breathing quickly. He clutched the reins tightly. He was nerved up. Ready for Her to burst forth from the water. Ready for his horse to rear, then gallop away in headlong panic.
But nothing happened.
Instead, the men sat there on horseback by the side of the waters, watching and waiting to no avail.
Slowly, Alfric straightened up. He still kept tight hold of the reins, just in case, but he began to suspect that nothing was going to happen. Not immediately.
He began to take stock of the pool.
A dark and hideous pool it was, much as the songs had pictured it to be. There was, as the sagas claimed, a tumbling stream pouring into the black waters. And, despite the everfall of the waterfall, the surface of the mere was still and silent. It was backed by towering bluffs, and from those cliffs there grew crag-rooted trees, the sightbare branches of which bore not a single leaf. From those trees, three corpses hung by their heels, victims of Her most recent depredations. Blue fire shimmered in the depths of the waters, in which swam the nicors, the ravaging waterworms.
The blue light from the water made their faces appear to be fleshed with the meat of corpses. That same light was reflected from their eyes, giving each of them a weird and inhuman aspect.
‘What now?’ said Alfric.
‘Someone must dive into the pool,’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘That’s the only way. She must be brought to battle in the water if She will not come forth upon the land.’
‘True,’ said Grendel. ‘Alfric, you’re nominated.’
‘But-but-’
Alfric struggled for words to express his dismay. But found none. Cold and clammy with dread, he got down from his horse.
‘Alfric!’ said Grendel sharply. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘The — the pool,’ stammered Alfric.
‘Blood of the Gloat!’ said his father. ‘Make a joke, and the boy is ready to die for it! What next? Will you fly to the moon on command? Get on your horse, fool.’
‘But-but you said-’
‘You can’t breathe water, moron,’ said his father impatiently. ‘Mount up!’
Alfric complied.
‘Don’t be hard on the boy,’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘It’s his first battle, after all.’
Alfric wanted to protest. This was not his first battle by any means. He was a killer of dragons, an enemy of giants, a terrorizer of werehamsters. And he was thirty-three years old! No boy in anyone’s language. However, the shock of being commanded into Her pool was still upon him, and he lacked the strength for protest.
‘There does remain,’ said Tromso Stavenger, ‘the problem of bringing Her to battle. I wish we’d thought to bring a goat. That might have lured Her from the water.’ ‘We could hamstring one of the horses,’ said Grendel, not joking now. ‘Blood and panic would draw Her forth.’ ‘Maybe,’ said his father. ‘But there’s something else I’d like to try first.’
Then Tromso Stavenger produced a battle-horn which Alfric had never seen before.
‘You know this horn, boy?’ said his grandfather.
‘No,’ said Alfric.
‘This battle-horn belonged to Melrik himself. Yes, Melrik, hero of saga.’
And Alfric shivered, for he felt himself to be in the presence of the Great Ones of the past. Then Tromso Stavenger chose to wind that horn. High rose the challenge of that rouser of men. The brazen voice of the battle- horn sent shivers running down Alfric’s spine. The blue-flaming waters of the mere shuddered, and echoes rolled back from the high-walled bluffs on the far side of the pool.
But She did not rise to that challenge.
The tableau remained unchanged: three men on horseback waiting by a dark pool beneath a darker sky. It was cold, and a mourning wind was making it colder yet; and Alfric was starting to feel just a tiny bit ridiculous. The horses were starting to get restless again; they had endured this place for as long as they could, and were eager to be gone.
It would be the height of absurdity if the horses were to panic now and bear away their riders. Or if the horses stayed and nothing happened at all. Perhaps they would wait out the whole night without seeing so much as a hair of Herself. Perhaps She was hunting elsewhere. Or was dead, her flesh rotting at the bottom of the mere. Or… maybe She had never existed at all.
But…
There were real corpses dangling from the crag-rooted trees on the far side of the mere.
Oh yes, the dead were real enough.
But, even so, maybe She was but a tale, Her murders the work of some night-slashing human.
Who?
Grendel Danbrog was a possible candidate. He was big; he was strong; he lived remote from the rest of humanity; he could come and go as he wished. He could have brought those corpses to this place. Perhaps there was a coracle hidden somewhere near the mere. Perhaps Alfric looked at his father with obscene surmise, then shuddered.
‘The horses will not stay,’ said Grendel. ‘We must turn them loose.’
Then he dismounted, removed his joumeypack from the horse, and slapped the beast on the rump. It turned and fled. Alfric’s beast tried to do likewise. Because, in a fit of sudden panic, Alfric was urging it to flight with his knees.
‘Ho!’ said Grendel, catching the thing by the bridle.
Man fought with horse, and the horse was mastered. Never before had Alfric appreciated his father’s true strength. The man must have muscles a blacksmith woiild envy.
‘We almost lost you then,’ said Grendel with a chuckle. ‘I wouldn’t like that to happen.’
And Alfric heard in that chuckle the tones of evil, and knew then that his father was the real killer. His father was the terrorizer of Wen Endex. His father had murdered those hapless humans who now hung from the trees at the far side of the mere. And Alfric stared at the man, eyes bulging in horror.
‘You look sick,’ said Grendel. ‘What is it? The smell? Get down, you’ll feel better soon.’
Then he reached up with one of his hands. Alfric had never before realized how massive those hands actually were. The strength of those hands could not be resisted.
— He will have me.
Thus Alfric. In silence. In terror.
Helpless to resist, Alfric got down from his horse. Grendel brought Alfric’s joumeypack to earth then sent the horse on its way. Then Tromso Stavenger started to dismount.
‘Grandfather!’ said Alfric.
Meaning to warn the man, to tell him to run.
The Wormlord, startled by the note of panic in Alfric’s voice, slipped and fell. Grendel caught him, saving him from doing himself an injury. Then Grendel got down the king’s pack, dismissed the old man’s horse, and sent the beast on its way.
‘Seat yourself,’ said Grendel.
Tromso Stavenger lowered himself on to his pack. Watching the studied care with which his grandfather seated himself, Alfric realized what an effort every action was costing the old man. The king was worn out by all this mounting and dismounting, this hill-climbing and horn-blowing. He should have been in bed, feeding on warm soup and watching his favourite cat watching the untunchilamons.
Tonight Alfric truly appreciated the age of their white-haired leader; tonight, Alfric began to understand something of what it meant to be old. Tonight, Alfric knew that Tromso Stavenger would be no help at all when Grendel made his Change and became Herself, and fell upon the pair of them to kill them.
‘Now,’ said Stavenger, once he had seated himself comfortably, ‘what was that about, Alfric? What did you want to tell me?’
‘I -1 thought I saw something,’ said Alfric. ‘But I was wrong.’
Then, cold with terror, Alfric sat on his pack and watched his father. When would the man make his move against them? Maybe the eyes would give warning. It was said that from Her eyes a hellish light outshone, a light
