|
The whole farmstead billowed and span like the waves of the Sea-though, never having seen the Sea, Gurth did not apply the simile himself.
"Gerraaarn, Grendel," he muttered, and when the beast stayed where it was, gazing up with an almost solicitous glance, he aimed a savage kick at it. But he was unsteady on his feet, and the dog dodged. Gurth collapsed sideways, falling into the filth of the estate's midden, yet he could not smell any of it, so strong was the cloud of mead with which he had thoroughly deadened his senses.
Unpaid with limited quantities of the golden liquid he adored for some days, Gurth had gone reifing and reaving on a neighbouring cot and taken a barrel by force. After he smashed the skull of a labourer who thought about barring his way, the rest had known better, and the giant retired with his prize. He had poured it down his gullet then, uncaring as much of it splashed over the front of his livery or washed over his hair and beard, drinking on and on till the flicker of consciousness he possessed ceased to trouble him.
Emerging from the midden now, not bothering to brush off the dirt that sprang, he grabbed Grendel by his scruff, dragged the whimpering creature to its kennel, and locked it in, winding about the iron chain. Then he turned and lurched carelessly towards the farmhouse...the side entrance...the cellars.
In such moods in the past, only Sorn had succeeded in calming Gurth's rage. Now the question was...would that be sufficient?
|