The boats of the Kaganesti had reached the shore. Silvara and Theros walked down to talk to the elves who paddled them. At a gesture from Theros, the companions stepped out of the shadows of the trees and stood upon the bank-hands well away from their weapons-so the Kaganesti could see them. At first, it seemed hopeless. The elves chattered in their strange, uncouth version of elven which Laurana had difficulty following. Apparently they refused outright to have anything to do with the group.
Then horn calls sounded from the woods behind them. Gilthanas and Laurana looked at each other in alarm. Theros, glancing back stabbed his silver finger at the group urgently, then thumped himself on the chest-apparently pledging his word to answer for the companions. The horns sounded again. Silvara added her own pleas. Finally, the Kaganesti agreed, although with a marked lack of enthusiasm.
The companions hurried down to the water, all of them aware now that their absence had been discovered and that pursuit had started. One by one, they all stepped carefully into the boats that were no more than hollowed-out trunks of trees. All, that is, except Flint, who groaned and cast himself down on the ground, shaking his head and muttering in dwarven. Sturm eyed him in concern, fearing a repetition of the incident at Crystalmir when the dwarf had flatly refused to set foot in a boat. It was Tasslehoff, however, who tugged and pulled ,and finally dragged the grumbling dwarf to his feet.
“We’ll make a sailor of you yet.” the kender said cheerfully, prodding Flint in the back with his hoopak.
“You will not! And quit sticking me with that thing!” the dwarf snarled. Reaching the edge of the water, he stopped, nervously fumbling with a piece of wood. Tas hopped into a boat and stood waiting expectantly, his hand outstretched.
“Confound it, Flint, get in the boat!” Theros ordered,
“Just tell me one thing,” the dwarf said, swallowing. “Why do they call it ‘the River of the Dead’?”
“You’ll see, soon enough,” Theros grunted. Reaching out his strong black hand, he plucked the dwarf off the bank .and plopped him like a sack of potatoes on to the seat. “Shove off.” the smith told the Wilder elves, who needed no bidding.. Their wooden oars were already biting deep into the water.
The log boat caught the current and floated swiftly downstream, heading west. The tree-shrouded banks fairly flew past, and the companions huddled down into the boats as the cold wind stung their faces and took away their breath. They saw no signs of life along the southern share where the Qualinesti made their home. But Laurana caught glimpses of shadowy, darting figures ducking in and out of the trees on the northern shore. She realized then that the Kaganesti were not as naive as they seemed-they were keeping close waEdin upon their cousins. She wondered how many of the Kaganesti living as slaves were, in reality, spies. Her eyes went to Silvara.
The current carried them swiftly to a fork in the river where two streams joined together. One flowed from the north, the other-the stream they traveled-flowed into it from the east. Both merged into one wide river, flowing south into the sea. Suddenly Theros pointed.
“There, dwarf, is your answer.” he said solemnly.
Drifting down the branch of the river that flowed from the north was another boat. At first, they thought it had slipped its moorings, for they could see no one inside. Then they saw that it rode too low in the water to be empty. The Wilder elves slowed their own boats, steering them into the shallow water, and held them steady, heads bowed in silent respect.
And then Laurana knew.
“A funeral boat.” she murmured.
“Aye.” said Theros, watching with sad eyes. The boat drifted past, carried near them by the current. Inside they could see the body of a young Wilder elf, a warrior to judge by his crude leather armor. His hands, folded across his chest, clasped an iron sword in cold fingers. A bow and quiver of arrows lay at his side. His eyes were closed in the peaceful sleep from which he would never waken.
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