The Werewolf and the Wormlord coaaod-8

by Hugh Cook

  ‘Yow!’ cried Cod, having just been so wounded.

  ‘Did you touch it?’ said Alfric.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cod. ‘And it bit me!’

  Morgenstem picked up a handful of mud and hurled it after the retreating zana. Hit by the mud, it hummed, shattered into spectral splinters, then reformed and slid onwards.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ said Alfric.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cod, who was not disposed to be brave.

  So Alfric was forced to sympathize, and gentle the ork’s hand to soothe the pain.

  Meanwhile, he noticed they were drawing a lot of odd glances from the passing foot traffic. In theory, while She was on the loose, night was far more dangerous than day. In practice, since the Yudonic Knights were constrained by custom to walk the night until She had ceased her depredations, the nights were actually safer. With so many knights out hunting Her, bandits and such preferred to strike by the winterlight sun. Thus those who travelled favoured the dark.

  Among those who went past were old men and older woman stooped beneath huge burdens of firewood. Others laboured past carrying buckets of water balanced on shoulder-poles, buckets filled from the river just upstream from the dungdump. Some muttered to themselves, but none insulted the orks to their faces. Still, Alfric was glad when the last of the horses came ashore and he was ready to proceed.

  ‘What’s in the barrels, master?’ said the ferryman.

  ‘A ransom of jade from the Qinjoks,’ said Alfric. ‘The annual tribute from King Dimple-Dumpling.’

  ‘Wealth of the orgre king, eh?’ said the ferryman.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘You should have taken your chance. You could have been rich for life.’

  Then both laughed, and Alfric led horses and orks towards the city gates.

  As has been said, Galsh Ebrek lay on (and, when the rain had been exceptionally heavy, at least partially in) the Riga Rimur River. Once it had been a walled city, but the swampy ground and the periodic delinquencies of the Riga Rimur had conspired to defeat the stonemason’s art; with the result that nothing remained of the masonry of lore and yore but for the massive bastions of the Stanch Gates. In place of stonework battlements, a rickety pale enclosed the city, this enclosure being largely notional due to the extent to which the fence had been vandalized by lawless wreckers in search of firewood.

  While the city proper was very much a lowland affair, it was backed by a huge upthrust of rock. Mobius Kolb was the name of this mountainous granitic crescendo, and its bare and barren slopes were notable for the majestic monuments to power which they supported.

  Atop the lowest shoulder of Mobius Kolb there stood the monstrous battlements of Saxo Pall. There dwelt the Wormlord, Tromso Stavenger by name, lord of Galsh Ebrek, king of Wen Endex, emperor of the Qinjoks and ruler of the Winter Sea. Old the Wormlord was, so old that many thought him close to death; though others disputed this, saying the king was known to have purchased the secret of immortality in his youth.

  Higher yet, on a ridge of rock exposed to the full force of the gaunt winds of the Winter Sea and the haggling rains of all seasons, stood the expansive outworks of the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association of Galsh Ebrek. Set inside those outworks was the gaunt donjon of the Bank, the Rock of Rocks which protected the greatest secret of that organization.

  The secret protected by the Rock of Rocks served to maintain the wealth of the Bank, but there was no secret at all about the origins of the Bank’s prosperity. The Flesh Traders’ Financial Association had first become wealthy in the days when Galsh Ebrek had been a great orking centre. Those granite outworks were a monument to lucrative murder and ever-rewarding terror. Tales of those days of joyful slaughter were still alive and well in Galsh Ebrek. Thus Alfric knew, for example, of the piteous screams of orklings thrown into the blubber pots while still alive. He knew of But this is a hideous, shameful, disgraceful phase of history. And recalling the horrors of those days does nothing to resurrect the victims. Suffice it to say that Alfric felt more than a little uncomfortable when he looked upon those distant walls and contemplated the first source of the money which had built him.

  But there was something else which made him more uncomfortable yet. On the very highest point of Mobius Kolb was something that looked very much like a full moon. So much so that Alfric shuddered when he gazed upon its swollen light, even though he knew it was no moon but the Oracle of Ob, an occult machine which had ruled the heights for time out of mind.

  The rains of millennia had weathered the carapace of that ancient arcanum. It had been ancient even before the ogres first came to the Qinjoks. In their archives, the ogres preserved fragmentary records of a few of the many temples which had risen on the heights of Mobius Kolb, pretending to understand or even to control that artefact which was also called the Ob, the Gloat, the Tynox and the Vo Un Ala Ma Drosk. But all those temples had at last fallen into ruins, sometimes under circumstances which still disconcerted later generations.

  The good which could be done by the Oracle was uncertain, whereas the disasters it could cause were certain indeed; in consequence of which, all shunned its presence. Alfric in particular had good reason to keep his distance, and so had never climbed the slopes lying uphill from the Bank.

  ‘Is that the Oracle?’ said Cod, pointing at the Moon of the Mountain.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘Watch out!’

  Cod ceased his Ob-gazing in time to save himself from extinction beneath the wheels of a heavily laden cart. It was piled high with seaweed, huge scorlins of the stuff. Not the old, dead, brackeny seaweed which is found shangled with sand and sheals on the sea’s spumestrand. No, this was fresh. The best select seacow’s greed. At the smell of the stuff (a briny smell tinged with a faint, ever so faint aroma of codliver oil) Alfric’s mouth watered; and he thought of seaweed soup with sideplates of garlic cockles, raw oysters and mussels marinated in wine.

  Alfric abandoned such fantasy as he and his expedition followed the cart into the city. For, as always, soldiers were standing guard at the Stanch Gates; and, as always, those soldiers were armed with ceremonial orking harpoons. The harpoons were painted a bloody black (for the blood of orks is closer to night than to fire). Worse, globs of tar dangled from the harpoons, these globs representing gouts of hardened black ork blood. Alfric had never really noticed these sentries before, but now he noticed them furiously, because Cod and Morgenstem had stopped to stare.

  ‘Blood of the Gloat!’ said one of the guards. ‘It’s an ork!’

  ‘No,’ said his companion. ‘I can count, though your mother could not. It’s two orks.’

  True. And both the lubbery animals were crying shamelessly. How embarrassing!

  ‘Two orks,’ said Alfric roughly, ‘and one Yudonic Knight.’

  So saying, he drew his sword and planted it in the mud between his feet.

  ‘A Yudonic Knight?’ said one guard to the other. ‘I see no Yudonic Knight. I see a-’

  ‘Say it not!’ said Alfric. ‘I am a Knight. With me I have two ambassadors sent by the king of the Qinjoks to the lord of Saxo Pall.’

  Alfric’s open anger warned the sentries they had almost gone too far. They did not apologize, but nor did they proceed to venture an irretrievable insult. Instead, one said something softly to the other, mouth to ear. Both laughed. Alfric slapped the leading pack horse. It got a move on, and the banker led his still-weeping orks into the streets of Galsh Ebrek.

  One of the first things they passed was a boggy pit in which three swamp dragons were mulching garbage. These creatures are not true dragons any more than an ork is a true whale, but the naming of things proceeds without regard for scientific taxonomy, hence dragons they were to Galsh Ebrek.

  But to the orks they were something else altogether. ‘Hunters!’ sa id Morgenstem fearfully.

  The next moment, the swamp dragons scented the orks. With fearsome roars, they flung themselves at the walls of the pit, struggling to get out. Such escape was impossible, but the orks fled
regardless, mud splattering in all directions as they charged down the street.

  ‘Pox,’ said Alfric.

  And abandoned his pack horses while he went in pursuit.

  Alfric found the orks huddled under a dung cart, clutching each other and sobbing fearfully. Inwardly he swore, then squatted down and began to sweet-talk the distraught creatures until their fears eased. Then he went back to recover his pack horses, only to find a gang of street boys had taken them in charge. That cost him some coppers (and, given the lawlessness of the streets, he was lucky it didn’t cost him silver or gold).

  After Alfric had rescued his horses, one of the homicidal dandiprats asked him:

  ‘What’s in the barrels, grandad?’

  ‘Qinjok jade,’ said Alfric shortly. ‘The ogres’ tribute. So you’re lucky you didn’t steal it. All Galsh Ebrek would’ve been after your blood. ’

  ‘I’ll bet! ’ said his interlocuter.

  Then laughed, and led his dwarfish army away in search of other amusements.

  Alfric then led his expedition through the streets towards the Embassy housing the mission from Ang. And where and what is Ang? Why, Ang is an upland region in the heartland of the continent of Yestron, far south of Wen Endex. In Ang we find the city of Obooloo lies in that region, and from there the Izdimir Empire is ruled.

  The Izdimir Empire’s current ambassador in Galsh Ebrek was the eminent Pran No Dree. Once, No Dree had been the weatherman of Babrika. But now he was Al’three’s ambassador to Wen Endex, which was not exactly a sought-after position. Still, No Dree had survived his first year in Galsh Ebrek, and with a little luck he might last out a second.

  ‘Where are we going?’ said the ever-curious Cod.

  Alfric told him.

  ‘That’ll make for trouble,’ said Morgenstem gloomily.

  ‘Why?’ said Alfric.

  ‘This No Dree is of Janjuladoola race, is he not?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alfric.

  He was puzzled. What was the problem? Was there some deep-seated orkish prejudice against the Janjuladoola folk? His ethnology texts had made no mention of any such prejudice.

  ‘He’s a greyskin, then,’ said Morgenstem.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Alfric, still puzzled.

  ‘So,’ said Morgenstem, ‘six to one he’ll think you’ve brought us along by way of insult.’

  Alfric was about to say that this was nonsense. Then he thought about it. The grey-skinned Janjuladoola were notorious racists and not exactly slow to take offence. And, to be honest, a baggy and blubbery ork could be construed as a grotesque parody of a Janjuladoola. So No Dree might quite possibly take offence. But — what a remarkable feat of insight on Morgenstem’s part! Particularly since the ork had probably never seen a person of the Skin in his life. Perhaps there was more to these orks than met the eye.

  ‘I have to admit,’ said Alfric, ‘you’ve out-thought me on this one.’

  ‘That’s Wen Endex all over,’ grumbled Morgenstem. ‘Nobody gives an ork the credit for half a brain. You don’t think King Dimple-Dumpling chose us by accident, do you? He chose the best. After all, we’ve important business to do.’

  ‘What business?’ said Alfric.

  Since Alfric Danbrog was a Banker Third Class, he had mastered the nuances of diplomacy. But, since he was a Yudonic Knight by birth and breeding, he was ever inclined to lapse into undiplomatic directness. Hence the bluntness of his probe. A probe which met with failure, for Morgenstem said:

  ‘We can’t tell you that!’

  Alfric thought:

  — Why not?

  And was about to ask as much, but restrained himself successfully. Instead, he flattered Morgenstem by asking his advice, saying:

  ‘Well, since your secret mission’s so important, whatever it is, I’d like to do everything I can to ensure your welcome in Galsh Ebrek. Doubtless a row with a Janjuladoola would be the wrong way to start. But I have to go to the Embassy without delay. That’s a duty I can’t avoid or postpone. So how would you suggest we handle this little difficulty?’

  ‘I suggest,’ said Morgenstem, ‘that we orks would be quite comfortable waiting in the Embassy stables while you go in to meet the ambassador.’

  ‘But I want to see the Skin!’ said Cod.

  ‘You would,’ retorted Morgenstem. ‘You wanted to watch your mother’s autopsy.’

  ‘I did watch it,’ said Cod. ‘And it was very interesting.’ Morgens tem shuddered, and said, as if pronouncing an imperial edict:

  ‘We will wait in the stables. ’

  And wait they did. Under Alfric’s orders, stable hands took his six barrels into the Embassy. In the reception chamber, a representative of the Bank was waiting; for there was always a banker stationed in the Embassy when the ogres’ tribute was expected.

  The banker on duty tonight was the elderly Eg, a Banker Third Class like Alfric.

  ‘Greetings, Iz’bix,’ said Eg.

  ‘And to you, greetings,’ replied Alfric.

  Then they had to wait while the ambassador was roused from sleep. No Dree was asleep? At night? Though She was on the loose? Yes, he was. He was shamelessly asleep. For Pran No Dree was not a Yudonic Knight, therefore did not share the burden of honour which compelled Alfric and his peers to guard the dark against Her depredations.

  It was an uncomfortable wait, for Alfric and Eg had little to say to each other. Alfric’s meteoric rise to Banker Third Class had made him no friends and many enemies. While his superiors smiled upon him, he had yet to find a welcome among the ranks of his peers, and it was unlikely that he ever would. Furthermore, the reception chamber was physically uncomfortable, since a blazing fire kept the room at sweat-heat. Alfric shed his furs, but still felt choked by the heat.

  When the grey-skinned ambassador at last presented himself in the reception chamber, the seals of all six barrels from the Qinjoks were checked by Banker Danbrog, Banker Eg, No Dree himself and a full half dozen ambassadorial aides and attaches. After due consideration, it was agreed that the seals were intact. At a signal from No Dree, an aide began to open one of the barrels.

  The lid came free.

  Now the critical question would be answered: would the fortune of fragile jade have survived the journey from the Qinjoks intact?

  The lid came off.

  No Dree gasped.

  ‘The jade!’ said he.

  In the barrel was nothing but a rubbish of broken sticks and autumn leaves.

  ‘This cannot be!’ said No Dree. ‘Where is the jade, the jade?’

  Alfric, with difficulty, kept himself from yawning.

  ‘It is as we feared,’ said Banker Eg gravely. ‘The Curse of the Hag has struck again.

  ‘Curse?’ said No Dree. ‘What curse? This is unpardonable!’ He turned on Alfric. ‘You barbarian fool! You lost the jade. You got yourself robbed. Or did you steal it?’

  Alfric withstood this insult without blinking or protesting. That was what he was paid for. No Dree plunged his hands into the barrel and began shovelling out handfuls of leaves and sticks. Stuck to one stick were a couple of snails, snug in their winter sleep. No Dree cursed the snails. Then flung them into the blazing fire. Alfric silently regretted this minor tragedy: for he had a soft spot for snails.

  No Dree heaped curses on the taciturn Knight. Then began to threaten.

  ‘I’ll have you boiled alive,’ said No Dree. ‘I’ll have you torn apart with hooks and pinchers.’

  ‘My lord is merciful,’ said Alfric, before he could stop himself.

  ‘You joke?’ said No Dree. ‘You dare to joke? This is no joke, you barbarous piece of yak dung.’

  And, because of Alfric’s unwise indulgence in sarcasm, honour could not be satisfied until No Dree had ranted himself hoarse.

  But the end result of all these histrionics was a foregone conclusion. The ambassador at last had to admit (though with every show of reluctance) that the seals had not been tampered with. And he had to accept (to do otherwise would have been
to precipitate both his own death and a disastrous war) that King Dimple-Dumpling’s tribute had been sealed into those barrels in Alfric’s presence; and, furthermore, that the said tribute had been converted to rubbish by the Curse of the Hag.

  This Curse of the Hag, a foul and poxy malison if ever there was one, had thus afflicted Wen Endex for generations. But it was not just Wen Endex which was thus affected. It would seem that a variant of this curse operates in, among other places, Port Domax. There, many an unsuspecting person has paid good money for some bauble which the retailing merchant has then beautifully packaged to enhance customer satisfaction; the sorry outcome being that, when opened, the gift-package has proved to hold no more than a few broken stones or similar rubbish. However, in Wen Endex, the Curse of the Hag seldom struck except to hex the ogre king’s tribute into rubbish.

  It may be asked why the Izdimir Empire (as represented by its ambassadors) persisted in demanding the annual collection of this tribute when the Curse of the Hag inevitably converted it to garbage. The answer to any such question is simple. While the enterprise was empty of profit, the collection of this tribute and the delivery of the same to the ambassador from Ang allowed the Izdimir Empire to demonstrate that both Wen Endex and the Quinjoks were subject states obedient to the dictates of Obooloo.

  By such diplomatic finesse was the need for war avoided; for, thanks to such annual proofs of obedience, Aldarch the Third (like his predecessors before him) had no need to go to the trouble and expense of marching armies into the northernmost regions of the continent of Yestron to take physical possession of those lands he was so confident he ruled.

  Thus, once No Dree had ranted himself into silence, the delivery of the tribute was accepted as a fact, its conversion to leaves and such rubbish was officially attributed to the Curse of the Hag, various papers were signed attesting to this fact and this attribution, then hands were shaken in accordance with the custom of Wen Endex, reverence was made after the Janjuladoola fashion, and Alfric, his mission over, was able to escape from the heat and hostility of the Embassy.