The Werewolf and the Wormlord Page 6

  The letter, which was of recent date, was signed by Comptroller Xzu of the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association. It commanded Alfric, in the name of the Bank, to obey his father and do whatever his father commanded.

  Alfric was bewildered to receive such a letter, but knew he had best do what it said.

  ‘But,’ said Alfric, ‘what’s it all about? What’s going on?’

  ‘Peace,’ said Grendel. ‘Wait. And tomorrow night, you will know. Oh yes. Then you’ll know all.’

  And with that, Alfric had to be content.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  On the next night, father and son went to Galsh Ebrek, climbed the slopes of Mobius Kolb and dared themselves to the gates of Tromso Stavenger’s castle.

  Alfric was most unhappy at entering Saxo Pall. He had often ventured to the Wormlord’s stronghold on Bank business. Nevertheless, that did nothing to alter the fact that he was technically liable to instant execution every time he intruded upon the royal castle.

  When Grendel had been accused of bearing a lycan-thropic taint, Tromso Stavenger had exiled him from Galsh Ebrek with these words:

  ‘You are to leave this city immediately, never to return. Furthermore, you, and your sons, and the sons of your sons unto the fifth generation, will not set foot in Saxo Pall. On pain of death.’

  Thereafter, Grendel had abjured the family name. On marrying a female of the Danbrog family, he had taken to himself the name of that clan. Thus Alfric, Grendel’s eldest son, styled himself Alfric Danbrog.

  But for the unsubstantiated allegations of lycanthropy, Grendel would have been in line to inherit the throne of Wen Endex, and his eldest son likewise. What would it have been like to be a prince of the royal blood, heir apparent to the kingdom of Wen Endex and all its powers? Alfric thought about that, sometimes. Oh yes. Little as he liked to admit it, he thought about it.

  When father and son had been admitted into the forbidden stronghold, Guignol Grangalet was summoned. The Wormlord’s Chief of Protocol hastened to meet these most unwelcome guests.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ said Grangalet, when he saw Grendel.

  ‘I’m here to see my father,’ said Grendel. ‘Show me to the old monster.’

  Heated words then followed between Guignol Grangalet and Grendel Danbrog. But at length the Chief of Protocol yielded to the will of the Wormlord’s son.

  ‘I’ll take you to see him,’ said Guignol Grangalet. ‘But only you. Your son must wait as a hostage.’

  ‘You’re not putting him in a cage,’ said Grendel harshly.

  ‘Perish the thought!’ said the Chief of Protocol. ‘Your son can wait in the Hall of Shields.’

  And Alfric shortly found himself alone and abandoned in that place of spiderweb draughts and guttering lanterns.

  A great many death-branded shields were hung on the walls of this hall, for the honour of all the Ruling Families of Wen Endex was here represented. One shield displayed a decapitated head, its hair held by a grasping hand with blood-red talons. Other themes? A rain of blood. A sea of blood. A bloody wound. A pyramid of skulls, fountains of blood spurting from the eyesockets of each. A heap of amputated hands. And many more in a similar vein.

  While Alfric was renewing his acquaintance with the culture of the Yudonic Knights, someone came up behind him unheard. He almost leapt out of his skin when he heard a bright and cheery voice say:

  ‘Hello.’

  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 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, 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 stomach lurched and his gorge rose. He controlled himself. Just. But sweat bulged from his forehead and his kneejoints almost gave way beneath him.

  ‘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-st
orey 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.’