by Hugh Cook
‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘Orks, orks. Don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my idea! Anyway-’
Alfric gave Banker Eg the gist of the matter for ontelling to Comptroller Xzu. Then, reluctantly, Alfric left his office, retreated to the vestibule, changed back into his boots and battle-gear, and set off for his father’s home. He went on foot, for there was no road for horses, not where he was going.
After Grendel Danbrog had been formally banished from Galsh Ebrek, he had settled in a house which stood atop a crag uplofted above some woodlands a full league from the city. Alfric was all mud, muck and sweat by the time he reached his father’s dwelling place, for much of the going was boggy, and the uphill labour needed to ascend the crag was heavy work in his furs.
Though She was said to be on the loose, Grendel’s house stood in little danger of attack by Herself. For no man or monster would choose to assail Grendel Danbrog, warrior amongst warriors. The house backed on to the rocks which formed the upmost tooth of the crag. It was approached by a narrow path which zag-zigged upwards through overgrowths of evergreen thorns. A deep ditch filled with such vegetative teeth guarded the final approach to the house, a single creaking plank providing a somewhat perilous crossing.
Alfric crossed.
Knocked on the door.
‘It’s open!’
His mother’s voice.
Alfric shouldered the heavy door ajar and went in. His father was nowhere to be seen, but his mother was working by the whimpling flaze of a single candle flame. He entered, taking care where he put his feet, for the floor was rotten. The place smelt as if something else was rotten as well, but the smell was merely that of Alfric’s parents, unwashed since the day they were born.
‘Shut the door,’ said Gertrude.
Alfric obeyed, and the flame steadied.
‘What you doing?’ said Alfric.
‘What does it look like?’ said his mother.
Gertrude Danbrog was a heavy woman, a woman no longer in possession of even the last rags of her beauty. She was busy making a casserole. As Alfric watched, she took an onion, cut free its roughish root, skinned it, chopped it, then tossed it into a fire-blackened pot. Then she took the corpses of a couple of small animals. Rabbits? No, they were ferrets. Deft was her hand as she skinned these beasts, whistling tonelessly all the while.
‘May I sit down?’ said Alfric.
‘No,’ said Gertrude.
Alfric was not surprised. This was more or less the unwelcome he had expected.
‘Where’s my father, then?’ he said.
‘In the barn.’
‘What bam? You haven’t got a bam.’
‘We have now. Built it last moon. Down by the Yarn Pool. That’s where he is. Off you go now.’
Alfric was not minded to stay, for already he had endured the stench of that dwelling for as long as he could. So off he went, down to the Yam Pool, where he found a new bam standing. It was built of logs. Had his father a tree-cutting permit, then? Probably not. Grendel Danbrog lived for the most part in defiance of the law, for none would dare bring complaint against him without the most grievous of reasons.
When he neared the Yam Pool, Alfric stopped. Could he see the bam? He could. And also: something else. Something sitting on a sharpened stake. The head of an animal. What? A goat. The sight made Alfric hesitate. Grendel had moods when it was better to avoid him: perhaps this was one of them. But the night was getting bitterly cold, and his sweat had cooled to chill; the wind hissed and fluthered, savaged and swept, and the thought of the bam’s comfort was positively appealing.
So Alfric opened a side door and went in.
Inside, voices drowned the suthering without. For here was a gathering of Yudonic Knights, several of whom were competing in story-telling. At Alfric’s entry, they broke off and saluted his arrival.
‘Here’s Alfric!’
‘Alfric, my boy. Come sit beside me.’
Then there was much handshaking and back-slapping, all of which was somewhat to the bewilderment of Alfric Danbrog. For, even though he was personally acquainted with most of these men, he scarcely counted himself the friend of any; and never before had he received any especial mark of their favour.
Once the boisterous greetings were done with, the Yudonic Knights went on with their stories, their heroic saga-tellings. One told of a dragon vomiting fiery gobbets as it rushed upon a hapless hero, lashing the air with roars of wrath; and, naturally, in this telling of the tale the hero triumphed, for all that he was armed with nothing more than a letter opener.
Many such stories the knights retailed. Of dragon and basilisk, of bills and bymies, of blood and decapitations. And, though they were amateurs, they brought to their tales all the professional enthusiasm with which a scop bards any account of murder and mayhem.
At last, Grendel called a halt.
‘Enough of talk and tales,’ said Grendel. ‘Let’s get down to business.’
Business? What was he talking about? Something to do with the Bank? Were these ruthless marauders after loans for something? If so, they’d probably be out of luck.
‘Alfric,’ said Grendel. ‘Step forth so all can see you.’
Alfric did so.
‘Behold,’ said Grendel. ‘My son.’
One Knight leaned close and removed Alfric’s spectacles. The banker felt a momentary panic as these so-essential instruments were removed, for his nearest spare pair was back in Galsh Ebrek. With the spectacles gone, Alfric’s world disintegrated into a blurred collage of colours, each sharp-featured face collapsing into a porridge of flesh.
‘So this is the son,’ said the Knight. ‘I could tear it limb from limb without blinking.’
‘If you feel that a profitable way to spend your night,’ said Alfric coolly, ‘then feel free.’
The Knight laughed, then peered closely at Alfric’s eyes, and was satisfied with what he saw.
‘They’re not red,’ said he. ‘Not red at all.’
With that, the Knight replaced the spectacles. As he was slightly drunk, he jammed them on, hurting the already reddened skin-patch on the bridge of Alfric’s nose. The lenses were blurred, smeared, greasefingered; but Alfric, though angry at this malhandling of his property, realized a well-meaning ignorance was to blame.
Usually, he would have taken off the spectacles immediately to remedy the damage. But here he did no such thing, for he was on display. So he put his hand to the hilt of his sword and said:
‘No red you see because none there is to sight.’
With Alfric’s normality thus vouched for, the joviality of the gathering increased markedly. Soon, everyone was in a mood for a story, so Grendel Danbrog began upon a tale.
Grendel told of the Wormlord’s father, and how that man had marched against Her son with a company of Knights. When father and companions failed to return from their expedition, nobody in Galsh Ebrek had been willing to follow in their footsteps. Nobody except Tromso Stavenger. Daring much, he had tracked through the wilds until he came to a gorge where his father and companions had been ambushed.
A terrible doom had come upon them in this narrow place. Here lay weapons barbed with blood, killing-irons of surpassing strength which had not availed against the fury which had fallen upon the Knights. Torn were the mailcoats and hewed the helmets. A shield lay in fragments; it had burst asunder, one piece driving deep into the heart of an oak.
And the dead!
The condition of the dead is best left undescribed, but Grendel described them regardless.
‘That was what the Wormlord found. Then he knew his father had fallen victim to Her son. The monster had struck, destroying all. Other mortals would have fled in despair, but the Wormlord did not. Instead, he vowed to seek out Her son, to meet him in combat and tear him asunder. This he did.’
At that, the side door opened; and, as if on cue, the Wormlord entered. A great silence descended upon the Yudonic Knights. Their king looked them over, then spoke.
‘Gr
endel,’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘Which is Alfric?’
‘This one, my lord,’ said Grendel, pointing at Alfric.
The Wormlord advanced upon his grandson.
‘So this is Alfric,’ said Stavenger.
‘It is,’ said Grendel.
‘A good-looking boy,’ said the Wormlord.
Other compliments and queries followed, and all in all a great pretence of a family reunion was made. Alfric participated in this microdrama without knowing why it was being staged. Though the world might not know it, Alfric was no stranger to his grandfather; for the Banker Third Class had sometimes had occasion to discuss Bank business with the Wormlord, and more than once the two had taken wine together in private quarters. A little reflection convinced Alfric that this play-acting was being done for the benefit of the assembled Yudonic Knights.
‘A good-looking boy, as I said before,’ said Stavenger. ‘A child of a Family. A good match for any girl. But I hear he’s married, though. A commoner. Why so, boy?’
‘I work for the Bank,’ said Alfric. ‘It is Bank policy that one must marry. To do otherwise is to invite either the perils of debauchery or those of neurosis.’
‘Neurosis?’ said Stavenger, genuinely puzzled. ‘What be this neurosis?’
‘An obscure foreign ailment in which the Bank believes though I do not,’ said Alfric. ‘Still, married I am, and lamenting the matter will not change it.’ He sought for a way to change the subject and found one: ‘But come, my lord. Enough talk of myself. Let’s have a toast, a toast to yourself if I may be so bold. Then a toast to us all, if this bam can boast of a drink for your indulgence.’
A tankard was produced for the Wormlord, who joined in the second of Alfric’s toasts — but cautiously, for he was too frail to countenance intemperate indulgence.
Tromso Stavenger still wore his homed helmet, as was his invariable custom. The helmet was of ancient iron, stained by weather and use. The Wormlord himself was nearly as ancient, though he hid it well. Before he moved, gestured or spoke, it was his custom to pause to gather the necessary energy needed to pursue his purpose with heroic amplitude. By such habitual recourse he gave a good (albeit spasmodic) imitation of a warrior in the years of his strength.
But age, age, age was writ everywhere in the Worm-lord’s lineage. Was written so clearly that even the illiterate could see it. The little hair that tweaked out from beneath his iron skullcap was grey, as was his shapeless beard. Likewise grey was his moustache, which curved down around his mouth in twin horns which mirror-echoed those of his helmet. One eye was opaque, a white cloud, useless. And everywhere his skin was furrowed and rucked, folded and buckled and mottled with liver spots, those manifestations of age which an obscure poet of Wen Endex has described as ‘leaves of the bodyweather’s autumn’.
A little liquor served (though cautiously imbibed) to loosen the Wormlord’s tongue, and soon he was persuaded to tell of his hunt for Her son and the killing which followed their encounter.
‘Is it true about the blood?’ said Grendel, still happy to hear the details though he had heard them all a thousand times before.
‘It is,’ said Stavenger. ‘When I cleansed the gore from the noble iron, each splotch of blood burnt purple in the night as it dripped to the ground. As home I rode, a storm came up. Clouds swept the moon from the sky. Grey were those clouds, grey and writhing, a flood of wrath which consumed the heavens and then unleashed a ruthless fury of windstorm rain.’
Strongly spoke the Wormlord, and great was the enthusiasm with which the assembled Knights attended to his words. Still, Alfric thought this woodland bam to be no place for the old man, who was fit for little more than to spend his evenings deciphering his hearthfire’s labyrinth. To make him act as hero-king was farcical, and a cruel farce at that.
After much tale-telling, the Wormlord at last began to say his goodbyes. He worked his way round to Alfric.
‘Tell me, boy,’ said Tromso Stavenger, gripping Alfric by the shoulder. ‘What do you want to make of yourself?’
‘What I can,’ answered Alfric.
‘Well said,’ said the Wormlord with a nod.
Then he departed, going out into the night alone. A reckless thing to do, surely; but he was still fearless for all that he was old; and, if She were to fall upon him in the dark, he would accept that ending without complaint.
After that, the meeting began to break up, the Yudonic Knights dispersing in twos and threes. At last, Alfric was left alone with his father.
Grendel Danbrog looked upon his son, then belched prodigiously.
‘Ah,’ said Grendel, slapping himself twice on the gut, ‘that feels better. Well, my son, how did you enjoy your evening?’
‘It was passable,’ said Alfric, still mystified as to why he had been summoned here.
Something was going on, obviously.
But what?
‘Passable?’ said Grendel. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say? The Wormlord met you. Is that not a great honour?’
‘I’m no stranger to my grandfather,’ said Alfric.
‘Oh, you’ve met him privily, that I know. Wasn’t I at the first of those meetings? Of course I was. But for him to acknowledge you in the presence of the most trusted of his Knights, ah, that’s something else again. It holds great promise for the future.’
‘Doubtless,’ said Alfric, by way of politeness. ‘However, the present also has its demands. If you’ll excuse me, I must be getting back to Galsh Ebrek.’
‘No,’ said Grendel. ‘You’re staying here the night. On tomorrow’s night, we go together to Saxo Pall.’ ‘Together?’ said Alfric. ‘Whateve r for?’
‘You’ll find out when we get there,’ said Grendel. ‘Look,’ said Al fric, starting to get angry. ‘I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you have to realize I’ve got responsibilities. I’ve got a busy schedu le. My in-tray is bulging, my-’
‘Enough,’ said Grendel, silencing him with a gesture. Then he reached into a small pocket originally designed to hold a miniature whetstone, pulled out a grubby piece of paper, unfolded it and handed it to Alfric, saying: ‘Read this.’
The letter, which was of recent date, was signed by Comptroller Xzu of the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association. It commanded Alfric, in the name of the Bank, to obey his father and do whatever his father commanded.
Alfric was bewildered to receive such a letter, but knew he had best do what it said.
‘But,’ said Alfric, ‘what’s it all about? What’s going on?’
‘Peace,’ said Grendel. ‘Wait. And tomorrow night, you will know. Oh yes. Then you’ll know all.’
And with that, Alfric had to be content.
CHAPTER FIVE
On the next night, father and son went to Galsh Ebrek, climbed the slopes of Mobius Kolb and dared themselves to the gates of Tromso Stavenger’s castle.
Alfric was most unhappy at entering Saxo Pall. He had often ventured to the Wormlord’s stronghold on Bank business. Nevertheless, that did nothing to alter the fact that he was technically liable to instant execution every time he intruded upon the royal castle.
When Grendel had been accused of bearing a lycan-thropic taint, Tromso Stavenger had exiled him from Galsh Ebrek with these words:
‘You are to leave this city immediately, never to return. Furthermore, you, and your sons, and the sons of your sons unto the fifth generation, will not set foot in Saxo Pall. On pain of death.’
Thereafter, Grendel had abjured the family name. On marrying a female of the Danbrog family, he had taken to himself the name of that clan. Thus Alfric, Grendel’s eldest son, styled himself Alfric Danbrog.
But for the unsubstantiated allegations of lycanthropy, Grendel would have been in line to inherit the throne of Wen Endex, and his eldest son likewise. What would it have been like to be a prince of the royal blood, heir apparent to the kingdom of Wen Endex and all its powers? Alfric thought about that, sometimes. Oh yes. Little as he liked to admit it, he thought about it.
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When father and son had been admitted into the forbidden stronghold, Guignol Grangalet was summoned. The Wormlord’s Chief of Protocol hastened to meet these most unwelcome guests.
‘What are you doing here?’ said Grangalet, when he saw Grendel.
‘I’m here to see my father,’ said Grendel. ‘Show me to the old monster.’
Heated words then followed between Guignol Grangalet and Grendel Danbrog. But at length the Chief of Protocol yielded to the will of the Wormlord’s son.
‘I’ll take you to see him,’ said Guignol Grangalet. ‘But only you. Your son must wait as a hostage.’
‘You’re not putting him in a cage,’ said Grendel harshly.
‘Perish the thought!’ said the Chief of Protocol. ‘Your son can wait in the Hall of Shields.’
And Alfric shortly found himself alone and abandoned in that place of spiderweb draughts and guttering lanterns.
A great many death-branded shields were hung on the walls of this hall, for the honour of all the Ruling Families of Wen Endex was here represented. One shield displayed a decapitated head, its hair held by a grasping hand with blood-red talons. Other themes? A rain of blood. A sea of blood. A bloody wound. A pyramid of skulls, fountains of blood spurting from the eyesockets of each. A heap of amputated hands. And many more in a similar vein.
While Alfric was renewing his acquaintance with the culture of the Yudonic Knights, someone came up behind him unheard. He almost leapt out of his skin when he heard a bright and cheery voice say:
‘Hello.’
Alfric turned. The man who had stalked unheard to well within killing distance was Nappy, a huffy-puffy individual of slightly less than average height. Nappy was pink of face and bald of pate, and could often be seen hustling about Galsh Ebrek, looking slightly comical thanks to his pigeon-toed gait. He was renowned for his sweet temper, for the jolly delight he took in all innocent pleasures, and for his work as a committee man. Nappy was famous in charity circles, and was known to be happiest at festivals when he could transmogrify himself into Mister Cornucopia, and dispense sweets for the children and kisses for blushing virgins.