The Werewolf and the Wormlord by Hugh Cook Page A

ambassadors from Ang were always enormously impressed by tales of the dragon’s ferocity; and, come to think of it, by accounts of other dangers which existed in Wen Endex. It was something of a local tradition to brag of such hazards when speaking with an ambassador; and, for the first time, Alfric wondered whether that tradition was of spontaneous genesis, or whether the kings of Galsh Ebrek had carefully nurtured the custom.
    Alfric Danbrog was starting to realize that there was much more to this business of kingship than met the eye. He had always thought the Wormlord did very little but sit on the throne: but obviously there was much more to learn.
    Learn he would.
    If he got to sit on that throne.
    If he won all three saga swords.
    If he secured Edda.
    If he lived to see the morrow.
    Alfric started to shiver, and not just because of the cold. He was starting to get nervous. He didn’t like the sound of this dragon-king arrangement one little bit. It all sounded far too organized: very much like organized murder, in fact. So did the Wormlord really mean him to live? Or to die? Whatever the truth of the Wormlord’s intentions, Alfric wished he could rush across the waters to Thodrun, forge his way into the cave and get it over with. Now.
    But the tide was up.
    So he would just have to wait.
    Wait he did, until at last the skimmering skime of seawet sands stretched between Thodrun and the shore. Occasional waves still flirted across this sandstrand, but Alfric was not disposed to wait any longer. So he shouldered his pack and marched toward the island.
    Up close to the rocks of Thodrun, the light from the island’s beacon was so bright that colours could be seen in the rocks, which were wet with water and riven with streaks of quartz, splashed with the glitterdust of iron pyrites and stubbled with weird and inexplicable crystals of coppery hue.
    Alfric did not pause to admire these colours.
    First, because he was not in the mood.
    Second, because he was knocked over by a wave.
    Up from the depths of the sea it came, and swirled its way around the flanks of the island, stirring the seaweeds of the shore. Kelp and blubber weed gave themselves to its dance; mermaids’ delight and seacow’s greed joined the rhythms of its delight; and at last that energy-surge wrapped itself around Alfric Danbrog and swamped him entirely.
    He was lucky to escape with his life.
    However, he showed no gratitude for such luck; instead, he cursed most obscenely as he struggled up the island’s rocks, still burdened with his pack, and dared himself into the dragon’s lair.
    ‘Who is it?’ said Qa, as Alfric entered the cave.
    ‘Myself,’ said Alfric.
    ‘Advance, myself, and be recognized.’
    Alfric advanced, and stepped into a puddle, which proved to be waist-deep and exceedingly wet.
    ‘Aha!’ said Qa. ‘The puddle-trap! You fell for it!’
    ‘I have to admit I did,’ said Alfric, struggling out of his pack.
    ‘They usually do,’ said the dragon complacently. ‘If they’ve been particularly rude to me, I kill them then and there.’
    ‘And if not?’ said Alfric, throwing his pack well clear of the puddle.
    ‘Then I give them a second chance,’ said Qa.
    ‘That’s very sporting of you,’ said Alfric, hauling himself out of the puddle.
    ‘Oh yes,’ said Qa. ‘But it’s in keeping with my status. I’m an honorary Yudonic Knight, you know.’
    ‘That’s nice,’ said Alfric.
    He was trying hard to remain polite, but this was a struggle; for, being exceedingly wet and very cold, Alfric had little time for dragonprattle. He looked around.
    The cave was capacious, but not enormous. It was, in fact, not much bigger than the average haybam. There was a solemn drip-drop of water, some of it falling from the roof, but rather more descending from Alfric himself. These drips splashed into puddles and stirred faint echoes from the living rock of the cave. There was not much sign of treasure. A few oddments here and there,