A dark, grim, night it was that Jorthel bestrode. The fog hung low, wreathing the fields and trees in a heavy shroud. A cloak of foreboding. A blanket of fear. A quilt of terror.

Jorthel knew that this was the time -- the night was right, the heart was strong, and his ill-stubbed toe no longer throbbed as it had as an unwelcome reminder of the recent sausage harvest.

Sheep cowered in the ditches, huddled up to the hedges, seeking shelter from an unseen enemy. They would have something real to hide from yet this eve, but their foe was to them unknown.

An unki, grimi nacht et wä tes Jorthel biredh. Te nöbelt hong léhe, und joldeckta te feldes und baames int an ghébi sleyr. An mantel ew wivoryafohlin. An üladeck ew fare. An deckbet ew ängüt.

Jorthel kännta tes et wä te üdrist -- te nacht wä drüchi, te herta wä sterk, und eü wiklafti tä dogta na mor lauk et äraa és an nanwillkümni harepemat ete deletüt üdas’ü sosiskhef.

Ofise tintkriüpta inte dïkes, tüzempressi ï te hegyes, und sochta hlë wrun an nanvisi fiand. Temt avon anstes werkilauk ’e ghüden wrun e te vaind, no temtü fiand wä ï itemt nankänni.

Tidings had reached the townsfolk that an evil wind blew in the north, a malodorous gust of discontent and treachery. Something was afoot, and pleasant it was not. Hence, the market aldermen had sought Jorthel betimes, he being the noble knight and servant of the borough. They besought him to give ear to the concerns of the folk, that this terrible vileness would not descend upon them. And thus they began to recount the tales of woe from the lands and towns downriver in the great plain. It was not the King’s evil or some other plague that had driven brave thanes to tears and sages to dribbling, nor had a monster breathing smoke and brimstone devoured the livestock, as had occurred before. This was yet worse, and only Jorthel could save. A band of vicious, unprincipled, minstrel dwarves had arisen from afar, wandering the land, wreaking pillage and carnage, and causing umbrage and sewage. Further, these had seized the daughter of King Ælvard, the beautiful Princess Anadina, and reportedly were now torturing her cruelly by singing discordant roundelays and plucking lutes in an aggressive manner. Their weak-heart cowardice was plain, for they were no tutored music men, but tone-deaf, and they knew not beat from beat.

The aldermen, worry-heavy and weary with fear, addressed the honoured knight.

"Jorthel," quoth the clanchief, "we know thee to be strong of heart and shiny of hair. We have seen thy swordcraft, how thou struck down ten thousand mice in one night. Thy skill with the quarterstaff we know well, and thy wisdom in the unblocking of the drains with it has been beheld by us all. Gold cannot buy thy hands for battle, nor silver, but honour and tribute we must offer thee. Now, we beg thee, go up and rescue our king’s child, the fair maiden-princess, for it has been reported that these foul fellows who presently detain her can not carry a tune, e’en were it handle-blessed."

Jorthel stood, the firm soil-floor yielding little to his mighty frame. Giving a nod of honour to the silver-headed clanchief, he began:

"Respected ones of this great borough, you have the knowledge that --"

Then stopped Jorthel at part breath, gasping, choking, pawing at his mouth, ill-spitting, his eyes sending anguish-torrents down his well-carved face.

And then it was all over.

"I swallowed a fly," he explained.

The mighty knight raised himself from the ground where he had fallen stricken. As he brushed the dirt from his sackcloth leg-warmers and wiped his tear-streaked cheeks with a gauntlet of mail, Jorthel recalled to his mind the tournament at distant Ulbern Castle where he had first beheld the young Princess Anadina, some three winters before.

Clad in robes of white she was, and he in battle-ready attire, yet through his shield, breastplate, mail-coat and unpleasantly itchy woollen vest Jorthel could feel the maiden’s smile pierce his valiant heart. He had been slain, yet still he breathed. Against such a keenly sharpened sword his armour was no defence. Although thus wounded, he stepped forward with knightly poise to kiss the fair Anadina’s hand, trod on his mace, and fell.

All this had come to pass years before, but even now, as he stood before the market aldermen and clanchief, Jorthel could hear the echoing laughter of the princess as she gazed down upon him in the mud, his visor jammed tightly shut and immovable, his body twisted with pain and embarrassment. Now he knew that the journey to the lowlands was needed -- to unsheathe the sword against the savage minstrel dwarves, to deliver the damsel, to recover his reputation as a knight and servant of the people, and to pinpoint the dreadful squeak in his boot which had troubled him for these past four months.

Jorthel spoke again. "To meet this menace I am willing," he said. "I will go."

Dilt righaa te tätfulz tes an uvili wint blo inte nüd, an wireüksemi winttod ew nanïfreth und förrad. Anstes wä ax te possin, und temi et na wä. Jink, te marktradates sokaa Jorthel biüdas, és e wä t’ethelknucht und serfat ete börgwïk. Tem haprata ie ’e yiben aure ï te sorges te fulz’ü, tes te reklauk léhenas eri na tintzovaton ohn item. Und zo tem köminta taltallen böya wé wrun te lantes und tätes tintflët inte grauti ivnes. Et na wä te köizsiuch ë ans uthi plaga tes drïfaa daapi theyanes ï tajres und wïsares ï rinin, n’ë an monter tes otethemta rauk und swelf mestaa opt te fia, lauk possaa vorvor. Te tes eri wä éfen wirso, und veln Jorthel zochta reden. An benda ew brutali, yiwütanmönösi, ministreltwörges optkümnaa wrun ot te ferth, und wondräta te lant; tem wrakta plunderin und slachtin und jorta ergorin und abflatin. Obertes, tem grïpaa te töchtar te Köiz Älvard’ü, te ohni Prinsït Anadina, und sedzi vort’nü qualta yimén ies met singin ew witemi rondlédhes und pinsin ew lütes int an agressivi wäi. Temü wekherti laavit wä klér, vor tem na wä wel-ïkauji musikmonnes, no wä tohn-däf, und tem na kännta mëtsläja wrun mëtsläja.

Te redates, sorg-ghébi und fatiji met fare, hasprük t’eöri ethelknucht.

»Jorthel,« seta te tamfertmonn, »ven wït tes the jist sterk ew herta und anin ew hïr. Ven visave theü swerdhkenth, wau the trek tint temzathmild müse wïl aunt nacht. Theü slaksteftalenta ven känne wel, und theü wïsnas met te nanbistopin ete abflates met iet jistave obzerfi ük ié iven. Gold na zicht büyien theü hantes vor slak, n’ë selber, no eör und hilda ven mot biaden ithe. Jüji, ven bid ithe, alyë opt und bifriyë venü köiz’ü kente, te ohni mazath-prinsït, vor et jistave bihali tes tem fuili zereles wi opthü vort’nü ies na zicht parten an melodi, n’éfen eöx et jiston huel-zeyeni.«

É Jorthel stü te vërdi muld-flur optprochta minik ï eü meyti forma. E yeb an eör-knick ï te selber-chadofi tamfertmonn und köminta:

»Respekti ete grauti börgwïk eri, yen ave te kännaton tes --«

Zo endita Jorthel ax parsk ethem; e haachta, stikta, pödha ax eü muth, wirflëkta, eü iys zand pohnan-flohdes tint eü wel-krevi fas.

Und necht et wä endii.

»Me slechta an wol«, e h’otklérta.

Te meyti ethelknucht rës eyi wrun te sümel au e follaa trekan. É e brustha te fuilth ab eü sekkléth lügwärmates und wïfta eü tajr-bitrëki zaakes met an maliahantün, Jorthel zaraap ï eü yamunth te turn ax feri Ulbernkestra au e visaa vor t’aunt te yungi Prinsït Anadina, äl thren vantes vorvor.

Kledhi int raubes ew vïsi es wä, und e int slak-réd wäd, e pu eü skeld, braustplatne, maliamantel und nanohnyinim-jockin ülani unterjamth Jorthel zochta fohlen tes te mazath’ü strel pustük eü daapi herta. E jistaa optslüjan, e e h’ethemta aquzü. Kontraja soch an hi-biarpi swerdh eü vërdin wä na hlë. Tügo zo wöni, e stapta vorand met etheli huin vor kessyen te ohni Anadina’ü hant, tradh ohn eü mass, und fell.

Ié soch possaa ans yuras vorvor, no éfen jüji, é e stü frän te marktradates und tamfertmonn, Jorthel zochta hüaren te dëklenkin hlaka ete prinsït é es stärta tint ohn ie inte mod, eü viziar klami thit kläzi und nanwäirlauk, eü yod würpan met pohn und bilöna. Jüji e wüt tes te räiz ï te nithrilant wä beni -- vor nanbiédhen te swerdh kontraja te wëstani ministreltwörges, vor bifrien te mazath, vor zakäven eü rohp és an ethelknucht und serfat ete fulz, und vor oppositäen smelan te reklauk piyp int eü stivel wist steöraa ie wïl te prïghi vour mantes.

Jorthel sprük dëvö. »’E kontren te drey me jist willin«, e seta. »Me ald alen.«

And so it was that as the melting sun fell in the west, and the welkin darkened from blood-red to slate, and the evening gloom spread in the land, Jorthel readied himself for the journey. He bade a strong new shield be brought for him, and this the aldermen willingly arranged. They honoured him with speech and verse, and then Jorthel girt on his sword and departed, limping slightly as the finest warriors always do. His battle helmet he let remain at his house, the visor still jammed shut.

The craved voyage would not be swift, for it would be on foot. Jorthel’s good and trusty steed, Klop, was lately struck with the much-feared quinsy; along with the aged stallion’s gout and his rotten teeth, this caused him to be of little use. Well though Jorthel knew the Jameldic fathers’ proverb -- "Better a lame horse than a dead one" -- he felt that to ride Klop would be to take the saying far too literally. The destination was many hundreds of miles to the north, in the great marshes far beyond Ulbern. Only by walking through the night would Jorthel be able to complete the journey before winter fell. Regrettably, this meant that he would have to sleep all day.

Und zo et wä tes é te maltin sonnen fell inte vest, und te wulken biunkta wrun blodhröti ï skïfsténgrei, und te vaindtrohb sprïdha inte lant, Jorthel rédha eyi vor te räiz. E béd an strani nüaw skeld isten prochti vor ie, und soch te radates prochta yere int ördern. Tem eörta ie met spräk und dicht, und zo Jorthel gurdhta ohn eü swerdh und föralta; e mankta anstes, lauk te fïnüt urrates äre zë. Eü slakhelm e lavta pustaren ax eü homze, te viziar kläzi aquzü.

Te bilanki räiz na jiston naw, vor et jiston met pödü. Jorthel’ü gut und traui rïdjors, Klop, wä trekan te deletüt üdas’ü met te weth-fari kinanché; met t’eldani hanks’ü jight und eü wiroti dantes, et jorta ie na ’e isten nädi. Tügo Jorthel kännta wel te Jamelväthares’ü paptel -- »An laami jors’st guto as an dod’ an« -- e fohlta tes ’e rïden Klop jiston ’e huen te säirel äl té steflauk. Te til wä wëth auntert mïles ï nüd, inte grauti meries fer förober Ulbern. Veln eöx e h’anvülon pu te nacht zochta Jorthel aaen te räiz vorvor vante follon. Et jist ghrülauk tes et méyanta tes e moton lipen wïl te jüteli däi.

A dark, grim, night it was that Jorthel bestrode. The fog hung low, wreathing the fields and trees in a heavy shroud. A cloak of foreboding, the usual sort of thing. Jorthel knew that this was the time -- the night was right, the heart was strong. Sheep cowered in the ditches, huddled up to the hedges, seeking shelter from an unseen enemy.

Jorthel pressed on into the night, alone and silent, but for the steady "squeak ... squeak" of his boot.

Suddenly, a sound to curdle the strongest blood broke the eerie still of the meadows. It was a scream and yet a laugh, the desperate cry of a beast losing its mind. Then, a dull pounding, a dreadful beat of guideless feet, a blow of harsh breath, and Jorthel turned, horrified, to see its twisted face rushing at him, cruel teeth flashing, spit-froth flying from its mouth, eyes of madness, ears wildly flailing. He reached for his sword, but it was too late, for it was upon him swiftly and then gone.

As he lay on the ground, painfully gasping his last breath, Jorthel realized he had been run over by a rabid donkey.

An unki, grimi nacht et wä tes Jorthel biredh. Te nöbelt hong léhe, und joldeckta te feldes und baames int an ghébi sleyr. An mantel ew wivoryafohlin, t’ütighi sort ew tes. Jorthel kännta tes et wä te üdrist -- te nacht wä drüchi, te herta wä sterk. Ofise tintkriüpta inte dïkes, tüzempressi ï te hegyes, und sochta hlë wrun an nanvisi fiand.

Jorthel pustü vorand intï te nacht, älan und til, otvor te pustarani »piyp ... piyp ...« ew eü stivel.

Innü, an klenk tes zochta kéen te sterküt blodh bruk t’ängi til ete gaslant. Et wä an rë und e an hlak, te bitwivéli chrij ew an besta ax te pirdin ew etü yamunth. Necht, an dempi bonzin, an reklauk släja ew lïdhmönös pödüs, an blaja ew herdi ethem, und Jorthel wendha, deszeti, und vista etü würpan fas haasten ax ie, grusemi dantes ax te lechtin, flëk-äum ax te wülin wrun etü muth, iys ew sensiuchnas, aures ax te wingin wild. E righta vor eü swerdh, no et wä té la, vor et wä ohn ie naw und necht ali.

É e lö ohn te sümel und haachta met pön eü delet ethem, Jorthel bistü tes e jistaa obertrekan ük an dhulwohtriki aasel.

Some weeks later, the cowardly minstrel dwarves released the princess, having run out of tunes to play badly.

When the tale of Jorthel’s sad but noble demise was later recounted to her, she laughed so heartily that she nearly spilt her ale.

Ans wöktes pas, te laavi ministreltwörges laasta te prinsït, és tem binütighaa ew melodis ’e otlïdhen erg.

Wen te tal ew Jorthel’ü traui no etheli untergäl wä bihali pasand ï ies, es hlakta so hertaa tes es bi wiyat esü ala.