Hugh Cook - The Werewolf and the Wormlord

Tromso Stavenger had fathered only two children. The eldest was Grendel, accused of lycanthropy and hence denied his inheritance and exiled from Galsh Ebrek. The younger was female, Ursula Major. Younger? Yes, she was much younger. For a full five lustra separated the birth of Ursula Major from the nativity of Grendel Danbrog; and Ursula was Alfric’s coeval.

Since Ursula Major was the only one of the Wormlord’s children who was fit to inherit the throne, she was next in line for kingly power. When Tromso Stavenger died, Ursula would rule Wen Endex. She was dressed for the role already, for she wore a glittering helm and carried a shield displaying a woman’s wound armed with a great ferocity of razorblade teeth. A sword she had also; the result being that she looked for all the world like a shield maiden of legend. However, her accoutrements were not of iron. Rather, they were lightweight toys of beaten tin. And it was widely known in Galsh Ebrek that Ursula was unfit to rule, for she was more a clothes horse than a horse-mastering warrior.

Ursula Major was technically a very beautiful woman, a blonde with well-defined mammary glands, luxurious curves and lips to match. But on this occasion she looked distinctly sour. Why?

And why was there a second chair to Ursula’s left? That chair was not unoccupied. Instead, the matronly Justina Thrug was seated on that chair. With, of all things, a pet owl seated on her shoulder. Alfric was intensely irritated. What was the Thrug-thing doing on a chair of such honour? He turned to ask Grangalet about it, and And Grangalet was gone, silently replaced by Nappy. Alfric’s stoma ch lurched and his gorge rose. He controlled himself. Just. But sweat bulged from his forehead and his kneejoints almost gave way beneath hi m.

‘What a happy occasion,’ said Nappy happily. ‘How nice to have you back in your grandfather’s hall.’

‘Yes,’ said Alfric. Then: ‘What is that Thrug female doing sitting beside Ursula?’

‘She is Ursula’s advisor,’ said Nappy. ‘Hence it is her privilege to be so seated.’

‘Oh,’ said Alfric. Then: ‘But-’

But he could say no more, for Guignol Grangalet was calling for silence.

Once the Yudonic Knights had settled to silence, the Wormlord began to speak.

‘I have little to say,’ he said. ‘And that will be said quickly. As you know, She walks the land. It is because of Her that we gather here by night. As king, I have a duty to march forth against Herself. But as king, I also have need to see to the administration of Wen Endex.

‘I am old. I know this. I am old, and near death. Long have I struggled against the infirmities of age, but the struggle availeth naught. In my early days, a wise man sold me the secret of immortal youth. He was a wise man indeed, for he prospered exceedingly.’

The Wormlord paused. Alfric suspected this was to give the assembly the chance to laugh. But nobody did so.

‘Wise indeed,’ repeated the Wormlord. ‘For he grew rich while others died.’

Then he paused again. Now most of his auditors understood that a joke was being made, but they did not laugh. Instead, an embarrassed silence prevailed. It was not the done thing to laugh at a joke at the king’s expense. Not even when the joke was made by the king himself.

‘He grew rich,’ said the Wormlord wearily, ‘and I grew old. Now I am near death. It is no use pretending. I know myself to be mortal, and know that others know as much.

‘Though I am old, death still holds its fears for me. This surprises me. In my youth, I thought fear of oblivion to be the exclusive property of the young, of those with so much to lose. Now I am old. My bones hurt, my teeth are gone, and of my bowels the less said the better. Still, I have something to lose — my life. Life is still life, even though one be the age one is.’

What age was that? Alfric did not know. Alfric was 33. His father, Grendel Danbrog, was 58. Which meant his grandfather was unlikely to be much younger than 72, and was more likely to be aged over 80.

The Wormlord continued:

‘While fear of death still appals me, nevertheless I cannot hold to life much longer. Once I have found a suitable successor to the throne, I will march forth against Herself.’

Tromso Stavenger glanced sideways at a frozen-faced Ursula Major then said:

‘My daughter is not a suitable successor. I have discussed this with her.’

Alfric could imagine the nature of that discussion. ‘Ursula will naturally inherit the throne if I die before a suitable champion has proved himself better suited for that seat,’ said the Wormlord. ‘However, you all know I have the right to appoint such a champion to succeed me. Written law and the dictates of custom give me such a right. There are ample precedents.’

Hie Wormlord allowed himself some silence. Was this to give his words time to sink in? Or was he wearying from the effort of speaking? Alfric was inclined to think it was weariness which had compelled Stavenger to pause. Certainly the old man’s voice was much stronger when he continued:

‘The champion must be from one of the Families. That is my rule. The champion must perform three feats of courage. That is my rule. To be precise, the champion must recover the three saga swords and bring them here to me in Saxo Pall. Once this has been done, I will yield my throne to the champion, then march forth to do battle with Herself.

‘You all know what the saga swords are. Likewise, you all know where these weapons are to be found, and what dread dangers will confront the questing hero who dares to seek their possession^ I trust that I have no need to remind you of the special conditions attached to any quest against the dragon Qa.

‘Well then. Do I have a volunteer?’

Did he?

No.

A great silence prevailed in the throneroom.

As Tromso Stavenger had rightly stated, all present were familiar with the difficulties of questing for the three saga swords. Alfric, who had attended memorial services for some of the would-be heroes who had dared such quests, was far too sane even to think of volunteering his flesh for such lunacy.

But others must have been thinking on his behalf, for Grendel Danbrog spoke into the silence, saying:

‘My son chooses to dare himself upon this quest.’

The strongspoken words echoed about the throneroom.

‘Bravo,’ murmured Nappy.

Alfric was about to protest, but Ciranoush Zaxilian Norn spoke first, saying:

‘No minion of the moon can sit upon the Wormlord’s throne.’

‘I will vacate the throne in favour of the victor,’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘Regardless of who the victor might be.’

By now, Alfric understood all. Tromso Stavenger had repented of the rage with which he had driven his son from his house. Now the Wormlord was going to make amends by allowing his grandson to claim the throne. Alfric looked from Grendel to Stavenger. Both were smiling upon him.

But The three quests were suicidal, and Alfric knew it. He knew too that the life of a Yudonic Knight was not for him. He had no taste for drinking, brawling and debauchery; and was reluctant to admit to any desire to rule over people addicted to such activities. So he spoke up strongly, saying:

‘My father has nominated me as a questing hero, but I do not accept this nomination. I will have nothing to do with any such quest.’

Then Alfric turned on his heel and departed from the throneroom. Some of the Yudonic Knights spat on him as he passed, but he escaped from Saxo Pall with his life and liberty unimpaired.

At least for the moment.

When at last Alfric left the fastness of Saxo Pall and began the descent of Mobius Kolb, he expected to make his way back to Vamvelten Street, there to join his wife in a meal and, later, in sexual congress.