The act of sorting out their horses and mounting up sobered the Knights, for it constituted a positive commitment to an arduous and taxing task. Rescuing their king from his sickbed had been but a romp, a game; but this was war, and war was a serious business.
And when they got underway, the drunkards and roistering boys were soon left far behind, and the Yudonic Knights went on alone.
Into the wolf-retreats they ventured, a company of shadows marching through a night which was dark indeed, for clouds were overshrouding the moon. In time, they climbed on to a windswept ridge to escape sundry bogs which would otherwise have claimed them.
Alfric then looked back and, to his surprise, saw that their numbers had diminished considerably. There had been at least two hundred Yudonic Knights at Saxo Pall, and he could have sworn a like number had set forth upon this grand expedition. But, unaccountably, no more than fifty were left.
What had happened to the others?
They could scarcely have vanished.
And there was nothing in Wen Endex which could have silently overwhelmed so great a number.
So they must have gone astray, unless — perish the thought! — they had turned back out of fear.
In the boggy ground below, some fen-creature screamed as it sensed the presence of the warm-blooded humans on the ridge. Hearing that cry, Alfric saw, or imagined he saw, strange portents appear in the murky sky. Unless he was mistaken, the night-sky clouds had turned to the colour of blood. Unless he was imagining it, those clouds were writhing into snake-like entanglements which hinted of some malign disturbance of the sky.
Alfric may have been imagining these symptoms of the world’s displeasure. However, he did not imagine the grim despair which settled upon the company of Knights as the trek continued, for the reality of that despair was beyond dispute. While the pace of the expedition did not falter, nevertheless the talk did; and the Knights became taciturn as they rode along with heads bowed. But Alfric, paradoxically, found his mood lightening.
Alfric Danbrog had imagined the worst already, so the reality was almost comforting. Here he was, hunting Herself for real; and, as yet, nothing too terrible had happened. At the moment, he was suffering no more danger than he had endured on any of his solitary journeys through the dark nights of Wen Endex.
Then the high ridge came to an end, and the expedition had to descend a steep slope which ended at a stream. A stream chest-deep at least, thrashing along between banks too steep for horses to climb. There was only one way to cross this churning water, and that was by way of a narrow bridge.
Tromso Stavenger dismounted and walked his horse across it without fear. Grendel followed. Then Alfric. The bridge was firm enough; it creaked a bit underfoot, yet took the weight of himself and his noble steed without danger.
But, when Alfric looked back, the fifty Knights on the other side seemed to be possessed of a great hesitation. ‘What’s the matter?’ sai d Alfric.
‘They know,’ said Tromso Stavenger, ‘that once they cross the bridge to join us, then they are well and truly in Her territory.’
Alfric wanted to know how the Knights could know any such thing, since the countryside looked all of a piece to him, and he knew of no border (real or imaginary) which divided off a piece of Wen Endex as Her territory. However, he did not argue.
Despite their hesitation, the Knights did begin to cross the stream, much to Alfric’s relief. He had half-feared that the Knights would turn back, leaving the Wormlord to go on with none but his son and grandson for company.
‘Gather them here,’ said Tromso Stavenger to his son. ‘Gather my Knights here, that I may speak to them.’
And Grendel, obedient to this order, marshalled the Knights so Tromso Stavenger could address them. Which the king did once all were across.
When the Wormlord spoke, it seemed that he was possessed of something of the sea-strength of his youth, for his voice was stronger than it had been for years; and this they took to be a good omen. It heartened them to see the Wormlord standing firm in the windwrath night. He looked every bit the hero-king as he stood there in hand-braided byrnie, his helm with dragon adorned. Lavish was the inlay of his ancient iron he held and sharp was the blade of that merciless sword.
‘Ahead lies our destiny,’ said the Wormlord. ‘For this we were born. For this we were raised. This is why Wen Endex has its Knights. So the weak may be protected, the lawless suppressed, and order maintained in the realm. Who will do this, if not us? Nobody. It is the strength of the strong alone which maintains the nation. Let us go now, onward to our destiny.’
Thus it came to pass that in the last year of his reign, the Wormlord rode forth to meet his death; for death was the destiny which had been prepared for him since the day of his birth. In company with Tromso Stavenger there travelled some fifty Yudonic Knights mounted upon their roans; these were the noblest and most loyal of the king’s rune-warriors, the few who were prepared to go with their liege lord even to the brink of that fatal mere where they were destined to have a testing of wills with Herself.
And Alfric Danbrog found himself proud to be one of that number. He was proud that his grandfather could hearten his men with but a few simple words, and command them forward even though death was known to be waiting. That was a true measure of kingship!
‘Let us have a song,’ said the Wormlord. ‘Or a story, at least. A voice to lighten the night.’
They had no bard with them, but Grendel Danbrog served as gleeman, and began to rouse the night with a sagasong. However, his choice of subject was somewhat unfortunate, for he began to narrate the story of one of the heroes who had fallen in battle against Herself. This story began with an accounting of what was known of Her lair.
Her lair was said to be a mere overshadowed by a mighty rock. It was claimed that falling streams tumbled down the rockface into Her pool; but that pond was of such size that those cascades did not suffice to chum its surface into turbulence. Rather, a calm persisted despite the onslaughts of the falling waters. Blue fire burnt both beneath and above the water, a cold fire which failed to warm the black waters. Cold were those waters, cold waters overshadowed by towering bluffs, and a chilling mist rose from the surface.
‘Perhaps,’ said Tromso Stavenger, ‘we could hear of something else. We all know where we’re going and why.’
Grendel, realizing he might have made a tactical error, did his best to oblige, and began to tell another tale. For the delectation of the Knights, he told a noble story of the deeds of the elven lords of a kingdom long since lost to the world of geography.
But this failed to lighten the depression which had settled upon the expedition.
Alfric sensed the way in which morale had fallen, and was distressed. His own morale was falling itself. As he rode toward his doom in company with the Yudonic Knights, he realized that these brawling swordsmen might be the last people he saw before he died. And, in a mood strangely like panic, he realized he did not know any of these men, these his death-companions.
He did not know them?
Yes, that was the literal truth.
Alfric Danbrog had lived so much in the world of the Bank that he had not seen most of these Knights from one year to the next. He had lived as Izdarbolskobidarbix, Banker Third Class, and the world of the Yudonic Knights had become steadily more foreign to him, year by year.
With difficulty, Alfric hushed his panic down to nothing, and tried to distract himself from the dangers and difficulties of the moment by mentally revising the grammar and vocabulary of Janjuladoola.
As Alfric and the Knights ventured into higher ground, the air became colder, and there was both ice and snow underfoot. And how many memories this brought back! The snorting horses. The crunch of snow. The grinkle-grak of breaking ice. But the memories belonged to happier times alien to this grim expedition.