Hugh Cook - The Walrus and the Warwolf

There was no part of him which had not been jarred, banged or knocked, scraped, grazed, shaken, bruised, bitten or stung, gored, burnt by fire or by ice, sprained, strained, cracked, blistered, bloodied, dislocated, incised, punctured, lacerated or pounded by rolling pins and knapping hammers.

He had not heeded the damage as he dared the Circle of the Door, plunging recklessly from Here to Elsewhere, from the Old City to a burning forest, an ocean cay, to Drangsturm south, to a frozen mountainside, a plain of battle, a tropical jungle, a foreign arena, to a cannibal

beach, then back to the Old City again. Adventuring thus, he had been oblivious to trauma because of the shock, excitement and bewilderment of the moment – and the adrenalin seething through his system. But he felt it now.

Probably, he had damaged himself the worst while bumping down the river after finally fleeing the Old City. But the pains in his back, neck and shoulder were mostly from muscles wrenched by reckless sword-swinging, his earache was the aftermath of violent pressure changes from sea-level to mountain heights, and the agony of his feet was from the cumulative damage of many days of journey. Feet, yes. He durst not take off his boots. If he did, his feet might fall off entirely.

He reached the water at last, after a journey short in space but memorable for the amount of pain, caution and endeavour it had entailed. The river purled along swiftly, slick as fish scales, cold as yesterday's rats' piss, surface sheening and shining with the greys of lead, steel, thundercloud, ash, charcoal, failed phoenix, dead mushrooms, basilisk blood, quelaquire, mosquito wings, wormskin wine and threadneedle mould.

Drake stuck a hand into the water, but caught no colours, only a chill clarity that swirled into turbulence as it snagged his fingers, kicked up tiny jags of foam, rippled, queried, tested, spun into miniature whirlpools then moulded itself back into the onflow which sped, talking in hustling-bustling accents of nonsense, down toward the distant (imaginary?) sea.

Slowly, Drake lifted a handful of water, sought his face, saw only the sword-blisters on his palm. Dirt and old blood lining his life-line. A rippling shimmer of daylight, mostly at the edges of this puddle, where water bordered skin. Why did it ripple? Because his hand was shaking.

In the river, too, he saw not his face – only the ever-shift of twenty million greys, and, beyond and below, rock, clean shingle, a wavering trail of waterweed, then a confusion of inscrutable darkness in which lay rocks or rotten logs or monsters. He sucked water from his hand.

Cold. It hurt his teeth. He swilled it round then spat it out, seeing a thread of blood give contrast, for a moment, to the clears and greys of the ever-rush.

Slowly, he reached into the river, let his fingers crayfish toward waterweed, lobstered it, vultured it back, sucked it down, and wondered why it had no taste to speak of, and why his flesh had bones in it, and why he was crying. His tears were hot, the hottest thing in the world. And their taste was salt. Yes. Salt like the sea.

The sea which was not, then – perhaps – entirely imaginary. So if – just supposing, now – he was to take one step south then another, then . . . why, with enough steps he might (no promises, mind) one day (a year distant, perhaps) maybe just possibly arrive at a brisk shore of sails.

Beside that shore (presuming, which is not necessarily the case, that the world of bread and ale and clinking coins exists, that there are taverns warm with beer and laughter where cheers are raised), yes, there will be bread, and . . .

And. . . ?

He stared blankly at the water. He had been thinking of something. What? Bread? But bread was, surely, if anything, imaginary. . . or at least a world away from the ever-last river-run where the clears danced, yes, danced upon greys. . .

Drake, thought and hope abandoned, sat staring into the running water, knees drawn up to chest, arms wrapped around knees, chin knobbled down hard between the thin-skinned bones of his kneecaps, his body rocking a little this way and that as a thin seedy rain began to fall, dull as famine, grey as weariness, persistent as a year-nagging voice of senility.

Drake was still sitting there, much later, when a noise made him look up. And look north. Something was coming downstream. A monster. Huge. It had two heads, one set above the other. A baby monster walked beside it. Drake looked away. Probably it was just a hallucination. And if it was real? If it was real, he was in no state to run. . .

The monster came on. And began to sing a happy song.

Drake looked again, and saw it was Whale Mike, with Zanya Kliedervaust riding on his shoulders. Walking beside Mike was Jon Arabin. Slowly, Drake stood.

Whale Mike finished his happy song as he drew level with Drake. Whereupon he halted, and waited for someone to take the lead. But, for the moment, nobody did. Zanya looked down on Drake, saying nothing. And Jon Arabin also said nothing.

All four said nothing as the querulous rain nagged without reason and the river-rush quibbled away between branch and stone and the hollow muscles of their hearts worked their way with what blood remained to them. Then Drake and Arabin embraced.Both wept.

'Well, man,' said Jori Arabin, shaking his head. 'Well, man, who would have thought it. . .'But he said nothing more and nothing more cogent.

'You better get down,' said Mike to Zanya, kneeling. 'These two not good for much. I think we make fire.'

Zanya dismounted, and searched out kindling. Mike mutilated some defenceless trees and heaped up branches for firewood.

'Jon,' said Mike. 'You better make fire. I can, but I not so good at that. You better.'

Today, Jon Arabin was not much good with the tinder box himself. As flint and steel stumbled between his fingers, he started weeping, helplessly. He was too old for this.'Drake,' he said. 'Help me out.'

But Drake was in no better condition. He sat waiting for Zanya to ask why her ardent lover had been addressed as 'Drake'. Once she discovered he was Drake Douay, son of the Demon Hagon, there would be hell to pay. But she appeared not to notice.'Let me,' she said firmly.

And took steel and flint, and did what was necessary.

Once the fire was burning bright, Whale Mike dipped into his leather apron pocket and hauled out a huge chunk of bloody meat.

'This from monster,' he said cheerfully. 'Maybe good eating, eh? We cook. We find out.'

He spiked bits of it onto branches. In the fierce quick heat, it burnt instead of cooking. But when chunks were handed around – half blood, half char – there were no complaints. Warmth, meat and companionship began to make Drake feel better. He looked at Zanya.

'Don't even think about it!' she said, with danger in her voice.

'Have you two met, then?' said Jon Arabin, puzzled at the way Zanya reacted to Drake.'Met!' said Zanya. 'He tried to rape me once!''I'm . . . I'm sorry,' said Drake.

Which was an unusual thing for him to say. But today he was utterly shagged out, and in no state to tell witchcraft lies, or to insist on the right of men to the bodies of women.

Jon Arabin looked on the pair with speculative eyes. Was this his chance? He had killed several times while venturing round the Circle of the Door. His death-debt was heavy indeed. It was more important than ever that he breed more children, thus winning himself life-credits and appeasing his gods. Or . . .

Again, Arabin thought of converting Drake to the Creed of Anthus, setting him up with a harem then buying life-credits from him. Unfortunately, Arabin's gods only allowed him to buy life-credits from a fellow-believer . . .Two problems, then:to convert Drake to the Creed of Anthus;to get Drake breeding.