‘Still,’ said Alfric, ‘I’m not being given any choice in the matter.’
So he went to see his father, and, a night later, the pair met with two dozen of the most knightly of the Yudonic Knights. The site of this conclave was Grendel Danbrog’s barn.
Here the Yudonic Knights, with drinking horns in hand, celebrated the hero-feats of Alfric Danbrog.
‘Grendelson!’ they roared. ‘Grendelson! Hero!’
And Alfric, though he was slightly embarrassed by their enthusiasm, acknowledged this homage gracefully.
Then his father called the meeting to order.
‘As you know,’ said Grendel Danbrog, ‘Ursula Major has imprisoned her father in his sickbed.’
‘Shame! ’ cried someone.
Then others cried aloud, saying foul things about the virginal Ursula. Grendel hushed them down a low roar, then went on:
‘This we know to be wrong. Above all else, the matter of Herself and Her doings is much on my mind. For too long has Her hideous hymn of triumph dominated our dreams. It is time for us to take in hand the ancient iron and pursue Her to Her lair, and there to hack and hew Her flesh until She is dead. ’
Cries of enthusiastic applause greeted this proposition.
‘But,’ said Grendel, ‘we cannot go alone. We need a leader. Only one man has the strength to be that leader. And that is Tromso Stavenger, our beloved Wormlord.’ Then Grendel launched himself into the much-beloved story of the youthful feats of the Wormlord, who had dared Her son, and had wrestled that monster to a standstill in a fight in which sinews had snapped and bone-joints had broken freely, and who had then killed Her son and cut off his head.
‘That is our leader,’ said Grendel. ‘A hero true. That is the leader we must have if we are to dare ourselves to Her lair and engage ourselves in loathsome strife with Her strength.’
The Yudonic Knights had no trouble at all in convincing themselves that a scorning of peace well becomes a man; that they were made for death and danger; that their king was a hero and would lead them to deathless glory; and that launching a savage assault upon Herself would be a truly enjoyable experience once they got into it.
Soon they were joying in the deed as if it had already been accomplished.
‘It is a foul offence to life and honour that we should let Her live when Her death can be so easily accomplished,’ said one, his boast representative of ruling opinion.
Alfric sat down in a comer and closed his eyes in something like despair. So they were really going to do it. So he could not return to the Bank and say they had refused.
He had a vision of what would really happen. When they came face to face with Herself, the Yudonic Knights would ran. Their fathers had done as much on similar expeditions in the days of the past, so why should the sons be any different? Then She with Her baleful glare would transfix any fool who still stood against Her, then She would advance, and conquer, and kill, and glut Her greed on the flesh of the fallen.
So thinking, Alfric was minded to sever his own throat on the spot. To die in a warm and comfortable bam. Far better, surely, than to go wandering through the fens in search of Herself, and meet a hideous death when Her grisly rounds brought them into confrontation.
But Alfric’s father had no such fearful thoughts. He was boasting with as much enthusiasm as the rest of them.
‘Words and deeds,’ said Grendel, quaffing good ale which he was far too drunk to appreciate. ‘Great words and great deeds to match them. Of such is the life of men.’
Then Grendel began to sing the old songs, songs of fresh-tarred ships and voyages across the Winter Sea to wars in foreign lands; songs of kings with boar-heads rampant on their helms, kings armed with iron fire-hardened; songs of heroes and their conquests.
While his father sung thus, Alfric remembered other songs: funeral dirges mournful in mood, telling of the death of lordly ships, the wailing of bed-mates, the burial of fallen kings, the wrath of battle-surge flames consuming the fallen. Such things happened. Even acknowledged heroes did not always triumph in their quests.
But no such thoughts spoiled the triumph of Grendel Danbrog, who boasted now of the great deeds of the past as if they were his very own:
‘In Melrik’s time we fought the dreaded Yun. By ocean’s margin we withstood the warriors who crossed the Winter Sea to do battle with our forces. When the Yun poured forth from their ships, there we stood in our war-gear, keen for adventure.
‘Melrik was our leader, Melrik our king. Proud was the weapon-stack of his wide-boasted hall. Prudent he was, yet brave, for he was ready to dare the nicors in their lair.’
On and on went Grendel, telling of the mangling of flesh, the sweetness of victory and the din of celebratory revelry, and of the Golden Age in which the triumphant Melrik ruled Wen Endex, ‘land of sweet song and shining waters where all men lived in gladness’.
When Grendel Danbrog had exhausted himself by overindulgence in such epics, other Yudonic Knights took up the work. And it was late indeed before they got down to business in earnest.
But get down to business they did.
In the end.
‘These last twelve weary winters I’ve watched our lord decline,’ said Grendel. ‘I know and you know that this is his last chance. If he is to march against Herself then he must do so now. But he needs our help. Will he have it?’
And the Yudonic Knights roared their answer:
‘Yes!’
In short order, plans were agreed. The Yudonic Knights would storm Saxo Pall, release the Wormlord then march against Herself in the company of their lord.
As there was some organization which needed to be done — horses must be obtained and journeypacks filled, wills must be brought up to date and lovers kissed goodbye — the actual storming of Saxo Pall was set down for the following night.
Alfric did his best to conceal his infinite weariness as he parted from his father and those of the Knights who were doing the organizing.
‘Where are you going?’ said Grendel.
Alfric was actually going to the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association to report to Comptroller Xzu on the plans which the Yudonic Knights had hatched. However, he did not think his father would like these plans being thus revealed. So he said:
‘Home, that’s all.’
‘Stay,’ said Grendel, in his lordliest voice. ‘We need you here.’
Alfric was desperate to get away. He wanted the Bank to know that he had done as the Bank wished. That he had successfully roused the Yudonic Knights to action, and that soon the Wormlord would be freed to do battle with Herself. The sooner the Bank knew, the better, for such political ructions could affect everything from the price of firewood to the ninety-day interest rate.
Belatedly, Alfric remembered that he was married; and, moreover, that his wife had absconded from home, and was on the loose in the city, cuckolding him (for all he knew) with every drunk in every tavern in Galsh Ebrek. Actually, this mattered so little to Alfric that he had almost forgotten about it already. But it certainly gave him an excuse to be gone from the bam.
‘I -1 am a married man,’ said Alfric.
‘So you are, so you are,’ said his father.
‘And-and my wife-’
‘Oh yes,’ said his father. ‘That. She’s still running wild?’
‘She is,’ said Alfric. ‘But I think I know where she’ll be tonight. I think I can bring her to heel.’
‘Then off you go,’ said his father, approving this course of action instantly. ‘Off you go, my boy, and do the best you can with the wench.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Thus it happened that Alfric Danbrog leagued it home and prepared himself for an audience with Comptroller Xzu of the Flesh Traders’ Association. He dreaded the thought of what might happen when the Yudonic Knights stormed Saxo Pall; and was fearfully afraid of joining the attack on Herself; but, nevertheless, his pride was great.