The Werewolf and the Wormlord (23 page)

So thought Alfric, exulting in visions of his own grandeur as he strode through the mud of the streets of Galsh Ebrek. Such was his intoxication that he walked right into a zana, and the wild rainbow stung him savagely. That sobered him somewhat; and he was sobered more to find no welcome in Saxo Pall, but, instead, hostile servants and surly guards.

‘What is going on?’ said Alfric, when Guignol Grangalet came forth to meet him. ‘Have I offended the throne in some way?’

‘That is not for me to say,’ said the Chief of Protocol evasively. ‘Best we go to the throne room.’

‘Indeed!’ said Alfric.

So there they went. But there was no sign of the Wormlord. Instead, a blonde and full-breasted woman sat upon the throne. It was Ursula Major, the Worm-lord’s daughter. Alfric was outraged to see her thus seated, but controlled his temper nicely.

‘Good evening, aunt,’ said Alfric, knowing full well that Ursula Major hated to be addressed as aunt. He bowed slightly then said: ‘Lo! I have brought the brave sword Kinskom!’

Loudly he declaimed those words; loudly and proudly. But, somehow, they fell flat.

‘Thank you for the sword,’ said Ursula coolly. ‘The gift is welcome.’

‘The gift has a price,’ said Alfric. ‘The price is the chair in which you sit.’

‘You have no chairs of your own?’ said Ursula. ‘How sad! Never mind. If yoti’re truly here to beg for a bit of furniture, no doubt my good man Grangalet can find you a stool to take home.’

Alfric did not appreciate this clumsy joke. He was starting to get angry.

‘I claim the throne,’ he said. ‘I am now rightfully king of Wen Endex.’

‘The king, are you?’ said Ursula Major.

‘I am,’ said Alfric, ‘unless the Wormlord has repudiated his words. Where is he? Where is the Wormlord? Is he dead?’

‘He is poorly,’ said Ursula Major.

Her dulcet voice was cool, controlled. Even so, Alfric heard her fear. She was frightened. Of him.

‘Poorly or not,’ said Alfric, ‘the king must see me, for I have brought him the third of the saga swords. We have an agreement.’

‘I know your agreement,’ said Ursula Major. ‘I know it, as does all of Galsh Ebrek. Like the rest of the city, I think it a madness. The kingdom cannot be ruled by a lunatic’s whim. So.’

‘So you’ve got the Wormlord under lock and key,’ said Alfric, half-misbelieving his ears.

‘My father is ill, yes, and confined to his bed,’ said Ursula Major. ‘When he recovers - if he recovers - he may have something to say to you. We are not pleased with the shameless way you have abused his mental weakness. Doubtless when he is in his right mind, he will be similarly displeased.’

‘You have no right to do this!’ said Alfric.

‘My lady rules as regent,’ said Guignol Grangalet. ‘She has every right.’

Alfric almost lost his temper entirely, then and there.

But he was a Banker Third Class, and thus a trained diplomat; and so had wit enough to temper his tongue to preserve his skin, and to retreat from Saxo Pall with all possible speed.

Once Alfric was free of the Wormlord’s castle, he marched up the slopes of Mobius Kolb to the Bank, where he shortly presented himself to Comptroller Xzu. ‘So,’ said Xzu, ‘here he is. The wolf-killer.’

‘You know about that?’ said Alfric.

‘All Galsh Ebrek knows about that,’ said Xzu. ‘Your father displayed a dead wolf in the marketplace. He claimed it to be the corpse of Wu Norn.’

‘It was,’ said Alfric. ‘I met him and killed him. He had a partner, too. He was... I’m sorry, the name escapes me.’

‘Pulaman the Tracker,’ said Xzu, who clearly had all the details written on his fingernails, as Bank parlance has it. ‘So you killed Pulaman. And Wu. A pity that Ciranoush Nom remains on the loose.’

‘Ciranoush, yes,’ said Alfric. ‘How is he taking it?’

‘In silence,’ said Xzu. ‘These days he’s much given to brooding, or so my spies tell me. Anyway. To business. You delivered the third of the saga swords to Saxo Pall, did you?’

‘I did,’ said Alfric. ‘I left it at Ursula Major’s feet, she being the regent, or so she claimed.’

‘Regent she is, at least for the moment,’ said Xzu. ‘Our problem now is how to get rid of her. Once she’s gone, we can place you on the throne and nobody will protest.’

‘There’s no way we can get rid of her,’ said Alfric. ‘Don’t be so defeatist!’ said Xzu. ‘If necessary, we can bring in mercenaries and have the bitch murdered.’

Alfric could scarcely believe his ears.

‘Yes,’ he said, cautiously, ‘but civil war might be the result. If one of the royal family is to be killed, it would be better if the Yudonic Knights did the killing.’

‘Then you must rally the Knights for that purpose.’

‘I lack sufficient stature. As yet. They might follow me in some things. Perhaps. But not in murder. Not murder of the king’s own daughter.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Xzu, thinking. ‘Well. . . does the Wormlord lack stature?’

‘I believe most of the Knights to hold him in high regard,’ said Alfric warily.

‘Then they will hold his will in high regard, doubtless.’

‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘But he has said nothing about murdering his daughter. Not to my knowledge. Nor do I believe I could successfully pretend that he has said any such thing.’

‘I do not ask you to,’ said Xzu. ‘Rather, I suggest you repeat the Wormlord’s own words to the Yudonic Knights.’

‘What words are those?’

‘Why, the man swore he would march forth against Herself, did he not? As soon as the saga swords were won, he would march.’

‘He did,’ said Alfric.

‘Then summon the Knights. Tell them the saga swords are won. Tell them it is their knightly duty to help the Wormlord to fulfil his oath. Play upon their dreams of heroic grandeur. Sing them songs. Bard them the deeds of heroes. Skop the swordblood. Make each man a man indeed. You know the way of it. You know your people.’ ‘To a point,’ said Alfric uneasily.

‘Better still, go to your father. Ask him to do the barding and talking, the blood-stirring and the glory-boasting. He has the knack of it.’

And Alfric remembered the Yudonic Knights who had gathered in Grendel’s bam at his father’s behest. Yes, his father could summon and rouse those men. His father knew the way of it.

‘Then,’ said Xzu, starting to get enthusiastic, ‘the Yudonic Knights will release the Wormlord from his confinement in Saxo Pall. He will march against Herself. And you, of course, will march with him.’

‘Me?’ said Alfric, startled.

‘But of course,’ said Xzu, smoothly. ‘You must win yourself a share of the Wormlord’s glory. Otherwise how can you rightly claim the throne?’

‘But. . . but the Wormlord will die.’

‘Will he?’

‘Yes,’ said Alfric, trying to conceal his fear, his anger. ‘Nobody can contend against Herself.’

‘Oh, come now,’ said Xzu, sounding amused. ‘You’ve dared against monsters thrice. Monsters are nothing. You dared against them solo, yet survived. Survived? You triumphed!’

‘With help, yes,’ said Alfric coldly. ‘But She is not a foolish sea dragon or a brain-damaged giant. No. She is Herself, and She is nightmare.’

‘Nightmare?’ said Xzu carelessly. ‘The word has been used of the vampires, you know. ’

‘Yes, I know, I know,’ said Alfric. ‘But the vampires were easiest of all. They wanted to deal with us, and we knew it. The same does not go for Herself. Or have you a secret to tell me? Has She been to the bank to ask for a loan, for a mortgage? Does she want to build herself a nice little cottage with carpets clean on the floor, a housecat by the hearth?’

Xzu made no answer to this sarcastic sally.

Instead, he pushed a parchment across his desk.

‘A promotion,’ said Xzu. ‘Your promotion. From Banker Third Class to Banker Second Class. You will note it is conditional. It becomes effective as soon as you return from a quest against Herself. A quest, please note, which you must undertake in the Wormlord’s company.’ Alfric took it, read it, pushed it back.

‘I’ll think about it,’ said he.

‘Take your time,’ said Xzu. ‘But make sure your time isn’t too much time. We’ll see you back here once you’ve... once you’ve made a contribution to our welfare. Go now, friend banker, and may the Spirit of the Ledgers go with you, and may the Seven Demons of Usury confound your enemies, and may the power of the Great Schroff be with you. ’

The invoking of these imaginary entities was a ponderous joke, a jejune joke of the kind that both Alfric and Xzu had outgrown long ago. Nevertheless, it was a Bank joke, confirming the pair as bankers in league against the world; and Alfric smiled, heartened by the comradeship the joke implied.

He rose, and went to the door.

Just before Alfric exited the room, Xzu spoke again, saying:

‘Good luck, Alfric.’

‘Thank you,’ said Alfric, and left.

But though Alfric had thanked Comptroller Xzu for that parting benediction, the way it had been framed was not altogether to his liking. For Xzu had addressed him as‘Alfric’.

Izdarbolskobidarbix was the name he chose to use in the Bank; and, though he had long pardoned the occasional use of ‘Alfric’ or ‘Danbrog’ by his peers and superiors, he nevertheless resented such inaccuracy. He felt (perhaps he was wrong, perhaps he was oversensitive, but what he could not deny were his own feelings) that Xzu had been deliberately putting him at a distance by calling him ‘Alfric’, and that Xzu’s use of that name constituted, in some sense, a subtle casting out.

Certainly Alfric was being exiled from the Bank, at least for the moment. Exiled until he had ‘made a contribution’ to the Bank’s welfare. He was under orders, then. He had to rouse the Yudonic Knights to action, to free the Wormlord from his imprisonment, then march with the Wormlord to do battle with Herself.

Alfric felt this to be grossly unfair.

Surely he had done enough already.

The odds had been in his favour when he had fought with the sea dragon Qa. Nevertheless, a single mistake could have seen him killed. As for the swamp giant - that encounter had been more dangerous yet. And the vampires were not exactly harmless.

‘Still,’ said Alfric, ‘I’m not being given any choice in the matter.’

So he went to see his father, and, a night later, the pair met with two dozen of the most knightly of the Yudonic Knights. The site of this conclave was Grendel Danbrog’s barn.

Here the Yudonic Knights, with drinking horns in hand, celebrated the hero-feats of Alfric Danbrog.

‘Grendelson!’ they roared. ‘Grendelson! Hero!’

And Alfric, though he was slightly embarrassed by their enthusiasm, acknowledged this homage gracefully.

Then his father called the meeting to order.

‘As you know,’ said Grendel Danbrog, ‘Ursula Major has imprisoned her father in his sickbed.’

‘Shame! ’ cried someone.

Then others cried aloud, saying foul things about the virginal Ursula. Grendel hushed them down a low roar, then went on:

‘This we know to be wrong. Above all else, the matter of Herself and Her doings is much on my mind. For too long has Her hideous hymn of triumph dominated our dreams. It is time for us to take in hand the ancient iron and pursue Her to Her lair, and there to hack and hew Her flesh until She is dead. ’

Cries of enthusiastic applause greeted this proposition.

‘But,’ said Grendel, ‘we cannot go alone. We need a leader. Only one man has the strength to be that leader. And that is Tromso Stavenger, our beloved Wormlord.’ Then Grendel launched himself into the much-beloved story of the youthful feats of the Wormlord, who had dared Her son, and had wrestled that monster to a standstill in a fight in which sinews had snapped and bone-joints had broken freely, and who had then killed Her son and cut off his head.

‘That is our leader,’ said Grendel. ‘A hero true. That is the leader we must have if we are to dare ourselves to Her lair and engage ourselves in loathsome strife with Her strength.’

The Yudonic Knights had no trouble at all in convincing themselves that a scorning of peace well becomes a man; that they were made for death and danger; that their king was a hero and would lead them to deathless glory; and that launching a savage assault upon Herself would be a truly enjoyable experience once they got into it.

Soon they were joying in the deed as if it had already been accomplished.

‘It is a foul offence to life and honour that we should let Her live when Her death can be so easily accomplished,’ said one, his boast representative of ruling opinion.

Alfric sat down in a comer and closed his eyes in something like despair. So they were really going to do it. So he could not return to the Bank and say they had refused.

He had a vision of what would really happen. When they came face to face with Herself, the Yudonic Knights would ran. Their fathers had done as much on similar expeditions in the days of the past, so why should the sons be any different? Then She with Her baleful glare would transfix any fool who still stood against Her, then She would advance, and conquer, and kill, and glut Her greed on the flesh of the fallen.