Demon Lord Of Karanda

by Eddings, David

  ‘Let me go!’ Ce’Nedra almost screamed. ‘Can’t you see that it’s a baby?’ She struggled to free herself.

  Very coolly, Vella measured the little Queen, then slapped her sharply across the face. So far as Garion knew, it was the first time anyone had ever hit Ce’Nedra. ‘The baby’s dead, Ce’Nedra,’ Vella told her with brutal directness, ‘and if you go near it, you’ll die, too.’ She began to drag her captive back toward the others. Ce’Nedra stared back over her shoulder at the sickly wailing child, her hand outstretched toward it.

  Then Velvet moved to her side, put an arm about her shoulders, and gently turned her so that she could no longer see the child. ‘Ce’Nedra,’ she said, ‘you must think first of your own baby. Would you want to carry this dreadful disease to him?’

  Ce’Nedra stared at her.

  ‘Or do you want to die before you ever see him again?’

  With a sudden wail, Ce’Nedra fell into Velvet’s arms, sobbing bitterly.

  ‘I hope she won’t hold any grudges,’ Vella murmured.

  ‘You’re very quick, Vella,’ Polgara said, ‘and you think very fast when you have to.’

  Vella shrugged. ‘I’ve found that a smart slap across the mouth is the best cure for hysterics.’

  Polgara nodded. ‘It usually works,’ she agreed approvingly.

  They went on down the street until Feldegast led them into another smelly alley. He fumbled with the latch to the wide door of a boarded-up warehouse, then swung it open. ‘Here we are, then,’ he said, and they all followed him inside. A long ramp led down into a cavernous cellar, where Yarblek and the little juggler moved aside a stack of crates to reveal the opening of another passageway.

  They led their horses into the dark opening, and Feldegast remained outside to hide the passage again. When he was satisfied that the opening was no longer visible, he wormed his way through the loosely stacked crates to rejoin them. ‘An’ there we are,’ he said, brushing his hands together in a self-congratulatory way. ‘No man at all kin possibly know that we’ve come this way, don’t y’ know, so let’s be off.’

  Garion’s thoughts were dark as he trudged along the passageway, following Feldegast’s winking lantern. He had slipped away from a man for whom he had begun to develop a careful friendship and had left him behind in a plague-stricken and burning city. There was probably very little that he could have done to aid Zakath, but his desertion of the man did not make him feel very proud. He knew, however, that he had no real choice. Cyradis had been too adamant in her instructions. Compelled by necessity, he turned his back on Mal Zeth and resolutely set his face toward Ashaba.

  Part Three

  ASHABA

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The road leading north from Mal Zeth passed through a fair, fertile plain where new-sprouted grain covered the damp soil like a low, bright green mist and the warm spring air was filled with the urgent scent of growth. In many ways, the landscape resembled the verdant plains of Arendia or the tidy fields of Sendaria. There were villages, of course, with white buildings, thatched roofs, and dogs that came out to stand at the roadside and bark. The spring sky was an intense blue dotted with puffy white clouds grazing like sheep in their azure pastures.

  The road was a dusty brown ribbon laid straight where the surrounding green fields were flat, and folded and curved where the land rose in gentle, rounded hills.

  They rode out that morning in glistening sunshine with the sound of the bells fastened about the necks of Yarblek’s mules providing a tinkling accompaniment to the morning song of flights of birds caroling to greet the sun. Behind them there rose a great column of dense black smoke, marking the huge valley where Mal Zeth lay burning.

  Garion could not bring himself to look back as they rode away.

  There were others on the road as well, for Garion and his friends were not the only ones fleeing the plague-stricken city. Singly or in small groups, wary travelers moved north, fearfully avoiding any contact with each other, leaving the road and angling far out into the fields whenever they overtook other refugees, and returning to the brown, dusty ribbon only when they were safely past. Each solitary traveler or each group thus rode in cautious isolation, putting as much empty air about itself as possible.

  The lanes branching off from the road and leading across the bright green fields were all blocked with barricades of fresh-cut brush, and bleak-faced peasants stood guard at those barricades, awkwardly handling staffs and heavy, graceless crossbows and shouting warnings at any and all who passed to stay away.

  ‘Peasants,’ Yarblek said sourly as the caravan plodded past one such barricade. ‘They’re the same the world over. They’re glad to see you when you’ve got something they want, but they spend all the rest of their time trying to chase you away. Do you think they actually believe that anybody would really want to go into their stinking little villages?’ Irritably he crammed his fur cap down lower over his ears.

  ‘They’re afraid,’ Polgara told him. ‘They know that their village isn’t very luxurious, but it’s all they have, and they want to keep it safe.’

  ‘Do those barricades and threats really do any good?’ he asked. ‘To keep out the plague, I mean?’

  ‘Some,’ she said, ‘if they put them up early enough.’

  Yarblek grunted, then looked over at Silk. ‘Are you open to a suggestion?’ he asked.

  ‘Depends,’ Silk replied. The little man had returned to his customary travel clothing—dark, unadorned, and nondescript.

  ‘Between the plague and the demons, the climate here is starting to turn unpleasant. What say we liquidate all our holdings here in Mallorea and sit tight until things settle down?’

  ‘You’re not thinking, Yarblek,’ Silk told him. ‘Turmoil and war are good for business.’

  Yarblek scowled at him. ‘Somehow I thought you might look at it that way.’

  About a half mile ahead, there was another barricade, this one across the main road itself.

  ‘What’s this?’ Yarblek demanded angrily, reining in.

  ‘I’ll go find out,’ Silk said, thumping his heels against his horse’s flanks. On an impulse, Garion followed his friend.

  When they were about fifty yards from the barricade, a dozen mud-spattered peasants dressed in smocks made of brown sackcloth rose from behind it with leveled crossbows. ‘Stop right there!’ one of them commanded threateningly. He was a burly fellow with a coarse beard and eyes that looked off in different directions.

  ‘We’re just passing through, friend,’ Silk told him.

  ‘Not without paying toll, you’re not.’

  ‘Toll?’ Silk exclaimed. ‘This is an imperial highway. There’s no toll.’

  ‘There is now. You city people have cheated and swindled us for generations and now you want to bring your diseases to us. Well, from now on, you’re going to pay. How much gold have you got?’

  ‘Keep him talking,’ Garion muttered, looking around.

  ‘Well,’ Silk said to the wall-eyed peasant in the tone of voice he usually saved for serious negotiations, ‘why don’t we talk about that?’

  The village stood about a quarter of a mile away, rising dirty and cluttered-looking atop a grassy knoll. Garion concentrated, drawing in his will, then he made a slight gesture in the direction of the village. ‘Smoke,’ he muttered, half under his breath.

  Silk was still haggling with the armed peasants, taking up as much time as he could.

  ‘Uh—excuse me,’ Garion interrupted mildly, ‘but is that something burning over there?’ He pointed.

  The peasants turned to stare in horror at the column of dense smoke rising from their village. With startled cries, most of them threw down their crossbows and ran out across the fields in the direction of the apparent catastrophe. The wall-eyed man ran after them, shouting at them to return to their posts. Then he ran back, waving his crossbow threateningly. A look of anguish crossed his face as he hopped about in an agony of indecision, torn between his desire for money
that could be extorted from these travelers and the horrid vision of a fire raging unchecked through his house and outbuildings. Finally, no longer able to stand it, he also threw down his weapon and ran after his neighbors.

  ‘Did you really set their village on fire?’ Silk sounded a little shocked.

  ‘Of course not,’ Garion said.

  ‘Where’s the smoke coming from then?’

  ‘Lots of places.’ Garion winked. ‘Out of the thatch on their roofs, up from between the stones in the streets, boiling up out of their cellars and granaries—lots of places. But it’s only smoke.’ He swung down from Chretienne’s back and gathered up the discarded crossbows. He lined them up, nose down, in a neat row along the brushy barricade. ‘How long does it take to restring a crossbow?’ he asked.

  ‘Hours.’ Silk suddenly grinned. ‘Two men to bend the limbs with a windlass and another two to hook the cable in place.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Garion agreed. He drew his old belt knife and went down the line of weapons, cutting each twisted rope cable. Each bow responded with a heavy twang. ‘Shall we go, then?’ he asked.

  ‘What about this?’ Silk pointed at the brushy barricade.

  Garion shrugged. ‘I think we can ride around it.’

  ‘What were they trying to do?’ Durnik asked when they returned.

  ‘An enterprising group of local peasants decided that the highway needed a tollgate about there.’ Silk shrugged. ‘They didn’t really have the temperament for business affairs, though. At the first little distraction, they ran off and left the shop untended.’

  They rode on past the now-deserted barricade with Yarblek’s laden mules plodding along behind them, their bells clanging mournfully.

  ‘I think we’re going to have to leave you soon,’ Belgarath said to the fur-capped Nadrak. ‘We have to get to Ashaba within the week, and your mules are holding us back.’

  Yarblek nodded. ‘Nobody ever accused a pack mule of being fast on his feet,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll be turning toward the west before long anyway. You can go into Karanda if you want to, but I want to get to the coast as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Garion,’ Polgara said. She looked meaningfully at the column of smoke rising from the village behind them.

  ‘Oh,’ he replied. ‘I guess I forgot.’ He raised his hand, trying to make it look impressive. ‘Enough,’ he said, releasing his will. The smoke thinned at its base, and the column continued to rise as a cloud, cut off from its source.

  ‘Don’t overdramatize, dear,’ Polgara advised. ‘It’s ostentatious.’

  ‘You do it all the time,’ he accused.

  ‘Yes, dear, but I know how.’

  It was perhaps noon when they rode up a long hill, crested it in the bright sunshine, and found themselves suddenly surrounded by mailed, red-tuniced Mallorean soldiers, who rose up out of ditches and shallow gullies with evil-looking javelins in their hands.

  ‘You! Halt!’ the officer in charge of the detachment of soldiers commanded brusquely. He was a short man, shorter even than Silk, though he strutted about as if he were ten feet tall.

  ‘Of course, Captain,’ Yarblek replied, reining in his horse.

  ‘What do we do?’ Garion hissed to Silk.

  ‘Let Yarblek handle it,’ Silk murmured. ‘He knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘Where are you bound?’ the officer asked when the rangy Nadrak had dismounted.

  ‘Mal Dariya,’ Yarblek answered, ‘for Mal Camat—wherever I can hire ships to get my goods to Yar Marak.’

  The captain grunted as if trying to find something wrong with that. ‘What’s more to the point is where you’ve come from.’ His eyes were narrowed.

  ‘Maga Renn.’ Yarblek shrugged.

  ‘Not Mal Zeth?’ The little captain’s eyes grew even harder and more suspicious.

  ‘I don’t do business in Mal Zeth very often, Captain. It costs too much—all those bribes and fees and permits, you know.’

  ‘I assume that you can prove what you say?’ The captain’s tone was belligerent.

  ‘I suppose I could—if there’s a need for it.’

  ‘There’s a need, Nadrak, because, unless you can prove that you haven’t come from Mal Zeth, I’m going to turn you back.’ He sounded smug about that.

  ‘Turn back? That’s impossible. I have to be in Boktor by midsummer.’

  ‘That’s your problem, merchant.’ The little soldier seemed rather pleased at having upset the larger man. ‘There’s plague in Mal Zeth, and I’m here to make sure that it doesn’t spread.’ He tapped himself importantly on the chest.

  ‘Plague!’ Yarblek’s eyes went wide, and his face actually paled. ‘Torak’s teeth! And I almost stopped there!’ He suddenly snapped his fingers. ‘So that’s why all the villages hereabouts are barricaded.’

  ‘Can you prove that you came from Maga Renn?’ the captain insisted.

  ‘Well—’ Yarblek unbuckled a well-worn saddlebag hanging under his right stirrup and began to rummage around in it. ‘I’ve got a permit here issued by the Bureau of Commerce,’ he said rather dubiously. ‘It authorizes me to move my goods from Maga Renn to Mal Dariya. If I can’t find ships there, I’ll have to get another permit to go on to Mal Camat, I guess. Would that satisfy you?’

  ‘Let’s see it.’ The captain held out his hand, snapping his fingers impatiently.

  Yarblek handed it over.

  ‘It’s a little smeared,’ the captain accused suspiciously.

  ‘I spilled some beer on it in a tavern in Penn Daka.’ Yarblek shrugged. ‘Weak, watery stuff it was. Take my advice, Captain. Don’t ever plan to do any serious drinking in Penn Daka. It’s a waste of time and money.’

  ‘Is drinking all you Nadraks ever think about?’

  ‘It’s the climate. There’s nothing else to do in Gar og Nadrak in the wintertime.’

  ‘Have you got anything else?’

  Yarblek pawed through his saddlebag some more. ‘Here’s a bill of sale from a carpet merchant on Yorba Street in Maga Renn—pockmarked fellow with bad teeth. Do you by any chance know him?’

  ‘Why would I know a carpet merchant in Maga Renn? I’m an officer in the imperial army. I don’t associate with riffraff. Is the date on this accurate?’

  ‘How should I know? We use a different calendar in Gar og Nadrak. It was about two weeks ago, if that’s any help.’

  The captain thought it over, obviously trying very hard to find some excuse to exert his authority. Finally his expression became faintly disappointed. ‘All right,’ he said grudgingly, handing back the documents. ‘Be on your way. But don’t make any side trips, and make sure that none of your people leave your caravan.’

  ‘They’d better not leave—not if they want to get paid. Thank you, Captain.’ Yarblek swung back up into his saddle.

  The officer grunted and waved them on.

  ‘Little people should never be given any kind of authority,’ the Nadrak said sourly when they were out of earshot. ‘It lies too heavily on their brains.’

  ‘Yarblek!’ Silk objected.

  ‘Present company excepted, of course.’

  ‘Oh. That’s different, then.’

  ‘Ye lie like ye were born to it, good Master Yarblek,’ Feldegast the juggler said admiringly.

  ‘I’ve been associating with a certain Drasnian for too long.’

  ‘How did you come by the permit and the bill of sale?’ Silk asked him.

  Yarblek winked and tapped his forehead slyly. ‘Official types are always overwhelmed by official-looking documents, and the more petty the official, the more he’s impressed. I could have proved to that obnoxious little captain back there that we came from any place at all—Melcene, Aduma in the Mountains of Zamad, even Crol Tibu on the coast of Gandahar—except that all you can buy in Crol Tibu are elephants, and I don’t have any of those with me, so that might have made even him a little suspicious.’

  Silk looked around with a broad grin. ‘Now you see why I went into partners
hip with him,’ he said to them all.

  ‘You seem well suited to each other,’ Velvet agreed.

  Belgarath was tugging at one ear. ‘I think we’ll leave you after dark tonight,’ he said to Yarblek. ‘I don’t want some other officious soldier to stop us and count noses—or decide that we need a military escort.’

  Yarblek nodded. ‘Are you going to need anything?’

  ‘Just some food is all.’ Belgarath glanced back at their laden packhorses plodding along beside the mules. ‘We’ve been on the road for quite some time now and we’ve managed to gather up what we really need and discard what we don’t.’

  ‘I’ll see to it that you’ve got enough food,’ Vella promised from where she was riding between Ce’Nedra and Velvet. ‘Yarblek sometimes forgets that full ale kegs are not the only things you need on a journey.’

  ‘An’ will ye be ridin’ north, then?’ Feldegast asked Belgarath. The little comic had changed out of his bright-colored clothes and was now dressed in plain brown.

  ‘Unless they’ve moved it, that’s where Ashaba is,’ Belgarath replied.

  ‘If it be all the same to ye, I’ll ride along with ye fer a bit of a ways.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘There was a little difficulty with the authorities the last time I was in Mal Dariya, an’ I’d like to give ’em time t’ regain their composure before I go back fer me triumphant return engagement. Authorities tend t’ be a stodgy an’ unfergivin’ lot, don’t y’ know—always dredgin’ up old pranks an’ bits of mischief perpetrated in the spirit of fun an’ throwin’ ’em in yer face.’

  Belgarath gave him a long, steady look, then shrugged. ‘Why not?’ he said.

  Garion looked sharply at the old man. His sudden acquiescence seemed wildly out of character, given his angry protests at the additions of Velvet and Sadi to their party. Garion then looked over at Polgara, but she showed no signs of concern either. A peculiar suspicion began to creep over him.

  As evening settled over the plains of Mallorea, they drew off the road to set up their night’s encampment in a parklike grove of beech trees. Yarblek’s muleteers sat about one campfire, passing an earthenware jug around and becoming increasingly rowdy. At the upper end of the grove, Garion and his friends sat around another fire, eating supper and talking quietly with Yarblek and Vella.