Hugh Cook - The Werewolf and the Wormlord

Ah, the weapons!

Iron agleam in moonlight. Deathblades tempered in the blood of warfare. Ripple-patterned damascene slicing through the flesh of alien creatures ravenous for blood. The fighting fangs of heroes. Twist-patterned steel which had dared the hearts of heroes. Swords which lopped hands, which chopped feet, which shortened legs at the knees, which gouged out hearts and vivisected horses, which dissected the aorta and tasted the filth of the lower bowel.

Of such the poets sang, much to the delight of this company of heroes.

Of swords they sang, and of armour.

Buckler’s proof against a basilisk’s breath. Meshed mail. Gaunt helms topped with boars and dragons.

And the journeying, the endless trekking and marching and climbing endured by the thousands of heroes of legend, all of it to be described a footstep at a time, complete with descriptions of the texture of the mud through which they walked, and the very length of the leeches which there battened upon their flesh.

Earth was their way. Mud was their way. Wind was their way. Fire was their way. Ice was their way. Toes and hamstrings. Shins and shoulders. Corpses stretched lifeless. Lordless men manning the bulwark battlements. Heroes doomed to perish from the fiercest of griefs, dying encumbered by battle-hamess, fighting in death in honour of their battle-vows, vaunting their boasts with the blood of their lungs on their lips.

Then at last the boast-telling was over, and serious drinking began. Alfric drank himself, in defiance of his custom. Heard but parts of the tabletalk, that talk rapidly mounting to uproar. Loud, over-loud, striving above all other voices, was that of Justina Thrug, asking a question.

‘What,’ asked Justina, ‘is a virgin?’

Someone volunteered an explanation.

‘Oh!’ said she. ‘Now I remember!’

Then she looked across at Alfric and said:

‘Well, sweet wag, are you happy eating with your friends at that great big blood-brother plate?’

‘Happy enough,’ said Alfric.

Though in fact he was most unhappy at being reminded of the existence of his meal companions. He had (somehow) almost managed to forget about them entirely. Remembering their existence was unpleasant, for they were disgusting. Ciranoush, just to his right, repeatedly regurgitated his food, chewed the mouthfuls then swallowed again. As for Pig, why, Pig had drenched his food with a most revolting sauce, which was supplemented by a steady drip-drop of sweat which oozed from the bulky face of that entity. Right now, Pig was eating a chicken’s arse, teasing away the delicate flesh, and, into the bargain, eating the yellow knobs of well-cooked yellow chickenshit.

‘More beer, young sir?’ said a waiter.

‘Please,’ said Alfric.

Then realized the waiter was no waiter, no, it was Nappy, Nappy was there, at his elbow, his side, and Alfric was near-paralysed with terror, for he had no help, no chance, no hope, he was doomed, he was done, he was dead, there was no getting away.

But nothing happened.

Nothing happened to Alfric.

Nappy filled Alfric’s mug from a big jug. Then put down the jug. Then Pig Norn was groping at Pig Norn’s throat, clutching and clawing, writhing and striving, but it was no good, no good at all. The garotte was of wire, thin wire deep-biting hard, and Nappy was hauling on the wooden toggles which were tightening the wire.

In desperation, Pig Norn began to thrash about in his chair, trying to overbalance it. But the chair was heavy, solid oak was its weight, and Nappy was strategically positioned, behind Pig and immune to Pig’s fistings and Sailings. And Pig’s feet were starting to drum, to drum, to drumbeat their death, and Pig’s eyes were bulging, swelling, swollen, horror-glazed, hands spasming And And the legs spasming also, the drumbeat a death-rattle, a nothing, with bowels and bladder giving way in the aftermath, and stench rising to an absolute silence, all and everyone transfixed, horrified, all but for one old man singing tum-ti-tum-ti until someone hit him on the head with something hard and he collapsed unconscious.

Nappy loosened the garotte.

Alfric looked (he could not help himself). The line, hard line of the wire, deep-bitten, a red line, red, inflamed, blood oozing actual red where the wire had cut the skin, strength sufficient and you could take off a man’s head, or could you? No, probably not, cutting through the actual spinal column would be too much, and anyway there’s much meat there, a lot of meat, meat stronger than you might expect, stronger Alfric looked away.

The Wormlord was swilling some water round his mouth.

The Wormlord spat into his empty soup bowl.

The Wormlord unwrapped his false teeth and inserted those oratorial aids into his mouth. He had not used them earlier when boasting of the exploits of his youth, but this was a more serious matter.

‘Ciranoush Norn,’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘It is to you I speak. Wu Norn. It is to you I speak also. Earlier I reserved the right to make an example of a molester of ambassadors. Now I have made such an example. Let this be recorded. We do not permit ambassadors to be molested within our domain. We hope the point is made. Permanently.’

Ciranoush Norn replied:

‘It is.’

His voice was not steady. Even so, Alfric did not doubt the courage of the valorous Ciranoush. The present circumstances would have unsteadied anyone.

‘Good,’ said the Wormlord. ‘Let the banquet resume.’

Diffidently, talk began again. Waiters descended upon the corpse of Pig Norn, rolled it up in a spare tablecloth and dragged it away. The soiled chair was removed and a fresh one substituted; and Nappy seated himself in the fresh chair, and began to banquet himself.

Nappy picked up the chicken’s arse which Pig Norn had been eating. Nappy finished it off with every sign of enjoyment, and washed it down with ale from Pig’s half-empty mug. Nappy wiped his greasy fingers on the tablecloth and beamed in delight.

‘Well,’ said Nappy, ‘this has been an eventful evening, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Alfric unsteadily, trying to remain polite.

And, to Alfric’s mounting horror, Nappy insisted on making further Smalltalk. And still the banquet continued, with Alfric a prisoner of the proceedings since those proceedings were in his honour.

At last, knightly carcasses began to slide beneath the table, the victims of an overconsumption of liquor. As uproar ended and talk lulled away, various untunchilamons came forth from the banquet hall fireplaces to plunder the remnants of the feast. Nappy persuaded one to perch on his finger, and showed it to Alfric.

‘It — it’s beautiful,’ said Alfric awkwardly.

True enough. The tiny dragon shone, glittered and forthblazed like a living gem.

‘It likes me,’ said Nappy simply.

Smiling, smiling.

He was so happy.

He was such a happy fellow.

‘Yes,’ said Alfric, trying to coax sincerity into his voice. ‘I’m sure it does like you.’

‘Most people do, you know,’ said Nappy, ‘once they get to know me.’

‘I’m sure they do,’ said Alfric. ‘And I’m glad I’m getting to know you now.’

This may not seem much of a speech, but it cost Alfric immense effort. He was glad when Nappy was diverted by the spectacle of half a dozen dragons lapping at dregs of spilt ale with their tiny tongues. Soon there were a great many drunken dragons blundering about the banquet table or tracing erratic flightpaths through the air. One maniacal monster started feuding with a candleflame, a sight which Nappy found so droll that he laughed until he cried.

The surviving Norn brothers, Ciranoush Zaxilian and Muscleman Wu, did not laugh.

Nor did they cry.

But Alfric could imagine what they were thinking.