The Werewolf and the Wormlord Read online

  Over the years, many of the brave and the beautiful had dared the attempt; and one and all had met with universal disaster.

  In keeping with the Wormlord’s law, the new champion rode forth alone with no bosom-comrades to stand by him in battle. Like those who had gone before him, Alfric Danbrog carried a sword. But he was confident of victory, for he was a Banker Third Class, and hence surely able to outwit a mere firedrake.

  A full league short of Island Thodrun, Alfric left his horse in a grove of trees standing amidst the sand dunes. Anna Blaume would be most upset if her dearest Nodlums got eaten by a dragon; and, besides, Alfric wanted to preserve the beast in good health so it could carry a hearty load of dragon-treasure back to Galsh Ebrek.

  ‘So long, horse,’ said Alfric, giving the creature a perfunctory pat which was meant to be friendly.

  Then the banker shouldered his pack, which was very heavy, and set forth along the beach, striding out to warm himself, for the night was bitterly cold. Though it was night, the bright beacon of Thodrun gave him more than enough light to see by. Thodrun’s beacon was ancient, as old perhaps as the Oracle of Ob; but no legends surrounded it. All presumed it had served the ancients as a seamark, and thus it was used in Alfric’s day. It was a globe of cold fire which sat atop a skeletal pyramid of a metal immune to corrosion; and it lit all around with a light greater than that of a full moon.

  White shone that light on the sands of the shore; and white alike it shone on the waves of the sea, the full tide seas which stretched between Thodrun and the shore. Having no boat, and lacking any inclination to swim the distance, Alfric must perforce wait for low tide. Which he did. He dumped his pack well above the surfswash, then walked backwards and forwards, trying to keep warm, kicking at discards of clam shells and gaunt fragilities of driftwood deep-mined by seaworm, eroded by sandscour and windwork, scorched by fire or otherwise shaped and channelled by the servants of time.

  As Alfric waited for the tide to recede, a growing impatience possessed him. The Bank had taught him (too well, perhaps) that time is money; and Alfric was ever inclined to thriftiness. He tried to be economical by drilling himself in the Janjuladoola tongue. He was fluent enough in that language, as he had proved in encounters with Pran No Dree. But there was always room for improvement. And it was important to improve; for, once he won promotion, he would be dealing regularly with Obooloo, and a mastery of Janjuladoola was essential for success in such dealings.

  Despite this incentive, Alfric found himself unable to concentrate on mental revision. Obooloo was remote, distant, a dream. What was real was the here and now: sand underboot and the nightwind on his face. Momentarily, he wished his father was here to see him playing the Yudonic Knight to the full. A credit to his family and his people!

  Then such thoughts ceased, for—

  Something was coming.

  And Something commanded his attention to the full.

  Something sparkled and sharkled in the sea-shifting turbulence. It was a dragon, and it was swimming. Alfric’s first thought was:

  —How small it is.

  Small it was indeed, for it was no larger than his horse. A little smaller, if anything.

  At first, he wondered if the dragon had seen him, for it swam back and forth as if for no particular purpose. Then he began to suspect it was showing off. Particularly when it started indulging itself in some body surfing.

  Such surfing at length brought the dragon into the shallows. It then waddled out of the waves and started up the beach. It halted at a cautious distance from the Banker Third Class, then shook itself like a dog, scattering water in all directions. A few stray flecks splattered against Alfric’s spectacles, much to his annoyance.

  ‘Hello,’ said the sea dragon Qa. ‘Have you come to kill me?’

  ‘I have,’ said Alfric.

  ‘Where’s your horse, then?’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Alfric.

  ‘I asked after your horse,’ said Qa.

  ‘I don’t have one.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Qa. ‘You don’t expect me to believe that. You’re a Yudonic Knight. Of course you have a horse.’

  ‘How do you know I’m a Yudonic Knight? How can you be sure? I could be a commoner.’

  "Commoners don’t go in for dragon hunting,’ said Qa.

  There’s always an exception to every rule,’ said Alfric.

  ‘Yes, but you’re not one of them,’ said Qa. ‘You’re Alfric Danbrog, son of Grendel Danbrog. You’re here to kill me so you can rescue the ironsword Edda.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ said Alfric, startled.

  ‘Oh, I have my sources,’ said Qa, sounding immensely pleased with himself. ‘Now where’s your horse?’

  ‘I told you I don’t have one.’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ said Qa. ‘Your horse is my legitimate perk.’

  ‘Your perk?’

  ‘My perk, yes. Or my pay, that’s another way of putting it. That’s all part of my contract.’

  ‘Your contract?’ said Alfric in mounting amazement. ‘Yes. My contract with Saxo Pall. I get paid, you know. You don’t think I’m in this for my health, do you? I’m guarding treasure. So I get paid just like any other guard.’

  ‘Dragons,’ said Alfric, ‘hoard treasure because that is their nature. They’re a breed of creature given to thieving because that’s how they’re bom. Like magpies. They like the bright and the shiny.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Qa, sounding greatly offended. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. That’s land dragons you’re talking about, those great hulking brutes with much fire but no brains. Those are the ones who operate from instinct. But I’m a sea dragon, which means I’m at least the intellectual equal of every person in Wen Endex.’

  ‘You still hoard treasure and kill questing heroes,’ said Alfric, determined to win this debate.

  ‘Yes, yes, but not because I have any natural inclination to do any such thing. I do it because I get paid. I’m on an annual salary with a bonus for every questing hero duly killed and eaten. As for the horses, those are a perk. A legitimate perk! So where’s yours?’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ said Alfric. ‘What do you mean, you’re on a salary? Who’s paying you?’

  ‘Why, the Wormlord, of course,’ said Qa. ‘Who else would pay me?’

  ‘But - but you’re a - a - you’re an enemy of the state. A marauding monster. An outlaw.’

  ‘No,’ said Qa. ‘I’m a royal dragon. It increases the Wormlord’s prestige enormously to have me in Wen Endex.’

  ‘You’re talking the most absolute nonsense,’ said Alfric, starting to get angry. ‘The Wormlord doesn’t league with renegade monsters. The very idea is - is—’ ‘Monstrous?’ suggested Qa.

  ‘Well, yes, monstrous.’

  ‘Next thing you’ll be saying I’m monstrous!’ said Qa. ‘Listen here, Danbrog. Haven’t you learnt to think yet? How many men does it take to kill a dragon?’

  ‘You’re not immortal,’ said Alfric.

  ‘Blood of the Gloat!’ said Qa. ‘I invite it to think and all it does is threaten. It must be a Yudonic Knight, for all that it thinks itself a banker.’

  ‘Today I’m a Yudonic Knight indeed,’ said Alfric. ‘Hence I come with my sword to kill you.’

  ‘Why with a sword?’ said Qa.

  ‘Because that’s what tradition decrees,’ said Alfric. ‘And why do you come alone?’ said Qa. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that’s traditional as well.’

  ‘I can hardly tell you otherwise, because that’s the truth,’ said Alfric. ‘Tradition is what tradition is.’

  ‘And where does tradition come from, eh? Why don’t men go hunting dragons with crossbows? Eh? Ask yourself that, Danbrog. A dozen men with crossbows and I’d have no hope at all. The Wormlord sends people solo with swords because he wants them dead.’

  ‘That’s absurd!’ said Alfric.

  ‘Is it?’ said Qa. ‘Think about it. It’s a perfectly reasonable way for the king to get rid of d
angerous young men with more ambition than sense.’ ‘Reasonable!’ said Alfric.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Qa. ‘And merciful. I mean, they die with honour and all that. Better still, there’s no feud between the king and the families of the deceased.’ Alfric’s mind was positively boggling by now. But... what the dragon was saying made uncommonly good sense. And Alfric, thanks to his studies and experience with the Bank, knew all things are possible in politics. Weakly he asked:

  ‘Do you think this arrangement is strictly ethical?’ ‘Ethical?’ said Qa. ‘Oh yes, it’s ethical to ensure the orderly management of the affairs of state. Power is always challenged. You have to handle the challenges somehow.’ ‘There are other ways,’ said Alfric.

  ‘Of course there are,’ said Qa. ‘You could have democratic elections like the pirates of the Greaters.’ ‘Democratic elections?’ said Alfric. ‘What are you talking about?’

  The sea dragon Qa explained.

  ‘Oh,’ said Alfric, ‘now I know what you mean. Voting and all that. No, that’d never work in Wen Endex. The Knights would never stand for it. We’d have civil war. Besides, if we had one of these election things, the Wormlord might lose.’

  ‘So he might,’ said Qa. ‘So he doesn’t have elections. He has me, instead. I fulfil a very valuable social purpose. Consider. Someone threatens the Wormlord’s throne. If he kills that person, he risks feud and social disorder. So he sends the challenger here, to be eaten. Result? Order, stability and enhanced social cohesion. Plus the surviving relatives of the deceased are enormously proud of their fallen son, nephew, father or brother, as the case may be. I give them their pride.’

  The dragon Qa said this with great pride of his own. Alfric felt weak at the knees. Was it true? Could it be true? It certainly made a lot of sense. It explained a lot of things.

  ‘Do you always tell people what’s going on?’ said Alfric, wondering how other questing heroes had reacted to the dragon’s revelations.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Qa. ‘Usually they’re mostly grossly unmannerly. They don’t have any time for talking at all. They come here drunk, you see. Most of them, at any rate. One or two have offered to share a drink with me, but unfortunately that’s a no-no.’

  ‘Why?’ said Alfric.

  ‘Because I’m an alcoholic,’ said Qa sadly. ‘Haven’t had a drink for years, but I’m still an alcoholic. I can’t fool myself, not now. Anyway, that’s how it is. They come here drunk, haul out their swords and hack away. Straight into it! Don’t even introduce themselves most of the time. Of course, I know who they are anyway.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I get told in advance, who’s coming, and usually when. I was expecting you. They told me you’d be here by night. But why night? I didn’t think to ask. But now I think of it, it’s most unusual. They usually come by day, you know.’

  ‘I walk the night because She walks the night also,’ said Alfric.

  ‘Oh,’ said the sea dragon Qa, as if it didn’t like the sound of that one little bit. ‘She walks, does She? Well, nice chatting. I have to go now.’

  And the dragon started to back off toward the surf. ‘Go?’ said Alfric. ‘But we’ve business to conduct. Listen, I’m here to kill you, but it doesn’t have to end that way. I’ve got a proposition.’

  ‘Then bring it to me in the cave,’ said Qa, the swash of dying surf washing around the rearmost of his four feet.

  ‘The cave?’ said Alfric, pursuing the dragon down the beach. ‘Why can’t we settle things here?’

  ‘I can’t kill people on the beach,’ said Qa. ‘That wouldn’t be lawful. My charter’s quite specific. All killings to be done on the island. In the cave, in fact.’ ‘Couldn’t we make an exception?’ said Alfric. ‘Just this once. I mean, it’s all the same to me whether I die here or on the island. And anyway, I’m not really expecting to die. Or to kill you. As I say, I’ve got a proposition.’

  ‘That sounds very, very interesting,’ said Qa. ‘But I can’t afford to violate the terms of my charter. One violation and it’s all over, you see.’

  Water broke and buckled about Alfric’s ankles. It was cold, and flooded into his boots through flaws of which he had previously been unaware. Yet he did not retreat, for there was much he wanted to know. Instead, he demanded:

  ‘Your charter?’

  ‘My agreement with the Wormlord. Oh yes, I got a formal written agreement, you can be sure of that. Not that I keep it here. My solicitor has it safe in Galsh Ebrek.’

  ‘Your solicitor!’ ‘That’s right,’ said Qa. ‘Anyway, I’ll see you in the cave.’

  ‘I’m not swimming out to the island,’ said Alfric.

  ‘I’m not asking you to,’ said Qa. ‘The sea goes in and out twice a day. Tides, that’s what it’s called. Influence of the moon and all that. Oh, but you’d know about the moon. You being a werewolf and all that.’

  ‘You called me a what?’ said Alfric.

  ‘A werewolf.’

  ‘A werewolf!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Qa. ‘Because that’s what you are. Aren’t you?’

  ‘No!’ said Alfric, hotly. ‘I am not a werewolf. That’s a base slander. A vile and gratuitous untruth. A rumour utterly without foundation. My father was smeared, that’s what it was. I—’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Qa. ‘Sorry I spoke. Well, must be off now. Much swimming to do. Doctor’s orders, you know.’

  ‘Doctor’s orders? You have a doctor as well as a solicitor?’

  ‘Oh yes. Olaf Offorum. The Wormlord’s personal physician. He sees to me as well. Comes here twice a year to check me out. Told me to do more swimming. Oh, and to eat more horsemeat as well. Where is your horse?’

  ‘I haven’t got one,’ said Alfric.

  ‘You mean you marched here all that way with that great big pack? I don’t believe it. Not to worry, though. Mostly they bring their horses here, but when they don’t I usually look in the forest.’

  ‘The forest?’

  ‘That’s what I call it, but it’s only a few trees really.

  You know. Down the shore. About a league away. Anyway, that’s all for now. See you later!’

  With that, the dragon began to backtrack in earnest. A wave caught it, knocked it off balance and tumbled it up the beach. But on the second attempt the creature made it out into the surf. Alfric walked up the beach and sat down on his pack. His feet were cold and sodden, but he gave them little thought, for the sea dragon Qa had given him much else to think about.

  The dragon’s story rang true.

  It was undeniable, for instance, that ambassadors from Ang were always enormously impressed by tales of the dragon’s ferocity; and, come to think of it, by accounts of other dangers which existed in Wen Endex. It was something of a local tradition to brag of such hazards when speaking with an ambassador; and, for the first time, Alfric wondered whether that tradition was of spontaneous genesis, or whether the kings of Galsh Ebrek had carefully nurtured the custom.

  Alfric Danbrog was starting to realize that there was much more to this business of kingship than met the eye. He had always thought the Wormlord did very little but sit on the throne: but obviously there was much more to learn.

  Learn he would.

  If he got to sit on that throne.

  If he won all three saga swords.

  If he secured Edda.

  If he lived to see the morrow.

  Alfric started to shiver, and not just because of the cold. He was starting to get nervous. He didn’t like the sound of this dragon-king arrangement one little bit. It all sounded far too organized: very much like organized murder, in fact. So did the Wormlord really mean him to live? Or to die? Whatever the truth of the Wormlord’s intentions, Alfric wished he could rush across the waters to Thodrun, forge his way into the cave and get it over with. Now.

  But the tide was up.

  So he would just have to wait.

  Wait he did, until at last the skimmering skime of seawet sands stretched between Thodrun and the sh
ore. Occasional waves still flirted across this sandstrand, but Alfric was not disposed to wait any longer. So he shouldered his pack and marched toward the island.

  Up close to the rocks of Thodrun, the light from the island’s beacon was so bright that colours could be seen in the rocks, which were wet with water and riven with streaks of quartz, splashed with the glitterdust of iron pyrites and stubbled with weird and inexplicable crystals of coppery hue.

  Alfric did not pause to admire these colours.

  First, because he was not in the mood.

  Second, because he was knocked over by a wave.

  Up from the depths of the sea it came, and swirled its way around the flanks of the island, stirring the seaweeds of the shore. Kelp and blubber weed gave themselves to its dance; mermaids’ delight and seacow’s greed joined the rhythms of its delight; and at last that energy-surge wrapped itself around Alfric Danbrog and swamped him entirely.

  He was lucky to escape with his life.

  However, he showed no gratitude for such luck; instead, he cursed most obscenely as he struggled up the island’s rocks, still burdened with his pack, and dared himself into the dragon’s lair.

  ‘Who is it?’ said Qa, as Alfric entered the cave.

  ‘Myself,’ said Alfric.

  ‘Advance, myself, and be recognized.’

  Alfric advanced, and stepped into a puddle, which proved to be waist-deep and exceedingly wet.

  ‘Aha!’ said Qa. ‘The puddle-trap! You fell for it!’

  ‘I have to admit I did,’ said Alfric, struggling out of his pack.

  ‘They usually do,’ said the dragon complacently. ‘If they’ve been particularly rude to me, I kill them then and there.’

  ‘And if not?’ said Alfric, throwing his pack well clear of the puddle.

  ‘Then I give them a second chance,’ said Qa.