The Walrus and the Warwolf

by Hugh Cook

  Or will he return here to honour us with his flesh?'

  'The way is murky,' said the Great One. 'I see a time when he will be but a step away from a world of destinies. Much then will rely on his wisdom - and the strength of his swordarm.'

  Thus ran the word of wisdom in the land of Ling.

  10

  Name: Jon Arabin. Alias: Warwolf. Occupation: pirate-trader.

  Status: master mariner; ship-owner; large-scale debtor; husband of Leela, Waru, Verona, Silobeth, Esylan, Tarawen, Gleneth, Parazela, Qualavinth, Janateerith, Zal, Ralathy et al.

  Birthplace: Ashmolea.

  Description: lordly lean black bald clean-shaven man with pale blue eyes, firm voice and forthright manner; wears brown leathers and big leather belt encumbered with sea-pouch and a variety of blades.

  One of the first things Drake saw when he got on board the Warwolf was Ika Thole, the Ebrell-born harpoon man. Seeing Thole's red hair and red skin, Drake was instantly reminded of his true love, Zanya Kliedervaust. Zanya of the honey-coloured voice! Zanya of the high-sprung breasts! Zanya the beautiful, the lush, the ultimately desirable!

  How long since he had been laid?

  Months!

  He had an urgent desire to be back on Stokos, to be face to face with the fair Zanya, praising her with poetry, offering her flowers, stripping away her clothes.

  'Zanya, no clothes can properly compliment your beauty—'

  'What's that you're saying?' said Jon Arabin, coming up behind him.

  Drake promptly turned and tried to punch him in the face. But Arabin caught Drake's fist, and laughed.

  'Easy, boy. Not so fierce.'

  'You toad-buggering bastard!' said Drake. 'You sailed away and left me.'

  'Aye, boy,' said Jon Arabin releasing Drake's fist and meeting his gaze without trouble. 'We knew you'd be safe enough.'

  'Safe! Look at this!'

  Drake pulled up his tattered shirt with such force that the frayed and faded fabric tore, thus exposing his scar. Arabin chuckled.

  'Cut, were you? A fight over women, perhaps? Well, for the young, they're worth fighting for.'

  'Fight!' said Drake. 'It was no such thing! They tied me down for torture! Slashed me with a knife then put a snake to the wound. A great monster, all blood and gold. It ate its way to my innards.'

  'Aye, boy,' said Arabin, 'then they cut off your head, but you grew yourself another to be looking respectable.'

  And he dug his fingers in deep under Drake's floating rib. Drake winced as the hard man probed and palpated.

  'There's naught deep damage there,' said Arabin. 'Go any depth in there, and the man's dead. I'd say you got a wound, a fever with it, then some imaginings from the fever.'

  In fact, the snake which had eaten into Drake's flesh was still there, deeply encysted. Nourished by Drake's own blood supply, it was slowly changing. Even now, a mass of eggs was slowly ripening in its belly. Once they hatched, birthing millions of baby worms . . .

  Ah, but that lay in the future, and, for the moment, what Drake didn't know about didn't hurt him.

  But he was still angry.

  T hope I get a share of the profits,' he said.

  'Aye, boy, that you will, what's left after clearing debt. Aye, and we'll be paying to overhaul the ship as well. And does she need it!'

  'Well, does she?' said Drake.

  'By the oath she does,' said Arabin, momentarily appalled at his ignorance. 'Go see Jon Disaster, he's in charge of our clothing chest. Tell him I've said you're to have new kit entire - you look rough enough to scare a scarecrow.'

  'Thanks for the compliment,' said Drake bitterly. 'It wasn't my choice to live so far from a tailor's shop.'

  'Once you're kitted out,' continued Jon Arabin, unperturbed, 'come along and watch the trading done. It's good to get to know the ropes.'

  'Why so?' said Drake.

  'Why? Because we'll be back here two years from now.' 'Hrmph!' said Drake.

  He got Disaster to give him new kit - boots, linens and a set of sealskins. All the clothing was damp, and smelt rather of mould. But, thus dressed, he felt a new man.

  He went to watch the trading, and saw good pearls traded for a cargo Arabin had lately loaded at Narba -canoe timber, tarpaulins, canvas sails, fresh vegetables, rice, flour, hides, furs, bone-meal, fish-hooks, harpoons, cauldrons, glass beads, casks of salt pork, siege dust, bamboo, silk, cotton, awls, needles, calamanco, mandolins and ivory.

  With the trading done, a dozen girls and an equal number of satin-skinned young men lined up to kiss Drake on his lips, to force pearls upon him, to weep at his feet, to stroke his haunches and fondle his hands, while the crew of the Warwolf laughed, clapped, stamped and cheered.

  'So much for torture chambers!' said Jon Arabin, as the last suitor quit the ship reluctantly. 'It must have been the fever-dreams you were remembering.'

  And Drake, scratching his scar idly, was almost persuaded to agree.

  Though he was glad to be back on board, he could not help noticing how cramped and dirty the ship was, and how it stank. And it was crowded, yes, after the comparative privacy he had enjoyed in the caves of the Ling.

  He consoled himself with the thought that this was the last voyage of his life. Once they touched land, he would jump ship and buy a passage back to Stokos. Well - that would mean more sea, of course, but only briefly.

  On reaching his homeland, he would buy himself out of his apprenticeship, pay whatever theft-fines he owed with respect to Muck's mastersword, and then buy himself a place in the priesthood of the demon Hagon. His wealth was certainly equal to his ambition.

  Since it was midsummer, he was now seventeen years old plus a couple of months. In less than a year, King Tor would make a decision on his marriage prospects. Well. If he got Tor's daughter, he'd quit the temple and be prince (and, later, king). If he didn't get the daughter, he'd follow a career in the priesthood. But, either way, he'd have Zanya Kliedervaust as his pleasure-woman.

  His wealth would surely make certain of that.

  Drake worked on the finer details of his plans as he helped raise the anchor, labouring round in a circle, throwing his weight against one of the twelve bars of the capstan. Even with this enormous amount of leverage, all were a muck of sweat by the time the brutal weight had been broken free and hauled up high and dry.

  He was summoned below decks by the cook. As Drake helped hash up some unidentifiable gunk fried in whale oil, he imagined the beautiful meals which Zanya would cook when she was his pleasure-woman. His sweet daydreams blurred unfriendly verities; even the increasingly uneasy motion of the ship failed to trouble him.

  They had rough weather for the start of their trip north. Then, when they had just cleared Cape Songala, a storm claimed them.

  A ravaging wind blew from the west. After a two-day storm-fight, what little canvas they had dared carry was blown out entirely. Then the wind shifted to the north-west, threatening to drive them toward doom at Drangsturm.

  Jon Arabin decided to lie-to, praying the storm would blow itself out before wrecking them. So lie-to they did: but, slowly, remorselessly, they were driven toward grief where the flame trench met the Central Ocean.

  Finally, the fires of Drangsturm itself were seen glowering against the stormcloud sky. The wind's joy blew berserk. They must raise sail or die - but no canvas could stand the weather.

  'Man the fore-shrouds!' roared Jon Arabin.

  And so they did.

  When Drake was ordered aloft with the rest, he could scarce believe his ears - but soon enough he was up there, clinging in the rigging which braced the foremast. In his darkest imaginings, he'd never dreamed himself being turned into a storm-sail, but there he was, shuddering in the screaming wind while the ship lurched and his stomach lurched with it.

  Warm within his gut, unperturbed by the weather, the encysted snake fed quietly on his blood, nourished its slowly-growing eggs, and thus prepared certain profound changes for his future.

  For two
days more the Warwolf endured the storm, with her crew manning the fore-shrouds in shifts. Once she was driven within half a league of the coast, but a wind-change saved her. She sprung a leak: Arabin set men to pumping. Another started: he organized a bucket-brigade. The first mate fell down a companion-ladder and broke his neck; Arabin swore, and promoted the second.

  At last the inconstant wind shifted all the way round to the south, and eased a little. The Warwolf ran along with bare poles. Drake, by this time, was lurching on his feet, with hardly enough sense left to understand that he was still alive.

  Arabin, passing him on the deck, slapped him on the back.

  'We've done it, boy!' said Arabin. 'We've come through!'

  And Drake, despite the intensity of his fatigue, grinned. 'Aye,' he said. 'We're heroes.'

  Both Shewel Lokenshield and Ika Thole heard him say as much, but neither of those hard men mocked him. Rather: they shared his triumph.

  'How about some food for half-starved sailors?' said Ika Thole.

  And Drake, understanding that the question was prompted by dire need, gladly went to the galley.

  Towards noon on one rough-weather day (which day? How much storm had they endured? Blood and balls, there was no remembering) lessening winds allowed them to set a little sail. A brave sight the Warwolf made then, plunging through the mountainous grey seas with timbers groaning and strong men groaning in harmony.

  'We'll have it sweet from here to Narba,' said Jon Arabin to himself. 'We're in the clear.'

  Many sailors' superstitions held that such talk was tempting fate. Certainly, it was over-optimistic, for that evening their troubles were multiplied by a monster.

  It came flying from out of the south, labouring through the air on storm-damaged wings. Swept from the shores of Argan by the weather, too poor an aviator to fly against the wind, it had no choice but to brave on forward into the unknown. An island was what it needed, but the Warwolf, happening where she did, suited the brute's purposes nicely.

  It came on the ship from the stern. Then flew alongside. Drake Douay saw it out of the corner of his eye.

  'If that was on a chessboard,' he murmured, turning and getting a good look at it, 'I'd say it was a Neversh.'

  Since it wasn't on a chessboard, he dismissed it as a hallucination. Harly Burpskin saw the same thing, and thought it was a demon. Raggage Pouch also saw it - and mewled with piteous fear. He knew exactly what it was. It was indeed a Neversh. And Raggage Pouch, who had once seen a Neversh kill seventy armed men on Island Burntos, feared it more than anything out of nightmare.

  The Neversh flew in a great wide circle round the ship.

  'Jon!' screamed Quin Baltu.

  'What?' yelled Jon Arabin.

  'There's a—'

  The rest of Quin Baku's words were lost in the sundering roar of a wave breaking over the ship.

  'So there's a wave,' muttered Jon Arabin. 'So what?'

  But he was worried, all the same. For, heavily laden with an enormous mass of water, the Warwolf seemed almost to dig into the sea. For a few moments, Jon Arabin thought she was going to sunder under there and then.

  Water cascaded from the ship in torrents. Slowly, her bow began to rise.

  'Jon!' screamed Quin Baltu.

  'Don't worry!' yelled Jon Arabin, thinking this was no time for Quin Baltu to panic. 'She's riding nicely.' 'But there's a—'

  There was a crash fit to rival thunder. Jon Arabin looked round wildly. Saw that the foremast was shattered, was down, broken, smashed, had fallen across the fo'c'sle, had wrecked the fo'c'sle, and was now kicking, struggling, striving, trying to resurrect itself.

  Or was it?

  No. On closer examination . . .

  'Hell's blood and pigs' balls!' shouted Jon Arabin, in a voice that was one part fear and two parts fury. 'It's a Neversh, or I'm a tadpole.'

  Jon Arabin could never be mistaken for a tadpole (though he had in his time been compared unfavourably with a shark, a lamprey, a vulture and a cantaloup) and there was indeed a Neversh struggling in the wreckage of rigging and canvas on the forward part of his ship.

  'Jon—' shouted Quin Baltu.

  'I see it!' yelled Jon Arabin. 'Well, don't just stand there! Get rid of it!' Quin Baltu started forward, obedient to Jon Arabin's command. But the next wave took him overboard.

  'Merantosh!' said Jon Arabin, who was always prone to obscenity under stress. 'Na jaba na terikV

  He looked round for Disaster, or some other man who might be fool enough to tackle the beast. None such was in sight.

  'Right, then,' said Arabin. 'I'll handle it myself.'

  As these monsters go, the Neversh was fairly small. Scarcely a quarter grown, it was just fifty paces in length, from the tips of its twin feeding spikes to the end of its whiplash tail. Small, yes, yet dangerous. It thrashed strenuously, wings beating so wildly that it was impossible to count them all. Its body, rich with buoyant gas, was kicked around by the wind. Finding the mainmast with its tail, the Neversh coiled tail around mast, and hung on tightly.

  'Come on, men!' roared Jon Arabin. 'We're going to deal with that hell-bitch!'

  Nobody paid him any attention.

  The ruined foremast, which had till then been pointing forward, rolled with a crash from the wreckage of the fo'c'sle. It started dragging in the water. A snare of ropes prevented it from falling away entirely.

  'Men!' roared Jon Arabin. 'We act now or we lose the ship. Kill the monster! Cut away the mast! Come on! Come with me!'

  But the entire crew was in panic, some men trying to launch the boats, others climbing the sheets - as if that would save them! - or taking cover below-decks.

  'Grief!' said Jon Arabin.

  He called up the weapons muqaddam, who had been supervising the pumping.

  'Get some order in this ship,' said Arabin, 'even if you have to kill someone. I'm going forward to take care of our unwelcome visitor.'

  The weapons muqaddam looked round, saw the nature of the unwelcome visitor, and gave a short bow.

  'Mylord,' hesaid, 'I will remember your heroism to your wives and children.'

  Then grinned, darting out of reach as Arabin swung a kick at him. They were good friends from way back.

  On his way forward, Arabin came upon a party of pirates who were trying to launch a boat.

  'Avast there, you landlubbers!' bellowed Arabin. 'Any crow-gutted scavenger who wants to leave had better be ready to walk water!'

  With a few more well-chosen words and some adroit use of his left-hand boot (always his best kicking foot, the left) he scattered the men back to their work.

  Then hung on tight as a huge wave broke, sending water lathering over the ship. Amidst the lather was Quin Baltu. Jon Arabin grabbed him as he went floating past.

  'You all right?' said Arabin.

  Quin Baltu could only cough and gasp. He had been thrashed something terrible by the roistering ocean; he had swallowed enough salt to pickle a pig.

  'Volunteers!' roared Arabin. T need five volunteers to carry Quin Baltu to safety.'

  Five volunteers promptly came forward.

  Drake Douay was one of them and Jon Arabin grabbed him.

  'Friend Drake stays here,' said Arabin. 'It only needs four of you to carry Quin Baltu.'

  The lucky four hustled Quin Baltu away.

  'Now you come along with me,' said Arabin to Drake.

  As the sea captain had caught the cook's boy in a painful wrist-lock, there was not much argument about it.

  Weeping with fear and fatigue, Drake was forced along the deck toward the Neversh.

  11

  Neversh: flying monster with six wings; eight very short legs ending in clawed feet; massive head; thick neck; bulky bulbous body containing buoyant gas; very long whiplash tail which it often uses as a weapon; twin feeding spikes which appear to be made of solid ivory, but on Investigation prove to have a honeycomb structure; twin grapple-hooks to secure prey.

  The Neversh can grow at least two hundred
paces long and is alleged to be able to deflect crossbow bolts with its tail. (Nevertheless, archers have often shot down samples of this type of monster, as its gas-retaining sacs puncture easily.)

  The Neversh is one of the Swarms, those colony creatures which dominate the terror-lands of the Deep South, and are only prevented from invading the north of Argan by the gulf of Drangsturm - and the wizards guarding that flame trench.

  Weeping with fear and fatigue Drake was forced along the deck toward the Neversh. As Drake and Jon Arabin came level with the mainmast, Drake saw the monster had coiled its tail around the mast to stop itself getting swept away by the waves.

  'We can chop the tail!' cried Drake, who wanted to go no nearer the head than he had to.

  'That won't do,' said Jon Arabin.

  'Why not? Cut away the tail! The next wave will take it!'

  'Aye! Or it might turn round to fight its way aft. Then what?'

  'You tell me,' said Drake.

  'We lose the ship, that's what. Come on! Move yourself! No - wait!'

  Jon Arabin forced Drake to the mainmast.

  'We'll cut the tail?' said Drake.

  'No! I've told you that! The rope - cut it loose.'

  Drake drew his dirk and cut loose the coil of rope which was tied (by four-dozen turns of twine) to cleats anchored to the mainmast. As the rope came free, the coils of the tail of the Neversh shifted. Drake started, fell back. Jon Arabin caught him, took the rope and slung it over his shoulder.

  Then Arabin hustled Drake onwards until they were up by the monster's neck. A massive neck, thicker than a tree-trunk. It seemed a dull purple colour in the dark of the evening. It pulsed as the creature breathed.

  'Hack it!' shouted Drake, with the savagery of fear. 'Chop it and gut it!'

  'Aye, boy, and have it tear the ship apart as it died. They're powerful strong, these brutes. Take half a day to die if they're cut clean in half. Help me with the rope!'

  Arabin ducked under the monster's neck, mounted wreckage to gain some height, then slung the end of the rope to Drake.

  'Make it fast!' said Arabin. 'A loop round the monster's neck! A hangman's knot, if you know the shaping!'