by Hugh Cook
‘Was that wise?’ said Alfric, unable to restrain himself. ‘Was that even — even sensible? To send away the greater part of our numbers?’
‘Those cravens would have obeyed no other order,’ said Grendel wit h contempt. ‘Except one compelling them to quit this place at the grea test speed possible.’ ‘But,’ persisted Alfric, ‘we could have tried.’
‘Let’s waste no strength on argument,’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘Let’s move on uphill. ’
Then the Wormlord set off, walking on foot and leading his horse uphill. Grendel and Alfric followed him in like manner, trudging uphill in silence; and the loudest sound in the night was the panting which came from their aged leader as he contended with the steepness of the slope.
To his surprise, Alfric found his fear had left him. Perhaps this was not so very strange. Alfric Danbrog had gone through life thinking himself as superior to other people. In truth, he was no more competent than anyone else at dealing with the routine demands of day-to-day life. But, in a crisis, his pride steadied him; for his monstrous ego would not allow him to freely confess to fear. Alfric Danbrog was a scion of a Family indeed, possessed of that lordly arrogance which is one of the greatest battle-assets of a warrior caste.
While the men showed no fear, the horses did; but, with a fair amount of persuasion, the beasts were brought to the top of the rise, and so to the place which was rumoured to be the scene of the doom of many men.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
From the top of the rise, the king and his two companions looked down a grassy slope which led to the mere which was Her lair. The moon was still masked by cloud, but blue-burning fire above and below and the dark waters lit the scene with a ghastly light.
‘Mount up,’ said Tromso Stavenger.
‘What have you in mind?’ said Grendel.
‘To ride our horses to the edge of the water,’ said his father. ‘If She attacks, we flee before Her. If She follows, we lure Herself into the mass of our Knights.’
So saying, the king struggled on to his horse. Alfric and Grendel did likewise. Alfric could not help but admire the king for his mastery of minor tactics. The Wormlord was prepared to die, but was not going to throw away his life without cause. If he could, Tromso Stavenger would tire his enemy by making Her contend against the speed of a horse; then he would lead Herself into the midst of his retreating rune-warriors, so weight of numbers would be on the side of the Knights.
And Alfric remembered an occasion, years ago, when he had met with the Wormlord in private audience, and Tromso Stavenger had said:
‘Forget the feats of heroes. A professional soldier always seeks odds of three against one. At the minimum.’ At the time, Alfric’s mind had been all on Bank business. Nevertheless, he had remembered thosewords; their wisdom had stayed with him. Thinking back, he realized there was much he had been taught by the Wormlord. He had taken it all in, memorizing many lessons, the truth of which he would appreciate in the years ahead, when he ruled Wen Endex as king.
If he ruled.
If he survived this night.
If he lived through the encounter with Herself.
‘Are we ready?’ said Tromso Stavenger.
‘We’re ready,’ said Grendel, answering for himself and his son.
‘Then-let us ride!’
Alfric leant forward in the saddle as the three men rode their horses down to the edge of the water. He was breathing quickly. He clutched the reins tightly. He was nerved up. Ready for Her to burst forth from the water. Ready for his horse to rear, then gallop away in headlong panic.
But nothing happened.
Instead, the men sat there on horseback by the side of the waters, watching and waiting to no avail.
Slowly, Alfric straightened up. He still kept tight hold of the reins, just in case, but he began to suspect that nothing was going to happen. Not immediately.
He began to take stock of the pool.
A dark and hideous pool it was, much as the songs had pictured it to be. There was, as the sagas claimed, a tumbling stream pouring into the black waters. And, despite the everfall of the waterfall, the surface of the mere was still and silent. It was backed by towering bluffs, and from those cliffs there grew crag-rooted trees, the sightbare branches of which bore not a single leaf. From those trees, three corpses hung by their heels, victims of Her most recent depredations. Blue fire shimmered in the depths of the waters, in which swam the nicors, the ravaging waterworms.
The blue light from the water made their faces appear to be fleshed with the meat of corpses. That same light was reflected from their eyes, giving each of them a weird and inhuman aspect.
‘What now?’ said Alfric.
‘Someone must dive into the pool,’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘That’s the only way. She must be brought to battle in the water if She will not come forth upon the land.’
‘True,’ said Grendel. ‘Alfric, you’re nominated.’
‘But-but-’
Alfric struggled for words to express his dismay. But found none. Cold and clammy with dread, he got down from his horse.
‘Alfric!’ said Grendel sharply. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘The — the pool,’ stammered Alfric.
‘Blood of the Gloat!’ said his father. ‘Make a joke, and the boy is ready to die for it! What next? Will you fly to the moon on command? Get on your horse, fool.’
‘But-but you said-’
‘You can’t breathe water, moron,’ said his father impatiently. ‘Mount up!’
Alfric complied.
‘Don’t be hard on the boy,’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘It’s his first battle, after all.’
Alfric wanted to protest. This was not his first battle by any means. He was a killer of dragons, an enemy of giants, a terrorizer of werehamsters. And he was thirty-three years old! No boy in anyone’s language. However, the shock of being commanded into Her pool was still upon him, and he lacked the strength for protest.
‘There does remain,’ said Tromso Stavenger, ‘the problem of bringing Her to battle. I wish we’d thought to bring a goat. That might have lured Her from the water.’ ‘We could hamstring one of the horses,’ said Grendel, not joking now. ‘Blood and panic would draw Her forth.’ ‘Maybe,’ said his father. ‘But there’s something else I’d like to try first.’
Then Tromso Stavenger produced a battle-horn which Alfric had never seen before.
‘You know this horn, boy?’ said his grandfather.
‘No,’ said Alfric.
‘This battle-horn belonged to Melrik himself. Yes, Melrik, hero of saga.’
And Alfric shivered, for he felt himself to be in the presence of the Great Ones of the past. Then Tromso Stavenger chose to wind that horn. High rose the challenge of that rouser of men. The brazen voice of the battle-horn sent shivers running down Alfric’s spine. The blue-flaming waters of the mere shuddered, and echoes rolled back from the high-walled bluffs on the far side of the pool.
But She did not rise to that challenge.
The tableau remained unchanged: three men on horseback waiting by a dark pool beneath a darker sky. It was cold, and a mourning wind was making it colder yet; and Alfric was starting to feel just a tiny bit ridiculous. The horses were starting to get restless again; they had endured this place for as long as they could, and were eager to be gone.
It would be the height of absurdity if the horses were to panic now and bear away their riders. Or if the horses stayed and nothing happened at all. Perhaps they would wait out the whole night without seeing so much as a hair of Herself. Perhaps She was hunting elsewhere. Or was dead, her flesh rotting at the bottom of the mere. Or… maybe She had never existed at all.
But…
There were real corpses dangling from the crag-rooted trees on the far side of the mere.
Oh yes, the dead were real enough.
But, even so, maybe She was but a tale, Her murders the work of some night-slashing human.
Who?
&nb
sp; Grendel Danbrog was a possible candidate. He was big; he was strong; he lived remote from the rest of humanity; he could come and go as he wished. He could have brought those corpses to this place. Perhaps there was a coracle hidden somewhere near the mere. Perhaps Alfric looked at his father with obscene surmise, then shuddered.
‘The horses will not stay,’ said Grendel. ‘We must turn them loose.’
Then he dismounted, removed his joumeypack from the horse, and slapped the beast on the rump. It turned and fled. Alfric’s beast tried to do likewise. Because, in a fit of sudden panic, Alfric was urging it to flight with his knees.
‘Ho!’ said Grendel, catching the thing by the bridle.
Man fought with horse, and the horse was mastered. Never before had Alfric appreciated his father’s true strength. The man must have muscles a blacksmith woiild envy.
‘We almost lost you then,’ said Grendel with a chuckle. ‘I wouldn’t like that to happen.’
And Alfric heard in that chuckle the tones of evil, and knew then that his father was the real killer. His father was the terrorizer of Wen Endex. His father had murdered those hapless humans who now hung from the trees at the far side of the mere. And Alfric stared at the man, eyes bulging in horror.
‘You look sick,’ said Grendel. ‘What is it? The smell? Get down, you’ll feel better soon.’
Then he reached up with one of his hands. Alfric had never before realized how massive those hands actually were. The strength of those hands could not be resisted.
— He will have me.
Thus Alfric. In silence. In terror.
Helpless to resist, Alfric got down from his horse. Grendel brought Alfric’s joumeypack to earth then sent the horse on its way. Then Tromso Stavenger started to dismount.
‘Grandfather!’ said Alfric.
Meaning to warn the man, to tell him to run.
The Wormlord, startled by the note of panic in Alfric’s voice, slipped and fell. Grendel caught him, saving him from doing himself an injury. Then Grendel got down the king’s pack, dismissed the old man’s horse, and sent the beast on its way.
‘Seat yourself,’ said Grendel.
Tromso Stavenger lowered himself on to his pack. Watching the studied care with which his grandfather seated himself, Alfric realized what an effort every action was costing the old man. The king was worn out by all this mounting and dismounting, this hill-climbing and horn-blowing. He should have been in bed, feeding on warm soup and watching his favourite cat watching the untunchilamons.
Tonight Alfric truly appreciated the age of their white-haired leader; tonight, Alfric began to understand something of what it meant to be old. Tonight, Alfric knew that Tromso Stavenger would be no help at all when Grendel made his Change and became Herself, and fell upon the pair of them to kill them.
‘Now,’ said Stavenger, once he had seated himself comfortably, ‘what was that about, Alfric? What did you want to tell me?’
‘I -1 thought I saw something,’ said Alfric. ‘But I was wrong.’
Then, cold with terror, Alfric sat on his pack and watched his father. When would the man make his move against them? Maybe the eyes would give warning. It was said that from Her eyes a hellish light outshone, a light which blinded Her enemies in battle.
Abruptly, Grendel stood.
And Alfric thought, in panic:
— This is it!
Grendel stumped uphill. Alfric watched him. Twenty paces he went, then began to pull down his trousers. This was it! Grendel was disrobing so he could Change, so his flesh could swell and girth, so he could become Herself!
Suddenly, Grendel became aware of Alfric’s unblinking watch.
‘Alfric,’ said Grendel, ‘can’t you give me a little privacy?’
‘What — what are you doing?’ said Alfric.
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ said Grendel. ‘Blood of the Gloat! Has the boy lost his wits entirely?’
‘Alfric,’ said Tromso Stavenger, ‘look to the pool. Our watch we must keep.’
Alfric tried to find the will to protest. But failed. He could not disobey a direct order from his king. He turned to the pool. Behind him, he heard Grendel grunt. The sound was low-pitched. An animal sound. Hideous with menace. Grendel must be Changing. Surely. Changing into Herself.
Then Heavy footsteps lurched toward them.
Alfric jerked his head around, and saw Saw his father walking toward him, Grendel Danbrog as yet unchanged, buckling his belt as he came. Alfric sat back, weak with relief.
‘Ah,’ said Grendel, with happy satisfaction. ‘That feels better. Now. I had something in here.’
So saying, Grendel undid his journeypack and pulled out a heavy four-buckle bag of alien make. What was it? With renewed terror, Alfric remembered tales of Herself, and feared this satchel to be a glof, a bag of devils’ skins which She carried, and into which She was wont to stuff the tripes of those She slaughtered.
But, when Grendel unbuckled the bag, no smell of dead meat issued from within. Instead… was that cheese?
‘Cheese,’ said Grendel, as if he had been reading his son’s mind.
Grendel took a big fat wheel of the stuff from his satchel and passed it to his father. Tromso Stavenger pulled out a dirk and started to cut slices for the three of them. He then produced three small cups and a skin which yielded rough red wine. Then — miracle of miracles — a loaf of crusted bread.
The wine was good, and the bread likewise, and Alfric was soon tearing into the goodness of the breadflesh. His terror began to ease, and he sat back on his pack, relaxing somewhat. Then Where were his spare spectacles?
For a moment, Alfric feared he might be sitting on them. Then remembered they were in the top of his pack, inside a hardwood casket.
‘Maybe we should put up a tent,’ said Tromso Stavenger.
‘A tent?’ said Alfric in amazement.
‘Well, yes, we have to sleep sometime,’ said the king.
‘You can sleep now if you wish,’ said Grendel. ‘Both of you. I’ll keep watch.’
This declaration stirred Alfric’s fear to life. While his eyelids had been nodding, now he was wide awake indeed.
‘No,’ said Alfric. ‘No thank you. We’re all right.’
‘Speak for yourself!’ said Grendel. ‘Your grandfather may not be so ready to wait out the night.’
‘I’m fine for the moment,’ said Tromso Stavenger.
But Alfric suspected it was pride which did the speaking, for the king’s voice was weary. Certainly they would both of them have to sleep sooner or later. And then — then they would be utterly at Grendel’s mercy.
Alfric straightened his back and concentrated his efforts on staying both awake and alert. He was helped by the cold of the night and the occasional menacing sounds which stirred in the poolside grass. Living indoors, one always forgets how very large the night actually is, and how menacing.
Once, a nicor raised its hideous head from the blue-burning waters of the mere then slipped beneath the surface again. Could the things crawl out of the water? Maybe they could. As Alfric was thus thinking, a ripple spread across the pool. Alfric’s hand dropped to the hilt of Bloodbane. He glanced at his father and grandfather. They appeared to have noticed nothing.
Then, without warning, a head broke free from the water.
Alfric was so terrified he could not speak.
The head was huge, hideous, armed with teeth. Shaggy was the hair which clothed it. And And it was making for the shore!
To the shore came the head, then the body which supported it dragged itself from the water, revealing itself to be a rat, a huge and hideous rat some four times the size of a dog. The rat swaggered toward the three men.
Alfric got to his feet.
‘Ho!’ he cried.
The rat paused.
It was a monster, yes, but it was only a rodent when all was said and done. Alfric drew the deathsword Bloodbane and advanced upon the rat in a mood of marauding murder. For a moment, the thing
stood its ground. Then it fled, scuttling back to the water. Alfric swung at it once, but missed. Then the brute splashed into the water, dived, and was gone.
Alfric stood by the side of the mere, panting. He stared into the dark waters, trying to see where the rat had gone. If rats grew to such size in these dominions of darkness, what else might have obtained monstrosity?
Behind him, his father and grandfather laughed.
‘Bravo,’ said Grendel softly.
Alfric turned.
The rage of Bloodbane possessed him.
Driven by the murder-lust of the weapon, Alfric Danbrog strode toward his father and grandfather, his sword ready for the kill.
‘Ho,’ said his father. ‘He walks like a hero.’
Then both Grendel and Tromso Stavenger laughed at what they took to be Alfric’s posturing; and their laughter deflated his anger; and he felt somewhat sheepish.
His sword was angry.
Murder-thoughts from the weapon stirred to life again in Alfric’s mind.
But he could not kill his father, not yet, for as yet the man had made no move against them, and they were family, were they not? And it was possible, was it not, that Grendel might spare them because they were family?
Alfric resisted the claims of the weapon, sheathed it, released his hand from the hilt, and felt easier.
He returned to his pack.
A twinge of pain stabbed through Alfric’s right hip as he settled himself. This pain he had felt often over the years; and, though he did his best to ignore it, every year it got worse and more frequent. Though he was only thirty-three, arthritis was already making claims on his health. As Alfric tried to get comfortable on his pack, his back protested. He had sudden visions of putting his back out. He imagined himself lying on the ground, writhing in helpless agony, while Grendel went through his Change and became Herself, devoured Tromso Stavenger then turned his attentions to Alfric himself.
— No!
So thought Alfric, strenuously, wilfully, denying the validity of this vision, and denying too that his father was actually Herself.
