The Werewolf and the Wormlord

by Hugh Cook

The wine was good, and the bread likewise, and Alfric was soon tearing into the goodness of the breadflesh. His terror began to ease, and he sat back on his pack, relaxing somewhat. Then—

  Where were his spare spectacles?

  For a moment, Alfric feared he might be sitting on them. Then remembered they were in the top of his pack, inside a hardwood casket.

  ‘Maybe we should put up a tent,’ said Tromso Stavenger.

  ‘A tent?’ said Alfric in amazement.

  ‘Well, yes, we have to sleep sometime,’ said the king.

  ‘You can sleep now if you wish,’ said Grendel. ‘Both of you. I’ll keep watch.’

  This declaration stirred Alfric’s fear to life. While his eyelids had been nodding, now he was wide awake indeed.

  ‘No,’ said Alfric. ‘No thank you. We’re all right.’

  ‘Speak for yourself!’ said Grendel. ‘Your grandfather may not be so ready to wait out the night.’

  ‘I’m fine for the moment,’ said Tromso Stavenger.

  But Alfric suspected it was pride which did the speaking, for the king’s voice was weary. Certainly they would both of them have to sleep sooner or later. And then - then they would be utterly at Grendel’s mercy.

  Alfric straightened his back and concentrated his efforts on staying both awake and alert. He was helped by the cold of the night and the occasional menacing sounds which stirred in the poolside grass. Living indoors, one always forgets how very large the night actually is, and how menacing.

  Once, a nicor raised its hideous head from the blue-burning waters of the mere then slipped beneath the surface again. Could the things crawl out of the water? Maybe they could. As Alfric was thus thinking, a ripple spread across the pool. Alfric’s hand dropped to the hilt of Bloodbane. He glanced at his father and grandfather. They appeared to have noticed nothing.

  Then, without warning, a head broke free from the water.

  Alfric was so terrified he could not speak.

  The head was huge, hideous, armed with teeth. Shaggy was the hair which clothed it. And—

  And it was making for the shore!

  To the shore came the head, then the body which supported it dragged itself from the water, revealing itself to be a rat, a huge and hideous rat some four times the size of a dog. The rat swaggered toward the three men.

  Alfric got to his feet.

  ‘Ho!’ he cried.

  The rat paused.

  It was a monster, yes, but it was only a rodent when all was said and done. Alfric drew the deathsword Bloodbane and advanced upon the rat in a mood of marauding murder. For a moment, the thing stood its ground. Then it fled, scuttling back to the water. Alfric swung at it once, but missed. Then the brute splashed into the water, dived, and was gone.

  Alfric stood by the side of the mere, panting. He stared into the dark waters, trying to see where the rat had gone. If rats grew to such size in these dominions of darkness, what else might have obtained monstrosity?

  Behind him, his father and grandfather laughed.

  ‘Bravo,’ said Grendel softly.

  Alfric turned.

  The rage of Bloodbane possessed him.

  Driven by the murder-lust of the weapon, Alfric Danbrog strode toward his father and grandfather, his sword ready for the kill.

  ‘Ho,’ said his father. ‘He walks like a hero.’

  Then both Grendel and Tromso Stavenger laughed at what they took to be Alfric’s posturing; and their laughter deflated his anger; and he felt somewhat sheepish.

  His sword was angry.

  Murder-thoughts from the weapon stirred to life again in Alfric’s mind.

  But he could not kill his father, not yet, for as yet the man had made no move against them, and they were family, were they not? And it was possible, was it not, that Grendel might spare them because they were family?

  Alfric resisted the claims of the weapon, sheathed it, released his hand from the hilt, and felt easier.

  He returned to his pack.

  A twinge of pain stabbed through Alfric’s right hip as he settled himself. This pain he had felt often over the years; and, though he did his best to ignore it, every year it got worse and more frequent. Though he was only thirty-three, arthritis was already making claims on his health. As Alfric tried to get comfortable on his pack, his back protested. He had sudden visions of putting his back out. He imagined himself lying on the ground, writhing in helpless agony, while Grendel went through his Change and became Herself, devoured Tromso Stavenger then turned his attentions to Alfric himself.

  —No!

  So thought Alfric, strenuously, wilfully, denying the validity of this vision, and denying too that his father was actually Herself.

  But Alfric did not believe his own denials.

  He kept glancing sideways at his father, expecting to see some sign of a monstrous Change.

  As Alfric waited for the moment of disaster, Grendel said:

  ‘I want you to know something.’

  Alfric was about to ask ‘what’ when he realized his father was not speaking to Alfric but to the Wormlord. ‘Speak,’ said Tromso Stavenger.

  ‘I want you to know,’ said Grendel, ‘that I was never a werewolf. There was no truth at all to that rumour.’

  What was this?

  Was Grendel about to admit the truth? Was Grendel about to admit that he was no mere wolf but, in truth, Herself? Alfric fingered the hilt of Bloodbane.

  ‘I know, I know,’ said the Wormlord. ‘I’ve always know as much.’

  ‘Then... then why did you cast me out? All these... these years in exile, these...’

  ‘Hard times demanded hard decisions,’ said Tromso Stavenger.

  ‘How so?’

  The Wormlord sighed, then said:

  ‘It was the Bank which forced my hand. ’

  ‘The Bank?’ said Grendel. ‘They told you to name me as a werewolf?’

  ‘No,’ said the Wormlord. ‘They threatened to do as much themselves. You don’t know what it’s like, dealing with the Bank. They’ve so much power, so much ... ah, you wouldn’t understand. But believe me. They were... oh, but it’s a long story.’

  But, as the night lengthened, Grendel Danbrog got the rest of the story out of his father. Grendel and Alfric listened as the Wormlord told them of the varied threats the Bank had used to try to make the king grant fresh concessions to the Izdimir Empire.

  ‘At last,’ said Tromso Stavenger, ‘they schemed against my own family. They forged medical reports and prepared false witnesses to testify against you. It is said that the Bank has hypnotists, men who can work upon the minds of their victims until those victims firmly believe stories which have no foundation in fact. Such victims were prepared. ’

  ‘And?’ said Grendel.

  ‘And the Bank threatened me,’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘I must do what the Bank wanted. I must allow the Izdimir Empire to station troops in Wen Endex and place its bureaucrats in Saxo Pall itself to guide my deliberations. I must enforce the same laws that govern the people in Ang and Obooloo. I must - well, in a word, surrender.’

  ‘They really thought they could make you do that?’ said Grendel.

  ‘They thought they had prepared a strong position for themselves,’ said Tromso Stavenger, ‘since they could so easily prove you to be a werewolf.’

  ‘But I was never such a creature!’

  ‘I always knew that,’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘I knew all the evidence was forged. I knew, too, that, in time, I could have proved your innocence to the people of Wen Endex. But, had the Bank moved against you, I would not have had time. The mob would have believed you a shape-changer. Worse, they might have believed me to be a werewolf myself. Urged by the Bank, the mob would doubtless have killed you. Equally, the mob might have overwhelmed myself. We might all have died.’

  ‘So the Bank had you by the oysters,’ said Grendel.

  ‘So thought the Bank,’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘But I did what the Bank did not expect. I moved against you
myself. I myself named you as a werewolf, thus proving my own innocence of any such charge. For, as is well known, all shape-changers cling together; so it follows that a father who casts out a shape-changing son cannot be a shape-changer himself.’

  ‘That was a cruel thing to do, even so,’ said Grendel sofdy.

  ‘Cruel, yes,’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘But it preserved the freedoms of the state. Oh, and I took revenge, believe me. The Bank had grown bold. They were expecting my collapse, my surrender. They were not expecting me to strike. But I did. Immediately. Two dozen bankers died. Private murders, streetcomer butchery. You know how it’s done. In like manner, I disposed of agents from the Izdimir Empire who had exposed themselves through carelessness.’

  ‘That won you the moment,’ said Grendel.

  ‘The moment, yes,’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘But what of the future? The Bank is strong. How could my line be protected against the Bank? I chose to let the Bank think I really did believe you to be a werewolf. I chose to foster difference and disagreement between us. I made you my enemy. Because you were my enemy, your son was likewise my natural enemy.’

  ‘I never thought thus,’ said Alfric.

  ‘Didn’t you?’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘Whatever you thought, the Bank thought of you as a weapon which could be used against me. The Bank took hold of you. Sought to train you to be a weapon which could one day be used to win power for the Bank. Ah, what a risk I ran! For the danger was that you would ultimately prove true to the Bank.’

  ‘And?’ said Alfric. ‘Have I? Or haven’t I?’

  ‘That... that I don’t know,’ said his grandfather. ‘Not for certain. But... I have measured you over these years. I have seen you grow, and I have seen the potential for kingship grow with you. I believe you will rule Wen Endex for the benefit of the nation, not for the benefit of the Bank. When you sit on the throne, then Galsh Ebrek will have a king who understands the Bank, who can control its power, and who can break the Bank, and make it a mere tool of the state. That is what I hope for. When you are wormlord, Alfric, my long revenge against the Bank will be complete.’

  ‘This... this is much to learn at once,’ said Grendel in a wondering voice.

  ‘Much indeed,’ acknowledged Tromso Stavenger. ‘I... I only hope you can forgive me for following the necessities which were placed upon me.’

  Then Tromso Stavenger embraced Grendel, and father and son clung to each other, and then both began to weep.

  And Alfric for his own part wondered.

  Was this true?

  Could it possibly be true?

  Was his father really not a werewolf?

  And—

  Wah!

  What an amazing old man was Tromso Stavenger! A wicked enemy, a wily foe, one of the few men to out-think and out-smart the Bank. How had he done it? Why, by thinking of the long result, and hatching a plan which would only be brought to fruition by the work of generations.

  Once again, Alfric had a glimpse of the burdens of kingship. To think not just for the moment and not just for the day, but to plan for the generations. Tromso Stavenger had done just that; had out-thought and outmanoeuvred the Bank; and had tricked the Bank itself into shaping the weapon he needed to fulfil his purposes.

  Right then, Alfric Danbrog knew that he was that weapon indeed.

  Tromso Stavenger had won his great gamble.

  For Alfric was filled with rage at the thought of what the Bank had done to his family. When he became king, he would exact vengeance. The Bank would be brought to heel and made an instrument of the state. Then Alfric would use the power of the Banking Circle to bring the Izdimir Empire itself to heel, and end for ever the threat which that empire posed to the liberties of Galsh Ebrek and the nation of Wen Endex.

  Alfric wished he was in the Bank already, cleaving heads and opening bellies with the deathblade Bloodbane. His fingers lingered over the hilt of that weapon, and he longed to draw it in earnest against his foes, to hold that living fury in his hands and run beserk, giving himself to the possession of a beserker rage.

  These imaginings were so engrossing that Alfric did not notice something stirring in the water. Then his father swore, and Alfric looked up abruptly, and saw Herself rising from the mere.

  ‘Stroth!’ screamed Alfric, leaping to his feet.

  He slipped in the mud, his feet went from under him, and down he went. And She was already striding toward them, water slathering from Her loins, the burning light of Her eyes blazing from the shapeless shadows of Her face.

  Alfric scrabbled for balance, slipped again, went down, and he was going to die, to die, but—

  But Grendel was there.

  Grendel Danbrog stood between Herself and Her victims. Old iron was in the warrior’s hands. With his sword he struck. But the hag dismissed the warrior’s weapon with a swipe of one of her mighty paws. Then Grendel was down, and She was upon him. There was a scream of tortured metal as Her talons clawed iron, tore through Grendel’s armour and ripped into his bowels.

  ‘No!’ cried Tromso Stavenger.

  Thus cried the old man.

  And made as if to advance.

  ‘Stand back,’ said Alfric to his grandfather. And then, loudly, to Herself: ‘Stand back from my father!’

  His words were savage, for Bloodbane was in his hands, and Alfric was buoyed up by his own rage and the bloodlust of the weapon.

  Certainly his challenge made Her pause.

  She turned Her face from Grendel’s bleeding body. She looked upon Alfric with Her burning eyes. Then She made a sound in her throat, a hideous noise like mud slithering down a monstrous swampland suckhole. Alfric realized she was laughing. At him!

  ‘Laugh, bitch,’ said Alfric coldly. ‘Laugh while you can. For your end is upon you. For this is the deathblade Bloodbane.’

  But She knew that weapon not, and, in any case, She feared no sword, regardless of its reputation.

  She smashed Grendel with her monstrous fist, killing him, then She gathered Her shadows and advanced upon Alfric. Hot with murderlust stood that warrior, braving himself against Herself like a hero from out of the sage songs.

  She leapt.

  Alfric struck.

  The deathblade Bloodbane sang through the air, joyful its slaughtersong.

  ‘Die!’ screamed Alfric.

  Hacking Her flesh.

  She screamed.

  The blade slashed Her flesh wide open.

  But even as it did so, the blade bucked and buckled. And, as She flailed at the air in frenzied agony, the metal bubbled and boiled, melted and vaporized.

  And Alfric—

  Astonished—

  Disbelieving—

  Found himself holding nothing more than the hilt of his weapon.

  Then she smashed him.

  It was like being hit by a charging bull.

  Down in the mud went Alfric Danbrog.

  He did not scream, he had no breath to scream, but he fought as best he could. She tore him, ripped him, scragged away his clothes, then picked him up. He swooned as she lifted him. Then She hurled him into the mud.

  He lay there, alive.

  Just.

  He had wit enough to grope for a weapon, any weapon. All he found was a branch, and that was rotten. But it would have to serve.

  ‘Mork,’ muttered Alfric.

  And what he was saying, what he meant to say, why, that was a mystery even to him.

  He struggled to his feet.

  ‘Yoth,’ he said.

  Faintly.

  But, though his voice was not working properly, his legs were. And he was walking toward Her, walking knee-deep through what felt like glue. She screamed in defiance. Standing. Waiting. A shadow amidst shadows. Alfric could not see Her properly, for his spectacles were gone, and his world was little more than a blurred mist of darkness.

  Then She attacked.

  Alfric’s stick was knocked aside in a moment.

  Screaming, she clutched Alfric to Her hairy chest and star
ted to crush the life from his body. The hard tips of Her paps were grinding into his cheek. Desperately, he turned his head and bit into one of those paps, bit as hard as he could, and broke one of his teeth on the hideous thing.

  She laughed.

  ‘Shon,’ she said. ‘Mona shon.’

  Alfric sensed that this was a threat.

  But what did it mean?

  Moments later, he thought he knew.

  For She pushed the hapless Alfric down to the heat between Her thighs. The hot breath of Her lower lips billowed out around him. And he saw the teeth which worked in Her privacy, teeth burning with the same fire which possessed Her eyes. The rancid stench of Her desire belched out from Her wound.

  And She was forcing him inwards.

  Alfric twisted, struggled, fought, but it was no use. He was being forced toward those teeth. Slowly. Remorselessly. She was taking Her time, for She was enjoying this.

  In desperation, Alfric tried to Change. But that was impossible in the heat of combat. In moments he would be mutilated, would be—

  She dropped him.

  Just like that.

  Alfric lay still.

  Did She think him dead?

  She was standing up.

  Looking around.

  At what?

  For what?

  Then Alfric heard some creature howl.

  That sound was hideous, the bloodlust slaughtervoice of some blood-crazed animal, the sound of a thing which gave itself entirely to appetite. It was the sound of a tongue being uprooted, of a leg being wrenched free from a man’s buttock, of a horse screaming as it was slaughtered. And, in a sudden thoughtflash, Alfric realized that She might have a mate, and that this might be the cry of Her mate.

  Then—

  Then he saw it.

  Something white, charging out of the night.

  It leapt upon Her, and She was overthrown.

  Down She went, with the white thing on top of her.

  And Alfric, scarcely a skin away from the combatants, was close enough to see that the white thing was a wolf.

  This was the thing which had howled, which had saved him.

  Saved him?

  Whoever won this mortal combat would surely fall upon Alfric Danbrog and eat him.

  So—

  Slowly, painfully, Alfric began to crawl away from the struggling combatants.