The Tale of Sir Gnord and the Nibbly Fluff (abridged)

Once upon a time, in the golden age of chivalry, fair play and feudalism, there was a Knight who’s name was Gnord.

Brave Sir Gnord, as he liked to call himself, was Lord of Grendale, in the Kingdom of Ethel. Lord Gnord did not win his lands through bravery; he hadn’t even owned a suit of armour before he became Lord of Grendale. Nor did he attain his estate through popularity; old Gnord could barely raise a smile, let alone a band of loyal followers. In truth Sir Gnord was granted the lands of Grendale and the title that went with it because nobody else wanted the job. Every knight in the court of King Bifron was afraid to go to Grendale, because in Grendale there were monsters.

Grendale was a borderland so wild that much of it wasn’t even on the map. The earth was barren and farming was poor and the revenue from the taxes was hardly worth the trouble, but Grendale was the only thing that stood between Bifron’s kingdom and the Great Wastes, and the king knew that he must be seen to be in control of this region if he was to discourage the conquering forces of the Dark One. So he decreed…

“Whomsoever shall become Lord of Grendale shall be awarded 10,000 gold pieces per annum.”

There were no takers. So he further decreed…

“Whomsoever shall become Lord of Grendale shall be awarded 10,000 gold pieces per annum and my youngest daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Still no takers. And so he even further decreed…

“Whomsoever shall become Lord of Grendale shall be awarded 10,000 gold pieces per annum, my youngest daughter’s hand in marriage and a go in my fabulous golden carriage.”

At this Gnord stepped forward. He actually worked in the king’s Counting House and was not a knight, but he had always admired the king’s fabulous golden carriage.

“Your highness, if I may be so bold,” said Gnord, though he had never actually been bold in his life. “If no brave knight will come forth, then perhaps a humble accountant may  be called upon to save the day?”

And so it was that ‘Gnord the Money Counter’ became ‘Sir Gnord of Grendale’, faithul subject of Bifron the Methodical, King of the Ethelish.

The first thing Gnord did after receiving his knighthood was to go for a ride in the king’s fabulous golden carriage (which turned out to be less fabulous – or indeed golden – on the inside as it was on the out). The second thing Gnord did was build ‘Grendale Castle’; an imposing fortress with a huge tower. And from the top of this tower Gnord looked out over his lands, lord of all that he surveyed.

One day some peasants from the furthest border region came to his castle with desperate news.

“My Lord, my Lord. We have desperate news.” they said. “A Ferocious Fangtoothed Fargleblaster has come to Grendale and it is about to attack our village!”

Lord Gnord stood up and placed his hand on his hip as if to draw a sword. But when he held his hand aloft all that was in his palm was a telescope.

“Come peasants. To the tower.” he bellowed.

Sir Gnord – followed by his advisers, his priests, his bodyguards, his stylist and the peasants – slowly climbed the stairs to the top of the great tower. Gnord raised the telescope to his eye and peered southward to the borderlands. Gnord had built his castle as far from the border as possible, so in truth he would have needed a spy satellite rather than a spyglass to see the border (which, of course, wasn’t possible in a time when the stars were still little more than holes in the dome of heaven). But Gnord made a play of studying the far off horizon. For a moment or two he ummmed and for a moment or two more  he ahhhed. And then he boomed…

“Thou art mistaken peasants. That is no Ferocious Fangtoothed Fargleblaster.“ he declared, closing the shiny brass telescope with a sharp snap. “That is a Devilsome Thangaroo.”

Now on a scale of 1 to 10 (with ’10’ being a “Giant, hell-spawned, nine headed hydra with nine fire-breathing, fang-filled mouths and eighteen eyes that shine red like hot coals; which dribbles hot lava-snot from seventeen nostrils (one is blocked with some rather nasty black bogeys) all over you as it slowly tears into your flesh” and ‘1’ being a “mean, but small, barking dog”) a Devilsome Thangaroo would probably score a 7 or 8, whereas a Ferocious Fangtoothed Fargleblaster is more like a 9. So the peasants, being simple and loyal to a fault, were put at ease by this news.

“Thank you, oh wise and insightful Lord Gnord.” they bowed.

And so the peasants returned to their border village where they were promptly eaten by the Devilsome Thangaroo (which looked suspiciously like a Ferocious Fangtoothed Fargleblaster) along with their kith, kin and livestock.

The next day more peasants arrived at the castle with grim news.

“My Liege, my Liege. We have grim news.” they implored. “The Devilsome Thangaroo has now come to our village. And it looks mightily miffed!”

So Sir Gnord – followed by his advisers, his priests, his bodyguards, his stylist and the peasants – made his way to the top of the great tower and again raised the spyglass to his eye. This time he could make out a tiny black shape on the horizon, which he assumed to be the beast in question. It was moving among some tiny white squares, which he assumed was the village in question. For a moment or two he ummmed. For a moment or two  he ahhhed. Then he snapped the spyglass shut.

“It seems I was mistaken.” he declared.

The advisers, priests, bodyguards, stylist and peasants all gasped in unison; were they actually under attack from a Ferocious Fangtoothed Fargleblaster after all?

“What a fool of a tyrant I am.” contunued Lord Gnord. “That is no Devilsome Thangaroo, tis a Gargling Ganoot as I live and breathe.”

A Gargling Ganoot would have to be suffering from tooth ache to score higher than a 6.5 on our monster meter, so the peasants were delighted. With a spring in their step and a blush on their cheeks they returned to their village and to certain death.

Over the next few days peasants from villages that stood ever closer to the castle came and went; each reassured that the beast was not as terrible as they thought. What was once believed to be a Ferocious Fangtoothed Fargleblaster was downgraded each time the peasants paid a visit. One day it was a 5 point scoring Needlenosed Higglesniff, the next it was a Beastly Blattwort, which was barely a 4 by anyone’s reckoning.

As the creature inched closer to Grendale castle it became easier to see with the naked eye and Lord Gnord’s advisers began to ask questions.

“Sire, I may be wrong, but I’m sure that a Pitted Dragulsnuff does not stand thrice as high as a rowan tree.” said one.

“I’m quite certain that an Evilish Ugan cannot fit a horse AND rider in it’s mouth in one bite.” said another.

And so it went until Sir Gnord was forced to address his entourage…

“Dost thou think that it would be better to tell the peasants the truth? Would widespread panic and prayers really be preferable to an orderly death? Verily, I say unto you that truths should be spun like braies* in a washtub and then rolled through mangles until they better fit the desires of the wise and worthy. What need have the peasants for truth? I shall paint a world that gladdens the weak hearts of my people; not to misinform them, but to protect them!” bellowed Lord Gnord banging his fists on the castle’s large oak dining table. “Henceforth, any that question my judgement shall suffer the rack before feeling the bite of the executioner’s axe and my steel-clad boot up their never regions!”

So when a Nibbly Fluff (rated 1.5 on the monster meter) smashed down the outer walls of Castle Grendale, nobody mentioned the fact that a Nibbly Fluff should only have the strength of a spring lamb. Likewise when the Nibbly Fluff tore Sir Gnord’s personal bodyguard to shreds nobody took the trouble to point out that this particular Nibbly Fluff has monstrous claws rather than the usual mole-like paws of it’s brethren. And when the Nibbly Fluff flapped a pair of monstrous leathery wings – that it really shouldn’t possess – and took to the air – like it really shouldn’t do – nobody bothered to ask why a burrowing animal was floating high above their heads like a fart upon a breeze.

“I think it wants to play.” shouted an adviser as he slid down the monsters throat.

“So it would se…” said the stylist as it bit off his head.

Even when the monster breathed fire into the tower, making it glow like a bonfire log, nobody spoke out of turn. How could they? For every man and every beast but Lord Gnord himself was reduced to ash and ruination.

Presently the Nibbly Fluff stood before a cowering Sir Gnord pausing only to decide whether it wanted to eat him or light him up like a candle. It chose the latter. And as Gnord’s armour melted into his soft flesh; and as Gnord’s 10,000 gold pieces became a trickling yellow stream; and as Gnord’s last breath was sucked from his lungs by the heat of the Nibbly Fluff’s fearsome breath the knight said…

“Maybe I am mistaken after all? For I am sure that Nibbly Fluff’s are not known for their halitosis.”

THE END

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This is an abridged version of a story that will appear in a forthcoming project called ‘Tales for Our Times’. As such it can be copied, quoted, altered and generally plagiarised as anyone sees fit.

*A braies is a medieval undergarment.