The Werewolf and the Wormlord

by Hugh Cook

  Alfric turned. The man who had stalked unheard to well within killing distance was Nappy, a huffy-puffy individual of slightly less than average height. Nappy was pink of face and bald of pate and could often be seen hustling about Galsh Ebrek looking slightly comical thanks to his pigeon-toed gait. He was renowned for his sweet temper, for the jolly delight he took in all innocent pleasures, and for his work as a committee man. Nappy was famous in charity circles, and was known to be happiest at festivals when he could transmogrify himself into Mister Cornucopia, and dispense sweets for the children and kisses for the blushing virgins.

  ‘I’m so glad to see you, Mister Danbrog,’ said Nappy, extending his hand. Alfric took it and pumped it. Nappy’s hand was soft and damp. A clinging, friendly hand.

  ‘We haven’t seen you here for ever so long,’ said Nappy. ‘I’m so, so very glad to see you.’

  The sincerity of these effusions could not be doubted. That was Nappy all over. He was acknowledged as the happiest, friendliest person in Wen Endex. Which made no difference to the facts of the matter. Nappy was what he was and he did what he did, and there was no getting round that.

  ‘Sorry I can’t stay to chat,’ said Nappy, shifting on his feet in that fluidly furtive manner which was his trademark, ‘but I must be going now.’

  And already Nappy was sliding, sidestepping, nim-bling past Alfric’s defenses. Alfric thought him shifting right, but he was gone to the left, sliding past and—

  And—

  And?

  Alfric wanted to scream.

  Nappy was behind him.

  And all Alfric could think was this:

  ‘Just let it be quick, that’s all. Just let it be quick.’

  Also by Hugh Cook

  THE WIZARDS AND THE WARRIORS

  THE WORDSMITHS AND THE WARGUILD

  THE WOMEN AND THE WARLORDS

  THE WALRUS AND THE WARWOLF

  THE WICKED AND THE WITLESS

  THE WISHSTONE AND THE WONDERWORKERS

  THE WAZIR AND THE WITCH

  and published by Corgi Books

  THE WEREWOLF AND THE WORMLORD

  A CORGI BOOK 0552135380

  First publication in Great Britain

  PRINTING HISTORY Corgi edition published 1991

  Copyright © Hugh Cook 1991

  The right of Hugh Cook to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Conditions of sale

  1.This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  2.This book is sold subject to the Standard Conditions of Sale of Net Books and may not be re-sold in the UK below the net price fixed by the publishers for the book.

  This book is set in 10/12 pt Times by County Typesetters, Margate, Kent

  Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers Ltd., 61-63 Uxbridge Road, Ealing, London W5 5SA, in Australia by Transworld Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd., 15-23 Helles Avenue, Moorebank, NSW 2170, and in New Zealand by Transworld Publishers (N.Z.) Ltd., Cnr. Moselle and Waipareira Avenues, Henderson, Auckland.

  Made and printed in Great Britain by

  BPCC Hazell Books

  Aylesbury, Bucks., England

  Member of BPCC Ltd

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Also by Hugh Cook

  THE WEREWOLF AND THE WORMLORD

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Touching that monstrous bulk of the whale or ork we have received nothing certain. They grow exceedingly fat, insomuch that an incredible quantity of oil will be extracted out of one whale.

  Lord Baakan, History of Life and Death

  It is an undisputed truth that a man with weak sight must be in need of an ogre; for, as all the world knows, ogres are by far the best oculists. Therefore it is not surprising that, on each of his annual visits to the Qinjoks, Alfric Danbrog took the opportunity to have his eyes retested and to get a new pair of spectacles ground to his prescription.

  Shortly after his thirty-third birthday, Alfric made his fifth such venture into the mountains. On this occasion, the bespectacled banker took with him a large carven box. This was a gift for the ogre king; and inside there were twenty pink mice, five thousand dead fleas, thirty chunks of cheese and seven dragons.

  Alfric’s journey to the Qinjoks was made exclusively by night, which multiplied its many difficulties. However, young Danbrog was not just a banker but the son of a Yudonic Knight, and he pressed on regardless of danger. Once the many difficulties of the journey had been overcome, Alfric’s first duty was to present himself to the ogre king. The audience took place in a deep delved mountain cave in one of the shallower portions of that underground redoubt known as the Qinjok Sko.

  Before the meeting, the king’s chamberlain cautioned Alfric thus:

  ‘You will not address the king by his given name.’

  The chamberlain, a small and nervous troll, had given Alfric exactly the same warning on each of the four previous visits the young banker had made to these mountains. But Alfric did not remind him of this.

  ‘My lord,’ said Alfric, ‘I do not even know the king’s name, therefore am in no danger of addressing him thereby.’

  This was a diplomatic mistruth. Alfric Danbrog knew full well that the ogre king had been named Sweet Sugar-Delicious Dimple-Dumpling.

  Among ogres, the naming of children is traditionally a mother’s privilege; and female ogres are apt to lapse into a disgustingly mawkish sentimentality shortly after giving birth. Those who cleave to the evolutionary heresy hold that such a lapse is necessary to the survival of the species, for baby ogres (and the full-grown adults, come to that) are so hideously ugly that it is surely only the onset of such sentimentality which keeps their mothers from strangling them at birth.

  Once the chamberlain had been assured on this point of protocol, Alfric was admitted to the presence of the above-mentioned Sweet Sugar-Delicious Dimple-Dumpling, king of the Qinjoks. The king, let it be noted, was nothing like his name. Rather, he would have better fitted the name his father would have liked to bestow on him: Bloodgut the Skullsmasher.

  While the ogre and the banker met on cordial terms, there stood between them a line of granitic cubes, each standing taller than a cat but shorter than a hunting hound. These were stumbling blocks, placed there in case Alfric should take it into his head to draw his sword and charge the throne.

  Technically, there was peace between Galsh Ebrek and the Qinjoks. Furthermore, every expert in combat will tell you that it is theoretically impossible for a lone swordsman to overcome a full-grown ogre. However, the Yudonic Knights are what they are; and the king did well to be cautious.

  ‘We trust your journey was pleasant,’ said King Dimple-Dumpling.

  ‘It was not,’ said Alfric. ‘The roads between Galsh Ebrek and t
he Qinjoks owe more to fantasy than to fact. The dark was dark, the rain was wet, and the mud was excessive in the extreme, quantity in this case quite failing to make up for lack of quality.’

  So he spoke because his ethnology texts had taught him that ogres value honesty in speech above all other things.

  Such scholarly claims are in fact exaggerated. There are many things an orgre values far more, some of them being mulberry wine, gluttonous indulgence in live frogs, and the possession of vast quantities of gold.

  ‘So,’ said the ogre king. ‘You travelled by night.’

  ‘I did, my liege,’ said Alfric.

  ‘Hmmm,’ said the ogre king.

  While the king puzzled over this strange behaviour, Alfric had ample time to study his majesty’s surrounds. Ranged behind the king were racks of skulls; interlaced washing lines strung with scalps; and two vultures, each a triumph of the taxidermist’s art. Carven draconites served these beasts as eyes, and an evil light swashed from these gems as they caught the buckling flaze of torches. Flanking these beasts were skeletons in duplicate; while at the king’s head was the mouldering head of a dragon. And, in pride of place at his right hand, a low bookcase crammed with philosophy books.

  Alfric started to sweat.

  Not because he was frightened, but because the cave was grossly overheated.

  ‘So,’ said the king. ‘You travelled by night. Which means, does it not, that She walks again?’

  ‘So it has been said,’ acknowledged Alfric.

  ‘It has been said, has it? And what do you believe?’ ‘That custom commands me,’ said Alfric. ‘Hence I walk by night. I can do no less. I am of a Family.’

  ‘You belong to the Bank,’ said the king, ‘yet declare allegiance to a Family.’

  ‘The Bank, my liege, lives within the bounds of law and custom; nor does the Bank seek to sever its servants from their rightful bondage to either.’

  ‘I have heard otherwise,’ said the king, almost as if he were accusing Alfric of mistruthing.

  ‘My liege,’ said Alfric, ‘I cannot answer Rumour, for Rumour has ten thousand tongues and I have but one.’ ‘Hmmm,’ said the king.

  Thinking.

  Then:

  ‘You travelled by night.’

  Alfric kept his face blank. This was no time to show impatience. But Alfric liked to do business in an efficient manner; and not for nothing was the king known as He Who Talks In Circles.

  ‘Night is a strange time to travel,’ continued King Dimple-Dumpling. ‘Particularly when night is Her chosen time.’

  ‘My duty bids me to rule the night,’ said Alfric. ‘I cannot permit Her forays to keep me from the dark. I am a Yudonic Knight.’

  ‘Who fears nothing,’ said the king.

  When one hears dry irony from the lips of an orgre, it is hard to credit ones ears. But Alfric, who knew ogres better than most of his kind, did not underestimate them. He answered deadpan:

  ‘My liege is generous in his praises. I fear myself unworthy of such praise.’

  ‘Why unworthy?’ said the king. ‘Do you think yourself a coward?’

  A dangerous question, and one not easy to answer. In the halls of an ogre king, one does not confess to cowardice, for the ogres think pusillanimity to be a crime meriting death. Equally, in such a place one boasts not of courage, for ogres delight in supervising tests of the same.

  ‘Well,’ said the king. ‘Are you a coward or are you not?’

  ‘So far,’ said Alfric, answering carefully, ‘fear has not chosen to be my companion. But, in keeping with the teachings of the philosophers, I do not hold such companionship to be merely because it lies outside my own experience.’

  An adroit answer, displaying the mental agility which had seen Alfric rise so far and so fast in the ranks of the Bank. It pleased the king.

  ‘Well,’ said the king, ‘enough small talk. Now to business. Have you brought me my dragons?’

  ‘I have,’ said Alfric, and opened the carven box which had originally held pink mice, chunks of cheese, dead fleas and seven dragons. The mice were meant to keep the dragons warm, the cheese to feed the mice and the fleas to feed the dragons. A cunning arrangement, which had worked up to a point. Two of the dragons had survived the journey, and King Dimple-Dumpling was delighted.

  The dragons were tiny, for they belonged to a breed which grew no longer than a fingerlength. Nevertheless, they were true dragons which could fly and breathe fire. Or, more exactly, spark fire; for the incendiary output from these untunchilamons was scarcely sufficient to threaten the life of a bedbug.

  Untunchilamons they were called because they hailed from an oceanic island of that name. (Here let it be recorded that the untunchilamons were referred to by a small group of linguistic dissidents as the injiltaprajuras. However, the correct name is untunchilamon, for Galsh Ebrek’s School of Heraldry so entered this new breed of dragon into the Registry of Pageantry.)

  It was said by some that Justina Thrug had discovered the species on the abovementioned island; by others, that she had proved her powers as a witch by creating the genus ex nihilo. Here the term ‘genus’ is controversial, with many categorizers preferring to conglomerate the untunchilamons with more conventional dragons.

  Yet surely the untunchilamons are not just a distinct species but a unique genus with claims, indeed, to being a separate one-species family. To mention no other matter, their method of reproduction strongly supports their pretensions to unique generic status; for, unlike other dragons, they eschew copulation in favour of parthenogenesis. All untunchilamons are female, and their opalescent eggs require no fertilization from any agency outside their own bodies.

  Such a method of propagation has many advantages. However, sexual congress is a sovereign method for securing genetic diversity; and hence is most marvellously effective in allowing populations of both plants and animals to adapt to abruptions, dislocations and disease. In contrast, diversification among the untunchilamons was necessarily very slow, consisting as it did of occasional accidents in the parthenogenetic process.

  As the island of their origin was tropical, the untunchilamons were woefully ill equipped to withstand the inclemency of the winters of Galsh Ebrek. Lacking the ability to diversify and adapt, their populations were constrained to dwell in or around fireplaces, chimneys and kitchen stoves, where constant combustion afforded them a climate somewhat like that of their ancestral homeland.

  Alfric explained the environmental limitations of the beasts with great care.

  ‘But they fly forth from their chimneys, do they not?’ said King Dimple-Dumpling.

  ‘Oh indeed, my liege. To a range of fifty paces or more, sometimes even a hundred.’

  ‘And they ravage their enemies, do they not? Fleas, lice and bedbugs?’

  ‘As advertised, my liege.’

  ‘What about crab-lice?’ said King Dimple-Dumpling.

  Alfric did not even blink.

  ‘That I do not know,’ said he. ‘I suggest that any experiment in that direction be made with care. In our experience, these dragons do not bite without extreme provocation. Nevertheless, they do on occasion assail their prey with fire, a potential problem should such prey be in, ah, a sensitive location.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the king. ‘We will meet again in eight days. Then the ransom will be delivered into your care.’

  ‘My liege is gracious,’ said Alfric, and bowed, and withdrew.

  Alfric Danbrog made good use of the eight days thus granted to him, using the time to see his ogre oculist, to do some private research in King Dimple-Dumpling’s library, and to indulge in some casual tourism. Of these activities, the ocular consultation was the most important. Alfric suffered from pronounced myopia combined with a degree of astigmatism; his handicap being such that his ogre proclaimed him to be deficient by a full ten diopters. A cruel fate, this; for it meant his chances of attaining supremacy with the sword were not of the best.

  However, such genetic disadvantage is o
ften accompanied by a collateral benefit; inasmuch as the type of ocular defect which Alfric suffered is positively correlated with high intelligence. In Alfric’s case, an inexactitude of vision was accompanied by mental acuity of the highest order; his acumen and cleverness had allowed him to qualify as a Certified Genius, and thus to join the Bank.

  And it was Bank business, rather than any concern for his organs of vision, which had ultimately impelled Alfric to dare the dangers of the journey to the Qinjoks. The delivery of a kindle of dragons to King Dimple-Dumpling had been but a minor courtesy. Alfric’s true duty was to check the Annual Tribute of jade which the ogre king consigned to Obooloo; to uplift that Tribute; to convey it safely to Galsh Ebrek; and there in the presence of witnesses to deliver it unto a certain ambassador.

  The eight days went swiftly, Alfric receiving his new spectacles on the last of them. Shortly after accepting delivery of these precision instruments, Alfric was summoned into the presence of King Dimple-Dumpling at midnight. The ogre king sat in state, drinking of blood-red wine. (Or was it actual blood? Alfric was diplomat enough not to ask.)

  ‘We have the treasure,’ said the king, indicating the six small barrels of jade balanced upon the stumbling blocks. ‘You have my permission to check the contents.’

  Alfric then laboriously checked each item against the standard inventory.

  ‘It is here, my liege,’ said he.

  ‘Good,’ said the king. Then, generously: ‘Choose something for yourself.’

  Alfric blinked, momentarily disconcerted.

  ‘My liege,5 said Alfric, ‘this belongs hot to me, nor can it. This trove entire is pledged to Aldarch the Third, Mutilator of Yestron.’

  Thus spoke Alfric Danbrog.

  But the king insisted.

  So, unwillingly, Alfric selected a single saladin ring for himself. He slipped it on to one of his fingers, held it to the torchlight, and smiled in mimickry of pleasure. Later he would take the thing from his finger and cram it into his pocket, not wanting to display such evidence of criminal activity in public. But one does not thus treat a king’s gift in that king’s presence.