Hugh Cook: The Werewolf and the Wormlord

Atop the lowest shoulder of Mobius Kolb there stood the monstrous battlements of Saxo Pall. There dwelt the Wormlord, Tromso Stavenger by name, lord of Galsh Ebrek, king of Wen Endex, emperor of the Qinjoks and ruler of the Winter Sea. Old the Wormlord was, so old that many thought him close to death; though others disputed this, saying the king was known to have purchased the secret of immortality in his youth.

Higher yet, on a ridge of rock exposed to the full force of the gaunt winds of the Winter Sea and the haggling rains of all seasons, stood the expansive outworks of the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association of Galsh Ebrek. Set inside those outworks was the gaunt donjon of the Bank, the Rock of Rocks which protected the greatest secret of that organization.

The secret protected by the Rock of Rocks served to maintain the wealth of the Bank, but there was no secret at all about the origins of the Bank’s prosperity. The Flesh Traders’ Financial Association had first become wealthy in the days when Galsh Ebrek had been a great orking centre. Those granite outworks were a monument to lucrative murder and ever-rewarding terror. Tales of those days of joyful slaughter were still alive and well in Galsh Ebrek. Thus Alfric knew, for example, of the piteous screams of orklings thrown into the blubber pots while still alive. He knew of But this is a hideous, shameful, disgraceful phase of history. And recalling the horrors of those days does nothing to resurrect the victims. Suffice it to say that Alfric felt more than a little uncomfortable when he looked upon those distant walls and contemplated the first source of the money which had built him.

But there was something else which made him more uncomfortable yet. On the very highest point of Mobius Kolb was something that looked very much like a full moon. So much so that Alfric shuddered when he gazed upon its swollen light, even though he knew it was no moon but the Oracle of Ob, an occult machine which had ruled the heights for time out of mind.

The rains of millennia had weathered the carapace of that ancient arcanum. It had been ancient even before the ogres first came to the Qinjoks. In their archives, the ogres preserved fragmentary records of a few of the many temples which had risen on the heights of Mobius Kolb, pretending to understand or even to control that artefact which was also called the Ob, the Gloat, the Tynox and the Vo Un Ala Ma Drosk. But all those temples had at last fallen into ruins, sometimes under circumstances which still disconcerted later generations.

The good which could be done by the Oracle was uncertain, whereas the disasters it could cause were certain indeed; in consequence of which, all shunned its presence. Alfric in particular had good reason to keep his distance, and so had never climbed the slopes lying uphill from the Bank.

‘Is that the Oracle?’ said Cod, pointing at the Moon of the Mountain.

‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘Watch out!’

Cod ceased his Ob-gazing in time to save himself from extinction beneath the wheels of a heavily laden cart. It was piled high with seaweed, huge scorlins of the stuff. Not the old, dead, brackeny seaweed which is found shangled with sand and sheals on the sea’s spumestrand. No, this was fresh. The best select seacow’s greed. At the smell of the stuff (a briny smell tinged with a faint, ever so faint aroma of codliver oil) Alfric’s mouth watered; and he thought of seaweed soup with sideplates of garlic cockles, raw oysters and mussels marinated in wine.

Alfric abandoned such fantasy as he and his expedition followed the cart into the city. For, as always, soldiers were standing guard at the Stanch Gates; and, as always, those soldiers were armed with ceremonial orking harpoons. The harpoons were painted a bloody black (for the blood of orks is closer to night than to fire). Worse, globs of tar dangled from the harpoons, these globs representing gouts of hardened black ork blood. Alfric had never really noticed these sentries before, but now he noticed them furiously, because Cod and Morgenstem had stopped to stare.

‘Blood of the Gloat!’ said one of the guards. ‘It’s an ork!’

‘No,’ said his companion. ‘I can count, though your mother could not. It’s two orks.’

True. And both the lubbery animals were crying shamelessly. How embarrassing!

‘Two orks,’ said Alfric roughly, ‘and one Yudonic Knight.’

So saying, he drew his sword and planted it in the mud between his feet.

‘A Yudonic Knight?’ said one guard to the other. ‘I see no Yudonic Knight. I see a-’

‘Say it not!’ said Alfric. ‘I am a Knight. With me I have two ambassadors sent by the king of the Qinjoks to the lord of Saxo Pall.’

Alfric’s open anger warned the sentries they had almost gone too far. They did not apologize, but nor did they proceed to venture an irretrievable insult. Instead, one said something softly to the other, mouth to ear. Both laughed. Alfric slapped the leading pack horse. It got a move on, and the banker led his still-weeping orks into the streets of Galsh Ebrek.

One of the first things they passed was a boggy pit in which three swamp dragons were mulching garbage. These creatures are not true dragons any more than an ork is a true whale, but the naming of things proceeds without regard for scientific taxonomy, hence dragons they were to Galsh Ebrek.

But to the orks they were something else altogether. ‘Hunters!’ sa id Morgenstem fearfully.

The next moment, the swamp dragons scented the orks. With fearsome roars, they flung themselves at the walls of the pit, struggling to get out. Such escape was impossible, but the orks fled regardless, mud splattering in all directions as they charged down the street.

‘Pox,’ said Alfric.

And abandoned his pack horses while he went in pursuit.

Alfric found the orks huddled under a dung cart, clutching each other and sobbing fearfully. Inwardly he swore, then squatted down and began to sweet-talk the distraught creatures until their fears eased. Then he went back to recover his pack horses, only to find a gang of street boys had taken them in charge. That cost him some coppers (and, given the lawlessness of the streets, he was lucky it didn’t cost him silver or gold).

After Alfric had rescued his horses, one of the homicidal dandiprats asked him:

‘What’s in the barrels, grandad?’

‘Qinjok jade,’ said Alfric shortly. ‘The ogres’ tribute. So you’re lucky you didn’t steal it. All Galsh Ebrek would’ve been after your blood. ’

‘I’ll bet! ’ said his interlocuter.

Then laughed, and led his dwarfish army away in search of other amusements.

Alfric then led his expedition through the streets towards the Embassy housing the mission from Ang. And where and what is Ang? Why, Ang is an upland region in the heartland of the continent of Yestron, far south of Wen Endex. In Ang we find the city of Obooloo lies in that region, and from there the Izdimir Empire is ruled.

The Izdimir Empire’s current ambassador in Galsh Ebrek was the eminent Pran No Dree. Once, No Dree had been the weatherman of Babrika. But now he was Al’three’s ambassador to Wen Endex, which was not exactly a sought-after position. Still, No Dree had survived his first year in Galsh Ebrek, and with a little luck he might last out a second.

‘Where are we going?’ said the ever-curious Cod.

Alfric told him.

‘That’ll make for trouble,’ said Morgenstem gloomily.

‘Why?’ said Alfric.

‘This No Dree is of Janjuladoola race, is he not?’

‘Yes,’ said Alfric.

He was puzzled. What was the problem? Was there some deep-seated orkish prejudice against the Janjuladoola folk? His ethnology texts had made no mention of any such prejudice.

‘He’s a greyskin, then,’ said Morgenstem.