The Walrus and the Warwolf Read online

  THE WALRUS AND THE WARWOLF

  Hugh Cook

  THE WALRUS AND THE WARWOLF

  A CORGI BOOK 0 552 13327 2

  Originally published in Great Britain by Colin Smythe Limited

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Colin Smythe edition published 1988 Corgi edition published 1988 Corgi edition reprinted 1991

  Copyright © Hugh Cook 1988

  Conditions of sale

  1.This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall

  not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out

  or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent

  in any form of binding or cover other than that in which

  it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  2.This book is sold subject to the Standard Conditions of

  Sale of Net Books and may not be re-sold in the U.K.

  below the net price fixed by the publishers for the book.

  This book is set in Times

  Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers Ltd., 61-63 Uxbridge Road, Ealing, London W5 5SA, in Australia by Transworld Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd., 15-23 Helles Avenue, Moorebank, NSW 2170, and in New Zealand by Transworld Publishers (N.Z.) Ltd., Cnr. Moselle and Waipareira Avenues, Henderson, Auckland.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd., Reading, Berks.

  Maps

  1

  Iron: metal made on Stokos by smelting the local hematite, a blood-red ore containing 70 parts in 100 of iron.

  Steel: iron alloyed with carbon. Made on Stokos by baking iron with charcoal in a sealed pot kept at red heat for eight days, then melting the 'blister steel' thus produced in covered crucibles, skimming off the slag.

  Firelight steel: fabric of the masterswords of Stokos; consists of interwoven layers of high carbon and low carbon steel; represents the height of the swordsmith's art.

  Drake Douay had his sixteenth birthday two months before the start of the year Khmar 17. That night he celebrated by getting:

  laid;

  drunk;

  into an enormous amount of trouble.

  At midnight he was trapped in a cul-de-sac by four coal miners, two dogs and an angry butcher's boy, all of them out for his blood.

  However, Drake was a practised survivor. He escaped with nothing worse than bruised ribs, a broken toe, and a nick in his left ear where a dagger had scratched him in the skirmish.

  Shortly afterwards, he stood outside the temple of the Demon Hagon, beating his fists against his naked chest and howling like a werewolf. Guards gave chase, but Drake lost them in the twisting back-streets of Cam. After

  that, he was so tired he decided it was time for bed. But, to his surprise, he found the door of Hardhammer Forge barred against him.

  'Wake up, Muck, you grouty old octopus!' bawled Drake.

  But got no response, which was scarcely surprising, since Gouda Muck was nine-parts deaf and slept as soundly as a drunken crocodile quietly digesting a bellyful of plague-bloated rats.

  Drake threw stones on the roof, then shouted, sang and howled, until one of the neighbours opened an attic window and threw a cat at him. Whereupon Drake decided on a tactical withdrawal.

  Come dawn, he crawled out from underneath the boat where he had slept away the last of the night, yawned, grinned, stretched, hawked, then spat.

  'Ahoy there!' called someone in very bad Galish.

  Who was it?

  A coal miner? The butcher's boy? The ruffian he had knocked out after last night's gambling quarrel?

  It was none of the above, but a man rowing ashore from an evil-looking barque anchored out in the harbour of Cam. The ship's sails were furled, but, even so, Drake could see they were black.

  'Ahoy yourself!' called Drake. 'What ship are you from?'

  'Never mind the ship,' said the man, bringing the boat alongside some waterfront steps.

  'Do you want a woman?' said Drake. 'I can get you one cheap.'

  The stranger did not answer immediately, but secured the dinghy to a bollard with a painter, then came scrambling up the steps. He was an ill-favoured fellow with coarse foreign features, a thick neck, a barrel chest, rough-cut black hair and a shaggy black beard.

  'Who be you?' he said.

  'Narda Narkin,' said Drake Douay, answering at random.

  Some mighty queer people came into Cam from time to time, so it was only common sense for Drake to reserve his true name.

  'Pleased to meet you then, Narda Narkin,' said the stranger. 'I be Atsimo Andranovory. I search for three men. Rumour has them in Cam.'

  'Their names?' said Drake.

  'Whale Mike, Ish Ulpin and Bucks Cat.'

  T know them well,' said Drake, who had never heard of them, but thought himself unlikely to profit by confessing ignorance. T can direct you to their very door - for a price. What's it worth?'

  'As much as the air between your lips,' said Atsimo Andranovory, putting a hand to the hilt of the cutlass he wore at his belt.

  Drake glanced around. The waterfront was deserted. His bargaining position was poor.

  'Take the street which leads from the southern end of the waterfront,' said Drake, pointing. 'Take the third turning on the left then the second on the right, and it's the third house along.'

  'Thank you kindly,' said Andranovory.

  And, with perfect faith in these directions, set off. Whereupon Drake turned in the opposite direction, whistling a jaunty tune as he made for Hardhammer Forge.

  It was going to be another fine day. The air was cool, calm and clean. The sky was an enormous ascension of blue, flaunting banners of white cloud. Drake was happy, despite fatigue and headache. He was young, he was strong - and everything was going his way.

  On reaching the forge, Drake was dismayed by an enormous heap of dusty black coal which had been delivered the previous evening. It would have to be put in sacks then stacked in the cellar. That was apprentice work, hence Drake's work.

  'Such is life,' said Drake.

  And slipped inside.

  Hands in pockets, he leaned against a wall, looking around as if he owned the place. He breathed in heat and coal dust, and smirked. He was sixteen. He knew it all. He was ready for the world.

  'What are you doing here?' yelled Gouda Muck.

  'Why, I work here, don't I?' said Drake.

  'Work!' screamed old man Muck. 'That's a joke! You've never done a day's decent work in your life. You're such an ugly little runt you couldn't work if you wanted to!'

  Drake was unhurt by the word 'ugly'. If there was such a thing as male beauty, then he, with his athlete's build and perfect muscle definition, was beautiful - and he knew it. But 'runt' - now that stung. For Drake was fearfully close to being short, which was disastrous on Stokos, where the fashion was to be as tall as possible.

  To annoy Muck, Drake made no answer, but simply whistled the lilting tune of that ditty which starts as follows:

  Two whores and a sheepdog were tupping one day When a cat and a virgin came dancing that way.

  'Stop whistling!' shouted Muck. 'You should be ashamed of yourself. You look like a walking rubbish heap.'

  Muck was exaggerating. But, in truth, Drake Douay was not a pretty sight. Or a pretty smell, either. Unwashed, largely unslept and decidedly dishevelled. Shirtless. Blood, dirt, paint, rust and tomato sauce splattered across his torso. Dried blood in his blond hair. Breath like a brewery.

  'How did you get in such a state?' said Muck. 'Look at yourself!'

  'Can't,' said Drake. 'Got no mirror.'

  'Just as well,' said Muck. 'You'd frighten any self-respecting mirror to death.
'

  'Mirrors can be frightened?' said Drake. 'This sounds like experience speaking!'

  At that, Muck picked up a beautiful chunk of specular iron with a hand which was old, gnarled, freckled with liver spots, and cunning with long experience. Muck heaved the rock at his apprentice. Drake ducked. The missile hit the wall, shattering into 376 pieces. Each fragment was made of crystallized hematite: for such is the nature of specular iron.

  'Man, don't do that,' said Drake. 'This ducking business makes my head hurt.'

  'Then cease your cheek,' said Muck, picking up a sword which he brandished so wildly that Drake feared for his head. 'Tell me - what's this?'

  Even inside the forge, the weapon glittered like an eagle's eye. It was a masters word made of firelight steel. And not just any old mastersword, either, but the master-work Muck had made many dusty years ago to win entry to the swordsmith's guild.

  'That?' said Drake, sneering at the blade. 'That's a giant's toothpick or a splinter of last month's moon, for all I know.'

  'It's a sword! And where should you be? At sword!'

  'Oh? Is it Temple Day again?'

  'Yes,' said Muck, with satisfaction.

  On these occasions, which happened every tenth day, everything at the temple of Hagon was half-price.

  'What say,' said Drake. 'You set me free for the day. Just this once.'

  'No!' said Gouda Muck, who delighted in forcing his apprentices to labour extra hard on Temple Day.

  'You're wrong to deny me religion,' said Drake.

  'I know you've got a sister in the temple,' said Muck, putting down his mastersword. 'I can't see you suffering too much denial. Why, I can smell a woman on you now!'

  'That's not a woman,' said Drake promptly. 'That's a dog!'

  'Then she's a dog with very poor taste,' said Muck, not caring whether Drake's claim was literal or metaphorical. 'Graf begrik,' muttered Drake.

  'What was that?' said Muck sharply, suspecting correctly - that Drake had just said something lewd.

  'I said where's Dragon's Tooth?' said Drake, scanning the sword rack, which held second-rate blades suitable for apprentice use.

  'Yot'sgot it.'

  'Oh, but that's my favourite!'

  'Don't worry, you've no monsters to kill today,' said Muck, with a heavy attempt at sarcasm.

  'No monsters?' said Drake. 'Only because you're off-limits!'

  Muck swung at him with a poker. But Drake, who had expected as much, ducked. And Muck's boot caught Drake hard near the base of his spine. The blow with the poker had been only a feint.

  'Ow!' said Drake. 'That hurt!'

  'It was meant to,' said Muck, picking up a strange sword which Drake had never seen before. 'Here, take this. It's just come in. It' s from Pribble's estate, in payment of a debt he owed me.'

  The strange sword was big and heavy, but Drake had the muscles to handle the weight. The blade balanced nicely.

  'Mind you Investigate it before use!' said Muck.

  'That I will,' said Drake, and, naked blade resting lightly on his shoulder, strolled out of the forge.

  'Move yourself!' shouted Muck. 'You haven't got all day!'

  So Drake got the hustle on, at least until he was round the corner.

  Drake swung his sword. Liberated from the gloom of the forge, it glittered in the daylight. He danced on the cobblestones between two rows of whitewashed buildings, stabbing at ghosts with his vorpal blade.

  What should he call it?

  'Warwolf, perhaps.

  That was scarcely original, as many fabled swords and heroes bore that name. But Drake had the temperament of a craftsman rather than that of an artist; he preferred utility to originality any day of the year.

  T name thee Warwolf,' he said. 'Too long hast thou lingered amidst dust and debts. Thou shouldst have had ruler like me beforehand.'

  Then, whistling, he began to Investigate the brave sword Warwolf.

  By using it.

  First he tried to lop the head off a stray cat - but it was too quick for him. Then he slashed a branch off a stunted little tree trying to grow in a big streetside stone pot. That was reckless, since all potted trees in Cam were under the protection of King Tor. But it was still early morning, so few people were about in the streets to bear witness.

  Rounding another corner, Drake was startled to be confronted by a watermelon stand. A massive, old, unpainted stand of weathered grey wood, heaped high with watermelons. This fearsome apparition made Drake entirely forget about his hangover.

  'Not a watermelon stand!' he gasped. 'Nay! Say not! But no! It is! My eyes fail! My blood turns to water!'

  But, regardless of failing eyes and watery blood, Drake stood his ground. And challenged his fell foe.

  'Stand aside!' he said. 'Aside, I say! Or it shall go ill with you.'

  The watermelon stand, undaunted by this threat, made no effort to get out of his way. Drake knew his peril. For, truly, in all the annals of heroism and romance, there is no account of any man ever daring battle with a watermelon stand and living to tell the tale.

  'Die, hell-fiend!' gritted Drake.

  And hewed like a hero. Thwapl The nearest watermelon fell dead at his feet.

  'Shalt fear the dreaded Drake Douay hereafter,' snarled he, menacing a particularly big brute of a watermelon.

  The monster's skin was a thick, tough, alien green, stippled with patterns of sunlight yellow. A challenge indeed! But Drake the Doughty stabbed with a strength against which even the strongest armour could not avail.

  He wounded his enemy.

  Ichor dripped from the wound.

  Drake stabbed again - for, as is well known, the watermelon has neither heart nor liver, nor any other vital organ, and thus is seldom killed by a single stab wound.

  'What's this?' said Drake. 'It will not die! Could it be that I am face to face with an immortal?'

  He drew his sword back, intending to strike the most awesome blow imaginable.

  At that moment, the watermelon seller came roaring out of a nearby tavern, screaming threats and abuse. Drake snatched up half a watermelon and sprinted away with this trophy. He went flying up a side-street, which was steep, narrow and radically kinked.

  Drake tore round one corner then whipped round another. The street steep, still rising. Another corner. He saw a fully laden coal cart waiting uphill. He dug in his heels for a final burst of speed. Gaining the coal cart, he kicked the chocks away from its wheels.

  Panting harshly, Drake stood watching as the cart went rumbling downhill. Lumps of coal jumped for freedom as the cart jolted over the cobblestones. It was gaining speed.

  ' Look out below!' screamed Drake.' Runaway cart!'

  Then the cart hit a kink in the street. It smashed into a wall. The wall shattered. The cart burst asunder. Coal dust exploded into the air. The wall collapsed. Until that moment, it had been supporting a roof. A landslide of sky-blue tiles slithered from the roof and shattered in the street.

  'Oh, great stuff, great stuff!' said Drake, trying to pant and laugh at the same time.

  He would have clapped his hands for joy and delight - only that would have meant dropping both sword and watermelon.

  'Zooma floragin!' screamed a manic figure, bursting out of the building which the cart had wrecked. 'Thamana lok!'

  'That's not polite,' muttered Drake.

  And, indeed, it was not polite at all - it was low and filthy gutter language.

  As the demented figure gave chase, Drake fled.

  Once he had lost his pursuer, Drake munched down the juicy pink flesh of the watermelon, then strolled along with a mouthful of pips, spitting them out one at a time. Which took skill, but he had been practising for as long as he could remember (and stealing watermelons for that long, too).

  Splip.'Stlip!

  Watermelon seeds flew, with considerable accuracy, through every open window he passed. That was fun.

  But, all too soon, he arrived at the sword field, which was not a field at all, but a d
usty courtyard where, usually, three dozen apprentices would have been practising sword.

  'Bugger,' said Drake.

  The sun was getting up. The excitement of the coal cart crash had worn off. His legs were tired, his boots heavy. He was remembering his headache. It felt bad. How had he ever forgotten it? A wave of weariness rolled over him. He wanted to be in bed. But his bed was in the loft over the forge, so Muck would know exactly where to find him if he tried skiving off. Holding his sword by the pommel, Drake entered the sword field, letting the blade's point trail behind him in the dust.

  Today there was nobody present but an instructor, and Sully Yot. All the other apprentices had been released by their masters so they could enjoy the delights of Temple Day.

  'Ah, there you are, young Dreldragon!' said the instructor. Then, seeing what Drake was doing: 'Get that sword out of the dust before I shove it up your arse! Get your arse over here! Get working!'

  'Hey, man,' said Drake. 'Give us a break, why don't you? How about you come to the temple with us? I'll buy you a beer, man. A woman, even. Muck will never know different.'

  In reply, the instructor booted Drake in the backside, then set him to work with Yot, making the pair of them practise a two-man kata.

  The swordsmiths' guild believed apprentices should learn weapon skills, the better to be able to make a decent killing blade. But they allowed no rough-and-tumble play with wasters.

  As the instructor was fond of saying: 'We are not teaching you how to brawl it out on a battlefield, but to learn how weight, length and balance dictate utility.'

  Nevertheless, sword training was deadly serious, done with bare blades and no protection. A single mistake could wound, mutilate or kill. However, though dangerous, it could almost have been mistaken for a kind of dance - for it was strictly a no-contact affair. Every thrust, fake, step, jump and counter was pre-arranged.

  Drake, after years of this, was thoroughly bored with the rituals of the one-man, two-man and multiple-encounter katas. He longed to make steel chime with steel. But, when Yot struck and Drake parried, both halted their blades the instant before contact. For, if ever edge met edge, a sword might be notched, bent, or even broken.