Hugh Cook - The Werewolf and the Wormlord

‘Publication,’ said Qa, ‘costs money.’

‘I am well aware of this,’ said Alfric. ‘So that’s where my proposition comes into it. Subject: to your compliance with certain terms, the Bank is prepared to pay for publication. A hundred scribes will work for a year to replicate your works so that your name will live in honour for ever. Life is short, but art is long. If art is properly collected and published in the first place.’

There was a pause, while the sea dragon Qa brooded about mortality, and about what a properly organized edition of the collected poems could do to perpetuate the memory of Galsh Ebrek’s greatest poet.

‘You’re tempting me,’ said Qa. ‘Aren’t you?’

Alfric mastered his now frankly chattering teeth and answered:

‘Yes. The Bank wants me to succeed in this quest. So, if you hand over the ironsword Edda, the Bank will organize the publication of the poems.’

‘I suppose,’ said Qa, ‘they’d also want me to let you kill me.’

‘Well, yes,’ admitted Alfric. ‘That does come into it. I mean, technically I only have to recover the sword. But it’d look much better if I killed you into the bargain. From the point of heroic legend, I mean. If I’m going to be king, I’ll have need of such a legend to support my rule.’

The dragon sighed, outbreathing warmth. Alfric wished it would sigh again, for he was sure he would shortly die of the cold. But it did not. Instead it said:

‘The deal you offer me is no deal at all. While I’m proud to be an honorary Yudonic Knight, I know the limitations of the breed. They never accepted my genius in life, so they’re not likely to in death. There’s no point in publication, for the volumes would be torn apart to be used for lighting fires, or for — for purposes worse.’

‘But,’ said Alfric, ‘distribution of your works will not be limited to Galsh Ebrek. Rather, the whole world will learn of your genius.’

‘The world?’

‘The Bank has authorized me to tell you about the Circle of the Partnership Banks,’ said AlMc. ‘Of this we do not usually speak. But let it be known that the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association is linked to the rest of the civilized world by a series of Doors arranged in a Circle.’

‘That’s all Janjuladoola to me,’ said Qa, using an expression in the Toxteth used to convey incomprehension.

So Alfric explained about the Circle of the Doors, a Circle controlled by a star-globe held by the Safrak Bank of the Safrak Islands, a place which was linked to the Monastic Treasury of Inner Adeer, itself in turn communicating with the Bank in Galsh Ebrek.

‘By going through our own Door,’ said Alfric, ‘we can reach the Bondsman’s Guild in Obooloo.’

Then he explained the rest of the Circle, and how the Doors opened up the entire world to the Bank. Qa listened, fascinated.

‘You see,’ said Alfric, in conclusion, ‘your works will not be confined to Galsh Ebrek. Instead, your fame will spread throughout the world.’

‘It’s a thoughtful offer,’ said the dragon. ‘But I refuse.’ ‘Why?’ said Alfric.

‘Because I have a philosophical objection to suicide.’

‘There is another way,’ said Alfric.

‘What’s that?’ said Qa.

‘You don’t really have to die. You could just disappear.’

‘What? You mean, leave my barrow and swim off into the sea? Oh no, I couldn’t do that. This is my home. It may not be much, but it’s all I’ve got. I couldn’t bear to leave it.’

And, at the very thought of leaving his much-loved domicile, Qa began to cry. Alfric was sorely embarrassed. The dragon was as wet as an ork!

‘Look,’ said Alfric, ‘you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not asking you to — to just swim off into nowhere. Remember all the different Banks I told you about. Richest of all the Partnership Banks is the Singing Dove Pensions Trust of Tang. You remember what I told you about Tang?’

‘Tell it to me again,’ said Qa.

So Alfric told, enlarging on the wealth of the place, and the high regard in which poets were held by the populace.

‘It sounds marvellous,’ said Qa dreamily. ‘I wish I could go to a place like that.’

‘But you can, you can,’ said Alfric earnestly. ‘The Bank’s arranged it all for you. We can smuggle you into Galsh Ebrek on a seaweed cart then let you through the Door. This time tomorrow, you can be in Tang.’

‘Where I’d probably be killed as a marauder,’ said Qa.

‘No, no,’ said Alfric, sounding shocked. ‘Not at all. Your fame has gone there in advance. Here, I have an official invitation from the Emperor of Tang himself. You’re invited there to be court poet. They admire poetry of your kind. Phenomenological stones. They broke into open applause when they heard about it.’ Perhaps Alfric overstated the case somewhat. Nevertheless, the substance of what he was telling the dragon was true. The invitation was genuine. The Flesh Traders’ Financial Association very much wanted Alfric to succeed in his quest and make himself Wormlord, so an immense amount of trouble had been put into cooking up a deal which would appeal to the sea dragon Qa.

‘There remains,’ said Qa, ‘the problem of translation. I don’t imagine they speak Toxteth in Tang.’

‘No,’ said Alfric, ‘they don’t. Scarcely anyone does, once you get outside Wen Endex. They speak Toxteth in Port Domax, of course, but I don’t think it’s heard in many other places.’

‘So all my poetry would have to be translated.’

‘Well… yes.’

‘So my true genius could never be properly appreciated. It can’t be, you know. Not in translation.’

‘But you’d have a most admiring audience,’ said Alfric, trying to be encouraging. ‘Anyway, you could always learn the stuff they speak in Tang.’

‘No,’ said Qa. ‘I can’t. I’m too old to learn another language.’

‘But,’ said Alfric, ‘sea dragons are famous for their intellectual agility. I’m sure you’d soon adapt. Come on. You can do it!’

‘No,’ said Qa, despondently. ‘I’m too old, and I know it.’

Then the dragon began to cry once more, and a most melancholy sight it made. Alfric lost patience. He got to his feet.

‘What’s this?’ said Qa. ‘You want to get down to the fighting and killing?’

‘No,’ said Alfric, stamping his feet. ‘I want to get warm. I’m soaked to the skin and in danger of dying of hypothermia.’

‘Well then,’ said Qa, ‘warm yourself up quickly, for we really must get to the fighting bit.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that’s exactly essential,’ said Alfric.

‘I’m afraid it is,’ said Qa. ‘Honour and all that. It’s all I’ve got left, you see. My honour as a Yudonic Knight and a loyal servant of the Wormlord. What do you want to use as a weapon? You’ve got your own sword, of course, but there are a few other weapons lying about. They usually want to use the ironsword, but it’s rusted, as you see.’

‘I can’t, actually,’ said Alfric. ‘I mean, I don’t know where it is.’

The dragon pointed it out.

Strangely, the hilt of the ironsword Edda was undamaged; it appeared to be made of a metal more durable than the rest. But the blade had suffered bitterly from the seasalt, which had reduced the weapon’s striking strength to a wavery slither of black-buckling metal.

‘So they usually go against you with their own swords,’ said Alfric.

‘Usually, yes.’

‘And you kill them. Usually.’

‘No,’ said Qa. ‘Not usually. Always. It’s very simple. I breathe fire into the water, you see.’ The dragon dabbled its claws in one of the puddles, demonstrating the prodigious quantities of water which were conveniently to hand. ‘That fills the air with steam,’ said Qa. ‘So they can’t see. Even if it’s daytime. There’s cracks in the rocks above, you see. If it’s daytime there’s light in the cave. Anyway, the steam blinds them. Usually they flail around a bit with their swords. Then I attack.’