Castle Of Wizardry Page 6

  ‘The jewel,’ the voice told him. ‘They’re using the jewel to focus their attacks. Destroy it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It can only hold so much. Look.’

  Garion suddenly found that he could actually see into the interior of the still-flickering ruby on the table. He saw the minute stress lines within its crystalline structure, and then he understood. He turned his will on it and poured all his anger into it. The stone blazed with light and began to pulsate as the force within it swelled. Then, with a sharp detonation, the stone exploded into fragments.

  ‘No!’ the bald Hierarch wailed. ‘You idiot! That stone was irreplaceable.’

  ‘Listen to me, old man,’ Garion said in an awful voice, ‘you will leave us alone. You will not pursue us, or try to injure any of us any more.’ He reached out with his shadowy hand and slid it directly into the bald man’s chest. He could feel the heart flutter like a terrified bird and the lungs falter as the Hierarch’s breath stopped and he gaped with horror at the arm sticking out of his chest. Garion slowly opened his fingers very wide. ‘Do you understand me?’ he demanded.

  The Hierarch gurgled and tried to take hold of the arm, but his fingers found nothing to grasp.

  ‘Do you understand me?’ Garion repeated and suddenly clenched his fist.

  The Hierarch screamed.

  ‘Are you going to leave us alone?’

  ‘Please, Belgarion! No more! I’m dying!’

  ‘Are you going to leave us alone?’ Garion demanded again.

  ‘Yes, yes – anything, but please stop! I beg you! I’ll do anything. Please!’

  Garion unclenched his fist and drew his hand out of the Hierarch’s heaving chest. He held it up, clawlike, directly in front of the old man’s face. ‘Look at this and remember it,’ he said in a dreadfully quiet voice. ‘Next time I’ll reach into your chest and pull your heart out.’

  The Hierarch shrank back, his eyes filled with horror as he stared at the awful hand. ‘I promise you,’ he stammered. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Your life depends on it,’ Garion told him, then turned and flashed back across the empty miles toward his friends. Quite suddenly he was standing at the mouth of the ravine staring down at his shadow slowly reforming on the ground before him. The purple haze was gone; strangely enough, he didn’t even feel tired.

  Durnik drew in a shuddering breath and struggled to rise.

  Garion turned quickly and ran back to his friend. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, taking hold of the smith’s arm.

  ‘It was like a knife twisting inside me,’ Durnik replied in a shaking voice. ‘What was it?’

  ‘The Grolim Hierarchs were trying to kill you,’ Garion told him. Durnik looked around, his eyes frightened.

  ‘Don’t worry, Durnik. They won’t do it again.’ Garion helped him to his feet and together they went back into the ravine.

  Aunt Pol was looking directly at him as he approached her. Her eyes were penetrating. ‘You’re growing up very fast,’ she said to him.

  ‘I had to do something,’ he replied. ‘What happened to your shield?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to be necessary any more.’

  ‘Not bad,’ Belgarath said. The old man was sitting up. He looked weak and drawn, but his eyes were alert. ‘Some of it was a bit exotic; but on the whole, it wasn’t bad at all. The business with the hand was just a little overdone, though.’

  ‘I wanted to be sure he understood that I meant what I was saying.’ Garion felt a tremendous wave of relief at his grandfather’s return to consciousness.

  ‘I think you convinced him,’ Belgarath said dryly. ‘Is there anything to eat somewhere nearby?’ he asked Aunt Pol.

  ‘Are you all right now, Grandfather?’ Garion asked him.

  ‘Aside from being as weak as a fresh-hatched baby chick and as hungry as a she-wolf with nine puppies, I’m just fine,’ Belgarath replied. ‘I could really use something to eat, Polgara.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find, father,’ she told him, turning to the packs.

  ‘I don’t know that you need to bother cooking it,’ he added.

  The little boy had been looking curiously at Garion, his wide, blue eyes serious and slightly puzzled. Quite suddenly he laughed; smiling, he looked into Garion’s face. ‘Belgarion,’ he said.

  Chapter Four

  ‘No regrets?’ Silk asked Garion that evening as they rode toward the sharply rising peaks outlined against the gliaering stars ahead.

  ‘Regrets about what?’

  ‘Giving up command.’ Silk had been watching him curiously ever since the setting sun had signalled the resumption of their journey.

  ‘No,’ Garion replied, not quite sure what the little man meant. ‘Why should there be?’

  ‘It’s a very important thing for a man to learn about himself, Garion,’ Silk told him seriously. ‘Power can be very sweet for some men, and you never know how a man’s going to handle it until you give him the chance to try.’

  ‘I don’t know why you went to all the trouble. It’s not too likely that I’m going to be put in charge of things very often.’

  ‘You never know, Garion. You never know.’

  They rode on across the barren black sands of the wasteland toward the mountains looming ahead. The quarter moon rose behind them, and its light was cold and white. Near the edge of the wasteland there were a few scrubby thornbushes huddling low to the sand and silvered with frost. It was an hour or so before midnight when they finally reached rocky ground, and the hooves of their horses clattered sharply as they climbed up out of the sandy waste. When they topped the first ridge, they stopped to look back. The dark expanse of the wasteland behind them was dotted with the watch fires of the Murgos, and far back along their trail they saw moving torches.

  ‘I was starting to worry about that,’ Silk said to Belgarath, ‘but it looks as if they found our trail after all.’

  ‘Let’s hope they don’t lose it again,’ the old man replied.

  ‘Not too likely, really. I made it pretty obvious.’

  ‘Murgos can be a bit undependable sometimes.’ Belgarath seemed to have recovered almost completely, but Garion noted a weary slump to his shoulders and was glad that they did not plan to ride all night.

  The mountains into which they rode were as arid and rocky as the ones lying to the north had been. There were looming cliffs and patches of alkali on the ground and a bitingly cold wind that seemed to wail endlessly through the rocks and to tug at the coarse-woven Murgo robes that disguised them. They pushed on until they were well into the mountains; then, several hours before dawn, they stopped to rest and to wait for the sun to rise.

  When the first faint light appeared on the eastern horizon, Silk rode out and located a rocky gap passing to the northwest between two ocherous cliff faces. As soon as he returned, they saddled their horses again and moved out at a trot.

  ‘We can get rid of these now, I think,’ Belgarath said, pulling off his Murgo robe.

  ‘I’ll take them,’ Silk suggested as he reined in. ‘The gap’s just ahead there.’ He pointed. ‘I’ll catch up in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Barak asked him.

  ‘I’ll leave a few miles more of false trail,’ Silk replied. ‘Then I’ll double back and make sure that you haven’t left any tracks. It won’t take long.’

  ‘You want some company?’ the big man offered.

  Silk shook his head. ‘I can move faster alone.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  Silk grinned. ‘I’m always careful.’ He took the Murgo garments from them and rode off to the west.

  The gap into which they rode appeared to be the bed of a stream that had dried up thousands of years before. The water had cut down through the rock, revealing layer upon layer of red, brown, and yellow stone lying in bands, one atop the other. The sound of their horses’ hooves was very loud as they clattered along between the cliffs, and the wind whistled as it poured through the cut.


  Taiba drew her horse in beside Garion’s. She was shivering and she had the cloak he had given her pulled tightly about her shoulders. ‘Is it always this cold?’ she asked, her large, violet eyes very wide.

  ‘In the wintertime,’ he replied. ‘I imagine it’s pretty hot here in the summer.’

  ‘The slave pens were always the same,’ she told him. ‘We never knew what season it was.’

  The twisting streambed made a sharp bend to the right, and they rode into the light of the newly risen sun. Taiba gasped.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Garion asked her quickly.

  ‘The light,’ she cried, covering her face with her hands. ‘It’s like fire in my eyes.’

  Relg, who rode directly in front of them, was also shielding his eyes. He looked back over his shoulder at the Marag woman. ‘Here,’ he said. He took one of the veils he usually bound across his eyes when they were in direct sunlight and handed it back to her. ‘Cover your face with this until we’re back into the shadows again.’ His voice was peculiarly neutral.

  ‘Thank you,’ Taiba said, binding the cloth across her eyes. ‘I didn’t know that the sun could be so bright.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ Relg told her. ‘It just takes some time. Try to protect your eyes for the first few days.’ He seemed about to turn and ride on, then he looked at her curiously. ‘Haven’t you ever seen the sun before?’ he asked her.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Other slaves told me about it, though. The Murgos don’t use women on their work gangs, so I was never taken out of the pens. It was always dark down there.’

  ‘It must have been terrible.’ Garion shuddered.

  She shrugged. ‘The dark wasn’t so bad. It was the light we were afraid of. Light meant that the Murgos were coming with torches to take someone to the Temple to be sacrificed.’

  The trail they followed turned again, and they rode out of the bright glare of sunlight. ‘Thank you,’ Taiba said to Relg, removing the veil from her eyes and holding it out to him.

  ‘Keep it,’ he told her. ‘You’ll probably need it again.’ His voice seemed oddly subdued, and his eyes had a strange gentleness in them. As he looked at her, the haunted expression crept back over his face.

  Since they had left Rak Cthol, Garion had covertly watched these two. He knew that Relg, despite all his efforts, could not take his eyes off the Marag woman he had been forced to rescue from her living entombment in the caves. Although Relg still ranted about sin continually, his words no longer carried the weight of absolute conviction; indeed quite often, they seemed to be little more than a mechanical repetition of a set of formulas. Occasionally, Garion had noted, even those formulas had faltered when Taiba’s deep violet eyes had turned to regard the Ulgo’s face. For her part, Taiba was quite obviously puzzled. Relg’s rejection of her simple gratitude had humiliated her, and her resentment had been hot and immediate. His constant scrutiny, however, spoke to her with a meaning altogether different from the words coming from his lips. His eyes told her one thing, but his mouth said something else. She was baffled by him, not knowing whether to respond to his look or his words.

  ‘You’ve lived your whole life in the dark, then?’ Relg asked her curiously.

  ‘Most of it,’ she replied. ‘I saw my mother’s face once – the day the Murgos came and took her to the Temple. I was alone after that. Being alone is the worst of it. You can bear the dark if you aren’t alone.’

  ‘How old were you when they took your mother away?’

  ‘I don’t really know. I must have been almost a woman, though, because not long after that the Murgos gave me to a slave who had pleased them. There were a lot of slaves in the pens who did anything the Murgos wanted, and they were rewarded with extra food – or with women. I cried at first; but in time I learned to accept it. At least I wasn’t alone any more.’

  Relg’s face hardened, and Taiba saw the expression. ‘What should I have done?’ she asked him. ‘When you’re a slave, your body doesn’t belong to you. They can sell you or give you to anybody they want to, and there’s nothing you can do about it.’

  ‘There must have been something.’

  ‘Such as what? I didn’t have any kind of weapon to fight with – or to kill myself with – and you can’t strangle yourself.’ She looked at Garion. ‘Did you know that? Some of the slaves tried it, but all you do is fall into unconsciousness, and then you start to breathe again. Isn’t that curious?’

  ‘Did you try to fight?’ It seemed terribly important to Relg for some reason.

  ‘What would have been the point? The slave they gave me to was stronger than I. He’d have just hit me until I did what he wanted.’

  ‘You should have fought,’ Relg declared adamantly. ‘A little pain is better than sin, and giving up like that is sin.’

  ‘Is it? If somebody forces you to do something and there’s no possible way to avoid it, is it really sin?’

  Relg started to answer, but her eyes, looking directly into his face, seemed to stop up his tongue. He faltered, unable to face that gaze. Abruptly he turned his mount and rode back toward the pack animals.

  ‘Why does he fight with himself so much?’ Taiba asked.

  ‘He’s completely devoted to his God,’ Garion explained. ‘He’s afraid of anything that might take away some of what he feels he owes to UL.’

  ‘Is this UL of his really that jealous?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, but Relg does.’

  Taiba pursed her lips into a sensual pout and looked back over her shoulder at the retreating zealot. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think he’s actually afraid of me.’ She laughed then, that same low, wicked little laugh, and lifted her arms to run her fingers through the glory of her midnight hair. ‘No one’s ever been afraid of me before – not ever. I think I rather like it. Will you excuse me?’ She turned her horse without waiting for a reply and quite deliberately rode back after the fleeing Relg.

  Garion thought about it as he rode on through the narrow, twisting canyon. He realized that there was a strength in Taiba that none of them had suspected, and he finally concluded that Relg was in for a very bad time.

  He trotted on ahead to speak to Aunt Pol about it as she rode with her arms about Errand.

  ‘It’s really none of your business, Garion,’ she told him. ‘Relg and Taiba can work out their problems without any help from you.’

  ‘I was just curious, that’s all. Relg’s tearing himself apart, and Taiba’s all confused about him. What’s really going on between them, Aunt Pol?’

  ‘Something very necessary,’ she replied.

  ‘You could say that about nearly everything that happens, Aunt Pol.’ It was almost an accusation. ‘You could even say that the way Ce’Nedra and I quarrel all the time is necessary too, couldn’t you?’

  She looked slightly amused. ‘It’s not exactly the same thing, Garion,’ she answered, ‘but there’s a certain necessity about that too.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ he scoffed.

  ‘Is it really? Then why do you suppose the two of you go out of your way so much to aggravate each other?’

  He had no answer for that, but the entire notion worried him. At the same time the very mention of Ce’Nedra’s name suddenly brought her sharply into his mind, and he realized that he actually missed her. He rode along in silence beside Aunt Pol for a while, feeling melancholy. Finally he sighed.

  ‘And why so great a sigh?’

  ‘It’s all over, isn’t it?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This whole thing. I mean – we’ve recovered the Orb. That’s what this was all about, wasn’t it?’

  ‘There’s more to it than that, Garion – much more – and we’re not out of Cthol Murgos yet, are we?’

  ‘You’re not really worried about that, are you?’ But then, as if her question had suddenly uncovered some lingering doubts in his own mind, he stared at her in sudden apprehension. ‘What would happen if we didn’t?’ he blurted. ‘If we didn’t
make it out, I mean. What would happen to the West if we didn’t get the Orb back to Riva?’

  ‘Things would become unpleasant.’

  ‘There’d be a war, wouldn’t there? And the Angaraks would win, and there’d be Grolims everywhere with their knives and their altars.’ The thought of Grolims marching up to the gates of Faldor’s farm outraged him.

  ‘Don’t go borrowing trouble, Garion. Let’s worry about one thing at a time, shall we?’

  ‘But what if—’

  ‘Garion,’ she said with a pained look, ‘don’t belabor the “what ifs,” please. If you start that, you’ll just worry everybody to death.’

  ‘You say “what if” to grandfather all the time,’ he accused.

  ‘That’s different,’ she replied.

  They rode hard for the next several days through a series of passes with the dry, bitter chill pressing at them like some great weight. Silk rode back often to look for any signs of pursuit, but their ruse seemed to have fooled the Murgos. Finally, about noon on a cold, sunless day when the wind was kicking up dust clouds along the horizon, they reached the broad, arid valley through which the south caravan route wound. They took cover behind a low hill while Silk rode on ahead to take a quick look.

  ‘Thinkest thou that Taur Urgas hath joined in the search for us?’ Mandorallen, dressed again in his armor, asked Belgarath.

  ‘It’s hard to say for sure,’ the old sorcerer replied. ‘He’s a very unpredictable man.’

  ‘There’s a Murgo patrol headed east on the caravan route,’ Silk reported when he returned. ‘It will be another half hour or so until they’re out of sight.’

  Belgarath nodded.

  ‘Do you think we’ll be safe once we cross over into Mishrak ac Thull?’ Durnik asked.

  ‘We can’t count on it,’ Belgarath replied. ‘Gethel, the king of the Thulls, is afraid of Taur Urgas, so he wouldn’t make any kind of fuss about a border violation if Taur Urgas decided to follow us.’

  They waited until the Murgos had crossed a low ridge to the east and then moved out again.

  For the next two days they rode steadily to the northwest. The terrain grew less rocky after they crossed into the land of the Thulls, and they saw the telltale dust clouds far behind them that spoke of mounted Murgo search parties. It was late in the afternoon of a murky day when they finally reached the top of the eastern escarpment.