by Hugh Cook
'Yet you survived?'
'Nay, I died, but was resurrected by some South-searchers after the manner of those parts. Thanks to them, I got back with treasure as well as sunburn - good stuff, gold, silver, diamonds big as a fist. And talking amulets like this one, five hundred of them. But I lost all at Narba, was set on by a knuckle-gang, yes. I killed twenty, but that was precious little use to me in the end. They got all but this single amulet, which holds the key to some awesome magic if we could but get the understanding of it.'
'You must have had powerful assistance from somewhere or something,' said Yot, seriously. 'Maybe . . . maybe it was the Demon who was with you, you being his son and all.'
'Ah, man, I'm not so sure about the Demon these days,' said Drake. 'Not since Carawell, no.'
'Why, what happened at Carawell?'
'You were there, remember? At the castle, Brazlehoist wasn't it? Or was it Borabiz?'
'No, the castle was Biltungsgraft,' said Yot. 'If it's the same place we're talking about. I mean the old place in the sands where the locals held Warwolf captive, thinking him ambassador from Hexagon.'
'Aye, that's the place,' said Drake.
In point of fact, the castle had been called Bildungs-grift, and the locals had not thought Jon Arabin to be an ambassador from Hexagon - they had thought him Baron Farouk in person.
'That's where I got burnt by lightning,' said Yot.
'Aye
'There's something to tell about that, is there?' 'There is indeed,' said Drake.
As they walked along, Drake told of calling on the Flame ('—meaning no harm by it, mind—') and of a Flame, a pillar of fire, manifesting itself, knocking Yot unconscious when he tried embracing it, and causing the locals such fear that they shortly fled.
'So it is real, after all!' said Yot, his faith restored. 'Why did you never talk of this before?'
'I tried once, man, but you weren't in the mood or something;'
'Will you . . . will you convert to the Flame, then?'
'Well,' said Drake, grudgingly, 'I've tried the Demon serious-hard, and he's failed me. I never thought much of Gouda Muck, I'll tell you that honest. But this Flame business . . . there's no disputing what I've seen. There's just one thing. I'm no Demon's son. I'll tell you that for true. The Demon wouldn't let his own son go without the pleasures of drink, would he now?'
'But you drink!' said Yot. 'You're famous for it! And, man, you've got a reputation for a hard head - but I've seen you drunk myself.'
'Ah,' said Drake. 'Therein lies a tale.'
And he told Yot all his woes and tribulations concerning alcohol.
T might as well be drinking pig's blood or seaweed soup,' concluded Drake. 'It does no good for me.'
'You're right,' said Yot. 'You can't be the Demon's son. I'llgrantyouthat - if you now grant the truth of the Flame.'
'Aye,' said Drake. 'That I do.'
And with that believed himself a true worshipper. But he was not. For he had already denied two of the basic tenets of Goudanism:
that Gouda Muck is, always has been and always will be infallible in His pronouncements on all things, since He is one and the same as the Flame, which is the High God of All Gods; and
that Dreldragon Drakedon Douay is the son of the Demon, incarnated in man-flesh that he may act as an Agent of Ultimate Evil.
The pair shortly denied a third basic tenet, concerning the vital necessity of proselytizing all possible converts at every opportunity - for Drake convinced Yot that such action would only persuade the short-tempered half-starved pirates to kill them and eat them.
'I've talked to them before of the Flame,' said Yot.
'Aye,' said Drake. 'In better times. Doubtless then they forgot each word as you said it. This time we'd not be so lucky. They'd eat us.'
'Well/ said Yot, doubtfully, 'I suppose doctrine must bend to circumstance!'
'Indeed it must,' said Drake.
Thus the pair discovered the true philosophical basis of conventional religion.
'Gouda Muck has a new convert,' said Drake. 'That should make him happy, when he hears about it.'
But Drake was not a true convert to the fanatical faith of Goudanism, and Yot was no longer a true follower.
They were both heretics.
Did Drake's lust for Zanya Kliedervaust have something to do with his new-found faith in the Flame?
Yot soon began to suspect that it did, for Drake began inquiring about missionary work, and his chances of maybe teaming up with someone who had gone to make converts in foreign parts.
'Wait till you've mastered doctrine before talking of missionary work,' said Yot.
To help win Yot's confidence, and to show trust, Drake shared with him the story of the meal of rats and cockroaches he had once cooked for Mulps and Arabin. But Yot did not soften. In fact, his attitude hardened: he again raised the question of making converts.
'I'll do a deal with you,' said Drake. 'If you wait till we all get some decent food in our bellies, I'll guard your flank when you first try preaching to one of this mob. We'd better try Whale Mike first.'
'Why?'said Yot.
'Because he's a nice guy,' said Drake. 'He'll take it the right way.'
'And he owes you, right?' said Yot. 'Because of the food you shared in the pit.'
Drake frankly thought he was owed nothing for that. If he had not been so selfish to start with, they would all have eaten much sooner.
What Drake really thought was that Whale Mike was too stupid to possibly understand anything Yot said about the Flame, therefore couldn't possibly be offended by it.
In truth, what did Drake believe?
Did he believe in the Flame?
Well, sometimes he did and sometimes he didn't. His belief was at a very delicate state, and it would take very little to tip the balance of belief either one way or the other.
32
Drake (formally Dreldragon Drakedon Douay): sword-smith's apprentice on Stokos until ran from his master, Gouda Muck; took passage to Androlmarphos; shipped out of 'Marphos as slave; captured by Slagger Mulps, aka the Walrus; rescued from Gaunt Reefs by Jon Arabin, the Warwolf; sailed with Arabin, sojourning in Ling as a hostage; became immune to disease and poisons after protective organism introduced into his body by people of Ling; sailed with Walrus to Burntos and with Warwolf to Hexagon, then joined embassy which failed to reach Menator's brother (Ohio of Ork) because of disaster at sea; with survivors of subsequent capture by Collosnon, began north-to-south crossing of Penvash.
They exited from the tunnel at dawn. What day it was, they could not say. They had crossed half a dozen streams deep underground; they had slept at each, sometimes briefly, sometimes for longer.
No door barred their exit from the tunnel. A door did exist, but lay half-buried amongst evergreen trees fifty paces away. Someone or something had torn it in half then thrown it there.
Past the tunnelmouth ran a large stream. A very generous cartographer might have called it a small river. The pirates themselves thought of it as a river, since on the Teeth they seldom saw more fresh water at once than a whore needs to wash a pizzle.
Autumn snow whispered out of a sky of indeterminate
height. It snuffed out as it hit the water; the swirling stream ran on regardless. The ground was yet black-brown; the evergreen trees stood green; but both might soon concede their colour to snow.
Jon Arabin waited till all his men reached the tunnel-mouth. The last stragglers took a long time to arrive. How many days were they good for? Few.
'Boys,' said Jon Arabin, 'we're through the mountains.'
Jez Glane, fearing a speech, sat down, closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep. Others followed suit.
'It's all downhill from here,' said Arabin. 'And, boys, there's beer in Estar, I'll be telling you that - I've been there before now, to taste it.'
Simp Fiche picked something from his nose. Saw it was good. Ate it. Drake picked muck from beneath his fingernails with a little twig. Rolf T
helemite unlaced his boots so he could massage his feet, as he always did on a halt.
'Boys,' said Arabin, 'it's us against the weather now. And the further south we go, the warmer.'
'Aye,' said Mulps, getting to his feet. 'And by the time we reach Estar it'll be haymaking summer, if we sit listening to much more in speeches. Let' s get moving.'
Moving they got.
That night, Arabin took his tinder box from his sea-pouch to conjure up fire for them. As they sat round the flames, Tiki Slooze told stories of the Old City which allegedly lay to the south: tales of ghosts with red eyes, of walking bones and living fire, of screaming water and music which killed, of flesh-tearing birds as large as ships, of strangling trees which ate men in the dark, and of rats the size of dragons.
Arabin let him talk, feeling the tales were too fantastic to be believed. Anyway, men busy with thoughts of the south would spent less time lamenting their empty bellies.
Jon Arabin did not believe in the Old City. But then, he had never believed in dragons, either - until he had come face-to-face with one on an adventure from which very few of his comrades had returned alive.
Next day, the stream broadened steadily. About noon, they came upon a stone phallus standing by its banks. The stone was an impervious, translucent green, filled with stars of many different colours.
'This is real solid to be sure,' said Bucks Cat, giving the phallus a familiar pat. 'As big as my uncle Habby.'
Simp Fiche embraced it. Then, slyly, licked it.
'There must be a woman-one to go with it,' said Jez Glane. 'That's what I'm interested in!'
He danced a little jig - but was too far gone to keep it up for more than a few steps. And the outburst of horseplay a find like this would normally have triggered did not eventuate: nobody had that much spirit left.
'Come on,' said Jon Arabin. 'Let's be moving.'
But:
'Eh hey!' said Whale Mike, reaching into the undergrowth.
He pulled out something small, round and brown. It was a ball of spikes. It sat on the palm of his huge hand looking evil and alien.
'What is it?' asked Drake, alarmed by this strange thing.
'He's a klude,' said Whale Mike happily. 'You bake him deep in a mud-jacket, he eats you good.'
'So that's a klude!' said Drake, who had heard of the Galish word before. 'I always thought it was a kind of rat. How does it move around? It rolls, I suppose.'
'Oh no,' said Whale Mike. 'He got four feet, he just roll up now, later roll out, but not this time for we cook him, clay around then leave in the fire, bake good.'
'How many of us will that feed?' demanded Ika Thole. 'Not more than three, I'll be sure.'
He said 'three' because that was the biggest number he knew, mathematics not being his strong suit.
'Oh, there be one, there be more,' said Whale Mike, a big grin on his face. 'They not run fast, not more fast than blood run along a deck when you cut some joker open, no, they be here, we catch them.'
'Maybe,' said Jon Arabin, doubtfully.
But Whale Mike decided the issue by shoving the little klude deep into the front pocket of his big leather apron.
'This one mine,' said Whale Mike. T share bite and bite about if no others, but only with those who hunt some. No hunt, no eat.'
'I suppose you can't say fairer than that,' said Jon Arabin. 'Let's spread out and look.'
Once they started hunting in earnest, really looking hard at what lay around them, it was amazing what they found. Soon, Drake had personally caught (and eaten) three spiders, a little beetle-thing, a snail which had glued itself to a tree, and a slug.
'Holes here!' cried Peg Suzilman.
'What? And the women to go with them?' asked Simp Fiche.
'Nay, man,' said Suzilman. 'Gwiff holes, by the looks of them.'
The pirates gathered in, to find Suzilman standing guard by a low bank. Half a dozen earthy holes, too small for a man to crawl into, tunnelled straight into the bank.
'Holes for gwiff,' said Suzilman. T seen them in the Ravlish Lands, aye.'
'What's this gwiff, man?' asked Mulps. 'A great big snake? Or what?'
'No,' said Suzilman, scratching his head, thinking. 'The gwiff, he's a bit like a pig yet a bit like a ferret, if you know what I mean. A long snout with stripes running nose to tail, some white, the rest black. He's got claws on him like a crocodile, if you ever seen such. Teeth like a rat, go through steel no trouble. Eats kludes with 'em.'
'What about men?' asked Jon Arabin.
'Well, I never seen him fight no men, only dogs, in a pit, for sport. A mess he made of them dogs, too, I'll be telling you. But men, no, I don't think so.'
'We don't want to be finding out the hard way now, do we?' said Jez Glane.
'This gwiff-thing,' said Whale Mike with a grin.
'Maybe he eat men, maybe not - but I don't think he eat me!'
Indeed, it was doubtful anything living in a hole so small would have the nerve to tackle Whale Mike. Not unless it was extremely aggressive. Or very, very stupid.
'We'll do it,' said Arabin, decisively.
'Not that we've any weapons, of course,' said Ika Thole.
'This will serve,' said Arabin, hefting a branch. 'Dig, boys, dig!'
Much later, filthy with earth and mud, sweating despite a light fall of snow dusting out of the sky, they broke through into an underground chamber.
'How big is it?' asked Arabin.
'Unknown,' said Thole, thrusting a stick into the darkness.
Something below squealed with rage.
'Huh! A griff!' said Bucks Cat.
'Gwiff,' said Peg Suzilman, by way of correction.
But before they could argue about it, several dog-sized creatures came swarming out of the wreckage of the barrow, trying to escape.
'Stop them!' shouted Arabin.
There was a brief, desperate fight. Sticks rose and fell. Boots swung. There was a crackl of shattering bone as Whale Mike fisted something.
'Knives!' screamed Fiche. 'They're armed!'
He threw up his right arm, a bloody cut running a third of its length.
'Peace, man,' said Arabin, who had just brained a knife-armed assailant. 'Armed or not, they're only a kind of dog.'
But Fiche still screamed and shouted as if seriously wounded. Then Bucks Cat cuffed him round the earhole, which shut him up promptly (and permanently damaged the hearing in his left-hand ear).
The fight was over almost as soon as it had begun. Most of the creatures had escaped, but two had been killed.
They were the size of knee-high dogs. They had reddish-brown fur. The tops of their skulls were bald bone. Their forepaws looked like hands. They wore no proper clothes, but had belts with sheaths, bottles and boxes attached.
Two knives were recovered, curious pieces of finely wrought bronze. The hilt of one was in the form of the head of a dragon; the hilt of the other was fashioned to resemble a dolphin.
'Bloody uncomfortable to hold,' muttered Jon Arabin, who had claimed one of the knives. 'Made for show, not for use.'
'Aye,' said Meerkat, who had gained the other blade. 'But someone's put an edge to this one, sharp enough.'
'Let's dig down,' said Jon Arabin. 'Mayhap there's more metal below.'
They started digging. Promptly, three more creatures, which had been lying dog in the dark, tried to break out. This time the men moved faster. All three died.
What the men found underground was a chamber big enough to have held twenty barrels of wine or water. What it actually held was several nests of leaves and straw, some crude wooden fishing spears, nets for catching birds and fish, and a treasury of ancient objects in gold, glass and bronze.
While others pushed, shoved, slapped and bit, contending for the gold (and breaking the glass in the process) Drake secured himself a sword. Bronze was the sheath and bronze was the blade, both built for business and bare of ornament. Drake, as a steelworker, had always thought bronze soft stuff useless for weaponry.
But this seemed stout enough. It was, in fact, copper alloyed with 10 per cent tin, which gives a bronze truly rugged enough for the rigours of war.
By the time the fighting had finished, Rolf Thelemite had a similar sword of bronze, as did Ish Ulpin, Ika Thole and Jon Disaster. They had secured these prizes easily while others contended for wealth - but now there was a clamour for a redistribution of weapons.
'Our swprdsmen have chosen themselves,' said Arabin. 'Aye, while you others greeded for gold like pigs at truffles. Look at me! Empty-handed! And why? Because I was kept so busy keeping the rest of you from killing each other.'
The protests died down and the dead creatures were skinned, roasted and eaten. But the little klude which Whale Mike had caught was neither cooked nor eaten, for the big man crept away from his companions, took the klude from his apron pocket, kissed it gently, thanked it for bringing him luck, then set it loose to run away happily into the wilderness.
That evening, Drake and Yot approached Whale Mike, who sat by himself feeding a little fire with twigs and broken branches. Everyone had enjoyed a decent meal, so it was time to try to convert Whale Mike to Goudanism. Drake was dreading it. Fortunately, he had a present to sweeten Mike's temper. After everyone else had finished investigating the animal burrow they had broken into, Drake had dug up the floor of that burrow, searching for buried treasure. He had found along, slim, immensely strong rod of what he thought was steel.
'What you got there?' said Mike, catching sight of the rod as Drake and Yot came near.
'A present for you,' said Drake. 'It's a giant's crowbar, by the looks of it.'
In fact the rod - which was made of titanium - was an axle from a Raflanderk IV All-Terrain Assault Vehicle. But Whale Mike was happy to have it regardless.
'It's steel,' said Drake.
'This too light for steel,' said Whale Mike, hefting it. 'Also no rust. That strange.' He tested it. 'But strong. That nice. Good stuff.'
Drake and Yot settled themselves by the fire.
