The path leading towards the village of Stonybrook was treacherous and deceitful at times, as was often the case in the north country. The forests were thick and unruly, and the frequency with which one could happen upon a mountain or sudden steep incline made navigation cumbersome. Archibald was lucky his steed – Splash the regal – was stable on his feet. Another horse might have fallen and become limp several times over during their travel, but Splash was no ordinary horse.

“I think I spot the village ahead,” Archibald said aloud. He patted Splash gently with his gauntleted hand. “Be on your best behavior, friend.”

The horse neighed in response, but a note of frustration was definitely present.

Splash’s regal nature was rarely cause for concern, but on occasion, peasants took offense with it. They were not used to seeing an animal so proud – surrounded as they were by livestock and beasts of burden. It happened that farmers would approach Splash carelessly – not caring for proper introduction – and it also happened that Splash responded with the same sort of carelessness. Archibald had often found his coin pouch lighter after such encounters, and so it was easier for everyone involved if he reminded Splash that not everyone had his manners, nor appreciation for proper etiquette.

“We help everyone,” Archibald explained, continuing to pat the horse gently. “No matter their customs or status – as long as they show themselves willing to be helped. However, we cannot expect everyone to know how to behave around one such as yourself.”

Splash responded with a resigned neigh, and objected no further. The horse respected Archibald’s quest, and the knight was grateful for it.

The pair continued towards the stone houses in the distance, taking in the scenery and smell of food cooking that traveled through the air. As they got closer, the dense forest ceased and was replaced with open fields – the sound of laughing children echoed through the surroundings. The sun had been shining brightly today, but it did not seem to be a cause for celebration in the small village. Indeed, while peace and bliss was offered in multitude by the picturesque village, there was a note of despair in the breeze that could not quite be banished.

Ignoring that note, it was hard to believe that this village had any trouble at all considering the beautiful environment. In many ways, despite Archibald having never been to Stonybrook before, it reminded him of home. He had spent his first ten years of life in a village not unlike this one – happy and ignorant of the grim world that he inhabited. The thought soured whatever remained of his pleasant mood. His happiness had been taken from him. In the end, protecting that same ignorance he chastised his younger self for was his purpose in life. He did not want anyone else to suffer what he had suffered.

Before long Splash and Archibald had picked up a gaggle of children, all showing interest in the peculiar knight and his steed.

“Mister, mister…!” one of them shouted. “What a beautiful horse you ride.”

“Mister knight!” another joined. “Can we ride your horse? They never let us ride the ones in the village!”

Archibald smiled. “Ho, there!” he greeted them jovially. “I am afraid Splash is a destrier. He is not used to carrying anything but a knight.”

Several of the children giggled.

“Is he not strong enough?” a boy asked, his stomach protruding from underneath his shirt.

Archibald felt Splash stir underneath him. “Just ignore them,” Archibald whispered to his horse. “They are loud but harmless.”

Splash snorted, but kept his head high with pride.

Archibald turned his attention to the group of children – once more reminded of his own past, and the friends he had lost. “I am looking for your elder. Pray tell, where can he be found?”

The children all laughed and looked at each other nervously.

The boy with the big tummy once more was the one with enough bravery to speak. “Elder Hardwycke lives in the big house in the town square,” he said proudly. “He is my grandfather.”

“Is he now?” Archibald said, giving a small bow. “Judging by your stock, I gather he is a stately man, indeed.”

The boy placed his arms on his hips boastfully.

“Will you accompany me to see him?” Archibald ventured. “I understand you have had trouble with a troll?”

The children all looked at each other with anxious expressions.

“You’re here to kill the troll?” a young girl with braided hair asked.

“If he cannot be persuaded to leave, I might have to.”

The boy who was the grandson of the village elder looked at Archibald doubtfully. “Aren’t you too old to be a knight?”

“Nonsense!” Archibald exclaimed. “A knight can never be too old, because it is not the strength of body that matters, but strength of spirit.”

The children all giggled at this, seemingly temporarily assuaged.

“I will take you to my grandfather,” the boy said.

“Most gracious of you. Lead the way, young Hardwycke.”

The boy seemed to swell up at the mention of his last name in reference to the village elder and motioned for Archibald to follow.

The rest of the children dispersed quickly, once more caught up in their games.

“Are you really a knight?” the boy asked again.

“What makes you doubt me, young one?”

“It’s just—” He paused. “It’s just in all the tales Nana tells us, all the knights have blonde hair and are young and gallant.”

“Oh, oh,” Archibald laughed. “And I am not gallant?”

The boy shrugged, looking uncertain.

“You are right, child. I am no ordinary knight – I am a Spell Knight.”

Now in the village proper, the cracks Archibald had spotted earlier as he approached were even more apparent. The telltale signs of a village under duress manifested in uncertain glances and general distrust from the villagers. Archibald had seen it all before.

“A Spell Knight?” the boy asked, surprised. “Those aren’t real.”

“Agree to disagree,” Archibald said with a smile. “I consider myself quite real.”

The boy shook his head. “You’re a strange man.”

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me.” Perhaps Archibald had been fortunate in encountering the young lad to guide him. No one else seemed very willing to meet his eyes, much less greet him.

While the village was still pretty and picturesque, there was a great deal of pain present as well. On a hot day such as the one today, there should have been an ease in the air, but instead he only found tension. The stonehouses and the smokestacks that rose from the chimneys only highlighted the houses that stood empty – not a single soul to care for them.

“That’s grandfather’s house,” the boy said, pointing to a house with a sharp rooftop, once they crossed into the village square.

“Anything I need to know about Elder Hardwycke?” he asked.

“He likes to smoke his pipe,” the young boy offered.

“We have that in common,” Archibald said, as he dismounted.

With a heavy thud he landed on the soft dirt – his armor shifting, causing pain to shoot through his weary body. Once Archibald had been able to dismount with ease, but those days had passed. Now he felt like an invalid.

He sent a glance towards the boy who looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “It is rude to stare, boy,” Archibald said. “Run along now. I will see if I can solve this troll problem of yours.”

The boy responded with a nod and a shrug before he turned heel and ran in the direction of the other children’s laughter. Archibald stared after him, noting how the boy weaved through the stone houses, causing more than one villager to stop and shout after him in frustration. Had Archibald once been the same? He couldn’t remember.

He turned his attention to Splash, once more patting the steed calmly. “I will be back shortly,” he said in a low tone, ignoring the stares from the commoners that occupied the town square. “Do not cause trouble while I am gone.”

The horse snorted, but remained still. Archibald thought for a second whether it was worth the trouble of trying to convince the horse that it was better to remain tied to a post, but then decided against it. He had enough troubles – it was pointless adding a frustrated horse to the mix.

Instead he walked up to the Elder’s house and slammed the door twice, and with it, he announced the Spell Knight vow as he had many times in the past. “My name is Ser Archibald the Spell Knight. I am here about your troubles. If you want them solved, invite me into your abode and treat me to salt and bread. But if you would rather I leave you and your own, keep your door shut, and I shall bother you no further.” Then he took two steps back and waited in silence.

The words were practiced and had once been common in these lands. With the end of his order, these days they were not, and so Archibald did not expect the proper response. Neither did he receive it when the wooden door opened with a short whine, revealing a man several feet shorter than Archibald himself.

“Spell Knight?” Elder Hardwycke asked with a raised eyebrow, giving him the appearance of having lopsided features. “I did not know there were any of you left.”

At least he knew that the order had once existed. It warmed Archibald to know that hope was not yet lost.

“I am still standing, Elder, and as long as I am, my order perseveres.”

Elder Hardwycke maintained his skeptical expression as he examined Archibald up-and-down. With Archibald’s armor dirtied and tarnished by years of use, he was aware that on occasion his talents were underestimated. Those that did so did at their own peril, of course – Spell Knights were not renowned for their skills without ample cause.

“Do you have your sigil?” the Elder asked finally.

Archibald handed over the scroll – it too, much like Archibald’s armor, tearing and peeling with age.

Elder Hardwycke took it and inspected it with care. He looked up towards Archibald. “Truthfully, Ser Knight, I know not what to look for.” He handed the scroll back. “It has been many years since a Spell Knight made their way to Stonybrook.”

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Archibald accepted the scroll and gave a gracious bow. “It is a sign of years of peace, Elder. You should be proud that no brother or sister of mine has come here. It means your village has had strong leadership.”

“And yet here you stand,” the Elder muttered. “If monsters are a sign of poor leadership, then I suppose I am to be blamed?”

“Not at all. Even the most well-cared for field suffers from rot on occasion. It is up to the leader to make sure it does not happen often.”

“Hah,” Elder Hardwycke scoffed. “Very well. Enter, Spell Knight. You asked for bread and salt, and you shall have it.”

The house, warm but with a pleasant draft throughout, was without a doubt the largest in the village. That did not mean it was luxurious or in any way extravagant. Not at all. Archibald had seen many a lord’s house that flaunted wealth and this was not it. It seemed that while the village had done well for itself, it was by no means overflowing with coin.

“Take a seat by the fire, if you please,” Elder Hardwycke said. “Do you want tea with your meal, Ser?”

“Anything you can spare will be more than enough,” Archibald answered. He once more felt his knees creak as he seated himself on a bench next to the fire in the middle of the house.

“Then you shall have tea,” the Elder said, as he hurried around his abode. “We grow it ourselves – best in the north country.”

“I am humbled to taste it.”

Archibald sat in silence watching the Elder as he prepared food and tea for his visitor. It was a scramble he had seen before. It was reminiscent of a more civilized time – when he had been welcomed with open hearts wherever he traveled.

“I hear you have troll troubles,” Archibald said.

“Straight to business, eh?” the Elder asked. “I appreciate that – Stonybrook has suffered long enough.”

Archibald nodded. “How long have you been troubled by this creature, Elder?”

The Elder stopped in his preparation, his eyes looking towards the ceiling as if he was thinking. “Since winter? It appeared shortly after the Yule feast.”

“It does not surprise me,” Archibald said. “When the snow thaws they awaken from their slumber.”

“Have you experience dealing with trolls then?”

“Some,” Archibald admitted. “They are common in the north country, but even more common across the short sea – and I have been once or twice.”

“Ah. A well-traveled man. Perhaps it is to be expected from a Spell Knight.”

“Perhaps too well-traveled,” Archibald said, not without regret. “But that does not matter. Have you spoken to the troll? Do you know of its wishes?”

The Elder looked at Archibald, confused. “Spoken to it? I was not aware it could even speak.”

Death often bemoaned humanity’s unwillingness to ever take the simple path forward. Archibald supposed this was one of those times. Perhaps the conundrum could be solved with diplomacy after all.

“Trolls are not as stupid as their reputation implies,” Archibald explained. “They are hard workers and have a good sense of right and wrong. Their tolls help maintain both bridges and roads alike – we are often lucky to have them.”

The Elder removed the kettle from the fire and poured tea into a cup before handing it to Archibald. “You sound almost like you like the beasts, Ser,” Elder Hardwycke said with a scoff.

Archibald took a sip of the tea – it tasted marvelous. “Delicious, Elder. Best tea in the north country, indeed.”

The Elder smiled and nodded, displaying a pride that reminded Archibald of the man’s grandson. “Just wait until you taste our bread,” he said. “I have perfected the recipe for many decades.”

“I am honored to try it.”

Silence once more settled as Elder Hardwycke got to work procuring slices of bread with a thick spread of butter and slices of ham. “Here you go, Ser. Let no one say Stonybrook is without hospitality.”

“I will only speak well of your village wherever I travel, Elder,” Archibald said.

“Now, there is a matter of price,” the Elder said, seating himself opposite the Spell Knight. “We are not destitute, but I am no Duke either. What do you need for your services?”

“Spell Knights only ever ask for the same payment, Elder. We want one tenth of the wealth you produce every month. It is a fair bargain for solving your troubles.”

Elder Hardwycke grimaced. “One tenth you say? Sounds steep to me. Is there no alternative? No bargaining?”

Archibald considered the words. “There is one alternative, but the price is much higher than one tenth,” he said slowly. “I suggest you take my first offer. Spell Knights have no interest in causing your village harm, but the cost is written in our codex. We take the same tenth regardless of who we help – Lord or dispossessed.”

The Elder sighed. “Very well. When will you start? Will you bring me the beast’s head or how does it work?”

“I will negotiate with the troll first. It might be that its requests are reasonable. Fighting a troll is a last refuge – they are dangerous foes capable of killing even the most skilled warriors.”

“Surely it should be no match for a Spell Knight – regardless of your advanced years?”

“Even Spell Knights fall in combat, Elder. I urge patience. Show me where this troll rests and I will travel there today, before the sun sets, and talk to it. Negotiation is the quickest way to solve your troubles.”

The Elder grumbled. “It is not only a matter of expedience, Ser. We have lost many men to this troll. Many want vengeance – myself included. I want the beast to pay for its crimes.”

Archibald frowned. Perhaps he had been too hopeful. The scars the village carried had been plainly apparent to him, yet he had tricked himself into believing the issue could be solved easily. At Archibald’s age, he should have known better.

“I am here to solve the troubles in any way I can, Elder – that is my primary mission. Violence should only be directed towards the guilty, but if there is nothing to be done, then there is nothing to be done. However, I implore you to let me speak with it first.”

“You know best, Ser. Just know where our intentions lie,” the Elder answered, poking the fire with a distant expression.

It was already past noon when Archibald and Splash were on the road again and the sun was high in the sky – searing Archibald’s runed armor and causing sweat to build on the tattered rags underneath. His shield hung lazily to the side, as did his spear – both attached to Splash’s saddle. All in all, traversing that muddied path on top of his gallant steed, Archibald imagined he looked a true knight – and perhaps, if a passerby was feeling charitable, he might also have looked twenty years younger.

He watched his surroundings with interest – the forest once more gaining thickness as they moved further away from the village. Boulders also littered the landscape – large, gray and mossy, each one an egg unhatched. He pondered for a moment what would happen if they all awoke – the trolls would outnumber even the villagers. If the farmers had trouble with one troll, what would happen if they suddenly had to deal with a dozen?

Archibald was getting ahead of himself and he knew it. He needed to solve one crisis at a time, and he still believed there could be a peaceful resolution somewhere if he just concentrated hard enough to find it. Of course, the odds were stacked against him. Vengeance, he reflected, was a powerful concoction, and likely proof that if there had ever been a God, it had not much cared for humans. Archibald had tasted its bitter promise in the past, so he knew the allure, but he also knew that revenge promised nothing but more pain in plenty. Whatever amount you handed out, it would return in equal measure.

He shifted in the saddle feeling his armor move harshly over his tired shoulders. There had been a time when he had carried his plate with ease, but those days, like all the others, had passed. He was just happy his equipment still fit him, and that he was still strong enough to use his weapons.

Archibald patted Splash on the neck. “Be wary now,” he said softly. “Our troll might not be a sight to behold, but it has feelings nevertheless. I implore you to be respectful, but also keep your distance – they have been known to have a taste for horses.”

Splash cast a worried glance, but remained silent.

“Worry not, friend,” Archibald urged. “I will not let him harm you. As always, if there is trouble, save yourself first, and me second.”

The horse wouldn’t listen to his advice – it never did – but that did not mean that Archibald would not continue to try.

They progressed further until eventually the soft warbling of the river indicated that they were getting close to the bridge. For a moment Archibald considered arming himself with his spear – he would have to attach a pure iron tip and set it on fire to be any threat to a troll – but decided against it. There was a chance he could beat the creature in a contest of strength, but he would have preferred not to. He was an optimist in the end, and all crises could be solved with a sharp tongue, if one had enough persistence.

It did not take long until they spotted the arched bridge, built out of cobbled stone, and sturdy as if no amount of time would be able to best it.

Archibald dismounted Splash and took him by the lead rope as they cautiously made their way to the bridge. With only half a step taken onto the structure, a voice immediately echoed from underneath it.

“Who walks my bridge?” it echoed. “If you wish to pass, you must pay the toll.”

Archibald stood steadfast as he watched a green hand grab the side of the bridge as support, until the large face appeared next to it – a large bulbous pink nose with two massive mossy eyes on a gray face giving an appearance of an uncanny child.

“I have no qualms about paying your toll, friend,” Archibald responded. “But I have no wish to cross today.”

The troll looked at him – the creature was massive, much larger than any troll Archibald had ever seen before. It blinked twice before it responded. “Then why have you come?” it asked. “You are dressed as if ready for battle, but you carry no weapon. Have you come to test me?”

“I have not. I come on the behest of the village of Stonybrook – a hamlet but a stone’s throw away. They often use this bridge and have taken offense with your stewardship of it.”

The troll grated its teeth – small pebbles falling and plopping into the river below with the action. “My workmanship is of the highest order,” it said. “Can you not see that there is not a single crack in this bridge? Can you not see that the roads, while muddy, are well plowed and offer little resistance?”

Archibald nodded. He scratched his chin with his gauntleted hand as he considered how to proceed. “I see that,” he said. “But it seems their qualms are not one of your craftsmanship, but rather your hospitality.”

The troll frowned at this. “I am fair in my prices. This bridge needs coin to be maintained. I only ask for the minimum to repair and manage it.”

“That might be so, friend, but they find the price too steep regardless. Might it not be better to find a different bridge, closer to another village, where your workmanship and hospitality are better appreciated?”

“No.” The word echoed not unlike the sound of how a rock dislodges from a mountaintop.

“Why not?” Archibald countered. “There are thousands of bridges in this fair country. If your efforts are not appreciated, is it not easier to move?”

The troll looked at Archibald with curiosity on its face. It stood silent for what felt like several minutes before it spoke again. “Your armor,” it started. “It is carried by your finest warriors is it not?”

“It is called plate,” Archibald explained. “It is made out of steel and offers good protection even if it is at times unwieldy – many a knight has died from fatigue rather than an enemy’s blow within its metal confines.”

“Curious,” the troll said. “My kind never trusted metal, and yet I see some of my language engraved as runes on this ‘plate’ of yours.”

Archibald looked down at the runes that covered his torso and arms – each one pulsating faintly with a tint of blue. “‘Tis true – some of these runes come from your script. It offers me protection by giving me some of the strength you possess.”

The troll looked at Archibald solemnly. “And yet, if I picked you up, I could crush you within my grasp in seconds – your ‘plate’ would do nothing.”

“Such is your power, friend,” Archibald said, ignoring the discomfort he felt in his chest. He might not have been able to die from age, but a troll’s grip could end him quickly. “I will not contest your strength, but you would have to catch me first, if you wish to crush my bones.”

The troll laughed at this – not in a way that echoed evil, but rather ease and joviality. “I like you, little man. I will allow you to return to this Stonybrook and tell them that I forgive them for their mistake of angering me. I will not forbid them from crossing this bridge.”

Archibald shifted in his armor – while it usually fit like a glove, for some reason, at this moment it felt like he couldn’t quite fill it. “I am confused, friend. Why this bridge specifically? If you are not wanted here, why insist on staying?”

“This is my home,” the troll answered. “If they do not like my presence, why should I move and not them?”

It was a good question, Archibald supposed. “They have lived in this country for a long time,” he bargained. “While there are bridges aplenty, it is difficult to move several stone houses.”

The troll thought on this for a moment. “I do not remember them living here when I went to sleep,” it said. “So I must have lived here longer.”

Archibald had suspected this was the case. Trolls were of the old blood and had lived in this part of the world thousands of years ago – before any human ever touched foot on the island. Yet, they had disappeared, and in their absence, humans had taken their land. Archibald was not without sympathy – it was not unlike traveling for a period only to return home and find someone else living in your house, eating your food, and complaining about your presence when you questioned them about their behavior.

“Why this bridge you ask? It is because I was born in this river. I drank its water to nourish myself and grow strong. But when I went to rest, I must have slumbered too deeply to notice the passing seasons, and when I woke, I found a world changed.” The troll looked sad as it continued. “I will not move because this is my home, and it was my home long before this ‘Stonybrook’ ever existed.”

Archibald nodded. This was going to be tricky, just as he had feared.

“I will forgive these humans for their attacks, and for asking you to come and hassle me,” the troll said. “All they need to do is pay the toll.”

That was the crux of the issue, Archibald lamented. Few things mattered to humans more than coin.