The Werewolf and the Wormlord (18 page)

Warily, Alfric scanned the trees to either side, and shortly spied a single figure almost hidden by the undergrowth.

‘You!’ said Alfric. ‘Step forth!’

No response.

Alfric stooped, picked up a stone and shied it at the figure. The stone clattered through the branches, barely missing the stranger.

‘I see you well enough,’ said Alfric. ‘Step forth, or I’ll cut you to pieces.’

Moving slowly and furtively, the figure crept into the open. Did it have longbow? Crossbow? Throwing stick? No. A sickle, that was all.

‘Drop the blade,’ said Alfric.

The figure dropped the blade.

Alfric advanced.

His opponent retreated.

Alfric stepped on the sickle, trapping it under his boot.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘I will kill you, for you are doubtless a bandit. Do you wish to make a confession before I lop off your head?’

‘Master,’ said his intended victim, speaking in an old man’s voice. ‘Master, lop me not, for I have treasure in my cave. Treasure to make you rich.’

‘You have, have you?’ said Alfric.

‘Truly.’

‘You’d better not be lying. If you are, I’ll cut off your sex and leave you to bleed to death.’

‘Oh, I’m not lying, master, not lying at all.’

‘Then tie up my horses while my blade keeps watch. Then lead on to this cave. Is it far?’

‘A hundred paces, no more.’

As the old man was tying up the horses, the baby began to cry.

‘What’s that?’ said the old man.

‘What does it sound like?’

‘A baby.’ ‘Why, and a baby it is. If you’ve any more stupid questions then keep them to yourself.’

‘If it’s a baby,’ said the old man, ‘I—’

‘It is a baby! I’ve told you that twice, now.’

‘My, you haven’t half got a temper!’ said the old man. ‘AH I was saying was maybe we’d best bring it inside.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said Alfric. ‘You keep your hands off it. And remember - I’ve a hand free for my sword.’ He picked up the blanket-wrapped baby. ‘Very well. We’re ready. Lead on.’

The old man was lying about the distance to his lair, for the cave proved to be a good 150 paces distant. But Alfric forgave him for that.

The cave itself proved to be a most comfortable place. The elements had been walled out, and a door gave entry to a lantern-lit place complete with truckle bed, table and four-strong chairs. At the back of the cave were half a dozen strongboxes.

‘Where’s the treasure?’ said Alfric.

‘In the strongboxes,’ said the old man. ‘Before I open them, would you like a beer? Beer and cheese?’

‘Beer, no,’ said Alfric. ‘Cheese, yes.’

‘That’s in the strongboxes too,’ said the old man.

‘Very well,’ said Alfric. ‘Let’s have it.’

Alfric set the baby down on the table then sat himself down. He watched intently as the old man opened one of the strongboxes. Unless Alfric was much mistaken, there was some treachery afoot here. But what? As Alfric watched, the old man lifted a large cheese from the strongbox. He brought it to the table and cut a piece. Which he offered to Alfric.

Just as Alfric was reaching out for the cheese, he saw a sudden gleam of triumph in the old man’s eyes. Alfric jerked back his hand.

‘It’s poisoned!’ he said. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘No, master,’ said the old man. ‘It’s perfectly good cheese. It’s not poisoned at all.’

‘Really?’ said Alfric. ‘Then you’ll be happy to eat some for me.’

The old man hesitated.

‘Eat it!’ roared Alfric.

With every evidence of reluctance, the old man began to gnaw at the cheese. Then suddenly his attitude changed, and he wolfed at the stuff savagely. Moments later, with the strength of the cheese within him, the old man began to Change.

Alfric kicked away his chair and leapt backwards as his enemy swelled, girthed, heightened, haired and bruted, becoming monstrous, hands becoming paws, arms becoming legs. A musty smell filled the cave, a smell which Alfric somehow associated with... with... hamsters?

Down on four legs dropped the monster. Then it bared its teeth and chittered at Alfric in a battlefury. It was a hamster indeed, but it was a hamster the size of a bear, and surely the equal of any warrior in battle. ‘Blood and bitches!’ said Alfric.

Then tossed aside Sulamith’s Grief and drew the blacksword Bloodbane. The intoxication of murder swelled his voice to wrath as he challenged the werehamster:

‘Die if you must, for die you will if you take but one step toward me. I hold the blackblade Bloodbane. This weapon gives no mercy.’

As Alfric was so saying, the monster rushed toward the table. It paused, its whitesavage teeth but a hair away from the baby’s head.

‘Leave,’ said the werehamster. ‘Leave, or I will kill the child.’

‘Feel free,’ said Alfric. ‘I found it an embarrassing encumbrance.’

The werehamster hesitated.

‘Come on!’ roared Alfric. ‘Make up your mind. Kill the baby then die yourself. Or change to a man and beg my mercy.’

The werehamster chose to Change, and was shortly shrinking and shrivelling, deflating and wrinkling, becoming a man again. Once thus reconfigured, it said: ‘What are you going to do to me?’

‘By rights I should kill you. That is the rightful fate of all shape-changers.’

‘But I’m - I’m not one of the Evil Ones. I’m only a werehamster.’

‘That’s evil enough for me,’ said Alfric.

‘Who are you, then?’ said the werehamster man.

‘I am Alfric Danbrog, son of Grendel and grandson of the Wormlord Tromso Stavenger.’

‘Then who are you to talk? You’re a werewolf!’

‘I am not a werewolf,’ said Alfric. ‘But even if I was, it would make no difference. You are a bandit, a shameless marauder, a disturber of graves, and eater of live meat and dead, an evil hag-thing.’

‘I am not,’ said the werehamster man.

‘You are,’ said Alfric. ‘At the very least, you are a bandit. You bring people here to kill them and steal their gold.’

‘I do not.’

‘You do,’ said Alfric implacably. ‘There is gold here. I can smell it.’

So saying, Alfric stared at the strongboxes, and his eyes flashed wolfblood red. The werehamster man shrank back, terrified, fearing that this Yudonic Knight with his homicidal hero-sword was about to launch an assault upon his host.

‘Well,’ said Alfric. ‘What’s it going to be? Either I get your gold or your head. But I’m not leaving here empty-handed.’

This threat proved profitable, for the old man thereupon produced seven bagsacks of gold from his strongboxes.

‘That’s all I have,’ said the werehamster man anxiously.

‘Is it?’ said Alfric. ‘It’s not much.’

‘It’s all I have. I’m telling you!’

‘All right,’ said Alfric. ‘I don’t want all your gold. A bag will be quite enough.’

‘Are you sure?’ said the werehamster anxiously.

‘Quite sure,’ said Alfric.

Though the blackblade Bloodbane was urging Alfric to murder, he had already decided to spare the were-hamster’s life. So he thought it best to leave the thing with the better part of its money.

If Alfric were to take all the werehamster’s treasure, then the thing would surely go marauding until it had redeemed its loss. Or, alternatively, if - as Alfric suspected - it had grown too old and feeble to make an effective bandit, then it might die in miserable poverty.

Both outcomes could easily be avoided by leaving the brute with some of its gains, however ill-gotten they might be. As for himself, why, Alfric was a Yudonic Knight, and so would never starve, for the ruling class had first claim on all that was good in Galsh Ebrek. Alfric was also in receipt of a banker’s salary, which was well worth having. And, since he was being forced to contend for a kingdom, he lacked the patience to trifle with a werehamster’s loot.

Under Alfric’s supervision, the werehamster emptied one of the bagsacks on to the table. Once Alfric had assured himself all the gold was gold indeed - as a point of honour, he was determined not to let himself be swindled by a werehamster - he watched as the stuff was repacked. Then he made the werehamster carry both gold and baby out to the forest path, and supervised the miserable creature while it filled in the deathpit dug in that path.

Then Alfric rode on his way.

Thus did Alfric Danbrog triumph in one of the greatest tests of knighthood: a confrontation with one of the dreaded shape-changers. A warm glow of self-congratulation possessed him as he rode back to Galsh Ebrek. But this dissipated abruptly when he saw two men waiting for him at the Stanch Gates: Ciranoush Norn and Muscleman Wu.

‘Good evening,’ said Alfric, dropping his battlehand to the hilt of the blacksword Bloodbane.

The brothers Norn made no answer, but also made no move towards him. And Alfric, realizing that the inevitable feud-death confrontation was yet to come, pulled his hand free from the weapon which wished to claim it for murder, and rode on to the Green Cricket.

Why had the brothers Norn been waiting for him at the Stanch Gates? Obviously: to let him know his death was intended. They would not kill him in public, no, for the Wormlord would revenge him. The death of Pig Norn must have taught him that. But they would kill him sometime, somewhere, somehow - or at least try to encompass his death.

And they wanted him to suffer a nightmare or two before his doom befell him.

At the Green Cricket, Alfric checked in his hired horses at the stable, then went inside the inn. Anna Blaume was serving at the bar, helped by her daughter Sheila.

‘A baby,’ said Alfric, putting the squalling thing down on the counter.

‘So I see,’ said Anna Blaume.

Alfric dumped his bagsack on to the same counter, spilling gold across the beerspit wood.

‘It’s patrimony,’ said Alfric.

‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ said Sheila.

‘How would I know?’ said Alfric.

‘You mean you haven’t looked!’ said Anna Blaume. ‘That means you - oh Alfric! The poor thing’s probably been wet for - grief, men!’

‘Blood of the Gloat,’ muttered Alfric. ‘A hero’s welcome, is it? Give me a beer. ’

While Alfric was drinking, his wife came downstairs on the arm of a common-born bruiser. The pair sat on a table. Du Deiner brought them drinks, and caught Alfric’s eye, and smirked. This was an invitation for Alfric to make a scene: to threaten the bruiser and perhaps to kill him. With Bloodbane in his hands, Alfric could kill every man in the inn if he chose to go to war.

But...

Alfric found himself totally incapable of rousing himself to the fury which convention demanded. If his wife was committing adultery - what of it? Such wilful disloyalty suggested she wanted a divorce. Very well. She could have it. Alfric felt marriage had been a mistake, a descent into organic life which had distracted him from his career.

Besides, Viola Vanaleta was lowborn, and he could not have her as his wife if he was to become king. As king, he would need a wife from one of the Families; for only thus could he truly command the loyalties of the Yudonic Knights. If Alfric won the throne, Vanaleta would have to go whether she liked it or not, for to keep her would be to insult every Yudonic Knight in Wen Endex. So, at this stage, a complete abscission of their relationship would not be untimely.

With that decided, Alfric finished his beer then left the Green Cricket, sparing not a glance for Vanaleta as he strode from the inn. Once out in the night, he looked around warily, just in case the brothers Norn might be waiting in ambush. But they were not. So down the street he went, the murder-blade Bloodbane sheathed at his side and, swaggersticked in his hand, the scabbarded silversword, Sulamith’s Grief.

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.