Hugh Cook - The Walrus and the Warwolf

'We're taught to think on Stokos,' said Drake. 'Not that I can always see the use of it, since there's not much money in thinking. As to leadership – why, my uncle, Oleg Douay, he spoke of it often. For he was mixed up in wars and such in his youth.'

'Well,' said Jon Arabin, teaching done and curiosity still to be satisfied, 'tell me now, friend Drake. Whence came that trinket? From the west?'

'Nay, man,' said Drake. 'From the moon. My father flew there when he were but a boy, riding on the back of a great grey goose.'

'I see,' said Jon Arabin. 'Then how about you flying below to get me some soup?''Dragon soup or sawdust?'

'I'll take the seal soup,' said Arabin. 'It seems the least likely to kill.'

It was a long, uneasy day. Arabin worried incessantly. What if reefs and rocks infested these uncharted waters? What if he failed to find safe harbour to the west? An island, yes, that was what he needed. Not anything fancy. Any chunk of rock would do, so long as his ship could shelter in its lee.

Leadership is the science of hope. Yes. But if he found no landfall to the west, what good was hope?

By the time night came, heavy rain was falling. A solid, sullen downpour. Rain! In the Drangsturm Gulf, at the height of summer! Craziness . . .

What should he do? Heave to? Or strive blindly through the night? There were so many unknowns: the weather, the distance to shore, what depth of water they could count on. How much longer could the ship stand staunch against the seas before ripping in half?

Jon Arabin made a round of his ship, and decided he knew one thing for certain: his crew could take very little more of this.

'We run for the west tonight,' said Jon Arabin, with every appearance of confidence. 'I know just where we are, aye, from the taste of the spray. Come morning, we'll see land – I guarantee it.'

Faint hearts were heartened by this bluff, and through the night the Warwolf ran. Jon Arabin slept little, yet thrice dreamed his ship wrecked.

The weather eased further overnight. Come morning, they were cruising in a moderate breeze amidst herds of brisk white horses that were champing across the seas toward the western coast of the Gulf of Drangsturm, which lay in plain view maybe twenty leagues away.

About three leagues south was a considerable mass of land which might have been either a peninsular or an island. It terminated in a rugged cape.'Is that an island?' asked Drake Douay, pointing south.'It surely is,' said Arabin, hoping he was right.'What's it called?''It has no name as yet.'

'Then I name it Island Tor,' said Drake. 'Yes. Tor, in honour of the king of Stokos. How about those mountains on the western shore? Do they have a name?'Not as yet,' said Jon Arabin, amused.'Then. . .'

Drake thought about naming them the Zanya Klieder-vaust Ranges. But that sounded clumsy. He cast around for a better name, and soon had one: the Dreldragon Teeth. Perfect!

Sight of land put new life into the crew. They worked with a will, and, shortly, the Warwolf rounded the cape Jon Arabin had seen to the south.

An ironbound coast slanted away to the south-west for about a dozen leagues, terminating in a second cape, which they rounded at mid-morning. From here, the eastern coast of Tor slanted away to the south-east.

Was Tor an island or a peninsular? The difference was vital. If a peninsular, then it adjoined the terror-lands of the Swarms, and was probably infested with monsters. If an island, it might be safe. Providing the legends of giants, basilisks and such weren't true . . .

The sun broke through the clouds. The wind dropped. They cruised in the lee of the putative island through a blue-green sea of idle wavelets. It grew hot. The damp decks steamed. Men stripped to the waist, soaking up the sunlight. This was more like it! This was how the Gulf was supposed to be in summer!

A league along the coast, they came upon a bay of beauty. Sailing close inshore so Jon Arabin could check it out, the Warwolf 'lost the last of the wind. She floated in a delicious calm. The crew crowded the larboard railing, staring at paradise. A lean white beach of crisp clean sand. Behind the beach, rough grasses of a brilliant green. Inland from that, deep cool forest of a darker green. Jon Arabin gazed long on that forest. The wood itself was wealth.

He heard the rattle-cackle of staccato bird-talk coming clear across the water. A flight of parrots burst to the sky, hustling across the heavens like splashes of animated rainbow. There was a disconcerting arthritic crackling in the background. What? He'd heard it before, hadn't he? Yes, years ago, in Quilth. Cicadas, that was all. Millions of them. They'd do no harm . . .

At the southern end of the beach, a stream ran swift and bright. Good water! The rocks of the southern headland were of limestone. There would be caves in such rock. Arabin felt a pang of heartbreaking nostalgia and homesickness, for limestone was the ruling rock of Ashmolea; he had loved its landscapes dearly in his youth. How many years since he last saw Ashmolea? Many!

'This looks great!' said Drake, admiring the pale sands, the grass, the forest. Dry land! Dry land! A bare rock covered with seagull dung would have looked sweet to him at that moment.

'Aye,' said Arabin. 'It's a good place. What do you want to call it?'

'Zanya Bay,' said Drake promptly, for he owed his true love that much.'Jon!' cried Baltu. 'Is this the island you promised us?''It surely is,' called Arabin.'Then tell us about it!' yelled one of the men.

Other voices took up the cry. They wanted to know where they were, how long they'd be here, when they'd see the fleshpots of Narba. Jon Arabin gestured for silence.

'Men!' said Arabin. 'This is Island Tor. It's named for the king of Stokos, a fearless ogre who explored these lands in his youth. The father of young Drake Douay voyaged here with the king, and brought Drake proof of the truth of his story.

'This place of beauty here is Zanya Bay, where the king careened his ship. A good careenage it is, too, as you can tell at a glance.''Good, sure,' cried a pessimist. 'But for the Swarms!'

'This is an island,' insisted Arabin. 'No monsters tread these forests. And look west! You see the west of the Drangsturm Gulf, some twenty or thirty leagues away. See those mountains? Those are the Dreldragon Teeth, famous in the legends of Stokos. Such heights are far too bitter-cold for the Swarms. We're safe! So now, boys – to work!'

'Aagh, you can slag work up your poke-hole!' shouted a dissident, anonymous in the crowd. And others shouted similar.

Exhausted by weather, labour, nightmare, fear, short rations, seasickness and wakeful nights, they had no taste for work. The very last thing they wanted was to careen the ship. If the shore had been grim, barren, bitter and stony, Jon Arabin might have won their cooperation – but, as it was, paradise beckoned. Arabin found himself facing a seething, shouting mob. His crew was on the edge of mutiny.

'Men!' shouted Arabin. 'Let's talk money! Let's talk wealth! There's treasure on this island!'

'What treasure?' yelled Raggage Pouch. 'I see nothing but trees!'

'Man!' shouted Jon Arabin. 'And how much is lumber worth in Narba? Eh?'

And he began to talk money. When he had finished, Quin Baltu backed him up:

'It's true what Jon says. Timber's a good price in Narba. If we patch the ship proper, we can leave with riches.'

But the men still refused to careen the ship. So they struck a bargain. The ship would stay afloat. Divers would make emergency repairs to the leaking hull from the outside; other men would work from the inside. Meantime, the rest of the crew would work the forest for a cargo of timber to enrich this voyage. In return for Arabin's concessions, the crew swore to overhaul the Warwolf properly once back at the Greaters.