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Bestiary
Table of Contents
Preface
Section I: Sapient Races
Section II: Beastly Races
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Note:
There is absolutely no reliable proof that gargoyles have ever existed on
our world, none aside from myths and tales of drunks scared in the night.
Some say that the bones of rock which can be unearthed in some places are
the remains of gargoyles – or at the very least, that these bones prove
that once there were creatures made of stone. Certainly an intriguing
suggestion, yet I have to admit that the bones I have seen do not fit my
views on bird bones. Not only are the rocky bones much larger, their shape
is wholly different.
It
has been reasoned that this is because the gargoyles required a particular
kind of magic for flight in the first place, so that there was no need for
their bodies to assume the light and sprightly form of ordinary birds.
(These reasoners, I wish to add, are those who claim that the reason for
the gargoyles’ absence in the past millenium has been a downturn in the
tides of magic, that the supply of magical power is at its lowest in our
time and once magic will be better accessible and available, that
gargoyles shall once more roam the skies.) That argument, I fear, rings of
their desire to find proof of gargoyles, rather than to divine the origins
of the stone bones.
Why
then include this text on gargoyles in a compilation devoted to the wealth
of beasts and beings we know to exist? Ah, well, dear reader, there have
been other instances where my fancy has been tickled by a story, or by a
tale I have heard in the proper setting.
So
why should I not turn to a story to introduce you to the tales of
gargoyles? I have chosen one of my personal favorites, Of the Ambling
Knight Sir Clairbold of Amaldis by Hrolfwald the Keroullian Dove, a
tale I first read as a young lad – in secret, hidden in a small storage
chamber, by the light of a drippy candle that constantly burned my fingers
with its hot wax. Ah, the memories of childhood! How fondly I recall that
candle, despite the pain it – and its many companions I used up in
reading – caused me.
Yet
I should add a preamble to this excerpt, one to put more perspective on
the book and Hrolfwald himself. Not least of all because I might deathly
offend a dear friend of mine, the famed Archer Melt of Milonisi, so
rightfully called The Divine. He has made his opinions on Hrolfwald known
to me in many a letter, so that I have selected one of his writings for
this book – written in Archer’s so familiar tone. (Familiar to me, I
hasten to note, but perhaps not to his many readers in the world who have
never met The Divine.)
“Hrolfwald
was a fool, take my word for it. Knight-errants and all the idiotic
inventions with which he has soiled so many pages – yet his is the best
writing that exists on that topic. If one can imagine that his rambling
narrative can possibly be called ‘good’ in any way. Was there ever a
point to his words? Any besides filling as many sheets of paper as
possible with his splotchy ink? The man blotted out every word at least
twice, replacing it with another – generally less suitable than his
previous thought. Writing like that only proves the writer’s cluttered
and directionless mind, that is all. I pity the geese who gave their
feathers for this senseless task.
“But
Hrolfwald is famous. Infamous he should rightfully be – or better still,
forgotten. I know that you, Lestrovar, appreciate his work, for whichever
reason a mind as reliable as yours has plunged to these depths. There are
all too many others who believe Hrolfwald to have been a great creator of
deep thought, those who call him the Keroullian Dove. A very unfitting
byname, for Hrolfwald was as undovelike as a human being can be.
“Hrolfwald
used to visit me in my cage on the Apple Island occasionally, around the
turn of the last millenium. As you might recall, that was the time when
not only the fools’ champion rose to his fame, but it was the time when
my own writings came to the attention of the world. The attention, but not
the acclaim that greeted Hrolfwald. I grant the Keroullian that he at
least had the good taste to recognize my work, and it may have been a
touch of vanity that made me allow him to stay with me during his visits
to the isle.
“He
was in his mid-forties when I came to know him, a portly and ugly creature
with a face that would have sent a ratpeople mother scurrying away from
offspring as deformed as this. Still, he had a jovial and friendly manner,
no doubt a result of his appearance. (As you might have noticed, the
deformed tend to develop either into bitter, angry persons, or the affable
kind who win over their interlocutor by a charming personality. A few
decades ago I devoted a tale to this; Sirch can look up the title for you
if you care to learn more.) Hrolfwald took his wine quickly, ever more
likely to regal an audience with his tall tales. For a while he was rather
amusing, considering that I was inebriated when listening to him.
“Yet
after a while I started to note that he reacted rather vilely when anyone
pointed out an inconsistency in his narrative, beginning to shout that it
was a true episode in the life of a great and valid hero – no matter
that few of the tales took place in recognizable settings, and those which
did had little in common with the locations that I myself had seen or
heard of. Nor did it matter to him that his fables were wild and rambling
enough to make a solid head spin as if a gallon of wine had flowed down
its throat. No, dear Lestrovar, Hrolfwald believed his tales to be true
– and worse, he believed himself to have been that famed hero of his
imaginings, that Clairbold who also hails from his hometown of Amaldis.
“One
day he presented to me the first pages of his book, so blotchy that I had
Sirch transcribe them into a readable form. You could never dream of the
curses old Sirch produced during this task, let me only mention that it
took my utmost to keep him from setting the original sheets aflame after
he was done. Of course, after I had read Hrolfwald’s drivel, I would
have gladly handed Sirch the candle to rid us of those sheets. Back then,
the title was Memoirs of The Knight of Ambling, as if more proof of
Hrolfwald’s madness were needed. If the tales he had concocted before
– both in our drunken rounds and published – had been silly
diversions, now this was an abyss of dread.
“I
still find it hard to believe that this disaster of spilled ink could have
possibly outsold my own The Old Man’s Conversation with the Messenger
of Death! Granted, that my tale was much improved in a later revisal,
yet even in its original state, a single page contained more poignancy and
value than all the writings Hrolfwald has concocted.”
That
much, I believe, is enough to give you an impression of what good Archer
thinks of Hrolfwald. It is certainly true that Archer is by far the better
writer. To name him in the same sentence with Hrolfwald seems close to
sacrilege – yet the truth remains that the Keroullian Dove’s tales
have given flight to many a young reader’s imagination and set them on
the path toward knowledge and further reading. (Little though Archer does
appreciate it, I only started reading one of his works because
Hrolfwald’s Clairbold mentioned it in the Ambling Knight.) Now
then, let us delve into the tale, taken from Chapter XXXI of his book,
after Clairbold has left the Twin Mountain Fortress and crossed the River
of Forgetfulness – being the first to retain his memories, although his
companions were less fortunate. (Take note that Hrolfwald does not call
the gargoyles by their customary name, rather he prefers the word
‘rockbird’. Nevertheless, it is clear which species he is describing.)
Lestrovar
the Wise
Imperial Palace at Sirap, Ibrollene
“’Hold,
Cinantero!’ firm Clairbold commanded his steed, at which words the proud
horse immediately put its hooves into the ground to stop its gallop. The
knight raised the visor of his helmet, to peer ahead of the party’s
location.
“Behind
the pair, keeping an uncommon distance, Oggod and Widargelt slowed their
horses to come abreast with their leader’s steed. ‘What have you seen,
Master?’ asked Oggod who despite the loss of his memory was seated as
solidly as ever on the back of his shaggy mare. ‘Is there danger
ahead?’
“’I
do not yet know, my good servant,’ replied the knight, then nodded to
Widargelt and said, ‘Honored companion, I would ill-serve my lady if I
were to permit you to carry on at the pace of my servant and myself.
Therefore I ask you to ride into the shade of yonder elm tree, by the
merry creek where you may rest your bones and water your horse.’
“Immediately,
Oggod cried out, ‘Then you must have seen danger, Master! Though my
recall is hazy, my heart tells me that only danger could lead you to part
with a companion such as Widargelt who has granted us the joy of his
singing for the past three days!’
“At
hearing that, Widargelt raised his chin, flashed his deep eyes at the
knight and complained, ‘Master Knight, I have more to lend you than a
song to brighten a ride. I carry a sword, surely my hand will know how to
guide it better than my mind. Have I not retained the faculty of riding?
The faculty of speech? If danger shall await us, then I, Widargelt, will
face it alongside you, Master Knight, this I pledge!”
“His
face set in a worrisome frown, Clairbold gave these words some thought.
True that both Widargelt and Oggod had kept some of their skills, despite
drinking deep of the River’s waters. Yet it was Clairbold who had to
decide for them, now that their minds had been swept clean by the waters.
Watchful he also was of the oddity that now Widargelt seemed bolder than
he had before. Mayhaps this was a quality that his lady, fair Ludancie,
had discovered in her highest-born suitor, the one that had led her to
select him over his rivals for her affection, despite his boldness being
buried beneath his ordinarily powdered wig and face.
“’Honored
Widargelt,’ the knight inquired, ‘your hand may have escaped the
River’s spell, yet it cannot see with your eyes, nor can it recall how
to assail a specific opponent properly. Would your hand know whether a
giant is opposing you, or a dwarf? Would your hand know at which height to
strike, which blows to defend against? No, I cannot allow you to continue.
Stay your sword till not only the hand but the mind is able to guide it
properly; stay your sword till it must defend that which is most worthy.
This the service to my lady requires of me, brave companion.’
“Still
Widargelt seemed willing to ride along with the knight, yet the shadows of
doubt settled on his face as the truth of Clairbold’s words found their
way into his heart. ‘Your lady, Master Knight, seems a cause most worthy
if she can command a soul as noble as yours,’ he relented and bowed
before Clairbold, then took the reins to lead his horse to the elmtree’s
shade.
“Clairbold
returned the bow, unseen by Widargelt, his eyes gleaming with the memory
of fiar Ludancie. ‘Yes, worthy she is,’ he whispered. ‘May you prove
worthy of her as well, my lady’s husband.’
“Then,
having no more time to spare on the affairs of the heart and the
imponderabilities of fate, Clairbold spurred on Cinantero and rode on down
the path, followed quickly by Oggod who cried out, ‘Master, tell me what
you have seen, I beg you! Is it a giant? Or is it another foe?’
“Clairbold
answered, ‘Look beyond the hill over there, good servant. What do you
see?’
“Oggod
needed a while to reply, having to adjust his own glance to the direction
his master had indicated, and then to search his blank mind for the
meaning of what his eyes detected. ‘I see a cloud, Master, that is all.
Are not clouds ordinary things of no concern?’
“’They
are if the sky is gray with them, or if they are the white pillows of the
heavenly gods,’ Clairbold explained calmly, ‘but not if it is a single
cloud as dark as the night, in turmoil from a stormy wind I cannot feel. I
have never seen a cloud like this, wherefore it might be a menace,
conjured up by evil.’
“’Evil
like the foe you have told me of? The Wizard?’
“Clairbold
agreed, ‘It is possible. The Wizard has taken many shapes, and many a
minion of his was sent to keep me from fulfilling my duty to my lady. But
do not fret yet, good servant, for the cloud might not prove dangerous. We
have to look more closely to find which side it owes service to, if
any.’ Although his words, full of purpose and conviction, were enough to
appease Oggod’s mind, the knight’s own heart was beating faster,
invigorated by the thought of engaging the Wizard once more, a fiend so
vile that his name was not mentioned even by a soul as brave as Clairbold.
“Measuring
the pace of his horse closely, as much as he controlled his heart – for
every knight knew well that the hurried warrior is one who calls the
Messenger of Death -, Clairbold rode on, not resting his eyes on his
surroundings, no matter how lush the forest grew, how merrily birds raised
their songs and cavorted in the air. No, his gaze was riveted to that
cloud beckoning him onward, over the meadowed hill, to the valley that lay
beyond.
“To
his agitated heart, eternities seemed to pass, during which Clairbold
practiced swordstrokes in his mind – a habit that had proven fortunate
on many an occasion, for it strengthened his mind and taught his hands to
be ready for combat.
“’Master,’
Oggod asked when they were about to reach the crest of the hill, ‘the
cloud is riding low in the sky. Does a cloud rain its own substance to the
ground, rather than drops of water?’
“’It
does not, good servant,’ Clairbold replied instantly, for he had also
noticed that parts of the dark cloud seemed to detach all the while from
the mass in the sky and drift downwards. ‘Ready your staff, for you
might have need of it to defend yourself.’
“Oggod
cried out, ‘Defend myself? Master, since I am your servant, as you have
told me, I must have sworn an oath to be as faithful a companion as I can,
wherefore I must aid you in your assault rather than stay behind. Why, I
might as well have stayed with Widargelt and listened to his happy
songs!’
“Clairbold
halted his horse for a moment, raised his visor to scrutinize his
companion with cheer exalting his heart. How much he valued the River of
Forgetfulness now that he found how deep honor and bravery dwelled in his
servant! Truly, he could not ask for a better man by his side than Oggod.
Not knowing what danger awaited, armed only with an oaken staff – one
that Oggod’s stubby fingers could barely clasp safely -, he was willing
to aide his master in every respect. ‘Good servant,’ Clairbold raised
his hand in salute, ‘you make me feel proud. You have earned yourself
the governorship of a whole island, and I hereby pledge myself that upon
our vanquishing of the Wizard, Clairbold of Amaldis shall do his best to
see you rewarded in that manner.’
“Moved
by the severity of the knight’s words, Oggod lowered his head.
‘Master, surely my words do not merit such a pledge. Indeed the oath I
must have sworn requires me to do so, wherefore no reward is needed save
the knowledge of accomplishing the good deed.’
“’Dear
Oggod,’ Clairbold said to that, ‘while you hold true to the oath you
speak of, I shall be no less true to mine own pledge. But now – let us
ride on and see whether the cloud yonder is for ill or not!’ With those
words, the knight resumed his ride, and soon their horses reached the top
of the hill, granting them the long view down into a valley that seemed
little different from the one they left behind.
“The
difference lay in the presence of a small village, with the road cutting
through its peaceful lodgings, the walls of mortared stones – such as
could be found in nature, in nearby quarries -, the thatched roofs well
maintained, gardens behind each house with their crops in full bloom, the
gaiety of their colors good for lifting the heart of the dourest soul.
“Yet
that was merely what the village must have looked like in the morning, for
now it was devastated by the cloud’s offspring, dark shapes that
infested each of the houses, tearing off the thatching, to reach the
stones beneath. Clairbold breathed deeply, now that his eyes could see the
black shapes more clearly, while Oggod gasped, ‘Master, those are no
clouds! Those are creatures! Much like the birds of the forest, but –
Master, are they made of stone?’
“Clairbold
nodded, while he unsheathed his mighty sword, letting the sun grace the
gleaming metal of Vanquisher. ‘These are rockbirds, born of the spewing
mountains of the northern lands, imbued with life by dark Shenaumac. Some
grow as large as a mountain themselves, and when they die are often
mistaken for a natural range. Fortune rides by our side, for these are
still young. Look, the largest only measures the size of an oxe, and I am
sure my blade may still cleave its body. Yet, dear Oggod, you cannot aide
me in this task for your staff would splinter on a rockbird’s hide. Take
care instead of yonder villagers who gape at the destroyers of their
homes, tell them that a knight has come to drive away the rockbirds, lest
they attempt foolishly to do so with their own meager weapons.’
“Clairbold
did not wait for his servant’s nod, nor for Oggod to fulfill the task
set him, instead the knight rode Cinantero forward into the midst of the
deserted village, to meet the rockbirds with the steel of Vanquisher. His
visor shut, his breath caught warm in the helmeted confines, his heart
afire with the prospect of battle, Clairbold entered the village.
“Yet
his heart’s desire found little room to blossom, for few of the
rockbirds were within reach of his sword. The knight swung the steel, with
the might of his arm behind it, but again and again Vanquisher met only
the stone of the walls rather than that of the rockbirds’ skins. Only
occasionally a rockbird was careless enough to let a talon rest too low on
a house, or a feathered back. Then Vanquisher would bite the rockbird,
chip off stone, to little effect, not rewarded by squawk or squirm, nor by
any blood that might be contained in the stone bird. Beaked faces of
supreme hideousness gazed down at the mounted knight, their gnarly brows
and malformed cheeks having little of the likeness of a bird, yet neither
that of any other creature that Clairbold had encountered in his journeys.
Their beaks were short and stubby when compared with the length of the
body, though in close proximity their size seemed immense, no less so when
they ground pieces of stone and rock between their edgy halves. Eyes built
for glowering crimsonly from their all-encompassing bulbous globes set
high on their skulls, wings made of feathers as rocky as their body, yet
smooth and shiny like polished granite.
“’Engage
me, foul beasts!’ cried Clairbold and raised his sword high over his
head, Vanquisher’s edge no longer as gleaming as before but growing dull
from encountering rough stone.
“The
rockbirds did not heed his command, while they continued to devour the
village’s stones, to greedily swallow the rocks, the mortar crumbling
from their beaks.
“Frustration
ravaging his soul, Clairbold had to leave. His shoulders heavy with guilt,
the knight rode out of the village, accompanied not even by a triumphant
shriek but only the noise of the rockbirds’ stony meal. Gathered near
the road were the people of the villagers, their faces dulled by their
hope evaporated when Clairbold could not free them from the assault of the
rockbirds. One raised his voice to shout, ‘What manner of knight are you
that you cannot fight a flock of birds?’
“’Quiet,
peasant!’ interjected Oggod loudly from the perch of his horse. ‘What
do you know of fighting? Do you know how to hold a sword? Have you braved
the rockbirds yourself?’
“’I
would have,’ the villager retorted in anger, ‘if you had not sung the
praise of your knightly master.’
“Clairbold
opened his visor again. ‘Good man, you would have fared no better than I
have. The rockbirds do not notice even a chipped talon, what would they
worry about a pitchfork bending on their backs?’
“’So
say you!’ the villager cried and hefted the fork he had leaning against
his back. ‘I will have the rockbirds’ words on this account and
measure them against yours, Knight!’
“Ready
he was to run towards the village, yet none of the other peasants seemed
similarly decided, and one – his hair grayed, his beard long and kempt
with tender care – raised his hands before asking, ‘Master Knight,
will the stony birds destroy only our houses? I have seen you ride through
their swarm unopposed. Here you are unharmed, despite your own attack on
their lives. Do the birds not care for flesh?’
“Clairbold
shook his head. ‘It seems to be as you say. From my teachings, I cannot
say for certain, for my curriculum did not offer more than a few lessons
on beasts as rare and unfamiliar as these.’
“’Then,’
the bearded man concluded, ‘our lives are in no danger. Our homes are
destroyed, but we can rebuild once the birds are sated.’
“The
first man turned towards the second villager, shook his pitchfork
furiously as he said, ‘All our possessions destroyed? All our tools
gone? How will we rebuild? How shall we bring in the harvest? As if that
were not enough, you cannot trust the knight’s words, not when he
himself admits that he does not know much of rockbirds. No, I say, we
fight and we save our village!’
“A
discussion ensued in which most if not all the villagers took part. It
would only be a tedious affair for the reader if we were to retrace all
the cries sent hither and yonder, every comment, and every gesture. Let us
just say that none of the villagers could decide on a course of action,
adding to the frustration of Clairbold who, hearing the noise of
destruction behind him, could not offer any saving alternative.
“It
was then that Oggod moved his horse closer to his master and asked, in a
tone of naïveté born of his forgotten memories, ‘Master, why do the
rockbirds not eat the dirt of the ground? If they appreciate the stone in
the buildings, they should also find sustenance in earth for it is much
like stone, is it not?’
“Clairbold
could only shrug. ‘The dirt and the mud, good servant, are not stone.
They are what remains of the trees, of the plants, and of the beasts of
the land.’
“’Oh,’
replied Oggod and furrowed his brow. ‘Then they do not like the taste of
dirt?’
“Sometimes
it can be the simple words that cause the greatest epiphanies. It was so
now when Clairbold listened to Oggod’s deduction, spoken from a mind
nearly as fresh as a newborn babe’s. ‘Ingenuous Oggod!’ he said
proudly. ‘You have found the solution to our quandary! Quick, you
villagers, listen to me! My servant has found a way to rid you of the
rockbirds, but we need your aid in this endeavor.’
“The
first villager, belligerent as before, answered, ‘The way is clear,
Knight, it is the way of the weapon!’
“’No,’
contradicted Clairbold, ‘it is the way of the peasant who tills the
ground. Gather what shovels you have rescued from your homes, and what
else you have to lift dirt and fling it on top of the houses. That will
sour the taste of the fine stone in the buildings, to the displeasure of
the rockbirds.’
“His
conviction restored, the villagers could not help but obey as fast as his
words reached their ears, since the knight had recovered their hopes and
granted them new faith in salvation. A short while later the villagers,
led by Clairbold and trusty Oggod, returned to their homes, armed with a
peasant’s tools for a battle that might have led many a knight to cry
hot tears of shame, for no blood was shed, no cries of war were shouted
– unless the worksong sprightly raised might be counted -, and not
clean, gleaming steel fought the combat yet weak iron and cloth. The
former dug dirt from the ground of the gardens behind the houses, the
latter – fashioned into slings – thrust their earthy load upwards, to
shower over their own homes, and also the homely winged creatures.
“Clairbold
felt no shame when he watched the villagers work, instead joy and proud
relief when the rockbirds now shrieked in alarm as the dirt, some of it
still moist from an early morning’s rain, hit them and found its way
into their beaks. Some shook themselves, tried to disgorge whatever of the
substance they had swallowed, to no avail.
“An
hour passed, with the toil continuing, but the sweat was well rewarded
when over the course of that hour, one rockbird after another lifted off
the devastated houses to rejoin their fellows circling in the air above.
Fewer and fewer flew down, and only two or three thought of attacking the
villagers who soiled their food. In those instances, it was Clairbold who
came to the defense, reliable Vanquisher finally finding its long-sought
occasion to prove its worth once more.
“Then,
finally, the last of the birds had taken to the skies, screaming its
disappointment over the meal made unappetizing. Accompanied it was by the
cheers of the villagers who, although their village had suffered serious
damage, had won a victory over the terrible beasts and now, with new-found
pride, could engage in the rebuilding.
“’See,
Master,’ Oggod told Clairbold soon after, ‘a noble soul such as you
can always find a way to best a foe.’
“Clairbold
shook his head. ‘No, dear Oggod, in this case it was you who came upon
the solution. Perhaps your own peasant roots, though currently forgotten,
have guided your thoughts, while my nobility precluded me from seeing this
option. But now, let us return to Widargelt and take up our path
again!’”
Hrolfwald
Demrodd, the Keroullian Dove
(from Chapter XXXI of his book “Of the Ambling Knight Sir Clairbold of
Amaldis”, first published in 3019 A.E.; excerpt from the 3123 A.E.
edition by Colmar Lalsass of Mewtzig, Ibrollene, Warden of Hrolwald’s
Estate)
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