Hugh Cook - The Werewolf and the Wormlord

‘Doubtless,’ said Alfric, by way of politeness. ‘However, the present also has its demands. If you’ll excuse me, I must be getting back to Galsh Ebrek.’

‘No,’ said Grendel. ‘You’re staying here the night. On tomorrow’s night, we go together to Saxo Pall.’ ‘Together?’ said Alfric. ‘Whateve r for?’

‘You’ll find out when we get there,’ said Grendel. ‘Look,’ said Al fric, starting to get angry. ‘I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you have to realize I’ve got responsibilities. I’ve got a busy schedu le. My in-tray is bulging, my-’

‘Enough,’ said Grendel, silencing him with a gesture. Then he reached into a small pocket originally designed to hold a miniature whetstone, pulled out a grubby piece of paper, unfolded it and handed it to Alfric, saying: ‘Read this.’

The letter, which was of recent date, was signed by Comptroller Xzu of the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association. It commanded Alfric, in the name of the Bank, to obey his father and do whatever his father commanded.

Alfric was bewildered to receive such a letter, but knew he had best do what it said.

‘But,’ said Alfric, ‘what’s it all about? What’s going on?’

‘Peace,’ said Grendel. ‘Wait. And tomorrow night, you will know. Oh yes. Then you’ll know all.’

And with that, Alfric had to be content.

On the next night, father and son went to Galsh Ebrek, climbed the slopes of Mobius Kolb and dared themselves to the gates of Tromso Stavenger’s castle.

Alfric was most unhappy at entering Saxo Pall. He had often ventured to the Wormlord’s stronghold on Bank business. Nevertheless, that did nothing to alter the fact that he was technically liable to instant execution every time he intruded upon the royal castle.

When Grendel had been accused of bearing a lycan-thropic taint, Tromso Stavenger had exiled him from Galsh Ebrek with these words:

‘You are to leave this city immediately, never to return. Furthermore, you, and your sons, and the sons of your sons unto the fifth generation, will not set foot in Saxo Pall. On pain of death.’

Thereafter, Grendel had abjured the family name. On marrying a female of the Danbrog family, he had taken to himself the name of that clan. Thus Alfric, Grendel’s eldest son, styled himself Alfric Danbrog.

But for the unsubstantiated allegations of lycanthropy, Grendel would have been in line to inherit the throne of Wen Endex, and his eldest son likewise. What would it have been like to be a prince of the royal blood, heir apparent to the kingdom of Wen Endex and all its powers? Alfric thought about that, sometimes. Oh yes. Little as he liked to admit it, he thought about it.

When father and son had been admitted into the forbidden stronghold, Guignol Grangalet was summoned. The Wormlord’s Chief of Protocol hastened to meet these most unwelcome guests.

‘What are you doing here?’ said Grangalet, when he saw Grendel.

‘I’m here to see my father,’ said Grendel. ‘Show me to the old monster.’

Heated words then followed between Guignol Grangalet and Grendel Danbrog. But at length the Chief of Protocol yielded to the will of the Wormlord’s son.

‘I’ll take you to see him,’ said Guignol Grangalet. ‘But only you. Your son must wait as a hostage.’

‘You’re not putting him in a cage,’ said Grendel harshly.

‘Perish the thought!’ said the Chief of Protocol. ‘Your son can wait in the Hall of Shields.’

And Alfric shortly found himself alone and abandoned in that place of spiderweb draughts and guttering lanterns.

A great many death-branded shields were hung on the walls of this hall, for the honour of all the Ruling Families of Wen Endex was here represented. One shield displayed a decapitated head, its hair held by a grasping hand with blood-red talons. Other themes? A rain of blood. A sea of blood. A bloody wound. A pyramid of skulls, fountains of blood spurting from the eyesockets of each. A heap of amputated hands. And many more in a similar vein.

While Alfric was renewing his acquaintance with the culture of the Yudonic Knights, someone came up behind him unheard. He almost leapt out of his skin when he heard a bright and cheery voice say:

‘Hello.’

Alfric turned. The man who had stalked unheard to well within killing distance was Nappy, a huffy-puffy individual of slightly less than average height. Nappy was pink of face and bald of pate, and could often be seen hustling about Galsh Ebrek, looking slightly comical thanks to his pigeon-toed gait. He was renowned for his sweet temper, for the jolly delight he took in all innocent pleasures, and for his work as a committee man. Nappy was famous in charity circles, and was known to be happiest at festivals when he could transmogrify himself into Mister Cornucopia, and dispense sweets for the children and kisses for blushing virgins.

‘I’m so glad to see you, Mister Danbrog,’ said Nappy, extending his hand.

Alfric took it and pumped it. Nappy’s hand was soft and damp. A clinging, friendly hand.

‘We haven’t seen you here for ever so long,’ said Nappy. ‘I’m so, so, so very glad to see you.’

The sincerity of these effusions could not be doubted. That was Nappy all over. He was acknowledged as the happiest, friendliest person in Wen Endex. Which made no difference to the facts of the matter. Nappy was what he was and he did what he did, and there was no getting round that.

‘Sorry I can’t stay to chat,’ said Nappy. Shifting on his feet in that fluidly furtive manner which was his trademark. ‘But I must be going now.’

And already Nappy was sliding, sidestepping, nimbling past Alfric’s defences. Alfric thought him shifting right, but he was gone to the left, sliding past and And And?

Alfric wanted to scream.

Nappy was behind him.

And all Alfric could think was this:

— Just let it be quick, that’s all, just let it be quick.

But it was not quick, it was slow stretching to forever, so at last Alfric cleared his throat as if to ask a question. Then found he could not speak. So he turned around. Nappy was gone. Alfric bareswept the hall with his eyes. Nothing. Nobody. Whereupon Alfric walked to the nearest window, opened the single shutter, leaned out as far as he could and, without further preamble, was efficiently sick.

Alfric’s vomit slurped down the stones of the window’s venting thickness, some sticking to the warding rock, some sliding at last to the open air, nightfalling to the rocks of Mobius Kolb. And Alfric found himself shuddering. His silken robe was wet against his back and his legs were weak; and still his stomach knotted and churned. He closed the shutter and began to walk up and down the Hall of Shields; and was still walking when Guignol Grangalet returned to collect him.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ said the Wormlord’s Chief of Protocol.

‘No,’ said Alfric. ‘No, not a ghost.’

‘What, then?’

‘Nothing,’ said Alfric, who very much wanted to forget. ‘I think I must have eaten something that disagreed with me, that’s all.’

And Alfric made no further comment on his recent trauma as Guignol Grangalet led him to the throne-room, which was much-crowded with a great many Yudonic Knights.

‘Stand here,’ said Grangalet, placing Alfric not far from the throne.

Close by were the Norn brothers: Pig, Wu and Ciranoush Zaxilian. To minimize the chances of trouble starting, Alfric studiously avoided eye contact, and concentrated on his grandfather. On his throne sat Tromso Stavenger, Wormlord of Wen Endex. At his feet his twenty-seventh wife, the delectable Lilian. This pretty little thing, who was but thirteen years of age, was playing with a golden bangle. Sitting on a chair to Stavenger’s left was his daughter, Ursula Major.