by Hugh Cook
And Drake, sensing this was a project dear to Jon Arabin's heart, mustered a grin and cried: 'I live for that day!'
'Aye!' shouted Arabin, with a sudden onset of something like joy, his heart made glad to see Drake showing spirit. 'So do we all!'
Then Drake braced himself on the edge of the ship, tested the rope, and made ready to do on the heaving hull what he had done often enough before on his father's coal cliffs.
Over the side he went, rappelling down, warding himself off from the hull with his feet, fearing at any moment to be dashed against that wooden cliff and shattered entirely.
A big sea came shuthering up around him. Lost in the wave-sway, he clung to the rope as best he could. And broke free of the waters. Gasped for air. And was gasping still as a greater sea-thrash smashed him loose from the rope.
In the sea's despairs he tumbled. Then something brutal crunched him. He grabbed it. And, as the waters lumbered away, found himself clinging to the shank of the anchor. He swung his legs over its arms, and, as the seas roistered around him, clung to the ugly mass of barnacle-crusted iron.
Something like a snake whipped round his neck as he clung amidst cataracts. As the waters baffled away, he fought with the strangling thing.'Demon's grief!' he said, getting it free at last.
And found what he held was no snake but the end of the rope. Swiftly, he hauled in as much slack as he could, and took a couple of turns around the anchor before the next sea. Then, between one assault of the sea and the next, he knotted the Valence cordage as best he could, hoping the rope lived up to its reputation. His hands ran dark with his blood, for he was gashing himself on barnacles in his haste.'Done!' said Drake.
And a sea came up and almost did for him.
As the waters dipped away, he risked the hard part – and started to climb the rope. It had just a little slack in it. But, as he climbed, the Neversh on the deck above jerked its head, pulling the rope taut. Drake was almost tossed off. But he was strong, yes, and desperate, and clung on with a grimness death itself would have envied.
He gained a little more height, then felt a strong hand grab him. It was Jon Arabin, who hauled him up to the deck. Drake fell into his master's arms, and was held in the refuge until his shuddering eased.
'Now, boy,' said Arabin. 'Do you know how to release the anchor?''No,' said Drake, honestly.
'Then I'll manage that myself,' said Arabin. 'Stay here.'
Then Arabin sought out the trapdoor he knew to be in amongst the wreckage of the fo'c'sle, and crawled down through that narrow way into the utter dark below, where the hugeness of the anchor cable coiled in the rat-haunted gloom. He found'the safety chain, unwound it from the grab cleats, jerked it clear – and heard the rope begin to whip away as the anchor fell sheer to the seas of night.
The anchor hit the sea, dragging the Valence cordage down with it. The cord tightened round the neck of the Neversh, jerking the monster sideways. Screaming, it fought against the weight. For a few moments it held its ground. But the pain was intolerable. At last, it let go of the mainmast with its whiplash tail, and, wings beating, clawed feet skidding across the deck, was dragged to the side and pulled over.
The Neversh smashed into the water and disappeared from sight.'Drake!' yelled Arabin.
But the word was savaged by surf and by water-slop, tangled by ropes and baffled by echoes. What Drake heard was only an incomprehensible cry of human anguish. He was sure something terrible was happening to Arabin below decks. For more than a moment, he was tempted to ignore the cry. Then it was repeated.'Courage, man,' said Drake to Drake.
And crept through the dark wet scrabble-wood wreckage of the fo'c'sle, until he heard Arabin call out yet again – and recognized the shout as his own name.'What is it?' yelled Drake. 'Rats?'
'Rats?' roared Arabin. 'What are you blathering about? Is the monster over?''Aye,' said Drake. 'Over, and sunk from sight!''Good, then,' said Arabin.
And grabbed in the dark for the anchor axe which was always kept handy in case the ship had to quit a mooring in a hurry, cut away its restraining cords with one of his dirks, then hacked and chopped until he had cut clean through the cable, setting the anchor free to fall away to the cold dark hell of the seabed, dragging the Neversh with it.
Shortly, Arabin was on deck again, with Drake. As they picked their way back to their comrades, he said to Drake, as quietly as the weather would permit:
'Few enough have seen that and lived. Fewer still have helped tackle it. You did well.'
And that accolade, Drake knew, was to be valued more than the honours of many a kingdom.
'Now get yourself down to the kitchen, boy,' said Arabin. 'We've a hard night coming on, and the men will be wanting their soup.'And Drake went, thinking his captain a hard man.
'Where have you been?' demanded the cook, when he got below.'Helping Jon Arabin.''With what?''Oh,' said Drake. 'With-'
Then paused, finding he had no wish to avaunt about his feat. For he had faced the worst kind of arse-opening terror, and to tell the tale would be to relive it, at least in part.
'With ropes and cordage and stuff,' he said, by way of explanation.
And then pitched into the work the cook gave him, and was soon too busy to think. And, while he did not appreciate the wisdom of the captain who kept him so busy, he got the benefit of it regardless.
And through all these alarums, the snake in Drake's belly slept soundly, planning its changes for his future.
12
Drangsturm Gulf: a U-shaped indentation – roughly a hundred leagues wide and two hundred deep – in the coast of Argan.North, the Gulf opens to the Central Ocean.
East is Narba, Provincial Endergeneer, the settled lands of the Far South, the Castle of Controlling Power and Drangsturm.South is a desolate terror-coast on which lies Ling Bay.
West is unknown territory which legend holds to be haunted with monsters of the Swarms, and – in addition – trolls, basilisks, gryphons, dragons, crocodiles and two-headed giants.
Need it be said?
Drake's resolution not to boast about his part in killing the Neversh held good for precisely two days. After that, he was hot for fame, glory and recognition. But nobody paid him much attention, with the exception of Harly Burpskin.
'It's a nice story,' said Burpskin, having heard Drake's tale, 'but a mite improbable, to say the least.'
'Man, the Neversh was there,' said Drake. 'You saw it yourself.'
'Aye, and waves washing over the deck. Likely the brute was carried off by such.'
'Wait till we come to harbour,' said Drake. 'Then you'll see my story proved. For you'll find the anchor's missing.''What signifies a missing anchor?' said Burpskin.
'Expense, that's all. It's no new thing to lose an anchor. Aye, and a replacement will have to come from the voyage profits, before we get our share.' So much for fame and glory!
Since even Burpskin refused to believe him, Drake abandoned efforts to persuade anyone else. At least for the moment. His just recognition could wait till they reached land.If they reached land.
The Warwolf was leaking badly, shipping water almost faster than it could be pumped out. The wind, which had shifted to the east, was still almost storm-force. Under a sky of dark and ragged fractonimbus, the Warwolf toiled through the buffeting waters. The rolling seas crashed into surf, strewing foam across the ocean.
Jon Arabin, eyes red-rimmed, searched the blurred horizons for sight of land. His ears ached from the constant wind and cold – a cold he'd never known before in these waters. His right hip was aching, as it always did when he was cold and tired.Worse, he was lost.
He judged they were still in the Drangsturm Gulf – but where? As his ship groaned and shuddered, struck by another smash-fist sea-shock, he winced, as if it was his own body which was being pounded. Blood of a shark! What had he done to deserve such weather?
He reviewed his options. He could put out sea-anchors and do his best to go nowhere. In that case, the Warwolf would sink. He could
try the long, laborious business of tacking against the easterly wind, trying to make for Narba. If he did that, his ship would sink all the quicker.
Alternatively, he could let the wind drive them to the western side of the Gulf of Drangsturm. During his many voyages in these waters – aagh, and how he longed for the fair weather of those long-ago cruises! – he had seen its mountains often enough on the far horizon. He had never been there. He had heard tales, of course . . .
But what choice did he have?'The ship must live,' said Arabin.
And, reluctantly, ordered the Warwolf to run for the west. Night came. By morning, the wind had eased to scarcely more than a moderate gale; foam from breaking waves was still lathered across the sea by the wind, but it was possible to talk without shouting. The very sounds of the ship were easier; her timbers were hurting still, but were no longer in agony.'Good,' said Arabin.
And ordered the lookouts, to keep a sharp watch for land. Though, to be honest, he still had no idea how far they were from shore.
Shortly after he had instructed the lookouts, he was met by a delegation led by Quin Baltu. With Baltu were Jez Glane, Salaman Meerkat and. Peg Suzilman. Arabin saw at a glance they were tired, angry, hostile, determined. All were armed.'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, b
ut 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.