The Walrus and the Warwolf

was sinking. And exhausted men with their hands already raw from pumping all night could scarcely be goaded to greater efforts.

Jon Arabin tried every trick he knew. Divers -including Drake – were sent into the sea to try to locate leaks. Emerging from the waters blue with cold, they claimed their mission fruitless. Other men worked below decks, trying to pinpoint the places where water was pouring in; as some of the worst leaks were already submerged, this was of little use.

Ropes held by men on either side of the ship were dropped over the dragon figurehead at the bow, worked down the length of the ship, then used to haul oakum-enriched sails so they lay taut against the hull below the waterline. This attempt at fothering the leaks brought little success.

'But the ropes are there!' roared Jon Arabin. 'And I'll use them to keel-haul the first man who drops from exhaustion!.'

But, when Simp Fiche collapsed, Arabin failed to live up to his word: for religious reasons, he could not chance another killing. And when Bucks Cat gave up, Arabin knew everyone aboard must be close to their limits.

He reduced sail, trying to lessen the strain on the ship – but he had to keep her moving, for they had been swept desperately close to the shipbreaking cliffs of the far north-west of Argan.'Lighten the ship!' ordered Arabin.

Overboard went the harbour chain from Hexagon. Of all aboard, only Drake knew enough about metalwork to properly mourn its loss. Men dived in the filth far below decks to recover ballast blocks, which were passed from hand to hand then chucked over. While these and other things were being ditched, casks, spars and planks were lashed together to make rafts. Every boat on deck had been smashed by sea serpents.

'Mulps,' said Arabin, spying the Walrus. 'I've tried every move I know. What have I forgotten?'

'Your father's name, if your mother ever knew it to tell you, which I doubt.''Ah, bash-da-zerkV said Arabin.'The same to you!' said the Walrus.

Arabin did not bother to argue further. He strode on down the canting deck to the treasure hold, where men waist-deep in dirty water were handing the sea to men above, a bucket at a time.

'Men,' shouted Arabin. 'We're losing to the flood. Any suggestions?'

Those below, who resembled nothing so much as the living dead, looked up at him in something close to hopelessness.

'Drake,' said Arabin, seeing the Stokos steelworker down there. 'Drake, my son, what say you?'

'That I dare not advise the Warwolf, lest he take insult and kill me for his pride.'

'Aagh!' said Arabin, spitting at Drake but missing. 'Enough of your nonsense! If you've got a thought in your head, let's hear it!'

'Hear this!' said Drake. 'These buckets are bugger-all use. We'd, be better off drinking the stuff. Get some pumps, man, that's what I say.'

'We can't, they're needed elsewhere. It's no use skinning our kneecaps to cover our elbows.'

'Then,' said Drake, 'pump out just this velching muckle of a gork-sprigging hold and waterproof the god- rutting whore-mother.'

'We've done our best with the leaks,' said Arabin. 'We can do no better.'

'Then shift the pumps,' said Drake. 'Pump it out, lay down barrels, nail them down then shift the pumps back elsewhere.''Bravo!' cried Arabin.

And had pumps shifted, then used to rip the water out of the treasure hold. Men laid down a layer of barrels, stretched planks across to hold them down, and nailed the planks to the sides of the hold. That gave them one layer of air – but they had by then run out of barrels. They wrapped sails around assorted rubbish – kitchen firewood, bits of bamboo, old wineskins inflated by those with the strongest lungs, straw from the crew's bunk-mattresses – and secured these makeshift flotation bags with additional timbers.

Then shifted the pumps. . Perhaps this did no practical good. Perhaps, like Arabin's practice of using men for sails in extremis (or his anchor drill, his navigation or a thousand other technical details), it would have roused the ribaldry of a better sailor. But it did wonders for the morale of the crew. It gave them hope, united them for coherent action, renewed their vigour and sent them back to work with a will. Even a partially recovered Simp Fiche was seen to do some honest labour.

Arabin worked variations on the theme. A forward compartment was pumped dry, then tar was scavenged together, heated, and used to paint the place in an effort to keep out water. That exhausted their tar supply. Another compartment was pumped dry, the fo'c'sle broken up for timber, and an extra layer of planking nailed over the floorboards.

Arabin would have painted the ship with shit and spit if there'd been one chance in fifty thousand that such would do any good.

He talked bravely to his men, telling them how the ship would scrape round to the North Strait, make for Tameran's coast, find a quiet careenage then repair. No fool suggested their crippled ship should instead claw back down the long leagues to D'Waith – for the variable winds were all from directions south of west, and had been ever since the sea serpents attacked.

By dayfall, the Warwolf was still afloat. But Arabin knew he no longer commanded a ship but a waterlogged wreck.

'Keep your eyes skinned, boys,' said Jon Arabin, when dawn came. 'There used to be a floating island in these parts.'

'Aye, Falatavith, no doubt,' jeered Slagger Mulps. 'We've heard that fairy tale before.'

'True,' said Arabin, 'and I've seen the place, for I've sailed this way before.''What? Up to the Eternal Ice, I suppose!'

'That I did. Some forty years ago it was, when I were a lad and you were a red-raw abortion scrawling your hands over your pig-mother's twenty-seven tits. I sailed the Hauma Sea, man, with Scurvy Brew and old Trim Bugger-man. There were real pirates back then – and real sailors they were, too, not like the new generation. Why, I remember-' •

'Cut this old man's crap-talk,' said Mulps. 'You've yet too many teeth in your head to talk doddering. Tell what you saw!'

'All kinds of things,' said Arabin. 'The Hauma Sea. The shores of ice. A port called Stranagor and the river, ah, the Yolantarath. Aye, and the whores of Sho-na-sing, and five different kinds of pox. Yes, man, I remember -all that, and me own legs black with scurvy.''But the island, man, the island!'

'You don't believe in it,' said Warwolf to Walrus. 'So why ask after it?'

'Point ahead!' cried the lookout, giving the traditional pirate call to indicate something seen but not yet identified.

'But, mark me,' said Jon Arabin, 'belief or no belief, maybe that's the island now.'

Upon which the ship shook as an undersea rock raped her – Jon Arabin had known them too close to the coast for comfort, but had been unable to do anything about it – and shortly she was sinking in earnest.

So all the barrels and wood which had gone into the holds was ripped out again, and fashioned into rafts. Whale Mike made one all for himself. Nobody argued with the logic of that.

Finally, the Warwolf, with a little whimper, went murmuring under the water.'We sing song!' yelled Whale Mike. 'Happy song, eh?'

But, today, everyone was too exhausted to take up a song.

27

Falatavith: most northerly of the five Floating Islands of the Central Ocean's sea- legends; described variously as 'thorny wilds hunted by ores, giants, trolls and worse', a 'nest of dragons', a 'bony rock with greedy caves where ghouls and ghosts go mucking about with clubs and hatchets', and, more optimistically (by a man made rich by selling maps of the place), as 'a golden palace littered with perfumed damsels with silver skins and eyes of diamond'.

On rafts rigged with rags of sails, the survivors from the Warwolf's wreck struggled