‘Here lies my grandfather in company with his son. In death, father and son are united, as they were in the last days of their life. When great peril threatened the nation…’
Oh yes, Alfric could see precisely how such a speech should be phrased. First, emphasize the unity of father and son, a unity which made a nullity of the banishment Tromso Stavenger had imposed upon Grendel Danbrog. Then praise the courage of the dead. Then speak frankly of his own part in the slaughter of Herself.
Thus:
‘Much have I dared already. I killed the dragon which long denied Island Thodrun to our race. I dared the wrath of the swamp giant Kralch to rescue the saga sword Sulamith’s Grief from the Spiderweb Castle. I wrested the brave sword Kinskom from the grip of the vampires. But, not content with this, I joined my father and my grandfather for the greatest test of all, that test being open combat with Herself. ’
Yes, yes.
Alfric should have made such speeches in the marketplace, and then he should have proclaimed himself king, and then he should have marched the mob to Saxo Pall, and he should have used the mob as an army to overthrow Ursula Major’s guards and put him on the throne.
‘Well,’ said Alfric at last. ‘What is, is. I’ll have to work with what I’ve got.’
Unfortunately, it was unlikely that any of the commoners of Galsh Ebrek were likely to make the trek to the seaside merely to see a couple of corpses burnt by night. The Yudonic Knights would be there in force — none would dare to stay away unless mortally ill — but the Knights would not be easily moved to precipitate action.
‘But I must try,’ said Alfric. ‘With every day that woman sits on the throne, it gets harder for me to displace her.’
So Alfric sat down and began to work on a speech which he could give at the funeral on the following night.
How should he phrase his claim to the throne?
Why, there were all kinds of approaches he should take.
For a start, it was the Wormlord’s will. Tromso Stavenger had explicitly stated that he would give the throne to Alfric as soon as the three quests had been completed. Well, the quests were well and truly completed, nobody doubted it. So it was time for the king’s will to be fulfilled. Yes, in constitutional terms, there was no doubt about it at all: Alfric Danbrog was the rightful king of Wen Endex as of now.
Furthermore, he was a hero, a genuine legitimate hero, for he had personally killed Herself, and that was a fact. Moreover, Galsh Ebrek acknowledged that fact.
Also in his favour was the fact that Ursula Major was a woman; for the Yudonic Knights of Wen Endex had certain fundamental objections to the rule of women over men.
‘Prejudice,’ muttered Alfric. ‘Yes, prejudice, that’s the way.’
The validity of his claim in constitutional terms… his personal heroism… the fact that his aunt was a woman…
‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘I’ll talk them over to my side with no trouble at all.’
And he worked long and hard on his speech, until at last he was disturbed by a brick which came crashing through his window.
‘Stroth!’ said Alfric.
He almost rushed out into the street, but restrained himself. This might be an ambush of sorts.
Instead, Alfric went upstairs, opened the shutters of a second-storey window and looked out. Below, he saw a couple of drunken yokel-louts.
‘What the hell do you want?’ said Alfric.
‘To bugger your arse with a hatchet,’ said one.
‘For what and for why?’ said Alfric.
‘Because you cursed your father and mock him now,’ said one.
‘Because you dishonoured the Wormlord in death,’ said the other.
‘Get away with you,’ said Alfric. ‘Or I’ll come down and thrash you thoroughly.’
‘Oh, it’s you who’ll be thrashed,’ said one of the drunks. ‘The Knights themselves will do it when they get back from the funeral.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ said Alfric steadily. Then, unable to keep from boasting: ‘I’ve a speech to make at that funeral. It may change their minds.’
‘Change their minds?’ said one drunk.
‘A speech?’ said the other.
‘They won’t hear it from here, you know,’ said the other.
Then both fell about laughing.
‘What are you talking about?’ said Alfric.
Then he guessed.
And was shocked by fear.
He shuddered, as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped all over him.
He left the window and pounded downstairs. He threw open the door and stalked forth to interrogate the drunken yokels. And when he had finished with them he went to the Green Cricket to hire himself a horse. And on the way out of Galsh Ebrek, he stopped at the Stanch Gates to interrogate the guards.
It was true.
The worst had happened.
Guignol Grangalet had been around the town, telling all and sundry that Alfric Danbrog had cursed his father and his grandfather both, and was keeping to his house in insolence, refusing to attend the funeral that was being held by the seashore that very night.
‘Stroth!’ said Alfric.
‘Don’t talk so harsh,’ said one of the guards. ‘You’ll upset your horse. Would your horse like an apple? Would you like to eat, horsey my darling?’
Then, to Alfric’s surprise, the guard produced a wizened old apple and fed it to the horse, which munched it down greedily. At this end of the cold weather, all the horses of the city were on short commons, with the last of the hay close to running out and precious little else for them to eat.
‘My horse thanks you for your kindness,’ said Alfric coldly. ‘And now I must go.’
Then he set off for the shore.
He was consumed by fury.
How dare they!
How dare they stoop so low!
And — what could he do to repair the damage?
Guignol Grangalet was a sober citizen, a man of impeccable reputation. Ninety-nine people in a hundred would believe him. And Alfric? Why, many people feared him to be a werewolf, because his father had long been thought to be such a shape-changer; and, besides, he was a banker, and hence had lived most of his life at a remove from his peers; and ‘Pox!’said Alfric. '
One of the Bank’s teachings came to him, but late, far too late:
‘First secure your lines of intelligence.’
Alfric should have had a spy in Saxo Pall. Who? It mattered not. A guard, a serving maid, a slave who went round collecting night soil. Anyone, anyone. Just one set of ears in the castle might have saved the day for him. He should have known where his father’s body was, and when the funeral was.
And now ‘Faster, blast you!’ said Alfric to his horse.
But the beast had its limits, and all Alfric’s strength of will could not extend them, and long before he got to the seashore he started to meet Knights returning from the bonfire.
‘So!’ said one, recognizing him. ‘Danbrog! You repent of your insolence, do you?’
‘I’ve nothing to repent of,’ said Alfric defiantly. ‘Guignol Grangalet told me the funeral was scheduled for the morrow. He lied as to my reaction.’
‘You call him a liar, do you?’
‘That I do,’ said Alfric. ‘I’ll say as much in public. If he wants to make a fight of it, then that’s fine by me.’
‘If you make a fight of it,’ said the Knight grimly, ‘you may well find that friend Grangalet has heroes to
