Hugh Cook - The Werewolf and the Wormlord

‘Well,’ said Alfric. ‘What’s it going to be? Either I get your gold or your head. But I’m not leaving here empty-handed.’

This threat proved profitable, for the old man thereupon produced seven bagsacks of gold from his strongboxes.

‘That’s all I have,’ said the werehamster man anxiously.

‘Is it?’ said Alfric. ‘It’s not much.’

‘It’s all I have. I’m telling you!’

‘All right,’ said Alfric. ‘I don’t want all your gold. A bag will be quite enough.’

‘Are you sure?’ said the werehamster anxiously.

‘Quite sure,’ said Alfric.

Though the blackblade Bloodbane was urging Alfric to murder, he had already decided to spare the were-hamster’s life. So he thought it best to leave the thing with the better part of its money.

If Alfric were to take all the werehamster’s treasure, then the thing would surely go marauding until it had redeemed its loss. Or, alternatively, if — as Alfric suspected — it had grown too old and feeble to make an effective bandit, then it might die in miserable poverty.

Both outcomes could easily be avoided by leaving the brute with some of its gains, however ill-gotten they might be. As for himself, why, Alfric was a Yudonic Knight, and so would never starve, for the ruling class had first claim on all that was good in Galsh Ebrek. Alfric was also in receipt of a banker’s salary, which was well worth having. And, since he was being forced to contend for a kingdom, he lacked the patience to trifle with a werehamster’s loot.

Under Alfric’s supervision, the werehamster emptied one of the bagsacks on to the table. Once Alfric had assured himself all the gold was gold indeed — as a point of honour, he was determined not to let himself be swindled by a werehamster — he watched as the stuff was repacked. Then he made the werehamster carry both gold and baby out to the forest path, and supervised the miserable creature while it filled in the deathpit dug in that path.

Then Alfric rode on his way.

Thus did Alfric Danbrog triumph in one of the greatest tests of knighthood: a confrontation with one of the dreaded shape-changers. A warm glow of self-congratulation possessed him as he rode back to Galsh Ebrek. But this dissipated abruptly when he saw two men waiting for him at the Stanch Gates: Ciranoush Norn and Muscleman Wu.

‘Good evening,’ said Alfric, dropping his battlehand to the hilt of the blacksword Bloodbane.

The brothers Norn made no answer, but also made no move towards him. And Alfric, realizing that the inevitable feud-death confrontation was yet to come, pulled his hand free from the weapon which wished to claim it for murder, and rode on to the Green Cricket.

Why had the brothers Norn been waiting for him at the Stanch Gates? Obviously: to let him know his death was intended. They would not kill him in public, no, for the Wormlord would revenge him. The death of Pig Norn must have taught him that. But they would kill him sometime, somewhere, somehow — or at least try to encompass his death.

And they wanted him to suffer a nightmare or two before his doom befell him.

At the Green Cricket, Alfric checked in his hired horses at the stable, then went inside the inn. Anna Blaume was serving at the bar, helped by her daughter Sheila.

‘A baby,’ said Alfric, putting the squalling thing down on the counter.

‘So I see,’ said Anna Blaume.

Alfric dumped his bagsack on to the same counter, spilling gold across the beerspit wood.

‘It’s patrimony,’ said Alfric.

‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ said Sheila.

‘How would I know?’ said Alfric.

‘You mean you haven’t looked!’ said Anna Blaume. ‘That means you — oh Alfric! The poor thing’s probably been wet for — grief, men!’

‘Blood of the Gloat,’ muttered Alfric. ‘A hero’s welcome, is it? Give me a beer. ’

While Alfric was drinking, his wife came downstairs on the arm of a common-born bruiser. The pair sat on a table. Du Deiner brought them drinks, and caught Alfric’s eye, and smirked. This was an invitation for Alfric to make a scene: to threaten the bruiser and perhaps to kill him. With Bloodbane in his hands, Alfric could kill every man in the inn if he chose to go to war.

But…

Alfric found himself totally incapable of rousing himself to the fury which convention demanded. If his wife was committing adultery — what of it? Such wilful disloyalty suggested she wanted a divorce. Very well. She could have it. Alfric felt marriage had been a mistake, a descent into organic life which had distracted him from his career.

Besides, Viola Vanaleta was lowborn, and he could not have her as his wife if he was to become king. As king, he would need a wife from one of the Families; for only thus could he truly command the loyalties of the Yudonic Knights. If Alfric won the throne, Vanaleta would have to go whether she liked it or not, for to keep her would be to insult every Yudonic Knight in Wen Endex. So, at this stage, a complete abscission of their relationship would not be untimely.

With that decided, Alfric finished his beer then left the Green Cricket, sparing not a glance for Vanaleta as he strode from the inn. Once out in the night, he looked around warily, just in case the brothers Norn might be waiting in ambush. But they were not. So down the street he went, the murder-blade Bloodbane sheathed at his side and, swaggersticked in his hand, the scabbarded silversword, Sulamith’s Grief.

As he walked along, he saw nothing unusual. As his fear of the brothers Norn faded, he became buoyant. Moonglitter brightened mudpuddles and mullioned windows alike, and the moon sharpened his every sense. So that, when passing one sidestreet He smelt something.

Something female.

Strong was that scent, and he knew what it was, and knew he should not venture into the sidestreet shadows, and knew what he would find if he did. But the brightburning moon commanded him, and, helpless to resist, down the sidestreet he went, and found what he had expected, a cart heavy-laden with the corpse of a huge wolf. Black was the fur of the beast, and black was the blood which had thickened on the fur around the heartwound, and black was the stump of the quarrel which had found the creature’s heart.

The crossbow which had hurled that lethal bolt had been tossed into the cart, and by the wolf it lay. And Alfric smelt the stench of the killer upon the crossbow, and was afraid, and full of hate.

Then Sudden as the savagery of his fist-battering angers- The fit was upon him, and, unable to help himself, he threw back his head and howled. Deep-throated the sound, bloodbarbaric, the gut-threat challenge of a forest marauder. And scarcely had the howl died away when a doorway nearby was thrown open with a bang. Out stumbled a man with a hatchet in one hand, a lantern in the other.

And Alfric was minded to savage the fork-legged thing on the spot, to skullcrunch its head and scrabble its guts, to maul it and gnaw it, to take revenge for the murder of the she.

‘What was that?’ said the citizen, wide-eyed with alarm.

And Alfric smelt the man, smelt his stale sweat, his beerbelch breath, his rich-larded fat and musty stupidity; smelt adultery’s grease and buttock-cleft filth; and knew this, this, this thing had killed the she, with his stupid concoction of warped wood and wire he had killed her dead, and for that he deserved to die, surely, it would be but the work of the moment to rend him and tear him.

So Alfric — shuddered and — closed his jaws decisively.

Then shuddered again, got a grip on himself and spoke:

‘It was a dog. A dog at the meat. I kicked it away. Now I bid you guard or remove this animal, my good man, or I’ll have you arrested for creating a public menace.’