by Hugh Cook
'Aye!' screamed Drake, catching the rope-end.
One moment he was standing there fumbling with the rope. The next he was slammed against the monster as a wave crashed down on the ship. The burdening waters smothered him this way and that. He lost his grip on the rope, was sucked away by the wave - then held. By the Neversh.
He had been swept right up by its head. A murderous jointed claw - its nearside grapple-hook - had spiked his boot precisely where sole met upper.
'Jon!' screamed Drake.
'Hold tight, boy!' yelled Arabin. 'I'm—'
Another wave drowned his words and the world. Flailing in the flurry, Drake grabbed something, a bar or pipe of sorts. The water was too heavy for thought.
Then the wave subsided, and Drake saw he was clinging to one of the monster's twin feeding spikes. Its nearside grapple-hook still held him. Its offside claw came for him. He kicked out. But it slashed into his sealskin jacket and held fast in the fabric.
Drake let go of the feeding spike. The grapple-hooks took his weight effortlessly. He dropped both hands to the offside grapple-hook. It was polished, it was cold, it was thicker than a banana. He tried to bend it or break it.
Impossible!
'O-o-o-oh!' moaned Drake.
Then the monster started straightening out both grapple-hooks, pushing him away. And Drake thought: It doesn't want me!
Then realized the thing had no mouth. It fed with the spikes. It wanted to push him away so it could jam those spikes into his body and suck. He jerked out his dirk. He slammed the blade into one of the feeding spikes.
'Die!' he screamed.
His steel drove deep - then proved impossible to withdraw. His only weapon was useless, jammed in the feeding spike. He must cling to it: his strength against that of the grapple-hooks. He grabbed the hilt with both hands. Another wave smothered over. As foam shuddered away, Drake gasped for breath. The grapple-hooks convulsed, breaking his hold on the dirk.
'Jon!' he screamed.
In answer, Jon Arabin dropped to the deck. Too late! The grapple-hooks shoved, one last time - and Drake was rammed hard up against the wreckage of the fo'c'sle.
The Neversh lowered its head, trying to get its feeding spikes into goring position. Drake tried to push them up and away. He might as well have tried to hold up the world. The grapple-hooks pushed up and out. The
Neversh was almost in a position to spike and feed.
Drake half-saw Jon Arabin draw his falchion and raise it high. The falchion, yes. A great ugly bit of metal, with the mass of it concentrated in the thickness far forward, at the optimum striking point.
Down it came, striking at the grapple-hook which had spiked Drake's jacket. The falchion descended on the grapple-hook's middle joint. It went through clean like an axe through a cucumber.
Drake was still held by his boot.
The Neversh reared up.
As the monster reared, Drake was jerked away from the wreckage. The sole of his boot tore free from the uppers. He was thrown clear. He landed on his back, hitting the deck heavily. The monster clawed for Arabin with the hook which had just lost Drake.
'Scam!' screamed Arabin.
And chopped the hook away.
The monster swung sideways, meaning to kill Arabin with its twin feeding spikes. But those spikes slammed into sprawling wreckage, cutting the gesture short. Arabin, still in a fighting rage, hacked a great chunk out of one of them - then stopped, suddenly realizing that if he cut the spikes away, the creature would be free to pulp him with its head.
He chopped for its nearest eye instead. His falchion bounced off the armoured bubble protecting that eye. Useless. Well, then - the rope!
'The rope now, boy!' shouted Arabin, wiping his falchion against his sleeve, out of habit (it usually had blood on it after combat) then sheathing it. 'Don't just lie there - or we're dead! Up off your arse! Help tie this rope around!'
Drake swore, mustered himself to his feet, was almost skittled by another (small) wave, then floundered forward to help get the rope knotted round the neck of the Neversh. Soon Jon Arabin was beside him, checking the hangman's knot he had fashioned.
'Good rope, this is,' muttered Arabin. Then raised his voice against the weather and repeated himself so Drake could hear. 'Valence cordage. Have you heard of it?'
'Aye,' said Drake. 'We use it for cliff-work on Stokos.'
'Where you learnt yourself climbing.'
'Aye,' said Drake, a little doubtfully, though he had boasted broadly of his skills in the past, and it was too late to gainsay them now.
'Then I'll belay you, boy, and this is what you'll do. . .'
And Arabin explained.
'Mother of dogs and poxes!' exclaimed Drake, in horror.
'It's the only way, boy,' said Arabin grimly. 'Do it yourself then!' said Drake. T would if I could, boy, but I'm no shakes at climbing. Come, let's get forward.' T won't do it!'
'Aye, then I'll gut you here,' said Arabin, and drew his falchion for further work.
'A death by steel is as good as any,' said Drake, his voice sullen with fear and hate.
He was calling Arabin's bluff.
They looked each other hard in the eye. Man and boy they stood there on the heaving deck, the shadows of evening darkening all around them.
'You're dead meat,' said Arabin, with death in his voice.
'Aye, and so are we all in the end,' said Drake, more confident than ever that he would not be forced forward, and that Arabin would find another way to deal with the monster.
At that moment, the thing's tiny little disorganized brain finally cottoned onto the fact that it could get a clean run at its antagonists by backing off toward the stern, pulling its feeding spikes clear of the wreckage which kept its head from striking at will.
Its eight crocodile-sprawling feet scrabbled splinters from the deck as it went into reverse, dragging the Valence cordage with it. Arabin, who had the coil slung over his shoulders, had no chance to pay out any slack. Dragged off his feet, he hit the deck heavily.
The Neversh lowered its feeding spikes and charged like a bull. Arabin lay helpless. Drake ripped off his sealskin jacket and flung it to the wind. The Neversh saw something flying in the air, reared up as if to spike it - then crashed back to the deck.
Drake helped Arabin scramble to his feet. Retreating together, they paid out plenty of slack. By the time the Neversh had stopped puzzling over the flying jacket, the two humans had gained the fo'c'scle wreckage.
'Well done,' said Arabin.
But Drake took no joy in the compliment. His legs gave way. He clutched the strongest bit of timber he could find, and wept. He was too tired, too cold, too dizzy. He was finished.
Arabin drew his falchion, as if to renew his threat - then a wave burst over them, knocking away the falchion and smothering them under a mountain of water. Drake, snatched from his timber, grabbed at guess - and hooked an arm round Arabin's neck. Arabin clung to the rope, the far end of which was knotted round the neck of the Neversh.
The wave eased away at last to nothing, leaving the two of them sodden, dripping, shuddering. Arabin gripped Drake by the arm. Hard. His fingers dug deep into Drake's biceps.
'It's my plan or nothing, now,' said the Warwolf, his voice urgent.
Drake, released, collapsed to the deck. Helpless as a jellyfish. Arabin grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, hauled him to his feet, then laid a firm hand on his shoulder.
'Courage, boy!' said Arabin. 'Courage!'
Drake stared at his captain. The sky of the man's eyes was entirely lost in the gloom. Drops of sea-spray clung to his bald head, which looked, in the gathering night, like an egg going black with rot. Beyond was the monster, wings still whirring, feet scraping and clawing as it made ineffectual stabs at the fo'c'sle wreckage. Beyond that, the rest of the ship. He half-heard the weapons muqaddam shouting orders.
All about was the wilderness of the sea, an upthrash of confused grey, smeared cloud and horizon-menacing gloom. If they were to act, it
would have to be now, for soon the night would make it impossible.
'Show me the place,' said Drake.
'This way, then,' said Arabin.
They went further forward, paying out more rope as they went, then the Warwolf took his footing in the wreckage of the fo'c'sle and made ready to belay.
'I've lost my knife,' said Drake, thinking he might need one.
'Then take this,' said Arabin, drawing a fresh blade from the massive leather belt which sustained his falchion's sheath, his waterproof sea-pouch, a luck-stone, and a couple of dirks like the one he offered Drake. 'And keep it well, until the day you leave it in the heart of the Walrus.'
And Drake, sensing this was a project dear to Jon Arabin's heart, mustered a grin and cried: 'I live for that day!'
'Aye!' shouted Arabin, with a sudden onset of something like joy, his heart made glad to see Drake showing spirit. 'So do we all!'
Then Drake braced himself on the edge of the ship, tested the rope, and made ready to do on the heaving hull what he had done often enough before on his father's coal cliffs.
Over the side he went, rappelling down, warding himself off from the hull with his feet, fearing at any moment to be dashed against that wooden cliff and shattered entirely.
A big sea came shuthering up around him. Lost in the wave-sway, he clung to the rope as best he could. And broke free of the waters. Gasped for air. And was gasping still as a greater sea-thrash smashed him loose from the rope.
In the sea's despairs he tumbled. Then something brutal crunched him. He grabbed it. And, as the waters lumbered away, found himself clinging to the shank of the anchor. He swung his legs over its arms, and, as the seas roistered around him, clung to the ugly mass of barnacle-crusted iron.
Something like a snake whipped round his neck as he clung amidst cataracts. As the waters baffled away, he fought with the strangling thing.
'Demon's grief!' he said, getting it free at last.
And found what he held was no snake but the end of the rope. Swiftly, he hauled in as much slack as he could, and took a couple of turns around the anchor before the next sea. Then, between one assault of the sea and the next, he knotted the Valence cordage as best he could, hoping the rope lived up to its reputation. His hands ran dark with his blood, for he was gashing himself on barnacles in his haste.
'Done!' said Drake.
And a sea came up and almost did for him.
As the waters dipped away, he risked the hard part - and started to climb the rope. It had just a little slack in it. But, as he climbed, the Neversh on the deck above jerked its head, pulling the rope taut. Drake was almost tossed off. But he was strong, yes, and desperate, and clung on with a grimness death itself would have envied.
He gained a little more height, then felt a strong hand grab him. It was Jon Arabin, who hauled him up to the deck. Drake fell into his master's arms, and was held in the refuge until his shuddering eased.
'Now, boy,' said Arabin. 'Do you know how to release the anchor?'
'No,' said Drake, honestly.
'Then I'll manage that myself,' said Arabin. 'Stay here.'
Then Arabin sought out the trapdoor he knew to be in amongst the wreckage of the fo'c'sle, and crawled down through that narrow way into the utter dark below, where the hugeness of the anchor cable coiled in the rat-haunted gloom. He found'the safety chain, unwound it from the grab cleats, jerked it clear - and heard the rope begin to whip away as the anchor fell sheer to the seas of night.
The anchor hit the sea, dragging the Valence cordage down with it. The cord tightened round the neck of the Neversh, jerking the monster sideways. Screaming, it fought against the weight. For a few moments it held its ground. But the pain was intolerable. At last, it let go of the mainmast with its whiplash tail, and, wings beating, clawed feet skidding across the deck, was dragged to the side and pulled over.
The Neversh smashed into the water and disappeared from sight.
'Drake!' yelled Arabin.
But the word was savaged by surf and by water-slop, tangled by ropes and baffled by echoes. What Drake heard was only an incomprehensible cry of human anguish. He was sure something terrible was happening to Arabin below decks. For more than a moment, he was tempted to ignore the cry. Then it was repeated.
'Courage, man,' said Drake to Drake.
And crept through the dark wet scrabble-wood wreckage of the fo'c'sle, until he heard Arabin call out yet again - and recognized the shout as his own name.
'What is it?' yelled Drake. 'Rats?'
'Rats?' roared Arabin. 'What are you blathering about? Is the monster over?'
'Aye,' said Drake. 'Over, and sunk from sight!'
'Good, then,' said Arabin.
And grabbed in the dark for the anchor axe which was always kept handy in case the ship had to quit a mooring in a hurry, cut away its restraining cords with one of his dirks, then hacked and chopped until he had cut clean through the cable, setting the anchor free to fall away to the cold dark hell of the seabed, dragging the Neversh with it.
Shortly, Arabin was on deck again, with Drake. As they picked their way back to their comrades, he said to Drake, as quietly as the weather would permit:
'Few enough have seen that and lived. Fewer still have helped tackle it. You did well.'
And that accolade, Drake knew, was to be valued more than the honours of many a kingdom.
'Now get yourself down to the kitchen, boy,' said Arabin. 'We've a hard night coming on, and the men will be wanting their soup.'
And Drake went, thinking his captain a hard man.
'Where have you been?' demanded the cook, when he got below.
'Helping Jon Arabin.'
'With what?'
'Oh,' said Drake. 'With—'
Then paused, finding he had no wish to avaunt about his feat. For he had faced the worst kind of arse-opening terror, and to tell the tale would be to relive it, at least in part.
'With ropes and cordage and stuff,' he said, by way of explanation.
And then pitched into the work the cook gave him, and was soon too busy to think. And, while he did not appreciate the wisdom of the captain who kept him so busy, he got the benefit of it regardless.
And through all these alarums, the snake in Drake's belly slept soundly, planning its changes for his future.
12
Drangsturm Gulf: a U-shaped indentation - roughly a hundred leagues wide and two hundred deep - in the coast of Argan.
North, the Gulf opens to the Central Ocean.
East is Narba, Provincial Endergeneer, the settled lands of the Far South, the Castle of Controlling Power and Drangsturm.
South is a desolate terror-coast on which lies Ling Bay.
West is unknown territory which legend holds to be haunted with monsters of the Swarms, and - in addition - trolls, basilisks, gryphons, dragons, crocodiles and two-headed giants.
Need it be said?
Drake's resolution not to boast about his part in killing the Neversh held good for precisely two days. After that, he was hot for fame, glory and recognition. But nobody paid him much attention, with the exception of Harly Burpskin.
'It's a nice story,' said Burpskin, having heard Drake's tale, 'but a mite improbable, to say the least.'
'Man, the Neversh was there,' said Drake. 'You saw it yourself.'
'Aye, and waves washing over the deck. Likely the brute was carried off by such.'
'Wait till we come to harbour,' said Drake. 'Then you'll see my story proved. For you'll find the anchor's missing.'
'What signifies a missing anchor?' said Burpskin.
'Expense, that's all. It's no new thing to lose an anchor. Aye, and a replacement will have to come from the voyage profits, before we get our share.' So much for fame and glory!
Since even Burpskin refused to believe him, Drake abandoned efforts to persuade anyone else. At least for the moment. His just recognition could wait till they reached land.
If they reached land.
The Warwolf was leaking badly, shipping water almost faster than it could be pumped out. The wind, which had shifted to the east, was still almost storm-force. Under a sky of dark and ragged fractonimbus, the Warwolf toiled through the buffeting waters. The rolling seas crashed into surf, strewing foam across the ocean.
Jon Arabin, eyes red-rimmed, searched the blurred horizons for sight of land. His ears ached from the constant wind and cold - a cold he'd never known before in these waters. His right hip was aching, as it always did when he was cold and tired.
Worse, he was lost.
He judged they were still in the Drangsturm Gulf - but where? As his ship groaned and shuddered, struck by another smash-fist sea-shock, he winced, as if it was his own body which was being pounded. Blood of a shark! What had he done to deserve such weather?
He reviewed his options. He could put out sea-anchors and do his best to go nowhere. In that case, the Warwolf would sink. He could try the long, laborious business of tacking against the easterly wind, trying to make for Narba. If he did that, his ship would sink all the quicker.
Alternatively, he could let the wind drive them to the western side of the Gulf of Drangsturm. During his many voyages in these waters - aagh, and how he longed for the fair weather of those long-ago cruises! - he had seen its mountains often enough on the far horizon. He had never been there. He had heard tales, of course . . .
But what choice did he have?
'The ship must live,' said Arabin.
And, reluctantly, ordered the Warwolf to run for the west. Night came. By morning, the wind had eased to scarcely more than a moderate gale; foam from breaking waves was still lathered across the sea by the wind, but it was possible to talk without shouting. The very sounds of the ship were easier; her timbers were hurting still, but were no longer in agony.
'Good,' said Arabin.
And ordered the lookouts, to keep a sharp watch for land. Though, to be honest, he still had no idea how far they were from shore.
Shortly after he had instructed the lookouts, he was met by a delegation led by Quin Baltu. With Baltu were Jez Glane, Salaman Meerkat and. Peg Suzilman. Arabin saw at a glance they were tired, angry, hostile, determined. All were armed.
