The Walrus and the Warwolf

drank some more blood.A little dripped from his lips to his leather trousers.

'You're right,' said King Tor. 'Those were but boyish pranks. So I'll let you off lightly. We'll have you birched in public today. You spend tonight buried to the neck in the public dungheap. Towards morning, we'll put you on a boat. Three leagues from shore, you'll be thrown overboard. That is my justice!'

Drake knew he had got a good deal. But he could not resist the impulse to push his luck.

'Man,' said Drake, 'my offer for your daughter still holds good.'Tor sat in silence, staring at Drake. Then:'You have a very high opinion of yourself,' said Tor.

'I'm a man's man, man,' said Drake, wishing he had kept quiet.

Tor considered. There was, for once, something close to silence in the Iron Hall. Everyone assembled wanted to hear the king's judgment. Would this boy get to marry Hilda, the king's daughter? Or would he be torn to pieces on the spot for his impudence?

'You hold yourself nicely enough,' said Tor, slowly. 'But substance may differ from appearance. That three- league swim from sea to shore should tell us rather more about you. If … if you can make it back to my palace before sunset, then you're the man to marry my daughter.'

'Why, that's right handsome ofyou,' said Drake. 'It's a deal.'

And they shook on it. As Tor's six-fingered hand closed on Drake's, the ogre squeezed. Just slightly. Drake winced, and squeezed back.

'Good muscles there,' said Tor, approvingly. 'Good luck!'

'Thought of the fair visage of your daughter will sustain me, sire,' said Drake gravely. Tor laughed, released Drake and clapped his hands. 'Take him away!' said Tor.

So Drake was taken out and birched in public, getting the standard twenty lashes. And it's no good pretending it didn't hurt, because it did. Worse than the pain was the publicity – for, as Drake was well aware, Sully Yot was amongst those watching.

Then Drake was planted in the dung heap, naked, up to his neck in ordure. And it's no good pretending that was comfortable – it was the worst night he'd had in his life. But for a fresh breeze coming in off the sea, he would have perished that night by reason of the fumes from the dung.

Towards dawn, Drake experienced something very close to despair. He felt shattered. He doubted that he could swim even as far as a sick snail could crawl while a hungry man was gulping down a very small piece of bread and jam, let alone three leagues. Three leagues! That was six thousand paces!Still, he had to try.

The sun was rising when Drake was dug out of the dung heap. First off, he was thrown into the harbour. The shock of the water revived him somewhat; he found he could swim, and swim quite well. Once he was clean – more or less – he was allowed to climb out of the harbour.

A considerable crowd had gathered to see the young man who had set himself up as a contender for the throne of Stokos. As someone threw a blanket over his shoulders, Drake gazed around at the mob. Why, he must be famous!'Good morning, young Drake,' said a familiar voice.It was Gouda Muck.

'Hi,' said Drake. 'Come to watch the fun, have you? Why couldn't you stay back at the forge torturing rats with a red-hot poker?'

'Don't be like that,' said Muck. 'I've brought you a present.'

And so he had – a pair of new trousers and a thick jersey of greasy wool. Drake was startled.'Why,'said Drake.'Why, this – I-'

'Thank me by surviving,' saidMuck, clapping a hard and horny hand onto his shoulder. 'You're a good lad, really. I know that.'

Such presents and such praise were the very last thing Drake had expected to get on that particular morning. His heart was gladdened; he felt almost human again.

'Morning, young sprogling,' said a rough but cheery voice.

It was Drake's uncle, Oleg Douay. And what had he brought with him? Why, breakfast!

Bacon, yes, and devilled kidneys, and bread greasy with fat. Drake scrambled into his new clothes then ate with a will, feeding warmth, strength and energy into his belly. Three leagues? No problem! He could do it lying on his back.

'That breakfast will see you drowned with cramp,' said an anonymous pessimist.

'Not me,' said Drake, carelessly, and downed another kidney. 'What's that other package? Something else for me?'

'Some new boots,' said Oleg Douay. 'But I won't hand them over yet. I'll be waiting when you make it back to shore. I expect you to dine with me this evening.''Withpleasure,' said Drake.

'Five shangles says you can't swim the three leagues wearing the boots,' said a voice.It was Sully Yot, half- hidden amongst the crowd.

'Done!' said Drake. Then, to his uncle: 'Give me the boots.' Reluctantly, his uncle handed them over.'This isn't wise,' said Oleg. 'Those boots will drown you.'

'Not me,' said Drake, determined to win five shangles off Sully Yot.

Five shangles! Why, that was a week's wages. With five shangles, he could be drunk for two and a half days without a moment's sobriety.

Then Drake remembered that his days of boozing, gambling and wenching were over. He was a serious sword-smith now, soon to settle down to the job of making his first blade. Well. . . once he'd made that weapon, surely a little celebration would be in order.Yes. Surely.

'I'll be here myself when you get to shore,' said Yot, 'to make sure you're still wearing the boots. So no cheating!'

'I'll be wearing the boots all right,' said Drake. 'I'll keep them on if only for the pleasure of kicking you.'

Then Drake was shown to the canary-yellow dinghy in which he would be rowed out to sea. The boat, he was told, was the Walrus. Unbeknownst to Drake, her owner had named her thus because he had once sailed on a pirate ship captained by a water-thief of that name.Drake was introduced to the crew.

There were three of them. Ish Ulpin (owner of the Walrus) and Bucks Cat were both human. The third, Whale Mike, was mostly ogre; he was twice man-height. But, unlike King Tor, he was of fairly slim build – his shoulders were no wider than a man's outstretched arms. He wore tarpaulin overalls and a great big leather apron with a huge pocket in the front.

The rowing boat – a big wide strongbuilt thing which would usually have had a crew of ten – settled noticeably as Whale Mike stepped into it. Drake dreaded to think what he weighed.

'Well, gentlemen,' said Drake. 'It looks like a good day for it. Shall we be setting to sea?'

He stepped into the boat. Ish Ulpin took the tiller; Whale Mike and Bucks Cat began to row. Men on ships in the harbour cheered or jeered according to their nature.

Then, as the Walrus passed by the bow of an illfavoured barque with furled black sails, a man leaned over the railing and cried:

'Hey, boys! That's the pup I told you about! The one who gave me the wrong directions!'

Looking up, Drake saw the man on the ship was Atsimo Andranovory.

'Belt him round the earhole for me!' cried Andranovory.Whereupon Ish Ulpin did just that.'Hit him again!' said Andranovory.

'No, that not fair,' said Whale Mike. Then, raising his voice so Andranovory could hear: 'You want hit boy, you know where to find him! You swim out after us if that what you want!'Andranovory answered in curses.

Soon, he was out of earshot. The dinghy left the protection of the harbour and began to rock uncomfortably on the swells. Drake started feeling uneasy.Or, to be precise, queasy.

All that bacon fat in his belly was getting distinctly uneasy about this adventure.

'You not happy stomach?' said Whale Mike. 'Here, you get this good, she put you right.'

And Whale Mike handed Drake a small stone bottle. What was in it, Drake didn't ask. He simply swigged. It was bitter. It burnt. At first, he felt worse than ever. Then his stomach settled, and seasickness threatened no more as the Walrus rowed out into the open sea.

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