"I imagine that things are a bit scrambled up in Rak Cthol," Silk replied. "No one's in charge any more, and that confuses Murgos. They tend to go all to pieces when there's nobody around to give them orders."
"Isn't that going to make it hard for us to get out of here?" Garion asked. "What I mean is that they're not going anyplace. They're just milling around. How are we going to get through them?"
Silk shrugged. "We'll just pull up our hoods and mill around with the rest of them." He pulled the coarse cloth of the Murgo robe he wore closer about him to ward off the chill and turned to look back into the cave. "The sun's going down," he reported.
"Let's wait until it's completely dark," Polgara replied. She was carefully bundling the little boy up in one of Garion's old tunics.
"Once we get out a ways, I'll drop a few odds and ends," Silk said. "Murgos can be a little dense sometimes, and we wouldn't want them to miss our trail." He turned to look back out at the sunset. "It's going to be a cold night," he remarked to no one in particular.
"Garion," Aunt Pol said, rising to her feet, "you and Durnik stay close to Taiba. She's never ridden before, and she might need some help at first."
"What about the little boy?" Dumik asked.
"He'll ride with me."
"And Belgarath?" Mandorallen inquired, glancing over at the stilh sleeping old sorcerer.
"When the time comes, we'll just put him on his horse," Polgara replied. "I can keep him in his saddle - as long as we don't make any sudden changes in direction. Is it getting any darker?"
"We'd better wait for a little longer," Silk answered. "There's still quite a bit of light out there."
They waited. The evening sky began to turn purple, and the first stars came out, glittering cold and very far away. Torches began to appear among the searching Murgos. "Shall we go?" Silk suggested, rising to his feet.
They led their horses quietly out of the cave and down across the scree to the sand. There they stopped for several moments while a group of Murgos carrying torches galloped by several hundred yards out. "Don't get separated," Silk told them as they mounted.
"How far is it to the edge of the wasteland?" Barak asked the little man, grunting as he climbed up onto his horse.
"Two days' hard riding," Silk replied. "Or nights in this case. We'll probably want to take cover when the sun's out. We don't look all that much like Murgos."
"Let's get started," Polgara told him.
They moved out at a walk, going slowly until Taiba became more sure of herself and Belgarath showed that he could stay in his saddle even though he could not yet communicate with anyone. Then they nudged their horses into a canter that covered a great deal of ground without exhausting the horses.
As they crossed the first ridge, they rode directly into a large group of Murgos carrying torches.
"Who's there?" Silk demanded sharply, his voice harsh with the characteristic accents of Murgo speech. "Identify yourselves."
"We're from Rak Cthol," one of the Murgos answered respectfully.
"I know that, blockhead," Silk barked. "I asked your identity."
"Third Phalanx," the Murgo said stiffly.
"That's better. Put out those torches. How do you expect to see anything beyond ten feet with them flaring in your eyes?"
The torches were immediately extinguished.
"Move 'your search to the north," Silk commanded. "The Ninth Phalanx is covering this sector."
"But "
"Are you going to argue with me`?"
"No, but "
"Move! Now!"
The Murgos wheeled their horses about and galloped off into the darkness.
"Clever," Barak said admiringly.
Silk shrugged. "Pretty elementary," he replied. "People are grateful for a bit of direction when they're confused. Let's move along, shall we?"
There were other encounters during the long, cold, moonless night as they rode west. They were inescapable in view of the hordes of Murgos scouring the wasteland in search of them, but Silk handled each such meeting smoothly, and the night passed without significant incident.
Toward morning the little man began artfully dropping various articles to mark their trail. "A bit overdone, perhaps," he said critically, looking at an old shoe he had just tossed into the hoof churned sand behind them.
"What are you mumbling about?" Barak asked him.
"Our trail," Silk replied. "We want them to follow us, remember? They're supposed to think we're headed toward Tolnedra."
"So?"
"I was just suggesting that this is a bit crude."
"You worry too much about things like that."
"It's a question of style, my dear Barak," Silk replied loftily. "Sloppy work tends to be habit-forming."
As the first steel-gray light of dawn began to creep across the wintry sky, they took shelter among the boulders of one of the ridges that laced the floor of the wasteland. Durnik, Barak and Mandorallen stretched the canvas of their tents tautly over a narrow ravine on the west side of the ridge and sprinkled sand on top of it to disguise their makeshift shelter.
"It's probably best not to build a fire," Durnik said to Polgara as they led their horses in under the canvas, "what with the smoke and all."
She nodded her agreement. "We could all use a hot meal," she said, "but I suppose we'll have to wait."
They ate a cold breakfast of bread and cheese and began to settle in, hoping to sleep out the day so that they could ride on the next night.
"I could definitely use a bath," Silk said, brushing sand out of his hair.
The little boy looked at nim, frowning slightly. Then he walked over and offered him the Orb. 'Errand'" he asked.
Silk carefully put his hands behind his back and shook his head. "Is that the only word he knows?" he asked Polgara.
"It seems to be," she replied.
"I don't quite get the connection," Silk said. "What does he mean by it.
"He's probably been told that he has an errand to run," she explained, "to steal the Orb. I imagine that Zedar's been telling him that over and over since he was a baby, and the word stuck in his mind."
"It's a bit disconcerting." Silk was still holding his hands behind his back. "It seems oddly appropriate sometimes."
"He doesn't appear to think the way we do," she told him. "The only purpose he has in life is to give the Orb to someone - anyone, it would seem." She frowned thoughtfully. "Durnik, why don't you see if you can make him some kind of pouch to carry it in, and we'll fasten it to his waist. Maybe if he doesn't have it right there in his hand all the time, he won't think about it so much."
"Of course, Mistress Pol," Durnik agreed. "I should have thought of that myself." He went to one of the packs and took out an old, burnscarred leather apron and fashioned a pouch out of a wide piece of leather he cut from it. "Boy," he said when he had finished, "come here."
The little boy was curiously examining a small, very dry bush at the upper end of the ravine and gave no indication that he knew the smith was calling him.
"You-Errand!" Durnik said.
The little boy looked around quickly and smiled as he went to Durnik.
"Why did you call him that?" Silk asked curiously.
Durnik shrugged. "He seems to be fond of the word and he answers to it. It will do for a name until we can find something more suitable, I suppose."
"Errand?" the child asked, offering the Orb to Durnik.
Durnik smiled at him, bent over and held the mouth of the pouch open. "Put it in here, Errand," he instructed, "and we'll tie it up all nice and safe so you won't lose it."
The little boy delightedly deposited the Orb in the leather pouch. "Errand," he declared firmly.
"I suppose so," Durnik agreed. He pulled the drawstring tight and then tied the pouch to the bit of rope the boy wore as a belt. "There we are, Errand. All safe and secure now."
Errand examined the pouch carefully, tugging at it a few times as if to be sure it was tightly tied. Then he gave a happy little
laugh, put his arms about Durnik's neck and kissed his cheek.
"He's a good lad," Durnik said, looking a trifle embarrassed.
"He's totally innocent," Aunt Pol told him from where she was examining the sleeping Belgarath. "He has no idea of the difference between good and evil, so everything in the world seems good to him."
"I wonder what it's like to see the world that way," Taiba mused, gently touching the child's smiling face. "No sorrow; no fear; no pain - just to love everything you see because you believe that everything is good."
Relg, however, had looked up sharply. The troubled expression that had hovered on his face since he had rescued the trapped slave woman fell away to be replaced by that look of fanatic zeal that it had always worn before. "Monstrous!" he gasped.
Taiba turned on him, her eyes hardening. "What's so monstrous about happiness?" she demanded, putting her arm about the boy.
"We aren't here to be happy," he replied, carefully avoiding her eyes.
"Why are we here then?" she challenged.
"To serve our God and to avoid sin." He still refused to look at her, and his tone seemed a trifle less certain.
"Well, I don't have a God," she retorted, "and the child probably doesn't either, so if it's all the same to you, he and I will just concentrate on trying to be happy - and if a bit of sin gets involved in it, so what?"
"Have you no shame?" His voice was choked.
"I am what I am," she replied, "and I won't apologize, since I didn't have very much to say about it."
"Boy," Relg snapped at the child, "come away from her at once."
Taiba straightened, her face hardening even more, and she faced him defiantly. "What do you think you're going to do?" she demanded.
"I will fight sin wherever I find it," he declared.
"Sin, sin, sin!" she flared. "Is that all you ever think about?"
"It's my constant care. I guard against it every moment."
She laughed. "How tedious. Can't you think of anything better to do? Oh, I forgot," she added mockingly. "There's all that praying too, isn't there? All that bawling at your God about how vile you are. I think you must bore this UL of yours tremendously sometimes, do you know that?"
Enraged, Relg raised his fist. "Don't ever speak UL's name again!"
"Will you hit me if I do? It doesn't matter that much. People have been hitting me all my life. Go ahead, Relg. Why don't you hit me?" She lifted her smudged face to him.
Relg's hand fell.
Sensing her advantage, Taiba put her hands to the throat of the rough gray dress Polgara had given her. "I can stop you, Relg," she told him.
She began unfastening the dress. "Watch me. You look at me all the time anyway - I've seen you with your hot eyes on me. You call me names and say that I'm wicked, but still you watch. Look then. Don't try to hide it." She continued to unfasten the front of the dress. "If you're free of sin, my body shouldn't bother you at all."
Relg's eyes were bulging now.
"My body doesn't bother me, but it bothers you very much, doesn't it? But is the wickedness in my mind or yours? I can sink you in sin any time I want to. All I have to do is this." And she pulled open the front of her dress.
Relg spun about, making strangled noises.
"Don't you want to look, Relg?" she mocked him as he fled.
"You have a formidable weapon there, Taiba," Silk congratulated her.
"It was the only weapon I had in the slave pens," she told him. "I learned to use it when I had to." She carefully rebuttoned her dress and turned back to Errand as if nothing had happened.
"What's all the shouting?" Belgarath mumbled, rousing slightly, and they all turned quickly to him.
"Relg and Taiba were having a little theological discussion," Silk replied lightly. "The finer points were very interesting. How are you?" But the old man had already drifted back into sleep.
"At least he's starting to come around," Durnik noted.
"It will be several days before he's fully recovered," Polgara told him, putting her hand to Belgarath's forehead. "He's still terribly weak."
Garion slept for most of the day, wrapped in his blankets and lying on the stony ground. When the chill and a particularly uncomfortable rock under his hip finally woke him, it was late afternoon. Silk sat guard near the mouth of the ravine, staring out at the black sand and the grayish salt flats, but the rest were all asleep. As he walked quietly down to where the little man sat, Garion noticed that Aunt Pol slept with Errand in her arms, and he pushed away a momentary surge of jealousy. Taiba murmured something as he passed, but a quick glance told him that she was not awake. She was lying not far from Relg; in her sleep, her hand seemed to be reaching out toward the slumbering Ulgo.
Silk's sharp little face was alert and he showed no signs of weariness. "Good morning," he murmured, "or whatever."
"Don't you ever get tired?" Garion asked him, speaking quietly so that his voice would not disturb the others.
"I slept a bit," Silk told him.
Durnik came out from under the canvas roof to join them, yawning and rubbing at his eyes. "I'll relieve you now," he said to Silk. "Did you see anything?" He squinted out toward the lowering sun.
Silk shrugged. "Some Murgos. They were a couple of miles off to the south. I don't think anyone's found our trail yet. We might have to make it a little more obvious for them."
Garion felt a peculiar, oppressive sort of weight on the back of his neck. He glanced around uncomfortably. Then, with no warning, there was a sudden sharp stab that seemed to go straight into his mind. He gasped and tensed his will, pushing the attack away.
"What's wrong?" Silk asked sharply.
"A Grolim," Garion snarled, clenching his will as he prepared to fight.
"Garion!" It was Aunt Pol, and her voice sounded urgent. He turned and darted back in under the canvas with Silk and Durnik on his heels. She had risen to her feet and was standing with her arms protectively about Errand.
"That was a Grolim, wasn't it?" Garion demanded, his voice sounding a bit shrill.
"It was more than one," she replied tensely. "The Hierarchs control the Grolims now that Ctuchik's dead. They've joined their wills to try to kill Errand."
The others, awakened by her sharp cry, were stumbling to their feet and reaching for weapons.
"Why are they after the boy?" Silk asked.
"They know that he's the only one who can touch the Orb. They think that if he dies, we won't be able to get it out of Cthol Murgos."
"What do we do?" Garion asked her, looking around helplessly.
"I'm going to have to concentrate on protecting the child," she told him. "Step back, Garion."
"What?"
"Get back away from me." She bent and drew a circle in the sand, enclosing herself and the little boy in it. "Listen to me, all of you," she said. "Until we're out of this, none of you come any closer to me than this. I don't want any of you getting hurt." She drew herself up, and the white lock in her hair seemed to blaze.
"Wait," Garion exclaimed.
"I don't dare. They could attack again at any moment. It's going to be up to you to protect your grandfather and the others."
" Me?"
"You're the only one who can do it. You have the power. Use it." She raised her hand.
"How many of them are there that I have to fight off?" Garion demantled, but he already felt the sudden surge and the peculiar roaring sound in his mind as Aunt Pol's will thrust out. The air about her seemed to shimmer, distorting like heat-waves on a summer afternoon. Garion could actually feel the barrier encircling her. "Aunt Pol?" he said to her. Then he raised his voice and shouted, "Aunt Pol!"
She shook her head and pointed at her ear. She seemed to say something, but no sound penetrated the shimmering shield she had erected.
"How many?" Garion mouthed the words exaggeratedly.
She held up both hands with one thumb folded in.
"Nine?" he mouthed again.
She nodded and then
drew her cloak in around the little boy.
"Well, Garion?" Silk asked then, his eyes penetrating, "What do we do now?"
"Why are you asking me?"
"You heard her. Belgarath's still in a daze, and she's busy. You're in charge now."
"Me?"
"What do we do?" Silk pressed. "You've got to learn to make decisions."
"I don't know." Garion floundered helplessly.
"Never admit that," Silk told him. "Act as if you know - even if you don't."
"We-uh-we'll wait until it gets dark, I guess - then we'll keep going the same way we have been."
"There." Silk grinned. "See how easy it is?"
Chapter Three
THERE WAS THE faintest sliver of a moon low over the horizon as they started out across the black sand of the wasteland in the biting chill. Garion felt distinctly uncomfortable in the role Silk had thrust upon him. He knew that there had been no need for it, since they all knew where they were going and what they had to do. If any kind of leadership had actually been required, Silk himself was the logical one to provide it; but instead, the little man had placed the burden squarely on Garion's shoulders and now seemed to be watching intently to see how he would handle it.
There was no time for leadership or even discussion when, shortly after midnight, they ran into a party of Murgos. There were six of them, and they came galloping over a low ridge to the south and blundered directly into the middle of Garion's party. Barak and Mandorallen reacted with that instant violence of trained warriors, their swords whistling out of their sheaths to crunch with steely ringing sounds into the mail-skirted bodies of the startled Murgos. Even as Garion struggled to draw his own sword, he saw one of the black-robed intruders tumble limply out of his saddle, while another, howling with pain and surprise, toppled slowly backward, clutching at his chest. There was a confusion of shouts and shrill screams from terrified horses as the men fought in the darkness. One frightened Murgo wheeled his mount to flee, but Garion, without even thinking, pulled his horse in front of him, sword raised to strike. The desperate Murgo made a frantic swing with his own weapon, but Garion easily parried the badly aimed swipe and flicked his blade lightly, whiplike, across the Murgo's shoulder. There was a satisfying crunch as the sharp edge bit into the Murgo's mail shirt. Garion deftly parried another clumsy swing and whipped his blade again, slashing the Murgo across the face. All the instruction he had received from his friends seemed to click together into a single, unified style that was part Cherek, part Arendish, part Algar, and was distinctly Garion's own. This style baked the frightened Murgo, and his efforts became more desperate. But each time he swung, Garion easily parried and instantly countered with those light, flicking slashes that inevitably drew blood. Garion felt a wild, surging exultation boiling in his veins as he fought, and there was a fiery taste in his mouth.
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