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.
The Knights wanted to live, to return to the warmth of the world of the living, to gold-giving halls and woman-warm beds. Yet none wished to run, for none wanted to be branded a coward; and, while their courage was failing, each who faltered feared that death would be the penalty for abandoning his king at such a moment. But each of the Knights grieved for the life he thought himself about to lose.
And, without anyone consciously willing it, it happened that all the horses came to a halt, for the fear and abodement of the Knights was communicating itself to the horses, and the beasts were close to panic. Shortly, the horses were sure to bolt and run, carrying the Knights away with them.
And, while none of the Knights consciously wanted this to happen, it is nevertheless certain that none took any step to calm the horses. The logical thing to do was to dismount; and, if the horses could not be comforted, then to proceed on foot. But the Knights would not do this unless ordered.
And maybe they would not do it even then.
Tromso Stavenger halted when he found himself too far ahead of the others. All the Knights had fallen back, but for his son Grendel and his grandson Alfric. A courageous threesome they made, undoubtedly, but surely fifty would have a better chance against Herself than would three.
‘They’re falling behind,’ said Alfric unnecessarily.
‘We should flog one to death to set an example for the rest,’ said Grendel. ‘We should-’
