‘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.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Thus it happened that Alfric Danbrog leagued it home and prepared himself for an audience with Comptroller Xzu of the Flesh Traders’ Association. He dreaded the thought of what might happen when the Yudonic Knights stormed Saxo Pall; and was fearfully afraid of joining the attack on Herself; but, nevertheless, his pride was great.
— Were it not for me, this would not be happening.
Thus whispered Alfric Danbrog to himself, and could not help but be mightily pleased with himself.
In his house in Vamvelten Street, Alfric washed himself, dried himself, dressed in clean clothes then shaved himself in front of his mirror.
This was an ancient mirror, a family heirloom. Inset in its surface was a small image-disk in which dwelt the portrait of a smiling girl with a face whiter than chalk and lips redder than blood. Her lips moved ever and ever, for she was whispering something. If the mirror were kept near fire, that whisper would strengthen to audible language — a song of some kind — but what the girl might be singing was ever a mystery. This mirror was one of the old things from a past long forgotten, and nobody knew how it had been made, or when, or where.
Alfric had owned the mirror for so long that, usually, he never thought of the girl; did not even see her as he pursued his own thought while shaving. But tonight he paused and studied that soundless face. Someone had made this mirror and had there delineated the features of the girl. And Alfric wondered, as he watched her smiling and singing, if she had really existed or whether a canny artist had created her marvellously detailed portrait from pure imagination.
And wondered, too, if even the slightest trace of his own existence would remain to the world after his death. Would someone, somewhere, hold some fragment of his face, words or work in memory? Or would all disappear, soapbubbling to zero in a world where even rocks were fated to be nubbed down to nothing?
‘Morbid, morbid,’ muttered Alfric, and hurried through the rest of his shaving, and would have cut himself badly in his haste had his razor not been excessively blunt.
Once these preparations were complete, Alfric made the trek to Mobius Kolb, entered the Bank, and was soon in conference with Comptroller Xzu.
Xzu listened impassively as Alfric — barely able to conceal his pride in his own achievements — told how the Yudonic Knights had been won over.
‘They will do it,’ said Alfric. ‘Just as the Bank wants. They will storm Saxo Pall. Release the Wormlord. Then march upon Herself.’
Comptroller Xzu listened to him impassively.
Then sighed.
Then said:
‘You are not a narcissist, are you?’
‘A narcissist?’ said Alfric in bewilderment.
He was taken aback by this tangential assault. What was its meaning? Had he been indulging in unseemly boasting? Well, perhaps a little… but that was pardonable, surely, under the circumstances.
‘What I’m asking you,’ said Xzu, ‘is whether you put too great a value on the importance of satisfying your own ego.’
Alfric considered this.
Then said:
‘I scarcely know how to answer a question so wide reaching when it is asked as if apropos of nothing. Of course I could indulge myself in rhetoric if pushed to justify my approach to life, or I could produce any number of apologias to justify the same… but such activity would scarcely have any point unless I know the details of whatever accusations are being made against me.’
Alfric paused. He was aware that most of what he had just said was nearly meaningless, and that he should say no more lest he make a fool of himself.
But he could not stop himself.
He was weak from illness, and feeling defensive; and so, as a squid squirts out meaningless scrolls of ink when disturbed, so Alfric squirted out words. He went on:
