The Walrus and the Warwolf

by Hugh Cook

  'AH these creatures of the Swarms,' said Miphon, 'they're fairly quiet by night.'

  'Aye,' said Drake. 'I remember. Man, when I went past Selzirk . . . yes, there were many, making as if they were asleep. But they were huge! These ones are only little.'

  'So,' said Jon Arabin, 'we're in luck. We've only a batch of babies to contend with.'

  He spoke in jest; he knew how serious the situation was.

  'What now?' said Drake.

  'We arm ourselves properly,' said Jon Arabin. 'And we wait for dawn. And we pray for wind.'

  'Ballast blocks,' said Drake, apropos of nothing. 'What?' said Jon Arabin.

  'Ballast blocks, man. Bring them up from below. Sitting targets. Knock those turkeys off their logs. Do it by dark, they'll be much more trouble by day.'

  'Aye,' said Jon Arabin. 'That's thinking!'

  Much later, they had killed every creature of the Swarms within throwing distance of the ship. Meanwhile, the sky had begun to lighten.

  'Dawn is coming,' said Zim.

  'Tell me something I don't know,' said Drake.

  'Sorry,' said Zim, 'but I don't know your father's name either.'

  And dodged away from a half-hearted cuff.

  As dawn approached, sullen clouds rolled across the sky, driven by high-level winds. Down at sea-level, a deadly stillness persisted. By the growing light, they could see logs upon logs stretching away for leagues, patterning the sea so densely they were almost touching.

  On every log, a monster.

  There must have been thousands of them. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. A million, maybe. Drake, unable to make an exact estimate, knew this much for sure: the odds were lousy.

  To his amazement, Drake realized that someone had got up on his hind legs and was making a speech. It was the soldier Scouse. Probably the man had been infected with heroism from associating with Morgan Hearst. This was what he was saying:

  'Let's sell our lives dear, friends! Let's show them what we're made of! Now is our chance to meet the ancient enemy fist to fist, our chance to warray—'

  'Screw speeches!' yelled Zim. 'How about some food?'

  'Yes,' said Jon Arabin, loudly, cutting across Scouse's speech. 'Young Zim's spoken sense - albeit for the very first time in his life. Aye. Let's eat. The monsters will be stirring properly soon enough. Food in the gut, that's the story.'

  The night's activities had thrown out the ship's routine so badly that no breakfast had been cooked. But hardtack was issued out, plus some oldish bread - hard stuff with a little green and grey mould starting to colonize it. And there was good stuff to wash it down: for every man, a dole of rum and black drop.

  The darkening clouds had entirely covered the sky. But the Swarms knew it was dawn. The monsters were moving from log to log, converging on the good ship Dragon. Some lost their footing and drowned swiftly. But there were thousands more where those came from.

  'Why so near-begaun with the liquor?' said Slagger Mulps, his voice loud in the sullen air. 'Drunk will serve us as well as sober.'

  Jon Arabin was not so ready to abandon hope. But he judged that the battle would be joined before his crew had a chance to get drunk. So, rather than argue, he said:

  'Aye, friend Walrus. You go below and organize us some more liquor.'

  Drake, meanwhile, went quietly to Miphon:

  'Can we use the death-stone?' he said.

  'We could,' said Miphon. 'But what good would a stone ship do us?'

  'Have you any other magic?' said Drake. 'Powers, spells, amulets and such?'

  'None,' said Miphon. 'I was never very powerful as wizards go, and I lost most of my powers in - in an accident. But what difference would it make? The Swarms are many.'

  'In very deed they're many,' said Drake, faking the reckless gaiety of suicidal courage. 'But are we not men?'

  Some of them were, some were just boys. All knew they would most likely soon be dead.

  Jon Arabin, for his part, did some mental arithmetic. The last year had been kind to him. He was five births in credit. A margin slim enough, but sufficient to satisfy his gods, who asked only that a man father as many people as he killed.

  And that a man plant a tree for every one he cut down.

  It occurred to Jon Arabin that, somehow, he had never managed to get round to as much tree-planting as he should have. But surely that was of no importance.

  The men had finished breakfast. They were waiting for the attack, and the waiting was hard. Jon Arabin decided to make a speech of his own to ease the silence. He wished he had the skill to produce some iron-worded oratory which would ring down through the ages, an inspiration to all who followed afterwards, and a monument to his own death.

  Then he realized there was going to be nobody to record what was said. So it made no difference whether his speech was good or bad. They were doomed to vanish from the face of the sea - one more ship lost without trace.

  'Gentlemen,' said Jon Arabin. 'Let's show them what we're made of.'

  And, with that, he drew his falchion and raised it in salute. He looked fearless and heroic. But, in fact, he was starting to worry quite badly about all those trees he had never planted.

  'Look!' cried Zim.

  And they looked where he was pointing, and saw a giant green centipede crawling up over the side of the ship.

  'It's fate will be written with my grey-goose quill,' said Blackwood easily, nocking an arrow.

  He sent the missile singing toward its target. The centipede, struck in the larboard eye, writhed in agony and fell overboard. Blackwood was pleased. But what could one man do against so many? After all, Blackwood had but twenty shafts remaining.

  'Where's this extra liquor?' said Zim.

  But his question went unanswered. For, the moment he had spoken, purple lightning lacerated the heavens. Then came a roar of thunder, as if the sky had been shattered by earthquake. Then, again, the outlash of lightning. Again, thunder. Then, with a keening, high-pitched ululation, the monsters of the Swarms attacked the ship.

  68

  The Swarms: diverse creatures, monstrous and almost mindless, controlled from a distance by the Skull of the Deep South, a powerful entity based in the southern terror-lands. The fall of the Confederation of Wizards has allowed the Swarms to venture north of Drangsturm, conquering most of the western seaboard of the continent of Argan.

  Screaming, the Swarms attacked. They came in their thousands.

  But only twenty logs were within monster-leap of the good ship Dragon, meaning the Swarms had only twenty avenues of attack. And there were three hundred men aboard.

  'Death is our destiny,' said Blackwood, grimly.

  And sent an arrow hissing to its target.

  Lightning crackled across the sky. Thunder boomed. But still no wind. Still no rain.

  'This no time to die,' said Whale Mike, sounding worried. ' I got wife and kids to look after.'

  And he swung an oar. Thwapl The head of a monster exploded in a spray of gore and ichor.

  'Ahyak Rovac!' screamed Rolf Thelemite.

  And plunged his sword into the underbelly of a scrabbling keflo as it tried to haul itself onto the deck of the ship.

  'Help me!' screamed Simp Fiche.

  A glarz had swarmed over him, and was ripping him to pieces. 'Help!'

  Ish Ulpin strode forward. But he was intercepted by a thing which looked like a walking thorn bush armed with a dozen sets of shears and a couple of scythes. Ish Ulpin killed it with the help of a couple of other bravos. But by that time Simp Fiche was dead, ravaged, torn to pieces.

  The glarz swarmed forward.

  Ish Ulpin picked up a spare ballast block and hurled it so it fell square in the middle of the net-shaped body of the glarz. Trapped, it writhed and struggled - but could not get free.

  'We'll deal with you later,' said Ish Ulpin.

  And went looking for a worthier foe.

  'Die, Demon-spawn!' screamed Sully Yot, hurling ballast blocks at creatures which had
leapt from logs to the Dragon's flank, and were trying to climb up to the deck.

  T bet they don't even make good eating,' said Ika Thole gloomily, sinking his harpoon through alien armour.

  'Now!' screamed Bucks Cat.

  A dozen men were with him, using a spar as a battering ram. They pulped a slow-footed monster, screamed, whooped, yelled, and looked for another.

  Using spears, ropes, boarding nets, grappling hooks, pikes, halberds and battle-axes, the pirates fought for life and liberty.

  And won.

  They won the first round, at any rate.

  The deck was wet and slippery with ichor, blood, pulp, gore, mashed monsters, the unidentifiable remains of half a dozen men. Amputated tentacles writhed in the scuppers. Someone was floundering in the water, shouting. It was the soldier Scouse. How came he to be there? It mattered not: there was nothing anyone aboard could do for him. As they watched—

  Most stopped watching, and, for those who did, the interest was soon terminated with the death of the unfortunate Scouse.

  'Come with me,' said Miphon, finding Blackwood. 'Let's go below and venture to the bottle.'

  'That's a good idea,' said Blackwood. 'I'm right out of arrows. There'll be more within.' And the pair departed.

  The pirates had broken the first assault of the Swarms, killing upwards of a thousand monsters. The onsurge of horror-creatures died away to a dribble, then to nothing. A great cheer went up. But the battle was only beginning. Stalkers, glarz, keflos, granderglaws, green centipedes and other brutes began, as best they could, to paddle logs toward the Dragon.

  Their best was far from good.

  A centipede clinging to the end of a log, half in the water and half out of it, its water-wet half thrashing furiously, was an essentially ludicrous sight. Many of the creatures lost their grip, floundered briefly, then drowned in the oily darkness of the seas. But there was no shortage of replacements. And they were getting results.

  The logs were converging on the Dragon.

  Jon Arabin clenched his fists and glared at the sky.

  'Give me lightning!' he yelled.

  Lightning forked downwards.

  'Thunder!' screamed Arabin.

  A drumroll of thunder followed.

  'Now wind!' howled Arabin. 'Wind, for the love of mercy!'

  But no wind came. The air was silent. Still. Dead. Even a thread of gossamer would have hung limp in such lifeless airs.

  'Bugger bugger bugger!' screamed Arabin.

  And searched the horizons for signs of squall. He saw none such: but did see five winged creatures circling far, far overhead. He very much doubted that they were eagles. No: the Neversh were up there.

  'Maybe we could catch them somehow,' muttered Arabin. 'Harness them to the ship so they'd pull us clear of this grabble of logs.'

  Could it be done?

  Somehow, he doubted it.

  Drake, also looking up to the sombre oppression of the stormcloud skies, saw the Neversh, but made no comment on it lest he panic someone. With luck, the storm which threatened them would shortly break, scattering the Neversh. Otherwise, there was nothing they could do about the flying monsters. But surely there was something they could do about the logs converging on the ship. Once the Swarms had a hundred jump-off points instead of twenty, it would all be over for the Dragon.

  'Drake . . .?' said a voice.

  It was Zanya, in company with Miphon. The wizard still wore his feathered hat.

  'Zanya!' said Drake, embracing her. 'What are you doing here?'

  'Standing on the deck so my eyes can proof what Miphon's been telling me. He's been keeping me in touch.'

  Drake kissed her. Light touch of lips against lips. Lumps on her lips. Blue lumps. Blue leprosy. What hope now of getting to Ling for a cure? He smelt patchouli on her skin.

  'Why perfume?' he said.

  'Because I wanted to be my best for you. For. . .for the end. This is the end, isn't it?' She was starting to cry.

  And Drake, by way of soothing, kissed her again. Then

  held her, held her close and held her tight. He remembered

  how he had first seen her, so many years ago, when he had

  been floating in the water bare-arse naked, a horizon away

  from Stokos, and she had been looking down from the

  deck of a xebec. And he remembered . . . other places,

  other times. Their best had been very good indeed. Yes. It

  had been worth it to have lived. But now ... '

  'Darling,' said Drake. 'The next attack is soon. Best you return to the bottle.'

  'Are you coming?' said Zanya.

  'No,' said Drake.

  He had already made up his mind. If the Swarms took the ship, anyone in the bottle would survive. But they would have to stay there, for to exit from the bottle would be death. He had no wish to survive as a prisoner forever. What kind of life was that? He had languished in too many dungeons to consign himself to another. Better to fight, yes, and make an ending.

  'You must come!' said Zanya. 'You'll die if you stay out here!'

  'Here is where I'm staying,' said Drake.

  'Then I'll not go to the bottle either,' said Zanya. 'My end is soon. I know that much. If you end today, then - then so do I.'

  Then she said no more, for she was weeping too much to speak. He held her close. Looked over her shoulder to Miphon. He could see no expression in the wizard's green eyes. Miphon seemed almost to have withdrawn from the world. The wizard had wisdom enough to know that their chances of survival were zero. They were doomed. The game was over.

  Drake, who had no such wisdom, said:

  'The death-stone?'

  'We've been through that,' said Miphon, his voice so calm that it infuriated Drake. 'The ship would turn to stone. It would sink, surely.'

  'And maybe it wouldn't!' said Drake. 'Maybe a stone ship can still float. How do we know till we try? Let's use the death-stone! At least we'd take more of these monsters with us!'

  'It is hardly worth exciting false hopes amidst the crew at this stage,' said Miphon.

  'You're crazy, man!' said Drake.

  Zanya wiped a snivel of misery from her nose, then sniffed, then said:

  'What does it matter if the ship turns to stone? What does it matter if the ship sinks? The bottle would float. Wouldn't it? Float to land somewhere?'

  'No, it wouldn't,' said Miphon. 'Blackwood once had occasion to throw a similar bottle into a tarn on the Scourside Coast. It sank immediately.'

  'Tied to a man it wouldn't,' said Zanya. 'That man could use the death-stone, then—'

  'Then the ship would sink, and we'd have one man afloat in the ocean fifty leagues from anywhere,' said Miphon. 'And the moment he used the ring to get inside the bottle, it would fall away to the bottom of the ocean. Everyone inside would then be trapped there for life - for if the ring-bearer ventured outside, the weight of ocean waters would kill him without pity.'

  There was a scream from someone on deck. Drake looked round wildly and saw - a Neversh! It swooped low over the ship, its twin feeding spikes tearing into a sail. Then it was gone, flying low over the ocean, the sail dangling from its spikes.

  Drake's heart was hammering. Of all the monsters, he feared the Neversh most of all. To be held by the grapple-hooks, to be pierced by the feeding spikes: he had had nightmares about that.

  'Let two men stay outside,' Zanya said, not bothering to comment on the Neversh. 'One to keep the bottle afloat. The other to be ring-bearer. That way the bottle stays afloat.'

  'Yes,' said Miphon. 'Then we have two men afloat in the water instead of one. And both fifty leagues from land! What good would that do?'

  'The ring-bearer brings out a spar,' said Zanya.

  'There is no spar in the bottle,' said Miphon.

  'But,' said Drake, in a moment of decision, 'there will be soon. Come! Let's find Jon Arabin!'

  For Drake followed Zanya's reasoning, and saw what she was getting at. They could bring o
ne spar out of the bottle, aye - so they could just as easily bring two. And planks. And hammer. And nails. And ropes. And sails. And a long bamboo for a mast of sorts.

  'We can't go to Arabin!' said Miphon. 'We've led him to understand the red bottle stayed with Morgan Hearst in Estar. What will he say if he finds we've been lying?'

  'Man, is it sudden death you're afraid of?' said Drake, drawing his sword. 'You'll find it here and now lest you come to your senses!'

  'I yield,' said Miphon, 'to the judgment of your steel.'

  'This is no time for fancy rhetoric,' said Drake. 'Do you mean you'll talk with Arabin, or do you mean you want your death on the instant?'

  'We'll talk with Arabin,' said Miphon hastily.

  Moments later, Drake was at Jon Arabin's side, with Miphon and Zanya in attendance. Jon Arabin looked Zanya up and down. A strange sight she made, red hair, red skin, her face lathered with blue sores and tracked with tears, her nose still snivelling. While Jon Arabin wondered at this apparition, he judged that this was no time for stupid questions, so said only:

  'What is it? Make it quick!'

  Drake pointed at Miphon.

  'The wizard Miphon,' said Drake. 'On his finger, a magic ring. The ring can take you and crew into a magic bottle. We have with us on board the death-stone. It's the same one told of in legend - the same which demolished the walls of Androlmarphos.'

  'Such magic turns all about to stone,' said Jon Arabin. 'Our ship would surely sink.'

  T know that,' said Drake. 'But there's a way to survive regardless. Put crew in bottle with the makings for a boat or such. Then we'll use the death-stone to kill off the Swarms. Then we can bring the timbers out from the bottle, aye, and build a raft or such in mid-ocean.'

  'That,' said Arabin, 'is the weirdest thing I've heard all day.'

  'But it will work!' cried Drake. 'It will work.'

  Jon Arabin stared long and hard at Drake Douay. Then breathed heavily, and said:

  'You and me, young man, we're going to sit down and have a talk when this is over. A long talk. Now where's this bottle?'

  'Down below,' said Miphon. 'With Blackwood.' 'Then get it up here!' roared Jon Arabin.

  And Miphon fled.