Hugh Cook - The Walrus and the Warwolf

Drake thought of his own talking amulet, lying in secret next to his skin. Now he would never know what that mysterious amulet-voice was talking about. Ah well… it had been good, yes, Ling and all. And Island Ko, yes. He had thought it melting. A good joke that one, aye, Jon Arabin had laughed when told about it. . .

A pity he'd never thought to show that amulet to the wizard Miphon. A wizard would know what the amulet talked about, surely. It would be nice to know. Aye. He should have done that at the Castle of Controlling Power. Miphon might have bought the thing off him. Aye. Perhaps the wizard would have thrown in Zanya Kliedervaust as part of the purchase price.

Drangsturm.

That was another thing. Getting all the way to the fire dyke then not getting a proper look at it. That crazy castle had been in the way. The power of it, yes, that he'd felt, shaking the very earth. The light of it, yes, reflected from clouds – that he'd seen too.

But I'd like to have looked inside it. Just once, anyway. They say the very rock melts to waves within. And salamanders. Fire-creatures. Good stuff to see . . .

Drake scarcely listened to the Collosnon garbling between themselves in their barbarian tongue. A knife sawed at his bonds. He thought, with detachment, that he would have kept a sharper edge on any blade of his. Then the ropes supporting him fell away. He collapsed to the ground. The warriors grabbed him by feet and shoulders, and lugged him away to a shoreside tent.

They laid him down on a horse blanket which stank from years spent in some distant northern stable, then they offered him booze.'A party, is it?' said Drake.He was answered in his enemies' alien nonsense-talk.

'Well,' said Drake, T don't care what you think of me as long as your liquor's good. Who knows? Tonight I might get drunk.'

But, though he guzzled on the strong liquor the two men fed him, it had no more effect on him than water. He felt cold. Cold as death. Not frightened, but . . . remote. He knew what he had to do.

As Drake's enemies poured booze into him, they took the occasional swig themselves, then took more than the occasional sip. They began singing to each other, mourning out nostalgic ditties.

'Sholeesh,' said one, indicating to Drake that he should drink once again.' 'leesh,' he said.And drank.They laughed.

Truly, they thought he was getting drunk. Good. He began to act the part, meanwhile noting carefully how much the two warriors drank. Oh, he was on form tonight! Amazing how chance and hope could fire up one's thinking.

When both Collosnon warriors were quite drunk, one grabbed for Drake. Drake grabbed back. He closed his fingers on his enemy's throat and squeezed. And grabbed for the nearest knife.

In fury he struck, then struck again. Did one man shout? If so, he was dead a moment later. Drake stabbed, slashed, hacked. In his frenzy, he kicked over the single candle which had lit their revels.

He was in darkness. Darkness? It seemed a red haze hung in the air. A strange ringing sound dinned in his ears. He blundered to his feet, struggling with his own unruly limbs.

Gasping.He dropped the knife. 'Knife,'he said. 'Knife.'

And scrabbled for it. Wet hands. Gross bulk. And this beneath his fingers? Wet, wide. Flesh? Ripped fabric. Bone so close. Like killing a dog, that's all.'They were enemies, weren't they?'Sharpness.Blade.

Knife.

Go, time to go.

Something. Something forgotten. What? Oh. Oh, yes. Sacrifice. Dedication of sacrifice. Had to be done. Didn't it? First kill? Wasn't there a ceremony? The corpse to the Demon?What Demon?'The Demon is dead.'

But what if the Demon wasn't dead? Theology. At a time like this? Had to be done. Shame to waste a dead man, anyway. Two dead men.T dedicate-'No. The word was consecrate.

'This blood. Consecrate. I consecrate these killings. To the Demon or the Flame, which. I don't know. Both. That's it. One each. One to the Demon, one to Flame. There. Can't say fairer than that.'

And with that said, Drake waded outside. To the night. To the cool. To the air. He threw back his head and gasped, dragging in air as if he had surfaced from the sea near drowning.

He was shaking.

The knife?

He still had it.

Then move, man, move!

'Ahyak Rovac, as Thelemite would say,' muttered Drake. Trying to- What? Joke?'Philosophy later,' he muttered.

He was already walking. Closing the distance. It couldn't be done bloodless. Another kill. He had to. No way round. Saunter, now. Relax. Let footsteps speak of friendship. Easy, now. Easy.

He was quite near the torture posts. A single guard was on duty.'Galof?' said the guard.

In reply, Drake simply started whistling a tune he had once used – it seemed years ago now – to annoy Gouda Muck. Whistling in the dark. Bravado. And brave with it, too. 'Stralk!' said the guard. 'Chala klan?'Drake, very close, said in reply:'Eat this!'Feeding the guard steel.

'That you, man?' said Whale Mike, from his cluster of posts.

'No, that not him, that me,' said Drake. 'You got sarky tongue,' said Whale Mike. 'You watch tongue or some day some joker cut tongue out.' 'Yeah, sure, sure,' said Drake.

And started cutting the thongs which bound Mike to his multiple posts. Mike waited patiently till the job was done. Then went into action.

'I got knife,' said Mike, after a search of the dead guard.'Good,' said Drake. 'Then help.' 'Oh, I do that. You not need to say.'

Drake tried to make a smart retort, but found his mouth had suddenly started shaking too badly to shape words. His limbs were blundering again.Yet he kept on with his work.Shortly, all the survivors were free.

After a muttered consultation, Walrus and Warwolf and all their followers crept down to the shore. There they stole three fishing smacks. One was commanded by the Warwolf, one by the Walrus, and the third by Bluewater Draven.They set to sea.

The night proved rough; by dawn, Bluewater Draven had managed to get himself lost, and was nowhere in sight. But the other two craft remained in sight of each other – and it was clear that the one commanded by the Walrus was sinking.

'Not so proud this time, eh, me pretty one?' said Jon Arabin, as Slagger Mulps was helped from his sinking boat.'We're all in this together, man,' said Mulps.

And they were, too, for as long as their voyage lasted. Which was not long at all, for, a day later, their boat was wrecked on the northern coast of Penvash, somewhere west of Chag-jalak. In the wreck, Drake lost the knife he had won from the Collosnon. He counted himself lucky not to have lost his life as well.

But he still had plenty of time left for losing that. And he was going to have plenty of opportunity, too, if he was any judge.

Survivors of the wreck on the Penvash coast: Jon Arabin (aka Warwolf); Slagger Mulps (aka Walrus), Dreldragon Drakedon Douay (runaway swordsmith's apprentice and common pirate, aka Drake); Sully Datelier Yot (disciple of Gouda Muck and apostle of the Flame); Whale Mike; Bucks Cat; Ish Ulpin (once gladiator in Chi'ash-lan); Rolf Thelemite (self-proclaimed hero from Rovac); Jez Glane; Simp Fiche; Tiki Slooze; Salaman Meerkat; Ika Thole; Jon Disaster; Peg Suzilman; Raggage Pouch; Harly Burpskin (who, after living for years with more money than sense, now has equal quantities of both thanks to gambling losses to Drake).

After their wreck on the Penvash coast, the seventeen survivors spent a miserable night huddled in a body-ball in a marginal cave constantly wet with spray from the booming surf. When the grey, straggling autumn dawn arrived, Drake was sent aloft – straight up the cliff face.

'Come back with your shield or on it,' said Jon Arabin, giving him a parting slap on the back.'What?' asked Drake, blankly.