The Werewolf and the Wormlord

by Hugh Cook

  The lid came free.

  Now the critical question would be answered: would the fortune of fragile jade have survived the journey from the Qinjoks intact?

  The lid came off.

  No Dree gasped.

  ‘The jade!’ said he.

  In the barrel was nothing but a rubbish of broken sticks and autumn leaves.

  ‘This cannot be!’ said No Dree. ‘Where is the jade, the jade?’

  Alfric, with difficulty, kept himself from yawning.

  ‘It is as we feared,’ said Banker Eg gravely. ‘The Curse of the Hag has struck again.

  ‘Curse?’ said No Dree. ‘What curse? This is unpardonable!’ He turned on Alfric. ‘You barbarian fool! You lost the jade. You got yourself robbed. Or did you steal it?’

  Alfric withstood this insult without blinking or protesting. That was what he was paid for. No Dree plunged his hands into the barrel and began shovelling out handfuls of leaves and sticks. Stuck to one stick were a couple of snails, snug in their winter sleep. No Dree cursed the snails. Then flung them into the blazing fire. Alfric silently regretted this minor tragedy: for he had a soft spot for snails.

  No Dree heaped curses on the taciturn Knight. Then began to threaten.

  ‘I’ll have you boiled alive,’ said No Dree. ‘I’ll have you torn apart with hooks and pinchers.’

  ‘My lord is merciful,’ said Alfric, before he could stop himself.

  ‘You joke?’ said No Dree. ‘You dare to joke? This is no joke, you barbarous piece of yak dung.’

  And, because of Alfric’s unwise indulgence in sarcasm, honour could not be satisfied until No Dree had ranted himself hoarse.

  But the end result of all these histrionics was a foregone conclusion. The ambassador at last had to admit (though with every show of reluctance) that the seals had not been tampered with. And he had to accept (to do otherwise would have been to precipitate both his own death and a disastrous war) that King Dimple-Dumpling’s tribute had been sealed into those barrels in Alfric’s presence; and, furthermore, that the said tribute had been converted to rubbish by the Curse of the Hag.

  This Curse of the Hag, a foul and poxy malison if ever there was one, had thus afflicted Wen Endex for generations. But it was not just Wen Endex which was thus affected. It would seem that a variant of this curse operates in, among other places, Port Domax. There, many an unsuspecting person has paid good money for some bauble which the retailing merchant has then beautifully packaged to enhance customer satisfaction; the sorry outcome being that, when opened, the gift-package has proved to hold no more than a few broken stones or similar rubbish. However, in Wen Endex, the Curse of the Hag seldom struck except to hex the ogre king’s tribute into rubbish.

  It may be asked why the Izdimir Empire (as represented by its ambassadors) persisted in demanding the annual collection of this tribute when the Curse of the Hag inevitably converted it to garbage. The answer to any such question is simple. While the enterprise was empty of profit, the collection of this tribute and the delivery of the same to the ambassador from Ang allowed the Izdimir Empire to demonstrate that both Wen Endex and the Quinjoks were subject states obedient to the dictates of Obooloo.

  By such diplomatic finesse was the need for war avoided; for, thanks to such annual proofs of obedience, Aldarch the Third (like his predecessors before him) had no need to go to the trouble and expense of marching armies into the northernmost regions of the continent of Yestron to take physical possession of those lands he was so confident he ruled.

  Thus, once No Dree had ranted himself into silence, the delivery of the tribute was accepted as a fact, its conversion to leaves and such rubbish was officially attributed to the Curse of the Hag, various papers were signed attesting to this fact and this attribution, then hands were shaken in accordance with the custom of Wen Endex, reverence was made after the Janjuladoola fashion, and Alfric, his mission over, was able to escape from the heat and hostility of the Embassy.

  A light rain was falling outside, misting against Alfric’s spectacles so that, had he wanted perfect vision, he would have had to cleanse those optical devices thrice in every sixty heartbeats. He did no such thing, having found it wiser to avoid such full-time occupation. Instead, he cursed a couple of times, then went and collected his orks and his pack horses from the bam.

  ‘Where now?’ said Cod.

  ‘Now,’ said Alfric, ‘we find you two somewhere to sleep for the night.’

  Alfric thought this should not prove too difficult. But, once his orks had been refused lodgings by five foul netherskens of the lowest kind, he began to revise his estimate of the difficulties involved in finding lodgings for a pair of orks in Galsh Ebrek in the dead of night.

  ‘Don’t worry about us,’ said Morgenstem. ‘We can sleep in the mud.’

  Doubtless they could. But Alfric had more than a rough idea of how the ogre king would react if he knew his ambassadors had been so insulted. The possibilities were appalling.

  ‘No,’ said Alfric. ‘I’ll find you somewhere to sleep. Somehow.’

  Should he take them up Mobius Kolb? He had the option of presenting them to the Wormlord that very night. By rights the Wormlord should offer them the freedom of Saxo Pall. But what if the Wormlord refused them hospitality? That would be a dreadful blow to Alfric’s prestige. Doubtless the Bank itself would quarter the orks if all else failed. But how would that look on Alfric’s dossier? He was a Banker Third Class, not a miserable clerk or an appretice shroff. One of his rank was meant to be ambassador, negotiator and arbitrator all rolled into one. It would be a black mark against him if he came whining to his superiors complaining that he couldn’t find a couple of spare beds in the largest city in Wen Endex.

  Then inspiration struck.

  ‘The Green Cricket, that’s the place.’

  He had to go there anywhere, to return the pack horses he had hired.

  ‘What place?’ said Cod.

  ‘It’s an inn,’ said Alfric. ‘An inn in Fraudenzimmer Street.’

  With orks in tow, Alfric ventured to the backlands of Galsh Ebrek, to Fraudenzimmer Street and the dark-gabled frontage of the Green Cricket. There Alfric delivered the pack horses into the care of Brock the Ostler.

  ‘How are you for beds tonight?’ said Alfric.

  ‘That,’ said Brock, eyeing the orks doubtfully, ‘is something you’d have to ask Herself.’

  So Alfric took his orks to the front door and knocked. The overhang of the second storey sheltered the doorway from the downfalling rain. Under that overhang was a huge iron cauldron, a relic of the orking days of yore. Its bottom had rusted out years ago, but it remained a potent token of the horrors of the past. To Alfric’s disgust, both Cod and Morgenstem burst into tears at the sight of it.

  ‘Gods,’ muttered Alfric.

  He banged on the door of the lushery, demanding an entry. He wanted to be gone, gone, away from these embarrassingly over-sensitive animals. However, his unsubtle overtures drew no response from the Green Cricket.

  ‘Allow me,’ said Cod the ork, wiping away his tears.

  And Cod fisted the door until its timbers shivered.

  A dwarf-hole level with Alfric’s knees opened abruptly and a dwarf looked out.

  ‘Who is it?’ said the dwarf Du Deiner.

  ‘Myself,’ said Alfric.

  ‘And who’s that?’ said Du Deiner, who was looking from candlefire brightness into the murk of an overhung night.

  ‘Myself is Herself,’ said Alfric. ‘I come from bog, my body drenched with blood but my appetites unsated. I seek a dwarf. I yearn to ravage its flesh for its liver, to gouge out its eyes and pull off its ears for my porridge.’

  ‘Oh, you,’ said Du Deiner, belatedly recognizing the voice. ‘Hang about, I’ll open the door.’

  The dwarf was as good as his word,, and shortly laboured the door open with some help from his colleague Mich Dir.

  ‘Come in,’ said Du Deiner.

  ‘In, in,’ urged Mich Dir, for
the draught from the open door was making the candles flaze.

  In went Alfric with his orks following on his heels.

  ‘No!’ said Du Deiner, when he saw the first of the monsters. ‘They can’t come in. They’re—’

  ‘They’re friends,’ said Alfric, inverting the dwarf.

  Du Deiner kicked, struggled and bit. When he bit, Alfric dropped him.

  ‘Stop that!’ This command came from Anna Blaume herself, she bedizened in flame-coloured taffeta, she enshrined in state behind the battlements of her bar. She followed up her order by saying: ‘Why, it’s Ally!’ Then, cheerfully: ‘Come in, come in!’

  ‘I am in,’ said Alfric, somewhat vexed that this blowsy publican should name him ‘Ally’ in public.

  Izdarbolskobidarbix was the name he preferred. Failing that, Mister Danbrog. Or, as a minimum courtesy, Alfric. He had told Ms Blaume as much on many occasions; but she was immune to lectures.

  ‘Do you drink?’ said Blaume, speaking not to Alfric but to the orks.

  ‘Beer,’ said Cod.

  A wide-eyed Morgenstem said nothing, but looked in askance at the roistering room where drunks sat in each other’s laps or lay on the floor, hammered artificial flatulence from empty wine skins, and made popcorn in a huge wok perched atop a charcoal brazier. A drunk tossed a handful of popcorn skywards. A velvety green vogel swooped from the rafters and snapped one nipplebit nicely. Then it settled on Morgenstern’s head. The ork clawed at it in a frenzy.

  ‘Skaps,’ said Blaume, sharply.

  The vogel launched itself into the air, circled thrice, then hooked itself on to a smokey rafter and chittered with malicious laughter. The vogel is the parrot-bad of Wen Endex, a creature noted more for misbehaviour than for speech.

  ‘She’ll have a beer too,’ said Cod, putting his arm around a much-shaken Morgenstem.

  ‘He,’ said Alfric, by way of correction.

  (Did orks have their own native tongue in addition to Toxteth? Or did they, like the ogres of the Qinjoks, acquire that language with their mothers’ milk? A question worth pursuing, but not now.)

  ‘Hello Anna,’ said Alfric, as beers for all were served.

  ‘Hello,’ said she. ‘Good to see you again.’

  Then Anna Blaume broke off to talk to her child, little Ben Zvanzig (son of Sin Zvanzig), who was crying.

  ‘There now,’ said Blaume, giving him a tea-towel. ‘Dry your pepper-weepers and don’t be poorly.’

  ‘But it bit me,’ sobbed Ben.

  ‘Well, that’s what they do, my dear,’ said Blaume. ‘Any time you try to strangle them, at any rate. Sheila, my love. Taken Ben upstairs and put him to bed.’

  Whereupon little Ben Zvanzig was led away by Anna Blaume’s girl child, a slip of a thing who was aged eleven. (And who was her father, then? That must remain one of the smaller but nevertheless insoluble mysteries of the universe, for even Anna Blaume herself had not the slightest idea.)

  ‘Well, Ally,’ said Blaume. ‘What have you got for me, apart from trouble?’

  ‘This,’ said Alfric, pulling a saladin ring from his pocket.

  This had cost him nothing, for it was a gift from the ogre king. (Strange, that it had not been converted to treefall rubbish like the rest of the Qinjok tribute - but perhaps Alfric’s pocket was possessed of magical properties which protected its contents from the Curse of the Hag.) Though the gift had cost nothing, it was a handsome present even so; and Alfric experienced a certain amount of painful regret as Blaume took it from him.

  ‘That’s lovely,’ said she, and lent over the bar to kiss him.

  ‘I’m glad you like it,’ said Alfric, kissing back politely.

  As he did so, he caught Blaume’s smell, which was that of a well-greased frying pan; for Anna Blaume regularly rubbed her skin with lard to check the progress of a discomforting disease of the integumentary system.

  ‘Will you marry me?’ said Blaume.

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ said Alfric, ‘I’m married already.’

  ‘She’s no good for you,’ said Blaume. ‘She’s a bloodless thing bereft of passion.’

  ‘But so am I,’ said Alfric.

  ‘So in combination you’re naught but disaster,’ said Blaume.

  Then leant across the bar and kissed him again. But he was not tempted, not tonight; so he brushed her away.

  Anna Blaume was a red; or, to put it more politely, a person of Ebrell Island descent. However, she had not the red hair so typical of that breed; instead, her hair was yellow. It was so filthy that its texture was that of coarse straw, and it was streaked with blue dye and green. Is it any wonder that Alfric was not attracted? What attracted him was the thought of a warm bed, a good long sleep without tree-roots ribbing into his back, and then work at the Bank. Ah yes, the Bank.

  ‘So you’re not in the mood,’ said Anna Blaume.

  ‘I’m not,’ said Alfric. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘But you came here for something. Not just to bring back the horses, I’ll warrant.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Alfric.

  ‘You want a favour, I suppose. Let me guess. You want me to quarter these orks.’

  ‘If you would,’ said Alfric.

  ‘Of course I would,’ said Blaume. ‘I can’t have you taking them home, can I? You might cook them - like you cooked the last lot.’

  Anna Blaume laughed uproariously as a shocked and terrified Morgenstem clung to Cod for comfort.

  ‘Never mind, love,’ said Blaume, reaching out and patting Morgenstem on the arm. ‘You won’t get eaten here.’

  ‘They’d better not,’ said Alfric, with feeling. ‘They’re ambassadors. Ambassadors from the king of the Qinjoks.’ ‘Oh, ambassadors, are they?’ said Blaume. ‘You’d be an ambassador yourself, by the looks of it. An ambassador from the realms of the dead, if I be a judge. Time you were home and in your own bed, if you’re not going to jump into mine.’

  ‘I won’t argue with that,’ said Alfric.

  Then Alfric Danbrog and Anna Blaume exchanged goodbye kisses, and Alfric started for home, leaving his orks in the care of the proprietor of the Green Cricket.

  Of Alfric Danbrog’s domestic relations, the less that is said the better, for the subject is a sorry one. However, some comment must necessarily be made.

  There was trouble when Alfric reached home. First, because his thoughts were all for the various despatches from the Bank which awaited his arrival. Second, because he had brought his wife no present from the Qinjoks. Third, because he answered her welcoming kiss in the most perfunctory manner. Fourth, because he supped her hot soup hastily, reading a despatch from the Bank as he did so; his lack of appreciation being so great that he quite failed to realize that this was the very seaweed soup he had lusted for as he drew near the Stanch Gates.

  Is it any wonder that a quarrel shortly ensued?

  The quarrel became a raging row. And, in a moment of blind anger, Alfric lashed out and caught his wife with a four-knuckle punch which laid her out on the floor. He tried to apologize, but that did'him no good and her less; and when at last they retired to bed, she made her body a flesh-clothed skeleton, and rejected his every advance.

  Not that he advanced too strenuously, for he was weary, and his greatest lust was for sleep.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Early the next night, Alfric Danbrog woke from sleep, took his breakfast, then set forth for the Bank. As he tramped through the backways of Galsh Ebrek, making for the slopes of Mobius Kolb, he was armed as if for war, and with some reason. Galsh Ebrek by night was not the safest of places, as anyone could have guessed by listening to the brawl-bawdy uproar of the taverns, or by inspecting the massive iron bars with which the merchants of that city habitually invest their windows.

  As Alfric went down Tupping Way, the door of a lushery was thrown open. A drunken lantern lurched, sagged and went down as a drunk collapsed in the mud. The hapless inebriate lay there, doomed to become the prey of mutchers unless rescued by a selfless citize
n. Alfric, lacking the time to be such a citizen, pressed on regardless, leaving the drunk to his doom.

  Alfric reached the foot of Mobius Kolb unscathed and began to ascend that huge upthrust of rock. He passed beneath the monstrous battlements of Saxo Pall then laboured upward toward the granite outworks of the Bank. At the gates of the Bank he paused. Higher yet, on the utmost summit of Mobius Kolb, the Oracle of Ob shone moon-bright. As always, Alfric found it disturbing to look upon that alluring light by night. As always, he was tempted to ascend, to close with that light and confront.

  As ever before, Alfric resisted the temptation, turned from Ob and went in through the gates of the Bank.

  ‘Your pass, sir,’ said a sentry.

  An unavoidable formality, even though sentry and banker knew each other by sight, and had done so for years. Bank security was second to none, and for good reason. Yielding to the dictates of that security, Alfric pulled out his pass and unfolded it. This document identified him as Izdarbolskobidarbix, Banker Third Class, his affiliation being with the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association. His details were there given in a dozen different languages; and, on the back, there were both his palm-prints and his footprints.

  ‘Welcome, Iz-bix,’ said the sentry, handing back the pass.

  ‘My greetings to the greeter,’ said Alfric formally, then passed within.

  As always, Alfric was tempted to chastise the sentry for abbreviating his name. Izdarbolskobidarbix was no idle monicker but a very formal name which should not be idly perverted by wageslave minions. He would let it pass for now. But once he made Banker Second Class, then things would change!

  In the vestibule, Alfric divested himself of boots, leathers and weaponry, donned silken robes and slipped his feet into warm felt slippers. He was entering another world. He was leaving Galsh Ebrek, city of clumsy warriors addicted to dreams of beserker blood; and he was entering upon the organized sanity of the Bank where click-clacking abaci measured the constant increase of power and of influence.