Name: Parry Iklemass Tinklebeth Terrorjaw Tor. (NB: by law, none may address the king by any of his three first names, on pain of death.)
Birthplace: Cam.
Occupation: king.
Status: absolute ruler of Stokos.
Description: an ogre twice man-height; width almost equal to height; elephant-style ears; tusks jutting downwards from upper jaw; age 54; hair black; eyes blue; six fingers on each hand; grey skin patterned like that of a crocodile.
Residence: the Iron Palace of Cam.
When night came, Drake hunched up in a corner of his cell and tried to get to sleep. It was almost impossible. The darkness echoed with the crash of great doors, the tramp of iron-shod boots, the garbled intercourse of coarse voices, occasional screams and the racket of hyena-flavoured laughter.
Sitting in darkness, breathing an ineffable jail-stench in which the reek of blocked drains predominated, Drake imagined he heard rats moving in his cell on razor-clawed feet. He thought he heard them sharpening their teeth against the cold tombstone-sized slabs of the floor. At last he fell asleep and dreamed – briefly – of the sword he would make with the help of Gouda Muck.
He woke to find things crawling over his face. He beat at them, knocking them into the dark. Spiders? Cockroaches? Something went whirling round his cell with a staccato clitter-clatter of wings.'Grief,' muttered Drake.
And found himself unable to regain the realms of sleep. When morning came, the gaoler served breakfast, which was a jug of water and a bowl of fish chowder. 'What happens now?' said Drake. 'Now? Why, your trial starts shortly.' 'Good,' said Drake.
He was glad, for a prompt trial meant he would soon be out of here. Excellent! He was in a hurry to return to Hardhammer Forge. He wanted to get down to work, yes, to start on his first sword. Surely King Tor would let him go. What had he done wrong? Nothing serious..
Drake thought Tor might even give him some compensation for false arrest and wrongful imprisonment.Yes.
'Rise and shine,' said the gaoler, interrupting Drake's calculations of probable compensation. 'We're going to the Iron Hall.'
Shortly Drake was shown into the Iron Hall of the Iron Palace. He had never been in a building so large, or so full of noise and people. Once there, sitting on a hard wooden bench, watching King Tor administer justice, Drake swiftly began to change his mind about his prospects.
The ruler of Stokos seemed to take law and life very seriously indeed.Again and again Tor cried:'Off with his head!'It seemed to be the king's favourite punishment.
Pleas for mercy did no good. Neither did grovelling. One particularly abject petitioner crawled to the throne and started licking the king's clawed feet. The snivelling fool was promptly kicked to death for his cowardice.'Be bold,' muttered Drake to Drake.'What did you say?' demanded a guard.
'I said, funny how there's so much iron in this place,' said Drake.
'Oh,' said the guard. 'That's easy enough explained. Things human-built tend to break when an ogre gets hold of them. The king's always complaining about how fragile everything is.''Oh,' said Drake, eyeing the king.
Who sat on a throne of black iron. Wearing leather trousers and a leather jacket, both studded with iron. Refreshments on an iron table beside him: live frogs in a huge bowl of cast iron. Blood in a chalice of wrought iron. A heap of mules' eyes on a plate of pig iron. At his feet, a gryphon.'What,' said Drake, 'am I charged with?'
'You expect a bill of particulars?' said the guard, with a laugh. 'We're not so stupid. If you knew what you were charged with, you'd be inventing lies and fantasizing alibis right now. Wouldn't you?'
'I'd be doing no such thing,' said Drake, indignantly. 'I'm a humble, law-abiding apprentice. And very religious into the bargain.'
'We'll see about that,' said the guard. 'Your case is next.'
Upon which King Tor pronounced sentence on his latest victim:
'Cut off the top of his head then feed him his own brains.' Drake shivered. And an orderly shouted:
'Dreldragon Drakedon Douay! Be upstanding! Advance to receive justice!'
Drake got to his feet and strode forward with as much of a swagger as he could manage. His body was alive with frantic pulses. His heart was asking for out. His arsehole was quivering. His knees trembled.
He halted, ten paces in front of the king. Set his feet shoulder-width apart. And tensed the muscles in his legs, to keep them from shaking. He eyed the king's gryphon uneasily. The brute appeared to be asleep, its purple wings folded against its tawny lionskin body. On its great hooked eagle's beak was what looked suspiciously like dried blood.
'What have you been doing wrong?' said Tor, in a buffalo-built voice.
'Man,' said Drake, in a loud voice which rang against stone and against iron, 'you're real hot on wrong. How about some right for a change? If it pleases your majesty – and even if it doesn't – I've done a good bit right in my time. Yes. Good work at the forge. Good work with steel. Good work at sword, too.'King Tor snorted.
'Don't snort so quick!' said Drake. 'It's logic, isn't it? Right should mean as much as wrong. But here you only talk of wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. All about error. Well, I say this. Maybe I killed a couple of watermelons. Maybe I took a little twig off a tree – sorry about that, your ugliness, but it'll live. Anyway, those are only little wrongs. The great rights of my life should cancel them out altogether.''You're talking nonsense,' said King Tor.
'Not so!' exclaimed Drake. 'Man, you should set up a court of rights as well as a court of wrongs. I volunteer for trial in such a court. I guarantee I'd walk away with reward rather than punishment. Stands to reason, doesn't it? If wrongs deserve punishment, rights deserve rewards. And in my case, rights outweigh wrongs by nine thousand to one.'
Tor laughed. Even at ten paces, Drake was assailed by royal halitosis. Tor's breath stank like a heap of guts which has sat for twenty-four days in a midden pit. Drake did his best not to flinch.
'Let's see, little mannikin,' said King Tor. 'Let's see exactly what you're charged with. Bring in the witnesses!'
While Drake was still suppressing his indignation about being called a mannikin, the witnesses trouped in. And a long line they made. They began to give evidence.There was the watermelon seller.
There was the Protector of the Royal Trees.There was the owner of a certain coal cart.
There was the owner of a certain house which had been wrecked by a certain coal cart.
There was the father of agirl of fourteen whom Drake had deflowered on his birthday.
There was the owner of a certain boat which was somewhat the worse for wear as a consequence of Drake's birthday celebrations.
There was-
But why go on? It is a long list, and the recital of such a list would not increase the world's wisdom, and might well give the unwise certain ideas they would be better of f not having.
Once the witnesses had finished, King Tor said:'What have you got to say for yourself?'
'What have I got to say for myself?' said Drake. 'Why, that I'd like to marry your daughter. For I'm just the man, as the witnesses have proved. Yea. For I am strong, brave, determined, resolute in decision, ruthless in action, swift, cunning, subtle as a serpent, fit, healthy, and the boldest cocksman who ever stalked the streets of Cam.'
'Do your talents excuse you from obedience to the law?' said King Tor, in something which sounded fearfully like anger.
'Man,' said Drake. 'There's no excuse needed. Those petty little quibbling pranks hardly rate a slap on the hand, far less the greater punishments. Why, they're all but boyish larks of one kind or another.
'And I'll have you know this. That girl wasn't much of a virgin, she'd had her father and brother before me.
'As for the other things, why, most of them weren't my fault either. They were the fault of the way the world' s built. It's a right flimsy place, your majesty, not built to take the strain of hard-living men like you and me. Why, if that cart had been built proper, it would never have ruptured when it hit that wall. That wall wasn't built well, either, or it would have stopped the cart. And that boat wasn't up to much, either.
'All in all, if you must talk punishment, I think you could let me get away with all this for no more than a slap on the hand.'King Tor sat in thought.
He drank a draught of blood. Good stuff! He burped, and wiped his lips. He plucked a frog from the snack-bowl and munched it down. Ah! Great eating!'Well,' said King Tor. 'We were all young once.'Drake waited.The king 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.