Magician's Gambit

by David Eddings

  "What do I do?" Garion asked.

  "Gather in the force," Belgarath told him. "Take it from everything around."

  Garion tried that.

  "Not from me!" the old man exclaimed sharply.

  Garion excluded his grandfather from his field of reaching out and pulling in. After a moment or two, he felt as if he were tingling all over and that his hair was standing on end. "Now what?" he asked, clenching his teeth to hold it in.

  "Push out behind you and push at the rock at the same time.''

  "What do I push at behind me?"

  "Everything - and at the rock as well. It has to be simultaneous."

  "Won't I get - sort of squeezed in between?"

  "Tense yourself up."

  "We'd better hurry, Grandfather," Garion said. "I feel like I'm going to fly apart."

  "Hold it in. Now put your will on the rock, and say the word." Garion put his hands out in front of him and straightened his arms. "Push," he commanded. He felt the surge and the roaring.

  With a resounding thud, the rock teetered and then rolled back smoothly to where it had been the morning before. Garion suddenly felt bruised all over, and he sank to his knees in exhaustion.

  "Push?" Belgarath said incredulously.

  "You said to say push."

  "I said to push. I didn't say to say push."

  "It went over. What difference does it make what word I used?"

  "It's a question of style," the old man said with a pained look. "Push sounds so - so babyish."

  Weakly, Garion began to laugh.

  "After all, Garion, we do have a certain dignity to maintain," the old man said loftily. "If we go around saying 'push' or 'flop' or things like that, no one's ever going to take us seriously."

  Garion wanted to stop laughing, but he simply couldn't. Belgarath stalked away indignantly, muttering to himself.

  When they returned to the others, they found that the tents had been struck and the packhorses loaded.

  "There's no point in staying here," Aunt Pol told them, "and the others are waiting for us. Did you manage to make him understand anything, father?"

  Belgarath grunted, his face set in an expression of profound disapproval.

  "Things didn't go well, I take it."

  "I'll explain later," he said shortly.

  During Garion's absence, Ce'Nedra, with much coaxing and a lapful of apples from their stores, had seduced the little colt into a kind of ecstatic subservience. He followed her about shamelessly, and the rather distant look he gave Garion showed not the slightest trace of guilt.

  "You're going to make him sick," Garion accused her.

  "Apples are good for horses," she replied airily.

  "Tell her, Hettar," Garion said.

  "They won't hurt him," the hook-nosed man answered. "It's a customary way to gain the trust of a young horse."

  Garion tried to think of another suitable objection, but without success. For some reason the sight of the little animal nuzzling at Ce'Nedra offended him, though he couldn't exactly put his finger on why.

  "Who are these others, Belgarath?" Silk asked as they rode. "The ones Polgara mentioned."

  "My brothers," the old sorcerer replied. "Our Master's advised them that we're coming."

  "I've heard stories about the Brotherhood of Sorcerers all my life. Are they as remarkable as everyone says?"

  "I think you're in for a bit of a disappointment," Aunt Pol told him rather primly. "For the most part, sorcerers tend to be crotchety old men with a wide assortment of bad habits. I grew up amongst them, so I know them all rather well." She turned her face to the thrush perched on her shoulder, singing adoringly. "Yes," she said to the bird, "I know."

  Garion pulled closer to his Aunt and began to listen very hard to the birdsong. At first it was merely noise-pretty, but without sense. Then, gradually, he began to pick up scraps of meaning - a bit here, a bit there. The bird was singing of nests and small, speckled eggs and sunrises and the overwhelming joy of flying. Then, as if his ears had suddenly opened, Garion began to understand. Larks sang of flying and singing. Sparrows chirped of hidden little pockets of seeds. A hawk, soaring overhead, screamed its lonely song of riding the wind alone and the fierce joy of the kill. Garion was awed as the air around him suddenly came alive with words.

  Aunt Pol looked at him gravely. "It's a beginning," she said without bothering to explain.

  Garion was so caught up in the world that had just opened to him that he did not see the two silvery-haired men at first. They stood together beneath a tall tree, waiting as the party rode nearer. They wore identical blue robes, and their white hair was quite long, though they were clean-shaven. When Garion looked at them for the first time, he thought for a moment that his eyes were playing tricks. The two were so absolutely identical that it was impossible to tell them apart.

  "Belgarath, our brother," one of them said, "it's been such-" "-a terribly long time," the other finished.

  "Beltira," Belgarath said. "Belkira." He dismounted and embraced the twins.

  "Dearest little Polgara," one of them said then. "The Vale has been-" the other started.

  "-empty without you," the second completed. He turned to his brother. "That was very poetic," he said admiringly.

  "Thank you," the first replied modestly.

  "These are my brothers, Beltira and Belkira," Belgarath informed the members of the party who had begun to dismount. "Don't bother to try to keep them separate. Nobody can tell them apart anyway."

  "We can," the two said in unison.

  "I'm not even sure of that," Belgarath responded with a gentle smile. "Your minds are so close together that your thoughts start with one and finish with the other."

  "You always complicate it so much, father," Aunt Pol said. "This is Beltira." She kissed one of the sweet-faced old men. "And this is Belkira." She kissed the other. "I've been able to tell them apart since I was a child."

  "Polgara knows-"

  "-all our secrets." The twins smiled. "And who are-"

  "-your companions?"

  "I think you'll recognize them," Belgarath answered. "Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor."

  "The Knight Protector," the twins said in unison, bowing.

  "Prince Kheldar of Drasnia."

  "The Guide," they said.

  "Barak, Earl of Trellheim."

  "The Dreadful Bear." They looked at the big Cherek apprehensively. Barak's face darkened, but he said nothing.

  "Hettar, son of Cho-Hag of Algaria."

  "The Horse Lord."

  "And Durnik of Sendaria."

  "The One with Two Lives," they murmured with profound respect. Durnik looked baffled at that.

  "Ce'Nedra, Imperial Princess of Tolnedra."

  "The Queen of the World," they replied with another deep bow. Ce'Nedra laughed nervously.

  "And this-"

  "-can only be Belgarion," they said, their faces alive with joy, "the Chosen One." The twins reached out in unison and laid their right hands on Garion's head. Their voices sounded within his mind. "Hail, Belgarion, Overlord and Champion, hope of the world."

  Garion was too surprised at this strange benediction to do more than awkwardly nod his head.

  "If this gets any more cloying, I think I'll vomit," a new voice, harsh and rasping, announced. The speaker, who had just stepped out from behind the tree, was a squat, misshapen old man, dirty and profoundly ugly. His legs were bowed and gnarled like oak trunks. His shoulders were huge, and his hands dangled below his knees. There was a large hump in the middle of his back, and his face was twisted into a grotesque caricature of a human countenance. His straggly, iron-gray hair and beard were matted, and twigs and bits of leaves were caught in the tangles. His hideous face wore an expression of perpetual contempt and anger.

  "Beldin," Belgarath said mildly, "we weren't sure you would come."

  "I shouldn't have, you bungler," the ugly man snapped. "You've made a mess of things as usual, Belgarath." He turned to the twins
. "Get me something to eat," he told them peremptorily.

  "Yes, Beldin," they said quickly and started away.

  "And don't be all day," he shouted after them.

  "You seem to be in a good humor today, Beldin," Belgarath said with no trace of sarcasm. "What's made you so cheerful?"

  The ugly dwarf scowled at him, then laughed, a short, barking sound. "I saw Belzedar. He looked like an unmade bed. Something had gone terribly wrong for him, and I enjoy that sort of thing."

  "Dear Uncle Beldin," Aunt Pol said fondly, putting her arms around the filthy little man. "I've missed you so much."

  "Don't try to charm me, Polgara," he told her, though his eyes seemed to soften slightly. "This is as much your fault as it is your father's. I thought you were going to keep an eye on him. How did Belzedar get his hands on our Master's Orb?"

  "We think he used a child," Belgarath answered seriously. "The Orb won't strike an innocent."

  The dwarf snorted. "There's no such thing as an innocent. All men are born corrupt." He turned his eyes back to Aunt Pol and looked appraisingly at her. "You're getting fat," he said bluntly. "Your hips are as wide as an ox cart."

  Durnik immediately clenched his fists and went for the hideous little man.

  The dwarf laughed, and one of his big hands caught the front of the smith's tunic. Without any seeming effort, he lifted the surprised Durnik and threw him several yards away. "You can start your second life right now if you want," he growled threateningly.

  "Let me handle this, Durnik," Aunt Pol told the smith. "Beldin," she said coolly, "how long has it been since you've had a bath?"

  The dwarf shrugged. "It rained on me a couple months ago."

  "Not hard enough, though. You smell like an uncleaned pigsty."

  Beldin grinned at her. "That's my girl." He chortled. "I was afraid the years had taken off your edge."

  The two of them then began to trade the most hair-raising insults Garion had ever heard in his life. Graphic, ugly words passed back and forth between them, almost sizzling in the air. Barak's eyes widened in astonishment, and Mandorallen's face blanched often. Ce'Nedra, her face flaming, bolted out of earshot.

  The worse the insults, however, the more the hideous Beldin smiled. Finally Aunt Pol delivered an epithet so vile that Garion actually cringed, and the ugly little man collapsed on the ground, roaring with laughter and hammering at the dirt with his great fists. "By the Gods, I've missed you, Pol!" he gasped. "Come here and give us a kiss."

  She smiled, kissing his dirty face affectionately. "Mangy dog."

  "Big cow." He grinned, catching her in a crushing embrace.

  "I'll need my ribs more or less in one piece, uncle," she told him.

  "I haven't cracked any of your ribs in years, my girl."

  "I'd like to keep it that way."

  The twins hurried across to the dwarf Beldin, carrying a large plate of steaming stew and a huge tankard. The ugly man looked curiously at the plate, then casually dumped the stew on the ground and tossed the plate away. "Doesn't smell too bad." He squatted and began to stuff the food into his mouth with both hands, pausing only now and then to spit out some of the larger pebbles that clung to the chunks of meat. When he had finished, he swilled down the contents of the tankard, belched thunderously, and sat back, scratching at his matted hair with gravy-smeared fingers. "Let's get down to business," he said.

  "Where have you been?" Belgarath asked him.

  "Central Cthol Murgos. I've been sitting on a hilltop since the Battle of Vo Mimbre, watching the cave where Belzedar took Torak."

  "Five hundred years?" Silk gasped.

  Beldin shrugged. "More or less," he replied indifferently. "Somebody had to keep an eye on Burnt-Face, and I wasn't doing anything that couldn't be interrupted."

  "You said you saw Belzedar," Aunt Pol said.

  "About a month ago. He came to the cave as if he had a demon on his tail and pulled Torak out. Then he changed himself into a vulture and flew off with the body."

  "That must have been right after Ctuchik caught him at the Nyissan border and took the Orb away from him," Belgarath mused.

  "I wouldn't know about that. That was part of your responsibility, not mine. All I was supposed to do was keep watch over Torak. Did any of the ashes fall on you?"

  "Which ashes?" one of the twins asked.

  "When Belzedar took Torak out of the cave, the mountain exploded -blew its guts out. I imagine it had something to do with the force surrounding One-Eye's body. It was still blowing when I left."

  "We wondered what had caused the eruption," Aunt Pol commented. "It put ash down an inch deep all over Nyissa."

  "Good. Too bad it wasn't deeper."

  "Did you see any signs-"

  "-of Torak stirring?" the twins asked.

  "Can't you two ever talk straight?" Beldin demanded.

  "We're sorry-"

  "-it's our nature."

  The ugly little man shook his head with disgust. "Never mind. No. Torak didn't move once in the whole five hundred years. There was mold on him when Belzedar dragged him out of the cave."

  "Did you follow Belzedar?" Belgarath asked.

  "Naturally."

  "Where did he take Torak?"

  "Now where do you think, idiot? To the ruins of Cthol Mishrak in Mallorea, of course. There are only a few places on earth that will bear Torak's weight, and that's one of them. Belzedar will have to keep Ctuchik and the Orb away from Torak, and that's the only place he could go. The Mallorean Grolims refuse to accept Ctuchik's authority, so Belzedar will be safe there. It will cost him a great deal to pay for their aid, but they'll keep Ctuchik out of Mallorea - unless he raises an army of Murgos and invades."

  "That's something we could hope for," Barak said.

  "You're supposed to be a bear, not a donkey," Beldin told him. "Don't base your hopes on the impossible. Neither Ctuchik nor Belzedar would start that sort of war at this particular time - not with Belgarion here stalking through the world like an earthquake." He scowled at Aunt Pol. "Can't you teach him to be a little quieter? Or are your wits getting as flabby as your behind?"

  "Be civil, uncle," she replied. "The boy's just coming into his strength. We were all a bit clumsy at first."

  "He doesn't have time to be a baby, Pol. The stars are dropping into southern Cthol Murgos like poisoned roaches, and dead Grolims are moaning in their tombs from Rak Cthol to Rak Hagga. The time's on us, and he has to be ready."

  "He'll be ready, uncle."

  "Maybe," the filthy man said sourly.

  "Are you going back to Cthol Mishrak?" Belgarath asked.

  "No. Our Master told me to stay here. The twins and I have work to do and we don't have much time."

  "He spoke to-"

  "-us, too."

  "Stop that!" Beldin snapped. He turned back to Belgarath. "Are you going to Rak Cthol now?"

  "Not yet. We've got to go to Prolgu first. I have to talk to the Gorim, and we've got to pick up another member of the party."

  "I noticed that your group wasn't complete yet. What about the last one?"

  Belgarath spread his hands. "That's the one that worries me. I haven't been able to find any trace of her - and I've been looking for three thousand years."

  "You spent too much time looking in alehouses."

  "I noticed the same thing, uncle," Aunt Pol said with a sweet little smile.

  "Where do we go after Prolgu?" Barak asked.

  "I think that then we'll go to Rak Cthol," Belgarath replied rather grimly. "We've got to get the Orb back from Ctuchik, and I've been meaning to have a rather pointed discussion with the magician of the Murgos for a long, long time, now."

  Part Three

  ULGO

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING they turned northwest and rode toward the stark, white peaks of the mountains of Ulgo, glittering in the morning sun above the lush meadows of the Vale.

  "Snow up there," Barak observed. "It could be a difficult trip.
"

  "It always is," Hettar told him.

  "Have you been to Prolgu before?" Durnik asked.

  "A few times. We keep communications open with the Ulgos. Our visits are mostly ceremonial."

  Princess Ce'Nedra had been riding beside Aunt Pol, her tiny face troubled. "How can you stand him, Lady Polgara?" she burst out finally. "He's so ugly."

  "Who's that, dear?"

  "That awful dwarf."

  "Uncle Beldin?" Aunt Pol looked mildly surprised. "He's always been like that. You have to get to know him, that's all."

  "But he says such terrible things to you."

  "It's the way he hides his real feelings," Aunt Pol explained. "He's a very gentle person, really, but people don't expect that - coming from him. When he was a child, his people drove him out because he was so deformed and hideous. When he finally came to the Vale, our Master saw past the ugliness to the beauty in his mind."

  "But does he have to be so dirty?"

  Aunt Pol shrugged slightly. "He hates his deformed body, so he ignores it." She looked at the princess, her eyes calm. "It's the easiest thing in the world to judge things by appearances, Ce'Nedra," she said, "and it's usually wrong. Uncle Beldin and I are very fond of each other. That's why we take the trouble to invent such elaborate insults. Compliments would be hypocrisy - he is, after all, very ugly."

  "I just don't understand." Ce'Nedra sounded baffled.

  "Love can show itself in many strange ways," Aunt Pol told her. Her tone was offhand, but the look she directed at the tiny princess was penetrating.

  Ce'Nedra flickered one quick look at Garion, and then averted her eyes, blushing slightly.

  Garion considered the exchange between his Aunt Pol and the princess as he rode. It was quite obvious that Aunt Pol had been telling the little girl something important, but whatever it was escaped him.

  They rode for several days across the Vale and then moved up into the foothills which clustered along the flanks of the ragged peaks that formed the land of the Ulgos. Once again the seasons changed as they rode. It was early autumn as they crested the first low range, and the valleys beyond were aflame with crimson leaves. At the top of a second, higher range, the trees had been swept bare, and the wind had the first bite of winter in it as it whistled down from the peaks. The sky grew overcast, and tendrils of cloud seeped down the rocky gorges above them. Spits of intermittent snow and rain pelted them as they climbed higher up the rocky slopes.