For night after night, Alfric Danbrog lay in his father’s house, shuddering with fever. In his illness, he endured incoherent visions, few of which were pleasant. Fragmentary ghosts smeared his cheeks with heated honey, spiked his bones with splinters of steel and whispered inscrutable words of wisdom into his ears.
‘The best and worst,’ said one. ‘The best and worst of blades alik e know that blood will have blood and blood.’ ‘What?’ said Alfric.
And his mother, intruding upon this dialogue with delirium, said:
‘There now, there now. Lie back. Rest. Don’t worry. You’ll be all right.’
But Alfric was not all right.
He was mortally ill, and he was living in torment.
In fever he imagined himself become a zombie, enslaved by witchcraft; his drudgery it was to be a corpse yet have to shift black wood and water until his bones neared breaking point from the strain of labour. At other times, he thought himself mutilated, staring at the world with one eye solo; and so convincing was this delusion that he tried to pluck out his rotten eye with his groping fingers.
Then, in one rare episode of peace, his hallucinations took him into a wonderwolf of pastoral bliss. It seemed to him that he spent an entire afternoon on a mellow-misty lakeside lawn, watching the wings of a bird making tracks upon the water. Then dark raindrops fell, and storm drenched down, and Alfric’s world dissolved to water.
Then to fire.
He lived with fire and in fire, and watched fire consume the hush of a bird’s egg, the bird itself, the bird’s nest, the tree which held the nest, and then the world which held the tree.
Such was the heat of Alfric’s fever that he imagined himself to be that world-burning fire. Wide he swelled, then shrank, diminishing in strength and freedom until at last he found himself burning in the confines of the hearth of a great hall, listening to bold singers declaring the deeds of dragons and telling of salamanders lapped in flame.
Later, he thought himself one of those singers; and imagined he stood by that fire. While thus standing, he saw the deathblade Bloodbane bury itself in the blazing hearth. It hurt him to see that weapon shrivelling amidst the fire-fretted wood. So Alfric, loathe to see such many-splendoured death destroyed, reached for the weapon and took it by the hilt.
For a moment he held it.
Then the sword turned to an eel, which writhed in Alfric’s hand, wet and slippery.
Alfric reproved himself:
‘This must stop. For this hints of neurosis, and my bank account cannot withstand the assault of any ailment so expensive.’
Obediently, his mind abandoned neurosis for madness, and he found himself plunged into an underhall deep in the earth where he fought against uncouth creatures of orange and umber, struggling long with nightmarish foes until at last he escaped to the world above.
Where was he? Dark thronged the shadows in a fastness of forest haunted by the deep-soughing song of millennial winds. Those winds began to weather and wither Alfric’s flesh as he quested beneath dead, creaking branches. He was looking for a path, a track, a road. But none such he found. The cold wind blew through the rags of his clothes, flirting with the ghosts it found in his pockets. The wind was mauve and tasted of lemons. Lemons?
‘None such grow in Wen Endex,’ said Alfric. ‘So these-’
But even in his fever-dreams he could not bring himself to speak of the Secret of the Partnership Banks.
‘Freeze,’ sang the wind.
Alfric thought its malice superfluous, for he was sure to freeze effectively without any such invitation.
Or was he?
By dint and endeavour, Alfric found a glowing ember — plucked it from the flesh of a toadstool and fanned it to life with a stuffed flamingo — and with that ember lit his own fever and fanned it into fire, until he was once more flame, and, thus incarnated, flourished skyward as an avatar of the sun.
At last, after much such turbulent adventuring, Alfric Danbrog slipped from fever into honest dream, and dreamt of bones scattered amidst the greyskull stones of a beach below the cliffs of the Winter Sea. There he stood, sadly contemplating life, time and mortality.
— Ever we die.
Thus thought Alfric Danbrog.
Death is the common fate of all. The fate of cowards and the fate also of those brave men and bold who seek to win a long-lasting glory with steel-edged swords. As even the heroes have found, to elude death is not easy. Even the mightiest, in time, must concede their wills to mortality. While the generosity of the flesh which allows the spirit to pursue its designs through many a year, each of those passing years is but a stay of execution, with the ultimate outcome unchanged.
But such knowledge led Alfric not to despair.
All men are dust; all men are bones. Yet, even so, much is allowed to the moment. Yes. Though all hopes are ultimately vanity, and though every reward is transitory, each moment is worth winning in its own right.
— The goodness of the moment for the moment suffices.
So thought Alfric Danbrog; and, imagining that he had a great truth to tell to the world, strove to wake from his dreams. But he could not wake, for the fever was coming upon him again.
Fever modulated dream to nightmare, and Alfric found himself trapped in a confused montage of overlapping epics, a world of monsters and heroes, sword-shields and blood. It was so exaggerated that he knew it at once for a dream.
— I’m dreaming.
So thought Alfric. But, try as he might, he could not awaken. For what seemed like forever, he was doomed to live through a sagalife of questing and battling. Swords splintered. Shields split. Castles rose and crumbled. Monsters weltered into blood. Ancient hatreds stirred to fresh murder, the blood of which was almost sufficient to drown him.
The swirling blood of a great feuding lapped round Alfric’s ankles then rose to his knees, swirled round his waist then ascended to his neck. Then Ciranoush Norn loomed over Alfric and pushed him down, down into the blood which was welling all around. And such was the heat of the blood that Alfric’s own blood boiled, and he screamed, though his scream was muffled as he could not breathe.
At last, such nightmares eased; and Alfric enjoyed sweet dreams again, for his blood was cooling, and he dreamt of big seas billowing to a misty shore, swamping against dunes and booming into the sea-caves of granitic cliffs. Of that he dreamt, and dreamt too of a cleft rock where there was a peace which sheltered him from wind and rain alike.
He hid himself in the warmth of that rock as the world cooled. At last the world grew so cold that there was ice sufficient in the world to bridge the oceans, and bridged indeed they were.
Then Alfric found himself sitting on the shore by the frozen sea, watching old women watching fire eat wood while they spun their spells. To his horror, Alfric dreamt himself drawn toward the fire by those spells. He knew he was going to be plunged into that heat, to be melted and baked, his shape to be changed, and his flesh to be fated Knowing what fate awaited him, Alfric struggled mightily to escape. In a rare moment of wakeful lucidity, Alfric found himself struggling with his mother by the household hearth.
— So I live.
Thus thought Alfric, waking entirely.
And such was his relief that he fainted clean away; and his mother gathered up his feverish flesh and returned it to its sickbed.
Seven days and seven nights passed in such turmoil before Alfric’s illness eased one last and final time. The result of that easing could well have been death, but his constitution was fundamentally strong, and he lived.
Just.
When the fever abated, Alfric did not ask what had happened. Not at first. But his mother put his spectacles in place, which told him, at the very least, that someone had found the slaughter-sight, and that something at least had been recovered from the forest.
Later, when Alfric was feeling stronger, his father came to his side. And Alfric at last asked what had happened. He thought it best to ask until he knew what other people knew. Once he knew that, then he would know what lies he would have to tell, though he hoped he would not have to lie to his father.
‘You quested against the vampires,’ said Grendel Danbrog. ‘Do you remember that?’
‘That, yes,’ said Alfric. ‘I remember that much.’
‘You succeeded. You must have. For the sword Kinskorn was recovered from the forest.’
‘Recovered?’ said Alfric.
‘I found it myself,’ said his father. ‘When you did not come back, I went looking for you. I tracked you through the forest. I came to a scene of fight and of slaughter.’
‘Oh,’ said Alfric.
He remembered.
Despite his fever, he remembered very clearly. All was clear until the time he had come to the fire by the sea. After that, things were nightmarish. Either he had or had not been summoned to the shore by a coven of witches. Either he had or had not embraced a woman with a face too desolate for love. Either he had or had not been summoned to the sea for that precise purpose.
‘A wolf was there,’ said Grendel.
‘A wolf?’ said Alfric.
‘In the forest,’ said Grendel. ‘Its throat tom open.’ ‘Oh,’ said A lfric. ‘Yes. A stick. I did that with a stick. Sharpened with a knife. ’
‘I guessed as much,’ said Grendel. ‘The wolf was clothed in the ruins of garments belonging to Muscleman Wu, so I had it brought back to Galsh Ebrek and named as Wu’s corpse. The family Norn has not sought to deny it.’
‘You had it brought back?’
‘My comrades helped me. A dozen of the staunchest of the Yudonic K nights.’
‘Good,’ said Alfric, weakly. ‘Good.’
‘That’s shut them up, I can tell you,’ said Grendel. ‘Not much noise from the Noms now one’s proved a shape-changer.’
‘Norns, plural? Surely Ciranoush is the sole survivor, singular.’
‘Is it a pedant I’ve bred? For sure, Pig Nom is dead and Wu Norn likewise. For sure, Ciranoush Nom was one of three. But brothers have fathers and cousins and uncles and nephews and cousins once and twice and thrice removed, and I bid you tread carefully unless you want to embroil us in feud.’
‘I’ll tread very carefully,’ said Alfric, shrinking more than slig htly from his father’s anger.
‘Good,’ said Grendel. ‘Good.’
‘I didn’t… I didn’t choose battle,’ said Alfric. ‘Not then. Not in the forest.’
‘I guessed that,’ said Grendel. ‘But regardless of what you chose, you did well. Another corpse we found. The corpse of Pulaman the Tracker. You know him?’
‘No,’ said Alfric.
‘That’s no loss,’ said Grendel. ‘He was a nasty piece of work. Good with his tracking but reckless in combat. A sword was in his guts. Kinskom was that sword. You must have killed him.’
‘I did,’ said Alfric. ‘I remember.’
It was true. He remembered perfectly. And was disappointed to leam that he had killed a stranger, this Pulaman the Tracker of whom he had never heard. He had really thought it was Ciranoush Zaxilian Nom who had died on the end of Kinskom, and life would have been much simpler if Ciranoush had died.
‘I pulled free the sword and brought it back here,’ said Grendel. ‘I knew it to be yours to claim.’
‘You have it here?’
‘I do,’ said Grendel.
‘May I see it?’
‘But of course.’
The sword was produced, and Alfric fondled it lovingly, and only broke off his fondling when his mother started ladling soup into his mouth.
‘I would have thought,’ said Alfric, speaking between mouthfuls of soup, ‘that you would have taken this blade already to Saxo Pall.’
‘Think less and eat more,’ said his mother.
Soup engulfed Alfric’s vocabulary.
‘To take in the sword is your privilege,’ said Grendel. ‘Thus I kept it here for you.’ ‘How long have I been here?’
Grendel told him.
‘You were found on the beach by the seaweed scavengers. You were by a fire. Amidst footprints. Who was it found you?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Alfric.
‘But you have a mouth,’ said Gertrude. ‘Open it!’ Alfric yawned, w as souped, swallowed.
‘You were nine parts dead when found,’ said Grendel. ‘A blanket upon you, but nothing else. And a fever had you, oh yes, a wicked fever. But they brought you to me and we’ve cared for you nicely since.’
‘How was it,’ said Alfric’s mother, ‘that you came to be naked?’
‘I thought they had dogs,’ said Alfric. ‘The hunters, I mean. I heard them. Tracking me. I took off my clothes, meaning to confuse the scent. Mud, that was going to be next. Mud on my flesh for warmth and disguise. Slip round behind them, mud in the shadows. Finish the men, the dogs.’
‘But there were no dogs,’ said Gertrude.
‘Peace, woman,’ said Grendel. ‘We weren’t there. We don’t know what there was or wasn’t.’
‘Maybe there weren’t dogs,’ said Alfric. ‘Maybe I imagined them. But imagining’s no crime, is it?’
‘No,’ said Gertrude. ‘But it’s a crime to starve when there’s food here in plenty. Come on. Open your mouth!’
Alfric obeyed, and was fed, and thus began the completion of his recovery; and three nights later he felt strong enough to march upon Saxo Pall.
So forth from his father’s house went Alfric Danbrog, returning to Galsh Ebrek to declare his triumph in the third of his quests. A triple triumph! That meant he was king. The Wormlord would receive his gift; would praise him and crown him; and then would ride forth to meet his death at the hands of Herself.
So thought Alfric, exulting in visions of his own grandeur as he strode through the mud of the streets of Galsh Ebrek. Such was his intoxication that he walked right into a zana, and the wild rainbow stung him savagely. That sobered him somewhat; and he was sobered more to find no welcome in Saxo Pall, but, instead, hostile servants and surly guards.
‘What is going on?’ said Alfric, when Guignol Grangalet came forth to meet him. ‘Have I offended the throne in some way?’
‘That is not for me to say,’ said the Chief of Protocol evasively. ‘Best we go to the throne room.’
‘Indeed!’ said Alfric.
So there they went. But there was no sign of the Wormlord. Instead, a blonde and full-breasted woman sat upon the throne. It was Ursula Major, the Worm-lord’s daughter. Alfric was outraged to see her thus seated, but controlled his temper nicely.
‘Good evening, aunt,’ said Alfric, knowing full well that Ursula Major hated to be addressed as aunt. He bowed slightly then said: ‘Lo! I have brought the brave sword Kinskom!’
Loudly he declaimed those words; loudly and proudly. But, somehow, they fell flat.
‘Thank you for the sword,’ said Ursula coolly. ‘The gift is welcome.’
‘The gift has a price,’ said Alfric. ‘The price is the chair in which you sit.’
‘You have no chairs of your own?’ said Ursula. ‘How sad! Never mind. If yoti’re truly here to beg for a bit of furniture, no doubt my good man Grangalet can find you a stool to take home.’
Alfric did not appreciate this clumsy joke. He was starting to get angry.
‘I claim the throne,’ he said. ‘I am now rightfully king of Wen Endex.’
‘The king, are you?’ said Ursula Major.
‘I am,’ said Alfric, ‘unless the Wormlord has repudiated his words. Where is he? Where is the Wormlord? Is he dead?’
‘He is poorly,’ said Ursula Major.
Her dulcet voice was cool, controlled. Even so, Alfric heard her fear. She was frightened. Of him.
‘Poorly or not,’ said Alfric, ‘the king must see me, for I have brought him the third of the saga swords. We have an agreement.’
‘I know your agreement,’ said Ursula Major. ‘I know it, as does all of Galsh Ebrek. Like the rest of the city, I think it a madness. The kingdom cannot be ruled by a lunatic’s whim. So.’
‘So you’ve got the Wormlord under lock and key,’ said Alfric, half-misbelieving his ears.
‘My father is ill, yes, and confined to his bed,’ said Ursula Major. ‘When he recovers — if he recovers — he may have something to say to you. We are not pleased with the shameless way you have abused his mental weakness. Doubtless when he is in his right mind, he will be similarly displeased.’
‘You have no right to do this!’ said Alfric.
‘My lady rules as regent,’ said Guignol Grangalet. ‘She has every right.’
Alfric almost lost his temper entirely, then and there.
But he was a Banker Third Class, and thus a trained diplomat; and so had wit enough to temper his tongue to preserve his skin, and to retreat from Saxo Pall with all possible speed.
Once Alfric was free of the Wormlord’s castle, he marched up the s lopes of Mobius Kolb to the Bank, where he shortly presented himself t o Comptroller Xzu. ‘So,’ said Xzu, ‘here he is. The wolf-killer.’
‘You know about that?’ said Alfric.
‘All Galsh Ebrek knows about that,’ said Xzu. ‘Your father displayed a dead wolf in the marketplace. He claimed it to be the corpse of Wu Norn.’
‘It was,’ said Alfric. ‘I met him and killed him. He had a partner, too. He was… I’m sorry, the name escapes me.’
‘Pulaman the Tracker,’ said Xzu, who clearly had all the details written on his fingernails, as Bank parlance has it. ‘So you killed Pulaman. And Wu. A pity that Ciranoush Nom remains on the loose.’
‘Ciranoush, yes,’ said Alfric. ‘How is he taking it?’
‘In silence,’ said Xzu. ‘These days he’s much given to brooding, or so my spies tell me. Anyway. To business. You delivered the third of the saga swords to Saxo Pall, did you?’
‘I did,’ said Alfric. ‘I left it at Ursula Major’s feet, she being the regent, or so she claimed.’
‘Regent she is, at least for the moment,’ said Xzu. ‘Our problem now is how to get rid of her. Once she’s gone, we can place you on the throne and nobody will protest.’
‘There’s no way we can get rid of her,’ said Alfric. ‘Don’t be so defeatist!’ said Xzu. ‘If necessary, we can bring in mercenaries and h ave the bitch murdered.’
Alfric could scarcely believe his ears.
‘Yes,’ he said, cautiously, ‘but civil war might be the result. If one of the royal family is to be killed, it would be better if the Yudonic Knights did the killing.’
‘Then you must rally the Knights for that purpose.’
‘I lack sufficient stature. As yet. They might follow me in some things. Perhaps. But not in murder. Not murder of the king’s own daughter.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Xzu, thinking. ‘Well… does the Wormlord lack stature?’
‘I believe most of the Knights to hold him in high regard,’ said Alfric warily.
‘Then they will hold his will in high regard, doubtless.’
‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘But he has said nothing about murdering his daughter. Not to my knowledge. Nor do I believe I could successfully pretend that he has said any such thing.’
‘I do not ask you to,’ said Xzu. ‘Rather, I suggest you repeat the Wormlord’s own words to the Yudonic Knights.’
‘What words are those?’
‘Why, the man swore he would march forth against Herself, did he not? As soon as the saga swords were won, he would march.’
‘He did,’ said Alfric.
‘Then summon the Knights. Tell them the saga swords are won. Tell them it is their knightly duty to help the Wormlord to fulfil his oath. Play upon their dreams of heroic grandeur. Sing them songs. Bard them the deeds of heroes. Skop the swordblood. Make each man a man indeed. You know the way of it. You know your people.’ ‘To a point,’ said Alfric uneasily.
‘Better still, go to your father. Ask him to do the barding and talking, the blood-stirring and the glory-boasting. He has the knack of it.’
And Alfric remembered the Yudonic Knights who had gathered in Grendel’s bam at his father’s behest. Yes, his father could summon and rouse those men. His father knew the way of it.
‘Then,’ said Xzu, starting to get enthusiastic, ‘the Yudonic Knights will release the Wormlord from his confinement in Saxo Pall. He will march against Herself. And you, of course, will march with him.’
‘Me?’ said Alfric, startled.
‘But of course,’ said Xzu, smoothly. ‘You must win yourself a share of the Wormlord’s glory. Otherwise how can you rightly claim the throne?’
‘But… but the Wormlord will die.’
‘Will he?’
‘Yes,’ said Alfric, trying to conceal his fear, his anger. ‘Nobody can contend against Herself.’
‘Oh, come now,’ said Xzu, sounding amused. ‘You’ve dared against monsters thrice. Monsters are nothing. You dared against them solo, yet survived. Survived? You triumphed!’
‘With help, yes,’ said Alfric coldly. ‘But She is not a foolish sea dragon or a brain-damaged giant. No. She is Herself, and She is nightmare.’
‘Nightmare?’ said Xzu carelessly. ‘The word has been used of the vampires, you know. ’
‘Yes, I know, I know,’ said Alfric. ‘But the vampires were easiest of all. They wanted to deal with us, and we knew it. The same does not go for Herself. Or have you a secret to tell me? Has She been to the bank to ask for a loan, for a mortgage? Does she want to build herself a nice little cottage with carpets clean on the floor, a housecat by the hearth?’
Xzu made no answer to this sarcastic sally.
Instead, he pushed a parchment across his desk.
‘A promotion,’ said Xzu. ‘Your promotion. From Banker Third Class to Banker Second Class. You will note it is conditional. It becomes effective as soon as you return from a quest against Herself. A quest, please note, which you must undertake in the Wormlord’s company.’ Alfric took it, read it, pushed it back.
‘I’ll think about it,’ said he.
‘Take your time,’ said Xzu. ‘But make sure your time isn’t too much time. We’ll see you back here once you’ve… once you’ve made a contribution to our welfare. Go now, friend banker, and may the Spirit of the Ledgers go with you, and may the Seven Demons of Usury confound your enemies, and may the power of the Great Schroff be with you. ’
The invoking of these imaginary entities was a ponderous joke, a jejune joke of the kind that both Alfric and Xzu had outgrown long ago. Nevertheless, it was a Bank joke, confirming the pair as bankers in league against the world; and Alfric smiled, heartened by the comradeship the joke implied.
He rose, and went to the door.
Just before Alfric exited the room, Xzu spoke again, saying:
‘Good luck, Alfric.’
‘Thank you,’ said Alfric, and left.
But though Alfric had thanked Comptroller Xzu for that parting benediction, the way it had been framed was not altogether to his liking. For Xzu had addressed him as‘Alfric’.
Izdarbolskobidarbix was the name he chose to use in the Bank; and, though he had long pardoned the occasional use of ‘Alfric’ or ‘Danbrog’ by his peers and superiors, he nevertheless resented such inaccuracy. He felt (perhaps he was wrong, perhaps he was oversensitive, but what he could not deny were his own feelings) that Xzu had been deliberately putting him at a distance by calling him ‘Alfric’, and that Xzu’s use of that name constituted, in some sense, a subtle casting out.
Certainly Alfric was being exiled from the Bank, at least for the moment. Exiled until he had ‘made a contribution’ to the Bank’s welfare. He was under orders, then. He had to rouse the Yudonic Knights to action, to free the Wormlord from his imprisonment, then march with the Wormlord to do battle with Herself.
Alfric felt this to be grossly unfair.
Surely he had done enough already.
The odds had been in his favour when he had fought with the sea dragon Qa. Nevertheless, a single mistake could have seen him killed. As for the swamp giant — that encounter had been more dangerous yet. And the vampires were not exactly harmless.
‘Still,’ said Alfric, ‘I’m not being given any choice in the matter.’
So he went to see his father, and, a night later, the pair met with two dozen of the most knightly of the Yudonic Knights. The site of this conclave was Grendel Danbrog’s barn.
Here the Yudonic Knights, with drinking horns in hand, celebrated the hero-feats of Alfric Danbrog.
‘Grendelson!’ they roared. ‘Grendelson! Hero!’
And Alfric, though he was slightly embarrassed by their enthusiasm, acknowledged this homage gracefully.
Then his father called the meeting to order.
‘As you know,’ said Grendel Danbrog, ‘Ursula Major has imprisoned her father in his sickbed.’
‘Shame! ’ cried someone.
Then others cried aloud, saying foul things about the virginal Ursula. Grendel hushed them down a low roar, then went on:
‘This we know to be wrong. Above all else, the matter of Herself and Her doings is much on my mind. For too long has Her hideous hymn of triumph dominated our dreams. It is time for us to take in hand the ancient iron and pursue Her to Her lair, and there to hack and hew Her flesh until She is dead. ’
Cries of enthusiastic applause greeted this proposition.
‘But,’ said Grendel, ‘we cannot go alone. We need a leader. Only one man has the strength to be that leader. And that is Tromso Stavenger, our beloved Wormlord.’ Then Grendel launched himself into the much-beloved story of the youthful feats of the Wormlord, who had dared Her son, and had wrestled that monster to a standstill in a fight in which sinews had snapped and bone-joints had broken freely, and who had then killed Her son and cut off his head.
‘That is our leader,’ said Grendel. ‘A hero true. That is the leader we must have if we are to dare ourselves to Her lair and engage ourselves in loathsome strife with Her strength.’
The Yudonic Knights had no trouble at all in convincing themselves that a scorning of peace well becomes a man; that they were made for death and danger; that their king was a hero and would lead them to deathless glory; and that launching a savage assault upon Herself would be a truly enjoyable experience once they got into it.
Soon they were joying in the deed as if it had already been accomplished.
‘It is a foul offence to life and honour that we should let Her live when Her death can be so easily accomplished,’ said one, his boast representative of ruling opinion.
Alfric sat down in a comer and closed his eyes in something like despair. So they were really going to do it. So he could not return to the Bank and say they had refused.
He had a vision of what would really happen. When they came face to face with Herself, the Yudonic Knights would ran. Their fathers had done as much on similar expeditions in the days of the past, so why should the sons be any different? Then She with Her baleful glare would transfix any fool who still stood against Her, then She would advance, and conquer, and kill, and glut Her greed on the flesh of the fallen.
So thinking, Alfric was minded to sever his own throat on the spot. To die in a warm and comfortable bam. Far better, surely, than to go wandering through the fens in search of Herself, and meet a hideous death when Her grisly rounds brought them into confrontation.
But Alfric’s father had no such fearful thoughts. He was boasting with as much enthusiasm as the rest of them.
‘Words and deeds,’ said Grendel, quaffing good ale which he was far too drunk to appreciate. ‘Great words and great deeds to match them. Of such is the life of men.’
Then Grendel began to sing the old songs, songs of fresh-tarred ships and voyages across the Winter Sea to wars in foreign lands; songs of kings with boar-heads rampant on their helms, kings armed with iron fire-hardened; songs of heroes and their conquests.
While his father sung thus, Alfric remembered other songs: funeral dirges mournful in mood, telling of the death of lordly ships, the wailing of bed-mates, the burial of fallen kings, the wrath of battle-surge flames consuming the fallen. Such things happened. Even acknowledged heroes did not always triumph in their quests.
But no such thoughts spoiled the triumph of Grendel Danbrog, who boasted now of the great deeds of the past as if they were his very own:
‘In Melrik’s time we fought the dreaded Yun. By ocean’s margin we withstood the warriors who crossed the Winter Sea to do battle with our forces. When the Yun poured forth from their ships, there we stood in our war-gear, keen for adventure.
‘Melrik was our leader, Melrik our king. Proud was the weapon-stack of his wide-boasted hall. Prudent he was, yet brave, for he was ready to dare the nicors in their lair.’
On and on went Grendel, telling of the mangling of flesh, the sweetness of victory and the din of celebratory revelry, and of the Golden Age in which the triumphant Melrik ruled Wen Endex, ‘land of sweet song and shining waters where all men lived in gladness’.
When Grendel Danbrog had exhausted himself by overindulgence in such epics, other Yudonic Knights took up the work. And it was late indeed before they got down to business in earnest.
But get down to business they did.
In the end.
‘These last twelve weary winters I’ve watched our lord decline,’ said Grendel. ‘I know and you know that this is his last chance. If he is to march against Herself then he must do so now. But he needs our help. Will he have it?’
And the Yudonic Knights roared their answer:
‘Yes!’
In short order, plans were agreed. The Yudonic Knights would storm Saxo Pall, release the Wormlord then march against Herself in the company of their lord.
As there was some organization which needed to be done — horses must be obtained and journeypacks filled, wills must be brought up to date and lovers kissed goodbye — the actual storming of Saxo Pall was set down for the following night.
Alfric did his best to conceal his infinite weariness as he parted from his father and those of the Knights who were doing the organizing.
‘Where are you going?’ said Grendel.
Alfric was actually going to the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association to report to Comptroller Xzu on the plans which the Yudonic Knights had hatched. However, he did not think his father would like these plans being thus revealed. So he said:
‘Home, that’s all.’
‘Stay,’ said Grendel, in his lordliest voice. ‘We need you here.’
Alfric was desperate to get away. He wanted the Bank to know that he had done as the Bank wished. That he had successfully roused the Yudonic Knights to action, and that soon the Wormlord would be freed to do battle with Herself. The sooner the Bank knew, the better, for such political ructions could affect everything from the price of firewood to the ninety-day interest rate.
Belatedly, Alfric remembered that he was married; and, moreover, that his wife had absconded from home, and was on the loose in the city, cuckolding him (for all he knew) with every drunk in every tavern in Galsh Ebrek. Actually, this mattered so little to Alfric that he had almost forgotten about it already. But it certainly gave him an excuse to be gone from the bam.
‘I -1 am a married man,’ said Alfric.
‘So you are, so you are,’ said his father.
‘And-and my wife-’
‘Oh yes,’ said his father. ‘That. She’s still running wild?’
‘She is,’ said Alfric. ‘But I think I know where she’ll be tonight. I think I can bring her to heel.’
‘Then off you go,’ said his father, approving this course of action instantly. ‘Off you go, my boy, and do the best you can with the wench.’