Demon Lord of Karanda

13

The road leading north from Mal Zeth passed through a fair, fertile plain where new-sprouted grain covered the damp soil like a low, bright green mist and the warm spring air was filled with the urgent scent of growth. In many ways, the landscape resembled the verdant plains of Arendia or the tidy fields of Sendaria. There were villages, of course, with white buildings, thatched roofs, and dogs that came out to stand at the roadside and bark. The spring sky was an intense blue dotted with puffy white clouds grazing like sheep in their azure pastures.

The road was a dusty brown ribbon laid straight where the surrounding green fields were flat, and folded and curved where the land rose in gentle, rounded hills.

They rode out that morning in glistening sunshine with the sound of the bells fastened about the necks of Yarblek’s mules providing a tinkling accompaniment to the morning song of flights of birds caroling to greet the sun.

Behind them there rose a great column of dense black smoke, marking the huge valley where Mal Zeth lay burning.

Garion could not bring himself to look back as they rode away.

There were others on the road as well, for Garion and his friends were not the only ones fleeing the plague-stricken city. Singly or in small groups, wary travelers moved north, fearfully avoiding any contact with each other, leaving the road and angling far out into the fields whenever they overtook other refugees, and returning to the brown, dusty ribbon only when they were safely past.

Each solitary traveler or each group thus rode in cautious isolation, putting as much empty air about itself as possible.

The lanes branching off from the road and leading across the bright green fields were all blocked with barricades of fresh-cut brush, and bleak-faced peasants stood guard at those barricades, awkwardly handling staffs and heavy, graceless crossbows and shouting warnings at any and all who passed to stay away.

“Peasants,” Yarblek said sourly as the caravan plodded past one such barricade. “They’re the same the world over. They’re glad to see you when you’ve got something they want, but they spend all the rest of their time trying to chase you away. Do you think they actually believe that anybody would really want to go into their stinking little villages?” Irritably he crammed his fur cap down lower over his ears.

“They’re afraid,” Polgara told him. “They know that their village isn’t very luxurious, but it’s all they have, and they want to keep if safe.”

“Do those barricades and threats really do any good?” he asked. “To keep out the plague, I mean?”

“Some,” she said, “if they put them up early enough.”

Yarblek grunted, then looked over at Silk. “Are you open to a suggestion?” he asked.

“Depends,” Silk replied. The little man had returned to his customary travel clothing-dark, unadorned, and nondescript.

“Between the plague and the demons, the climate here is starting to turn unpleasant. What say we liquidate all our holdings here in Mallorea and sit tight until things settle down?”

“You’re not thinking, Yarblek,” Silk told him. “Turmoil and war are good for business.”

Yarblek scowled at him. “Somehow I thought you might look at it that way.”

About a half mile ahead, there was another barricade, this one across the main road itself.

“What’s this?” Yarblek demanded angrily, reining in.

“I’ll go find out,” Silk said, thumping his heels against his horse’s flanks. On an impulse, Garion followed his friend.

When they were about fifty yards from the barricade, a dozen mud-spattered peasants dressed in smocks made of brown sackcloth rose from behind it with leveled crossbows. “Stop right there!” one of them commanded threateningly. He was a burly fellow with a coarse beard and eyes that looked off in different directions.

“We’re just passing through, friend,” Silk told him.

“Not without paying toll, you’re not.”

“Toll?” Silk exclaimed. “This is an imperial highway. There’s no toll.”

“There is now. You city people have cheated and swindled us for generations and now you want to bring your diseases to us. Well, from now on, you’re going to pay. How much gold have you got?”

“Keep him talking,” Garion muttered, looking around.

“Well,” Silk said to the walleyed peasant in the tone of voice he usually saved for serious negotiations, “why don’t we talk about that?”

The village stood about a quarter of a mile away, rising dirty and cluttered-looking atop a grassy knoll. Garion concentrated, drawing in his will, then he made a slight gesture in the direction of the village. “Smoke,” he muttered, half under his breath.

Silk was still haggling with the armed peasants, taking up as much time as he could.

“Uh—excuse me,” Garion interrupted mildly, “but is that something burning over there?” He pointed.

The peasants turned to stare in horror at the column of dense smoke rising from their village. With startled cries, most of them threw down their crossbows and ran out across the fields in the direction of the apparent catastrophe. The walleyed man ran after them, shouting at them to return to their posts. Then he ran back, waving his crossbow threateningly. A look of anguish crossed his face as he hopped about in an agony of indecision, torn between his desire for money that could be extorted from these travelers and the horrid vision of a fire raging unchecked through his house and outbuildings. Finally, no longer able to stand it, he also threw down his weapon and ran after his neighbors.

“Did you really set their village on fire?” Silk sounded a little shocked.

“Of course not,” Garion said.

“Where’s the smoke coming from then?”

“Lots of places.” Garion winked. “Out of the thatch on their roofs, up from between the stones in the streets, boiling up out of their cellars and granaries—lots of places. But it’s only smoke.” He swung down from Chretienne’s back and gathered up the discarded crossbows. He lined them up, nose down, in a neat row along the brushy barricade. “How long does it take to restring a crossbow?” he asked.

“Hours.” Silk suddenly grinned., “Two men to bend the limbs with a windlass and another two to hook the cable in place.”

“That’s what I thought,” Garion agreed. He drew his old belt knife and went down the line of weapons, cutting each twisted rope cable. Each bow responded with a heavy twang. “Shall we go, then?” he asked.

“What about this?” Silk pointed at the brushy barricade.

Garion shrugged. “I think we can ride around it.”

“What were they trying to do?” Durnik asked when they returned.

“An enterprising group of local peasants decided that the highway needed a tollgate about there.” Silk shrugged. “They didn’t really have the temperament for business affairs, though. At the first little distraction, they ran off and left the shop untended.”

They rode on past the now-deserted barricade with Yarblek’s laden mules plodding along behind them, their bells clanging mournfully.

“I think we’re going to have to leave you soon,” Belgarath said to the fur-capped Nadrak. “We have to get to Ashaba within the week, and your mules are holding us back.”

Yarblek nodded. “Nobody ever accused a pack mule of being fast on his feet,” he agreed. “I’ll be turning toward the west before long anyway. You can go into Karanda if you want to, but I want to get to the coast as quickly as possible.”

“Garion,” Polgara said. She looked meaningfully at the column of smoke rising from the village behind them.

“Oh,” he replied. “I guess I forgot.” He raised his hand, trying to make it look impressive. “Enough,” he said, releasing his will. The smoke thinned at its base, and the column continued to rise as a cloud, cut off from its source.

“Don’t overdramatize, dear,” Polgara advised. “It’s ostentatious.”

“You do it all the time,” he accused.

“Yes, dear, but I know how.”

It was perhaps noon when they rode up a long hill, crested it in the bright sunshine, and found themselves suddenly surrounded by mailed, red-tunicked Mallorean soldiers, who rose up out of ditches and shallow gullies with evil-looking javelins in their hands.

“You! Halt!” the officer in charge of the detachment of soldiers commanded brusquely. He was a short man, shorter even than Silk, though he strutted about as if he were ten feet tall.

“Of course, Captain,” Yarblek replied, reining in his horse.

“What do we do?” Garion hissed to Silk.

“Let Yarblek handle it,” Silk murmured. “He knows what he’s doing.”

“Where are you bound?” the officer asked when the rangy Nadrak had dismounted.

“Mal Dariya,” Yarblek answered, “or Mal Camat—wherever I can hire ships to get my goods to Yar Marak.”

The captain grunted as if trying to find something wrong with that. “What’s more to the point is where you come from.” His eyes were narrowed.

“Maga Renn.” Yarblek shrugged.

“Not Mal Zeth?” The little captain’s eyes grew even harder and more suspicious.

“I don’t do business in Mal Zeth very often, Captain. It costs too much—all those bribes and fees and permits, you know.”

“I assume that you can prove what you say?” The captain’s tone was belligerent.

“I suppose I could—if there’s a need for it.”

“There’s a need, Nadrak, because, unless you can prove that you haven’t come from Mal Zeth, I’m going to turn you back.” He sounded smug about that.

“Turn back? That’s impossible. I have to be in Boktor by midsummer.”

“That’s your problem, merchant.” The little soldier seemed rather pleased at having upset the larger man.

“There’s plague in Mal Zeth, and I’m here to make sure that it doesn’t spread.” He tapped himself importantly on the chest.

“Plague!” Yarblek’s eyes went wide, and his face actually paled. “Torak’s teeth! And I almost stopped there!” He suddenly snapped his fingers. “So that’s why all the villages hereabouts are barricaded.”

“Can you prove that you came from Maga Renn?” the captain insisted.

“Well—” Yarblek unbuckled a well-worn saddlebag hanging under his right stirrup and began to rummage around in it. “I’ve got a permit here issued by the Bureau of Commerce,” he said rather dubiously. “It authorizes me to move my goods from Maga Renn to Mal Dariya.

If I can’t find ships there, I’ll have to get another permit to go on to Mal Camat, I guess. Would that satisfy you?”

“Let’s see it.” The captain held out his hand, snapping his fingers impatiently.

Yarblek handed it over.

“It’s a little smeared,” the captain accused suspiciously.

“I spilled some beer on it in a tavern in Penn Daka.” Yarblek shrugged. “Weak, watery stuff it was. Take my advice, Captain. Don’t ever plan to do any serious drinking in Penn Daka. It’s a waste of time and money.”

“Is drinking all you Nadraks ever think about?”

“It’s the climate. There’s nothing else to do in Gar og Nadrak in the wintertime.”

“Have you got anything else?”

Yarblek pawed through his saddlebag some more. “Here’s a bill of sale from a carpet merchant on Yorba Street in Maga Renn—pockmarked fellow with bad teeth. Do you by any chance know him?”

“Why would I know a carpet merchant in Maga Renn? I’m an officer in the imperial army. I don’t associate with riffraff. Is the date on this accurate?”

“How should I know? We use a different calendar in Gar og Nadrak. It was about two weeks ago, if that’s any help.”

The captain thought it over, obviously trying very hard to find some excuse to exert his authority. Finally his expression became faintly disappointed. “All right,” he said grudgingly, handing back the documents. “Be on your way. But don’t make any side trips, and make sure that none of your people leave your caravan.”

“They’d better not leave—not if they want to get paid.

“Thank you, Captain.” Yarblek swung back up into his saddle.

The officer grunted and waved them on.

“Little people should never be given any kind of authority,” the Nadrak said sourly when they were out of earshot. “It lies too heavily on their brains.”

“Yarblek!” Silk objected.

“Present company excepted, of course.”

“Oh. That’s different, then.”

“Ye lie like ye were born to it, good Master Yarblek,” Feldegast the juggler said admiringly.

“I’ve been associating with a certain Drasnian for too long.”

“How did you come by the permit and the bill of sale?” Silk asked him.

Yarblek winked and tapped his forehead slyly. “Official types are always overwhelmed by official-looking documents—and the more petty the official, the more he’s impressed. I could have proved to that obnoxious little captain back there that we came from any place at all—Melcene, Aduma in the Mountains of Zamad, even Crol Tibu on the coast of Gandahar—except that all you can buy in Crol Tibu are elephants, and I don’t have any of those with me, so that might have made even him a little suspicious.”

Silk looked around with a broad grin. “Now you see why I went into partnership with him,” he said to them all.

“You seem well suited to each other,” Velvet agreed.

Belgarath was tugging at one ear. “I think we’ll leave you after dark tonight,” he said to Yarblek. “I don’t want some other officious soldier to stop us and count noses—or decide that we need a military escort.”

Yarblek nodded. “Are you going to need anything?”

“Just some food is all.” Belgarath glanced back at their laden packhorses plodding along beside the mules. “We’ve been on the road for quite some time now and we’ve managed to gather up what we really need and discard what we don’t.”

“I’ll see to it that you’ve got enough food,” Vella promised from where she was riding between Ce’Nedra and Velvet. “Yarblek sometimes forgets that full ale kegs are not the only things you need on a journey.”

“An’ will ye be ridin’ north, then?” Feldegast asked Belgarath. The little comic had changed out of his bright-colored clothes and was now dressed in plain brown.

“Unless they’ve moved it, that’s where Ashaba is,” Belgarath replied.

“If it be all the same to ye, I’ll ride along with ye fer a bit of a ways.”

“Oh?”

“There was a little difficulty with the authorities the last time I was in Mal Dariya, an’ I’d like to give ’em time t’ regain their composure before I go back fer me triumphant return engagement. Authorities tend t’ be a stodgy an’ unfergivin’ lot, don’t y’ know—always dredgin’ up old pranks an’ bits of mischief perpetrated in the spirit of fun an’ throwin’ ’em in yer face.”

Belgarath gave him along, steady look, then shrugged."Why not?” he said.

Garion looked sharply at the old man. His sudden acquiescence seemed wildly out of character, given his angry protests at the additions of Velvet and Sadi to their party. Garion then looked over at Polgara, but she showed no signs of concern either. A peculiar suspicion began to creep over him.

As evening settled over the plains of Mallorea, they drew off the road to set up their night’s encampment in a park-like grove of beech trees. Yarblek’s muleteers sat about one campfire, passing an earthenware jug around and becoming increasingly rowdy. At the upper end of the grove, Garion and his friends sat around another fire, eating supper and talking quietly with Yarblek and Vella.

“Be careful when you cross into Venna,” Yarblek cautioned his rat-faced partner. “Some of the stories coming out of there are more ominous than the ones coming out of Karanda.”

“Oh?”

“It’s as if a kind of madness has seized them all. Of course, Grolims were never very sane to begin with.”

“Grolims?” Sadi looked up sharply.

” Venna’s a Church-controlled state,” Silk explained. “All authority there derives from Urvon and his court at Mal Yaska.”

“It used to,” Yarblek corrected. “Nobody seems to know who’s got the authority now. The Grolims gather in groups to talk. The talk keeps getting louder until they’re screaming at each other, and then they all reach for their knives. I haven’t been able to get the straight of it. Even the Temple Guardsmen are taking sides.”

“The idea of Grolims cutting each other to pieces is one I can live with,” Silk said.

“Truly,” Yarblek agreed. “Just try not to get caught in the middle.”

Feldegast had been softly strumming his lute and he struck a note so sour that even Garion noticed it.

“That string’s out of tune,” Durnik advised him.

“I know,” the juggler replied. “The peg keeps slippin’ ”

“Let me see it,” Durnik offered. “Maybe I can fix it.”

“ ’Tis too worn, I fear, friend Durnik. ’Tis a grand instrument, but it’s old.”

“Those are the ones that are worth saving.” Durnik took the lute and twisted the loose peg, tentatively testing the pitch of the string with his thumb. Then he took his knife and cut several small slivers of wood. He carefully inserted them around the peg, tapping them into place with the hilt of his knife. Then he twisted the peg, retuning the string. “That should do it,” he said. He took up the lute and strummed it a few times. Then, to a slow measure, he picked out an ancient air, the single notes quivering resonantly. He played the air through once, his fingers seeming to grow more confident as he went along.

Then he returned to the beginning again, but this time, to Garion’s amazement, he accompanied the simple melody with a rippling counterpoint so complex that it seemed impossible that it could come from a single instrument. “It has a nice tone,” he observed to Feldegast.

“ ’Tis a marvel that ye are, master smith. First ye repair me lute, an’ then ye turn around an’ put me t’ shame by playin’ it far better than I could ever hope to.”

Polgara’s eyes were very wide and luminous. “Why haven’t you told me about this, Durnik?” she asked.

“Actually, it’s been so long that I almost forgot about it.” He smiled, his fingers still dancing on the strings and bringing forth that rich-toned cascade of sound.

“When I was young, I worked for a time with a lute maker. He was old, and his fingers were stiff, but he needed to hear the tone of the instruments he made, so he taught me how to play them for him.”

He looked across the fire at his giant friend, and something seemed to pass between them. Toth nodded, reached inside the rough blanket he wore across one shoulder, and produced a curious-looking set of pipes, a series of hollow reeds, each longer than the one preceding it, all bound tightly together. Quietly, the mute lifted the pipes to his lips as Durnik returned again to the beginning of the air. The sound he produced from his simple pipes had an aching poignancy about it that pierced Garion to the heart, soaring through the intricate complexity of the lute song.

“I’m beginnin’ t’ feel altogether unnecessary,” Feldegast said in wonder. “Me own playin’ of lute or pipe be good enough fer taverns an’ the like, but I be no virtuoso like these two.” He looked at the huge Toth."How is it possible fer a man so big t’ produce so delicate a sound?”

“He’s very good,” Eriond told him. “He plays for Durnik and me sometimes—when the fish aren’t biting.”

“Ah, ’tis a grand sound,” Feldegast said, “an’ far too good t’ be wasted.” He looked across the fire at Vella. “Would ye be willin’ t’ give us a bit of a dance, me girl, t’ sort of round out the evenin’?”

“Why not?” She laughed with a toss of her head. She rose to her feet and moved to the opposite side of the fire. “Follow this beat,” she instructed, raising her rounded arms above her head and snapping her fingers to set the tempo. Feldegast picked up the beat, clapping his hands rhythmically.

Garion had seen Vella dance before—long ago in a forest tavern in Gar og Nadrak—so he knew more or less what to expect. He was sure, however, that Eriond certainly—and Ce’Nedra probably—should not watch a performance of such blatant sensuality. Vella’s dance began innocuously enough, though, and he began to think that perhaps he had been unduly sensitive the last time he had watched her.

When the sharp staccato of her snapping fingers and Feldegast’s clapping increased the tempo, however, and she began to dance with greater abandon, he realized that his first assessment had been correct. Eriond should really not be watching this dance, and Ce’Nedra should be sent away almost immediately. For the life of him, however, he could not think of any way to do it.

When the tempo slowed again and Durnik and Toth returned to a simple restatement of the original air, the Nadrak girl concluded her dance with that proud, aggressive strut that challenged every man about the fire.

To Garion’s absolute astonishment, Eriond warmly applauded with no trace of embarrassment showing on his young face. He knew that his own neck was burning and that his breath was coming faster.

Ce’Nedra’s reaction was about what he had expected.

Her cheeks were flaming and her eyes were wide. Then she suddenly laughed with delight. “Wonderful!” she exclaimed, and her eyes were full of mischief as she cast a sidelong glance at Garion. He coughed nervously.

Feldegast wiped a tear from his eye and blew his nose gustily. Then he rose to his feet. “Ah, me fine, lusty wench,” he said fulsomely to Vella, hanging a regretful embrace about her neck and—endangering life and limb just a little in view of her ever-ready daggers—bussing her noisily on the lips, “it’s destroyed altogether I am that we must part. I’ll miss ye, me girl, an’ make no mistake about that. But I make ye me promise that we’ll meet again, an’ I’ll delight ye with a few of me naughty little stories, an’ ye’ll fuddle me brains with yer wicked brew, an’ we’ll laugh an’ sing together an’ enjoy spring after spring in the sheer delight of each others’ company.” Then he slapped her rather familiarly on the bottom and moved quickly out of range before she could find the hilt of one of her daggers.

“Does she dance for you often, Yarblek?” Silk asked his partner, his eyes very bright.

“Too often,” Yarblek replied mournfully, “and every time she does, I find myself starting to think that her daggers aren’t really all that sharp and that a little cut or two wouldn’t really hurt too much.”

“Feel free to try at any time, Yarblek,” Vella offered, her hand suggestively on the hilt of one of her daggers.

Then she looked at Ce’Nedra with a broad wink.

“Why do you dance like that?” Ce’Nedra asked, still blushing slightly. “You know what it does to every man who watches.”

“That’s part of the fun, Ce’Nedra. First you drive them crazy, and then you hold them off with your daggers. It makes them absolutely wild. Next time we meet, I’ll show you how it’s done.” She looked at Garion and laughed a wicked laugh.

Belgarath returned to the fire. He had left at some time during Vella’s dance, though Garion’s eyes had been too busy to notice. “It’s dark enough,” he told them all. “I think we can leave now without attracting any notice.” They all rose from where they had been sitting.

“You know what to do?” Silk asked his partner.

Yarblek nodded.

“All right. Do whatever you have to to keep me out of the soup.”

“Why do you persist in playing around in politics, Silk?”

“Because it gives me access to greater opportunities to steal.”

“Oh,” Yarblek said. “That’s all right then.” He extended his hand. “Take care, Silk,” he said.

“You, too, Yarblek. Try to keep us solvent if you can, and I’ll see you in a year or so.”

“If you live.”

“There’s that, too.”

“I enjoyed your dance, Vella,” Polgara said, embracing the Nadrak girl.

“I’m honored, Lady,” Vella replied a bit shyly. “And we’ll meet again, I’m sure.”

“I’m certain that we will.”

” Are ye sure that ye won’t reconsider yer outrageous askin’ price, Master Yarblek?” Feldegast asked.

“Talk to her about it,” Yarblek replied, jerking his head in Vella’s direction. “She’s the one who set it.”

“ ’Tis a hardhearted woman ye are, me girl,” the juggler accused her.

She shrugged. “If you buy something cheap, you don’t value it.”

“Now that’s the truth, surely. I’ll see what I kin do t’ put me hands on some money, fer make no mistake, me fine wench, I mean t’ own ye.”

“We’ll see,” she replied with a slight smile.

They went out of the circle of firelight to their picketed horses—and the juggler’s mule—and mounted quietly. The moon had set, and the stars lay like bright jewels across the warm, velvet throat of night as they rode out of Yarblek’s camp and moved at a cautious walk toward the north. When the sun rose several hours later, they were miles away, moving northward along, a well-maintained highway toward Mal Rukuth, the Angarak city lying on the south bank of the Raku River, the stream that marked the southern border of Venna. The morning was warm, the sky was clear, and they made good time. Once again there were refugees on the road, but unlike yesterday, significant numbers of them were fleeing toward the south.

“Is it possible that the plague has broken out in the north as well?” Sadi asked.

Polgara frowned. “It’s possible, I suppose,” she told him.

“I think it’s more likely that those people are fleeing from Mengha,” Belgarath disagreed.

“It’s going to get a bit chaotic hereabouts,” Silk noted.

“If you’ve got people fleeing in one direction from the plague and people fleeing in the other from the demons, about all they’ll be able to do is mill around out here on these plains.”

“That could work to our advantage, Kheldar,” Velvet pointed out. “Sooner or later, ’Zakath is going to discover that we left Mal Zeth without saying good-bye and he’s likely to send troops out looking for us. A bit of chaos in this region should help to confuse their search, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’ve got a point there,” he admitted.

Garion rode on in a half doze, a trick he had learned from Belgarath. Though he had occasionally missed a night’s sleep in the past, he had never really gotten used to it. He rode along with his head down, only faintly aware of what was happening around him.

He heard a persistent sound that seemed to nag at the edge of his consciousness. He frowned, his eyes still closed, trying to identify the sound. And then he remembered. It was a faint, despairing wail, and the full horror of the sight of the dying child in the shabby street in Mal Zeth struck him. Try though he might, he could not wrench himself back into wakefulness, and the continuing cry tore at his heart.

Then he felt a large hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. Struggling, he raised his head to look full into the sad face of the giant Toth.

“Did you hear it, too?” he asked.

Toth nodded, his face filled with sympathy.

“It was only a dream, wasn’t it?”

Toth spread his hands, and his look was uncertain.

Garion squared his shoulders and sat up in his saddle, determined not to drift off again.

They rode some distance away from the road and took a cold lunch of bread, cheese, and smoked sausage in the shade of a large elm tree standing quite alone in the middle of a field of oats. There was a small spring surrounded by a mossy rock wall not far away, where they were able to water the horses and fill their water bags.

Belgarath stood looking out over the fields toward a distant village and the barricaded lane which approached it. “How much food do we have with us, Pol?” he asked.

“If every village we come to is closed up the way the ones we’ve passed so far have been, it’s going to be difficult to replenish our stores.”

“I think we’ll be all right, father,” she replied. “Vella was very generous.”

“I like her.” Ce’Nedra smiled. “Even though she does swear all the time.”

Polgara returned the smile. “It’s the Nadrak way, dear,” she said. “When I was in Gar og Nadrak, I had to draw on my memories of the more colorful parts of my father’s vocabulary to get by.”

“Hallooo!” someone hailed them.

“He’s over there.” Silk pointed toward the road.

A man who was wearing one of the brown robes that identified him as a Melcene bureaucrat sat looking at them longingly from the back of a bay horse.

“What do you want?” Durnik called to him.

“Can you spare a bit of food?” the Melcene shouted.

“I can’t get near any of these villages and I haven’t eaten in three days. I can pay.”

Durnik looked questioningly at Polgara.

She nodded. “We have enough,” she said.

“Which way was he coming?” Belgarath asked.

“South, I think,” Silk replied.

“Tell him that it’s all right, Durnik,” the old man said.

“He can probably give us some recent news from the north.”

“Come on in,” Durnik shouted to the hungry man.

The bureaucrat rode up until he was about twenty yards away. Then he stopped warily. “Are you from Mal Zeth?” he demanded.

“We left before the plague broke out,” Silk lied.

The official hesitated. “I’ll put the money on this rock here,” he offered, pointing at a white boulder. “Then I’ll move back a ways. You can take the money and leave some food. That way neither one of us will endanger the other.”

“Makes sense,” Silk replied pleasantly.

Polgara took a loaf of brown bread and a generous slab of cheese from her stores and gave them to the sharp-faced Drasnian.

The Melcene dismounted, laid a few coins on the rock, and then led his horse back some distance.

“Where have you come from, friend?” Silk asked as he approached the rock.

“I was in Akkad in Katakor,” the hungry man answered, eyeing the loaf and the cheese. “I was senior administrator there for the Bureau of Public Works—you know, walls, aqueducts, streets, that sort of thing. The bribes weren’t spectacular, but I managed to get by. Anyway, I got out just a few hours before Mengha and his demons got there.”

Silk laid the food on the rock and picked up the money. Then he backed away. “We heard that Akkad fell quite some time ago.”

The Melcene almost ran to the rock and snatched up the bread and cheese. He took a large bite of cheese and tore a chunk off the loaf. “I hid out in the mountains,” he replied around the mouthful.

“Isn’t that where Ashaba is?” Silk asked, sounding very casual.

The Melcene swallowed hard and nodded. “That’s why I finally left,” he said, stuffing bread in his mouth. “The area’s infested with huge wild dogs—ugly brutes as big as horses—and there are roving bands of Karands killing everyone they come across. I could have avoided all that, but there’s something terrible going on at Ashaba. There are dreadful sounds coming from the castle and strange lights in the sky over it at night. I don’t hold with the supernatural, my friend, so I bolted.” He sighed happily, tearing off another chunk of bread. “A month ago I’d have turned my nose up at brown bread and cheese. Now it tastes like a banquet.”

“Hunger’s the best sauce,” Silk quoted the old adage.

“That’s the honest truth.”

“Why didn’t you stay up in Venna ? Didn’t you know that there’s plague in Mal Zeth?”

The Melcene shuddered. “What’s going on in Venna’s even worse than what’s going on in Katakor or Mal Zeth,” he replied. “My nerves are absolutely destroyed by all this. I’m an engineer. What do I know about demons and new Gods and magic? Give me paving stones and timbers and mortar and a few modest bribes and don’t even mention any of that other nonsense to me.”

“New Gods?” Silk asked. “Who’s been talking about new Gods?”

“The Chandim. You’ve heard of them?”

“Don’t they belong to Urvon the Disciple?”

“I don’t think they belong to anybody right now. They’ve gone on a rampage in Venna. Nobody’s seen Urvon for more than a month now—not even the people in Mal Yaska. The Chandim are completely out of control. They’re erecting altars out in the fields and holding double sacrifices—the first heart to Torak and the second to this new God of Angarak—and anybody up there that doesn’t bow to both altars gets his heart cut out right on the spot.”

“That seems like a very good reason to stay out of Venna,” Silk said wryly. “Have they put a name to this new God of theirs?”

“Not that I ever heard. They just call him ‘The new God of Angarak, come to replace Torak and to take dreadful vengeance on the Godslayer.’ ”

“That’s you,” Velvet murmured to Garion.

“Do you mind?”

“I just thought you ought to know, that’s all.”

“There’s an open war going on in Venna, my friend,” the Melcene continued, “and I’d advise you to give the place a wide berth.”

“War?”

“Within the Church itself. The Chandim are slaughtering all the old Grolims—the ones who are still faithful to Torak. The Temple Guardsmen are taking sides and they’re having pitched battles on the plains up there—that’s when they’re not marauding through the countryside, burning farmsteads, and massacring whole villages. You’d think that the whole of Venna’s gone crazy. It’s as much as a man’s life is worth to go through there just now. They stop you and ask you which God you worship, and a wrong answer is fatal.” He paused, still eating. “Have you heard about any place that’s quiet—and safe?” he asked plaintively.

“Try the coast,” Silk suggested. “Mal Abad, maybe—or Mal Camat.”

“Which way are you going?”

“We’re going north to the river and see if we can find a boat to take us down to Lake Penn Daka.”

“It won’t be safe there for very long, friend. If the plague doesn’t get there first, Mengha’s demons will—or the crazed Grolims and their Guardsmen out of Venna.”

“We don’t plan to stop,” Silk told him. “We’re going to cut on across Delchin to Maga Renn and then on down the Magan.”

“That’s a long journey.”

“Friend, I’ll go to Gandahar if necessary to get away from demons and plague and mad Grolims. If worse comes to worst, we’ll hide out among the elephant herders. Elephants aren’t all that bad.”

The Melcene smiled briefly. “Thanks for the food,” he said, tucking his loaf and his cheese inside his robe and looking around for his grazing horse. “Good luck when you get to Gandahar.”

“The same to you on the coast,” Silk replied.

They watched the Melcene ride off.

“Why did you take his money, Kheldar?” Eriond asked curiously. “I thought we were just going to give him the food.”

” Unexpected and unexplained acts of charity linger in people’s minds, Eriond, and curiosity overcomes gratitude. I took his money to make sure that by tomorrow he won’t be able to describe us to any curious soldiers.”

“Oh,” the boy said a bit sadly. “It’s too bad that things are like that, isn’t it?”

“As Sadi says, I didn’t make the world; I only try to live in it.”

“Well, what do you think?” Belgarath said to the juggler.

Feldegast squinted off toward the horizon. “Yer dead set on goin’ right straight up through the middle of Venna—past Mal Yaska an’ all?”

“We don’t have any choice. We’ve got just so much time to get to Ashaba.”

“Somehow I thought y’ might feel that way about it.”

“Do you know a way to get us through?”

Feldegast scratched his head. “ ‘Twill be dangerous, Ancient One,” he said dubiously, “what with Grolims and Chandim and Temple Guardsmen an’ all.”

“It won’t be nearly as dangerous as missing our appointment at Ashaba would be.”

“Well, if yer dead set on it, I suppose I kin get ye through.”

” All right,” Belgarath said. “Let’s get started then.”

The peculiar suspicion which had come over Garion the day before grew stronger. Why would his grandfather ask these questions of a man they scarcely knew? The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that there was a great deal more going on here than met the eye.

14

It was late afternoon when they reached Mal Rakuth, a grim fortress city crouched on the banks of a muddy river. The walls were high, and black towers rose within those walls. A large crowd of people was gathered outside, imploring the citizens to let them enter, but the city gates were locked, and archers with half-drawn bows lined the battlements, threatening the refugees below.

“That sort of answers that question, doesn’t it?” Garion said as he and his companions reined in on a hilltop some distance from the tightened city.

Belgarath grunted. “It’s more or less what I expected,” he said. “There’s nothing we really need in Mal Rakuth anyway, so there’s not much point in pressing the issue.”

“How are we going to get across the river, though?”

“If I remember correctly, there be a ferry crossin’ but a few miles upstream, Feldegast told him.

“Won’t the ferryman be just as frightened of the plague as the people in that city are?” Durnik asked him.

“ ’Tis an ox-drawn ferry, Goodman—with teams on each side an’ cables an’ pulleys an’ all. The ferryman kin take our money an’ put us on the far bank an’ never come within fifty yards of us. I fear the crossin’ will be dreadful expensive, though.”

The ferry proved to be a leaky old barge attached to a heavy cable stretched across the yellow-brown river.

“Stay back!” the mud-covered man holding the rope hitched about the neck of the lead ox on the near side commanded as they approached. “I don’t want any of your filthy diseases.”

“How much to go across?” Silk called to him.

The muddy fellow squinted greedily at them, assessing their clothing and horses. “One gold piece,” he said flatly.

“That’s outrageous!”

“Try swimming.”

“Pay him,” Belgarath said.

“Not likely,” Silk replied. “I refuse to be cheated—even here. Let me think a minute.” His narrow face became intent as he stared hard at the rapacious ferryman.

“Durnik,” he said thoughtfully, “do you have your axe handy?”

The smith nodded, patting the axe which hung from a loop at the back of his saddle.

“Do you suppose you could reconsider just a bit, friend?” the little Drasnian called plaintively to the ferryman.

“One gold piece,” the ferryman repeated stubbornly.

Silk sighed. “Do you mind if we look at your boat first? It doesn’t look all that safe to me.”

“Help yourself—but I won’t move it until I get paid.”

Silk looked at Durnik. “Bring the axe,” he said.

Durnik dismounted and lifted his broad-bladed axe from its loop. Then the two of them climbed down the slippery bank to the barge. They went up the sloping ramp and onto the deck. Silk stamped his feet tentatively on the planking. “Nice boat,” he said to the ferryman, who stood cautiously some distance away.” Are you sure you won’t reconsider the price?”

“One gold piece. Take it or leave it.”

Silk sighed. “I was afraid you might take that position.” He scuffed one foot at the muddy deck. “You know more about boats than I do, friend,” he observed. “How long do you think it would take this tub to sink if my friend here chopped a hole in the bottom?”

The ferryman gaped at him.

“Pull up the decking in the bow, Durnik,” Silk suggested pleasantly. “Give yourself plenty of room for a good swing.”

The desperate ferryman grabbed up a club and ran down the bank.

“Careful, friend,” Silk said to him. “We left Mal Zeth only yesterday, and I’m already starting to feel a little feverish—something I ate, no doubt.”

The ferryman froze in his tracks.

Durnik was grinning as he began to pry up the decking at the front of the barge.

“My friend here is an expert woodsman,” Silk continued in a conversational tone, “and his axe is terribly sharp. I’ll wager that he can have this scow lying on the bottom inside of ten minutes.”

“I can see into the hold now,” Durnik reported, suggestively testing the edge of his axe with his thumb. “Just how big a hole would you like?”

“Oh,” Silk replied, “I don’t know, Durnik—a yard or so square, maybe. Would that sink it?”

“I’m not sure. Why don’t we try it and find out?” Durnik pushed up the sleeves of his short jacket and hefted his axe a couple of times.

The ferryman was making strangled noises and hopping up and down.

“What’s your feeling about negotiation at this point, friend?” Silk asked him. “I’m almost positive that we can reach an accommodation—now that you fully understand the situation.”

When they were partway across the river and the barge was wallowing heavily in the current, Durnik walked forward to the bow and stood looking into the opening he had made by prying up the deck. “I wonder how big a hole it would take to sink this thing,” he mused.

“What was that, dear?” Polgara asked him.

“Just thinking out loud, Pol,” he said. “But do you know something? I just realized that I’ve never sunk a boat before.”

She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Men,” she sighed.

“I suppose I’d better put the planks back so that we can lead the horses off on the other side,” Durnik said almost regretfully.

They erected their tents in the shelter of a grove of cedar trees near the river that evening. The sky, which had been serene and blue since they had arrived in Mallorea, had turned threatening as the sun sank, and there were rumbles of thunder and brief flickers of lightning among the clouds off to the west.

After supper, Durnik and Toth went out of the grove for a look around and returned with sober faces. “I’m afraid that we’re in for a spell of bad weather,” the smith reported. “You can smell it coming.”

“I hate riding in the rain,” Silk complained.

“Most people do, Prince Kheldar,” Feldegast told him. “But bad weather usually keeps others in as well, don’t y’ know; an’ if what that hungry traveler told us this afternoon be true, we’ll not be wantin’ t’ meet the sort of folk that be abroad in Venna when the weather’s fine.”

“He mentioned the Chandim,” Sadi said, frowning. “Just exactly who are they?”

“The Chandim are an order within the Grolim Church,” Belgarath told him. “When Torak built Cthol Mishrak, he converted certain Grolims into Hounds to patrol the region. After Vo Mimbre, when Torak was bound in sleep, Urvon converted about half of them back. The ones who reassumed human form are all sorcerers of greater or lesser talent, and they can communicate with the ones who are still Hounds. They’re very close-knit—like a pack of wild dogs—and they’re all fanatically loyal to Urvon.”

“An’ that be much of the source of Urvon’s power,” Feldegast added. “Ordinary Grolims be always schemin’ against each other an’ against their superiors, but Urvon’s Chandim have kept the Mallorean Grolims in line fer five hundred years now.”

“And the Temple Guardsmen?” Sadi added. “Are they Chandim, or Grolims, too?”

“Not usually,” Belgarath replied. “There are Grolims among them, of course, but most of them are Mallorean Angaraks. They were recruited before Vo Mimbre to serve as Torak’s personal bodyguard.”

“Why would a God need a bodyguard?”

“I never entirely understood that myself,” the old man admitted. “Anyway, after Vo Mimbre, there are still a few of them left—new recruits, veterans who’d been wounded in earlier battles and sent home, that sort of thing. Urvon persuaded them that he spoke for Torak, and now their allegiance is to him. After that, they recruited more young Angaraks to fill up the holes in their ranks. They do more than just guard the Temple now, though. When Urvon started having difficulties with the Emperors at Mal Zeth, he decided that he needed a fighting force, so he expanded them into an army.”

“ ’Tis a practical arrangement,” Feldegast pointed out. “The Chandim provide Urvon with the sorcery he needs t’ keep the other Grolims toein’ the mark, an’ the simple Guardsmen provide the muscle t’ keep the ordinary folk from protestin’ their lot.”

“These Guardsmen, they’re just ordinary soldiers, then?” Durnik asked.

“Not really. They’re closer to being knights,” Belgarath replied.

“Like Mandorallen, you mean—all dressed in steel plate and with shields and lances and war horses and all that?”

“No, Goodman,” Feldegast answered. “They’re not nearly so grand. Lances an’ helmets and shields they have, certainly, but fer the rest, they rely on chain mail.

They be most nearly as stupid as Arends, however. Somethin’ about wearin’ all that steel empties the mind of every knight the world around.”

Belgarath was looking speculatively at Garion. “How muscular are you feeling?” he asked.

“Not very—why?”

“We’ve got a bit of a problem here. We’re far more likely to encounter Guardsmen than we are Chandim—but if we start unhorsing all these tin men with our minds, the noise is going to attract the Chandim like a beacon.”

Garion stared at him. “You’re not serious! I’m not Mandorallen, Grandfather.”

“No. You’ve got better sense than he has.”

“I will not stand by and hear my knight insulted!” Ce’Nedra declared hotly.

“Ce’Nedra,” Belgarath said almost absently, “hush.”

“Hush?”

“You heard me.” He scowled at her so blackly that she faltered and drew back behind Polgara for protection.

“The point, Garion,” the old man continued, “is that you’ve received a certain amount of training from Mandorallen in this sort of thing and you’ve had a bit of experience. None of the rest of us have.”

“I don’t have any armor.”

“You’ve got a mail shirt.”

“I don’t have a helmet—or a shield.”

“I could probably manage those, Garion,” Durnik offered.

Garion looked at his old friend. “I’m terribly disappointed in you, Durnik,” he said.

“You aren’t afraid, are you, Garion?” Ce’Nedra asked in a small voice.

“Well, no. Not really. It’s just that it’s so stupid—and it looks so ridiculous.”

“Have you got an old pot I could borrow, Pol?” Durnik asked.

“How big a pot?”

“Big enough to fit Garion’s head.”

“Now that’s going too far!” Garion exclaimed. “I’m not going to wear a kitchen pot on my head for a helmet. I haven’t done that since I was a boy.”

“I’ll modify it a bit,” Durnik assured him. “And then I’ll take the lid and make you a shield.” Garion walked away swearing to himself.

Velvet’s eyes had narrowed. She looked at Feldegast with no hint of her dimples showing. “Tell me, master juggler,” she said, “how is it that an itinerant entertainer, who plays for pennies in wayside taverns, knows so very much about the inner working of Grolim society here in Mallorea?”

“I be not nearly so foolish as I look, me lady,” he replied, “an’ I do have eyes an’ ears, an’ know how t’ use ’em.”

“You avoided that question rather well,” Belgarath complimented him.

The juggler smirked. “I thought so meself. Now,” he continued seriously, “as me ancient friend here says, ’tis not too likely that we’ll be encounterin’ the Chandim if it rains, fer a dog has usually the good sense t’ take t’ his kennel when the weather be foul—unless there be pressin’ need fer him t’ be out an’ about. ’Tis far more probable fer us t’ meet Temple Guardsmen, fer a knight, be he Arendish or Mallorean, seems deaf t’ the gentle patter of rain on his armor. I shouldn’t wonder that our young warrior King over there be of sufficient might t’ be a match fer any Guardsman we might meet alone, but there always be the possibility of comin’ across ’em in groups. Should there be such encounters, keep yer wits about ye an’ remember that once a knight has started his charge, ’tis very hard fer him t’ swerve or change direction very much at all. A sidestep an’ a smart rap across the back of the head be usually enough t’ roll ’em out of the saddle, an’ a man in armor—once he’s off his horse—be like a turtle on his back, don’t y’ know.”

“You’ve done it a few times yourself, I take it?” Sadi murmured.

“I’ve had me share of misunderstandin’s with Temple Guardsmen,” Feldegast admitted, “an’ ye’ll note that I still be here t’ talk about ’em.”

Durnik took the cast iron pot Polgara had given him and set it in the center of their fire. After a time, he pulled it glowing out of the coals with a stout stick, placed the blade of a broken knife on a rounded rock, and then set the pot over it. He took up his axe, reversed it, and held the blunt end over the pot.

“You’ll break it,” Silk predicted. “Cast iron’s too brittle to take any pounding.”

“Trust me, Silk,” the smith said with a wink. He took a deep breath and began to tap lightly on the pot. The sound of his hammering was not the dull clack of cast iron, but the clear ring of steel, a sound that Garion remembered from his earliest boyhood. Deftly the smith reshaped the pot into a flat-topped helmet with a fierce nose guard and heavy cheek pieces. Garion knew that his old friend was cheating just a bit by the faint whisper and surge he was directing at the emerging helmet.

Then Durnik dropped the helmet into a pail of water, and it hissed savagely, sending off a cloud of steam. The pot lid that the smith intended to convert into a shield, however, challenged even his ingenuity. It became quite obvious that, should he hammer it out to give it sufficient size to offer protection, it would be so thin that it would not even fend off a dagger stroke, much less a blow from a lance or sword. He considered that, even as he pounded on the ringing lid. He shifted his axe and made an obscure gesture at Toth. The giant nodded, went to the riverbank, returned with a pail full of clay, and dumped the bucket out in the center of the glowing shield. It gave off an evil hiss, and Durnik continued to pound.

“Uh—Durnik,” Garion said, trying not to be impolite, “a ceramic shield was not exactly what I had in mind, you know.”

Durnik gave him a grin filled with surpressed mirth.

“Look at it, Garion,” he suggested, not changing the tempo of his hammering.

Garion stared at the shield, his eyes suddenly wide. The glowing circle upon which Durnik was pounding was solid, cherry-red steel. “How did you do that?”

“Transmutation!” Polgara gasped. “Changing one thing into something else! Durnik, where on earth did you ever learn to do that?”

“It’s just something I picked up, Pol.” He laughed. “As long as you’ve got a bit of steel to begin with—like old knife blade—you can make as much more as you want, out of anything that’s handy: cast iron, clay, just about anything.”

Ce’Nedra’s eyes had suddenly gone very wide. “Durnik,” she said in an almost reverent whisper, “could you have made it out of gold?”

Durnik thought about it, still hammering. “I suppose I could have,” he admitted, “but gold’s too heavy and soft to make a good shield, wouldn’t you say?”

“Could you make another one?” she wheedled. “For me? It wouldn’t have to be so big—at least not quite.Please, Durnik.”

Durnik finished the rim of the shield with a shower of crimson sparks and the musical ring of steel on steel. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Ce’Nedra,” he told her. “Gold is valuable because it’s so scarce. If I started making it out of clay, it wouldn’t be long before it wasn’t worth anything at all. I’m sure you can see that.”

“But—”

“No, Ce’Nedra,” he said firmly.

“Garion—” she appealed, her voice anguished.

“He’s right, dear.”

“But—”

“Never mind, Ce’Nedra,”

The fire had burned down to a bed of glowing coals.

Garion awoke with a start, sitting up suddenly. He was covered with sweat and trembling violently. Once again he had heard the wailing cry that he had heard the previous day, and the sound of it wrenched at his heart. He sat for a long time staring at the fire. In time, the sweat dried and his trembling subsided.

Ce’Nedra’s breathing was regular as she lay beside him, and there was no other sound in their well-shielded encampment. He rolled carefully out of his blankets and walked to the edge of the grove of cedars to stare bleakly out across the fields lying dark and empty under an inky sky. Then, because there was nothing he could do about it, he returned to his bed and slept fitfully until dawn.

It was drizzling rain when he awoke. He got up quietly and went out of the tent to join Durnik, who was up the fire. “Can I borrow your axe?” he asked his friend.

Durnik looked up at him.

“I guess I’m going to need a lance to go with all that.” He looked rather distastefully at the helmet and shield lying atop his mail shirt near the packs and saddles.

“Oh,” the smith said. “I almost forgot about that. Is one going to be enough? They break sometimes, you know—at least Mandorallen’s always did.”

“I’m certainly not going to carry more than one.” Garion jabbed his thumb back over his shoulder at the hilt of his sword.” Anyway, I’ve always got this big knife to fall back on.”

The chill drizzle that had begun shortly before dawn was the kind of rain that made the nearby fields hazy and indistinct. After breakfast, they took heavy cloaks out of their packs and prepared to face a fairly unpleasant day. Garion had already put on his mail shirt, and he padded the inside of his helmet with an old tunic and jammed it down on his head. He felt very foolish as he clinked over to saddle Chretienne. The mail already smelled bad and it seemed, for some reason, to attract the chill of the soggy morning. He looked at his new-cut lance and his round shield. “This is going to be awkward,” he said.

“Hang the shield from the saddle bow, Garion,” Durnik suggested, “and set the butt of your lance in the stirrup beside your foot. That’s the way Mandorallen does it.”

“I’ll try it,” Garion said. He hauled himself up into his saddle, already sweating under the weight of his mail.

Durnik handed him the shield, and he hooked the strap of it over the saddle bow. Then he took his lance and jammed its butt into his stirrup, pinching his toes in the process.

“You’ll have to hold it,” the smith told him. “It won’t stay upright by itself.”

Garion grunted and took the shaft of his lance in his right hand.

“You look very impressive, dear,” Ce’Nedra assured him.

“Wonderful,” he replied dryly.

They rode out of the cedar grove into the wet, miserable morning with Garion in the lead, feeling more than a little absurd in his warlike garb. The lance, he discovered almost immediately, had a stubborn tendency to dip its point toward the ground. He shifted his grip on it, sliding his hand up until he found its center of balance. The rain collected on the shaft of the lance, ran down across his clammy hand, and trickled into his sleeve. After a short while, a steady stream of water dribbled from his elbow. “I feel like a downspout,” he grumbled.

“Let’s pick up the pace,” Belgarath said to him. “It’s a long way to Ashaba, and we don’t have too much time.”

Garion nudged Chretienne with his heels, and the big gray moved out, at first at a trot and then in a rolling canter. For some reason that made Garion feel a bit less foolish.

The road which Feldegast had pointed out to them the previous evening was little traveled and this morning it was deserted. It ran past abandoned farmsteads, sad, bramble-choked shells with the moldy remains of their thatched roofs all tumbled in. A few of the farmsteads had been burned, some only recently.

The road began to turn muddy as the earth soaked up the steady rain. The cantering hooves of their horses splashed the mud up to coat their legs and bellies and to spatter the boots and cloaks of the riders.

Silk rode beside Garion, his sharp face alert, and just before they reached the crest of each hill, he galloped on ahead to have a quick look at the shallow valley lying beyond.

By midmorning, Garion was soaked through, and he rode on bleakly, enduring the discomfort and the smell of new rust, wishing fervently that the rain would stop.

Silk came back down the next hill after scouting on ahead. His face was tight with a sudden excitement, and he motioned them all to stop.

“There are some Grolims up ahead,” he reported tersely.

“How many?” Belgarath asked.

” About two dozen. They’re holding some kind of religious ceremony.”

The old man grunted. “Let’s take a look.” He looked at Garion. “Leave your lance with Durnik,” he said. “It sticks up too high into the air, and I’d rather not attract attention.”

Garion nodded and passed his lance over to the smith, then followed Silk, Belgarath, and Feldegast up the hill.

They dismounted just before they reached the crest and moved carefully to the top, where a brushy thicket offered some concealment.

The black-robed Grolims were kneeling on the wet grass before a pair of grim altars some distance down the hill. A limp, unmoving form lay sprawled across each of them, and there was a great deal of blood. Sputtering braziers stood at the end of each altar, sending twin columns of black smoke up into the drizzle. The Grolims were chanting in the rumbling groan Garion had heard too many times before. He could not make out what they were saying.

“Chandim?” Belgarath softly asked the juggler.

“ ’Tis hard t’ say fer certain, Ancient One,” Feldegast replied. “The twin altars would suggest it, but the practice might have spread. Grolims be very quick t’ pick up changes in Church policy. But Chandim or not, ’twould be wise of us t’ avoid ’em. There be not much point in engagin’ ourselves in casual skirmishes with Grolims.”

“There are trees over on the east-side of the valley,” Silk said, pointing. “If we stay in among them, we’ll be out of sight.”

Belgarath nodded.

“How much longer are they likely to be praying?” Garion asked.

“Another half hour at least,” Feldegast replied.

Garion looked at the pair of altars, feeling an icy rage building up in him. “I’d like to cap their ceremony with a little personal visit,” he said.

“Forget it,” Belgarath told him. “You’re not here to ride around the countryside righting wrongs. Let’s go back and get the others. I’d like to get around those Grolims before they finish with their prayers.”

They picked their way carefully through the belt of dripping trees that wound along the eastern rim of the shallow valley where the Grolims were conducting their rites and returned to the muddy road about a mile beyond. Again they set out at the same distance-eating canter, with Garion once more in the lead.

Some miles past the valley where the Grolims had sacrificed the two unfortunates, they passed a burning village that was spewing out a cloud of black smoke. There seemed to be no one about, though there were some signs of fighting near the burning houses.

They rode on without stopping.

The rain let up by midafternoon, though the sky remained overcast. Then, as they crested yet another hilltop in the rolling countryside, they saw another rider on the far side of the valley. The distance was too great to make out details, but Garion could see that the rider was armed with a lance.

“What do we do?” he called back over his shoulder at the rest of them.

“That’s why you’re wearing armor and carrying a lance, Garion,” Belgarath replied.

“Shouldn’t I at least give him the chance to stand aside?”

“To what purpose?” Feldegast asked. “He’ll not do it. Yer very presence here with yer lance an’ yer shield be a challenge, an’ he’ll not be refusin’ it. Ride him down, young Master. The day wears on, don’t y’ know.”

” All right,” Garion said unhappily. He buckled his shield to his left arm, settled his helmet more firmly in place, and lifted the butt of his lance out of his stirrup.

Chretienne was already pawing at the earth and snorting defiantly.

“Enthusiast,” Garion muttered to him. “All right, let’s go, then.”

The big gray’s charge was thunderous. It was not agallop, exactly, nor a dead run, but rather was a deliberately implacable gait that could only be called a charge.

The armored man across the valley seemed a bit startled by the unprovoked attack, there having been none of the customary challenges, threats, or insults. After a bit of fumbling with his equipment, he managed to get his shield in place and his lance properly advanced. He seemed to be quite bulky, though that might have been his armor. He wore a sort of chain-mail coat reaching to his knees. His helmet was round and fitted with a visor, and he had a large sword sheathed at his waist. He clanged down his visor, then sank his spurs into his horse’s flanks and also charged.

The wet fields at the side of the road seemed to blur as Garion crouched behind his shield with his lance lowered and aimed directly at his opponent. He had seen Mandorallen do this often enough to understand the basics. The distance between him and the stranger was narrowing rapidly, and Garion could clearly see the mud spraying out from beneath the hooves of his opponent’s horse. At the last moment, just before they came together, Garion raised up in his stirrups as Mandorallen had instructed him, leaned forward so that his entire body was braced for the shock, and took careful aim with his lance at the exact center of the other man’s shield.

There was a dreadful crashing impact, and he was suddenly surrounded by flying splinters as his opponent’s lance shattered. His own lance, however, though it was as stout as that of the Guardsman, was a freshly cut cedar pole and it was quite springy. It bent into a tight arch like a drawn bow, then snapped straight again. The startled stranger was suddenly lifted out of his saddle. His body described a high, graceful arc through the air, which ended abruptly as he came down on his head in the middle of the road.

Garion thundered on past and finally managed to rein in his big gray horse. He wheeled and stopped. The other man lay on his back in the mud of the road. He was not moving. Carefully, his lance at the ready, Garion walked Chretienne back to the splinter-littered place where the impact had occurred.

“Are you all right?” he asked the Temple Guardsman lying in the mud.

There was no answer.

Cautiously, Garion dismounted, dropped his lance, and drew Iron-grip’s sword. “I say, man, are you all right?” he asked again. He reached out with his foot and nudged the fellow.

The Guardsman’s visor was closed, and Garion put the tip of his sword under the bottom of it and lifted. The eyes were rolled back in his head until only the whites showed, and there was blood gushing freely from his nose.

The others came galloping up, and Ce’Nedra flung herself out of the saddle almost before her horse and stopped and hurled herself into her husband’s arms. “You were magnificent, Garion! Absolutely magnificent!”

“It did go rather well, didn’t it?” he replied modestly, trying to juggle sword, shield, and wife all at the same time. He looked at Polgara, who was also dismounting.

“Do you think he’s going to be all right, Aunt Pol?” he asked. “I hope I didn’t hurt him too much.”

She checked the limp man lying in the road. “He’ll be fine, dear,” she assured him. “He’s just been knocked senseless, is all.”

“Nice job,” Silk said.

Garion suddenly grinned broadly. “You know something,” he said. “I think I’m starting to understand why Mandorallen enjoys this so much. It is sort of exhilarating.”

“I think it has t’ do with the weight of the armor,” Feldegast observed sadly to Belgarath. “It bears down on ’em so much that it pulls all the juice out of their brains, or some such.”

“Let’s move on,” Belgarath suggested.

By midmorning the following day, they had moved into the broad valley which was the location of Mal Yaska, the ecclesiastical capital of Mallorea and the site of the Disciple Urvon’s palace. Though the sky remained overcast, the rain had blown on through, and a stiff breeze had begun to dry the grass and the mud which had clogged the roads. There were encampments dotting the valley, little clusters of people who had fled from the demons to the north and the plague to the south. Each group was fearfully isolated from its neighbors, and all of them kept their weapons close at hand.

Unlike those of Mal Rakuth, the gates of Mal Yaska stood open, though they were patrolled by detachments of mail-armored Temple Guardsmen.

“Why don’t they go into the city?” Durnik asked, looking at the clusters of refugees.

“Mal Yaska’s not the sort of place ye visit willin’ly, Goodman,” Feldegast replied. “When the Grolims be lookin’ fer people t’ sacrifice on their altars, ’tis unwise t’ make yerself too handy.” He looked at Belgarath. “Would ye be willin’ t’ accept a suggestion, me ancient friend?” he asked.

“Suggest away.”

“We’ll be needin’ information about what’s happenin’ up there.” He pointed at the snow—capped mountains looming across the northern horizon. “Since I know me way about Mal Yaska an’ know how t’ avoid the Grolims, wouldn’t ye say that it might be worth the investment of an hour or so t’ have me nose about the central marketplace an’ see what news I kin pick up?”

“He’s got a point, Belgarath,” Silk agreed seriously, “I don’t like riding into a situation blind.”

Belgarath considered it. “All right,” he said to the juggler, “but be careful—and stay out of the alehouses.”

Feldegast sighed. “There be no such havens in Mal Yaska, Belgarath. The Grolims there be fearful strict in their disapproval of simple pleasures.” He shook the reins of his mule and rode on across the plain toward the black walls of Urvon’s capital.

“Isn’t he contradicting himself?” Sadi asked. “First he says it’s too dangerous to go into the city and then he rides on in anyway.”

“He knows what he’s doing,” Belgarath said. “He’s in no danger.”

“We might as well have some lunch while we’re waiting, father,” Polgara suggested.

He nodded, and they rode some distance into an open field and dismounted.

Garion laid aside his lance, pulled his helmet from his sweaty head, and stood looking across the intervening open space at the center of Church power in Mallorea.

The city was large, certainly, though not nearly so large as Mal Zeth. The walls were high and thick, surmounted by heavy battlements, and the towers rising inside were square and blocky. There was a kind of unrelieved ugliness about it, and it seemed to exude a brooding menace as if the eons of cruelty and blood lust had sunk into its very stones. From somewhere near the center of the city, the telltale black column of smoke rose into the air, and faintly, echoing across the plain with its huddled encampments of tightened refugees, he thought he could hear the sullen iron clang of the gong coming from the Temple of Torak. Finally, he sighed and turned his head away.

“It will not last forever,” Eriond, who had come up beside him, said firmly. “We’re almost to the end of it now. All the altars will be torn down, and the Grolims will put their knives away to rust.”

“Are you sure, Eriond?”

“Yes, Belgarion. I’m very sure.”

They ate a cold lunch, and, not long after, Feldegast returned, his face somber. “ ‘Tis perhaps a bit more serious than we had expected, Ancient One,” he reported, swinging down from his mule. “The Chandim be in total control of the city, an’ the Temple Guardsmen be takin’ their orders directly from them. The Grolims who hold t’ the old ways have all gone into hidin’, but packs of Torak’s Hounds be sniffin’ out the places where they’ve hidden an’ they be tearin’ ’em t’ pieces wherever they find ’em.”

“I find it very hard to sympathize with Grolims,” Sadi murmured.

“I kin bear their discomfort meself,” Feldegast agreed, “but ’tis rumored about the marketplace that the Chandim an’ their dogs an’ their Guardsmen also be movin’ about across the border in Katakor.”

“In spite of the Karands and Mengha’s demons?” Silk asked with some surprise.

“Now that’s somethin’ I could not get the straight of,” the juggler replied. “No one could tell me why or how, but the Chandim an’ the Guardsmen seem not t’ be concerned about Mengha nor his army nor his demons.”

“That begins to smell of some kind of accommodation,” Silk said.

“There were hints of that previously,” Feldegast reminded him.

“An alliance?” Belgarath frowned.

“ ’Tis hard t’ say fer sure, Ancient One, but Urvon be a schemer, an’ he’s always had this dispute with the imperial throne at Mal Zeth. If he’s managed t’ put Mengha in his pocket, Kal Zakath had better look t’ his defenses”

“Is Urvon in the city?” Belgarath asked.

“No. No one knows where he’s gone fer sure, but he’s not in his palace there.”

“That’s very strange,” Belgarath said.

“Indeed,” the juggler replied, “but whatever he’s doin’ or plannin’ t’ do, I think we’d better be walkin’ softly once we cross the border into Katakor. When ye add the Hounds an’ the Temple Guardsmen t’ the demons an’ Karands already there, ’tis goin’ t’ be fearful perilous t’ approach the House of Torak at Ashaba.”

“That’s a chance we’ll have to take,” the old man said grimly. “We’re going to Ashaba, and if anything—Hound, human, or demon—gets in our way, we’ll just have to deal with it as it comes.”

15

The sky continued to lower as they rode past the brooding city of the Grolim Church under the suspicious gaze of the armored Guardsmen at the gate and the hooded Grolims on the walls.

“Is it likely that they’ll follow us?” Durnik asked.

“It’s not very probable, Goodman,” Sadi replied. “Look around you. There are thousands encamped here, and I doubt that either Guardsmen or Grolims would take the trouble to follow them all when they leave.”

“I suppose you’re right,” the smith agreed.

By late afternoon they were well past Mal Yaska, and the snow—topped peaks in Katakor loomed higher ahead of them, starkly outlined against the dirty gray clouds scudding in from the west.

“Will ye be wantin’ t’ stop fer the night before we cross the border?” Feldegast asked Belgarath.

“How far is it to there from here?”

“Not far at all, Ancient One.”

“Is it guarded?”

“Usually, yes.”

“Silk,” the old man said, “ride on ahead and have a look.”

The little man nodded and nudged his horse into a gallop.

“All right,” Belgarath said, signaling for a halt so that they could all hear him. “Everybody we’ve seen this afternoon was going south. Nobody’s fleeing toward Katakor. Now, a man who’s running away from someplace doesn’t stop when the border’s in sight. He keeps on going. That means that there’s a fair chance that there’s not going to be anybody within miles of the border on the Katakor side. If the border’s not guarded, we can just go on across and take shelter for the night on the other side.”

“And if the border is guarded?” Sadi asked.

Belgarath’s eyes grew flat. “We’re still going to go through,” he replied.

“That’s likely to involve fighting.”

“That’s right. Let’s move along, shall we?” About fifteen minutes later, Silk returned. “There are about ten Guardsmen at the crossing,” he reported.

“Any chance of taking them by surprise?” Belgarath asked him.

“A little, but the road leading to the border is straight and flat for a half mile on either side of the guard post.”

The old man muttered a curse under his breath. “All right then,” he said. “They’ll at least have time to get to their horses. We don’t want to give them the leisure to get themselves set. Remember what Feldegast said about keeping your wits. Don’t take any chances, but I want all of those Guardsmen on their backs after our first charge. Pol, you stay back with the ladies—and Eriond.”

“But—” Velvet began to protest.

“Don’t argue with me, Liselle—just this once.”

“Couldn’t Lady Polgara just put them to sleep?” Sadi asked. “The way she did with the spies back in Mal Zeth?”

Belgarath shook his head. “There are a few Grolims among the Guardsmen, and that particular technique doesn’t work on Grolims. This time we’re going to have to do it by main strength—just to be on the safe side.”

Sadi nodded glumly, dismounted, and picked up a stout tree limb from the side of the road. He thumped it experimentally on the turf. “I want you all to know that this is not my preferred way of doing things,” he said.

The rest of them also dismounted and armed themselves with cudgels and staffs. Then they moved on.

The border was marked by a stone shed painted white and by a gate consisting of a single white pole resting on posts on either side of the road. A dozen horses were tethered just outside the shed, and lances leaned against the wall. A single, mail-coated Guardsman paced back and forth across the road on the near side of the gate, his sword leaning back over his shoulder.

“All right,” Belgarath said. “Let’s move as fast as we can. Wait here, Pol.”

Garion sighed. “I guess I’d better go first.”

“We were hoping that you’d volunteer.” Silk’s grin was tight.

Garion ignored that. He buckled on his shield, settled his helmet in place, and once again lifted the butt of his lance out of his stirtup. “Is everybody ready?” he asked, looking around. Then he advanced his lance and spurred his horse into a charge with the others close on his heels.

The Guardsman at the gate took one startled look at the warlike party bearing down on him, ran to the door of the shed, and shouted at his comrades inside. Then he struggled into the saddle of his tethered horse, leaned over to pick up his lance, and moved out into the road.

Other Guardsmen came boiling out of the shed, struggling with their equipment and stumbling over each other.

Garion had covered half the distance to the gate before more than two or three of the armored men were in their saddles. And so it was that the man who had been standing watch was forced to meet his charge alone.

The results were relatively predictable.

As Garion thundered past his unhorsed opponent, another Guardsman came out into the road at a half gallop, but Garion gave him no time to set himself or to turn his horse. The crashing impact against the unprepared man’s shield hurled his horse from its feet. The Guardsman came down before the horse did, and the animal rolled over him, squealing and kicking in fright.

Garion tried to rein in, but Chretienne had the bit in his teeth. He cleared the pole gate in a long, graceful leap and charged on. Garion swore and gave up on the reins. He leaned forward and seized the big gray by one ear and hauled back. Startled, Chretienne stopped so quickly that his rump skidded on the road.

“The fight’s back that way.” Garion told his horse, “or did you forget already?”

Chretienne gave him a reproachful look, turned, and charged back toward the gate again.

Because of the speed of their attack, Garion’s friends were on top of the Guardsmen before the armored men could bring their lances into play, and the fight had quickly turned ugly. Using the blunt side of his axe, Durnik smashed in one Guardsman’s visor, denting it so severely that the man could no longer see. He rode in circles helplessly, both hands clutching at his helmet until he rode under a low-hanging limb, which smoothly knocked him off his horse.

Silk ducked under a wide, backhand sword stroke, reached down with his dagger, and neatly cut his attacker’s girth strap. The fellow’s horse leaped forward, jumping out from under his rider. Saddle and all, the Guardsman tumbled into the road. He struggled to his feet, sword in hand, but Feldegast came up behind him and methodically clubbed him to earth again with an ugly lead mace.

It was Toth, however, who was the hardest pressed, Three Guardsmen closed in on the giant. Even as Chretienne leaped the gate again, Garion saw the huge man awkwardly flailing with his staff for all the world like someone who had never held one in his hands before.

When the three men came within range however, Toth’s skill miraculously reemerged. His heavy staff whirled in a blurring circle. One Guardsman fell wheezing to earth, clutching at his broken ribs. Another doubled over sharply as Toth deftly poked him in the pit of the stomach with the butt of his staff. The third desperately raised his sword, but the giant casually swiped it out of his hand, then reached out and took the surprised man by the front of his mail coat. Garion clearly heard the crunch of crushed steel as Toth’s fist closed. Then the giant looked about and almost casually threw the armored man against a roadside tree so hard that it shook the spring leaves from the highest twig.

The three remaining Guardsmen began to fall back, trying to give themselves room to use their lances, but they seemed unaware that Garion was returning to the fray—from behind them.

As Chretienne thundered toward the unsuspecting trio, a sudden idea came to Garion. quickly he turned his lance sideways so that its center rested just in front of his saddlebow and crashed into the backs of the Guardsmen.

The springy cedar pole swept all three of them out of their saddles and over the heads of their horses. Before they could stumble to their feet, Sadi, Feldegast, and Durnik were on them, and the fight ended as quickly as it had begun.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody use a lance that way before,” Silk said gaily to Garion.

“I just made it up,” Garion replied with an excited grin."I’m sure that there are at least a half-dozen rules against it.”

“We probably shouldn’t mention it, then.”

“I won’t tell anybody if you don’t.”

Durnik was looking around critically. The ground was littered with Guardsmen who were either unconscious or groaning over assorted broken bones. Only the man Toth had poked in the stomach was still in his saddle, though he was doubled over, gasping for breath. Durnik rode up to him. “Excuse me,” he said politely, removed the poor fellow’s helmet, and then rapped him smartly on top of the head with the butt of his axe. The Guardsman’s eyes glazed, and he toppled limply out of the saddle.

Belgarath suddenly doubled over, howling with laughter. "Excuse me?” he demanded of the smith.

“There’s no need to be uncivil to people, Belgarath,” Durnik replied stiffly.

Polgara came riding sedately down the hill, followed by Ce’Nedra, Velvet, and Eriond. “Very nice, gentlemen,” she complimented them all, looking around at the fallen Guardsmen. Then she rode up to the pole gate.

“Garion, dear,” she said pleasantly, reining in her mount, “would you mind?”

He laughed, rode Chretienne over to the gate, and kicked it out of her way.

“Why on earth were you jumping fences in the very middle of the fight?” she asked him curiously.

“It wasn’t altogether my idea,” he replied.

“Oh,” she said, looking critically at the big horse. “I think I understand.”

Chretienne managed somehow to look slightly ashamed of himself.

They rode on past the border as evening began imperceptibly to darken an already gloomy sky. Feldegast pulled in beside Belgarath. “Would yer morals be at all offended if I was t’ suggest shelterin’ fer the night in a snug little smugglers’ cave I know of a few miles or so farther on?” he asked.

Belgarath grinned and shook his head. “Not in the slightest,” he replied. “When I need a cave, I never concern myself about the previous occupants.” Then he laughed. “I shared quarters for a week once with a sleeping bear—nice enough bear, actually, once I got used to his snoring.”

“’Tis a fascinatin’ story, I’m sure, an’ I’d be delighted t’ hear it—but the night’s comin’ on, an’ ye kin tell me about it over supper. Shall we be off, then?” The juggler thumped his heels into his mule’s flanks and led them on up the rutted road in the rapidly descending twilight at a jolting gallop.

As they moved into the first of the foothills, they found the poorly maintained road lined on either side by mournful-looking evergreens. The road, however, was empty, though it showed signs of recent heavy traffic—all headed south.

“How much farther to this cave of yours?” Belgarath called to the juggler.

“’Tis not far, Ancient One,” Feldegast assured him. “There be a dry ravine that crosses the road up ahead, an’ we go up that a bit of a ways, an’ there we are.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Trust me.”

Somewhat surprisingly, Belgarath let that pass.

They pounded on up the road as a sullen dusk settled into the surrounding foothills and deep shadows began to gather about the trunks of the evergreens.

“Ah, an’ there it is,” Feldegast said, pointing at the rocky bed of a dried-up stream. “The footin’ be treacherous here, so we’d best lead the mounts.” He swung down from his mule and cautiously began to lead the way up the ravine. It grew steadily darker, the light fading quickly from the overcast sky. As the ravine narrowed and rounded a sharp bend, the juggler rummaged through the canvas pack strapped to the back of his mule. He lifted out the stub of a candle and looked at Durnik. “Kin ye be makin’ me a bit of a flame, Goodman?” he asked. “I’d do it meself, but I seem t’ have misplaced me tinder.”

Durnik opened his pouch, took out his flint and steel and his wad of tinder, and, after several tries, blew a lighted spark into a tiny finger of fire. He held it out, shielded between his hands, and Feldegast lit his bit of candle.

“An’ here we are now,” the juggler said grandly, holding up his candle to illuminate the steep banks of the ravine.

“Where?” Silk asked, looking about in puzzlement.

“Well now, Prince Kheldar, it wouldn’t be much of a hidden cave if the openin’ was out in plain sight fer just anybody t’ stumble across, now would it?” Feldegast went over to the steep side of the ravine to where a huge slab of water-scoured granite leaned against the bank. He lowered his candle, shielding it with his hand, ducked slightly, and disappeared behind it with his mule trailing along behind him.

The interior of the cave was floored with clean white sand, and the walls had been worn smooth by centuries of swirling water. Feldegast stood in the center of the cave holding his candle aloft. There were crude log bunks along the walls, a table and some benches in the center of the cave, and a rough fireplace near the far wall with a fire already laid. Feldegast crossed to the fireplace, bent, and lit the kindling lying under the split logs resting on a rough stone grate with his candle. “Well now, that’s better,” he said, holding his hands out to the crackling flames. “Isn’t this a cozy little haven?”

Just beyond the fireplace was an archway, in part natural and in part the work of human hands. The front of the archway was closed off with several horizontal poles.

Feldegast pointed at it. “There be the stable fer the horses, an’ also a small spring at the back of it. ’Tis altogether the finest smugglers’ cave in this part of Mallorea.”

“A cunning sort of place,” Belgarath agreed, looking around.

“What do they smuggle through here?” Silk asked with a certain professional curiosity.

“Gem stones fer the most part. There be rich deposits in the cliffs of Katakor, an’ quite often whole gravel bars of the shiny little darlin’s lyin’ in the streams t’ be had fer the trouble it takes t’ pick ’em up. The local taxes be notorious cruel, though, so the bold lads in this part of these mountains have come up with various ways t’ take their goods across the border without disturbin’ the sleep of the hardworkin’ tax collectors.”

Polgara was inspecting the fireplace. There were several iron pothooks protruding from its inside walls and a large iron grill sitting on stout legs to one side. “Very nice,” she murmured approvingly. “Is there adequate firewood?”

“More than enough, me dear lady,” the juggler replied. “Tis stacked in the stable, along with fodder fer the horses.”

“Well, then,” she said, removing her blue cloak and laying it across one of the bunks, “I think I might be able to expand the menu I’d planned for this evening’s meal. As long as we have such complete facilities here, it seems a shame to waste them. I’ll need more firewood stacked here—and water, of course.” She went to the packhorse that carried her cooking utensils and her stores, humming softly to herself.

Durnik, Toth, and Eriond led the horses into the stable and began to unsaddle them. Garion, who had left his lance outside, went to one of the bunks, removed his helmet and laid it, along with his shield, under the bunk, and then he began to struggle out of his mail shirt.

Ce’Nedra came over to assist him..

“You were magnificent today, dear,” she told him warmly.

He grunted noncommittally, leaning forward and extending his arms over his head so that she could pull the shirt off.

She tugged hard, and the mail shirt came free all at once. Thrown off balance by the weight, she sat down heavily on the sandy floor with the shirt in her lap.

Garion laughed and quickly went to her. “Oh, Ce’Nedra,” he said, still laughing, “I do love you.” He kissed her and then helped her to her feet.

“This is terribly heavy, isn’t it?” she said, straining to lift the steel-link shirt.

“You noticed,” he said, rubbing at one aching shoulder. “And here you thought I was just having fun.”

“Be nice, dear. Do you want me to hang it up for you?” He shrugged. “Just kick it under the bunk.”

Her look was disapproving.

“I don’t think it’s going to wrinkle, Ce’Nedra.”

“But it’s untidy to do it that way, dear.” She made some effort to fold the thing, then gave up, rolled it in a ball, and pushed it far back under the bunk with her foot.

Supper that evening consisted of thick steaks cut from a ham Vella had provided them, a rich soup so thick that it hovered on the very edge of stew, large slabs of bread that had been warmed before the fire, and baked apples with honey and cinnamon.

After they had eaten, Polgara rose and looked around the cave again. “The ladies and I are going to need a bit of privacy now,” she said, “and several basins of hot water.”

Belgarath sighed. “Again, Pol?” he said.

“Yes, father. It’s time to clean up and change clothes—for all of us.” She pointedly sniffed at the air in the small cave. “It’s definitely time,” she added.

They curtained off a portion of the cave to give Polgara, Ce’Nedra, and Velvet the privacy they required and began heating water over the fire.

Though at first reluctant even to move, Garion had to admit that after he had washed up and changed into clean, dry clothes, he did feel much better. He sat back on one of the bunks beside Ce’Nedra, not even particularly objecting to the damp smell of her hair. He had that comfortable sense of being clean, well fed, and warm after a day spent out of doors in bad weather. He was, in fact, right on the edge of dozing off when there echoed up the narrow ravine outside a vast bellow that seemed to be part animal and part human, a cry so dreadful that it chilled his blood and made the hair rise on the back of his neck.

“What’s that?” Ce’Nedra exclaimed in fright.

“Hush now, girl,” Feldegast warned softly. He jumped to his feet and quickly secured a piece of canvas across the opening of the fireplace, plunging the cave into near-darkness.

Another soulless bellow echoed up the ravine. The sound seemed filled with a dreadful malevolence.

“Can we put a name to whatever it is?” Sadi asked in a quiet voice.

“It’s nothing I’ve ever heard before,” Durnik assured him.

“I think I have,” Belgarath said bleakly. “When I was in Morindland, there was a magician up there who thought it was amusing to turn his demon out at night to hunt. It made a sound like that.”

“What an unsavory practice,” the eunuch murmured."What do demons eat?”

“You really wouldn’t want to know,” Silk replied. He turned to Belgarath. “Would you care to hazard a guess how big that thing might be?”

”It varies. From the amount of noise it’s making, though, I’d say that it’s fairly large.”

“Then it wouldn’t be able to get into this cave, would it?”

“That’s a gamble I think I’d rather not take.”

“It can sniff out our tracks, I assume?”

The old man nodded.

“Things are definitely going to pieces here, Belgarath.

Can you do anything at all to drive it off?” The little man turned to Polgara. “Or perhaps you, Polgara. You dealt with the demon Chabat raised back in the harbor at Rak Urga.”

“I had help, Silk,” she reminded him. “Aldur came to my aid.”

Belgarath began to pace up and down, scowling at the floor.

“Well?” Silk pressed.

“Don’t rush me,” the old man growled. “I might be able to do something,” he said grudgingly, “but if I do, it’s going to make so much noise that every Grolim in Katakor is going to hear it—and probably Zandramas as well. We’ll have the Chandim or her Grolims hot on our heels all the way to Ashaba.”

“Why not use the Orb?” Eriond suggested, looking up from the bridle he was repairing.

“Because the Orb makes even more noise than I do. If Garion uses the Orb to chase off a demon, they’re going to hear it in Gandahar all the way on the other side of the continent.”

“But it would work, wouldn’t it?”

Belgarath looked at Polgara.

“I think he’s right, father,” she said. “A demon would flee from the Orb—even if it were fettered by its master. An unfettered demon would flee even faster.”

“Can you think of anything else?” he asked her.

“A God,” she shrugged. “All demons—no matter how powerful—flee from the Gods. Do you happen to know any Gods?”

“A few,” he replied, “but they’re busy right now.”

Another shattering bellow resounded through the mountains. It seemed to come from right outside the cave.

“It’s time for some kind of decision, old man,” Silk said urgently.

“It’s the noise the Orb makes that bothers you?” Eriond asked.

“That and the light. That blue beacon that lights up every time Garion draws the sword attracts a lot of attention, you know.”

“You aren’t all suggesting that I fight a demon, are you?” Garion demanded indignantly.

“Of course not,” Belgarath snorted. “Nobody fights a demon –nobody can. All we’re discussing is the possibility of driving it off.” He began to pace up and down again, scuffing his feet in the sand. “I hate to announce our presence here,” he muttered.

Outside, the demon bellowed again, and the huge granite slab partially covering the cave mouth began to grate back and forth as if some huge force were rocking it to try to move it aside.

“Our options are running out, Belgarath,” Silk told him. “And so is our time. If you don’t do something quickly, that thing’s going to be in here with us.”

“Try not to pinpoint our location to the Grolims,” Belgarath said to Garion.

“You really want me to go out there and do it?”

“Of course I do. Silk was right. Time’s run out on us.”

Garion went to his bunk and fished his mail shirt out from under it.

“You won’t need that. It wouldn’t do any good anyway.”

Garion reached over his shoulder and, drew his great sword. He set its point in the sand and peeled the soft leather sheath from its hilt. “I think this is a mistake,” he declared. Then he reached out and put his hand on the Orb.

“Let me, Garion,” Eriond said. He rose, came over, and covered Garion’s hand with his own. Garion gave him a startled look.

“It knows me, remember?” the young man explained, “and I’ve got a sort of an idea.”

A peculiar tingling sensation ran through Garion’s hand and arm, and he became aware that Eriond was communing with the Orb in a manner even more direct than he himself was capable of. It was is if during the months that the boy had been the bearer of the Orb, the stone had in some peculiar way taught him its own language.

There was a dreadful scratching coming from the mouth of the cave, as if huge talons were clawing at the stone slab.

“Be careful out there,” Belgarath cautioned. “Don’t take any chances. Just hold up the sword so that it can see it. The Orb should do the rest.”

Garion sighed. “All right,” he said, moving toward the cave mouth with Eriond directly behind him.

“Where are you going?” Polgara asked the blond young man.

“With Belgarion,” Eriond replied. “We both need to talk with the Orb to get this right. I’ll explain it later, Polgara.”

The slab at the cave mouth was rocking back and forth again. Garion ducked quickly out from behind it and ran several yards up the ravine with Eriond on his heels.

Then he turned and held up the sword.

“Not yet,” Eriond warned. “It hasn’t seen us.”

There was an overpoweringly foul odor in the ravine, and then, as Garion’s eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he saw the demon outlined against the clouds rolling overhead. It was enormous, its shoulders blotting out half the sky. It had long, pointed ears like those of a vast cat, and its dreadful eyes burned with a green fire that cast a fitful glow across the floor of the ravine.

It bellowed and reached toward Garion and Eriond with a great, scaly claw.

“Now, Belgarion,” Eriond said quite calmly.

Garion lifted his arms, holding his sword directly in front of him with its point aimed at the sky, and then he released the curbs he had placed on the Orb.

He was not in the least prepared for what happened. A huge noise shook the earth and echoed off nearby mountains, causing giant trees miles away to tremble.

Not only did the great blade take fire, but the entire sky suddenly shimmered an intense sapphire blue as if it had been ignited. Blue flame shot from horizon to horizon, and the vast sound continued to shake the earth.

The demon froze, its vast, tooth-studded muzzle turned upward to the blazing blue sky in terror. Grimly, Garion advanced on the thing, still holding his burning sword before him. The beast flinched back from him, trying to shield its face from the intense blue light. It screamed as if suddenly gripped by an intolerable agony. It stumbled back, falling and scrambling to its feet again. Then it took one more look at the blazing sky, turned, and fled howling back down the ravine with a peculiar loping motion as all four of its claws tore at the earth.

“That is your idea of quiet?” Belgarath thundered from the cave mouth. “And what’s all that?” He pointed a trembling finger at the still-illuminated sky.

“It’s really all right, Belgarath,” Eriond told the infuriated old man. “You didn’t want the sound to lead the Grolims to us, so we just made it general through the whole region. Nobody could have pinpointed its source.”

Belgarath blinked. Then he frowned for a moment.

“What about all the light?” he asked in a more mollified tone of voice.

“It’s more or less the same with that,” Eriond explained calmly. “If you’ve got a single blue fire in the mountains on a dark night, everybody can see it. If the whole sky catches on fire, though, nobody can really tell where it’s coming from.”

“It does sort of make sense, Grandfather,” Garion said.

“Are they all right, father?” Polgara asked from behind the old man.

“What could possibly have hurt them? Garion can level mountains with that sword of his. He very nearly did, as a matter of fact. The whole Karandese range rang like a bell.” He looked up at the still-flickering sky. “Can you turn that off!” he asked.

“Oh,” Garion said. He reversed his sword and re-sheathed it in the scabbard strapped across his back. The fire in the sky died.

“We really had to do it that way, Belgarath,” Eriond continued. “We needed the light and the sound to frighten off the demon and we had to do it in such a way the Grolims couldn’t follow it, so—” He spread both hands and shrugged.

“Did you know about this?” Belgarath asked Garion.

“Of course, Grandfather,” Garion lied.

Belgarath grunted. “All right. Come back inside,” he said.

Garion bent slightly toward Eriond’s ear. “Why didn’t you tell me what we were going to do?” he whispered.

“There wasn’t really time, Belgarion.”

“The next time we do something like that, take time. I almost dropped the sword when the ground started shaking under me.”

“That wouldn’t have been a good idea at all.”

“I know.”

A fair number of rocks had been shaken from the ceiling of the cave and lay on the sandy floor. Dust hung thickly in the air.

“What happened out there?” Silk demanded in a shaky voice.

“Oh, not much,” Garion replied in a deliberately casual voice. “We just chased it away, that’s all.”

“There wasn’t really any help for it, I guess,” Belgarath said, “but just about everybody in Katakor knows that something’s moving around in these mountains, so we’re going to have to start being very careful.”

“How much farther is it to Ashaba?” Sadi asked him.

“About a day’s ride.”

“Will we make it in time?”

“Only just. Let’s all get some sleep.”

Garion had the same dream again that night. He was not really sure that it was a dream, since dreaming usually involved sight as well as sound, but all there was to this one was that persistent, despairing wail and the sense of horror with which it filled him. He sat up on his bunk, trembling and sweat-covered. After a time, he drew his blanket about his shoulders, clasped his arms about his knees, and stared at the ruddy coals in the fireplace until he dozed off again.

It was still cloudy the following morning, and they rode cautiously back down the ravine to the rutted track leading up into the foothills of the mountains. Silk and Feldegast ranged out in front of them as scouts to give them warning should any dangers arise.

After they had ridden a league or so, the pair came back down the narrow road. Their faces were sober, and they motioned for silence.

“There’s a group of Karands camped around the road up ahead,” Silk reported in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper.

“An ambush?” Sadi asked him.

“No,” Feldegast replied in a low voice. “They’re asleep fer the most part. From the look of things, I’d say that they spent the night in some sort of religious observance, an’ so they’re probably exhausted—or still drunk.”

“Can we get around them?” Belgarath asked.

“It shouldn’t be too much trouble,” Silk replied. “We can just go off into the trees and circle around until we’re past the spot where they’re sleeping.”

The old man nodded. “Lead the way,” he said.

They left the road and angled off into the timber, moving at a cautious walk.

“What sort of ceremony were they holding?” Durnik asked quietly.

Silk shrugged. “It looked pretty obscure,” Silk told him. “They’ve got an altar set up with skulls on posts along the back of it. There seems to have been quite a bit of drinking going on—as well as some other things.”

“What sort of things?”

Silk’s face grew slightly pained. “They have women with them,” he answered disgustedly.” There’s some evidence that things got a bit indiscriminate.”

Durnik’s cheeks suddenly turned bright red.

“Aren’t you exaggerating a bit, Kheldar?” Velvet asked him.

“No, not really. Some of them were still celebrating.”

“A bit more important than quaint local religious customs, though,” Feldegast added, still speaking quietly, “be the peculiar pets the Karands was keepin’.”

“Pets?” Belgarath asked.

“Perhaps ’tis not the right word, Ancient One, but sittin’ round the edges of the camp was a fair number of the Hounds—an’ they was makin’ no move t’ devour the celebrants.”

Belgarath looked at him sharply. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve seen enough of the Hounds of Torak t’ recognize ’em when I see ’em.”

“So there is some kind of an alliance between Mengha and Urvon,” the old man said.

“Yer wisdom is altogether a marvel, old man. It must be a delight beyond human imagination t’ have the benefit of ten thousand years experience t’ guide ye in comin’ t’ such conclusions.”

“Seven thousand,” Belgarath corrected.

“Seven—ten—what matter?”

“Seven thousand,” Belgarath repeated with a slightly offended expression.

16

They rode that afternoon into a dead wasteland, a region foul and reeking, where white snags poked the skeleton-like fingers of their limbs imploringly at a dark, roiling sky and where dank ponds of oily, stagnant water exuded the reek of decay. Clots of fungus lay in gross profusion about the trunks of long-dead trees and matted-down weeds struggled up through ashy soil toward a sunless sky.

“It looks almost like Cthol Mishrak, doesn’t it?” Silk asked, looking about distastefully.

“We’re getting very close to Ashaba,” Belgarath told him. “Something about Torak did this to the ground.”

“Didn’t he know?” Velvet said sadly.

“Know what?” Ce’Nedra asked her.

“That his very presence befouled the earth?”

“No,” Ce’Nedra replied, “I don’t think he did. His mind was so twisted that he couldn’t even see it. The sun hid from him, and he saw that only as a mark of his and not as a sign of its repugnance for him.”

It was a peculiarly astute observation, which to some degree surprised Garion. His wife oftentimes seemed to have a wide streak of giddiness in her nature which made it far too easy to think of her as a child, a misconception reinforced by her diminutive size. But he had frequently found it necessary to reassess this tiny, often willful little woman who shared his life. Ce’Nedra might sometimes behave foolishly, but she was never stupid. She looked out at the world with a clear, unwavering vision that saw much more than gowns and jewels and costly perfumes. Quite suddenly he was so proud of her that he thought his heart would burst.

“How much farther is it to Ashaba?” Sadi asked in a subdued tone. “I hate to admit it, but this particular swamp depresses me.”

“You?” Durnik said. “I thought you liked swamps.”

“A swamp should be green and rich with life, Goodman,” the eunuch replied. “There’s nothing here but death.” He looked at Velvet. “Have you got Zith, Margravine?” he asked rather plaintively. “I’m feeling a bit lonesome just now.”

“She’s sleeping at the moment, Sadi,” she told him, her hand going to the front of her bodice in an oddly protective fashion. “She’s safe and warm and very content. She’s even purring.”

“Resting in her perfumed little bower.” He sighed. “There are times when I envy her.”

“Why, Sadi,” she said, blushing slightly, lowering her eyes, and then flashing her dimples at him.

“Merely a clinical observation, my dear Liselle,” he said to her rather sadly. “There are times when I wish it could be otherwise, but . . .” He sighed again.

“Do you really have to carry that snake there?” Silk asked the blond girl.

“Yes, Kheldar,” she replied, “as a matter of fact, I do.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Ancient One,” Sadi said to Belgarath. “How much farther is it to Ashaba?”

“It’s up there,” the old sorcerer replied shortly, pointing toward a ravine angling sharply up from the reeking wasteland. “We should make it by dark.”

“A particularly unpleasant time to visit a haunted house,” Feldegast added.

As they started up the ravine, there came a sudden hideous growling from the dense undergrowth to one side of the weedy track, and a huge black Hound burst out of the bushes, its eyes aflame and with foam dripping from its cruel fangs. “Now you are mine!” it snarled, its jaws biting off the words.

Ce’Nedra screamed, and Garion’s hand flashed back over his shoulder; but quick as he was, Sadi was even quicker. The eunuch spurred his terrified horse directly at the hulking dog. The beast rose, its jaws agape, but Sadi hurled a strangely colored powder of about the consistency of coarse flour directly into its face.

The Hound shook its head, still growling horribly. Then it suddenly screamed, a shockingly human sound.

Its eyes grew wide in terror. Then it began desperately to snap at the empty air around it, whimpering and trying to cringe back. As suddenly as it had attacked, it turned and fled howling back into the undergrowth.

“What did you do?” Silk demanded.

A faint smile touched Sadi’s slender features. “When ancient Belgarath told me about Torak’s Hounds, I took certain precautions,” he replied, his head slightly cocked as he listened to the terrified yelps of the huge dog receding off into the distance.

“Poison?”

“No. It’s really rather contemptible to poison a dog if you don’t have to. The Hound simply inhaled some of that powder I threw in its face. Then it began to see some very distracting things—very distracting.” He smiled again. “Once I saw a cow accidentally sniff the flower that’s the main ingredient of the powder. The last time I saw her, she was trying to climb a tree.” He looked over at Belgarath. “I hope you didn’t mind my taking action without consulting you, Ancient One, but as you’ve pointed out, your sorcery might alert others in the region, and I had to move quickly to deal with the situation before you felt compelled to unleash it anyway.”

“That’s quite all right, Sadi,” Belgarath replied. “I may have said it before, but you’re a very versatile fellow.”

“Merely a student of pharmacology, Belgarath. I’ve found that there are chemicals suitable for almost every situation.”

“Won’t the Hound report back to its pack that we’re here?” Durnik asked, looking around worriedly.

“Not for several days.” Sadi chuckled, brushing off his hands, holding them as far away from his face as possible.

They rode slowly up the weed-grown track along the bottom of the ravine where mournful, blackened trees spread their branches, filling the deep cut with a pervading gloom. Off in the distance they could hear the baying of Torak’s Hounds as they coursed through the forest.

Above them, sooty ravens flapped from limb to limb, croaking hungrily.

“Disquieting sort of place,” Velvet murmured.

“And that adds the perfect touch,” Silk noted, pointing at a large vulture perched on the limb of a dead snag at the head of the ravine.

“Are we close enough to Ashaba yet for you to be able to tell if Zandramas is still there?” Garion asked Polgara.

“Possibly,” she replied. “But even that faint a sound could be heard.”

“We’re close enough now that we can wait,” Belgarath said. “I’ll tell you one thing, though,” he added. “If my great-grandson is at Ashaba, I’ll take the place apart stone by stone until I find him and I don’t care how much noise it wakes.”

Impulsively, Ce’Nedra pulled her horse in beside his, leaned over, and locked her arms about his waist. “Oh, Belgarath,” she said, “I love you.” And she burrowed her face into his shoulder.

“What’s this?” His voice was slightly surprised.

She pulled back, her eyes misty. She wiped at them with the back of her hand, then gave him an arch look.

“You’re the dearest man in all the world,” she told him. “I might even consider throwing Garion over for you,” she added, “if it weren’t for the fact that you’re twelve thousand years old, that is.”

“Seven,” he corrected automatically.

She gave him a sadly whimsical smile, a melancholy sign of her final victory in an ongoing contest that no longer had any meaning for her. “Whatever,” she sighed.

And then in a peculiarly uncharacteristic gesture, he enfolded her in his arms and gently kissed her. “My dear child,” he said with brimming eyes. Then he looked back over his shoulder at Polgara. “How did we ever get along without her?” he asked.

Polgara’s eyes were a mystery. “I don’t know, father,” she replied. “I really don’t.”

At the head of the ravine, Sadi dismounted and dusted the leaves of a low bush growing in the middle of the track they were following with some more of his powder.

“Just to be on the safe side,” he explained, pulling himself back into his saddle.

The region they entered under a lowering sky was a wooded plateau, and they rode on along the scarcely visible track in a generally northerly direction with the rising wind whipping at their cloaks. The baying of Torak’s Hounds still sounded from some distance off, but seemed to be coming no closer.

As before, Silk and Feldegast raged out ahead, scouting for possible dangers. Garion again rode at the head of their column, his helmet in place and the butt of his lance riding in his stirrup. As he rounded a sharp bend in the track, he saw Silk and the juggler ahead. They had dismounted and were crouched behind some bushes. Silk turned quickly and motioned Garion back. Garion quickly passed on that signal and, step by step, backed his gray stallion around the bend again. He dismounted, leaned his lance against a tree, and took off his helmet.

“What is it?” Belgarath asked, also swinging down from his horse.

“I don’t know,” Garion replied, “Silk motioned us to stay out of sight.”

“Let’s go have a look,” the old man said.

“Right.”

The two of them crouched over and moved forward on feet to join the rat-faced man and the juggler. Silk his finger to his lips as they approached. When Garion reached the brush, he carefully parted the leaves and looked out.

There was a road there, a road that intersected the track they had been following. Riding along that road were half—a-hundred men dressed mostly in furs, with rusty helmets on their heads and bent and dented swords in their hands. The men at the head of the column, however, wore mail coats. Their helmets were polished, and they carried lances and shields.

Tensely, without speaking, Garion and his friends watched the loosely organized mob ride past.

When the strangers were out of sight, Feldegast turned to Belgarath. “It sort of confirms yer suspicion, old friend,” he said.

“Who were they?” Garion asked in a low voice.

“The ones in fur be Karands,” Feldegast replied, “an’ the ones in steel be Temple Guardsmen. ’Tis more evidence of an alliance between Urvon and Mengha, y’ see.”

“Can we be sure that the Karands were Mengha’s men?”

“He’s overcome Katakor altogether, an’ the only armed Karands in the area be his. Urvon an’ his Chandim control the Guardsmen—an’ the Hounds. When ye see Karands an’ Hounds together the way we did yesterday, it’s fair proof of an alliance, but when ye see Karandese fanatics escorted by armed Guardsmen, it doesn’t leave hardly any doubt at all.”

“What is that fool up to?” Belgarath muttered.

“Who?” Silk asked.

“Urvon. He’s done some fairly filthy things in his life, but he’s never consorted with demons before.”

“Perhaps ’twas because Torak had forbid it,” Feldegast suggested. “Now that Torak’s dead, though, maybe he’s throwin’ off all restraints. The demons would be a powerful factor if the final confrontation between the Church an’ the imperial throne that’s been brewin’ all these years should finally come.”

“Well,” Belgarath grunted, “we don’t have time to sort it out now. Let’s get the others and move on.”

They quickly crossed the road that the Karands and the Guardsmen had been following and continued along the narrow track. After a few more miles, they crested a low knoll that at some time in the past had been denuded by fire. At the far end of the plateau, just before a series of stark cliffs rose sharply up into the mountains, there stood a huge black building, rearing up almost like a mountain itself. It was surmounted by bleak towers and surrounded by a battlement-topped wall, half-smothered in vegetation.

“Ashaba,” Belgarath said shortly, his eyes flinty.

“I thought it was a ruin,” Silk said with some surprise.

“Parts of it are, I’ve been told,” the old man replied. “The upper floors aren’t habitable anymore, but the ground floor’s still more or less intact—at least it’s supposed to be. It takes a very long time for wind and weather to tear down a house that big.” The old man nudged his horse and led them down off the knoll and back into the wind-tossed forest.

It was nearly dark by the time they reached the edge of the clearing surrounding the House of Torak. Garion noted that the vegetation half covering the walls of the black castle consisted of brambles and thick-stemmed ivy.

The glazing in the windows had long since succumbed to wind and weather, and the vacant casements seemed to stare out at the clearing like the eye sockets of a dark skull.

“Well, father?” Polgara said.

He scratched at his beard, listening to the baying of the Hounds back in the forest.

“If yer open t’ a bit of advice, me ancient friend,” Feldegast said, “wouldn’t it be wiser t’ wait until dark before we go in? Should there be watchers in the house, the night will conceal us from their eyes, An’ then, too, once it grows dark, there’ll undoubtedly be lights inside if the house be occupied. ’Twill give us some idea of what t’ expect.”

“It makes sense, Belgarath,” Silk agreed. “Walking up to an unfriendly house in broad daylight disturbs my sense of propriety.”

“That’s because you’ve got the soul of a burglar. But it’s probably the best plan anyhow. Let’s pull back into the woods a ways and wait for dark.”

Though the weather had been warm and spring-like on the plains of Rakuth and Venna, here in the foothills of the Karandese mountains there was still a pervading chill, for winter only reluctantly released its grip on these highlands. The wind was raw, and there were some places back under the trees where dirty windrows of last winter’s snow lay deep and unyielding.

“Is that wall around the house going to cause us any problems?” Garion asked.

“Not unless someone’s repaired the gates,” Belgarath replied. “When Beldin and I came in here after Vo Mimbre, they were all locked, so we had to break them down to get in.”

” Walkin’ openly up to them gates might not be the best idea in the world, Belgarath,” Feldegast said, “fer if the house do be occupied by Chandim or Karands or Guardsmen, ’tis certain that the gates are goin’ t’ be watched, an’ there be a certain amount of light even on the darkest night. There be a sally port on the east side of the house though, an’ it gives entry into an inner court that’s sure t’ be filled with deep shadows as soon as the night comes on.”

“Won’t it be barred off?” Silk asked him.

“T’ be sure, Prince Kheldar, it was indeed. The lock, however, was not difficult fer a man with fingers as nimble as mine.”

“You’ve been inside, then?”

“I like t’ poke around in abandoned houses from time t’ time. One never knows what the former inhabitants might have left behind, an’ findin’ is oftentimes as good as earnin’ or stealin’.”

“I can accept that,” Silk agreed.

Durnik came back from the edge of the woods where he had been watching the house. He had a slightly worried look on his face. “I’m not entirely positive,” he said, “but it looks as if there are clouds of smoke coming out of the towers of that place.”

“I’ll just go along with ye an’ have a bit of a look,” the juggler said, and he and the smith went back through the deepening shadows beneath the trees. After a few minutes they came back. Durnik’s expression was faintly disgusted.

“Smoke?” Belgarath asked.

Feldegast shook his head. “Bats,” he replied. “Thousands of the little beasties. They be comin’ out of the towers in great black clouds.”

“Bats?” Ce’Nedra exclaimed, her hands going instinctively to her hair.

“It’s not uncommon,” Polgara told her. “Bats need protected places to nest in, and a ruin or an abandoned place is almost ideal for them.”

“But they’re so ugly!” Ce’Nedra declared with a shudder.

“ ’Tis only a flyin’ mouse, me little darlin’,” Feldegast told her.

“I’m not fond of mice, either.”

“’Tis a very unforgivin’ woman ye’ve married, young Master,” Feldegast said to Garion, “brim-full of prejudices an’ unreasonable dislikes.”

“More important, did you see any lights coming from inside?” Belgarath asked.

“Not so much as a glimmer, Ancient One, but the house be large, an’ there be chambers inside which have no windows. Torak was unfond of the sun, as ye’ll recall.”

“Let’s move around through the woods until we’re closer to this sally port of yours,” the old man suggested, “before the light goes entirely ”

They stayed back from the edge of the trees as they circled around the clearing with the great black house in its center. The last light was beginning to fade from the cloud-covered sky as they cautiously peered out from the edge of the woods.

“I can’t quite make out the sally port,” Silk murmured, peering toward the house.

“ ’Tis partially concealed,” Feldegast told him. “If ye give ivy the least bit of a toehold, it can engulf a whole buildin’ in a few hundred years. Quiet yer fears, Prince Kheldar. I know me way, an’ I kin find the entrance t’ the House of Torak on the blackest of nights.”

“The Hounds are likely to be patrolling the area around here after dark, aren’t they?” Garion said. He looked at Sadi. “I hope you didn’t use up all of your powder back there.”

“There’s more than enough left, Belgarion.” The eunuch smiled, patting his pouch. “A light dusting at the entrance to Master Feldegast’s sally port should insure that we won’t be disturbed once we’re inside.”

“What do you think?” Durnik asked, squinting up at the dark sky.

“It’s close enough,” Belgarath grunted. “I want to get inside.”

They led their horses across the weed-choked clearing until they reached the looming wall.

“’Tis this way just a bit,” Feldegast said in a low voice as he began to feel his way along the rough black stones of the wall.

They followed him for several minutes, guided more by the faint rustling sound of his feet among the weeds than by sight.

“An’ here we are, now,” Feldegast said with some satisfaction. It was a low, arched entrance in the wall, almost totally smothered in ivy and brambles. Durnik and the giant Toth, moving slowly to avoid making too much noise, pulled the obstructing vines aside to allow the rest of them and the horses to enter. Then they followed, pulling the vines back in place once again to conceal the entrance.

Once they were inside, it was totally dark, and there was the musty smell of mildew and fungus. “May I borrow yer flint an’ steel an’ tinder again, Goodman Durnik?” Feldegast whispered. Then there was a small clinking sound, followed by a rapid clicking accompanied by showers of glowing sparks as Feldegast, kneeling so that his body concealed even those faint glimmers, worked with Durnik’s flint and steel. After a moment, he blew on the tinder, stirring a tiny flame to life. There was another clink as he opened the front of a square lantern he had taken from a small niche in the wall.

“Is that altogether wise?” Durnik asked doubtfully as the juggler lighted the candle stub inside the lantern and returned the flint and steel.

“’Tis a well-shielded little bit of a light, Goodman,” Feldegast told him, “an’ it be darker than the inside of yer boots in this place. Trust me in this, fer I kin keep it so well concealed that not the tiniest bit of a glow will escape me control.”

“Isn’t that what they call a burglar’s lantern?” Silk asked curiously.

“Well, now.” Feldegast’s whisper sounded slightly injured. “I don’t know that I’d call it that, exactly. ’Tis a word that has an unsavory ring t’ it.”

“Belgarath,” Silk chuckled softly. “I think your friend here has a more checkered past than we’ve been led to believe. I wondered why I liked him so much.”

Feldegast had closed down the tin sides of his little lantern, allowing only a single, small spot of light feebly to illuminate the floor directly in front of his feet. “Come along, then,” he told them. “The sally port goes back a way under the wall here, an’ then we come t’ the grate that used t’ close it off. Then it makes a turn t’ the right an’ a little farther on, another t’ the left, an’ then it comes out in the courtyard of the house.”

“Why so many twists and turns?” Garion asked him.

“’Torak was a crooked sort, don’t y’ know. I think he hated straight lines almost as much as he hated the sun.”

They followed the faint spot of light the lantern cast.

Leaves had blown in through the entrance over the centuries to lie in a thick, damp mat on the floor, effectively muffling the sounds of their horses’ hooves.

The grate that barred the passageway was a massively constructed crisscross of rusty iron. Feldegast fumbled for a moment with the huge latch, then swung it clear. “An’ now, me large friend,” he said to Toth, “we’ll be havin’ need of yer great strength here. The gate is cruel let me warn ye, an’ the hinges be so choked with rust that they’ll not likely yield easily.” He paused a moment. “An’ that reminds me—ah, where have me brains gone? We’ll be needin’ somethin’ t’ mask the dreadful squeakin’ when ye swing the grate open.” He looked back at the others. “Take a firm grip on the reins of yer horses,” he warned them, “fer this is likely t’ give ’em a bit of a turn.”

Toth place his huge hands on the heavy grate, then looked at the juggler.

“Go!” Feldegast said sharply, then he lifted his face and bayed, his voice almost perfectly imitating the sound of one of the great Hounds prowling outside, even as the slowly swung the grate open on shrieking hinges.

Chretienne snorted and shied back from the dreadful howl, but Garion held his reins tightly.

“Oh, that was clever,” Silk said in quiet admiration.

“I have me moments from time to time,” Feldegast admitted. “With all the dogs outside raisin’ their awful caterwallin’, ’tis certain that one more little yelp won’t attract no notice, but the squealin’ of them hinges could have been an altogether different matter.”

He led them on through the now-open grate and on along the dank passageway to a sharp right-hand turn. Somewhat farther along, the passage bent again to the left. Before he rounded that corner, the juggler closed down his lantern entirely, plunging them into total darkness. “We be approachin’ the main court now,” he whispered to them. “ ‘Tis the time for silence an’ caution, fer if there be others in the house, they’ll be payin’ a certain amount of attention t’ be sure that no one creeps up on ’em. There be a handrail along the wall there, an’ I think it might be wise t’ tie the horses here. Their hooves would make a fearful clatter on the stones of the court, an’ we’ll not be wantin’ t’ ride them up an’ down the corridors of this accursed place.”

Silently they tied the reins of their mounts to the rusty iron railing and then crept on quiet feet to the turn in the passageway. There was a lessening of the darkness beyond the turn—not light, certainly, but a perceptible moderation of the oppressive gloom. And then they watched the inside entrance to the sally port and looked out across the broad courtyard toward the looming black house beyond. There was no discernible grace to the construction of that house. It rose in blocky ugliness almost as if the builders had possessed no understanding of the meaning of the word beauty, but had striven instead for a massive kind of arrogance to reflect the towering Pride of its owner.

“Well,” Belgarath whispered grimly, “that’s Ashaba.”

Garion looked at the dark house before him, half in apprehension and half with a kind of dreadful eagerness.

Something caught his eye then, and he thrust his head out to look along the front of the house across the court.

At the far end, in a window on a lower floor, a dim light glowed, looking for all the world like a watchful eye.

17

“Now what?” Silk breathed, looking at the dimly lighted window. “We’ve got to cross that courtyard to get to the house, but we can’t be sure if there’s somebody watching from that window or not.”

“You’ve been out of the academy for too long, Kheldar,” Velvet murmured. “You’ve forgotten your lessons. If stealth is impossible, then you try boldness.”

“You’re suggesting that we just walk up to the door and knock?”

“Well, I hadn’t planned to knock, exactly.”

“What have you got in mind, Liselle?” Polgara asked quietly.

“If there are people in the house, they’re probably Grolims, right?”

“It’s more than likely.” Belgarath said. “Most other people avoid this place.”

“Grolims pay little attention to other Grolims, I’ve noticed,” she continued.

“You’re forgetting that we don’t have any Grolim robes with us,” Silk pointed out.

“It’s very dark in that courtyard, Kheldar, and in shadows that deep, any dark color would appear black, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” he admitted.

“And we still have those green silk slavers’ robes in our packs, don’t we?”

He squinted at her in the darkness, then looked at Belgarath. “It goes against all my instincts,” he said, “but it might just work, at that.”

“One way or another, we’ve got to get into the house, We have to find out who’s in there—and why—before we can decide anything.”

“Would Zandramas have Grolims with her?” Ce’Nedra asked. “If she’s alone in that house and she sees a line of Grolims walking across the courtyard, wouldn’t that frighten her into running away with my baby?”

Belgarath shook his head. “Even if she does run, we’re close enough to catch her—particularly since the Orb can follow her no matter how much she twists and dodges. Besides, if she’s here, she’s probably got some of her own Grolims with her. It’s not really so far from here to Darshiva that she couldn’t have summoned them.”

“What about him?” Durnik whispered the question and pointed at Feldegast. “He hasn’t got a slavers’ robe.”

“We’ll improvise something,” Velvet murmured. She smiled at the juggler. “I’ve got a nice dark blue dressing gown that should set off his eyes marvelously. We can add a kerchief to resemble a hood and we can slip him by—if he stays in the middle of the group.”

“’Twould be beneath me dignity,” he objected.

“’Would you prefer to stay behind and watch the horses?” she asked pleasantly.

“’Tis a hard woman y’ are, me lady.” he complained.

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Let’s do it,” Belgarath decided. “I’ve got to get inside that house.” It took only a few moments to retrace their steps to the place where the horses were tied and to pull the neatly folded slavers’ robes from their packs by the dim light of Feldegast’s lantern.

“Isn’t this ridiculous, now?” the juggler grumbled indignantly, pointing down at the blue satin gown Velvet had draped about him.

“I think it looks just darling,” Ce’Nedra said.

“If there are people in there, aren’t they likely to be patrolling the corridors?” Durnik asked.

“Only on the main floor, Goodman,” Feldegast replied. “The upper stories of the house be almost totally uninhabitable—on account of all the broken windows an’ the weather blowin’ around in the corridors fer all the world like they was part of the great outdoors. There be a grand staircase just opposite the main door, an’ with just a bit of luck we kin nip up the stairs an’ be out of sight with no one the wiser. Once we’re up there, we’re not likely t’ encounter a livin’ soul—unless ye be countin’ the bats an’ mice an’ an occasional adventuresome rat.”

“You absolutely had to say that, didn’t you?” Ce’Nedra said caustically.

“Ah, me poor little darlin’.” He grinned at her. “But quiet yer fears. I’ll be beside ye an’ I’ve yet t’ meet the bat or mouse or rat I couldn’t best in a fair fight.”

“It makes sense, Belgarath,” Silk said. “If we all go trooping through the lower halls, sooner or later someone’s bound to notice us. Once we’re upstairs and out of sight, though, I’ll be able to reconnoiter and find out exactly what we’re up against.”

“All right,” the old man agreed, “but the first thing is to get inside.”

“Let’s be off, then,” Feldegast said, swirling his dressing gown about him with a flourish.

“Hide that light,” Belgarath told him.

They filed out through the entrance to the sally port and marched into the shadowy courtyard, moving in the measured, swaying pace Grolim priests assumed on ceremonial occasions. The lighted window at the end of the house seemed somehow like a burning eye that followed their every move.

The courtyard was really not all that large, but it seemed to Garion that crossing it took hours. Eventually, however, they reached the main door. It was large, black, and nail-studded, like the door of every Grolim temple Garion had ever seen. The steel mask mounted over it, however, was no longer polished. In the faint light coming from the window at the other end of the house, Garion could see that over the centuries it had rusted, making the coldly beautiful face look scabrous and diseased. What made it look perhaps even more hideous were the twin gobbets of lumpy, semi-liquid rust running from the eye sockets down the cheeks. Garion remembered with a shudder the fiery tears that had run down the stricken God’s face before he had fallen.

They mounted the three steps to that bleak door, and Toth slowly pushed it open.

The corridor inside was dimly illuminated by a single flickering torch at the far end. Opposite the door, as Feldegast had told them, was a broad staircase reaching up into the darkness. The treads were littered with fallen stones, and cobwebs hung in long festoons from a ceiling lost in shadows. Still moving at that stately Grolim pace, Belgarath led them across the corridor and started up the stairs. Garion followed close behind him with measured tread, though every nerve screamed at him to run. They had gone perhaps halfway up the staircase when they heard a clinking sound behind them, and there was a sudden light at the foot of the stairs, “What are you doing?” a rough voice demanded. “Who are you?”

Garion’s heart sank, and he turned. The man at the foot of the stairs wore a long, coat-like shirt of mail. He was helmeted and had a shield strapped to his left arm.

With his right he held aloft a sputtering torch.

“Come back down here,” the mailed man commanded them. The giant Toth turned obediently, his hood pulled over his face with his arms crossed so that his hands were inside his sleeves. With an air of meekness he started the stairs again.

“I mean all of you,” the Temple Guardsman insisted. “I order you in the name of the God of Angarak.” As Toth reached the foot of the stairs, the Guardsman’s eyes widened as he realized that the robe the huge man wore was not Grolim black. “What’s this?” he exclaimed. “You’re not Chandim! You’re—” He broke off as one of Toth’s huge hands seized him by the throat and lifted him off the floor. He dropped his torch, kicking and struggling. Then, almost casually, Toth removed his helmet with his other hand and banged his head several times against the stone wall of the corridor.

With a shudder, the mail-coated man went limp. Toth draped the unconscious form across his shoulder and started back up the stairs.

Silk bounded back down to the corridor, picked up the steel helmet and extinguished torch, and came back up again. “Always clean up the evidence,” he murmured to Toth. “No crime is complete until you’ve tidied up.”

Toth grinned at him.

As they neared the top of the stairs, they found the treads covered with leaves that had blown in from the outside, and the cobwebs hung in tatters like rotted curtains, swaying in the wind that came moaning in from the outside through the shattered windows.

The hall at the top of the stairs was littered. Dry leaves lay in ankle-deep windrows on the floor, skittering before the wind. A large, empty casement at the end of the corridor behind them was half covered with thick ivy that shook and rustled in the chill night wind blowing down off the slopes of the mountains. Doors had partially rotted away and hung in chunks from their hinges. The rooms beyond those doors were choked with leaves and dust, and the furniture and bedding had long since surrendered every scrap of cloth or padding to thousands of generations of industrious mice in search of nesting materials. Toth carried his unconscious captive into one of those rooms, bound him hand and foot, and then gagged him to muffle any outcry, should he awaken before dawn.

“That light was at the other end of the house, wasn’t it?” Garion asked. “What’s at that end?”

“’Twas the livin’ quarters of Torak himself,” Feldegast replied, adjusting his little lantern so that it emitted a faint beam of light. “His throne room be there, an’ his private chapel. I could even show ye t’ his personal bedroom, an’ ye could bounce up an’ down on his great bed—or what’s left of it—just fer fun, if yer of a mind.”

“I think I could live without doing that.” Belgarath had been tugging at one earlobe. “Have you been here lately?” he asked the juggler.

“Perhaps six months ago.”

“Was anybody here?” Ce’Nedra demanded.

“I’m afraid not, me darlin’. ’Twas as empty as a tomb.”

“That was before Zandramas got here, Ce’Nedra,” Polgara reminded her gently.

“Why do ye ask, Belgarath?” Feldegast said.

“I haven’t been here since just after Vo Mimbre,” Belgarath said as they continued down the littered hall. “The house was fairly sound then, but Angaraks aren’t really notorious for the permanence of their construction.

How’s the mortar holding out?”

“’Tis as crumbly as year-old bread.”

Belgarath nodded. “I thought it might be,” he said.

“Now, what we’re after here is information, not open warfare in the corridors.”

“Unless the one who’s here happens to be Zandramas,” Garion corrected. “If she’s still here with my son, I’ll start a war that’s going to make Vo Mimbre look like a country fair.”

“And I’ll clean up anything he misses,” Ce’Nedra added fiercely.

“Can’t you control them?” Belgarath asked his daughter.”

“Not under the circumstances, no,” she replied. “I might even decide to join in myself.”

“I thought that we’d more or less erased the Alorn side of your nature, Pol,” he said to her.

“That’s not the side that was just talking, father.”

“My point,” Belgarath said, “at least the point I was trying to make before everybody started flexing his—or is her—muscles, is that it’s altogether possible that we’ll be able to hear and maybe even see what’s going on in the main part of the house from up here. If the mortar’s as rotten as Feldegast says it is, it shouldn’t be too hard to find—or make—some little crevices in the floor of one of these rooms and find out what we need to know. If Zandramas is here, that’s one thing, and we’ll deal with her in whatever way seems appropriate. But if the only people down there are some of Urvon’s Chandim and Guardsmen or a roving band of Mengha’s Karandese fanatics, we’ll pick up Zandramas’ trail and go on about our business without announcing our presence.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Durnik agreed. “It doesn’t make much sense to get involved in unnecessary fights.”

“I’m glad that someone in this belligerent little group has some common sense,” the old man said.

“Of course, if it is Zandramas down there,” the smith added, “I’ll have to take steps myself.”

“You, too?” Belgarath groaned.

“Naturally. After all, Belgarath, right is right.”

They moved on along the leaf-strewn corridor where the cobwebs hung from the ceiling in tatters and where there were skittering sounds in the corners.

As they passed a large double door so thick that it was still intact, Belgarath seemed to remember something. “I want to look in here,” he muttered. As he opened those doors, the sword strapped across Garion’s back gave a violent tug that very nearly jerked him off his feet. “Grandfather!” he gasped. He reached back, instructing the Orb to restrain itself, and drew the great blade. The point dipped to the floor, and then he was very nearly dragged into the room. “She’s been here,” he exulted.

“What?” Durnik asked.

“Zandramas. She’s been in this room with Geran.” Feldegast opened the front of his lantern wider to throw more light into the room. It was a library, large and vaulted, with shelves reaching from the floor to the ceiling and filled with dusty, moldering books and scrolls.

“So that was what she was looking for,” Belgarath said.

“For what?” Silk asked.”

“A book. A prophecy, most likely.” His face grew grim."She’s following the same trail that I am, and this would probably be just about the only place where she could find an uncorrupted copy of the Ashabine Oracles.”

“Oh!” Ce’Nedra’s little cry was stricken. She pointed a trembling hand at the dust-covered floor. There were footprints there. Some of them had obviously been made by a woman’s shoes, but there were others as well—quite tiny. “My baby’s been here,” Ce’Nedra said in a voice near tears, and then she gave a little wail and began to weep. “H-he’s walking,” she sobbed, “and I’ll never be able to see his first steps.”

Polgara moved to her and took her into a comforting embrace.

Garion’s eyes also filled with tears, and his grip on the hilt of his sword grew so tight that his knuckles turned white. He felt an almost overpowering need to smash things.

Belgarath was swearing under his breath.

“What’s the matter?” Silk asked him.

“That was the main reason I had to come here,” the old man grated. “I need a clean copy of the Ashabine Oracles, and Zandramas has beaten me to it.”

“Maybe there’s another.”

“Not a chance. She’s been running ahead of me burning books at every turn. If there was more than one copy here, she’d have made sure that I couldn’t get my hands on it. That’s why she stayed here so long—ransacking this place to make sure that she had the only copy.” He started to swear again.

“Is this in any way significant?” Eriond said, going to a table that, unlike the others in the room, had been dusted and even polished. In the precise center of that table lay a book bound in black leather and flanked on each side by a candlestick. Eriond picked it up, and as he did so, a neatly folded sheet of parchment fell out from between its leaves. The young man bent, picked it up, and glanced at it.

“What’s that?” Belgarath demanded.

“It’s a note,” Eriond replied. “It’s for you.” He handed the parchment and the book to the old man.

Belgarath read the note. His face went suddenly pale and then beet red. He ground his teeth together with the veins swelling in his face and neck. Garion felt the sudden building up of the old sorcerer’s will.

“Father!” Polgara snapped, “No! Remember that we aren’t alone here!”

He controlled himself with a tremendous effort, then crumpled the parchment into a ball and hurled it at the floor so hard that it bounced high into the air and rolled across the room. He swung back the hand holding the book as if he were about to send it after the ball of parchment, but then seemed to think better of it. He opened the book at random, turned a few pages, and then began to swear sulfurously. He shoved the book at Garion.

“Here,” he said, “hold on to this.” Then he began to pace up and down, his face as black as a thundercloud, muttering curses and waving his hands in the air.

Garion opened the book, tilting it to catch the light. He saw at once the reason for Belgarath’s anger. Whole passages had been neatly excised—not merely blotted out, but cut entirely from the page with a razor or a very sharp knife. Garion also started to swear.

Silk curiously went over, picked up the parchment, and looked at it. He swallowed hard and looked apprehensively at the swearing Belgarath. “Oh, my,” he said.

“What is it?” Garion asked.

“I think we’d all better stay out of your grandfather’s way for a while,” the rat-faced man replied. “It might take him a little bit to get hold of himself.”

“Just read it, Silk,” Polgara said. “Don’t editorialize.” Silk looked again at Belgarath, who was now at the far end of the room pounding on the stone wall with his fist.

“‘Belgarath,’” he read. “ ‘I have beaten thee, old man. Now I go to the Place Which Is No More for the final meeting. Follow me if thou canst. Perhaps this book will help thee.’ ”

“Is it signed?” Velvet asked him.

“Zandramas,” he replied. “Who else?”

“That is a truly offensive letter,” Sadi murmured. He looked at Belgarath, who continued to pound his fist on the wall in impotent fury. “I’m surprised that he’s taking it so well—all things considered.”

“It answers a lot of questions, though,” Velvet said thoughtfully.

“Such as what?” Silk asked.

“We were wondering if Zandramas was still here.

Quite obviously, she’s not. Not even an idiot would leave that kind of message for Belgarath and then stay around where he could get his hands on her.”

“That’s true,” he agreed. “There’s no real point in our staying here, then, is there? The Orb has picked up the trail again, so why don’t we just slip out of the house again and go after Zandramas?”

“Without findin’ out who’s here?” Feldegast objected. “Me curiosity has been aroused, an’ I’d hate t’ go off with it unsatisfied.” He glanced across the room at the fuming Belgarath. “Besides, it’s going t’ be a little while before our ancient friend there regains his composure. I think I’ll go along t’ the far end of the hall an’ see if I kin find a place where I kin look down into the lower part of the house—just t’ answer some burnin’ questions which have been naggin’ at me.” He went to the table and lighted one of the candles from his little lantern.

“Would ye be wantin’ t’ come along with me, Prince Kheldar?” he invited.

Silk shrugged. “Why not?”

“I’ll go, too,” Garion said. He handed the book to Polgara and then pointedly looked at the raging Belgarath. “Is he going to get over that eventually?”

“I’ll talk with him, dear. Don’t be too long.”

He nodded, and then he, Silk, and the juggler quietly left the library.

There was a room at the far end of the hall. It was not particularly large, and there were shelves along the walls. Garion surmised that it had at one time been a storeroom or a linen closet. Feldegast squinted appraisingly at the leaf-strewn floor, then closed his lantern.

The leaves had piled deep in the corners and along the walls, but in the sudden darkness a faint glow shone up through them, and there came the murmur of voices from below.

“Me vile-tempered old friend seems t’ have been right,” Feldegast whispered. “ ’Twould appear that the mortar has quite crumbled away along that wall. ’Twill be but a simple matter t’ brush the leaves out of the way an’ give ourselves some convenient spy holes. Let’s be havin’ a look an’ find out who’s taken up residence in the House of Torak.”

Garion suddenly had that strange sense of re-experiencing something that had happened a long time ago. It had been in King Anheg’s palace at Val Alorn, and he had followed the man in the green cloak through the deserted upper halls until they had come to a place where crumbling mortar had permitted the sound of voices to come up from below. Then he remembered something else. When they had been at Tol Honeth, hadn’t Belgarath said that most of the things that had happened while they were pursuing Zedar and the Orb were likely to happen again, since everything was leading up to another meeting between the Child of Light and the Child of Dark? He tried to shake off the feeling, but without much success.

They removed the leaves from the crack running along the far wall of the storeroom carefully, trying to avoid sifting any of them down into the room below. Then each of them selected a vantage point from which to watch and listen.

The room into which they peered was very large. Ragged drapes hung at the windows, and the corners were thick with cobwebs. Smoky torches hung in iron rings along the walls, and the floor was thick with dust and the litter of ages. The room was filled with black-robed Grolims, a sprinkling of roughly clad Karands, and a large number of gleaming Temple Guardsmen. Near the front, drawn up like a platoon of soldiers, a group of the huge black Hounds of Torak sat on their haunches expectantly.

In front of the Hounds stood a black altar, showing signs of recent use, flanked on either side by a glowing brazier.

Against the wall on a high dais was a golden throne, backed by thick, tattered black drapes and by a huge replica of the face of Torak.

“’Twas Burnt-face’s throne room, don’t y’ know,” Feldegast whispered.

“Those are Chandim, aren’t they?” Garion whispered back.

“The very same—both human an’ beast—along with their mail-shirted bully boys. I’m a bit surprised that Urvon has chosen t’ occupy the place with his dogs—though the best use fer Ashaba has probably always been as a kennel.”

It was obvious that the men in the throne room were expecting something by the nervous way they kept looking at the throne.

Then a great gong sounded from below, shimmering in the smoky air.

“On your knees!” a huge voice commanded the throng in the large room. “Pay obeisance and homage to the new God of Angarak!”

“What?” Silk exclaimed in a choked whisper.

“Watch an’ be still!” Feldegast snapped.

From below there came a great roll of drums, followed by a brazen fanfare. The rotten drapes near the golden throne parted, and a double file of robed Grolims entered, chanting fervently, even as the assembled Chandim and Guardsmen fell to their knees and the Hounds and the Karands groveled and whined.

The booming of the drums continued, and then a figure garbed in cloth of gold and wearing a crown strode imperiously out from between the drapes. A glowing nimbus surrounded the figure, though Garion could clearly sense that the will that maintained the glow emanated from the gold-clad man himself. Then the figure lifted its head in a move of overweening arrogance. The man’s face was splotched—some patches showing the color of healthy skin and others a hideous dead white. What chilled Garion’s blood the most, however, was the fact that the man’s eyes were totally mad.

“Urvon!” Feldegast said with a sudden intake of his his breath. “You piebald son of a mangy dog!” All trace of his lilting accent had disappeared.

Directly behind the patch-faced madman came a shadowy figure, cowled so deeply that its face was completely obscured. The black that covered it was not that of a simple Grolim robe, but seemed to grow out of the figure itself, and Garion felt a cold dread as a kind of absolute evil permeated the air about that black shape.

Urvon mounted the dais and seated himself on the throne, his insane eyes bulging and his face frozen in that expression of imperious pride. The shadow-covered figure took its place behind his left shoulder and bent forward toward his ear, whispering, whispering.

The Chandim, Guardsmen, and Karands in the throne room continued to grovel, fawning and whining, even as did the Hounds, while the last disciple of Torak preened himself in the glow of their adulation. A dozen or so of the black-robed Chandim crept forward on their knees, bearing gilded chests and reverently placing them on the altar before the dais. When they opened the chests, Garion saw that they were all filled to the brim with red Angarak gold and with jewels.

“These offerings are pleasing to mine eyes,” the enthroned Disciple declared in a shrill voice. “Let others come forth to make—also their offerings unto the new God of Angarak.”

There was a certain amount of consternation among the Chandim and a few hasty consultations.

The next group of offerings were in plain wooden boxes; when they were opened, they revealed only pebbles and twigs. Each of the Chandim who bore those boxes to the alter surreptitiously removed one of the gilded chests after depositing his burden on the black stone.

Urvon gloated over the chests and boxes, apparently unable to distinguish between gold and gravel, as the line continued to move toward the altar, each priest laying one offering on the altar and removing another before returning to the end of the line.

“I am well pleased with ye, my priests,” Urvon said in his shrill voice when the charade had been played out.

“Truly, ye have brought before me the wealth of nations.”

As the Chandim, Karands, and Guardsmen rose to their feet, the shadowy figure at Urvon’s shoulder continued to whisper.

“And now will I receive Lord Mengha,” the madman announced, “most favored of all who serve me, for he has delivered unto me this familiar spirit who revealed my high divinity unto me.” He indicated the shadow behind him.

“Summon the Lord Mengha that he may pay homage to the God Urvon and be graciously received by the new God of Angarak.” The voice that boomed that command was as hollow as a voice issuing from a tomb.

From the door at the back of the hall came another fanfare of trumpets, and another hollow voice responded. “All hail Urvon, new God of Angarak,” it intoned. “Lord Mengha approacheth to make his obeisance and to seek counsel with the living God.”

Again there came the booming of drums, and a man robed in Grolim black paced down the broad aisle toward the altar and the dais. As he reached the altar, he genuflected to the madman seated on Torak’s throne.

“Look now upon the awesome face of Lord Mengha, most favored servant of the God Urvon and soon to become First Disciple,” the hollow voice boomed.

The figure before the altar turned and pushed back his hood to reveal his face to the throng.

Garion stared, suppressing a gasp of surprise. The man standing before the altar was Harakan.

18

“Belar!” Silk swore under his breath.

“All bow down to the First Disciple of your God!” Urvon declaimed in his shrill voice. “It is my command that ye honor him.”

There was a murmur of amazement among the assembled Chandim, and Garion, peering down from above, thought that he could detect a certain reluctance on the faces of some of them.

“Bow to him!” Urvon shrieked, starting to his feet. “He is my Disciple!” The Chandim looked first at the frothing madman on the dais and then at the cruel face of Harakan. Fearfully they sank to their knees.

“I am pleased to see such willing obedience to the commands of our God,” Harakan observed sardonically. “I shall remember it always.” There was a scarcely veiled threat in his voice.

“Know ye all that my Disciple speaks with my voice,” Urvon announced, resuming his seat upon the throne. “His words are my words, and ye will obey him even as ye obey me.”

“Hear the words of our God,” Harakan intoned in that same sardonic voice, “for mighty is the God of Angarak, and swift to anger should any fail to heed him. Know further that I, Mengha, am now the sword of Urvon as well as his voice, and that the chastisement of the disobedient is in my hands.” The threat was no longer veiled, and Harakan swept his eyes slowly across the faces of the assembled priests as if challenging each of them to protest his elevation.

“Hail Mengha, Disciple of the living God!” one of the mailed Guardsmen shouted.

“Hail Mengha!” the other Guardsmen responded, smashing their fists against their shields in salute.

“Hail Mengha!” the Karands shrieked.

“Hail Mengha!” the kneeling Chandim said at last, cowed finally into submission. And then the great Hounds crept forward on their bellies to fawn about Harakan’s feet and to lick his hands.

“It is well,” the enthroned madman declared in his shrill voice. “Know that the God of Angarak is pleased with ye.”

And then another figure appeared in the throne room below, coming through the same rotted drapes which had admitted Urvon. The figure was slender and dressed in a robe of clinging black satin. Its head was partially covered by a black hood, and it was carrying something concealed beneath its robe. When it reached the altar, it tipped back its head in a derisive laugh, revealing a face with at once an unearthly beauty and an unearthly cruelty all cast in marble white. “You poor fools,” the figure rasped in a harsh voice. “Think you to raise a new God over Angarak without my permission?”

“I have not summoned thee, Zandramas!” Urvon shouted at her.

“I feel no constraint to heed thy summons, Urvon,” she replied in a voice filled with contempt, “nor its lack. I am not thy creature, as are these dogs. I serve the God of Angarak, in whose coming shalt thou be cast down.”

“I am the God of Angarak!” he shrieked.

Harakan had begun to come around the altar toward her.

“And wilt thou pit thy puny will against the Will of the Child of Dark, Harakan?” she asked coolly. “Thou mayest change thy name, but thy power is no greater.” Her voice was like ice.

Harakan stopped in his tracks, his eyes suddenly wide.

She turned back to Urvon. “I am dismayed that I was not notified of thy deification, Urvon,” she continued, “for should I have known, I would have come before thee to pay thee homage. and seek thy blessing.” Then her lip curled in a sneer that distorted her face. “Thou?” she said. "Thou, a God? Thou mayest sit upon the throne of Torak for all eternity whilst this shabby ruin crumbles about thee, and thou wilt never become a God. Thou mayest fondle dross and call it gold, and thou wilt never become a God. Thou mayest bask in the canine adulation of thy cringing dogs, who even now befoul thy throne room with their droppings, and thou wilt never become a God. Thou mayest hearken greedily to the words of thy tame demon, Nahaz, who even now whispers the counsels of madness in thine ear, and thou wilt never become a God.”

“I am a God!” Urvon shrieked, starting to his feet again.

“So? It may be even as thou sayest, Urvon,” she almost purred. “But if thou art a God, I must tell thee to enjoy thy Godhood whilst thou may, then, for even as maimed Torak, thou art doomed.”

“Who hath the might to slay a God?” he foamed at her.

Her laugh was dreadful. “Who hath the might? Even he who reft Torak of his life. Prepare thyself to receive the mortal thrust of the burning sword of Iron-grip, which spilled out the life of thy master, for thus I summon the Godslayer!”

And then she reached forward and placed the cloth-wrapped bundle which she had been concealing beneath her robe on the black altar. She raised her face and looked directly at the crack through which Garion was staring in frozen disbelief. “Behold thy son, Belgarion,” she called up to him, “and hear his crying!” She turned back the cloth to reveal the infant Geran. The baby’s face was contorted with fear, and he began to wail, a hopeless, lost sound.

All thought vanished from Garion’s mind. The wailing was the sound he had been hearing over and over again since he had left Mal Zeth. It was not the wail of that doomed child in those plague-stricken streets that had haunted his dreams. It was the voice of his own son!

Powerless to resist that wailing call, he leaped to his feet. It was as if there were suddenly sheets of flame before his eyes, flames that erased everything from his mind but the desperate need to go to the child wailing on the altar below.

He realized dimly that he was running through the shadowy, leaf-strewn halls, roaring insanely even as he ripped Iron-grip’s sword from its sheath.

The moldering doors of long-empty rooms flashed by as he ran full tilt along the deserted corridor. Dimly behind him, he heard Silk’s startled cry. “Garion! No!” Heedless, his brain afire, he ran on with the great Sword of Riva blazing in his hand before him as he went.

Even years later, he did not remember the stairs. Vaguely, he remembered emerging in the lower hall, raging.

There were Temple Guardsmen and Karands there, flinching before him and trying feebly to face him, but he seized the hilt of his sword in both hands and moved through them like a man reaping grain. They fell in showers of blood as he sheared his way through their ranks.

The great door to the dead God’s throne room was closed and jolted, but Garion did not even resort to sorcery. He simply destroyed the door—and those who were trying desperately to hold it closed—with his burning sword.

The fire of madness filled his eyes as he burst into the throne room, and he roared at the terrified men there, who gaped at the dreadful form of the Godslayer, advancing on them, enclosed in a nimbus of blue light. His lips were peeled back from his teeth in a snarl, and his terrible sword, all ablaze, flickered back and forth before him like the shears of fate.

A Grolim jumped in front of him with one arm upraised as Garion gathered his will with an inrushing sound he scarcely heard. Garion did not stop, and the other Grolims in the throne room recoiled in horror as the point of his flaming sword came sliding out from between the rash priest’s shoulder blades. The mortally wounded Grolim stared at the sizzling blade sunk into his chest. He tried with shaking hands to clutch at the blade, but Garion kicked him off the sword and continued his grim advance.

A Karand with a skull-surmounted staff stood in his path, desperately muttering an incantation. His words cut off abruptly, however, as Garion’s sword passed through his throat.

“Behold the Godslayer, Urvon!” Zandramas exulted. “Thy life is at an end, God of Angarak, for Belgarion hath come to spill it out, even as he spilled out the life of Torak!” Then she turned her back on the cringing madman. “All hail the Child of Light!” she announced in ringing tones. She smiled her cruel smile at him. “Hail, Belgarion,” she taunted him. “Slay once again the God of Angarak, for that hath ever been thy task. I shall await thy coming in the Place Which Is No More.” And then she took up the wailing babe in her arms, covered it with her cloak again, shimmered, and vanished.

Garion was suddenly filled with chagrin as he realized that he had been cruelly duped. Zandramas had not actually been here with his son, and all his overpowering rage had been directed at an empty projection. Worse than that, he had been manipulated by the haunting nightmare of the wailing child which he now realized she had put into his mind to force him to respond to her taunting commands. He faltered then, his blade lowering and its fire waning.

“Kill him!” Harakan shouted. “Kill the one who slew Torak!”

“Kill him!” Urvon echoed in his insane shriek. “Kill him and offer his heart up to me in sacrifice!”

A half-dozen Temple Guardsmen began a cautious, clearly reluctant, advance. Garion raised his sword again; its light flared anew, and the Guardsmen jumped back.

Harakan sneered as he looked at the armored men.

“Behold the reward for cowardice,” he snapped. He extended one hand, muttered a single word, and one of the Guardsmen shrieked and fell writhing to the floor as his mail coat and helmet turned instantly white-hot, roasting him alive.

“Now obey me!” Harakan roared. “Kill him!”

The terrified Guardsmen attacked more fervently then, forcing Garion back step by step. Then he heard the sound of running feet in the corridor outside. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw the others come bursting into the throne room.

“Have you lost your mind?” Belgarath demanded angrily.

“I’ll explain later,” Garion told him, still half-sick with frustration and disappointment. He returned his attention to the armored men before him and began swinging his great sword in wide sweeps, driving them back again.

Belgarath faced the Chandim on one side of the central aisle, concentrated for an instant, then gestured shortly. Suddenly a raging fire erupted from the stones of the floor all along the aisle.

Something seemed to pass between the old man and Polgara. She nodded, and quite suddenly the other side of the aisle was also walled off by flame.

Two of the Guardsmen had fallen beneath Garion’s sword, but others, accompanied by wild-eyed Karands, were rushing to the aid of their comrades, though they flinched visibly from the flames on either side of the aisle up which they were forced to attack.

“Combine your wills!” Harakan was shouting to the Chandim. “Smother the flames!”

Even as he closed with the Guardsmen and the Karands, beating down their upraised swords and hacking at them with Iron-grip’s blade, Garion felt the rush and surge of combined will. Despite the efforts of Belgarath and Polgara, the fires on either side of the aisle flickered and grew low.

One of the huge Hounds came loping through the ranks of the Guardsmen facing Garion. Its eyes were ablaze, and its tooth-studded muzzle agape. It leaped directly at his face, snapping and growling horribly, but fell twitching and biting at the floor as he split its head with his sword.

And then Harakan thrust his way through the Guardsmen and Karands to confront Garion. “And so we meet again, Belgarion,” he snarled in an almost doglike voice. “Drop your sword, or I will slay your friends—and your wife. I have a hundred Chandim with me, and not even you are a match for so many.” And he began to draw in his will.

Then, to Garion’s amazement, Velvet ran forward past him, her arms stretched toward the dread Grolim. “Please!” she wailed. “Please don’t kill me!” And she threw herself at Harakan’s feet, clutching at his black robe imploringly as she cringed and groveled before him.

Thrown off balance by this sudden and unexpected display of submissiveness, Harakan let his will dissipate and he backed away, trying to shake her hand from his robe and kicking at her to free himself. But she clung to him, weeping and begging for her life.

“Get her off me!” he snapped at his men, turning his head slightly. And that briefest instant of inattention proved fatal. Velvet’s hand moved so quickly that it seemed to blur in the air. She dipped swiftly into her bodice; when her hand emerged, she held a small, bright-green snake.

“A present for you, Harakan!” she shouted triumphantly. “A present for the leader of the Bear-cult from Hunter!” And she threw Zith full into his face.

He screamed once the first time Zith bit him, and his hands came up to claw her away from his face, but the scream ended with a horrid gurgle, and his hands convulsed helplessly in the air in front of him. Squealing and jerking, he reeled backward as the irritated little reptile struck again and again. He stiffened and arched back across the altar, his feet scuffing and scrabbling on the floor and his arms flopping uselessly. He banged his head on the black stone, his eyes bulging and his swollen tongue protruding from his mouth. Then a dark froth came from his lips, he jerked several more times, and his body slid limply off the altar.

“And that was for Bethra,” Velvet said to the crumpled form of the dead man lying on the floor before the altar.

The Chandim and their cohorts again drew back in fear as they stared at the body of their fallen pack leader.

“They are few!” Urvon shrieked at them. “We are many! Destroy them all! Your God commands it!”

The Chandim gaped first at Harakan’s contorted body, then at the crowned madman on the throne, then at the terrible little snake who had coiled herself atop the altar with her head raised threateningly as she gave vent to a series of angry hisses.

“That’s about enough of this,” Belgarath snapped. He let the last of the flames die and began to refocus his will. Garion also straightened, pulling in his own will even as he felt the tightened Chandim start to focus their power for a final, dreadful confrontation.

“What is all this now?” Feldegast laughed, suddenly coming forward until he stood between Garion and his foes. “Surely, good masters, we can put aside all this hatred and strife. I’ll tell ye what I’ll do. Let me give ye a demonstration of me skill, an’ we’ll laugh together an’ make peace between us once an’ fer all. No man at all kin keep so great a hatred in his heart while he’s bubblin’ with laughter, don’t y’ know.” Then he began to juggle, seeming to pull brightly colored balls out of the air. The Grolims gaped at him, stunned by this unexpected interruption, and Garion stared incredulously at the performer, who seemed deliberately bent on self-destruction. Still juggling, Feldegast flipped his body onto the back of a heavy bench, holding himself upside down over it with one hand while he continued to juggle with his free hand and his feet. Faster and faster the balls whirled, more and more of them coming, it seemed out of thin air. The more the balls whirled, the brighter they became until at last they were incandescent and the inverted little man was juggling balls of pure fire.

Then he flexed the arm that was holding him in place, tossing himself high over the bench. When his feet touched the floor, however, it was no longer Feldegast the juggler who stood there. In place of the roguish entertainer stood the gnarled, hunchbacked shape of the sorcerer Beldin. With a sudden evil laugh, he began to hurt his fireballs at the startled Grolims and their warriors.

His aim was unerring, and the deadly fireballs pierced Grolim robes, Guardsmen’s mail coats, and Karandese fur vests with equal facility. Smoking holes appeared in the chests of his victims, and he felled them by the dozen. The throne room filled with smoke and the reek of burning flesh as the grinning, ugly little sorcerer continued his deadly barrage.

“You!"Urvon shrieked in terror, the sudden appearance of the man he had feared for so many thousands of years shocking him into some semblance of sanity, even as the terrified Chandim and their cohorts broke and fled, howling in tight.

“So good to see you again, Urvon,” the hunchback said to him pleasantly. “Our conversation was interrupted the last time we were talking, but as I recall, I’d just promised to sink a white-hot hook into your belly and yank out all your guts.” He held out his gnarled right hand, snapped his fingers, and there was a sudden flash. A cruel hook, smoking and glowing, appeared in his fist. “Why don’t we continue with that line of thought?” he suggested, advancing on the splotchy-faced man cowering on the throne.

Then the shadow which had lurked behind the madman’s shoulder came out from behind the throne.

“Stop,” it said in a voice that was no more than a crackling whisper. No human throat could have produced that sound. “I need this thing,” it said, pointing a shadowy hand in the direction of the gibbering Disciple of Torak. “It serves my purposes, and I will not let you kill it.”

“You would be Nahaz, then,” Beldin said in an ominous voice.

“I am,” the figure whispered. “Nahaz, Lord of Demons and Master of Darkness.”

“Go find yourself another plaything, Demon Lord,” the hunchback grated. “This one is mine.”

“Will you pit your will against mine, sorcerer?”

“If need be.”

“Look upon my face, then, and prepare for death.” The demon pushed back its hood of darkness, and Garion recoiled with a sharp intake of his breath. The face of Nahaz was hideous, but it was not the misshapen features alone which were so terrifying. There emanated from its burning eyes a malevolent evil so gross that it froze the blood. Brighter and brighter those eyes burned with evil green fire until their beams shot forth toward Beldin. The gnarled sorcerer clenched himself and raised one hand. The hand suddenly glowed an intense blue, a light that seemed to cascade down over his body to form a shield against the demon’s power.

“Your will is strong,” Nahaz hissed. “But mine is stronger.”

Then Polgara came down the littered aisle, the white lock at her brow gleaming. On one side of her strode Belgarath and on the other Durnik. As they reached him, Garion joined them. They advanced slowly to take up positions flanking Beldin, and Garion became aware that Eriond had also joined them, standing slightly off to one side.

“Well, Demon,” Polgara said in a deadly voice, “will you face us all?”

Garion raised his sword and unleashed its fire. “And this as well?” he added, releasing all restraints on the Orb.

The Demon flinched momentarily, then drew itself erect again, its horrid face bathed in that awful green fire. From beneath its robe of shadow, it took what appeared to be a scepter or a wand of some kind that blazed an intense green. As it raised that wand, however, it seemed to see something that had previously escaped its notice. An expression of sudden fear crossed its hideous face, and the fire of the wand died, even as the intense green light bathing its face flickered and grew wan and weak. Then it raised its face toward the vaulted ceiling and howled—a dreadful, shocking sound. It spun quickly, moving toward the terrified Urvon. It reached out with shadowy hands, seized the gold-robed madman, and lifted him easily from the throne. Then it fled, its fire pushing out before it like a great battering ram, blasting out the walls of the House of Torak as it went.

The crown which had surmounted Urvon’s brow fell from his head as Nahaz carried him from the crumbling house, and it clanked when it hit the floor with the tinny sound of brass.