by Will Shand
The other thing that spurred him on was the effort that the guards put in to trying to stop him. When he had been a fishing troll, the young Grendel enjoyed the challenge of the hunt almost as much as the eating of the fish he caught. Although it must be said; he was very fond of eating! The elaborate plans and defences that the Beer Hall Guards attempted only inspired him to greater feats of daring and skill to defeat them. It was this escalation which precipitated the crisis.
On the night in question, he could have snatched a guard who had taken a break from his post. He was just inside the perimeter wall; a wall that Grendel regularly scaled with contemptuous ease. This guard had sloped of from his duty in order to urinate behind one of the fine trees that King Lars had caused to be planted, little thinking what good cover they would provide for an interloping troll. Grendel had silently moved up behind the man and was ready to strike when he suddenly felt how disappointed he would be if his hunt was over for the night so early on. He slid back into cover, let the man leave and looked around.
At the end of the orchard where he was hidden, a neat lawn stretched out for some distance until it reached the veranda that surrounded the Beer Hall. When the hall had been new, King Lars and his loyal subjects (of a certain level of wealth and social standing) had liked to sit out on the veranda drinking and enjoying the evening sun.
‘I am the King of all I survey,’ Lars would say and they would nod graciously and concede that it was so. When he had more than enough to drink he would shout ‘I AM THE KING OF ALL I SURVEY!’ and they would cheer and agree that this was just as things should be. Often he passed into a happy oblivion, ruling wisely from his garden bench, with a drunken smile of idiotic contentment on his patrician face, until his servants were summoned to take him indoors and lay the Head of State to sleep in his magnificent feather bed. Nowadays, he dominated the world from a safer seat inside his hall and did not go out to see the sun set on the hills that bore his name. The veranda doors and windows were all locked an hour before dark with heavy chains and Steelstrom ‘trusty’ anti-troll locks. Usually all the windows of the three story Beer Hall were barred and locked, however this evening Grendel saw a small open window on the first floor and he began to imagine how he could squeeze through it, if only he could get across the lawn and onto the veranda roof. He waited much longer than he normally would and carefully studied the patterns of the guard patrols.
At the darkest point of the night, when the darkness was so complete that he could no longer see the wall from his hiding place he began to crawl carefully and silently across the lawn. The Guards did not patrol far from the protective shelter of the building and he was able to get very close without much risk. He was aiming for a spot where a carelessly deserted bench stood next to a post that supported the veranda roof. He was sure that he could spring up from the bench, catch onto the roof and pull himself up, thus gaining access to the window. He planned to get inside and create a terrible panic amongst the guards.
As he edged close enough to the building to see that he had followed the right line, he heard a sound behind him. It must be a patrol. He quickly got up, ran the last few yards and sprang onto the bench. From the bench he jumped up to grab for the roof. His hard nails and strong fingers scratched on the wood and he was afraid that he would slip, but at the last moment he caught hold and pulled himself up. When he looked back down he saw what had caused the sound.
A very large black and white dog with a sparkling studded collar was running across the lawn chased by a number of the guards. As it closed on the veranda surrounding the beer hall it began to bark at the troll on the roof. Grendel was sure he must be discovered by the guards. Would it be better to jump back to the grass and run, or scurry along the veranda and jump down further away from the men before trying to get back to the orchard? The guards were trying to catch the dog and their attention was fixed upon it. He realised that if he stayed still, there was a chance he would not be seen.
The men had cornered the dog, but seemed afraid to approach it. It was a huge shaggy hound and was clearly terrifying to the men.
‘Grab it!’ shouted one, ‘If the dog isn’t in the hall when the King wants it we’ll be the ones to answer!’
The men looked at each other and the dog crouched growling; Grendel was impressed by its ferocious bulk and could sense the men’s reluctance to tangle with it.
‘You’re in armour you cowards!’ hissed the first man, who was obviously the leader. ‘Get it now!’
One of the men, who had nervously edged around to get behind the hound, now made a clumsy and half-hearted lunge for the dog. The animal leapt away snapping and ran off again, into the night.
‘Get after it!’ shouted the Sergeant, pointing the way for his companions who quickly ran after the dog.
‘Idiots! Cowards! Fools!’ he shouted, encouragingly. Having let the men go, he sat down heavily on the bench.
‘Not a man among them,’ he muttered to himself, ‘no use to even catch a dog, let alone a monstrous troll!’
Grendel smiled and slid off the roof landing on the grass a short distance from the Sergeant.
‘And you would do better than that?’ he asked, from the darkness.
The man sat up, afraid and alert.
‘Who’s there?’ He pulled his sword from its sheath and stared into the shadows where Grendel stood. The young troll took a step back into the shadow and said nothing. The man stood up. Grendel’s retreat had given him a spark of confidence and he stepped forward. He slashed at the air with his sword.
‘Come out!’ he called. ‘I am a Sergeant of the guard!’ Grendel stood unmoving, in the darkness.
‘Come out!’ he called again, ‘Not so brave now, are you? You trolls can only kill a man when he isn’t watching. I don’t think-’
Whatever it was the Sergeant didn’t think was never said, as Grendel leapt from his cover, knocked the sergeant to the ground and slashed through the man’s throat with his powerful claws. He dragged the body into the darkness of the veranda and was about to eat when he remembered something. In recent evenings, he had taken to watching the guards who secured the gardens and the beer hall even more closely and he had noticed how they fiddled with the locks and chains. He was sure there was a piece of metal that was important in the locking and unlocking of the chains. Quickly he searched the Sergeant’s body and found what he was looking for. He wanted to get inside the hall now and attack his enemies when they thought they would be safe, but he realised that a long time had passed and that soon it would be morning. The night was almost over. He slung the Sergeant’s body over his shoulder and set off for the wall.
Feeling very pleased, he ambled across the grass and slipped into the orchard. Moving from tree to tree he worked his way silently back to a spot close to where he had climbed over the wall. He nearly forgot his usual caution and was about to climb back over, when he stopped and remembered. He knew that when he climbed over the wall he often left marks, and that this could be spotted. He knew that if men found these signs then, perhaps, an ambush could be set. He placed the Sergeant’s body on the ground and went to scout his crossing, checking the trees in both directions. He was relieved to find that it was all clear. He knew that it would have been difficult to find a different crossing now that he was tired and morning was coming. He went back to the body, but he was startled by a low growling. The King’s dog had returned and was standing over the Sergeant’s body, ready to compete with the troll for the feast it had discovered. Grendel noticed the spittle dripping from its large red mouth shining in the first light of dawn and caught the ferocious gleam in the dog’s night black eyes, as the great hound sprang at him. Its weight knocked him off his feet and he fell back towards the wall.
Chapter Four
In which Thwurp feels the full weight of his responsibilities and the Queen contemplates the Royal finances with her friend. The advantages of armour and weaponry are outlined by an expert.
Thwurp waited anxiously outsi
de the door of the King’s parlour. He had been summoned by a guard who said that the King was extremely angry. Thwurp was afraid of what might have happened. He was scared when the King was angry. Had the monster killed again? How could he prevent the nightly attacks? He felt the King was losing confidence in him and he feared that he would soon be replaced. The door swung open and he had no choice but to enter.
King Lars was looking unhappily at himself in a large silver mirror. The long, manly mane of golden hair that the King had cultivated, as he led his armies across the continent seeking the mighty battles that would make his fortune, now seemed to have lost some of its lustre. He noticed that there were even small patches of grey. Even worse was that. when he swept his distinguished long hair back across his clear, unfurrowed, regal brow; the clear, unfurrowed, regal brow was, in fact, furrowed and at this point did not have the noble and majestic air that would entitle it to be called ‘regal’. Even his rugged, strong chin could not hold the jaunty upward tilt that he had always affected, as he had fought for, grabbed and conquered his kingdom. His mighty shoulders stooped and his once powerful frame slumped. He turned to face Thwurp, who feared again what this transformation might mean.
‘Sire?’ he questioned, nervously.
The mournful King hesitated, overcome by a deep and inconsolable grief. Thwurp feared for that the beast might have taken the Queen, or even the royal children. The moment stretched on, Thwurp felt as if his heart might cease to beat, until in the deathly hush the King whispered,
‘The Monster took my Dog!’
The Queen, who has not been mentioned in this narrative before this point, was in the counting house. She and the royal children Princess Ola, Prince Olaf and the baby Olsen have not been mentioned until now in accordance with the views of the King, who regarded her as ‘completely unimportant in affairs of state’, a fine, patriarchal view that was, as is often the case with such views, almost completely inaccurate. The Queen, contrary to the King’s belief, was as sharp as a stick and had her finger on the faltering pulse of the nation, both politically and (where it counted) economically. She possessed a near infallible grasp of figures and a brain as larcenous as a moneylender’s monkey. The King was aware only of her fabled good looks and her appropriate social standing (She was after all a daughter of the Duke of Jutland!), but, as was the case with both the trolls and the national debt, he had seriously underestimated his opposition.
The Queen was not someone to be taken lightly. She was often in the counting house. She was often there with Bjorn the banker. Bjorn the banker was a tall, thin, young man. His long, thin, tapering fingers where the same shining, ivory-white as his long, thin tapering face; he had a shock of unruly, jet black hair and favoured black in all his apparel. The King had been known to say (sadly, rather more than twice) that Bjorn ‘looked like a damn chess set!’ To be fair, the King may, in his crude and oft-repeated analogy have hit upon a concealed psychological truth; Bjorn was game for anything and, had Bjorn been a chess player, he would have been more than a match for the king. He was practicing the ‘steepling of the fingers’ gesture, he thought appropriate to financial wizards and trying to demonstrate his acumen to the watching Queen.
‘Highness,’ he intoned softly, ‘things are as bad as you surmise. The Royal borrowing in respect of the Greatest Hall is still growing as the interest compounds and the contractors remain extensively unsatisfied; defence spending is expanding exponentially and although a myriad of incomes refreshes the Royal Treasury at a rate unparalleled in recent time the overwhelming trend turns towards a substantial shortfall.’
‘Bankruptcy looms,’ replied the Queen, ‘The Royal fool has outdone himself in his stupidity this time. I am sure that the mere tradesmen who built the hall can be kept dancing on the string of Royal credit; almost until the end of time.’
‘As always, your Majesty is magisterial in her assay of the accounts. The common traders revel in their Royal commission and regard the regal recommendation as essential for collecting contracts from the socially successful. They will wait and cringe as the crown commands, but…’
‘Steelstrom will not.’
‘No,’ agreed Bjorn, ‘Steelstrom will not.’
There was a moments silence as they considered their options. The Queen began to walk, lazily circling the counting house. Bjorn fell in behind, a familiar pattern as they decided the fate of nations. The queen broke the companionable silence,
‘The solution?’
‘As your excellence has already extrapolated the present penury is perhaps possibly pieced into a pair of problems. The decidedly decadent deficits from the building of the Beer Hall can be discretely deferred. The increasing outgoing from the increased armaments augmentation must be collapsed and curtailed, essentially….’
‘Come to the point. And try to be less alliterative. I find it distracting.’
‘Abject apologies.’ Bjorn stopped and grinned, ‘Sorry.’
‘Continue.’
The Queen waited.
‘The solution is simple. I mean the way ahead is clear. There is a remedy. Foreclosure can be forestalled.’
The Queen grabbed the banker by the front of his robes and pulled him until their eyes were inches apart.
‘Spit it out!’
‘The troublesome troll must be got rid of.’
‘Exactly.’
The Queen kissed the stricken banker on the lips, turned on her heel and left the room.
Bjorn waited a moment and then let out a long sigh.
‘There is no sign of Gareth.’ Thwurp informed the King. Gareth was (or possibly had been) the Royal Dog. The disappearance of Gareth had caused an unparalleled level of panic in the Royal household. All the guards had been alerted and an extensive search of the grounds had been completed.
‘We did locate the body of Sergeant Styles in the eastern orchard near the wall. He had been chewed quite considerably.’
‘I don’t care about that. He could have been completely devoured as far as I’m concerned. Is there any sign of Gareth, or evidence that the beast took him?’
Thwurp shifted his weight uneasily. The King was not going to like the news.
‘There was evidence that the beast did enter the Royal gardens, through the wire, over the eastern orchard wall and, likely as not, escaped over the wall in the same general vicinity. And there was…er….’
He stopped.
‘Well?’
Lars glared at Thwurp.
‘Regrettably, your Highness, there was a considerable amount of blood in that area.’
‘Blood? Can it be that the blood came from that fool Styles…or the beast itself?’
‘Well, your Magnificence, it could.’
‘But?’ demanded Lars.
‘We really don’t know, your Grace. There’s no way to tell.’
Lars tried to think. He remembered being more decisive in the breach at the siege of Solvieg. He remembered being able to think clearly even in the melee at the battle of Bergen, but the thought that his dog, his Gareth, could have fallen victim to the ‘Thing from the swamp’ overwhelmed him. He looked to Thwurp for inspiration, but all he saw was a slow, fat man. A man who had failed to protect the Royal Dog. A man who had failed Gareth! A man who had failed in his duty! Lars felt like a King again. He drew himself up (almost imperially!) and spoke in a strong, commanding voice,
‘Captain Thwurp, your neglect has caused this crisis. Your dereliction of your sacred duty has allowed this vile beast to infiltrate our walls and take our beloved Royal Hound. You are responsible. You must now make amends for this debacle. You must take your guards and go beyond the wall. Track the creature to its sordid lair and strike it dead. Go now and do your duty. Do not return without Gareth, or the head of the beast, or best of all, both!’
The King turned and left the hall; Thwurp stood for a long time, doing his best approximation of a man lost in dutiful thought, and then set off for the armoury.
Steelstrom, agains
t all likelihood, was a small, neat, kindly looking old man. He looked as if he could be what, in fact, he was; somebody’s Grandfather. He was quietly checking the inventory of weapons in the Royal Armoury, looking for items that he could declare as ‘obsolete’ and so create a demand for replacements. He found that he could spend many contented hours at the service of the state in this way, before returning to his factories to ensure that an ample supply of replacement weapons was available for dispatch to ‘make the world a better, safer place.’
He was delighted when Thwurp came into the armoury, as he was particularly fond of the Captain of the King’s Guard. So fond that he could even extend a generous discount to the Captain for the purchase of ‘personal weapons, armour and equipment suitable for a soldier in a Royal post.’ Steelstrom did find that, as he got older (and richer) it was increasingly difficult for him to remember anything apart from the rich language of his sales brochures and contracts. At times he wondered if ‘marketing’ was not more dangerous than warfare.
‘A fine day for fighting,’ was his salutation to the new arrival. ‘A perfect day for precision engineered battle supplies, all created from the finest materials by the world’s most skilled and highly trained craftsmen. Is there anything I can help the noble Captain with today?’
His radiant smile glowed and his tiny blue eyes twinkled as he greeted Thwurp, who almost forgot the fearsome power of his enemy as he returned the old man’s greeting. Then he remembered.
‘I must go outside the Beer Hall walls and seek the beast in its lair.’ He had tried to sound bold and unshakeable, but knew that his voice did not carry his usual fine, manly boom. Steelstrom smiled back sympathetically.
‘Desperate situations call for desperate remedies. When faced with death, darkness and destruction a real hero knows that a Steelstrom ‘Ironman’ breastplate can make the difference. A warrior can stand tall knowing that the best in triple forged armour protects his vital organs and will frustrate his enemies. The reinforced Steelstrom ‘shine’ metal grease will ensure that your foes feeble blows slide away leaving you free to split their skull with your Steelstrom ‘Technology’ Anti-Troll Axe.’