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.
After all, other bards yet retained an interest in organized phlebotomy, and so were happy to compose stanzas about blood-drenched heroes and sword-slaughter armies. So Qa’s diversions into other areas of chivalric culture were tolerated and, for the most part, actively welcomed.
But at last things went sour.
The dragon Qa wore out his interest in booze and brothels, and began to fancy himself as a mystic philosopher. Unfortunately this led him to compose verses of ever-increasing complexity and obscurity which were not at all to the taste of Galsh Ebrek. At one famous banquet, a good three-score Yudonic Knights displayed their scorn for philosophy by throwing things at their draconic skop: old bones, burnt boots, dollops of mud, sklogs of hardened manure and curses by the dozen.
In the days that followed, a much-mocked Qa became morose, then bad-tempered; then so forgot his manners as to begin to eat people. First the dragon had devoured a wood-cutter; then a couple of beggars; and after that a ferryman. Such peccadillos had been tolerated for a time, for the Yudonic Knights knew that artists are not as other people, and some allowance must be made for their occasional deviation from accepted standards of behaviour. Providing the people who were eaten were mere commoners, nobody was going to get too upset about it. (Except the friends and relations of such commoners — but they, they didn’t really count.)
However, on one fine night in high summer, the dragon Qa had got more than a little drunk and had eaten of the flesh of the Wormlord’s latest wife, a child no more than eleven years of age. Then Qa had fled — knowing that he had gone too far. Such was the wrath of the ruler of Saxo Pall that he had ordered a dozen of his knights to do a critical demolition job upon the reckless firedrake. Armed with swords, those heroes had set forth in hot pursuit. But Qa had ambushed them in a gully much overgrown with trees. These the dragon had set alight, and all the marauding Knights had been burnt alive.
Out of vanity, Qa had attempted to eat the lot. But biological limitations had defeated wilful gluttony, so in the end the dragon had been forced to leave a few bones and much-crunched skulls for the heroes’ heirs and assigns to bury. However, while some such physical fragments had been left, the bloated and unrepentant sea dragon had made off with the ironsword Edda; the loss of which had been ever afterwards lamented in Galsh Ebrek.
For some time, nothing had been heard of the dragon; until at length it was learnt that Qa had taken up residence on Island Thodrun. Whereupon many heroes had been eager to close with the monster and exact revenge for the ghastly murders it had committed. But the Wormlord, declaring he could not afford to lose his Knights a dozen at a time, had ruled that none could quest against the dragon without royal permission. Anyone granted such permission must go alone, armed with only a sword.
Over the years, many of the brave and the beautiful had dared the attempt; and one and all had met with universal disaster.
In keeping with the Wormlord’s law, the new champion rode forth alone with no bosom-comrades to stand by him in battle. Like those who had gone before him, Alfric Danbrog carried a sword. But he was confident of victory, for he was a Banker Third Class, and hence surely able to outwit a mere firedrake.
A full league short of Island Thodrun, Alfric left his horse in a grove of trees standing amidst the sand dunes. Anna Blaume would be most upset if her dearest Nodlums got eaten by a dragon; and, besides, Alfric wanted to preserve the beast in good health so it could carry a hearty load of dragon-treasure back to Galsh Ebrek.
‘So long, horse,’ said Alfric, giving the creature a perfunctory pat which was meant to be friendly.
Then the banker shouldered his pack, which was very heavy, and set forth along the beach, striding out to warm himself, for the night was bitterly cold. Though it was night, the bright beacon of Thodrun gave him more than enough light to see by. Thodrun’s beacon was ancient, as old perhaps as the Oracle of Ob; but no legends surrounded it. All presumed it had served the ancients as a seamark, and thus it was used in Alfric’s day. It was a globe of cold fire which sat atop a skeletal pyramid of a metal immune to corrosion; and it lit all around with a light greater than that of a full moon.
White shone that light on the sands of the shore; and white alike it shone on the waves of the sea, the full tide seas which stretched between Thodrun and the shore. Having no boat, and lacking any inclination to swim the distance, Alfric must perforce wait for low tide. Which he did. He dumped his pack well above the surfswash, then walked backwards and forwards, trying to keep warm, kicking at discards of clam shells and gaunt fragilities of driftwood deep-mined by seaworm, eroded by sandscour and windwork, scorched by fire or otherwise shaped and channelled by the servants of time.
As Alfric waited for the tide to recede, a growing impatience possessed him. The Bank had taught him (too well, perhaps) that time is money; and Alfric was ever inclined to thriftiness. He tried to be economical by drilling himself in the Janjuladoola tongue. He was fluent enough in that language, as he had proved in encounters with Pran No Dree. But there was always room for improvement. And it was important to improve; for, once he won promotion, he would be dealing regularly with Obooloo, and a mastery of Janjuladoola was essential for success in such dealings.
Despite this incentive, Alfric found himself unable to concentrate on mental revision. Obooloo was remote, distant, a dream. What was real was the here and now: sand underboot and the nightwind on his face. Momentarily, he wished his father was here to see him playing the Yudonic Knight to the full. A credit to his family and his people!
Then such thoughts ceased, for Something was coming.
And Something commanded his attention to the full.
Something sparkled and sharkled in the sea-shifting turbulence. It was a dragon, and it was swimming. Alfric’s first thought was:
— How small it is.
Small it was indeed, for it was no larger than his horse. A little smaller, if anything.
At first, he wondered if the dragon had seen him, for it swam back and forth as if for no particular purpose. Then he began to suspect it was showing off. Particularly when it started indulging itself in some body surfing.
Such surfing at length brought the dragon into the shallows. It then waddled out of the waves and started up the beach. It halted at a cautious distance from the Banker Third Class, then shook itself like a dog, scattering water in all directions. A few stray flecks splattered against Alfric’s spectacles, much to his annoyance.
‘Hello,’ said the sea dragon Qa. ‘Have you come to kill me?’
‘I have,’ said Alfric.
‘Where’s your horse, then?’
‘Pardon?’ said Alfric.
‘I asked after your horse,’ said Qa.
‘I don’t have one.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Qa. ‘You don’t expect me to believe that. You’re a Yudonic Knight. Of course you have a horse.’
‘How do you know I’m a Yudonic Knight? How can you be sure? I could be a commoner.’
"Commoners don’t go in for dragon hunting,’ said Qa.
There’s always an exception to every rule,’ said Alfric.
‘Yes, but you’re not one of them,’ said Qa. ‘You’re Alfric Danbrog, son of Grendel Danbrog. You’re here to kill me so you can rescue the ironsword Edda.’
‘How do you know that?’ said Alfric, startled.
‘Oh, I have my sources,’ said Qa, sounding immensely pleased with himself. ‘Now where’s your horse?’
‘I told you I don’t have one.’
‘Don’t be like that,’ said Qa. ‘Your horse is my legitimate perk.’
‘Your perk?’
‘My perk, yes. Or my pay, that’s another way of putting it. That’s all part of my contract.’
‘Your contract?’ said Alfric in mounting amazement. ‘Yes. My contr act with Saxo Pall. I get paid, you know. You don’t think I’m in this for my health, do you? I’m guarding treasure. So I get paid just like any other guard.’
‘Dragons,’ said Alfric, ‘hoard treasure because that is their nature. They’re a breed of creature given to thieving because that’s how they’re bom. Like magpies. They like the bright and the shiny.’
‘Oh no,’ said Qa, sounding greatly offended. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. That’s land dragons you’re talking about, those great hulking brutes with much fire but no brains. Those are the ones who operate from instinct. But I’m a sea dragon, which means I’m at least the intellectual equal of every person in Wen Endex.’
‘You still hoard treasure and kill questing heroes,’ said Alfric, determined to win this debate.
‘Yes, yes, but not because I have any natural inclination to do any such thing. I do it because I get paid. I’m on an annual salary with a bonus for every questing hero duly killed and eaten. As for the horses, those are a perk. A legitimate perk! So where’s yours?’
‘Wait a moment,’ said Alfric. ‘What do you mean, you’re on a salary? Who’s paying you?’
‘Why, the Wormlord, of course,’ said Qa. ‘Who else would pay me?’
‘But — but you’re a — a — you’re an enemy of the state. A marauding monster. An outlaw.’
‘No,’ said Qa. ‘I’m a royal dragon. It increases the Wormlord’s prestige enormously to have me in Wen Endex.’
‘You’re talking the most absolute nonsense,’ said Alfric, starting to get angry. ‘The Wormlord doesn’t league with renegade monsters. The very idea is — is-’ ‘Monstrous?’ suggested Qa.
‘Well, yes, monstrous.’
‘Next thing you’ll be saying I’m monstrous!’ said Qa. ‘Listen here, Danbrog. Haven’t you learnt to think yet? How many men does it take to kill a dragon?’
‘You’re not immortal,’ said Alfric.
‘Blood of the Gloat!’ said Qa. ‘I invite it to think and all it does is threaten. It must be a Yudonic Knight, for all that it thinks itself a banker.’
‘Today I’m a Yudonic Knight indeed,’ said Alfric. ‘Hence I come with my sword to kill you.’
‘Why with a sword?’ said Qa.
‘Because that’s what tradition decrees,’ said Alfric. ‘And why do you come alone?’ said Qa. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that’s tr aditional as well.’
‘I can hardly tell you otherwise, because that’s the truth,’ said Alfric. ‘Tradition is what tradition is.’
‘And where does tradition come from, eh? Why don’t men go hunting dragons with crossbows? Eh? Ask yourself that, Danbrog. A dozen men with crossbows and I’d have no hope at all. The Wormlord sends people solo with swords because he wants them dead.’
‘That’s absurd!’ said Alfric.
‘Is it?’ said Qa. ‘Think about it. It’s a perfectly reasonable way for the king to get rid of dangerous young men with more ambition tha n sense.’ ‘Reasonable!’ said Alfric.
‘Oh yes,’ said Qa. ‘And merciful. I mean, they die with honour and all that. Better still, there’s no feud between the king and the families of the deceased.’ Alfric’s mind was positively boggling by now. But… what the dragon was saying made uncommonly good sense. And Alfric, thanks to his studies and experience with the Bank, knew all things are possible in politics. Weakly he asked:
‘Do you think this arrangement is strictly ethical?’ ‘Ethical?’ sa id Qa. ‘Oh yes, it’s ethical to ensure the orderly management of the a ffairs of state. Power is always challenged. You have to handle the ch allenges somehow.’ ‘There are other ways,’ said Alfric.
‘Of course there are,’ said Qa. ‘You could have democratic electio ns like the pirates of the Greaters.’ ‘Democratic elections?’ said Alf ric. ‘What are you talking about?’
The sea dragon Qa explained.
‘Oh,’ said Alfric, ‘now I know what you mean. Voting and all that. No, that’d never work in Wen Endex. The Knights would never stand for it. We’d have civil war. Besides, if we had one of these election things, the Wormlord might lose.’
‘So he might,’ said Qa. ‘So he doesn’t have elections. He has me, instead. I fulfil a very valuable social purpose. Consider. Someone threatens the Wormlord’s throne. If he kills that person, he risks feud and social disorder. So he sends the challenger here, to be eaten. Result? Order, stability and enhanced social cohesion. Plus the surviving relatives of the deceased are enormously proud of their fallen son, nephew, father or brother, as the case may be. I give them their pride.’
The dragon Qa said this with great pride of his own. Alfric felt weak at the knees. Was it true? Could it be true? It certainly made a lot of sense. It explained a lot of things.
‘Do you always tell people what’s going on?’ said Alfric, wondering how other questing heroes had reacted to the dragon’s revelations.
‘Oh no,’ said Qa. ‘Usually they’re mostly grossly unmannerly. They don’t have any time for talking at all. They come here drunk, you see. Most of them, at any rate. One or two have offered to share a drink with me, but unfortunately that’s a no-no.’
‘Why?’ said Alfric.
‘Because I’m an alcoholic,’ said Qa sadly. ‘Haven’t had a drink for years, but I’m still an alcoholic. I can’t fool myself, not now. Anyway, that’s how it is. They come here drunk, haul out their swords and hack away. Straight into it! Don’t even introduce themselves most of the time. Of course, I know who they are anyway.’
‘Why?’
‘I get told in advance, who’s coming, and usually when. I was expecting you. They told me you’d be here by night. But why night? I didn’t think to ask. But now I think of it, it’s most unusual. They usually come by day, you know.’
‘I walk the night because She walks the night also,’ said Alfric.
‘Oh,’ said the sea dragon Qa, as if it didn’t like the sound of that one little bit. ‘She walks, does She? Well, nice chatting. I have to go now.’
And the dragon started to back off toward the surf. ‘Go?’ said Alf ric. ‘But we’ve business to conduct. Listen, I’m here to kill you, but it doesn’t have to end that way. I’ve got a proposition.’
‘Then bring it to me in the cave,’ said Qa, the swash of dying surf washing around the rearmost of his four feet.
‘The cave?’ said Alfric, pursuing the dragon down the beach. ‘Why can’t we settle things here?’
‘I can’t kill people on the beach,’ said Qa. ‘That wouldn’t be lawful. My charter’s quite specific. All killings to be done on the island. In the cave, in fact.’ ‘Couldn’t we make an exception?’ said Alfric. ‘Just this once. I mean, it’s all the same to me whether I die here or on the island. And anyway, I’m not really expecting to die. Or to kill you. As I say, I’ve got a proposition.’
‘That sounds very, very interesting,’ said Qa. ‘But I can’t afford to violate the terms of my charter. One violation and it’s all over, you see.’
Water broke and buckled about Alfric’s ankles. It was cold, and flooded into his boots through flaws of which he had previously been unaware. Yet he did not retreat, for there was much he wanted to know. Instead, he demanded:
‘Your charter?’
‘My agreement with the Wormlord. Oh yes, I got a formal written agreement, you can be sure of that. Not that I keep it here. My solicitor has it safe in Galsh Ebrek.’
‘Your solicitor!’ ‘That’s right,’ said Qa. ‘Anyway, I’ll see you in the cave.’
‘I’m not swimming out to the island,’ said Alfric.
‘I’m not asking you to,’ said Qa. ‘The sea goes in and out twice a day. Tides, that’s what it’s called. Influence of the moon and all that. Oh, but you’d know about the moon. You being a werewolf and all that.’
‘You called me a what?’ said Alfric.
‘A werewolf.’
‘A werewolf!’
‘Yes,’ said Qa. ‘Because that’s what you are. Aren’t you?’
‘No!’ said Alfric, hotly. ‘I am not a werewolf. That’s a base slander. A vile and gratuitous untruth. A rumour utterly without foundation. My father was smeared, that’s what it was. I-’
‘All right, all right,’ said Qa. ‘Sorry I spoke. Well, must be off now. Much swimming to do. Doctor’s orders, you know.’
‘Doctor’s orders? You have a doctor as well as a solicitor?’
‘Oh yes. Olaf Offorum. The Wormlord’s personal physician. He sees to me as well. Comes here twice a year to check me out. Told me to do more swimming. Oh, and to eat more horsemeat as well. Where is your horse?’
‘I haven’t got one,’ said Alfric.
‘You mean you marched here all that way with that great big pack? I don’t believe it. Not to worry, though. Mostly they bring their horses here, but when they don’t I usually look in the forest.’
‘The forest?’
‘That’s what I call it, but it’s only a few trees really.
You know. Down the shore. About a league away. Anyway, that’s all for now. See you later!’
With that, the dragon began to backtrack in earnest. A wave caught it, knocked it off balance and tumbled it up the beach. But on the second attempt the creature made it out into the surf. Alfric walked up the beach and sat down on his pack. His feet were cold and sodden, but he gave them little thought, for the sea dragon Qa had given him much else to think about.
The dragon’s story rang true.
It was undeniable, for instance, that 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, yes, but no sign of the unlimited wealth of which legend had so generously rumoured.
Here and there were piles of skulls carefully assembled into pyramids. Skulls? Alfric looked more closely. They were skull-sized rocks. Strange.
‘That’s strange,’ said Qa.
‘You read minds?’ said Alfric, startled.
‘No,’ said Qa. ‘I use my eyes. That’s how I saw.’
‘Saw? Saw what?’
‘The red light from yours. Your eyes, I mean.’
‘You must be imagining things,’ said Alfric; then slapped his arms vigorously against his chest, trying simultaneously to warm himself and get rid of some of the surplus water.
‘Oh, I don’t imagine things,’ said Qa. ‘I’m a trained observer, don’t you know.’
‘If you say so,’ said Alfric, squatting down on his hams.
‘I do say so,’ said Qa. ‘I saw you looking at one of my piles of rocks. You wouldn’t be able to do that if you were an ordinary human.’
‘And why not?’ said Alfric.
‘Because it’s pitch dark in here, that’s why,’ said Qa. ‘Then how can you see me seeing things?’ said Alfric. ‘Because I’m a sea dragon,’ said Qa. ‘Sea dragons can see in the dark. Not light, but heat. That’s what they see, I mean. Heat. But I didn’t see heat when I saw your eyes. No. I saw light. Red light. I can see it now. Anyway, enough of that. This debate isn’t getting us very far. Let’s get down to business. You’ve come to kill me.’
‘In theory, yes.’
‘In theory?’ said Qa. ‘What do you mean? You’re going to run away? It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes and no,’ said Alfric. ‘As I said before, I have a proposition.’
‘Then what say you fetch your horse?’ said Qa. ‘We could eat it here. Share it between us. Have a barbecue. Awfully jolly, what?’
‘As I told you before,’ said Alfric, ‘I don’t have a horse.’
‘Really?’
‘I give you my word of honour as a Yudonic Knight.’ ‘You’re a liar,’ said Qa. ‘After I left you on the beach, I swam along the shore to look for your horse. I found it in the trees. That’s where they always leave the horse.’ ‘You did no such thing,’ said Alfric. ‘You’re just testing me. Consider me tested. I had no horse, and that’s the truth. I walked here with my pack.’
‘If you say so,’ said Qa, mimicking Alfric’s accents.
‘I do say so,’ said Alfric staunchly. ‘And now let me say, with the greatest of sincerity, that I am familiar with your poetry, and admire it greatly.’
‘Oh,’ said Qa, in surprise. ‘Do you?’
And, from the way the dragon spoke, Alfric knew that he really had its interest.
‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘I hold your poetry in such high regard that I’ve committed some of it to memory. Would you like me to recite?’
‘Please do,’ said Qa, with the most genuine of enthusiasms.
So Alfric cleared his throat and began:
‘Phenomenological stone.
No lapis lazuli but rock.
Your silence a rebuff to snakes.
In gutterals the wind
Gambles in dialects.
In marshland muds
(Cold codfish their taste, their scent
Deprived of ubiquity)
Stork critiques frog with a skewer.
You wait.
Phenomenological stone.’
‘Marvellous stuff,’ said Qa. ‘Marvellous stuff, though I say it myself.’
‘Such is your right,’ said Alfric generously. ‘After all, you created the stuff, so you’re in the best position to appreciate its intrinsic genius.’
‘So I am, so I am,’ said Qa. ‘But what about yourself? Do you really think you can appreciate it properly? Do you even know what it means?’
A note of suspicion had entered the dragon’s voice, warning Alfric that he had better be careful.
‘What it means?’ said Alfric, striving to keep his teeth from chattering with the cold. ‘Not exactly. But it speaks to me in a — a special way. When I hear those words, I feel as if I’m looking at the world through glass.’
All this and more said Alfric Danbrog. None of it was exactly spontaneous. In preparing himself for this mission, he had invaded a salon of poetasters in Galsh Ebrek, had studied the phrases by which the dilettanti flatter each other, and had invented some of his own just in case.
‘You know,’ said Qa, ‘you’re the first of my visitors who’s known about my poetry. I usually ask them about it. Before I eat them, I mean. But the results have been most disappointing. Till now.’
‘It is unfortunate,’ said Alfric carefully, ‘that poetry must struggle hard to preserve itself in the absence of the poet. For poetry can only come to full life through the genius of the voice of the original creator. I would be most privileged if I could hear you recite some of your verse.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Qa.
And, without further ado, the dragon began to recite:
‘Slush, said the sea.
Slush, slush.
Slush blashimmer.
Plash!
Then the sun pursued biology
And the world was dark.’
Alfric listened in respectful silence. Was there more to come? Apparently not. He wanted to scratch his backside, where wet cloth was crumpled against his skin. He was also experiencing the anal urgency of incipient diarrhoea. But he controlled his sphincter out of respect for the poet.
‘That was good,’ said Alfric. ‘That was very good.’ ‘Ah,’ said Qa.
‘But do you know what it means? Or do you find all my poetry ultimate ly incomprehensible?’
‘I–I’d hazard a guess that it says something about entropy. The heat death of the universe.’
The dragon’s eyelids flickered.
Had Alfric said the right thing or ‘I see that for once I have the kind of audience I deserve,’ said Qa.
‘True,’ said Alfric. ‘I’m a great fan of yours. Since that’s so, it’s always hurt me to think that much of your genius is going to die with your flesh. You’re going to die sooner or later. If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s probably going to be sooner rather than later. And, well, there’s no collected edition of your works extant. Most of what survives exists in autograph form only, and may soon perish unless properly published.’
‘Publication,’ said Qa, ‘costs money.’
‘I am well aware of this,’ said Alfric. ‘So that’s where my proposition comes into it. Subject: to your compliance with certain terms, the Bank is prepared to pay for publication. A hundred scribes will work for a year to replicate your works so that your name will live in honour for ever. Life is short, but art is long. If art is properly collected and published in the first place.’
There was a pause, while the sea dragon Qa brooded about mortality, and about what a properly organized edition of the collected poems could do to perpetuate the memory of Galsh Ebrek’s greatest poet.
‘You’re tempting me,’ said Qa. ‘Aren’t you?’
Alfric mastered his now frankly chattering teeth and answered:
‘Yes. The Bank wants me to succeed in this quest. So, if you hand over the ironsword Edda, the Bank will organize the publication of the poems.’
‘I suppose,’ said Qa, ‘they’d also want me to let you kill me.’
‘Well, yes,’ admitted Alfric. ‘That does come into it. I mean, technically I only have to recover the sword. But it’d look much better if I killed you into the bargain. From the point of heroic legend, I mean. If I’m going to be king, I’ll have need of such a legend to support my rule.’
The dragon sighed, outbreathing warmth. Alfric wished it would sigh again, for he was sure he would shortly die of the cold. But it did not. Instead it said:
‘The deal you offer me is no deal at all. While I’m proud to be an honorary Yudonic Knight, I know the limitations of the breed. They never accepted my genius in life, so they’re not likely to in death. There’s no point in publication, for the volumes would be torn apart to be used for lighting fires, or for — for purposes worse.’
‘But,’ said Alfric, ‘distribution of your works will not be limited to Galsh Ebrek. Rather, the whole world will learn of your genius.’
‘The world?’
‘The Bank has authorized me to tell you about the Circle of the Partnership Banks,’ said AlMc. ‘Of this we do not usually speak. But let it be known that the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association is linked to the rest of the civilized world by a series of Doors arranged in a Circle.’
‘That’s all Janjuladoola to me,’ said Qa, using an expression in the Toxteth used to convey incomprehension.
So Alfric explained about the Circle of the Doors, a Circle controlled by a star-globe held by the Safrak Bank of the Safrak Islands, a place which was linked to the Monastic Treasury of Inner Adeer, itself in turn communicating with the Bank in Galsh Ebrek.
‘By going through our own Door,’ said Alfric, ‘we can reach the Bondsman’s Guild in Obooloo.’
Then he explained the rest of the Circle, and how the Doors opened up the entire world to the Bank. Qa listened, fascinated.
‘You see,’ said Alfric, in conclusion, ‘your works will not be confined to Galsh Ebrek. Instead, your fame will spread throughout the world.’
‘It’s a thoughtful offer,’ said the dragon. ‘But I refuse.’ ‘Why?’ said Alfric.
‘Because I have a philosophical objection to suicide.’
‘There is another way,’ said Alfric.
‘What’s that?’ said Qa.
‘You don’t really have to die. You could just disappear.’
‘What? You mean, leave my barrow and swim off into the sea? Oh no, I couldn’t do that. This is my home. It may not be much, but it’s all I’ve got. I couldn’t bear to leave it.’
And, at the very thought of leaving his much-loved domicile, Qa began to cry. Alfric was sorely embarrassed. The dragon was as wet as an ork!
‘Look,’ said Alfric, ‘you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not asking you to — to just swim off into nowhere. Remember all the different Banks I told you about. Richest of all the Partnership Banks is the Singing Dove Pensions Trust of Tang. You remember what I told you about Tang?’
‘Tell it to me again,’ said Qa.
So Alfric told, enlarging on the wealth of the place, and the high regard in which poets were held by the populace.
‘It sounds marvellous,’ said Qa dreamily. ‘I wish I could go to a place like that.’
‘But you can, you can,’ said Alfric earnestly. ‘The Bank’s arranged it all for you. We can smuggle you into Galsh Ebrek on a seaweed cart then let you through the Door. This time tomorrow, you can be in Tang.’
‘Where I’d probably be killed as a marauder,’ said Qa.
‘No, no,’ said Alfric, sounding shocked. ‘Not at all. Your fame has gone there in advance. Here, I have an official invitation from the Emperor of Tang himself. You’re invited there to be court poet. They admire poetry of your kind. Phenomenological stones. They broke into open applause when they heard about it.’ Perhaps Alfric overstated the case somewhat. Nevertheless, the substance of what he was telling the dragon was true. The invitation was genuine. The Flesh Traders’ Financial Association very much wanted Alfric to succeed in his quest and make himself Wormlord, so an immense amount of trouble had been put into cooking up a deal which would appeal to the sea dragon Qa.
‘There remains,’ said Qa, ‘the problem of translation. I don’t imagine they speak Toxteth in Tang.’
‘No,’ said Alfric, ‘they don’t. Scarcely anyone does, once you get outside Wen Endex. They speak Toxteth in Port Domax, of course, but I don’t think it’s heard in many other places.’
‘So all my poetry would have to be translated.’
‘Well… yes.’
‘So my true genius could never be properly appreciated. It can’t be, you know. Not in translation.’
‘But you’d have a most admiring audience,’ said Alfric, trying to be encouraging. ‘Anyway, you could always learn the stuff they speak in Tang.’
‘No,’ said Qa. ‘I can’t. I’m too old to learn another language.’
‘But,’ said Alfric, ‘sea dragons are famous for their intellectual agility. I’m sure you’d soon adapt. Come on. You can do it!’
‘No,’ said Qa, despondently. ‘I’m too old, and I know it.’
Then the dragon began to cry once more, and a most melancholy sight it made. Alfric lost patience. He got to his feet.
‘What’s this?’ said Qa. ‘You want to get down to the fighting and killing?’
‘No,’ said Alfric, stamping his feet. ‘I want to get warm. I’m soaked to the skin and in danger of dying of hypothermia.’
‘Well then,’ said Qa, ‘warm yourself up quickly, for we really must get to the fighting bit.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that’s exactly essential,’ said Alfric.
‘I’m afraid it is,’ said Qa. ‘Honour and all that. It’s all I’ve got left, you see. My honour as a Yudonic Knight and a loyal servant of the Wormlord. What do you want to use as a weapon? You’ve got your own sword, of course, but there are a few other weapons lying about. They usually want to use the ironsword, but it’s rusted, as you see.’
‘I can’t, actually,’ said Alfric. ‘I mean, I don’t know where it is.’
The dragon pointed it out.
Strangely, the hilt of the ironsword Edda was undamaged; it appeared to be made of a metal more durable than the rest. But the blade had suffered bitterly from the seasalt, which had reduced the weapon’s striking strength to a wavery slither of black-buckling metal.
‘So they usually go against you with their own swords,’ said Alfric.
‘Usually, yes.’
‘And you kill them. Usually.’
‘No,’ said Qa. ‘Not usually. Always. It’s very simple. I breathe fire into the water, you see.’ The dragon dabbled its claws in one of the puddles, demonstrating the prodigious quantities of water which were conveniently to hand. ‘That fills the air with steam,’ said Qa. ‘So they can’t see. Even if it’s daytime. There’s cracks in the rocks above, you see. If it’s daytime there’s light in the cave. Anyway, the steam blinds them. Usually they flail around a bit with their swords. Then I attack.’
‘How?’ said Alfric.
‘Well,’ said Qa, ‘in my younger days, I used to bite off heads. Of course I broke the occasional fang on an iron collar or such. Then the rest of my teeth fell out with the onset of age. So these days I usually stand back and throw things.’
‘Throw things?’ said Alfric.
‘Well, rocks,’ said the dragon.
So saying, Qa secured a skull-sized rock with his talons.
‘See that helmet?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Alfric.
The helmet sat atop a dismal pile of shattered bucklers and mangled armour. Qa threw the stone with great speed and accuracy. The helmet was smashed back against the wall of the cave.
‘That’s… that’s remarkably good throwing,’ said Alfric.
‘Also a demonstration of intelligence,’ said Qa. ‘That’s what makes a sea dragon dangerous.’
‘Dangerous indeed!’ said Alfric. ‘Quite frankly, I don’t think I’ve got a chance of besting you in combat.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Qa, ‘because I rather like you. You’re much more polite than the average Knight. I mean, they usually rabbit on no end about me eating that child and all the rest. Well, maybe it was a breach of etiquette, but I don’t see that it was a sin. After all, something has to keep down the human population, doesn’t it? Humans have no natural predators to keep their numbers in check, so if it wasn’t for the occasional maneating dragon and such, you’d have a thousand million people or more living in Yestron alone.’
Alfric knew this was quite impossible, but nevertheless shuddered at such a nightmarish thought. A thousand million people! A ludicrous notion. But imagine…
‘What about sea dragons?’ said Alfric. ‘Is there anything that eats sea dragons?’
‘Oh, all kinds of things,’ said Qa. ‘Sharks, for example. Though sometimes we eat back. I’ve killed a good many sharks in my time, I’ll have you know. Used to make a sport of it. Then there’s sea serpents. Oh, and krakens of course. You know. The usual run of sea monsters.’
‘That sounds very interesting,’ said Alfric. ‘What say you tell me about it while we have a little meal? If I’m going to die, I’d like to die on a full belly, and to listen to some more of your poetry before I expire, if you don’t mind.’
‘Why, that sounds a capital idea,’ said the dragon. Then, mournfully: ‘But I’m afraid I don’t really have anything to offer you. It’s not much of a life here, you see. Seaweed, that’s what it mostly comes down to. Eating seaweed.’
‘Actually,’ said Alfric, ‘I’m partial to seaweed.’
‘Of course you are,’ said Qa, ‘you being a child of Wen Endex and all. But you like it cooked, don’t you? Humans can’t eat much of the stuff raw, oh no, I know that from past experience. I used to try keeping the occasional captive, when I had two of them. I sometimes did, you know. They didn’t always come alone, even though that’s the law. So I’d try to preserve some of the meat on the hoof. But they always complained most bitterly about the diet.’
‘As it happens,’ said Alfric, ‘I’ve some food in my pack. Pork, actually. I have heard it said that sea dragons are partial to pork. You’re most welcome to share it with me.’
‘Why, that’s very gracious of you,’ said Qa.
So Alfric opened up his pack and the pair began to banquet upon pork, with Alfric taking care to select the very best bits for the dragon. While they ate, they discussed Galsh Ebrek. Qa had heard of the untunchilamons, and was most interested in the progress of that breed of miniatures.
‘Maybe I could get one,’ said Qa. ‘As a pet. I’ve never had a pet, you know. It’s a pity I have to kill you, otherwise you could fetch me one.’
‘Doubtless you’ll get all you deserve in time,’ said Alfric. ‘Would you care for some more pork?’
‘Please.’
‘You’ve got quite an appetite,’ said Alfric.
‘Yes,’ said Qa. ‘Since this is winter, I have to eat extramuch. Otherwise I’d have to hibernate. Most sea dragons do, you know. All through winter. Of course, extramuch mostly means great quantities of seaweed. Fortunately, I’m able to vary the diet from time to time.’ ‘How?’ said Alfric.
‘With Yudonic Knights, of course,’ said Qa. ‘And their horses. Would you like some fresh horsemeat to go with your pork?’
‘I’d like that very much, if it were available,’ said Alfric. ‘For I’m rather partial to horsemeat. But unfortunately there’s no horse available.’
‘There is, you know,’ said Qa.
Then the dragon went to the back of the cave, dipped its talons into a generous crack in the rock, and hauled out something which smelt very much like fresh meat. It proved to be the haunch of a horse. A horse very recently dead, if Alfric was any judge — and he thought himself a good one.
‘You see,’ said Qa, ‘I did swim to the forest. I did find your horse.’
There was a pause.
Really!
This was most difficult!
‘I–I’m sorry I lied to you about the horse,’ said Alfric. ‘But the rest is true. About the poetry, the invitation to Tang. All true.’
‘I wish I could believe you,’ said the dragon. ‘But I can’t. You’re a liar, you see. Never mind, we won’t let that stand in the way of our friendship. Which will last at least until the meal ends. Perhaps you’re in the mood to listen to some more of my poetry. Are you?’
‘Most definitely,’ said Alfric.
So Qa began to recite. On and on went the recitation, the dragon at length abandoning food in favour of unrestricted concentration on poetry.
But it was too late.
For the dragon had already eaten more than it should have done.
And, soon enough, its eyes began to lull, its words became slurred, and it was struggling to keep its balance. Suddenly it fell over to one side. And then was abruptly sick.
‘Oh,’ said Qa, mournfully. ‘I haven’t been sick like that for years. Not since they fed me opium. At a banquet, it was. Done for a joke. There was opium, wasn’t there? In the pork. The bits you fed me.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Alfric.
‘You did well,’ said the dragon. ‘But not quite well enough. I’ve still the strength to kill you, you know. You’d better run while you’ve still got time.’
‘You’re bluffing, I’m afraid,’ said Alfric. ‘What’s more, I know you’re bluffing. Furthermore, it’s time for me to kill you.’
‘Just one thing I ask,’ said the dragon.
‘What’s that?’
‘No lectures, please,’ said Qa. ‘Not while I’m writhing in my death agonies. I couldn’t bear it. Lectures, I mean. About eating children and all that.’
‘Oh, that’s perfectly understandable,’ said Alfric, who detested children. ‘No, I’m not killing you for any moralistic reasons. I’m killing you out of enlightened self-interest. How would you like to be killed?’
‘A blade in the heart would be quickest,’ said Qa, rolling over. ‘Stick it in here.’
So saying, the dragon tapped its belly with a set of talons, indicating the location of the heart. Then it closed its eyes, as if waiting for death.
Alfric cautiously stepped back, away from the dragon. Stealthily he picked up a skull-sized rock. Then tossed it. So it landed on the dragon’s belly.
Instantly the creature exploded into wrathful action, clawing with all four taloned legs, fire ravaging the air as it roared its anger. Then it realized it had been tricked. It had been fooled into expending its best energies on nothing more than a rock. It screamed, incoherent with rage. Scrabbled to its feet. Charged at Alfric.
But stumbled, tricked out of its balance by opium. Slithered. Fell. And Alfric drew his sword and leapt forward, stricking, hacking, slashing, plunging. Then struggling, struggling, struggling to draw out the steel which was stuck in the flesh, flesh he was kicking and cursing.
Badged with blood the ravager at last got free his blade. Then hacked. Then hacked again. Then stepped back to watch his enemy die.
‘It hurts,’ said Qa. ‘It hurts.’
Alfric stood watching, panting harshly.
‘It hurts,’ moaned Qa.
Voice failing, fading.
A wisp of smoke escaped from the dragon’s nostrils. One last firefly-rivalling flicker of fire showed at its mouth. Then it was dead. It was most clearly and obviously dead. Though Alfric nevertheless hacked off its head to be absolutely sure.
And then Then he bathed his hands in one of the puddles, for they had got scorched by fire in the course of the battle, and were very sore.
For a long time he squatted by the cold water, hands engulfed in that darkness. As he waited there, his battle-anger cooled away to nothing, and he was left alone and very lonely. The cave was dark, dark and cold, and very lonely. And Alfric began to weep for the dead dragon and its lonely vigil, and for the bitterness of this cold universe where things lived in holes, crawling forth at intervals to fight each other and die, each yearning for comfort yet afraid to trust the other, the dreaded other which might provide that comfort.
At last Alfric withdrew his hands from the water, cleansed his sword, sheathed his sword, picked up the shrivelled iron of the saga sword Edda, then left the cave. His pack he left behind, and also any and all other treasures which had belonged to the dragon.
Waves were sweeping across the sandstrand which stretched between Thodrun and the shore, either because the seas had got up or because the tide had started to come in while Alfric was in discourse with the dragon. The wind’s icy blast in freezing squalls drove the racing combers with fury, but Alfric plunged into the water, unaffrighted, and struggled toward the shore. Only when he stepped clear of the sea did he realize how close he had come to losing the ironsword Edda to the wrecking waters.
Under the dead stars he walked toward the dunes, icy iron in his hand, bones creaking as his flesh animated itself toward its destination. He felt, at that moment, that he would not have cared even if he had lost the sword. For his guilt was upon him. He had killed, he had slaughtered a poet, and his shame would be upon him for ever. He had murdered Qa. He had been forced to. Because the dragon had not trusted him. If he had not lied about the horse, then he might have won the creature’s trust. The dragon would have gone to Tang, and all would have ended happily ever after.
Instead, Alfric Danbrog would have bitter memories to bear for the rest of his life. But at least he was alive, yes, he was alive, and returning to Galsh Ebrek as a hero.