Hugh Cook - The Walrus and the Warwolf

The other sea serpent screamed. It thrashed wildly. The corpse of its deceased comrade slid back into the sea, drenching the waters with gouts of gore. The other monsters still swimming there went wild. In a feeding frenzy, they bit at anything and everything in sight – including the surviving chained serpent.

With its lower third torn to shreds, the chained brute collapsed to the deck, perfectly dead.

'The fire, boys!' roared Arabin. 'No resting! We've five to kill!'

At that moment, a squall hit, bringing drenching rain. The fire wavered; with a bucket of sea serpent blood, the pirates began to assault it.

Meanwhile, Drake, still clinging to wreckage dragging from the ship's side, watched with detached interest as sea serpents fought amongst themselves, their battle slowly taking them away from the Warwolf. The nearby wreckage was entangled with an enormous chunk of dead sea serpent. He wondered, vaguely, if the scales would make good souveniers.

Then he saw an evil-looking dorsal fin cutting through the water. A shark? No – dolphin, surely. Thus thought Drake. Then saw his new neighbour snout into floating sea serpent remnants, tear out a huge chunk of meat and worry it under. It was a shark! And . . . looking around, Drake realized it was not alone.

The next instant, Drake was scrambling up the wreckage trailing from the deck of the Warwolf. He moved as fast as a greased cat chased by lightning. He could not say how he got to the deck, but he was there almost instantly.

Panting, he gaped at a wild mob of capering bloodstained lunatics, who were screaming out songs and whore-jokes, whooping with laughter and yelling battle-cries as they flailed at fire with ropes and whips, beat it with green bamboo, or lavished its fervour with water.

'Drake!' roared Jon Arabin. 'Trust you to be skiving off somewhere! Get your butt over here! Get to work.'

Drake looked around for Harly Burpskin, but saw him nowhere. Was he dead? Perhaps. Even if he was alive. . . maybe this wasn't exactly the best time to try to collect on a bet.

Tameran: northern continent dominated by the sprawling Collosnon Empire ruled by Yarglat chieftain named Khmar.

North Strait: hostile seaway between Argan and Tameran; characterized by high tides, treacherous currents, mist, fog, storms and ironbound coasts; known in Collosnon parlance as the Pale.

Ork: deeply-indented island east of the Pale.

That night, as a jury-rigged Warwolf struggled north, Jon Arabin sat up late. By lantern-light, he did his arithmetic, using a base-twelve number system, an abacus designed to cope with the same, and a set of knotted cords for records. (He was literate as well as numerate, but paper and parchment were too precious for scrapwork).

Arabin's concern was his responsibility for the women sent overboard -/some of them his own wives. A necessary move. Doubtless. Nevertheless, the death-debt would be set against his record. Before he died,, he must sire children in numbers at least equal to that death-debt, or his gods (who had brutal tempers at the best of times) would be most unhappy with him.

Long he struggled with the numbers. But, no matter how he checked the working, or scratched his bald black head, or pulled on his nose, the death-debt was still too heavy. He reworked his sums in the binary arithmetic of Yestron, but they came out the same. Unless Arabin got in

a lot more breeding before his death, he was doomed. And death, on a venture like this, could strike at any moment.

He almost despaired. Then remembered that Slagger Mulps was, after all, technically joint captain of the Warwolf. And, since Menator had sent them north to start with, that eager imperialist must also take a share of the command responsibility. So Arabin divided the death-debt by three. Then he factored in two of the four children who were about to be born into his family as he was leaving Knock (a 50 per cent survival rate leaving a margin of safety to account for stillbirths).

He looked long and hard at the new result. His death-debt balanced out precisely against his birthlist.

Jon Arabin permitted himself the luxury of a smile. But only a small smile. Unfortunately, his manipulations were not strictly orthodox. His creative accounting would not necessarily get past the fifty-seven eyes of the Supreme Auditor. But, with luck, he might meet a fellow follower of the Creed of Anthus, some peaceful-living fornicator who would happily sell part of his birth-surplus for cash.

Arabin yawned, stretched – then sat up smartly. Yes! That was the solution! To make converts! Drake, for instance. An ideal recruit: young, strong, virile, healthy, and not too keen on killing or getting himself killed. Jon Arabin could convert him (maybe adopting him, too, at the same time, to strengthen their relationship) then set him up on a place like Gufling with a harem on his own. And bribe him to live there quietly, breeding spiritual credits Arabin could buy to set against his death-debt.

Arabin was so excited he almost called for Drake on the spot. But it was late; he should sleep, so he would be fighting fit if any emergency arose that night. Reluctantly, he turned in.

Come morning, he had no time to talk religion with Drake, for the ship's problems were worsening rapidly. There was nothing complicated about it: she was simply taking in more water than was being pumping out. She was sinking. And exhausted men with their hands already raw from pumping all night could scarcely be goaded to greater efforts.

Jon Arabin tried every trick he knew. Divers -including Drake – were sent into the sea to try to locate leaks. Emerging from the waters blue with cold, they claimed their mission fruitless. Other men worked below decks, trying to pinpoint the places where water was pouring in; as some of the worst leaks were already submerged, this was of little use.

Ropes held by men on either side of the ship were dropped over the dragon figurehead at the bow, worked down the length of the ship, then used to haul oakum-enriched sails so they lay taut against the hull below the waterline. This attempt at fothering the leaks brought little success.

'But the ropes are there!' roared Jon Arabin. 'And I'll use them to keel-haul the first man who drops from exhaustion!.'

But, when Simp Fiche collapsed, Arabin failed to live up to his word: for religious reasons, he could not chance another killing. And when Bucks Cat gave up, Arabin knew everyone aboard must be close to their limits.

He reduced sail, trying to lessen the strain on the ship – but he had to keep her moving, for they had been swept desperately close to the shipbreaking cliffs of the far north-west of Argan.'Lighten the ship!' ordered Arabin.

Overboard went the harbour chain from Hexagon. Of all aboard, only Drake knew enough about metalwork to properly mourn its loss. Men dived in the filth far below decks to recover ballast blocks, which were passed from hand to hand then chucked over. While these and other things were being ditched, casks, spars and planks were lashed together to make rafts. Every boat on deck had been smashed by sea serpents.

'Mulps,' said Arabin, spying the Walrus. 'I've tried every move I know. What have I forgotten?'

'Your father's name, if your mother ever knew it to tell you, which I doubt.' 'Ah, bash-da-zerkV said Arabin.'The same to you!' said the Walrus.

Arabin did not bother to argue further. He strode on down the canting deck to the treasure hold, where men waist-deep in dirty water were handing the sea to men above, a bucket at a time.

'Men,' shouted Arabin. 'We're losing to the flood. Any suggestions?'

Those below, who resembled nothing so much as the living dead, looked up at him in something close to hopelessness.