Uvar was waiting for him. As it turned out, the months the King of Aloria had spent splitting wood paid off. Without so much as changing expression, Bent-beak lifted his axe and split the rebellious priest of Belar from the top of his head to his navel with one huge blow. Resistance more or less collapsed at that point, and the Bear-Cult went into hiding, while the rebellious clans suddenly became very fond of their king and renewed their vows of fealty.
Now do you see why war irritates me? It’s always the same. A lot of people get killed, but in the end, the whole thing is settled at the conference table. The notion of having the conference first doesn’t seem to occur to people.
The she-wolf’s observations were chilling. ‘One wonders what they plan to do with the meat,’ she said. That raised the hackles on the back of my neck, but I rather dimly perceived a way to end wars forever. If the victorious army had to eat the fallen, war would become much less attractive. I’d gone wolf enough to know that meat is flavored by the diet of the eatee, and stale beer isn’t the best condiment in the world.
Uvar was clearly in control now, so the twins, the wolf, and I went back to the Vale. The wolf, of course, left us when we reached Poledra’s cottage, and my wife was in my tower when I got there, looking for all the world as if she’d been there all along.
Belmakor had returned during our absence, but he’d locked himself in his tower, refusing to respond when we urged him to come out. The Master told us that our Melcene brother had gone into a deep depression for some reason, and we knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t appreciate any attempts to cheer him up. I’ve always been somewhat suspicious about Belmakor’s depression. If I could ever confirm those suspicions, I’d go back to where Belzedar is right now and put him someplace a lot more uncomfortable.
This was a painful episode, so I’m going to cut it short. After several years of melancholy brooding about the seeming hopelessness of our endless tasks, Belmakor gave up and decided to follow Belsambar into obliteration.
I think it was only the presence of Poledra that kept me from going mad. My brothers were dropping around me, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.
Aldur summoned Belzedar and Beldin back to the Vale, of course. Beldin had been down in Nyissa keeping an eye on the snake-people, and we all assumed that Belzedar had still been in Mallorea, although it didn’t take him long to arrive. He seemed peculiarly reluctant to join us in our sorrow, and I’ve always thought less of him because of his peculiar attitude. Belzedar had changed over the years. He still refused to give us any details about his scheme to retrieve the Orb – not that we really had much opportunity to talk with him, because he was quite obviously avoiding us. He had a strangely haunted look on his face that I didn’t think had anything to do with our common grief. It seemed too personal somehow. After about a week, he asked Aldur for permission to leave, and then he went back to Mallorea.
‘One notes that your brother is troubled,’ Poledra said to me after he’d gone. ‘It seems that he’s trying to follow two paths at once. His mind is divided, and he doesn’t know which of the paths is the true one.’
‘Belzedar’s always been a little strange,’ I agreed.
‘One would suggest that you shouldn’t trust him too much. He’s not telling you everything.’
‘He’s not telling me anything,’ I retorted. ‘He hasn’t been completely open with us since Torak stole the Master’s Orb. To be honest with you, love, I’ve never been so fond of him that I’m going to lose any sleep over the fact that he wants to avoid us.’
‘Say that again,’ she told me with a warm smile.
‘Say what again?’
‘Love. It’s a nice word, and you don’t say it very often.’
‘You know how I feel about you, dear.’
‘One likes to be told.’
‘Anything that makes you happy, love.’ I will never understand women.
Beldin and I spoke together at some length about Belzedar’s growing aloofness, but we ultimately concluded that there wasn’t very much we could do about it.
Then Beldin raised another issue that was of more immediate concern. ‘There’s trouble in Maragor,’ he told me.
‘Oh?’
‘I was on my way back from Nyissa when I heard about it. I was in a hurry, so I didn’t have time to look into it very deeply.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Some idiot misread one of their sacred texts. Mara must have been about half-asleep when he dictated it. Either that, or the scribe who was writing it down misunderstood him. It hinges on the word “assume”. The Marags are taking that word quite literally, I understand. They’ve taken to making raids across their borders. They capture Tolnedrans or Nyissans and take them back to Mar Amon. They have a big religious ceremony, and the captives are killed. Then the Marags eat them.’
‘They do what?’
‘You heard me, Belgarath. The Marags are practicing ritual cannibalism.’
‘Why doesn’t Mara put a stop to it?’
‘How should I know? I’m going back down there as soon as the Master allows me to leave. I think one of us had better have a long talk with Mara. If word of what’s going on gets back to Nedra or Issa, there’s going to be big trouble.’
‘What else can go wrong?’ I exploded in exasperation.
‘Lots of things, I’d imagine. Nobody ever promised you that life was going to be easy, did they? I’ll go to Mar Amon and see what I can do. I’ll send for you if I need any help.’
‘Keep me posted.’
‘If I find out anything meaningful. How are you and Poledra getting along?’
I smirked at him.
‘That’s disgusting, Belgarath. You’re behaving like some downy-cheeked adolescent.’
‘I know, and I’m enjoying every minute of it.’
‘I’m going to go call on the twins. I’m sure they’ll be able to put their hands on a barrel of good ale. I’ve been in Nyissa for the past few decades, and the Nyissans don’t believe in beer. They have other amusements.’
‘Oh?’
‘Certain leaves and berries and roots make them sooo happy. Most Nyissans are in a perpetual fog. Are you coming to visit the twins with me?’
‘I don’t think so, Beldin. Poledra doesn’t like the smell of beer on my breath.’
‘You’re hen-pecked, Belgarath.’
‘It doesn’t bother me in the slightest, brother.’ I smirked at him again, and he stumped away muttering to himself.
The Alorn clan wars re-erupted several times over the next few hundred years. The Bear-Cult was still agitating the outlying clans, but the kings of Aloria were able to keep things under control, usually by attacking cult strongholds and firmly trampling cult members into the ground. There’s a certain direct charm about the Alorn approach to problems, I suppose.
I think it was about the middle of the nineteenth century when I received an urgent summons from Beldin. The Nyissans had been making slave-raids into Maragor, and the Marags responded by invading the lands of the snake-people. I spoke extensively with Poledra and told her in no uncertain terms that I wanted her to stay in the Vale while I was gone. I asserted what minimal authority a pack-leader might have at that point, and she seemed to accept that authority – although with Poledra you could never really be entirely sure. She sulked, of course. Poledra could be absolutely adorable when she sulked. Garion will probably understand that, but I doubt that anyone else will.
I kissed my wife’s pouty lower lip and left for Maragor – although I’m not sure exactly what Beldin thought I might be able to do. Attempting to rein in the Marags was what you might call an exercise in futility. Marag men were all athletes who carried their brains in their biceps. The women of Maragor encouraged that, I’m afraid. They wanted stamina, not intelligence.
All right, Polgara, don’t beat it into the ground. I liked the Marags. They had their peculiarities, but they did enjoy life.
The Marag invasion of Nyissa t
urned out to be an unmitigated disaster. The Nyissans, like the snakes they so admired, simply slithered off into the jungle, but they left a few surprises behind to entertain the invaders. Pharmacology is an art-form in Nyissa, and not all of the berries and leaves that grow in their jungles make people feel good. Any number of them seem to have the opposite effect – although it’s sort of hard to say for sure. It’s entirely possible that the thousands of Marags who stiffened, went into convulsions, and died as the result of eating an apparently harmless bit of food were made ecstatic by the various poisons that took them off.
Grimly, the Marags pressed on, stopping occasionally to roast and eat a few prisoners of war. They reached Sthiss Tor, the Nyissan capital, but Queen Salmissra and all of the inhabitants had already melted into the jungles, leaving behind warehouses crammed to the rafters with food. The dim-witted Marags feasted on the food – which proved to be a mistake.
Why am I surrounded by people incapable of learning from experience? I wouldn’t have to see too many people die from ‘indigestion’ to begin to have some doubts about my food source. Would you believe that the Nyissans even managed to poison their cattle herds in such a subtle way that the cows looked plump and perfectly healthy, but when a Marag ate a steak or roast or chop from one of those cows, he immediately turned black in the face and died frothing at the mouth? Fully half of the males of the Marag race died during that abortive invasion.
Things were getting out of hand. Mara wouldn’t just sit back and watch the Nyissans exterminate his children for very long before he’d decide to intervene, and once he did that, torpid Issa would be obliged to wake up and respond. Issa was a strange God. After the cracking of the world, he’d simply turned the governance of the snake-people over to his High Priestess, Salmissra, and had gone into hibernation. I guess it hadn’t occurred to him to do anything to prolong her life, and so in time she died. The snake-people didn’t bother to wake him when she did. They simply selected a replacement.
Beldin and I went looking for the then-current Queen Salmissra so that we could offer to mediate a withdrawal of the Marags. We finally found her in a house deep in the jungles, a house almost identical to her palace in Sthiss Tor. She’s probably got those houses scattered all over Nyissa.
We presented ourselves to her eunuchs, and they took us to her throne room, where she lounged, admiring her reflection in a mirror. Salmissra – like all the other Salmissras – absolutely adored herself.
‘I think you’ve got a problem, your Majesty,’ I told her bluntly when Beldin and I were ushered into her presence. ‘Do you want my brother and me to try to end this war?’
The snake-woman didn’t seem to be particularly interested. ‘Do not expend thine energy, Ancient Belgarath,’ she yawned. All of the Salmissras have been virtually identical to the first one. They’re selected because of their resemblance to her and trained from early childhood to have that same chill, indifferent personality. Actually it makes them easier to deal with. Salmissra – any one of the hundred or so who’ve worn the name – is always the same person, so you don’t have to adjust your thinking.
Beldin, however, managed to get her attention. ‘All right,’ he told her with an indifference that matched her own, ‘it’s the dry season. Belgarath and I’ll set fire to your stinking jungles. We’ll burn Nyissa to the ground. Then the Marags will have to go home.’
That was the only time I’ve ever seen any of the Salmissras display any emotion other than sheer animal lust. Her pale eyes widened, and her chalk-white skin turned even whiter. ‘Thou wouldst not!’ she exclaimed.
Beldin shrugged. ‘Why not? It’ll put an end to this war, and if we get rid of all the assorted narcotics, maybe your people can learn to do something productive. Don’t toy with me, Snake-Woman, you’ll find that I play rough. Let the Marags go home, or I’ll burn Nyissa from the mountains to the sea. There won’t be a berry or a leaf left – not even the ones that sustain you. You’ll get old almost immediately, Salmissra, and all those pretty boys you’re so fond of will lose interest in you almost as fast.’
She glared at him, and then her colorless eyes began to smolder. ‘You interest me, ugly one,’ she told him. ‘I’ve never coupled with an ape before.’
‘Forget it,’ he snarled. ‘I like my women fat and hot-blooded. You’re too cold for me, Salmissra.’ That was my brother for you. He was never one to beat around the bush. ‘Do we agree then?’ he pressed. ‘If you let the Marags go home, I won’t burn your stinking swamp.’
‘The time will come when you’ll regret this, Disciple of Aldur.’
‘Ah, me little sweetie,’ he replied in that outrageous Wacite brogue. ‘I’ve regretted many things in me long, long life, don’t y’ know, but I’ll be after tellin’ y’ one thing, darlin’. Matin’ with a snake ain’t likely t’ be one of ‘em.’ Then his face hardened. ‘This is the last time I’m going to ask you, Salmissra. Are you going to let the Marags go, or am I going to start lighting torches?’
And that more or less ended the war.
‘You were moderately effective there, old boy,’ I complimented my brother as we left Salmissra’s jungle hideout. ‘I thought her eyes were going to pop out when you offered to burn her jungle.’
‘It got her attention.’ Then he sighed. ‘It might have been very interesting,’ he said rather wistfully.
‘What might have?’
‘Never mind.’
We nursed the limping Marag column back to their own borders, leaving thousands of dead behind us in those reeking swamps, and then Beldin and I returned to the Vale.
When we got there, our Master sent me back to Aloria. ‘The Queen of the Alorns is with child,’ he told me. ‘The one for whom we have waited is about to be born. I would have thee present at this birth and at diverse other times during his youth.’
‘Are we sure he’s the right one, Master?’ I asked him.
He nodded. ‘The signs are all present. Thou wilt know him when first thou seest him. Go thou to Val Alorn, therefore. Verify his identity and then return.’
And that’s how I came to be present when Cherek Bear-shoulders was born. When one of the midwives brought the red-faced, squalling infant out of the queen’s bedroom, I knew immediately that my Master had been right. Don’t ask me how I knew, I just did. Cherek and I had been linked since the beginning of time, and I recognized him the moment I laid eyes on him. I congratulated his father and then went back to the Vale to report to my Master, and, I hoped, to spend some time with my wife.
I went back to Aloria a number of times during Cherek’s boyhood, and we got to know each other quite well. By the time he was ten, he was as big as a full-grown man, and he kept on growing. He was over seven feet tall when he ascended the throne of Aloria at the age of nineteen. We gave him some time to get accustomed to his crown, and then I went back to Val Alorn and arranged a marriage for him. I can’t remember what the girl’s name was, but she did what she was supposed to do. Cherek was about twenty-three when his first son, Dras, was born, and about twenty-five when Algar came along. Riva, his third son, was born when the King of Aloria was twenty-seven. My Master was pleased. Everything was happening the way it was supposed to.
Cherek’s three sons grew as fast as he had. Alorns are large people anyway, but Dras, Algar, and Riva took that tendency to extremes. Walking into a room where Cherek and his sons were was sort of like walking into a grove of trees. The word ‘giant’ is used rather carelessly at times, but it was no exaggeration when it was used to describe those four.
As I’ve suggested several times, my Master had at least some knowledge of the future, but he shared that knowledge only sparingly with us. I knew that Cherek and his sons and I were supposed to do something, but my Master wouldn’t tell me exactly what, reasoning, I suppose, that if I knew too much about it, I might in some way tamper with it and make it come out wrong.
I’d gone to Aloria during the summer when Riva turned eighteen. That was a fairly significant anniver
sary in a young Alorn’s life back then, because it was on his eighteenth birthday that a description of him was added to his name. Four years previously, Riva’s older brother had become Dras Bull-neck, and two years after that, Algar had been dubbed Algar Fleet-foot. Riva, who had huge hands, became Iron-grip. I honestly believe that he could have crushed rocks into powder in those hands of his.
Poledra had a little surprise for me when I returned to the Vale. ‘One wonders if you have finished with these errands for a time,’ she said when I got home to our tower.
‘One hopes so,’ I replied. We didn’t exactly speak to each other in wolvish when we were alone, but we came close. ‘One’s Master will decide that, however,’ I added.
‘One will speak with the Master,’ she told me. ‘It is proper that you stay here for a time.’
‘Oh?’
‘It is a custom, and customs should be observed.’
‘Which custom is that?’
‘The one which tells us that the sire should be present at the births of his young.’
I stared at her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I demanded.
‘I just did. What would you like for supper?’
Chapter 11
Poledra largely ignored her pregnancy. ‘It’s a natural process,’ she told me with a shrug. ‘There’s nothing very remarkable about it.’ She continued attending to what she felt were her duties even as her waist-line expanded and her movements became increasingly awkward, and nothing I could do or say could persuade her to change her set routine.
Over the centuries, she’d made some significant alterations to my tower. As you may have heard, I’m not the neatest person in the world, but that’s never bothered me very much. A bit of clutter gives a place that lived-in look, don’t you agree? That all changed after Poledra and I were married. There weren’t any interior walls in my tower, largely because I like to be able to look out all of my windows when I’m working. I sort of haphazardly arranged my living space – this area for cooking and eating, that for study, and the one over there for sleeping. It worked out fairly well while I was alone. My location in the various parts of the tower told me what I was supposed to be doing.
Belgarath the Sorcerer and Polgara the Sorceress Page 17
