Hugh Cook - The Walrus and the Warwolf

As he went, he wondered where Zanya was. He hoped she was safe.

With something like shock, he realized he had not seen his beloved for at least three days. Running cities and temples looks easy work from outside – but Drake, who had been working his arse off ever since he came to power in Runcorn, had found himself with precious little time in which to enjoy the delights of love.

Drake came out onto the balcony which overlooked both the main door to City Hall and the market square which it fronted onto.

The market square was a seething storm of tumultuous people. The enforcers, who had been fighting to keep them from the doors, had now retreated within, leaving half a dozen of their number dead on the steps.The doors had been closed.

And, even now, a ship's mast was being manhandled through the mob. Clearly it was going to be used as a battering ram.Drake looked on this impassively.He was recognized.People began to scream in hysteria.

Drake lifted his arms high, and held that theatrical stance until the noise died down.

Drake had studied democracy at close hand on the Greater Teeth. He had learnt a thing or two.

'You are ready to act!' said Drake, in a big voice – a voice which the years had trained against everything from the hammering of forges to storms at sea.

The crowd answered him with a roar of assent. They were ready to act, all right. They were ready to tear him from limb to limb.

Was he responsible for the woes of Runcorn? Was he responsible for dragons in Estar, the Collosnon invasion of the north of Argan, or renegade wizards on the loose? No – but he was the government, therefore he was going to be held responsible whether he liked it or not.

'Yes,' said Drake. 'You are ready to act. And the field for action is huge. Rich! Glorious! I talk wealth. I talk money. I talk women. For the taking.''Horseshit!' screamed a voice.

'Aye, horses is part of it,' said Drake. 'Ten horses for every man here, yea, and for the beggar who follows him.' He had their attention now.

'Runcorn has lived by trade,' said Drake. 'But trade is gone. Therefore, we live by – this!'

And, drawing his weapon with a theatrical flourish, he shouted:'The sword!'

Holding the glittering weapon to the midsummer sun, he looked around. They were silent, now. They wanted to hear. He knew no distant promises would serve. They wanted gratification of some sort – soon.

'Close,' said Drake. 'Very close, lies wealth. The wealth of land. The wealth of horses. The wealth of many slaves. Generations have ignored it. But we are stronger. We are bolder. We shall take it.'

'Wealth where?' bawled a fellow in the crowd. 'In Selzirk?'

'Man,' yelled Drake. 'There's wealth for a pretty arse like yours in Selzirk, to be sure.'The crowd laughed – and Drake knew he had them.

'Real wealth, we're talking,' said Drake. 'Ours for the taking. The horselands, we're talking about. Rich land there, and horses, and slaves. Aye.'

And now everyone realized what he was talking about. The Lezconcarnau Plains. Bounded by mountains, they lay inland from Runcorn. True, there were many people there – primitive disorganized villages which cropped the land, or raised cattle, or bred horses, or hunted – and feuded with each other constantly.

True, there was wealth there to be had for the taking, if ever a warlord commanded Runcorn.

'Selzirk buys slaves,' said Drake. 'And all the world buys horses. Let us be rich together! Let us be rich! Wealthy! Glorious! We can march tomorrow! We can march today!'

And he waved his sword, conjuring up a tumultuous cheering.

'Who will be war-leaders?' shouted Drake. 'Who wants a war-leader's share of the booty? Prove yourselves forward!'

There was, immediately, a struggling excitement below, as the boldest, most dangerous members of the mob forced themselves forward. Drake had, in effect, just bribed them to throw in their lot with him.

'Steady there!' shouted Drake. 'Make way for the heroes! Don't hold a good man back! Let's see our new leaders!'

And already he was thinking, very very fast, of his next steps. The war leaders would take the city's bravest on a march of conquest into the Lezconcarnau Plains. While they were gone, Drake would consolidate-

He broke off thinking, for he saw Zanya forcing herself forward with the would-be warlords. She was shouting something incoherent. Some strangers were with her, men whom he took to be wizards, for they were dressed in long grey robes and carried with them iron-shod wooden staves.With shock, he realized what she was shouting: 'Demon-son! Demon-son!'

The men in grey robes, all thirty of them, took up the cry, making it into a chant: ' Demon-son! Demon-son!'Drake vainly waved his sword, trying to quell the noise. 'I am Arabin lol Arabin,' he shouted.

The stave-men in grey robes were clearing a space on the steps of City Hall. Then a man dressed in robes of purple advanced to the stairs.'Drake!' he shouted.And the noise of his voice was awesome.

'Dogs' grief and beetle-dung!' muttered Drake. 'Gouda Muck!'Then, loudly:

'Old man, we are planning war! For wealth! For conquest! For glory! Let my war-leaders through! The moment demands!'

'Demands?' shouted Muck. 'Who demands? What demands? I tell you who demands! I tell you what demands! A monster demands! The true son of the demon Hagon! A creature spawned from evil! A hell-fiend! He murdered your City Fathers! He drinks poison, yet lives! He butchers babies and eats their livers raw! Rapes your daughters b'y night as they sleep behind bolted iron! Spreads madness, kills cattle, drinks blood, fouls water, flies by night on the winds of the bat and ravages the clouds to thunder!'

At which there was a considerable outbreak of noise.

Then one of the would-be war leaders got up on the shoulders of his comrades and cried:

'It's our city, boys! Runcorn! Let Runcorn lead Runcorn! The boy's bad luck whatever he is! Run him out of town, that's what I say! Let Runcorn lead Runcorn!'The slogan proved popular.

Thus it was that Drake was chased out of Runcorn before evening, hair shaved off, body smeared with ashes and molasses, and he ran panting and weeping with his hands tied behind his back until the rabble grew tired of chasing him with sticks and stones and foul language into the bargain.And as for Gouda Muck?

Why, he would have chased Drake himself, and beaten him to death on the spot, if he could have – for to rid the world of the Demon-son was part of his sacred mission.

But the slogan 'Let Runcorn lead Runcorn!' generated such a wave of riotous prejudice that Muck, even with his thirty stave-men to help him, was lucky to be able to fight his way to the docks and escape from Runcorn on a small fishing boat.And Zanya?She went with Muck.

And in the days that followed, there was much fighting in Runcorn as the would-be warlords sorted out their order of precedence. And after that there were a few halfhearted expeditions into the Lezconcarnau Plains. But the tribesmen proved tougher than expected, and the Empire Which Could Have Been never was.

Harvest Plains: nation north of Rice Empire, west of Chenameg, south of Runcorn and east of Central Ocean; main cities are Selzirk (the capital) and Androlmarphos; rule is by 'kings', regional and city governors appointed by the 'Kingmaker' (currently Farfalla) who is in turn chosen from the common people by the Regency.

No time but sun time. A buzzard wheeling over barefoot fields. Drake at labour, the weather opening cracks deep in his leather-tough heels. Shiny black crickets at scramble in the heat-cracked land.

Nights in a bunkhouse, staring at nothing, scarcely listening to the peons yattering away in their incomprehensible Field Churl. Waking deep in the night. Listening to creaking snores, a snort, a murmur of night-talk. Tasting his own arm with his own lips. Salt of the day still heavy on his flesh.Solitary comfort.Pay day: wages scarcely better than slavery.