proposition altogether. They might take you for a pirate scout, which would be unfortunate, to say the least. Yours wouldn't be the first head to decorate Prince Comedo's walls.
'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.
