The Walrus and the Warwolf coaaod-4

by Hugh Cook

Warm within his gut, unperturbed by the weather, the encysted snake fed quietly on his blood, nourished its slowly-growing eggs, and thus prepared certain profound changes for his future.

  For two days more the Warwolf endured the storm, with her crew manning the fore-shrouds in shifts. Once she was driven within half a league of the coast, but a wind-change saved her. She sprung a leak: Arabin set men to pumping. Another started: he organized a bucket-brigade. The first mate fell down a companion-ladder and broke his neck; Arabin swore, and promoted the second.

  At last the inconstant wind shifted all the way round to the south, and eased a little. The Warwolf ran along with bare poles. Drake, by this time, was lurching on his feet, with hardly enough sense left to understand that he was still alive.

  Arabin, passing him on the deck, slapped him on the back.

  'We've done it, boy!' said Arabin. 'We've come through!'And Drake, despite the intensity of his fatigue, grinned. 'Aye,' he said. 'We're heroes.'

  Both Shewel Lokenshield and Ika Thole heard him say as much, but neither of those hard men mocked him. Rather: they shared his triumph.

  'How about some food for half-starved sailors?' said Ika Thole.

  And Drake, understanding that the question was prompted by dire need, gladly went to the galley.

  Towards noon on one rough-weather day (which day? How much storm had they endured? Blood and balls, there was no remembering) lessening winds allowed them to set a little sail. A brave sight the Warwolf made then, plunging through the mountainous grey seas with timbers groaning and strong men groaning in harmony.

  'We'll have it sweet from here to Narba,' said Jon Arabin to himself. 'We're in the clear.'

  Many sailors' superstitions held that such talk was tempting fate. Certainly, it was over-optimistic, for that evening their troubles were multiplied by a monster.

  It came flying from out of the south, labouring through the air on storm-damaged wings. Swept from the shores of Argan by the weather, too poor an aviator to fly against the wind, it had no choice but to brave on forward into the unknown. An island was what it needed, but the Warwolf, happening where she did, suited the brute's purposes nicely.

  It came on the ship from the stern. Then flew alongside. Drake Douay saw it out of the corner of his eye.

  'If that was on a chessboard,' he murmured, turning and getting a good look at it, 'I'd say it was a Neversh.'

  Since it wasn't on a chessboard, he dismissed it as a hallucination. Harly Burpskin saw the same thing, and thought it was a demon. Raggage Pouch also saw it – and mewled with piteous fear. He knew exactly what it was. It was indeed a Neversh. And Raggage Pouch, who had once seen a Neversh kill seventy armed men on Island Burntos, feared it more than anything out of nightmare.The Neversh flew in a great wide circle round the ship.'Jon!' screamed Quin Baltu.'What?' yelled Jon Arabin.'There's a-'

  The rest of Quin Baku's words were lost in the sundering roar of a wave breaking over the ship.'So there's a wave,' muttered Jon Arabin. 'So what?'

  But he was worried, all the same. For, heavily laden with an enormous mass of water, the Warwolf seemed almost to dig into the sea. For a few moments, Jon Arabin thought she was going to sunder under there and then.

  Water cascaded from the ship in torrents. Slowly, her bow began to rise.'Jon!' screamed Quin Baltu.

  'Don't worry!' yelled Jon Arabin, thinking this was no time for Quin Baltu to panic. 'She's riding nicely.' 'But there's a-'

  There was a crash fit to rival thunder. Jon Arabin looked round wildly. Saw that the foremast was shattered, was down, broken, smashed, had fallen across the fo'c'sle, had wrecked the fo'c'sle, and was now kicking, struggling, striving, trying to resurrect itself.Or was it?No. On closer examination . . .

  'Hell's blood and pigs' balls!' shouted Jon Arabin, in a voice that was one part fear and two parts fury. 'It's a Neversh, or I'm a tadpole.'

  Jon Arabin could never be mistaken for a tadpole (though he had in his time been compared unfavourably with a shark, a lamprey, a vulture and a cantaloup) and there was indeed a Neversh struggling in the wreckage of rigging and canvas on the forward part of his ship.'Jon-' shouted Quin Baltu.

  'I see it!' yelled Jon Arabin. 'Well, don't just stand there! Get rid of it!' Quin Baltu started forward, obedient to Jon Arabin's command. But the next wave took him overboard.

  'Merantosh!' said Jon Arabin, who was always prone to obscenity under stress. 'Na jaba na terikV

  He looked round for Disaster, or some other man who might be fool enough to tackle the beast. None such was in sight.'Right, then,' said Arabin. 'I'll handle it myself.'

  As these monsters go, the Neversh was fairly small. Scarcely a quarter grown, it was just fifty paces in length, from the tips of its twin feeding spikes to the end of its whiplash tail. Small, yes, yet dangerous. It thrashed strenuously, wings beating so wildly that it was impossible to count them all. Its body, rich with buoyant gas, was kicked around by the wind. Finding the mainmast with its tail, the Neversh coiled tail around mast, and hung on tightly.

  'Come on, men!' roared Jon Arabin. 'We're going to deal with that hell-bitch!'Nobody paid him any attention.

  The ruined foremast, which had till then been pointing forward, rolled with a crash from the wreckage of the fo'c'sle. It started dragging in the water. A snare of ropes prevented it from falling away entirely.

  'Men!' roared Jon Arabin. 'We act now or we lose the ship. Kill the monster! Cut away the mast! Come on! Come with me!'

  But the entire crew was in panic, some men trying to launch the boats, others climbing the sheets – as if that would save them! – or taking cover below-decks.'Grief!' said Jon Arabin.

  He called up the weapons muqaddam, who had been supervising the pumping.

  'Get some order in this ship,' said Arabin, 'even if you have to kill someone. I'm going forward to take care of our unwelcome visitor.'

  The weapons muqaddam looked round, saw the nature of the unwelcome visitor, and gave a short bow.

  'Mylord,' hesaid, 'I will remember your heroism to your wives and children.'

  Then grinned, darting out of reach as Arabin swung a kick at him. They were good friends from way back.

  On his way forward, Arabin came upon a party of pirates who were trying to launch a boat.

  'Avast there, you landlubbers!' bellowed Arabin. 'Any crow-gutted scavenger who wants to leave had better be ready to walk water!'

  With a few more well-chosen words and some adroit use of his left-hand boot (always his best kicking foot, the left) he scattered the men back to their work.

  Then hung on tight as a huge wave broke, sending water lathering over the ship. Amidst the lather was Quin Baltu. Jon Arabin grabbed him as he went floating past.'You all right?' said Arabin.

  Quin Baltu could only cough and gasp. He had been thrashed something terrible by the roistering ocean; he had swallowed enough salt to pickle a pig.

  'Volunteers!' roared Arabin. T need five volunteers to carry Quin Baltu to safety.'Five volunteers promptly came forward.

  Drake Douay was one of them and Jon Arabin grabbed him.

  'Friend Drake stays here,' said Arabin. 'It only needs four of you to carry Quin Baltu.'The lucky four hustled Quin Baltu away.'Now you come along with me,' said Arabin to Drake.

  As the sea captain had caught the cook's boy in a painful wrist-lock, there was not much argument about it.

  Weeping with fear and fatigue, Drake was forced along the deck toward the Neversh.

  11

  Neversh: flying monster with six wings; eight very short legs ending in clawed feet; massive head; thick neck; bulky bulbous body containing buoyant gas; very long whiplash tail which it often uses as a weapon; twin feeding spikes which appear to be made of solid ivory, but on Investigation prove to have a honeycomb structure; twin grapple-hooks to secure prey.

  The Neversh can grow at least two hundred paces long and is alleged to be able to deflect crossbow bolts with its tail. (Nevertheless, archers have often shot down sam
ples of this type of monster, as its gas-retaining sacs puncture easily.)

  The Neversh is one of the Swarms, those colony creatures which dominate the terror-lands of the Deep South, and are only prevented from invading the north of Argan by the gulf of Drangsturm – and the wizards guarding that flame trench.

  Weeping with fear and fatigue Drake was forced along the deck toward the Neversh. As Drake and Jon Arabin came level with the mainmast, Drake saw the monster had coiled its tail around the mast to stop itself getting swept away by the waves.

  'We can chop the tail!' cried Drake, who wanted to go no nearer the head than he had to.'That won't do,' said Jon Arabin.

  'Why not? Cut away the tail! The next wave will take it!'

  'Aye! Or it might turn round to fight its way aft. Then what?''You tell me,' said Drake.

  'We lose the ship, that's what. Come on! Move yourself! No – wait!'Jon Arabin forced Drake to the mainmast.'We'll cut the tail?' said Drake.'No! I've told you that! The rope – cut it loose.'

  Drake drew his dirk and cut loose the coil of rope which was tied (by four-dozen turns of twine) to cleats anchored to the mainmast. As the rope came free, the coils of the tail of the Neversh shifted. Drake started, fell back. Jon Arabin caught him, took the rope and slung it over his shoulder.

  Then Arabin hustled Drake onwards until they were up by the monster's neck. A massive neck, thicker than a tree-trunk. It seemed a dull purple colour in the dark of the evening. It pulsed as the creature breathed.

  'Hack it!' shouted Drake, with the savagery of fear. 'Chop it and gut it!'

  'Aye, boy, and have it tear the ship apart as it died. They're powerful strong, these brutes. Take half a day to die if they're cut clean in half. Help me with the rope!'

  Arabin ducked under the monster's neck, mounted wreckage to gain some height, then slung the end of the rope to Drake.

  'Make it fast!' said Arabin. 'A loop round the monster's neck! A hangman's knot, if you know the shaping!''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.

&n
bsp; 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.'