skye teach him. Eric knew not of the lands of Skye, so Albert 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 Eric's people or as authorities like Albert's, but as individuals. As such, they were the fiercest warriors in single combat that ever walked the land. Albert reasoned with Eric 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.

Eric 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 Albert took the confidence of Captain Flagheah, who agreed that the Skye-ponies would be excellent teachers of Eric. To aid in his lochragh oireach, the captain wrote a letter, detailing the great services Eric 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.

Eric made a request then for a recommendation also to be written for his comrade Albert, which Captain Flagheah granted. He asked that Albert 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 Eric 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 Albert 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."

Albert and Eric 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 Sire Eric 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 Sire Eric to begin his journey on the following morn.

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

Eric assured Albert 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.

Eric 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.

Albert 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 Eric of Bragn left by the north gate of Bromachbaile on the road to Skye. A mournful departure he made with Sir Albert 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.

Eric 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 Eric 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 Eric 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, Eric passed villages such as Burnmuir, ruled by Thane McMillan, and Auch, ruled by Thane McRoss.

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 McLeod. He sought there the blessings of the Thanes for his quest, but he found none willing.

The guards of the Clan McLeod ridiculed Eraich 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 Eric 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 McColm. 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 McDowells of the city Irvine. He submitted that he had not and inquired about the McDowells.

She said to him, "The McDowells 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." Eraich 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, Eric 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 Davina McDowell. 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."

Eric 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 McDowell 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 McDowell. 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.

Eric said that perhaps this was a wiser course than to the Connacht way of having solely male rulers, but Davina 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 McDowell said, "Truly no more stubborn males exist than the Ulster lot, outside of Kilgore and Drummond." Eraich asked the Thane who Kilgore and Drummond were, for he had never heard their names before.

"Kilgore McDuncan and Drummond McStuart," 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 Eric 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, Davina McDowell 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 McDowell told Eric that not only were her clan's properties at his disposal, but that she would also personally provide for his training. Sir Eric 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 McDowell great hall, and she recommended that he sleep well and seek out her beloved nephew for the training as soon as he pleased. Eric thanked her, and to sleep he went, feeling the cool, invigorating breath of the summer Skye winds in his head.

The nephew whom Davina McDowell spoke of introduced himself to Sir Eric. His name was Madog McDowell, 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 Eric'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. Madog 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, Madog 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. Madog told Eric 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, Madog 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 Eric 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.

Madog and Eric 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 Madog and Sire Eric 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, Eraich could not see the figure who called out so loudly to them, but Madog McDowell said, "Great Epona, it is Luag McFarlan. 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 Madog! Great sorrow, and more to come, if we are nee rescued."

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

Eric galloped to match Madog's pace. He asked what the Tachbealan was. Madog 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 Madog 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. Madog 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.

Madog exclaimed, "Aha! So the beast is made its lair within the common hall. Be warned foul demon, o murderous Tachbealan. I, Madog McDowell, will end your bloody terror as now I live and breath!" With that he charged into the hall, and Eric 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. Madog recognized them as the scoundrels Kilgore McDuncan and Drummond McStuart, and he demanded to know how they defeated the Tachbealan.

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

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

The one named Drummond 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 McDowell 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."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eric saw that Madog was losing his fight, and soon the two stallions would team up on himself next. 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.

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

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

Kilgore 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, Eric went for the pike on the wall, pulling it off and charging to aid Madog.

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

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

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

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

Madog 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 Drummond and bucked him in the face as extra insult.

Eric removed his sword from Kilgore'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 Madog, "For this, Devina will probably renounce her thanedom and pronounce us Earls of the Langbrae."

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

Both had a good hearty laugh over this, and they left the common hall with the corpses of the two stallions lying therein. Such was how Eric and Madog defeated the brutish rogues called Kilgore and Drummond.

Chapter 4: The Adventure in Fetlar

The Adventure in Fetlar

When Eric and Madog returned late to the Feast Hall in Cairndarroch, Thane McDowell 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 sheathed them so.

They told her of Kilgore and Drummond'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."

Madog spoke, "My Thane, perhaps it should only be I who goes to Glencoe. I know the way best, but Sire Eric 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.

Eric himself now spoke, "Perhaps, wise Thane, it would instead be better for me to leave Skye." Madog and Devina both refused, but Eric 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 Eric said.

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

Thane Devina walked to Eric, and she said to him tenderly, "Siúil a rún, Eraich 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 Eric'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 McDowell to remind him of Skye.

Eric asked the captain of the guard of where his destination should be. The captain advised Eric 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 McDowell 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 Eric 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.

Eric 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 McDowell. They assumed he surely must be in town on clan business.

Eric 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. Eric asked the colt, who, from his strong accent, was from the land of Sutherland, was his troubles.

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

Eraich 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, Eraich gathered that Robert’s sister was kidnapped by some sun-shunning creatures known as trows.

He asked Robert 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]

Eric promised Robert 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] Eric 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, Eric and Robert took thirty minutes to arrive at the scene of the attack. True to Robert’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.

Robert told Eric 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. Eric decided it would be he who would enter first, and Robert 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.

Robert whimpered, but Eraich whispered that his sister would not likely have been butchered by these creatures, not if they wanted a servant. Robert 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. Robert listened at the door, and he told Eric he could hear his sister’s snores. Eric thought of a way to rescue the filly without arousing the Trows, but he could think of no way.

Robert thought of barring as many doors as they could before the trows raised the alarm and breaking the door to rescue his sister. Eric agreed that this was as good a plan as could be made, and he gave to Robert 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.

Eric 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 Robert to check the cell. Robert followed, and he exclaimed that it was empty.

Eric struck the second Trow like the first, leaving both unconscious. Robert 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, Eric holding off the daggers of the Trows and Robert 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 Robert loudly lamented their fates.

Eraich, thinking quickly, told him to grab the small table in the center and to give it to him. Robert did so, and Eraich 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. Eraich 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, Eraich 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, Eraich and Robrecht 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 Robert 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. Robert'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]

Robert 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] Eric 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 Robert lost his breath for yelling. Eric 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.

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

Eric inquired what merrows were and how Robert knew they were vengeful. Robert got a strange look in his eye, told Eric 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." Eric 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 Robert called it fondly, "a weesome bickerin' burnie" -- but something crept into Eric'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 Robert that they must catch up with his sister immediately. Robert asked why, and before Eric could answer, both heard her scream from the other end of the bog.

Robert and Eric galloped as fast as they could to whence the scream came. On the way, Eric drew his sword and lit a torch, which slowed him down. Robert came to his sister first, and what he saw made him yell in terror. When Eric 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. Robert stood by his sister and bucked the beast in the jaw. It screeched and reared up to crush Robert beneath its massive black hooves.

Eric 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 Eric O'Bragn, Neckbane, and you shall fall beneath my blade before you do so much as touch that filly!"

The creature, to Eric's surprise, paused after his pronouncement, regarding first Eric, 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 Eric 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, Eric breathed a sigh of relief.

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

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

Robert 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.

Eric laughed, and Robert 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.

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

Eric explained his sprioc deiridh to Robert. 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 Robert 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.

Robert agreed, and he told him that the capall in Sutherland had heard of the Butcher of the Mountains, too. He wished Eric great luck on his quest, and he told him that if Eric 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. Robrecht 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. Eraich 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, Eric 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.

Eric 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.

Eric told Robert, who was shaking in fear, to gather wood to burn the creature's body. As he did so, Eric, 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.

Eric 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.

Robert and Eric 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. Robert and Eric 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. Robert wanted to boast of their achievement, but Eric 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."

Eric 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."

Eric 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."

Eric 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 Eraich 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. Robert was beginning to be quite irritated with the proceedings, but Eric was entirely calm. He said innocently, "Are you in earnest, or are you making light of me, good Thane?"

The thane raised his eyebrows; Eric 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 Eric and his friends off with a dismissive hoof motion.

Eric smiled. He said, motioning to Robert 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, Robert 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.

Eric 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 meat, 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 Eric.

At this, the court pulled Eric 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 meat 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, Eric 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 Eric 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.

Eric 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 Eric himself would be better suited to taking on Brandhard.

Eric 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, Eric was absorbed in his ale. He did not notice Robert'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. Eric 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]

Eric 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, Eric 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]

Eraich 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 Eric'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 Eraich's face.

Eraich glanced over at Robert, seated at the far end of another table. He was turned away at the moment, but Eric 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 Eric. "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, Eraich 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] Eraich 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 Eric, 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 Eric. 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.

Eric 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 Eric 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 Robert slept through morning and midday after the late-night feast. They were not able to wish Eric 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 Eric's adventure in Fetlar concluded.

Author's Note

[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] 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... Ye gae me wooer-babs. In my wame, in my intimmers. Ah kinnae explaint, but Ah wanted tae biggen wi' yer bairns...

Chapter 5: The Wolves of Rainright, Pt. 1

The Wolves of Reinhard, Pt. 1

Eric 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.

Eric O'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 Eraich 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!" Eric looked up and saw a helmed, beaked face leaning over the parapet.

Eric stepped backwards to let the griffon guard get a full view of him, and he said, "I am Eric, 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?"

Eric 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, and called for his fellow guards to open the gate. Sure enough, the gates swung open, and two other griffon guards snickered at him 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, Eric 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. They looked terribly worried and angry to Eric, and they glanced around in suspicion occasionally.

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 taverns possessed.

Eric stepped into the tavern. 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 Eric step in, he brought out his pewterware.

Eric said nothing of this 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. Eraich swigged it and held back a grimace.

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

He asked the barkeep what the rooms there went for, and the griffon gave him a price Eric considered almost extortionate, and he told him so. The griffon barkeep slammed his talon'd fist down on the bar and told him if he didn't like his prices, then the pony could sleep in the trash bins for all he cared. Eraich 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.

Eric 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 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, Eric could 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 barkeep was extremely unpleasant, and barkeeps are generally the friendliest ones in town. If that's the welcome he can expect from the best, what might another have in store? Eric 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 barkeep yell from downstairs. How he had heard Eric over the drunken ramblings of his customers was anypony's guess.

Eric 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 barkeep. The inn had become strangely empty and the barkeep was furiously locking away his silver. Eric 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."

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

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

Eric 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.

Eric 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 Eric 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, Captain Torkil 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 they just take the guards and kill the beasts?"

From this and other gossip, Eric gathered that the road north had been closed due to a great pack of giant wolves which had killed over half a dozen unwary 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.

Eric 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, Eric 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 Eric, 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 Eric 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."

Eric 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. Eric eagerly awaited his orders. His voice swelled and boasted and it filled their hearts with enthusiasm. The griffons beside Eric cheered and whistled at the right moments, but Eric himself felt very odd. Ulricus' voice made for a moving speech, but he spoke in the Griffon language, and Eric 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 Eric 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?"

Eraich 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 Eric'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.

Eric 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 Eric could see fury in the Jarl's eyes burn more fierce than the fires of Gehenna. Eraich 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."

Eric had never been more angry in his life than 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."

Eric 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 Eraich 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, Eric 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 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.

Eric 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, Eric 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 chain 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, Eraich 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 Eraich 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 he said.

He visited with the other capall he met in the city. Though they were not talkative, they were pleasant enough responding to Eric'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.

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

Eric 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. Eric modestly 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 hand doing chores so both husband and wife could spend all their time working metal. They bid him good eve and left his company then.

Eric 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 full suit of gold-plated armor. 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 Eric 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 fogs rolling 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

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.

Chapter 7: The Wolves of Rainright, Pt. 3

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Chapter 8: Farewell to Fauske

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Prologue

In the days of old, there was a great disturbance in the Griffon Kingdom.

King Hakon of the Griffons was not in full control of his kingdom. A great many griffon nobles disfavored his rule. They thought him ineffective and soft on the enemies of the Kingdom. He had issued some warnings against attacking the ponies to the south in Ceomhar and north in Allemane, as they had become quite capable of defending themselves. He advised his subjects to tone down their aggression against their pony neighbors, despite the traditional griffon way of killing, and often cooking, the weakling ponies.

Most of it had remained as merely loud grumbling and political resistance to the King, but there had arisen a terrible new problem. An ambitious brute who went by the name Brandhard the Mighty made his bones slaughtering ponies and griffons who crossed him, and had become a folk hero for many of the griffon subjects. Nobles supported him, and he became almost a warlord in his own right. They championed his cause, and Brandhard knew he could be the King. So he built his reputation and increased his power. King Hakon knew that Brandhard could overthrow him within a decade, likely even sooner. Something had to be done.

There was another facet of the situation. Brandhard was massive physically, and he was a skilled warrior. He therefore boasted that he was unstoppable in combat. He was so boastful, he claimed that he could best any -- be they beast, pony, or even another griffon -- in one-on-one combat. He claimed that, with only his battleaxe and no armor, he could take on a fully-armored warrior of any stripe. Many challenged him to a fight to the death, and all were slain.

Many of those slain were ponies, eager to slay the scourge of the North, who casually demolished their villages and killed their thanes without a second thought. He laughed at them, but he accepted their challenges. They were summarily killed, each and every one of them. It seemed like this blood-hungry brute would take over the Griffon Kingdom, and as the new King he would lay waste to the Capallian ponies, divided as they were by hundreds of years of clan warfare, decimating their people and enslaving the rest.

Such was the despair in the lands at this time.