The Werewolf and the Wormlord (26 page)

A reasonable statement, this, if appearances were anything to go by. For Grendel Danbrog was a massive man of middle years, coarse in dress and feature, the stench of many unwashed years upon him. Whereas Ursula Major was in her early twenties, the gloss of well-scrubbed health upon her elegant face. Still, all there knew the truth, and Grendel did not bother to restate it. Instead, he shoved the woman out of the way, flung open the sickroom door, and entered.

The Knights followed, though only the first half dozen could actually fit into the room.

In that chamber was the Wormlord. The old man was tucked up in bed, kept warm by flannel pyjamas, his feet comforted by a hot rock wrapped in a towel; but (as always) his head was capped by his horned helmet. Tromso Stavenger looked unspeakably comfortable as he lay there supping upon lukewarm gruel which was being fed to him (a spoonful at a time) by a nubile young serving maid. Unless Alfric was badly mistaken, Stavenger was somewhat disconcerted at the sudden arrival of the Knights, and was not altogether pleased by their advent.

However, when he had been made to understand what was going on, the Wormlord agreed to leave his sickbed, and spoke of his longing for battle as he struggled into his clothes.

‘My teeth!’ said Stavenger.

His teeth were found and placed in his mouth. Good! It would not do for a king to die without his teeth.

Now that they had freed their liege-lord, the Yudonic Knights were ebullient. They sang and shouted as they hustled their king out of his sickroom. Through the halls they went, ineffectually pursued by Guignol Grangalet, who could do nothing except wring his hands and proclaim his despair. Into the Hall of Shields went the Yudonic Knights, and detached the shields from the walls before they left the castle and surged down Mobius Kolb.

Through the streets of Galsh Ebrek they went, and the hoi polloi came spilling out of taverns and brothels to join them. Tromping through the mud they went, singing like a bawling mob. And a mob they were in truth.

But when they reached the outskirts of the city, then some orderliness began to assert itself. Horseboys were waiting there with steeds for the Yudonic Knights. The horses were laden with joumeypacks holding rations, tentage and bedding, in case they had to hunt Herself through the wilds for days at a time.

The act of sorting out their horses and mounting up sobered the Knights, for it constituted a positive commitment to an arduous and taxing task. Rescuing their king from his sickbed had been but a romp, a game; but this was war, and war was a serious business.

And when they got underway, the drunkards and roistering boys were soon left far behind, and the Yudonic Knights went on alone.

Into the wolf-retreats they ventured, a company of shadows marching through a night which was dark indeed, for clouds were overshrouding the moon. In time, they climbed on to a windswept ridge to escape sundry bogs which would otherwise have claimed them.

Alfric then looked back and, to his surprise, saw that their numbers had diminished considerably. There had been at least two hundred Yudonic Knights at Saxo Pall, and he could have sworn a like number had set forth upon this grand expedition. But, unaccountably, no more than fifty were left.

What had happened to the others?

They could scarcely have vanished.

And there was nothing in Wen Endex which could have silently overwhelmed so great a number.

So they must have gone astray, unless - perish the thought! - they had turned back out of fear.

In the boggy ground below, some fen-creature screamed as it sensed the presence of the warm-blooded humans on the ridge. Hearing that cry, Alfric saw, or imagined he saw, strange portents appear in the murky sky. Unless he was mistaken, the night-sky clouds had turned to the colour of blood. Unless he was imagining it, those clouds were writhing into snake-like entanglements which hinted of some malign disturbance of the sky.

Alfric may have been imagining these symptoms of the world’s displeasure. However, he did not imagine the grim despair which settled upon the company of Knights as the trek continued, for the reality of that despair was beyond dispute. While the pace of the expedition did not falter, nevertheless the talk did; and the Knights became taciturn as they rode along with heads bowed. But Alfric, paradoxically, found his mood lightening.

Alfric Danbrog had imagined the worst already, so the reality was almost comforting. Here he was, hunting Herself for real; and, as yet, nothing too terrible had happened. At the moment, he was suffering no more danger than he had endured on any of his solitary journeys through the dark nights of Wen Endex.

Then the high ridge came to an end, and the expedition had to descend a steep slope which ended at a stream. A stream chest-deep at least, thrashing along between banks too steep for horses to climb. There was only one way to cross this churning water, and that was by way of a narrow bridge.

Tromso Stavenger dismounted and walked his horse across it without fear. Grendel followed. Then Alfric. The bridge was firm enough; it creaked a bit underfoot, yet took the weight of himself and his noble steed without danger.

But, when Alfric looked back, the fifty Knights on the other side seemed to be possessed of a great hesitation. ‘What’s the matter?’ said Alfric.

‘They know,’ said Tromso Stavenger, ‘that once they cross the bridge to join us, then they are well and truly in Her territory.’

Alfric wanted to know how the Knights could know any such thing, since the countryside looked all of a piece to him, and he knew of no border (real or imaginary) which divided off a piece of Wen Endex as Her territory. However, he did not argue.

Despite their hesitation, the Knights did begin to cross the stream, much to Alfric’s relief. He had half-feared that the Knights would turn back, leaving the Wormlord to go on with none but his son and grandson for company.

‘Gather them here,’ said Tromso Stavenger to his son. ‘Gather my Knights here, that I may speak to them.’

And Grendel, obedient to this order, marshalled the Knights so Tromso Stavenger could address them. Which the king did once all were across.

When the Wormlord spoke, it seemed that he was possessed of something of the sea-strength of his youth, for his voice was stronger than it had been for years; and this they took to be a good omen. It heartened them to see the Wormlord standing firm in the windwrath night. He looked every bit the hero-king as he stood there in hand-braided byrnie, his helm with dragon adorned. Lavish was the inlay of his ancient iron he held and sharp was the blade of that merciless sword.

‘Ahead lies our destiny,’ said the Wormlord. ‘For this we were born. For this we were raised. This is why Wen Endex has its Knights. So the weak may be protected, the lawless suppressed, and order maintained in the realm. Who will do this, if not us? Nobody. It is the strength of the strong alone which maintains the nation. Let us go now, onward to our destiny.’

Thus it came to pass that in the last year of his reign, the Wormlord rode forth to meet his death; for death was the destiny which had been prepared for him since the day of his birth. In company with Tromso Stavenger there travelled some fifty Yudonic Knights mounted upon their roans; these were the noblest and most loyal of the king’s rune-warriors, the few who were prepared to go with their liege lord even to the brink of that fatal mere where they were destined to have a testing of wills with Herself.

And Alfric Danbrog found himself proud to be one of that number. He was proud that his grandfather could hearten his men with but a few simple words, and command them forward even though death was known to be waiting. That was a true measure of kingship!

‘Let us have a song,’ said the Wormlord. ‘Or a story, at least. A voice to lighten the night.’

They had no bard with them, but Grendel Danbrog served as gleeman, and began to rouse the night with a sagasong. However, his choice of subject was somewhat unfortunate, for he began to narrate the story of one of the heroes who had fallen in battle against Herself. This story began with an accounting of what was known of Her lair.

Her lair was said to be a mere overshadowed by a mighty rock. It was claimed that falling streams tumbled down the rockface into Her pool; but that pond was of such size that those cascades did not suffice to chum its surface into turbulence. Rather, a calm persisted despite the onslaughts of the falling waters. Blue fire burnt both beneath and above the water, a cold fire which failed to warm the black waters. Cold were those waters, cold waters overshadowed by towering bluffs, and a chilling mist rose from the surface.

‘Perhaps,’ said Tromso Stavenger, ‘we could hear of something else. We all know where we’re going and why.’

Grendel, realizing he might have made a tactical error, did his best to oblige, and began to tell another tale. For the delectation of the Knights, he told a noble story of the deeds of the elven lords of a kingdom long since lost to the world of geography.

But this failed to lighten the depression which had settled upon the expedition.

Alfric sensed the way in which morale had fallen, and was distressed. His own morale was falling itself. As he rode toward his doom in company with the Yudonic Knights, he realized that these brawling swordsmen might be the last people he saw before he died. And, in a mood strangely like panic, he realized he did not know any of these men, these his death-companions.

He did not know them?

Yes, that was the literal truth.

Alfric Danbrog had lived so much in the world of the Bank that he had not seen most of these Knights from one year to the next. He had lived as Izdarbolskobidarbix, Banker Third Class, and the world of the Yudonic Knights had become steadily more foreign to him, year by year.

With difficulty, Alfric hushed his panic down to nothing, and tried to distract himself from the dangers and difficulties of the moment by mentally revising the grammar and vocabulary of Janjuladoola.

As Alfric and the Knights ventured into higher ground, the air became colder, and there was both ice and snow underfoot. And how many memories this brought back! The snorting horses. The crunch of snow. The grinkle-grak of breaking ice. But the memories belonged to happier times alien to this grim expedition.

‘How much further?’ said Alfric, addressing the question to his king. ‘How much further till we get there?’

By ‘there’, Alfric meant Her lair; and his grandfather knew as much.

‘Not much further,’ said Tromso Stavenger.

Then said no more.

Alfric longed for more conversation, but did not know how to initiate it. It distressed Alfric that, as he neared his death, his contact with his grandfather was reduced to the trivialities of expedition routine.

For once, Alfric wanted a heart-to-heart talk, a communion of souls, a mutual exposure of the spirit. But he was not able to talk on such a deep and personal level with any member of his family. In fact, Alfric knew his family as a diplomat knows the personages of a foreign state in which he is stationed; and, tonight, he regretted the way in which the Bank had estranged him from his family.

Others must have known they were nearing Her lair, for the Knights began to check the carriage of their weapons. Alfric was glad that he himself was armed with Bloodbane, the work of wonder-smiths, a sword possessed of such inate savagery that it would provide him with the battle-courage he needed to succeed in combat.

All in that company were richly armed. Alfric’s father had a spiral-hilted blade of black iron, while the Wormlord bore a serpent-bladed weapon inlaid with runic gold.

It is said that, when a man realizes the nearness of death, this is a good time to review the deeds of his life. For his part, Alfric had lived not the careless life of an idle rake. Instead, he had pursued ambition in the Bank. Doubtless he had lived what was in many ways a cold and ruthless life, but he thought himself none the worse for that. In any case, personal virtue is no consolation in the face of death.

As Alfric was so thinking, he smelt something foul, a deadly taint of flesh-rot and knew they must be near Her lair, or near some place equally as evil, near some hideous secret of the clutching earth, the silent hills. Not for the first time, he shivered at the thought of the ordeal of battle, the possibility of being hideously maimed. But where precisely was the smell coming from? The source appeared to be a stream of utter black; and this they followed uphill to the point where it issued from a cleft rock. Alfric looked uphill further. The source of this stream must be over the rise which lay above - unless the stream was springing from some dark place inside the hill itself.

Tromso Stavenger dismounted and dipped his fingers into the chilling currents of that black water. The Wormlord lifted his fingers to his nose, sniffed at them, then spat in disgust. He got to his feet.

‘This stream flows from Her place of darkness,’ said the Wormlord. ‘Hence its stench. We’ll find Her lair just over that rise.’

This news was communicated to the king’s rune-warriors, who received it without enthusiasm. They were cold; they were tired; they were hungry; they were afraid. Worse, a skyshadow had obliterated the moon, much to the distress of those Knights who could not see in the dark.

Had they been true to the boasts of the saga songs, the Knights would welcome the opportunity to prove themselves in the ultimate test of courage and manhood, to go up against Herself and subdue the monstrous female thing. But, in the event, the Knights were not able to rise to the standards of the heroes of saga. This is understandable, for death is a savage penalty, ever hard to pay; and glory which seems a surpassing reward in the warmth of a beerhall is cold comfort on a nightside hillside.