Hugh Cook - The Werewolf and the Wormlord

As the Knights were absorbing this shock, Morgenstem spoke:

‘Come to me, Ursy-thing. Come here, prattle-head. Bring me your perfumed lips, the pink of your underwear. Come to me, Ursy-thing. I want to strangle you.’

‘We — we fight with swords here,’ said Ursula Major unsteadily.

‘My champion is free to opt for unarmed combat if my champion so wishes it,’ said Alfric loudly. ‘That is the law, and you know it.’

Ursula Major looked on him with hatred.

There was no way Ursula Major could best an ork in combat, and she knew it. Ursula Major was a clothes horse, not a woman warrior in the shield maiden tradition. If Morgenstem insisted on unarmed combat, then Morgenstem must necessarily win, for the ork was at least twice the weight of the human female.

‘So,’ said Ursula. ‘So, they are females. The orks are females. Very well. Then let it be so written. Alfric Danbrog was championed by a woman. Thus he lived.’

Then the Yudonic Knights began to laugh, for of course it was a great joke to think of Alfric being saved by an ork, and a female ork at that. As the Knights collapsed in paroxysms of backslapping and kneeslapping, Alfric realized his public humiliation was complete. Lower than this he could not go.

When the laughter at last died down, the throneseated Ursula Major said:

‘Your doom is withdrawn. You are free to go.’ Then, to her Chief o f Protocol: ‘Show our guest out.’ Whereupon Guignol Grangalet invited Alfric to leave. He agreed that he would leave. There was, after all, nothing he could win by staying.

‘We’ll come with you,’ said Morgenstem, who was in the process of getting dressed again.

‘No,’ said Ursula Major. ‘I command you to attend a banquet to celebrate your victory today. You and your friend. Both the orks.’

A half-dressed Morgenstem looked at Alfric.

‘I’ll be all right,’ said Alfric, who felt so miserable and humiliated that all he wanted was to escape from Saxo Pall.

‘Good speed,’ said Cod.

‘Thank you,’ said Alfric. ‘Thank you.’

Then he bowed to the orks, bowed to the Knights, bowed to Ursula Major herself, then allowed the Chief of Protocol to lead him away.

Through halls and corridors went Alfric Danbrog and Guignol Grangalet, down echoing stairwells and then through tunnelling dark. Alfric realized Grangalet was taking him into an unfamiliar part of the castle. Alfric meant to ask about this, but When he looked around, Grangalet had vanished.

‘My lord?’ said Alfric, uncertainly.

He was sure the man had been behind him but a dozen footsteps previously.

Cautiously, Alfric retraced his steps. Slipped through an archway. And And there was Nappy, and for Alfric there was no time to retreat, no time to run, and certainly no time to Change, for he would be dead before he could do any such thing.

‘Good evening, sir,’ said Nappy.

Nappy’s happy brown eyes held no hint of menace, but the stiletto in his hands was living a life of its own, the quicksilver blade flickering as it danced by the light of an overhead lantern, its agility confirming what Alfric knew already. If Alfric were to Change, he would be dead before the first shadows had possessed his flesh. If he were to draw his sword, he would fall with that needle of steel buried in his heart. He could not run, he could not dodge or duck, he could not — would not — beg for mercy.

He was a dead man.

But he managed manners sufficient to say:

‘A good evening indeed. And how would you be on this night of nights?’

‘Very well, thank you sir,’ said Nappy. ‘May I invite you to step this way?’

‘By all means,’ said Alfric.

And, commanded by a negligent gesture, Alfric Danbrog walked in front of Nappy. Waiting as he walked. Waiting for the knife. Between the vertebrae, doubtless. One blow to paralyse, another to kill. Or would it be in the back of the neck? Then one single strike would suffice to make death certain.

Wherever the blow fell, this much was certain:

Alfric Danbrog was a dead man.

‘Something wrong with your legs, sir?’

‘No,’ said Alfric, who had been deliberately slowing his pace to try to delay his arrival at his place of execution, wherever that might be. ‘No, not at all, nothing wrong, nothing.’

And he lengthened his pace exceedingly.

‘That’s enough, sir.’

‘What?’

‘I mean, sir, we’re here.’

Alfric stopped still. Trembling. He waited. For the bite of the blade, the shrill agony, the murder-strike.

‘On your right, sir. The door on your right. Open it, if you would.’

Alfric looked to his right. There was a door. An old, immensely heavy door made of polished oak. He could smell the polish. He even recognized the odour as that of Brondlord’s Furniture Polish, which was based on the oil of riverworms caught in the Riga Rimur. Viola Vanaleta used to use it regularly on all wooden furniture in Alfric’s house in Vamvelten Street.

‘The door, please. Open it, if you would.’

There was a heavy iron ring set in the door. It was jet black, not from age but because it had been painted that colour. Reluctantly, Alfric’s fingers closed on the iron ring. It was cold, cold, cold as death and as heavy. What was beyond this door?

Suddenly, Alfric knew.

A psychic intuition told him.

Never before had he had such a vivid premonition. But, under the stresses of the moment, unexpected powers were coming to life. He knew, then, that he could see the future. He could see what lay beyond that door, and what was going to happen to him. On the other side of the door there was a sickening drop to a pit full of slicing knives. And, as soon as Alfric opened the door, Nappy would kick him in the small of the back and precipitate him into that pit.

Alfric felt sick.

He urged himself to turn, to turn and fight, to die in combat, to die like a man.

— But I cannot.

— It is the future. I have seen it. Therefore it is fated. It is fixed. I cannot alter the future.

So thinking, Alfric turned the heavy iron ring and pushed open the door. It screamed on its hinges. And revealed:

A small room, lit by three lamps.

A very warm, cosy room, heated by a small charcoal brazier.

There was a faded red carpet on the floor; a truckle bed on the right side of the room, neatly made up with a featherdown duvet; there were two armchairs, each upholstered with a shaggy brown animal skin which might have been that of a yak; there was a small liquor-table sitting between the armchairs; and there were any number of oddments and knick-knacks on the wooden shelves affixed to the walls with skewering iron.

‘Take a seat, sir,’ said Nappy genially.

Alfric stumbled into the room. As he did so, something flew up from the floor. He started, then saw it was only an untunchilamon, fleeing from a saucer of milk. Did Nappy put down milk especially for dragons? For a moment Alfric thought so, then saw the kitten curled up on the bed. He found his way to one of the chairs and sat down. The door screamed on its hinges as Nappy closed it.

‘I thought you might like a drink before you go,’ said Nappy, seating himself in the other armchair.

Before you go? What did that mean. Doubtless it was a new euphemism for dying. But, even so, a drink would not be out of place.

‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘Yes.’

Gladly accepting Nappy’s hospitality.

Nappy poured liquor into two thimble-skulls, and passed one of them to Alfric. He swallowed the contents at a gulp.

‘Would you like another one, sir?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

While Nappy poured Alfric a second drink, an untunchilamon (maybe the very one Alfric had scared away from the saucer of milk) alighted on the liquor-table. Indulgently, Nappy poured the thing a thimble-skull of strong drink all for its very own. Alfric watched, fascinated, as the fingerlength dragon plunged its entire head into the thimble-skull. It stayed under for quite some time, while the level of liquor steadily sank.