The Werewolf and the Wormlord (21 page)

So.

—What now?

—Retreat?

But this was no night for shadow-sneaking, no night for silent withdrawals. It was a night of frost-sharpened sounds, of sticks awaiting their rupture, of ice crusted that weight might break it. Alfric heard a night-hunter clitter through a litter of undergrowth rubbish a good two hundred paces distant. Wu Norn’s head swung round, and moon spiked briefly from the warrior’s eyes as he considered the sound and the distance.

Then Wu resumed his quartering-hunting.

‘Danbrog!’ roared Wu.

Then:

‘Grendelson!’

Then:

‘Come out, you whore! Iz-boliks, you banker-slut! Come out!’

But Alfric answered not to Iz-boliks, or to whore, or to Danbrog, or to Grendelson. However named, he would not answer. Instead, he lay still and thought.

Wu was formidable.

The warrior was wood-wise, could tell man from animal, and had hearing good enough to alert him to the need to tell. And Alfric, despite his thinking, had no bright ideas at all, and so was still lying there, still waiting, the cold of the mud hurting his hand, and he had no ideas, no ideas at all, for the mud was but a whim, for what could it do for him?

—Blind him.

But Muscleman Wu would kill him even if blinded by a faceful of mud. With sword in hand, Wu would kill him. Blade describing whirlwinds as it chopped through the night, slaughtering, fractioning, seeking, finding. At close quarters, a blinded man is still a killer if he knows what he’s doing. And maybe Wu would blink at the right moment, or the mud would go wild, or the mud would find its mark but would blind the enemy for no more than an instant.

—No hope.

—No hope without weapons.

—A stick, then.

Alfric reached for the nearest branch which looked weapon-weighty. But the thing was stuck to a tree, was growing out of a tree, and he could not pull it free, not without filling the air with the sound of wrangling wood, of warp-woe and tree-splinter.

Alfric paused.

Momentarily defeated.

Then rage possessed him.

No! He would not fail! He would not die! Not now, now, when he was triumphant, victorious in questing, and close, yes, close to the throne, very close, to ride to Galsh Ebrek was all it would take to make himself king, and to ride he must kill, and to kill needed weapons, and weapons he had, yes, teeth and claws, claws and teeth, and the weight of his haunches, the strength of the moon.

And the moon.

And the moon—

And the moon was swelling, girthing, growing, becoming hot, yes, hot, and tumescent, yes, misting from silver to blood, and a prickling sensation thrilled through Alfric’s arms as he willed the Change, his hands becoming clumsy, hairs thickening and darkening on the backs of his wrists, and already the moon was silver no more, but, rather, a smouldering fire.

The smells deepened, thickened and became more dangerous, their range increasing by several octaves. Hearing likewise prospered, so Danbrog Grendelson heard the thin whistling of the high-pitched bats, and heard too the whispers of the men who thought themselves stalking him.

—Quick, quick!

He tossed his spectacles aside, then tore free his boots and shuddered out of his clothes before his flesh could burst those accoutrements, then the pain took him, the spasms, the agony of the full force of the Change, and he thrashed in the shadows, heedless of the noise, helpless to save himself.

A voice:

‘Gralaag?’

Unintelligible that voice, a question lurching across the octaves.

Then Alfric kicked away the last spasm and lay still, lay on his back and stared at the bloody moon, and when the voice spoke again he understood it, yes, though the voice was warped and distorted, deepened and thickened, made barbarous by ears atuned to a different blood:

‘Grendelson? Is that you?’

Alfric rolled on to all fours and lurched across the forest floor. He was clumsy, finding four legs momentarily harder than two. But he was remembering, oh yes, remembering swiftly, remembering what he had learnt from a full three months spent running wild in the Qinjoks, and he hit his stride in less than a dozen paces.

‘Maf!’

Thus Muscleman Wu, swearing in strangled shock as the huge wolf charged toward him.

Then:

‘Norn for ever!’

Alfric heard the battlecry, saw the sword, and swerved, jinked, and ducked into the undergrowth, then was running full tilt, and thinking as he ran, thinking.

—Iron against bone and iron must win.

—But the man has a horse and no horseman will walk.

Thus thinking, Wolf Alfric ran at full pace, careless of noise. Then stopped abruptly and began to ghost through the forest, slinking from shadow to shadow, making for Wu Norn’s horse. There was no wind to carry wolfsmell or othersmell, no wind to warn or make the beast uneasy, so Alfric feared not discovery as he went into hiding barely fifty paces from Muscleman Wu’s abandoned horse.

Then Alfric lay still.

Wolf Alfric waited, a shadow hidden by shadows. Black, he was black, a beast of the night and hence hidden by the night, the underdepths of trees concealing him completely, all but for the eyes, the eyes as bloody as the moon which ruled him.

At last, as Alfric had expected, Muscleman Wu came shifting through the forest. Delicately went Wu, yes, as quietly as he could, but still he was noisy, for it is nearly impossible to move without sound on a night both still and icy-clear.

Alfric slitted his eyes, and then - it took an effort of will, but he managed it - closed them entirely to mask the moonbuming fire.

Then he waited.

Listening.

Let the man walk past him.

Then—

Opened his eyes.

Then—

Moving with scarcely more sound than a vogel makes as it eases itself from one tree to the next, Alfric slipped out of the shadows in which he had been hiding. And fell in behind Muscleman Wu. The footsteps of the man masked the stealthy-stalking of the wolf. A moment to savour, this, yes, a moment to savour.

‘Ya, Fom,’ said Wu, greeting his horse.

Alfric caught the relief in Wu’s voice, knew the man was glad to be back with his beast, knew the warrior Norn had no appetite for stalking a gigantic black wolf through this forest of ice and shadows, knew Wu wanted only to be gone, yes, gone, and quickly, to run back to Galsh Ebrek and settle his fears with a mug of good ale in company.

Then the brave horse Fom caught a whiff of something alien, threatening, and snorted, and pawed the ground. And Wu, alert to the nuances of such behaviour, guessed at what was behind him, and turned, but turned too late, for the weight was launched already, and Wu turned in time—

In time to be met, thrown back, thrown down, and—

Bone to be jaw, jaw to be teeth, teeth to be blood—

And Wu was struggling, wrestling, fighting the wolf which ravaged for his throat, and trying to Change as he fought, but he was too slow, too slow—

For Wolf Alfric tore his throat apart then rolled free—

Rolled free in time to watch.

Muscleman Wu was strong, as were all the Noms, and even in his death he found the time to Change, his clothes bursting and breaking as his Shape fought against them, jerkin ripping, belt snapping, chain mail coming apart.

And Alfric knew, then, that Wu had known his own nature, must have known. For chain mail will not break during a Change, not unless its web has been especially weakened to accommodate such an emergency. The mail worn by Muscleman Wu did so break, meaning that the Norn had always been prepared for this.

But—

It was too late.

For, as Muscleman Wu became wolf, the last of his strength left him, and he died.

Wolf Alfric sniffed around the corpse of his fallen foe, making sure. The wolf-corpse was more than a little ludicrous, lying there with its hind legs loose in a warrior’s battle boots, lying in a raggage of clothes variously tight or torn, lying there very much dead.

Alfric wanted to laugh, but—

His flesh would not accommodate laughter, no, he had learnt that in the Qinjoks, for three months he had never laughed once as he had run wild in those mountains, hunting, seeking, tasting, listening, daring and mating, stalking and fighting, testing and training, learning and exulting.

Why had he come back?

Because, in the end, it had not been enough to be wolf, because wolves have no laughter, no voices. But otherwise, oh, otherwise it had been sweet, sweet indeed, and nothing before or since had compared to it, nothing till now.

Then Alfric, a live wolf by a dead wolf by a bloody moon, threw back his head and howled, bayed the bloodsong, sang the lifesong, and Wu’s horse was affrighted as was Alfric’s own, but fear was not sufficient, and there was some bloody business with horsemeat before Alfric was finished.

And then—

Then the madness claimed him, as it had that first time in the Qinjoks, and he ran as a beast with the moon burning in his blood, and he knew not where he ran or how.

In the Qinjoks, he had run that way (the first time, yes, only the first time) until exhaustion had claimed him. But tonight things were different, because, in time, his madness eased, and he became aware of something (or someone) calling him, summoning him. A compulsion was upon his will, and he did not understand the nature of this compulsion, and fought against it. It was none of the wolf things and none of the human things. It was not lust or hunger, was not fear or (even) the urgings of curiosity. Instead, it was a command from without, a command which mastered his will to its own.

And, fight against it as he would, Alfric had to obey the summons, and follow it where it compelled him.

A long running marathon he ran, a shadow fleeing through shadows to shadows, until at last the forest eased away to sand beneath his feet, and he broke free of the last trees, the gnarled evergreen pines of the dunes, and ran over the sandwaves and on to the open shore, where a fire burnt as bloody as the moon.

There were women gathered by the fire, women with strange marks on their foreheads and strange words in their mouths. And Alfric listened to the words and did not understand, but was compelled even so, and his Change came upon him, and, though he did not wish it, he was commanded from wolf to human.

Drunk with a sudden fatigue, Alfric Danbrog stood swaying by the balefire, his vision blurred, the flames smeared daubs of colour, the faces indistinct globs of mass and form, and either the women were chanting in a foreign language or else there was something wrong with his ears (his mind?) for he could not understand them.

Then—

But after that, what happened to him became incoherent, because he drank without thinking from a cup which they offered him, and his world blundered into something not far different from a dreamscape.

‘Well met,’ said the first hag.

‘By night with the moon abune,’ said the second.

‘By stam and stone,’ said the third.

‘Bring her forth,’ said the first.

‘Step forward, my darling,’ said the second.

‘Here she is,’ said the third.

Then it happened (or did it happen?) that Alfric Danbrog was face to face with a woman whose face was a mass of scars, burnt hideously by a balefire blaze like that which now made the sundering seas run red with reflected fire. Her face was cinders, ashes, desolation, scarred as the moon, but he accepted this, for a command was upon him. He did as she wished, and her blood broke, suddenly, yes, it was all over very suddenly.

When the girl was released, she went to the waters of the ocean and washed herself. And Alfric, feeling very weary, lay down by the fire. The old women covered his body with a blanket. Then the girl, washed cold by the waves of the Winter Sea, rejoined them; and the old women departed with the girl, leaving Alfric sleeping by the sea.

He dreamt, that night.

He dreamt of bones weeping for flesh, and of wind crying for the bones it thought it had once possessed. And then he dreamt of plum-petal pie, of untunchilamons by the thousand unquilting an eiderdown, and then (dreams shifting to nightmare) of gangrenous plague and carnivorous seals, of long-stretched scorlins in which lubbery kelp was entwined promiscuously with pungent blubber weed and the soft fronds of mermaids’ delight, of those skorlins becoming corpses, of the corpses walking, of a war of walking corpses, of a fish swinging on a string as it rotted, of waves breaking scales of encrusted moonlight from the flanks of shuttling rocks, and of fire, of fire—

Of fire, yes, for he was burning.

CHAPTER TWELVE

For night after night, Alfric Danbrog lay in his father’s house, shuddering with fever. In his illness, he endured incoherent visions, few of which were pleasant. Fragmentary ghosts smeared his cheeks with heated honey, spiked his bones with splinters of steel and whispered inscrutable words of wisdom into his ears.