Magician's Gambit

by David Eddings

  Princess Ce'Nedra, Garion noticed, kept her eyes averted, refusing even to look.

  Not far down the slope below them, a cluster of crude huts and lopsided tents lay in a steep gully where a frothy creek had cut down through the rocks and gravel. Dirt streets and paths wandered crookedly up and down the sides of the gully, and a dozen or so raggedlooking men were hacking somewhat dispiritedly at the creek bank with picks and mattocks, turning the water below the shabby settlement a muddy yellow brown.

  "A town?" Durnik questioned. "Out here?"

  "Not exactly a town," Wolf replied. "The men in those settlements sift gravel and dig up the streambanks, looking for gold."

  "Is there gold here?" Silk asked quickly, his eyes bright.

  "A little," Wolf said. "Probably not enough to make it worth anyone's time to look for it."

  "Why do they bother, then?"

  Wolf shrugged. "Who knows?"

  Mandorallen and Barak took the lead, and they moved down the rocky trail toward the settlement. As they approached, two men came out of one of the huts with rusty swords in their hands. One, a thin, unshaven man with a high forehead, wore a greasy Tolnedran jerkin. The other, much taller and bulkier, was dressed in the ragged tunic of an Arendish serf.

  "That's far enough," the Tolnedran shouted. "We don't let armed men come in here until we know what their business is."

  "You're blocking the trail, friend," Barak advised him. "You might find that unhealthy."

  "One shout from me will bring fifty armed men," the Tolnedran warned.

  "Don't be an idiot, Reldo," the big Arend told him. "That one with all the steel on him is a Mimbrate knight. There aren't enough men on the whole mountain to stop him, if he decides to go through here." He looked warily at Mandorallen. "What're your intentions, Sir Knight?" he asked respectfully.

  "We are but following the trail," Mandorallen replied. "We have no interest in thy community."

  The Arend grunted. "That's good enough for me. Let them pass, Reldo." He slid his sword back under his rope belt.

  "What if he's lying?" Reldo retorted. "What if they're here to steal our gold?"

  "What gold, you jackass?" the Arend demanded with contempt. "There isn't enough gold in the whole camp to fill a thimble - and Mimbrate knights don't lie. If you want to fight with him, go ahead. After it's over, we'll scoop up what's left of you and dump you in a hole someplace."

  "You've got a bad mouth, Berig," Reldo observed darkly.

  "And what do you plan to do about it?"

  The Tolnedran glared at the larger man and then turned and walked away, muttering curses.

  Berig laughed harshly, then turned back to Mandorallen. "Come ahead, Sir Knight," he invited. "Reldo's all mouth. You don't have to worry about him."

  Mandorallen moved forward at a walk. "Thou art a long way from home, my friend."

  Berig shrugged. "There wasn't anything in Arendia to keep me, and I had a misunderstanding with my lord over a pig. When he started talking about hanging, I thought I'd like to try my luck in a different country."

  "Seems like a sensible decision." Barak laughed.

  Berig winked at him. "The trail goes right on down to the creek," he told them, "then up the other side behind those shacks. The men over there are Nadraks, but the only one who might give you any trouble is Tarlek. He got drunk last night, though, so he's probably still sleeping it off."

  A vacant-eyed man in Sendarian clothing shambled out of one of the tents. Suddenly he lifted his face and howled like a dog. Berig picked up a rock and shied it at him. The Sendar dodged the rock and ran yelping behind one of the shacks. "One of these days I'm going to do him a favor and stick a knife in him," Berig remarked sourly. "He bays at the moon all night long."

  "What's his problem?" Barak asked.

  Berig shrugged. "Crazy. He thought he could make a dash into Maragor and pick up some gold before the ghosts caught him. He was wrong."

  "What did they do to him?" Durnik asked, his eyes wide.

  "Nobody knows," Berig replied. "Every so often somebody gets drunk or greedy and thinks he can get away with it. It wouldn't do any good, even if the ghosts didn't catch you. Anybody coming out is stripped immediately by his friends. Nobody gets to keep any gold he brings out, so why bother?"

  "You've got a charming society here," Silk observed wryly.

  Berig laughed. "It suits me. It's better than decorating a tree in my lord's apple orchard back in Arendia." He scratched absently at one armpit. "I guess I'd better go do some digging," he sighed. "Good luck." He turned and started toward one of the tents.

  "Let's move along," Wolf said quietly. "These places tend to get rowdy as the day wears on."

  "You seem to know quite a bit about them, father," Aunt Pol noticed.

  "They're good places to hide," he replied. "Nobody asks any questions. I've needed to hide a time or two in my life."

  "I wonder why?"

  They started along the dusty street between the slapped-together shacks and patched tents, moving down toward the roiling creek. "Wait!" someone called from behind. A scruffy-looking Drasnian was running after them, waving a small leather pouch. He caught up with them, puffing. "Why didn't you wait?" he demanded.

  "What do you want?" Silk asked him.

  "I'll give you fifty pennyweight of fine gold for the girl," the Drasnian panted, waving his leather sack again.

  Mandorallen's face went bleak, and his hand moved toward his sword hilt.

  "Why don't you let me deal with this, Mandorallen?" Silk suggested mildly, swinging down from his saddle.

  Ce'Nedra's expression had first registered shock, then outrage. She appeared almost on the verge of explosion before Garion reached her and put his hand on her arm. "Watch," he told her softly.

  "How dare-"

  "Hush. Just watch. Silk's going to take care of it."

  "That's a pretty paltry offer," Silk said, his fingers flicking idly.

  "She's still young," the other Drasnian pointed out. "She obviously hasn't had much training yet. Which one of you owns her?"

  "We'll get to that in a moment," Silk replied. "Surely you can make a better offer than that."

  "It's all I've got," the scruffy man answered plaintively, waving his fingers, "and I don't want to go into partnership with any of the brigands in this place. I'd never get to see any of the profits."

  Silk shook his head. "I'm sorry," he refused. "It's out of the question. I'm sure you can see our position."

  Ce'Nedra was making strangled noises.

  "Be quiet," Garion snapped. "This isn't what it seems to be."

  "What about the older one?" the scruffy man suggested, sounding desperate. "Surely fifty pennyweight's a good price for her."

  Without warning Silk's fist lashed out, and the scruffy Drasnian reeled back from the apparent blow. His hand flew to his mouth, and he began to spew curses.

  "Run him off, Mandorallen," Silk said quite casually.

  The grim-faced knight drew his broadsword and moved his warhorse deliberately at the swearing Drasnian. After one startled yelp, the man turned and fled.

  "What did he say?" Wolf asked Silk. "You were standing in front of him, so I couldn't see."

  "The whole region's alive with Murgos," Silk replied, climbing back on his horse. "Kheran says that a dozen parties of them have been through here in the last week."

  "You knew that animal?" Ce'Nedra demanded.

  "Kheran? Of course. We went to school together."

  "Drasnians like to keep an eye on things, Princess," Wolf told her. "King Rhodar has agents everywhere."

  "That awful man is an agent of King Rhodar?" Ce'Nedra asked incredulously.

  Silk nodded. "Actually Kheran's a margrave," he said. "He has exquisite manners under normal circumstances. He asked me to convey his compliments."

  Ce'Nedra looked baffled.

  "Drasnians talk to each other with their fingers," Garion explained. "I thought everybody knew that."

  Ce'Ned
ra's eyes narrowed at him.

  "What Kheran actually said was, 'Tell the red-haired wench that I apologize for the insult,' " Garion informed her smugly. "He needed to talk to Silk, and he had to have an excuse."

  "Wench?"

  "His word, not mine," Garion replied quickly.

  "You know this sign language?"

  "Naturally."

  "That'll do, Garion," Aunt Pol said firmly.

  "Kheran recommends that we get out of here immediately," Silk told Mister Wolf. "He says that the Murgos are looking for somebody - us, probably."

  From the far side of the camp there were sudden angry voices. Several dozen Nadraks boiled out of their shanties to confront a group of Murgo horsemen who had just ridden up out of a deep gully. At the forefront of the Nadraks hulked a huge, fat man who looked more animal than human. In his right hand he carried a brutal-looking steel mace. "Kordoch!" he bellowed. "I told you I'd kill you next time you came here."

  The man who stepped out from among the Murgo horses to face the hulking Nadrak was Brill. "You've told me a lot of things, Tarlek," he shouted back.

  "This time you get what's coming to you, Kordoch," Tarlek roared, striding forward and swinging his mace.

  "Stay back," Brill warned, stepping away from the horses. "I don't have time for this right now."

  "You don't have any time left at all, Kordoch - for anything." Tarlek was grinning broadly. "Would anyone like to take this opportunity to say good-bye to our friend over there?" he said. "I think he's about to leave on a very long journey."

  But Brill's right hand had dipped suddenly inside his tunic. With a flickering movement, he whipped out a peculiar-looking triangular steel object about six inches across. Then, in the same movement, he flipped it, spinning and whistling, directly at Tarlek. The flat steel triangle sailed, flashing in the sun as it spun, and disappeared with a sickening sound of shearing bone into the hulking Nadrak's chest. Silk hissed with amazement.

  Tarlek stared stupidly at Brill, his mouth agape and his left hand going to the spurting hole in his chest. Then his mace slid out of his right hand, his knees buckled, and he fell heavily forward.

  "Let's get out of here!" Mister Wolf barked. "Down the creek! Go!"

  They plowed into the rocky streambed at a plunging gallop, and the muddy water sprayed out from under their horses' hooves. After several hundred yards they turned sharply to scramble up a steep gravel bank.

  "That way!" Barak shouted, pointing toward more level ground. Garion did not have time to think, only to cling to his horse and try to keep up with the others. Faintly, far behind, he could hear shouts.

  They rode behind a low hill and reined in for a moment at Wolf's signal. "Hettar," the old man said, "see if they're coming."

  Hettar wheeled his horse and loped up to a stand of trees on the brow of the hill.

  Silk was muttering curses, his face livid.

  "What's your problem now?" Barak demanded.

  Silk kept on swearing.

  "What's got him so worked up?" Barak asked Mister Wolf.

  "Our friend's just had a nasty shock," the old man answered. "He misjudged somebody - so did I, as a matter of fact. That weapon Brill used on the big Nadrak is called an adder-sting."

  Barak shrugged. "It looked like just an odd-shaped throwing knife to me.

  "There's a bit more to it than that," Wolf told him. "It's as sharp as a razor on all three sides, and the points are usually dipped in poison. It's the special weapon of the Dagashi. That's what has got Silk so upset."

  "I should have known," Silk berated himself. "Brill's been a little too good all along to be just an ordinary Sendarian footpad."

  "Do you know what they're talking about, Polgara?" Barak asked.

  "The Dagashi are a secret society in Cthol Murgos," she told him. "Trained killers-assassins. They answer only to Ctuchik and their own elders. Ctuchik's been using them for centuries to eliminate people who get in his way. They're very efficient."

  "I've never been that curious about the peculiarities of Murgo culture," Barak replied. "If they want to creep around and kill each other, so much the better." He glanced up the hill quickly to find out if Hettar had seen anything behind them. "That thing Brill used might be an interesting toy, but it's no match for armor and a good sword."

  "Don't be so provincial, Barak," Silk said, beginning to regain his composure. "A well-thrown adder-sting can cut right through a mail shirt; if you know how, you can even sail it around corners. Not only that, a Dagashi could kill you with his hands and feet, whether you're wearing armor or not." He frowned. "You know, Belgarath," he mused, "we might have been making a mistake all along. We assumed that Asharak was using Brill, but it might have been the other way around. Brill has to be good, or Ctuchik wouldn't have sent him into the West to keep an eye on us." He smiled then, a chillingly bleak little smile. "I wonder just how good he is." He flexed his fingers. "I've met a few Dagashi, but never one of their best. That might be very interesting."

  "Let's not get sidetracked," Wolf told him. The old man's face was grim. He looked at Aunt Pol, and something seemed to pass between them.

  "You're not serious," she said.

  "I don't think we've got much choice, Pol. There are Murgos all around us - too many and too close. I don't have any room to move; they've got us pinned right up against the southern edge of Maragor. Sooner or later, we're going to get pushed out onto the plain anyway. At least, if we make the decision ourselves, we'll be able to take some precautions."

  "I don't like it, father," she stated bluntly.

  "I don't care much for it myself," he admitted, "but we've got to shake off all these Murgos or we'll never make it to the Vale before winter sets in."

  Hettar rode back down the hill. "They're coming," he reported quietly. "And there's another group of them circling in from the west to cut us off."

  Wolf drew in a deep breath. "I think that pretty well decides it, Pol," he said. "Let's go."

  As they passed into the belt of trees dotting the last low line of hills bordering the plain, Garion glanced back once. A half dozen dust clouds spotted the face of the miles-wide slope above them. Murgos were converging on them from all over the mountains.

  They galloped on into the trees and thundered through a shallow draw. Barak, riding in the lead, suddenly held up his hand. "Men ahead of us," he warned.

  "Murgos?" Hettar asked, his hand going to his sabre.

  "I don't think so," Barak replied. "The one I saw looked more like some of those we saw back at the settlement."

  Silk, his eyes very bright, pushed his way to the front. "I've got an idea," he said. "Let me talk to them." He pushed his horse into a dead run, plunging directly into what seemed to be an ambush. "Comrades!" he shouted. "Get ready! They're coming - and they've got the gold!"

  Several shabby-looking men with rusty swords and axes rose from the bushes or stepped out from behind trees to surround the little man. Silk was talking very fast, gesticulating, waving his arms and pointing back toward the slope looming behind them.

  "What's he doing?" Barak asked.

  "Something devious, I imagine," Wolf replied.

  The men surrounding Silk looked dubious at first, but their expressions gradually changed as he continued to talk excitedly. Finally he turned in his saddle to look back. He jerked his arm in a broad, overhead sweep. "Let's go!" he shouted. "They're with us!" He spun his horse to scramble up the graveled side of the gully.

  "Don't get separated," Barak warned, shifting his shoulders under his mail shirt. "I'm not sure what he's up to, but these schemes of his sometimes fall apart."

  They pounded down through the grim-looking brigands and up the side of the gully on Silk's heels.

  "What did you say to them?" Barak shouted as they rode.

  "I told them that fifteen Murgos had made a dash into Maragor and come out with three heavy packs of gold." The little man laughed. "Then I said that the men at the settlement had turned them back and that they
were trying to double around this way with the gold. I told them that we'd cover this next gully if they'd cover that one back there."

  "Those scoundrels will swarm all over Brill and his Murgos when they try to come through," Barak suggested.

  "I know." Silk laughed. "Terrible, isn't it?"

  They rode on at a gallop. After about a half mile, Mister Wolf raised his arm, and they all reined in. "This should be far enough," he told them. "Now listen very carefully, all of you. These hills are alive with Murgos, so we're going to have to go into Maragor."

  Princess Ce'Nedra gasped, and her face turned deathly pale.

  "It will be all right, dear," Aunt Pol soothed her.

  Wolf's face was grimly serious. "As soon as we ride out onto the plain, you're going to start hearing certain things," he continued. "Don't pay any attention. Just keep riding. I'm going to be in the lead and I want you all to watch me very closely. As soon as I raise my hand, I want you to stop and get down off your horses immediately. Keep your eyes on the ground and don't look up, no matter what you hear. There are things out there that you don't want to see. Polgara and I are going to put you all into a kind of sleep. Don't try to fight us. Just relax and do exactly what we tell you to do."

  "Sleep?" Mandorallen protested. "What if we are attacked? How may we defend ourselves if we are asleep?"

  "There isn't anything alive out there to attack you, Mandorallen," Wolf told him. "And it isn't your body that needs to be protected; it's your mind."

  "What about the horses?" Hettar asked.

  "The horses will be all right. They won't even see the ghosts."

  "I can't do it," Ce'Nedra declared, her voice hovering on the edge of hysteria. "I can't go into Maragor."

  "Yes, you can, dear," Aunt Pol told her in that same calm, soothing voice. "Stay close to me. I won't let anything happen to you."

  Garion felt a sudden profound sympathy for the frightened little girl, and he drew his horse over beside hers. "I'll be here, too," he told her. She looked at him gratefully, but her lower lip still trembled, and her face was very pale.