In Which Tragedy Strikes Immediately

It turned out that the prince’s home city of Bloodroot was far, far away, because nothing is ever easy. To reach his castle, we would have to traverse the Klinghorn Mountains, plot a course through the Goochi Desert, navigate the gloom of the Mines of Mupplecock, and cross the Sea of Pìss (pronounced peace).

I sat by the fire reading the route on the map, shaking my head in disbelief. We had made camp for the night just off the Great Valley Road, down a slim ravine away from the main causeway. Bandits prowl the roads at night, and those travellers keen to avoid being skewered stay well away once the god of night squats over the land.

“How goes it, Sire?” bellowed my twat of a captain.

“Hush, you fool!” I shout-whispered, as the echoes of his question faded away. “Bandits roam these hills.”

Edgar shrugged and lay on his back, staring up at the stars. Dedmìht was reading quietly and gnawing on a chicken thigh. Glob was sat opposite me, whittling a small wooden statue. She never seemed to stop scowling. It was a wonder her young face wasn’t craggy with wrinkles already.

“Stable girl – Glob, was it?”

She looked at me blankly. “Aye.”

“Interesting name, ‘Glob’.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. T’is a comical nickname.”

“Eh?” said the stable girl, pausing her whittling.

“What is thy real name? The name thine parents gave to thee.”

“Er. Glob.”

“Thy parents dubbed thee ‘Glob’?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Heavens.”

Glob shrugged and went back to her carving. The fire crackled gently.

“Whomst be that statue in the image of, Glob?” I enquired.

“Wot?” came her most uncivilised reply. Peasants, honestly.

“Sweet stable-tender, what is thine divine whittling given to represent?” I enunciated. “What is it?”

“Uh, it’s meant to be me Dad. I’m going to use it to pray for hi-“

“Oh how lovely. Here lieth the issue, Glob. Our fire is dying, and we have no wood of which to speak. So, if thou would kindly be a good sport,” I said, nodding towards the fire pit.

Glob frowned at me a moment, which was impressive because she was already frowning to begin with, then remembered her place and, with a sigh, tossed her carving into the flames.

I laid back, laced my fingers behind my head, and closed my eyes. The high-burning fire toasted my royal feet.

*****

We were attacked by bandits in the night but I slept through it all.

*****

We left the Great Valley Road the next morning and began the long, winding trail into the Klinghorn Mountains. I had seen the mountains previously on a map and several watercolour paintings, however they were considerably larger in real life. As we stood at the foot of the infamous range, looking up at the sheer snowy peaks that shanked the clouds a thousand feet above, I couldn’t help but shudder. I hadn’t thought to bring warm clothes. I wasn’t even wearing socks.

Our bold quartet began the ascent into the clouds after a brief stop off for sandwiches and mead. Edgar skimped on the sandwiches and indulged rather gaily in the mead, and was soon roaring drunk as we wound around the mountains. The views were some of the finest I have ever witnessed, and gazing out across the Klinghorns my heart swelled with joy. Truly, the peaks were beyond words, and so I shall not bother attempting to describe to you. Suffice to say, they were really, really nice.

Our crossing was slow and uncomfortable; my royal thighs were chafed to kingdom come from being spread unusually wide in order to sit atop my plodding great sow. I was practically doing the splits, so impossibly rotund was my porcine companion. It mattered not. Every gentle vortex of powdery snow that danced by on the breeze took the form of my queen. My resolve was unshakeable, my love was true. I would save my beloved, no matter how nippy my toes got, and no matter what perils did await.

That evening, Edgar and I finished the rest of the mead as we camped out upon an icy ledge. Glob slept soundly, understandably tired after having to run up the mountain behind us all day. Dedmìht stood away from the fire’s light, keeping a stoic vigil for approaching enemies. A thousand feet below, the gloom-soaked branches of the evergreen forest were ruffled by the low evening winds.

Edgar had been as drunk as a hedgehog all day, and as the mead clouded my own mind, he managed to coax me into a jaunty sing-along by the fire. We managed two verses of the old hymn ‘I’ll Wager Thou’d Strike a Faire Visage upon the Ballroom Floor’ when, from nowhere, a monstrous avalanche swept over us with the explosive force of a hundred slightly smaller avalanches.

Edgar and I were fortunately protected from the worst of the pummelling, nestled as we were beneath a precipice. The thundering snows were cruel to Glob however. The stable girl had had the sense to tether herself to the cliff side, but was consequently flung to and fro amid the snow like spider in a gale. However, we were not all so lucky.

Dedmìht! O, poor, sweet Dedmìht, so handsome of face and pure of spirit, Dedmìht, who had not even had the chance to utter a single sentence or enjoy any character development whatsoever, was swept instantly to his doom, a mile below.

You see? I warned you not to get attached to him. I saw it with my own eyes; he was there one moment and gone the next. His final utterance was a kind of “Oof” noise, as a thousand tons of frozen water clobbered him over the cliff edge. Our perilous quest had claimed its first life.

After the snows had stilled, I rose shakily to my royal feet and, as is only fitting upon the tragic obliteration of a companion, began a bellowing, heartfelt poem in his honour. I titled it ‘Ode to Dedmìht’.

O noble Dedmìht,

How kind and gentle was thine smile,

O brave Dedmìht,

Thou didst ne’er-

But then my ode brought down another massive avalanche and buried us all.