‘Well spoken,’ said the Wormlord, once Alfric had said his piece. ‘Usually, we would treat you to a congratulatory banquet before you set forth. However, on this occasion that is not appropriate.’
‘Why not?’ said Alfric.
‘Because your courage is not certain,’ said the Wormlord. ‘You accept the quest now, but you refused it earlier. Ride forth, my boy. Kill the dragon and recover the first sword. Return with that blade and then we will grant you a banquet.’
‘So you doubt my courage,’ said Alfric.
‘I do,’ said Stavenger. ‘You’ve something to prove, and prove it you must if you want to be king.’
‘His humanity,’ said one of the Yudonic Knights, interrupting unexpectedly. ‘That’s what he’s got to prove.’
‘Who speaks?’ said the Wormlord.
‘I do,’ said Ciranoush Zaxilian Norn, muscling forward.
‘What is your quarrel with Alfric Danbrog?’ said the Wormlord coldly.
‘My quarrel is simple,’ said Ciranoush Zaxilian. ‘The thing is not human. It is a shapechanger like its father. The father is a werewolf, and the son likewise.’
‘Alfric,’ said the Wormlord. ‘Speak to this accusation.’ ‘I am not a werewolf,’ said Alfric with dignity. ‘I cannot be. It is known that no person tainted by lycanthropy can enter the Bank. Before entering that organization, I underwent medical tests which proved me free of any such taint.’
‘You bribed the medical examiners,’ said Ciranoush Zaxilian. ‘Just as you bribed-’
‘That’s enough!’ said the Wormlord.
Ciranoush Zaxilian fell silent.
‘Soon,’ said Tromso Stavenger, ‘I will die. Whoever succeeds me will face grave dangers, for these are difficult times for Wen Endex. As you know, every year we recover a great tribute in jade from the Qinjoks. But each year the Curse of the Hag reduces this tribute to so much rubbish.’
So spoke the Wormlord, then paused for effect. Alfric guessed that the pause was inviting a laugh: but nobody dared express levity. So Stavenger continued:
‘As you know, the lords of the Izdimir Empire are not happy to receive a box of old sticks and leaves as tribute. Long have they demanded jade, and every year their demands grow more strident. The Demon of Ang is not easily appeased, as you know. I fear that Wen Endex will soon have need of the leadership of a hero.’
Tromso Stavenger paused again. Nobody even thought of laughing. The Wormlord was talking of the possibility of war, outright war between Wen Endex and the Empire to which it nominally belonged. That was a thought which sobered even the fiercest of the assembled warriors.
The Wormlord went on:
‘Our nation needs a hero as king. Whoever wins the saga swords will prove himself a hero by such endeavour. If Alfric Danbrog can win those swords then he will be the hero the times demand. Ciranoush Norn speaks as if he would dispute the right of Alfric Danbrog to go questing.
‘Very well then. I speak to you, Ciranoush Zaxilian Norn. I give you the right to quest for the three swords of saga if you so choose. If you wish it, I will restrain Alfric Danbrog while you try your chances against the dragon, the giant and the vampires. I will not release him from my grip until you have either succeeded or failed. Does that proposition appeal to you, Ciranoush Zaxilian Norn? Do you wish to seize this chance to make yourself a hero?’
Silence.
‘Answer me,’ said the Wormlord. ‘Do you or do you not choose to quest for the three swords of saga?’
Now Ciranoush Zaxilian Norn was not a coward, not exactly; but he was a realist. Ciranoush did not expect Alfric to return alive from the first quest, for the dragon Qa was a most reliable consumer of questing heroes. And Ciranoush, should he attempt the first quest, would have no better chance of survival.
So…
‘Answer!’ said the Wormlord.
‘I answer in the negative,’ said Ciranoush.
‘Then let it so be recorded,’ said Tromso Stavenger grandly. ‘Ciranoush Norn was offered the chance to be hero and king. He declined. But Alfric Danbrog accepted. Surely it is no accident that Alfric is my grandson.’
Then the Wormlord paused.
And the Yudonic Knights this time did what their king wanted them to do.
They cheered.
Meanwhile, a banker by the name of Eg was undertaking certain diplomatic initiatives at the behest of the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association. Let it be said that Alfric Danbrog, Banker Third Class, was entirely unaware of these initiatives; and, furthermore, would not have approved of them had he known about them.
To be precise, Banker Eg was making his way to Vamvelten Street with malice in his mind. When he arrived at Alfric Danbrog’s house, he knocked on the door. Viola Vanaleta admitted him, and they were soon deep in conversation. About Alfric.
‘Let me not prevaricate,’ said Eg. ‘Rather, let me settle to business immediately. And let me be honest with you. It is said that a resilient conscience, a yielding conscience, is an asset in a Banker. But, despite the odium we have long endured, we are not all of us possessed of easily mutable ethics. Lies and distortions come not easily to all of us, least of all to me. So let me be truthful.’
‘Is — is Alfric in trouble?’ said Vanaleta.
‘My sweet and delectable Viola!’ said the Banker. ‘Fear not for the valorous Danbrog.’
Whereupon Vanaleta, like a timid maiden who fears to be defrauded of her virginity, began to be apprehensive on her own account.
But, after many circumlocutions, Eg disabused her of the notion that she was intended as his prey. Instead, he came up with something much more shocking:
‘What are you trying to tell me?’ said Vanaleta.
‘Alfric,’ said Eg, ‘has a chance to marry Ursula Major and so acquire the throne.’
‘But — but he can’t!’ said Vanaleta. ‘He’s married to me.’
‘I know,’ said Eg gently.
‘Besides, it — it’s — it’d be incest.’
‘Such things are commonplace in royal families,’ said Banker Eg, ‘personal sin often being preferred to the disintegration of the body politic. Alfric recognizes as much.’
‘You — you mean he-’
‘He demands,’ said Eg, ‘a divorce.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alfric was rigorously quarantined by the Bank until he rode forth on the first of his three quests. Therefore his darling wife Viola Vanaleta was not able to tax him about the divorce he was demanding; and, indeed, Alfric for his part presumed himself still happily married.
Such was the state of affairs as Alfric Danbrog, son of Grendel Danbrog and grandson of Tromso Stavenger, rode out through the Stanch Gates. He was fated north to the island of Thodrun, there to dare the sea dragon Qa, to kill that dreaded worm and remove the revenant’s claw from the monster’s barrow.
Alfric was not entirely happy with this mission, for, quite apart from the dangers that were involved, the idea of being renowned for the murder of a famous bard did not exactly appeal to him. Qa was such a bard, a singer of songs, a praiser of kings, a recorder of heroes, a skop whose fame had once exceeded that of Greta Jalti himself.
It happened that the sea dragon Qa had once dwelt in Galsh Ebrek, there winning great fame as a poet. But tastes change.
Here the tastes in question are not those of the audience but of the artist. Long had Galsh Ebrek rejoiced in sagas of butcher-sword brutality; and the appetite for such epics remained constant. But Qa, at first a willing appeaser of such tastes, had at last grown bored with the composition of such bloodclot confectionery.
The dragon’s ennui had first been displayed at a formal banquet at which, in place of the usual paean of praise to some head-hacking reaver, the poet had recited a narrative poem dealing with the lethal outcome of a drinking competition. Qa had expended some five thousand lines of terza rima on this theme. It had proved an acceptable novelty. Thereafter, the dragon had amused himself for the better part of a year by much droll doggerelizing on beer drinking competitions and brothel performances; and the Yudonic Knights had come to think of him as quite the best of their poets.