Guardians of the West Page 5

  ‘I find that I can bear the misfortunes of the Murgos with great fortitude,’ Belgarath replied piously.

  ‘I think you’d better take a more realistic look at things, Belgarath,’ the hunchback growled. ‘We could probably match Murgo numbers if we really had to, but people don’t talk about “the uncountable hordes of boundless Mallorea” for nothing. ’Zakath has a very big army, and he commands most of the seaports on the east coast, so he can ship in as many more troops as he wants. If he succeeds in obliterating the Murgos, he’s going to be camped on our southern doorstep with a lot of bored soldiers on his hands. Certain ideas are bound to occur to him at about that time.’

  Belgarath grunted. ‘I’ll worry about that when the time comes.’

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ Beldin said suddenly with an ironic grin, ‘I found out what that apostrophe is doing in his name.’

  ‘Whose name?’

  ‘’Zakath’s. Would you believe that it indicates the word “Kal”?’

  ‘Kal Zakath?’ Belgarath stared at him incredulously.

  ‘Isn’t that outrageous?’ Beldin chortled. ‘I guess that the Mallorean emperors have been secretly yearning to take that title since just after the battle of Vo Mimbre, but they were always afraid that Torak might wake up and take offense at their presumption. Now that he’s dead, a fair number of Malloreans have begun to call their ruler “Kal Zakath”—the ones who want to keep their heads do, at any rate.’

  ‘What does “Kal” mean?’ Errand asked.

  ‘It’s an Angarak word that means King and God,’ Belgarath explained. ‘Five hundred years ago, Torak set aside the Mallorean emperor and personally led his hordes against the west. The Angaraks—all of them; Murgos, Nadraks, and Thulls, as well as the Malloreans—called him Kal Torak.’

  ‘What happened?’ Errand asked curiously. ‘When Kal Torak invaded the West, I mean?’

  Belgarath shrugged. ‘It’s a very old story.’

  ‘Not until you’ve heard it,’ Errand told him.

  Beldin gave Belgarath a sharp look. ‘He is quick, isn’t he?’

  Belgarath looked at Errand thoughtfully. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Putting it very briefly, Kal Torak smashed Drasnia, laid siege to the Algarian Stronghold for eight years, and then crossed Ulgoland to the plains of Arendia. The Kingdoms of the West met him at Vo Mimbre, and he was struck down in a duel with the Rivan Warder.’

  ‘But not killed.’

  ‘No. Not killed. The Rivan Warder struck him straight through the head with his sword, but Torak wasn’t killed. He was only bound in slumber until a king sat once again on the throne of Riva.’

  ‘Belgarion,’ Errand said.

  ‘Right. You know what happened then. You were there, after all.’

  Errand sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said sadly.

  Belgarath turned back to Beldin. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘what’s going on in Mallorea?’

  ‘Things are about the same as always,’ Beldin replied, taking a drink of ale and belching thunderously. ‘The bureaucracy is still the glue that holds everything together. There are still plots and intrigues in Melcene and Mal Zeth. Karanda and Darshiva and Gandahar are on the verge of open rebellion, and the Grolims are still afraid to go near Kell.’

  ‘The Mallorean Grolims are still a functioning church then?’ Belgarath seemed a little surprised. ‘I thought that the citizenry might have taken steps—the way they did in Mishrak ac Thull. I understand that the Thulls started building bonfires with Grolims.’

  ‘Kal Zakath sent a few orders back to Mal Zeth,’ Beldin told him, ‘and the army stepped in to stop the slaughter. After all, if you plan to be King and God, you’re going to need yourself a church. Zakath seems to think that it might be easier to use one that’s already established.’

  ‘What does Urvon think of that idea?’

  ‘He’s not making much of an issue of it right now. Before the army moved in, the people of Mallorea were finding a great deal of entertainment in hanging Grolims up on iron hooks. Urvon is staying in Mal Yaska and keeping very quiet. I think he believes that the fact that he’s still alive might just be an oversight on the part of his exalted Majesty, Kal Zakath. Urvon is a slimy snake, but he’s no fool.’

  ‘I’ve never met him.’

  ‘You haven’t missed a thing,’ Beldin said sourly. He held out his tankard. ‘You want to fill this?’

  ‘You’re drinking up all of my ale, Beldin.’

  ‘You can always steal more. The twins never lock their doors. Anyway, Urvon was a disciple of Torak, the same as Ctuchik and Zedar. He doesn’t have any of their good qualities, however.’

  ‘They didn’t have any good qualities,’ Belgarath said, handing him back the refilled tankard.

  ‘Compared to Urvon, they did. He’s a natural-born bootlicker, a fawning, contemptible sneak. Even Torak despised him. But, like all people with those charming traits, as soon as he got the least little bit of power, he went absolutely berserk with it. He’s not satisfied with bows as a sign of respect; he wants people to grovel before him.’

  ‘You seem moderately unfond of him,’ Belgarath noted.

  ‘I loathe that piebald back stabber.’

  ‘Piebald?’

  ‘He’s got patches of skin on his face and hands with no color at all, so he looks all splotchy—as if he had some gruesome disease. I’m viewed in some quarters as passing ugly, but Urvon could scare a troll into fits. Anyway, if Kal Zakath wants to turn the Grolim church into a state religion with his face on the altars instead of Torak’s, he’s going to have to deal with Urvon first, and Urvon always stays holed up in Mal Yaska, completely surrounded by Grolim sorcerers. Zakath won’t be able to get near him. I can’t even get near him. I give it a try every hundred years or so, hoping that somebody might get careless or that I might get lucky enough to get a large, sharp hook into his guts. What I’d really like to do, though, is drag him face down over red-hot coals for a few weeks.’

  Belgarath looked a little surprised at the little man’s vehemence. ‘That’s all he’s doing then? Staying under cover in Mal Yaska?’

  ‘Not hardly! Urvon plots and schemes even in his sleep. In the last year and a half—ever since Belgarion ran his sword through Torak—Urvon’s been scrambling around, trying to preserve what’s left of his church. There are some old, moth-eaten prophecies—the Grolims call them Oracles—from a place called Ashaba in the Karandese Mountains. Urvon dusted them off and he’s been twisting them around so that they seem to say that Torak will return—that he’s not dead, or that he’ll be resurrected or possibly reborn.’

  Belgarath snorted. ‘What nonsense!’

  ‘Of course it is, but he had to do something. The Grolim church was convulsing like a headless snake, and Zakath was right on the verge of putting his fist around everybody’s throat to make sure that every time any Angarak bowed, it would be to him. Urvon made sure that there were very few copies of these Ashabine Oracles left lying about and he’s been inventing all sorts of things and claiming that he found them in the prophecies. That’s about the only thing holding Zakath off right now and probably that wouldn’t even work, if the emperor weren’t so busy trying to decorate every tree he comes across with a Murgo or two.’

  ‘Did you have any trouble moving around in Mallorea?’

  Beldin snorted a crude obscenity. ‘Of course not. Nobody even notices the face of a deformed man. Most people couldn’t tell you if I’m an Alorn or a Marag. They can’t see past the hump on my back.’ He rose from his chair, went to the cask, and refilled his tankard again. ‘Belgarath,’ he said very seriously, ‘does the name Cthrag Sardius mean anything to you?’

  ‘Sardius? Sardonyx, you mean?’

  Beldin shrugged. ‘The Mallorean Grolims call it Cthrag Sardius. What’s the difference?’

  ‘Sardonyx is a gemstone—sort of orange colored with milky-white stripes. It’s not really very rare—or very attractive.’

  ‘That doesn’t quite match up with the way I
heard the Malloreans talk about it.’ Beldin frowned. ‘From the way they use the name Cthrag Sardius, I gather that it’s a single stone—and that it’s got a certain kind of importance.’

  ‘What sort of importance?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure. About all I could gather was that just about every Grolim in Mallorea would trade his soul for the chance to get his hands on it.’

  ‘It could just be some kind of internal symbol—something to do with the power struggle that’s going on over there.’

  ‘That’s possible, I suppose, but why would its name be Cthrag Sardius then? They called the Orb of Aldur “Cthrag Yaska,” remember? There’d almost have to be a connection between Cthrag Sardius and Cthrag Yaska, wouldn’t there? And if there is, maybe we ought to have a look into it.’

  Belgarath gave him a long look and then sighed. ‘I thought that, once Torak was dead, we might get a chance to rest.’

  ‘You’ve had a year or so.’ Beldin shrugged. ‘Much more than that and you start to get flabby.’

  ‘You’re a very disagreeable fellow, do you know that?’

  Beldin gave him a tight, ugly grin. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I thought you might have noticed that.’

  The next morning Belgarath began meticulously sorting through a mountainous heap of crackling parchments, trying to impose some kind of order upon centuries of chaos. Errand watched the old man quietly for a time, then drifted over to the window to look out at the sun-warmed meadows of the Vale. Perhaps a mile away, there was another tower, a tall, slender structure that looked somehow very serene.

  ‘Do you mind if I go outside?’ he asked Belgarath.

  ‘What? No, that’s all right. Just don’t wander too far away.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Errand promised, going to the top of the stairway that spiraled down into the cool dimness below.

  The early morning sunlight slanted across the dew-drenched meadow; and skylarks sang and spun through the sweet-smelling air. A brown rabbit hopped out of the tall grass and regarded Errand quite calmly. Then it sat on its haunches and began vigorously to scratch its long ears with a busy hind foot.

  Errand had not come out of the tower for random play, however, nor to watch rabbits. He had someplace to go and he set out across the dewy green meadow in the direction of the tower he had seen from Belgarath’s window.

  He hadn’t really counted on the dew, and his feet were uncomfortably wet by the time he reached the solitary tower. He walked around the base of the stone structure several times, his feet squelching in their sodden boots.

  ‘I wondered how long it would take before you came by,’ a very calm voice said to him. ‘I was busy helping Belgarath,’ Errand apologized.

  ‘Did he really need help?’

  ‘He was having a little trouble getting started.’

  ‘Would you like to come up?’

  ‘If it’s all right.’

  ‘The door’s on the far side.’

  Errand went around the tower and found a large stone that had been turned to reveal a doorway. He went into the tower and on up the stairs.

  One tower room was much like another, but there were certain differences between this one and Belgarath’s. As in Belgarath’s tower, there was a fireplace here with a fire burning in it, but there appeared to be nothing in the flames here for them to feed upon. The room itself was strangely uncluttered, for the owner of this tower stored his parchment scrolls, tools, and implements in some unimaginable place, to be summoned as he required them.

  The owner of the tower sat beside the fire. His hair and beard were white, and he wore a blue, loose-fitting robe. ‘Come over to the fire and dry your feet, boy,’ he said in his gentle voice.

  ‘Thank you,’ Errand replied.

  ‘How is Polgara?’

  ‘Very well,’ Errand said, ‘And happy. She likes being married, I think.’ He lifted one foot and held it close to the fire.

  ‘Don’t burn your shoes.’

  ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘Would you like some breakfast?’

  ‘That would be nice. Belgarath forgets things like that sometimes.’

  ‘On the table there.’

  Errand looked at the table and saw a steaming bowl of porridge that had not been there before.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said politely, going to the table and pulling up a chair.

  ‘Was there something special you wanted to talk about?’

  ‘Not really,’ Errand replied, picking up a spoon and starting on the porridge. ‘I just thought I should come by. The Vale is yours, after all.’

  ‘Polgara’s been teaching you manners, I see.’

  Errand smiled. ‘And other things, too.’

  ‘Are you happy with her, Errand?’ the owner of the tower asked.

  ‘Yes, Aldur, I really am,’ Errand replied and continued to eat his porridge.

  Chapter Three

  As the summer progressed, Errand found himself rather naturally more and more in the company of Durnik. The smith, he soon discovered, was an extraordinarily patient man who did things the old way, not so much because of some moral bias against what Belgarath called ‘the alternative we have available to us,’ but rather because he took a deep satisfaction in working with his hands. This was not to say that Durnik did not occasionally take short cuts. Errand noticed a certain pattern to the smith’s evasions. Durnik absolutely would not cheat on any project involving making something for Polgara or for their home. No matter how laborious or tedious those projects might be, Durnik completed them with his hands and his muscles.

  Certain outside activities, however, were not quite so closely tied up with Durnik’s sense of ethics. Two hundred yards of rail fence, for example, appeared rather quickly one morning. The fence needed to be there; there was no question of that, since a nearby herd of Algar cattle had to be diverted from plodding with bovine stubbornness across Polgara’s garden on their way to water. As a matter of fact, the fence actually began to appear instantly just in front of the startled cows. They regarded the first fifty feet or so in bafflement; then, after considering the problem for several minutes, they moved to go around the obstruction. Another fifty feet of fence appeared in their path. In time, the cows grew surly about the whole thing and even tried running, perhaps thinking in their sluggish way that they might be able to outrace this phantom fence builder. Durnik, however, sat planted on a stump, his eyes intent and his face determined, extending his fence section by section in front of the increasingly irritable cows.

  One dark brown bull, finally goaded into a fury of frustration, lowered his head, pawed the earth a few times, and charged the fence with a great bellow. Durnik made a peculiar twisting gesture with one hand, and the bull was suddenly charging away from the fence, turned around somehow in midstride without even knowing it. He ran for several hundred yards before it occurred to him that his horns had not yet encountered anything substantial. He slowed and raised his head in astonishment. He looked dubiously back over his shoulder at the fence, then turned around and gave it another try. Once again Durnik turned him, and once again he charged ferociously off in the wrong direction. The third time he tried it, he charged over the top of the hill and disappeared on the other side. He did not come back.

  Durnik looked gravely at Errand and then he winked. Polgara came out of the cottage, drying her hands on her apron, and noted the fence which had somehow constructed itself while she had been washing the breakfast dishes. She gave her husband a quizzical look, and Durnik seemed a bit abashed at having been caught using sorcery rather than an axe.

  ‘Very nice fence, dear,’ she said encouragingly to him.

  ‘We kind of needed one there,’ he said apologetically. ‘Those cows—well, I had to do it in a hurry.’

  ‘Durnik,’ she said gently, ‘there’s nothing morally reprehensible about using your talent for this sort of thing—and you should practice every so often.’ She looked at the zig-zag pattern of the interlocking rail fence, and then her express
ion became concentrated. One after another, each of the junctures of the rails was suddenly bound tightly together with stout rosebushes in full bloom. ‘There,’ she said contentedly, patted her husband’s shoulder, and went back inside.

  ‘She’s a remarkable woman, do you know that?’ Durnik said to Errand.

  ‘Yes,’ Errand agreed.

  Polgara was not always pleased with her husband’s ventures into this new field, however. On one occasion toward the hot, dusty end of summer when the vegetables in her garden were beginning to wilt, Polgara devoted the bulk of one morning to locating a small, black rain cloud over the mountains in Ulgoland and gently herding its sodden puffiness toward the Vale of Aldur and, more specifically, toward her thirsty garden.

  Errand was playing along the fence when the cloud came in low over the hill to the west and then stopped directly over the cottage and the waiting garden. Durnik glanced up from the harness he was mending, saw the blond-haired boy at play and the ominous black cloud directly over his head, and rather negligently pulled in his will. He made a small flipping gesture with one hand. ‘Shoo,’ he said to the cloud.

  The cloud gave a peculiar sort of twitch, almost like a hiccup, then slowly flowed on eastward. When it was several hundred yards beyond Polgara’s parched garden, it began to rain—a nice, steady, soaking downpour that very satisfactorily watered several acres of empty grassland.

  Durnik was not at all prepared for his wife’s reaction. The door to the cottage banged open, and Polgara emerged with her eyes flashing. She gave the happily raining cloud a hard stare, and the soggy-looking thing gave another of those peculiar hiccups and actually managed to look guilty.

  Then Polgara turned and looked directly at her husband, her eyes a bit wild. ‘Did you do that?’ she demanded, pointing at the cloud.

  ‘Why—yes,’ he replied. ‘I suppose I did, Pol.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’