The Werewolf and the Wormlord coaaod-8

by Hugh Cook

  ‘There’s no way we can get rid of her,’ said Alfric. ‘Don’t be so defeatist!’ said Xzu. ‘If necessary, we can bring in mercenaries and h ave the bitch murdered.’

  Alfric could scarcely believe his ears.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, cautiously, ‘but civil war might be the result. If one of the royal family is to be killed, it would be better if the Yudonic Knights did the killing.’

  ‘Then you must rally the Knights for that purpose.’

  ‘I lack sufficient stature. As yet. They might follow me in some things. Perhaps. But not in murder. Not murder of the king’s own daughter.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Xzu, thinking. ‘Well… does the Wormlord lack stature?’

  ‘I believe most of the Knights to hold him in high regard,’ said Alfric warily.

  ‘Then they will hold his will in high regard, doubtless.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘But he has said nothing about murdering his daughter. Not to my knowledge. Nor do I believe I could successfully pretend that he has said any such thing.’

  ‘I do not ask you to,’ said Xzu. ‘Rather, I suggest you repeat the Wormlord’s own words to the Yudonic Knights.’

  ‘What words are those?’

  ‘Why, the man swore he would march forth against Herself, did he not? As soon as the saga swords were won, he would march.’

  ‘He did,’ said Alfric.

  ‘Then summon the Knights. Tell them the saga swords are won. Tell them it is their knightly duty to help the Wormlord to fulfil his oath. Play upon their dreams of heroic grandeur. Sing them songs. Bard them the deeds of heroes. Skop the swordblood. Make each man a man indeed. You know the way of it. You know your people.’ ‘To a point,’ said Alfric uneasily.

  ‘Better still, go to your father. Ask him to do the barding and talking, the blood-stirring and the glory-boasting. He has the knack of it.’

  And Alfric remembered the Yudonic Knights who had gathered in Grendel’s bam at his father’s behest. Yes, his father could summon and rouse those men. His father knew the way of it.

  ‘Then,’ said Xzu, starting to get enthusiastic, ‘the Yudonic Knights will release the Wormlord from his confinement in Saxo Pall. He will march against Herself. And you, of course, will march with him.’

  ‘Me?’ said Alfric, startled.

  ‘But of course,’ said Xzu, smoothly. ‘You must win yourself a share of the Wormlord’s glory. Otherwise how can you rightly claim the throne?’

  ‘But… but the Wormlord will die.’

  ‘Will he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alfric, trying to conceal his fear, his anger. ‘Nobody can contend against Herself.’

  ‘Oh, come now,’ said Xzu, sounding amused. ‘You’ve dared against monsters thrice. Monsters are nothing. You dared against them solo, yet survived. Survived? You triumphed!’

  ‘With help, yes,’ said Alfric coldly. ‘But She is not a foolish sea dragon or a brain-damaged giant. No. She is Herself, and She is nightmare.’

  ‘Nightmare?’ said Xzu carelessly. ‘The word has been used of the vampires, you know. ’

  ‘Yes, I know, I know,’ said Alfric. ‘But the vampires were easiest of all. They wanted to deal with us, and we knew it. The same does not go for Herself. Or have you a secret to tell me? Has She been to the bank to ask for a loan, for a mortgage? Does she want to build herself a nice little cottage with carpets clean on the floor, a housecat by the hearth?’

  Xzu made no answer to this sarcastic sally.

  Instead, he pushed a parchment across his desk.

  ‘A promotion,’ said Xzu. ‘Your promotion. From Banker Third Class to Banker Second Class. You will note it is conditional. It becomes effective as soon as you return from a quest against Herself. A quest, please note, which you must undertake in the Wormlord’s company.’ Alfric took it, read it, pushed it back.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said he.

  ‘Take your time,’ said Xzu. ‘But make sure your time isn’t too much time. We’ll see you back here once you’ve… once you’ve made a contribution to our welfare. Go now, friend banker, and may the Spirit of the Ledgers go with you, and may the Seven Demons of Usury confound your enemies, and may the power of the Great Schroff be with you. ’

  The invoking of these imaginary entities was a ponderous joke, a jejune joke of the kind that both Alfric and Xzu had outgrown long ago. Nevertheless, it was a Bank joke, confirming the pair as bankers in league against the world; and Alfric smiled, heartened by the comradeship the joke implied.

  He rose, and went to the door.

  Just before Alfric exited the room, Xzu spoke again, saying:

  ‘Good luck, Alfric.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Alfric, and left.

  But though Alfric had thanked Comptroller Xzu for that parting benediction, the way it had been framed was not altogether to his liking. For Xzu had addressed him as‘Alfric’.

  Izdarbolskobidarbix was the name he chose to use in the Bank; and, though he had long pardoned the occasional use of ‘Alfric’ or ‘Danbrog’ by his peers and superiors, he nevertheless resented such inaccuracy. He felt (perhaps he was wrong, perhaps he was oversensitive, but what he could not deny were his own feelings) that Xzu had been deliberately putting him at a distance by calling him ‘Alfric’, and that Xzu’s use of that name constituted, in some sense, a subtle casting out.

  Certainly Alfric was being exiled from the Bank, at least for the moment. Exiled until he had ‘made a contribution’ to the Bank’s welfare. He was under orders, then. He had to rouse the Yudonic Knights to action, to free the Wormlord from his imprisonment, then march with the Wormlord to do battle with Herself.

  Alfric felt this to be grossly unfair.

  Surely he had done enough already.

  The odds had been in his favour when he had fought with the sea dragon Qa. Nevertheless, a single mistake could have seen him killed. As for the swamp giant — that encounter had been more dangerous yet. And the vampires were not exactly harmless.

  ‘Still,’ said Alfric, ‘I’m not being given any choice in the matter.’

  So he went to see his father, and, a night later, the pair met with two dozen of the most knightly of the Yudonic Knights. The site of this conclave was Grendel Danbrog’s barn.

  Here the Yudonic Knights, with drinking horns in hand, celebrated the hero-feats of Alfric Danbrog.

  ‘Grendelson!’ they roared. ‘Grendelson! Hero!’

  And Alfric, though he was slightly embarrassed by their enthusiasm, acknowledged this homage gracefully.

  Then his father called the meeting to order.

  ‘As you know,’ said Grendel Danbrog, ‘Ursula Major has imprisoned her father in his sickbed.’

  ‘Shame! ’ cried someone.

  Then others cried aloud, saying foul things about the virginal Ursula. Grendel hushed them down a low roar, then went on:

  ‘This we know to be wrong. Above all else, the matter of Herself and Her doings is much on my mind. For too long has Her hideous hymn of triumph dominated our dreams. It is time for us to take in hand the ancient iron and pursue Her to Her lair, and there to hack and hew Her flesh until She is dead. ’

  Cries of enthusiastic applause greeted this proposition.

  ‘But,’ said Grendel, ‘we cannot go alone. We need a leader. Only one man has the strength to be that leader. And that is Tromso Stavenger, our beloved Wormlord.’ Then Grendel launched himself into the much-beloved story of the youthful feats of the Wormlord, who had dared Her son, and had wrestled that monster to a standstill in a fight in which sinews had snapped and bone-joints had broken freely, and who had then killed Her son and cut off his head.

  ‘That is our leader,’ said Grendel. ‘A hero true. That is the leader we must have if we are to dare ourselves to Her lair and engage ourselves in loathsome strife with Her strength.’

  The Yudonic Knights had no trouble at all in convincing themselves that a scorning of peace well becomes a man; that they were made for death and danger
; that their king was a hero and would lead them to deathless glory; and that launching a savage assault upon Herself would be a truly enjoyable experience once they got into it.

  Soon they were joying in the deed as if it had already been accomplished.

  ‘It is a foul offence to life and honour that we should let Her live when Her death can be so easily accomplished,’ said one, his boast representative of ruling opinion.

  Alfric sat down in a comer and closed his eyes in something like despair. So they were really going to do it. So he could not return to the Bank and say they had refused.

  He had a vision of what would really happen. When they came face to face with Herself, the Yudonic Knights would ran. Their fathers had done as much on similar expeditions in the days of the past, so why should the sons be any different? Then She with Her baleful glare would transfix any fool who still stood against Her, then She would advance, and conquer, and kill, and glut Her greed on the flesh of the fallen.

  So thinking, Alfric was minded to sever his own throat on the spot. To die in a warm and comfortable bam. Far better, surely, than to go wandering through the fens in search of Herself, and meet a hideous death when Her grisly rounds brought them into confrontation.

  But Alfric’s father had no such fearful thoughts. He was boasting with as much enthusiasm as the rest of them.

  ‘Words and deeds,’ said Grendel, quaffing good ale which he was far too drunk to appreciate. ‘Great words and great deeds to match them. Of such is the life of men.’

  Then Grendel began to sing the old songs, songs of fresh-tarred ships and voyages across the Winter Sea to wars in foreign lands; songs of kings with boar-heads rampant on their helms, kings armed with iron fire-hardened; songs of heroes and their conquests.

  While his father sung thus, Alfric remembered other songs: funeral dirges mournful in mood, telling of the death of lordly ships, the wailing of bed-mates, the burial of fallen kings, the wrath of battle-surge flames consuming the fallen. Such things happened. Even acknowledged heroes did not always triumph in their quests.

  But no such thoughts spoiled the triumph of Grendel Danbrog, who boasted now of the great deeds of the past as if they were his very own:

  ‘In Melrik’s time we fought the dreaded Yun. By ocean’s margin we withstood the warriors who crossed the Winter Sea to do battle with our forces. When the Yun poured forth from their ships, there we stood in our war-gear, keen for adventure.

  ‘Melrik was our leader, Melrik our king. Proud was the weapon-stack of his wide-boasted hall. Prudent he was, yet brave, for he was ready to dare the nicors in their lair.’

  On and on went Grendel, telling of the mangling of flesh, the sweetness of victory and the din of celebratory revelry, and of the Golden Age in which the triumphant Melrik ruled Wen Endex, ‘land of sweet song and shining waters where all men lived in gladness’.

  When Grendel Danbrog had exhausted himself by overindulgence in such epics, other Yudonic Knights took up the work. And it was late indeed before they got down to business in earnest.

  But get down to business they did.

  In the end.

  ‘These last twelve weary winters I’ve watched our lord decline,’ said Grendel. ‘I know and you know that this is his last chance. If he is to march against Herself then he must do so now. But he needs our help. Will he have it?’

  And the Yudonic Knights roared their answer:

  ‘Yes!’

  In short order, plans were agreed. The Yudonic Knights would storm Saxo Pall, release the Wormlord then march against Herself in the company of their lord.

  As there was some organization which needed to be done — horses must be obtained and journeypacks filled, wills must be brought up to date and lovers kissed goodbye — the actual storming of Saxo Pall was set down for the following night.

  Alfric did his best to conceal his infinite weariness as he parted from his father and those of the Knights who were doing the organizing.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Grendel.

  Alfric was actually going to the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association to report to Comptroller Xzu on the plans which the Yudonic Knights had hatched. However, he did not think his father would like these plans being thus revealed. So he said:

  ‘Home, that’s all.’

  ‘Stay,’ said Grendel, in his lordliest voice. ‘We need you here.’

  Alfric was desperate to get away. He wanted the Bank to know that he had done as the Bank wished. That he had successfully roused the Yudonic Knights to action, and that soon the Wormlord would be freed to do battle with Herself. The sooner the Bank knew, the better, for such political ructions could affect everything from the price of firewood to the ninety-day interest rate.

  Belatedly, Alfric remembered that he was married; and, moreover, that his wife had absconded from home, and was on the loose in the city, cuckolding him (for all he knew) with every drunk in every tavern in Galsh Ebrek. Actually, this mattered so little to Alfric that he had almost forgotten about it already. But it certainly gave him an excuse to be gone from the bam.

  ‘I -1 am a married man,’ said Alfric.

  ‘So you are, so you are,’ said his father.

  ‘And-and my wife-’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said his father. ‘That. She’s still running wild?’

  ‘She is,’ said Alfric. ‘But I think I know where she’ll be tonight. I think I can bring her to heel.’

  ‘Then off you go,’ said his father, approving this course of action instantly. ‘Off you go, my boy, and do the best you can with the wench.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Thus it happened that Alfric Danbrog leagued it home and prepared himself for an audience with Comptroller Xzu of the Flesh Traders’ Association. He dreaded the thought of what might happen when the Yudonic Knights stormed Saxo Pall; and was fearfully afraid of joining the attack on Herself; but, nevertheless, his pride was great.

  — Were it not for me, this would not be happening.

  Thus whispered Alfric Danbrog to himself, and could not help but be mightily pleased with himself.

  In his house in Vamvelten Street, Alfric washed himself, dried himself, dressed in clean clothes then shaved himself in front of his mirror.

  This was an ancient mirror, a family heirloom. Inset in its surface was a small image-disk in which dwelt the portrait of a smiling girl with a face whiter than chalk and lips redder than blood. Her lips moved ever and ever, for she was whispering something. If the mirror were kept near fire, that whisper would strengthen to audible language — a song of some kind — but what the girl might be singing was ever a mystery. This mirror was one of the old things from a past long forgotten, and nobody knew how it had been made, or when, or where.

  Alfric had owned the mirror for so long that, usually, he never thought of the girl; did not even see her as he pursued his own thought while shaving. But tonight he paused and studied that soundless face. Someone had made this mirror and had there delineated the features of the girl. And Alfric wondered, as he watched her smiling and singing, if she had really existed or whether a canny artist had created her marvellously detailed portrait from pure imagination.

  And wondered, too, if even the slightest trace of his own existence would remain to the world after his death. Would someone, somewhere, hold some fragment of his face, words or work in memory? Or would all disappear, soapbubbling to zero in a world where even rocks were fated to be nubbed down to nothing?

  ‘Morbid, morbid,’ muttered Alfric, and hurried through the rest of his shaving, and would have cut himself badly in his haste had his razor not been excessively blunt.

  Once these preparations were complete, Alfric made the trek to Mobius Kolb, entered the Bank, and was soon in conference with Comptroller Xzu.

  Xzu listened impassively as Alfric — barely able to conceal his pride in his own achievements — told how the Yudonic Knights had been won over.

  ‘They will do it,’ said Alfric. ‘Just as the Bank wants.
They will storm Saxo Pall. Release the Wormlord. Then march upon Herself.’

  Comptroller Xzu listened to him impassively.

  Then sighed.

  Then said:

  ‘You are not a narcissist, are you?’

  ‘A narcissist?’ said Alfric in bewilderment.

  He was taken aback by this tangential assault. What was its meaning? Had he been indulging in unseemly boasting? Well, perhaps a little… but that was pardonable, surely, under the circumstances.

  ‘What I’m asking you,’ said Xzu, ‘is whether you put too great a value on the importance of satisfying your own ego.’

  Alfric considered this.

  Then said:

  ‘I scarcely know how to answer a question so wide reaching when it is asked as if apropos of nothing. Of course I could indulge myself in rhetoric if pushed to justify my approach to life, or I could produce any number of apologias to justify the same… but such activity would scarcely have any point unless I know the details of whatever accusations are being made against me.’

  Alfric paused. He was aware that most of what he had just said was nearly meaningless, and that he should say no more lest he make a fool of himself.

  But he could not stop himself.

  He was weak from illness, and feeling defensive; and so, as a squid squirts out meaningless scrolls of ink when disturbed, so Alfric squirted out words. He went on:

  ‘However, whatever my incapacities, please be assured that I am unconscious of any error I have made. I have always served the Bank to the best of my ability, and it is my desire to do so in the future.’

  Thus Alfric.

  Comptroller Xzu smiled.

  ‘You defend yourself well,’ said Xzu. ‘However, you are not under attack.’

  ‘I’m not?’

  ‘Whatever gave you the idea that you were? Have I indulged in curses or fulminations? Have I quoted unpleasant anecdotes against you? Have I made any critiques whatsoever? No. I have not.’

  Not for the first time, Alfric realized that Comptroller Xzu no longer possessed a native’s fluency with Toxteth. Xzu had spent so much of his life living in foreign parts that his use of the syntax and vocabulary of his birth tongue had become strangely stilted.