‘No,’ said Alfric.
‘This battle-horn belonged to Melrik himself. Yes, Melrik, hero of saga.’
And Alfric shivered, for he felt himself to be in the presence of the Great Ones of the past. Then Tromso Stavenger chose to wind that horn. High rose the challenge of that rouser of men. The brazen voice of the battle-horn sent shivers running down Alfric’s spine. The blue-flaming waters of the mere shuddered, and echoes rolled back from the high-walled bluffs on the far side of the pool.
But She did not rise to that challenge.
The tableau remained unchanged: three men on horseback waiting by a dark pool beneath a darker sky. It was cold, and a mourning wind was making it colder yet; and Alfric was starting to feel just a tiny bit ridiculous. The horses were starting to get restless again; they had endured this place for as long as they could, and were eager to be gone.
It would be the height of absurdity if the horses were to panic now and bear away their riders. Or if the horses stayed and nothing happened at all. Perhaps they would wait out the whole night without seeing so much as a hair of Herself. Perhaps She was hunting elsewhere. Or was dead, her flesh rotting at the bottom of the mere. Or… maybe She had never existed at all.
But…
There were real corpses dangling from the crag-rooted trees on the far side of the mere.
Oh yes, the dead were real enough.
But, even so, maybe She was but a tale, Her murders the work of some night-slashing human.
Who?
Grendel Danbrog was a possible candidate. He was big; he was strong; he lived remote from the rest of humanity; he could come and go as he wished. He could have brought those corpses to this place. Perhaps there was a coracle hidden somewhere near the mere. Perhaps Alfric looked at his father with obscene surmise, then shuddered.
‘The horses will not stay,’ said Grendel. ‘We must turn them loose.’
Then he dismounted, removed his joumeypack from the horse, and slapped the beast on the rump. It turned and fled. Alfric’s beast tried to do likewise. Because, in a fit of sudden panic, Alfric was urging it to flight with his knees.
‘Ho!’ said Grendel, catching the thing by the bridle.
Man fought with horse, and the horse was mastered. Never before had Alfric appreciated his father’s true strength. The man must have muscles a blacksmith woiild envy.
‘We almost lost you then,’ said Grendel with a chuckle. ‘I wouldn’t like that to happen.’
And Alfric heard in that chuckle the tones of evil, and knew then that his father was the real killer. His father was the terrorizer of Wen Endex. His father had murdered those hapless humans who now hung from the trees at the far side of the mere. And Alfric stared at the man, eyes bulging in horror.
‘You look sick,’ said Grendel. ‘What is it? The smell? Get down, you’ll feel better soon.’
Then he reached up with one of his hands. Alfric had never before realized how massive those hands actually were. The strength of those hands could not be resisted.
— He will have me.
Thus Alfric. In silence. In terror.
Helpless to resist, Alfric got down from his horse. Grendel brought Alfric’s joumeypack to earth then sent the horse on its way. Then Tromso Stavenger started to dismount.
‘Grandfather!’ said Alfric.
Meaning to warn the man, to tell him to run.
The Wormlord, startled by the note of panic in Alfric’s voice, slipped and fell. Grendel caught him, saving him from doing himself an injury. Then Grendel got down the king’s pack, dismissed the old man’s horse, and sent the beast on its way.
‘Seat yourself,’ said Grendel.
Tromso Stavenger lowered himself on to his pack. Watching the studied care with which his grandfather seated himself, Alfric realized what an effort every action was costing the old man. The king was worn out by all this mounting and dismounting, this hill-climbing and horn-blowing. He should have been in bed, feeding on warm soup and watching his favourite cat watching the untunchilamons.
Tonight Alfric truly appreciated the age of their white-haired leader; tonight, Alfric began to understand something of what it meant to be old. Tonight, Alfric knew that Tromso Stavenger would be no help at all when Grendel made his Change and became Herself, and fell upon the pair of them to kill them.
‘Now,’ said Stavenger, once he had seated himself comfortably, ‘what was that about, Alfric? What did you want to tell me?’
‘I -1 thought I saw something,’ said Alfric. ‘But I was wrong.’
Then, cold with terror, Alfric sat on his pack and watched his father. When would the man make his move against them? Maybe the eyes would give warning. It was said that from Her eyes a hellish light outshone, a light which blinded Her enemies in battle.
Abruptly, Grendel stood.
And Alfric thought, in panic:
— This is it!
Grendel stumped uphill. Alfric watched him. Twenty paces he went, then began to pull down his trousers. This was it! Grendel was disrobing so he could Change, so his flesh could swell and girth, so he could become Herself!
Suddenly, Grendel became aware of Alfric’s unblinking watch.
‘Alfric,’ said Grendel, ‘can’t you give me a little privacy?’
‘What — what are you doing?’ said Alfric.
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ said Grendel. ‘Blood of the Gloat! Has the boy lost his wits entirely?’
‘Alfric,’ said Tromso Stavenger, ‘look to the pool. Our watch we must keep.’
Alfric tried to find the will to protest. But failed. He could not disobey a direct order from his king. He turned to the pool. Behind him, he heard Grendel grunt. The sound was low-pitched. An animal sound. Hideous with menace. Grendel must be Changing. Surely. Changing into Herself.
Then Heavy footsteps lurched toward them.
Alfric jerked his head around, and saw Saw his father walking toward him, Grendel Danbrog as yet unchanged, buckling his belt as he came. Alfric sat back, weak with relief.
‘Ah,’ said Grendel, with happy satisfaction. ‘That feels better. Now. I had something in here.’
So saying, Grendel undid his journeypack and pulled out a heavy four-buckle bag of alien make. What was it? With renewed terror, Alfric remembered tales of Herself, and feared this satchel to be a glof, a bag of devils’ skins which She carried, and into which She was wont to stuff the tripes of those She slaughtered.
But, when Grendel unbuckled the bag, no smell of dead meat issued from within. Instead… was that cheese?
‘Cheese,’ said Grendel, as if he had been reading his son’s mind.
Grendel took a big fat wheel of the stuff from his satchel and passed it to his father. Tromso Stavenger pulled out a dirk and started to cut slices for the three of them. He then produced three small cups and a skin which yielded rough red wine. Then — miracle of miracles — a loaf of crusted bread.
The wine was good, and the bread likewise, and Alfric was soon tearing into the goodness of the breadflesh. His terror began to ease, and he sat back on his pack, relaxing somewhat. Then Where were his spare spectacles?
For a moment, Alfric feared he might be sitting on them. Then remembered they were in the top of his pack, inside a hardwood casket.
‘Maybe we should put up a tent,’ said Tromso Stavenger.
‘A tent?’ said Alfric in amazement.
‘Well, yes, we have to sleep sometime,’ said the king.
‘You can sleep now if you wish,’ said Grendel. ‘Both of you. I’ll keep watch.’
This declaration stirred Alfric’s fear to life. While his eyelids had been nodding, now he was wide awake indeed.
‘No,’ said Alfric. ‘No thank you. We’re all right.’
‘Speak for yourself!’ said Grendel. ‘Your grandfather may not be so ready to wait out the night.’
‘I’m fine for the moment,’ said Tromso Stavenger.
But Alfric suspected it was pride which did the speaking, for the king’s voice was weary. Certainly they would both of them have to sleep sooner or later. And then — then they would be utterly at Grendel’s mercy.