wolfhaunt wilderness, of cold forests and turbulent rivers, of mountains gripped by winter’s icy binding, of ship and sword, of dare and danger, of slaughter and battle, of heroes and corpses.
Then Alfric woke, for someone was hammering at the door.
It proved to be his father.
‘A new night has begun,’ said Grendel Danbrog. ‘And we are ready to march upon Saxo Pall.’
And Alfric, finding himself doomed to the world of heroes for real, had no option but to buckle on his sword and march forth to face his future.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
With the deathsword Bloodbane sheathed at his side, Alfric Danbrog joined the Yudonic Knights of Galsh Ebrek who marched upon Saxo Pall.
Under a swollen moon they marched. Their numbers had greatly increased since the meeting in Grendel’s bam. Instead of two dozen knights, there were almost two hundred in the army which assaulted the Wormlord’s fastness. The gates of the great stronghold were thrown open at their demand, and they tramped, the mud from their boots despoiling the carpets, their hounds loping alongside them as they stormed into the castle.
None tried to stand against them until they got to the Wormlord’s sick room. There they found Ursula Major standing on guard. She looked poised and impeccable, her linen clean, her jewels splendorous by lamplight, her hair bound back by bands of silver, all but for one frail strand of blondeness which wisped around her mouth.
‘Halt,’ said she.
They halted.
‘You can go no further,’ said Ursula Major, ‘for I am of royal blood. To touch me is treason. ’
‘Not so, sister,’ said Grendel, stepping forward from the ranks.
‘I acknowledge you not as my brother,’ said Ursula Major.
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?’ sai d 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
