Hugh Cook - The Werewolf and the Wormlord

‘Oh, all right then, if you really must know, I’m Alfric Danbrog, son of Grendel Danbrog and grandson of the Wormlord Tromso Stavenger. You want to hear more? Gertrude Danbrog is my mother and Ursula Major my father’s sister, hence my aunt. My paternal grandmother was-’

‘Enough,’ said the vampire, cutting him off. ‘You have told me enough. Your naming makes you a shape-changer. Thus you are welcome, thrice welcome, ever welcome in the halls of blood.’

Alfric wanted to protest that he was not a shape-changer at all, but thought such objection unwise: hence allowed himself to be escorted to the Council Hall, where fresh blood was served to him while he waited for the Elders to gather.

At first, Alfric indulged his curiosity by scanning the assembling Elders. Under the interrogation of his probing eyes, they revealed themselves to be ancient, their skins clinging very close to their skeletons. Close proximity to the warm-blooded Alfric Danbrog inspired the vampires with appetite. They opened their mouths and drooled. Their teeth were sharp, very sharp, and many. Alfric abruptly ceased scanning the dark and settled back to wait.

At last, the Oldest of the Elders spoke:

‘Greetings, Alfric Danbrog. We hear you have a proposition for us,’

‘I do,’ said Alfric. ‘I come here as a representative of the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association. We wish to do business.’

‘The Bank has rejected our business in the past,’ said the Oldest. ‘Why should it change its mind now?’

‘Policies change when needs change,’ said Alfric. ‘Our needs have changed. We have also grown more… more realistic over the years. The absurd prejudice against bloodfeeding is no longer to be found among our ranks.’

‘What of Yaf, then?’ said the Oldest.

‘Yaf is dead,’ said Alfric bluntly. ‘He’s been dead for a hundred years.’

‘But he can’t be!’ said the Oldest. ‘It was only yesterday that he rebuffed me.’

‘Was it?’ said Alfric. ‘Consult your memories.’

Silence.

Then, from out of the dark, the voice of the Oldest: ‘You are righ t. It is my age. The years are so short after the first thousand or so. Besides, I’ve slept most of that time.’

‘It is a pity that your sleep was not profitable,’ said Alfric. ‘But, with 3 per cent compounding interest, your sleep could be profitable indeed. We would of course be prepared to pay the interest in a form convenient to you, that is, not as gold but as virgin females to the equivalent value.’

‘Details, please.’

‘Interest would be credited to your account annually,’ said Alfric. ‘An initial deposit of 100 talents of gold would be worth 103 in a year’s time. In two years, your investment would have grown to 106 talents plus a 900th of a talent. In three years-’

‘Thank you,’ said the Oldest, cutting him off just as he was getting enthusiastic. ‘I am familiar with the wonders of compound interest. What you propose is similar to what I myself proposed to Yaf when I ventured to Galsh Ebrek.’ ‘I know,’ said Alfric. ‘I have seen the files. You offered Yaf some very good business. He was wrong to turn you down. Future generations have lamented his foolishness.’

The vampires had proposed to make a massive investment of gold with the Bank, then come to the Bank once every ten years to claim their interest in the form of so many virgin slaves. But Yaf had apparently experienced some moral scruples which had prevented him from concluding this bargain.

Why?

Alfric had no idea.

After all, a great many people invest their money in banks, and there is nothing to stop the investor spending the interest thus gained on buying slaves to be slaughtered, or in paying assassins, or in purchasing weapons of war. So surely it makes no moral difference if the bank (on the client’s behalf) makes payments for similar purposes.

‘You do guarantee,’ said the Oldest, ‘that you will be able to pay interest in the form of virgin slaves?’

‘At the standard rate, yes,’ said Alfric. ‘I guarantee it with my life.’

‘That’s no guarantee!’ said the Oldest. ‘Not when you die so quickly.’

‘I am only thirty-three,’ said Alfric. ‘The years of my strength are only half gone. Assuming you collect your first interest payment in ten years’ time, I will still be in the prime of life.’

‘If you were a human,’ said the Oldest, ‘I would not trust you. However, fortunately you are a werewolf. Therefore we can bargain. ’

Alfric was enraged by this accusation. But he smoothed diplomacy into his voice and said:

‘The terms I can offer you are good. But there is one thing I must have if we are to conclude any bargain whatsoever.’

‘What thing is that?’ said the Oldest.

‘You have a sword here,’ said Alfric. ‘You have the sword known as Kinskom.’

‘Yes,’ said the Oldest, acknowledging possession of that mighty blade.

‘I require it,’ said Alfric.

‘Why?’ said the Oldest.

Alfric sighed, tired already, and wearied further by the prospect of having to explain himself yet again. He tried to keep it short.

‘As you doubtless know,’ said Alfric, ‘my grandfather, Tromso Stavenger, is the Wormlord. He denied all rights of succession to his eldest son, Grendel. I am Grendel’s oldest son, but cannot inherit the throne in the ordinary way because my father has been cast out of the royal family.

‘As things stand, Ursula Major should inherit the throne when the Wormlord dies. But he has repented of his choice. He regrets the wrath with which he exiled his son. He wishes to redeem himself by letting his son’s son inherit the throne. I am his son’s son.

‘That I may inherit the throne with honour, the Wormlord has set me the task of salvaging the three saga swords. Two I have. I dared the great dragon Qa in his burrow. Long and hard I fought with him in his deep and smokey lair. Great were the gouts of flame he hurled against me, but my sword was strong, and the old iron availed where the iron of others had failed.’

Unconsciously, Alfric was slipping into the rhythms of the storytellers of Wen Endex, his phrasing drifting into the vocabularies of legend as his own tale took hold of him. Despite his determination to be succinct, he had given himself fully to wordy poetry by the time he came to tell of his battle with the swamp giant Kralch.

‘Then,’ said Alfric, ‘I rode back to Galsh Ebrek. But my journey was not yet over, for-’

He paused.

These were vampires, outcasts, blood drinkers. They tolerated him only because they thought him a werewolf, an accursed shape-changer. Alfric had been about to boast of his duel with a ferocious werehamster, and the aplomb with which he had brought that baby-threatening monster to heel. But such a victory might not win him favour with this audience.

‘For?’ said the Oldest, in an encouraging manner. ‘Go on.’

‘For my horse fell lame,’ said Alfric lamely, ‘and I had to walk the rest of the way home.’

‘Oh,’ said the Oldest.

He was greatly disappointed. Being a vampire is one of the most tedious of all possible modes of existence, since it largely consists of sitting in the dark for many months at a time doing virtually nothing. Hence vampires make an enthusiastic audience for songs, poems and legends of all descriptions; a fact which allows any fluent-voiced prisoner of these monsters to survive until sleep or hoarseness prevails.

‘Anyway,’ said Alfric, ‘you know how it is, and how it must be. I rescued the ironsword Edda, the revenant’s claw. I dared the Spiderweb Castle for Sulamith’s Grief. Now I must have Kinskorn to complete my sweep of the saga swords and secure my claim to the throne of Wen Endex.’