Survivors of the wreck on the Penvash coast: Jon Arabin (aka Warwolf); Slagger Mulps (aka Walrus), Dreldragon Drakedon Douay (runaway swordsmith's apprentice and common pirate, aka Drake); Sully Datelier Yot (disciple of Gouda Muck and apostle of the Flame); Whale Mike; Bucks Cat; Ish Ulpin (once gladiator in Chi'ash-lan); Rolf Thelemite (self-proclaimed hero from Rovac); Jez Glane; Simp Fiche; Tiki Slooze; Salaman Meerkat; Ika Thole; Jon Disaster; Peg Suzilman; Raggage Pouch; Harly Burpskin (who, after living for years with more money than sense, now has equal quantities of both thanks to gambling losses to Drake).
After their wreck on the Penvash coast, the seventeen survivors spent a miserable night huddled in a body-ball in a marginal cave constantly wet with spray from the booming surf. When the grey, straggling autumn dawn arrived, Drake was sent aloft – straight up the cliff face.
'Come back with your shield or on it,' said Jon Arabin, giving him a parting slap on the back.'What?' asked Drake, blankly.
'Never mind,' said Arabin. 'Climb, man – day's wasting!'
Up went Drake, and pioneered a route which others could follow. By noon, all seventeen were on the clifftop. A bleak and desolate spot it was to be sure, with precious little shelter from the North Strait winds or the North Strait rains, both of which were in full swing.
'God's gall and devil's bane,' said Salaman Meerkat. 'What did we do to deserve this?'
T don't know what you did,' said Jez Glane proudly. 'But I did rape, murder, theft, arson, piracy, horse-thieving, cattle-rustling, poaching-''Save the catalogue,' said Jon Arabin. 'Let's march.'
He pointed inland, where white-capped mountains rose against the dismal heavens.'March?' said Burpskin. 'To where?'
'Over the mountains there's rivers, man,' said Arabin, ' Rivers which flow to Estar in the end.'
'Aye,' said Tiki Slooze. 'But we'll go through the Old City on the way.'
'If it exists,' said Jon Arabin, who knew that legend too. 'Suppose it does. What's worse? To go by way of the Old City, maybe meeting with ghosts? Or to stay here, becoming ghosts ourselves soon enough?''Isn't there anything else we can do?' wailed Burpskin.
'Sure there is,' said Arabin. 'You can leave by sea. First build an escape boat – with this!'
He pulled up a handful of tough grey cliff-grass and offered it to Burpskin. Then threw it to the snatching wind. 'Or walk the line of the coast – a pretty path it is, too.'
The coast was no such thing, being jagged as the blade of a two-handled Jatzu rip-saw, slashed deep by sea-eating gullies as numerous as the death-notches on Ish Ulpin's battle-belt, interrupted by razorback ridges which looked as though a regular wreck-storm sea had been frozen forever into rock, and knobbed with isolated upthrusts of rock reminiscent of Sully Yot's warts.
'Mark me well,' said Jon Arabin, 'I put no compulsion upon anyone. Those who know a better road can follow it. Those who want but to die can do so here, in their own time – not mine.''But what about the Old City?' said Tiki Slooze.
'What's this Old City?' asked Drake. 'Those of us who never heard of it have rights to know, surely, if it's there we're going.'
'You've got rights to a kick up the arse, if you talk so stroppy,' growled the green-haired Walrus.
But Rolf Thelemite thought otherwise:
'Drake's right. We're right to learn danger before meeting it. Thus courage can prepare itself. Thus-''Aagh!' said the Walrus.
He spat. Into the wind, which flung his spittle back at him. He smeared the stuff into his green beard, then coughed.
'The Old City,' said Burpskin, in a voice already grieving for his death, 'that kills.'
'Aye,' said Tiki Slooze. 'It's in the Valley of Forbidden Dreams, isn't it just? I was born in Sung, that's in Ravlish, we know the legend-talk well, aye, better than others. Ghosts which eat, fire which eats, stone which eats – all such live there.'
'Aye,' said Jon Arabin. 'Maybe they do. But wind eats, rain eats, and hunger eats most swiftly of all. I can't speak for the Old City, but I can speak for this place here – those bone-eaters will hunger down any man who stays.''You're ahard man,' said Harly Burpskin.
'Aye, hard I am, butno tyrant, not when we'reoffthesea. I'll put it to the vote of feet. Those who wish can stay: you others, follow.'With that, Jon Arabin set off inland.
Rolf Thelemite was first to follow, more sure than the others of his ability to survive a long march by land.
Next went Salaman Meerkat. Though he had not confessed to his ignorance, Meerkat had never heard the legends of the Old City. And anyway, as his grand-daddy used to say:
'If we never went any place someone somewhere held to be haunted, we'd never go any place at all.'
Whale Mike followed, being too stupid to worry about the dangers of the journey. Then went Ish Ulpin, acutely intelligent but as reckless as they come. Then Slagger Mulps, to try and salvage a shadow of the pretence of leadership. Then Simp Fiche, always ready to curry favour with the Walrus if he could.
One by one they straggled off into the hinterland, a ragged band of rough-bearded unarmed mariners, watching only the feet of the man in front, since the wind and the driving rain discouraged idle gazing about.In the end, only Drake and Yot were left at the clifftop.
'Those old guys are crazy,' said Drake, who – cold, tired, hungry, and generally utterly shagged out – felt like giving up entirely.'For sure they are,' said Yot.
Then, without further ado, started walking after the last of the pirates.
'Me old uncle was right,' said Drake, meaning his uncle Oleg Douay, the best swordsmith on Stokos. 'We are all mad to get ourselves born.'
And, with that, he fell in behind Yot.