Hugh Cook - The Werewolf and the Wormlord

Alfric hastened into the cover of the trees.

The giant threw another handful of mud, but this time missed. Nevertheless, it screamed in triumph, slapped the swamp with its three-fingered hands and howled obscenities to the night air.

‘How childish,’ muttered Alfric.

When he got to his horses, he dumped the baby into one of the saddlebags, and was shortly on his way home.

Though he did not know it, his homeward journey was not to be uneventful.

Alfric was only halfway back to Galsh Ebrek when he met with a stranger.

The circumstances of their meeting were thus:

Alfric was riding along when he saw the surface of the path had been disturbed. Such disturbance would have been invisible to any ordinary human by night, at least in a place so dark and overhung by trees; but to Alfric it was very clear.

Presuming that it was possible that bandits might have hastily dug a pit in that place, Alfric swung down from the saddle and drew the silversword Sulamith’s Grief.

In open ground, Alfric might have stayed in the saddle. But here his options were limited. He could not spur his horse forward, because a suspected pit lay ahead. He could not retreat on horseback, either, because the pack animals behind him quite blocked the narrow path. Nor could he ride into the forest to either side, because the path ran between banks too steep for a horse to climb them; and, besides, the forest was low- {branched and undergrowthed, which would have made riding either impossible or suicidal.

Warily, Alfric scanned the trees to either side, and shortly spied a single figure almost hidden by the undergrowth.

‘You!’ said Alfric. ‘Step forth!’

No response.

Alfric stooped, picked up a stone and shied it at the figure. The stone clattered through the branches, barely missing the stranger.

‘I see you well enough,’ said Alfric. ‘Step forth, or I’ll cut you to pieces.’

Moving slowly and furtively, the figure crept into the open. Did it have longbow? Crossbow? Throwing stick? No. A sickle, that was all.

‘Drop the blade,’ said Alfric.

The figure dropped the blade.

Alfric advanced.

His opponent retreated.

Alfric stepped on the sickle, trapping it under his boot.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘I will kill you, for you are doubtless a bandit. Do you wish to make a confession before I lop off your head?’

‘Master,’ said his intended victim, speaking in an old man’s voice. ‘Master, lop me not, for I have treasure in my cave. Treasure to make you rich.’

‘You have, have you?’ said Alfric.

‘Truly.’

‘You’d better not be lying. If you are, I’ll cut off your sex and leave you to bleed to death.’

‘Oh, I’m not lying, master, not lying at all.’

‘Then tie up my horses while my blade keeps watch. Then lead on to this cave. Is it far?’

‘A hundred paces, no more.’

As the old man was tying up the horses, the baby began to cry.

‘What’s that?’ said the old man.

‘What does it sound like?’

‘A baby.’ ‘Why, and a baby it is. If you’ve any more stupid questions then keep them to yourself.’

‘If it’s a baby,’ said the old man, ‘I-’

‘It is a baby! I’ve told you that twice, now.’

‘My, you haven’t half got a temper!’ said the old man. ‘AH I was saying was maybe we’d best bring it inside.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said Alfric. ‘You keep your hands off it. And remember — I’ve a hand free for my sword.’ He picked up the blanket-wrapped baby. ‘Very well. We’re ready. Lead on.’

The old man was lying about the distance to his lair, for the cave proved to be a good 150 paces distant. But Alfric forgave him for that.

The cave itself proved to be a most comfortable place. The elements had been walled out, and a door gave entry to a lantern-lit place complete with truckle bed, table and four-strong chairs. At the back of the cave were half a dozen strongboxes.

‘Where’s the treasure?’ said Alfric.

‘In the strongboxes,’ said the old man. ‘Before I open them, would you like a beer? Beer and cheese?’

‘Beer, no,’ said Alfric. ‘Cheese, yes.’

‘That’s in the strongboxes too,’ said the old man.

‘Very well,’ said Alfric. ‘Let’s have it.’

Alfric set the baby down on the table then sat himself down. He watched intently as the old man opened one of the strongboxes. Unless Alfric was much mistaken, there was some treachery afoot here. But what? As Alfric watched, the old man lifted a large cheese from the strongbox. He brought it to the table and cut a piece. Which he offered to Alfric.

Just as Alfric was reaching out for the cheese, he saw a sudden gleam of triumph in the old man’s eyes. Alfric jerked back his hand.

‘It’s poisoned!’ he said. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘No, master,’ said the old man. ‘It’s perfectly good cheese. It’s not poisoned at all.’

‘Really?’ said Alfric. ‘Then you’ll be happy to eat some for me.’

The old man hesitated.

‘Eat it!’ roared Alfric.

With every evidence of reluctance, the old man began to gnaw at the cheese. Then suddenly his attitude changed, and he wolfed at the stuff savagely. Moments later, with the strength of the cheese within him, the old man began to Change.

Alfric kicked away his chair and leapt backwards as his enemy swelled, girthed, heightened, haired and bruted, becoming monstrous, hands becoming paws, arms becoming legs. A musty smell filled the cave, a smell which Alfric somehow associated with… with… hamsters?

Down on four legs dropped the monster. Then it bared its teeth and chittered at Alfric in a battlefury. It was a hamster indeed, but it was a hamster the size of a bear, and surely the equal of any warrior in battle. ‘Blood and bitches!’ said Alfric.

Then tossed aside Sulamith’s Grief and drew the blacksword Bloodbane. The intoxication of murder swelled his voice to wrath as he challenged the werehamster:

‘Die if you must, for die you will if you take but one step toward me. I hold the blackblade Bloodbane. This weapon gives no mercy.’

As Alfric was so saying, the monster rushed toward the table. It paused, its whitesavage teeth but a hair away from the baby’s head.

‘Leave,’ said the werehamster. ‘Leave, or I will kill the child.’

‘Feel free,’ said Alfric. ‘I found it an embarrassing encumbrance.’

The werehamster hesitated.

‘Come on!’ roared Alfric. ‘Make up your mind. Kill the baby then die yourself. Or change to a man and beg my mercy.’

The werehamster chose to Change, and was shortly shrinking and shrivelling, deflating and wrinkling, becoming a man again. Once thus reconfigured, it said: ‘What are you going to do to me?’

‘By rights I should kill you. That is the rightful fate of all shape-changers.’

‘But I’m — I’m not one of the Evil Ones. I’m only a werehamster.’

‘That’s evil enough for me,’ said Alfric.

‘Who are you, then?’ said the werehamster man.

‘I am Alfric Danbrog, son of Grendel and grandson of the Wormlord Tromso Stavenger.’

‘Then who are you to talk? You’re a werewolf!’

‘I am not a werewolf,’ said Alfric. ‘But even if I was, it would make no difference. You are a bandit, a shameless marauder, a disturber of graves, and eater of live meat and dead, an evil hag-thing.’

‘I am not,’ said the werehamster man.

‘You are,’ said Alfric. ‘At the very least, you are a bandit. You bring people here to kill them and steal their gold.’

‘I do not.’

‘You do,’ said Alfric implacably. ‘There is gold here. I can smell it.’

So saying, Alfric stared at the strongboxes, and his eyes flashed wolfblood red. The werehamster man shrank back, terrified, fearing that this Yudonic Knight with his homicidal hero-sword was about to launch an assault upon his host.