The smith bolted for the door.
King Cho-Hag had half-risen, his face deathly pale. ‘He isn’t—’
‘No,’ she answered tensely. ‘He’s alive, but only barely.’
‘Is something attacking him?’ Silk was on his feet, looking around wildly, his hand unconsciously on his dagger.
‘No. It’s nothing like that.’ Aunt Pol’s hands had moved to the old man’s chest. ‘I should have known,’ she berated herself. ‘The stubborn, proud old fool! I should have been watching him.’
‘Please, Aunt Pol,’ Garion begged desperately, ‘what’s wrong with him?’
‘He never really recovered from his fight with Ctuchik,’ she replied. ‘He’s been forcing himself, drawing on his will. Then those rocks in the ravine – but he wouldn’t quit. Now he’s burned up all his vital energy and will. He barely has enough strength left to keep breathing.’
Garion had lifted his grandfather’s head and cradled it on his lap.
‘Help me, Garion!’
He knew instinctively what she wanted. He gathered his will and held out his hand to her. She grasped it quickly, and he felt the force surge out of him.
Her eyes were very wide as she intently watched the old man’s face. ‘Again!’ And once more she pulled the quickly gathered will out of him.
‘What are we doing?’ Garion’s voice was shrill.
‘Trying to replace some of what he has lost. Maybe—’ She glanced toward the door. ‘Hurry, Durnik!’ she shouted.
Durnik rushed back into the wagon.
‘Open the bag,’ she instructed, ‘and give me that black jar – the one that’s sealed with lead – and a pair of iron tongs.’
‘Should I open the jar, Mistress Pol?’ the smith asked.
‘No. Just break the seal – carefully. And give me a glove – leather, if you can find one.’
Wordlessly, Silk pulled a leather gauntlet from under his belt and handed it to her. She pulled it on, opened the black jar, and reached inside with the tongs. With great care, she removed a single dark, oily-looking green leaf. She held it very carefully in the tongs. ‘Pry his mouth open, Garion,’ she ordered.
Garion wedged his fingers between Belgarath’s clenched teeth and carefully pried the old man’s jaws apart. Aunt Pol pulled down her father’s lower lip, reached inside his mouth with the shiny leaf, and lightly brushed his tongue with it, once and once only.
Belgarath jumped violently, and his feet suddenly scraped on the floor. His muscles heaved, and his arms began to flail about.
‘Hold him down,’ Aunt Pol commanded. She pulled back sharply and held the leaf out of the way while Mandorallen and Barak jumped in to hold down Belgarath’s convulsing body. ‘Give me a bowl,’ she ordered. ‘A wooden one.’
Durnik handed her one, and she deposited the leaf and the tongs in it. Then, with great care, she took off the gauntlet and laid it atop the leaf. ‘Take this,’ she told the smith. ‘Don’t touch any part of the glove.’
‘What do you want me to do with it, Mistress Pol?’
‘Take it out and burn it – bowl and all – and don’t let anyone get into the smoke from it.’
‘Is it that dangerous?’ Silk asked.
‘It’s even worse, but those are the only precautions we can take out here.’
Durnik swallowed very hard and left the wagon, holding the bowl as if it were a live snake.
Polgara took a small mortar and pestle and began grinding certain herbs from her bag into a fine powder as she watched Belgarath intently. ‘How far is it to the Stronghold, Cho-Hag?’ she asked the Algar king.
‘A man on a good horse could make it in half a day,’ he replied.
‘How long by wagon – a wagon driven carefully to avoid bouncing?’
‘Two days.’
She frowned, still mixing the herbs in the mortar. ‘All right, there’s no help for it, I guess. Please send Hettar to Queen Silar. Have him tell her that I’m going to need a warm, well-lighted chamber with a good bed and no drafts. Durnik, I want you to drive the wagon. Don’t hit any bumps – even if it means losing an hour.’
The smith nodded.
‘He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?’ Barak asked, his voice strained and his face shocked by Belgarath’s sudden collapse.
‘It’s really too early to say,’ she replied. ‘He’s been on the point of collapse for days maybe. But he wouldn’t let himself go. I think he’s past this crisis, but there may be others.’ She laid one hand on her father’s chest. ‘Put him in bed – carefully. Then I want a screen of some kind around the bed – blankets will do. We have to keep him very quiet and out of drafts. No loud noises.’
They all stared at her as the significance of her extreme precautions struck them.
‘Move, gentlemen,’ she told them firmly. ‘His life may depend on a certain speed.’
Chapter Six
The wagon seemed barely to crawl. The high, thin cloud had swept in again to hide the sun, and a kind of leaden chill descended on the featureless plain of southern Algaria. Garion rode inside the wagon, thick-headed and numb with exhaustion, watching with dreadful concern as Aunt Pol hovered over the unconscious Belgarath. Sleep was out of the question. Another crisis could arise at any time and he had to be ready to leap to her aid, joining his will and the power of his amulet with hers. Errand, his small face grave, sat quietly in a chair at the far side of the wagon, his hands firmly clasped around the pouch Durnik had made for him. The sound of the Orb still hung in Garion’s ears, muted but continual. He had grown almost accustomed to the song in the weeks since they had left Rak Cthol; but at quiet moments or when he was tired, it always seemed to return with renewed strength. It was somehow a comforting sound.
Aunt Pol leaned forward to touch Belgarath’s chest.
‘What’s wrong?’ Garion asked in a sharp whisper.
‘Nothing’s wrong, Garion,’ she replied calmly. ‘Please don’t keep saying that every time I so much as move. If something’s wrong, I’ll tell you.’
‘I’m sorry – I’m just worried, that’s all.’
She turned to give him a steady look. ‘Why don’t you take Errand and go up and ride on top of the wagon with Silk and Durnik?’
‘What if you need me?’
‘I’ll call you, dear.’
‘I’d really rather stay, Aunt Pol.’
‘I’d really rather you didn’t. I’ll call if I need you.’
‘But—’
‘Now, Garion.’
Garion knew better than to argue. He took Errand out the back door of the wagon and up the steps to the top.
‘How is he?’ Silk asked.
‘How should I know? All I know is that she chased me out.’ Garion’s reply was a bit surly.
‘That might be a good sign, you know.’
‘Maybe.’ Garion looked around. Off to the west there was a range of low hills. Rearing above them stood a vast pile of rock.
‘The Algar Stronghold,’ Durnik told Garion, pointing.
‘Are we that close?’
‘That’s still a good day’s ride.’
‘How high is it?’ Garion asked.
‘Four or five hundred feet at least,’ Silk told him. ‘The Algars have been building at it for several thousand years. It gives them something to do after the calving season.’
Barak rode up. ‘How’s Belgarath?’ he asked as he approached.
‘I think he might be improving just a little,’ Garion answered. ‘I don’t know for sure, though.’
‘That’s something, anyway.’ The big man pointed toward a gully just ahead. ‘You’d better go around that,’ he told Durnik. ‘King Cho-Hag says that the ground gets a bit rough through there.’
Durnik nodded and changed the wagon’s direction.
Throughout the day, the Stronghold of the Algars loomed higher and higher against the western horizon. It was a vast, towering fortress rearing out of the dun-colored hills.
‘A monument to a
n idea that got out of hand,’ Silk observed as he lounged idly atop the wagon.
‘I don’t quite follow that,’ Durnik said.
‘Algars are nomads,’ the little man explained. ‘They live in wagons like this one and follow their herds. The Stronghold gives Murgo raiders something to attack. That’s its only real purpose. Very practical, really. It’s much easier than looking for them all over these plains. The Murgos always come here, and it’s a convenient place to wipe them out.’
‘Don’t the Murgos realize that?’ Durnik looked a bit skeptical.
‘Quite possibly, but they come here anyway because they can’t resist the place. They simply can’t accept the fact that nobody really lives here.’ Silk grinned his ferretlike little grin. ‘You know how stubborn Murgos are. Anyway, over the years the Algar clans have developed a sort of competition. Every year they try to outdo one another in hauling rock, and the Stronghold keeps growing higher and higher.’
‘Did Kal Torak really lay siege to it for eight years?’ Garion asked him.
Silk nodded. ‘They say that his army was like a sea of Angaraks dashing itself to pieces against the walls of the Stronghold. They might still be here, but they ran out of food. That’s always been the problem with large armies. Any fool can raise an army, but you start running into trouble around suppertime.’
As they approached the man-made mountain, the gates opened and a party emerged to greet them. In the lead on a white palfrey rode Queen Silar with Hettar close behind. At a certain point they stopped and sat waiting.
Garion lifted a small trapdoor in the roof of the wagon. ‘We’re here, Aunt Pol,’ he reported in a hushed voice.
‘Good,’ she replied.
‘How’s grandfather?’
‘He’s sleeping. His breathing seems a bit stronger. Go ask Cho-Hag to take us inside immediately. I want to get father into a warm bed as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, Aunt Pol.’ Garion lowered the trapdoor and then went down the steps at the rear of the slowly moving wagon. He untied his horse, mounted and rode to the front of the column where the Algar queen was quietly greeting her husband.
‘Excuse me,’ he said respectfully, swinging down from his horse, ‘but Aunt Pol wants to get Belgarath inside at once.’
‘How is he?’ Hettar asked.
‘Aunt Pol says that his breathing’s getting stronger, but she’s still worried.’
From the rear of the group that had emerged from the Stronghold, there was a flurry of small hooves. The colt that had been born in the hills above Maragor burst into view and came charging directly at them. Garion immediately found himself swarmed under by the colt’s exuberant greetings. The small horse nuzzled him and butted at him with its head, then pranced away only to gallop back again. When Garion put his hand on the animal’s neck to calm him, the colt quivered with joy at his touch.
‘He’s been waiting for you,’ Hettar said to Garion. ‘He seems to have known you were coming.’
The wagon drew up and stopped. The door opened, and Aunt Pol looked out.
‘Everything’s ready, Polgara,’ Queen Silar told her.
‘Thank you, Silar.’
‘Is he recovering at all?’
‘He seems better, but it’s very hard to say for sure at this point.’
Errand, who had been watching from the top of the wagon, suddenly clambered down the steps at the rear, hopped to the ground, and ran out among the legs of the horses.
‘Catch him, Garion,’ Aunt Pol said. ‘I think he’d better ride in here with me until we get inside the Stronghold.’
As Garion started after the little boy, the colt scampered away, and Errand, laughing with delight, ran after him. ‘Errand!’ Garion called sharply. The colt, however, had turned in midgallop and suddenly bore down on the child, his hooves flailing wildly. Errand, showing no signs of alarm, stood smiling directly in its path. Startled, the little horse stiffened his legs and skidded to a stop. Errand laughed and held out his hand. The colt’s eyes were wide as he sniffed curiously at the hand, and then the boy touched the small animal’s face.
Again within the vaults of his mind Garion seemed to hear that strange, bell-like note, and the dry voice murmured, ‘Done,’ with a peculiar sort of satisfaction.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Garion asked silently, but there was no answer. He shrugged and picked Errand up to avoid any chance collision between horse and child. The colt stood staring at the two of them, its eyes wide as if in amazement; when Garion turned to carry Errand back to the wagon, it trotted alongside, sniffing and even nuzzling at the child. Garion wordlessly handed Errand up to Aunt Pol and looked her full in the face. She said nothing as she took the child, but her expression told him plainly that something very important had just happened.
As he turned to remount his horse, he felt that someone was watching him, and he turned quickly toward the group of riders that had accompanied Queen Silar from the Stronghold. Just behind the queen was a tall girl mounted on a roan horse. She had long, dark brown hair, and the eyes she had fixed on Garion were gray, calm, and very serious. Her horse pranced nervously, and she calmed him with a quiet word and a gentle touch, then turned to gaze openly at Garion again. He had the peculiar feeling that he ought to know her.
The wagon creaked as Durnik shook the reins to start the team, and they all followed King Cho-Hag and Queen Silar through a narrow gate into the Stronghold. Garion saw immediately that there were no buildings inside the towering fortress. Instead there was a maze of stone walls perhaps twenty feet high twisting this way and that without any apparent plan.
‘But where is thy city, your Majesty?’ Mandorallen asked in perplexity.
‘Inside the walls themselves,’ King Cho-Hag replied. ‘They’re thick enough and high enough to give us all the room we could possibly need.’
‘What purpose hath all this, then?’
‘It’s just a trap.’ The king shrugged. ‘We permit attackers to break through the gates, and then we deal with them in here. We want to go this way.’ He led them along a narrow alleyway.
They dismounted in a courtyard beside the vast wall. Barak and Hettar unhooked the latches and swung the side of the wagon down. Barak tugged thoughtfully at his beard as he looked at the sleeping Belgarath. ‘It would probably disturb him less if we just took him inside bed and all,’ he suggested.
‘Right,’ Hettar agreed, and the two of them climbed up into the wagon to lift out the sorcerer’s bed.
‘Just don’t bounce him around,’ Polgara cautioned. ‘And don’t drop him.’
‘We’ve got him, Polgara,’ Barak assured her. ‘I know you might not believe it, but we’re almost as concemed about him as you are.’
With the two big men carrying the bed, they passed through an arched doorway into a wide, torch-lighted corridor and up a flight of stairs, then along another hallway to another flight. ‘Is it much farther?’ Barak asked. Sweat was running down his face into his beard. ‘This bed isn’t getting any lighter, you know.’
‘Just up here,’ the Algar Queen told him.
‘I hope he appreciates all this when he wakes up,’ Barak grumbled.
The room to which they carried Belgarath was large and airy. A glowing brazier stood in each corner and a broad window overlooked the maze inside the walls of the Stronghold. A canopied bed stood against one wall and a large wooden tub against the other.
‘This will be just fine,’ Polgara said approvingly. ‘Thank you, Silar.’
‘We love him too, Polgara,’ Queen Silar replied quietly.
Polgara drew the drapes, darkening the room. Then she turned back the covers, and Belgarath was transferred to the canopied bed so smoothly that he did not even stir.
‘He looks a little better,’ Silk said.
‘He needs sleep, rest and quiet more than anything right now,’ Polgara told him, her eyes intent on the old man’s sleeping face.
‘We’ll leave you with him, Polgara,’ Queen Silar said. Sh
e turned to the rest of them. ‘Why don’t we all go down to the main hall? Supper’s nearly ready, but in the meantime I’ll have some ale brought in.’
Barak’s eyes brightened noticeably, and he started toward the door.
‘Barak,’ Polgara called to him, ‘aren’t you and Hettar forgetting something?’ She looked pointedly at the bed they had used for a stretcher.
Barak sighed. He and Hettar picked up the bed again.
‘I’ll send some supper up for you, Polgara,’ the queen said.
‘Thank you, Silar.’ Aunt Pol turned to Garion, her eyes grave. ‘Stay for a few moments, dear,’ she asked, and he remained as the others all quietly left.
‘Close the door, Garion,’ she said, pulling a chair up beside the sleeping old man’s bed.
He shut the door and crossed the room back to her. ‘Is he really getting better, Aunt Pol?’
She nodded. ‘I think we’re past the immediate danger. He seems stronger physically. But it’s not his physical body I’m worried about – it’s his mind. That’s why I wanted to talk to you alone.’
Garion felt a sudden cold grip of fear. ‘His mind?’
‘Keep your voice down, dear,’ she told him quietly. ‘This has to be kept strictly between us.’ Her eyes were still on Belgarath’s face. ‘An episode like this can have very serious effects, and there’s no way to know how it will be with him when he recovers. He could be very seriously weakened.’
‘Weakened? How?’
‘His will could be greatly reduced – to that of any other old man. He drained it to the utter limit, and he might have gone so far that he could never regain his powers.’
‘You mean he wouldn’t be a sorcerer any more?’
‘Don’t repeat the obvious, Garion,’ she said wearily. ‘If that happens, it’s going to be up to you and me to conceal it from everybody. Your grandfather’s power is the one thing that has held the Angaraks in check for all these years. If something has happened to that power, then you and I will have to make it look as if he’s the same as he always was. We’ll have to conceal the truth even from him, if that is possible.’
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