The Werewolf and the Wormlord

by Hugh Cook

  The worst had happened.

  Guignol Grangalet had been around the town, telling all and sundry that Alfric Danbrog had cursed his father and his grandfather both, and was keeping to his house in insolence, refusing to attend the funeral that was being held by the seashore that very night.

  ‘Stroth!’ said Alfric.

  ‘Don’t talk so harsh,’ said one of the guards. ‘You’ll upset your horse. Would your horse like an apple? Would you like to eat, horsey my darling?’

  Then, to Alfric’s surprise, the guard produced a wizened old apple and fed it to the horse, which munched it down greedily. At this end of the cold weather, all the horses of the city were on short commons, with the last of the hay close to running out and precious little else for them to eat.

  ‘My horse thanks you for your kindness,’ said Alfric coldly. ‘And now I must go.’

  Then he set off for the shore.

  He was consumed by fury.

  How dare they!

  How dare they stoop so low!

  And - what could he do to repair the damage?

  Guignol Grangalet was a sober citizen, a man of impeccable reputation. Ninety-nine people in a hundred would believe him. And Alfric? Why, many people feared him to be a werewolf, because his father had long been thought to be such a shape-changer; and, besides, he was a banker, and hence had lived most of his life at a remove from his peers; and—

  ‘Pox!’said Alfric. '

  One of the Bank’s teachings came to him, but late, far too late:

  ‘First secure your lines of intelligence.’

  Alfric should have had a spy in Saxo Pall. Who? It mattered not. A guard, a serving maid, a slave who went round collecting night soil. Anyone, anyone. Just one set of ears in the castle might have saved the day for him. He should have known where his father’s body was, and when the funeral was.

  And now—

  ‘Faster, blast you!’ said Alfric to his horse.

  But the beast had its limits, and all Alfric’s strength of will could not extend them, and long before he got to the seashore he started to meet Knights returning from the bonfire.

  ‘So!’ said one, recognizing him. ‘Danbrog! You repent of your insolence, do you?’

  ‘I’ve nothing to repent of,’ said Alfric defiantly. ‘Guignol Grangalet told me the funeral was scheduled for the morrow. He lied as to my reaction.’

  ‘You call him a liar, do you?’

  ‘That I do,’ said Alfric. ‘I’ll say as much in public. If he wants to make a fight of it, then that’s fine by me.’

  ‘If you make a fight of it,’ said the Knight grimly, ‘you may well find that friend Grangalet has heroes to champion him.’

  Then rode on, without listening to Alfric’s protestations any further.

  Other Knights he stopped. Some, after listening to his explanations, were prepared to allow that there might have been a misunderstanding between Alfric and Grangalet.

  ‘Perhaps you were drunk,’ said one of them. ‘You sound a little drunk at the moment, if truth be told.’

  But none would countenance the idea that Grangalet had deliberately deceived Alfric, or that Grangalet had wilfully besmirched Alfric’s reputation. The thought was too monstrous to be believable.

  ‘Drunk!’ said Alfric to himself. ‘So that’s what they’ll think, is it?’

  Well, yes.

  Once Alfric had worked long and hard at salvaging his reputation, the Knights of Galsh Ebrek might be prepared to forgive him for saying foolish things while drunk. That was the very best he could hope for.

  And even to achieve that outcome would take time.

  And time was of the essence.

  ‘I don’t have time,’ said Alfric.

  At last, Alfric reached the shores of the Winter Sea, and found the funeral was at an end. All the Knights had departed. A huge pyre still smouldered in the dunes; and, by the firelight, Alfric saw the hoofmarks and footprints which spoke of a great gathering. Doubtless, speeches had been made and hearts hardened; doubtless, hard words had been said and curses had been heaped on his throat.

  ‘She plays hard,’ said Alfric bitterly, speaking of Ursula Major.

  But what had he expected?

  There had never been any love lost between the two of them.

  But whose was the mind which had done the necessary malicious scheming? Who precisely had cooked up Grangalet’s breath-taking untruths? Who had the daring, the wit? Who was ruthless enough? Not Ursula herself, surely; for she was a woman of much beauty but little mind.

  ‘I’ll find out,’ said Alfric grimly. ‘I’ll find out. Then take revenge.’

  Right then and there, he felt every bit the werewolf, a bloody outcast full of hate, rapacious and desperate, bent for revenge upon humankind. He sat down by the smouldering embers' of the fire and began to brood upon his misery.

  Right now, Guignol Grangalet. . .

  Right now, Grangalet was in Galsh Ebrek.

  —And what would I do if I were Grangalet?

  Belatedly, Alfric started to think.

  —If I were Grangalet, I’d know young Danbrog had gone riding. I’d know he’d speak to as many Knights as he could. So I’d place myself or my ears at the Stanch Gates to meet the Knights as they returned to Galsh Ebrek. Myself would be best, for then I could meet truth with fresh lies.

  —Stroth!

  Alfric swore thus, then swore again. He began to suspect manoeuvres within manoeuvres. How had those men come to be outside his house? Had they come there spontaneously? Or had they been paid to go there and throw a brick through his window? And had they really been as drunk as they seemed?

  ‘Blood of the Gloat!’ said Alfric. ‘Maybe he planned this too!’

  Whatever Guignol Grangalet had planned, the outcome was all in his favour. Here sat Alfric Danbrog by the ruins of a big bonfire, leagues away from Galsh Ebrek. Meanwhile, back in the city, Grangalet was free to tell, retell and modify his lies, to soothe doubts and extract pledges of loyalty and allegiance, to tell fresh lies, distribute forged documents, cast doubts upon Alfric’s part in the death of Herself, and do anything else he wished to do to secure Ursula Major’s position.

  ‘How are you feeling, horse?’ said Alfric, turning to his noble steed. ‘I hope you’re feeling fit and hearty, because we’ve a good long ride ahead of us.’

  Then Alfric mounted up, intending to gallop back to Galsh Ebrek and plunge into the heart of the city’s turbulent politics.

  But his horse gently subsided beneath him.

  ‘Get up!’ said Alfric, kicking the beast.

  But kicking was no good, for the thing was dead.

  Then Alfric remembered the guard at the Stanch Gates who had fed his horse an apple. A poisoned apple? Or was it just coincidence that his horse had dropped dead?

  ‘Apples, apples,’ said Alfric. ‘What’s the price of apples?’

  He didn’t know.

  Why didn’t he know?

  For a very simple reason: he never did the shopping.

  His wife Vanaletta had always bought in their provisions.

  But Alfric guessed that, at this end of the cold weather, the price of apples was likely to be monstrous, even the price of dried-up time-shrivelled apples such as that which had been fed to the horse.

  ‘They haven’t missed a trick,’ said Alfric bitterly.

  What should he do?

  —Stop!

  —Think, for once.

  —What would Grangalet expect me to do?

  —Why, walk back to the city, of course. A dead horse is no bar to locomotion.

  Suddenly, Alfric realized that his position was somewhat precarious. He was all alone and far from the city.

  He had no horse. Also, if he died tonight, there would be nobody in Galsh Ebrek to avenge him. Rather, the Knights would probably think themselves well rid of him.

  ‘A good time, then, for murder.’

  Ursula Major and Guignol Grangalet had dared so much already that the
y were scarcely likely to shy away from acts of precipitate violence.

  They would expect him to head back to the city. And they might well have arranged for an ambush along the way.

  —So what should I do?

  —Preserve my life.

  —But how?

  —Well...

  —What would they think me least likely to do?

  —Why, to stay here and do nothing.

  So Alfric did just that, and sat long by the sea, alone with his thoughts and his sorrows.

  Time and time again the suthering seas rose from the drenching depths of the ocean, ran up the beach then retreated. And Alfric was almost minded to cast himself into the waters of the Winter Sea and to be swept away by that power which playthinged wrecked ships and rubbled the rocks of sunken cities.

  But:

  ‘I won’t surrender. Not so easily.’

  So said Alfric to himself.

  ‘I am king,’ whispered Alfric.

  Thinking that surely true, true, at least in terms of legal entitlement. For he had really and truly gone on the three quests, against dragon, giant and vampires. He had won the three saga swords, Edda, Sulamith’s Grief and Kinskom. He had dared his strength against Herself, and had slaughtered the monster who had for so long afflicted Wen Endex with terror.

  All this he had done.

  The throne should be his.

  So:

  ‘How dare the woman deny me mine!’

  So thought Alfric, then got to his feet. He had lingered here long enough. It was time to be going, whatever the dangers.

  ‘If she sends murderers, who will they be?’

  The most likely assassin was Ciranoush Zaxilian Nom. Alfric had never wished to have the blood of any of the Norn brothers on his hands. He certainly had not wished Pig Norn to die as he had at banquet, strangled by Nappy. But Pig was dead. And Alfric had killed Muscleman Wu himself, and all of Wen Endex knew it. Whether he liked it or not, he was locked into a feud with the surviving Norn brother, Ciranoush Zaxilian.

  Ursula Major knew as much, so, if she wanted Alfric dead, her most obvious step was to urge Ciranoush to seize his opportunity.

  ‘But Ciranoush,’ said Alfric, thinking what he knew of the man, ‘is a city person. I don’t think he’d hunt me through the woods. I think, rather, that he’d wait for my return. In my own house, maybe.’

  So thinking, Alfric started back for Galsh Ebrek. And, though he went cautiously indeed, he did not truly expect to be attacked, not in the wilderness.

  He only started to look for murderers in earnest when he came in through the Stanch Gates.

  The guards at the Gates had been changed, so Alfric asked no questions about apples and the poisoning of horses thereby. Nor did he ask after Ciranoush Nom, for he thought the guards might have been primed with lies. Alfric’s enemies hadn’t missed a trick so far, and he doubted that he had seen the last of their tricks.

  —Where now?

  —Home?

  It would be safer, surely, to go somewhere more populous. His home was dark and empty. It would be easy for Ciranoush to murder him there. More difficult, though, if he sheltered in the Green Cricket.

  —Besides, I have to tell Anna Blaume about her horse.

  Blaume was not going to be happy to know that another of her mounts was dead, even though Alfric could easily pay for the horseflesh.

  —Still, I don’t think I’ll have cause to hire another horse in a hurry.

  —Unless it’s to take me in flight from the city.

  So thinking, Alfric started out for the Green Cricket, cursing the heavy mud of the city streets. Those streets should by rights be paved with good stone. That would cost money, of course; but money there would be if the wealth of the Bank was properly taxed. The Bank itself taxed everything which moved through the Bank’s part of the Circle; but precious little of the wealth so won came into Galsh Ebrek. Rather, the Bankers invested their wealth in estates in foreign parts, and retired in their old age to Dalar ken Halvar or Chi’ash-lan, spending their fortunes on the cosmopolitan pleasures available in those places.

  Such behaviour was only natural when Wen Endex was nothing but a muddy province of swamp and ghosts, but, when Alfric became king, it would change. He would have the streets paved. Or he would move the city from the river, for the lowlands were unhealthy. Or he would at least see the city’s buildings put up on stilts, as was done in foreign places he had heard of, such as Bolfrigalaskaptiko, a famous city in the tropics.

  Bolfrigalaskaptiko.

  He would like to see that place one day. It lay by the River Ka, did it not? Just upstream from the great lagoon of Manamalargo. There were many worthy places a man could visit if once he...

  Alfric sternly counselled himself against thinking such thoughts. They were defeat-thoughts. He was already beginning to imagine defeat and exile.

  —Which will not happen!

  —The game is not yet played out!

  —I will fight.

  —I will!

  —And I will win!

  Thus thinking, Alfric gained the door of the Green Cricket, and was about to knock upon that door when he heard the sound of a boot sklurching out of the mud behind him. He turned, drawing his sword as he turned, and was just in time to meet a blade with his.

  Steel clashed with steel, then the door was thrown open and the orks Cod and Morgenstem came shouldering out into the night, with the dwarves Du Deiner and Mich Dir nimbling at their ankles. And Alfric’s assailant panicked, and fled.

  ‘Who was it?’ said Cod, staring into the dark.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Alfric, panting.

  He had seen the man clearly enough, but had not recognized him. Which was a bad sign. He had thought Ciranoush Zaxilian Nom to be the only assassin he would have to deal with, but another had been found.

  Either Ursula Major had recruited the fellow, or else the man had recruited himself. Either way—

  ‘Come inside,’ said Morgenstem.

  And led Alfric inside, and sat him down.

  ‘Drink this,’ said Anna Blaume, materializing at Alfric’s side.

  She pressed a mug into his hands. Alfric thought it was ale, and drank deeply. Brandy flamed down his throat, and he gasped.

  ‘Brandy,’ said Blaume. ‘A drink for heroes.’

  ‘Tonight,’ said Alfric, carefully putting down the mug, ‘I’m not feeling quite that heroic.’

  A greeding untunchilamon settled upon the side of the mug and dipped its head into the fiery brew. Anna Blaume knocked the dragon away. It took to the air, circled thrice, then settled upon her head.

  ‘Some of those things are becoming positively alcoholic,’ said Blaume. ‘But never mind. Let’s talk of what’s really important. Who was it who tried to kill you? And how can we stop them?’

  ‘I don’t know who it was,’ said Alfric. ‘As for how you can stop them, why, the only way for me to save my life now is for me to make myself king. But I don’t know that I can hope to survive the next few days.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ said Anna Blaume.

  ‘Listen,’ said Cod, ‘we’re to present ourselves to Saxo Pall some four nights from now.’

  ‘So?’ said Alfric.

  ‘So, come with us,’ said Cod. ‘We’re ambassadors, aren’t we? Whoever’s out to kill you, they’re not likely to attack you while you’re with two ambassadors.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Alfric.

  But, on reflection, he saw that the ork’s plan had a lot to recommend it. Alfric’s main danger was from Ursula Major. She would move cautiously where the ogre king’s ambassadors were concerned, ‘It’s a good plan,’ said Anna Blaume. ‘You stay here, Alfric. We’ll keep you safe with the orks. Nobody will dare to move against you.’

  And so it was that, shortly, an exhausted Alfric Danbrog was asleep in Anna Blaume’s big bed, with an ork keeping watch over him. While Alfric slept, untunchilamons descended to his pillow, and ravaged the few lice that were
to be found in his hair. Then settled there to sleep themselves, liking the warmth of his body.

  Thus the rightful king of Galsh Ebrek slept in the house of one of his loyal subjects, guarded by the minions of the lord of the Qinjoks and by the valour of the dragons of Wen Endex.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The rightful king of Wen Endex spent three nights sheltering in the Green Cricket with the ambassadors from the Qinjoks. Then, on the fourth night, he accompanied them to Saxo Pall, where the orks were to have an audience with Ursula Major.

  There was some trouble when the three-strong party arrived at Saxo Pall, for Guignol Grangalet sought to separate Alfric from the orks. But Cod and Morgenstem stood firm, and insisted that Alfric be allowed to accompany them into the throneroom.

  Which, at last, he was allowed to do.

  Though Ursula Major had ruled Saxo Pall but briefly, she had made her mark on it in a mixed way. The throneroom had been massively renovated since Alfric had been there last. It blazed with light, for the number of lanterns in the place had been tripled. Everything had been washed, polished, scrubbed or refurbished; and, to his surprise, Alfric found he could see his reflection in the unstained floor. He had always thought it roughwork granite of some kind; but, now the muck of generations had been scoured away, he saw the floor was made of the smoothest white-veined black marble.

  Sitting on the throne was Ursula Major, as poised as ever. She was wearing silks; and her nipples flowered against her silks. Something in the way she sat suggested that she was fully conscious of the perfection of her breasts and the effect it had on the susceptible; and, little as Alfric wanted to admit it, in truth he was one of the susceptible.

  ‘Stand here,’ said Guignol Grangalet.

  ‘Where?’ said Alfric, taking his eyes off Ursula Major.

  ‘Never mind where he says,’ said Cod firmly. ‘You’re staying with us.’

  Again the orks stood firm; and Alfric stayed in the company of those ambassadors from the Qinjoks as they made between them an interminable and wearisome speech about the long friendship which had endured between that king and the lords of Galsh Ebrek.

  The witnesses to this speech were many; but Alfric felt very much alone and isolated, for the many were Yudonic Knights to a man, and fear of assassins had kept him from making any effort to repair his relationships with the breed.