The Malloreon: Book 03 - Demon Lord Of Karanda

by David Eddings

  ‘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.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  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 frightened 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 were 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 Temple 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 cheat
ing 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 river bank, 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 that 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?’