Hugh Cook - The Walrus and the Warwolf

As the drunken sot was carried away, Jon Arabin took the stage.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' said Arabin, looking around. 'I mean, of course, the gentlemen of the Warwolf and the ladies of the Walrus, and-'

(Furious shouting. Raucous cheers. Prolonged fish-throwing, most of it, again, inaccurate.)

'Ladies and gentlemen – may I speak? – thank you! -much as it grieves me to agree with Slagger Mulps, he's given us a lot of common sense. He got it from the fish guts his mother weaned him on. And, in any case, as the saying goes, even a blind walrus knows a dog from a virgin's gracehole.'

(Pandemonium. An outbreak of predictable behaviour. Consequences of such behaviour, some of them bloodstained. Peace restored, mainly through use of cudgels.)

'Strange it is for Warwqlf to sing in harmony with Walrus,' said Arabin. 'But on this occasion, I can do nothing else. We've heard easy talk of conquest. Aye. Conquest of Stokos. But who here knows the place as more than a name? I tell you this – I do. For one of my crewmen is Drake Douay, a native of the place. A strong fellow, not lightly scared.'

Hearing such praise, Drake was filled with a glow of pride. Ah, Jon Arabin! He knew quality when he saw it!

'With Drake Douay,' said Jon Arabin, 'I've lately been planning a raid on Stokos, so I know the strengths of the place well. They've people by the tens of thousands. They make weapons for the world, so they won't be short of steel if it comes to a fight. Worse, they've a breed of ogres on that island.

'Twice the height of men they stand – aye, as tall as Whale Mike. Where are you, Mike? Ah, there he is – over there, in the corner. But Mike, he's slim compared to these ogres, for they're built near as wide as they stand tall. How can humans fight against such?

'If you ask me, this man Menator's got no true plans for conquest. Instead, he hopes to wish us away to Stokos, so we all get killed in senseless battles. Then he can rule the Teeth, while we rot in hell, getting laughed at by our ancestors. But even if we did win Stokos, what good would that do us? Not much, say I.'

Then Arabin outlined the case against empire, speaking fluently, cogently, and with much gutter-wit (compared to which, what had gone before was mild).

Arabin truly doubted that Stokos could be conquered by the Teeth. He also knew that any quest for empire would involve an enormous amount of killing. He would have to breed furiously to pay off his death-debt. Meaning more expense, and more squalling daughters cluttering his caves (why no sons?). And – he was starting to feel his age, perhaps – he just did not think he could stand it.

After Arabin, many minor luminaries spoke (including Bluewater Draven, captain of the good ship Tusk). Some were for, but most were against. The pirates of the Teeth were, for the most part, too idle, lazy, cowardly, shiftless and gutless to make good imperialists.

Finally, after some discussion – which left seven pirates dead – the proposal for empire was lost.

Menator, finding the pirates would not support his drive for empire, announced that he would satisfy his ambitions without pirate help. He planned to begin by conquering the Lessers.

However, since it was winter, and the weather was bad, it was scarcely the time to hazard the dangerous waters of the Lessers. Menator therefore exercised his men by raiding the coasts of Dybra and Chorst, carrying off skinny sheep and half-starved goats.

Meanwhile, Jon Arabin resumed planning for a raid on Stokos.

In some ways, Drake regretted the fact that Menator had failed to win pirate support for his dreams of conquest. Their chances of success were small, but. . . what was the alternative?

The alternative was a lifetime of episodic raiding, long interludes of monotony, the shiftless company of drunken cronies, the repetitive comedy of the gambling tables . . .Which was not enough.For Drake wanted to make something of himself.

All through the years of his early youth he had imagined himself becoming, eventually, aswordsmith – a respected master craftsman whom the best men on Stokos would admire. When Muck's madness had ruined that dream, he had cherished ambitions of marrying into the royal family, or becoming a priest of the temple of Hagon. Now. . .

Now he was tempted to put his sword at Menator's service. Their chances were slim, yet. . .

We have but one life. If we don't get what we want from it, then what's the point of having it? Better slim odds for success than certain odds for defeat.

To stay a pirate was to be defeated. There was no job on the Teeth. No pride. No trust. Yet. . .

I'm scared, and that's the truth. This Menator's at least half mad. And. . . to leave Jon Arabin. . . why, that'd be a wrench, for sure…

Drake brooded about it while the winter rains and the winter seas launched onslaught after onslaught on the beleaguered desolations of the Teeth.

Thirty days after midwinter, Drake was practising a one-man kata in the privacy of his home cave when he was interrupted by Harly Burpskin.'What is it?' said Drake. 'Does Arabin wish to see me?''Nay, man,' said Burpskin. 'It's strangers.''Strangers?''They're sitting in the Inner Sleeve.'

'Pray, how sit they there when the water's a full three fathoms deep?'

'They're not swimming, man,' said Burpskin. 'They're on a ship.''What ship?' said Drake.'The Tarik: 'I know it not,' said Drake. 'Where has it come from?''From Stokos.''Stokos!'

'Aye. With some mighty strange people aboard. Stranger still, when I mentioned we owned a Stokos boy, they proved to know you.'

Drake needed to hear no more, but hastened to the Inner Sleeve. Once he left the protection of the tunnel system, he found the day cold, moist and grey. Rain was falling from a coal-scuttle sky, dimpling the waters of the Inner Sleeve where floated helpless turds, drowned kittens, the corpse of a rat and several ships. One of the ships was a dingy thing painted in colours of earth and clay. A tarpaulin was stretched above her open hold.

'That's the Tarik,' said Burpskin. 'Go to the hold, man. You'll find a friend there.''A friend?'

'Aye,' said Burpskin, stepping back into the shelter of a tunnel.'Aren't you coming?' said Drake.'I've seen your friend once. That's enough for me.'

Drake looked dubiously at the Tarik. Was this a trap? Only one way to find out. . .

He walked through the rain, stepped onto the greasy gangplank, skidded, and almost fell. As he gained the deck, his heart was scrambling; he was panting with excitement. He strode toward the open hold.

Stout green bamboos held up a ragged brown tarpaulin in which an enormous weight of rainwater had pooled; the bamboos were bending beneath the load. Cautiously, quiet as a cockroach gliding through shadows under the threat of a hunting hammer, Drake eased himself in under the shelter of the tarpaulin and peered into the hold.

There in shivering gloom a great, sad creature sat on a pile of mouldy sacking. The creature was almost as wide as it was tall. Its shaggy black hair trailed down around the huge flaps of its ears. Its blue eyes, set amidst grey skin, looked tired and defeated. Light gleamed faintly on its downward-jutting tusks. It was King Tor.

Yes, Tor – who, by Sully Yot's account, had converted to this weird religion founded by Gouda Muck. Adherents of that faith believed Drake Douay to be the son of Hagon, the incarnation of absolute evil. So prudence dictated a retreat.

Yet Muck's but a mouth talking. And haven't I got a mouth myself? Aye. I'll argue it out with the king. I'll talk him sweet to sense – or die trying. 'My lord

Tor looked up. He saw Drake. His nostrils flared. He came to his feet with a roar. As his head hit the tarpaulin, he thrust up with his arms. The water pooled in the tarpaulin was flung skywards. As it cascaded onto the deck, Tor roared, then shouted: