"If there was money involved, Dras would cheat our own mother."
You see what I mean about Drasnians?
We returned to our den, and Riva cooked an extensive breakfast.
Cooking is a chore that nobody really likes--except for my daughter, of course--so it usually fell to the youngest. Oddly, Riva wasn't a bad cook.
You didn't know that, did you, Pol?
"Will you recognize this place when you see it?" Dras rumbled around a mouthful of bacon.
"It shouldn't be too hard," I replied blandly, "since it's the only city north of the river."
"Oh," he said.
"I didn't know that."
"It'll sort of stand out," I continued.
"It's got a perpetual cloud bank over it."
He frowned.
"What causes that?"
"Torak, from what Beldin says."
"Why would he do that?"
I shrugged.
"Maybe he hates the sun." I didn't want to get too exotic in my explanation. Little things confused Dras. A big one might have unraveled his whole brain.
I apologize to the entire Drasnian nation for that last remark. Dras was brave and strong and absolutely loyal, but sometimes he was just a little slow of thought. His descendants have more than overcome that. If anyone doesn't believe that, I invite him to try having business dealings with Prince Kheldar.
"All right then," I told them after we'd eaten.
"Torak's mind is very rigid.
Once he gets hold of an idea, he won't let go of it. He almost certainly knows about that bridge--particularly since the Karands use it to go over to trade with the Morindim, and the Karands are Torak-worshipers now.
They probably use the bridge only in the summer when there isn't any ice, though. I don't think Torak would even take the ice into account."
"Where are we going with this?" Cherek asked.
"I'm sure Torak's expecting us, but he's expecting us to come at him from the north--from the direction of the bridge. If he's put people out there to stop us, that's where they'll be."
Riva laughed delightedly.
"But we won't be coming from the north, will we? We'll be coming from the west instead."
"Good point," Algar murmured with an absolutely straight face. He concealed it very well, but Algar was much brighter than his brothers--or his father, for that matter. Maybe that's why he didn't waste his breath trying to talk to them.
"I can do certain things to keep the Angaraks facing north," I continued.
"Now that the blizzard's blown off, I'll decorate the snow-banks up there near your bridge with footprints and perfume the bushes with our scent. That should throw the Chandim off."
"Chandim?" Dras gave me that blank stare.
"The Hounds of Torak. They'll be trying to sniff us out. I'll give them enough clues to make them do their sniffing north of here. If we're halfway careful, we should be able to reach Cthol Mishrak without being noticed."
"You knew this all along, didn't you, Belgarath?" Riva said.
"That's why you made us cross the ice where we did instead of going up to the bridge."
I shrugged.
"Naturally," I replied modestly. It was a bare-faced lie, of course; I'd only just put it all together myself. But a reputation for infallible cleverness doesn't hurt when you're dealing with Alorns The time might come very soon when I'd be making decisions based on hunches, and I wouldn't have time for arguments.
It was dark again by the time we crawled out of our den and struck out across the snowy dunes toward the frozen bog to the east. We soon discovered that not all of the Chandim had gone north to lay in wait for us. We came across tracks as large as horses' hooves in the fresh snow from time to time, and we could hear them baying off in the swamp now and again.
I'll make a confession here. Despite my strong reservations about it, for once I did tamper with the weather--just a bit. I created a small portable fog bank for us to hide in and a very docile little snow-cloud that followed us like a puppy, happily burying our tracks in new snow. It doesn't really take much to make a cloud happy. I kept both the fog and the cloud tightly controlled, though, so their effects didn't alter any major weather patterns. Between the two of them, they kept the Chandim from finding us with their eyes, and the new-fallen snow muffled the sound of our passage. Then I summoned a cooperative family of civet cats to trail along behind us. Civet cats are nice little creatures related to skunks, except that they have spots instead of stripes. Their means of dealing with creatures unlucky enough to offend them are the same, though--as one of Torak's Hounds discovered when he got too close. I don't imagine he was very popular in his pack for the next several weeks.
We crept unobserved through that frozen swamp for several days, hiding in thickets during the brief daylight hours and traveling during the long arctic nights.
Then one morning our fog bank turned opalescent. I let it dissipate so that we could take a look, but it really wasn't necessary. I knew what was lighting up the fog. The sun had finally cleared the horizon. Winter was wearing on, and it was time for us to hurry. As the fog thinned, we saw that we were nearing the eastern edge of the swamp. A low range of hills rose a few miles ahead, and just beyond those hills was an inky black cloud bank.
"That's it," I told Cherek and his boys, speaking very quietly.
"That's what?" Dras asked me.
"Cthol Mishrak. I told you about the clouds, remember?"
"Oh, yes. I guess I'd forgotten."
"Let's take cover and wait for dark. We have to start being very careful now."
We burrowed our way into a thicket growing out of a low hummock, and I passed my snow-cloud over our tracks once or twice and then sent it home with my thanks. As an afterthought, I also released the civet cats.
"You have a plan?" Riva asked me.
"I'm working on it," I replied shortly. Actually, I didn't have a plan. I hadn't really thought we'd live long enough to get this far. I decided that it might be a good time to have a chat with my friend in the attic.
"Are you still there?" I asked tentatively.
"No, I'm off somewhere chasing moonbeams. Where else would I be, Belgarath?"
"Silly question, I guess. Are you permitted to give me a description of the city?"
"No, but you've already got one. Beldin told you everything you need to know. You know that Torak's in the iron tower and that the Orb's there with him."
"Should I get ready for anything? I mean, is there going to be another one of those meetings here in Cthol Mishrak? The notion of getting into a wrestling match with Torak doesn't appeal to me very much."
"No. That was all settled when you met Zedar."
"We actually won one?"
"We win about half of them. Don't get overconfident, though. Pure chance could trip you up. You know what to do when you get there, don't you?"
And suddenly I did know. Don't ask me how, I just did.
"Maybe I'd better scout on ahead," I suggested.
"Absolutely not. Don't give yourself away by wandering around aimlessly.
Take the Alorns, do what you came to do, and get out."
"Are we on schedule?"
"Yes--if you get it done tonight. After tonight, you're in trouble. Don't try to talk to me again--not until you're clear of the city. I won't be permitted to answer you. Good luck." Then he was gone again.
The light lasted for about three hours--which only seemed like about three years to me. When the lingering twilight finally faded, I was very jumpy.
"Let's go," I told the Alorns.
"If we come across any Angaraks, put them down quickly, and don't make any more noise than you absolutely have to."
"What's the plan?" Cherek asked me.
"I'm going to make it up as we go along," I replied. Why should I be the only one with bad nerves?
He swallowed hard.
"Lead the way," he told me. Say what you like about Alorns--and I usually do--but no one can fault
their bravery.
We crept out of the thicket and waded through the snow until we reached the edge of the swamp. I wasn't particularly worried about tracks, since the Grolims had been patrolling this part of the swamp regularly, and their tracks were everywhere, mingled with the occasional tracks of one of the Hounds. A few more wouldn't mean anything.
Our luck was holding. A blizzard had come in out of the west, and the screaming wind had scoured all the snow off the hillsides facing the swamp. It was no more than an hour until we reached the top of the hill we were climbing, and then we got our first look at the City of Endless Night.
I could see Torak's iron tower, of course, but that wasn't what concerned me. The light wasn't good, naturally, but it was good enough to reveal the fact that Cthol Mishrak had a wall around it. I swore.
"What's wrong?" Dras asked me.
"You see that wall?"
"Yes."
"That means we'll have to go through a gate, and you don't look all that much like a Grolim."
He shrugged.
"You worry too much, Belgarath," he rumbled.
"We'll just kill the gate-guards and then walk in like we own the place."
"I think we might be able to come up with something a little better than that," Algar said quietly.
"Let's see how high the wall is."
As I think I mentioned, the wind of that blizzard had swept the west side of the hills bare of snow--and drifted it all on the east side. We stared at those six-foot drifts. This wasn't going at all well.
"There's no help for it, Belgarath," Cherek told me gravely.
"We're going to have to follow that road." He pointed at a narrow track that wound up the hill from the gate of the city.
"Cherek," I replied in a pained tone, "that path's as crooked as a broken-backed snake, and the snow's piled up so high on both sides that we won't be able to see anybody coming toward us. We'll be right on top of him before we even know he's there."
He shrugged.
"But we'll be expecting him," he said.
"He won't be expecting us. That's all the advantage we really need, isn't it?"
It was sheer idiocy, of course, but for the life of me, I couldn't think of anything better--short of wading through the drifts, and we didn't have time for that. We had an appointment in Cthol Mishrak, and I didn't want to be late.
"We'll try it," I gave in.
We did encounter one Grolim on our way down to the city, but Algar and Riva jumped him before he could even cry out, and they made quick work of him with their daggers. Then they picked him up, swung him a few times, and threw him up over the top of the snow bank to the left while Dras kicked snow over the pool of blood in the middle of the trail.
"My sons work well together, don't they?" Cherek noted with fatherly pride.
"Very well," I agreed.
"Now, how are we going to get off this trail before we reach the gate?"
"We'll get a little closer, and then we'll burrow through the snow off to one side. The last one through can kick the roof of our tunnel down.
Nobody'll ever know we've been here."
"Clever. Why didn't I think of that?"
"Probably because you're not used to living in snow country. When I was about fifteen, there was a married woman in Val Alorn that sort of took my eye. Her husband was old, but very jealous. I had a snow tunnel burrowed all the way around his house before the winter was over."
"What an absolutely fascinating sidelight on your boyhood. How old was she?"
"Oh, about thirty-five or so. She taught me all sorts of things."
"I can imagine."
"I could tell you about them, if you'd like."
"Some other time, maybe. I've got a lot on my mind right now."
I'll wager you never read about that conversation in the Book of Alorn.
Algar moved on slightly ahead of us, carefully peeking around each bend in that winding path. Finally he came back.
"This is far enough," he said shortly.
"The gate's just around the next turn."
"How high's the wall?" his father asked.
"Not bad," Algar replied.
"Only about twelve feet."
"Good," Cherek said.
"I'll lead out. You boys know what to do when you come along behind."
They all nodded, taking no offense at being called "boys." Cherek lived to be over ninety, and he still called them "boys."
Tunneling through snow isn't nearly as difficult as it sounds, if you've got some help. Cherek clawed his way through, angling slightly upward as he swam through toward a point some fifty feet or so to the left of the gate. Dras followed behind him, raising up every few inches to compress the snow above him. Riva went next, pushing at the sides with his shoulders to compress the snow there.
"You next," Algar told me.
"Bounce up and down on your belly to flatten the floor of the tunnel."
"This isn't a permanent structure, Algar," I protested.
"We do sort of plan to leave, don't we, Belgarath?"
"Oh. I guess I hadn't thought that far ahead."
He was polite enough not to make an issue of that.
"I'll come last,"
he told me.
"I know how to close up the entrance so that nobody'll see it."
Despite my sense of urgency, I knew that we still had at least fifteen hours until the sun would peek briefly over the southern horizon again.
We burrowed like moles for a couple of hours, and then I bumped into Riva's feet.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Why are we stopping?"
"Father's reached the wall," he replied.
"You see? That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Where did you fellows come up with this?"
"We do it sometimes when we're hunting, and it's a very good way to sneak up on enemies."
"How are we going to get over the wall?"
"I'll stand on Dras' shoulders, and Algar'll stand on Father's. We'll hoist ourselves up on top of the wall and then pull the rest of you up. It probably wouldn't work if we were shorter. We came up with the idea during the last clan war." He peered on ahead.
"We can move on now.
Father's out of the tunnel."
We inched our way forward, and we were soon standing beside the wall. Cherek and Dras braced their hands against the stones, and Algar and Riva clambered up their backs, reached up, grabbed the top of the wall, and pulled themselves up.
"Belgarath first," Riva whispered down.
"Hold him up so I can reach his hand."
Dras took me by the waist and lifted me up in the air. That's how I found out how strong Riva's hands were. I halfway expected to see blood come spurting out of the ends of my fingers when he seized my outstretched hand.
And then we were inside the city. Beldin had described Cthol Mishrak as a suburb of Hell, and I saw no reason to dispute that description.
The buildings were all jammed together, and the narrow, twisting alleyways were covered over by the jutting second storys that butted tightly together overhead. The idea made some sense in a city so far north, I'll grant you. At least the streets weren't buried in snow, but the total lack of any windows in the buildings made the streets resemble hallways in some dungeon. They were poorly lighted by widely spaced torches that guttered and gave off clouds of pitchy smoke. It was depressing, but my friends and I didn't really want brightly lit boulevards. We were sneaking, and that's an activity best performed in the dark.
I'm not certain if those narrow, smoky corridors were unpopulated by the arrangement between my friend in the attic and his opposite, or if it was a custom here in the City of Endless Night--which stands to reason, since the Hounds were out--but we didn't encounter a soul as we worked our way deeper and deeper into the very heart of Angarak.
We finally emerged in the unlovely square in the middle of the city and looked through the perpetually murky air at the iron tower Beldin had described. It was
--naturally, when you take Torak's personality into account--even higher than Aldur's tower. It was absolutely huge and monumentally ugly. Iron doesn't make for very pretty buildings. It was black, of course, and even from a distance it looked pitted. It had been there for almost two thousand years, after all. The Alorns and I weren't really looking at that monument to Torak's ego, however. We were looking at the pair of huge Hounds guarding the rivet-studded door.
"Now what?" Algar whispered.
"Nothing simpler," Dras said confidently.
"I'll just walk across the square and bash out their brains with my axe."
I had to head that off immediately. The other Alorns might very well see nothing at all wrong with his absurd plan.
"It won't work," I said quickly.
"They'll start baying as soon as they see you, and that'll rouse the whole city."
"Well, how are we going to get past them then?" he demanded truculently.
"I'm working on it." I thought very fast, and it suddenly came to me. I knew it'd work, because it already had once.
"Let's pull back into this alley," I muttered.
"I'm going to change again."
"You're not as big as they are when you're a wolf, Belgarath," Cherek pointed out.
"I'm not going to change myself into a wolf," I assured him.
"You'd better all step back a ways. I might be a little dangerous until I get it under control."
They backed nervously away from me.
I didn't turn myself into a wolf, or an owl, or an eagle, or even a dragon.
I became a civet cat.
The Alorns backed away even farther.
The idea probably wouldn't have worked if Torak's Hounds had been real dogs. Even the stupidest dog knows enough to avoid a civet cat or a skunk. The Chandim weren't really dogs, though. They were Grolims, and they looked on the wild creatures around them with contempt. I flared out my spotted tail and, chittering warningly, I started across the snow-covered plaza toward them. When I got close enough for them to see me, one of them growled at me.
"Go away," he said in a hideous voice. He actually seemed to chew on the words.
I ignored him and kept moving toward them. Then, when I judged that they were in range, I turned around and pointed the dangerous end of my assumed form at them.
I don't think I need to go into the details. The procedure's a little disgusting, and I wouldn't want to offend any ladies who might read this.
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