The Walrus and the Warwolf

by Hugh Cook

  'Magic?' said the sceptic. 'It was a place of wizards, then? Or was it?'

  Wiser heads suppressed him before Drake could be bothered to find an answer, and the flow of ale continued unabated.

  With so many eager co-religionists to help him worship, Drake was fairly deep in the clutches of faith by the time the bar was enlivened by the arrival of Jon Disaster, Goth Sox, Hewlet Mapleskin, Lee Dix, Shewel Lokenshield and others.

  'Good to see you boys,' slurred Drake. 'Have a beer -I'm buying!'

  Well, one thing led to another, till finally - and not for the first time - Drake's religious fervour got the better of him. He woke up the next day with a large-sized gap in his memory, and found himself at sea again. He had no money, no pearls, and no magic amulets - but for the one worn secretly against his skin for luck. He had also lost his boots.

  What was worse, his penis hurt so badly he feared he had picked up a heavy dose of clap. But, on inspection, he found he had been tattoed with a snake design while stone cold unconscious.

  'All right,' he demanded, 'which of you jerk-offs did that?'

  'Who are you calling a jerk-off?' rumbled Shewel Lokenshield.

  'Not you, you prickless wonder,' said Drake promptly, thus precipitating a fo'c'sle fight, which he lost.

  The next day, his vital organ began to swell with blood poisoning. Consequently, he was a little down in the mouth. The other pirates, though, were in high spirits, for they were returning home wealthy. Jon Arabin organized deckside games of knuckleskull, First Off and Quivliv Quoo, which Drake, sore and sulking, watched from the sidelines.

  However, by the time they raised the Greater Teeth his condition was improving, and he no longer lived in fear of imminent amputation. All he had to worry about was surviving until he could make a break for freedom.

  But would he ever get another chance? He had blown his best opportunity, back at Narba. And even if he struggled back to Stokos, how would he cope with Gouda Muck? The old man must be lunatic to be sending armed assassins to revenge the theft of the mastersword with murder.

  'The bugger's insane,' said Drake to Drake. 'But old, yes. Can't last much longer. Ten years, at most. Yes -that'll finish him.'

  It was easy to say, but - ten years! That was more than half Drake's lifetime.

  'I can't possibly wait that long,' said Drake. 'Anyway, attack's the best defence. Aye, that's for certain. First chance I get, I'll be back to Stokos to kill off old man Muck. King Tor won't hold that against me, I'm sure. In fact, once he understands what's going on, he'll probably help me. Aye. Likely pay good gold to see Muck wasted.'

  Or so Drake hoped.

  * * *

  The Warwolf, returning rich, avoided Gufling, and made instead for Knock. It was at that time early autumn. The year Khmar 18 was still young, and Drake was only 17 years old. (Though, if challenged, he would have claimed to have been 18, on the grounds that a couple of months would take him through to age 17'/2, and the missing half-year was not worth worrying about.)

  It was a while since Jon Arabin had dared the approaches to Knock, and he disgraced himself by getting the Warwolf stuck as they were approaching the Skerry Passage at low tide. His own men thought it was hilarious. So did the crew of a sealing boat which slipped past a little later, returning from a hunting expedition laden with bloody booty.

  'The Walrus will laugh himself sick to hear of this!' cried one of the sealers, from the deck.

  'He lives, then?' called Arabin.

  'Aye! Lives, farts, shits, shags - and swears you left him on the Gaunt Reefs to drown.'

  'That's a lie!' shouted Arabin. 'He had his choices!'

  'That's as may be - but all his crew swears with him. They say the only thing you took from the rocks was a sweet-faced playtime boy.'

  This news did not improve Jon Arabin's temper. Nor Drake's.

  'Does Andranovory live?' he yelled.

  'Who?' shouted one of the sealers.

  'Atsimo Andranovory. A great big dirty brute with a great big beard which stinks like a bilge broom. A black beard, with black hair to go with it. Aye, and a great big chest.'

  'For sure he lives,' called one of the sealers. 'Why? Are you lovesick for him?'

  'Aagh, jalk up, you ganch,' yelled Drake.

  Thus starting an exchange of obscene insults which continued - pirates could sometimes show remarkable

  stamina - until the sealing boat was out of earshot.

  * * *

  Thinking of Atsimo Andranovory, Drake experienced a little frisson of something which was most certainly not pleasure. He remembered that ugly inviting him to suck, then stringing him up on refusal. He remembered . . . swinging from a rope, yes, tied to a spar by his ankles . . . an agony which seemed to go on forever . . . Whale Mike singing a lullaby . . . the cold on the rocks . . .

  He would never forget. Although even now the details were hazy. So much had happened since!

  'What's your interest in Andranovory?' asked Jon Disaster, as they waited for the incoming tide to float the Warwolf off the rocks she had grounded on.

  'I told him the truth about his ugliness,' said Drake. 'Tell me - what's between our captain and this Walrus?'

  'Man,' said Disaster, 'That Walrus isn't properly human. Slagger Mulps, they call him - that's his proper name. He's weird, like. Thin as an eel, with gangling arms with two thumbs on each hand. Green hair, green—'

  T know all that,' said Drake, impatiently. 'I've been up against him before. But what's his quarrel with Jon Arabin?'

  'Why, man, friend Walrus has been the Warwolf's favourite enemy, ever since the day he seduced one of Arabin's wives. Aye. Got over-excited. Bit off her left-hand nipple. From whence Arabin loathes him.'

  'Are we at war then?' said Drake.

  'There's no war between pirates, lad. Not on the Greater Teeth. Not in theory, anyway.'

  'Why call me lad?' said Drake, feeling he deserved better than that (and feeling, too, that there might be war on the Warwolf in a moment, unless he got an apology).

  Jon Disaster laughed.

  'Man, you want to be more than a lad? Then use your time well. Here at the Teeth, you can learn boats proper. Take every chance to go boat for the fish and the seals.'

  'I've no need of more boat learning,' said Drake. 'Why, I sailed round Island Tor entire!'

  Jon Disaster had the gall to chuckle.

  'Not quite,' said he. 'The judgment of sailing is whether you finish with the same boat you start with. And there, I think, you can hardly claim success.'

  The rising tide took them clear of the rocks with no damage worth speaking of, and, later in the day, they docked in the Inner Sleeve, a rock-locked harbour on Knock.

  Drake, remembering the narrow slot they had squeezed into at Gufling, expected another equally claustrophobic prison-hole. But the Inner Sleeve proved to be a regular little harbour. Admittedly, it was sunless-gloomy, sunk between ramparts of rock. Nevertheless, with care and effort a dozen ships could have berthed there, and in fact nine were in port when the Warwolf tied up.

  One of the nine was the Walrus.

  This had not always been a pirate ship. Indeed, some months earlier it had been an honest slaver, and, bearing the name Gol-sa-danjerk, had sailed from Androlmarphos with a cargo of felons - one of whom had been Drake Douay.

  The green-bearded Slagger Mulps had captured the Gol-sa-danjerk, and had put a prize crew on board. Thus, after he had been rescued from the Gaunt Reefs, he had still had a ship to his name. And there, on the deck of it, he stood, arms folded.

  Also on deck was Atsimo Andranovory in all his glory -grinning as he recognized Drake. He had a good head for faces.

  'Hello darling!' he called. 'Like to give me a suck?' 'I'll see you suck on this first!' shouted Drake, drawing his dirk.

  'Once you've taken it up the arse I'll love to,' retorted Andranovory.

  And of course their dialogue did not end there, for, being who they were and where they were, they vented their spleen with
all the eloquence available to them, which was considerable in both cases. And the crews of both ships jeered or cheered each sally, depending on their allegiance.

  And while this was going on, a couple of workaholics who had no appreciation of theatre were busy tying up the Warwolf and lowering the gangplank.

  And then the men of the Warwolf came swaggering off the ship like the heroes they were. For had they not faced storms, aye, and hurricanes, and tornadoes too? And had they not fought monsters, yes, doing battle with half a dozen Neversh for the possession of their ship? And had they not drunk five pubs in Narba stone-bone dry, a feat which fifty eminent philosophers and a panel of high-class theologians and over-paid jurists had declared to be nine-tenths impossible? And had they not been to Ling, and deflowered five thousand of the virgins of the place, yes, and pleasured the mothers of those girls as well?

  But the heroes of the Warwolf failed to meet with the universal applause they deserved, for the crew of the Walrus (idle slobs, scabs and fish-fornicators that they were) jeered at them because they had been engaging in honest trade, of all things, which was surely anathema, even if it was for pearls, aye, and dangerous, and highly profitable into the bargain.

  'What's lower than a merchant-trader?' cried a crewman from the Walrus.

  'A coward!' came the reply.

  And the fight was on.

  In the fracas, Drake went chest to chest with Bucks Cat and sustained three broken ribs, a mild concussion, a black eye and a seven-stitch gash to his left forearm. But he thought it worth it, for he was now well and truly one of the crew.

  And, indeed, Drake got a crewman's share of the voyage profits, which Arabin had withheld till then so his men would not booze away the money in Narba. By now, Drake knew that the strange coinage of the Greater Teeth was actually the common currency of Narba, the only port which would trade with them. He also learned that the more sober-minded pirates banked there, and the lucky few who survived to the age of arthritis retired there to drink away their dotage in comparative comfort.

  The Warwolf would not put to sea again for some time, not least because Jon Arabin would be busy with his harem, which he was having shipped from Gufling. Jon Arabin was ascetic yet devout, and his own religion - the Creed of Anthus - enjoined each man 'to plant a tree for each you cut down, and father a man for each you kill'.

  Jon Arabin, having done a lot of killing in his time, was always kept busy when he was at home. Unfortunately, his frantic exertions tended to lower his sperm count below the level at which impregnation was likely. Fortunately for the ease of his conscience, other men helped him out behind his back, and he was now three killings in credit.

  Just because they were not at sea did not mean there was no work to do. Jon Arabin was true to his vow to have the Warwolf overhauled. So there was sanding, sawing, hammering and whitewashing, and there was a drydock to be pumped out, and then there was singeing and scraping to clean the hull. The garden of weed Drake had first noticed at Ling was torn from the hull in wet reeking clumps, or burnt off along with goose neck barnacles and other rubbish.

  And then, since Jon Arabin had decided to experiment with mailletage (that is, covering the timber with nails) there was a blistering amount of hammering to be done.

  Crewmen from the Walrus dropped by on a jegular basis to jeer at the sailors doing this slave work. Jon Arabin had gone into debt after he lost his ship on the shores of Lorp, and was taken prisoner by the most vicious people to be found in all of Argan. He had spent three miserable seasons eating sheep's guts and pigs' eyes before the laborious efforts of some trusted retainers had delivered his ransom. He was now finally out of hock, but still could not afford to buy new ship-working slaves.

  Finally, after a crewman from the Walrus was found floating face-down in the Inner Sleeve with fifty-seven nails hammered into his head, the teasing stopped.

  While all this work was going on, the encysted snake buried deep within Drake's gut quietly allowed its flesh to dissolve. A mob of eggs hatched in the wreckage of its body, and myriad worms began to infiltrate Drake's bloodstream. They embedded themselves in the walls of his duodenum, set up residence in the portal vein, squatted in his liver and crept up to his brain; they housed themselves in his stomach; they invaded his lymphatic system and burrowed into his bones. And multiplied.

  Drake became feverish.

  For five days he endured high temperatures, rigors and blistering thirst. Arabin's own women took care of him. They soothed him, sang to him, sponged his forehead and fed him crab soup, fish roe, sea slugs, pulped sea anemones and other invalid food.

  And then the fever broke.

  And Drake felt fine.

  He felt better than he had ever felt before in his life - and this was scarcely surprising. For the snake which had eaten its way into his flesh in Ling dated its ancestry back through the millenia to a tailored organism especially designed to complement the other defences of the Plague Sanctuary. The worms which had metastasized throughout his body were fulfilling the designs of an ancient science, normalizing his body functions, enhancing the action of his immune system, detoxifying poisons and killing off disease organisms.

  The worms were rapidly finishing off an obscure low-grade viral infection distantly related to glandular fever, the start of a tubercular infection, two exotic venereal diseases which had not yet had time to debilitate their victim, a troublesome amoeba which had recently begun to cause him some intermittent diarrhoea, and a couple of wild and wonderful infections (native to the Greater Teeth) unknown to any standard classification.

  So, while Drake had always been comparatively healthy, he now felt really good. So good, in fact, that he had to celebrate his recovery with a drink or three.

  He did so - but even after his fifth mug, he felt scarcely more than a tingle.

  'What're you selling me?' he demanded. 'Water?'

  'You young pups,' said his barman, shaking his head. 'You don't know your limits. But I'll help you find yours.'

  And he mixed Drake a Skull Splitter, a popular cocktail consisting of equal measures of vinegar, methylated spirit, absinthe, vodka and apricot wine.

  'Drink this!' said the barman.

  'Ah!' said Drake, as the poison went burning down his throat. 'That tastes better.'

  A warm glow filled his stomach. He waited for a sense of langorous well-being to cosy his soul, for the harsh outlines of the world to soften and the burden of gravity to be at least partially nullified. But nothing so pleasant happened.

  Instead, after a few moments, the warm glow was gone, and he was back where he started.

  'Look, man,' said Drake, 'I don't know what fancy kind of coloured water that was, but I'm buggered if I'm paying for it.'

  'It's strong enough for most folks,' said the barman, aggrieved. 'Why, three of those and Slagger Mulps was legless.'

  'Sure, but I'm not a wimp like the Walrus. I'm a drinking man, the real article. So pour me something stronger. If you know how!'

  'Aye,' said the barman, sensing a challenge here to his professional reputation. T can pour stronger, if that's what you want. But I won't be responsible for the consequences, mind.'

  'I'm ready,' said Drake, fiercely. 'Hold back on nothing!'

  Upon which the barman opened his bottom locker and pulled out strange vials, tubes, tubs, boxes, casks, jars and bottles, and mixed the most brain-blowing cocktail imaginable. Hemlock went into it, and paint, and tar, lamp-black, weedkiller and plutonium, the ink of a cuttlefish and the gall of a basilisk, a smidgin of belladonna and the blood of a (reputed) virgin, some powdered cannabis leaf and half a gram of heroin, some white of egg and some fermented fish, ground glass, tobacco ash, chopped-up leopard's whiskers, fine-ground horn of unicorn and two tomatoes, some mandrake, ginseng, tannin and quinine, chopped shark's liver seven days old, some high-grade lacquer and sulphuric acid, with lashings of honey to make the whole brew palatable.

  In honour of the occasion, the barman unearthed a very old and anci
ent tankard made of glass - the only one of its kind on all the Greater Teeth. He poured the cocktail into it, slowly. The thick black liquid sat there, bubbling softly. The barman sprinkled some cinnamon on top and ceremoniously set the offering down in front of Drake.

  'Get this dog-defecating fornicator inside you,' said the barman, with unwonted enthusiasm. 'That'll put hairs on your chest!'

  Drake picked up the tankard with both hands, looked at it steadily, then sipped it with unaccustomed caution. Then:

  'What the hell,' he said.

  And drank the rest down as a thirsty man would drink weak ale.

  The barman watched expectantly, waiting for him to drop dead, or melt, or explode. Instead, Drake swayed a little. All colour left his face. He coughed once or twice, rather harshly, then spat out a little blood. Then, fairly rapidly, the colour returned to his face, his stance steadied, and he wiped his mouth and said regretfully:

  'Well, it's a good drop, to be sure. Almost as good as a blow on the head. But the effect wears off powerful fast. Make me another one.'

  But the barman shook his head.

  'Boy,' he said, 'if that won't kill you, nothing will. One shot of that, and you should stay drunk till your grandchildren celebrate seventy. It ain't natural to drink that down and still stay speaking, far less standing. Boy, take it from me, and I'm an expert. Someone's worked the Black Arts on you, young man. They've taken away the gift of liquor - and all of liquor's friends.'

  This was the opinion of a true professional, a specialist in chemical debauchery. As the words sank in, Drake shuddered. Someone had cursed him! Someone had doomed him to a life of perpetual sobriety!

  He found it hard to think of a worse fate, but, after some reflection, imagined one - and hurried off to find a pirate whore to make sure it wasn't so.