The Walrus and the Warwolf

by Hugh Cook

At that moment there was a great shout: 'Slaughterhouse! Slaughterhouse! Slaughterhouse!' The Swarms were attacking. En masse. 'We need time,' said Drake.

  'Then get me fire,' said Jon Arabin. 'And I'll get you time, easily enough. Come on, don't just stand there! Get fire!'

  Drake and Zanya fled.

  Shortly, Miphon reported to Jon Arabin in the company of Blackwood. The Swarms by now had seized the forecastle, and were fighting their way toward the stern. Drake and Zanya came up on deck, bearing between them a cauldron of hot coals stolen from a brazier in the kitchen.

  'We're here,' said Miphon. 'Now what—'

  He was interrupted by Drake, who yelled:

  'Jon! The Walrus is in the kitchen! Dead drunk!'

  'I wondered where he'd got to,' said Jon Arabin - who, in fact, had been far too busy to wonder any such thing. 'Mike! Go below! The Walrus is in the kitchen! Get him up here!'

  Whale Mike moved to obey.

  Then Jon Arabin yelled:

  'There's fire here! Fire the ship! Ahoy - you in the crow's-nest! Down, down, we're firing the ship!'

  Rolf Thelemite had organized a double-line of men with pikes to hold the deck against the Swarms. They still had time. Just. Arabin glanced at Blackwood, who wore the red bottle knotted tight to his belt.

  'That's it?' said Arabin. 'Right! You, Mr Wizard - get waterskins. Tie them to your comrade's belt. We don't want him sinking under if he's to carry us.' Then Arabin raised his voice: Tka Thole! Ish Ulpin! To me! To me with a work-party!'

  Shortly, men were working furiously. They gathered up timber, and tools, and spars, and ropes, and sails. Whale Mike came up from below decks with Slagger Mulps tucked under his arm.

  'Drake!' screamed Yot.

  'What's your problem!' yelled Drake.

  'You lied to me! About Zanya! About the red bottle! So you lied about Muck, didn't you? He lives, doesn't he? He was never mad, was he? You really are the Demon-son, aren't you?'

  Drake did not know whether to laugh or cry. He spread his arms in helpless amazement and cried:

  'Man, this is no time to argue theology!'

  'No, but it's time enough for a killing!' yelled Yot.

  And picked up a spear, intending to hurl it at Drake.

  But Whale Mike plucked the spear from Yot's hand, and picked up Yot, and tucked him under his arm. Mike now had Yot under one arm, the Walrus under the other. Bucks Cat grabbed Mike and also grabbed Miphon. Half a dozen men, loaded with all kinds of baggage, grabbed each other. One took hold of Ish Ulpin's ear. Ish Ulpin held Bucks Cat by the neck.

  And Miphon, connected by a bond of flesh to so many people, turned the ring on his finger. Whereupon Miphon and all the men, plus their baggage, were snatched away into the red bottle.

  Moments later, Miphon and Whale Mike rematerialized.

  'I want spar!' boomed Mike. 'Good spar, take inside.'

  Back and forth went Miphon and Whale Mike. Each time they ventured into the bottle, they took with them more men and more materials. Blackwood stood stolidly on the deck, arms folded, sometimes giving a timely order to organize the chaos all around.

  The sudden promise of physical salvation by means of the red bottle amazed most pirates not a jot. For - was not their leader Jon Arabin? They'd all secretly expected him to come up with something fancy. And this fitted the bill precisely.

  While some of the crew had been gathering materials and venturing to the bottle, others had been holding the line against the Swarms, and others had been setting fire to the ship. Smoke curdled in the air. It spread in choking

  clouds. The Swarms wavered as the smoke spread amongst them - then began to fall back.

  'They hate smoke!' yelled Arabin. 'They're running! We're winning!'

  Meanwhile, the flames leaped through the still and sullen air, swift as a band of lunatic red-jacketed monkeys driven on by a throng of rabid slave-masters wielding razor-tipped whips by way of encouragement. As the fire took hold, flames swung from sail to sail so fast the canvas seemed almost to explode. And the Swarms were truly on the run, retreating from the heat, the smoke, the crackling fury of the conflagration. Many of the monsters plunged overboard, there to drown.

  Burning rope and canvas fell amongst the work parties, who swore and shouted and laboured all the harder. Some were weeping, some laughing, some dancing on the spot as they waited for Miphon to transport them inside the red bottle. They were wild, crazy, manic, joyful. They had hope! They were going to live!

  'General retreat!' yelled Jon Arabin. 'Retreat to me! We're quitting the ship! Move your backsides!'

  From the daze of heat, smoke and crackling flame came the last of the ship's defenders. Sweating. Bleeding. Gasping. Grinning. Miphon took them into the bottle, group by group.

  Finally, only these stood on the burning deck:

  Blackwood, the bottle roped to his waist; Miphon, bearing the ring; Jon Arabin; Drake; Zanya; Whale Mike.

  Jon Arabin drew his falchion.

  'Give the bottle to my man Drake,' said Jon Arabin.

  Upon which Whale Mike grabbed both Blackwood and Miphon. One hand round each neck. He could have killed them just by squeezing.

  Blackwood unknotted the red bottle and passed it to Drake, who swiftly tied it to his own waist. Jon Arabin glanced around quickly. The air was trembling with heat. He was sweating. Somewhere, burning wood broke with a sharp crack. Beyond the flames he could see a handful of hell-creatures writhing in death.

  'Now, the death-stone,' said Jon Arabin. 'Give it to me!'

  'No,' said Miphon.

  'I'll kill you!' said Jon Arabin.

  'Blackwood,' said Miphon. 'Blackwood has the death-stone.'

  'This is true?'said Jon Arabin.

  Blackwood nodded.

  'Then give it to me!' said Arabin.

  'Jon,' said Drake. 'It's no good grabbing the death-stone. I've tried that. There's writing on it. The writing gives a spell which commands the death-stone. You have to hold the death-stone, then say the spell.'

  Jon Arabin was literate. But he knew well that any wizard-spell would be written in the High Speech, which he could neither speak nor read.

  'The spell!' demanded Jon Arabin.

  'The spell,' said Miphon, promptly, 'is jonmarakaralarajodo, enakonazavnetzyltrakolii, zeq-telejenzeq.'

  Miphon was lying. These words had no power whatsoever: they simply meant, in the High Speech of wizards: stochastic, phenomenological, epistemological.

  'Run that past me again,' said Jon Arabin, a puzzled look on his face.

  Miphon did so.

  But it was no good: such long words could never be learnt in moments.

  A burning spar crashed to the deck, scattering blazing coals. A wave of heat washed across their sweating faces. The air filled momentarily with choking smoke, then cleared, leaving them coughing, eyes watering.

  'Mr Wizard,' said Jon Arabin, deciding. 'We'll learn the ways of the death-stone later. For the moment, you'll give Blackwood the ring. Blackwood will take us inside the red bottle. You'll stay within with me, as a hostage. Then

  Blackwood will return to the deck to command the death-stone against the Swarms.'

  Reluctantly, Miphon gave Blackwood the ring which commanded the red bottle,

  'Let's go,' said Jon Arabin.

  And grabbed Zanya. Then took hold of Whale Mike, who had still not released either Miphon or Blackwood. Then Blackwood turned the ring on his finger - and all five were sucked into the red bottle which was now tied to Drake's belt.

  As they vanished, air rushed in to occupy vacuum. With the air came smoke, ash, intolerable heat. Drake, alone on the deck, crouched low to avoid the smoke. Another spar shook the deck as it fell, scattering more burning coals. One skittled along the deck, finishing right under Drake's nose.

  'Come on come on come on!' said Drake. 'What's keeping you?'

  Were they fighting inside the bottle?

  'Come on, Blackwood!' screamed Drake. 'Come on, you crazy ganch!'

&
nbsp; He struck at the red bottle tied to his belt. Then saw - smoke? A ghost? No: Blackwood, materializing on the deck.

  Everyone but Blackwood and Drake was now in the red bottle.

  'Do it!' said Drake. 'Use the death-stone! Quick!'

  Blackwood proved to be wearing the death-stone in a leather bag slung round his neck beneath his clothing. He took it out. Held it high. Then shouted Words. They were long, tangled things in the High Speech, said so fast they were almost a gabble. Drake thought he caught a snatch of the spell - 'tabanagijish' - but even that he might have got wrong.

  'Stand closer!' shouted Blackwood.

  So Drake, to be safe, crouched at Blackwood's feet.

  The sea was roaring. Or was it the sea? No, it was the sky. Grating, grinding. The flames - the flames were turning grey. The very air was grey. A red-hot coal flickered, flashed green, then went out. Still Blackwood stood there, arm raised, death-stone in hand.

  There was a crash.

  An enormous crash.

  Chunks of rock flew across the deck, narrowly missing the two men. The mast had turned to stone, and the mast, falling, had shattered.

  Drake heard a crackling sound, as if an intense fire was burning somewhere. But the fire on the ship seemed to be out. Where was the sound coming from? It was a skin of rock, forming on the surface of the sea, then breaking up with the action of the swells.

  Drake peered into the grey distance.

  Saw monsters of the Swarms writhing, freezing, falling. Saw a Neversh fall, turned to stone in flight. Saw logs submerge, sink, vanish - turned to stone.

  This was a Cause with Effect indeed!

  At last, the air cleared, and was no longer grey. But it was dry, yes, dry, and harsh on the throat. Drake heard, very clearly, swells slapping against the side of their stone ship. And an ugly grating sound as that ship began to crack open.

  But, for the moment, the ship was still floating. 'She's starting to settle,' said Drake. 'What?' said Blackwood.

  'The ship. She's getting lower in the water. Hey, man - up there! Neversh!'

  There was indeed a Neversh still in the sky.

  'The death-stone kills nothing which is more than two leagues away,' said Blackwood in a sombre voice, putting that stone back into its leather bag, which he then tucked away out of sight.

  The ship was much lower in the water. It was going down fast. Drake went to the side.

  'Better we jump, man, and swim clear,' he said.

  Then suited actions to words. Water shot up his nose. The sea was cold!

  'Come on, Blackwood!' yelled Drake. And Blackwood followed.

  They floundered away through the regular swells, gasping, striving, encumbered with boots and with clothes. Then they were sucked back as the ship went down -sucked back, pulled under, whirled round, coming to the surface at last breathless and chilled.

  The sole surviving Neversh was flying high in long, slow circles. The entire sky was a mass of bruise-black storm-clouds. Lightning flickered on the horizon. No sign of land. .

  'Use the ring, man,' said Drake. 'Speed counts.'

  He feared the cold. It was summer, true, but the sea was as cold as ever.

  Blackwood grappled with the ring on his hand. And Drake realized that if Blackwood lost that ring, then everyone in the red bottle would be trapped there forever. And he, Drake, would very shortly drown.

  The ring turned full circle.

  A hole appeared in the sea where Blackwood had been. Water slapped into it, kicking up white foam. Another regular swell rocked Drake up, then down. He saw the Neversh lumbering through the air, coming in over the sea, very low. It was close. And closing. Where was Blackwood? Pox and bitches! The Neversh was dangling its grapple-hooks. The hooks tore foam from the top of a swell.

  It was almost upon him. Drake ducked under.

  And dived, dived as he had learnt to years ago on Ling, forced his way down, down, deep and under, felt pressure build in his ears. Then turned. And started for the surface. Suddenly bubbles of air erupted around him. There were hands, arms, faces. There was rope in the water, a log - no, a spar. Then—

  Up!

  Drake burst to the surface. And up came half a dozen people - Blackwood, Jon Arabin, Whale Mike, Ish

  Ulpin, Rolf Thelemite, Sully Yot. And with them, two spars, a dozen planks, some rope. Drake tried to speak, drank water, grabbed for a spar, clung to it and yelled: 'Neversh!'

  'Where?' cried Blackwood.

  And was torn from the water as the Neversh hooked his shoulder. Drake grabbed Blackwood's left leg as it went hauling past. He was dragged from the water. Sully Yot snatched at Drake's feet. Held fast.

  The Neversh lifted the three of them: Blackwood, Drake and Yot. It flew on, its tail trailing in the water.

  Whale Mike grabbed at the tail. The Neversh was brought to a dead halt by the sudden increase in weight. Its wings laboured.

  'Up, boys!' hollered Jon Arabin.

  And scrambled over Whale Mike's shoulders. And started racing up the tail of the Neversh.

  'Ahyak Rovac!' screamed Rolf Thelemite.

  And followed.

  'Bugger that for a joke,' muttered Ish Ulpin.

  But, after only a momentary hesitation, his innate recklessness got the better of him - and he too went racing up the tail of the monster.

  The brute thrashed at the air with its wings and, slowly, ponderously, lifted the combined weight of six men and Whale Mike. Up they went. Up up up!

  Then Blackwood's flesh gave way.

  Blackwood, Drake and Sully Yot crashed into the sea. Coming to the surface, Drake saw the Neversh swinging round slowly, slowly, heavily. Whale Mike was still clinging to its tail, which was dangling low. Jon Arabin, Rolf Thelemite and Ish Ulpin were on the monster's back, stabbing at its hide with their swords.

  Where was Yot?

  Thirty paces away, keeping himself afloat with a solemn dog-paddle. Where was Blackwood? Thirty paces in the opposite direction.

  Drake started swimming.

  Towards Blackwood.

  Towards the ring which gave entry to the red bottle which was tied to Drake's waist.

  Blackwood went under. Came up. Gasping. There was blood in the water around him.

  Drake trod water and shouted:

  'Use the ring!'

  Better to get Blackwood into the bottle, now, before he went under. But Blackwood shouted back: 'One arm!'

  From which Drake understood that one of Blackwood's arms was out of action because of his wounds.

  'Hold the ring with your teeth!' shouted Drake. 'Hold the ring with your teeth, then turn your finger.'

  Blackwood put finger to mouth.

  Then disappeared.

  Into the bottle?

  Drake was not sure. He half-thought that Blackwood had been dragged under by something. Drake trod water. And saw Blackwood come to the surface, the sea around him boiling with blood. Blackwood opened his mouth and seemed to scream. But no sound came.

  'Oh bugger, oh bugger,' said Drake, half-sobbing, half-screaming.

  And struck out, swimming overarm, closing the distance. He was deathly tired as he came up with Blackwood. His boots felt like lead, pulling him down.

  'Blackwood?' said Drake.

  Grabbing at the man.

  Who floated - whose torso floated. His legs were gone. The sea was red. And the ring? The ring, the ring! Drake grabbed Blackwood's hand, fastened his teeth on the ring, pulled it off - and, in his haste, swallowed it.

  He had swallowed the ring!

  Aghast, Drake poked two fingers down his own throat. And vomited. He tried to close his mouth on the vomit, coughed, almost choked, spluttered, gasped for air - and lost his mouthful of vomit to the ocean! He saw the ring amidst the vomit which had spilt to the sea.

  Drake momentarily glimpsed the cold gold glint as it went writhing down through the waters. Then he was grabbing, grabbing at guess. Closing his fist on - water? Vomit? Seaweed?

  Something hard.

/>   He opened his fist.

  Revealing cold gold.

  Which he shoved onto his finger. Shoved so hard that he peeled away little strips of his own skin. But felt no pain, no pain, only shock at the vivid red of his blood spilling to the blood of the sea.

  Now: the death-stone!

  Drake grabbed at a leather cord round Blackwood's neck, hauled, brought to light the leather bag hanging from the leather cord, slipped it free from the dead man's head.

  Kicked with his feet.

  Eased himself away from the body.

  Which staggered, struck, punched, slammed, hit from below and knocked up, over, thrashed into blood by - by a glimpse of grey, striking, striding, taking the body down, deep, down, gone. Brief glimpse of fin as it vanished.

  That was a shark.

  Drake screamed.

  And was still wailing when the shark erupted from the water in front of him, reared up, rising, huge, smooth, monstrous, vast gulf of mouth - which he attacked, flailing at it with the leather bag. Leather bag heavy with death-stone.

  And the shark bit.

  Huge jaws crunching down.

  Savaging the death-stone.

  Which exploded into lightning, blowing the shark's head apart. Drake, blinded by flying gore, floundered, went under, came up, blinking away blood, blinking away water. Went under again. Could see, now.

  The Neversh was no longer circling overhead. Instead, it was floating on the sea about a hundred paces away, thrashing furiously. Jon Arabin, Ish Ulpin and Rolf Thelemite had opened the Neversh's flotation tanks to the air, releasing the buoyant gas which the Neversh needed to fly. The three heroes had now turned their attention to the monster's tail. They were trying to hack tail from body.

  Whale Mike was still clinging to the end of the tail, his weight effectively preventing the monster from using it as a weapon.

  Drake heard something in the sea behind him. Turned, and saw it was Sully Yot.

  'Hi,' said Drake, having no breath for further eloquence.

  Yot closed the distance. And his hand came up from the water, armed with a knife.

  'Die, Demon-son!' screamed Yot.

  'You mad bugger!' said Drake.

  And caught Yot's knife-hand.

  Strength against strength they fought. Until finally Drake managed to secure the knife. And cut Yot's throat. 'Crazy,' muttered Drake.