Now Amolde expended one of his precious spells. He opened a wind capsule, orienting it carefully. The wind blew southwest, catching the small squat sat they raised for the purpose. Now the ogre could rest, while the boat coursed on toward their destination. They took turns steering it, Grundy asking the fish and water plants for directions, Dor asking the water, and Irene growing a compass plant that pointed toward the great river they wanted.
That reminded Dor of the magic compass. He brought it out and looked, hoping it would point to King Trent. But it pointed straight at Amolde, and when Amolde held it, it pointed to Dor. It was useless in this situation.
Sleep was not comfortable on the water, but it was possible. Dor lay down and stared at the stars, wide awake; then the stars abruptly shifted position, and he realized he had slept; now he was wide awake. They shifted again. Then he was wide awake again-when Grundy woke him to take his turn at the helm. He had, it seemed, been dreaming he was wide awake. That was a frustrating mode; he would almost have preferred the nightmares.
In the morning they were at the monstrous river delta-a series of bars, channels, and islands, through which the slow current coursed.
Now Smash had to unship the two great oars he had made, face back, and row against the current. Still the boat moved alertly enough. Irene grew pastry plants and fed their pastry-flower fruits to the ogre so he would not suffer the attrition of hunger. Smash gulped them down entire without pausing in his efforts; Dor was almost jealous of the creature’s sheer zest for food and effort.
No, he realized upon reflection. He was jealous of the attention Irene was paying Smash. For all that he, Dor, did not want to be considered the property of any girl, especially not this one, he still became resentful when Irene’s attention went elsewhere. This was unreasonable, he knew; Smash needed lots of food in order to continue the enormous effort he was making. This was the big thing the ogre was contributing to their mission-his abundant strength. Yet still it gnawed at Dor; he wished he had enormous muscles and endless endurance, and that Irene was popping whole pies and tarts into his mouth.
Once, Dor remembered, he had been big-or at least had borrowed the body of a powerful barbarian-maybe an Avar or a Bulgar or a Khazar-and had discovered that strength did not solve all problems or bring a person automatic happiness. But at the moment, his selfish feelings didn’t go along with the sensible thinking of his mind.
“Sometimes I wish I were an ogre,” Grundy muttered.
Suddenly Dor felt better.
All day they heaved up the river, leaving the largest channel for a smaller one, and leaving that for another and still smaller one. There were some fishermen, but they didn’t look like A’s, B’s, or K’s, and they took a look at the size and power of the ogre and left the boat alone. Arnolds had been correct; the ordinary Mundane times were pretty dull, without rampaging armies everywhere. In this respect Mundania was similar to Xanth.
Well upstream, they drew upon the shore and camped for the night. Dor told the ground to yell an alarm if anything approached-anything substantially larger than ants-and they settled down under another umbrella tree Irene grew. It was just as well, for during the night it rained.
On the third day they forged up a fast-flowing tributary stream, ascending the great Carpath range. Some places they had to portage; Smash merely picked up the entire boat, upright, balanced it on his corrugated head, steadied it with his gauntleted hamhands, and trudged up through the rapids.
“If you don’t have your full strength yet,” Dor commented, “you must be close to it.”
“Ungh,” Smash agreed, for once not having the leisure to rhyme.
Ogres were the strongest creatures of Xanth, size for size-but some monsters were much larger, and others more intelligent, so ogres did not rule the jungle. Smash and his parents were the only ogres Dor had met, if he didn’t count his adventure into Xanth’s past, where he had known Egor the zombie ogre; they were not common creatures today. Perhaps that was just as well; if ogres were as common as dragons, who would stand against them?
At last, on the afternoon of the third day, they came to the Kingdom of Onesti, or at least its main fortress, Castle Onesti. Dor marveled that King Trent and Queen Iris, traveling alone without magic, could have been able to get here in similar time. Maybe they underestimated the arduousness of the journey. Well, it would soon be known.
Dor tried to question the stones and water of the river, but the water wasn’t the same from moment to moment and so could not remember, and the stones claimed that no one had portaged up here in the past month. Obviously the King had taken another route, probably an easier one. Perhaps the King of Onesti had sent an escort, and they had ridden Mundane horses up a horse trail. Yes, that was probably it.
They drew up just in sight of the imposing castle. Huge stones formed great walls, leading up to the front entrance. There was no moat; this was a mountain fastness. “Do we knock on the door, or what?” Irene asked nervously.
“Your father told me honesty is the best policy,” Dor said, masking his own uncertainty. “I assume that wasn’t just a riddle to suggest where he went. We can approach openly. We can tell them we’re from Xanth and are looking for King Trent. Maybe they have no connection to whatever happened-if anything happened. But let’s not go out of our way to tell them about our magic. Just in case.”
“Just in case,” she agreed tightly.
They marched up to the front entrance. That seemed to be the only accessible part of the edifice anyway; the wall passed through a forest on the south to merge cleverly with the clifflike sides of the mountain to the west and north. They were at the east face, where the approach was merely steep. “No wonder no one has conquered this little Kingdom,” Irene murmured.
“I agree,” Arnolde said. “No siege machinery could get close, and a catapult would have to operate from the valley below. Perhaps it could be taken, but it hardly seems worth the likely cost.”
Dor knocked. They waited. He knocked again. Still no response.
Then Smash tapped the door with one finger, making it shudder.
Now a window creaked open in the middle of the door. A face showed behind bars. “Who are you?” the guard demanded.
“I am Dor of Xanth. I have come to see King Trent of Xanth, who, I believe, is here.”
“Who?”
“King Trent, imbecile!” one of the bars snapped.
The guard’s head jerked back, startled. “What?”
“You got a potato in your ear?” the bar demanded.
“Stop it,” Dor mumbled at the bars. The last thing he wanted was the premature exposure of his talent! Then, quickly, louder: “We wish to see King Trent.”
“Wait,” the guard said. The window slammed closed.
But Smash, tired from his two days’ labors, was irritable. “No wait, ingrate!” he growled, and before Dor knew what was happening, the ogre smashed one sledgehammer fist into the door. The heavy wood splintered.
He punched right through, then caught the far side of the door with his thick gauntleted fingers and hauled violently back. The entire door ripped free of its bolts and hinges. He put his other hand on the little barred window and hefted the door up and over his head, while the other people ducked hastily.
“Now see what you’ve- done, you moronic brute,” Amolde said.
But somehow the centaur did not seem completely displeased. He, too, was tired and irritable from the journey, and the welcome at Castle Onesti had not been polite.
The guard stood inside, staring, as the ogre hurled the great door down the mountainside. “Take us to your leader,” Dor said calmly, as if this were routine. All he could do, after all, was make the best of the situation, and poise counted for a lot. “We don’t want my friend to get impatient.”
The guard turned about somewhat dazedly and led the way to the interior of the castle. Other guards came charging up, attracted by the commotion, swords drawn. Smash glared at them and they hastily faded back, swords sheathed.
Soon they came to the main banquet hall, where the King of Onesti held sway. The King sat at the bead of an immense wooden table piled with puddings. He stood angrily as Dor approached, his huge belly bulging out over the table. “H edlzme sn jmny sgd ldzmhmf timesghr hmsqtrhnm-?” he demanded, his fat face reddening impressively.
