The Wordsmiths and the Warguild (27 page)

       
"Is he very
dangerous then, this Prince Comedo?"

       
"Courage, boy! He's
a coward, and a fool. If he menaces you, then menace him back in my name. Here
- here's a parting gift for you. A letter of introduction from the Wordsmiths,
written by Brother Troop in his capacity as governor. Another letter, also
introducing you, which is written in my own fair hand. One last caution - never
let any wizard know you've been associating with me. It could be the death of
you. The Confederation is strong, boy, and ruthless, and is sworn to destroy me
and all my works."

       
"Thank you,
sir," said Togura, and bowed.

       
"Call me
Hostaja," said the wizard of Drum, not for the firs time. "When we
meet again, you with the index and destined to be much richer, call me
Hostaja."

       
And Hostaja Torsen
Sken-Pitilkin, wizard of Drum, no longer Sung's most bitter and implacable
critic - money is a great sweetener! - levitated his flying ship and was gone.

       
Togura was alone in
Looming Forest, but, for once, he was properly prepared for the task at hand.
He had weather-worthy clothes and boots, a couple of knives, a sword, a bow, a
quiver of arrows, five spare bowstrings, a big leather pack, a sheepskin
sleeping bag, plenty of salt beef, a tinder box, enough rope to allow him to
scale a respectable mountain, his two letter of introduction, a little money
and a pot of boot grease.

       
Togura, who felt that
the wizard of Drum had overequipped him in every respect but money, threw away
the boot grease, the rope, half the salt beef and a great hulking lump of
driftwood which he found in the bottom of his pack - perhpas one of the sea
dragons had put it there as a joke - and started walking east. Soon, to his
pleasure, he encountered an eastward-runnning stream. He knew it would take
him, without fail, to the Hollern River.

       
This time, he could not
get lost.

       
As for this business of
being a hero? Well, there would be plenty of time to make a decision on that
after he got to Lorford. But before he made any decision about hero-work, he
would undertake a far more urgent project: he would find one of Lorford's
cheaper whores and finally cure himself of his virginity.

Chapter 23

       
The trees of Looming
Forest were unfamiliar to Togura. The first time he made a fire, the wood was
damp, and reluctant to start; when it finally kindled, it burnt with a bleak
blue-grey flame, unlike anything he had ever seen before. Disturbed, he
wondered if it was a bad omen.

       
The first night, he
hardly slept, but lay awake listening to a mournful, night-boundered wind
wandering through the trees. He was further from home than he had ever been before;
he had left the Ravlish Lands, had crossed the Penvash Channel, and was now in
the continent of Argan.

       
His fire went out.

       
A large animal went
crunching through the undergrowth.

       
Togura sat up in his
sleeping bag, huddled against a tree, and drew his sword, prepared to fight to
the death if need be. The animal crunched away, and he did not hear it again.
But he listened for it. Dawn found him tired, ragged and irritable, but he told
himself the first night was always the hardest. He was sure things would
improve.

       
But they did not.

       
Togura did not relish
being back in the wilderness. Indeed, it was something of a shock to him. He
had forgotten the cold of the night, the immense height of the stars, and the
enormity of darkside shadows and noises; after that first night in the open, he
dearly wished he was back in the safe, comfortable castle on Drum. But wishing
failed to help him, and renewed familiarity failed to make the nights less cold
and dark.

       
The winter spent
slouching around the castle had softened him. The days marched his heels into
blisters. Each night, slumping to sleep, he had rheumatic nightmares in which
his swollen joints stumbled down forest paths at a crawling pace. He would wake
from these dreams to hear heavy-footed noises hunting each other through the
darkness; he would keep a silent vigil until they departed, permitting him to
sleep. Each morning, when he woke, he found his body still aching from the
rigours of the day before.

       
On waking, he would eat
some salt beef, drink from the stream he was following toward the east, break
camp, shoulder his pack, then tramp on through the forest. His pack, heavy and
invincible, oppressed him every step of the way. Unaccustomed to marching under
load, Togura suffered. The shoulder strap restricted circulation, making veins
in his hands swell; his burden constantly tried to drag him backwards, so he
finished each day with an aching back and aching shoulders.

       
Reachin the point of
mutiny, Togura hurled his pack at a tree, then tried to kick it to death. It
was indifferent to this treatment. To kill it properly, he would have to burn
it alive. But he was not reckless enough to do that. He needed his pack to
carry, among other things, the salt beef he needed to stay alive. But he was
sick of salt beef! He longed, with fervent nostalgia, for some pickled octopus
- or even some sea anemone soup.

       
As he drew nearer to the
Hollern River, Togura kept an eager lookout for any sign of human beings. he
longed for human voices, proper food, fireside companionship, laughter, jokes,
songs, music, and the beauty of women.

       
The first sign which
looked hopeful was a fresh, deep-ploughed scuffling track, as if something of
great weight had been dragged through the trees. The track approached the
stream then veered away from it. It had certainly not been made by any animal.
Whatever burden had been dragged through the forest had flattened undergrowth
and small trees; from the way the vegetation had been crushed down, the direction
of the track was clear, and Togura followed.

       
He had not gone far when
he saw a stone standing in the forest at the end of the track. It was a large
stone - twice his own height. It was covered with dirt, mud, pulped vegetation,
filth and muck. Togura could only presume that it had been abandoned there. But
some of the mud was still damp. Those who had dragged this enormous chunk of
rock to this place - strange that he could see no sign of footprints - could
not have gone far.

       
"Hello?"
called Togura.

       
The rock quivered,
moved, and fell over on one side. Are falling rocks bad luck? Togura was not
sure, but, just in case, he touched wood, which was a protection against many
kinds of misfortune.

       
"Is anyone
here?" cried Togura.

       
His voice quavered
disagreeably. He was ashamed of himself. He gathered his strength and gave a
great shout.

       
"Hey! Is anyone
here?"

       
The rock got up.

       
"I did not see that
rock get up," said Togura, in a slow, deliberate voice.

       
But the great mass of
dirt-stained stone was now most definitely upright.

       
"Rocks, perhaps,
sometimes fall upward," said Togura.

       
But he knew this was not
true. The world has its habits, and never deviates from them. The sky is always
up; the earth is always down. The rock must have -

       
"Gongaragon,"
growled the rock, shadows shaping to a vortex which appeared to be its mouth.

       
"I did not hear a
rock speak," said Togura, in a level, even voice. "I am tired. I am
over-stressed. I am starting to hallucinate. This is not unusual for an
isolated solo traveller."

       
The rock took a step
toward him.

       
"I did not see that
rock move," said Togura. "I did not - "

       
The rock launched itself
toward him on full attack. Without a moment's thought, Togura turned and fled.
He had no time to drop his pack. He went sprinting back the way he had come
with the rock roaring behind him. Togura reached the stream. He leapt across
it. Then ran slap-bang into a tree.

       
Stunned, dizzy, he
turned around and confronted the rock, which had stalled on the far side of the
stream. It stood there, roaring at him. Togura wiped his nose, which was bleeding
copiously.

       
"It cannot cross
water," he said, hopefully.

       
As the rock continued to
roar impotently, he convinced himself that it must be true. The thing had no
way to cross water. Drunk with relief, he started to hurl abuse at it.

       
"Muck eater! Flat
foot! You mud-screwing hump of a scallion! Pig-stuffing whoreson scab! Go eat
yourself! Gamos!"

       
The rock backed off,
then charged at a tree. Axed down in an instant, the tree fell dead, chopping
across the stream. The rock slammed down another tree, right next to it. And
then it began to cross.

       
"No!" screamed
Togura, his voice a high-pitched wail.

       
He fled.

       
The stone, lurching,
swaying, smashing its way through branches, came after him. Togura doubled back
and leapt across the stream. He ran a few paces further then stopped, panting
violently, and turned, knowing that the stream would stop the stone.

       
Which was not what
happened.

       
The stone charged
straight through the stream. It screamed when it hit the water, but it kept on
coming. Half-cripped by the water, its movements wild and erratic, it stumped
toward him.

       
"No no no!"
screamed Togura.

       
Then ran.

       
It was gaining on him.

       
Ahead, he saw something
through the tress. The river! He charged toward it, summoning all his strength
for one last sprint, hit the bank and jumped. With a crash, he hit the water.
His pack promptly dragged him under. As he struggled to free himself from the
pack, the obdurate leather seemed to grow arms and tentacles. It was hauling
him down, holding him, clutching him, strangling him.

       
Then he was free.

       
Free!

       
He shot to the surface,
swifer than a bubble, gasped for air then looked around. The current was
swiftly carrying him downstream. Unpstream, he saw the rock. It was lying
half-submerged in the water. He hoped it was dead.

       
His pack!

       
Togura struck out for
the shore, gained the bank and hauled himself onto dry land. Just upstream, a
little swirl of muddy water, swiftly dissipating, marked - he hoped - the place
where he had discarded his pack. He made his way to the place on the bank
closest to the muddy swirl - now a memory only, for the water was running clean
again - and marked it with a broken stick.

       
Then he went to check on
the rock.

   
    
It was really dead.

       
And Togura, giving vent
to an outbreak of hysterical anger, hammered the rock with a stick, jumped on
it, swore at it and threw mud at its corpse. Then, exhausted, sat down and
wept. It was really all too much. He had been prepared to meet dragons in
Argan, and bears, and hostile wizards, and Castle Vaunting's monster, but
nobody had ever told him anything about walking stones.

       
It was intolerable.

       
"This is
intolerable," he said, later, at evening, after a lot of hard diving had
allowed him to recover his pack.

       
His clothes were wet,
his weapons were wet, his pack was soaked, his sleeping bag was completely
sodden, his tinder box was saturated, and his salt beef had not been improved
by being immersed in the river.

       
"I'll probably die
in the night," said Togura.

       
But he didn't, so, when
morning came, he had to pull himself together, and decide what to do now.

       
"At least I've
reached the river. That's something," he told himself. "A little
southing will take me to Lorford."

       
Unfortunately, his
letters of introduction addressed to Prince Comedo of Estar were now, after
their bath in the river, illegible. When he reached Lorford, he would have to
go to Castle Vaunting and introduce himself without any assistance.