The Troll Hunt

Colyne Stewart, April AS XXXVI (2002)

For the April Fool’s TankArd

Every year the inhabitants of the Cliffs gather together to engage in a Troll hunt. Trolls are quite numerous in the wilds of Ardchreag, in the brambles, the marshes, the rocky quarries and the stinking bogs. Trolls grow larger the longer they live, starting out the size of a wolf terrier. The oldest Trolls loom over the heads of men on horseback.

To keep the Troll population at a manageable size, the Chreaggers engaged in a Troll hunt each New Year’s Day. The entire populace gathered at the canton keep, splitting themselves into teams.

Several of the shorter people were made flushers under the leadership of Colyne. The flushers would act as bait, drawing out the Trolls, and leading them back to where the archers waited. These included Raffe Scolemaystre, Ivanna the Oblivious, Iolanda de Albornoz and Emperor Bobo.

If the Troll was too large to be taken down by arrows the fighters of the canton would rush it from either side. Thorfinna gra’feldr, Siegfried Brandbjorn, Volodymyr “Vlad” Blahuciak, Brandt das Lederwerker and many others had sharpened their spears, swords and pikes in anticipation.

Things went exactly as planned, with the Chreaggers bagging twenty-two Trolls in four hours. The only mishap was when Berend van der Eych, the canton’s executioner, cut his hand while lopping off the last Troll’s head. (Some Trolls are strong enough that they will not stay dead unless their heads are removed.) Luckily, Fursto was nearby to patch him up.

Then things went really bad. One of the flushers, Stephen Scrymgeour, interrupted a large troll busily devouring the carcass of a bear. The monster was instantly on its feet and threw Stephen through the air, sending him crashing into an oak. The Troll, easily twice the height of Wulfgang Donnerfaust and three times as wide, strode quickly towards the hunters. The archers loosed shaft after shaft but they broke on the beast’s thick skin.

Gunther Katzkin, Eanor of Amberhall, Siegfried and Vlad rushed the Troll and halted its progress momentarily. But then it caught Gunther up in its giant hand and used him to club his compatriots into unconsciousness.

Brandt and Kenric rallied the remaining fighters around them and rushed the Troll as it chased after the archers. It knocked them aside one after the other and gave voice to a triumphant roar that made the blood of those that heard it run cold.

Then Piero remembered reading once that a Troll’s most vulnerable spot was behind its knees. He shouted this out as the Troll lumbered after him. Thorfinna lashed out with her blade as the beast ran past her, connecting solidly with the back of its left knee. Howling with pain the Troll dropped to the ground and thrashed about while Colyne, Crispinus and Elspeth threw nets about its body. Soon it lay as fully trussed as a Yuletide goose.

The triumphant Chreaggers took the beast back tot heir keep and locked it within a specially made cage, built by Melchior, Brandt, Gunther and Berend. No matter how the Troll raged it could not break free.

And so a great feast was held, the Troll was presented to Their Excellencies of Septentria to do with as they pleased, and all those on the Cliffs had a wondrous New Year’s Day.

Except Stephen. Who is dead.

Missive from the Knight Marshal

Colyne Stewart, AS XXXVI (2003)

For the April Fool’s TankArd

To the fighters of Ardchreag, Greetings,

Our plans to incorporate the flying turtles native to our lands into our fighting force is progressing well. Many test flights have been made, with only a few fatalities. The turtles can fly very swiftly over short distances, or slowly over great. However, once the turtles tire they land and move at a pace slower than their land born relatives. This can be problematic when being chased by knights on horseback.

Feed for the beasts is also a bit problematic, as their number one choice is fresh goblin meat. Goblins are not as numerous in the Cliffs as Trolls or Ogres, and can be hard to find. If on turtleback when they see one however, the turtle becomes unresponsive and will not stop until it has chased down and devoured the beastly thing. Flying turtles will also eat aquatic vegetation, but it must be moist. Turtle Riders must carry a separate bladder of water for the sole purpose of wetting greens before feeding.

In mock battles the turtles handled themselves very well. They have proven quite capable of flying down and grabbing fighters right out of their saddle, as long as their descent is not too steep. Regrettably, Aesop Brown of the Scarlet Bluffs is no longer with us. Even more regrettable is the death of his turtle, who smashed its head into a boulder while swooping after a goblin. The goblin was drawn and quartered for this offense.

Caring for the young flying turtles has been proceeding almost without a problem, under the guidance of the Reptilian Aeronautic Team (or RAT). The young turtles are housed in a domed hut, full of moist sand, with a pool of water in its centre. Perches and treat poles hang from the ceiling. Here the turtles remain until they are three months old, at which time they are the size of large dogs. They are then moved to specially built barns where they will stay unto maturity, at which point they are bigger than horses.

During its youth, the turtle goes through vigorious training where its inborn hostility is curbed (or at least, trained to be unleashed only on certain targets). They get used to being handled and small conscripts (some of Dwarf or Gnome descent) are lucky enough to get to break them in.

Our Flying Turtle Squad was used to good effect in the Ardchreag Rebellion of XXXVI that led to our becoming a Duchy. Soon they will become an integral part of our army.

In Service,

The Knight Marshal

The Knighting of Eirik Andersen

Colyne Stewart, April AS XXXVI (2003)

For the April Fool’s TankArd

It was a stormy day when our Seneschal, now Emperor, Bobo took the field. He was to hold it against all comers as proof that he was worthy to wear the white belt. At first Eirik was confident, his mouth spewing forth ironic barbs and quips. He leaned casually against a column, a sword dangling from his hand, chewing on licorice and talking to the ladies.

Then Colyne, called Meinfretr by the Norse, tapped him on the shoulder and Eirik’s ready grin slipped from his face. He looked in the direction that Colyne was pointing with his thumb, and saw a long line of armoured fighters waiting patiently. They were all looking at him and laughing, some giggling with anticipation, some actually hopping up and down in glee. Siegfried was there, his sword wrapped in a scarf with Eirik’s name written upon it. Sir Berus, the Kingdom Earl Marshal, was also in line, holding an ‘experimental’ great weapon covered with many wicked looking points and claws. (As Berus was found of saying, as Earl Marshal he could pretty much use any thing as a weapon, as long as it was ‘experimental’.) Beyond them stood Sir Evander, most of House Hrogn, the entire populace of Ardchreag and verily many people of the kingdom. Many, in fact, had traveled from kingdoms afar to take part in the mashie-pow.

Grinning, Colyne left Eirik and took his own place in line, fist tightening and relaxing on his hilt. On a noose hanging from his basket hilt was a small stuffed monkey.

When the marshals walked on to the field, Eirik’s nerves failed him. The line numbered over a hundred strong, and he had no wish to let that many folk take a crack at him. He turned to flee but Duchess Eanor was waiting. She grabbed his arm and marched him on to the Lists.

What then followed was a brutal scene unequaled in Ealdormere’s history. Blow after blow rained down on Eirik’s head, limbs and body. Swords, cudgels, maces, axes, spears and even the occasional rubber chicken knocked him to and fro until finally he lay flat on the ground. His shield sat by his side, cracked in three pieces. When he was pulled to his feet again he left behind an imprint that has become a holy relic to all those who worship the wise crack.

As he regained his feet, thankful that his ordeal was over, he saw the giant, Wulfgang Donnerfaust, running to the field. He was waving his sword and shouting that he had just authorized, and was ready for his turn.

Screaming in horror, Eirik ran into the trees. The Emperor of Ardchreag has not been seen in weeks now, and likely won’t reemerge until his Austmannaskelfir Legions have managed to capture Wulfgang. To date, fourteen have perished in the attempt.

The First Annual Miss High Cliffs Competition

Colyne Stewart, April AS XXXVI (2003)

For the April Fool’s TankArd

Yes, the news was true. Too many people on the Cliffs found their lives empty and meaningless without complete strangers thinking they were pretty, so it was agreed to hold the first Ardchreag Beauty Pageant.

The entire populace of the canton gathered along the cliffs one fine spring morning, waiting to see their fellow Chreaggers strut their stuff. They were hoping for a good show, and they weren’t disappointed.

First was Thorfinna, dressed in the hide of a walrus she had ripped off herself. She juggled some throwing axes and wanted to split an apple while it sat on her husband’s head, but Colyne could not be found.

Next was Mahault, clad in Elizabethan garb so extravagant people had to strain their eyes to see her within it. For her performance, she correctly pointed out what period garb everyone in the audience was wearing. You could see by the twinkle in her eye she had noticed many flaws, but she was too kind to point them out.

Iolanda, or should I say Qadachin, was next, draped in her plaid Mongolian tunic. Everyone’s stomach churned as she downed quart after quart of fermented milk, followed by chasers of Green Bison vodka.

Many more followed: The belly dancer Michaela with her hips jingling; Eanor, riding on horseback while reciting corpora; Elisabetta who cooked up a storm; Jean-Margaret; Ivanna; and many more.

Then a mystery contestant walked out on stage. She was a strange looking figure, tall and almost skeletal, with long lanky arms and bony knees. Her hair was red-brown and tied back in a ponytail; her face obscured by a feathered mask. She wore a plain green dress and bug black boots. Slowly, she began to dance and she held everyone’s eyes prisoner. She moved with a grace like no other and completely captivated the audience. When she was done their was thunderous applause. The MC, Duke Sir Finvarr, ridden in especially for the occasion, proclaimed the mystery woman the winner and bade her reveal herself.

With a demur smile she pulled off her face. The audience gasped as they all saw that she was not a she. She was a he. She was Crispinus Spellar, former Ardchreag Chatelaine and now Chronicler of Septentria.

Somewhere in the back Colyne screamed (having flash backs of Ealdormere War Practice and a certain lap dance he had received), thus giving away his hiding place to Thorfinna, who was still carrying an axe and an apple.

As Finvarr crooned, “There he is, Miss High Cliffs,” Crispinus bowed to the crowd, jumped off the stage and got himself a bottle of mead.

“Life is good,” he said, unaware that the female members of the canton were creeping up behind him, fury burning in their eyes for he had profaned the deep and resounding spirituality of a beauty pageant.

After the commotion was over, Crispinus was hung from a crow’s cage at the crossroads in northeast Ardchreag. Small children would throw rocks at him while ghosts and trolls had a good laugh at his expense.

The moral of the story? Beauty pageants are damn stupid.

Excerpt from Garderobes of Ealdormere, by Colyne Stewart

Colyne Stewart, April AS XXXVI (2003)

For the April Fool’s TankArd

The latrines of the northern reaches of our fair kingdom are not as primitive as many of us lowlanders believe. I have visited many of them, and have found them all to be of excellent quality, with the possible exception of one.

I know that many have complained of the facilities of Bonfield, that frozen bowl of the north, but I have found them to be every bit as modern as those that serve at Ealdormere War Practice here in my home canton of Ardchreag. Wooden walls that block most of the wind, a roof (!), and a wooden seat that leaves but few splinters. These are all good things.

However, I feel I must condemn the privies of the little known Shire of Scheißehaus, which is located north of the Barony of Skraeling Althing. I have been to one event in that snowy realm, which was called Wurstliebe. The latrines consisted of a row of holes in the bottom of a trench running along the back of the event site. There was no shade from the sun which reflected off the snow, blinding the eyes as people tried to aim directly for a hole so as not to soil their shoes. No shade also meant we were drenched by intermittent blasts of ice-cold rain. And, as the main focus of the event was spicy sausage and ale, well, the latrines were always busy, and the lines were long.

Still, I have encountered such primitive conditions here in the south where we deem ourselves more civilised than our northern cousins. I am, as are most, accustomed to the chamber pot, but when at a local Lord’s keep I was asked to

I think that’s enough of that. — The Editor

The Ardchreag Rebellion of AS XXXVI

Colyne Stewart, April AS XXXVI (2003)

For the April Fool’s edition of the TankArd

It was on a misty morning that the army of Ardchreag gathered along the Cliffs. Many of the fighters, archers and scouts were young and newly trained, but all had been tested against the Troll hordes that crawled through their lands. Ogres also they had slain, and tri-headed serpents had fallen to their might. Their leaders were battle hardened and wise in the ways of war.

The time had come for rebellion.

Like a green wave they descended from the Bluffs, washing over forts and towns. Septentria rallied its fyrd to withstand the attack but found themselves sore pressed. The Canton of Greenhithe was turned into a churning morass of blood and mud as brave fighters on both sides battled relentlessly.

In the former no-man’s-land between the Chreag and Greenhithe, a final push was made. Septentria, led by the Baron-Gnome himself, had made camp somewhere deep within the brambles from which they would launch their attacks against the “chreagger rabble.” They thought themselves safe, but Ardchreag’s scouts infiltrated their camp, incapacitated their guards and allowed the Ardchreag horde to descend upon the unsuspecting fyrd.

Norse, Celts, Mongols, and the others of the Cliffs fell upon the unsuspecting Septentrians like a plague. The Bear put up a brave fight bu against the over whelming zeal of Ardchreag they stood no chance. Knowing it is better to live to fight another day, the Baron-Gnome fled through the the marshes of northern Ardchreag, evading patrols and slathering beasties local to the area, finally reaching and barricading themselves within the Royal City of Eoforwic. There they waited for reinforcements from Skeldergate to arrive.

The engineers of Ardchreag begun to cut down trees from which to build terrible machines of destruction. The Mongols brewed a potent poison that was stuffed into Troll heads and flung over the walls while the French taunted Septentria mercilously.

By the time the forces of Skeldergate arrived, nothing remained of the city but a smouldering ruin and a purple hat.

The King and the Queen were by this time extremely agitated by this fighting within their borders and gathered a force to quash the rebellion. This large force, led by Dukes and numbering many knights, made haste to track down the Chreagger Menace, and put their heads on pikes.

Ardchreag, being peopled by sly individuals, prepared a trap. A small force was sent out that lured the Royal army into a rock valley with high walls. The skirmishers then climbed up ropes to the heights, cutting them when done, as the main Ardchreag force came out behind the Royals. Their archers kep the Royals penned in as a large Ogre, that had been caged in the valley, was released to wreck havoc.

When the carnage was complete, and the Ogre was re-caged, Ardchreag marched on the capital. The Kingdom had sent emissaries to the Middle and Calontir to ask for assistance, but the Royalty knew it would not arrive int ime. Ardchreag made camp at the base of the castle and demanded parlay.

The King and Queen agreed, but only as a stalling tactic. They met the Ardchreag envoy at the porticullis, surrounded by guards. Ardchreag demanded that the Royals surrender the Kingdom to them, or face annihilation. The King and Queen hemmed and hahed and demurred and the Chreagger envoys knew they were being stalled.

And so the flying turtles, long thought to be nothing but myth, were called upon. The rotund, winged reptiles swooped down from the clouds and carried off the Royalty, taking them deep into conquered territory. The Ardchreag envoy then demanded to speak to the Prince and Princess.

The Heirs agreed to meet, and fearful for the safety of their parents, agreed to consider ardchreag’s terms. Finally, they said that they would submit the Kingdom to ardchreag, only if one of their number could defeat the Prince in single combat. If their champion failed, they would have to surrender their forces.

Ardchreag agreed, and sent out a giant from Germanis to fight in their name. The giant and the Prince fought bravely for hours, then for days, with neither of them claiming the victory. However, the giant finally made one fatal error and was subdued.

True to their word, Ardchrerag gave up their quest. They released their hostages, which included the King and Queen, the Baron-Gnome and numbers of knights and squires, and submitted themselves for punishment.

The Royalty were much impressed by this display, and by the compassion the Chreaggers had shown their hostages. The leaders of the rebellion were punished for propriety sake, but the Royals gave Ardchreag the next best thing to independence. They became the first Duchy of the Knowne World!

Long live the Earth-Pigs!

Adventures in Ardchreag

THL Edward Shaggyshanks, for the Baronial Septentrian Geographical Society

(Colyne Stewart, 2005)

The sun beats down on my head as I stand atop the cragged edge of the cliff face. Far below me I can see ships traveling from ports in the far Royal Citie of Eoforwic towards Greenhithe-be-the-waeter. A light wind rustles the leaves in the trees behind me and carries the scent of baking bread from a far-off farm.

Beside me, Snori Fenrirsson leans upon his yew bow. His face is lined from years of exposure to the weather and his eyes perpetually squint in the sun. This archer and ranger is my guide throughout the canton of Ardchreag and, living up to local legend, he has gotten us lost.

Known on the Royal Rolls of Ealdormere officially as Ard Creag, this canton-upon-the-cliffs is in land once claimed by Eoforwic. Over ten years ago a group of archers who lived and plied their trade in the area began to petition for recognition as an independent group. In AS 27, this request was granted. This change to maps of the area is perhaps to blame for local residents becoming known for being prone to loosing their way. A motto sewn on the Ardchreag standard reads, “Don’t follow us, we’re lost too!” This tradition of being and getting lost has continued to this day as even that same standard was lost for a time in the wilds of Ramshaven.

And now Snori and I are lost.

We had set out from the Lincoln keep, which currently serves the canton as their town hall. The plan was to travel towards the nearby Royal Zoo, then angle south into what is known by locals to be troll territory. Many people within the kingdom, including His Majesty’s Minister of Forestry, denies the existence of trolls. Locals, however, swear they exist.

“We’ve had a rash of sightings lately,” Lord Eirik Andersen, former seneschal of Ardchreag, told me. “Sometimes they’ll wander into our keeps, or our camps, gobble up our food, and then take off back into the woods.”

The canton’s current knight marshal, Lord Wat of Sarum, has said that multiple hunting parties have been sent out to slay the troublesome brutes but all have returned empty handed.

It’s for a sighting of one of these trolls that Snori and I set out for.

We left Lincoln at about ten of the clock and our progress through the woods was rapid. It was once we angled off the King’s Roads that we became hopelessly turned about.

When I asked Snori if he knew which way we were going, he simply shrugged.

At one point we crested a ridge and saw before us a great meadow stippled with yellow dandelions. Munching on the grass was a herd of the massive green bison local to the area. We approached cautiously but the looming bovines seemed oblivious to our presence. Their fur was long and shaggy and most definitely coloured green. Local lore says its from eating the emerald grass of central Ardchreag, while others say it’s the water from Vahdkha—a watering hole—that makes them green. Humans who drink from the wells of Vahdkha have also been known to turn green, though they usually return to a more normal colouration after a few hours. Snori tells me of Lady Qandachin Bahar, a Mongolian, who felt an affinity for the bison. She was known to have consumed much of the water of Vahdkha in an effort to commune with the animals. The effort left Bahar feeling quite ill, and lately she has given up on Vahdkha all together, preferring to drink fermented milk instead.

*          *          *

Standing far above the rocky shore down below, I pull out my water flask. Out over the inland sea I spot a flock of winged turtles flying over the foaming waves. The rotund winged reptiles were first been discovered on the Ardchreag-Greenhithe border by Lord Ulvar van der Nederlanden. This was at a muster of Ealdormere’s military might in AS 27 or so. Now the turtles’ habitat has spread all over Ardchreag, though they are most populous about the cliffs as they build nests right in the cliff faces.

With green bison and flying turtles, how can anyone doubt the existence of trolls, I wondered.

Singing has always been popular in Ardchreag; they even had a choir for a very short time. Now many of its members are known as bardicly inclined. Snori proves this as he begins to sing, “Soaring, high above the white flowers, that’s where the Ardchreag turtles like flying…”

I sit back and listen as he finishes, punctuating each line by stamping his bow into the ground. When he’s done he looks over at me and smiles. “That was written by one of my kinfolk, Þorfinna gráfeldr, former baronial bard.” I nod as I stand up. The sun is just beginning to dip behind the trees at our back.

We begin to follow the cliff face westwards knowing that eventually we’ll hit the Greenhithe border. From there Snori is sure he can find his way to Drew’s End, Havencroft or Eirikstaadir, all of which are home to members of the canton who technically live in Greenhithe territory.

*          *          *

In AS 25 a group of people met in a bakery owned by Sir Timothy of Horton. It was there where talk of Ardchreag began. The orchestraters of this plan were (and I use their current titles): Baron Siegfried Brandbeorn, the Honourable Lord Raffe Scolemaystre, Lord Raedmund deArden and Lord Alan ate Highcliffs. It is perhaps these four that are represented by the four arrows on Ardchreag’s device, forming a compass.

The other main element of the device is a red mountain, to represent the Scarlet Bluffs that cuts across the canton. The cliffs are represented on the chief. (Laurel leavess are also represented, as they are on all geographic devices of the Society). The main colours are green and white. The green is probably representative of the earth, while the white is the sky.

*          *          *

Like any canton that exists for more than a few years, Ardchreag has had many people call it home. In a poll conducted in June AS 37, it was discovered that over the previous ten years 151 people had been listed on Ardchreag’s rolls. Some of these have gone on to be knights and laurels, while some have even ruled as King and Queen of Ealdormere.

Currently Ardchreag is a hotbed of baronialism. Many members are, or until recently were, members of the baronial army. A number of Septentria’s officers currently call Ardchreag home as well. The barony’s unofficial propaganda ministry is based in Ardchreag, with recruitment posters being the current project. In past years these posters were plastered wherever a surface could be found, including some warriors’ shields.

As well as being loyal to their barony, Chreaggers (as they sometimes call themselves) are also staunch Ealdormereans. Many of them make the journey to Pennsic whenever war threatens and for many years, Ardchreag held Ealdormere War Practice, where those heading south could practice their martial skills. There are many armoured fighters amongst the population, as well as archers and axe throwers, and a few cavalry members and scouts as well. (Of all the martial disciplines only fencing seems to be absent.) Many followers of these martial paths are members of the Cliffguard, a constabulary that patrols the roadways and byways of Ardchreag to protect the populace from danger. Archers and axe throwers make up the Yeoman of the White Arrow, a group that defends the canton with bow and axe. Armoured fighters take part in practices weekly. A number also travel to nearby practices in Petrea Thule, Eoforwic and Skeldergate. Many of Ardchreag’s fighters hold armouring workshops in an attempt to get fighters from within and without their borders into armour quickly.

No to leave their coastline undefended Laird Colyne Stewart has commissioned the construction of Ardchreag’s first naval vessel, called the Red Arrow. A navy is necessary to protect merchant and private vessels from the dread pirates Cap’n Widow and Cap’n Bloodfox.

Artisans are also well represented by steel workers, illuminators, calligraphers, scribes, carvers, bards, researchers, chefs, woodworkers, gamers, pewter casters and so on. At least one guild was born in Ardchreag, namely the Games Guild of Ealdormere, which counts members in at least six kingdoms so far. Chronicling is also popular in Ardchreag, and it has published numerous publications over the past few years (with more apparently in the works).

It is, from all accounts, a very busy place.

*          *          *

Cursing, Snori stumbles over a discarded beer mug.

We’re standing in a copse of trees where a small shrine has been erected to a local saint named Crispinus. Upon a small pile of rocks stands a rudely carved figure of a man in a dress, while scattered around the base of the shrine are empty mugs and goblets. I can smell the doughy scent of beer. Crispinus was a Chreagger renowned for his love of fine ale who, it is said, was carried bodily into the heavens. This happened some time after he had gone to bed dead after consuming copious amounts of liquor and had arisen in the morning alive. (This was, coincidently, the same time when Bayar tried to commune with green bison.) Some time before that Crispinus had passed himself off successfully as a woman—though a homely one from all accounts. Crispinus disappeared—taken to heaven, insist the faithful—just before he could be given the rank of Lord by Their Lupine Majesties. St. Crispinus’ Award of Arms is currently in the hands of Ardchreag’s historian who is hunting high and low for the saint, and many others are in search of his dress. In the meantime locals claim to see his face appearing in mugs of ale, and toasts are raised to his health in pubs throughout the canton.

From this shrine we know we are close to the border and that our ordeal will soon be behind us. It is now getting dark and Snori pulls out a torch, which he sets alight with his flint and steel. Before too much longer we hear an axe and follow the sound to a clearing. There we find two Scottish lads just finishing a day of chopping wood. Though my Gaelic is rusty I manage to tell them we are lost and they tell me that we have just crossed into Greenhithe territory. The smaller man, named Stephen, agrees to take me to the nearby port. We pass the time in relative silence, until finally we reach the docks.

I toss Stephen a coin and he tips me a salute before departing. I likewise hand Snori his pay (even if he did nothing but get us lost) and book passage aboard a ship for home. I didn’t see a troll, but I saw many other wonders and count myself content.

Wulfgang’s Surprise

Colyne Stewart, January AS XXXVI (2002)

It was on an unusually warm winter day that members of Ardchreag’s populace traveled to the canton of Skeldergate, to the inn owned by Berus Jarl and his Lady, Countess Marion. Upon arriving we found tables laid and awaiting us, while the appetizing smells of meat on a stick wafted from the kitchens where Streonwald and Etian could be heard bellowing. We claimed a table in front of the Thrones of Ealdormere, spreading out our crafts and gear. Berend worked on his tablet woven belt, while Eirik and Colyne poured over notes. Thorfinna disappeared into the vault of children where she was later found happily colouring.

As I returned from the merchants, my arms laden with goods, I heard the sounds of commotion. A fight had broken out! I ran to my table to find some of my companions under attack! Eirik and Wulfgang were in the centre of a swarm of ruffians, brandishing axes and swords. I made a move to join them, then saw that there was no need. Eirik is quite handy with a blade, and was cutting down his foes with impunity. Wulfgang, finding himself pressed by a huge man bearing a bar stool in has hands, proceeded to chase his assailant about the hall, before finally chopping him to the floor.

When it was over, when the tables had been righted, the blood cleaned, and the ale pored, an exhausted but beaming Wulfgang sat at our table.

“Did you see me?” he asked. “Did you see me chase that guy?”

We responded yes. Then we added that his attacker had been no mere ‘guy’.

“Who was it?” he asked.

“Berus,” we said.

His jaw dropped.

“The Kingdom Earl Marshal,” we went on.

The jaw dropped lower.

“Sir Berus,” we added.

All present then laughed long and hard at the expression on the face of a man who is usually jokingly referred to as a man who has none.

I just wonder, once Wulfgang has all his armour together, and first walks onto the lists, will Berus remember him?

(Based on actual events during the boffer battles at Berus’ Bar Room Brawl IV.)

Wulfgang’s Progress

Colyne Stewart, January AS XXXVI (2002)

Wulfgang is a wanderer, a traveler. Anyone that has met him can tell you so. From the pilgrim’s staff, hung with tokens, clasped in his calloused hands, to the dust on his boots, all of his appearance proclaims him to be a traveler.

Before Wulfgang found his way to Ardchreag he would wander from place to place, meeting new people, partaking in new experiences, but never staying anywhere for long. One day, he found himself following a dirt trail that led towards the great lake that separates Ealdormere from its parent Kingdom of the Middle. Along this path he met a man heading in the opposite direction. As he drew near the stranger’s garb declared him to be a man of importance, though Wulfgang did not recognize his device.

When they came face to face, Wulfgang hailed the man, who grew enraged.

“How dare you speak to me!” he thundered. “You will address me as Your Royal Majesty Duke Sir Master Master, and speak only when spoken to! Now kneel and do me homage!”

Now Wulfgang knew the man to be Peer Fear, and he laid his staff against a tree, picking up a spoke from a wagon wheel lying by the road. With this weapon Wulfgang chased Peer Fear through trees, up hills and down valleys, beating him severely, until finally the man crawled away whimpering.

Collecting his staff, Wulfgang continued on his way. Soon he met a beautiful woman sitting in a throne by the side of the road. Her clothes were resplendent, and her throne was studded with jewels. Sacks of gold lay spilled at her feet, and a pile of scrolls sat on a plinth to her left.

“Hail traveler,” she called to Wulfgang as he approached. “I greet you, and wish you well.” She held out a ringed hand which Wulfgang kissed. She then asked him to fetch her an apple from a tree a good distance away. Wulfgang was about to accept her task when she added, “If you do, I’ll give you a scroll.” She then began to recite a list of chores for him to do, and the rewards he would get for doing so, and Wulfgang realized that this was Promise of Reward.

Wulfgang went to the tree and found a wormy windfall apple which he brought back to the lady. “This,” he said, “is what you get when you only do something for the reward.” He left her as she sat rigid in her throne, sputtering in anger.

Walking on, he met another woman, this one dressed in an exquisite gown who, once he had drawn near, began to criticize his clothes, his hair, his staff, and all other aspects of his appearance. And Wulfgang knew at once that he faced Authenticity’s evil offspring Intolerance. Calmly he asked her if that was a watch he saw poking out from under her sleeve, at which point Intolerance turned bright red and exploded.

Humming a tune, Wulfgang’s feet carried him farther along the trail where he found an old man mired in a bog, his load spilling from his back. Without a second thought Wulfgang waded into the mud and helped the man extricate himself. Once freed he sat the old man on a large rock and went back for the man’s load.

When he had gathered all the man’s belonging, and repacked them in his sack, the old man placed his gnarled hand on Wulfgang’s shoulder.

“My name is Commoner,” he said, “and the load you help me carry are my troubles. By your aid I know you, for you are Chivalry and Courtesy, the true aim of all who live in these lands.”

The man’s words pleased Wulfgang more than any other reward could, and the two of them walked on, carrying the bundle between them.

Þorfinna and the Capture of the Clever Wife

Laird Colyne Stewart

Jan AS XL (2006)

It was a bright winter’s day, when Lady Þorfinna gráfeldr walked down to the piers at the Rouge Port. The wind was blowing strong, but it was not too chill, and the waters of the Mare Ontarium were running clear without ice. She stood on the dock gazing up at the masts of the frigate Red Arrow, from which streamed the banners of Ardchreag and Septentria. An Ealdormere banner flew from the aft-castle.

Today will be the day, she thought.

She stomped up the ramp onto the ship and began bellowing orders. The captain was indisposed, and so as first lieutenant the command was hers. Word had come down that the infamous pirate Cap’n Widow was currently raiding the coasts of north-eastern Skraeling Althing. Most of His Majesty’s ships were on duty elsewhere, tracking another local pirate called Cap’n Bloodfox. So local ships were being asked to capture or sink Widow’s ship the Clever Wife.

Þorfinna was determined that she was the one who would bring Widow to justice.

Finally, the ship was ready to sail, and the winds were blowing favourably in their direction. They swiftly set off, following the coastline.

Before long they saw two ships on the horizon, moving towards them. Marie de Chat Noir—called Black Cat Mary when on board ship—was up in the rigging. She called down that they looked like galleys, and both were flying the Æthelmearc colours. As Æthelmearc and Ealdormere were currently at peace, Þorfinna did not try to evade them, or have her gunner prime the cannons. Instead she had the sails furled as the ships came together, and she and the Æthelmearc captains had a parley.

The senior captain told her that Captain Bloodfox had run afoul of two of His Majesty Ealdormere’s ships—the Iron Duke and the Sea Khan. His ship Interceptor had been sunk, but somehow the pirate captain had escaped the marines aboard the royal ships. He reappeared two days later in an Æthelmearc port along with Mr. Andersen and several new crewmates, and had somehow managed to steal a man-of-war called the Great Wheel. Re-dubbing her Black Trillium, he had shot his way out of the port, sinking two ships, and had disappeared into deep waters. The Æthelmearc admiralty were embarrassed at loosing their ship and were currently out hunting Bloodfox in force. After assuring the captains that she would send word of any sightings of the Black Trillium, Þorfinna and the Red Arrow continued on their way.

The weather continued to be fair, and the ship made good time, traveling past Greenhithe and Bastille du Lac. When the ship neared the shores of Caldrithig, Black Cat Mary called out another sighting. This time she bellowed, “Kraken!”

Being a stout Norsewoman, Þorfinna was not afraid of any creature, may it walk on land, fly through the air or swim in the depths, but several of her crew were now quaking with fear. Mahault, the ship’s master-at-arms, unlocked the pistol cabinets and the crew armed themselves, though many were praying to their various gods.

Calmly, Þorfinna went to her cabin and pulled out a chest from under her bunk. Opening it, she took out a woven belt that had been bestowed upon her by the Galbraiths for being the strongest woman in Ealdormere. The tied this girdle of strength about her waist and climbed onto the deck again.

Ahead of the ship great foaming waves frothed their way towards the prow. Just below the surface of the water, Þorfinna thought she could just make out a gigantic eye. She called for a javelin, and Mahault placed one carved of ash in her hand. Pulling back her arm Þorfinna took careful aim. The crew stood at their posts, holding their breaths, except for Bobo the monkey who screeched from his perch in the rigging. Þorfinna stood still as a statue, until suddenly she threw. The javelin streaked through the air and plunged into the turgid waters. A great bubbling scream exploded from beneath the waves, and the water churned as the kraken thrashed its many tentacles. There was a huge splash, and then the water stilled. The kraken had submerged.

Ordering the ship’s quartermaster to open the rum, Þorfinna allowed the crew a drink to calm their nerves and celebrate their victory over the terror from the deep. Before Mahault could lock away the weapons again, Black Cat Mary once more shouted down from the topcastle. “Ship ahoy! Pirate colours!”

The crew dropped their cups and ran back to their stations. The gunner and his mates primed and manned the cannons. Ahead of them, Þorfinna could see a ship approaching, growing larger and larger. From her mast flew the skull and four crossbones of Cap’n Widow.

There was a splash astern as the Clever Wife’s gunners opened fire prematurely. Þorfinna called for her own gunners to hold. As the ships drew closer together Þorfinna ordered the sails fully unfurled to catch the wind and begin to turn the ship. As the two vessels drew closer together, they each presented their sides.

“Fire!” ordered Þorfinna, as a similar order was given aboard the Clever Wife. Cannons roared, and balls ripped through the hulls, sending exploded shards of timber and bits of crew into the lake. Grapples began to be thrown from the Clever Wife, and the Red Arrow’s marines assembled on deck. Rather than wait to be boarded, the Red Arrow’s crew threw their own grapples, and the two boats were pulled close together. As soon as they were close enough, pirates and marines began climbing, jumping and swinging onto each others ship.

Þorfinna herself, armed with cutlass and pistol, and still wearing her belt, was the first to board the Clever Wife. She fought her way past brigands, privateers, seadogs and other such scum, seeking out the enemy captain. Soon she found her. For Cap’n Widow was herself in the thick of the fighting. She wore a black skirt and green corset, from which the ruffles of her white blouse bloomed. Upon her head perched a brown tri-corner, with black and white feathers, with a red scarf tied under it. In her hands she held a bloody sword, and her parrot flew about her head. Peckerless Pete—who had a steel hook instead of a beak—was himself attacking the Red Arrow’s marines, scratching at eyes and ripping at ears.

The two captains’ eyes locked, and suddenly nothing else existed but them, and the deck between them. They ran at each other, swords swinging. Þorfinna shot her pistol, which tore a hole through Widow’s hat. Their swords met, and they danced over the blood soaked boards, hacking and slashing, parrying and thrusting. Finally, Þorfinna managed to knock the blade from Widow’s hand, and placed the point of her cutlass at the pirate captain’s throat.

The Widow yielded, and her crew, seeing that she was taken, either threw down their own arms, or jumped over board and tried to swim for shore. Most were shot in the back as they swam by the marines.

Locking the pirates in the hold, Þorfinna had her corporal take command of the Red Arrow, while she and some of her crew took control of the Clever Wife. Both ships sailed back into port, where Þorfinna handed her prisoners over to the local constables. Soon the tales of her exploits spread all over Ardchreag and beyond, and many a drink were bought for her in seaside pubs.

Unfortunately, Cap’n Widow did not stay incarcerated for long. Soon enough she and her remaining crew had escaped custody (some say rescued by Peckerless Pete, others by Bloodfox) and was once again sailing the Mare Ontarium aboard her Clever Wife.

But that’s another story.

The Geld of the Hose

On Wednesday, September 18, a group from Ardchreag descended upon the neutral Canton of Skeldergate, with spear thumping, banners blowing and horn sounding We had come to pay a geld. For you see, this past August at Pennsic War we did find ourselves in a dilemma. No one from our Canton who was staying until the last Sunday of War had room in their wagon to transport the many lengths of aqueduct we had purchased to bring fresh water to our part of the swamp. Reluctantly, we had to ask someone outside of our group to shoulder this burden. Lord Streonwald Wulfesbana, and Lady Seonag nicThomais, did accept this task. They did dig up the aqueduct and pack it in their wagon. They did transport it through three Kingdoms, one of whom we were at War with. Many times were they forced to pay taxes and duties along the road. Many times did they beat off bandits intent on stealing our portable water relocation equipment.

Finally, they arrived home in Ealdormere. For a month did they wait for a missive from a representative of Ardchreag to arrange to pick up the aqueduct. They waited in vain.

So, Seonag did send a demand for a geld, or ransom, to Ardchreag’s seneschal, who did inform me of the matter. Immediately I did contact the good Lady to rectify this matter, and agreed to the geld. Ardchreag members came out in force to support this venture including: Mahault and Berend van der Eych, who supplied mead, apples, cookies, a silk purse full of chocolate coins, and home made soap; Thorfinna gra’feldr and myself, who supplied a framed version of poems written in their honour, beer and cider; Iolanda de Albornoz, who supplied mead; William the Younger, who supplied a medieval teddy bear and Ivanna the Oblvious, who supplied some truly tasty brownies. I decorated a cardboard box to transport the geld, which was then carried in a wicker basket. Upon the box I had written the following in Anglo-Saxon Runes:

Negligent are we

Hose forgetting we

Grateful are we

Forgiving are you

Gift accepting are you

Friends are we

Thorfinna led the way into the Skeldergate meeting, blowing on a sounding horn, while Mahault carried the Ardchreag spear and I the Ardchreag war banner. Behind us came Berend and Eirik Andersen labouring under the weight of our offerings.

Seonag was taken aback by the generosity of Ardchreag, and by the talent of our members, as many of the items were hand made. The cookies and brownies were passed about and enjoyed by all. It was remarked by more than one gentle that when Ardchreag does something we don’t stop halfway.

Unfortunately, Seonag had forgotten the hose! She offered us one of Wat’s fighting gloves, which he had left at War, as a token of the hose’s return the next time we came to Skeldergate. We agreed to this, as long as if the hose was forgotten again, Seonag and Streonwald would instead transport it back to Pennsic next year.

Tarian and the Ogre

Laird Colyne Stewart

Jan AS XL (2006)

It was a glorious wonderful morning the day Tarian verch Gadarn woke without her smile. She did not notice the scowl on her face as she got dressed, nor did she think anything was wrong when her husband Randy asked her if she was alright. She ate her breakfast in sullen silence, then grabbed a basket and headed for the market.

On the way she passed Eirik Andersen and Wat of Sarum practicing at arms in the square. Both called out cheerfully to her, but she merely grunted and walked past. Both men looked stunned for a moment, then shrugged and continued their practice.

Tarian stomped past the miller’s and across the bridge, almost knocking Snæbjörn over the side as she passed him. Frowning she strode through the stalls at the market, ignoring every friendly greeting and waved hand. Eventually, she felt a tug on her sleeve, and looked down at young Adelaide van der Eych. Adelaide asked her what was wrong, and frowning deeper, Tarian said nothing was. “Then why,” asked Adelaide, “are you frowning so?” Tarian turned and looked at her reflection, where it gazed scowling back at her from a bronze tureen hanging on a stall.

Tarian was perplexed, she had no idea why she was frowning. She did not feel angry, or sad. She tried to smile but found that she couldn’t. Alarmed she went to the seneschal, who told her about a hedge-witch just outside of town who might be able to help her. So Tarian picked up her skirts and walked along the road out of the village and into the countryside.

Before long she found the hedge-witch at the side of the road. The old woman was a Rus, and was sitting at a rough-made wooden table in front of a red wagon. Tarian sat down across from her, and the old woman blinked a few times. After she had explained her problem, the old woman pursed her lips and sighed.

“Do you know of the Ogre of Arden?” she asked. Tarian shook her head, and the Rus went on to explain that the Ogre lived in the woods of northern Arden, which is one of the counties of Ardchreag. This Ogre lived in a gloomy castle, and was envious of those who were filled with laughter and joy. So at night he would sneak into people’s homes and steal their smiles with his dark magic. This, said the Rus, is what had happened to Tarian. To regain her smile, Tarian would have to travel north and find the Ogre’s castle, which was called Gloom Tor.

Not wasting a moment, Tarian thanked the woman and gave her some coin, and headed out into the forest. Before long she found herself in an orange grove, with the trees laden with fruit. She could hear a chittering noise coming closer, and suddenly a furry face popped down out of the tree in front of her. Hanging upside down and regarding her was a large red squirrel. It wrinkled its nose very cutely and said, “A good morning to ya.” When he got no response, the squirrel looked confused. He jumped down to the ground and gazed up at Tarian. He popped three acorns out of his mouth, began to juggle, and danced around the grove signing a bawdy song about sailers. When Tarian did not laugh or even crack a smile he stopped, muttering something about her being a tough nut to crack.

Tarian apologized and said his capers were very entertaining, but that the Ogre of Arden had stolen her smile.

“Tha’ I kin understae,” said the squirrel in its deep brogue. “Tha’ ogre’s been a problem ‘round these parts fer many a year now. You look like a bonnie lass, and it seems a shame to see ya without a smile, so if you’d let me, I’d be more than happy to help ya get yer smile back.” Tarian thanked the red squirrel for his help, and together they walked father into the forest.

As they went further and further north, the red squirrel got more and more quiet. He told Tarian that the last woodward of Ardchreag had gone missing in the black woods of Arden, though, he assured her, nothing would happen to them. They then walked in silence for a time, until they came upon a den. Small bones and bits of cloth were strewn about the ground before it, and a rough trestle table covered in baskets sat just outside. Hesitantly they crept towards the den, and looked inside the baskets. Within each basket lay a pile of bones. Some looked like they had been there for a very long time, while some looked quite freshly cleaned. Sitting atop one pile was a horn, which Tarian picked up, recognizing it as the horn of Ardchreag’s woodward.

“That is mine,” said a cold voice from behind them. They turned, and saw a tall gaunt figure wrapped in a black cloak stalk out of the den. Its face was covered by a hood, but crimson flashed where its eyes should be, and light glinted off what appeared to be sharp teeth. It held its thin, horny hands before its chest, the knobby fingers steepled together. “Usually I have to go hunting for my treasures,” it hissed as it glided closer. “I do not usually have treasures come walking into my den, bold as can be. Luckily I have an empty basket, and a fire under my pot to boil away your flesh.”

Tarian’s eyes widened in fright, and the red squirrel hid itself within the folds of her skirt. She could feel it shaking in fear, and its child-like size made her think of her infant son Ethan, and this gave her strength. Not knowing what else to do, she brought the horn to her lips and blew it as hard as she could right in the bone collector’s face. The creature clutched at its head and roared in pain, and Tarian kept sounding the horn, until the collector shrunk back to the refuge of its den. The reverberations caused by the blowing of the horn caused some scree to fall in front of the den’s opening, followed by a crash as rocks and trees shook loose from their perch and crashed down, sealing the bone collector in its den.

When the sound diminished, Tarian shook the dust off her shirts, and she and the red squirrel continued on their way. Before much longer they found themselves standing before the gate of a decrepit castle, its towers sagging with age and hung with creepers. The gate itself was hanging half off its hinges, and they easily slipped through into the castle yard. The only sounds they heard were the cawing of crows, and the occasional block of stone finally falling free from a tower to hit the earth below.

They entered the castles great hall, and passed rotting tapestries and rusted suits of armour, making their way to the great hall. There, they found the Ogre.

The Ogre was sitting at a large table, strewn with baubles and trinkets. His horns were curled like a ram’s, and his body was covered in thick shaggy hair. It’s wide black eyes flicked up to regard them as they came closer.

“Who are you?” it asked in a deep, moaning voice.

“My name is Tarian verch Gadarn,” she said. “And, uh, I believe you may have something of mine.”

“Quite possible,” grunted the Ogre. “I have a lot of things that belong to other people. Other people experience laughter, joy, contentment. I have never known these things. And so I covet them, and I take the things that bring these feelings to people.” He waved a paw at the table, covered with jewelry, books, bits of armour, food and other geegaws. “These things all brought other people joy, but for me they only bring more sorrow.” It looked at her more closely. “I recognize you now. Yes, I took your smile. It’s there, upon the table, in that little box. So small a thing, a smile, and yet it brought you so much happiness. For me, though, nothing.”

“You cannot force a thing to make you happy,” said Tarian. “These items all brought their owner joy, because they meant something special to them. You cannot force them to be special for you.”

“I suppose you are right,” sighed the Ogre, “and so I am doomed to continue to live without happiness or joy.”

“Not neccessarialy,” said the red squirrel. It hopped up on the table and the Ogre blinked as he saw it for the first time. As it had done for Tarian, they squirrel began juggling and dancing and singing and soon a small smile had formed on the Ogre’s toothy mouth. With frenetic energy the squirrel continued its foolery and before long the Ogre was bellowing with laughter and slamming a paw on the table.

“Stop! Stop!” It bellowed. “It is too much all at once! Like a flood after a long drought!” Once it had regained its composure, with only the odd giggle escaping its lips, the Ogre looked down fondly at the squirrel. “My friend, I thank you, for you have finally given me what I have longed for all my life.”

The Ogre then gave Tarian the box, and as she opened it a large smile blossomed on her face, and the Ogre himself smiled back to see it. The Ogre packed all the other possessions he had stolen over the years and he, Tarian and the red squirrel returned to the village. There, the Ogre found great joy in helping Tarian find the owners of all the stolen property. The red squirrel then returned to the castle with the Ogre, and they became fast friends.

And in the long years to come Tarian never again ever lost her smile.

Sir Siegfried and the Snowbeast

Laird Colyne Stewart

Jan AS XL (2006)

Once, not so long ago, a knight traveled on horseback through the countryside of Ardchreag. His name was Sir Siegfried Brandbeorn, and he was a knight of the realm, a baron of the court, a constable, juror and aldorman of Ardchreag, and the sheriff of Ommemee. Though he was laden with titles he was a humble man, and was much loved within his canton.

On this winter night he was riding his horse back towards his home in the county of Sieghurst, in north-west Ardchreag. The snow was falling from an overcast sky, and the trees and pathways were covered in white. He stopped for a moment at a Shrine to Saint Crispinus. The tall wooden shrine was painted with scenes of the Saint’s life, and a bucket sat on a shelf within it. Around the bottom of the shrine several empty bottles stood vigil. Pulling out a small bottle of mead, Siegfried drank deeply, then splashed the remaining liquid on the ground in memory of lost friends. He placed his bottle amongst the others and continued on his way.

Not too long after, he found a man lying in the snow. The man was dressed in the uniform of the Cliffguard, with a broken sword at his side. His body had been rent by what looked like huge claws, and his blood had soaked into the snow. Hearing a soft footfall behind him, Siegfried spun around, drawing his sword with his left hand.

Standing on its hind legs near his horse was a large fox, its red fur speckled with snow. One of its black ears had a tear in it, and its eye twinkled in the light of the setting sun. Siegfried recognized this as Todett, a known trickster, reputedly descended from Reynard the Fox. Standing tall, Siegfried pointed his sword at the fox and asked, “What happened here?”

The fox smirked (as only a smug fox can) and said, “I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with that? Not very subtle, is it, great big gashes in the body. My claws aren’t nearly big enough to make wounds that large anyway.” He paused, then added, “Of course, just because I didn’t do it, doesn’t mean I don’t know who did.”

Siegfried’s sword moved a fraction closer to the fox. “Tell me,” he said in a low voice. “Tell me who or what murdered this good and loyal guardian of my homeland.”

Not answering right away, the fox reached up and began going through Siegfried’s saddle bags. “You have heard of Merflin the Wizard, yes? A powerful, and rather mad, sorcerer who once roamed these parts many, many years ago. Long before you and the other founders came east from the great city to build your forts, manors and dockyards, Merflin ruled these lands through fear and magic.” The fox found some dried meat and stopped talking long enough to devour it. “One of Merflin’s favourite pastimes was creating life. Or, I suppose to be more accurate, merging life. Putting a living being together with either a second living being, or even an inanimate object, to create some new grotesquerie. In fact, some people say that’s how I was born. Foolishness, of course, for I have a long and noble lineage, all the way back to Reynard of France. Still, there’s no stopping rumours is there?”

Siegfried was beginning to get impatient. “To the point.”

“Well, rumours—you remember those rumours I was mentioning?—well those rumours say that one of the creatures Merflin created was a cross between a deranged hermit who was a known cannibal, preying on travels, and one of the great white bears that roam these lands you men have now called Septentria. It is said to only hunt at winter, when the snow falls.” The fox held out a paw and let the falling snow gather on his pad. “It was called the Snowbeast of Garvarden.”

Siegfried’s eyes flicked from one tree to another, trying to see if anything was moving in the snow. “You are telling me this monstrous bear killed this man?”

“I’m telling you that legends sometimes walk,” said the fox, doing a side-step to illustrate. He stopped and looked squarely and deeply into the knight’s eyes. “And sometimes, they kill.”

“Then I must hunt and track this beast,” said Siegfried striding to his horse.

“I’m sure you must, but beware. As I said, part of the Snowbeast is the soul of a cannibal, yet it left this body behind.” For a moment the fox looked concerned. “Some nefarious plot may be afoot.” Seemingly from no where, the fox produced a whistle, which it handed to the knight. “When you find the beast, blow on this, and help will arrive. They can never catch me, but they may be able to help you. Now, the snow is covering the beast’s tracks, but I can start you on the path.” So saying, Todett led Siegfried to the side of a tall pine, whose wide branches sheltered the earth underneath it. Stamped deep into the needles on the earth was a gigantic paw print, easily as large as the knight’s head.

Using this print as a starting point, Siegfried mounted his horse and rode into the trees. He did not put on his helm, for with the setting sun and blowing snow, visibility was already poor. Before long he was forced to light a torch.

After riding for twenty minutes or so, he saw the flare of other torches up ahead. Hoping that he might be able to find someone else who had seen the Snowbeast he rode into a clearing. Set at regular intervals about the clearing were tall braziers, whose flames lit up the deepening evening. Sitting on a horse in the middle of the clearing was a tall mantled figure, dressed all in green. His armour was green, his helm was green, even his horse appeared to be green. Only his mantling was a different colour: white, and cut in the shape of arrows. He held a long lance in his gauntleted hand.

Siegfried drew up before this knight and hailed him. The knight did not immediately answer, and sat, seemingly studying the blue-clad stranger before it. Eventually it said, “You may not pass.”

Siegfried explained that he must in fact pass, and told the green knight of his mission.

“I do not care for the quarrels of men,” said the green knight. “Once, before you brought your axes and fires here, before Merflin and other brigands like him felled our trees, there was only us, and the wild. For we are the wild. And now the wild would have revenge. I am le vert chevalier de foret. If you would continue your quest, you must once again prove your strength over the landscape within which you dwell. For I am that landscape. I am the wild. And I am sore wroth with your kind.”

“But spirit,” said Siegfried, for surely a spirit this must be, “The people of Ardchreag take only what they need. We only cut what trees we must to provide shelter and warmth. We only take what animals and fish we need to consume.”

“The wild is unforgiving,” said the rider, “and therefore so am I. You must tilt with me if you would pass. Otherwise, you die.”

Siegfried looked around the clearing, and saw that the branches of the surrounding tress had locked themselves together. There was no escape from this combat, even if he had been inclined to flee.

“Very well,” he said, “but I have no lance.” Suddenly, a slender tree sprouted out of the ground at his horse’s feet. When he clasped this tree in his hand it turned into a polished and well made lance.

The two jousters made their way to opposite ends of the clearing. Siegfried saluted the green rider, who barely dipped its lance in return. Somewhere, a raven croaked, and at the noise the two horses thundered towards each other. They met with a crash, but neither rider fell. They reset themselves and rushed again, and this time Siegfried’s lance caught the green rider in the armpit and threw him from his saddle. Siegfried leapt to the ground, drawing his sword. The green rider lay still as Siegfried placed his sword it his throat.

“I yield,” said the green rider sullenly. “Once again I yield, as it seems I always must.”

Sheathing his sword, Siegfried helped the green rider to his feet. “My friend,” he said, “I pledge to you, as a knight, that we do and will only take what we need from you. I pledge that Ardchreag’s woodwards, brooklookers, foresters and jacks will protect you from plundering. It is true that mankind must live off the wild, but we will do so with care.”

The green rider’s eyes, just visible behind his helm, looked long into Siegfried’s face. Finally, he said, “I believe you.” He held out his hand and an acorn grew out of his palm. “Take this,” he said. “When you find this Snowbeast, take the cap off the acorn. It will aid you.”

Siegfried thanked the green rider, then continued on his way.

Before long, he stopped before a low hill that blocked his path. As he was about to walk his horse over it, it shook slightly, moving the snow that had gathered on top of it. Underneath the white Siegfried saw what looked like a brown shell. As he watched, two eyes appeared on the side of the hill, and then a head and neck as the giant turtle came out of its shell. Its face was long and worn, and Siegfried could tell it had seen many years. As it ponderously shook off the snow, the knight could see its small withered wings, and knew that this flying turtle must be ancient indeed, for its wings to no longer be able to carry it aloft.

“Who are you?” asked the turtle in a wheezy voice.

“I am Sir Siegfried, knight and constable, on a quest to slay a murderous beast,” he answered. “And who do I have the honour to address?”

“I have no name,” wheezed the turtle. “I was born before things had names. However, you may call me Grandfather. I have lived a very long time, and I have seen a great many things, and I believe I know of this creature you seek. It is one of the abominations created by Merflin, I take it?”

“It is.”

“A terrible rogue, that man. He lived far too long. Worse even than the Cockentrice.” The turtle blinked its watery eyes. “If you would do an old turtle a favour, I would aid you on your quest.”

“Of course,” said the knight. “What may I do?”

“My clutch is all long dead, my relations now so far removed that none of them regard me as family anymore. I have no visitors here so deep in the wild, except for the occasional goblins who like to throw things at me. Play a game with me.”

To this Siegfried agreed, and the turtle pulled a chess board from under itself. Siegfried set up the pieces, and the two played. Siegfried found the turtle to be an exceptional player, and was hard pressed just to hold his own. Eventually, as he knew he must, he tipped his king. “Well played,” he said.

The turtle sighed happily. “Thank you. It had been a long time since I played.” It once more reached under its shell, this time pulling out a large egg. “Take this. Break it when you have need. It will aid you.”

Siegfried thanked the turtle, and promised to soon return when he could stay longer. He then rode deeper and deeper into the woods.

The sun by now had set completely, and Siegfried was swallowed by darkness. Only the feeble light of his single torch cast any light. The snow fell so heavily that its weight almost put the torch’s fire out. Deep red stains began to appear in the snow, creating an obvious trail. Siegfried distrusted obvious trails, but he rode on, impatient to finally met and put an end to the Snowbeast of Garvarden.

Soon enough he rode into another clearing, at the base of a mountain. Before a cave sat a great white bear, at least twice the size of Siegfried’s horse. Its teeth were longer than daggers, and its claws were like swords. Its muzzle was coated with red foam, and its very human eyes glared evilly from its deep brow. On the ground all about it lay bones and scraps of cloth.

“I did not know if you would come,” it said in a deep rumbling voice, spraying foam as it spoke.

“Did you think I would fear the likes of you?” answered the knight boldly.

“If you do not, you are a fool,” answered the Snowbeast. It leaned forward and grinned. “Tell me,” it said, “of the founders of your fair village, how many remain?”

Siegfried looked confused. “Myself, and the Honourable Lord Raffe Scholemaystre, though he has not been seen much of late.”

“And aldormen,” continued the beast, “how many aldermen do you have? How many settlers have been with you long enough to become aldermen?”

“Myself, and Raffe, and Lord Eirik Andersen my loyal squire,” answered the knight. “Why do you ask this?”

The Snowbeast laughed, a sound like boulders grinding against each other, while pulverizing some living creature between them. “Where do you think the others have gone? Where did the other founders go? Where do all the long time residents go? The answer is strewn on the ground all about you. I take them. Each winter I cull your herd and take the older, the more experienced. That Clifffguard I killed was just a lure, a lure for you. For this year, it is your turn to die at my claws.”

Siegfried pulled his sword. “I think not. I think this winter it is your turn to die, you foul abomination.”

“Come then, if you are so confident,” growled the beast. “Come slay me, mighty warrior.” And with a roar, the beast attacked. Siegfried met it bravely, and his sword left deep rents in the thing’s flesh, but it was fury incarnate, and it did not stop. Before long, Siegfried found himself bloody and bruised, his ribs broken, and his sword shattered. The creature laughed as the knight crawled away, putting distance between himself and it. Standing painfully to his feet, Siegfried reached into his saddle bag and pulled out the egg Grandfather had given him. With a grunt he threw it at the Snowbeast’s feet.

The egg shattered and yolk and clear fluid splattered all over the ground. The beast laughed derisively, and took a step forward. It tried to take a second, but found its feet now glued to the ground. As the creature roared in anger and tried to rip its feet free, Siegfried pulled out the acorn, and using his thumb, popped off the cap. Instantly, the acorn grew into a longbow, with one arrow fletched with green and white. Siegfried took careful aim, and sank the arrow deep into the Snowbeast’s throat. Blood gushed out of its throat as the Snowbeast began to thrash. Siegfried thought for a moment that it was going to die, but with a tremendous effort of will, the beast pulled itself free from the egg and began to plod towards him.

Now Siegfried took out Todett’s whistle and blew on it. At first he thought it had not worked, since he did not hear a sound. He blew on it again, frantically, but again nothing seemed to happen. Then, off in the distance but quickly getting closer, he could hear the baying of hounds. Suddenly, bounding out of the trees came two dozen fox hounds, that launched themselves at the Snowbeast. It lashed out with its claws, blood still pooling from its throat, and laid waste to some of its attackers. However, the rest of the dogs tore great chunks free from its legs, back and stomach and soon it was lying in a huge pool of gore, its life seeping away into the snow. Only two dogs had survived, and they sat and watched as Siegfried slowly walked up to the Snowbeast and delivered the coup de grace with a large rock, caving in the top of the beast’s skull.

From that day forward the Snowbeast of Garvarden troubled no one ever again. The bones of those it had slain were gathered and given proper burial. The two dogs went with Siegfried to his manor and joined his hunting pack, and Siegfried kept his word to both Grandfather and the green rider, going back often to play games with the old turtle, and making sure that no one took more than they needed from the forest.