The Werewolf and the Wormlord coaaod-8

by Hugh Cook

  ‘Interesting,’ said Alfric, perusing the contract. ‘Such a luxuriance of words speaks of great expense undertaken by lawyers and their clerks. It speaks of a serious investment in myself. An investment on the part of the Bank, I mean. Surely that investment was not meant as a preparation for death. Or is there some nuance in the multi-layered complexity of the present situation which I have missed? Is this contract being evoked to secure my death?’

  ‘I have not said that the contract is being evoked at all,’ said Banker Xzu gently.

  ‘Then why show it to me?’ said Alfric, with a flash of anger.

  ‘To… to refresh your memory,’ said Xzu. ‘It does exist. It could be evoked. Should we choose. But we would prefer…we would prefer a volunteer.’

  ‘You want me to volunteer, do you? To volunteer to quest for the saga swords. But why? If you want me dead, why choose such an elaborate method?’

  ‘Alfric,’ said Banker Xzu, ‘we do not want you dead. We want you to succeed. To make yourself king. Were you to become Wormlord, there could be a very favourable alliance between the throne and the Bank.’ ‘But the quests are suicidal,’ said Alfric. ‘All three of them. Why, hundreds have been killed by the dragon alone.’

  ‘Not so,’ said Banker Xzu. ‘The dragon has so far killed fewer than sixty people.’

  ‘Fewer than sixty,’ said Alfric. ‘So I exaggerate, do I?

  Many questing heroes have gone against the dragon. All have died. So you will grant, surely, a mortality rate of 100 per cent.’

  ‘I grant it,’ said Xzu. ‘But you are not as others. Come, let us descend to the lower depths. The Bank has gathered together certain experts who, we believe, can instruct you in methods whereby you may attempt the quests with every hope of success.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ said Alfric, ‘but I beg permission to go home before attending a meeting with any such experts. My wife will be worried if I don’t come home soon.’

  ‘Return you cannot,’ said Xzu. ‘You must stay here until it is time for you to go to the palace.’

  ‘To go to the palace?’

  ‘Yes. To go to the palace to formally nominate yourself as a questing hero.’

  ‘You command,’ said Alfric, ‘so I must obey. Still, my wife will be worried.’

  Actually, Alfric thought Viola could take care of herself; but he was nevertheless at pains to emphasize his concern, for the Bank placed a high value on marital stability, and Alfric knew the most casual comments sometimes find their way into a personal dossier.

  ‘Never mind about your darling Viola,’ said Xzu, in tones so soothing that Alfric momentarily wondered if the man was drunk. ‘A messenger will be sent to tell her you are delayed, and why.’

  ‘Is it wise for us thus to disclose our business?’ said Alfric.

  ‘Your wife will be… adequately informed,’ said Xzu. ‘Meantime, let us go and meet our experts.’

  So Alfric Danbrog went and met with experts who had been gathered together by the Bank. And much did Alfric learn about the fighting of dragons, the braving of giants and the habits of vampires. Then he presented himself to the Wormlord. In the presence of Tromso Stavenger and his ministers, in the presence of Ursula Major and a full fifty of the Yudonic Knights, Alfric Danbrog committed himself to a heroic quest, this quest being to recover the three swords of saga and bring them to Saxo Pall in proof of the performance of his courage.

  ‘Well spoken,’ said the Wormlord, once Alfric had said his piece. ‘Usually, we would treat you to a congratulatory banquet before you set forth. However, on this occasion that is not appropriate.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Alfric.

  ‘Because your courage is not certain,’ said the Wormlord. ‘You accept the quest now, but you refused it earlier. Ride forth, my boy. Kill the dragon and recover the first sword. Return with that blade and then we will grant you a banquet.’

  ‘So you doubt my courage,’ said Alfric.

  ‘I do,’ said Stavenger. ‘You’ve something to prove, and prove it you must if you want to be king.’

  ‘His humanity,’ said one of the Yudonic Knights, interrupting unexpectedly. ‘That’s what he’s got to prove.’

  ‘Who speaks?’ said the Wormlord.

  ‘I do,’ said Ciranoush Zaxilian Norn, muscling forward.

  ‘What is your quarrel with Alfric Danbrog?’ said the Wormlord coldly.

  ‘My quarrel is simple,’ said Ciranoush Zaxilian. ‘The thing is not human. It is a shapechanger like its father. The father is a werewolf, and the son likewise.’

  ‘Alfric,’ said the Wormlord. ‘Speak to this accusation.’ ‘I am not a werewolf,’ said Alfric with dignity. ‘I cannot be. It is known that no person tainted by lycanthropy can enter the Bank. Before entering that organization, I underwent medical tests which proved me free of any such taint.’

  ‘You bribed the medical examiners,’ said Ciranoush Zaxilian. ‘Just as you bribed-’

  ‘That’s enough!’ said the Wormlord.

  Ciranoush Zaxilian fell silent.

  ‘Soon,’ said Tromso Stavenger, ‘I will die. Whoever succeeds me will face grave dangers, for these are difficult times for Wen Endex. As you know, every year we recover a great tribute in jade from the Qinjoks. But each year the Curse of the Hag reduces this tribute to so much rubbish.’

  So spoke the Wormlord, then paused for effect. Alfric guessed that the pause was inviting a laugh: but nobody dared express levity. So Stavenger continued:

  ‘As you know, the lords of the Izdimir Empire are not happy to receive a box of old sticks and leaves as tribute. Long have they demanded jade, and every year their demands grow more strident. The Demon of Ang is not easily appeased, as you know. I fear that Wen Endex will soon have need of the leadership of a hero.’

  Tromso Stavenger paused again. Nobody even thought of laughing. The Wormlord was talking of the possibility of war, outright war between Wen Endex and the Empire to which it nominally belonged. That was a thought which sobered even the fiercest of the assembled warriors.

  The Wormlord went on:

  ‘Our nation needs a hero as king. Whoever wins the saga swords will prove himself a hero by such endeavour. If Alfric Danbrog can win those swords then he will be the hero the times demand. Ciranoush Norn speaks as if he would dispute the right of Alfric Danbrog to go questing.

  ‘Very well then. I speak to you, Ciranoush Zaxilian Norn. I give you the right to quest for the three swords of saga if you so choose. If you wish it, I will restrain Alfric Danbrog while you try your chances against the dragon, the giant and the vampires. I will not release him from my grip until you have either succeeded or failed. Does that proposition appeal to you, Ciranoush Zaxilian Norn? Do you wish to seize this chance to make yourself a hero?’

  Silence.

  ‘Answer me,’ said the Wormlord. ‘Do you or do you not choose to quest for the three swords of saga?’

  Now Ciranoush Zaxilian Norn was not a coward, not exactly; but he was a realist. Ciranoush did not expect Alfric to return alive from the first quest, for the dragon Qa was a most reliable consumer of questing heroes. And Ciranoush, should he attempt the first quest, would have no better chance of survival.

  So…

  ‘Answer!’ said the Wormlord.

  ‘I answer in the negative,’ said Ciranoush.

  ‘Then let it so be recorded,’ said Tromso Stavenger grandly. ‘Ciranoush Norn was offered the chance to be hero and king. He declined. But Alfric Danbrog accepted. Surely it is no accident that Alfric is my grandson.’

  Then the Wormlord paused.

  And the Yudonic Knights this time did what their king wanted them to do.

  They cheered.

  Meanwhile, a banker by the name of Eg was undertaking certain diplomatic initiatives at the behest of the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association. Let it be said that Alfric Danbrog, Banker Third Class, was entirely unaware of these initiatives; and, furthermore, would not have approved of them had he known about them.<
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  To be precise, Banker Eg was making his way to Vamvelten Street with malice in his mind. When he arrived at Alfric Danbrog’s house, he knocked on the door. Viola Vanaleta admitted him, and they were soon deep in conversation. About Alfric.

  ‘Let me not prevaricate,’ said Eg. ‘Rather, let me settle to business immediately. And let me be honest with you. It is said that a resilient conscience, a yielding conscience, is an asset in a Banker. But, despite the odium we have long endured, we are not all of us possessed of easily mutable ethics. Lies and distortions come not easily to all of us, least of all to me. So let me be truthful.’

  ‘Is — is Alfric in trouble?’ said Vanaleta.

  ‘My sweet and delectable Viola!’ said the Banker. ‘Fear not for the valorous Danbrog.’

  Whereupon Vanaleta, like a timid maiden who fears to be defrauded of her virginity, began to be apprehensive on her own account.

  But, after many circumlocutions, Eg disabused her of the notion that she was intended as his prey. Instead, he came up with something much more shocking:

  ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ said Vanaleta.

  ‘Alfric,’ said Eg, ‘has a chance to marry Ursula Major and so acquire the throne.’

  ‘But — but he can’t!’ said Vanaleta. ‘He’s married to me.’

  ‘I know,’ said Eg gently.

  ‘Besides, it — it’s — it’d be incest.’

  ‘Such things are commonplace in royal families,’ said Banker Eg, ‘personal sin often being preferred to the disintegration of the body politic. Alfric recognizes as much.’

  ‘You — you mean he-’

  ‘He demands,’ said Eg, ‘a divorce.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Alfric was rigorously quarantined by the Bank until he rode forth on the first of his three quests. Therefore his darling wife Viola Vanaleta was not able to tax him about the divorce he was demanding; and, indeed, Alfric for his part presumed himself still happily married.

  Such was the state of affairs as Alfric Danbrog, son of Grendel Danbrog and grandson of Tromso Stavenger, rode out through the Stanch Gates. He was fated north to the island of Thodrun, there to dare the sea dragon Qa, to kill that dreaded worm and remove the revenant’s claw from the monster’s barrow.

  Alfric was not entirely happy with this mission, for, quite apart from the dangers that were involved, the idea of being renowned for the murder of a famous bard did not exactly appeal to him. Qa was such a bard, a singer of songs, a praiser of kings, a recorder of heroes, a skop whose fame had once exceeded that of Greta Jalti himself.

  It happened that the sea dragon Qa had once dwelt in Galsh Ebrek, there winning great fame as a poet. But tastes change.

  Here the tastes in question are not those of the audience but of the artist. Long had Galsh Ebrek rejoiced in sagas of butcher-sword brutality; and the appetite for such epics remained constant. But Qa, at first a willing appeaser of such tastes, had at last grown bored with the composition of such bloodclot confectionery.

  The dragon’s ennui had first been displayed at a formal banquet at which, in place of the usual paean of praise to some head-hacking reaver, the poet had recited a narrative poem dealing with the lethal outcome of a drinking competition. Qa had expended some five thousand lines of terza rima on this theme. It had proved an acceptable novelty. Thereafter, the dragon had amused himself for the better part of a year by much droll doggerelizing on beer drinking competitions and brothel performances; and the Yudonic Knights had come to think of him as quite the best of their poets.

  After all, other bards yet retained an interest in organized phlebotomy, and so were happy to compose stanzas about blood-drenched heroes and sword-slaughter armies. So Qa’s diversions into other areas of chivalric culture were tolerated and, for the most part, actively welcomed.

  But at last things went sour.

  The dragon Qa wore out his interest in booze and brothels, and began to fancy himself as a mystic philosopher. Unfortunately this led him to compose verses of ever-increasing complexity and obscurity which were not at all to the taste of Galsh Ebrek. At one famous banquet, a good three-score Yudonic Knights displayed their scorn for philosophy by throwing things at their draconic skop: old bones, burnt boots, dollops of mud, sklogs of hardened manure and curses by the dozen.

  In the days that followed, a much-mocked Qa became morose, then bad-tempered; then so forgot his manners as to begin to eat people. First the dragon had devoured a wood-cutter; then a couple of beggars; and after that a ferryman. Such peccadillos had been tolerated for a time, for the Yudonic Knights knew that artists are not as other people, and some allowance must be made for their occasional deviation from accepted standards of behaviour. Providing the people who were eaten were mere commoners, nobody was going to get too upset about it. (Except the friends and relations of such commoners — but they, they didn’t really count.)

  However, on one fine night in high summer, the dragon Qa had got more than a little drunk and had eaten of the flesh of the Wormlord’s latest wife, a child no more than eleven years of age. Then Qa had fled — knowing that he had gone too far. Such was the wrath of the ruler of Saxo Pall that he had ordered a dozen of his knights to do a critical demolition job upon the reckless firedrake. Armed with swords, those heroes had set forth in hot pursuit. But Qa had ambushed them in a gully much overgrown with trees. These the dragon had set alight, and all the marauding Knights had been burnt alive.

  Out of vanity, Qa had attempted to eat the lot. But biological limitations had defeated wilful gluttony, so in the end the dragon had been forced to leave a few bones and much-crunched skulls for the heroes’ heirs and assigns to bury. However, while some such physical fragments had been left, the bloated and unrepentant sea dragon had made off with the ironsword Edda; the loss of which had been ever afterwards lamented in Galsh Ebrek.

  For some time, nothing had been heard of the dragon; until at length it was learnt that Qa had taken up residence on Island Thodrun. Whereupon many heroes had been eager to close with the monster and exact revenge for the ghastly murders it had committed. But the Wormlord, declaring he could not afford to lose his Knights a dozen at a time, had ruled that none could quest against the dragon without royal permission. Anyone granted such permission must go alone, armed with only a sword.

  Over the years, many of the brave and the beautiful had dared the attempt; and one and all had met with universal disaster.

  In keeping with the Wormlord’s law, the new champion rode forth alone with no bosom-comrades to stand by him in battle. Like those who had gone before him, Alfric Danbrog carried a sword. But he was confident of victory, for he was a Banker Third Class, and hence surely able to outwit a mere firedrake.

  A full league short of Island Thodrun, Alfric left his horse in a grove of trees standing amidst the sand dunes. Anna Blaume would be most upset if her dearest Nodlums got eaten by a dragon; and, besides, Alfric wanted to preserve the beast in good health so it could carry a hearty load of dragon-treasure back to Galsh Ebrek.

  ‘So long, horse,’ said Alfric, giving the creature a perfunctory pat which was meant to be friendly.

  Then the banker shouldered his pack, which was very heavy, and set forth along the beach, striding out to warm himself, for the night was bitterly cold. Though it was night, the bright beacon of Thodrun gave him more than enough light to see by. Thodrun’s beacon was ancient, as old perhaps as the Oracle of Ob; but no legends surrounded it. All presumed it had served the ancients as a seamark, and thus it was used in Alfric’s day. It was a globe of cold fire which sat atop a skeletal pyramid of a metal immune to corrosion; and it lit all around with a light greater than that of a full moon.

  White shone that light on the sands of the shore; and white alike it shone on the waves of the sea, the full tide seas which stretched between Thodrun and the shore. Having no boat, and lacking any inclination to swim the distance, Alfric must perforce wait for low tide. Which he did. He dumped his pack well above the surf
swash, then walked backwards and forwards, trying to keep warm, kicking at discards of clam shells and gaunt fragilities of driftwood deep-mined by seaworm, eroded by sandscour and windwork, scorched by fire or otherwise shaped and channelled by the servants of time.

  As Alfric waited for the tide to recede, a growing impatience possessed him. The Bank had taught him (too well, perhaps) that time is money; and Alfric was ever inclined to thriftiness. He tried to be economical by drilling himself in the Janjuladoola tongue. He was fluent enough in that language, as he had proved in encounters with Pran No Dree. But there was always room for improvement. And it was important to improve; for, once he won promotion, he would be dealing regularly with Obooloo, and a mastery of Janjuladoola was essential for success in such dealings.

  Despite this incentive, Alfric found himself unable to concentrate on mental revision. Obooloo was remote, distant, a dream. What was real was the here and now: sand underboot and the nightwind on his face. Momentarily, he wished his father was here to see him playing the Yudonic Knight to the full. A credit to his family and his people!

  Then such thoughts ceased, for Something was coming.

  And Something commanded his attention to the full.

  Something sparkled and sharkled in the sea-shifting turbulence. It was a dragon, and it was swimming. Alfric’s first thought was:

  — How small it is.

  Small it was indeed, for it was no larger than his horse. A little smaller, if anything.

  At first, he wondered if the dragon had seen him, for it swam back and forth as if for no particular purpose. Then he began to suspect it was showing off. Particularly when it started indulging itself in some body surfing.

  Such surfing at length brought the dragon into the shallows. It then waddled out of the waves and started up the beach. It halted at a cautious distance from the Banker Third Class, then shook itself like a dog, scattering water in all directions. A few stray flecks splattered against Alfric’s spectacles, much to his annoyance.