The Werewolf and the Wormlord coaaod-8 Read online

  ‘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, 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, nimbling past Alfric’s defences. 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.

  But it was not quick, it was slow stretching to forever, so at last Alfric cleared his throat as if to ask a question. Then found he could not speak. So he turned around. Nappy was gone. Alfric bareswept the hall with his eyes. Nothing. Nobody. Whereupon Alfric walked to the nearest window, opened the single shutter, leaned out as far as he could and, without further preamble, was efficiently sick.

  Alfric’s vomit slurped down the stones of the window’s venting thickness, some sticking to the warding rock, some sliding at last to the open air, nightfalling to the rocks of Mobius Kolb. And Alfric found himself shuddering. His silken robe was wet against his back and his legs were weak; and still his stomach knotted and churned. He closed the shutter and began to walk up and down the Hall of Shields; and was still walking when Guignol Grangalet returned to collect him.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ said the Wormlord’s Chief of Protocol.

  ‘No,’ said Alfric. ‘No, not a ghost.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Alfric, who very much wanted to forget. ‘I think I must have eaten something that disagreed with me, that’s all.’

  And Alfric made no further comment on his recent trauma as Guignol Grangalet led him to the throne-room, which was much-crowded with a great many Yudonic Knights.

  ‘Stand here,’ said Grangalet, placing Alfric not far from the throne.

  Close by were the Norn brothers: Pig, Wu and Ciranoush Zaxilian. To minimize the chances of trouble starting, Alfric studiously avoided eye contact, and concentrated on his grandfather. On his throne sat Tromso Stavenger, Wormlord of Wen Endex. At his feet his twenty-seventh wife, the delectable Lilian. This pretty little thing, who was but thirteen years of age, was playing with a golden bangle. Sitting on a chair to Stavenger’s left was his daughter, Ursula Major.

  Tromso Stavenger had fathered only two children. The eldest was Grendel, accused of lycanthropy and hence denied his inheritance and exiled from Galsh Ebrek. The younger was female, Ursula Major. Younger? Yes, she was much younger. For a full five lustra separated the birth of Ursula Major from the nativity of Grendel Danbrog; and Ursula was Alfric’s coeval.

  Since Ursula Major was the only one of the Wormlord’s children who was fit to inherit the throne, she was next in line for kingly power. When Tromso Stavenger died, Ursula would rule Wen Endex. She was dressed for the role already, for she wore a glittering helm and carried a shield displaying a woman’s wound armed with a great ferocity of razorblade teeth. A sword she had also; the result being that she looked for all the world like a shield maiden of legend. However, her accoutrements were not of iron. Rather, they were lightweight toys of beaten tin. And it was widely known in Galsh Ebrek that Ursula was unfit to rule, for she was more a clothes horse than a horse-mastering warrior.

  Ursula Major was technically a very beautiful woman, a blonde with well-defined mammary glands, luxurious curves and lips to match. But on this occasion she looked distinctly sour. Why?

  And why was there a second chair to Ursula’s left? That chair was not unoccupied. Instead, the matronly Justina Thrug was seated on that chair. With, of all things, a pet owl seated on her shoulder. Alfric was intensely irritated. What was the Thrug-thing doing on a chair of such honour? He turned to ask Grangalet about it, and And Grangalet was gone, silently replaced by Nappy. Alfric’s stoma ch lurched and his gorge rose. He controlled himself. Just. But sweat bulged from his forehead and his kneejoints almost gave way beneath hi m.

  ‘What a happy occasion,’ said Nappy happily. ‘How nice to have you back in your grandfather’s hall.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alfric. Then: ‘What is that Thrug female doing sitting beside Ursula?’

  ‘She is Ursula’s advisor,’ said Nappy. ‘Hence it is her privilege to be so seated.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Alfric. Then: ‘But-’

  But he could say no more, for Guignol Grangalet was calling for silence.

  Once the Yudonic Knights had settled to silence, the Wormlord began to speak.

  ‘I have little to say,’ he said. ‘And that will be said quickly. As you know, She walks the land. It is because of Her that we gather here by night. As king, I have a duty to march forth against Herself. But as king, I also have need to see to the administration of Wen Endex.

  ‘I am old. I know this. I am old, and near death. Long have I struggled against the infirmities of age, but the struggle availeth naught. In my early days, a wise man sold me the secret of immortal youth. He was a wise man indeed, for he prospered exceedingly.’

  The Wormlord paused. Alfric suspected this was to give the assembly the chance to laugh. But nobody did so.

  ‘Wise indeed,’ repeated the Wormlord. ‘For he grew rich while others died.’

  Then he paused again. Now most of his auditors understood that a joke was being made, but they did not laugh. Instead, an embarrassed silence prevailed. It was not the done thing to laugh at a joke at the king’s expense. Not even when the joke was made by the king himself.

  ‘He grew rich,’ said the Wormlord wearily, ‘and I grew old. Now I am near death. It is no use pretending. I know myself to be mortal, and know that others know as much.

  ‘Though I am old, death still holds its fears for me. This surprises me. In my youth, I thought fear of oblivion to be the exclusive property of the young, of those with so much to lose. Now I am old. My bones hurt, my teeth are gone, and of my bowels the less said the better. Still, I have something to lose — my life. Life is still life, even though one be the age one is.’

  What age was that? Alfric did not know. Alfric was 33. His father, Grendel Danbrog, was 58. Which meant his grandfather was unlikely to be much younger than 72, and was more likely to be aged over 80.

  The Wormlord continued:

  ‘While fear of death still appals me, nevertheless I cannot hold to life much longer. Once I have found a suitable successor to the throne, I will march forth against Herself.’

  Tromso Stavenger glanced sideways at a frozen-faced Ursula Major then said:

  ‘My daughter is not a suitable successor. I have discussed this with her.’

  Alfric could imagine the nature of that discussion. ‘Ursula will naturally inherit the throne if I die before a suitable champion has proved himself better suited for that seat,’ said the Wormlord. ‘However, you all know I have the right to appoint such a champion to succeed me. Written law and the dictates of custom give me such a right. There are ample precedents.’

  Hie Wormlord allowed himself some silence. Was this to give his words time to sink in? Or was he wearying from the effort of speaking? Alfric was inclined to think it was weariness which had compelled Stavenger to pause. Certainly the old man’s voice was much stronger when he continued:

  ‘The champion must be from one of the Families. That is my rule. The champion must perform three feats of courage. That is my rule. To be precise, the champion
must recover the three saga swords and bring them here to me in Saxo Pall. Once this has been done, I will yield my throne to the champion, then march forth to do battle with Herself.

  ‘You all know what the saga swords are. Likewise, you all know where these weapons are to be found, and what dread dangers will confront the questing hero who dares to seek their possession^ I trust that I have no need to remind you of the special conditions attached to any quest against the dragon Qa.

  ‘Well then. Do I have a volunteer?’

  Did he?

  No.

  A great silence prevailed in the throneroom.

  As Tromso Stavenger had rightly stated, all present were familiar with the difficulties of questing for the three saga swords. Alfric, who had attended memorial services for some of the would-be heroes who had dared such quests, was far too sane even to think of volunteering his flesh for such lunacy.

  But others must have been thinking on his behalf, for Grendel Danbrog spoke into the silence, saying:

  ‘My son chooses to dare himself upon this quest.’

  The strongspoken words echoed about the throneroom.

  ‘Bravo,’ murmured Nappy.

  Alfric was about to protest, but Ciranoush Zaxilian Norn spoke first, saying:

  ‘No minion of the moon can sit upon the Wormlord’s throne.’

  ‘I will vacate the throne in favour of the victor,’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘Regardless of who the victor might be.’

  By now, Alfric understood all. Tromso Stavenger had repented of the rage with which he had driven his son from his house. Now the Wormlord was going to make amends by allowing his grandson to claim the throne. Alfric looked from Grendel to Stavenger. Both were smiling upon him.

  But The three quests were suicidal, and Alfric knew it. He knew too that the life of a Yudonic Knight was not for him. He had no taste for drinking, brawling and debauchery; and was reluctant to admit to any desire to rule over people addicted to such activities. So he spoke up strongly, saying:

  ‘My father has nominated me as a questing hero, but I do not accept this nomination. I will have nothing to do with any such quest.’

  Then Alfric turned on his heel and departed from the throneroom. Some of the Yudonic Knights spat on him as he passed, but he escaped from Saxo Pall with his life and liberty unimpaired.

  At least for the moment.

  CHAPTER SIX

  When at last Alfric left the fastness of Saxo Pall and began the descent of Mobius Kolb, he expected to make his way back to Vamvelten Street, there to join his wife in a meal and, later, in sexual congress.

  But this was not to be.

  For Alfric was still descending the slopes of Mobius Kolb when he was intercepted by a messenger who directed him to report to the Bank. This he did, though it meant a weary trek up to the heights.

  The light of the Oracle of Ob shone strange and strong from the utmost peak of Mobius Kolb. Once again, Alfric felt the lure of that light. He was glad to escape inside, into the vestibule of the Bank, where once again he made the change from boots and leathers to robes and slippers.

  To his surprise, Alfric was then directed to the office of Comptroller Xzu, a Banker Second Class who was responsible for Alfric’s supervision. Many feared Xzu, but Alfric did not. For he had something on Xzu; he knew Xzu had accepted bribes in the past, and, what’s more, he could prove it. If the need arose.

  On arrival at Xzu’s office, Alfric received another surprise; for the office sent him on to the Survey Room, a hallowed chamber high in the Rock of Rocks, the gaunt donjon which served the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association as its ultimate stronghold. Only the mightiest managers of the Bank worked out of the Survey Room; and Alfric had never visited it before except to deliver messages.

  To the Keeper of Secrets went Alfric Danbrog, ascending many weary stairs to reach the Survey Room. The habit of housing the high and the mighty in upper-storey rooms was neither practical nor desirable, but it was nearly unshakeable: even though it properly belonged to an earlier era when (this much the legends acknowledged, and more) dignitaries could be whisked to the heights by magical means or their mechanical equivalents.

  At last Alfric reached the door guarding the final few stairs leading up to the Survey Room, negotiated his safe-passage with the guards who stood sentry there, then ascended to the utmost heights of the Keeper of Secrets and entered the Survey Room. This capacious office was lit by a full two dozen lanterns. It had four windows, each guarded by a single sheet of glass; but precious little could be seen of the world outside.

  Comptroller Xzu offered his guest a little wine. Alfric sipped cautiously, tasting, testing. He calculated interest rates in his head, thus assuring himself that his mental faculties were not being subtlely impaired. Thus he had been taught by the Bank; for the Bank had dealings with people from many cultures, some of them renowned for the use of subtle and swift-acting poisons.

  ‘While you’re here,’ said Xzu genially, ‘you might care to admire the view.’

  Alfric knew not whether his superior was drunk; or deluded; or was making a joke; or mistakenly thought the view to be of interest. Rather than try to puzzle out this conundrum, Alfric dutifully peered through the nearest window, which showed him mostly his own reflection. He looked closer, using his hands to screen out lantern light. He caught a glimpse of a malevolent red light flaring in the depths of his own eyes: and jerked away abruptly.

  Had Xzu noticed his disconcertment? No. The Banker Second Class was engaged in pouring some more wine.

  Xzu looked up.

  ‘What did you see?’ said he.

  ‘Not much,’ said Alfric, who felt under no compulsion to lie for the sake of politeness.

  ‘Ah,’ said Xzu. ‘A pity. You should come here by day. It’s a good view then. The bulk of Mobius Kolb stands between us and a perfect viewscape. Still, what we do see is remarkable.’

  ‘One suspects the vista is truly worthy of admiration,’ said Alfric cautiously. ‘Yet the fragility of glass is surely not entirely compatible with the requirements of security.’

  ‘This is,’ said Xzu.

  And rapped his knuckles against the window, then invited Alfric to do likewise, which he did.

  ‘We bought these panes of glass three generations ago,’ said Xzu. ‘From the ogres of the Qinjoks, as it happens.’

  ‘Truly?’ said Alfric in wonderment. ‘I did not know they had such skill.’

  His opinion of the ogres was thus much enhanced, though this enhancement was spurious. In point of fact, the ogres had not made those windows: they had found them. Each window had once been the windshield of a Raflanderk IV All-Terrain Assault Vehicle, a product of a civilization long since destroyed and forgotten.

  ‘What skills the ogres do or do not possess is a moot point,’ said Xzu, who rightly suspected the miraculous windows to be a relic of antiquity. ‘The point is,’ said Xzu, ‘the windows let us enjoy the view.’ Then, a little pointedly: ‘As it happens, I’ve often enjoyed the view.’

  Only then, belatedly, did Alfric realize what Xzu was trying to tell him. Xzu was highlighting his long familiarity with the Survey Room. Xzu was making a power statement. Usually, Alfric would have picked up this subtlety immediately, without needing to have it hammered home. But renewed acquaintance with his father’s world had temporarily lessened the enthusiasm with which he usually attended to the nuances of conversation.

  It would be overstating the case to say that rebellion stirred in Alfric’s heart. Still, on this occasion he found himself impatient with the posturing, the over-intricate manoeuvring and sidelong statements of oracular ambiguity which attended life within the Bank. For the first time in a long time, he found no delight in his own understanding of the shadings of suggestion and the implications of unstated comment.

  ‘Our masters live well,’ said Alfric.

  This was a subtle statement in its own right; for Alfric was pointing out that there were powers in the Bank far greater than Xzu.
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  ‘So they do,’ said Comptroller Xzu. ‘Happily, for the moment I share their privileges, since I have been temporarily raised to the rank of Banker First Class. I am also temporarily without peers, since our Masters are Elsewhere.’

  Alfric knew the meaning of this, and was not so indiscreet as to ask ‘where’.

  Instead, he sipped his wine and pretended to admire the view as Banker Xzu, temporarily a Master, continued the lengthy verbal preambles with which he was choosing to preface whatever business it was that he wished to conduct.

  The Yudonic Knights of Wen Endex tend to see verbal intercourse as a form of rape, whereas the bankers view it more as an exercise of the arts of seduction. Hence, whereas the Knights will settle swiftly to the meat of a matter, the bankers are not so hasty. Rather, they choose to exercise their eloquence as if for its own sake. A procedure not without reason, for each Bank, by the nature of its Secret, is intimately connected with other great financial institutions in cultures greatly dissimilar from each other; which leads to the need for the diligent cultivation of delicacies of diplomacy, lest sensibilities be needlessly affronted when business is done.

  At last Banker Xzu got to the point:

  ‘Sometimes in this life one finds oneself progressing towards quite unforeseen goals. Do you not agree?’

  ‘One would not lightly venture to disagree,’ said Alfric cautiously.

  ‘Furthermore, it is immature — is it not? — to be obsessionally addicted to a certain line of action. Surely flexibility is a mark of maturity.’

  ‘It has been said that firm resolution is admirable,’ said Alfric. ‘Nevertheless, I take your point.’

  Then, to Alfric’s surprise, Banker Xzu produced a legal document some years old, and invited Alfric to read it. Of course he recognized it immediately. It was a treaty he had signed when he entered the Bank. The treaty committed Alfric to try (should the Bank so direct it) to win the throne of Wen Endex: but only if the Wormlord should die or should be appearing to die.

  Alfric had signed that treaty because at the time (how could he have been so naive?) he had genuinely believed Tromso Stavenger to be immortal.