The Werewolf and the Wormlord (24 page)

So thinking, Alfric was minded to sever his own throat on the spot. To die in a warm and comfortable bam. Far better, surely, than to go wandering through the fens in search of Herself, and meet a hideous death when Her grisly rounds brought them into confrontation.

But Alfric’s father had no such fearful thoughts. He was boasting with as much enthusiasm as the rest of them.

‘Words and deeds,’ said Grendel, quaffing good ale which he was far too drunk to appreciate. ‘Great words and great deeds to match them. Of such is the life of men.’

Then Grendel began to sing the old songs, songs of fresh-tarred ships and voyages across the Winter Sea to wars in foreign lands; songs of kings with boar-heads rampant on their helms, kings armed with iron fire-hardened; songs of heroes and their conquests.

While his father sung thus, Alfric remembered other songs: funeral dirges mournful in mood, telling of the death of lordly ships, the wailing of bed-mates, the burial of fallen kings, the wrath of battle-surge flames consuming the fallen. Such things happened. Even acknowledged heroes did not always triumph in their quests.

But no such thoughts spoiled the triumph of Grendel Danbrog, who boasted now of the great deeds of the past as if they were his very own:

‘In Melrik’s time we fought the dreaded Yun. By ocean’s margin we withstood the warriors who crossed the Winter Sea to do battle with our forces. When the Yun poured forth from their ships, there we stood in our war-gear, keen for adventure.

‘Melrik was our leader, Melrik our king. Proud was the weapon-stack of his wide-boasted hall. Prudent he was, yet brave, for he was ready to dare the nicors in their lair.’

On and on went Grendel, telling of the mangling of flesh, the sweetness of victory and the din of celebratory revelry, and of the Golden Age in which the triumphant Melrik ruled Wen Endex, ‘land of sweet song and shining waters where all men lived in gladness’.

When Grendel Danbrog had exhausted himself by overindulgence in such epics, other Yudonic Knights took up the work. And it was late indeed before they got down to business in earnest.

But get down to business they did.

In the end.

‘These last twelve weary winters I’ve watched our lord decline,’ said Grendel. ‘I know and you know that this is his last chance. If he is to march against Herself then he must do so now. But he needs our help. Will he have it?’

And the Yudonic Knights roared their answer:

‘Yes!’

In short order, plans were agreed. The Yudonic Knights would storm Saxo Pall, release the Wormlord then march against Herself in the company of their lord.

As there was some organization which needed to be done - horses must be obtained and journeypacks filled, wills must be brought up to date and lovers kissed goodbye - the actual storming of Saxo Pall was set down for the following night.

Alfric did his best to conceal his infinite weariness as he parted from his father and those of the Knights who were doing the organizing.

‘Where are you going?’ said Grendel.

Alfric was actually going to the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association to report to Comptroller Xzu on the plans which the Yudonic Knights had hatched. However, he did not think his father would like these plans being thus revealed. So he said:

‘Home, that’s all.’

‘Stay,’ said Grendel, in his lordliest voice. ‘We need you here.’

Alfric was desperate to get away. He wanted the Bank to know that he had done as the Bank wished. That he had successfully roused the Yudonic Knights to action, and that soon the Wormlord would be freed to do battle with Herself. The sooner the Bank knew, the better, for such political ructions could affect everything from the price of firewood to the ninety-day interest rate.

Belatedly, Alfric remembered that he was married; and, moreover, that his wife had absconded from home, and was on the loose in the city, cuckolding him (for all he knew) with every drunk in every tavern in Galsh Ebrek. Actually, this mattered so little to Alfric that he had almost forgotten about it already. But it certainly gave him an excuse to be gone from the bam.

‘I -1 am a married man,’ said Alfric.

‘So you are, so you are,’ said his father.

‘And-and my wife—’

‘Oh yes,’ said his father. ‘That. She’s still running wild?’

‘She is,’ said Alfric. ‘But I think I know where she’ll be tonight. I think I can bring her to heel.’

‘Then off you go,’ said his father, approving this course of action instantly. ‘Off you go, my boy, and do the best you can with the wench.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Thus it happened that Alfric Danbrog leagued it home and prepared himself for an audience with Comptroller Xzu of the Flesh Traders’ Association. He dreaded the thought of what might happen when the Yudonic Knights stormed Saxo Pall; and was fearfully afraid of joining the attack on Herself; but, nevertheless, his pride was great.

—Were it not for me, this would not be happening.

Thus whispered Alfric Danbrog to himself, and could not help but be mightily pleased with himself.

In his house in Vamvelten Street, Alfric washed himself, dried himself, dressed in clean clothes then shaved himself in front of his mirror.

This was an ancient mirror, a family heirloom. Inset in its surface was a small image-disk in which dwelt the portrait of a smiling girl with a face whiter than chalk and lips redder than blood. Her lips moved ever and ever, for she was whispering something. If the mirror were kept near fire, that whisper would strengthen to audible language - a song of some kind - but what the girl might be singing was ever a mystery. This mirror was one of the old things from a past long forgotten, and nobody knew how it had been made, or when, or where.

Alfric had owned the mirror for so long that, usually, he never thought of the girl; did not even see her as he pursued his own thought while shaving. But tonight he paused and studied that soundless face. Someone had made this mirror and had there delineated the features of the girl. And Alfric wondered, as he watched her smiling and singing, if she had really existed or whether a canny artist had created her marvellously detailed portrait from pure imagination.

And wondered, too, if even the slightest trace of his own existence would remain to the world after his death. Would someone, somewhere, hold some fragment of his face, words or work in memory? Or would all disappear, soapbubbling to zero in a world where even rocks were fated to be nubbed down to nothing?

‘Morbid, morbid,’ muttered Alfric, and hurried through the rest of his shaving, and would have cut himself badly in his haste had his razor not been excessively blunt.

Once these preparations were complete, Alfric made the trek to Mobius Kolb, entered the Bank, and was soon in conference with Comptroller Xzu.

Xzu listened impassively as Alfric - barely able to conceal his pride in his own achievements - told how the Yudonic Knights had been won over.

‘They will do it,’ said Alfric. ‘Just as the Bank wants. They will storm Saxo Pall. Release the Wormlord. Then march upon Herself.’

Comptroller Xzu listened to him impassively.

Then sighed.

Then said:

‘You are not a narcissist, are you?’

‘A narcissist?’ said Alfric in bewilderment.

He was taken aback by this tangential assault. What was its meaning? Had he been indulging in unseemly boasting? Well, perhaps a little... but that was pardonable, surely, under the circumstances.

‘What I’m asking you,’ said Xzu, ‘is whether you put too great a value on the importance of satisfying your own ego.’

Alfric considered this.

Then said:

‘I scarcely know how to answer a question so wide reaching when it is asked as if apropos of nothing. Of course I could indulge myself in rhetoric if pushed to justify my approach to life, or I could produce any number of apologias to justify the same... but such activity would scarcely have any point unless I know the details of whatever accusations are being made against me.’

Alfric paused. He was aware that most of what he had just said was nearly meaningless, and that he should say no more lest he make a fool of himself.

But he could not stop himself.

He was weak from illness, and feeling defensive; and so, as a squid squirts out meaningless scrolls of ink when disturbed, so Alfric squirted out words. He went on:

‘However, whatever my incapacities, please be assured that I am unconscious of any error I have made. I have always served the Bank to the best of my ability, and it is my desire to do so in the future.’

Thus Alfric.

Comptroller Xzu smiled.

‘You defend yourself well,’ said Xzu. ‘However, you are not under attack.’

‘I’m not?’

‘Whatever gave you the idea that you were? Have I indulged in curses or fulminations? Have I quoted unpleasant anecdotes against you? Have I made any critiques whatsoever? No. I have not.’

Not for the first time, Alfric realized that Comptroller Xzu no longer possessed a native’s fluency with Toxteth. Xzu had spent so much of his life living in foreign parts that his use of the syntax and vocabulary of his birth tongue had become strangely stilted.

Really, Xzu was scarcely a citizen of Wen Endex at all. Rather, he belonged to that strange meta-nation created by the Partnership Banks; he lived in a world where market movements and currency fluctuations in Dalar ken Halvar or Chi’ash-lan were as present and as important to him as any events taking place in riverside Galsh Ebrek.

‘While I have no criticism to make of you,’ said Xzu, ‘I do have a demand. My demand - which is the Bank’s demand - is outlined in this document which I would like you to read.’

Alfric suspected that something uncommonly unpleasant was afoot. Bankers often committed to paper that which they were loathe to voice.

With great apprehension, Alfric took the document which Xzu extended to him.

And read.

The document was long and windy, but the gist of it was simple. Basically, it asked Alfric to delay the freeing of the Wormlord and the campaigning against Herself by seven days. Why? Because of certain unspecified ‘diplomatic contingencies’.

Alfric read it once.

Read it twice.

Then—

He should by rights have read it a third time, to give himself opportunity for reflection. After all, in diplomacy, time spent in meditation is never wasted. So it is written in the Bank’s Book of Wisdom, and the Bank should know.

But Alfric, at that moment, was in no mood for meditation. The demand the Bank was making was outrageous. How was he to delay the Knights? Those heroes were enraptured by enthusiasm for the project the Bank itself had schemed up, and no amount of rhetoric was likely to halt them.

‘You know,’ said Alfric, anger making him uncommonly audacious, ‘this demand puts me in a very difficult position. In fact, it might almost have been calculated to cause me the maximum difficulty. What is this? Some kind of half-arsed test of my ability?’

‘No, Alfric,’ said Xzu. ‘This is not a kind of practical examination. For reasons which I am currently not at liberty to reveal, certain complications have arisen
vis-a-vis
our plans to put you on the throne. These complications can doubtless be resolved in due course, but, for the moment, we need to call a halt to the action. We need you to stop the Yudonic Knights from doing what they plan to do.’

‘What the Bank planned for them to do!’ said Alfric. ‘The Bank made certain plans, yes,’ said Xzu. ‘But now these have changed. And surely it is a banker’s duty to change when the Bank does. You would not put personal ambition ahead of your duty to the Bank, would you? Or would you?

‘This is where my earlier question is pertinent. I asked if you were a narcissist. I asked whether you put too great a value on satisfying your own ego. You answered in the negative. You made yourself out to be a loyal servant of the Bank, and expressed a desire to serve the Bank always to the best of your ability.

‘That is how you spoke when our debate was being conducted on a purely theoretical level. Do you now wish to revise your commitment when you come face to face with the practical application of theory? Talk is easy, and you talk most beautifully. Deeds are another thing. Are you going to flinch from the exertion that deeds demand? Where is your honour, Alfric?’

So spoke Xzu.

Then sat back, leaving Alfric struggling with wordless frustration.

Despite his undiminished anger, Alfric had to admire the cunning of the great Comptroller Xzu. Oh yes. Xzu had manoeuvred Alfric nicely, prompting him into making declarations of loyalty. And now Xzu was using those declarations of leverage, speaking of ‘honour’, the watchword by which the Yudonic Knights wished to live.

Xzu was using Alfric’s knightly heritage against him.

And Xzu had also reminded Alfric that the Bank existed for its own purposes - for the increase of its own wealth, power and influence - and that personal ambition and ego meant nothing to the Bank. If Alfric wished to rise in the Bank, then he must do what the Bank wished, regardless of how outrageous that might be.