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.
