The Walrus and the Warwolf

Drangsturm.

Jon Arabin decided to lie-to, praying the storm would blow itself out before wrecking them. So lie-to they did: but, slowly, remorselessly, they were driven toward grief where the flame trench met the Central Ocean.

Finally, the fires of Drangsturm itself were seen glowering against the stormcloud sky. The wind's joy blew berserk. They must raise sail or die – but no canvas could stand the weather.'Man the fore-shrouds!' roared Jon Arabin.And so they did.

When Drake was ordered aloft with the rest, he could scarce believe his ears – but soon enough he was up there, clinging in the rigging which braced the foremast. In his darkest imaginings, he'd never dreamed himself being turned into a storm-sail, but there he was, shuddering in the screaming wind while the ship lurched and his stomach lurched with it.

Warm within his gut, unperturbed by the weather, the encysted snake fed quietly on his blood, nourished its slowly-growing eggs, and thus prepared certain profound changes for his future.

For two days more the Warwolf endured the storm, with her crew manning the fore-shrouds in shifts. Once she was driven within half a league of the coast, but a wind-change saved her. She sprung a leak: Arabin set men to pumping. Another started: he organized a bucket-brigade. The first mate fell down a companion-ladder and broke his neck; Arabin swore, and promoted the second.

At last the inconstant wind shifted all the way round to the south, and eased a little. The Warwolf ran along with bare poles. Drake, by this time, was lurching on his feet, with hardly enough sense left to understand that he was still alive.

Arabin, passing him on the deck, slapped him on the back.

'We've done it, boy!' said Arabin. 'We've come through!'And Drake, despite the intensity of his fatigue, grinned. 'Aye,' he said. 'We're heroes.'

Both Shewel Lokenshield and Ika Thole heard him say as much, but neither of those hard men mocked him. Rather: they shared his triumph.

'How about some food for half-starved sailors?' said Ika Thole.

And Drake, understanding that the question was prompted by dire need, gladly went to the galley.

Towards noon on one rough-weather day (which day? How much storm had they endured? Blood and balls, there was no remembering) lessening winds allowed them to set a little sail. A brave sight the Warwolf made then, plunging through the mountainous grey seas with timbers groaning and strong men groaning in harmony.

'We'll have it sweet from here to Narba,' said Jon Arabin to himself. 'We're in the clear.'

Many sailors' superstitions held that such talk was tempting fate. Certainly, it was over-optimistic, for that evening their troubles were multiplied by a monster.

It came flying from out of the south, labouring through the air on storm-damaged wings. Swept from the shores of Argan by the weather, too poor an aviator to fly against the wind, it had no choice but to brave on forward into the unknown. An island was what it needed, but the Warwolf, happening where she did, suited the brute's purposes nicely.

It came on the ship from the stern. Then flew alongside. Drake Douay saw it out of the corner of his eye.

'If that was on a chessboard,' he murmured, turning and getting a good look at it, 'I'd say it was a Neversh.'

Since it wasn't on a chessboard, he dismissed it as a hallucination. Harly Burpskin saw the same thing, and thought it was a demon. Raggage Pouch also saw it – and mewled with piteous fear. He knew exactly what it was. It was indeed a Neversh. And Raggage Pouch, who had once seen a Neversh kill seventy armed men on Island Burntos, feared it more than anything out of nightmare.The Neversh flew in a great wide circle round the ship.'Jon!' screamed Quin Baltu.'What?' yelled Jon Arabin.'There's a-'

The rest of Quin Baku's words were lost in the sundering roar of a wave breaking over the ship.'So there's a wave,' muttered Jon Arabin. 'So what?'

But he was worried, all the same. For, heavily laden with an enormous mass of water, the Warwolf seemed almost to dig into the sea. For a few moments, Jon Arabin thought she was going to sunder under there and then.

Water cascaded from the ship in torrents. Slowly, her bow began to rise.'Jon!' screamed Quin Baltu.

'Don't worry!' yelled Jon Arabin, thinking this was no time for Quin Baltu to panic. 'She's riding nicely.' 'But there's a-'

There was a crash fit to rival thunder. Jon Arabin looked round wildly. Saw that the foremast was shattered, was down, broken, smashed, had fallen across the fo'c'sle, had wrecked the fo'c'sle, and was now kicking, struggling, striving, trying to resurrect itself.Or was it?No. On closer examination . . .

'Hell's blood and pigs' balls!' shouted Jon Arabin, in a voice that was one part fear and two parts fury. 'It's a Neversh, or I'm a tadpole.'

Jon Arabin could never be mistaken for a tadpole (though he had in his time been compared unfavourably with a shark, a lamprey, a vulture and a cantaloup) and there was indeed a Neversh struggling in the wreckage of rigging and canvas on the forward part of his ship.'Jon-' shouted Quin Baltu.

'I see it!' yelled Jon Arabin. 'Well, don't just stand there! Get rid of it!' Quin Baltu started forward, obedient to Jon Arabin's command. But the next wave took him overboard.

'Merantosh!' said Jon Arabin, who was always prone to obscenity under stress. 'Na jaba na terikV

He looked round for Disaster, or some other man who might be fool enough to tackle the beast. None such was in sight.'Right, then,' said Arabin. 'I'll handle it myself.'

As these monsters go, the Neversh was fairly small. Scarcely a quarter grown, it was just fifty paces in length, from the tips of its twin feeding spikes to the end of its whiplash tail. Small, yes, yet dangerous. It thrashed strenuously, wings beating so wildly that it was impossible to count them all. Its body, rich with buoyant gas, was kicked around by the wind. Finding the mainmast with its tail, the Neversh coiled tail around mast, and hung on tightly.

'Come on, men!' roared Jon Arabin. 'We're going to deal with that hell-bitch!'Nobody paid him any attention.

The ruined foremast, which had till then been pointing forward, rolled with a crash from the wreckage of the fo'c'sle. It started dragging in the water. A snare of ropes prevented it from falling away entirely.

'Men!' roared Jon Arabin. 'We act now or we lose the ship. Kill the monster! Cut away the mast! Come on! Come with me!'

But the entire crew was in panic, some men trying to launch the boats, others climbing the sheets – as if that would save them! – or taking cover below-decks.'Grief!' said Jon Arabin.

He called up the weapons muqaddam, who had been supervising the pumping.

'Get some order in this ship,' said Arabin, 'even if you have to kill someone. I'm going forward to take care of our unwelcome visitor.'

The weapons muqaddam looked round, saw the nature of the unwelcome visitor, and gave a short bow.

'Mylord,' hesaid, 'I will remember your heroism to your wives and children.'

Then grinned, darting out of reach as Arabin swung a kick at him. They were good friends from way back.

On his way forward, Arabin came upon a party of pirates who were trying to launch a boat.

'Avast there, you landlubbers!' bellowed Arabin. 'Any crow-gutted scavenger who wants to leave had better be ready to walk water!'

With a few more well-chosen words and some adroit use of his left-hand boot (always his best kicking foot, the left) he scattered the men back to their work.

Then hung on tight as a huge wave broke, sending water lathering over the ship. Amidst the lather was Quin Baltu. Jon Arabin grabbed him as he went floating past.'You all right?' said Arabin.

Quin Baltu could only cough and gasp. He had been thrashed something terrible by the roistering ocean; he had swallowed enough salt to pickle a pig.

'Volunteers!' roared Arabin. T need five volunteers to carry Quin Baltu to safety.'Five volunteers promptly came forward.