The cave itself proved to be a most comfortable place. The elements had been walled out, and a door gave entry to a lantern-lit place complete with truckle bed, table and four-strong chairs. At the back of the cave were half a dozen strongboxes.
‘Where’s the treasure?’ said Alfric.
‘In the strongboxes,’ said the old man. ‘Before I open them, would you like a beer? Beer and cheese?’
‘Beer, no,’ said Alfric. ‘Cheese, yes.’
‘That’s in the strongboxes too,’ said the old man.
‘Very well,’ said Alfric. ‘Let’s have it.’
Alfric set the baby down on the table then sat himself down. He watched intently as the old man opened one of the strongboxes. Unless Alfric was much mistaken, there was some treachery afoot here. But what? As Alfric watched, the old man lifted a large cheese from the strongbox. He brought it to the table and cut a piece. Which he offered to Alfric.
Just as Alfric was reaching out for the cheese, he saw a sudden gleam of triumph in the old man’s eyes. Alfric jerked back his hand.
‘It’s poisoned!’ he said. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘No, master,’ said the old man. ‘It’s perfectly good cheese. It’s not poisoned at all.’
‘Really?’ said Alfric. ‘Then you’ll be happy to eat some for me.’
The old man hesitated.
‘Eat it!’ roared Alfric.
With every evidence of reluctance, the old man began to gnaw at the cheese. Then suddenly his attitude changed, and he wolfed at the stuff savagely. Moments later, with the strength of the cheese within him, the old man began to Change.
Alfric kicked away his chair and leapt backwards as his enemy swelled, girthed, heightened, haired and bruted, becoming monstrous, hands becoming paws, arms becoming legs. A musty smell filled the cave, a smell which Alfric somehow associated with… with… hamsters?
Down on four legs dropped the monster. Then it bared its teeth and chittered at Alfric in a battlefury. It was a hamster indeed, but it was a hamster the size of a bear, and surely the equal of any warrior in battle. ‘Blood and bitches!’ said Alfric.
Then tossed aside Sulamith’s Grief and drew the blacksword Bloodbane. The intoxication of murder swelled his voice to wrath as he challenged the werehamster:
‘Die if you must, for die you will if you take but one step toward me. I hold the blackblade Bloodbane. This weapon gives no mercy.’
As Alfric was so saying, the monster rushed toward the table. It paused, its whitesavage teeth but a hair away from the baby’s head.
‘Leave,’ said the werehamster. ‘Leave, or I will kill the child.’
‘Feel free,’ said Alfric. ‘I found it an embarrassing encumbrance.’
The werehamster hesitated.
‘Come on!’ roared Alfric. ‘Make up your mind. Kill the baby then die yourself. Or change to a man and beg my mercy.’
The werehamster chose to Change, and was shortly shrinking and shrivelling, deflating and wrinkling, becoming a man again. Once thus reconfigured, it said: ‘What are you going to do to me?’
‘By rights I should kill you. That is the rightful fate of all shape-changers.’
‘But I’m — I’m not one of the Evil Ones. I’m only a werehamster.’
‘That’s evil enough for me,’ said Alfric.
‘Who are you, then?’ said the werehamster man.
‘I am Alfric Danbrog, son of Grendel and grandson of the Wormlord Tromso Stavenger.’
‘Then who are you to talk? You’re a werewolf!’
‘I am not a werewolf,’ said Alfric. ‘But even if I was, it would make no difference. You are a bandit, a shameless marauder, a disturber of graves, and eater of live meat and dead, an evil hag-thing.’
‘I am not,’ said the werehamster man.
‘You are,’ said Alfric. ‘At the very least, you are a bandit. You bring people here to kill them and steal their gold.’
‘I do not.’
‘You do,’ said Alfric implacably. ‘There is gold here. I can smell it.’
So saying, Alfric stared at the strongboxes, and his eyes flashed wolfblood red. The werehamster man shrank back, terrified, fearing that this Yudonic Knight with his homicidal hero-sword was about to launch an assault upon his host.
‘Well,’ said Alfric. ‘What’s it going to be? Either I get your gold or your head. But I’m not leaving here empty- handed.’
This threat proved profitable, for the old man thereupon produced seven bagsacks of gold from his strongboxes.
‘That’s all I have,’ said the werehamster man anxiously.
‘Is it?’ said Alfric. ‘It’s not much.’
‘It’s all I have. I’m telling you!’
‘All right,’ said Alfric. ‘I don’t want all your gold. A bag will be quite enough.’
‘Are you sure?’ said the werehamster anxiously.
‘Quite sure,’ said Alfric.
Though the blackblade Bloodbane was urging Alfric to murder, he had already decided to spare the were- hamster’s life. So he thought it best to leave the thing with the better part of its money.
If Alfric were to take all the werehamster’s treasure, then the thing would surely go marauding until it had redeemed its loss. Or, alternatively, if — as Alfric suspected — it had grown too old and feeble to make an effective bandit, then it might die in miserable poverty.
Both outcomes could easily be avoided by leaving the brute with some of its gains, however ill-gotten they might be. As for himself, why, Alfric was a Yudonic Knight, and so would never starve, for the ruling class had first claim on all that was good in Galsh Ebrek. Alfric was also in receipt of a banker’s salary, which was well worth having. And, since he was being forced to contend for a kingdom, he lacked the patience to trifle with a werehamster’s loot.
Under Alfric’s supervision, the werehamster emptied one of the bagsacks on to the table. Once Alfric had assured himself all the gold was gold indeed — as a point of honour, he was determined not to let himself be swindled by a werehamster — he watched as the stuff was repacked. Then he made the werehamster carry both gold and baby out to the forest path, and supervised the miserable creature while it filled in the deathpit dug in that path.
Then Alfric rode on his way.
Thus did Alfric Danbrog triumph in one of the greatest tests of knighthood: a confrontation with one of the dreaded shape-changers. A warm glow of self-congratulation possessed him as he rode back to Galsh Ebrek. But this dissipated abruptly when he saw two men waiting for him at the Stanch Gates: Ciranoush Norn and Muscleman Wu.
‘Good evening,’ said Alfric, dropping his battlehand to the hilt of the blacksword Bloodbane.
The brothers Norn made no answer, but also made no move towards him. And Alfric, realizing that the inevitable feud-death confrontation was yet to come, pulled his hand free from the weapon which wished to claim it for murder, and rode on to the Green Cricket.
Why had the brothers Norn been waiting for him at the Stanch Gates? Obviously: to let him know his death was intended. They would not kill him in public, no, for the Wormlord would revenge him. The death of Pig Norn must have taught him that. But they would kill him sometime, somewhere, somehow — or at least try to encompass his death.
And they wanted him to suffer a nightmare or two before his doom befell him.
At the Green Cricket, Alfric checked in his hired horses at the stable, then went inside the inn. Anna Blaume was serving at the bar, helped by her daughter Sheila.
‘A baby,’ said Alfric, putting the squalling thing down on the counter.
