‘It is said! And you believe? Or don’t you?’
‘As custom commands me, I walk by night when such a duty is placed upon my people. ’
‘Of custom you have spoken, but not of belief,’ said the king. ‘What do you believe? Does She walk or does She not?’
‘I reserve judgement,’ said Alfric.
‘But others do not,’ said the king.
‘My liege knows that many see hunting of any kind as great sport in its own right,’ said Alfric. ‘Regardless of whether anything actually exists to be hunted. Thus the enthusiasm with which Rumour has been greeted.’ ‘Rumour!’ said the king. ‘I thought there were Signs!’ ‘It has been said,’ answered Alfric, now impatient to be gone.
‘So you admit it,’ said the king, as if they were in court and Alfric stood accused of a crime. ‘What Signs has Rumour spoken of?’
‘The carcase of an ox,’ said Alfric. ‘Its bones shattered by the clawed thing which gnawed its guts but left the meat untasted. Some claim also to have seen blood in the Riga Rimur.’
‘Near Galsh Ebrek?’ said the king.
‘She will not come near the High City,’ said Alfric flatly. ‘That would mean Her certain doom regardless of Her power.’ ‘Aha!’ said the king. ‘Just then you spoke as if you believed in Her!’
‘It would be foolish for me to do otherwise,’ said Alfric. ‘The Wormlord killed Her son. That was before the days of my generation, but it happened. It is a fact. Therefore I do not dispute claims of Her existence. Nevertheless, I am not necessarily convinced that She walks.’
‘But you travel armed for war,’ said the king.
‘I would not walk the night otherwise,’ said Alfric. ‘She is not the only denizen of the night. Not by any means.’
‘Who else do you fear, then?’ said the king.
‘Men, for the most part,’ answered Alfric. ‘Bandits and such.’
‘So you fear men,’ said the king. ‘As the orks fear them.’
‘My liege, the time when orks had cause to fear the people of Galsh Ebrek lies long in the past,’ said Alfric, answering almost casually.
‘It does?’ said the king.
‘So opinion runs in Galsh Ebrek,’ answered Alfric, belatedly sensing unsuspected complications.
‘Good!’ said the king. ‘For I have it in mind to send two ambassadors to that city. My ambassadors are orks. You can arrange for it?’
‘Within the year, certainly,’ said Alfric.
‘You misunderstand me,’ said the king. ‘I wish to send my ambassadors now. With you. Tonight.’
‘The wish of my liege is my command,’ said Alfric.
Whereupon the chamberlain called in two orks, and introductions were made. One ork (Morgenstem by name) larger than the other (who was called Cod), but neither could be considered small. The ork (otherwise known as the swamp-whale, or simply as the whale) does not reach the monstrous size alleged by Lord Baakan and others to be its birthright (perhaps Baakan confused the creature with the swamp giant). Nevertheless, though smaller than any full-grown ogre, the ork is rather larger than a man.
At least, the males are.
Alfric Danbrog had studied long and deeply in his ethnology texts, which had informed him that orks demonstrate pronounced sexual dimorphism, the males being big and bulky and the females (subservient to the males in all matters) small and shy. The standard ethnology texts also declared that the apparelling of orks is chiefly by way of wool, the male orks wearing trousers of coarse wool while the females adorn themselves in pleated skirts dyed in checkerboard patterns.
The days when the Yudonic Knights of Wen Endex had hunted orks for their blubber and oil were long in the past, but nevertheless Alfric felt more than a twinge of racial guilt as he was introduced to his new companions. He tried to dismiss such guilt by telling himself he was no longer a child of Wen Endex, or, really, a Yudonic Knight. Had he not thrown in his lot with the Bankers? Had he not even taken a new name, Izdarbols-kobidarbix? Of course he had. And yet: the guilt persisted.
‘I trust,’ said King Dimple-Dumpling, ‘that you personally guarantee the safety of my orks.’
‘I do, my liege,’ said Alfric. ‘I guarantee their safety as far as Galsh Ebrek. After that, the Wormlord will doubtless take them into his care. As all the world knows, the Wormlord has the highest regard for the niceties of diplomacy. ’
‘It was once said,’ said the ogre king, ‘that the Wormlord also had the highest regard for his honour. He did battle with Her son on account of such honour. Will he not do battle with Herself?’
‘My liege,’ said Alfric, keeping his face studiously blank, ‘word of the Wormlord’s will is not in my keeping.’
But Alfric knew what Rumour had to say on that subject. The Wormlord was old, and his courage had failed along with his strength. Soon he would die, his death perhaps precipitating a struggle for the throne of Wen Endex.
Alfric Danbrog hoped to avoid personal involvement in such struggle. But, because of his genesis and breeding, that might prove very difficult.
CHAPTER TWO
After leaving the presence of the ogre king, Alfric trekked for half a league underground before he at last emerged on to a mountain path beneath a dark and moonless night sky. The horses followed, snorting as they came out into the skeletal wind, the bitter cold. Alfric would not suffer from that chill, for he had donned thick furs for the journey. These (luxury of luxuries!) were furs of the wolverine, hence would not freeze regardless of how cold the air became.
The orks came last. Morgenstem, whom Alfric had picked as a complainer, made no comment on the cold because he was insensitive to it. Cold such as this would not trouble the orks, for both were far too thick and fat, too oiled and greasy, too lubbery blubbery.
Standing sentinel by the cavemouth exit was the gnarled statue of an ancient ablach, illuminated by phosphorescence from smothering lichens. Both Cod and Morgenstem bent down and kissed the stone dwarf for luck. Alfric, who had no truck with superstition, checked the stowage of the six barrels of jade, inspected the ropes of walrus hide which linked each pack horses to the next, then said to the leading animal:
‘Chok-chok!’
The horse started to move. The others followed. The orks, who had been having a little talk to the stone dwarf, hastily fell in behind.
Snow crunched underfoot and underhoof as the expedition began to descend the mountain trail. The sky was cloudy and the clouds, or so Alfric suspected from the feel of the air, more than a little moody. He expected bad weather, and soon. He was glad when the trail shortly plunged into a forest of winter-black trees, gaunt and leafless to the last branch, for the forest was comparatively sheltered.
The forest was dark beneath the clouded sky. Here and there, a star-lichen glowed, but apart from that there was precious little illumination. This was the dark where the timorous think of ghost and ghoul, of adhantare and revenant. But Alfric Danbrog feared not the dark. Rather, he feared the moon, the Great Sorceress which has overrule of the tides of sea and blood alike. Hence he welcomed the absence of the welkin-wanderer, and was if anything comforted by the shrouding shadows.
By rights, the near-sighted banker should have been fumbling blind in that umbrage, for his spectacles had no special powers to decipher the dark. And let the plain truth be stated here without equivocation: travelling through forest by night is dangerous and often leads to death. Indeed, to go a mere half-dozen paces into the woodlands by night is to risk disorientation, for nothing is more baffling than the dark.
But Alfric was not as other men. In proof of which, he found his way efficiently and without undue effort. The path itself helped guide him; it was a slightly concave track which became an impromptu stream whenever it
