He paused.
These were vampires, outcasts, blood drinkers. They tolerated him only because they thought him a werewolf, an accursed shape-changer. Alfric had been about to boast of his duel with a ferocious werehamster, and the aplomb with which he had brought that baby-threatening monster to heel. But such a victory might not win him favour with this audience.
‘For?’ said the Oldest, in an encouraging manner. ‘Go on.’
‘For my horse fell lame,’ said Alfric lamely, ‘and I had to walk the rest of the way home.’
‘Oh,’ said the Oldest.
He was greatly disappointed. Being a vampire is one of the most tedious of all possible modes of existence, since it largely consists of sitting in the dark for many months at a time doing virtually nothing. Hence vampires make an enthusiastic audience for songs, poems and legends of all descriptions; a fact which allows any fluent-voiced prisoner of these monsters to survive until sleep or hoarseness prevails.
‘Anyway,’ said Alfric, ‘you know how it is, and how it must be. I rescued the ironsword Edda, the revenant’s claw. I dared the Spiderweb Castle for Sulamith’s Grief. Now I must have Kinskorn to complete my sweep of the saga swords and secure my claim to the throne of Wen Endex.’
‘Once you have all three swords,’ said the Oldest, ‘how soon will they make you king?’
‘Immediately,’ said Alfric.
‘Immediately?’
‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘For She has once more ventured from her lair. The Wormlord has sworn to surrender his throne and march forth against Herself as soon as the third of the saga swords has been delivered to Saxo Pall.’
This drew a rustling murmur of comment and speculation from the assembled Elders. Vampires are not afraid of much, but even they stand in fear of Herself.
‘This is true?’ said the Oldest.
‘If it were not true, I would not have said it,’ answered Alfric. ‘I am not just a banker. I am also a Yudonic Knight, born and bred. We do not deal in falsehood.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said the Oldest. ‘Very well. If Kinskom is a necessary part of our bargain, then you must have it. But there is a quid pro quo.’
‘Speak,’ said Alfric.
‘The virgin blood which constitutes our interest must be delivered by agents of the Bank to our very door.’
‘That we can do,’ said Alfric.
Comptroller Xzu had warned Alfric that the vampires would be very reluctant to venture within crossbow range of Galsh Ebrek, either to deposit their gold or to collect their interest. And Xzu had assured Alfric that the Bank would be perfectly happy to purchase virgin females on behalf of the vampires (in Tang, or Obooloo, or wherever the best price was to be had), to bring that livestock through the Door, to smuggle it out of Galsh Ebrek and to deliver it to the bloodfeeders.
In due course, both Alfric and the vampires were satisfied. Documents were sighted and signed, arrangements were made for delivery of gold and counterdelivery of interest, the brave sword Kinskom was delivered into Alfric’s hands, and then he was led back outside.
Alfric said goodbye to his hosts, reclaimed his horse, and, with Kinskom sheathed at his side, he set forth for Galsh Ebrek. As he went, he began composing a hero-song to tell of his great battle with the vampires in the echoing underearth halls of horror. He began to sing little bits of it to the night air.
It was a very exciting song, and Alfric became quite enthusiastic about it as he told of a fierce-voiced encounter in the vampire’s Council Chamber, of the driblets of blood which spilt from a foul and stinking chalice as the Oldest drank, of the beserk rage with which Alfric Danbrog fell upon his enemies, of the swingeing sword-strokes with which he hack-chopped the monsters, of the waters of an underground river suffused with the phosphorescent green of the battle-spilt blood of a dying vampire, of the regal courage with which he hazarded his strength against a foe most fell.
Oh, it is great stuff, great stuff, this telling of knightly deeds! Doughty weapons clash; blood spurts; and reeking combat-sweat fouls the air. A hero stands solo against the deadly malice of demonic monsters. Dragon-decorated is the hero’s helm, and flame is the blade he wields in the raven-black night as his martial deeds.
Imagine now the banquet; imagine now the hall. The great are beerdrinking from dragon-wreathed goblets, tossing chicken bones at the untunchilamons which go flirting through the air as the singer bards his deeds. The skop is inspired, knowing he is watched by men wise in years and noble of lineage, men who have tales of their own to tell. Stories of voyages in ocean-roving ships, of the swashbuckling waves of the tawny oceans, of landings on shores destined to run red with the blood of mortal onslaught.
And when the singer is done, those other tales begin, and so we hear of such ships and such beaches, and then of other things. Battles, swords, dragons, giants, blood, sinew, thigh, thew. Journeys fraught with misery. Kingly men in ample mail-coats striving to secure renown with bloody iron. Battle-honoured heroes ensnared and at last brought down to ruin by the conspiracies of the marriage bed.
And then, surely, ultimately we must hear of the Wormlord and his quest, of Tromso Stavenger and the way he fought Her son, met him face to face amidst the wolf-infested hillsides, the gloom of the crags. Met him, dared him, fought him, conquered, killed…
With such imaginings high-singing in his head, Alfric rode his broken-down horse through the forest wilds. The moon was riding high by now, the swollen moon mazed by broken branches as it filtered through the forest, layering mosaics of silver upon the gutteral black of the water of the streams which laced through the forest.
At last, Alfric’s elation at daring the vampires and winning the brave sword Kinskorn began to wear off. His song-singing ceased, as did his imagining; and he began to take account of his saddle-sore backside, his nagging hunger, the bone-chill of the night, and his own weariness. At least he could do something about the hunger, for he had a loaf of bread in a sack tied behind his saddle.
Alfric stopped and dismounted.
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he said to his horse.
Then looped the reins around a branch so the animal couldn’t go anywhere. Then stamped his feet, shuddered at the cold, fumbled open the breadsack and took out the loaf, which was wrapped up in a bag of salmon skin where it was safe from rain and mist, and from the sweat of his horse.
The bread had been hot when purchased but now it was cold. Alfric tore the crust apart with merciless talons and wolfed into the soft and yielding flesh, his teeth savaging its substance as if seeking to tear bones from their anchoring tendons. Eating, feeding, tearing, gullet-ing, he looked like a wild thing; and, in the rage of his appetite, felt like one.
He chewed too little and swallowed too greedily; and bread lumped into a hard and painful bolus as his muscles worked it slowly down his throat. Then he ravaged the loaf anew, and, without warning, a quicksilver pain agonized through one of his rear teeth. He stopped chewing abruptly. Strange, this pain. He never got it when eating hard things, no, only when masticating sticky stuff like bread. He eased the mulch-mush of bread to the other side of his mouth, stuck a finger into his mouth, and cautiously felt the offending tooth.
No pain.
At least: his touch elicited no pain.
With great care, Alfric began to chew again. Then stopped. For he heard something. What? Unless he was mistaken, what he heard was a horse’s hoof as it went crunch-crack through a crust of frozen mud. Then he heard a scattering of breaking twigs. What would break branches like that? Not a man, surely, for a man would be careful of his face. Unless he was armoured for battle, his helm protecting him from the fingering wood.
Alfric abruptly lost his appetite.
He spat out the bread in his mouth.
Then, as the moon caught them, he saw them, two of them, mounted men in the forest, and they saw him, for the larger challenged him: