Hugh Cook - The Werewolf and the Wormlord

‘So this is the son,’ said the Knight. ‘I could tear it limb from limb without blinking.’

‘If you feel that a profitable way to spend your night,’ said Alfric coolly, ‘then feel free.’

The Knight laughed, then peered closely at Alfric’s eyes, and was satisfied with what he saw.

‘They’re not red,’ said he. ‘Not red at all.’

With that, the Knight replaced the spectacles. As he was slightly drunk, he jammed them on, hurting the already reddened skin-patch on the bridge of Alfric’s nose. The lenses were blurred, smeared, greasefingered; but Alfric, though angry at this malhandling of his property, realized a well-meaning ignorance was to blame.

Usually, he would have taken off the spectacles immediately to remedy the damage. But here he did no such thing, for he was on display. So he put his hand to the hilt of his sword and said:

‘No red you see because none there is to sight.’

With Alfric’s normality thus vouched for, the joviality of the gathering increased markedly. Soon, everyone was in a mood for a story, so Grendel Danbrog began upon a tale.

Grendel told of the Wormlord’s father, and how that man had marched against Her son with a company of Knights. When father and companions failed to return from their expedition, nobody in Galsh Ebrek had been willing to follow in their footsteps. Nobody except Tromso Stavenger. Daring much, he had tracked through the wilds until he came to a gorge where his father and companions had been ambushed.

A terrible doom had come upon them in this narrow place. Here lay weapons barbed with blood, killing-irons of surpassing strength which had not availed against the fury which had fallen upon the Knights. Torn were the mailcoats and hewed the helmets. A shield lay in fragments; it had burst asunder, one piece driving deep into the heart of an oak.

And the dead!

The condition of the dead is best left undescribed, but Grendel described them regardless.

‘That was what the Wormlord found. Then he knew his father had fallen victim to Her son. The monster had struck, destroying all. Other mortals would have fled in despair, but the Wormlord did not. Instead, he vowed to seek out Her son, to meet him in combat and tear him asunder. This he did.’

At that, the side door opened; and, as if on cue, the Wormlord entered. A great silence descended upon the Yudonic Knights. Their king looked them over, then spoke.

‘Grendel,’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘Which is Alfric?’

‘This one, my lord,’ said Grendel, pointing at Alfric.

The Wormlord advanced upon his grandson.

‘So this is Alfric,’ said Stavenger.

‘It is,’ said Grendel.

‘A good-looking boy,’ said the Wormlord.

Other compliments and queries followed, and all in all a great pretence of a family reunion was made. Alfric participated in this microdrama without knowing why it was being staged. Though the world might not know it, Alfric was no stranger to his grandfather; for the Banker Third Class had sometimes had occasion to discuss Bank business with the Wormlord, and more than once the two had taken wine together in private quarters. A little reflection convinced Alfric that this play-acting was being done for the benefit of the assembled Yudonic Knights.

‘A good-looking boy, as I said before,’ said Stavenger. ‘A child of a Family. A good match for any girl. But I hear he’s married, though. A commoner. Why so, boy?’

‘I work for the Bank,’ said Alfric. ‘It is Bank policy that one must marry. To do otherwise is to invite either the perils of debauchery or those of neurosis.’

‘Neurosis?’ said Stavenger, genuinely puzzled. ‘What be this neurosis?’

‘An obscure foreign ailment in which the Bank believes though I do not,’ said Alfric. ‘Still, married I am, and lamenting the matter will not change it.’ He sought for a way to change the subject and found one: ‘But come, my lord. Enough talk of myself. Let’s have a toast, a toast to yourself if I may be so bold. Then a toast to us all, if this bam can boast of a drink for your indulgence.’

A tankard was produced for the Wormlord, who joined in the second of Alfric’s toasts — but cautiously, for he was too frail to countenance intemperate indulgence.

Tromso Stavenger still wore his homed helmet, as was his invariable custom. The helmet was of ancient iron, stained by weather and use. The Wormlord himself was nearly as ancient, though he hid it well. Before he moved, gestured or spoke, it was his custom to pause to gather the necessary energy needed to pursue his purpose with heroic amplitude. By such habitual recourse he gave a good (albeit spasmodic) imitation of a warrior in the years of his strength.

But age, age, age was writ everywhere in the Worm-lord’s lineage. Was written so clearly that even the illiterate could see it. The little hair that tweaked out from beneath his iron skullcap was grey, as was his shapeless beard. Likewise grey was his moustache, which curved down around his mouth in twin horns which mirror-echoed those of his helmet. One eye was opaque, a white cloud, useless. And everywhere his skin was furrowed and rucked, folded and buckled and mottled with liver spots, those manifestations of age which an obscure poet of Wen Endex has described as ‘leaves of the bodyweather’s autumn’.

A little liquor served (though cautiously imbibed) to loosen the Wormlord’s tongue, and soon he was persuaded to tell of his hunt for Her son and the killing which followed their encounter.

‘Is it true about the blood?’ said Grendel, still happy to hear the details though he had heard them all a thousand times before.

‘It is,’ said Stavenger. ‘When I cleansed the gore from the noble iron, each splotch of blood burnt purple in the night as it dripped to the ground. As home I rode, a storm came up. Clouds swept the moon from the sky. Grey were those clouds, grey and writhing, a flood of wrath which consumed the heavens and then unleashed a ruthless fury of windstorm rain.’

Strongly spoke the Wormlord, and great was the enthusiasm with which the assembled Knights attended to his words. Still, Alfric thought this woodland bam to be no place for the old man, who was fit for little more than to spend his evenings deciphering his hearthfire’s labyrinth. To make him act as hero-king was farcical, and a cruel farce at that.

After much tale-telling, the Wormlord at last began to say his goodbyes. He worked his way round to Alfric.

‘Tell me, boy,’ said Tromso Stavenger, gripping Alfric by the shoulder. ‘What do you want to make of yourself?’

‘What I can,’ answered Alfric.

‘Well said,’ said the Wormlord with a nod.

Then he departed, going out into the night alone. A reckless thing to do, surely; but he was still fearless for all that he was old; and, if She were to fall upon him in the dark, he would accept that ending without complaint.

After that, the meeting began to break up, the Yudonic Knights dispersing in twos and threes. At last, Alfric was left alone with his father.

Grendel Danbrog looked upon his son, then belched prodigiously.

‘Ah,’ said Grendel, slapping himself twice on the gut, ‘that feels better. Well, my son, how did you enjoy your evening?’

‘It was passable,’ said Alfric, still mystified as to why he had been summoned here.

Something was going on, obviously.

But what?

‘Passable?’ said Grendel. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say? The Wormlord met you. Is that not a great honour?’

‘I’m no stranger to my grandfather,’ said Alfric.

‘Oh, you’ve met him privily, that I know. Wasn’t I at the first of those meetings? Of course I was. But for him to acknowledge you in the presence of the most trusted of his Knights, ah, that’s something else again. It holds great promise for the future.’