The Werewolf and the Wormlord

by Hugh Cook

  As he walked along, he saw nothing unusual. As his fear of the brothers Norn faded, he became buoyant. Moonglitter brightened mudpuddles and mullioned windows alike, and the moon sharpened his every sense. So that, when passing one sidestreet—

  He smelt something.

  Something female.

  Strong was that scent, and he knew what it was, and knew he should not venture into the sidestreet shadows, and knew what he would find if he did. But the brightburning moon commanded him, and, helpless to resist, down the sidestreet he went, and found what he had expected, a cart heavy-laden with the corpse of a huge wolf. Black was the fur of the beast, and black was the blood which had thickened on the fur around the heartwound, and black was the stump of the quarrel which had found the creature’s heart.

  The crossbow which had hurled that lethal bolt had been tossed into the cart, and by the wolf it lay. And Alfric smelt the stench of the killer upon the crossbow, and was afraid, and full of hate.

  Then—

  Sudden as the savagery of his fist-battering angers— The fit was upon him, and, unable to help himself, he threw back his head and howled. Deep-throated the sound, bloodbarbaric, the gut-threat challenge of a forest marauder. And scarcely had the howl died away when a doorway nearby was thrown open with a bang. Out stumbled a man with a hatchet in one hand, a lantern in the other.

  And Alfric was minded to savage the fork-legged thing on the spot, to skullcrunch its head and scrabble its guts, to maul it and gnaw it, to take revenge for the murder of the she.

  ‘What was that?’ said the citizen, wide-eyed with alarm.

  And Alfric smelt the man, smelt his stale sweat, his beerbelch breath, his rich-larded fat and musty stupidity; smelt adultery’s grease and buttock-cleft filth; and knew this, this, this thing had killed the she, with his stupid concoction of warped wood and wire he had killed her dead, and for that he deserved to die, surely, it would be but the work of the moment to rend him and tear him.

  So Alfric—

  —shuddered and—

  —closed his jaws decisively.

  Then shuddered again, got a grip on himself and spoke:

  ‘It was a dog. A dog at the meat. I kicked it away. Now I bid you guard or remove this animal, my good man, or I’ll have you arrested for creating a public menace.’

  So saying, Alfric touched the hilt of his sword; and a bloodlust urge from the deathsword Bloodbane incited his heart to murder. But that he resisted easily, for he knew it was the sword speaking to him. And, once he had seen the citizen remove the wolf to a bam and secure it against dogs and such, Alfric went on his way.

  As he stalked through the streets of Galsh Ebrek, Alfric kept his head down, deliberately ignoring the moon, and by the time he reached his home he felt more like a man and less like a wolf. But the shock of what had very nearly happened was still upon him; and he decided, in a coldblooded way, to drink himself into oblivion. For otherwise he did not think he could sleep.

  However, he was only in the early stages of this project when his father arrived. Alfric explained what he was about - though he did not say why - and Grendel Dranbrog expressed a wish to join him. When Grendel made it clear he thought his son’s drinking was the consequence of woman trouble, Alfric did nothing to disabuse him of this notion. So the two of them drank together, and ran down women as they did so.

  ‘If only,’ said Grendel, in a moment of unprecedented misogamy, ‘they could all be killed as we kill Herself.’

  ‘Have we killed Herself?’ said Alfric.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Grendel. ‘But that will come. In time. The Wormlord’s sworn it, has he not?’

  ‘So he has,’ said Alfric. ‘So I swear it too. With all three quests complete, I’ll march with the Wormlord. I’ll dare Her lair and hack off Her head.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ said his father.

  Alfric realized he might have committed himself unwisely, but he scarcely cared. For surely killing Herself would be but a small feat compared to that which awaited him next. For next he must dare the vampires in their lair and rescue the third of the saga swords.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When Alfric presented the silversword Sulamith’s Grief to the Wormlord in Saxo Pall, the king of Wen Endex gave him in return the bright blade Chalingrad, arbiter of many deaths. This was a blade truly blessed with success, for well the weapon knew the bloody kiss of victory. And it was this ring-embellished sword that Alfric took with him when he rode forth on his third and final quest.

  Chalingrad was doubtless a lesser weapon than Bloodbane; but, after due consideration, Alfric had decided to leave the deathblade at home, for he deemed the thing to be as much a menace to the owner as to anyone else. He would not be able to outfight the vampires, however valorous his swordarm; so a sword which was ever tempting him to murder would not be an asset on this quest.

  For the expedition, Alfric had been given a broken-down horse not possessed of a name, which suggested that Anna Blaume did not expect him to return alive from the vampires’ lair. Fair enough. He had his own doubts about his survival.

  But he put those doubts out of mind as he rode through the globble-glubble mires of the streets of Galsh Ebrek, and then by the nightwaters of the Riga Rimur River where waterworms dwelt in dreams of drenching, and then down a shatterstone road through winterfallow farmlands. Then forest claimed him, cold forest where ice broke krintalkrastal beneath the hooves of his horse.

  His journey was long; and before the end he was weary, and chilled by the night’s bitter cold. The ground’s stones and the sky’s stars alike were hard and comfortless, tokens of an inimical cosmos. He tried to keep himself awake by revising the lemmas of ursury, the delicate mathematics of enrichment. But he began to sleep in spasms, dreaming brief dreams of seasalt fish and tramping elephants, waking time and again to save himself from tumbling from the saddle.

  Alfric at last reached the cliffs which were his destination. Tall and gaunt they rose; with, beyond them, rising huger yet, derelict mountain upthrusts where humans never ventured. Somewhere, high amidst the mountains, a scarf of colour gleamed into life, whirled thrice about a peak of stone, and then was gone. What was it? Something equivalent to the zana, the wild rainbows of Galsh Ebrek? Or something different?

  Alfric put it out of mind. Working in accordance with the instructions he had been given, he began to search for the door into the vampire depths, which he located after a long and weary search. This was clearly going to be a night for the long and the weary, and he only hoped his negotiations with the vampires would not prove too protracted.

  The door was at the top of a steep flight of steps cut into the living rock of the mountains, so Alfric tethered his horse to a convenient tree, then began to climb.

  As Alfric Danbrog advanced upon that door, war-faring men in battledress began to march out of it. Armed with old iron they were, their faces fell and silent. In an access of terror, Alfric clasped his ring-embellished sword and prepared to die - then realized the onmarching men were nothing but ghosts. As they flowed through him and around him, he imagined he heard a ghostly horn calling them to battle.

  Then the men were gone, and Alfric Danbrog shrugged off his shock and, single of purpose, strode towards the door to the vampire depths. Striding thus, he tripped over a rock, which almost threw him off balance.

  A rock?

  On a night like this in a place like this, something which looked to be a rock could be anything. Alfric, remembering childhood tales of Grapter the Wishtoad, kicked at the rock until he had determined it was stone indeed.

  A rock, then.

  Rock qua rock.

  A phenomenological rock?

  Perhaps.

  Alfric realized he was procrastinating. He willed himself away from the rock which had suddenly become so fascinating, and marched on the stonemade door to the vampires’ lair. Alfric knocked upon that door, but the mountain answered him not.

  ‘Open,’ said Alfric sternly, ‘or my
sword will shatter your soul.’

  The door gave no hint of opening, so Alfric swung at it with Chalingrad. To Alfric’s surprise, the arbiter of many deaths splintered against the unyielding rock.

  ‘Stroth!’ he said.

  Then examined the wreckage of the blade with care. Unless he was greatly mistaken, the weapon was made of cast iron. Not for the first time, Alfric began to wonder whether the Wormlord wanted him dead.

  As the sword was useless for attack or defence, Alfric cast it aside, and thus was alone and unarmed when the door lurched open. At which stage his courage deserted him, and he would have fainly retired - but it was too late, for the door was fully open.

  ‘Well?’ said a ratcheting voice, a voice all stonedust and corncrake. ‘Are you coming in or aren’t you?’

  ‘I am,’ said Alfric.

  Then swallowed, and strode into the tunnel which yawned in front of him. The door closed, shutting out the night, and leaving no light whatsoever; but Alfric, his eyes a venomous red, deciphered the blackness at will.

  ‘Have you come here to die?’ said someone behind him.

  ‘No,’ said Alfric. ‘I’ve come here to offer you a deal.’ ‘A deal?’

  ‘Don’t sound so amazed. I’m Izdarbolskobidarbix, a Banker Third Class from the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association. I’m authorized to make you a proposition. I suggest you take me to your Council Chamber.’

  ‘Not till I know your name.’

  ‘My name I have given you already,’ said Alfric in irritation. ‘Izdarbolskobidarbix is my name. Some of my peers have taken the liberty of shortening that title to Iz’bix on occasion; I will not resent it if you avail yourself of a similar privilege. ’

  ‘No name thus tongued was ever bom in Wen Endex,’ said the vampire voice doubtfully.

  ‘Still,’ said Alfric, ‘it is how I call myself.’

  ‘Then,’ said the vampire, ‘leaving aside the question of how you call yourself, who are you? Really?’

  ‘Oh, all right then, if you really must know, I’m Alfric Danbrog, son of Grendel Danbrog and grandson of the Wormlord Tromso Stavenger. You want to hear more? Gertrude Danbrog is my mother and Ursula Major my father’s sister, hence my aunt. My paternal grandmother was—’

  ‘Enough,’ said the vampire, cutting him off. ‘You have told me enough. Your naming makes you a shape-changer. Thus you are welcome, thrice welcome, ever welcome in the halls of blood.’

  Alfric wanted to protest that he was not a shape-changer at all, but thought such objection unwise: hence allowed himself to be escorted to the Council Hall, where fresh blood was served to him while he waited for the Elders to gather.

  At first, Alfric indulged his curiosity by scanning the assembling Elders. Under the interrogation of his probing eyes, they revealed themselves to be ancient, their skins clinging very close to their skeletons. Close proximity to the warm-blooded Alfric Danbrog inspired the vampires with appetite. They opened their mouths and drooled. Their teeth were sharp, very sharp, and many. Alfric abruptly ceased scanning the dark and settled back to wait.

  At last, the Oldest of the Elders spoke:

  ‘Greetings, Alfric Danbrog. We hear you have a proposition for us,’

  ‘I do,’ said Alfric. ‘I come here as a representative of the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association. We wish to do business.’

  ‘The Bank has rejected our business in the past,’ said the Oldest. ‘Why should it change its mind now?’

  ‘Policies change when needs change,’ said Alfric. ‘Our needs have changed. We have also grown more... more realistic over the years. The absurd prejudice against bloodfeeding is no longer to be found among our ranks.’

  ‘What of Yaf, then?’ said the Oldest.

  ‘Yaf is dead,’ said Alfric bluntly. ‘He’s been dead for a hundred years.’

  ‘But he can’t be!’ said the Oldest. ‘It was only yesterday that he rebuffed me.’

  ‘Was it?’ said Alfric. ‘Consult your memories.’

  Silence.

  Then, from out of the dark, the voice of the Oldest: ‘You are right. It is my age. The years are so short after the first thousand or so. Besides, I’ve slept most of that time.’

  ‘It is a pity that your sleep was not profitable,’ said Alfric. ‘But, with 3 per cent compounding interest, your sleep could be profitable indeed. We would of course be prepared to pay the interest in a form convenient to you, that is, not as gold but as virgin females to the equivalent value.’

  ‘Details, please.’

  ‘Interest would be credited to your account annually,’ said Alfric. ‘An initial deposit of 100 talents of gold would be worth 103 in a year’s time. In two years, your investment would have grown to 106 talents plus a 900th of a talent. In three years—’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the Oldest, cutting him off just as he was getting enthusiastic. ‘I am familiar with the wonders of compound interest. What you propose is similar to what I myself proposed to Yaf when I ventured to Galsh Ebrek.’ ‘I know,’ said Alfric. ‘I have seen the files. You offered Yaf some very good business. He was wrong to turn you down. Future generations have lamented his foolishness.’

  The vampires had proposed to make a massive investment of gold with the Bank, then come to the Bank once every ten years to claim their interest in the form of so many virgin slaves. But Yaf had apparently experienced some moral scruples which had prevented him from concluding this bargain.

  Why?

  Alfric had no idea.

  After all, a great many people invest their money in banks, and there is nothing to stop the investor spending the interest thus gained on buying slaves to be slaughtered, or in paying assassins, or in purchasing weapons of war. So surely it makes no moral difference if the bank (on the client’s behalf) makes payments for similar purposes.

  ‘You do guarantee,’ said the Oldest, ‘that you will be able to pay interest in the form of virgin slaves?’

  ‘At the standard rate, yes,’ said Alfric. ‘I guarantee it with my life.’

  ‘That’s no guarantee!’ said the Oldest. ‘Not when you die so quickly.’

  ‘I am only thirty-three,’ said Alfric. ‘The years of my strength are only half gone. Assuming you collect your first interest payment in ten years’ time, I will still be in the prime of life.’

  ‘If you were a human,’ said the Oldest, ‘I would not trust you. However, fortunately you are a werewolf. Therefore we can bargain. ’

  Alfric was enraged by this accusation. But he smoothed diplomacy into his voice and said:

  ‘The terms I can offer you are good. But there is one thing I must have if we are to conclude any bargain whatsoever.’

  ‘What thing is that?’ said the Oldest.

  ‘You have a sword here,’ said Alfric. ‘You have the sword known as Kinskom.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Oldest, acknowledging possession of that mighty blade.

  ‘I require it,’ said Alfric.

  ‘Why?’ said the Oldest.

  Alfric sighed, tired already, and wearied further by the prospect of having to explain himself yet again. He tried to keep it short.

  ‘As you doubtless know,’ said Alfric, ‘my grandfather, Tromso Stavenger, is the Wormlord. He denied all rights of succession to his eldest son, Grendel. I am Grendel’s oldest son, but cannot inherit the throne in the ordinary way because my father has been cast out of the royal family.

  ‘As things stand, Ursula Major should inherit the throne when the Wormlord dies. But he has repented of his choice. He regrets the wrath with which he exiled his son. He wishes to redeem himself by letting his son’s son inherit the throne. I am his son’s son.

  ‘That I may inherit the throne with honour, the Wormlord has set me the task of salvaging the three saga swords. Two I have. I dared the great dragon Qa in his burrow. Long and hard I fought with him in his deep and smokey lair. Great were the gouts of flame he hurled against me, but my sword was strong, and the old iron availed where the iron of othe
rs had failed.’

  Unconsciously, Alfric was slipping into the rhythms of the storytellers of Wen Endex, his phrasing drifting into the vocabularies of legend as his own tale took hold of him. Despite his determination to be succinct, he had given himself fully to wordy poetry by the time he came to tell of his battle with the swamp giant Kralch.

  ‘Then,’ said Alfric, ‘I rode back to Galsh Ebrek. But my journey was not yet over, for—’

  He paused.

  These were vampires, outcasts, blood drinkers. They tolerated him only because they thought him a werewolf, an accursed shape-changer. Alfric had been about to boast of his duel with a ferocious werehamster, and the aplomb with which he had brought that baby-threatening monster to heel. But such a victory might not win him favour with this audience.

  ‘For?’ said the Oldest, in an encouraging manner. ‘Go on.’

  ‘For my horse fell lame,’ said Alfric lamely, ‘and I had to walk the rest of the way home.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the Oldest.

  He was greatly disappointed. Being a vampire is one of the most tedious of all possible modes of existence, since it largely consists of sitting in the dark for many months at a time doing virtually nothing. Hence vampires make an enthusiastic audience for songs, poems and legends of all descriptions; a fact which allows any fluent-voiced prisoner of these monsters to survive until sleep or hoarseness prevails.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Alfric, ‘you know how it is, and how it must be. I rescued the ironsword Edda, the revenant’s claw. I dared the Spiderweb Castle for Sulamith’s Grief. Now I must have Kinskorn to complete my sweep of the saga swords and secure my claim to the throne of Wen Endex.’

  ‘Once you have all three swords,’ said the Oldest, ‘how soon will they make you king?’

  ‘Immediately,’ said Alfric.

  ‘Immediately?’