The Werewolf and the Wormlord (13 page)

‘No,’ said Qa. ‘I can’t. I’m too old to learn another language.’

‘But,’ said Alfric, ‘sea dragons are famous for their intellectual agility. I’m sure you’d soon adapt. Come on. You can do it!’

‘No,’ said Qa, despondently. ‘I’m too old, and I know it.’

Then the dragon began to cry once more, and a most melancholy sight it made. Alfric lost patience. He got to his feet.

‘What’s this?’ said Qa. ‘You want to get down to the fighting and killing?’

‘No,’ said Alfric, stamping his feet. ‘I want to get warm. I’m soaked to the skin and in danger of dying of hypothermia.’

‘Well then,’ said Qa, ‘warm yourself up quickly, for we really must get to the fighting bit.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that’s exactly essential,’ said Alfric.

‘I’m afraid it is,’ said Qa. ‘Honour and all that. It’s all I’ve got left, you see. My honour as a Yudonic Knight and a loyal servant of the Wormlord. What do you want to use as a weapon? You’ve got your own sword, of course, but there are a few other weapons lying about. They usually want to use the ironsword, but it’s rusted, as you see.’

‘I can’t, actually,’ said Alfric. ‘I mean, I don’t know where it is.’

The dragon pointed it out.

Strangely, the hilt of the ironsword Edda was undamaged; it appeared to be made of a metal more durable than the rest. But the blade had suffered bitterly from the seasalt, which had reduced the weapon’s striking strength to a wavery slither of black-buckling metal.

‘So they usually go against you with their own swords,’ said Alfric.

‘Usually, yes.’

‘And you kill them. Usually.’

‘No,’ said Qa. ‘Not usually. Always. It’s very simple. I breathe fire into the water, you see.’ The dragon dabbled its claws in one of the puddles, demonstrating the prodigious quantities of water which were conveniently to hand. ‘That fills the air with steam,’ said Qa. ‘So they can’t see. Even if it’s daytime. There’s cracks in the rocks above, you see. If it’s daytime there’s light in the cave. Anyway, the steam blinds them. Usually they flail around a bit with their swords. Then I attack.’

‘How?’ said Alfric.

‘Well,’ said Qa, ‘in my younger days, I used to bite off heads. Of course I broke the occasional fang on an iron collar or such. Then the rest of my teeth fell out with the onset of age. So these days I usually stand back and throw things.’

‘Throw things?’ said Alfric.

‘Well, rocks,’ said the dragon.

So saying, Qa secured a skull-sized rock with his talons.

‘See that helmet?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Alfric.

The helmet sat atop a dismal pile of shattered bucklers and mangled armour. Qa threw the stone with great speed and accuracy. The helmet was smashed back against the wall of the cave.

‘That’s... that’s remarkably good throwing,’ said Alfric.

‘Also a demonstration of intelligence,’ said Qa. ‘That’s what makes a sea dragon dangerous.’

‘Dangerous indeed!’ said Alfric. ‘Quite frankly, I don’t think I’ve got a chance of besting you in combat.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Qa, ‘because I rather like you. You’re much more polite than the average Knight. I mean, they usually rabbit on no end about me eating that child and all the rest. Well, maybe it was a breach of etiquette, but I don’t see that it was a sin. After all, something has to keep down the human population, doesn’t it? Humans have no natural predators to keep their numbers in check, so if it wasn’t for the occasional maneating dragon and such, you’d have a thousand million people or more living in Yestron alone.’

Alfric knew this was quite impossible, but nevertheless shuddered at such a nightmarish thought. A thousand million people! A ludicrous notion. But imagine...

‘What about sea dragons?’ said Alfric. ‘Is there anything that eats sea dragons?’

‘Oh, all kinds of things,’ said Qa. ‘Sharks, for example. Though sometimes we eat back. I’ve killed a good many sharks in my time, I’ll have you know. Used to make a sport of it. Then there’s sea serpents. Oh, and krakens of course. You know. The usual run of sea monsters.’

‘That sounds very interesting,’ said Alfric. ‘What say you tell me about it while we have a little meal? If I’m going to die, I’d like to die on a full belly, and to listen to some more of your poetry before I expire, if you don’t mind.’

‘Why, that sounds a capital idea,’ said the dragon. Then, mournfully: ‘But I’m afraid I don’t really have anything to offer you. It’s not much of a life here, you see. Seaweed, that’s what it mostly comes down to. Eating seaweed.’

‘Actually,’ said Alfric, ‘I’m partial to seaweed.’

‘Of course you are,’ said Qa, ‘you being a child of Wen Endex and all. But you like it cooked, don’t you? Humans can’t eat much of the stuff raw, oh no, I know that from past experience. I used to try keeping the occasional captive, when I had two of them. I sometimes did, you know. They didn’t always come alone, even though that’s the law. So I’d try to preserve some of the meat on the hoof. But they always complained most bitterly about the diet.’

‘As it happens,’ said Alfric, ‘I’ve some food in my pack. Pork, actually. I have heard it said that sea dragons are partial to pork. You’re most welcome to share it with me.’

‘Why, that’s very gracious of you,’ said Qa.

So Alfric opened up his pack and the pair began to banquet upon pork, with Alfric taking care to select the very best bits for the dragon. While they ate, they discussed Galsh Ebrek. Qa had heard of the untunchilamons, and was most interested in the progress of that breed of miniatures.

‘Maybe I could get one,’ said Qa. ‘As a pet. I’ve never had a pet, you know. It’s a pity I have to kill you, otherwise you could fetch me one.’

‘Doubtless you’ll get all you deserve in time,’ said Alfric. ‘Would you care for some more pork?’

‘Please.’

‘You’ve got quite an appetite,’ said Alfric.

‘Yes,’ said Qa. ‘Since this is winter, I have to eat extramuch. Otherwise I’d have to hibernate. Most sea dragons do, you know. All through winter. Of course, extramuch mostly means great quantities of seaweed. Fortunately, I’m able to vary the diet from time to time.’ ‘How?’ said Alfric.

‘With Yudonic Knights, of course,’ said Qa. ‘And their horses. Would you like some fresh horsemeat to go with your pork?’

‘I’d like that very much, if it were available,’ said Alfric. ‘For I’m rather partial to horsemeat. But unfortunately there’s no horse available.’

‘There is, you know,’ said Qa.

Then the dragon went to the back of the cave, dipped its talons into a generous crack in the rock, and hauled out something which smelt very much like fresh meat. It proved to be the haunch of a horse. A horse very recently dead, if Alfric was any judge - and he thought himself a good one.

‘You see,’ said Qa, ‘I did swim to the forest. I did find your horse.’

There was a pause.

Really!

This was most difficult!

‘I - I’m sorry I lied to you about the horse,’ said Alfric. ‘But the rest is true. About the poetry, the invitation to Tang. All true.’

‘I wish I could believe you,’ said the dragon. ‘But I can’t. You’re a liar, you see. Never mind, we won’t let that stand in the way of our friendship. Which will last at least until the meal ends. Perhaps you’re in the mood to listen to some more of my poetry. Are you?’

‘Most definitely,’ said Alfric.

So Qa began to recite. On and on went the recitation, the dragon at length abandoning food in favour of unrestricted concentration on poetry.

But it was too late.

For the dragon had already eaten more than it should have done.

And, soon enough, its eyes began to lull, its words became slurred, and it was struggling to keep its balance. Suddenly it fell over to one side. And then was abruptly sick.

‘Oh,’ said Qa, mournfully. ‘I haven’t been sick like that for years. Not since they fed me opium. At a banquet, it was. Done for a joke. There was opium, wasn’t there? In the pork. The bits you fed me.’

‘Yes,’ admitted Alfric.

‘You did well,’ said the dragon. ‘But not quite well enough. I’ve still the strength to kill you, you know. You’d better run while you’ve still got time.’

‘You’re bluffing, I’m afraid,’ said Alfric. ‘What’s more, I know you’re bluffing. Furthermore, it’s time for me to kill you.’

‘Just one thing I ask,’ said the dragon.

‘What’s that?’

‘No lectures, please,’ said Qa. ‘Not while I’m writhing in my death agonies. I couldn’t bear it. Lectures, I mean. About eating children and all that.’

‘Oh, that’s perfectly understandable,’ said Alfric, who detested children. ‘No, I’m not killing you for any moralistic reasons. I’m killing you out of enlightened self-interest. How would you like to be killed?’

‘A blade in the heart would be quickest,’ said Qa, rolling over. ‘Stick it in here.’

So saying, the dragon tapped its belly with a set of talons, indicating the location of the heart. Then it closed its eyes, as if waiting for death.

Alfric cautiously stepped back, away from the dragon. Stealthily he picked up a skull-sized rock. Then tossed it. So it landed on the dragon’s belly.

Instantly the creature exploded into wrathful action, clawing with all four taloned legs, fire ravaging the air as it roared its anger. Then it realized it had been tricked. It had been fooled into expending its best energies on nothing more than a rock. It screamed, incoherent with rage. Scrabbled to its feet. Charged at Alfric.

But stumbled, tricked out of its balance by opium. Slithered. Fell. And Alfric drew his sword and leapt forward, stricking, hacking, slashing, plunging. Then struggling, struggling, struggling to draw out the steel which was stuck in the flesh, flesh he was kicking and cursing.

Badged with blood the ravager at last got free his blade. Then hacked. Then hacked again. Then stepped back to watch his enemy die.

‘It hurts,’ said Qa. ‘It hurts.’

Alfric stood watching, panting harshly.

‘It hurts,’ moaned Qa.

Voice failing, fading.

A wisp of smoke escaped from the dragon’s nostrils. One last firefly-rivalling flicker of fire showed at its mouth. Then it was dead. It was most clearly and obviously dead. Though Alfric nevertheless hacked off its head to be absolutely sure.

And then—

Then he bathed his hands in one of the puddles, for they had got scorched by fire in the course of the battle, and were very sore.

For a long time he squatted by the cold water, hands engulfed in that darkness. As he waited there, his battle-anger cooled away to nothing, and he was left alone and very lonely. The cave was dark, dark and cold, and very lonely. And Alfric began to weep for the dead dragon and its lonely vigil, and for the bitterness of this cold universe where things lived in holes, crawling forth at intervals to fight each other and die, each yearning for comfort yet afraid to trust the other, the dreaded other which might provide that comfort.

At last Alfric withdrew his hands from the water, cleansed his sword, sheathed his sword, picked up the shrivelled iron of the saga sword Edda, then left the cave. His pack he left behind, and also any and all other treasures which had belonged to the dragon.

Waves were sweeping across the sandstrand which stretched between Thodrun and the shore, either because the seas had got up or because the tide had started to come in while Alfric was in discourse with the dragon. The wind’s icy blast in freezing squalls drove the racing combers with fury, but Alfric plunged into the water, unaffrighted, and struggled toward the shore. Only when he stepped clear of the sea did he realize how close he had come to losing the ironsword Edda to the wrecking waters.

Under the dead stars he walked toward the dunes, icy iron in his hand, bones creaking as his flesh animated itself toward its destination. He felt, at that moment, that he would not have cared even if he had lost the sword. For his guilt was upon him. He had killed, he had slaughtered a poet, and his shame would be upon him for ever. He had murdered Qa. He had been forced to. Because the dragon had not trusted him. If he had not lied about the horse, then he might have won the creature’s trust. The dragon would have gone to Tang, and all would have ended happily ever after.

Instead, Alfric Danbrog would have bitter memories to bear for the rest of his life. But at least he was alive, yes, he was alive, and returning to Galsh Ebrek as a hero.

CHAPTER EIGHT

After killing the sea dragon Qa, Alfric tramped along the coast until he came to an abandoned croft. By that time, the night was nearly at an end. He laid himself down inside the ruinous crofthouse and dropped off into an exhausted sleep.

When Alfric woke, it was still night. Was he at the end of his dragon-fighting night? Or had he slept right through the day to the start of a new night? He could not say, for clouds obscured the sky, denying him the timetelling stars. Regardless of how long he might have slept, he felt weary, his body aching like a resurrected carcass. Pain still dwelt in his dragon-scorched hands, and to this annoyance was added a pressing hunger which he had no means of satisfying.