The Werewolf and the Wormlord

by Hugh Cook

  ‘That’s the thing with them dragons, sir,’ said Nappy. ‘They like their liquor, but they don’t know the dangers of the stuff.’

  The pink-faced little man peered into the pitcher where the untunchilamon was swimming around in drunken circles. He hoicked it out and dumped it down on the liquor-table. The disgruntled dragon shook itself, throwing flecks of milk in all directions. Some splattered against the lenses of Alfric’s spectacles. He tried to take them off and clean them.

  ‘Here, sir,’ said Nappy, handing him a clean white handkerchief.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Alfric.

  He cleaned his spectacles then put them back on.

  ‘I’ve got cancer,’ said Nappy.

  But the words were said so casually that Alfric was not sure whether he had heard correctly.

  ‘It’s... it’s good drink,’ said Alfric, draining his.

  ‘Cancer,’ repeated Nappy.

  ‘You don’t mind if I pour myself another one?’ said Alfric.

  ‘In my gut it is. Started on the skin then ate its way in.’ ‘A very, very nice drop,’ said Alfric, draining his thimble-skull.

  ‘Here,’ said Nappy, pulling his clothes away from his midriff.

  Then Alfric had to look, had to, he had no choice, and it was cancer all right, cancer or some kind of lethal ulcer or something worse, yellow at the margins, yellow becoming brown, brown becoming wet black in the centre, and the centre was a kind of funnel that descended inward, inward to the wet pain and the glistening ooze.

  Then Nappy covered the thing once more.

  ‘A drink,’ said Alfric. ‘Maybe you’d like a drink.’

  He poured one for himself, one for Nappy.

  Then said:

  ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘The doctors, they gave me six months,’ said Nappy. ‘But that was last year. I won good money off Olaf Offorum. He bet I’d be dead by now. But, well, let’s put it this way. I’ve made no wagers since. I won’t last long, sir, not now.’

  ‘Do you take anything for it?’

  ‘Laudanum, sir. At nights. So I can sleep. But nothing during the day, no, have to stay sharp, you know. So it hurts, oh, it hurts, I won’t say it doesn’t hurt.’

  A pause.

  The untunchilamon took to the air, circled, then settled on Alfric’s head. He felt its claws seeking purchase. There was a tiny twinge of pain as its talons momentarily dug into his scalp. Then it settled, content with the grip it had established on the hairs of his head.

  Pain is the worse thing.

  ‘They want you dead, you know,’ said Nappy in a conspiratorial whisper.

  ‘I had suspected as much,’ said Alfric.

  Another pause.

  Then:

  ‘Yes,’ said Alfric.

  ‘That’s nice to know,’ said Nappy. ‘I was never sure, you see. I was always too... well, too shy to ask, if you know what I mean. They said I had a reputation, but I never really knew whether to believe them. It’s nice to know, now that. . . now that it’s all coming to an end.’

  ‘You’re - you’re not going to kill yourself, are you?’

  ‘Kill myself?’ said Nappy in wonderment. He thought about it, then laughed: ‘Oh, I see what you mean. No. No, sir. I’m not going to kill myself. Oh no, there’s no need for that. It’ll all end soon enough, without me doing anything about it. Would you like this, sir? As a souvenir, I mean.’

  So saying, Nappy offered Alfric his stiletto. Alfric blinked at the weapon. It had been gone from sight ever since they came into the room, but here it was again, back in Nappy’s hand, and Alfric was prepared to swear by a complete list of all his known ancestors that he had not seen Nappy sheath or unsheath the thing. The steel simply came and went. Like magic.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Alfric, gingerly reaching out and taking the stiletto. ‘It’s very kind of you to give me this.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve eamt it, you’ve eamt it. It’s my father, see.’

  ‘This?’ said Alfric, looking at the knife.

  The room no longer seemed cosy. Rather, it was hot, hot, overheated by the brazier. Alfric wanted to get out, to escape from Nappy, from Nappy’s cancer, from Nappy’s madness. He wanted to be out in the night, alone, utterly free from all the demands of the rest of humanity.

  ‘No, young sir, it’s not the knife I’m talking about,’ said Nappy. ‘It’s my dad. You met him, you see. He’s a werehamster.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Alfric, enlightened.

  ‘He was most impressed with you, he was. You leaving him the most of his treasure. As for what you took, why, I found out about that. What you wanted it for, I mean. That was very handsome of you.’

  ‘It was nothing, really,’ said Alfric, mystified as to why he should be getting such praise for such trivial acts of courtesy and (minimal) kindness.

  ‘It shows you as a generous man,’ said Nappy.

  ‘But I’m not,’ said Alfric, speaking the truth. ‘I’m narrow, intolerant and selfish to boot.’

  ‘Oh, that’s how you see yourself, doubtless,’ said Nappy. ‘That’s how you may be, too, set up against some absolute good. But people - people, young sir, I wouldn’t rightly like to speak of them, not the truth of them. It’s ugly, that’s what it is. But you’re not ugly, not ugly-evil at least.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Alfric, wishing he could believe this were true.

  ‘So I’ve given you the knife,’ said Nappy. ‘I’d like you to have this, too.’

  With that, Nappy gouged out his right eye. Alfric locked his jaws together, choking off a scream. Nappy reached out. He had the eye in his hand. He wanted Alfric to take it. Carefully, Alfric put down the stiletto. He forced his fingers open. He extended his palm. Nappy pressed the eye into Alfric’s open palm.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Alfric.

  Then closed his fist on the eye, expecting it to sklish and squash, to splatter and spurt.

  But the eye was of glass, warm where it had been in contact with Nappy’s flesh, cool where it had been exposed to the night air. Alfric took a good long look at Nappy’s face. The gaping eyesocket was dark, and gave an unexpected touch of malevolence to Nappy’s countenance. But it was bloodless. The injury was years old. ‘Thank you,’ said Alfric. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘I thought ... I thought you’d appreciate the gesture,’ said Nappy. ‘Something to remember me by. Now, young sir, I don’t want to impose on you, but I do need-someone to take over when I die.’

  ‘But of course,’ said Alfric, as if in a dream.

  He had no wish to be a killer, but he would be, if that was the only way for him to live.

  ‘I’ve got a list,’ said Nappy, opening a snuff box and taking out several sheets of onionskin which were almost covered by crabbed handwriting. ‘I wrote this out. I can write. There’s not many who can write, but I wouldn’t be wrong in taking you for one of them.’

  ‘I’m a Banker Third Class,’ said Alfric. Then, remembering his recent promotion: ‘No, Second Class. Anyway. All bankers can read.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Nappy. ‘So here’s the things, all the things, and what to do about them. There’s the asylum committee, that’s for the lunatics. The abortion clinic, not that I approve of it, it’s murder if you ask me, but if we don’t then others will, and better for it to be run on a non-profit basis, that’s what I always say. It’s a crime to make money out of something like that, don’t you think?’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Alfric weakly.

  ‘Then there’s the charity school.’

  ‘School?’ said Alfric. ‘What school?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a new project, you won’t have heard of it. Funding, that’s the problem. Not much money in Galsh Ebrek, you know. Not money enough for all the things that have to be done. But we have our sources. Begging, that’s what it is when you come right down to it. But the Knights don’t pay taxes, and it’s them that has the money, so how else can we get it?’

  Then Nappy led Alfric step by s
tep through the intricacies of all the charity work he was involved in; then he passed his lists to Alfric; then Alfric swore himself to continue Nappy’s good deeds.

  ‘But,’ said Alfric, ‘what about the killing?’

  ‘Killing?’ said Nappy in surprise.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘I mean, someone has to do it.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry your head about that, young master. Killing’s no problem. There’s always someone ready to kill. It’s looking after widows and children, that’s where the problem is. No, don’t you worry your head about any killing. They’ll find a killer with no trouble at all. Well, sir, that takes me to the end of it. I’ll show you to the Polta Door.’

  ‘The Polta Door?’ said Alfric, who had never heard of any such thing.

  ‘A secret way,’ said Nappy. ‘A secret way in and out of Saxo Pall. My secret, sir, known to me and now to you. Not to anyone else.’

  ‘I’d rather leave by the main gate.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that,’ said Nappy. ‘They’re waiting for your body. Ursula Major, I mean. Oh, and Ciranoush Norn. They’re expecting it. They won’t come looking for it, not yet, they know my work’s not always quick. But they do want the body, oh yes, and they wouldn’t let it out of their gates, not if they had a choice in the matter.’ ‘So they want to kill me,’ said Alfric. ‘So how do I survive hereafter?’

  ‘I can’t help you there,’ said Nappy. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve done what I can, but the rest is up to you.’

  Nappy guided Alfric to the Polta Door and showed him out into the night. Then Nappy let the door close behind them.

  ‘Where did it go?’ said Alfric, staring at the rock walls of Saxo Pall. ‘It’s vanished!’

  ‘It’s closed, that’s all,’ said Nappy. ‘Here, young sir. Put your hand here. That’s right. And the other one there, just there. Now. Push inward and downward with the left hand, inward and upward with the right. See?’ What appeared to be solid rock gave beneath Alfric’s hands, and the Polta Door opened.

  ‘Finding the place,’ said Nappy, ‘that’s the thing. Finding the place. Landmarks, that’s the thing. Line up landmarks.’

  Alfric orientated himself. Looked up the slopes of Mobius Kolb to the walls of the Bank and to the moonshining Gloat on the heights beyond.

  ‘I can find the place again,’ said Alfric.

  ‘I hope you can, young sir,’ said Nappy calmly. ‘Because I won’t be here to help you.’

  Then Nappy said one final goodbye, went into Saxo Pall through the Polta Door, and let that secret portal close behind him.

  Alfric was left alone in the night, which was bitterly cold. The moon was null, but the uncanny light of the Oracle of Ob still shone bright and strong, serving as an acceptable substitute.

  But Alfric needed no substitute. Nor did he need the moon itself. Tonight, he knew. He was not the moon’s minion but the Commander of his own Powers, the Commander of the Power to Change. He could do so now, if he wished. Wrists thickening, hairs darkening, teeth lengthening, body girthing and strengthening.

  He had the choice.

  He could Change, and flee Galsh Ebrek, and live wild as a ravening enemy of the city, live wild in the forest, savaging and destroying at will.

  But:

  ‘That is not my choice.’

  So said Alfric Danbrog, then turned his back on the Oracle of Ob and started walking down Mobius Kolb, making for Varnvelten Street and his home.

  Of course, this was not the end of the matter. There would always be the moon, and the temptations of the moon. There would always be the memory of those three months in the Qinjoks when he had lived as a wolf, running wild and shameless through the wilderness.

  But...

  He had faced his great crisis and had survived it. While he was a shape-changer, he knew himself to be fit to live among humans. He had never been entirely sure of that till now. The great burden of his life had been the fear that the madness of the moon would one day overcome him; that his efforts to restrain himself would fail; that he would become one with the ravening beasts, gladly slaughtering any and all without thought for the consequences.

  Now he knew otherwise.

  He would never yield to such temptation, except by an act of untrammelled free will; and this knowledge of selfpossession compensated for whatever he had lost. Though he had been defeated in his efforts to win the throne of Galsh Ebrek, at least he had full possession of himself.

  ‘Besides,’ said Alfric, ‘the game is not yet played out.’

  He was still alive.

  And Ursula Major could not kill him openly, for she had granted him a pardon in the presence of many witnessing Yudonic Knights. When challenged to combat by the ork Morgenstem, Ursula had pardoned Alfric; and law and tradition did not allow such a mercy to be withdrawn.

  ‘She wants to kill me,’ said Alfric to himself, ‘but it must be done by stealth. Well. I have eyes and ears and hands and feet, and a sword to guard myself, and a stiletto, and a glass eye besides, so what fear have I of assassins?’

  He realized that, though he was speaking to himself, his voice was loud. He must be a little drunk.

  ‘What of it?’ said Alfric. ‘A man may have a little drink to celebrate a victory, may he not?’

  Then he went down Mobius Kolb, walking boldly through the night, careless of any danger he might encounter. He went directly to Varnvelten Street. As far as he was concerned, that was enough. His enemies thought Nappy to be killing him slowly in some secret place of screaming horror. They would not look for him in his home or elsewhere, not tonight.

  When Alfric got home, he found his house had been looted. Candles lit by the looters were still burning.

  ‘Robbers!’ said Alfric.

  And tried to work out exactly what had been stolen.

  Viola Vanaleta’s favourite chair. Viola Vanaleta’s favourite table. Vanaleta’s spare clothes. Vanaleta’s lantern, the special stained-glass lantern which had been a wedding gift from her grandmother.

  No, the house had not been burgled.

  Rather, Alfric’s wife had come and had removed all that belonged to her, together with all those items of jointly held property to which she had some special claim.

  ‘So this is it,’ muttered Alfric. ‘This is final. What next? Divorce papers, I suppose.’

  And he began to feel weary, very weary, so weary that he wondered if perhaps Nappy had poisoned him. Reeling with fatigue, he stumbled to his bed, and laid himself down without bothering to take off his boots. And when he woke it was morning, and sun was streaming in through a small glass window near his head, and at first he was puzzled by that light, for it was so long since he had seen the sun that he was almost ready to deny the reality of the sun’s existence.

  ‘A new day,’ said Alfric.

  Yes, a new day.

  And now he had his problems to attend to.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Alfric scavenged around for a meal, and was rewarded by the discovery of three small cakes of cooked oatmeal and a lump of dried fish. While he was taking breakfast, he schemed diligently. The game of power was not played out yet; but, if Alfric was going to survive to play much longer, he would have to make Ursula Major understand that she needed him.

  What did he have that she wanted? Or might be made to want? Of course! His knowledge of finance!

  Alfric had long observed that the government of Wen Endex was deficient in that it had no properly organized system of taxes. Given such a system, the streets of Galsh Ebrek could be properly paved; roads could be built across the nation; the swamps could be drained; and many other things equally as marvellous could be accomplished.

  Once Ursula Major understood that Alfric could arrange all this on her behalf, surely she would rather have him as an ally than as an enemy. And once installed in the power system, he could work to put himself on the throne.

  ‘It will work,’ said Alfric to himself.

  Then was startled by a knock on the door.
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  Alfric feared this might signal the advent of Ciranoush Zaxilian Nom at the head of a gang of headhunters. But his visitors proved to be the orks, Cod and Morgenstem.

  ‘Hello,’said Alfric.

  ‘Hello Alfric,’ said Morgenstem.

  ‘May we come in?’ said Cod. ‘There’s something we’d like to talk about.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Alfric, ‘that this isn’t a convenient moment for a talk.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Cod.

  ‘Because,’ said Alfric, ‘I’m going to Saxo Pall.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Morgenstem. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

  ‘I don’t care if it’s wise or not,’ said Alfric. ‘I’m going.’ ‘There’s things going on in that castle which aren’t really nice,’ said Morgenstem.

  ‘Such as what?’ said Alfric.

  ‘Such as people dying,’ said Morgenstem. ‘Nappy, for instance.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ said Alfric.

  ‘He died,’ said Morgenstem. ‘He died in his sleep last night.’

  Alfric knew what it meant ‘to die in one’s sleep’. Alfric could not help himself. He shuddered, imagining the wet bone, the shattered teeth, the eyes avulsed, the intestines spraddled across the room. ‘To die in your sleep’ -in Wen Endex, that denoted the most hideous of all possible deaths. Who had commanded such a death? The smooth-breasted Ursula Major? Or the female Thrug? Or had the execution been commanded by Ciranoush Zaxilian Nom?

  Whatever the truth, Nappy’s death served to increase Alfric’s sense of personal danger. Unless he could secure himself the protection of some kind of power base, he had best leave Wen Endex to preserve his own life.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about Nappy,’ said Alfric, ‘but it doesn’t change the facts. I’m still going. I’ve got a clear choice. Either I do a deal with Ursula Major or I flee the city.’

  ‘What kind of deal are you thinking of doing?’ said Cod.

  ‘I’m going to offer to run her inland revenue department,’ said Alfric.

  ‘But she doesn’t have an inland revenue department!’ said Cod.