by Hugh Cook
Really, Xzu was scarcely a citizen of Wen Endex at all. Rather, he belonged to that strange meta-nation created by the Partnership Banks; he lived in a world where market movements and currency fluctuations in Dalar ken Halvar or Chi’ash-lan were as present and as important to him as any events taking place in riverside Galsh Ebrek.
‘While I have no criticism to make of you,’ said Xzu, ‘I do have a demand. My demand — which is the Bank’s demand — is outlined in this document which I would like you to read.’
Alfric suspected that something uncommonly unpleasant was afoot. Bankers often committed to paper that which they were loathe to voice.
With great apprehension, Alfric took the document which Xzu extended to him.
And read.
The document was long and windy, but the gist of it was simple. Basically, it asked Alfric to delay the freeing of the Wormlord and the campaigning against Herself by seven days. Why? Because of certain unspecified ‘diplomatic contingencies’.
Alfric read it once.
Read it twice.
Then He should by rights have read it a third time, to give himself opportunity for reflection. After all, in diplomacy, time spent in meditation is never wasted. So it is written in the Bank’s Book of Wisdom, and the Bank should know.
But Alfric, at that moment, was in no mood for meditation. The demand the Bank was making was outrageous. How was he to delay the Knights? Those heroes were enraptured by enthusiasm for the project the Bank itself had schemed up, and no amount of rhetoric was likely to halt them.
‘You know,’ said Alfric, anger making him uncommonly audacious, ‘this demand puts me in a very difficult position. In fact, it might almost have been calculated to cause me the maximum difficulty. What is this? Some kind of half-arsed test of my ability?’
‘No, Alfric,’ said Xzu. ‘This is not a kind of practical examination. For reasons which I am currently not at liberty to reveal, certain complications have arisen vis-a-vis our plans to put you on the throne. These complications can doubtless be resolved in due course, but, for the moment, we need to call a halt to the action. We need you to stop the Yudonic Knights from doing what they plan to do.’
‘What the Bank planned for them to do!’ said Alfric. ‘The Bank made certain plans, yes,’ said Xzu. ‘But now these have changed. And surely it is a banker’s duty to change when the Bank does. You would not put personal ambition ahead of your duty to the Bank, would you? Or would you?
‘This is where my earlier question is pertinent. I asked if you were a narcissist. I asked whether you put too great a value on satisfying your own ego. You answered in the negative. You made yourself out to be a loyal servant of the Bank, and expressed a desire to serve the Bank always to the best of your ability.
‘That is how you spoke when our debate was being conducted on a purely theoretical level. Do you now wish to revise your commitment when you come face to face with the practical application of theory? Talk is easy, and you talk most beautifully. Deeds are another thing. Are you going to flinch from the exertion that deeds demand? Where is your honour, Alfric?’
So spoke Xzu.
Then sat back, leaving Alfric struggling with wordless frustration.
Despite his undiminished anger, Alfric had to admire the cunning of the great Comptroller Xzu. Oh yes. Xzu had manoeuvred Alfric nicely, prompting him into making declarations of loyalty. And now Xzu was using those declarations of leverage, speaking of ‘honour’, the watchword by which the Yudonic Knights wished to live.
Xzu was using Alfric’s knightly heritage against him.
And Xzu had also reminded Alfric that the Bank existed for its own purposes — for the increase of its own wealth, power and influence — and that personal ambition and ego meant nothing to the Bank. If Alfric wished to rise in the Bank, then he must do what the Bank wished, regardless of how outrageous that might be.
Never before had Alfric faced that truth so clearly.
Of course, it was something he had always known. The marginalization of personal concerns is a characteristic of every large organization, and the Partnership Banks were as large as they come.
Even so, Alfric was almost stupefied to find himself being manipulated so shamelessly, tossed about like a cork on the storm-seas of politics. One day the Bank demands the release of the Wormlord. So a Danbrog must be commanded to arrange it. A little later, political concerns (What political concerns? Alfric was almost ready to kill to know!) demanded that the release of the Wormlord be delayed. So a Danbrog must arrange that, too, regardless of the difficulties and embarrassments involved.
‘Well?’ said Banker Xzu.
‘I wonder,’ said Alfric, ‘if you have the slightest idea of the enormity of what you’re asking.’
‘Enormity?’ said Xzu.
‘I have given my word to my father and all the Yudonic Knights who were gathered together with him,’ said Alfric. ‘I have allied myself to their grand adventure. I have-’
‘Yes, yes, I know all that,’ said Xzu. ‘I was bom and raised here, the same as you were.’
‘Then you know that you’re being totally unreasonable,’ said Alfric. ‘I can’t make and break my word to my father and my father’s peers just because your policies change as — as casually as the weather. ’
‘Can’t you?’ said Xzu.
The waxen composure of this banker-comptroller was making Alfric steadily more angry. He was a Danbrog. A man in his own right. Not a thing of putty to be moulded into whatever shape the Bank chose. Or was he? Once again, he was brought face to face with the uncompromising nature of the organization. If he wanted to rise in the Partnership Banks, then he would have to surrender all personal freedom. His subservience to the organization would have to be absolute.
No formal bonds of slavery had been laid upon Alfric Danbrog, but, thanks to his ambition, he was a slave regardless, bound to the Bank with ties almost as strong as those of blood. Because he wanted to rise in the organization, he had to measure his every public word (and most of his private speech) by what the Bank might think. Because of his status in the organization, he was never entirely off duty.
Alfric knew then that it was useless to strive to be a man in his own right unless he was prepared to break free from the organization. Was he? No. He was wedded to the institution because it was the institution that offered him his chance of power, of influence, of glory.
For a moment, Alfric felt something close to despair.
Then he realized this kind of thinking belonged to his past.
He was no longer a slave of the Bank, for his future was almost upon him, and his future was to be king. Once he had met Herself in combat, once he had made himself a hero, then the Bank would have to support him in his drive for the throne. And even if the Bank did not, why, the Yudonic Knights would put him on the throne regardless. The movement to enthrone Grendelson Danbrog was rapidly gathering momentum, and nothing could stop it now.
Nothing except Alfric’s death.
He might die when he went up against Herself.
Oh yes, he might die indeed.
But that was a risk he would have to run.
‘Come,’ said Xzu, ‘we have wasted enough time on this. The directive from the Bank is clear. We ask you for a seven-day delay. You are not to make any attempt to free the Wormlord from Saxo Pall. Not for seven days. Likewise, you are not to make any move against Herself. Not for seven days, and even then not without the Bank’s permission. Do you agree to these constraints upon your actions?’
Alfric did not.
But what he actually said was:
‘Naturally I am willing to do everything which is possible to further the plans of the Bank, but I scarcely see that what the Bank now demands comes under that heading. The Yudonic Knights have been stirred up. Even now, they are readying themselves for confrontation and battle. To cool their blood is something I think beyond my powers. If the Bank wishes me to undertake this thing, then the Bank must provide me with a
suitable strategy, for the task is quite beyond my unaided powers.’
Alfric felt very pleased with himself.
The Bank could demand much, but surely it could not demand the impossible. And stopping the Knights was impossible, wasn’t it? Surely.
Banker Xzu smiled.
‘Alfric,’ said Xzu, ‘I’m glad to hear that you’re willing to co-operate. Naturally the Bank doesn’t expect you to undertake this difficult task unaided. Our best minds have gone to work on the problem, deciding how best we can help you arrange a seven-day delay.’
‘And?’
‘We have prepared a messenger for you. Our best hypnotists have been working on the man, and he is perfect. He is a peasant by name of Norton Brick. You will take him to an inn which you are in the habit of frequenting. The Green Cricket, that’s the one. You will buy this Norton Brick a drink or two. Then, at an appropriate moment, you will say a particular trigger word.’
‘Which is?’ said Alfric.
‘The word is tolfrigdalakaptiko.’
Alfric knew this word. It was from the Janjuladoola tongue, and denoted a specialized dish based on seagull livers.
‘So I say the word,’ said Alfric. ‘A trigger word, I take it. This — this Brick will pour out his story. Is that right?’
‘If the hypnotists have done their job correctly,’ said Xzu. ‘And, as you know, given the right subject, they rarely fail. They judge Brick to be perfect for our purposes.’
‘So Brick tells his story,’ said Alfric. ‘What will that story be?’
‘The story,’ said Xzu, ‘will concern the death of Herself at the hands of a marauding pack of vampires.’
‘Oh, come on!’ said Alfric. ‘Nobody will believe that!’
‘Nobody has to believe it,’ said Xzu. ‘It is an excuse, that’s all. Your excuse for asking the Yudonic Knights to call off the release of the Wormlord. After all, the Knights only wish to free the Wormlord so he can march against Herself. Is that not so?’
‘You suggest,’ said Alfric, ‘that the Knights will be ready to accept such an excuse, even if they doubt its veracity. You suggest, then, that the Knights are cowards.’
‘Alfric, Alfric,’ said Xzu, with a sigh, ‘don’t be so naive. You know yourself the Knights of Wen Endex are big on boast and small on action. Trust me. Trust us. Trust the Bank. The knightly mentality yielded long ago to our analysis. A little drink, a few songs, and these people can be tempted into committing themselves to the most outrageously heroic causes. But, once the drink wears off, so too does their resolution. Take the peasant, Alfric. Get him drunk. Say the trigger word. Here his story. Then retail it to the Knights with whatever elaborations you see fit. They will happily believe Herself to be dead, at least until we tell them otherwise.’
Well.
What Xzu said had some logic to it.
The plan was at least worth trying, if Alfric really wanted a delay.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Alfric.
‘Good,’ said Xzu. ‘What was the trigger word?’
‘Tolfrigdalakaptiko,’ said Alfric. ‘I won’t forget it.’
But, once Alfric had the peasant Norton Brick in his possession, Alfric cast the trigger word from his mind. Because Alfric had made up his mind. He would not do what the Bank wanted. Whatever secret ‘political concerns’ had led the Bank to seek a delay in the Wormlord’s release, Alfric was still going to pursue his own ends.
He was going to see the Wormlord set free and Herself killed, and was then going to make himself king, with or without the support of the Bank.
Thus decided, Alfric took Norton Brick to the Green Cricket, got him drunk then left him there, the trigger word unspoken and the story untold.
Then Alfric went home to his house on Vamvelten Street, and there prepared his gear for the journey which lay ahead. One of his jobs was to clean and sharpen the deathsword Bloodbane, for he had decided this was very much the blade to take to war against Herself.
When Alfric at last went to bed, he slept long, and dreamt his way through many tangled dreams. This was understandable, for he was exhausted by his confrontation with Comptroller Xzu. His recent fever had left him weak, and he needed his sleep.
But the dreams of that sleep were tormented.
Alfric Danbrog dreamt of Herself. Blighted was Her birth and pitiless was Her growth. He dreamt that a company of Yudonic Knights marched against Herself, and in his dreams he saw that even these staunch warriors feared to march against such a shrewd and ruthless foe.
Then dream became nightmare, and he dreamt that his father was dead, killed by Herself. Alfric stood by his father’s body, overcome by the cruellest of griefs. The flayed corpse was hideous in death, and Alfric wept over it. His tears fell red-hot to the earth and there became buttons of bronze.
A dreamshift took him.
And Alfric found himself running as a wolf through drenching forests while helmeted men pursued him. Grim was their pursuit, and silent, utterly silent, the whole thing was silent, though he was breaking through branches in his panic, and tearing his way through webworks of thorns. Even though he screamed in anguish, nevertheless his world was silent, for he could not hear himself killed.
Abruptly, Alfric burst from the woods into the streets of Galsh Ebrek, and found himself running between carts piled high with scorlins of seaweed. Then he found himself floundering amidst shellfish and driftwood, his wolf become eel.
Then After a series of strange transitions in which he imagined himself first bird and then fox, Alfric dreamt that he was standing in the Imperial Court in Tang, his body days unwashed and his clothes in like condition. With him was the sea dragon Qa, and, to Alfric’s distress, the great poet stank of rotten meat and regurgitated fish. Nevertheless, the Emperor of Tang was polite. The Emperor sipped from a cup. Nectar was in that cup, but this drink with blood was blended, and somehow the Emperor’s voice was mixed up with that of King Dimple-Dumpling, and And another dreamshift took Alfric to a cave deep-delved in the Qinjoks, and there he did battle with the ogre king. Bloodbane was in Alfric’s hand, and flames of blood ran bright-burning down the blade as he matched his skills of slaughter against the monsters who confronted him. Then the sword became a horse, and he mounted it, the bit-clenching beast bearing him away to a cave where he stood knee-deep in seawater. There were rings in the water, rings glinting cold and gold in the gloom of the sea. Drowned in the same water were many blades of war, and gilded cups which had once kissed the lips of kings.
And Alfric, in his dream, knew himself to be dreaming of death; and knew that this was because he expected to shortly die.
Then the images changed, though their burden did not; and Alfric dreamt himself to be once more in the Spiderweb Castle, looking upon the blanched faces of princes once bounteous, watched the frozen flesh of a long-dead sage who still bent as if to construe the runes, listening to the echoes of the voices of ghosts…
Then the dreams changed again.
And Alfric found himself dreaming that he was trapped in the sagaworld of the songs of the Yudonic Knights of Wen Endex.
In his dreams, Alfric longed to escape to his desk at the Bank, to the clean world of paperwork, the ordered world of interest rates and agiotage. But he could not escape. He was doomed to a world of boiling oceans and wolfhaunt wilderness, of cold forests and turbulent rivers, of mountains gripped by winter’s icy binding, of ship and sword, of dare and danger, of slaughter and battle, of heroes and corpses.
Then Alfric woke, for someone was hammering at the door.
It proved to be his father.
‘A new night has begun,’ said Grendel Danbrog. ‘And we are ready to march upon Saxo Pall.’
And Alfric, finding himself doomed to the world of heroes for real, had no option but to buckle on his sword and march forth to face his future.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
With the deathsword Bloodbane sheathed at his side, Alfric Danbrog joined the Yudonic Knights of Galsh Ebrek who marched upon Saxo P
all.
Under a swollen moon they marched. Their numbers had greatly increased since the meeting in Grendel’s bam. Instead of two dozen knights, there were almost two hundred in the army which assaulted the Wormlord’s fastness. The gates of the great stronghold were thrown open at their demand, and they tramped, the mud from their boots despoiling the carpets, their hounds loping alongside them as they stormed into the castle.
None tried to stand against them until they got to the Wormlord’s sick room. There they found Ursula Major standing on guard. She looked poised and impeccable, her linen clean, her jewels splendorous by lamplight, her hair bound back by bands of silver, all but for one frail strand of blondeness which wisped around her mouth.
‘Halt,’ said she.
They halted.
‘You can go no further,’ said Ursula Major, ‘for I am of royal blood. To touch me is treason. ’
‘Not so, sister,’ said Grendel, stepping forward from the ranks.
‘I acknowledge you not as my brother,’ said Ursula Major.
A reasonable statement, this, if appearances were anything to go by. For Grendel Danbrog was a massive man of middle years, coarse in dress and feature, the stench of many unwashed years upon him. Whereas Ursula Major was in her early twenties, the gloss of well-scrubbed health upon her elegant face. Still, all there knew the truth, and Grendel did not bother to restate it. Instead, he shoved the woman out of the way, flung open the sickroom door, and entered.
The Knights followed, though only the first half dozen could actually fit into the room.
In that chamber was the Wormlord. The old man was tucked up in bed, kept warm by flannel pyjamas, his feet comforted by a hot rock wrapped in a towel; but (as always) his head was capped by his horned helmet. Tromso Stavenger looked unspeakably comfortable as he lay there supping upon lukewarm gruel which was being fed to him (a spoonful at a time) by a nubile young serving maid. Unless Alfric was badly mistaken, Stavenger was somewhat disconcerted at the sudden arrival of the Knights, and was not altogether pleased by their advent.