Rivan Codex Series

by Eddings, David

  They reached the Great West Road then, and Barak led them south at a brisk trot, cutting off the possibility of further discussion.

  A league or so down the road they passed a muddy village, a dozen or so turf roofed huts with walls made of wattles plastered over with mud. The fields around the village were dotted with tree stumps, and a few scrawny cows grazed near the edge of the forest. Garion could not control his indignation as he looked at the misery implicit in the crude collection of hovels. "Lelldorin," he said sharply, "look!"

  "What? Where?" The blond young man came out of his troubled preoccupation quickly as if expecting some danger.

  "The village," Garion told him. "Look at it."

  "It's only a serfs' village," Lelldorin said indifferently. "I've seen hundreds like it." He seemed ready to return to his own inner turmoil. "In Sendaria we wouldn't keep pigs in places like that." Garion's voice rang with fervor. If he could only make his friend see!

  Two ragged serfs were dispiritedly hacking chunks of firewood from one of the stumps near the road. As the party approached, they dropped their axes and bolted in terror for the forest.

  "Does it make you proud, Lelldorin?" Garion demanded. "Does it make you feel good to know that your own countrymen are so afraid of you that they run from the very sight of you?"

  Lelldorin looked baffled. "They're serfs, Garion," he said as if that explained.

  "They're men. They're not animals. Men deserve to be treated better."

  "I can't do anything about it. They aren't my serfs." And with that Lelldorin's attention turned inward again as he continued to struggle with the dilemma Garion had placed upon him.

  By late afternoon they had covered ten leagues and the cloudy sky was gradually darkening as evening approached. "I think we're going to have to spend the night in the forest, Belgarath," Silk said, looking around. "There's no chance of reaching the next Tolnedran hostel."

  Mister Wolf had been half-dozing in his saddle. He looked up, blinking a bit. "All right," he replied, "but let's get back from the road a bit. Our fire could attract attention, and too many people know we're in Arendia already."

  "There's a woodcutter's track right there." Durnik pointed at a break in the trees just ahead. "It should lead us back into the trees."

  "All right," Wolf agreed.

  The sound of their horses' hooves was muffled by the sodden leaves on the forest floor as they turned in among the trees to follow the narrow track. They rode silently for the better part of a mile until a clearing opened ahead of them.

  "How about here?" Durnik asked. He indicated a brook trickling softly over mossy stones on one side of the clearing.

  "It will do," Wolf agreed.

  "We're going to need shelter," the smith observed.

  "I bought tents in Camaar," Silk told him. "They're in the packs." "That was foresighted of you," Aunt Pol complimented him.

  "I've been in Arendia before, my Lady. I'm familiar with the weather."

  "Garion and I'll go get wood for a fire then," Durnik said, climbing down from his horse and untying his axe from his saddle.

  "I'll help you," Lelldorin offered, his face still troubled.

  Durnik nodded and led the way off into the trees. The woods were soaked, but the smith seemed to know almost instinctively where to find dry fuel. They worked quickly in the lowering twilight and soon had three large bundles of limbs and fagots. They returned to the clearing where Silk and the others were erecting several dun-colored tents. Durnik dropped his wood and cleared a space for the fire with his foot. Then he knelt and began striking sparks with his knife from a piece of flint into a wad of dry tinder he always carried. In a short time he had a small fire going, and Aunt Pol set out her pots beside it, humming softly to herself.

  Hettar came back from tending the horses, and they all stood back watching Aunt Pol prepare a supper from the stores Count Reldegen had pressed on them before they had left his house that morning.

  After they had eaten, they sat around the fire talking quietly. "How far have we come today?" Durnik asked.

  "Twelve leagues," Hettar estimated.

  "How much farther do we have to go to get out of the forest?"

  "It's eighty leagues from Camaar to the central plain," Lelldorin replied.

  Durnik sighed. "A week or more. I'd hoped that it'd be only a few days."

  "I know what you mean, Durnik," Barak agreed. "It's gloomy under all these trees."

  The horses, picketed near the brook, stirred uneasily. Hettar rose to his feet.

  "Something wrong?" Barak asked, also rising.

  "They shouldn't be-" Hettar started. Then he stopped. "Back!" he snapped. "Away from the fire. The horses say there are men out there. Many - with weapons." He jumped back from the fire, drawing his sabre.

  Lelldorin took one startled look at him and bolted for one of the tents. Garion's sudden disappointment in his friend was almost like a blow to the stomach.

  An arrow buzzed into the light and shattered on Barak's mail shirt. "Arm yourselves!" the big man roared, drawing his sword.

  Garion grasped Aunt Pol's sleeve and tried to pull her from the light. "Stop that!" she snapped, jerking her sleeve free. Another arrow whizzed out of the foggy woods. Aunt Pol flicked her hand as if brushing away a fly and muttered a single word. The arrow bounced back as if it had struck something solid and fell to the ground.

  Then with a hoarse shout, a gang of rough, burly men burst from the edge of the trees and splashed across the brook, brandishing swords. As Barak and Hettar leaped forward to meet them, Lelldorin reemerged from the tent with his bow and began loosing arrows so rapidly that his hands seemed to blur as they moved. Garion was instantly ashamed that he had doubted his friend's courage.

  With a choked cry, one of the attackers stumbled back, an arrow through his throat. Another doubled over sharply, clutching at his stomach, and fell to the ground, groaning. A third, quite young and with a pale, downy beard on his cheeks, dropped heavily and sat plucking at the feathers on the shaft protruding from his chest with a bewildered expression on his boyish face. Then he sighed and slumped over on his side with a stream of blood coming from his nose.

  The ragged-looking men faltered under the rain of Lelldorin's arrows, and then Barak and Hettar were upon them. With a great sweep, Barak's heavy sword shattered an upflung blade and crunched down into the angle between the neck and shoulder of the black-whiskered man who had held it. The man collapsed. Hettar made a quick feint with his sabre, then ran it smoothly through the body of a pockmarked ruffian. The man stiffened, and a gush of bright blood burst from his mouth as Hettar pulled out his blade. Durnik ran forward with his axe, and Silk drew his long dagger from under his vest and ran directly at a man with a shaggy brown beard. At the last moment, he dived forward, rolled and struck the bearded man full in the chest with both feet. Without pausing he came up and ripped his dagger into his enemy's belly. The dagger made a wet, tearing sound as it sliced upward, and the stricken man clutched at his stomach with a scream, trying to hold in the blue-colored loops and coils of his entrails that seemed to come boiling out through his fingers.

  Garion dived for the packs to get his own sword, but was suddenly grabbed roughly from behind. He struggled for an instant, then felt a stunning blow on the back of his head, and his eyes filled with a blinding flash of light.

  "This is the one we want," a rough voice husked as Garion sank into unconsciousness.

  He was being carried - that much was certain. He could feel the strong arms under him. He didn't know how long it had been since he had been struck on the head. His ears still rang, and he was more than a little sick to his stomach. He stayed limp, but carefully opened one eye. His vision was blurred and uncertain, but he could make out Barak's bearded face looming above him in the darkness, and merged with it, as once before in the snowy woods outside Val Alorn, he seemed to see the shaggy face of a great bear. He closed his eyes, shuddered, and started to struggle weakly.

  "It
's all right, Garion," Barak said, his voice sunk in a kind of despair. "It's me."

  Garion opened his eyes again, and the bear seemed to be gone. He wasn't even sure he had ever really seen it.

  "Are you all right?" Barak asked, setting him on the ground. "They hit me on the head," Garion mumbled, his hand going to the swelling behind his ear.

  "They won't do it again," Barak muttered, his tone still despairing. Then the huge man sank to the ground and buried his face in his hands. It was dark and difficult to see, but it looked as if Barak's shoulders were shaking with a kind of terrible suppressed grief - a soundless, wrenching series of convulsive sobs.

  "Where are we?" Garion asked, looking around into the darkness.

  Barak coughed and wiped at his face. "Quite a ways from the tents. It took me a little while to catch up to the two who were carrying you off."

  "What happened?" Garion was still a bit confused. "They're dead. Can you stand up?"

  "I don't know." Garion tried to get up, but a wave of giddiness swept over him, and his stomach churned.

  "Never mind. I'll carry you," Barak said in a now - grimly practical voice. An owl screeched from a nearby tree, and its ghostly white shape drifted off through the trees ahead of them. As Barak lifted him, Garion closed his eyes and concentrated on keeping his stomach under control.

  Before long they came out into the clearing and its circle of firelight. "Is he all right?" Aunt Pol asked, looking up from bandaging a cut on Durnik's arm.

  "A bump on the head is all," Barak replied, setting Garion down. "Did you run them off?" His voice was harsh, even brutal.

  "Those that could still run," Silk answered, his voice a bit excited and his ferret eyes bright. "They left a few behind." He pointed at a number of still shapes lying near the edge of the firelight.

  Lelldorin came back into the clearing, looking over his shoulder and with his bow half drawn. He was out of breath, his face was pale, and his hands were shaking. "Are you all right?" he asked as soon as he saw Garion.

  Garion nodded, gently fingering the lump behind his ear.

  "I tried to find the two who took you," the young man declared, "but they were too quick for me. There's some kind of animal out there. I heard it growling while I was looking for you - awful growls."

  "The beast is gone now," Barak told him flatly. "What's the matter with you?" Silk asked the big man. "Nothing."

  "Who were these men?" Garion asked.

  "Robbers, most likely," Silk surmised, putting away his dagger. "It's one of the benefits of a society that holds men in serfdom. They get bored with being serfs and go out into the forest looking for excitement and profit."

  "You sound just like Garion," Lelldorin objected. "Can't you people understand that serfdom's part of the natural order of things here? Our serfs couldn't take care of themselves alone, so those of us in higher station accept the responsibility of caring for them."

  "Of course you do," Silk agreed sarcastically. "They're not so wellfed as your pigs nor as well - kenneled as your dogs, but you do care for them, don't you?"

  "That'll do, Silk," Aunt Pol said coolly. "Let's not start bickering among ourselves." She tied a last knot on Durnik's bandage and came over to examine Garion's head. She touched her fingers gently to the lump, and he winced. "It doesn't seem too serious," she observed.

  "It hurts all the same," he complained.

  "Of course it does, dear," she said calmly. She dipped a cloth in a pail of cold water and held it to the lump. "You're going to have to learn to protect your head, Garion. If you keep banging it like this, you're going to soften your brains."

  Garion was about to answer that, but Hettar and Mister Wolf came back into the firelight just then. "They're still running," Hettar announced. The steel discs on his horsehide jacket gleamed red in the flickering light, and his sabre was streaked with blood.

  "They seemed to be awfully good at that part of it," Wolf said. "Is everyone all right?"

  "A few bumps and bruises is about all," Aunt Pol told him. "It could have been much worse."

  "Let's not start worrying about what could have been."

  "Shall we remove those?" Barak growled, pointing at the bodies littering the ground near the brook.

  "Shouldn't they be buried?" Durnik asked. His voice shook a little, and his face was very pale.

  "Too much trouble," Barak said bluntly. "Their friends can come back later and take care of it - if they feel like it."

  "Isn't that just a little uncivilized?" Durnik objected. Barak shrugged. "It's customary."

  Mister Wolf rolled one of the bodies over and carefully examined the dead man's gray face. "Looks like an ordinary Arendish outlaw," he grunted. "It's hard to say for sure, though."

  Lelldorin was retrieving his arrows, carefully pulling them out of the bodies.

  "Let's drag them all over there a ways," Barak said to Hettar. "I'm getting tired of looking at them."

  Durnik looked away, and Garion saw two great tears standing in his eyes. "Does it hurt, Durnik?" he asked sympathetically, sitting on the log beside his friend.

  "I killed one of those men, Garion," the smith replied in a shaking voice. "I hit him in the face with my axe. He screamed, and his blood splashed all over me. Then he fell down and kicked on the ground with his heels until he died."

  "You didn't have any choice, Durnik," Garion told him. "They were trying to kill us."

  "I've never killed anyone before," Durnik said, the tears now running down his face. "He kicked the ground for such a long time - such a terribly long time."

  "Why don't you go to bed, Garion?" Aunt Pol suggested firmly. Her eyes were on Durnik's tear-streaked face.

  Garion understood. "Good night, Durnik," he said. He got up and started toward one of the tents. He glanced back once. Aunt Pol had seated herself on the log beside the smith and was speaking quietly to him with one of her arms comfortingly about his shoulders.

  Chapter Five

  THE FIRE HAD BURNED down to a tiny orange flicker outside the tent, and the forest around the clearing was silent. Garion lay with a throbbing head trying to sleep. Finally, long past midnight, he gave it up. He slid out from under his blanket and went searching for Aunt Pol.

  Above the silvery fog a full moon had risen, and its light made the mist luminous. The air around him seemed almost to glow as he picked his way carefully through the silent camp. He scratched on the outside of her tent flap and whispered, "Aunt Pol?" There was no answer. "Aunt Pol," he whispered a bit louder, "it's me, Garion. May I come in?" There was still no answer, nor even the faintest sound. Carefully he pulled back the flap and peered inside. The tent was empty.

  Puzzled, even a bit alarmed, he turned and looked around the clearing. Hettar stood watch not far from the picketed horses, his hawk face turned toward the foggy forest and his cape drawn about him. Garion hesitated a moment and then stepped quietly behind the tents. He angled down through the trees and the filmy, luminous fog toward the brook, thinking that if he bathed his aching head in cold water it might help. He was about fifty yards from the tents when he saw a faint movement among the trees ahead. He stopped.

  A huge gray wolf padded out of the fog and stopped in the center of a small open space among the trees. Garion drew in his breath sharply and froze beside a large, twisted oak. The wolf sat down on the damp leaves as if he were waiting for something. The glowing fog illuminated details Garion would not have been able to see on an ordinary night. The wolf's ruff and shoulders were silvery, and his muzzle was shot with gray. He carried his age with enormous dignity, and his yellow eyes seemed calm and very wise somehow.

  Garion stood absolutely still. He knew that the slightest sound would instantly reach the sharp ears of the wolf, but it was more than that. The blow behind his ear had made him light-headed, and the strange glow of moon-drenched fog made this encounter seem somehow unreal. He found that he was holding his breath.

  A large, snowy white owl swooped over the open space among the tree
s on ghosting wings, settled on a low branch and perched there, looking down at the wolf with an unblinking stare. The gray wolf looked calmly back at the perched bird. Then, though there was no breath of wind, it seemed somehow that a sudden eddy in the shimmering fog made the figures of the owl and the wolf hazy and indistinct. When it cleared again, Mister Wolf stood in the center of the opening, and Aunt Pol in her gray gown was seated rather sedately on the limb above him.

  "It's been a long time since we've hunted together, Polgara," the old man said.

  "Yes, it has, father." She raised her arms and pushed her fingers through the long, dark weight of her hair. "I'd almost forgotten what it was like." She seemed to shudder then with a strange kind of pleasure. "It's a very good night for it."

  "A little damp," he replied, shaking one foot.

  "It's very clear above the treetops, and the stars are particularly bright. It's a splendid night for flying."

  "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Did you happen to remember what you were supposed to be doing?"

  "Don't be sarcastic, father." "Well?"

  "There's no one in the vicinity but Arends, and most of them are asleep."

  "You're sure?"

  "Of course. There isn't a Grolim for five leagues in any direction. Did you find the ones you were looking for?"

  "They weren't hard to follow," Wolf answered. "They're staying in a cave about three leagues deeper into the forest. Another one of them died on their way back there, and a couple more probably won't live until morning. The rest of them seemed a little bitter about the way things turned out."

  "I can imagine. Did you get close enough to hear what they were saying?"

  He nodded. "There's a man in one of the villages nearby who watches the road and lets them know when somebody passes by who might be worth robbing."

  "Then they're just ordinary thieves?"

  "Not exactly. They were watching for us in particular. We'd all been described to them in rather complete detail."

  "I think I'll go talk to this villager," she said grimly. She flexed her fingers in an unpleasantly suggestive manner.