Hugh Cook: The Werewolf and the Wormlord

‘A new day,’ said Alfric.

Yes, a new day.

And now he had his problems to attend to.

Alfric scavenged around for a meal, and was rewarded by the discovery of three small cakes of cooked oatmeal and a lump of dried fish. While he was taking breakfast, he schemed diligently. The game of power was not played out yet; but, if Alfric was going to survive to play much longer, he would have to make Ursula Major understand that she needed him.

What did he have that she wanted? Or might be made to want? Of course! His knowledge of finance!

Alfric had long observed that the government of Wen Endex was deficient in that it had no properly organized system of taxes. Given such a system, the streets of Galsh Ebrek could be properly paved; roads could be built across the nation; the swamps could be drained; and many other things equally as marvellous could be accomplished.

Once Ursula Major understood that Alfric could arrange all this on her behalf, surely she would rather have him as an ally than as an enemy. And once installed in the power system, he could work to put himself on the throne.

‘It will work,’ said Alfric to himself.

Then was startled by a knock on the door.

Alfric feared this might signal the advent of Ciranoush Zaxilian Nom at the head of a gang of headhunters. But his visitors proved to be the orks, Cod and Morgenstem.

‘Hello,’said Alfric.

‘Hello Alfric,’ said Morgenstem.

‘May we come in?’ said Cod. ‘There’s something we’d like to talk about.’

‘I’m afraid,’ said Alfric, ‘that this isn’t a convenient moment for a talk.’

‘Why not?’ said Cod.

‘Because,’ said Alfric, ‘I’m going to Saxo Pall.’

‘Oh,’ said Morgenstem. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

‘I don’t care if it’s wise or not,’ said Alfric. ‘I’m going.’ ‘There’s things going on in that castle which aren’t really nice,’ said Morgenstem.

‘Such as what?’ said Alfric.

‘Such as people dying,’ said Morgenstem. ‘Nappy, for instance.’

‘What happened to him?’ said Alfric.

‘He died,’ said Morgenstem. ‘He died in his sleep last night.’

Alfric knew what it meant ‘to die in one’s sleep’. Alfric could not help himself. He shuddered, imagining the wet bone, the shattered teeth, the eyes avulsed, the intestines spraddled across the room. ‘To die in your sleep’ — in Wen Endex, that denoted the most hideous of all possible deaths. Who had commanded such a death? The smooth-breasted Ursula Major? Or the female Thrug? Or had the execution been commanded by Ciranoush Zaxilian Nom?

Whatever the truth, Nappy’s death served to increase Alfric’s sense of personal danger. Unless he could secure himself the protection of some kind of power base, he had best leave Wen Endex to preserve his own life.

‘I’m sorry to hear about Nappy,’ said Alfric, ‘but it doesn’t change the facts. I’m still going. I’ve got a clear choice. Either I do a deal with Ursula Major or I flee the city.’

‘What kind of deal are you thinking of doing?’ said Cod.

‘I’m going to offer to run her inland revenue department,’ said Alfric.

‘But she doesn’t have an inland revenue department!’ said Cod.

‘A deficiency,’ said Alfric, ‘which I hope to remedy.’

‘Can we come with you?’ said Cod. ‘To Saxo Pall, I mean.’

‘Of course,’ said Alfric. ‘If you want to.’

‘Good,’ said Cod. ‘If they threaten you, we’ll say we’ve made you part of our diplomatic staff.’

‘Thank you,’ said Alfric, genuinely touched to find the orks selflessly prepared to go to such efforts on his behalf.

In company with the orks, Alfric went through the streets of Galsh Ebrek.

It was hot.

Hot?

Yes, it was hot!

The sun was high in the sky, for it was not morning at all, it was early afternoon. Which meant that Alfric had not just eaten breakfast. Rather, he had consumed lunch.

Rooftop snow, slushed by sun, was melting fast. Already, flowers were unfolding, life ressurecting itself from the mud, pushing outward to the sun in a flamboyance of purple, a roseburst of red. Alfric saw no miracle in this, for he had lived in Wen Endex all his life, and was accustomed to the violence of the onset of spring. Nevertheless, he was pleased to find the cold weather broken, and the sun ruling in splendour in the heavens above.

Up the slopes of Mobius Kolb went Alfric Danbrog, then into Saxo Pall went he with the orks Cod and Morgenstem in tow. Alfric demanded an audience with Ursula Major.

‘I’ll see what I can arrange,’ said a very nervous Guignol Grangalet.

‘You do that,’ said Cod the ork. ‘And make sure you don’t accidentally arrange Alfric’s death, because the ogre king wouldn’t like that at all, oh no, King Dimple-Dumpling would be very upset with you if you did a thing like that.’

Guignol Grangalet looked more nervous than ever. ‘Go!’ said Cod. ‘ Don’t keep us waiting!’

And the Chief of Protocol fled.

Alfric and the orks were shortly shown into the Council Chamber. This was a big room dominated by a horseshoe table of polished oak. The windows of that room made no concession to the requirements of defence, for they were wide and tall. They had been unshuttered, so the sun splashed into the Council Chamber.

Several people were sitting at the horseshoe table, but there was no sign of Ursula Major. Alfric turned to the person who sat in the Chair of Honour. That person was Justina Thrug, daughter of Lonstantine Thrug and sometime ruler of the distant island of Untunchilamon.

‘I have come here,’ said Alfric, ‘to see Ursula Major. Where is she?’

Justina Thrug looked at him. A small smile played about her lips. The pet owl which sat upon Justina’s shoulder opened one eye — huge, orange, malevolent — and stared at Alfric for a moment before lidding its vision once more.

‘Ursula,’ said Justina, choosing her words carefully, ‘is sitting in the throneroom, playing at being king of Galsh Ebrek.’

‘I want to see her,’ said Alfric harshly.

Ju?*ina smiled again.

Sun shone bright on an ornamental bronze comb placed in her hair. Sun glinted from the heavy gold rings on her fingers, and dazzled from the cut diamonds which adorned those rings. Her father’s battle-shield was hung on the wall behind her, and the reflected glory of this aegis shone around her.

‘Izzy, my darling,’ said Justina. ‘I don’t think you really want to see little Ursula. I think you want to see the ruler of Galsh Ebrek.’

‘Which is?’ said Alfric.

Justina Thrug smiled. Like a cat with cream. Alfric looked around the table. There sat Ciranoush Zaxilian Norn. And there sat the elderly Banker Eg. And there, Comptroller Xzu. And, besides, five Yudonic Knights from the greatest of the Families.

Only then did Alfric remember how he had seen Justina Thrug in the precincts of the Bank shortly after his return from his latest visit to the Qinjoks. He had asked what she had been doing there. He had been told she had been arranging a loan. He had believed it. But now he knew differently. She had been playing politics, even then.

This was the most devastating revelation Alfric had ever endured in his whole life.

Never before had he felt so totally outclassed.

He had thought himself to be right at the centre of the politics of Galsh Ebrek, whereas in fact he had been a peripheral figure on the fringes of political life. While he killed dragons, dared giants and dealt with vampires, he had imagined himself to be winning the throne of Wen Endex. In fact, the true power brokers had been wheeling and dealing right in the heart of Galsh Ebrek itself.