"-of Torak stirring?" the twins asked.
"Can't you two ever talk straight?" Beldin demanded.
"We're sorry-"
"-it's our nature."
The ugly little man shook his head with disgust. "Never mind. No. Torak didn't move once in the whole five hundred years. There was mold on him when Belzedar dragged him out of the cave."
"Did you follow Belzedar?" Belgarath asked.
"Naturally."
"Where did he take Torak?"
"Now where do you think, idiot? To the ruins of Cthol Mishrak in Mallorea, of course. There are only a few places on earth that will bear Torak's weight, and that's one of them. Belzedar will have to keep Ctuchik and the Orb away from Torak, and that's the only place he could go. The Mallorean Grolims refuse to accept Ctuchik's authority, so Belzedar will be safe there. It will cost him a great deal to pay for their aid, but they'll keep Ctuchik out of Mallorea - unless he raises an army of Murgos and invades."
"That's something we could hope for," Barak said.
"You're supposed to be a bear, not a donkey," Beldin told him. "Don't base your hopes on the impossible. Neither Ctuchik nor Belzedar would start that sort of war at this particular time - not with Belgarion here stalking through the world like an earthquake." He scowled at Aunt Pol. "Can't you teach him to be a little quieter? Or are your wits getting as flabby as your behind?"
"Be civil, uncle," she replied. "The boy's just coming into his strength. We were all a bit clumsy at first."
"He doesn't have time to be a baby, Pol. The stars are dropping into southern Cthol Murgos like poisoned roaches, and dead Grolims are moaning in their tombs from Rak Cthol to Rak Hagga. The time's on us, and he has to be ready."
"He'll be ready, uncle."
"Maybe," the filthy man said sourly.
"Are you going back to Cthol Mishrak?" Belgarath asked.
"No. Our Master told me to stay here. The twins and I have work to do and we don't have much time."
"He spoke to-"
"-us, too."
"Stop that!" Beldin snapped. He turned back to Belgarath. "Are you going to Rak Cthol now?"
"Not yet. We've got to go to Prolgu first. I have to talk to the Gorim, and we've got to pick up another member of the party."
"I noticed that your group wasn't complete yet. What about the last one?"
Belgarath spread his hands. "That's the one that worries me. I haven't been able to find any trace of her - and I've been looking for three thousand years."
"You spent too much time looking in alehouses."
"I noticed the same thing, uncle," Aunt Pol said with a sweet little smile.
"Where do we go after Prolgu?" Barak asked.
"I think that then we'll go to Rak Cthol," Belgarath replied rather grimly. "We've got to get the Orb back from Ctuchik, and I've been meaning to have a rather pointed discussion with the magician of the Murgos for a long, long time, now."
PART THREE - ULGO
Chapter Thirteen
THE FOLLOWING MORNING they turned northwest and rode toward the stark, white peaks of the mountains of Ulgo, glittering in the morning sun above the lush meadows of the Vale.
"Snow up there," Barak observed. "It could be a difficult trip."
"It always is," Hettar told him.
"Have you been to Prolgu before?" Durnik asked.
"A few times. We keep communications open with the Ulgos. Our visits are mostly ceremonial."
Princess Ce'Nedra had been riding beside Aunt Pol, her tiny face troubled. "How can you stand him, Lady Polgara?" she burst out finally. "He's so ugly."
"Who's that, dear?"
"That awful dwarf."
"Uncle Beldin?" Aunt Pol looked mildly surprised. "He's always been like that. You have to get to know him, that's all."
"But he says such terrible things to you."
"It's the way he hides his real feelings," Aunt Pol explained. "He's a very gentle person, really, but people don't expect that - coming from him. When he was a child, his people drove him out because he was so deformed and hideous. When he finally came to the Vale, our Master saw past the ugliness to the beauty in his mind."
"But does he have to be so dirty?"
Aunt Pol shrugged slightly. "He hates his deformed body, so he ignores it." She looked at the princess, her eyes calm. "It's the easiest thing in the world to judge things by appearances, Ce'Nedra," she said, "and it's usually wrong. Uncle Beldin and I are very fond of each other. That's why we take the trouble to invent such elaborate insults. Compliments would be hypocrisy - he is, after all, very ugly."
"I just don't understand." Ce'Nedra sounded baffled.
"Love can show itself in many strange ways," Aunt Pol told her. Her tone was offhand, but the look she directed at the tiny princess was penetrating.
Ce'Nedra flickered one quick look at Garion, and then averted her eyes, blushing slightly.
Garion considered the exchange between his Aunt Pol and the princess as he rode. It was quite obvious that Aunt Pol had been telling the little girl something important, but whatever it was escaped him.
They rode for several days across the Vale and then moved up into the foothills which clustered along the flanks of the ragged peaks that formed the land of the Ulgos. Once again the seasons changed as they rode. It was early autumn as they crested the first low range, and the valleys beyond were aflame with crimson leaves. At the top of a second, higher range, the trees had been swept bare, and the wind had the first bite of winter in it as it whistled down from the peaks. The sky grew overcast, and tendrils of cloud seeped down the rocky gorges above them. Spits of intermittent snow and rain pelted them as they climbed higher up the rocky slopes.
"I suppose we'd better begin keeping an eye out for Brill," Silk said hopefully one snowy afternoon. "It's about time for him to show up again."
"Not very likely," Belgarath replied. "Murgos avoid Ulgoland even more than they avoid the Vale. Ulgos dislike Angaraks intensely."
"So do Alorns."
"Ulgos can see in the dark, though," the old man told him. "Murgos who come into these mountains tend not to wake up from their first night's sleep up here. I don't think we need to worry about Brill."
"Pity," Silk remarked with a certain disappointment.
"It won't hurt to keep our eyes open, though. There are worse things than Murgos in the mountains of Ulgo."
Silk scoffed. "Aren't those stories exaggerated?"
"No. Not really."
"The region abounds with monsters, Prince Kheldar," Mandorallen assured the little man. "Some years back, a dozen foolish young knights of my acquaintance rode into these mountains to test their bravery and prowess against the unseemly beasts. Not one returned."
When they crested the next ridge, the full force of a winter gale struck them. Snow, which had grown steadily heavier as they climbed, drove horizontally in the howling wind.
"We'll have to take cover until this blows over, Belgarath," Barak shouted above the wind, fighting to keep his flapping bearskin cape around him.
"Let's drop down into this next valley," Belgarath replied, also struggling with his cloak. "The trees down there should break the wind."
They crossed the ridge and angled down toward the pines clustered at the bottom of the basin ahead. Garion pulled his cloak tighter and bowed his head into the shrieking wind.
The thick stand of sapling pine in the basin blocked the force of the gale, but the snow swirled about them as they reined in.
"We're not going to get much farther today, Belgarath," Barak declared, trying to brush the snow out of his beard. "We might as well hole up here and wait for morning."
"What's that?" Durnik asked sharply, cocking his head to one side.
"The wind," Barak shrugged.
"No. Listen."
Above the howling of the wind, a shrill whinnying sound came to them.
"Look there." Hettar pointed.
Dimly they saw a dozen horselike animals crossing the r
idge behind them. Their shapes were blurred by the thickly falling snow, and their line as they moved seemed almost ghostly. On a rise just above them stood a huge stallion, his mane and tail tossing in the wind. His neigh was almost a shrill scream.
"Hrulgin!" Belgarath said sharply.
"Can we outrun them?" Silk asked hopefully.
"I doubt it," Belgarath replied. "Besides, they've got our scent now. They'll dog our trail from here to Prolgu if we try to run."
"Then we must teach them to fear our trail and avoid it," Mandorallen declared, tightening the straps on his shield. His eyes were very bright.
"You're falling back into your old habits, Mandorallen," Barak observed in a grumpy voice.
Hettar's face had assumed that curiously blank expression it usually did when he was communicating with his horses. He shuddered finally, and his eyes went sick with revulsion.
"Well?" Aunt Pol asked him.
"They aren't horses," he began.
"We know that, Hettar," she replied. "Can you do anything with them? Frighten them off perhaps?"
He shook his head. "They're hungry, Polgara," he told her, "and they have our scent. The herd stallion seems to have much more control over them than he would if they were horses. I might be able to frighten one or two of the weaker ones - if it weren't for him."
"Then we'll have to fight them all," Barak said grimly, buckling on his shield.
"I don't think so," Hettar replied, his eyes narrowing. "The key seems to be the stallion. He dominates the whole herd. I think that if we kill him, the rest will turn and run."
"All right," Barak said, "we try for the stallion then."
"We might want to make some kind of noise," Hettar suggested. "Something that sounds like a challenge. That might make him come out to the front to answer it. Otherwise, we'll have to go through the whole herd to get to him."
"Mayhap this will provoke him," Mandorallen said. He lifted his horn to his lips and blew a brassy note of ringing defiance that was whipped away by the gale.
The stallion's shrill scream answered immediately.
"It sounds as if it's working," Barak observed. "Blow it again, Mandorallen."
Mandorallen sounded his horn again, and again the stallion shrilled his reply. Then the great beast plunged down from the ridgetop and charged furiously through the herd toward them. When he reached the forefront, he shrieked again and reared up on his hind legs, his front claws flashing in the snowy air.
"That did it," Barak barked. "Let's go!" He jammed his spurs home, and his big gray leaped forward, spraying snow behind him. Hettar and Mandorallen swept out to flank him, and the three plunged forward through the thickly falling snow toward the screaming Hrulga stallion. Mandorallen set his lance as he charged, and a strange sound drifted back on the wind as he thundered toward the advancing Hrulgin. Mandorallen was laughing.
Garion drew his sword and pulled his horse in front of Aunt Pol and Ce'Nedra. He realized that it was probably a futile gesture, but he did it anyway.
Two of the Hrulgin, perhaps at the herd stallion's unspoken command, bounded forward to cut off Barak and Mandorallen while the stallion himself moved to meet Hettar as if recognizing the Algar as the greatest potential danger to the herd. As the first Hrulga reared, his fangs bared in a catlike snarl and his clawed feet widespread, Mandorallen lowered his lance and drove it through the snarling monster's chest. Bloody froth burst from the Hrulga's mouth, and he toppled over backward, clawing the broken shaft of Mandorallen's lance into splinters as he fell.
Barak caught a clawed swipe on his shield and split open the head of the second Hrulga with a vast overhand swing of his heavy sword. The beast collapsed, his convulsions churning the snow.
Hettar and the herd stallion stalked each other in the swirling snow. They moved warily, circling, their eyes locked on each other with a deadly intensity. Suddenly the stallion reared and lunged all in one motion, his great forelegs wide and his claws outspread. But Hettar's horse, his mind linked with his rider's, danced clear of the furious charge. The Hrulga spun and charged again, and once again Hettar's horse jumped to one side. The infuriated stallion screamed his frustration and lunged in, his claws flailing. Hettar's horse sidestepped the enraged beast, then darted in, and Hettar launched himself from his saddle and landed on the stallion's back. His long, powerful legs locked about the Hrulga's ribs and his right hand gathered a great fistful of the animal's mane.
The stallion went mad as he felt for the first time in the entire history of his species the weight of a rider on his back. He plunged and reared and shrieked, trying to shake Hettar off. The rest of the herd, which had been moving to the attack, faltered and stared in uncomprehending horror at the stallion's wild attempts to dislodge his rider. Mandorallen and Barak reined in, dumbfounded, as Hettar rode the raging stallion in circles through the blizzard. Then, grimly, Hettar slid his left hand down his leg and drew a long, broad dagger from his boot. He knew horses, and he knew where to strike.
His first thrust was lethal. The churned snow turned red. The stallion reared one last time, screaming and with blood pouring out of his mouth, and then he dropped back to stand on shuddering legs. Slowly his knees buckled and he toppled to one side. Hettar jumped clear.
The herd of Hrulgin turned and fled, squealing, back into the blizzard.
Hettar grimly cleaned his dagger in the snow and resheathed it in his boot. Briefly he laid one hand on the dead stallion's neck, then turned to look through the trampled snow for the sabre he had discarded in his wild leap onto the stallion's back.
When the three warriors returned to the shelter of the trees, Mandorallen and Barak were staring at Hettar with a look of profound respect.
"It's a shame they're mad," the Algar said with a distant look on his face. "There was a moment just a moment-when I almost got through to him, and we moved together. Then the madness came back, and I had to kill him. If they could be tamed-" He broke off and shook his head. "Oh, well." He shrugged regretfully.
"You wouldn't actually ride something like that?" Durnik's voice was shocked.
"I've never had an animal like that under me," Hettar said quietly. "I don't think I'll ever forget what it was like." The tall man turned and walked some distance away and stood staring out into the swirling snow.
They set up for the night in the shelter of the pines. The next morning the wind had abated, although it was still snowing heavily when they set out again. The snow was already knee-deep, and the horses struggled as they climbed.
They crossed yet another ridge and started down into the next valley. Silk looked dubiously around at the thick-falling snow settling through the silent air. "If it gets much deeper, we're going to bog down, Belgarath," he said glumly. "Particularly if we have to keep climbing like this."
"We'll be all right now," the ald man assured him. "We follow a series of valleys from here. They lead right up to Prolgu, so we can avoid the peaks."
"Belgarath," Barak said back over his shoulder from his place in the lead, "there are some fresh tracks up here." He pointed ahead at a line of footprints plowed through the new snow across their path.
The old man moved ahead and stopped to examine the tracks. "Algroth," he said shortly. "We'd better keep our eyes open."
They rode warily down into the valley where Mandorallen paused long enough to cut himself a fresh lance.
"I'd be a little dubious about a weapon that keeps breaking," Barak observed as the knight remounted.
Mandorallen shrugged, his armor creaking. "There are always trees about, my Lord," he replied.
Back among the pines that carpeted the valley floor, Garion heard a familiar barking.
"Grandfather," he warned.
"I hear them," Belgarath answered.
"How many, do you think?" Silk asked.
"Perhaps a dozen," Belgarath said.
"Eight," Aunt Pol corrected firmly.
"If they are but eight, will they dare attack?" Mandorallen asked. "Those we
met in Arendia seemed to seek courage in numbers."
"Their lair's in this valley, I think," the old man replied. "Any animal tries to defend its lair. They're almost certain to attack."
"We must seek them out, then," the knight declared confidently.
"Better to destroy them now on ground of our own choosing than to be surprised in some ambush."
"He's definitely backsliding," Barak observed sourly to Hettar.
"He's probably right this time, though," Hettar replied.
"Have you been drinking, Hettar?" Barak asked suspiciously.
"Come, my Lords," Mandorallen said gaily. "Let us rout the brutes so that we may continue our journey unmolested." He plowed off through the snow in search of the barking Algroths.
"Coming, Barak?" Hettar invited as he drew his sabre.
Barak sighed. "I guess I'd better," he answered mournfully. He turned to Belgarath. "This shouldn't take long. I'll try to keep our bloodthirsty friends out of trouble."
Hettar laughed.
"You're getting to be as bad as he is," Barak accused as the two of them moved into a gallop in Mandorallen's wake.
Garion and the others sat waiting tensely in the sifting snowfall. Then the barking sounds off in the woods suddenly turned into yelps of surprise. The sound of blows began to ring through the trees, and there were shrieks of pain and shouts as the three warriors called to each other. After perhaps a quarter of an hour, they came galloping back with the deep snow spraying out from their horses' hooves.
"Two of them got away," Hettar reported regretfully.
"What a shame," Silk replied.
"Mandorallen," Barak said with a pained look, "you've picked up a bad habit somewhere. Fighting's a serious business, and all this giggling and laughing of yours smacks of frivolity."
"Doth it offend thee, my Lord?"
"It's not so much that it offends me, Mandorallen. It's more a distraction. It breaks my concentration."
"I shall strive to moderate my laughter in future, then."
"I'd appreciate it."
"How did it go?" Silk asked.
"It wasn't much of a fight," Barak replied. "We caught them completely by surprise. I hate to admit it, but our chortling friend there was right for once."
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