by Hugh Cook
'Morning, boys,' said Arabin.
'Aye,' said Baltu, sourly. 'Perhaps the last morning some of us will see. Unless we turn, man, and run east.' 'Why should we do that?'
'Because,' said Baltu, 'that's what the boys want.'
'What's this?' said Jon Arabin. 'Mutiny?'
He spoke as if in jest - but he was,worried.
'Not mutiny,' said Baltu, bracing himself against the ship's swagger. 'We want to fix things right with a friendly talk.'
'Aye,' said Glane. 'Friendly talk, that's the thing.'
Arabin looked around for some staunch, honest men he could call on for help if it came to a fight. But nothing was in sight but Drake Douay, who was keeping as close as possible to his captain, hoping to win promotion from cook's boy to sailor.
'Drake,' said Arabin, in a lazy voice. 'Get to the kitchen for some soup. I've six great rats and a blue-eyed raccoon in me belly, all clamouring sore with hunger.'
'What kind of soup do you want?' said Drake, casting an eye over the opposition.
Jez Glane was old and useless. Suzilman was also old - but wiry. Meerkat, slim, quiet and dark, was an unknown quantity. But Baltu - well, the big bloke could smash just about any man aboard.
'What kind of soup?' said Arabin. 'What is there?'
'Oh, dragon soup, shark soup, mushroom soup or carrot soup.'
'Nay, man,' said Arabin. 'They all sound too fancy for me. I'll have what you usually serve up - that boiled dishwater with bits of dead men's bones afloat in it.'
'Man, we're right out of that stuff,' said Drake, 'since we're so far from ditches and graveyards. I tell you what, I'll get you a bowl of the cook's sawdust soup. That should suit!'
And Drake set off at an easy pace, meaning to summon not soup but reinforcements. But Peg Suzilman and Salaman Meerkat drew blades against him. Drake stopped where he was. Despite the death-cold wind, he was suddenly hot - hot and sweating.
'What?s this?' said Drake. 'You've a lust for fresh meat, have you? Man, I'd make a stringy dinner, I'll tell you that for nothing. All grit and gristle. Ease up with the steel till we get to the west. There'll be good hunting ashore, I'll bet.'
'Aye,' said Jez Glane, in a voice which quavered a bit. 'Things hunting us, I'll warrant. Huge things with teeth, aye, claws like scythes, feet like hammers.'
'What nonsense is this?' said Jon Arabin.
'No nonsense, friend Warwolf,' said Quin Baltu. 'We've all heard the horrors of the shore you're making for.'
A wave-burst scattered cold, cold spray across the deck. Drake waited for Arabin to speak - but Arabin said nothing. He was trying to stare down Quin Baltu. A fruitless exercise. Drake was edgy.
Come on, Jon. Do something!
But Jon Arabin had no miracles proof against mutiny. He knew these men well: they had been with him for years.
They would never turn against him without the best of reasons: a marrow-gutting fear which overwhelmed all loyalties and every hope.
'You hear us, Jon?' said Jez Glane, in something of a whine. 'It's that we don't want to die, aye, that's why we're here.'
'I run to the west for life, not for death,' said Jon Arabin.
'You can't fool us,' said Quin Baltu. 'It's a gamble you're taking, risking our lives for unknown gains in the face of horrors we've all heard spoken of.'
'Much is spoken but little is truthed,' said Drake, eyeing the blades which still confronted him, and wondering if he dare risk a dash for safety.
'Man,' said Baltu to Arabin, entirely ignoring Drake. 'We can't run west. There's fearful danger there.'
Death, danger, fear. That was what they spoke of. But most of the damage was being done by cold, hunger, fatigue. A day of calm, a good sleep, a couple of hot meals, and they'd be new men. But - Arabin glanced at the wild horizons, and knew hope of such was not to be rewarded.
'Mayhap we run to danger,' said he. 'But choice is not in my gift. We find safety to west - or we sink and drown.'
'There's worse deaths than drowning,' said Baltu darkly.
'Aye,' said Meerkat. 'To be breathed on by a basilisk, that's one. That's murder. Why, the very look of its eyes will kill.'
'And there's crocodiles!' said Jez Glane. 'Logs which turn of sudden to dragons without wings! They eat you, man, gnaw your kneecaps then chew off your prick.'
'Is that so?' said Jon Arabin. 'Then you've got nothing to fear!'
This raised no laugh. Well, it had been worth a try. 'Boys,' said Jon Arabin, 'I'll level with you. We run with the weather for the west - or we sink. If the ship goes
down, we have to take to the boats. And how would you like that? A small boat, no shelter, no land for a horizon or more.'
'We'd live,' said Quin Baltu, staunchly. 'Danger known is better than unknown. Turn east, man! If the ship sinks, the boats will still get us to Narba. I love small boats. I could sail in such from here to the Teeth if I had to.'
'Man,' said Drake, grabbing a stay as the ship lurched in a truly horrible fashion, 'what's this nonsense about the unknown west? Man, there's been cruises there in plenty, and will be hence.'
'Aye,' said Jon Arabin, taking Drake's hint. 'Boys, my great-grandfather sailed these waters for year on year. Aye, and buried treasure on some westward island. That's family tradition.'
Hope, yes. That was what these men needed. Hope of an island, a landfall, a safe shore. Wasn't that the ultimate function of leadership? To give hope.
'You talk of an island,' said Baltu. 'But words are one thing, land's another. Will you swear your island?'
'Our island waits to west,' said Arabin. 'I swear it on my mother's honour.'
He apologized, secretly, to his mother's shade. Well, that wasn't the first of his misdeeds she'd had to put up with - and it probably wouldn't be the last.
'He swears!' said Jez Glane.
Eager to believe it might be true. For Glane, unlike Baltu, was not fond of small boats.
'He swears, yes,' said Quin Baltu. 'So his great-grandad sailed these waters . . . but we can't trust such stories, generations old.'
'Then trust to fresher news,' said Drake.
'What do you know about it?' said Meerkat, whose sword was still ready to slice at a moment's notice.
'Lots!' said Drake.
Verily, he knew the last thing he wanted was to be adrift in a cockleshell craft which might overturn and leave him floundering in the sea more than a horizon from shore.
Been there, done that! All very well for Quin Baku to talk with love and longing about adventures in small boats on the storm-tossed waves - but Drake would rather risk monsters.
'You claim, perhaps, to have been west yourself?' said Peg Suzilman.
'Nay, man,' said Drake. 'But my king has. King Tor, aye. A huge ogre, as wide as tall. Sits on an iron throne, eats frogs, drinks blood, gives out justice. He went there right enough, yes, but five years ago, chasing a vision of gold and diamonds. He found none such, but came home safe with news of goodly islands. Aye. Sweet water and fields of lilies.'
'How do you know of this?' said Peg Suzilman.
'My father sailed with the king,' said Drake. 'Aye, and on the shore he found a tower. Tall it was, with Guardian Machines within, great brutes of clattering metal which spat death and chased him up some stairs. There he was trapped by an invisible wall and—'
Drake proceeded to tell the story of the find of the magic amulets, the destruction of the machines at the top of the tower, and his father's escape on a rope woven from wires of weird manufacture.
He saw Glane, Suzilman and Meerkat were close to believing him. But Quin Baltu was not.
'Man,' sneered Quin Baltu, 'that's a right daft story. Little lockets which talk! You expect me to believe a nonsense like that?'
In answer, Drake hauled out one of the lockets in question. He had been wearing it next to his skin, for luck.
'Man,' said Drake, dangling the glossy black lozenge in front of Baltu, 'this is one of those lockets my father found. He gave it to me for
luck.'
'I see a pretty trinket,' said Baltu. 'I hear no voice.'
'Then watch,' said Drake.
And he manipulated the seven silver stars built into one side of the amulet, and set the thing talking. The voice of the poet Saba Yavendar contended against that of the wind. While he spoke in the High Speech, which none on the Warwolf could understand, Quin Baltu listened long and hard. Then looked Jon Arabin in the eyes.
'Jon,' said Quin Baltu. 'We've been a long way together.'
'Aye,' said the Warwolf. 'Jon, I trust you.'
T trust you too,' said Jon Arabin. 'And I love you as a brother. Despite these moments. Go below, boys, and get yourself some soup.'
So the mutineers departed. And Arabin standing easy on the rolling deck, let his arms hang slack by his side, then made every muscle in his body shudder and shake in the exercise known as Five Horses Dancing. Then he did the Three Breaths and a single Focus, and felt stronger. He looked at Drake, who was tucking away his curious amulet. Right: teaching first. Then settle curiosity.
'What brought those men to the edge of mutiny?' said Arabin. 'Did they hate me? Or what?'
'Nay,' said Drake. 'It was despair which took us so close to death. Despair - that's the great sin, man. That makes all the others possible. But you - you gave them confidence. That's what makes you leader.'
'You think well,' said Arabin, surprised.
At Drake's age, Arabin (dreaming of future glory while he endured the infinite boredom of schooling) had thought of leadership in terms of machismo. One man - the ultimate killer - to brute it over lesser mortals by death-skills alone.
'We're taught to think on Stokos,' said Drake. 'Not that I can always see the use of it, since there's not much money in thinking. As to leadership - why, my uncle, Oleg Douay, he spoke of it often. For he was mixed up in wars and such in his youth.'
'Well,' said Jon Arabin, teaching done and curiosity still to be satisfied, 'tell me now, friend Drake. Whence came that trinket? From the west?'
'Nay, man,' said Drake. 'From the moon. My father flew there when he were but a boy, riding on the back of a great grey goose.'
'I see,' said Jon Arabin. 'Then how about you flying below to get me some soup?'
'Dragon soup or sawdust?'
'I'll take the seal soup,' said Arabin. 'It seems the least likely to kill.'
It was a long, uneasy day. Arabin worried incessantly. What if reefs and rocks infested these uncharted waters? What if he failed to find safe harbour to the west? An island, yes, that was what he needed. Not anything fancy. Any chunk of rock would do, so long as his ship could shelter in its lee.
Leadership is the science of hope. Yes. But if he found no landfall to the west, what good was hope?
By the time night came, heavy rain was falling. A solid, sullen downpour. Rain! In the Drangsturm Gulf, at the height of summer! Craziness . . .
What should he do? Heave to? Or strive blindly through the night? There were so many unknowns: the weather, the distance to shore, what depth of water they could count on. How much longer could the ship stand staunch against the seas before ripping in half?
Jon Arabin made a round of his ship, and decided he knew one thing for certain: his crew could take very little more of this.
'We run for the west tonight,' said Jon Arabin, with every appearance of confidence. 'I know just where we are, aye, from the taste of the spray. Come morning, we'll see land - I guarantee it.'
Faint hearts were heartened by this bluff, and through the night the Warwolf ran. Jon Arabin slept little, yet thrice dreamed his ship wrecked.
The weather eased further overnight. Come morning, they were cruising in a moderate breeze amidst herds of brisk white horses that were champing across the seas toward the western coast of the Gulf of Drangsturm, which lay in plain view maybe twenty leagues away.
About three leagues south was a considerable mass of land which might have been either a peninsular or an island. It terminated in a rugged cape.
'Is that an island?' asked Drake Douay, pointing south.
'It surely is,' said Arabin, hoping he was right.
'What's it called?'
'It has no name as yet.'
'Then I name it Island Tor,' said Drake. 'Yes. Tor, in honour of the king of Stokos. How about those mountains on the western shore? Do they have a name?
'Not as yet,' said Jon Arabin, amused.
'Then. . .'
Drake thought about naming them the Zanya Klieder-vaust Ranges. But that sounded clumsy. He cast around for a better name, and soon had one: the Dreldragon Teeth. Perfect!
Sight of land put new life into the crew. They worked with a will, and, shortly, the Warwolf rounded the cape Jon Arabin had seen to the south.
An ironbound coast slanted away to the south-west for about a dozen leagues, terminating in a second cape, which they rounded at mid-morning. From here, the eastern coast of Tor slanted away to the south-east.
Was Tor an island or a peninsular? The difference was vital. If a peninsular, then it adjoined the terror-lands of the Swarms, and was probably infested with monsters. If an island, it might be safe. Providing the legends of giants, basilisks and such weren't true . . .
The sun broke through the clouds. The wind dropped. They cruised in the lee of the putative island through a blue-green sea of idle wavelets. It grew hot. The damp decks steamed. Men stripped to the waist, soaking up the sunlight. This was more like it! This was how the Gulf was supposed to be in summer!
A league along the coast, they came upon a bay of beauty. Sailing close inshore so Jon Arabin could check it out, the Warwolf 'lost the last of the wind. She floated in a delicious calm. The crew crowded the larboard railing, staring at paradise. A lean white beach of crisp clean sand. Behind the beach, rough grasses of a brilliant green. Inland from that, deep cool forest of a darker green. Jon Arabin gazed long on that forest. The wood itself was wealth.
He heard the rattle-cackle of staccato bird-talk coming clear across the water. A flight of parrots burst to the sky, hustling across the heavens like splashes of animated rainbow. There was a disconcerting arthritic crackling in the background. What? He'd heard it before, hadn't he? Yes, years ago, in Quilth. Cicadas, that was all. Millions of them. They'd do no harm . . .
At the southern end of the beach, a stream ran swift and bright. Good water! The rocks of the southern headland were of limestone. There would be caves in such rock. Arabin felt a pang of heartbreaking nostalgia and homesickness, for limestone was the ruling rock of Ashmolea; he had loved its landscapes dearly in his youth. How many years since he last saw Ashmolea? Many!
'This looks great!' said Drake, admiring the pale sands, the grass, the forest. Dry land! Dry land! A bare rock covered with seagull dung would have looked sweet to him at that moment.
'Aye,' said Arabin. 'It's a good place. What do you want to call it?'
'Zanya Bay,' said Drake promptly, for he owed his true love that much.
'Jon!' cried Baltu. 'Is this the island you promised us?'
'It surely is,' called Arabin.
'Then tell us about it!' yelled one of the men.
Other voices took up the cry. They wanted to know where they were, how long they'd be here, when they'd see the fleshpots of Narba. Jon Arabin gestured for silence.
'Men!' said Arabin. 'This is Island Tor. It's named for the king of Stokos, a fearless ogre who explored these lands in his youth. The father of young Drake Douay voyaged here with the king, and brought Drake proof of the truth of his story.
'This place of beauty here is Zanya Bay, where the king careened his ship. A good careenage it is, too, as you can tell at a glance.'
'Good, sure,' cried a pessimist. 'But for the Swarms!'
'This is an island,' insisted Arabin. 'No monsters tread these forests. And look west! You see the west of the Drangsturm Gulf, some twenty or thirty leagues away. See those mountains? Those are the Dreldragon Teeth, famous in the legends of Stokos. Such heights are far too bitter-
cold for the Swarms. We're safe! So now, boys - to work!'
'Aagh, you can slag work up your poke-hole!' shouted a dissident, anonymous in the crowd. And others shouted similar.
Exhausted by weather, labour, nightmare, fear, short rations, seasickness and wakeful nights, they had no taste for work. The very last thing they wanted was to careen the ship. If the shore had been grim, barren, bitter and stony, Jon Arabin might have won their cooperation - but, as it was, paradise beckoned. Arabin found himself facing a seething, shouting mob. His crew was on the edge of mutiny.
'Men!' shouted Arabin. 'Let's talk money! Let's talk wealth! There's treasure on this island!'
'What treasure?' yelled Raggage Pouch. 'I see nothing but trees!'
'Man!' shouted Jon Arabin. 'And how much is lumber worth in Narba? Eh?'
And he began to talk money. When he had finished, Quin Baltu backed him up:
'It's true what Jon says. Timber's a good price in Narba. If we patch the ship proper, we can leave with riches.'
But the men still refused to careen the ship. So they struck a bargain. The ship would stay afloat. Divers would make emergency repairs to the leaking hull from the outside; other men would work from the inside. Meantime, the rest of the crew would work the forest for a cargo of timber to enrich this voyage. In return for Arabin's concessions, the crew swore to overhaul the Warwolf properly once back at the Greaters.
An anchor was fashioned from a net filled with ballast blocks. Divers were nominated and repair parties chosen. Hunters were put ashore to kill fresh meat - even parrots would be welcome. A boat went for fresh water, so the Warwolf would have ample supplies of such if she had to leave without warning. Suzilman volunteered himself as an expert on timber, and was given charge of forestry operations.
By noon, everyone was working at their tasks with confidence.
But Jon Arabin was desperately anxious. What was this place? An island or a peninsular? He had to know! He called together his three most expendable men: Harly Burpskin, Raggage Pouch and Drake Douay.
'Boys,' said Jon Arabin, 'I've got you together quietlike so we can talk in confidence. When my greatgrandfather sailed these waters, he was a fearsome pirate. Aye. And he buried great treasure on an island in these waters. Mayhap it was this one . . .'