Hugh Cook - The Werewolf and the Wormlord

Badged with blood the ravager at last got free his blade. Then hacked. Then hacked again. Then stepped back to watch his enemy die.

‘It hurts,’ said Qa. ‘It hurts.’

Alfric stood watching, panting harshly.

‘It hurts,’ moaned Qa.

Voice failing, fading.

A wisp of smoke escaped from the dragon’s nostrils. One last firefly-rivalling flicker of fire showed at its mouth. Then it was dead. It was most clearly and obviously dead. Though Alfric nevertheless hacked off its head to be absolutely sure.

And then Then he bathed his hands in one of the puddles, for they had got scorched by fire in the course of the battle, and were very sore.

For a long time he squatted by the cold water, hands engulfed in that darkness. As he waited there, his battle-anger cooled away to nothing, and he was left alone and very lonely. The cave was dark, dark and cold, and very lonely. And Alfric began to weep for the dead dragon and its lonely vigil, and for the bitterness of this cold universe where things lived in holes, crawling forth at intervals to fight each other and die, each yearning for comfort yet afraid to trust the other, the dreaded other which might provide that comfort.

At last Alfric withdrew his hands from the water, cleansed his sword, sheathed his sword, picked up the shrivelled iron of the saga sword Edda, then left the cave. His pack he left behind, and also any and all other treasures which had belonged to the dragon.

Waves were sweeping across the sandstrand which stretched between Thodrun and the shore, either because the seas had got up or because the tide had started to come in while Alfric was in discourse with the dragon. The wind’s icy blast in freezing squalls drove the racing combers with fury, but Alfric plunged into the water, unaffrighted, and struggled toward the shore. Only when he stepped clear of the sea did he realize how close he had come to losing the ironsword Edda to the wrecking waters.

Under the dead stars he walked toward the dunes, icy iron in his hand, bones creaking as his flesh animated itself toward its destination. He felt, at that moment, that he would not have cared even if he had lost the sword. For his guilt was upon him. He had killed, he had slaughtered a poet, and his shame would be upon him for ever. He had murdered Qa. He had been forced to. Because the dragon had not trusted him. If he had not lied about the horse, then he might have won the creature’s trust. The dragon would have gone to Tang, and all would have ended happily ever after.

Instead, Alfric Danbrog would have bitter memories to bear for the rest of his life. But at least he was alive, yes, he was alive, and returning to Galsh Ebrek as a hero.

After killing the sea dragon Qa, Alfric tramped along the coast until he came to an abandoned croft. By that time, the night was nearly at an end. He laid himself down inside the ruinous crofthouse and dropped off into an exhausted sleep.

When Alfric woke, it was still night. Was he at the end of his dragon-fighting night? Or had he slept right through the day to the start of a new night? He could not say, for clouds obscured the sky, denying him the timetelling stars. Regardless of how long he might have slept, he felt weary, his body aching like a resurrected carcass. Pain still dwelt in his dragon-scorched hands, and to this annoyance was added a pressing hunger which he had no means of satisfying.

Hunger-driven, Alfric resumed his journey, at length passing between the Stanch Gates and entering Galsh Ebrek. Then he stopped in the nightmud street, momentarily unsure of how to cope with his many conflicting priorities. He wanted to rest, to eat and to drink; he wanted, also, to signal his success to Saxo Pall; and he should by rights report his successful return to the Bank.

Very well.

He was a Yudonic Knight, was he not?

Of course he was!

With that settled, Alfric backtracked to the Stanch Gates and acted like the Knight he was. He ordered one of the guards to the Bank to deliver a message, and directed another man to take a despatch to Saxo Pall.

‘My lord,’ said one of the men so commanded, ‘where will we look for you if there is a reply to your messages?’

Alfric considered. He didn’t want common guardsmen tramping into his own house.

‘You can leave any reply to my messages at the Green Cricket,’ he said.

A good choice, this, since Anna Blaume was a reliable holder of messages, and since Alfric meant to call round to the inn in any case to check on the progress of the orks.

With duties of communication thus satisfactorily discharged, Alfric took himself off to his own house, where he hoped a meal would be waiting for him. But it was not. Nothing was waiting for him. Not even his wife. Alfric foraged for food, eventually finding and consuming two (cold) baked potatoes and a cup of (equally cold) half-cooked moon beans. Then he went in search of his missing spouse: but his enquiries were fruitless.

What now?

Why, he must go to the Green Cricket, of course, to see if there were any messages for him.

When Alfric entered that insalubrious inn, he found a great many people within. But the place was not lively, for most of the patrons were in a near-corpse-like state in the aftermath of a party. What had occasioned such celebrations? Alfric did not ask. He was near collapse: though he knew not whether the cause of his suffering was indigestion, fatigue or emotional stress.

‘Hello Alfric,’ said the ork Morgenstem, addressing him from behind the bar. ‘How are you?’

‘Not very well,’ said Alfric. ‘Where’s Anna?’

‘In bed,’ said Morgenstem.

Alfric had taste enough not to ask: who with? Instead, he said to Morgenstem:

‘What puts you behind the bar? A career change?’

‘No, no,’ said Morgenstem.’ ‘I like it here.’

‘Good,’ said Alfric, for the sake of politeness. ‘Has anyone been here tonight?’

‘All kinds of people,’ said Morgenstem. ‘Many of them yet remain.’

So saying, the ork gestured at the sleeping drunks. ‘That’s not wh at I meant,’ said Alfric. ‘I meant messengers.’

‘You didn’t say messengers,’ said Morgenstem.

‘I say it now,’ said Alfric, resisting an impulse to hit the soft and blubbery animal. ‘Has anyone been here tonight? With a message, I mean? A message for me? Or a letter, a scroll, a parchment, a despatch, or anything else for me for that matter?’

‘No,’ said Morgenstem.

So much for that.

Alfric wondered what the orks were still doing at the Green Cricket. Had Tromso Stavenger refused them lodgings in Saxo Pall? Or had they proved too timid to present their diplomatic credentials to the Wormlord? Or- Earlier, he had been most curious to discover the fate which had met the orkish Embassy; but his weariness had increased considerably since then. He decided it was best that he stay resolutely uninvolved. He had enough to cope with on his own account without getting involved in any actual or potential diplomatic disasters.

‘Give me a beer,’ said Alfric.

‘Certainly,’ said Morgenstem. ‘If you’ve got the cash.’ ‘Put it on the slate,’ said Alfric.

‘You have one?’

‘Of course,’ said Alfric. ‘I come here often.’

The ork hunted around among the slates, found Alfric’s, chalked up a beer. Alfric took it to a seat by the fire and drank slowly. He felt oddly deflated and depressed. Maybe it was just the result of so much nightliving.

‘How did your quest go?’ said Morgenstem, who was polishing the bar.

Alfric looked up.

‘So-so,’ he said.

‘Did you kill your dragon?’

‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘But I’d rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same with you.’