Oh, well, he thought, perhaps there would be other opportunities in Dwomor. He took a last look at Morria Castle, then turned and went below.
Dusk of that third day found the ship approaching the mouth of the river, not the Great River, someone explained, but another, the largest in the Small Kingdoms, which had half a dozen names. The Londa River seemed to be the most popular label. It flowed south from the mountains, then hooked to the west to reach the sea; they would be following it north to the lake that was more or less its source.
It seemed odd to Tobas that there was no castle guarding the mouth; he mentioned it to one of the sailors.
“I think there was a castle, once,” he replied. “But we’re on the border between Stralya and Londa here, and it probably got destroyed in a border war. Or maybe it fell into the sea, the river’s wearing down those cliffs, you know.”
Tobas nodded. He was about to ask another question when a roar from the bow answered him before the words left his mouth; the anchor had just been dropped. No attempt would be made to navigate the river by night. The crew lifted anchor at dawn. By the time Tobas had eaten his meager breakfast, they were in sight of Kala Keep.
The name was misleading, as the keep itself was part of a large castle that stood within a walled town. Boats of every sort lined the riverfront.
One boat, bearing a large red and gold banner, pulled up beside the snip. Tobas noticed that it could move far faster by means of four oars than the ship moved beneath full sail; the wind, which had never in the course of the voyage been particularly strong, was dying, cut off by the surrounding hilly land.
A long discussion ensued between the ship’s captain and someone in the boat, but Tobas could hear none of it and resisted the temptation to move closer. Finally the captain came away and gave an order in a language Tobas did not understand, he had discovered within hours of boarding that this ship’s crew was of mixed nationality and that all of them understood and spoke several tongues.
A moment later a green and black flag was hoisted. “Dwomoritic colors,” someone explained. “Kala must be at war with someone, if they’re demanding colors be flown.”
“Oh.” The sailor seemed very casual about it; Tobas wondered how anyone could be casual about war.
They sailed on past the town; but before noon, the wind had died away completely, leaving them still within the kingdom of Kala, drifting back downstream with the current. After a careful study of the sky, the captain ordered sweeps.
Tobas had never seen sweeps before, long oars that took three men apiece to haul, three sweeps to each side. He watched in fascination as the ship picked up speed again.
They anchored in a wide, slow stretch of river that night, with orchards and fields lining either shore; this, the passengers were told, was a spot somewhere in southern Danua. The next day should take them past Danua Castle and into Ekeroa; if the wind were to pick up in the right direction, they might reach Ekeroa Lake.
The wind did not pick up. Danua Castle was very much like Kala Keep in appearance, and the farms of southern Ekeroa were indistinguishable from those of Danua or Kala. Tobas wondered why these tiny realms were separate kingdoms, when they had no natural boundaries or apparent cultural differences, but decided it would not be tactful to ask any of the natives of the Small Kingdoms on board, and none of the Ethsharites seemed likely to know.
That night they anchored in the mouth of an unnavigable tributary that poured in from the east; by midmorning of the following day, the river had widened out into Ekeroa Lake. The sun was only a few degrees past its zenith when they sailed up to the docks below Ekeroa Castle.
When they had all disembarked, Tobas took a long look around. He saw the castle looming above him, dark and ominous and alien; the town clustered tightly around it — tall, dark, narrow wooden houses — and scattered among them seemed to be an inordinate number of trees. The people were mostly short and pale, clad in oddly styled clothes and speaking a strange, liquid tongue. Behind him lay the dark, smooth, still water of Ekeroa Lake and the odd, stubby fishing boats the natives used; on all other sides, the town appeared to be ringed by forest, a forest that was mostly made up of the peculiar needle-leafed trees he had heard called “pines.” Off to the east he could see misty gray shapes rising jaggedly above the trees on the far side of the lake, those, he realized, must be mountains, the first he had ever seen.
Not a single feature of the landscape, either natural or man-made, resembled the familiar rolling grasslands, sprawling villages, and gravelly beaches around Telven. The calm black-shadowed green of the lake was utterly different from the never-still blue and white of the ocean he had always known, while the alien pine forest filled the air with its curious scent.
He realized for the first time just how far from home he had come. CHAPTER 9
“All right, heroes!” the recruiter bellowed. “Line up here and we’ll get you aboard the wagons!”
Reluctantly, Tobas joined the other adventurers in gathering at the spot indicated. The wagons did not look particularly inviting, simple unpainted wooden boxes on mud-spattered, spoked wheels, each with a wide sheet of brown canvas draped over a sagging ridgepole to provide a modicum of shelter. They were drawn by mules, rather than the usual horses or oxen. Five wagons had been provided, each drawn by two mules, which seemed more than necessary, since their only cargo appeared to be the party from Ethshar.
The caravan master seemed to agree. “Is this all of them?” he demanded.
The recruiter nodded. “You try signing up Ethsharites! They just aren’t an adventurous people.”
“Well, get them aboard, then, and let’s go!”
The recruiter began herding his charges in, two to a wagon; Tobas, in the second wagon, found himself paired with Tillis, as he had been aboard ship. Before he could decide whether that was good or bad, the wagon started with a jerk, and they were off again.
Only after they had been rolling for twenty minutes did Tobas realize he had seen almost nothing of Ekeroa, which had looked like an interesting place, despite its strangeness.
At first the caravan headed almost due north, through dense forest along the lakeshore and then, when they were past the lake, beside the river; about two leagues from town, however, they abruptly turned east and forded the stream, which had shrunk to a manageable size.
From then on their course remained east by southeast, climbing steadily into the mountains, for almost three days, save for a bad stretch late in the second day when the road wound back and forth so much that Tobas was never entirely sure of the direction.
Three days alone in a wagon with no one to talk to but Tillis sent Tobas into a deep depression. His luck was obviously still bad, after all, he told himself; he should never have stolen that boat, as that wicked deed had probably cursed him. He should have stayed in the Free Lands, waited until he could board a vessel honestly, or even have walked to Ethshar.
And once in Ethshar, he should have known better than to fall asleep in the street. That carelessness might be the true font of his misfortune. If he had stayed awake, he would not now be on his way to be killed by a man- eating dragon somewhere in the middle of nowhere.
Looking out past the edge of the canvas as the wagon jolted along, he wondered why anyone would live in country like this, rocky and steep, but after a time, he realized that almost no one did. The caravan passed no villages and few homes. Dwomor, if this was the only way to reach it, must be unbearably isolated.
For a bad moment, he wondered whether any dragon really existed. Perhaps they were on their way to be sold as slaves in some barbarian realm, the story of the dragon being merely an explanation to cover their failure to return. Perhaps they would be sacrificed to demons. Perhaps they would be cooked and eaten.
Tillis babbled on maddeningly about how strange and beautiful the countryside was; Tobas did his best to ignore him.
The first night they reached an inn in the forested hills just as dusk was beginning to fade. There they received the best food Tobas had eaten since Roggit had died; he eagerly wolfed down everything put before him, then fell pleasantly asleep in a corner before the evening was well begun.
The next morning he awoke stiff and sore and foul-tempered and spoke to no one at breakfast. He refused to help with preparations for the next leg of the journey.
Only when he climbed aboard the second wagon, as directed, did he realize he was being put in with Tillis again. He turned to protest, but it was too late; the caravan master had given the mules the signal, and the wagon
