by Hugh Cook
The casks of jade were then closed and sealed in Alfric’s presence. Then ogres took them away. He would not see them again until he left, which would be shortly. By then, the casks would have been loaded on to his pack horses.
Of course the ogres had no absolute need to yield up such a ransom. Ogres have such a slow replacement rate that it is seldom wise for them to engage quick-breeding humans in outright war; however, the monsters of the Qinjoks did have the option of retiring to redoubts which could never have been stormed by human agency. But the ogres nevertheless thought it best to comply with human demands - up to a point. For the ogres were scientists; and, while the greater part of their number would have survived a war with Wen Endex, such a conflict might have had disastrous consequences for such unprotectable assets as their masterwork telescopes and their great tree breeding program (now already five thousand years old).
Besides which, the orks would have suffered greatly in any war. Ogres, like trolls, are by nature a troglodytical breed, and could have survived in the underground fastness of the Qinjok Sko for many months, if not for years. Orks, on the other hand, would swiftly have perished in such conditions. For, since they are unable to live away from water for any great length of time (they need not just enough to drink, but a sufficiency in which to immerse themselves on a regular basis) orks soon perish in cavebound confinement.
The ogres of the Qinjoks suffer from a surpassing sense of responsibility; an affliction which, as a rule, cannot be said to overly oppress the human race. Generations earlier, the ogres had placed the orks under their protection; and this protection they had since maintained, though at times it might have been politic for them to do otherwise.
Therefore let it not be said that the ogres paid their Annual Tribute out of fear. Rather, they did so out of love for that Science of which they had such great hopes;
and out of duty to the orks which dwelt in their care.
Once the six barrels of jade were out of sight, the king addressed Alfric anew, saying:
‘You leave by night.’
‘As my liege knows,’ said Alfric carefully.
‘Because She walks,’ said the king.
‘So it is said.’
‘It is said! And you believe? Or don’t you?’
‘As custom commands me, I walk by night when such a duty is placed upon my people. ’
‘Of custom you have spoken, but not of belief,’ said the king. ‘What do you believe? Does She walk or does She not?’
‘I reserve judgement,’ said Alfric.
‘But others do not,’ said the king.
‘My liege knows that many see hunting of any kind as great sport in its own right,’ said Alfric. ‘Regardless of whether anything actually exists to be hunted. Thus the enthusiasm with which Rumour has been greeted.’ ‘Rumour!’ said the king. ‘I thought there were Signs!’ ‘It has been said,’ answered Alfric, now impatient to be gone.
‘So you admit it,’ said the king, as if they were in court and Alfric stood accused of a crime. ‘What Signs has Rumour spoken of?’
‘The carcase of an ox,’ said Alfric. ‘Its bones shattered by the clawed thing which gnawed its guts but left the meat untasted. Some claim also to have seen blood in the Riga Rimur.’
‘Near Galsh Ebrek?’ said the king.
‘She will not come near the High City,’ said Alfric flatly. ‘That would mean Her certain doom regardless of Her power.’ ‘Aha!’ said the king. ‘Just then you spoke as if you believed in Her!’
‘It would be foolish for me to do otherwise,’ said Alfric. ‘The Wormlord killed Her son. That was before the days of my generation, but it happened. It is a fact. Therefore I do not dispute claims of Her existence. Nevertheless, I am not necessarily convinced that She walks.’
‘But you travel armed for war,’ said the king.
‘I would not walk the night otherwise,’ said Alfric. ‘She is not the only denizen of the night. Not by any means.’
‘Who else do you fear, then?’ said the king.
‘Men, for the most part,’ answered Alfric. ‘Bandits and such.’
‘So you fear men,’ said the king. ‘As the orks fear them.’
‘My liege, the time when orks had cause to fear the people of Galsh Ebrek lies long in the past,’ said Alfric, answering almost casually.
‘It does?’ said the king.
‘So opinion runs in Galsh Ebrek,’ answered Alfric, belatedly sensing unsuspected complications.
‘Good!’ said the king. ‘For I have it in mind to send two ambassadors to that city. My ambassadors are orks. You can arrange for it?’
‘Within the year, certainly,’ said Alfric.
‘You misunderstand me,’ said the king. ‘I wish to send my ambassadors now. With you. Tonight.’
‘The wish of my liege is my command,’ said Alfric.
Whereupon the chamberlain called in two orks, and introductions were made. One ork (Morgenstem by name) larger than the other (who was called Cod), but neither could be considered small. The ork (otherwise known as the swamp-whale, or simply as the whale) does not reach the monstrous size alleged by Lord Baakan and others to be its birthright (perhaps Baakan confused the creature with the swamp giant). Nevertheless, though smaller than any full-grown ogre, the ork is rather larger than a man.
At least, the males are.
Alfric Danbrog had studied long and deeply in his ethnology texts, which had informed him that orks demonstrate pronounced sexual dimorphism, the males being big and bulky and the females (subservient to the males in all matters) small and shy. The standard ethnology texts also declared that the apparelling of orks is chiefly by way of wool, the male orks wearing trousers of coarse wool while the females adorn themselves in pleated skirts dyed in checkerboard patterns.
The days when the Yudonic Knights of Wen Endex had hunted orks for their blubber and oil were long in the past, but nevertheless Alfric felt more than a twinge of racial guilt as he was introduced to his new companions. He tried to dismiss such guilt by telling himself he was no longer a child of Wen Endex, or, really, a Yudonic Knight. Had he not thrown in his lot with the Bankers? Had he not even taken a new name, Izdarbols-kobidarbix? Of course he had. And yet: the guilt persisted.
‘I trust,’ said King Dimple-Dumpling, ‘that you personally guarantee the safety of my orks.’
‘I do, my liege,’ said Alfric. ‘I guarantee their safety as far as Galsh Ebrek. After that, the Wormlord will doubtless take them into his care. As all the world knows, the Wormlord has the highest regard for the niceties of diplomacy. ’
‘It was once said,’ said the ogre king, ‘that the Wormlord also had the highest regard for his honour. He did battle with Her son on account of such honour. Will he not do battle with Herself?’
‘My liege,’ said Alfric, keeping his face studiously blank, ‘word of the Wormlord’s will is not in my keeping.’
But Alfric knew what Rumour had to say on that subject. The Wormlord was old, and his courage had failed along with his strength. Soon he would die, his death perhaps precipitating a struggle for the throne of Wen Endex.
Alfric Danbrog hoped to avoid personal involvement in such struggle. But, because of his genesis and breeding, that might prove very difficult.
CHAPTER TWO
After leaving the presence of the ogre king, Alfric trekked for half a league underground before he at last emerged on to a mountain path beneath a dark and moonless night sky. The horses followed, snorting as they came out into the skeletal wind, the bitter cold. Alfric would not suffer from that chill, for he had donned thick furs for the journey. These (luxury of luxuries!) were furs of the wolverine, hence would not freeze regardless of how cold the air became.
The orks came last. Morgenstem, whom Alfric had picked as a complainer, made no comment on the cold because he was insensitive to it. Cold such as this would not trouble the orks, for both were far too thick and fat, too oiled and greasy, too lubbery blubbery.
Standing
sentinel by the cavemouth exit was the gnarled statue of an ancient ablach, illuminated by phosphorescence from smothering lichens. Both Cod and Morgenstem bent down and kissed the stone dwarf for luck. Alfric, who had no truck with superstition, checked the stowage of the six barrels of jade, inspected the ropes of walrus hide which linked each pack horses to the next, then said to the leading animal:
‘Chok-chok!’
The horse started to move. The others followed. The orks, who had been having a little talk to the stone dwarf, hastily fell in behind.
Snow crunched underfoot and • underhoof as the expedition began to descend the mountain trail. The sky was cloudy and the clouds, or so Alfric suspected from the feel of the air, more than a little moody. He expected bad weather, and soon. He was glad when the trail shortly plunged into a forest of winter-black trees, gaunt and leafless to the last branch, for the forest was comparatively sheltered.
The forest was dark beneath the clouded sky. Here and there, a star-lichen glowed, but apart from that there was precious little illumination. This was the dark where the timorous think of ghost and ghoul, of adhantare and revenant. But Alfric Danbrog feared not the dark. Rather, he feared the moon, the Great Sorceress which has overrule of the tides of sea and blood alike. Hence he welcomed the absence of the welkin-wanderer, and was if anything comforted by the shrouding shadows.
By rights, the near-sighted banker should have been fumbling blind in that umbrage, for his spectacles had no special powers to decipher the dark. And let the plain truth be stated here without equivocation: travelling through forest by night is dangerous and often leads to death. Indeed, to go a mere half-dozen paces into the woodlands by night is to risk disorientation, for nothing is more baffling than the dark.
But Alfric was not as other men. In proof of which, he found his way efficiently and without undue effort. The path itself helped guide him; it was a slightly concave track which became an impromptu stream whenever it rained, and now afforded him with a trail of soft and yielding mud to follow. The moment he deviated from the mud’s guidance, rocks and roots would ruck beneath his boots, warning him to reseek his footing.
In addition to such clabber-footed guidance, Alfric trusted much to his ears, for there was a constant clackering from ghoul-fingered branches animated by the bitter malice of the wind. With trees to either side thus preaching the appetites of emptiness, Alfric was ever-assisted to find his way. Furthermore, eye-jabbing branches stood ready to correct him should he blunder from the path.
Yet it was not either underfoot mud or sideline tree-talk which ultimately secured Alfric’s route. Rather, it was his eyesight. By day, thanks to the correction supplied by his spectacles, his vision was neither better nor worse than that of other people. By day, he could pretend to be normal.
But night—
Night was different.
Night meant changes.
Alfric Danbrog possessed night vision of uncanny capacity. The forest was not utterly dark, for, quite apart from the soft phosphorescence of the occasional star-lichen, there remained (despite the clouds) a dim filtration of almost subliminal illumination from the sky, and it is certain that Alfric’s eyes were well-equipped to gather in that minimal light.
But that is not the entire story.
For, as he travelled that darkened path, Alfric Danbrog sometimes had occasion to probe the night with a special urgency. When he did so, he saw not dimly but well. On such occasions, he saw not perfectly, for the colours of things remained secret: but shape and form were instantly betrayed to his scrutiny. Thus, while Alfric moved through a world of shadows, those shadows yielded their secrets to his gaze on demand. Such demand he made when the trail took him through a black and overbranched cutting, a place devoid of star-lichens and virtually hidden from the sky, a place more cave than path. And there he saw almost as well as when walking beneath the open sky.
A curious observer might almost have thought that Alfric’s eyes sent out a light of their own, interrogating the dark with outpourings of wavelengths mostly invisible to unaided human perception. Furthermore, had such an observer been able to study the steadfast trailblazer at close quarters, a most disconcerting phenomenon would have made itself evident. In places particularly dark, Alfric’s eyes took on a dull red hue which was visible at half a dozen paces. And once, when a stick-crack alerted his sword-hand to a possible ambusher, Alfric’s eyes positively flamed as he sought his putative enemy.
With such a guide, the expedition leagued well through the night, until Alfric at last called a halt.
‘What are we stopping for?’ said Cod, who had already proved himself more ready with questions than his fellow.
‘To make camp,’ said Alfric.
‘And about time,’ rumbled Morgenstem. ‘Grief of gods, my feet are halfway broken.’
‘But why here?’ said Cod, peering into the night which, for him, was almost featureless.
‘We have a knoll,’ said Alfric, indicating with a hand which Cod had not the slightest hope of seeing in the dark. ‘That’s for us, for our camp. Three can fight six from a knoll, or so it’s said in theory. ’
Alfric did not mention that theory also says that two can take four if the four be orks and the two be men. He was, after all, a diplomat; so, while he thought of his orks as a useless encumbrance and a potentially embarrassing responsibility, he addressed them to their faces as if they were valued allies.
‘I hear water,’ said Cod.
‘Of course,’ said Alfric, yielding marginally to an underlying impatience. ‘I didn’t stop here by accident. There’s a stream down there. Nothing for the horses, but you can’t have everything.’
‘There’s probably worms,’ said Morgenstem, speaking of the stream.
‘No,’ said Alfric. ‘No worms. It’s deep, but it’s clear water, I’ve seen it by day. Trust me, it’s safe.’
So the orks ventured to the near-frozen water, and soon Alfric heard them disporting themselves in the stream. Their layers of blubber were such that they could happily bathe in water too cold to melt ice. Alfric tethered his horses, put up a tent, gathered wood and made a fire. It was the fire which allowed the orks to find their way to the knoll once their aqueous delights were at an end.
Once the orks had returned, Alfric went down to the stream himself. He stripped, washed crutch and feet, washed his armpits and splashed some water in his face. Then, shivering and shuddering, he dressed himself again.
Then waited.
Watching.
Listening.
Was anything out there?
Creeping, peeping, preparing for ravaging?
Nothing.
Just the desolate wind, the rick-rack branches of the winterworld forest, and, far off, a late-hunting parrot-bat.
The sky was growing grey as the rule of the Revealer drew near. This place was far from Her haunts. And, in any case, if She was still out in the night, then She would now be making for her home in a great hurry.
Alfric made his way back to the knoll, only to find that his tent had assumed a most unusual shape. It was swollen, bulging and close to bursting. For half a moment he thought it bewitched. Then he realized his orks had taken refuge within. He had expected them to sleep outside in the open. For, with their layers of oil-yielding blubber, they were equipped to endure such repose without undue discomfort.
So what had got into them?
Were they asserting their status as royal ambassadors?
Or were they scared of the dark, and of the possibility of being set upon by Herself in that dark?
Knowing orks as he did, Alfric was inclined to suspect that it was fear which had driven them inside the largely illusory protection of his canvas. And, while he was displeased at being thus exiled from his own tentage, he had to admire the ingenuity with which the lugubrious monsters had crammed their combined bulk into a tent of such modest size.
Besides, there was no point in arguing about it, because the orks were already asleep, as was evi
dent from their strenuous snoring. Alfric knew from his ethnology texts that few tasks are more futile than trying to rouse a slumbering ork. So he wrapped himself in a goundsheet and settled against a tree to sleep.
Sleep, however, came not.
For Alfric began to worry about the difficulties that would beset him once they got to Galsh Ebrek. The more he thought about it, the less he liked the idea of exposing a pair of innocent orks to the dangers of that city, particularly when King Dimple-Dumpling might well hold him personally responsible for the well-being of the orks even after those creatures had been delivered to Saxo Pall. Since Alfric was the son of a Yudonic Knight, he was not in the habit of confessing fear. Nevertheless, he did not exactly relish the possibility of incurring an ogre’s enmity.
The incidental hazards of Galsh Ebrek are bad enough, but in this case Alfric was more afraid of the active enmity of his enemies, most notably the three brothers Norn.
Pig Norn.
Wu Norn.
And Ciranoush Zaxilian Norn.
The trouble between Alfric Danbrog and the brothers Norn had started years ago, and it had started with Ciranoush.
Entry to the Bank was by competitive examination. While Ciranoush and Alfric were both Certified Geniuses, Alfric had won a marginal triumph in such examination, and therefore had been accepted by the Bank on the same day that Ciranoush was rejected. Ciranoush had promptly accused Alfric of bribing the Bank’s examiner, and of forging medical records to conceal a scandalous genetic deficiency.
The passing years had done nothing to ease Ciranoush Zaxilian’s jealous passion. Rather, Alfric’s success had served only to increase his enemy’s contumelious hatred; and Ciranoush had successfully joined his brothers Pig and Wu to a campaign of steady calumniation directed against his rival. So, in his thirty-fourth year of life, Alfric found himself almost in a state of feud with the brothers Norn.
Which boded ill for the welfare of Alfric’s orks when at last they got to Galsh Ebrek.
CHAPTER THREE
