The crossbow which had hurled that lethal bolt had been tossed into the cart, and by the wolf it lay. And Alfric smelt the stench of the killer upon the crossbow, and was afraid, and full of hate.
Then Sudden as the savagery of his fist-battering angers- The fit was upon him, and, unable to help himself, he threw back his head and howled. Deep-throated the sound, bloodbarbaric, the gut-threat challenge of a forest marauder. And scarcely had the howl died away when a doorway nearby was thrown open with a bang. Out stumbled a man with a hatchet in one hand, a lantern in the other.
And Alfric was minded to savage the fork-legged thing on the spot, to skullcrunch its head and scrabble its guts, to maul it and gnaw it, to take revenge for the murder of the she.
‘What was that?’ said the citizen, wide-eyed with alarm.
And Alfric smelt the man, smelt his stale sweat, his beerbelch breath, his rich-larded fat and musty stupidity; smelt adultery’s grease and buttock-cleft filth; and knew this, this, this thing had killed the she, with his stupid concoction of warped wood and wire he had killed her dead, and for that he deserved to die, surely, it would be but the work of the moment to rend him and tear him.
So Alfric — shuddered and — closed his jaws decisively.
Then shuddered again, got a grip on himself and spoke:
‘It was a dog. A dog at the meat. I kicked it away. Now I bid you guard or remove this animal, my good man, or I’ll have you arrested for creating a public menace.’
So saying, Alfric touched the hilt of his sword; and a bloodlust urge from the deathsword Bloodbane incited his heart to murder. But that he resisted easily, for he knew it was the sword speaking to him. And, once he had seen the citizen remove the wolf to a bam and secure it against dogs and such, Alfric went on his way.
As he stalked through the streets of Galsh Ebrek, Alfric kept his head down, deliberately ignoring the moon, and by the time he reached his home he felt more like a man and less like a wolf. But the shock of what had very nearly happened was still upon him; and he decided, in a coldblooded way, to drink himself into oblivion. For otherwise he did not think he could sleep.
However, he was only in the early stages of this project when his father arrived. Alfric explained what he was about — though he did not say why — and Grendel Dranbrog expressed a wish to join him. When Grendel made it clear he thought his son’s drinking was the consequence of woman trouble, Alfric did nothing to disabuse him of this notion. So the two of them drank together, and ran down women as they did so.
‘If only,’ said Grendel, in a moment of unprecedented misogamy, ‘they could all be killed as we kill Herself.’
‘Have we killed Herself?’ said Alfric.
‘Not yet,’ said Grendel. ‘But that will come. In time. The Wormlord’s sworn it, has he not?’
‘So he has,’ said Alfric. ‘So I swear it too. With all three quests complete, I’ll march with the Wormlord. I’ll dare Her lair and hack off Her head.’
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ said his father.
Alfric realized he might have committed himself unwisely, but he scarcely cared. For surely killing Herself would be but a small feat compared to that which awaited him next. For next he must dare the vampires in their lair and rescue the third of the saga swords.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Alfric presented the silversword Sulamith’s Grief to the Wormlord in Saxo Pall, the king of Wen Endex gave him in return the bright blade Chalingrad, arbiter of many deaths. This was a blade truly blessed with success, for well the weapon knew the bloody kiss of victory. And it was this ring-embellished sword that Alfric took with him when he rode forth on his third and final quest.
Chalingrad was doubtless a lesser weapon than Bloodbane; but, after due consideration, Alfric had decided to leave the deathblade at home, for he deemed the thing to be as much a menace to the owner as to anyone else. He would not be able to outfight the vampires, however valorous his swordarm; so a sword which was ever tempting him to murder would not be an asset on this quest.
For the expedition, Alfric had been given a broken-down horse not possessed of a name, which suggested that Anna Blaume did not expect him to return alive from the vampires’ lair. Fair enough. He had his own doubts about his survival.
But he put those doubts out of mind as he rode through the globble-glubble mires of the streets of Galsh Ebrek, and then by the nightwaters of the Riga Rimur River where waterworms dwelt in dreams of drenching, and then down a shatterstone road through winterfallow farmlands. Then forest claimed him, cold forest where ice broke krintalkrastal beneath the hooves of his horse.
His journey was long; and before the end he was weary, and chilled by the night’s bitter cold. The ground’s stones and the sky’s stars alike were hard and comfortless, tokens of an inimical cosmos. He tried to keep himself awake by revising the lemmas of ursury, the delicate mathematics of enrichment. But he began to sleep in spasms, dreaming brief dreams of seasalt fish and tramping elephants, waking time and again to save himself from tumbling from the saddle.
Alfric at last reached the cliffs which were his destination. Tall and gaunt they rose; with, beyond them, rising huger yet, derelict mountain upthrusts where humans never ventured. Somewhere, high amidst the mountains, a scarf of colour gleamed into life, whirled thrice about a peak of stone, and then was gone. What was it? Something equivalent to the zana, the wild rainbows of Galsh Ebrek? Or something different?
Alfric put it out of mind. Working in accordance with the instructions he had been given, he began to search for the door into the vampire depths, which he located after a long and weary search. This was clearly going to be a night for the long and the weary, and he only hoped his negotiations with the vampires would not prove too protracted.
The door was at the top of a steep flight of steps cut into the living rock of the mountains, so Alfric tethered his horse to a convenient tree, then began to climb.
As Alfric Danbrog advanced upon that door, war-faring men in battledress began to march out of it. Armed with old iron they were, their faces fell and silent. In an access of terror, Alfric clasped his ring-embellished sword and prepared to die — then realized the onmarching men were nothing but ghosts. As they flowed through him and around him, he imagined he heard a ghostly horn calling them to battle.
Then the men were gone, and Alfric Danbrog shrugged off his shock and, single of purpose, strode towards the door to the vampire depths. Striding thus, he tripped over a rock, which almost threw him off balance.
A rock?
On a night like this in a place like this, something which looked to be a rock could be anything. Alfric, remembering childhood tales of Grapter the Wishtoad, kicked at the rock until he had determined it was stone indeed.
A rock, then.
Rock qua rock.
A phenomenological rock?
Perhaps.
Alfric realized he was procrastinating. He willed himself away from the rock which had suddenly become so fascinating, and marched on the stonemade door to the vampires’ lair. Alfric knocked upon that door, but the mountain answered him not.
‘Open,’ said Alfric sternly, ‘or my sword will shatter your soul.’
The door gave no hint of opening, so Alfric swung at it with Chalingrad. To Alfric’s surprise, the arbiter of many deaths splintered against the unyielding rock.
‘Stroth!’ he said.
Then examined the wreckage of the blade with care. Unless he was greatly mistaken, the weapon was made of cast iron. Not for the first time, Alfric began to wonder whether the Wormlord wanted him dead.