by Hugh Cook
Maybe it would be possible to develop a kind of politics in which the great mass of the people would no longer be people at all. In which they would not be even animated rubbish or a lower form of animal life. Suppose one were to create a politics in which people became mere abstract symbols to be manipulated as one manipulates money. Thus a stinking beggar, a leprous thing of rags and ulcerated bones, would no longer be an entity to be either cherished or scorned, helped or rebuffed. Rather, the beggar would be reduced to an abstract token, a necessary side-effect of the mathematics of prosperity.
Was it possible?
Was it possible for a ruling politics to be so detached from reality?
Was it possible, in other words, for politics to be reduced to the painless manipulation of a web of symbols, an exercise of the intellect totally removed (in an emotional sense) from any realworld consequences?
For a moment, Alfric thought it was possible, and thought too that he might be able to bring about such a state of affairs. But he dismissed the thought as an absurdity.
Then began to reconsider.
It happened that the Partnership Banks had already gone a long way to creating the necessary philosophical underpinning of any such politics; for the manipulating of money already proceeded in a largely abstract arena substantially divorced from all physical realities. Thus one very large and complex confederation of interlocked organizations was conducting its affairs, to a very considerable extent, as if it functioned in a symbolic field rather than a physical universe made of earth and air, fire and water.
As money is today, so the world can be tomorrow.
Thinking thus, Alfric shuddered; and knew then his own true capacity for evil.
Evil?
Yes.
Surely it would be evil in the highest degree to treat the real world as a solipsistic dream to be manipulated for symbolic satisfaction; and, on the level of practical affairs, to deny the existence of the real in favour of the mechanics of daydream. To puppet humans as if they were but shadows. It would be evil, yes.
But it was infinitely appealing.
The result would be — in effect — the abolition of the world. Even if Alfric became king, he would be able to retreat from existence into a world of symbols.
Thus thinking, thus brooding, Alfric went slowly through the forests of night. He was in no hurry; and, besides, apart from the horse he was riding, he had four pack horses, all heavily loaded, and this made haste impossible. Sd he went slowly, fantasizing, abstracting, politic-creating, reminiscing and hopeconjuring.
In the course of such thoughtwandering, it happened that at last Alfric began to meditate upon his relationship with his wife, his darling Viola Vanaleta. This he did with some reluctance, for his seven years of marriage had not been happy. The reason for this was not hard to find. Alfric was selfish, especially with his time. Through the years of his marriage, he had dedicated his efforts to his career and his own aggrandisement. Worse, the very foundations of his marraige were unsound; for Alfric had married simply to appease the needs of the flesh, and (despite his denials) his wife had long suspected as much, and had long resented being used as a convenience of lust.
The subject of marriage was also painful inasmuch as Alfric’s occasional outbursts of anger had left him with much to be ashamed of. He remembered the last time he had hit her. It was so easy! And it happened so quickly. The wrathrage making his fists manic. The terrible, inexplicable, unreasonable anger seizing his flesh. In such a mood, he could quite happily punch glass, splinter wood, or gouge, squeeze, tear and strangle.
In such a mood, he might one day kill someone without thought, giving himself over to his murderous rage for the sheer bloody pleasure of slaughter.
And And what if such an anger came upon him when he was king?
It happened that he often hated the rest of the world for simply existing. It happened that the mere presence of other people was often enough to exacerbate the temper-fits which sometimes came upon him.
So But enough of the future.
Let the future look after itself, for what mattered was the present. The journey, and then the matter of surviving the great dare at journey’s end.
A long journey Alfric had of it; and, before the end, thought deteriorated to mere imagespasm as exhaustion set in. His flesh was equal to the tasks which faced it, but his much-burdened mind was still suffering from the events of the last few days. Suffering from murdershock guilt, from deathfear assault, from the sudden and unexpected complexities which had entered his life. The Bank had long been his refuge against reality and the world; but now the Bank had forced him to enter the arena of active politics, thus exposing him to all manner of danger and uncertainty.
Consequently, towards the end of his journey Alfric was mazed with fatigue, fullblinded by moments of dream in which eldritch figures clumped from the hulkbulk trees, the dark-dwindle ditches. Though the dark yielded to his vision, it was ever an effort to find his way; and, even when the skycurrents stirred the cloud-seas sideways, the moon remained hidden, and all he saw was a scattering of stars, stars bright-burning, orange and green, poisonous confectionary, the heaven-tree’s lethal nightfruit.
The forest thickened and the path narrowed, until at last Alfric had to dismount and lead his horses on foot through an overgrowth wilderness of gnarled and buckling vegetation, of broken limbs and staggering crutches.
At last he stopped, for the way was almost impassable, and he was more than half-minded to turn back. Then he smelt something. The low, slow, muddy smell of sedgeswamp, of mouldrot and vegetative decay, of duckweed and frogweed. It was near, it was near.
Thus guided, Alfric pressed forward. The undergrowth thinned, and he found himself by the shores of the much-dreaded Swamp of Slud. He made out the causeway which stretched from the shore to the distant night-humped mound which could only be the Spiderweb Castle.
Now Alfric was all business, his braindeath fatigue conquered entirely by the quick excitement of action. He unloaded his pack horses. As he hefted the heavy barrels of his baggage into a heap, he did his best to ignore the gnawing cries of anguish coming from a nearby clump of swampgrass. With the horses unloaded, Alfric led the beasts a safe distance into the forest and tethered them carefully. He clothed each with a blanket so it would not get too cold while it waited.
Then he went back to the swamp and waited himself.
But for the crying grass, all was silent.
As Alfric waited, the skyrug clouds drifted apart and the moon appeared, a moon not very far from the full. Alfric was startled by that white-blazing circle of light. How could the moon be so full so soon? He had calculated things otherwise: but one look at the sky told him his calculations were out by a matter of days.
The moonlight gauzed the light mist which lay across the swamps and the far-stretching causeway. Alfric durst not start out along that causeway until he had dealt with the swamp giant Kralch, Eater of Babies; the monster who, by tradition, was welcome to any unwanted flesh which was brought to the swampside.
As Alfric waited, the bawling baby began to get on his nerves. He did his best to ignore it. Maybe it wasn’t a baby at all. It could be some trick of magic, perhaps — the grass itself crying out in anguish. Or a mutant frog. Or — well, a monkey. Or something. As long as he didn’t look, he didn’t know. As long as he didn’t know, he wasn’t guilty of anything.
Still, it did make for a long wait.
At last, the head and shoulders of a huge and slovenly beast came slurching out of the swamp.
‘I am Kralch, Eater of Babies,’ said the giant, clearvoiced across a distance of a hundred paces.
‘Hi,’ said Alfric. ‘I’m Alfric Danbrog.’
He pitched his voice as if for battle, and loud and clear it carried through the night air.
‘Have you brought me a baby?’
‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘Can’t you hear it crying?’
‘Faintly,’ said the giant. ‘I’m somewhat deaf.’
‘
Oh,’ said Alfric. ‘Sorry to hear that.’
So saying, Alfric took the bung from the first of his barrels and kicked it over. A light and combustible oil (distilled at great expense from the flesh of riverworms) spilt outward and spread across the swamp.
‘What are you doing?’ said the giant.
‘Pouring out a libation to the gods,’ said Alfric. ‘It’s a form of sacrifice.’
With that, he unbunged and overturned a second barrel.
‘Libation or no libation,’ said the giant, ‘I’m coming for the baby. If you’re still there when I get there, I’ll have you too.’
‘Thanks for the warning,’ said Alfric, and unbunged and kicked over a third barrel.
Kralch waded forward. Then the swamp shallowed, and the giant started to crawl. As it did so, it began to pant in a most hideous way. The truth was, the huge and hideous creature was in danger of expiring as soon as it dragged itself from the supporting watermuck of the swamp; and it put its very life in danger every time it came to claim a baby. One thing was certain: though the giant could crawl, it was totally incapable of standing up and supporting its weight on its legs once it was out of the swamp.
As the giant drew near, Alfric kicked over the last of his barrels. Then waited.
‘I did warn you,’ said the Eater of Babies. ‘If you’re going to run, you’d better start now.’
‘Oh,’ said Alfric coolly, ‘I think it’s you who’s going to do the running.’
So saying, Alfric produced a small jar and a pair of tongs. Alfric reached into the jar with the tongs and pulled out a small piece of metal. The metal looked grey by moonlight; and, had a stronger light been available, its hue would have remained unchanged.
As Alfric shook away the last drops of water, the metal burst into flames.
Alfric touched the flaming metal to his oil slick, which ignited. The swamp erupted. The giant screamed, engulfed by fire. It convulsed in agony. Kicked, clawed, howled and thrashed, and fought its way back into the depths of the swamp.
‘So much for that,’ said Alfric briskly.
Then he shivered, and set forth along the causeway.
Endless seemed that causeway, but at last the steps of the Spiderweb Castle were before him. Alfric climbed those steps and entered that place of death, the Castle of the Curse. As legend alleged, this was a place of the dead. Cold they were, their corpses ageless, frozen for centuries in the same positions.
The guards who held the castle gate never blinked as Alfric walked between them. He walked within, passing elders gathered in twos and threes in private conference; young lovers exchanging kisses and blisses in shadowed places; servants locked for ever in the hurry-scurry attitudes of hard-driven servitors.
At last, he entered the Grand Hall.
Again, legend was confirmed, for here candles shone with a ghostly phosphorescence, and the candles were not consumed by their own burning. It was silent, utterly silent. Alfric heard his own breathing, the creak of his own leather boots, the dry friction as a frisson of nervousness agitated his fingers to a spiderkick shuffle. His footsteps stirred the dust which rose, half-swirled then settled.
As legend said, there was the royal family. Alfric recognized them, just as he recognized their friends and retainers; for each was dressed according to rank and attainments. And there was the Princess Gwenarath; and, as legend said, she was passing fair. So fair that Alfric was moved to touch her cheek. He yielded to this impulse, but found the flesh cold, yes, cold, and as hard as marble. And he saw the dust of ages had gritted in the royal eyes, had settled in the folds of the royal cloak.
But she was fair regardless, and Alfric, despite himself, began to weep; for here a great evil had been done, and for this evil he had no remedy.
Alfric squeezed the tears from his eyes, and, angry at himself for thus sentimentalizing, he got down to business. Where was the queen? There. Proffering the mead to her husband. And he, a half-smile on his lips, was making as if he would take the cup from the gold-decked woman. A noble pair they made, and ‘Let legend do the weeping,’ said Alfric, with willed and conscious brutality.
So saying, he went to the empty chair which stood beside the royal couple. And there was the sword, just as legend claimed. Sulamith’s Grief, a silver sword in a silver sheath. Alfric drew the blade, and it burnt brighter than the candles.
And Did the Grand Hall change?
Did he hear a faint whisper of the noise of revel? Did people silent for long centuries stir, if only by an eyelash? Did ‘I imagine it,’ said Alfric loudly.
And knew it was true, yes, he had been imagining it. There was no noise, no life, and no hope of either. These people were long dead, however perfectly preserved their appearance might be.
Then Something did move.
Alfric saw it not, but heard it. A wrenching sound as metal tore free from metal.
Alfric nearly leapt out of his skin.
‘Who’s there?’ he said.
He drew Sulamith’s Grief and discarded the scabbard. The silver sword quivered in his hand. His heart quick-kicked. His eyes blazed red, alert for murder.
‘Who?’ he roared. ‘Who’s there?’
Nothing.
Nobody.
But something There!
Alfric saw it.
The sword.
The weapon was sheathed at the side of a swarthy warrior of undistinguished appearance, but it was sticking out from the hilt by a good fingerlength. Unless he was sorely mistaken, that blade was the thing which had moved. It was a plain black blade which had leapt (if Alfric was guessing correctly) from a plain black sheath.
Carefully, Alfric recovered the scabbard which he had dropped. He sheathed Sulamith’s Grief. Then he unbuckled the swordbelt belonging to the swarthy warrior. Gingerly, he drew free the plain black sword. Briefly, letters flamed green against the black of the blade. Alfric barely had time to read them, but read them he did, and what he read he would never forget:
‘Bloodbane be my name. A risk to all, not least to he who holds me.’
Alfric shuddered. He knew the history of this sword — for what Yudonic Knight could live in ignorance of the legends which told of its murders?
Still…
Alfric tested the heft of the weapon. While he put it to no test of strength, already he knew that the old iron was no wise weaker for all the ages it had lain here, derelict and abandoned. He knew. For the sword was speaking to him, its assurance wordless yet warm.
‘Hear me,’ said Alfric, swordhanded as he spoke grimvoiced to Grand Hall. ‘You who are dead. You who are living. You who are yet to be. Hear me. I come not as a thief. I come not as a looter. I come as a hero, and what I claim I claim as mine by right. I am the son of Grendel. I am the grandson of Tromso Stavenger, Wormlord of Wen Endex. I am rightful heir to the royal throne. By such right I claim this weapon.’
His voice died away.
Leaving Alfric standing there, alone and unanswered.
He smiled suddenly, wryly amused by his own heroic conceit; then he sheathed Bloodbane and buckled on the swordbelt which sustained the weapon’s scabbard. Then he picked up Sulamith’s Grief, and left.
On the steps of the Castle of the Curse, Alfric paused. The moon shone bright upon the swampland wastes, and he could feel the allure of the moon and his own swelling strength. On a whim, he drew the blacksword Bloodbane, and the old iron ran with white fire as he saluted the moon.
Alfric was still standing there in salute when the swamp giant Kralch erupted from the swamp not fifty paces away. Mud and water streamed from the monster’s shoulders as it slurred its threat:
‘You! I see you! You die!’
A stupid threat to make at that time and place, for it would have been the easiest thing in the world for Alfric to run back into the shelter of the Spiderweb Castle. But run he did not, for the bloody spell of the sword was upon him.
‘The moon approaches full,’ said Alfric, his voice clear-carrying across the strength. ‘Kn
ow you who I am? Know you what? The moon grows, and my strength likewise. My Change is almost upon me. My Change can be willed if thus I wish.’
Thus spoke Alfric Danbrog. He was drunk, intoxicated by the moon, by the sword’s own slaughter-lust, by a beserker-bom rage of exultation. All this was plain from his voice, and the giant sank back at the sound of it, for the monster was a cowardly creature at hear.
‘Come!’ said Alfric. Challenging. Demanding. ‘What stands against you? This?’ So saying, Alfric brandished the blacksword Bloodbane. The blade ran with silver and with fire. ‘Come,’ said Alfric, ‘this is nothing to fear. It is but a splinter.’
But the giant, frightened of this battle-boast warrior, submerged and withdrew.
‘Well,’ said Alfric, in disappointment. ‘Be like that, then.’
And then he sheathed the sword, and sanity returned, and he began to shudder, and a cold sweat broke out on his skin. Then he picked up Sulamith’s Grief — he had dropped that weapon while focusing on his challenge — and set forth for the swampshore.
When Alfric reached the shore, a nagging crying was still coming from one particular grassclump.
‘Oh well,’ said Alfric, with a sigh. ‘I suppose I can’t leave the thing.’
And, with the greatest reluctance, he went to investigate. As he had feared, there was a baby lying in the grass. It was swaddled in some dirty sheeting and cradled in a basket.
Alfric picked up the basket. The handle promptly tore free, precipitating the baby to the ground. There it bawled prodigiously. Alfric chided himself. He should have known nobody would be so foolish as to waste a good basket on a surplus baby.
What now?
If he picked up the basket then the rotten fabric would probably tear apart. If he took the whining creature from the basket then it might well excrete liquid wastes all over him.
‘A curse on copulation,’ said Alfric.
Then he went to his horses, cut up one of the horse blankets, and brought back a piece the right size for baby-wrapping. He lifted the still-squalling thing from its basket. Its enfolding sheeting was damp, and smelt faintly of ammonia. Alfric shuddered, and quickly wrapped the creature in the blanket so only its face was exposed.