Hugh Cook - The Walrus and the Warwolf

Drake whiled away his off-duty by playing dice-chess and backgammon. He was so skilled by now that, unaided by other men's inebriety, he won a triple-ply solskin horse blanket which had once graced a stable in far-off Gendormargensis (a nice piece of equipment, but he had no horse), an ancient scroll in a dead language, ornamented with line drawings which he took to be maps of roads and rivers in some distant land (they were sketches of the palm-prints of the progeny of a forgotten king), a 'lucky rock' which he soon sent overboard (not recognizing this fist-sized hunk of dull stone as a diamond in the rough), and half a loaf of bread (black ironbread, baked on the Greaters before the Sky Dancer set sail).

But all good journeys come to an end (and bad ones, too), and at last the anchor crashed into the waters of

D'Waith's harbour. Drake, in high excitement, stared at the shore – not at the city of D'Waith itself, which was some distance inland, but at the small buildings built right up near the harbour. One of them must surely be a bar.He would soon be putting his religion to the test.

Name: Bluewater Draven.

Birthplace: Dalar ken Halvar.

Occupation: pirate captain, lately commander of the Tusk.

Status: always low, has been further reduced by loss of the Tusk, his fifth command wrecked in the last four years.

Description: cowardly untrustworthy bearded braggart of mature years who has (though he knows it not) a slow-growing bowel cancer, a small brain tumour, a steadily enlarging liver cyst, and an aneurysm in a major artery which may burst without warning at any moment, killing him almost instantly (though, knowing his luck, he'll as likely whore on for another ten years or more).

Religion: once seriously espoused alcoholism, but faith faltered after discovering this adversely affected his potency; may be said to have, if anything, 'a determined faith in the validity of the moment' (as Denrak said of Axis Gogman, who began his career as the ugly man in the court at Dalar ken Halvar, and ended up as Lord Tyrant of Greater Parengarenga).

'Is any of those buildings ashore a bar?' asked Drake, as the longboat cleaved its way through the harbour waters.

'They all are, unless things have changed since I came visiting last,' said Jon Arabin.'Good,' said Slagger Mulps, 'for I'm thirsty.'

Shortly they were ashore. Avoiding an establishment raucous with slaughter, a bar with a hole in its roof and an evil den nailed up tight with a plague-sign guarding its door, they slogged through shoreside mud to a low building where they hoped to quench their grog-thirst. Even ascetic Jon Arabin was keen for a change from vinegar and muddy ship-water.

A drink or three would set them up nicely for the trek to D'Waith proper – a thousand paces, some of it uphill.

'Beers, be ready!' commanded Drake, reaching the pub before his betters.

Eagerly, he thrust open the door and jumped down into the interior, being in too much of a rush to use the steps. The damp gloom within smelt of stale beer and wet straw. It was strangely quiet (the locals having been lured away by the fight in a rival tavern). Behind the bar was a man with the head and the horns of a bull.'Culamageethee!' said Drake in extreme surprise.

(The phrase, in his native Ligin, translates literally as 'the seaweed's slippery!')

He tried to withdraw, but it was too late, for the green-bearded Walrus was already coming through the doorway, with other thirsty souls crowding close behind.'Strength in numbers,' muttered Drake.

The bull-man was truly there, as large as life if not three sizes larger, moist reflections shining in his dung-dark eyes, a ring of gold snot-gleaming in his nose. A woman of deceptively normal appearance joined him. As she began setting up some thirst-quenchers, Drake saw her hands were the paws of a cat.

'What'll it be, strangers?' asked the bull-man, as his woman arranged a dozen doses of the world's best medicine.

'Who are you calling a stranger?' demanded Jon Arabin.'Why, Jon,' said the bull-man, 'it's you!' 'Ken fenargh eoch'alagarn sham narelonagarch," 1 said

Arabin, slipping into a language unknown to Drake.

'Shalamanargh ech hufloch dinareen,' answered the bull-man.

And the two of them laughed.

'Belay that jabber!' growled Mulps, green eyes registering a sudden anger. 'Let's have straight talk so all can follow.'

'Why, Mulps, man,' said Arabin. 'If you met a friend, would you not want a few words with him in the language sweetest on the tongue?'

'I've no long-lost friends here,' said Mulps, 'so no way of knowing.'

'No friends?' demanded a big brute who had been idling in corner shadows, at cards with a boy. 'No friends? Then how count I?''Draven, me old cock!' cried Mulps.'None other.'

It was indeed Bluewater Draven, captain of the good ship Tusk, one of the two vessels which had set out from the Greaters to accompany the Sky Dancer to Ork.

'So you made the rendevous,' said Arabin. 'But where is your ship? And where your crew?''I'll tell,' said Draven.And told how the Tusk had been shipwrecked. 'And your crew?' demanded Arabin. 'It was all I could do to save myself,' said Draven. 'Ah!' said Arabin.

'Don't harshen your tongue at me like that, man. I gave clear warning. When Menator first talked empire, I said it would bring disaster.'

'Menator never wrecked your ship on the Ravlish coast,' said Jon Arabin, with more sharpness than was strictly necessary.

'Nay, man, but I was here on his orders,' said Draven. 'Aye, and lucky to survive, bereft of friends on a foreign shore.'

'Well, your problems are over,' said Slagger Mulps. 'We'll soon muscle up a bed for you on my good ship.'

'So she's your ship now, is she?' said Draven, by way of provocation. 'Is she calling herself the Walrus these days?''Aye, that she is,' said Mulps, unwisely.

'She's no such gore-wet thing!' said Jon Arabin, as honour compelled him to in the face of such a challenge. 'She's the Warwolf, always has been, always will.'

While the pirate chiefs argued it out, young Drake Douay ballasted himself with a few good ales. But they did him little good, so he complained to the barman accordingly.

'We'll soon fix that,' said his host, pouring him a good dollop of rice wine. 'This'll vim you up nicely.' Drake drank it down and shook his head. 'More!' he said.

'First pack down some food,' said the barman. 'Booze is grim stuff for an empty stomach.'

'Nay, man,' said Drake, shaking his head. 'I don't eat while I'm drinking.'

The barman grabbed Drake's hair then hauled him close, jamming his nose against the bull-snout gold. Hot bull's breath fanned Drake's face.

'You'll do what's good for you, boy,' roared the barman, 'or I'll break your ribs in fifty-seven places then jump up and down on your liver, just as your mother would want me to.'

He released Drake, who, shaken, sat abruptly on a bar stool.'Molly!' said the barman. 'Dish the boy some food!'

The woman with cat-paw hands obliged, slapping down an enormous bowl of polenta, with a mixed assortment of olives and gherkins on the side.

'Eat, boy, eat!' said the barman. 'And don't tell your mother I didn't take care of you.'

'Maybe I can't afford to pay for it,' said Drake rebelliously.

'Food's free, like all good things in life. Molly, start spoon-feeding the boy – he's clearly in need of assistance.'

Calmly, Molly picked up a spoon. Drake hastily began shovelling victuals into his mouth, ears burning as men behind him laughed.

'Not so fast, boy,' said the barman, a note of warning in his voice. 'You'll give yourself indigestion.'