Centaur Aisle (13 page)

But the dragon had outsmarted them. It had placed a sunfish in this channel that operated on a similar principle to the sunstone, but it was thousands of times as large. When they came near, the fish suddenly glowed like the sun itself, blindingly. The rounded fin projected above the surface of the water, and its light turned night to day.

"Oh, no!" Dor cried. He had so carefully wrapped his sunstone—and now this was infinitely worse.

There was a gleeful honk from the dragon. They saw its eyes glowing as it forged toward them. Water dragons did not have internal fire; the eyes were merely reflecting the blaze of the sunfish.

"Plant the kraken!" Dor cried.

"No!" Chet countered. "We can make it to the mainland shallows!"

Sure enough, the boat glided smoothly across the channel before the dragon arrived. The monster was silhouetted before the sunfish, writhing in frustration. It had planned so well, and just missed victory. It honked. "Curses!" Grundy translated. "Foiled again!"

"What about the sand dune?" Irene asked worriedly.

"They are usually quiescent by night," Chet said.

"But this isn't night any more," she reminded him, her voice taking on a pink tinge of hysteria.

Indeed, the dark mound was rippling, sending a strand of itself toward the water. The sand had enough mass, and the water was so shallow, that it was possible for the dune to fill it in. The ravenous shoreline was coming toward them.

"If we retreat from the dune, we'll come within reach of the dragon," Chet said.

"Feed goon to dune," Smash suggested.

"Goon? Do you mean the dragon?" Dor asked. The ogre nodded.

"Say, yes!" Irene said. "Talk to the dune, Dor. Tell it we'll lure the dragon within its range if it lets us go."

Dor considered. "I don't know. I'd hate to send any creature to such a fate—and I'm not sure the dune can be trusted."

"Well, string it out as long as you can. Once the dune tackles the dragon, it won't have time to worry about small fry like us."

Dor eyed the surging dune on one side, the chop-slurping dragon on the other, and noted how the region between them was diminishing. "Try reasoning with the dragon first," he told Grundy.

The golem emitted a series of honks, grunts, whistles, and tooth-gnashings. It was amazing how versatile he was with sounds—but of course this was his magic. In a moment the dragon lunged forward, trying to catch the entire boat in its huge jaws, but falling short. The water washed up in a small tsunami. "I asked it if it wouldn't like to let a nice group of people on the King's business like us go on in peace," Grundy said. "It replied—"

"We can see what it replied," Dor said. "Very well; we'll go the other route." He faced the shore and called: "Hey, dune!"

Thus hailed, the dune was touched by Dor's magic. "You calling me, tidbit?"

"I want to make a deal with you."

"Ha! You're going to be consumed anyway. What kind of deal can you offer?"

"This whole boatload is a small morsel for the likes of you. But we might arrange for you to get a real meal, if you let us go in peace."

"I don't eat, really," the dune said. "I preserve. I clean and secure the bones of assorted creatures so that they can be admired millennia hence. My treasures are called fossils."

So this monster, like so many of its ilk, thought itself a benefactor to Xanth. Was there any creature or thing, no matter how awful, that didn't rationalize its existence and actions in similar fashion? But Dor wasn't here to argue with it. "Wouldn't you rather fossilize a dragon than a sniveling little collection of scraps like us?"

"Oh, I don't know. Snivelers are common, but so are dragons. Size is not as important for the fossil record as quality and completeness."

"Well, do you have a water dragon in your record yet?"

"No, most of them fall to my cousin the deepsea muck, just as most birds are harvested by my other cousin, the tarpit. I would dearly like to have a specimen like that."

"We offer you that water dragon there," Dor said. "All you need to do is make a channel deep enough for the dragon to pass. Then we'll lure it in—and then you can close the channel and secure your specimen for fossilization."

"Say, that would work!" the dune agreed. "It's a deal."

"Start your channel, then. We'll sail down it first, leading the dragon. Make sure you let us go, though."

"Sure. You go, the dragon stays."

"I don't trust this," Irene muttered.

"Neither do I," Dor agreed. "But we're in a bind. Chet, can you apply your calculus?"

"The smallest of stones can be considered calculi," Chet said. "That is to say, sand. Now sand has certain properties . . ." He trailed off, then brightened. "You have sea-grass seed?" he asked Irene.

"Lots of it. But I don't see how—" Then her eyes glowed. "Oh, I
do
see! Yes, I'll be ready, Chet!"

The sand began to hump itself into twin mounds, opening a narrow channel of water between them. Chet guided the boat directly down that channel. The dragon, perceiving their seeming escape, honked wrathfully and gnashed its teeth.

"Express hope the dragon doesn't realize how deep this channel is," Dor told Grundy. "In dragon talk."

Grundy smiled grimly. "I know my business!" He emitted dragon noises.

Immediately the dragon explored the end of the channel, plunging its head into it. With a glad honk it writhed on into the inviting passage.

Soon the dragon was close on their wake. Its entire body was now within the separation in the dune. "Now—close it up!" Dor cried to the dune.

The dune did so. Suddenly the channel was narrowing and disappearing as sand heaped into it. Too late the dragon realized its peril; it tried to turn, to retreat, but the way out was blocked. It honked and thrashed, but was in deep trouble in shallow water.

However, the channel ahead of the boat was also filling in. "Hey, let us out!" Dor cried.

"Why should I let perfectly good fossil material go?" the dune asked reasonably. "This way I've got both you and the dragon. It's the haul of the century!"

"But you promised!" Dor said plaintively. "We made a deal!"

"Promises and deals aren't worth the breath it takes to utter them—and I don't even breathe."

"I knew it," Chet said. "Betrayal."

"Do your stuff, Irene," Dor said.

Irene brought out two handfuls of seeds. "Grow!" she yelled, scattering them widely. On either side the grass sprouted rapidly, sending its deep roots into the sand, grabbing, holding.

"Hey!" the dune yelled, much as Dor had, as it tripped over itself where the grass anchored it.

"You reneged on our agreement," Dor called back. "Now you pay the penalty." For the sand in this region was no longer able to move; the grass had converted it to ordinary ground.

Enraged, the dune made one final effort. It humped up horrendously in the region beyond the growing grass, then rolled forward with such impetus that it spilled into the channel, filling it.

"It's swamping the boat!" Dor cried. "Abandon ship!"

"Some gratitude!" the boat complained. "I carry you loyally all over Xanth, risking my keel, and the moment things get rough, you abandon me!"

The boat had a case, but they couldn't afford to argue it. Heedless of its objection, they all piled out as the sand piled in. They ran across the remaining section of grass-anchorage while the boat disappeared into the dune. The sand was unable to follow them here; its limit had been reached, and already the blades of grass were creeping up through the new mound, nailing it down. The main body of the dune had to retreat and concentrate on the thrashing dragon that bid fair to escape by coiling out of the vanished channel and writhing back toward the sea.

The party stood at the edge of the bay. "We lost our boat," Irene said. "And the flying carpet, and escape hoop, and food."

"And my bow and arrows," Chet said mournfully. "All I salvaged was the gourd. We played it too close; those monsters are stronger and smarter than we thought. We learn from experience."

Dor was silent. He was the nominal leader of this party; the responsibility was his. If he could not manage a single trip south without disaster, how could he hope to handle the situation when he got to Centaur Isle? How could he handle the job of being King, if it came to that?

But they couldn't remain here long, whether in thought or in despair. Already the natives of the region were becoming aware of them. Carnivorous grass picked up where the freshly planted sea grass left off, and the former was sending its hungry shoots toward them. Vines trembled, bright droplets of sap-saliva oozing from their surfaces. There was a buzzing of wings; something airborne would soon show up.

But now at last the sunfish dimmed out, and night returned; the day creatures retreated in confusion, and the night creatures stirred. "If there's one thing worse than day in the wilderness," Irene said, shivering, "it's night. What do we do now?"

Dor wished he had an answer.

"Your plants have saved us once," Chet told her. "Do you have another plant that could protect us or transport us?"

"Let me see." In the dark she put her hand in her bag of seeds and felt around. "Mostly food plants, and special effects . . . a beerbarrel tree—how did that get in here? . . . water locust . . . bulrush—"

"Bulrushes!" Chet said. "Aren't those the reeds that are always in a hurry?"

"They rush everywhere," she agreed.

"Suppose we wove them into a boat or raft—could we control its motion?"

"Yes, I suppose, if you put a ring in the craft's nose. But—"

"Let's do it," the centaur said. "Anything will be better than waiting here for whatever is creeping up on us."

"I'll start the bulrushes growing," she agreed. "We can weave them before they're mature. But you'll have to find a ring before we can finish."

"Dor and Grundy—please question your contacts and see if you can locate a ring," the centaur said.

They started in, Dor questioning the nonliving, Grundy the living. Neither could find a ring in the vicinity. The weaving of the growing bulrushes proceeded apace; it seemed Chet and Irene were familiar with the technique and worked well together. But already the rushes were thrashing about, trying to free themselves to travel. The mass of the mat-raft was burgeoning; soon it would be too strong to restrain.

"Bring ring," Smash said.

"We're trying to!" Dor snapped, clinging to a corner of the struggling mat. The thing was hideously strong.

"Germ worm," the ogre said insistently. His huge hairy paw pushed something at Dor. The object seemed to be a loop of fur.

A loop? "A ring!" Dor exclaimed. "Where did you get it?"

"Me grow on toe," Smash explained. "Which itch."

"You grew the ring on your toe—and it itched?" Dor was having trouble assimilating this.

"Let me check," Grundy said. He made a funny sizzle, talking with something, then laughed. "You know what that is? A ringworm!"

"A ringworm!" Dor cried in dismay, dropping the hideous thing.

"If it's a ring, we need it," Chet said. "Before this mat gets away."

Chagrined, Dor felt on the ground and picked up the ringworm. He passed it gingerly to the centaur. "Here."

Chet wove it into the nose of the craft, then jerked several long hairs from his beautiful tail and twined them into a string that he passed through the ring. Suddenly the bulrush craft settled down. "The nose is sensitive," Chet explained. "The ring makes it hurt when jerked, so even this powerful entity can be controlled."

"Some come!" Smash warned.

Rather than wait to discover what it was that could make an ogre nervous, the others hastened to lead the now-docile bulrush boat to the water. Once it was floating, they boarded carefully and pushed off from the shore. The craft was not watertight, but the individual rushes were buoyant, so the whole business floated.

Something growled in the dark on the shore—a deep, low, throbbing, powerful, and ugly sound. Then, frustrated, it moved away, the ground shuddering. A blast of odor passed them, dank and choking. No one inquired what it might be.

Now Chet gave the bulrushes some play. The raft surged forward, churning up a faintly phosphorescent wake. Wind rushed past their faces.

"Can you see where we're going?" Irene asked, her voice thin.

"No," Chet said. "But the bulrushes travel best in open water. They won't run aground or crash into any monsters."

"You trust them more than I do," she said. "And I grew them."

"Elementary calculation of vegetable nature," the centaur said.

"May I lean against your side?" she asked. "I didn't sleep today, and your coat is so soft—"

"Go ahead," Chet said graciously. He was lying down again, as the woven fabric of the raft could not support his weight afoot. The rushes had swelled in the water, and Dor had succeeded in bailing it out; they were no longer sitting in sea water. Dor had not slept either, but he didn't feel like leaning against Chet's furry side.

The stars moved by. Dor lay on his back and determined the direction of travel of the raft by the stars' apparent travel. It wasn't even; the bulrushes were maneuvering to find the course along which they could rush most freely. They did seem to know where they were going, and that sufficed for now.

Gradually the constellations appeared, patterns in the sky, formations of stars that shifted from randomness to the suggestion of significance. There seemed to be pictures shaping, representations of creatures and objects and notions. Some resembled faces; he thought he saw King Trent peering down at him, giving him a straight, intelligent look.

Where are you now?
Dor asked wordlessly.

The face frowned.
I am being held captive in a medieval Mundane castle,
it said.
I have no magic power here. You must bring me magic.

But I can't do that!
Dor protested.
Magic isn't something a person can carry, especially not into Mundania!

You must use the aisle to rescue me.

What aisle?
Dor asked, excited.