Hugh Cook - The Walrus and the Warwolf

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.

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 benches, 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.