The Walrus and the Warwolf

by Hugh Cook

  Thus it was that Lord Dreldragon of Stokos, currently posing as Shen Shen Drax of Estar, won the trust and confidence of Ol Tul, 'The Man', and was inducted into the underworld of Selzirk.

  Drake soon became acquainted with the ruling city of the Harvest Plains. But what he knew was not the city of palaces and temples which features in history books, but another place altogether: Selzirk of the thousand sewers, the city of low-life brothels, opium dens, protection rackets, blackmail, intimidation and outright murder. He lived by wit and by steel.

  The pace was fast. This life had no longueurs like that of the Teeth, where an entire crew of Orfus pirates might spend months at a time doing little but sealing, breeding, fishing and gambling. Drake lived instead at city-speed, and soon won a name for himself amongst those who served Ol Tul.

  A couple of times he almost died, for the way of the knife is different to that of the sword. But he mastered the skills of the shorter blade soon enough, and became known as a dangerous shivman. He began to scrape a little Shurlspurl, learning fast on the streets by day and in bed by night.

  But, while Drake soon knew the ropes and was showing off his growing grasp of the lingo, to his fellow hardmen he was and always would be (if he lived) 'the Galish', the outsider. If he died, of course, he would be simply forgotten.

  Drake gathered what news he could of the campaigning in the province of Hok, where the armies of the Harvest Plains were trying to root out and destroy the fugitive forces of King Tor. News was sparse. There was no word of victory, but none of defeat. Drake guessed that the campaign had become bogged down in the tortured terrain.

  He struck up acquaintances with old soldiers in bars and in brothels, and learned that the province of Hok was a chopped-up mess of cliffs and gorges, riddled with caves and drop-holes. Where its mountains gentled into the flat-lands of the Harvest Plains proper, the ground was low-lying and boggy, making communication and supply difficult.

  'Hok,' said one old soldier, 'is but a hundred leagues from east to west, and scarce more than twenty leagues from north to south. But when a piece of land is made of teeth, bones and splinters, it can be blood-sweat hard to win at war. If you'd seen terrain which was really rough, you'd have some idea of what I mean.'

  'Aye,' said Drake, who had seen lands rough as storm-chopped water in Ling, Penvash and elsewhere. 'I see it right enough.'

  When winter came, then, perhaps, he'd know the results of the campaigning in Hok. Then he'd be ready to make his next move. And what would that be?

  I'll make ambassador in Selzirk. Aye. Or, if that's impossible, I'll pack my sword and march. Aye. March south to Hok and do battle for real. A hero, like. Dangerous, sure - but what's that which I'm living? It's hardly safe, now, is it?

  It wasn't.

  44

  Name: Atsimo Andranovory. Birthplace: Lorp. Occupation: unemployed cut-throat. Status: illegal immigrant.

  Description: rough-bearded brute with scarred bald patch the size of a man's palm on the top of his head.

  Career: first fisherman then Orfus pirate; marooned by his captain on the shores of Estar, where put his sword at Prince Comedo's command; joined party questing inland after death-stone and led a mutiny against his leaders in dragon-lands beyond the Araconch Waters; came downriver with fellow mutineers through the Chenameg Kingdom to Selzirk of the Harvest Plains.

  It was autumn.

  Drake Douay was at sword in a loft, practising kata -some learnt on Stokos in his apprentice days, others taught him by the weapons muqaddam on a voyage to Hexagon and back. These days, he welcomed the austere disciplines of steel, finding himself bored by the drunken company of his fellow thugs.

  The weapons muqaddam had taught him most.

  Slashing the air with sharpened steel, Drake remembered that strong, hard man. Killed by barbarians in Tameran, aye. Buried upside down with his feet cut off. A cruel way to die.

  / remembered you with ashes. Yet who will remember mel

  Drake was making his way in Selzirk, yes, but it was still a world away from home. If he died here, he would die unlamented amongst strangers.

  The weapons muqaddam, he was with comrades till he died. That was something, at least.

  When still alive, the weapons muqaddam had let Drake make blade chime against blade often enough to satisfy him, never caring how many swords got notched, or bent, or broken, or whether fancy iron or copper inlay fell out of them. He had taught Drake to train as though his life depended on the next stroke that he struck - which, of course, is the only way for a true weapons master to train.

  Drake realized, guiltily, that he had recently forgotten that lesson - and had been treating his kata as a dance. He used knife more than sword, these days, that was the trouble. Sword had become a bit of a game.

  'Concentrate, man,' said Drake to Drake.

  And put death into the next blow that he struck. All his training went into that cut. Through the sword, he lived a moment for the weapons muqaddam. He struck with the will to kill. Which is the only way to strike - even in training.

  'Where's the ghost?' asked a voice.

  Drake, still handling his weapon for murder, turned to meet this interruption. His ice-smooth steel cut the air clean and sweet. His face was cold, hard, remote. It spoke of a warrior's rapture. A rapture of death.

  'Easy, man,' said Pigot Quebec, alarmed at the expres-siononDrake's face.

  'Oh,' saidDrake, easing his stance. 'It'syou.'

  'Yes,' said Pigot Quebec. 'I'm glad you realize it. I thought for a moment you were making to kill me.'

  'Perhaps I was,' said Drake, softly. 'Perhaps I was.'

  This was weird, this business of weapons. Live with the steel for long enough, andit takes to demanding a death. He shivered, and slid his blade to its sheath.

  'What are you here for?' he said.

  'I've come to claim you for civilized company,' said Pigot Quebec.

  'What?' said Drake. 'We're leaving Selzirk, are we?'

  'Hush your cheek!' said Quebec. 'Listen, man, there's a new champion down at the Eagle.'

  'I'm listening,' said Drake. 'Listening hard. But I'm damned if I can hear him.'

  'And damned if you can't. Man, you were born for damnation. Come, let's sweat down the street to the champion.'

  'What's this fellow champion at?' asked Drake. 'Can't be shouting, can it?'

  'At lying, man. Untruths of all descriptions. Tall tales. Adventures into the never-when to see the never-was.'

  'Oh,' said Drake. 'You mean he's a priest?'

  'Nay! A liar!'

  'What's the difference?' asked Drake. 'Man,' said Quebec, 'the man himself perhaps will answer.'

  'If he answers that there's none, then he's a liar in truth indeed,' said Drake. 'What's your untruth's name?'

  'I know it not,' said Quebec. 'But I know he's holding forth at the Eagle, I've heard him there myself. And, man, he's something. He swears the truth unreal as smoothly as a weasel farting.'

  'You have many weasels in your family then?' said Drake. 'Or you know them from the casuals of whorehouse acquaintance?'

  'You were the first-I've met,' said Quebec, 'so it's of you I've made my study.'

  Drake made as if to cuff him round the head. Quebec parried, and they wrestled a bit. Then, with many a jape and a pun, the two made their way to the Eagle.

  Drake knew of the Eagle, but had never been there before, since this tavern was not a criminal haunt. It was, however, definitely a low-life place, attracting all kinds of riff-raff: falconers, river oars, peddlers, jesters and beggar-masters, and, no doubt, the odd questing hero in disguise.

  'Man,' said Quebec, as the pair entered. 'This champion's good, but you can top his tales.'

  'Aye,' said Drake. 'I could top any tale - simply by telling the truth.'

  'Gah! I know your kind of truth.'

  'You don't,' said Drake. 'Or you'd believe it.'

  The two pushed forward. There was a crowd around the liar, some folk standing on bar bench
es, so it was push and shove to get near the front. Drake shoved once too often - and was picked up by a giant-sized axeman from Chenameg and thrown bodily through the air. He crashed to ground at the feet of the champion liar.

  'Drax!' yelled Quebec. 'You all right?'

  Lord Dreldragon (also known as Drake Douay, as Arabin lol Arabin, and as Shen Shen Drax, depending what company he was keeping) lay on the ground, winded, staring up at a most unlovely sight. A rough-smelling thug with bloodshot eyes and a black-bearded face, and a shaggy swag of filthy black hair.

  'An'vory!' said Drake.

  'You!' said Atsimo Andranovory.

  And he grabbed Drake in a strangle.

  Fortunately, a couple of Drake's fighting-comrades were in the audience, and they separated An'vory from Drake's throat. They were all for killing the man, but the publican stopped them.

  'You kill my champion liar,' warned the publican, 'and my sons will rend you limb to limb.'

  The publican seemed to have a small trace of ogre in his blood. And the sons in question had a very definite touch of ogre about them. Their menace enforced a peace of sorts.

  'So,' said Atsimo Andranovory. 'What do you here?'

  'A good question,' said Pigot Quebec. 'But I've a better question. How did my good friend Shen Shen Drax come to meet this barman? Tell us your meeting, Drax. That'll make a good story to start off with.'

  'Nay, man,' said Drake. 'A mood of modesty is upon me, I can't speak today.'

  But his audience gave him no choice. He was ringed with arms and faces, with knives and fists. His attempts to escape were denied, with a good-humoured roughness which might turn nasty any moment.

  He was trapped.

  He had to speak himself in public, in front of witnesses. This was fearful dangerous! Best thing would be to kill An'vory, who was dangerous through what he knew. The blackguard would blackmail Drake for blood if he knew Drake would be killed if Selzirk learnt he supported King Tor.

  How much does An 'vory know? What does he know of Selzirk and Tor? How long has he been in town? Man, this is difficult!

  'Cat got your tongue?' said Andranovory.

  'Nay, man,' said Drake. 'I'm so astonished I'm silent, that's all. Last I knew of you, why, that was in Estar. You were in service with Prince Comedo, not so?'

  'Aye, that's true enough,' said Andranovory.

  'Well then,' said Drake, 'how got you here from Estar?'

  'Through wild adventures with Elkor Alish and Morgan Hearst, and others that I've been telling of,' said Andranovory.

  'Oh, Hearst!' said Drake, with confidence. 'That grey-haired Rovac warrior, right?'

  'The same,' said Andranovory. 'You knowmuch!'

  'Aye,' said Drake.

  Having said enough to give listeners such as Quebec the impression that he had known Andranovory while serving under Prince Comedo in Estar, Drake skipped away from that subject, and moved on:

  'I know much of you, too, don't I? I remember serving shipboard with you. Aye, on a ship called the Walrus that was. We were trading a cargo of the skins of seals to the port of Narba. Yes. And I remember you later, put ashore from another ship for bad behaviour. That was back in the days when I were known as Drake Douay - for I've gone under more than one name in this wide world, I'll not deny it.'

  'Aye,' said Andranovory. 'Drake Douay! And a pretty tale I could tell about you!' 'Tell, then!' said Drake. Hoping.

  'You were born in a heap of dogshit,' said Andranovory. 'I'll tell the world that for nothing. Your mother was raped by an octopus, which explains the most of your nature.'

  'Aagh, An'vory, man!' said Drake. 'You've not changed! Always were a liar. But never champion, no - I was champion. Always was, always will be. Let's listen to your tales, and I'll top them.'

  'I doubt you will,' said An'vory, 'not this time. For I've walked in strangeness, man, no doubting it.'

  Then Andranovory, after wasting a little more breath telling lies about Drake's ancestry and upbringing, launched into his story proper.

  Drake concealed his relief.

  He had judged his man true.

  He had guessed, rightly, that Andranovory, if challenged to tell the truth about Drake Douay, would take delight in insults at the expense of facts. He had gambled and won. An'vory did not guess that he had knowledge which could be the death of Drake Douay. Did not guess that Drake had to conceal his true identity - that of Lord Dreldragon, fiance of the daughter of King Tor, and thus rightful inheritor of Stokos.

  An 'vory, man. You 're as stupid a shit as ever. But perhaps you 've a nice enough story to tell. Perhaps. We '11 see.

  Andranovory held forth in Galish, for he spoke no Churl. A professional street hawker gave a running translation for the benefit of any ignoramus who was not bilingual. There was many such an ignoramus in the Eagle.

  Andranovory claimed, perhaps with truth, to have fought alongside two Rovac warriors in the employ of Prince Comedo - Hearst and Alish. But the rest of his story was improbable, to say the least. He told a long, wild tale about a war between Collosnon warriors and the

  Rovac, in which Morgan Hearst triumphed by leading a regiment of dragons against his enemies.

  Other things he spoke of were wilder still - a death-stone conjuring rocks to life and turned living men into mountains; a journey down an underground river, on which three of his comrades became pregnant ('and died giving birth, for they were men for real, and lacked the proper channel'); arrival at the Araconch Waters; the delights of the Temple of Eternal Love found on the shores of that enormous inland lake.

  'Now I'm parched,' concluded Andranovory. 'So let strong drink speak to my gullet while me young mate Erhed speaks of the march inland from Araconch.'

  Andranovory sat, and a weak-voiced companion of his travels and travails, an insignificant fellow named Erhed, began spinning tales of the aforementioned march from Araconch.

  Erhed was less successful than Andranovory. He lacked a proper voice to start with. Worse, he was scarcely concerned with telling a tale at all - instead, he wanted to air his grievances against the Rovac warriors.

  '. . . so Hearst was a hard man, you can see,' said Erhed. 'But Alish was the worst. Elkor Alish - a name of blood and terror. Man, he was hard! Smashed me over the head once. With a rock, true. Near enough to killed me.'

  'Why did he do that?' called Drake.

  'There was this dragon, see. I reckon he planned to kill me, leave me there as bait to draw the dragon away from the others. But I've a hard head, see.'

  'Yes, and very little inside to get damaged,' said Andranovory.

  He roared with laughter, and quaffed the last of his ale at a gulp. The barman handed him another. An'vory had been drinking hard and heavy while Erhed was weaving his way through his tale - and had drunk yet more earlier in the day.

  'What happened then?' demanded Drake. 'About this dragon,I mean?'

  'Oh, it flew away,' said Erhed lamely.

  'Why didn't it eat you?' said Drake.

  'Because then,' said Andranovory, 'the world's ruling devil would have been put to looking for some other sludge to pox us with.'

  And once more erupted into laughter. Drunk? Maybe. Drake, who had such happy memories of being drunk himself, tried not to be jealous. Tried without success.

  'How close was this dragon?' he asked.

  'Who are you?' said Erhed. 'The Imperial Inquisitor, or what?'

  Quebec seized this opportunity. He pushed a dwarf off a barstool, then stood on it.

  'Hey!' said the dwarf. 'Get off me!'

  So Quebec got onto the barstool instead.

  'Gentles and toughs!' cried Quebec. 'Slow your clamour and fill your cups. We've heard enough of this Erhed fellow, who has but the single problem in life - he's no longer got his mother around to cosset his hand.'

  Laughter, and generous laughter at that, from all around.

  'But, seriously, folks, let me introduce my old friend Shen Shen Drax. Today I've heard he's got another name. Dway, was it
? Something like that, anyhow. I'm sure there's a tale behind that name, and I'm sure he'll tell it.'

  'I won it in combat on Hexagon,' said Drake, who had by then had time in plenty to devise creations suitable for the defence of his identity.

  'Then we'll hear of that first,' said Quebec. 'And other things thereafter. Friend Drax, he's the champion liar of all the world, bar none. Born strange and walking in weirdness since. Kills ghosts by daylight then catches their blood in a winecup, but never gets drunk, no, for he was suckled on his mother's blood, which fortified him against liquor for a lifetime.'

  'He'll not tell stories better than Andranovory,' said Erhed, speaking up loyal for his comrade.

  'Aagh!' said Drake. 'My wit's as ready as my cock, so I could fake a right pretty story if I needed one to win, aye, to prove myself champion liar. But I'll start with a truth. Like as not you'll think it a lie anyway, since it's nine parts incredible.

  'The wizard Miphon, a green-eyed fellow I know of old, he once told me I was the most amount of trouble he'd ever seen in one package in the last ten thousand years. This proved out real enough when I got to Hexagon, which is where I won the name of Drake Douay in battle.

  'Was an ogre I fought, a scum-faced thing as hateful as that mother-rapist known as Tor, the brute from Stpkos who had me thrown into the seas a horizon away from land. He hated me, for I fell foul of his law. But that's another story - An'vory may tell it, perhaps, he knows the start of it at least. Anyway, to begin with Hexagon—'

  And Drake was off.

  Many a lie he told, and in consequence his tavern audience thought him truthful enough. The really incredible tales of the world are, without exception, those which follow the facts - and Drake's tales were wonderfully light on facts.

  Andranovory told no story in reply, for he passed out while Drake was telling of his wanderings in Chi'ash-lan, and was still dead to the world when Drake finished a much longer tale about a trip to Gendormargensis in far-off Tameran (a tale, mark, replete with authentic detail remembered from stories told by his comrade of adventures past, Rolf Thelemite).