The Werewolf and the Wormlord (3 page)

‘I trust,’ said King Dimple-Dumpling, ‘that you personally guarantee the safety of my orks.’

‘I do, my liege,’ said Alfric. ‘I guarantee their safety as far as Galsh Ebrek. After that, the Wormlord will doubtless take them into his care. As all the world knows, the Wormlord has the highest regard for the niceties of diplomacy. ’

‘It was once said,’ said the ogre king, ‘that the Wormlord also had the highest regard for his honour. He did battle with Her son on account of such honour. Will he not do battle with Herself?’

‘My liege,’ said Alfric, keeping his face studiously blank, ‘word of the Wormlord’s will is not in my keeping.’

But Alfric knew what Rumour had to say on that subject. The Wormlord was old, and his courage had failed along with his strength. Soon he would die, his death perhaps precipitating a struggle for the throne of Wen Endex.

Alfric Danbrog hoped to avoid personal involvement in such struggle. But, because of his genesis and breeding, that might prove very difficult.

CHAPTER TWO

After leaving the presence of the ogre king, Alfric trekked for half a league underground before he at last emerged on to a mountain path beneath a dark and moonless night sky. The horses followed, snorting as they came out into the skeletal wind, the bitter cold. Alfric would not suffer from that chill, for he had donned thick furs for the journey. These (luxury of luxuries!) were furs of the wolverine, hence would not freeze regardless of how cold the air became.

The orks came last. Morgenstem, whom Alfric had picked as a complainer, made no comment on the cold because he was insensitive to it. Cold such as this would not trouble the orks, for both were far too thick and fat, too oiled and greasy, too lubbery blubbery.

Standing sentinel by the cavemouth exit was the gnarled statue of an ancient ablach, illuminated by phosphorescence from smothering lichens. Both Cod and Morgenstem bent down and kissed the stone dwarf for luck. Alfric, who had no truck with superstition, checked the stowage of the six barrels of jade, inspected the ropes of walrus hide which linked each pack horses to the next, then said to the leading animal:

‘Chok-chok!’

The horse started to move. The others followed. The orks, who had been having a little talk to the stone dwarf, hastily fell in behind.

Snow crunched underfoot and • underhoof as the expedition began to descend the mountain trail. The sky was cloudy and the clouds, or so Alfric suspected from the feel of the air, more than a little moody. He expected bad weather, and soon. He was glad when the trail shortly plunged into a forest of winter-black trees, gaunt and leafless to the last branch, for the forest was comparatively sheltered.

The forest was dark beneath the clouded sky. Here and there, a star-lichen glowed, but apart from that there was precious little illumination. This was the dark where the timorous think of ghost and ghoul, of adhantare and revenant. But Alfric Danbrog feared not the dark. Rather, he feared the moon, the Great Sorceress which has overrule of the tides of sea and blood alike. Hence he welcomed the absence of the welkin-wanderer, and was if anything comforted by the shrouding shadows.

By rights, the near-sighted banker should have been fumbling blind in that umbrage, for his spectacles had no special powers to decipher the dark. And let the plain truth be stated here without equivocation: travelling through forest by night is dangerous and often leads to death. Indeed, to go a mere half-dozen paces into the woodlands by night is to risk disorientation, for nothing is more baffling than the dark.

But Alfric was not as other men. In proof of which, he found his way efficiently and without undue effort. The path itself helped guide him; it was a slightly concave track which became an impromptu stream whenever it rained, and now afforded him with a trail of soft and yielding mud to follow. The moment he deviated from the mud’s guidance, rocks and roots would ruck beneath his boots, warning him to reseek his footing.

In addition to such clabber-footed guidance, Alfric trusted much to his ears, for there was a constant clackering from ghoul-fingered branches animated by the bitter malice of the wind. With trees to either side thus preaching the appetites of emptiness, Alfric was ever-assisted to find his way. Furthermore, eye-jabbing branches stood ready to correct him should he blunder from the path.

Yet it was not either underfoot mud or sideline tree-talk which ultimately secured Alfric’s route. Rather, it was his eyesight. By day, thanks to the correction supplied by his spectacles, his vision was neither better nor worse than that of other people. By day, he could pretend to be normal.

But night—

Night was different.

Night meant changes.

Alfric Danbrog possessed night vision of uncanny capacity. The forest was not utterly dark, for, quite apart from the soft phosphorescence of the occasional star-lichen, there remained (despite the clouds) a dim filtration of almost subliminal illumination from the sky, and it is certain that Alfric’s eyes were well-equipped to gather in that minimal light.

But that is not the entire story.

For, as he travelled that darkened path, Alfric Danbrog sometimes had occasion to probe the night with a special urgency. When he did so, he saw not dimly but well. On such occasions, he saw not perfectly, for the colours of things remained secret: but shape and form were instantly betrayed to his scrutiny. Thus, while Alfric moved through a world of shadows, those shadows yielded their secrets to his gaze on demand. Such demand he made when the trail took him through a black and overbranched cutting, a place devoid of star-lichens and virtually hidden from the sky, a place more cave than path. And there he saw almost as well as when walking beneath the open sky.

A curious observer might almost have thought that Alfric’s eyes sent out a light of their own, interrogating the dark with outpourings of wavelengths mostly invisible to unaided human perception. Furthermore, had such an observer been able to study the steadfast trailblazer at close quarters, a most disconcerting phenomenon would have made itself evident. In places particularly dark, Alfric’s eyes took on a dull red hue which was visible at half a dozen paces. And once, when a stick-crack alerted his sword-hand to a possible ambusher, Alfric’s eyes positively flamed as he sought his putative enemy.

With such a guide, the expedition leagued well through the night, until Alfric at last called a halt.

‘What are we stopping for?’ said Cod, who had already proved himself more ready with questions than his fellow.

‘To make camp,’ said Alfric.

‘And about time,’ rumbled Morgenstem. ‘Grief of gods, my feet are halfway broken.’

‘But why here?’ said Cod, peering into the night which, for him, was almost featureless.

‘We have a knoll,’ said Alfric, indicating with a hand which Cod had not the slightest hope of seeing in the dark. ‘That’s for us, for our camp. Three can fight six from a knoll, or so it’s said in theory. ’

Alfric did not mention that theory also says that two can take four if the four be orks and the two be men. He was, after all, a diplomat; so, while he thought of his orks as a useless encumbrance and a potentially embarrassing responsibility, he addressed them to their faces as if they were valued allies.

‘I hear water,’ said Cod.

‘Of course,’ said Alfric, yielding marginally to an underlying impatience. ‘I didn’t stop here by accident. There’s a stream down there. Nothing for the horses, but you can’t have everything.’

‘There’s probably worms,’ said Morgenstem, speaking of the stream.

‘No,’ said Alfric. ‘No worms. It’s deep, but it’s clear water, I’ve seen it by day. Trust me, it’s safe.’

So the orks ventured to the near-frozen water, and soon Alfric heard them disporting themselves in the stream. Their layers of blubber were such that they could happily bathe in water too cold to melt ice. Alfric tethered his horses, put up a tent, gathered wood and made a fire. It was the fire which allowed the orks to find their way to the knoll once their aqueous delights were at an end.

Once the orks had returned, Alfric went down to the stream himself. He stripped, washed crutch and feet, washed his armpits and splashed some water in his face. Then, shivering and shuddering, he dressed himself again.

Then waited.

Watching.

Listening.

Was anything out there?

Creeping, peeping, preparing for ravaging?

Nothing.

Just the desolate wind, the rick-rack branches of the winterworld forest, and, far off, a late-hunting parrot-bat.

The sky was growing grey as the rule of the Revealer drew near. This place was far from Her haunts. And, in any case, if She was still out in the night, then She would now be making for her home in a great hurry.

Alfric made his way back to the knoll, only to find that his tent had assumed a most unusual shape. It was swollen, bulging and close to bursting. For half a moment he thought it bewitched. Then he realized his orks had taken refuge within. He had expected them to sleep outside in the open. For, with their layers of oil-yielding blubber, they were equipped to endure such repose without undue discomfort.

So what had got into them?

Were they asserting their status as royal ambassadors?

Or were they scared of the dark, and of the possibility of being set upon by Herself in that dark?

Knowing orks as he did, Alfric was inclined to suspect that it was fear which had driven them inside the largely illusory protection of his canvas. And, while he was displeased at being thus exiled from his own tentage, he had to admire the ingenuity with which the lugubrious monsters had crammed their combined bulk into a tent of such modest size.

Besides, there was no point in arguing about it, because the orks were already asleep, as was evident from their strenuous snoring. Alfric knew from his ethnology texts that few tasks are more futile than trying to rouse a slumbering ork. So he wrapped himself in a goundsheet and settled against a tree to sleep.

Sleep, however, came not.

For Alfric began to worry about the difficulties that would beset him once they got to Galsh Ebrek. The more he thought about it, the less he liked the idea of exposing a pair of innocent orks to the dangers of that city, particularly when King Dimple-Dumpling might well hold him personally responsible for the well-being of the orks even after those creatures had been delivered to Saxo Pall. Since Alfric was the son of a Yudonic Knight, he was not in the habit of confessing fear. Nevertheless, he did not exactly relish the possibility of incurring an ogre’s enmity.

The incidental hazards of Galsh Ebrek are bad enough, but in this case Alfric was more afraid of the active enmity of his enemies, most notably the three brothers Norn.

Pig Norn.

Wu Norn.

And Ciranoush Zaxilian Norn.

The trouble between Alfric Danbrog and the brothers Norn had started years ago, and it had started with Ciranoush.

Entry to the Bank was by competitive examination. While Ciranoush and Alfric were both Certified Geniuses, Alfric had won a marginal triumph in such examination, and therefore had been accepted by the Bank on the same day that Ciranoush was rejected. Ciranoush had promptly accused Alfric of bribing the Bank’s examiner, and of forging medical records to conceal a scandalous genetic deficiency.

The passing years had done nothing to ease Ciranoush Zaxilian’s jealous passion. Rather, Alfric’s success had served only to increase his enemy’s contumelious hatred; and Ciranoush had successfully joined his brothers Pig and Wu to a campaign of steady calumniation directed against his rival. So, in his thirty-fourth year of life, Alfric found himself almost in a state of feud with the brothers Norn.

Which boded ill for the welfare of Alfric’s orks when at last they got to Galsh Ebrek.

CHAPTER THREE

The city of Galsh Ebrek, a muddy urbanization on the Riga Rimur River, was the Chivalric Centre of the Yudonic Knights and the capital of Wen Endex. Once Alfric and his orks reached the city they would be safe, at least from Her.

They set forth on the last march to Galsh Ebrek on a night of bitter cold. This final stage of their trek from the Qinjoks was dangerous, for they had to pass through a tract of wilderness where She liked to hunt, for She was close enough to the city to have hope of prey, yet far enough removed from its halls of power to have sure hope of escape after Her murders.

Alfric confessed to no fear, and gave his orks no hint of the danger. But he kept his sword loose in its scabbard. However, the journey was uneventful, and toward midnight they came in sight of the Riga Rimur and the city on the far side of the river. To close with the fast-flowing waters, they had to follow a gnarled track through rucked swamplands where marsh lights flared a ghostly blue-white in the night. Unlike many of his people, Alfric had no fear of the cold lilting flames of marsh-wisp. If anything, he loved the night: his greatest danger being that he would love it too well.

‘So that’s Galsh Ebrek,’ said Cod, looking at the huddling houses and the huge upsurge of Mobius Kolb which lay on the far side of the river.