Hugh Cook - The Walrus and the Warwolf

But the word was savaged by surf and by water-slop, tangled by ropes and baffled by echoes. What Drake heard was only an incomprehensible cry of human anguish. He was sure something terrible was happening to Arabin below decks. For more than a moment, he was tempted to ignore the cry. Then it was repeated.'Courage, man,' said Drake to Drake.

And crept through the dark wet scrabble-wood wreckage of the fo'c'sle, until he heard Arabin call out yet again – and recognized the shout as his own name.'What is it?' yelled Drake. 'Rats?'

'Rats?' roared Arabin. 'What are you blathering about? Is the monster over?''Aye,' said Drake. 'Over, and sunk from sight!''Good, then,' said Arabin.

And grabbed in the dark for the anchor axe which was always kept handy in case the ship had to quit a mooring in a hurry, cut away its restraining cords with one of his dirks, then hacked and chopped until he had cut clean through the cable, setting the anchor free to fall away to the cold dark hell of the seabed, dragging the Neversh with it.

Shortly, Arabin was on deck again, with Drake. As they picked their way back to their comrades, he said to Drake, as quietly as the weather would permit:

'Few enough have seen that and lived. Fewer still have helped tackle it. You did well.'

And that accolade, Drake knew, was to be valued more than the honours of many a kingdom.

'Now get yourself down to the kitchen, boy,' said Arabin. 'We've a hard night coming on, and the men will be wanting their soup.'And Drake went, thinking his captain a hard man.

'Where have you been?' demanded the cook, when he got below.'Helping Jon Arabin.''With what?''Oh,' said Drake. 'With-'

Then paused, finding he had no wish to avaunt about his feat. For he had faced the worst kind of arse-opening terror, and to tell the tale would be to relive it, at least in part.

'With ropes and cordage and stuff,' he said, by way of explanation.

And then pitched into the work the cook gave him, and was soon too busy to think. And, while he did not appreciate the wisdom of the captain who kept him so busy, he got the benefit of it regardless.

And through all these alarums, the snake in Drake's belly slept soundly, planning its changes for his future.

Drangsturm Gulf: a U-shaped indentation – roughly a hundred leagues wide and two hundred deep – in the coast of Argan.North, the Gulf opens to the Central Ocean.

East is Narba, Provincial Endergeneer, the settled lands of the Far South, the Castle of Controlling Power and Drangsturm.South is a desolate terror-coast on which lies Ling Bay.

West is unknown territory which legend holds to be haunted with monsters of the Swarms, and – in addition – trolls, basilisks, gryphons, dragons, crocodiles and two-headed giants.

Need it be said?

Drake's resolution not to boast about his part in killing the Neversh held good for precisely two days. After that, he was hot for fame, glory and recognition. But nobody paid him much attention, with the exception of Harly Burpskin.

'It's a nice story,' said Burpskin, having heard Drake's tale, 'but a mite improbable, to say the least.'

'Man, the Neversh was there,' said Drake. 'You saw it yourself.'

'Aye, and waves washing over the deck. Likely the brute was carried off by such.'

'Wait till we come to harbour,' said Drake. 'Then you'll see my story proved. For you'll find the anchor's missing.''What signifies a missing anchor?' said Burpskin.

'Expense, that's all. It's no new thing to lose an anchor. Aye, and a replacement will have to come from the voyage profits, before we get our share.' So much for fame and glory!

Since even Burpskin refused to believe him, Drake abandoned efforts to persuade anyone else. At least for the moment. His just recognition could wait till they reached land.If they reached land.

The Warwolf was leaking badly, shipping water almost faster than it could be pumped out. The wind, which had shifted to the east, was still almost storm-force. Under a sky of dark and ragged fractonimbus, the Warwolf toiled through the buffeting waters. The rolling seas crashed into surf, strewing foam across the ocean.

Jon Arabin, eyes red-rimmed, searched the blurred horizons for sight of land. His ears ached from the constant wind and cold – a cold he'd never known before in these waters. His right hip was aching, as it always did when he was cold and tired.Worse, he was lost.

He judged they were still in the Drangsturm Gulf – but where? As his ship groaned and shuddered, struck by another smash-fist sea-shock, he winced, as if it was his own body which was being pounded. Blood of a shark! What had he done to deserve such weather?

He reviewed his options. He could put out sea-anchors and do his best to go nowhere. In that case, the Warwolf would sink. He could try the long, laborious business of tacking against the easterly wind, trying to make for Narba. If he did that, his ship would sink all the quicker.

Alternatively, he could let the wind drive them to the western side of the Gulf of Drangsturm. During his many voyages in these waters – aagh, and how he longed for the fair weather of those long-ago cruises! – he had seen its mountains often enough on the far horizon. He had never been there. He had heard tales, of course . . .

But what choice did he have?'The ship must live,' said Arabin.

And, reluctantly, ordered the Warwolf to run for the west. Night came. By morning, the wind had eased to scarcely more than a moderate gale; foam from breaking waves was still lathered across the sea by the wind, but it was possible to talk without shouting. The very sounds of the ship were easier; her timbers were hurting still, but were no longer in agony.'Good,' said Arabin.

And ordered the lookouts, to keep a sharp watch for land. Though, to be honest, he still had no idea how far they were from shore.

Shortly after he had instructed the lookouts, he was met by a delegation led by Quin Baltu. With Baltu were Jez Glane, Salaman Meerkat and. Peg Suzilman. Arabin saw at a glance they were tired, angry, hostile, determined. All were armed.'Morning, boys,' said Arabin.

'Aye,' said Baltu, sourly. 'Perhaps the last morning some of us will see. Unless we turn, man, and run east.' 'Why should we do that?''Because,' said Baltu, 'that's what the boys want.''What's this?' said Jon Arabin. 'Mutiny?'He spoke as if in jest – but he was,worried.

'Not mutiny,' said Baltu, bracing himself against the ship's swagger. 'We want to fix things right with a friendly talk.''Aye,' said Glane. 'Friendly talk, that's the thing.'

Arabin looked around for some staunch, honest men he could call on for help if it came to a fight. But nothing was in sight but Drake Douay, who was keeping as close as possible to his captain, hoping to win promotion from cook's boy to sailor.

'Drake,' said Arabin, in a lazy voice. 'Get to the kitchen for some soup. I've six great rats and a blue-eyed raccoon in me belly, all clamouring sore with hunger.'

'What kind of soup do you want?' said Drake, casting an eye over the opposition.

Jez Glane was old and useless. Suzilman was also old – but wiry. Meerkat, slim, quiet and dark, was an unknown quantity. But Baltu – well, the big bloke could smash just about any man aboard.'What kind of soup?' said Arabin. 'What is there?'

'Oh, dragon soup, shark soup, mushroom soup or carrot soup.'

'Nay, man,' said Arabin. 'They all sound too fancy for me. I'll have what you usually serve up – that boiled dishwater with bits of dead men's bones afloat in it.'

'Man, we're right out of that stuff,' said Drake, 'since we're so far from ditches and graveyards. I tell you what, I'll get you a bowl of the cook's sawdust soup. That should suit!'