The Werewolf and the Wormlord (32 page)

By ruling from Saxo Pall as regent, Ursula Major was consolidating her position. She was teaching Galsh Ebrek to think of her as its customary ruler.

Alfric sat at home, wondering what he should do.

He was still sitting at home when the news reached him. Guignol Grangalet came personally to Varnvelten Street to bring Alfric the news.

The earthly remains of Tromso Stavenger and Grendel Danbrog had been recovered from the place of slaughter, and had been conveyed to the seashore, there to be cremated.

‘The seashore?’ said Alfric, startled. ‘Why?’

‘Because,’ said Grangalet, ‘Ursula Major has commanded that it be done so.’

‘But,’ protested Alfric, ‘the bodies of the kings of Wen Endex are burnt in the marketplace in the presence of the people. That is the custom.’

‘It has been the recent custom,’ acknowledged the Chief of Protocol, ‘but that does not mean that it is a good custom. Ursula Major thinks it to be a lazy, slothful thing to do. She says it constitutes a discourtesy to the dead. She says the Knights should prove their honour by making the march to the seashore.’

‘But—’

‘Furthermore,’ said Guignol Grangalet, ‘the practice of seaside cremation has an honourable place in our tradition. It is the older custom, is it not? Long before bodies were ever burnt in the marketplace, our kings were consumed by fire by the shores of the Winter Sea. ’ Alfric protested, but Guignol Grangalet told him there was nothing he could do. The bodies had already been taken to the seashore, and were being held there under guard in preparation for the funeral on the following night.

Once the Chief of Protocol had departed, Alfric raged around his house, kicking at the furniture in incoherent fury.

Now he realized his mistake!

Instead of sitting at home, he should have been taking active steps to seize control of any instruments which might have helped him win power. And, without a doubt, the corpses of his father and grandfather were such instruments.

Alfric should have gone personally to the mere to recover those battle-battered bodies. Nobody could rightly have denied him that privilege. He should have brought the corpses back to his house. Had he done that, Ursula Major could scarcely have wrested them away from him by brute force, for such an action would have scandalized Galsh Ebrek and would have turned the Knights against her.

Then Alfric should have personally made arrangements for the funerals of the fallen, and should have made sure - very, very sure - that the bodies were burnt in the marketplace.

Because the marketplace was in the middle of Galsh Ebrek, so any crowd which gathered for the funeral could then be marched to Saxo Pall by any orator who had the wit to rouse the mob.

Only now did Alfric begin to imagine the speeches he could have made.

It was obvious, wasn’t it?

This is what he should have said:

‘Here lies my grandfather in company with his son. In death, father and son are united, as they were in the last days of their life. When great peril threatened the nation...’

Oh yes, Alfric could see precisely how such a speech should be phrased. First, emphasize the unity of father and son, a unity which made a nullity of the banishment Tromso Stavenger had imposed upon Grendel Danbrog. Then praise the courage of the dead. Then speak frankly of his own part in the slaughter of Herself.

Thus:

‘Much have I dared already. I killed the dragon which long denied Island Thodrun to our race. I dared the wrath of the swamp giant Kralch to rescue the saga sword Sulamith’s Grief from the Spiderweb Castle. I wrested the brave sword Kinskom from the grip of the vampires. But, not content with this, I joined my father and my grandfather for the greatest test of all, that test being open combat with Herself. ’

Yes, yes.

Alfric should have made such speeches in the marketplace, and then he should have proclaimed himself king, and then he should have marched the mob to Saxo Pall, and he should have used the mob as an army to overthrow Ursula Major’s guards and put him on the throne.

‘Well,’ said Alfric at last. ‘What is, is. I’ll have to work with what I’ve got.’

Unfortunately, it was unlikely that any of the commoners of Galsh Ebrek were likely to make the trek to the seaside merely to see a couple of corpses burnt by night. The Yudonic Knights would be there in force -none would dare to stay away unless mortally ill - but the Knights would not be easily moved to precipitate action.

‘But I must try,’ said Alfric. ‘With every day that woman sits on the throne, it gets harder for me to displace her.’

So Alfric sat down and began to work on a speech which he could give at the funeral on the following night.

How should he phrase his claim to the throne?

Why, there were all kinds of approaches he should take.

For a start, it was the Wormlord’s will. Tromso Stavenger had explicitly stated that he would give the throne to Alfric as soon as the three quests had been completed. Well, the quests were well and truly completed, nobody doubted it. So it was time for the king’s will to be fulfilled. Yes, in constitutional terms, there was no doubt about it at all: Alfric Danbrog was the rightful king of Wen Endex as of now.

Furthermore, he was a hero, a genuine legitimate hero, for he had personally killed Herself, and that was a fact. Moreover, Galsh Ebrek acknowledged that fact.

Also in his favour was the fact that Ursula Major was a woman; for the Yudonic Knights of Wen Endex had certain fundamental objections to the rule of women over men.

‘Prejudice,’ muttered Alfric. ‘Yes, prejudice, that’s the way.’

The validity of his claim in constitutional terms... his personal heroism ... the fact that his aunt was a woman...

‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘I’ll talk them over to my side with no trouble at all.’

And he worked long and hard on his speech, until at last he was disturbed by a brick which came crashing through his window.

‘Stroth!’ said Alfric.

He almost rushed out into the street, but restrained himself. This might be an ambush of sorts.

Instead, Alfric went upstairs, opened the shutters of a second-storey window and looked out. Below, he saw a couple of drunken yokel-louts.

‘What the hell do you want?’ said Alfric.

‘To bugger your arse with a hatchet,’ said one.

‘For what and for why?’ said Alfric.

‘Because you cursed your father and mock him now,’ said one.

‘Because you dishonoured the Wormlord in death,’ said the other.

‘Get away with you,’ said Alfric. ‘Or I’ll come down and thrash you thoroughly.’

‘Oh, it’s you who’ll be thrashed,’ said one of the drunks. ‘The Knights themselves will do it when they get back from the funeral.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Alfric steadily. Then, unable to keep from boasting: ‘I’ve a speech to make at that funeral. It may change their minds.’

‘Change their minds?’ said one drunk.

‘A speech?’ said the other.

‘They won’t hear it from here, you know,’ said the other.

Then both fell about laughing.

‘What are you talking about?’ said Alfric.

Then he guessed.

And was shocked by fear.

He shuddered, as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped all over him.

He left the window and pounded downstairs. He threw open the door and stalked forth to interrogate the drunken yokels. And when he had finished with them he went to the Green Cricket to hire himself a horse. And on the way out of Galsh Ebrek, he stopped at the Stanch Gates to interrogate the guards.

It was true.

The worst had happened.

Guignol Grangalet had been around the town, telling all and sundry that Alfric Danbrog had cursed his father and his grandfather both, and was keeping to his house in insolence, refusing to attend the funeral that was being held by the seashore that very night.

‘Stroth!’ said Alfric.

‘Don’t talk so harsh,’ said one of the guards. ‘You’ll upset your horse. Would your horse like an apple? Would you like to eat, horsey my darling?’

Then, to Alfric’s surprise, the guard produced a wizened old apple and fed it to the horse, which munched it down greedily. At this end of the cold weather, all the horses of the city were on short commons, with the last of the hay close to running out and precious little else for them to eat.

‘My horse thanks you for your kindness,’ said Alfric coldly. ‘And now I must go.’

Then he set off for the shore.

He was consumed by fury.

How dare they!

How dare they stoop so low!

And - what could he do to repair the damage?

Guignol Grangalet was a sober citizen, a man of impeccable reputation. Ninety-nine people in a hundred would believe him. And Alfric? Why, many people feared him to be a werewolf, because his father had long been thought to be such a shape-changer; and, besides, he was a banker, and hence had lived most of his life at a remove from his peers; and—

‘Pox!’said Alfric. '

One of the Bank’s teachings came to him, but late, far too late:

‘First secure your lines of intelligence.’

Alfric should have had a spy in Saxo Pall. Who? It mattered not. A guard, a serving maid, a slave who went round collecting night soil. Anyone, anyone. Just one set of ears in the castle might have saved the day for him. He should have known where his father’s body was, and when the funeral was.

And now—

‘Faster, blast you!’ said Alfric to his horse.

But the beast had its limits, and all Alfric’s strength of will could not extend them, and long before he got to the seashore he started to meet Knights returning from the bonfire.

‘So!’ said one, recognizing him. ‘Danbrog! You repent of your insolence, do you?’

‘I’ve nothing to repent of,’ said Alfric defiantly. ‘Guignol Grangalet told me the funeral was scheduled for the morrow. He lied as to my reaction.’

‘You call him a liar, do you?’

‘That I do,’ said Alfric. ‘I’ll say as much in public. If he wants to make a fight of it, then that’s fine by me.’

‘If you make a fight of it,’ said the Knight grimly, ‘you may well find that friend Grangalet has heroes to champion him.’

Then rode on, without listening to Alfric’s protestations any further.

Other Knights he stopped. Some, after listening to his explanations, were prepared to allow that there might have been a misunderstanding between Alfric and Grangalet.

‘Perhaps you were drunk,’ said one of them. ‘You sound a little drunk at the moment, if truth be told.’

But none would countenance the idea that Grangalet had deliberately deceived Alfric, or that Grangalet had wilfully besmirched Alfric’s reputation. The thought was too monstrous to be believable.

‘Drunk!’ said Alfric to himself. ‘So that’s what they’ll think, is it?’

Well, yes.

Once Alfric had worked long and hard at salvaging his reputation, the Knights of Galsh Ebrek might be prepared to forgive him for saying foolish things while drunk. That was the very best he could hope for.

And even to achieve that outcome would take time.

And time was of the essence.

‘I don’t have time,’ said Alfric.

At last, Alfric reached the shores of the Winter Sea, and found the funeral was at an end. All the Knights had departed. A huge pyre still smouldered in the dunes; and, by the firelight, Alfric saw the hoofmarks and footprints which spoke of a great gathering. Doubtless, speeches had been made and hearts hardened; doubtless, hard words had been said and curses had been heaped on his throat.

‘She plays hard,’ said Alfric bitterly, speaking of Ursula Major.

But what had he expected?

There had never been any love lost between the two of them.

But whose was the mind which had done the necessary malicious scheming? Who precisely had cooked up Grangalet’s breath-taking untruths? Who had the daring, the wit? Who was ruthless enough? Not Ursula herself, surely; for she was a woman of much beauty but little mind.

‘I’ll find out,’ said Alfric grimly. ‘I’ll find out. Then take revenge.’

Right then and there, he felt every bit the werewolf, a bloody outcast full of hate, rapacious and desperate, bent for revenge upon humankind. He sat down by the smouldering embers' of the fire and began to brood upon his misery.

Right now, Guignol Grangalet. . .

Right now, Grangalet was in Galsh Ebrek.

—And what would I do if I were Grangalet?

Belatedly, Alfric started to think.

—If I were Grangalet, I’d know young Danbrog had gone riding. I’d know he’d speak to as many Knights as he could. So I’d place myself or my ears at the Stanch Gates to meet the Knights as they returned to Galsh Ebrek. Myself would be best, for then I could meet truth with fresh lies.

—Stroth!

Alfric swore thus, then swore again. He began to suspect manoeuvres within manoeuvres. How had those men come to be outside his house? Had they come there spontaneously? Or had they been paid to go there and throw a brick through his window? And had they really been as drunk as they seemed?