Enchanter's End Game

8

The crown had been Queen Islena’s first mistake. It was heavy and it always gave her a headache. Her decision to wear it had come originally out of a sense of insecurity. The bearded warriors in Anheg’s throne room intimidated her, and she felt the need of a visible symbol of her authority. Now she was afraid to appear without it. Each day she put it on with less pleasure and entered the main hall of Anheg’s palace with less certainty.

The sad truth was that Queen Islena of Cherek was completely unprepared to rule. Until the day when, dressed in regal crimson velvet and with her gold crown firmly in place, she had marched into the vaulted throne room at Val Alorn to announce that she would rule the kingdom in her husband’s absence, Islena’s most momentous decisions had involved which gown she would wear and how her hair was to be arranged. Now it seemed that the fate of Cherek hung in the balance each time she was faced with a choice.

The warriors lounging indolently with their ale cups about the huge, open fire pit or wandering aimlessly about on the rush-strewn floor were no help whatsoever. Each time she entered the throne room, all conversation broke off and they rose to watch as she marched to the bannerhung throne, but their faces gave no hint of their true feelings toward her. Irrationally, she concluded that the whole problem had to do with the beards. How could she possibly know what a man was thinking when his face was sunk up to the ears in hair? Only the quick intervention of Lady Merel, the cool blond wife of the Earl of Trellheim, had stopped her from ordering a universal shave.

“You can’t, Islena,” Merel had told her flatly, removing the quill from the queen’s hand, even as she had been in the act of signing the hastily drawn-up proclamation. “They’re attached to their beards like little boys attached to a favorite toy. You can’t make them cut off their whiskers.”

“I’m the Queen.”

“Only as long as they permit you to be. They accept you out of respect for Anheg, and that’s as far as it goes. If you tamper with their pride, they’ll take you off the throne.” And that dreadful threat had ended the matter then and there.

Islena found herself relying more and more on Barak’s wife, and it was not long before the two of them, one in green and the other in royal crimson, were seldom apart. Even when Islena faltered, Merel’s icy stare quelled the hints of disrespect which cropped up from time to time—usually when the ale had been distributed a bit too freely. It was Merel, ultimately, who made the day-to-day decisions which ran the kingdom. When Islena sat upon the throne, Merel, her blond braids coiled about her head to form her own crown, stood to one side in plain view of the hesitant queen. Cherek was ruled by the expressions on her face. A faint smile meant yes; a frown, no; a scarcely perceptible shrug, maybe. It worked out fairly well.

But there was one person who was not intimidated by Merel’s cool gaze. Grodeg, the towering, white-bearded High Priest of Belar, inevitably requested private audience with the queen, and once Merel left the council room, Islena was lost.

Despite Anheg’s call for a general mobilization, the members of the Bear-cult had not yet left to join the campaign. Their promises to join the fleet later all sounded sincere, but their excuses and delays grew more and more obvious as time went on. Islena knew that Grodeg was behind it all. Nearly every able-bodied man in the kingdom was off with the fleet, which was even now rowing up the broad expanse of the Aldur River to join Anheg in central Algaria. The household guard in the palace at Val Alorn had been reduced to grizzled old men and downy-cheeked boys. Only the Bear-cult remained, and Grodeg pushed his advantage to the limit.

He was polite enough, bowing to the queen when the occasion demanded, and never mentioning her past links with the cult, but his offers to help became more and more insistent; and when Islena faltered at his suggestions concerning this matter or that, he smoothly acted to implement them as if her hesitancy had been acceptance. Little by little, Islena was losing control, and Grodeg, with the armed might of the cult behind him, was taking charge. More and more the cult members infested the palace, giving orders, lounging about the throne room and openly grinning as they watched Islena’s attempts to rule.

“You’re going to have to do something, Islena,” Merel said firmly one evening when the two were alone in the queen’s private apartment. She was striding about the carpeted room, her hair gleaming like soft gold in the candlelight, but there was nothing soft in her expression.

“What can I do?” Islena pleaded, wringing her hands. “He’s never openly disrespectful, and his decisions always seem to be in the best interests of Cherek.”

“You need help, Islena,” Merel told her.

“Whom can I turn to?” The Queen of Cherek was almost in tears. The Lady Merel smoothed the front of her green velvet gown.

“I think it’s time that you wrote to Porenn,” she declared.

“What do I say?” Islena begged of her.

Merel pointed at the small table in the corner where parchment and ink lay waiting. “Sit down,” she instructed, “and write what I tell you to write.”

Count Brador, the Tolnedran ambassador, was definitely growing tiresome, Queen Layla decided. The plump little queen marched purposefully toward the chamber where she customarily gave audiences and where the ambassador awaited her with his satchel full of documents.

The courtiers in the halls bowed as she passed, her crown slightly askew and her heels clicking on the polished oak floors, but Queen Layla uncharacteristically ignored them. This was not the time for polite exchanges or idle chitchat. The Tolnedran had to be dealt with, and she had delayed too long already.

The ambassador was an olive-skinned man with receding hair and a hooked nose. He wore a brown mantle with the old trim that indicated his relationship to the Borunes. He lounged rather indolently in a large cushioned chair near the window of the sunny room where he and Queen Layla were to meet. He rose as she entered and bowed with exquisite grace. “Your Highness,” he murmured politely.

“My dear Count Brador,” Queen Layla gushed at him, putting on her most helpless and scatterbrained expression, “please do sit down. I’m sure we know each other well enough by now to skip all these tedious formalities.” She sank into a chair, fanning herself with one hand. “It’s turned warm, hasn’t it?”

“Summers are lovely here in Sendaria, your Highness,” the count replied, settling back in his chair. “I wonder—have you had the chance to think over the proposals I gave you at our last meeting?”

Queen Layla stared at him blankly. “Which proposals were those, Count Brador?” She gave a helpless little giggle. “Please forgive me, but my mind seems to be absolutely gone these days. There are so many details. I wonder how my husband keeps them all straight.”

“We were discussing the administration of the port at Camaar, your Highness,” the count reminded her gently.

“We were?” The queen gave him a blank look of total incomprehension, secretly delighted at the flicker of annoyance that crossed his face. It was her best ploy. By pretending to have forgotten all previous conversations, she forced him to begin at the beginning every time they met. The count’s strategy, she knew, depended upon a gradual build-up to his final proposal, and her pretended forgetfulness neatly defeated that. “Whatever led us into such a tedious subject as that?” she added.

“Surely your Highness recalls,” the count protested with just the slightest hint of annoyance. “The Tolnedran merchant vessel, Star of Tol Horb, was kept standing at anchor for a week and a half in the harbor before moorage could be found for her. Every day’s delay in unloading her was costing a fortune.”

“Things are so hectic these days,” the queen of Sendaria sighed. “It’s the manpower shortage, you understand. Everybody who hasn’t gone off to war is busy freighting supplies to the army. I’ll send a very stern note to the port authorities about it, though. Was there anything else, Count Brador?”

Brador coughed uncomfortably. “Uh—your Highness has already forwarded just such a note,” he reminded her.

“I have?” Queen Layla feigned astonishment. “Wonderful. That takes care of everything then, doesn’t it? And you’ve dropped by to thank me.” She smiled girlishly. “How exquisitely courteous of you.” She leaned forward to put one hand impulsively on his wrist, quite deliberately knocking the rolled parchment he was holding out of his hand. “How clumsy of me,” she exclaimed, bending quickly to pick up the parchment before he could retrieve it. Then she sat back in her chair, tapping the rolled document absently against her cheek as if lost in thought.

“Uh—actually, your Highness, our discussions had moved somewhat beyond your note to the port authorities,” Brador told her, nervously eyeing the parchment she had so deftly taken from him. “You may recall that I offered Tolnedran assistance in administering the port. I believe we agreed that such assistance might help to alleviate the manpower shortage your Highness just mentioned.”

“What an absolutely marvelous idea,” Layla exclaimed. She brought her plump little fist down on the arm of her chair as if in an outburst of enthusiasm. At that prearranged signal, two of her younger children burst into the room, arguing loudly.

“Mother!” Princess Gelda wailed in outrage, “Fernie stole my red ribbon!”

“I did not!” Princess Ferna denied the charge indignantly. “She gave it to me for my blue beads.”

“Did not!” Gelda snapped.

“Did so!” Ferna replied.

“Children, children,” Layla chided them. “Can’t you see that Mother’s busy? What will the dear count think of us?”

“But she stole it, Mother!” Gelda protested. “She stole my red ribbon.”

“Did not!” Ferna said, spitefully sticking her tongue out at her sister.

Trailing behind them with a look of wide-eyed interest came little Prince Meldig, Queen Layla’s youngest child. In one hand the prince held a jam pot, and his face was liberally smeared with the contents.

“Oh, that’s just impossible,” Layla exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “You girls are supposed to be watching him.” She bustled over to the jam-decorated prince, crumpled the parchment she was holding and began wiping his face with it. Abruptly she stopped. “Oh dear,” she said as if suddenly realizing what she was doing. “Was this important, Count Brador?” she asked the Tolnedran, holding out the rumpled, sticky document.

Brador’s shoulders, however, had slumped in defeat. “No, your Highness,” he replied in a voice filled with resignation, “not really. The royal house of Sendaria has me quite outnumbered, it appears.” He rose to his feet. “Perhaps another time,” he murmured, bowing. “With your Highness’s permission,” he said, preparing to leave.

“You mustn’t forget this, Count Brador,” Layla said, pressing the parchment into his cringing hands.

The count’s face had a faintly martyred expression as he withdrew. Queen Layla turned back to her children, who were grinning impishly at her. She began to scold them in a loud voice until she was certain the count was well out of earshot, then she knelt, embraced them all and began to laugh.

“Did we do it right, Mother?” Princess Gelda asked.

“You were absolutely perfect,” Queen Layla replied, still laughing.

Sadi the eunuch had grown careless, lulled somewhat by the air of polite civility that had pervaded the palace at Sthiss Tor for the past year, and one of his associates, seizing upon his unwariness, had taken the opportunity to poison him. Sadi definitely did not appreciate being poisoned. The antidotes all tasted vile, and the aftereffects left him weak and light-headed. Thus it was that he viewed the appearance of the mail-skirted emissary of King Taur Urgas with thinly veiled irritation.

“Taur Urgas, King of the Murgos, greets Sadi, chief servant of Immortal Salmissra,” the Murgo declaimed with a deep bow as he entered the cool, dimly lighted study from which Sadi conducted most of the nation’s affairs.

“The servant of the Serpent Queen returns the greetings of the right arm of the Dragon-God of Angarak.” Sadi mouthed the formula phrases almost indifferently. “Do you suppose we could get to the point? I’m feeling a bit indisposed at the moment.”

“I was very pleased at your recovery,” the ambassador lied, his scarred face carefully expressionless. “Has the poisoner been apprehended yet?” He drew up a chair and sat down at the polished table Sadi used for a desk.

“Naturally,” Sadi replied,absently rubbing his hand over his shaved scalp.

“And executed?”

“Why would we want to do that? The man’s a professional poisoner. He was only doing his job.”

The Murgo looked a bit startled.

“We look upon a good poisoner as a national asset,” Sadi told him. “If we start killing them every time they poison somebody, very soon there won’t be any of them left, and you never know when I might want somebody poisoned.”

The Murgo ambassador shook his head incredulously. “You people have an amazing amount of tolerance, Sadi,” he said in his harshly accented voice. “What about his employer?”

“That’s another matter,” Sadi replied. “His employer is currently entertaining the leeches at the bottom of the river. Is your visit official, or did you merely stop by to inquire after my health?”

“A bit of each, Excellency.”

“You Murgos are an economical race,” Sadi observed dryly. “What does Taur Urgas want this time?”

“The Alorns are preparing to invade Mishrak ac Thull, your Excellency.”

“So I’ve heard. What’s that got to do with Nyissa?”

“Nyissans have no reason to be fond of Alorns.”

“Nor any to be fond of Murgos, either,” Sadi pointed out.

“It was Aloria that invaded Nyissa following the death of the Rivan King,” the Murgo reminded him, “and it was Cthol Murgos that provided the market for Nyissa’s primary export.”

“My dear fellow, please get to the point,” Sadi said, rubbing his scalp wearily. “I’m not going to operate on the basis of long-past insults or long-forgotten favors. The slave trade is no longer significant, and the scars left by the Alorn invasion disappeared centuries ago. What does Taur Urgas want?”

“My king wishes to avoid bloodshed,” the Murgo stated. “The Tolnedran legions form a significant part of the armies massing in Algaria. If a threat just a threat, mind you—of unfriendly activity suddenly appeared on his unprotected southern frontier, Ran Borune would recall those legions. Their loss would persuade the Alorns to abandon this adventure.”

“You want me to invade Tolnedra?” Sadi demanded incredulously.

“Naturally not, Lord Sadi. His Majesty merely wishes your permission to move certain forces through your territory to pose the threat on Tolnedra’s southern border. No blood need be shed at all.”

“Except Nyissan blood, once the Murgo army withdraws. The legions would swarm down across the River of the Woods like angry hornets.”

“Taur Urgas would be more than willing to leave garrisons behind to guarantee the integrity of Nyissan territory.”

“I’m sure he would,” Sadi observed dryly. “Advise your king that his proposal is quite unacceptable at this particular time.”

“The King of Cthol Murgos is a powerful man,” the Murgo said firmly, “and he remembers those who thwart him even more keenly than he remembers his friends.”

“Taur Urgas is a madman,” Sadi told him bluntly. “He wants to avoid trouble with the Alorns so that he can concentrate on ’Zakath. Despite his insanity, however, he’s not so foolish as to send an army into Nyissa uninvited. An army must eat, and Nyissa’s a bad place to forage for food—as history has demonstrated. The most tempting fruit has bitter juice.”

“A Murgo army carries its own food,” the ambassador replied stiffly.

“Good for them. But where do they plan to find drinking water? I don’t believe we’re getting anywhere with this. I’ll convey your proposal to her Majesty. She, of course, will make the final decision. I suspect, however, that you’ll need to offer something much more attractive than a permanent Murgo occupation to persuade her to consider the matter favorably. Was that all?”

The Murgo rose to his feet, his scarred face angry. He bowed coldly to Sadi and withdrew without further conversation.

Sadi thought about it for a while. He could gain a great deal of advantage at a minimal cost if he played this right. A few carefully worded dispatches to King Rhodar in Algaria would put Nyissa among the friends of the west. If Rhodar’s army should happen to win, Nyissa would benefit. If, on the other hand, it appeared that the west was about to lose, the proposal of Taur Urgas could be accepted. In either case, Nyissa would be on the winning side. The whole notion appealed to Sadi enormously. He stood up, his iridescent silk robe rustling, and went to a nearby cabinet. He took out a crystal decanter containing a dark blue liquid and carefully measured some of the thick syrup into a small glass and drank it. Almost immediately a euphoric calm came over him as his favorite drug took effect. A moment or two later, he felt that he was ready to face his queen. He was even smiling as he walked from his study into the dim corridor leading to the throne room.

As always, Salmissra’s chamber was dimly lighted by oil lamps hanging on long silver chains from the shadowy ceiling. The chorus of eunuchs still knelt adoringly in the queen’s presence, but they no longer sang her praises. Noise of any kind irritated Salmissra now, and it was wise not to irritate her. The Serpent Queen still occupied the divan-like throne beneath the towering statue of Issa. She dozed interminably, stirring her mottled coils with the seething dry hiss of scale rubbing against scale. But even in restless doze, her tongue flickered nervously. Sadi approached the throne, perfunctorily prostrated himself on the polished stone floor, and waited. His scent on the air would announce him to the hooded serpent who was his queen.

“Yes, Sadi?” she whispered finally, her voice a dusty hiss.

“The Murgos wish an alliance, my Queen,” Sadi informed her. “Taur Urgas wants to threaten the Tolnedrans from the south to force Ran Borune to withdraw his legions from the Thullish border.”

“Interesting,” she replied indifferently. Her dead eyes bored into him and her coils rustled. “What do you think?”

“Neutrality costs nothing, Divine Salmissra,” Sadi replied. “Alliance with either side would be premature.”

Salmissra turned, her mottled hood flaring as she regarded her reflection in the mirror beside her throne. The crown still rested on her head as polished and glistening as her scales. Her tongue flickered, and her eyes, flat as glass, looked at the mirror. “Do what you think best, Sadi,” she told him in an uncaring tone.

“I’ll deal with the matter, my Queen,” Sadi said, putting his face to the floor in preparation to leave.

“I have no need of Torak now,” she mused, still staring at the mirror. “Polgara saw to that.”

“Yes, my Queen,” Sadi agreed in a neutral voice, beginning to rise.

She turned to look at him. “Stay a while, Sadi. I’m lonely.”

Sadi sank immediately back to the polished floor.

“I have such strange dreams sometimes, Sadi,” she hissed. “Such very strange dreams. I seem to remember things—things that happened when my blood was warm and I was a woman. Strange thoughts come to me in my dreams, and strange hungers.” She looked directly at him, her hood flaring again as her pointed face stretched out toward him. “Was I really like that, Sadi? It all seems like something seen through smoke.”

“It was a difficult time, my Queen,” Sadi replied candidly. “For all of us.”

“Polgara was right, you know,” she continued in that expiring whisper. “The potions enflamed me. I think it’s better this way—no passions, no hungers, no fears.” She turned back to her mirror. “You may go now, Sadi.”

He rose and started toward the door.

“Oh, Sadi.”

“Yes, my Queen?”

“If I caused you trouble before, I’m sorry.”

He stared at her.

“Not very much, of course—but just a little.” Then she returned to her reflection.

Sadi was trembling as he closed the door behind him. Sometime later, he sent for Issus. The shabby, one-eyed hireling entered the chief eunuch’s study with a certain hesitancy, and his face was a bit apprehensive.

“Come in, Issus,” Sadi told him calmly.

“I hope you aren’t holding any grudges, Sadi,” Issus said nervously, looking about to be sure they were alone. “There was nothing personal in it, you know.”

“It’s all right, Issus,” Sadi assured him. “You were only doing what you were paid to do.”

“How did you manage to detect it?” Issus asked with a certain professional curiosity. “Most men are too far gone for the antidote to work before they realize they’ve been poisoned.”

“Your concoction leaves just the faintest aftertaste of lemon,” Sadi replied. “I’ve been trained to recognize it.”

“Ah,” Issus said. “I’ll have to work on that. Otherwise it’s a very good poison.”

“An excellent poison, Issus,” Sadi agreed. “That brings us to the reason I sent for you. There’s a man I think I can dispense with.”

Issus’ single eye brightened, and he rubbed his hands together. “The usual fee?”

“Naturally.”

“Who is he?”

“The Murgo ambassador.”

Issus’ face clouded for a moment. “He’ll be difficult to get to.” He scratched at his stubbled scalp.

“You’ll find a way. I have the utmost confidence in you.”

“I’m the best,” Issus agreed with no trace of false modesty.

“The ambassador’s pressing me in certain negotiations that I need to delay,” Sadi continued. “His sudden demise should interrupt things a bit.”

“You don’t really have to explain, Sadi,” Issus told him. “I don’t need to know why you want him killed.”

“But you do need to know how. For various reasons, I’d like for this to look very natural. Could you arrange for him—and perhaps a few others in his household-to come down with some kind of fever? Something suitably virulent?”

Issus frowned. “That’s tricky. Something like that can get out of hand. You might end up infecting an entire neighborhood, and there would be very few survivors.”

Sadi shrugged. “One sometimes must make sacrifices. Can you do it?”

Issus nodded gravely.

“Do it then, and I’ll compose a letter expressing my regrets to King Taur Urgas.”

Queen Silar sat at her loom in the great hall of the Algar Stronghold, humming softly to herself as her fingers passed the shuttle back and forth with a drowsy, clicking sound. Sunlight streamed down from the narrow windows set high up in the wall, filling the huge, narrow room with a diffused golden light. King Cho-Hag and Hettar were away from the Stronghold, preparing a huge encampment some few leagues out from the base of the eastern escarpment for the army of Alorns, Arends, Sendars, and Tolnedrans approaching from the west. Although he was still within the borders of the kingdom, Cho-Hag had formally transferred authority to his wife, extracting a pledge of support from all of the assembled Clan-Chiefs.

The Queen of Algaria was a silent woman, and her calm face seldom betrayed her emotions. She had spent her entire life in the background, often so unobtrusively that people did not even realize that she was present. She had, however, kept her eyes and her ears open. Her crippled husband, moreover, had confided in her. His quiet, dark-haired queen knew exactly what was going on.

Elvar, Archpriest of Algaria, stood, white-robed and much puffed-up with his own importance, reading to her the set of carefully prepared proclamations which would effectively transfer all power to him. His tone was condescending as he explained them to her.

“Is that all?” she asked when he had finished.

“It’s really for the best, your Highness,” he told her loftily. “All the world knows that women are unsuited to rule. Shall I send for pen and ink?”

“Not just yet, Elvar,” she replied calmly, her hands busy at her loom.

“But ”

“You know, I just had the oddest thought,” she said, looking directly at him. “You’re the Archpriest of Belar here in Algaria, but you never go out of the Stronghold. Isn’t that a bit peculiar?”

“My duties, your Highness, compell me—”

“Isn’t your first duty to the people—and to the children of Belar? We’ve been terribly selfish keeping you here when your heart must be yearning to be out among the clans, overseeing the religious instruction of the children.”

He stared at her, his mouth suddenly agape.

“And all the other priests as well,” she continued. “They all seem to be concentrated here at the Stronghold, pressed into administrative duties. A priest is too valuable a man for such tasks. This situation must be corrected immediately.”

“But ”

“No, Elvar. My duty as queen is absolutely clear. The children of Algaria must come first. I release you from all your duties here at the Stronghold so that you may return to your chosen vocation.” She smiled suddenly. “I’ll even draw up an itinerary for you myself,” she said brightly. She thought a moment. “The times are troubled,” she added, “so perhaps I’d better provide you with an escort—several trustworthy men from my own clan who can be depended upon to make sure that you aren’t interrupted in your travels or distracted from your preaching by any disturbing messages from abroad.” She looked at him again. “That will be all, Elvar. You’d probably better go pack. It will be a number of seasons before you return, I imagine.”

The Archpriest of Belar was making strangled noises.

“Oh, one other thing.” The queen carefully chose another skein of yarn and held it up to the sunlight. “It’s been years since anyone made a survey of the herds. As long as you’re going to be out there anyway, I think I’d like an accurate count of all the calves and colts in Algaria. It will give you something to occupy your mind. Send me a report from time to time, won’t you?” She returned to her weaving. “You’re dismissed, Elvar,” she said placidly, not even bothering to look up as the Archpriest, shaking with rage, tottered away to make preparations for his roving imprisonment.

Lord Morin, High Chamberlain to his Imperial Majesty, Ran Borune XXIII, sighed as he entered the Emperor’s private garden. Another tirade was undoubtedly in the offing, and Morin had already heard it all a dozen times at least. The Emperor had an extraordinary capacity for repeating himself sometimes.

Ran Borune, however, was in an odd mood. The bald, beak-nosed little Emperor sat pensively in his chair beneath a shady arbor, listening to the trilling of his canary. “He’s never spoken again, did you know that, Morin?” the Emperor said as his chamberlain approached across the close-clipped grass. “Just that one time when Polgara was here.” He looked at the little golden bird again, his eyes sad. Then he sighed. “I think I came out second best in that bargain. Polgara gave me a canary and took Ce’Nedra in exchange.” He looked around at his sundrenched garden and the cool marble walls surrounding it. “Is it just my imagination, Morin, or does the palace seem sort of cold and empty now?” He lapsed once more into moody silence, staring with unseeing eyes at a bed of crimson roses.

Then there was an odd sound, and Lord Morin looked sharply at the Emperor, half afraid that his ruler was about to go into another seizure. But there was no evidence of that. Instead, Morin perceived that Ran Borune was chuckling. “Did you see how she tricked me, Morin?” The Emperor laughed. “She deliberately goaded me into that fit. What a son she would have made! She could have been the greatest Emperor in Tolnedra’s history.” Ran Borune was laughing openly now, his secret delight at Ce’Nedra’s cleverness suddenly emerging.

“She is your daughter after all, your Majesty,” Lord Morin observed.

“To think that she could raise an army of that size when she’s barely sixteen,” the Emperor marveled. “What a splendid child!” He seemed quite suddenly to have recovered from the gloomy peevishness that had dogged him since his return to Tol Honeth. His laughter trailed away after several moments, and his bright little eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Those legions she stole from me are likely to become fractious without professional leadership,” he mused.

“I’d say that’s Ce’Nedra’s problem, your Majesty,” Morin replied. “Or Polgara’s.”

“Well—” The Emperor scratched one ear. “I don’t know, Morin. The situation out there isn’t too clear.” He looked at his chamberlain. “Are you acquainted with General Varana?”

“The Duke of Anadile? Of course, your Majesty. A thoroughly professional sort of fellow—solid, unassuming, extremely intelligent.”

“He’s an old friend of the family,” Ran Borune confided. “Ce’Nedra knows him and she would listen to his advice. Why don’t you go to him, Morin, and suggest that he might want to take a leave of absence—perhaps go to Algaria and have a look at things?”

“I’m certain that he’d be overjoyed at the idea of a vacation,” Lord Morin agreed. “Garrison life in the summertime can be very tedious.”

“It’s just a suggestion,” the Emperor stressed. “His presence in the war zone would have to be strictly unofficial.”

“Naturally, your Majesty.”

“And if he just happened to make a few suggestions—or even provide a bit of leadership, we certainly wouldn’t have any knowledge of it, would we? After all, what a private citizen does with his own time is his business, right?”

“Absolutely, your Majesty.”

The Emperor grinned broadly. “And we’ll all stick to that story, won’t we, Morin?”

“Like glue, your Majesty,” Morin replied gravely..

The crown prince of Drasnia burped noisily in his mother’s ear, sighed, and promptly fell asleep on her shoulder. Queen Porenn smiled at him, tucked him back in his cradle, and turned again to the stringy-appearing man in nondescript clothing who sprawled in a nearby chair. The emaciated man was known only by the peculiar name “Javelin.” Javelin was the chief of the Drasnian intelligence service and one of Porenn’s closest advisers.

“Anyway,” he continued his report, “the Tolnedran girl’s army is about two days’ march from the Stronghold. The engineers are moving along ahead of schedule with the hoists on top of the escarpment, and the Chereks are preparing to begin the portage from the east bank of the Aldur.”

“Everything seems to be going according to plan, then,” the queen said, resuming her seat at the polished table near the window.

“There’s a bit of trouble in Arendia,” Javelin noted. “The usual ambushes and bickerings—nothing really serious. Queen Layla’s got the Tolnedran, Brador, so completely off balance that he might as well not even be in Sendaria.” He scratched at his long, pointed jaw. “There’s peculiar information coming out of Sthiss Tor. The Murgos are trying to negotiate something, but their emissaries keep dying. We’ll try to get somebody closer to Sadi to find out exactly what’s going on. Let’s see—what else? Oh, the Honeths have finally united behind one candidate—a pompous, arrogant jackass who’s offended just about everybody in Tol Honeth. They’ll try to buy the crown for him, but he’d be hopelessly incompetent as emperor. Even with all their money, it’s going to be difficult for them to put him on the throne. I guess that’s about all, your Highness.”

“I’ve had a letter from Islena in Val Alorn,” Queen Porenn told him.

“Yes, your Highness,” Javelin replied urbanely, “I know.”

“Javelin, have you been reading my mail again?” she demanded with a sudden flash of irritation.

“Just trying to stay current with what’s going on in the world, Porenn.”

“I’ve told you to stop that.”

“You didn’t really expect me to do it, did you?” He seemed actually surprised.

She laughed. “You’re impossible.”

“Of course I am. I’m supposed to be.”

“Can we get any help to Islena?”

“I’ll put some people on it,” he assured her. “We can probably work through Merel, the wife of the Earl of Trellheim. She’s starting to show some signs of maturity and she’s close to Islena.”

“I think we’d better have a close look at our own intelligence service, too,” Porenn suggested. “Let’s pin down everyone who might have any connections with the Bear-cult. The time might come when we’ll have to take steps.”

Javelin nodded his agreement.

There was a light tapping at the door.

“Yes?” Porenn answered.

The door opened and a servant thrust his head into the room. “Excuse me, your Highness,” he said, “but there’s a Nadrak merchant here—a man named Yarblek. He says he wants to discuss the salmon run.” The servant looked perplexed.

Queen Porenn straightened in her chair. “Send him in,” she ordered, “at once.”

9

The speeches were over. The orations that had caused Princess Ce’Nedra such agony had done their work, and she found herself less and less in the center of things. At first the days opened before her full of glorious freedom. The dreadful anxiety that had filled her at the prospect of addressing vast crowds of men two or three times a day was gone now. Her nervous exhaustion disappeared, and she no longer awoke in the middle of the night trembling and terrified. For almost an entire week she reveled in it, luxuriated in it. Then, of course, she became dreadfully bored.

The army she had gathered in Arendia and northern Tolnedra moved like a great sea in the foothills of Ulgoland. The Mimbrate knights, their armor glittering in the bright sunlight and their long, streaming, many-colored pennons snapping in the breeze, moved at the forefront of the host, and behind them, spreading out across the rolling green hills, marched the solid mass of Ce’Nedra’s infantry, Sendars, Asturians, Rivans, and a few Chereks. And there, solidly in the center, forming the very core, marched the gleaming ranks of the legions of Imperial Tolnedra, their crimson standards aloft and the white plumes on their helmets waving in time to their measured steps. It was very stirring for the first few days to ride at the head of the enormous force, moving at her command toward the east, but the novelty of it all soon wore thin.

Princess Ce’Nedra’s gradual drift away from the center of command was largely her own fault. The decisions now had to do more often than not with logistics—tedious little details concerning bivouac areas and field-kitchens—and Ce’Nedra found discussions of such matters tiresome. Those details, however, dictated the snail’s pace of her army.

Quite suddenly, to everyone’s astonishment, King Fulrach of Sendaria became the absolute commander of the host. It was he who decided how far they would march each day, when they would rest and where they would set up each night’s encampment. His authority derived directly from the fact that the supply wagons were his. Quite early during the march down through northern Arendia, the dumpy-looking Sendarian monarch had taken one look at the rather sketchy plans the Alorn kings had drawn up for feeding the troops, had shaken his head in disapproval, and then had taken charge of that aspect of the campaign himself. Sendaria was a land of farms, and her storehouses bulged. Moreover, at certain seasons, every road and lane in Sendaria crawled with wagons. With an almost casual efficiency, King Fulrach issued a few orders, and soon whole caravans of heavily laden wagons moved down through Arendia to Tolnedra and then turned eastward to follow the army. The pace of the army was dictated by those creaking supply wagons.

They were only a few days into the Ulgo foothills when the full weight of King Fulrach’s authority became clear.

“Fulrach,” King Rhodar of Drasnia objected when the King of the Sendars called a halt for yet another rest period, “if we don’t move any faster than this, it will take us all summer to get to the eastern escarpment.”

“You’re exaggerating, Rhodar,” King Fulrach replied mildly. “We’re making pretty good time. The supply wagons are heavy, and the wagon horses have to be rested every hour.”

“This is impossible,” Rhodar declared. “I’m going to pick up the per,”

“That’s up to you, of course.” The brown-bearded Sendar shrugged, coolly eyeing Rhodar’s vast paunch. “But if you exhaust my wagon horses today, you won’t eat tomorrow.”

And that ended that.

The going in the steep passes of Ulgoland was even slower. Ce’Nedra entered that land of thick forests and rocky crags with apprehension. She vividly remembered the flight with Grul the Eldrak and the attacks of the Algroths and the Hrulgin that had so terrified her that previous winter. There were few meetings with the monsters that lurked in the Ulgo mountains, however. The army was so large that even the fiercest creatures avoided it. Mandorallen, the Baron of Vo Mandor, rather regretfully reported only brief sightings.

“Mayhap if I were to ride a day’s march in advance of our main force, I might find opportunity to engage some of the more frolicsome beasts,” he mused aloud one evening, staring thoughtfully into the fire.

“You never get enough, do you?” Barak asked him pointedly.

“Never mind, Mandorallen,” Polgara told the great knight. “The creatures aren’t hurting us, and the Gorim of Ulgo would be happier if we didn’t bother them.”

Mandorallen sighed.

“Is he always like that?” King Anheg asked Barak curiously.

“You have absolutely no idea,” Barak replied.

The slow march through Ulgoland, regardless of how much it chafed Rhodar, Brand, and Anheg, did, however, conserve the strength of the army, and they came down onto the plains of Algaria in surprisingly good shape.

“We’ll go on to the Algarian Stronghold,” King Rhodar decided as the army poured down out of the last pass and fanned out across the rolling grasslands. “We need to regroup a bit, and I don’t see any point in moving to the base of the escarpment until the engineers are ready for us. Besides, I’d prefer not to announce the size of our army to any Thull who happens to glance down from the top of the cliff.”

And so, in easy stages, the army marched across Algaria, trampling a mile-wide swath through the tall grass. Vast herds of cattle paused briefly in their grazing to watch with mild-eyed astonishment as the horde marched by, then returned to their feeding under the protective watch of mounted Algar clansmen.

The encampment that was set up around the towering Stronghold in south central Algaria stretched for miles, and the watch fires at night seemed almost a reflection of the stars. Once she was comfortably quartered in the Stronghold, Princess Ce’Nedra found herself even more removed from the day-to-day command of her troops. Her hours seemed filled with tedium. This is not to say that she did not receive reports. A rigorous schedule of training was instituted, in part because large portions of the army were not professional soldiers, but primarily to avoid the idleness that led to discipline problems. Each morning, Colonel Brendig, the sober-faced Sendarian baronet who seemed utterly devoid of humor, reported the progress of the previous day’s training with excruciating thoroughness, along with all sorts of other tedious little details—most of which Ce’Nedra found extremely distasteful.

One morning after Brendig had respectfully withdrawn, Ce’Nedra finally exploded. “If he mentions the word ‘sanitation’ one more time, I think I’ll scream,” she declared to Adara and Polgara. The princess was pacing up and down, flinging her arms in the air in exasperation.

“It is fairly important in an army of this size, Ce’Nedra,” Adara calmly pointed out.

“But does he have to talk about it all the time? It’s a disgusting subject.”

Polgara, who had been patiently teaching the little blond waif, Errand, how to lace up his boots, looked up, assessed Ce’Nedra’s mood in a single glance, and then made a suggestion. “Why don’t you young ladies take some horses and go for a ride? A bit of fresh air and exercise seems definitely to be in order.”

It took only a short while for them to find the blond Mimbrate girl, Ariana. They knew exactly where to look. It took a bit longer, however, to wrench her away from her rapt contemplation of Lelldorin of Wildantor. Lelldorin, with the aid of his cousin Torasin, was struggling to teach a group of Arendish serfs the basics of archery. Torasin, a fiery young Asturian patriot, had joined the army late. There had been, Ce’Nedra gathered, some unpleasantness between two young men, but the prospect of war and glory had finally been too much for Torasin to resist. He had overtaken the army in the western foothills of Ulgoland, mounted on a horse half dead from hard riding. His reconciliation with Lelldorin had been emotional, and now the two were closer than ever. Ariana, however, watched only Lelldorin. Her eyes glowed as she gazed at him with an adoration so totally mindless that it was frightening.

The three girls, dressed in soft leather Algar riding clothes, cantered out through the encampment in bright midmorning sunlight, followed inevitably by Olban, youngest son of the Rivan Warder, and a detachment of guards. Ce’Nedra did not know exactly what to make of Olban. Since a hidden Murgo had made an attempt on her life in the Arendish forest, the young Rivan had appointed himself the chief of her personal bodyguards, and absolutely nothing could move him to abandon that duty. For some reason, he seemed almost grateful for the opportunity to serve, and Ce’Nedra was glumly certain that only physical force could make him stop.

It was a warm, cloudless day, and the blue sky stretched over the incredible expanse of the Algarian plain, where tall grass bent before a vagrant breeze. Once they were out of sight of the encampment, Ce’Nedra’s spirits rose enormously. She rode the white horse King Cho-Hag had given her, a patient, even-tempered animal she had named Noble. Noble was probably not a good name for him, since he was a lazy horse. A great part of his placidity arose from the fact that his new owner was so tiny that she had virtually no weight. Moreover, in an excess of affection, Ce’Nedra babied him outrageously, slipping apples and bits of sweets to him whenever possible. As a result of his light exercise and rich diet, Noble was developing a noticeable portliness.

In the company of her two friends, and trailed by the watchful young Olban, the princess, mounted on her stout white horse, rode out across the grassland, exulting in the sense of freedom their ride brought to her.

They reined in at the base of a long, sloping high to rest their mounts. Noble, pumping like a bellows, cast a reproachful look over his shoulder at his tiny mistress, but she heartlessly ignored his unspoken complaint. “It’s an absolutely wonderful day for a ride,” she exclaimed enthusiastically.

Ariana sighed.

Ce’Nedra laughed at her. “Oh, come now, it’s not as if Lelldorin were going someplace, Ariana, and it’s good for men to miss us a little once in a while.”

Ariana smiled rather wanly, then sighed again.

“Perhaps it’s not as good for us to miss them, however,” Adara murmured without any trace of a smile.

“What is that lovely fragrance?” Ce’Nedra asked suddenly.

Adam lifted her porcelain face to sniff at the light breeze, then suddenly looked around as if trying to pinpoint their exact location. “Come with me,” she said with an uncharacteristic note of command in her voice, and she led them around the base of the hill to the far side. About halfway up the grassy slope there was a patch of law, dark green bushes covered with pale lavender flowers. There had been that morning a hatch of blue butterflies, and the winged creatures hovered in an ecstatic cloud over the flowers. Without pausing, Adara pressed her mount up the slope and swung down from her saddle. There with a low cry she knelt almost reverently, gathering the bushes in her arms as if embracing them.

When Ce’Nedra drew closer, she was amazed to see tears welling up in her gentle friend’s gray eyes, although Adara was actually smiling. “Whatever is wrong, Adara?” she asked.

“They’re my flowers,” Adara replied in a vibrant voice. “I didn’t realize that they’d grow and spread this way.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Garion created this flower last winter just for me. There was only one—just one. I saw it come into existence right there in his hand. I’d forgotten it until just now. Look how far it’s spread in just one season.”

Ce’Nedra felt a sudden pang of jealousy. Garion had never created a flower for her. She bent and pulled one of the lavender blooms from a bush, tugging perhaps just a bit harder than necessary. “It’s lopsided,” she sniffed, looking at the flower critically. Then she bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t said that.

Adara gave her a quick look of protest.

“I’m only teasing, Adara,” Ce’Nedra said quickly with a false little laugh. In spite of herself, still wanting to find something else wrong with the flower, she bent her face to the small, crooked blossom in her hand. Its fragrance seemed to erase all of her cares and to lift her spirits tremendously.

Ariana had also dismounted, and she too was breathing in the gentle odor of the flowers, although there was a slight frown on her face. “Might I gather some few of thy blossoms, Lady Adara?” she inquired. “Methinks they have some strange property concealed within their blushing petals that may be of some interest to Lady Polgara—some healing agent too subtle for my limited familiarity with unguents and aromatic herbs to discern.”

Rather predictably, Ce’Nedra, having gone one way, suddenly reversed herself. “Marvelous!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands with delight. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if your flower turned out to be a great medicine, Adara? Some miraculous cure? We could call it ‘Adara’s rose,’ and sick men would bless your name forever.”

“It doesn’t exactly look like a rose, Ce’Nedra,” Adara pointed out.

“Nonsense,” Ce’Nedra brushed the distinction aside. “I’m supposed to be a queen, after all, so if I say it’s a rose, then it’s a rose, and that’s that. We’ll take the flowers back to Lady Polgara at once.” She turned back to her tubby horse, who was lazily regarding the flowers as if wondering whether or not to eat a few of them. “Come, Noble,” the princess said to him with extravagant overstatement. “We’ll gallop back to the Stronghold.”

Noble winced visibly at the word “gallop.”

Polgara examined the flowers carefully, but, to the disappointment of the princess and her friends, she would not commit herself immediately concerning their medicinal value. A bit subdued, the little princess returned quietly to her quarters and her duties.

Colonel Brendig was awaiting her. Upon reflection, Ce’Nedra concluded that Colonel Brendig was by far the most practical man she had ever met. No detail was too small for him. In a lesser man, such concern with little things might have been passed off as mere fussiness, but the colonel’s belief that big things were made up of little things gave his patient attention to detail a certain dignity. He seemed to be everywhere in the camp; in his wake, tent-ropes were tightened, cluttered heaps of equipment were arranged into neat stacks, and casually open doublets were quickly buttoned up.

“I hope that her Majesty found her ride refreshing,” the colonel said politely, bowing as Ce’Nedra entered the room.

“Thank you, Colonel Brendig,” the princess replied. “My majesty did.” She was in a whimsical frame of mind, and it was always a delight to tease this sober-faced Sendar.

A brief smile touched Brendig’s lips, and then he immediately got down to the business of the midday report. “I’m pleased to advise your majesty that the Drasnian engineers have nearly completed the hoists atop the escarpment,” he reported. “All that remains is the rigging of the counterweights which will help to lift the Cherek warships.”

“That’s nice,” Ce’Nedra said with the vacant, empty-headed smile she knew drove him absolutely wild.

Brendig’s jaw tightened slightly, but his face betrayed no other sign of his momentary flash of irritation. “The Chereks are beginning to remove the masts and rigging from their ships in preparation for the portage,” he continued, “and the fortified positions up on top of the escarpment are several days ahead of schedule.”

“How wonderful!” Ce’Nedra exclaimed, clapping her hands with a great show of girlish delight.

“Your Majesty, please,” Brendig complained.

“I’m sorry, Colonel Brendig,” Ce’Nedra apologized, affectionately patting his hand. “For some reason you bring out the very worst in me. Don’t you ever smile?”

He looked at her with an absolutely straight face. “I am smiling, your Majesty,” he said. “Oh—you have a visitor from Tolnedra.”

“A visitor? Who?”

“A General Varana, the Duke of Anadile.”

“Varana? Here? What on earth is he doing in Algaria? Is he alone?”

“There are a number of other Tolnedran gentlemen with him,” Brendig replied. “They aren’t in uniform, but they have the general bearing of military men. They say that they’re here as private observers. General Varana expressed a desire to pay his respects whenever it might be convenient.”

“Of course, Colonel Brendig,” Ce’Nedra said with an enthusiasm that was no longer feigned. “Please send for him at once.”

Ce’Nedra had known General Varana since her earliest childhood. He was a stocky man with graying, curly hair and a stiff left knee that gave him a noticeable limp. He was blessed with that wry, understated sense of humor so characteristic of the Anadilian family. Of all the noble houses of Tolnedra, the Borunes were most comfortable with the Anadiles. Both families were southern, for one thing, and the Anadiles usually sided with the Borunes in disputes with the powerful families of the north. Although Anadile was only a duchy, there had never been any hint of subservience in the family’s alliances with the Grand Dukes of the House of Borune. Indeed, Anadilian dukes, more often than not, poked gentle fun at their more powerful neighbors. Serious historians and statesmen had long considered it a misfortune for the Empire that the talented House of Anadile had not enough wealth to make a serious bid for the Imperial Throne.

When General Varana politely limped into the room where Ce’Nedra impatiently awaited him, there was a faint smile hovering on his lips and a quizzical lift to one of his eyebrows. “Your Majesty,” he greeted her with a bow,

“Uncle Varana,” the princess exclaimed, flying to embrace him. Varana was not, in fact, her uncle, but she had always thought of him as such.

“What have you gone and done now, my little Ce’Nedra?” He laughed, enfolding her in his thick-muscled arms. “You’re turning the world upside-down, you know. What’s a Borune doing in the middle of Algaria with an Alorn army at her back?”

“I’m going to invade Mishrak ac Thull,” she declared impishly.

“Really? Whatever for? Did King Gethell of Thulldom insult the House of Borune in some way? I hadn’t heard about it.”

“It’s an Alorn matter,” Ce’Nedra replied airily.

“Oh, I see. That explains it, I suppose. Alorns don’t need reasons for the things they do.”

“You’re laughing at me,” she accused him.

“Of course I am, Ce’Nedra. The Anadiles have been laughing at the Borunes for thousands of years.”

She pouted. “It’s very serious, Uncle Varana.”

“Naturally it is,” he agreed, gently touching her out-thrust lower lip with one thick finger, “but that’s no reason not to laugh about it.”

“You’re impossible,” Ce’Nedra said helplessly, laughing in spite of herself. “What are you doing here?”

“Observing,” he told her. “Generals do that a lot. You’ve got the only war that’s going on just now, so several of us thought we’d drop by and have a look. Morin suggested it.”

“My father’s chamberlain?”

“I think that’s his function, yes.”

“Morin wouldn’t do that—not on his own.”

“Really? What astonishing news.”

Ce’Nedra frowned, nibbling absently at a lock of her hair. Varana reached out and took the lock out from between her teeth. “Morin doesn’t do anything unless my father tells him to,” Ce’Nedra mused, once again lifting the curl to her lips.

Varana took the lock out of her fingers again.

“Don’t do that,” she told him.

“Why not? That’s the way I broke you of sucking your thumb.”

“This is different. I’m thinking.”

“Think with your mouth closed.”

“This was my father’s idea, wasn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t presume to say I knew the Emperor’s mind,” he replied.

“Well, I would. What’s that old fox up to?”

“That’s hardly respectful, child.”

“You say you’re here to observe?”

He nodded.

“And perhaps make a few suggestions?”

He shrugged. “If anyone cares to listen. I’m not here officially, you understand. Imperial policy forbids that. Your claim to the Riven throne is not formally recognized in Tol Honeth.”

She cast a sidelong glance at him through her thick eyelashes. “These suggestions you might make—if you happened to be near a Tolnedran legion that seemed to need a bit of direction, is it at all possible that one of these suggestions might be ‘forward march?’ ”

“That situation might arise, yes,” he admitted gravely.

“And you have a number of other officers of the general staff with you?”

“I think several of them do, in fact, serve occasionally on that body.” His eyes were twinkling with suppressed mirth.

Ce’Nedra lifted the lock again, and General Varana took it away from her once more.

“How would you like to meet King Rhodar of Drasnia?” she asked him.

“I’d be honored to meet his Majesty.”

“Why don’t we go see him, then?”

“Why don’t we?”

“Oh, I love you, Uncle.” She laughed, throwing her arms about him again.

They found King Rhodar in conference with the other leaders of the army in a large airy chamber King Cho-Hag had set aside for their use. There was no longer any pretence of formality among the leaders of the army, and most of them sprawled in comfortable horsehide chairs, watching as the crimson-robed Rhodar measured off distances with a piece of string on a large map that covered one entire wall.

“It doesn’t really seem all that far to me,” he was saying to King Cho-Hag.

“That’s because your map is flat, Rhodar,” Cho-Hag replied. “The country’s very hilly through there. Believe me, it will take three days.”

King Rhodar made an indelicate sound of disgust. “I guess we’ll have to give up the idea, then. I’d like to burn out those forts, but I’m not going to start ordering suicide missions. Three days’ ride is just too far.”

“Your Majesty,” Ce’Nedra said politely.

“Yes, child?” Rhodar was still frowning at the map.

“I’d like for you to meet someone.”

King Rhodar turned.

“Your Majesty,” Ce’Nedra said formally, “may I present his Grace, the Duke of Anadile? General Varana, his Majesty, King Rhodar of Drasnia.”

The two men bowed politely to each other, their eyes probing, assessing.

“The general’s reputation precedes him,” King Rhodar noted.

“But his Majesty’s skill as a military man has been kept a secret,” Varana replied.

“Do you think that satisfies the demands of courtesy?” Rhodar asked.

“If not, we can both lie a little bit later on about how excruciatingly polite we were to each other,” Varana suggested.

King Rhodar flashed him a quick grin. “All right, what’s Tolnedra’s leading tactician doing in Algaria?”

“Observing, your Majesty.”

“You’re going to stick to that story?”

“Naturally. For political reasons, Tolnedra must maintain a neutral posture in this affair. I’m certain that Drasnian intelligence has briefed your Majesty on the realities of the situation. The five spies you have in the Imperial palace are thoroughly professional.”

“Six, actually,” King Rhodar noted in passing.

General Varana raised one eyebrow. “I suppose we should have known,” he said.

“It changes from time to time.” Rhodar shrugged. “You know our strategic situation?”

“I’ve been filled in, yes.”

“What’s your assessment—as an observer?”

“You’re in trouble.”

“Thanks,” Rhodar said dryly.

“The numbers dictate that you take a defensive posture.”

Rhodar shook his head. “That might work if all we had to worry about was Taur Urgas and the Southern Murgos, but ’Zakath is landing more troops at Thull Zelik every day. If we fortify and try to sit tight, and he decides to move against us, he’ll be able to bury us in Malloreans by autumn. The key to the whole situation is putting Anheg’s fleet into the Sea of the East to stop those troop ships. We’re going to have to gamble a bit in order to pull that off.”

Varana studied the map. “If you’re going to go down the River Mardu, you’ll have to neutralize the Thullish capital,” he said, pointing at Thull Mardu. “It’s an island—like Tol Honeth—and it’s right in the middle of the river. You’ll never get a fleet past it as long as a hostile force holds it. You’ll have to take the city.”

“That had already occurred to us,” King Anheg said from where he sprawled in his chair with his ever-present ale cup in his hand.

“You know Anheg?” Rhodar asked the general.

Varana nodded. “By reputation,” he replied. He bowed to King Anheg. “Your Majesty,” he said.

“General,” Anheg responded, inclining his head.

“If Thull Mardu is heavily defended, it will cost you a third of your army to take it,” Varana continued.

“We’re going to lure the garrison out,” Rhodar told him.

“How?”

“That’s going to be up to Korodullin and me,” King Cho-Hag said quietly. “Once we get to the top of the escarpment, the Mimbrate knights are going to move out and crush every city and town in the uplands, and my clansmen will strike down into the farming regions to burn every standing crop.”

“They’ll realize that’s only a diversion, your Majesty,” Varana pointed out.

“Naturally,” Brand agreed in his rumbling voice, “but a diversion from what? We don’t think they’ll fully realize that Thull Mardu is our main objective. We’ll try our best to make our depredations as general as possible. The loss of those towns and crops might be acceptable at first, but it won’t be long before they’ll have to take steps to protect them.”

“And you think they’ll pull the garrison out of Thull Mardu to meet you?”

“That’s the idea,” King Rhodar replied.

Varana shook his head. “They’ll bring Murgos up from Rak Goska and Malloreans from Thull Zelik. Then instead of a quick raid on Thull Mardu, you’ll have a general war on your hands.”

“That’s what you’d do, General Varana,” King Rhodar disagreed, “but you aren’t ’Zakath or Taur Urgas. Our strategy’s based on our assessment of those two men. Neither of them will commit his forces unless he’s convinced that we pose a major threat. Each of them wants to save as much of his army as possible. In their view, we’re only an incidental annoyance—and an excuse to put an army into the field. For them, the real war starts when they attack each other. Each of them will hold back, and King Gethell of the Thulls will have to meet us on his own with only token support from the Murgos and the Malloreans. If we move fast enough, we’ll have Anheg’s fleet into the Sea of the East and all our troops pulled back to the escarpment before they realize what we’re up to.”

“And then?”

“And then Taur Urgas will stay in Rak Goska as if his foot were nailed to the floor.” King Anheg chuckled. “I’ll be in the Sea of the East drowning Malloreans by the shipload, and he’ll be cheering me on every step of the way.”

“And ’Zakath won’t dare risk those troops he already has at Thull Zelik by moving against us,” Brand added. “If he loses too many men, Taur Urgas will have the upper hand.”

General Varana considered that. “A three-way deadlock, then,” he mused. “Three armies in the same region, and not one of them willing to move.”

“The very best kind of war.” King Rhodar grinned. “Nobody gets hurt.”

“Tactically, your only problem is gauging the severity of your raids before you attack Thull Mardu,” Varana noted. “They’ll have to be serious enough to pull the garrison out of the city, but not so serious as to alarm ’Zakath or Taur Urgas. That’s a very fine line to walk, gentlemen.”

Rhodar nodded. “That’s why we’re so delighted to have Tolnedra’s foremost tactician here to advise us,” he said, bowing floridly.

“Please, your Majesty,” General Varana interposed, lifting one hand. “Suggest, not advise. An observer can only suggest. The term advice implies partisanship that is not in line with the Empire’s position of strict neutrality.”

“Ah,” King Rhodar said. He turned to King Cho-Hag. “We must make arrangements for the comfort of the Imperial suggester and his staff,” he declared with a broad grin.

Ce’Nedra watched with secret delight as these two brilliant men began what was obviously going to be a firm friendship. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your entertainments,” she told them. “Military discussions give me a headache, so I’ll rely on you not to get me in trouble.” She curtsied to them with a winsome little smile and withdrew.

Two days later, Relg arrived from Ulgoland with the contingent of his leaf mailed countrymen sent by the Gorim. Taiba, who had hovered silently in the background since the army had arrived at the Stronghold, joined Ce’Nedra and Lady Polgara to greet the Ulgos as the wagons which carried them creaked up the hill toward the main gate. The beautiful Marag woman wore a plain, even severe, linen dress, but her violet eyes were glowing. Relg, his cowled leaf mail shirt covering his head and shoulders like lizard skin, climbed down from the lead wagon and only perfunctorily answered the greetings of Barak and Mandorallen. His large eyes searched the group gathered at the gate until they found Taiba, and then a kind of tension seemed to go out of him. Without speaking, he walked toward her. Their meeting was silent, and they did not touch, though Taiba’s hand moved involuntarily toward him several times. They stood in the golden sunlight with their eyes lost in each other’s faces, drawing about them a profound kind of privacy that absolutely ignored the presence of others. Taiba’s eyes remained constantly on Relg’s face, but there was in them nothing of that vacant, placid adoration that filled Ariana’s eyes when she looked at Lelldorin. There was rather a question—even a challenge. Relg’s answering look was the troubled gaze of a man torn between two overpowering compulsions. Ce’Nedra watched them for a few moments, but was finally forced to avert her eyes.

The Ulgos were quartered in dim, cavernous rooms built into the foundations of the Stronghold where Relg could lead his countrymen through the painful process of adjusting their eyes to the light of day and training them to ignore the unreasoning panic which assailed all Ulgos when they were exposed to the open sky.

That evening another smaller contingent arrived from the south. Three men, two in white robes and one in filthy rags, appeared at the gate demanding entrance. The Algars at the gate admitted them immediately, and one guard was sent to Lady Polgara’s candlelit apartment to inform her of their arrival.

“You’d better bring them here,” she advised the poor man, who was ashen-faced and trembling. “They haven’t been in the company of other men for a very long time, and crowds might make them nervous.”

“At once, Lady Polgara,” the shaking Algar said, bowing. He hesitated for a moment. “Would he really do that to me?” he blurted.

“Would who do what to you?”

“The ugly one. He said that he was going to—” The man stopped, suddenly realizing to whom he was speaking. His face turned red. “I don’t think I should repeat what he said, Lady Polgara—but it was an awful thing to threaten a man with.”

“Oh,” she said. “I believe I know what you mean. It’s one of his favorite expressions. I think you’re safe. He only says that to get people’s attention. I’m not even sure you can do it to somebody and keep him alive at the same time.”

“I’ll bring them at once, Lady Polgara.”

The sorceress turned to look at Ce’Nedra, Adara, and Ariana, who had joined her for supper. “Ladies,” she said gravely, “we’re about to have guests. Two of them are the sweetest men in the world, but the third is a bit uncontrolled in his use of language. If you’re at all sensitive about such things, you’d better leave.”

Ce’Nedra, remembering her encounter with the three in the Vale of Aldur, rose immediately.

“Not you, Ce’Nedra,” Polgara told her. “You’ll have to stay, I’m afraid.”

Ce’Nedra swallowed hard. “I really would leave, if I were you,” she advised her friends.

“Is he that bad?” Adara asked. “I’ve heard men swear before.”

“Not like this one,” Ce’Nedra warned.

“You’ve managed to make me very curious.” Adara smiled. “I think I’ll stay.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Ce’Nedra murmured.

Beltira and Belkira were as saintly as Ce’Nedra remembered them, but the misshapen Beldin was even uglier and nastier. Ariana fled before he had even finished greeting Lady Polgara. Adara turned deathly pale, but bravely kept her seat. Then the hideous little man turned to greet Ce’Nedra with a few raucous questions that made the princess blush to the roots of her hair. Adara prudently withdrew at that point.

“What’s wrong with your wenches, Pol?” Beldin asked innocently, scratching at his matted hair. “They seemed a little vaporish.”

“They’re well-bred ladies, Uncle,” Polgara replied. “Certain expressions are offensive to their ears.”

“Is that all?” He laughed coarsely. “This redheaded one seems a bit less delicate.”

“Your remarks offend me as much as they offend my companions, Master Beldin,” Ce’Nedra retorted stiffly, “but I don’t think I’ll be routed by the foul mouthings of an ill-bred hunchback.”

“Not bad,” he complimented her, sprawling uncouthly in a chair, “but you’ve got to learn to relax. An insult’s got a certain rhythm and flow to it that you haven’t quite picked up yet.”

“She’s very young, Uncle,” Polgara reminded him.

Beldin leered at the princess. “Isn’t she, though?”

“Stop that,” Polgara told him.

“We’ve come—”

“—to join your expedition,” the twins said.

“Beldin feels—”

“—that you might encounter Grolims, and—”

“—need our help.”

“Isn’t that pathetic?” Beldin demanded. “They still haven’t learned to talk straight.” He looked at Polgara. “Is this all the army you’ve got?”

“The Chereks will be joining us at the river,” she replied.

“You should have talked faster,” he told Ce’Nedra. “You haven’t got nearly enough men. Southern Murgos proliferate like maggots in dead meat, and Malloreans spawn like blowflies.”

“We’ll explain our strategy to you in good time, Uncle,” Polgara promised him. “We are not going to meet the armies of Angarak head on. What we’re doing here is only diversionary.”

He grinned a hideous little grin. “I’d have given a lot to see your face when you found out that Belgarath had slipped away from you,” he said.

“I wouldn’t dwell on that, Master Beldin,” Ce’Nedra advised. “Lady Polgara was not pleased by Belgarath’s decision, and it might not be prudent to raise it again.”

“I’ve seen Pol’s little tantrums before.” He shrugged. “Why don’t you send somebody out for a pig or a sheep, Pol? I’m hungry.”

“It’s customary to cook it first, Uncle.”

He looked puzzled. “What for?” he asked.

10

Three days later the army began to move out from the Algar Stronghold toward the temporary encampment the Algars had erected on the east bank of the Aldur River. The troops of each nation moved in separate broad columns, trampling a vast track through the knee-high grass. In the center column the legions of Tolnedra, standards raised, marched with parade-ground perfection. The appearance of the legions had improved noticeably since the arrival of General Varana and his staff. The mutiny on the plains near Tol Vordue had given Ce’Nedra a large body of men, but no senior officers, and once the danger of surprise inspections was past, a certain laxity had set in. General Varana had not mentioned the rust spots on the breastplates nor the generally unshaven condition of the troops. His expression of mild disapproval had seemed to be enough. The hard-bitten sergeants who now commanded the legions had taken one look at his face and had immediately taken steps. The rust spots vanished, and shaving regularly once again became popular. There were, to be sure, a few contusions here and there on some freshly shaved faces, mute evidence that the heavy-fisted sergeants had found it necessary to vigorously persuade their troops that the holiday was over.

To one side of the legions rode the glittering Mimbrate knights, their varicolored pennons snapping in the breeze from the up-raised forest of their lances. Their faces shone with enthusiasm and little else. Ce’Nedra privately suspected that a large part of their fearsome reputation stemmed from that abysmal lack of anything remotely resembling thought. With only a little encouragement, a force of Mimbrates would cheerfully mount an assault on winter or a changing tide.

On the other flank of the marching legions came the green—and brown—clad bowmen of Asturia. The placement was quite deliberate. The Asturians were no more blessed with intelligence than their Mimbrate cousins, and it was generally considered prudent to interpose other troops between the two Arendish forces to avoid unpleasantness.

Beyond the Asturians marched the grim-faced Rivans, all in gray, and accompanying them were the few Chereks who were not with the fleet, which even now was in the process of being prepared for the portage to the base of the escarpment. Flanking the Mimbrates marched the Sendarian militiamen in their homemade uniforms, and at the rear of the host, the creaking lines of King Fulrach’s supply wagons stretched back to the horizon. The Algar clans, however, did not ride in orderly columns, but rather in little groups and clusters as they drove herds of spare horses and half wild cattle along on the extreme flanks of the host.

Ce’Nedra, in her armor and mounted on her white horse, rode in the company of General Varana. She was trying, without much success, to explain her cause to him.

“My dear child,” the general said finally, “I’m a Tolnedran and a soldier. Neither of those conditions encourages me to accept any kind of mysticism. My primary concerns at this moment have to do with feeding this multitude. Your supply lines stretch all the way back across the mountains and then up through Arendia. That’s a very long way, Ce’Nedra.”

“King Fulrach’s taken care of that, Uncle,” she told him rather smugly. “All the time we’ve been marching, his Sendars have been freighting supplies along the Great North Road to Aldurford and then barging them upriver to the camp. There are whole acres of supply dumps waiting for us.”

General Varana nodded approvingly. “It appears that Sendars make perfect quartermasters,” he observed. “Is he bringing weapons as well?”

“I think they said something about that,” Ce’Nedra replied. “Arrows, spare lances for the knights, that sort of thing. They seemed to know what they were doing, so I didn’t ask too many questions.”

“That’s foolish, Ce’Nedra,” Varana said bluntly. “When you’re running an army, you should know every detail.”

“I’m not running the army, Uncle,” she pointed out. “I’m leading it. King Rhodar’s running it.”

“And what will you do if something happens to him?”

Ce’Nedra suddenly went cold.

“You are going to war, Ce’Nedra, and people do get killed and injured in wars. You’d better start taking an interest in what’s going on around you, my little princess. Going off to war with your head wrapped in a pillow isn’t going to improve your chances of success, you know.” He gave her a very direct look. “Don’t chew your fingernails, Ce’Nedra,” he added. “It makes your hands unsightly.”

The encampment at the river was vast, and in the very center stood King Fulrach’s main supply dump, a virtual city of tents and neatly stacked equipment. A long string of flat-bottomed barges were moored to the riverbank, patiently waiting to be unloaded.

“Your people have been busy,” King Rhodar observed to the dumpy-looking Sendarian monarch as they rode along a narrow alleyway between mountainous heaps of canvas-covered produce and stacks of stoutly boxed equipment. “How did you know what to have them bring?”

“I took notes while we were coming down through Arendia,” King Fulrach replied. “It wasn’t too hard to see what we were going to need—boots, arrows, spare swords, and the like. At present, about all we’re bringing in is food. The Algar herds will provide fresh meat, but men get sick on a steady diet of nothing but meat.”

“You’ve already got enough food here to feed the army for a year,” King Anheg noted.

Fulrach shook his head. “Forty-five days,” he corrected meticulously. “I want thirty days’ worth here and two weeks’ worth in the forts the Drasnians are building up on top of the escarpment. That’s our margin of safety. As long as the barges replenish our food supplies daily, we’ll always have that much on hand. Once you decide what your goals are, the rest is just simple mathematics.”

“How do you know how much a man’s going to eat in one day?” Rhodar asked, eyeing the high-piled foodstuffs. “Some days I’m hungrier than others.”

Fulrach shrugged. “It averages out. Some eat more, some eat less; but in the end, it all comes out about the same.”

“Fulrach, sometimes you’re so practical, you almost make me sick,” Anheg said.

“Somebody has to be.”

“Don’t you Sendars have any sense of adventure? Don’t you ever do something without planning it all out in advance?”

“Not if we can help it,” the King of Sendaria replied mildly.

Near the center of the supply-dump a number of large pavilions had been erected for the use of the leaders of the army and their supporting staff. About midafternoon, after she had bathed and changed clothes, Princess Ce’Nedra went over to the main tent to see what was happening.

“They’re anchored about a mile downriver,” Barak was reporting to his cousin. “They’ve been here for about four days now. Greldik’s more or less in charge.”

“Greldik?” Anheg looked surprised. “He doesn’t have any official position.”

“He knows the river.” Barak shrugged. “Over the years he’s sailed just about any place where there’s water and a chance to make some profit. He tells me that the sailors have been drinking pretty steadily since they anchored. They know what’s coming.”

Anheg chuckled. “We’d better not disappoint them, then. Rhodar, how much longer will it be before your engineers are ready to start lifting my ships ap the escarpment?”

“A week or so,” King Rhodar replied, looking up from his midafternoon snack.

“It will be close enough,” Anheg concluded. He turned back to Barak. “Tell Greldik that we’ll start the portage tomorrow morning—before the sailors have time to sober up.”

Ce’Nedra had not fully understood the meaning of the word “portage” until she arrived the following morning at the riverbank to find the sweating Chereks hauling their ships out of the water and manhandling them along by main strength on wooden rollers. She was appalled at the amount of effort required to move a ship even a few inches.

She was not alone in that. Durnik the smith took one shocked look at the procedure and immediately went looking for King Anheg. “Excuse me, your Honor,” he said respectfully, “but isn’t this bad for the boats—as well as the men?”

“Ships,” Anheg corrected. “They’re called ships. A boat is something else.”

“Whatever you call them—won’t banging them along over those logs spring their seams?”

Anheg shrugged. “They all leak quite a bit anyway,” he replied. “And it’s always been done this way.”

Durnik quickly saw the futility of trying to talk to the King of Cherek. He went instead to Barak, who was rather glumly considering the huge ship his crew had rowed upriver to meet him. “She looks very impressive when she’s afloat,” the big red-bearded man was saying to his friend, Captain Greldik, “but I think she’ll be even more impressive when we have to pick her up and carry her.”

“You’re the one who wanted the biggest warship afloat,” Greldik reminded him with a broad smirk. “You’ll have to buy enough ale to float that whale of yours before your crew’s drunk enough to try to portage her—not to mention the fact that it’s customary for a captain to join in when the time comes to portage.”

“Stupid custom,” Barak growled sourly.

“I’d say that you’re in for a bad week, Barak.” Greldik’s grin grew broader.

Durnik took the two seamen aside and began talking earnestly with them, drawing diagrams on the sandy riverbank with a stick. The more he talked, the more interested they became.

What emerged from their discussions a day later were a pair of lowslung cradles with a dozen wheels on each side. As the rest of the Chereks jeered, the two ships were carefully slid out of the water onto the cradles and firmly lashed in place. The jeering faded noticeably, however, when the crews of the two ships began trundling their craft across the plain. Hettar, who happened to ride by, watched for a few moments with a puzzled frown. “Why are you pulling them by hand,” he asked, “when you’re in the middle of the largest herd of horses in the world?”

Barak’s eyes went very wide, and then an almost reverent grin dawned on his face.

The jeers that had risen as Barak’s and Greldik’s ships had been maneuvered onto their wheeled carriages turned rather quickly into angry mutterings as the carnages, pulled by teams of Algar horses, rolled effortlessly toward the escarpment past men straining with every ounce of strength to move their ships a few inches at a time. To leave it all to artistry, Barak and Greldik ordered their men to lounge indolently on the decks of their ships, drinking ale and playing dice.

King Anheg stared very hard at his impudently grinning cousin as the big ship rolled past. His expression was profoundly offended. “That’s going too far!” he exploded, jerking off his dented crown and throwing it down on the ground.

King Rhodar put on a perfectly straight face. “I’d be the first to admit that it’s probably not nearly as good as moving them by hand, Anheg. I’m sure there are some rather profound philosophical reasons for all that sweating and grunting and cursing, but it is faster, wouldn’t you say? And we really ought to move right along with this.”

“It’s unnatural,” Anheg growled, still glaring at the two ships, which were already several hundred yards away.

Rhodar shrugged. “Anything’s unnatural the first time you try it.”

“I’ll think about it,” Anheg said darkly.

“I wouldn’t think for too long,” Rhodar suggested. “Your popularity as a monarch is going to go downhill with every mile—and Barak’s the sort of man who’ll parade that contraption of his back and forth in front of your sailors every step of the way to the escarpment.”

“He would do that, wouldn’t he?”

“I think you can count on it.”

King Anheg sighed bitterly. “Go fetch that unwholesomely clever Sendarian blacksmith,” he sourly instructed one of his men. “Let’s get this over with.”

Later that day the leaders of the army gathered again in the main tent for a strategy meeting. “Our biggest problem now is to conceal the size of our forces,” King Rhodar told them all. “Instead of marching everybody to the escarpment all at once and then milling around at the base of the cliff, it might be better to move the troops in small contingents and have them go directly up to the forts on top as soon as they arrive.”

“Will such a piecemeal approach not unduly delay our progress?” King Korodullin asked.

“Not all that much,” Rhodar replied. “We’ll move your knights and Cho-Hag’s clansmen up first so you can start burning cities and crops. That will give the Thulls something to think about beside how many infantry regiments we’re bringing up. We don’t want them to start counting noses.”

“Couldn’t we build false campfires and so on to make it appear that we have more men?” Lelldorin suggested brightly.

“The whole idea is to make our army appear smaller, not bigger,” Brand explained gently in his deep voice. “We don’t want to alarm Taur Urgas or ’Zakath sufficiently to make them commit their forces. It will be an easy campaign if all we have to deal with are King Gethell’s Thulls. If the Murgos and the Malloreans intervene, we’ll be in for a serious fight.”

“And that’s the one thing we definitely want to avoid,” King Rhodar added.

“Oh,” Lelldorin said, a bit abashed, “I didn’t think of that.” A slow flush rose in his cheeks.

“Lelldorin,” Ce’Nedra said, hoping to help him cover his embarrassment, “I think I’d like to go out and visit with the troops for a bit. Would you accompany me?”

“Of course, your Majesty,” the young Asturian agreed, quickly rising to his feet.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Rhodar agreed. “Encourage them a bit, Ce’Nedra. They’ve walked a long way, and their spirits may be sagging.”

Lelldorin’s cousin Torasin, dressed in his customary black doublet and hose, also rose to his feet. “I’ll go along, if I may,” he said. He grinned rather impudently at King Korodullin. “Asturians are good plotters, but rather poor strategists, so I probably wouldn’t be able to add much to the discussions.”

The King of Arendia smiled at the young man’s remark. “Thou art pert, young Torasin, but methinks thou art not so fervent an enemy of the crown of Arendia as thou dost pretend.”

Torasin bowed extravagantly, still grinning. Once they were outside the tent, he turned to Lelldorin. “I could almost learn to like that man—if it weren’t for all those thees and thous,” he declared.

“It’s not so bad—once you get used to it,” Lelldorin replied. Torasin laughed. “If I had someone as pretty as Lady Ariana for a friend, she could thee me and thou me all she wanted,” he said. He looked archly at Ce’Nedra. “Which troops did you wish to encourage, your Majesty?” he bantered.

“Let’s visit your Asturian countrymen,” she decided. “I don’t think I’d care to take you two into the Mimbrate camp—unless your swords had been taken away from you and your mouths had been bricked up.”

“Don’t you trust us?” Lelldorin asked.

“I know you,” she replied with a little toss of her head. “Where are the Asturians encamped?”

“That way,” Torasin answered, pointing toward the south end of the supply dump.

Smells of cooking were carried by the breeze from the Sendarian field kitchens, and those smells reminded the princess of something. Instead of randomly circulating among the Asturian tents, she found herself quite deliberately searching for some specific people.

She found Lammer and Detton, the two serfs who had joined her army on the outskirts of Vo Wacune, finishing their afternoon meal in front of a patched tent. They both looked better fed than they had when she had first seen them, and they were no longer dressed in rags. When they saw her approaching, they scrambled awkwardly to their feet.

“Well, my friends,” she asked, trying to put them at ease, “how do you find army life?”

“We don’t have anything to complain about, your Ladyship,” Detton replied respectfully.

“Except for all the walking,” Lammer added. “I hadn’t realized that the world was this big.”

“They gave us boots,” Detton told her, holding up one foot so that she could see his boot. “They were a bit stiff at first, but the blisters have all healed now.”

“Are you getting enough to eat?” Ce’Nedra asked them.

“Plenty,” Lammer said. “The Sendars even cook it for us. Did you know that there aren’t any serfs in the kingdom of the Sendars, my Lady? Isn’t that astonishing? It gives a man something to think about.”

“It does indeed,” Detton agreed. “They grow all that food, and everybody always has plenty to eat and clothes to wear and a house to sleep in, and there’s not a single serf in the whole kingdom.”

“I see that they’ve given you equipment, too,” the princess said, noting that the two now wore conical leather helmets and stiff leather vests.

Lammer nodded and pulled off his helmet. “It’s got steel plates in it to keep a man from getting his brains knocked out,” he told her. “They lined us all up as soon as we got here and gave every man a helmet and these hard leather tunics.”

“They gave each of us a spear and a dagger, too,” Detton said.

“Have they showed you how to use them?” Ce’Nedra asked.

“Not yet, your Ladyship,” Detton replied. “We’ve been concentrating on learning how to shoot arrows.”

Ce’Nedra turned to her two companions. “Could you see that somebody takes care of that?” she said. “I want to e sure that everybody knows how to defend himself, at least.”

“We’ll see to it, your Majesty,” Lelldorin answered.

Not far away, a young serf was seated cross-legged in front of another tent. He lifted a handmade flute to his lips and began to play. Ce’Nedra had heard some of the finest musicians in the world performing at the palace in Tol Honeth, but the serf boy’s flute caught at her heart and brought tears to her eyes. His melody soared toward the azure sky like an unfettered lark.

“How exquisite,” she exclaimed.

Lammer nodded. “I don’t know much about music,” he said, “but the boy seems to play well. It’s a shame he’s not right in the head.”

Ce’Nedra looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“He comes from a village in the southern part of the forest of Arendia. I’m told it’s a very poor village and that the lord of the region is very harsh with his serfs. The boy’s an orphan, and he was put to watching the cows when he was young. One time one of the cows strayed, and the boy was beaten half to death. He can’t talk any more.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Nobody seems to know it,” Detton replied. “We take turns looking out for him—making sure he’s fed and has a place to sleep. There’s not much else you can do for him.”

A small sound came from Lelldorin, and Ce’Nedra was startled to see tears streaming openly down the earnest young man’s face.

The boy continued his playing, his melody heartbreakingly true, and his eyes sought out Ce’Nedra’s and met them with a kind of grave recognition.

They did not stay much longer. The princess knew that her rank and position made the two serfs uncomfortable. She had made sure that they were all right and that her promise to them was being kept, and that was all that really mattered.

As Ce’Nedra, Lelldorin, and Torasin walked toward the camp of the Sendars, they suddenly heard the sound of squabbling on the other side of a large tent.

“I’ll pile it any place I want to,” one man was saying belligerently.

“You’re blocking the street,” another man replied.

“Street?” the first snorted. “What are you talking about? This isn’t a town. There aren’t any streets.”

“Friend,” the second man explained with exaggerated patience, “we have to bring the wagons through here to get to the main supply dump. Now please move your equipment so I can get through. I still have a lot to do today.”

“I’m not going to take orders from a Sendarian teamster who’s found an easy way to avoid fighting. I’m a soldier.”

“Really?” the Sendar replied dryly. “How much fighting have you seen?”

“I’ll fight when the time comes.”

“It may come quicker than you’d expected if you don’t get your gear out of my way. If I have to get down off this wagon to move it myself, it’s likely to make me irritable.”

“I’m all weak with fright,” the soldier retorted sarcastically.

“Are you going to move it?”

“No.”

“I tried to warn you, friend,” the teamster said in a resigned tone.

“If you touch my gear, I’ll break your head.”

“No. You’ll try to break my head.”

There was a sudden sound of scuffling and several heavy blows. “Now get up and move your gear like I told you to,” the teamster said. “I don’t have all day to stand around and argue with you.”

“You hit me when I wasn’t looking,” the soldier complained.

“Do you want to watch the next one coming?”

“All right, don’t get excited. I’m moving it.”

“I’m glad we understand each other.”

“Does that sort of thing happen very often?” Ce’Nedra asked quietly.

Torasin, grinning broadly, nodded. “Some of your troops feel the need to bluster, your Majesty,” he replied, “and the Sendarian wagoneers usually don’t have the time to listen. Fistfights and streetbrawling are second nature to those fellows, so their squabbles with the soldiers almost always end up the same way. It’s very educational, really.”

“Men!” Ce’Nedra said.

In the camp of the Sendars they met Durnik. With him there was an oddly matched pair of young men.

“A couple of old friends,” Durnik said as he introduced them. “Just arrived on the supply barges. I think you’ve met Rundorig, Princess. He was at Faldor’s farm when we visited there last winter.”

Ce’Nedra did in fact remember Rundorig. The tall, hulking young man, she recalled, was the one who was going to marry Garion’s childhood sweetheart, Zubrette. She greeted him warmly and gently reminded him that they had met before. Rundorig’s Arendish background made his mind move rather slowly. His companion, however, was anything but slow. Durnik introduced him as Doroon, another of Garion’s boyhood friends. Doroon was a small, wiry young man with a protruding Adam’s apple and slightly bulging eyes. After a few moments of shyness, his tongue began to run away with him. It was a bit hard to follow Doroon. His mind flitted from idea to idea, and his mouth raced along breathlessly, trying to keep up.

“It was sort of rough going up in the mountains, your Ladyship,” he replied in answer to her question about their trip from Sendaria, “what with how steep the road was and all. You’d think that as long as the Tolnedrans were building a highway, they’d have picked leveler ground—but they seem to be fascinated by straight lines—only that’s not always the easiest way. I wonder why they’re like that.” The fact that Ce’Nedra herself was Tolnedran seemed not to have registered on Doroon.

“You came along the Great North Road?” she asked him.

“Yes—until we got to a place called Aldurford. That’s a funny kind of name, isn’t it? Although it makes sense if you stop and think about it. But that was after we got out of the mountains where the Murgos attacked us. You’ve never seen such a fight.”

“Murgos?” Ce’Nedra asked him sharply, trying to pin down his skittering thoughts.

He nodded eagerly. “The man who was in charge of the wagons—he’s a great big fellow from Muros, I think he said—wasn’t it Muros he said he came from, Rundorig? Or maybe it was Camaar—for some reason I always get the two mixed up. What was I talking about?”

“The Murgos,” Durnik supplied helpfully.

“Oh, yes. Anyway, the man in charge of the wagons said that there had been a lot of Murgos in Sendaria before the war. They pretended that they were merchants, but they weren’t—they were spies. When the war started, they all went up into the mountains, and now they come out of the woods and try to ambush our supply wagons—but we were ready for them, weren’t we Rundorig? Rundorig hit one of the Murgos with a big stick when the Murgo rode past our wagon—knocked him clear off his horse. Whack! Just like that! Knocked him clear off his horse. I’ll bet he was surprised.” Doroon laughed a short little laugh, and then his tongue raced off again, describing in jerky, helter-skelter detail the trip from Sendaria.

Princess Ce’Nedra was strangely touched by her meeting with Garion’s two old friends. She felt, moreover, a tremendous burden of responsibility as she realized that she had reached into almost every life in the west with her campaign. She had separated husbands from their wives and fathers from their children; and she had carried simple men, who had never been further than the next village, a thousand leagues and more to fight in a war they probably did not even begin to understand.

The next morning the leaders of the army rode the few remaining leagues to the installations at the base of the escarpment. As they topped a rise, Ce’Nedra reined Noble in sharply and gaped in openmouthed astonishment as she saw the eastern escarpment for the first time. It was impossible! Nothing could be so vast! The great black cliff reared itself above them like an enormous wave of rock, frozen and forever marking the boundary between east and west, and seemingly blocking any possibility of ever passing in either direction. It immediately stood as a kind of stark symbol of the division between the two parts of the world—a division that could no more be resolved than that enormous cliff could be leveled.

As they rode closer, Ce’Nedra noted a great deal of bustling activity both at the foot of the escarpment and along its upper rim. Great hawsers stretched down from overhead, and Ce’Nedra saw elaborately intertwined pulleys along the foot of the huge cliffs.

“Why are the pulleys at the bottom?” King Anheg demanded suspiciously.

King Rhodar shrugged. “How should I know? I’m not an engineer.”

“All right, if you’re going to be that way about it, I’m not going to let your people touch a single one of my ships until somebody tells me why the pulleys are down here instead of up there.”

King Rhodar sighed and beckoned to an engineer who was meticulously greasing a huge pulley block. “Have you got a sketch of the rigging handy?” the portly monarch asked the grease-spattered workman.

The engineer nodded, pulled a rolled sheet of grimy parchment out from under his tunic, and handed it to his king. Rhodar glanced at it and handed it to Anheg.

Anheg stared at the complex drawing, struggling to trace out which line went where, and more importantly why it went there. “I can’t read this,” he complained.

“Neither can I,” Rhodar told him pleasantly, “but you wanted to know why the pulleys are down here instead of up there. The drawing tells you why.”

“But I can’t read it.”

“That’s not my fault.”

Not far away a cheer went up as a boulder half the size of a house and entwined in a nest of ropes rose majestically up the face of the cliff to the accompaniment of a vast creaking of hawsers.

“You’ll have to admit that that’s impressive, Anheg,” Rhodar said. “Particularly when you note that the entire rock is being lifted by those eight horses over there—with the help of that counterweight, of course.” He pointed at another block of stone which was just as majestically coming down from the top of the escarpment.

Anheg squinted at the two rocks. “Durnik,” he said over his shoulder, “do you understand how all those work?”

“Yes, King Anheg,” the smith replied. “You see, the counterweight off balances the—”

“Don’t explain it to me, please,” Anheg said. “As long as somebody I know and trust understands, that’s all that’s really important.”

Later that same day, the first Cherek ship was lifted to the top of the escarpment. King Anheg watched the procedure for a moment or two, then winced and turned his back. “It’s unnatural,” he muttered to Barak.

“You’ve taken to using that expression a great deal lately,” Barak noted.

Anheg scowled at his cousin.

“I just mentioned it, that’s all,” Barak said innocently.

“I don’t like changes, Barak. They make me nervous.”

“The world moves on, Anheg. Things change every day.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean that I have to like it,” the King of Cherek growled. “I think I’ll go to my tent for a drink or two.”

“Want some company?” Barak offered.

“I thought you wanted to stand around and watch the world change.”

“It can do that without my supervision.”

“And probably will,” Anheg added moodily. “All right, let’s go. I don’t want to watch this anymore.” And the two of them went off in search of something to drink.

11

Mayaserana, queen of Arendia, was in a pensive mood. She sat at her embroidery in the large, sunny nursery high in the palace at Vo Mimbre. Her infant son, the crown prince of Arendia, cooed and gurgled in his cradle as he played with the string of brightly colored beads that had been the ostensible gift of the crown prince of Drasnia. Mayaserana had never met Queen Porenn, but the shared experience of motherhood made her feel very close to the reputedly exquisite little blonde on her far northern throne.

Seated in a chair not far from the queen sat Nerina, Baroness of Vo Ebor. Each lady wore velvet, the queen in deep purple, and the Baroness in pale blue, and each wore the high, conical white head-dress so admired by the Mimbrate nobility. At the far end of the nursery, an elderly lutanist softly played a mournful air in a minor key.

The Baroness Nerina appeared to be even more melancholy than her queen. The circles beneath her eyes had grown deeper and deeper in the weeks since the departure of the Mimbrate knights, and she seldom smiled. Finally she sighed and laid aside her embroidery.

“The sadness of thy heart doth resound in thy sighing, Nerina,” the queen said gently. “Think not so of dangers and separation, lest thy spirits fail thee utterly.”

“Instruct me in the art of banishing care, Highness,” Nerina replied, “for I am in sore need of such teaching. My heart is bowed beneath a burden of concern, and try though I might to control them, my thoughts, like unruly children, return ever to the dreadful peril of my absent lord and our dearest friend.”

“Be comforted in the knowledge that thy burden is shared by every lady in all of Mimbre, Nerina.”

Nerina sighed again. “My care, however, lies in more mournful certainty. Other ladies, their affections firm-fixed on one beloved, can dare to hope that he might return from dreadful war unscathed; but I, who love two, can find no reason for such optimism. I must needs lose one at the least, and the prospect doth crush my soul.”

There was a quiet dignity in Nerina’s open acceptance of the implications of the two loves that had become so entwined in her heart that they could no longer be separated. Mayaserana, in one of those brief flashes of insight which so sharply illuminated understanding, perceived that Nerina’s divided heart lay at the very core of the tragedy that had lifted her, her husband, and Sir Mandorallen into the realms of sad legend. If Nerina could but love one more than the other, the tragedy would end, but so perfectly balanced was her love for her husband with her love for Sir Mandorallen that she had reached a point of absolute stasis, forever frozen between the two of them.

The queen sighed. Nerina’s divided heart seemed somehow a symbol of divided Arendia, but, though the gentle heart of the suffering baroness might never be made one, Mayaserana was resolved to make a last effort to heal the breach between Mimbre and Asturia. To that end, she had summoned to the palace a deputation of the more stable leaders of the rebellious north, and her summons had appeared over a title she rarely used, Duchess of Asturia. At her instruction, the Asturians were even now drawing up a list of their grievances for her consideration.

Later on that same sunny afternoon, Mayaserana sat alone on the double throne of Arendia, painfully aware of the vacancy beside her. The leader and spokesman of the group of Asturian noblemen was a Count Reldegen, a tall, thin man with iron gray hair and beard, who walked with the aid of a stout cane. Reldegen wore a rich green doublet and black hose, and, like the rest of the deputation, his sword was belted at his side. The fact that the Asturians came armed into the queen’s presence had stirred some angry muttering, but Mayaserana had refused to listen to urgings that their weapons be taken from them.

“My Lord Reldegen,” the queen greeted the Asturian as he limped toward the throne.

“Your Grace,” he replied with a bow.

“Your Majesty,” a Mimbrate courtier corrected him in a shocked voice.

“Her Grace summoned us as the Duchess of Asturia,” Reldegen informed the courtier coolly. “That title commands more respect from us than other, more recent embellishments.”

“Gentlemen, please,” the queen said firmly. “Prithee, let us not commence hostilities anew. Our purpose here is to examine the possibilities of peace. I entreat thee, my Lord Reldegen, speak to the purpose. Unburden thyself of the causes of that rancor which hath so hardened the heart of Asturia. Speak freely, my Lord, and with no fear of reprisal for thy words.” She looked quite sternly at her advisers. “It is our command that no man be taken to task for what is spoken here.”

The Mimbrates glowered at the Asturians, and the Asturians scowled back.

“Your Grace,” Reldegen began, “our chief complaint lies, I think, in the simple fact that our Mimbrate overlords refuse to recognize our titles. A title’s an empty thing, really, but it implies a responsibility which has been denied to us. Most of us here are indifferent to the privileges of rank, but we keenly feel the frustration of being refused the chance to discharge our obligations. Our most talented men are compelled to waste their lives in idleness, and might I point out, your Grace, that the loss of that talent injures Arendia even more than it injures us.”

“Well spoken, my Lord,” the queen murmured.

“Might I respond, your Majesty,” the aged, white-bearded Baron of Vo Serin inquired.

“Certainly, my Lord,” Mayaserana replied. “Let us all be free and open with one another.”

“The titles of the Asturian gentlemen are theirs for the asking,” the baron declared. “For five centuries the crown hath awaited but the required oath of fealty to bestow them. No title may be granted or recognized until its owner swears allegiance to the crown.”

“Unfortunately, my Lord,” Reldegen said, “we are unable to so swear. The oaths of our ancestors to the Duke of Asturia are still in force, and we are still bound by them.”

“The Asturian Duke of whom thou speakest died five hundred years ago,” the old baron reminded him.

“But his line did not die with him,” Reldegen pointed out. “Her Grace is his direct descendant, and our pledges of loyalty are still in force.”

The queen stared first at one and then at the other. “I pray thee,” she said, “correct me if my perception is awry. Is the import of what hath been revealed here that Arendia hath been divided for half a millennium by an ancient formality?”

Reldegen pursed his lips thoughtfully. “There’s a bit more to it than that, your Grace, but that does seem to be the core of the problem.”

“Five hundred years of strife and bloodshed over a technicality?”

Count Reldegen struggled with it. He started to speak several times, but broke off each time with a look of helpless perplexity. In the end he began to laugh. “It is sort of Arendish, isn’t it?” he asked rather whimsically.

The old Baron of Vo Serin gave him a quick look, then he too began to chuckle. “I pray thee, my Lord Reldegen, lock this discovery in thy heart lest we all become the subject of general mirth. Let us not confirm the suspicion that abject stupidity is our most prevailing trait.”

“Why was this absurdity not discovered previously?” Mayaserana demanded.

Count Reldegen shrugged sadly. “I suppose because Asturians and Mimbrates don’t talk to each other, your Grace. We were always too eager to get to the fighting.”

“Very well,” the queen said crisply, “what is required to rectify this sorry confusion?”

Count Reldegen looked at the Baron. “A proclamation perhaps?” he suggested.

The old man nodded thoughtfully. “Her Majesty could release thee from thy previous oath. It hath not been common practice, but there are precedents.”

“And then we all swear fealty to her as Queen of Arendia?”

“That would seem to satisfy all the demands of honor and propriety.”

“But I’m the same person, am I not?” the queen objected.

“Technically thou art not, your Majesty,” the baron explained. “The Duchess of Asturia and the Queen of Arendia are separate entities. Thou art indeed two persons in one body.”

“This is most confusing, gentlemen,” Mayaserana observed.

“That’s probably why no one noticed it before, your Grace,” Reldegen told her. “Both you and your husband have two titles and two separate formal identities.” He smiled briefly. “I’m surprised that there was room on the throne for such a crowd.” His face grew serious. “It won’t be a cure-all, your Grace,” he added. “The divisions between Mimbre and Asturia are so deep-seated that they’ll take generations to erase.”

“And wilt thou also swear fealty to my husband?” the queen asked.

“As the King of Arendia, yes; as the Duke of Mimbre, never.”

“That will do for a start, my Lord. Let us see then to this proclamation. Let us with ink and parchment bandage our poor Arendia’s most gaping wound.”

“Beautifully put, your Grace,” Reldegen said admiringly.

Ran Borune XXIII had spent almost his entire life inside the Imperial compound at Tol Honeth. His infrequent trips to the major cities of Tolnedra had, for the most part been made inside closed carriages. It was entirely probable that Ran Borune had never walked a continuous mile in his life, and a man who has not walked a mile has no real conception of what a mile is. From the very outset, his advisers despaired of ever making him understand the concept of distance.

The suggestion that ultimately resolved the difficulty came from a rather surprising source. A sometime tutor named Jeebers—a man who had narrowly escaped imprisonment or worse the previous summer—put forth the suggestion diffidently. Master Jeebers now did everything diffidently. His near brush with Imperial displeasure had forever extinguished the pompous self importance that had previously marred his character. A number of his acquaintances were surprised to discover that they even liked the balding, skinny man now.

Master Jeebers had pointed out that if the Emperor could only see things in exact scale, he might then understand. Like so many good ideas that had surfaced from time to time in Tolnedra, this one immediately got out of hand. An entire acre of the Imperial grounds was converted into a scale replica of the border region of eastern Algaria and the opposing stretches of Mishrak ac Thull. To give it all perspective, a number of inch-high human figures were cast in lead to aid the Emperor in conceptualizing the field of operations.

The Emperor immediately announced that he’d really like to have more of the lead figures to aid his understanding of the masses of men involved, and a new industry was born in Tol Honeth. Overnight lead became astonishingly scarce.

In order that he might better see the field, the Emperor mounted each morning to the top of a thirty-foot-high tower that had hastily been erected for that purpose. There, with the aid of a great-voiced sergeant of the Imperial guard, the Emperor deployed his leaden regiments of infantry and cavalry in precise accordance with the latest dispatches from Algaria.

The general staff very nearly resigned their commissions en masse. They were, for the most part, men of advanced middle age, and joining the Emperor atop his tower each morning involved some strenuous climbing. They all tried at various times to explain to the beak-nosed little man that they could see just as well from the ground, but Ran Borune would have none of it.

“Morin, he’s killing us,” one portly general complained bitterly to the Emperor’s chamberlain. “I’d rather go off to war than climb that ladder four times a day.”

“Move the Drasnian pikemen four paces to the left!” the sergeant bellowed from the top of the tower, and a dozen men on the ground began redeploying the tiny lead figures.

“We all must serve in the capacity our Emperor chooses for us,” Lord Morin replied philosophically.

“I don’t see you climbing the ladder,” the general accused.

“Our Emperor has chosen another capacity for me,” Morin said rather smugly.

That evening the weary little Emperor sought his bed. “It’s very exciting, Morin,” he murmured drowsily, holding the velvet-lined case that contained the solid gold figures representing Ce’Nedra and Rhodar and the rest of the army’s leaders close to.his chest, “but it’s very tiring, too.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“There always seems to be so much that I still have to do.”

“That’s the nature of command, your Majesty,” Morin observed. But the Emperor had already dropped off.

Lord Morin removed the case from the Emperor’s hands and carefully pulled the covers up around the sleeping man’s shoulders. “Sleep, Ran Borune,” he said very gently. “You can play with your little toy soldiers again tomorrow.”

Sadi the eunuch had quietly left the palace at Sthiss Tor by a secret doorway that opened behind the slaves’ quarters onto a shabby back street that twisted and turned in the general direction of the harbor. He had quite deliberately waited for the cover of the afternoon rainstorm and had dressed himself in the shabby clothing of a dockworker. Accompanying him was the one-eyed assassin, Issus, who also wore nondescript clothing. Sadi’s security precautions were routine, but his choice of Issus as his companion was not. Issus was not a member of the palace guard nor of Sadi’s personal retinue, but Sadi was not concerned on this afternoon’s outing with appearances or proprieties. Issus was by and large uncorrupted by palace politics and had a reputation for unswerving loyalty to whomever was paying him at the moment.

The two passed down the rainswept street to a certain disreputable establishment frequented by lower-class workers, and went through a rather noisy taproom to the maze of cubicles at the back, where other entertainments were provided. At the end of a foul-smelling hallway, a lean, hard-eyed woman, whose arms were covered from wrist to elbow with cheap, gaudy bracelets, pointed wordlessly at a scarred door, then turned abruptly and disappeared through another doorway.

Behind the door lay a filthy room with only a bed for furniture. On the bed were two sets of clothing that smelled of tar and salt water, and sitting on the floor were two large tankards of lukewarm ale. Wordlessly, Sadi and Issus changed clothes. From beneath the soiled pillow, Issus pulled a pair of wigs and two sets of false whiskers.

“How can they drink this?” Sadi demanded, sniffing at one of the tankards and wrinkling his nose.

Issus shrugged. “Alorns have peculiar tastes. You don’t have to drink it all, Sadi. Splash most of it on your clothes. Drasnian sailors spill a lot of ale when they’re out in search of amusement. How do I look?”

Sadi gave him a quick glance. “Ridiculous,” he replied. “Hair and a beard don’t really suit you, Issus.”

Issus laughed. “And they look particularly out of place on you.” He shrugged and carefully poured ale down the front of his tar-spattered tunic. “I suppose we look enough like Drasnians to get by, and we certainly smell like Drasnians. Hook your beard on a little tighter, and let’s get moving before it stops raining.”

“Are we going out the back?”

Issus shook his head. “If we’re being followed, the back will be watched. We’ll leave the way ordinary Drasnian sailors leave.”

“And how is that?”

“I’ve made arrangements to have us thrown out.”

Sadi had never been thrown out of any place before, and he found the experience not particularly amusing. The two burly ruffians who unceremoniously pitched him into the street were a bit rough about it, and Sadi picked up several scrapes and abrasions in the process.

Issus staggered to his feet and stood bawling curses at the closed door, then lurched over and pulled Sadi up out of the mud. Together they reeled in apparent drunkenness down the street toward the Drasnian enclave. Sadi noted that there had been two men in a doorway across the street when he and Issus had been ejected and that the two did not move to follow.

Once they entered the Drasnian enclave, Issus led the way rather quickly to the house of Droblek, the Drasnian port authority. They were admitted immediately and conveyed at once to a dimly lighted but comfortable room where the enormously fat Droblek sat sweating. With him was Count Melgon, the aristocratic ambassador from Tolnedra.

“Novel attire for the chief eunuch of Salmissra’s household,” Count Melgon observed as Sadi pulled off his wig and false beard.

“Just a bit of deception, my Lord Ambassador,” Sadi replied. “I didn’t particularly want this meeting to become general knowledge.”

“Can he be trusted?” Droblek asked bluntly, pointing at Issus.

Sadi’s expression became whimsical. “Can you be trusted, Issus?” he asked.

“You’ve paid me for up to the end of the month.” Issus shrugged. “After that, we’ll see. I might get a better offer.”

“You see?” Sadi said to the two seated men. “Issus can be trusted until the end of the month—at least as much as anybody in Sthiss Tor can be trusted. One thing I’ve noticed about Issus—he’s a simple, uncomplicated man. Once you buy him, he stays bought. I think it’s referred to as professional ethics.”

Droblek grunted sourly. “Do you suppose we could get to the point? Why did you go to so much trouble to arrange this meeting? Why didn’t you just summon us to the palace?”

“My dear Droblek,” Sadi murmured, “you know the kind of intrigue that infests the palace. I’d prefer that what passes between us remain more or less confidential. The matter itself is rather uncomplicated. I’ve been approached by the emissary of Taur Urgas.”

The two regarded him with no show of surprise.

“I gather that you already knew.”

“We’re hardly children, Sadi,” Count Melgon told him.

“I am at present in negotiations with the new ambassador from Rak Goska,” Sadi mentioned.

“Isn’t that the third one so far this summer?” Melgon asked.

Sadi nodded. “The Murgos seem to be particularly susceptible to certain fevers which abound in the swamps.”

“We’ve noticed that,” Droblek said dryly. “What is your prognosis for the present emissary’s continued good health?”

“I don’t imagine he’s any more immune than his countrymen. He’s already beginning to feel unwell.”

“Maybe he’ll be lucky and recover,” Droblek suggested.

“Not very likely,” Issus said with an ugly laugh.

“The tendency of Murgo ambassadors to die unexpectedly has succeeded in keeping the negotiations moving very slowly,” Sadi continued. “I’d like for you gentlemen to inform King Rhodar and Ran Borune that these delays will probably continue.”

“Why?” Droblek asked.

“I want them to understand and appreciate my efforts in their present campaign against the Angarak kingdoms.”

“Tolnedra has no involvement in that campaign,” Melgon asserted quickly.

“Of course not.” Sadi smiled.

“Just how far are you willing to go, Sadi?” Droblek asked curiously.

“That depends almost entirely upon who’s winning at any given moment,” Sadi replied urbanely. “If the Rivan Queen’s campaign in the east begins to run into difficulties, I suspect that the pestilence will subside and the Murgo emissaries will stop dying so conveniently. I’d almost have to make an accommodation with Taur Urgas at that point.”

“Don’t you find that just a bit contemptible, Sadi?” Droblek asked acidly.

Sadi shrugged. “We’re a contemptible sort of people, Droblek,” he admitted, “but we survive. That’s no mean accomplishment for a weak nation lying between two major powers. Tell Rhodar and Ran Borune that I’ll stall the Murgos off for as long as things continue to go in their favor. I want them both to be aware of their obligation to me.”

“And will you advise them when your position is about to change?” Melgon asked.

“Of course not,” Sadi replied. “I’m corrupt, Melgon. I’m not stupid.”

“You’re not much of an ally, Sadi,” Droblek told him.

“I never pretended to be. I’m looking out for myself. At the moment, my interests and yours happen to coincide, that’s all. I do, however, expect to be remembered for my assistance.”

“You’re trying to play it both ways, Sadi,” Droblek accused him bluntly.

“I know.” Sadi smiled. “Disgusting, isn’t it?”

Queen Islena of Cherek was in an absolute panic. This time Merel had gone too far. The advice they had received from Porenn had seemed quite sound—had indeed raised the possibility of a brilliant stroke which would disarm Grodeg and the Bear-cult once and for all. The imagined prospect of the helpless rage into which this would plummet the towering ecclesiast was almost a satisfaction in itself. Like so many people, Queen Islena took such pleasure in an imagined triumph that the real thing became almost too much trouble. The victories of the imagination involved no risks, and a confrontation with an enemy always ended satisfactorily when both sides of the conversation came from one’s own daydreams. Left to her own devices, Islena would probably have been content to let it go at that.

Merel, however, was less easily satisfied. The plan devised by the little queen of Drasnia had been quite sound, but it suffered from one flaw—they did not have enough men to bring it off. Merel, however, had located an ally with certain resources and had brought him into the queen’s inner circle. A group of men in Cherek had not accompanied Anheg and the fleet to Algaria largely because they were not the sort of men who made good sailors. At Merel’s stern-faced insistence, the Queen of Cherek suddenly developed an overpowering enthusiasm for hunting. It was in the forest, safe from prying ears, that the details of the coup were worked out.

“When you kill a snake, you cut off its head,” Torvik the huntsman had pointed out as he, Merel, and Islena sat in a forest glade while Torvik’s men roved through the woods harvesting enough game to make it appear that Islena had spent her day in a frenzy of slaughter. “You don’t accomplish all that much by snipping pieces off its tail an inch or so at a time,” the broad-shouldered huntsman continued. “The Bear-cult isn’t really that concentrated in one place. With a little luck, we can gather up all the important members presently in Val Alorn in one sweep. That should irritate our snake enough to make him stick his neck out. Then we’ll simply chop off his head.”

Torvik’s use of such terminology had made the queen wince. She had not been entirely sure that the blunt, grizzled forester had been speaking figuratively.

And now it had been done. Torvik and his huntsmen had moved quietly through the dark streets of Val Alorn for the entire night, gathering up the sleeping members of the Bear-cult, marching them in groups to the harbor and then locking them in the holds of waiting ships. Because of their years of experience, the hunters had been very thorough in rounding up their quarry. By morning, the only members of the Bear-cult left in the city were the High Priest of Belar and the dozen or so under-priests lodged in the temple.

Queen Islena sat, pale and trembling, on the throne of Cherek. She wore her purple gown and her gold crown. In her hand she held a scepter. The scepter had a comforting weight to it and could possibly be used as a weapon in an emergency. The queen was positive that an emergency was about to descend on her.

“This is all your fault, Merel,” she bitterly accused her blond friend. “If you’d just left things alone, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“We’d be a worse one,” Merel replied coldly. “Pull yourself together, Islena. It’s done now, and you can’t undo it.”

“Grodeg terrifies me,” Islena blurted.

“He won’t be armed. He won’t be able to hurt you.”

“I’m only a woman,” Islena quailed. “He’ll roar at me in that awful voice of his, and I’ll go absolutely to pieces.”

“Stop being such a coward, Islena,” Merel snapped. “Your timidity’s brought Cherek right to the edge of disaster. Every time Grodeg’s raised his voice to you, you’ve given him anything he wanted just because you’re afraid of harsh talk. Are you a child? Does noise frighten you that much?”

“You forget yourself, Merel,” Islena flared suddenly. “I am queen, after all.”

“Then by all the Gods, be queen! Stop behaving like a silly, frightened serving girl. Sit up straight on your throne as if you had some iron in your backbone—and pinch your cheeks. You’re as pale as a bedsheet.” Merel’s face hardened. “Listen to me, Islena,” she said. “If you give even one hint that you’re starting to weaken, I’ll have Torvik run his spear into Grodeg right here in the throne room.”

“You wouldn’t!” Islena gasped. “You can’t kill a priest.”

“He’s a man just like any other man,” Merel declared harshly. “If you stick a spear in his belly, he’ll die.”

“Not even Anheg would dare to do that.”

“I’m not Anheg.”

“You’ll be cursed!”

“I’m not afraid of curses.”

Torvik came into the throne room, a broad-bladed boarspear held negligently in one big hand. “He’s coming,” he announced laconically.

“Oh, dear,” Islena quavered.

“Stop that!” Merel snapped.

Grodeg was livid with rage as he strode into the throne room. His white robe was rumpled as if he had thrown it on hastily, and his white hair and beard were uncombed. “I will speak with the queen alone!” he thundered as he approached across the rush-strewn floor.

“That is the queen’s decision to make, not yours, my Lord High Priest,” Merel advised him in a flinty voice.

“Does the wife of the Earl of Trellheim speak for the throne?” Grodeg demanded of Islena.

Islena faltered, then saw Torvik standing directly behind the tall priest. The boarspear in his hand was no longer so negligently grasped. “Calm yourself, revered Grodeg,” the queen said, quite suddenly convinced that the life of the infuriated priest hinged not only on her words but even on her tone of voice. At the tiniest quaver, Merel would give the signal, and Torvik would sink that broad, sharp blade into Grodeg’s back with about as much emotion as he showed about swatting a fly.

“I want to see you alone,” Grodeg repeated stubbornly.”

“No.”

“No?” he roared incredulously.

“You heard me, Grodeg,” she told him. “And stop shouting at me. My hearing is quite good.”

He gaped at her, then quickly recovered. “Why have all my friends been arrested?” he demanded.

“They were not arrested, my Lord High Priest,” the queen replied. “They have all volunteered to join my husband’s fleet.”

“Ridiculous!” he snorted.

“I think you’d better choose your words a bit more carefully, Grodeg,” Merel told him. “The queen’s patience with your impertinence is wearing thin.”

“Impertinence?” he exclaimed. “How dare you speak that way to me?” He drew himself up and fixed a stern eye on the queen. “I insist upon a private audience,” he told her in a thunderous voice.

The voice which had always cowed her before quite suddenly irritated Islena. She was trying to save this idiot’s life, and he kept shouting at her. “My Lord Grodeg,” she said with an unaccustomed hint of steel in her voice, “if you bellow at me one more time, I’ll have you muzzled.”

His eyes widened in amazement.

“We have nothing to discuss in private, my Lord,” the queen continued. “All that remains is for you to receive your instructions—which you will follow to the letter. It is our decree that you will proceed directly to the harbor, where you will board the ship which is waiting to transport you to Algaria. There you will join the forces of Cherek in the campaign against the Angaraks.”

“I refuse!” Grodeg retorted.

“Think carefully, my Lord Grodeg,” Merel purred. “The queen has given you a royal command. Refusal could be considered treason.”

“I am the High Priest of Belar,” Grodeg ground out between clenched teeth, obviously having great difficulty in modulating his voice. “You wouldn’t dare ship me off like some peasant conscript.”

“I wonder if the High Priest of Belar might like to make a small wager on that,” Torvik said with deceptive mildness. He set the butt of his spear on the floor, took a stone from the pouch at his belt and began to hone the already razor-sharp blade. The steely sound had an obviously chilling effect on Grodeg.

“You will go to the harbor now, Grodeg,” Islena told him, “and you will get on that ship. If you do not, you will go to the dungeon, where you will keep the rats company until my husband returns. Those are your choices; join Anheg or join the rats. Decide quickly. You’re starting to bore me, and quite frankly, I’m sick of the sight of you.”

Queen Porenn of Drasnia was in the nursery, ostensibly feeding her infant son. Out of respect for the queen’s person, she was unspied upon while she was nursing. Porenn, however, was not alone. Javelin, the bone-thin chief of Drasnian intelligence, was with her. For the sake of appearance, Javelin was dressed in a serving maid’s gown and cap, and he looked surprisingly feminine in the disguise he wore with no apparent trace of self consciousness.

“Are there really that many cultists in the intelligence service?” the queen asked, a little dismayed.

Javelin sat with his back politely turned. “I’m afraid so, your Highness. We should have been more alert, but we had other things on our minds.”

Porenn thought about it for a moment, unconsciously rocking her suckling baby. “Islena’s moving already, isn’t she?” she asked.

“That’s the word I received this morning,” Javelin replied. “Grodeg’s on his way to the mouth of the Aldur River already, and the queen’s men are moving out into the countryside, rounding up every member of the cult as they go.”

“Will it in any way hamper our operations to jerk that many people out of Boktor?”

“We can manage, your Highness,” Javelin assured her. “We might have to speed up the graduation of the current class at the academy and finish their training on the job, but we’ll manage.”

“Very well then, Javelin,” Porenn decided. “Ship them all out. Get every cult member out of Boktor, and separate them. I want them sent to the most miserable duty posts you can devise, and I don’t want any of them within fifty leagues of any other one. There will be no excuses, no sudden illnesses, and no resignations. Give each of them something to do, and then make him do it. I want every Bear-cultist who’s crept into the intelligence service out of Boktor by nightfall.”

“It will be my pleasure, Porenn,” Javelin said. “Oh, incidentally, that Nadrak merchant, Yarblek is back from Yar Nadrak, and he wants to talk to you about the salmon runs again. He seems to have this obsessive interest in fish.”

12

The raising of the Cherek fleet to the top of the eastern escarpment took a full two weeks, and King Rhodar chafed visibly at the pace of the operation.

“You knew this was going to take time, Rhodar,” Ce’Nedra said to him as he fumed and sweated, pacing back and forth with frequent dark looks at the towering cliff face. “Why are you so upset?”

“Because the ships are right out in the open, Ce’Nedra,” he replied testily. “There’s no way to hide them or disguise them while they’re being raised. Those ships are the key to our whole campaign, and if somebody on the other side starts putting a few things together, we might have to meet all of Angarak instead of just the Thulls.”

“You worry too much,” she told him. “Cho-Hag and Korodullin are burning everything in sight up there. ’Zakath and Taur Urgas have other things to think about beside what we’re hauling up the cliff.”

“It must be wonderful to be so unconcerned about things,” he said sarcastically.

“Be nice, Rhodar,” she said.

General Varana, still scrupulously dressed in his Tolnedran mantle, limped toward them with that studiously diffident expression that indicated he was about to make another suggestion.

“Varana,” King Rhodar burst out irritably, “why don’t you put on your uniform?”

“Because I’m not really officially here, your Majesty,” the general replied calmly. “Tolnedra is neutral in this affair, you’ll recall.”

“That’s a fiction, and we all know it.”

“A necessary one, however. The Emperor is still holding diplomatic channels open to Taur Urgas and ’Zakath. Those discussions would deteriorate if someone saw a Tolnedran general swaggering around in full uniform.” He paused briefly. “Would a small suggestion offend your Majesty?” he asked.

“That all depends on the suggestion,” Rhodar retorted. Then he made a face and apologized. “I’m sorry, Varana. This delay’s making me bad-tempered. What did you have in mind?”

“I think you might want to give some thought to moving your command operations up to the top about now. You’ll want things running smoothly by the time the bulk of your infantry arrives, and it usually takes a couple of days to iron out the wrinkles when you set things up.”

King Rhodar stared at a Cherek ship being hoisted ponderously up the cliff face. “I’m not going to ride up on one of those, Varana,” he declared flatly.

“It’s absolutely safe, your Majesty,” Varana assured him. “I’ve made the trip myself several times. Even Lady Polgara went up that way just this morning.”

“Polgara could fly down if something went wrong,” Rhodar said. “I don’t have her advantages. Can you imagine the size of the hole I’d make in the ground if I fell that far?”

“The alternative is extremely strenuous, your Majesty. There are several ravines running down from the top. They’ve been leveled out a bit so that the horses can go up, but they’re still very steep.”

“A little sweating won’t hurt me.”

Varana shrugged. “As your Majesty wishes.”

“I’ll keep you company, Rhodar,” Ce’Nedra offered brightly. He gave her a suspicious look.

“I don’t really trust machines either,” she confessed. “I’ll go change clothes, and then we can start.”

“You want to do it today?” His voice was plaintive.

“Why put it off?”

“I can think of a dozen reasons.”

The term “very steep” turned out to be a gross understatement. “Precipitous” might have been more accurate. The incline made riding horses out of the question, but ropes had been strung along the steeper stretches to aid in the climb. Ce’Nedra, dressed in one of her short Dryad tunics, scampered hand over hand up the ropes with the agility of a squirrel. King Rhodar’s pace, however, was much slower.

“Please stop groaning, Rhodar,” she told him after they had climbed for an hour or so. “You sound like a sick cow.”

“That’s hardly fair, Ce’Nedra,” he wheezed, stopping to mop his streaming face.

“I never promised to be fair,” she retorted with an impish grin. “Come along, we still have a long way to go.” And she flitted up another fifty yards or so.

“Don’t you think you’re a little underdressed?” he puffed disapprovingly, staring up at her. “Proper ladies don’t show off so much leg.”

“What’s wrong with my legs?”

“They’re bare—that’s what’s wrong with them.”

“Don’t be such a prig. I’m comfortable. That’s all that matters. Are you coming or not?”

Rhodar groaned again. “Isn’t it almost time for lunch?”

“We just had lunch.”

“Did we? I’d forgotten already.”

“You always seem to forget your last meal—usually before the crumbs have been brushed away.”

“That’s the nature of a fat man, Ce’Nedra.” He sighed. “The last meal is history. It’s the next one that’s important.” He stared mournfully up the brutal trail ahead and groaned again.

“This was all your idea,” she heartlessly reminded him.

The sun was low in the west when they reached the top. As King Rhodar collapsed, Princess Ce’Nedra looked around curiously. The fortifications which had been erected along the top of the escarpment were extensive and quite imposing. The walls were of earth and stone and were perhaps thirty feet high. Through an open gate the princess saw a series of other, lower walls, each fronted by a ditch bristling with sharpened stakes and thorny brambles. At various points along the main wall rose imposing blockhouses, and within the walls were neat rows of huts for the soldiers.

The forts swarmed with men, and their various activities raised an almost perpetual cloud of dust. A party of Algar clansmen, smokestained and mounted on spent-looking horses, rode slowly in through the gate; and a few moments later, a contingent of gleaming Mimbrate knights, pennons snapping from their lances and the great hoofs of their chargers clattering on the stony ground, rode out in search of yet another town to destroy.

The huge hoists at the edge of the escarpment creaked and groaned under the weight of the Cherek ships being raised from the plain below; some distance away, within the fortified walls, the growing fleet sat awaiting the final portage to the headwaters of the upper River Mardu, some fifty leagues distant.

Polgara, accompanied by Durnik and the towering Barak, approached to greet the princess and the prostrate King of Drasnia.

“How was the climb?” Barak inquired.

“Ghastly,” Rhodar wheezed. “Does anybody have anything to eat? I think I’ve melted off about ten pounds.”

“It doesn’t show,” Barak told him.

“That sort of exertion isn’t really good for you, Rhodar,” Polgara told the gasping monarch. “Why were you so stubborn about it?”

“Because I have an absolute horror of heights,” Rhodar replied. “I’d climb ten times as far to avoid being hauled up that cliff by those contraptions. The idea of all that empty air under me makes my flesh creep.”

Barak grinned. “That’s a lot of creeping.”

“Will somebody please give me something to eat?” Rhodar asked in an anguished tone of voice.

“A bit of cold chicken?” Durnik offered solicitously, handing him a well-browned chicken leg.

“Where did you ever find a chicken?” Rhodar exclaimed, eagerly seizing the leg.

“The Thulls brought some with them,” Durnik told him.

“Thulls?” Ce’Nedra gasped. “What are Thulls doing here?”

“Surrendering,” Durnik replied. “Whole villages of them have been showing up for the past week or so. They walk up to the edge of the ditches along the front of the fortification and sit down and wait to be captured. They’re very patient about it. Sometimes it’s a day or so before anybody has the time to go out and capture them, but they don’t seem to mind.”

“Why do they want to be captured?” Ce’Nedra asked him.

“There aren’t any Grolims here,” Durnik explained. “No altars to Torak and no sacrificial knives. The Thulls seem to feel that getting away from that sort of thing is worth the inconvenience of being captured. We take them in and put them to work on the fortifications. They’re good workers, if you give them the proper supervision.”

“Is that entirely safe?” Rhodar asked around a mouthful of chicken. “There might be spies among them.”

Durnik nodded. “We know,” he said, “but the spies are usually Grolims. A Thull doesn’t have the mental equipment to be a spy, so the Grolims have to do it themselves.”

Rhodar lowered his chicken leg in astonishment. “You’re letting Grolims inside the fortifications?” he demanded.

“It’s nothing all that serious,” Durnik told him. “The Thulls know who the Grolims are, and we let them deal with the problem. They usually take them a mile or so along the escarpment and then throw them off. At first they wanted to do it right here, but some of their elders pointed out that it might not be polite to drop Grolims down on top of the men working below, so they take them some place where they won’t bother anybody when they fall. A very considerate people, the Thulls. One could almost get to like them.”

“You’ve sunburned your nose, Ce’Nedra,” Polgara told the little princess. “Didn’t you think of wearing a hat?”

“Hats give me a headache.” Ce’Nedra shrugged. “A little sunburn won’t hurt me.”

“You have an appearance to maintain, dear,” Polgara pointed out. “You’re not going to look very queenly with your nose peeling.”

“It’s nothing to worry about, Lady Polgara. You can fix it, can’t you? You know—” Ce’Nedra made a little gesture with her hand that was meant to look magical.

Polgara gave her a long, chilly look.

King Anheg of Cherek, accompanied by the broad-shouldered Rivan Warder, approached them. “Did you have a nice climb?” he asked Rhodar pleasantly.

“How would you like a punch in the nose?” Rhodar asked him. King Anheg laughed coarsely.

“My,” he said, “aren’t we grumpy today? I’ve just had some news from home that ought to brighten your disposition a bit.”

“Dispatches?” Rhodar groaned, hauling himself wearily to his feet. Anheg nodded. “They sent them up from down below while you were getting your exercise. You’re not going to believe what’s been going on back there.”

“Try me.”

“You absolutely won’t believe it.”

“Anheg, spit it out.”

“We’re about to get some reinforcements. Islena and Porenn have been very busy these last few weeks.”

Polgara looked at him sharply.

“Do you know something?” Anheg said, holding out a folded dispatch. “I wasn’t even aware of the fact that Islena knew how to read and write, and now I get this.”

“Don’t be cryptic, Anheg,” Polgara told him. “What have the ladies been up to?”

“I gather that after we left, the Bear-cult began to make itself a bit obnoxious. Grodeg apparently felt that with the men out of the way, he could take over. He started throwing his weight around in Val Alorn, and cult members began to surface in the headquarters of Drasnian intelligence in Boktor. It looks as if they’ve been making preparations for something for years. Anyway, Porenn and Islena began passing information back and forth, and when they realized how close Grodeg was to getting his hands on real power in the two kingdoms, they took steps. Porenn ordered all the cult members out of Boktor—sent them to the most miserable duty posts she could think of—and Islena rounded up the Bear-cult in Val Alorn—every last one of them—and shipped them out to join the army.”

“They did what?” Rhodar gasped.

“Isn’t it amazing?” A slow grin spread across Anheg’s coarse face. “The beauty of the whole thing is that Islena could get away with it, while I couldn’t. Women aren’t supposed to be aware of the subtleties involved in arresting priests and noblemen—the need for evidence against them and so on—so what would be gross impropriety on my part will be laughed off as ignorance on hers. I’ll have to apologize to Grodeg, of course, but it will be after the fact. The cult will be here, and they’ll have no honest reason to go back home.”

Rhodar’s answering grin was every bit as wicked as Anheg’s. “How did Grodeg take it?”

“He was absolutely livid. I guess Islena faced him down personally. She gave him the choice of joining us or going to the dungeon.”

“You can’t put the High Priest of Belar in a dungeon,” Rhodar exclaimed.

“Islena didn’t know that, and Grodeg knew that she didn’t. She’d have had him chained to the wall in the deepest hole she could find before anybody had gotten around to telling her that it was illegal. Can’t you just see my Islena delivering that kind of ultimatum to the old windbag?” There was a note of fierce pride in Anheg’s voice.

King Rhodar’s face grew very sly. “There’s bound to be some rather hot fighting in this campaign sooner or later,” he noted.

Anheg nodded.

“The Bear-cult prides itself on its fighting ability, doesn’t it?” Anheg nodded again, grinning.

“They’d be perfect for spearheading any attacks, wouldn’t they?” Anheg’s grin grew positively vicious.

“I imagine that their casualties will be heavy,” the King of Drasnia suggested.

“It’s in a good cause, after all,” Anheg replied piously.

“If you two have quite finished gloating, I think it’s time I got the princess in out of the sun,” Polgara told the two grinning monarchs.

The fortified positions atop the escarpment bustled with activity for the next several days. Even as the last of the Cherek ships were raised up the cliffs, the Algars and Mimbrates extended their depredations out into the Thullish countryside.

“There aren’t any crops standing for fifty leagues in any direction,” Hettar reported back. “We’ll have to go out farther to find anything else to burn.”

“You find many Murgos?” Barak asked the hawk-faced man.

“A few.” Hettar shrugged. “Not enough to make it interesting, but we run across one every now and then.”

“How’s Mandorallen doing?”

“I haven’t seen him for a few days,” Hettar replied. “There’s a lot of smoke coming from the direction he went, though, so I imagine he’s keeping busy.”

“What’s the country like out there?” King Anheg asked.

“Not bad, once you get past the uplands. The part of Thulldom along the escarpment here is pretty forbidding.”

“What do you mean by forbidding? I’ve got to haul ships through that country.”

“Rock, sand, a few thornbushes and no water,” Hettar replied. “And it’s hotter than the backdoor of a furnace.”

“Thanks,” Anheg said.

“You wanted to know,” Hettar told him. “Excuse me. I need a fresh horse and some more torches.”

“You’re going out again?” Barak asked him.

“It’s something to do.”

Once the last of the ships had been raised, the Drasnian hoists began lifting tons of food and equipment that soon swelled King Fulrach’s supply dumps within the forts to overflowing. The Thullish prisoners proved to be an invaluable asset, carrying whatever burden they were told to carry without complaint or hesitation. Their coarse features shone with such simpleminded gratitude and eagerness to please that Ce’Nedra found it impossible to hate them, even though they were technically the enemy. Slowly, bit by bit, the princess discovered the facts that made the lives of the Thullish people such an unrelieved horror. There was not a family among them that had not lost several members to the knives of the Grolims—husbands, wives, children, and parents had all been selected for sacrifice, and the thought uppermost in every Thull’s life was to avoid the same fate at any cost. The perpetual terror had erased every hint of human affection from the Thull’s makeup. He lived in dreadful isolation, without love, without companionship, without any feeling but constant anxiety and dread. The reputedly insatiable appetite of Thullish women had nothing whatsoever to do with morals or lack of them. It was a simple matter of survival. To escape the knife, a Thullish woman was forced to remain perpetually pregnant. She was not driven by lust, but by fear, and her fear dehumanized her entirely.

“How can they live that way?” the princess burst out to Lady Polgara as the two of them returned to their makeshift quarters in the stout blockhouse which had been erected inside the walls for the use of the leaders of the army. “Why don’t they rebel and drive the Grolims out?”

“And just who’s supposed to lead a rebellion, Ce’Nedra?” Polgara asked her calmly. “The Thulls know that there are Grolims who can pick the thoughts from a man’s mind as easily as you’d pick fruit in an orchard. If a Thull even considered organizing some kind of resistance, he’d be the next one dragged to the altar.”

“But their lives are so horrible,” Ce’Nedra objected.

“Perhaps we can change that,” Polgara said. “In a way what we’re trying to do is not only for the benefit of the west, but for the Angaraks as well. If we win, they’ll be liberated from the Grolims. They might not thank us at first, but in time they might learn to appreciate it.”

“Why shouldn’t they thank us?”

“Because if we win, dear, it will be because we’ve killed their God. That’s a very hard thing to thank someone for.”

“But Torak is a monster.”

“He’s still their God,” Polgara replied. “The loss of one’s God is a very subtle and terrible injury. Ask the Ulgos what it’s like to live without one. It’s been five thousand years since UL became their God, and they still remember what it was like before he accepted them.”

“We are going to win, aren’t we?” Ce’Nedra asked suddenly, all her fears flooding to the surface.

“I don’t know, Ce’Nedra,” Polgara answered quietly. “No one does—not me, not Beldin, not my father, not even Aldur. All we can do is try,”

“What will happen if we lose?” the princess asked in a tiny, frightened voice.

“We’ll be enslaved in exactly the same way the Thulls are,” Polgara replied quietly. “Torak will become King and God over the entire world. The other Gods will be banished forever, and the Grolims will be unleashed upon us all.”

“I won’t live in that kind of world,” Ce’Nedra declared.

“None of us would care to.”

“Did you ever meet Torak?” the princess asked suddenly.

Polgara nodded. “Once or twice—the last time was at Vo Mimbre just before his duel with Brand.”

“What’s he really like?”

“He’s a God. The force of his mind is overwhelming. When he speaks to you, you must listen to him—and when he commands, you must obey him.”

“Not you, certainly.”

“I don’t think you understand, dear.” Polgara’s face was grave, and her glorious eyes were as distant as the moon. Without seeming to think about it, she reached out, picked up Errand and sat him on her lap. The child smiled at her and, as he so often did, he reached out and touched the white lock at her brow. “There’s a compulsion in Torak’s voice that’s almost impossible to resist,” she continued. “You know that he’s twisted and evil, but when he speaks to you, your will to resist crumbles, and you’re suddenly very weak and afraid.”

“Surely you weren’t afraid.”

“You still don’t understand. Of course I was afraid. We all were—even my father. Pray that you never meet Torak. He’s not some petty Grolim like Chamdar or a scheming old wizard like Ctuchik. He’s a God. He’s hideously maimed, and at some point he was thwarted. Something he needed—something so profound that no human could even conceive of it—was denied to him, and that refusal or rejection drove him mad. His madness is not like the madness of Taur Urgas, who, in spite of everything is still human. Torak’s madness is the madness of a God—a being who can make his diseased imaginings come to pass. Only the Orb can truly withstand him. I could perhaps resist him for a time, but if he lays the full force of his will upon me, ultimately I’ll have to give him what he wants—and what he wants from me is too dreadful to think about.”

“I don’t exactly follow you, Lady Polgara.”

Garion’s Aunt looked gravely at the tiny girl. “Perhaps you don’t at that,” she said. “It has to do with a part of the past that the Tolnedran Historical Society chooses to ignore. Sit down, Ce’Nedra, and I’ll try to explain.”

The princess sat on a rude bench in their rough chamber. Polgara’s mood was unusual—very quiet, even pensive. She placed her arms about Errand and held him close, nestling her cheek against his blond curls as if taking comfort from the contact with this small boy. “There are two Prophecies, Ce’Nedra,” she explained in her rich voice, “but the time is coming when there will only be one. Everything that is or was or is yet to be will become a part of whichever Prophecy prevails. Every man, every woman, every child has two possible destinies. For some, the differences are not all that great, but in my case, they’re rather profound.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“In the Prophecy which we serve—the one that has brought us here—I am Polgara the sorceress, daughter to Belgarath and guardian to Belgarion.”

“And in the other?”

“In the other, I am the bride of Torak.”

Ce’Nedra gasped.

“And now you see why I was afraid,” Polgara continued. “I’ve been terrified of Torak since my father first explained this to me when I was no older than you are now. I’m not so much afraid for myself, but more because I know that if I falter—if Torak’s will overpowers mine—then the Prophecy we serve will fail. Torak will not only win me, but all of mankind as well. At Vo Mimbre, he called to me, and I felt—very briefly—the awful compulsion to run to him. But I defied him. I’ve never done anything in my life that was so hard to do. It was my defiance, however, that drove him into the duel with Brand, and only in that duel could the power of the Orb be released against him. My father gambled everything on the strength of my will. The old wolf is a great gambler sometimes.”

“Then if—” Ce’Nedra could not say it.

“If Garion loses?” Polgara said it so calmly that it was quite obvious that she had considered the possibility many times before. “Then Torak will come to claim his bride, and there will be no power on earth sufficient to stop him.”

“I would sooner die,” the princess blurted.

“So would I, Ce’Nedra, but that option may not be open to me. Torak’s will is so much stronger than mine that he may be able to take from me the ability or even the desire to will myself out of existence. If it should happen, it may very well be that I’ll be deliriously happy to be his chosen and beloved—but deep inside, I think that a part of me will be screaming and will continue to scream in horror down through all the endless centuries to the very end of days.”

It was too horrible to think about. Unable to restrain herself, the princess threw herself on her knees, clasped her arms about Polgara and Errand, and burst into tears.

“Now, now, there’s no need to cry, Ce’Nedra,” Polgara told her gently, smoothing the sobbing girl’s hair with her hand. “Garion has still not reached the City of Endless Night, and Torak is still asleep. There’s a little time left. And who knows? We might even win.”

13

Once the Cherek fleet had been raised, the pace of activities within the fortifications began to quicken. King Rhodar’s infantry units began to arrive from the encampment at the Aldur River to make the tortuous climb up the narrow ravines to the top of the escarpment; lines of wagons from the main supply dumps freighted food and equipment to the base of the cliff where the great hoists waited to lift the supplies up the mile-high basalt face; and the Mimbrate and Algar raiding parties moved out, usually before dawn, in their now far-flung search for as yet unravaged towns and crops. The depredations of the raiders, their short, savage sieges of poorly fortified Thullish towns and villages, and the mile-wide swaths of fire that they cut through fields of ripe grain had finally swung the sluggish Thulls into poorly organized attempts at resistance. The Thulls, however, inevitably raced to the last point of Mimbrate attack and arrived hours or even days too late, to discover only smoking ruins, dead soldiers, and terrified and dispossessed townsmen, or, when they attempted to intercept the swiftly moving Algars, they normally found only acre upon acre of blackened earth. The raiders had moved on, and the desperate attempts of the Thulls to catch up with them were entirely futile.

The notion of attacking the forts from which the raiders operated did not occur to the Thulls, or if it did, it was quickly dismissed. The Thulls were not emotionally suited to attacking heavily defended fortifications. They much preferred dashing about, chasing fires, and complaining bitterly to their Murgo and Mallorean allies about the lack of support they were receiving. The Malloreans of Emperor ’Zakath steadfastly refused to emerge from their staging areas around Thull Zelik. The Murgos of Taur Urgas, however, did make a few sorties in southern Thulldom, in part as a gesture toward the notion of Angarak unity—but more, King Rhodar surmised, as a part of their overall maneuvering for position. Murgo scouts were even occasionally discovered in the vicinity of the forts themselves. In order to sweep the area clear of these prying Murgo eyes, patrols went out every day from the forts to range through the arid hills. The parched, rocky valleys near the forts were randomly searched by Drasnian pikemen and platoons of legionnaires. Algar clansmen, supposedly resting from their long-range raids, amused themselves with an impromptu game they called “Murgo hunting.” They made a great show of their frequent excursions and piously insisted that they were sacrificing their rest time out of a sense of responsibility for the security of the forts. They did not, of course, fool anybody with their protestations.

“The area does need to be patrolled, Rhodar,” King Cho-Hag insisted. “My children are performing a necessary duty, after all.”

“Duty?” Rhodar snorted. “Put an Algar on a horse and show him a hill he hasn’t seen the backside of yet, and he’ll always find an excuse to go take a look.”

“You wrong us,” Cho-Hag replied with a look of hurt innocence.

“I know you.”

Ce’Nedra and her two closest companions had watched the periodic departure of the lighthearted Algar horsemen with increasingly sour expressions. Though Ariana was perhaps more sedentary in her habits and was accustomed, as all Mimbrate ladies were, to waiting quite patiently while the men were out playing, Adara, Garion’s Algar cousin, felt her confinement most keenly. Like all Algars, she felt a deep-seated need to have the wind in her face and the thunder of hoofs in her ears. She grew petulant after a time and sighed often.

“And what shall we do today, ladies?” Ce’Nedra asked the two of them brightly one morning after breakfast. “How shall we amuse ourselves until lunchtime?” She said it rather extravagantly, since she already had plans for the day.

“There is always embroidery,” Ariana suggested. “It doth pleasantly occupy the fingers and eyes while leaving the mind and lips free for conversation.”

Adara sighed deeply.

“Or maybe we might go and observe my lord as he instructs his serfs in their warlike preparations.” Ariana usually found some excuse to watch Lelldorin for at least half of each day.

“I’m not sure that I’m up to watching a group of men murder hay bales with arrows again today,” Adara said a bit waspishly.

Ce’Nedra moved quickly to head off any incipient bickering. “We could make an inspection tour,” she suggested archly.

“Ce’Nedra, we’ve looked at every blockhouse and every hut within the walls a dozen times already,” Adara said with some asperity, “and if I have some polite old sergeant explain the workings of a catapult to me one more time, I think I’ll scream.”

“We have not, however, inspected the outer fortifications, have we?” the princess asked slyly. “Wouldn’t you say that’s part of our duty too?”

Adara looked at her quickly, and then a slow smile appeared on her face. “Absolutely,” she agreed. “I’m surprised that we hadn’t thought of that before. We’ve been most neglectful, haven’t we?”

Ariana’s face took on a worried frown. “King Rhodar, I fear, would be most strenuous in his objections to such a plan.”

“Rhodar isn’t here,” Ce’Nedra pointed out. “He’s off with King Fulrach taking an inventory of the supply dumps.”

“Lady Polgara would most certainly not approve,” Ariana suggested, though her tone indicated that she was weakening.

“Lady Polgara is conferring with Beldin the sorcerer,” Adara mentioned, her eyes dancing mischievously.

Ce’Nedra smirked. “That rather leaves us to our own devices, doesn’t it, ladies?”

“We shall be soundly scolded upon our return,” Ariana said. “And we will all be very contrite, won’t we?” Ce’Nedra giggled.

A quarter of an hour later, the princess and her two friends, dressed in soft black leather Algar riding clothes, passed at a canter out through the central gate of the vast fort. They were accompanied by Olban, the youngest son of the Rivan Warder. Olban had not liked the idea, but Ce’Nedra had given him no time to object and definitely no time to send a message to anyone who could step in and stop the whole excursion. Olban looked worried, but, as always, he accompanied the little Rivan Queen without question.

The stake-studded trenches in front of the walls were very interesting, but one trench looked much like another, and it took a rare mind indeed to find much pleasure in the finer points of excavation.

“Very nice,” Ce’Nedra said brightly to a Drasnian pikeman standing guard atop a high mound of dirt. “Splendid ditches—and all those excellently sharp stakes.” She looked out at the arid landscape before the fortifications. “Where did you ever find all the wood for them?”

“The Sendars brought it in, your Majesty,” he replied, “from someplace up north, I think. We had the Thulls cut and sharpen the stakes for us. They’re quite good stake-makers—if you tell them what you want.”

“Didn’t a mounted patrol go out this way about a half an hour ago?” Ce’Nedra asked him.

“Yes, your Majesty. Lord Hettar of Algaria and some of his men. They went off that way.” The guard pointed toward the south.

“Ah,” Ce’Nedra said. “If anyone should ask, tell them that we’re going out to join him. We should return in a few hours.”

The guard looked a bit dubious about that, but Ce’Nedra moved quickly to head off any objections. “Lord Hettar promised to wait for us just beyond the south end of the fortifications,” she told him. She turned to her companions. “We really mustn’t keep him waiting too long. You ladies took absolutely too much time changing clothes.” She smiled winsomely at the guard. “You know how it is,” she said. “The riding habit must be just so, and the hair absolutely has to be brushed one last time. Sometimes it takes forever. Come along, ladies. We must hurry, or Lord Hettar will be vexed with us.” With a brainless little giggle, the princess wheeled Noble and rode south at a gallop.

“Ce’Nedra,” Ariana exclaimed in a shocked voice once they were out of earshot, “you lied to him.”

“Of course.”

“But that’s dreadful.”

“Not nearly as dreadful as spending another day embroidering daisies on a stupid petticoat,” the princess replied.

They left the fortifications and crossed a low, burned-brown string of hills. The broad valley beyond was enormous. Dun brown and treeless mountains reared up fully twenty miles away at the valley’s far end. They cantered down into that vast emptiness, feeling dwarfed into insignificance by the colossal landscape. Their horses seemed no more than ants crawling toward the indifferent mountains.

“I hadn’t realized it was so big,” Ce’Nedra murmured, shading her eyes to gaze at the distant hilltops.

The floor of the valley was as flat as a tabletop, and it was only sparsely sprinkled with low, thorny bushes. The ground was scattered with round, fist-sized rocks, and the dust spurted, yellow and powdery, from each step of their horses’ hoofs. Although it was scarcely midmorning, the sun was already a furnace, and shimmering heatwaves rippled the valley floor ahead, making the dusty, gray-green bushes seem to dance in the windless air.

It grew hotter. There was no trace of moisture anywhere, and the sweat dried almost instantly on the flanks of their panting horses.

“I think we should give some thought to going back,” Adara said, reining in her mount. “There’s no way we can reach those hills at the end of the valley.”

“She’s right, your Majesty,” Olban told the princess. “We’ve already come too far.”

Ce’Nedra pulled Noble to a stop, and the white horse drooped his head as if on the verge of absolute exhaustion. “Oh, quit feeling sorry for yourself,” she chided him irritably. This was not going at all as she had expected. She looked around. “I wonder if we could find some shade somewhere,” she said. Her lips were dry, and the sun seemed to hammer down on her unprotected head.

“The terrain doth not suggest such comfort, princess,” Ariana said, looking around at the flat emptiness of the rock-strewn valley floor.

“Did anyone think to bring any water?” Ce’Nedra asked, dabbing at her forehead with a kerchief.

No one had.

“Maybe we should go back,” she decided, looking about rather regretfully. “There’s nothing to see out here, anyway.”

“Riders coming,” Adara said sharply, pointing toward a mounted group of men emerging from an indented galley that lay like a fold on the flanks of a rounded hill a mile or so away.

“Murgos?” Olban demanded with a sharp intake of his breath. His hand went immediately to his sword.

Adara raised her hand to shade her eyes and stared at the approaching horsemen intently.

“No,” she replied. “They’re Algars. I can tell by the way they ride.”

“I hope they have some water with them,” Ce’Nedra said.

The dozen or so Algar riders rode directly toward them with a great cloud of yellow dust rising behind them. Adara suddenly gasped, and her face went very pale.

“What is it?” Ce’Nedra asked her.

“Lord Hettar is with them,” Adara said in a choked voice.

“How can you possibly recognize anybody at that distance?”

Adara bit her lip, but did not reply.

Hettar’s face was fierce and unforgiving as he reined in his sweating horse. “What are you doing out here?” he demanded bluntly. His hawk-face and black scalp lock gave him a wild, even frightening appearance.

“We thought we’d go riding, Lord Hettar,” Ce’Nedra replied brightly, trying to outface him.

Hettar ignored that. “Have you lost your mind, Olban?” he harshly asked the young Rivan. “Why did you permit the ladies to leave the forts?”

“I do not tell her Majesty what to do,” Olban answered stiffly, his face red.

“Oh, come now, Hettar,” Ce’Nedra protested. “What’s the harm in our taking a little ride?”

“We killed three Murgos not a mile from here just yesterday,” Hettar told her. “If you want exercise, run around the inside of the forts for a few hours. Don’t just ride out unprotected in hostile territory. You’ve acted very foolishly, Ce’Nedra. We’ll go back now.” His face was grim as a winter sea, and his tone left no room for discussion.

“We had just made the same decision, my Lord,” Adara murmured, her eyes downcast.

Hettar looked sternly at the condition of their horses. “You’re an Algar, Lady Adara,” he said pointedly. “Didn’t it occur to you to bring water for your mounts? Surely you know better than to take a horse out in this kind of heat without any precautions at all.”

Adara’s pale face grew stricken.

Hettar shook his head in disgust. “Water their horses,” he curtly told one of his men, “and then we’ll escort them back. Your excursion is over, ladies.”

Adara’s face was flaming with a look of almost unbearable shame. She twisted this way and that in her saddle, trying to avoid Hettar’s stern, unforgiving stare. No sooner had her horse been watered than she jerked her reins and dug her heels into his flanks. Her startled mount scrambled his hoofs in the gravel and leaped away, running back the way they had come across the rock-littered valley floor.

Hettar swore and drove his mount after her.

“Whatever is she doing?” Ce’Nedra exclaimed.

“Lord Hettar’s rebuke hath stung our gentle companion beyond her endurance,” Ariana observed. “His good opinion is dearer to her than leer life itself.”

“Hettar?” Ce’Nedra was stunned.

“Hath not throe eye informed thee how it doth stand with our dear friend?” Ariana asked in mild surprise. “Thou art strangely unobservant, Princess.”

“Hettar?” Ce’Nedra repeated. “I had no idea.”

“Mayhap it is because I am Mimbrate,” Ariana concluded. “The ladies of my people are most sensitive to the signs of gentle affection in others.”

It took perhaps a hundred yards for Hettar to overtake Adara’s plunging horse. He seized her reins in one fist and jerked her roughly to a stop, speaking sharply to her, demanding to know what she was doing. Adara twisted this way and that in her saddle, trying to keep him from seeing her face as he continued to chide her.

Then a flicker of movement no more than twenty feet from the two of them caught Ce’Nedra’s eye. Astonishingly, a mail-shined Murgo rose up out of the sand between two scrubby bushes, shaking off the sheet of brown-splotched canvas beneath which he had lain concealed. As he rose, his short bow was already drawn.

“Hettar!” Ce’Nedra screamed as the Murgo raised his bow. Hettar’s back was to the Murgo, but Adara saw the man aiming his arrow at the Algar’s unprotected back. With a desperate move, she ripped her reins from Hettar’s grip and drove her horse into his. His mount lurched back, stumbled and fell, throwing the unprepared man to the ground even as Adara, flailing her horse’s flanks with the ends of her reins, plunged directly at the Murgo.

With only the faintest flicker of annoyance, the Murgo released his arrow at the charging girl.

Even at that distance, Ce’Nedra could hear the distinct sound the arrow made when it struck Adara. It was a sound she would remember with horror for the remainder of her life. Adara doubled sharply, her free hand clutching at the arrow buried low in her chest, but her plunging gallop did not falter nor change as she rode the Murgo down. He tumbled and rolled beneath the churning hoofs of her horse, then lurched again to his feet as soon as she had passed over him, his hand jerking at his sheathed sword. But Hettar was already upon him, sabre flashing in the glaring sunlight. The Murgo screamed once as he fell.

Hettar, his dripping sabre still in his hand, turned angrily to Adara. “What a stupid thing,” he roared at her, but his shout cut off suddenly. Her horse had come to a stop a few yards beyond the Murgo, and she drooped in her saddle, her dark hair falling like a veil across her pale face and both of her hands pressed to her chest. Then, slowly, she toppled from her saddle.

With a strangled cry, Hettar dropped his sabre and ran to her.

“Adara!” the princess wailed, her hands going to her face in horror even as Hettar gently turned the stricken girl over. The arrow, still standing out of her lower chest, throbbed with the rhythm of her faltering heartbeat.

When the rest of them reached the pair, Hettar was holding Adara in his arms, staring into her pale face with a stricken look. “You little fool,” he was murmuring in a broken voice. “You little fool.”

Ariana slid from her saddle even before her horse stopped moving and ran to Hettar’s side. “Do not move her, my Lord,” she told him sharply. “The arrow hath pierced her lung, and shouldst thou move her, its keen edge will gash out her life.”

“Take it out,” Hettar said from between clenched teeth.

“Nay, my Lord. To pull the arrow now will do more damage than to leave it.”

“I can’t bear to see it sticking out of her like that,” he almost sobbed.

“Then don’t look, my Lord,” Ariana said bluntly, kneeling beside Adara and placing a cool, professional hand on the wounded girl’s throat.

“She’s not dead, is she?” Hettar almost begged.

Ariana shook her head. “Gravely wounded, but her life doth still pulse within her. Instruct thy men to improvise a litter at once, my Lord. We must convey our dear friend to the fortress and Lady Polgara’s ministrations immediately, lest her life drain away.”

“Can’t you do something?” he croaked.

“Not here in this sun-blasted desolation, my Lord. I have neither instruments nor medications, and the wound may be past my skill. The Lady Polgara is her only hope. The litter, my Lord. Quickly!”

Polgara’s face was somber, and her eyes as hard as flint when she emerged from Adara’s sickroom late that afternoon.

“How is she?” Hettar demanded. He had been pacing up and down in the main corridor of the blockhouse for hours, stopping every so often to strike savagely at the crudely built stone walls with his impotent fists.

“Somewhat improved,” Polgara replied. “The crisis is past, but she’s still terribly weak. She’s asking for you.”

“She will recover, won’t she?” Hettar’s question had a note of fear in it.

“Probably—if there aren’t any complications. She’s young, and the wound looked more serious than it actually was. I gave her something that will make her very talkative, but don’t stay too long. She needs rest.” Polgara’s eyes moved to Ce’Nedra’s tear-streaked face. “Come to my room after you’ve seen her, your Majesty,” she said firmly. “You and I have something to discuss.”

Adara’s porcelain face was framed by the tumbled mass of her dark brown hair spreading across the pillow. She was very pale, but, though her eyes had a slightly unfocused look about them, they were very bright. Ariana sat quietly at the bedside.

“How do you feel, Adara?” Ce’Nedra asked in the quiet but cheerful voice one always assumes with the sick.

Adara gave her a wan little smile.

“Are you in any pain?”

“No,” Adara’s voice had a little dying fall to it. “No pain, but I feel very light-headed and strange.”

“Why did you do that, Adara?” Hettar asked very directly. “You didn’t have to ride right at the Murgo like that.”

“You spend too much time with horses, my Lord Sha-dar,” Adara told him with a faint smile. “You’ve forgotten how to understand the feelings of your own kind.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He sounded puzzled.

“Exactly what it says, my Lord Hettar. If a mare looked admiringly at a stallion, you’d know how things stood immediately, wouldn’t you? But when it comes to people, you simply can’t see at all, can you?” She coughed weakly.

“Are you all right?” he asked sharply.

“I’m surprisingly well—considering the fact that I’m dying.”

“What are you talking about? You’re not dying.”

She smiled slightly. “Please don’t,” she told him. “I know what an arrow in the chest means. That’s why I wanted to see you. I wanted to look at your face once more. I’ve been watching your face for such a long time now.”

“You’re tired,” he said brusquely. “You’ll feel better after you’ve slept.”

“I’ll sleep, all right,” she said ruefully, “but I doubt that I’ll feel anything afterward. The sleep I’m going to is the sleep one doesn’t wake up from.”

“Nonsense.”

“Of course it is, but it’s true nonetheless.” She sighed. “Well, dear Hettar, you’ve finally escaped me, haven’t you? I gave you a good chase, though. I even asked Garion to see if he could use sorcery on you.”

“Garion?”

She nodded slightly. “You see how desperate I was? He said he couldn’t, though.” She made a little face. “What good is sorcery if you can’t use it to make someone fall in love?”

“Love?” he repeated in a startled voice.

“What did you think we were talking about, Lord Hettar? The weather?” She smiled fondly at him. “Sometimes you can be impossibly dense.”

He stared at her in amazement.

“Don’t be alarmed, my Lord. In a little while, I’ll stop chasing you, and you’ll be free.”

“We’ll talk about that when you’re better,” he told her gravely.

“I’m not going to get better. Haven’t you been listening? I’m dying, Hettar.”

“No,” he said, “as a matter of fact, you’re not dying. Polgara assured us that you’re going to be all right.”

Adara looked quickly at Ariana. “Throe injury is not mortal, dear friend,” Ariana confirmed gently. “Truly, thou art not dying.”

Adara closed her eyes. “How inconvenient,” she murmured, a faint blush coming to her cheeks. She opened her eyes again. “I apologize, Hettar. I wouldn’t have said any of this if I’d known that my meddling physicians were going to save my life. As soon as I’m up and about, I’ll return to my own clan. I won’t bother you again with my foolish outbursts.”

Hettar looked down at her, his hard-angled face expressionless. “I don’t think I’d like that,” he told her, gently taking her hand. “There are things you and I need to talk about. This isn’t the time or the place, but don’t go trying to make yourself unaccessible.”

“You’re just being kind.” She sighed.

“No. Practical. You’ve given me something to think about beside killing Murgos. It’s probably going to take me a while to get used to the idea, but after I’ve thought it over, we’ll definitely need to talk.”

She bit her lip and tried to hide her face. “What a stupid mess I’ve made of things,” she said. “If I were somebody else, I’d laugh at me. It would really be better if we didn’t see each other again.”

“No,” he said firmly, still holding her hand, “it wouldn’t. And don’t try to hide from me, because I’ll find you—even if I have to have every horse in Algaria go looking for you.”

She gave him a startled look.

“I am a Sha-dar, remember? Horses do what I tell them to.”

“That’s not fair,” she objected.

He gave her a quizzical little smile. “And trying to have Garion use sorcery on me was?” he asked her.

“Oh, dear!” She blushed.

“She must rest now,” Ariana told them. “Thou canst speak with her further on the morrow.”

When they were back out in the hallway, Ce’Nedra turned on the tall man. “You might have said something a bit more encouraging,” she scolded him.

“It would have been premature,” he replied. “We’re a rather reserved people, Princess. We don’t say things just to be talking. Adara understands the situation.” Hettar seemed as fierce as ever, his sharp-angled face hard, and his manelike scalp lock flowing over one leather-armored shoulder. His eyes, however, had softened slightly, and there was a faintly puzzled crease between his brows. “Didn’t Polgara want to see you?” he asked. It was polite, but it was a dismissal nonetheless.

Ce’Nedra stalked away, muttering to herself about the lack of consideration that seemed to infect the male half of the population.

Lady Polgara sat quietly in her room, waiting. “Well?” she said when the princess entered. “Would you care to explain?”

“Explain what?”

“The reason for the idiocy that almost cost Adara her life.”

“Surely you don’t think it was my fault,” Ce’Nedra protested.

“Whose fault was it, then? What were you doing out there?”

“We just went for a little ride. It’s so boring being cooped up all the time.”

“Boring. What a fascinating reason to kill your friends.”

Ce’Nedra gaped at her, her face suddenly very pale.

“Why do you think we built these fortifications to begin with, Ce’Nedra? It was to provide us with some measure of protection.”

“I didn’t know there were Murgos out there,” the princess wailed.

“Did you bother to find out?”

The entire implication of what she had done quite suddenly came crashing in on Ce’Nedra. She began to tremble violently, and her shaking hand went to her mouth. It was her fault! No matter how she might twist and turn and try to evade the responsibility, her foolishness had nearly killed one of her dearest friends. Adara had almost paid with her life for a bit of childish thoughtlessness. Ce’Nedra buried her face in her hands in a sudden storm of weeping.

Polgara let her cry for several moments, giving her ample time to accept her guilt; and when she finally spoke, there was no hint of forgiveness in her voice. “Tears won’t wash out blood, Ce’Nedra,” she said. “I thought I could at least begin to trust your judgment, but it appears that I was wrong. You may leave now. I don’t believe I have anything more to say to you this evening.”

Sobbing, the princess fled.

14

“Is this place all like this?” King Anheg asked as the army trudged through one of the flat, gravel-strewn valleys with the bare, sun-baked mountains around it dancing in the shimmering heat. “I haven’t seen a tree since we left the forts.”

“The country changes about twenty leagues out, your Majesty,” Hettar replied quietly, lounging in his saddle as they rode in the blazing sunlight. “We start to hit trees when we begin coming down out of the uplands. They’re a kind of low, scraggly spruce, but they break up the monotony a bit.”

The column behind them stretched out for miles, dwarfed into a thin line by the enormous emptiness and marked more by the cloud of yellow dust raised by thousands of feet than by the presence of men and horses. The Cherek ships, covered with canvas, jolted along over the rocky ground on their low, wheeled cradles, and the dust hung over them in the stifling heat like a gritty blanket.

“I’d pay a lot for a breeze right now,” Anheg said wistfully, wiping his face.

“Just leave things the way they are, Anheg,” Barak advised him. “It wouldn’t take much to start a dust storm.”

“How much farther is it to the river?” King Rhodar asked plaintively, looking at the unchanging landscape. The heat was having a brutal effect on the corpulent monarch. His face was beet red, and he was soaked and dripping with sweat.

“Still about forty leagues,” Hettar replied.

General Varana, mounted on a roan stallion, cantered back from the vanguard of the column. The general wore a short leather kilt and a plain breastplate and helmet bearing no marks of his rank. “The Mimbrate knights just flushed out another pocket of Murgos,” he reported.

“How many?” King Rhodar asked.

“Twenty or so. Three or four got away, but the Algars are chasing them.”

“Shouldn’t our patrols be farther out?” King Anheg fretted, mopping his face again. “Those ships don’t look that much like wagons. I’d rather not have to fight my way down the River Mardu—if we ever get there.”

“I’ve got people moving around out there, Anheg,” King Cho-Hag assured him.

“Has anyone run across any Malloreans yet?” Anheg asked.

“Not so far,” Cho-Hag replied. “All we’ve seen so far are Thulls and Murgos.”

“It looks as if ’Zakath is holding firm at Thull Zelik,” Varana added.

“I wish I knew more about him,” Rhodar said.

“The Emperor’s emissaries report that he’s a very civilized man,” Varana said. “Cultured, urbane, very polite.”

“I’m sure there’s another side to him,” Rhodar disagreed. “The Nadraks are terrified of him, and it takes a lot to frighten a Nadrak.”

“As long as he stays at Thull Zelik, I don’t care what kind of man he is,” Anheg declared.

Colonel Brendig rode forward from the toiling column of infantry and wagons stretched out behind them. “King Fulrach asks that we halt the column for a rest period,” he reported.

“Again?” Anheg demanded irritably.

“We’ve marched for two hours, your Majesty,” Brendig pointed out. “Marching in all this heat and dust is very exhausting for infantry. The men won’t be much good in a fight if they’re all wrung out from walking.”

“Halt the column, Colonel,” Polgara told the Sendarian baronet. “We can rely on Fulrach’s judgment in these matters.” She turned to the King of Cherek. “Stop being so peevish, Anheg,” she chided him.

“I’m being broiled alive, Polgara,” he complained.

“Try walking for a few miles,” she told him sweetly. “That may give you some insight into how the infantry feels ”

Anheg scowled, but remained silent.

Princess Ce’Nedra pulled in her sweating mount as the column halted. The princess had spoken very little since Adara had been wounded. The dreadful sense of her responsibility for her friend’s nearly fatal injury had sobered her enormously, and she had retreated into a kind of shell that was totally unnatural for her. She removed the loose-woven straw hat that a captive Thull had made for her back at the fort and squinted at the blistering sky.

“Put the hat back on, Ce’Nedra,” Lady Polgara told her. “I don’t want you getting sunstroke.”

Ce’Nedra obediently put her hat back on. “He’s coming back,” she reported, pointing at a speck in the sky high above them.

“Will you excuse me?” General Varana said, turning his horse to leave.

“You’re being absurd, Varana,” King Rhodar told the Tolnedran. “Why do you insist on refusing to admit he can do things you don’t want to believe in?”

“It’s a matter of principle, your Majesty,” the general replied. “Tolnedrans do not believe in sorcery. I am a Tolnedran, therefore I do not admit that it exists.” He hesitated. “I must concede, however, that his information is surprisingly accurate—however he gets it.”

A large, blue-banded hawk fell suddenly out of the broiling air like a stone, flared his wings at the last moment, and settled on the ground directly in front of them.

General Varana resolutely turned his back and stared with apparently deep interest at a featureless hill some five miles distant.

The hawk began to shimmer and change even as he folded his wings. “Are you stopping again?” Beldin demanded irascibly.

“We have to rest the troops, Uncle,” Polgara replied.

“This isn’t a Sunday stroll, Pol,” Beldin retorted. He began to scratch one armpit, befouling the air around him with a string of rancid curses.

“What’s the matter?” Polgara asked mildly.

“Lice,” he grunted.

“How did he get lice?”

“I visited some other birds to ask if they’d seen anything. I think I picked them up in a vulture’s nest.”

“What could possibly possess you to go consorting with vultures?”

“Vultures aren’t that bad, Pol. They perform a necessary function, and the chicks do have a certain charm. The she-vulture had been picking at a dead horse about twenty leagues south of here. After she told me about it, I went down to take a look. There’s a Murgo column coming this way.”

“How many?” General Varana asked quickly, his back still turned to them.

“A thousand or so,” Beldin shrugged. “They’re pushing hard. They’ll probably intercept you tomorrow morning.”

“A thousand Murgos aren’t that much to worry about,” King Rhodar said, frowning. “Not to an army of this size. But what’s the point of throwing a thousand men away? What does Taur Urgas hope to accomplish?” He turned to Hettar. “Do you suppose you could ride ahead and ask Korodullin and the Baron of Vo Mandor to join us. I think we ought to have a conference.”

Hettar nodded and loped his horse ahead toward the gleaming ranks of the Mimbrate knights at the head of the column.

“Were there any Grolims with the Murgos, Uncle?” Polgara asked the filthy hunchback.

“Not unless they were well-hidden,” he replied. “I didn’t probe too much, though. I didn’t want to give myself away.”

General Varana abruptly abandoned his careful study of the hills around them and turned his horse about to join them. “My first guess would be that the Murgo column is a token gesture from Taur Urgas. He probably wants to get on the good side of King Gethell; and since the Malloreans won’t leave Thull Zelik, he can pick up some advantage by committing a few troops to aid in the defense of the Thullish towns and villages we’ve been destroying.”

“That makes sense, Rhodar,” Anheg agreed.

“Maybe,” Rhodar said dubiously. “Taur Urgas doesn’t think like a rational man, though.”

King Korodullin, flanked by Mandorallen and the Baron of Vo Ebor, thundered back to join them. Their armor flashed in the sun, and all three were flushed and miserable-looking in their steel casings.

“How can you stand all that?” Rhodar asked.

“Custom, your Majesty,” Korodullin replied. “The armor doth inflict some discomfort, but we have learned to endure it.”

General Varana quickly sketched in the situation for them. Mandorallen shrugged. “It is of no moment. I will take some few dozen men and smash this threat from the south.”

Barak looked at King Anheg. “You see what I mean about him?” he said. “Now you can understand why I was so nervous all the time we were chasing across Cthol Murgos.”

King Fulrach had ridden forward to join the conference, and he cleared his throat diffidently. “Might I make a suggestion?” he asked.

“We eagerly await the practical wisdom of the King of the Sendars,” Korodullin replied with extravagant courtesy.

“The Murgo column doesn’t really pose much of a threat, does it?” Fulrach inquired.

“Not really, your Majesty,” Varana replied. “At least, now that we know that they’re out there. We think that they’re some kind of minor relief column sent to placate the Thulls. Their presence in our vicinity is probably entirely accidental.”

“I don’t want them getting close enough to recognize my ships, though,” Anheg declared firmly.

“We’ll take care of that, Anheg,” Rhodar told him.

“Any one of the elements of our army might easily overcome so slight a threat,” Fulrach continued, “but mightn’t it be better—from a morale standpoint—to give the victory to the entire army?”

“I don’t quite follow you, Fulrach,” Anheg said.

“Instead of letting Sir Mandorallen annihilate these thousand Murgos all by himself, why not select a contingent from each part of the army to deal with them? Not only will that give us some experience in tactical coordination, but it’ll give all the men a sense of pride. An easy victory now will stiffen their backs when we run into more difficult times later.”

“Fulrach, sometimes you positively amaze me,” Rhodar declared. “I think the whole trouble is that you don’t look that clever.”

The contingents that were to turn south to meet the approaching Murgos were selected by lot, once again at the suggestion of King Fulrach. “That way there’ll be no suspicion in the army that this is some kind of elite force,” he noted.

While the rest of the column pushed on toward the headwaters of the River Mardu, the miniature army under the command of Barak, Hettar, and Mandorallen veered to the south to intercept the enemy spearhead.

“They’ll be all right, won’t they?” Ce’Nedra nervously asked Polgara as she watched them growing smaller and smaller as they rode off across the arid valley toward the solid line of mountains to the south.

“I’m certain they will, dear,” Polgara replied confidently.

The princess, however, did not sleep that night. For the first time, members of her army were committed to a real battle, and she tossed and turned the entire night, imagining all manner of disasters.

About midmorning of the following day, however, the special force returned. There were a few bandages here and there and perhaps a dozen empty saddles, but the look of victory shone on every face.

“Very nice little fight,” Barak reported. The huge man was grinning broadly. “We caught them just before sundown. They never knew what hit them.”

General Varana, who had accompanied the force to observe, was a bit more precise as he described the engagement to the assembled kings.

“The general tactics did work pretty much as we’d planned,” he said. “The Asturian archers swept the column with an arrow storm to begin with, and then the infantry units moved into position at the top of a long slope. We interspersed legionnaires, Drasnian pikemen, Sendars and the Arendish serf units evenly along the entire front with the archers behind them to continue harassing the enemy with arrows. As we expected, the Murgos charged. As soon as they’d committed themselves, the Chereks and Rivans moved into position behind them, and the Algars began slashing their flanks. When the Murgo assault began to falter, the Mimbrate knights made their charge.”

“It was absolutely splendid!” Lelldorin exclaimed, his eyes very bright. There was a bandage around the young Asturian’s upper arm, but he seemed to have forgotten that it was there as he gesticulated wildly. “Just at the point when the Murgos were completely confused, there was a sound like thunder, and the knights came curving around the side of a hill with their lances advanced and their pennons streaming. They bore down on the Murgos—a wave of solid steel—and the hoofs of their horses shook the earth. And then at the last moment, they all lowered their lances. It was like watching a wave break. And then they hit the Murgos with a great crash, and they didn’t even slow down. They rode through them as if they weren’t even there! They absolutely crushed them, and then we all ran in to finish up. It was glorious!”

“He’s as bad as Mandorallen, isn’t he?” Barak observed to Hettar.

“I think it’s in their blood,” Hettar replied sagely.

“Did any of them get away?” Anheg asked.

Barak gave his cousin an evil grin. “After it got dark, we could hear a few of them trying to crawl away. That’s when Relg and his Ulgos went out to tidy up. Don’t worry, Anheg. Nobody’s going to report back to Taur Urgas.”

“He is likely to be waiting for news, isn’t he?” Anheg grinned.

“I hope he’s patient, then,” Barak replied, “because he’ll be waiting for a long time.”

Ariana, her face somber, took Lelldorin to task very firmly for his lack of discretion, even as she tended his wound. Her words far surpassed a simple scolding. She grew eloquent, and her lengthy, involuted sentences gave her remonstrance a depth and scope that reduced her young man very nearly to tears. His wound, admittedly minor, became a symbol of his careless lack of regard for her. Her expression grew martyred, and his grew anguished. Ce’Nedra observed how neatly Ariana twisted each of the young man’s lame excuses into an even greater personal injury, and filed this excellent technique away in a compartment of her complex little mind for future use. True, Garion was somewhat brighter than Lelldorin, but the tactic would probably work on him too, if she practiced a little.

Taiba’s meeting with Relg, on the other hand, involved no words. The beautiful Marag woman who had emerged from the slave pens beneath Rak Cthol only to enter a slavery even more profound, flew to the Ulgo fanatic’s side upon his return. With a low cry, she unthinkingly embraced him. Relg flinched away from her, but the almost automatic, “Don’t touch me,” seemed to die on his lips, and his eyes went very wide as she clung to him. Then Taiba remembered his aversion and helplessly let her arms drop, but her violet eyes glowed as they drank in his pale, large-eyed face. Then slowly, almost as if he were putting his arm into a fire, Relg reached out and took her hand. A brief look of incredulity crossed her face, followed almost immediately by a slow blush. They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, then walked off together, hand in hand. Taiba’s eyes were demurely downcast, but there hovered about her rich, sensual mouth a tiny little smile of triumph.

The victory over the Murgo column raised the spirits of the army tremendously. The heat and dust no longer seemed to sap their energy as it had during the first few days of the march, and a growing sense of camaraderie grew between the diversified units as they pushed steadily eastward.

It took them four more days of steady marching to reach the headwaters of the River Mardu and another day to push on down along the tumbling flow to a spot where the ships could safely be launched. Hettar and his Algar patrols ranged far ahead and reported that there remained only one more stretch of rapids about ten leagues ahead before the river settled into tranquility on the Thullish plain.

“We can portage around the rapids,” King Anheg declared. “Let’s get these ships into the water. We’ve lost enough time already.”

There was a rather high earthbank at that point, but the army attacked it vigorously with shovels and mattocks, and it was soon reduced to a sloping ramp. One by one the ships were rolled down the ramp into the water.

“We’ll need a while to raise the masts,” Anheg said.

“Leave that until later,” Rhodar told him.

Anheg looked at him sharply.

“You’re not going to be able to use your sails anyway, Anheg, and the masts stick up too high. The stupidest Thull in the world will know what’s going on if he sees a forest of ship masts coming down the river toward him.”

It was evening by the time the ships had all been launched and Polgara led the princess, Ariana and Taiba on board Barak’s ship. A breeze coming upriver gently rippled the surface of the water and set the ship to rocking slowly. Beyond the watchfires, the Thullish grassland stretched as if forever beneath a purpling sky where, one by one, the stars were emerging.

“How far is it to Thull Mardu?” Ce’Nedra asked Barak.

The big man pulled at his beard, squinting downriver. “One day to the rapids,” he replied, “then one day to make the portage around them. Then about two days after that.”

“Four days,” she said in a small voice. He nodded.

“I wish it was over,” she sighed.

“All in good time, Ce’Nedra,” he told her. “All in good time.”

15

The ships were horribly crowded, even though scarcely half the army could squeeze aboard them. The Algar clansmen and the Mimbrate knights patrolled the banks as the Chereks rowed downriver toward the rapids, and those infantry elements that could not be carried by the ships rode in close files on the spare horses of the cavalry.

The Thullish grasslands on either side of the river were gently rolling, long hillsides covered with deep, sun-browned grass. Just back from the river there were sparse clusters of the twisted, sprucelike trees that had dotted the lower foothills, and near the water itself rose thickets of willow and creeping brambles. The sky remained clear, and it was still hot, though the river added enough moisture to the air to alleviate the parched aridity that had plagued men and horses alike in the vast, stony uplands. It was an alien landscape for all of them, and the cavalry patrolling the banks rode warily with their hands close to their weapons.

And then they rounded a wide bend and saw the white, tumbling water of the rapids ahead. Barak swung the tiller of his big ship over and beached her. “Looks like it’s time to get out and walk,” he grunted.

A dispute had arisen near the bow of the ship. The brown-bearded King Fulrach was loudly protesting the decision to leave his supply wagons behind at the rapids. “I didn’t bring them all this way just to leave them sitting here,” he declared with uncharacteristic heat.

“They take too long to get anyplace,” Anheg told him. “We’re in a hurry, Fulrach. I’ve got to get my ships past Thull Mardu before the Murgos or the Malloreans wake up to what we’re doing.”

“You didn’t object to having them along when you got hungry or thirsty in the uplands,” Fulrach told him angrily.

“That was then. This is now. I’ve got to take care of my ships.”

“And I’m going to take care of my wagons.”

“They’ll be all right, Fulrach,” Rhodar said placatingly. “We do have to hurry, and your wagons can’t move fast enough to keep up.”

“If somebody comes along and burns them, you’re going to get very hungry before we get back to the forts, Rhodar.”

“We’ll leave men to guard them, Fulrach. Be reasonable. You worry too much.”

“Somebody’s got to. You Alorns seem to forget that the fighting’s only half of it.”

“Stop acting like an old woman, Fulrach,” Anheg said bluntly. Fulrach’s face grew very cold. “I don’t know that I care for that last remark, Anheg,” he said stiffly. Then he turned on his heel and stalked away.

“What’s got into him?” the King of Cherek asked innocently.

“Anheg, if you don’t learn how to keep your mouth shut, we might have to muzzle you,” Rhodar told him.

“I thought we came here to fight Angaraks,” Brand said mildly. “Have the rules been changed?”

The irritable bickering among her friends worried Ce’Nedra, and she went to Polgara with her concern.

“It’s nothing all that important, dear,” the lady replied as she scrubbed Errand’s neck. “The upcoming battle’s got them a bit edgy, that’s all.”

“But they’re men,” Ce’Nedra protested, “trained warriors.”

“What does that have to do with it?” Polgara asked, reaching for a towel.

The princess couldn’t think of an answer.

The portage at the rapids went smoothly, and the ships reentered the river below the tumbling stretch of seething white-water by late afternoon. Ce’Nedra by now was virtually ill as a result of the almost unbearable tension. All the months she had spent in raising the army and marching eastward were about to come to a final culmination. Within two days, they would hurl themselves at the walls of Thull Mardu. Was it the right time? Was it, in fact, really necessary? Couldn’t they just portage around the city and avoid the battle entirely? Although the Alorn kings had assured her that the city had to be neutralized, Ce’Nedra’s doubts grew with each mile. What if this was a mistake?

The princess worried and fretted and worried some more as she stood at the prow of Barak’s ship, staring at the broad river winding through the Thullish grasslands.

Finally, just at evening of the second day after the portage, Hettar galloped back and reined in his horse on the north bank of the river. He motioned with his arm, and Barak swung his tiller over, angling the big ship in closer to the bank.

“The city’s about two leagues ahead,” the tall Algar called across the intervening space. “If you get too much closer, they’ll see you from the walls.”

“This is close enough, then,” Rhodar decided. “Pass the word to anchor the ships. We’ll wait here until dark.”

Barak nodded and made a quick gesture to a waiting sailor. The man quickly raised a tall pole with a bit of bright red bunting nailed to its tip, and the fleet behind them slowed in answer to the signal. There was a creaking of windlasses as the anchors settled to the bottom, and the ships rocked and swung sluggishly in the current.

“I still don’t like this part,” Anheg growled morosely. “Too many things can go wrong in the dark.”

“They’ll go wrong for them, too,” Brand told him.

“We’ve been over it a dozen times, Anheg,” Rhodar said. “We all agreed that it’s the best plan.”

“It’s never been done before,” Anheg said.

“That’s the whole point, isn’t it?” Varana suggested. “The people inside the city won’t expect it.”

“Are you sure your men will be able to see where they’re going?” Anheg demanded of Relg.

The zealot nodded. He was wearing his cowled leaf mail shirt and was carefully testing the edge of his hook-pointed knife. “What you think of as darkness is normal light for us,” he replied.

Anheg scowled at the purpling sky overhead. “I hate being the first one to try something new,” he announced.

They waited as evening settled on the plain. From the thickets at the river’s edge, birds clucked sleepily, and the frogs began their evening symphony. Slowly out of the gathering darkness, the cavalry units began to group up along the banks. The Mimbrate knights on their great chargers massed into ranks, and the Algar clansmen spread like a dark sea beyond them. Commanding the south bank were Cho-Hag and Korodullin. The north was led by Hettar and Mandorallen.

Slowly it grew darker.

A young Mimbrate knight who had been injured during the attack on the Murgo column stood leaning against the rail, looking pensively out into the twilight. The knight had dark, curly hair and the snowy complexion of a young girl. His shoulders were broad, his neck columnar, and his eyes had an open innocence in them. His expression, however, was faintly melancholy.

The waiting had become unbearable, and Ce’Nedra had to talk to someone. She leaned on the rail beside the young man. “Why so sad, Sir Knight?” she asked him quietly.

“Because I am forbidden to take part in this night’s adventure by reason of this slight injury, your Majesty,” he replied, touching his splinted arm. He seemed unsurprised by her presence or by the fact that she had spoken to him.

“Do you hate the Angaraks so much that missing the chance to kill them causes you pain?” Ce’Nedra’s question was gently mocking.

“Nay, my Lady,” he answered. “I have no malice in me for any man, whatever his race. What I lament is being denied the chance to try my skills in the contest.”

“Contest? Is that how you think of it?”

“Assuredly, your Majesty. In what other light should it be considered? I hold no personal rancor toward the men of Angarak, and it is improper to hate throe opponent in a test of arms. Some few men have fallen beneath my lance or my sword at diverse tourneys, but I have never hated any of them. Much to the contrary, I have had some affection for them as we strove with one another.”

“But you were trying to cripple them.” Ce’Nedra was startled at the young man’s casual attitude.

“It is a part of the contest, your Majesty. A true test of arms may not be decided save by the injury or death of one of the combatants.”

“What’s your name, Sir Knight?” she asked him.

“I am Sir Beridel,” he replied, “son of Sir Andorig, Baron of Vo Enderig.”

“The man with the apple tree?”

“The very same, your Majesty.” The young man seemed pleased that she had heard of his father and the strange duty Belgarath had imposed on him. “My father now rides at the right hand of King Korodullin. I would ride with them this night but for this stroke of ill fortune.” He looked sadly at his broken arm.

“There will be other nights, Sir Beridel,” she assured him, “and other contests.”

“Truly, your Majesty,” he agreed. His face brightened momentarily, but then he sighed and went back to his somber brooding.

Ce’Nedra drifted away, leaving him to his thoughts.

“You can’t really talk to them, you know,” a rough voice said to her from the shadows. It was Beldin, the ugly hunchback.

“He doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything,” Ce’Nedra said a bit nervously. The foul-mouthed sorcerer always made her nervous.

“He’s a Mimbrate Arend,” Beldin snorted. “He doesn’t have enough brains to be afraid.”

“Are all the men in the army like him?”

“No. Most of them are afraid, but they’ll go through with the attack anyway—for a variety of reasons.”

“And you?” she could not help asking. “Are you afraid too?”

“My fears are a bit more exotic,” he said dryly.

“Such as?”

“We’ve been at this for a very long time—Belgarath, Pol, the twins and I—and I’m more concerned about something going wrong than I am about my own personal safety.”

“How do you mean, wrong?”

“The Prophecy is very complex—and it doesn’t say everything. The two possible outcomes of all this are still absolutely balanced as far as I can tell. Something very, very slight could tip that balance one way or the other. It could be something that I’ve overlooked. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“All we can do is the best we can.”

“That might not be enough.”

“What else can we do?”

“I don’t know—and that’s what worries me.”

“Why worry about something if you can’t do anything about it?”

“Now you’re starting to sound like Belgarath. He tends to shrug things off and trust to his luck sometimes. I like things a little neater.” He stared off into the darkness. “Stay close to Pol tonight, little girl,” he said after a moment. “Don’t get separated from her. It might take you someplace you hadn’t planned to go, but you’re supposed to stay with her, no matter what.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know what it means,” he retorted irritably. “All I know is that you and she and the blacksmith and that stray child you picked up are supposed to stay together. Something unexpected is going to happen.”

“You mean a disaster? We must warn the others.”

“We don’t know that it’s a disaster,” he replied. “That’s the whole problem. It might be necessary, and if it is, we don’t want to tamper with it. I think we’ve about run this discussion into the ground. Go find Polgara and stay with her.”

“Yes, Beldin,” Ce’Nedra said meekly.

As the stars began to come out, the anchors were raised and the Cherek fleet began to slip quietly downriver toward Thull Mardu. Though they were still some miles above the city, commands were issued in hoarse whispers, and the men all took great care to avoid making noise as they shifted their weapons and equipment, tightening belts, giving their armor quick, last-minute checks and settling their helmets more firmly on their heads.

Amid ships, Relg was leading his Ulgos in a quiet religious service, muttering the harsh gutturals of the Ulgo tongue in a scarcely audible murmur. Their pale faces had been smeared with soot, and they looked like so many shadows as they knelt in prayer to their strange God.

“They’re the key to the whole thing,” Rhodar observed quietly to Polgara as he watched the devotions of the Ulgos. “Are you sure that Relg is all right for this? Sometimes he seems a bit unstable.”

“He’ll be fine,” Polgara replied. “The Ulgos have even more reason to hate Torak than you Alorns do.”

The drifting ships slowly rounded a wide bend in the river, and there, a half mile downstream, stood the walled city of Thull Mardu, rising from its island in the middle of the river. There were a few torches atop the walls, and a faint glow rising from within. Barak turned and, shielding it with his body, he briefly uncovered a muffled lantern, letting out a single flicker of light. The anchors sank very slowly through the dark waters toward the riverbottom; with a very faint creak of ropes, the ships slowed, then stopped.

Somewhere inside the city a dog began to bark excitedly. Then a door banged open, and the barking cut off suddenly with a yelp of pain.

“I don’t have much use for a man who kicks his own dog,” Barak muttered.

Relg and his men moved very quietly to the rail and began to clamber down ropes into the small boats waiting below.

Ce’Nedra watched breathlessly, straining with her eyes to see in the darkness. The very faint starlight briefly showed her several shadows drifting down toward the city. Then the shadows were gone. Behind them there was a faint splash of an oar, followed by an angrily hissed admonition. The princess turned and saw a moving tide of small boats coming downriver from the anchored fleet. The spearhead of the assault slid silently by, following Relg and his Ulgos toward the fortified island city of the Thulls.

“Are you sure there are enough of them?” Anheg whispered to Rhodar.

The rotund King of Drasnia nodded. “All they have to do is secure a landing place for us and hold the gate once the Ulgos get it open,” he murmured. “There’s enough of them for that.”

A faint night breeze rippled the surface of the river, setting the ship to rocking. Unable to bear the suspense any longer, Ce’Nedra lifted her fingertips to the amulet Garion had given her so many months before. As always, a buzz of conversation filled her ears.

“Yaga, for gohek vilta.” It was Relg’s harsh voice, speaking in a whisper. “Ka tak. feedh.”

“Well?” Polgara asked, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“I can’t tell what they’re saying,” Ce’Nedra replied helplessly. “They’re talking in Ulgo.”

A strangled groan quite suddenly seemed to come from the amulet itself and then was quickly and horribly cut off.

“I—I think they just killed somebody,” Ce’Nedra said in a quavering voice.

“It’s started then,” Anheg said with a certain grim satisfaction. Ce’Nedra pulled her fingertips from the amulet. She could no longer bear to listen to the sound of men dying in the dark.

They waited.

Then someone screamed, a scream filled with a terrible agony.

“That’s it!” Barak declared. “That’s the signal! Pull the anchor!” he shouted to his men.

Very suddenly beneath the high, dark walls of Thull Mardu, two separate fires flared up, and shadowy figures could be seen moving about them. At the same moment, there was a clanking rattle of heavy chains inside the city and a creaking groan as a broad gate swung ponderously down to form a bridge across the narrow north channel of the river.

“Man your oars!” Barak roared to his crew. He swung his tiller hard over, steering toward the rapidly lowering bridge.

More torches appeared along the tops of the walls, and there were shouts of alarm. Somewhere an iron bell began to clang a note of desperate urgency.

“It worked!” Anheg exclaimed, gleefully pounding Rhodar on the back. “It actually worked!”

“Of course it worked,” Rhodar replied, his voice also jubilant. “Don’t pound on me so hard, Anheg. I bruise easily.”

All need for silence was gone now, and a great roar went up from the massed fleet following in Barak’s wake. Torches flared, and the faces of the troops lining the rails were bathed in their ruddy glow.

A great splash suddenly erupted from the river twenty yards to the right of Barak’s ship, showering everyone on deck with a deluge of water.

“Catapult!” Barak shouted, pointing at the walls looming ahead. Like a huge, preying insect, the heavy-beamed frame of the siege-engine balanced atop the wall, its long throwing arm already cocking back to cast another boulder at the approaching fleet. Then the arm stopped as a storm of arrows swept the top of the wall clean. A crowd of Drasnians, easily identifiable by the long pikes they carried, overran the position.

“Watch out, down there,” one of them roared into the confusion at the base of the wall, and the siege engine ponderously toppled outward and fell with a crash onto the rocks below.

There was a thunder of hoofs across the now-lowered bridge, and the Mimbrate knights crashed into the city.

“As soon as we tie up to the bridge, I want you and the princess and the other ladies to go to the north bank,” King Rhodar said tersely to Polgara. “Get back out of harm’s way. This will probably take the rest of the night, and there’s no point in exposing any of you to any accidents.”

“Very well, Rhodar,” Polgara agreed. “And don’t you do anything foolish, either. You’re a rather large target, you know.”

“I’ll be all right, Polgara—but I’m not going to miss this.” He laughed then, a strangely boyish laugh. “I haven’t had so much fun in years,” he declared.

Polgara gave him a quick look. “Men!” she said in a tone that said everything.

A guard of Mimbrate knights escorted the ladies and Errand perhaps a thousand yards upstream to an indented cove on the north bank of the stream, well away from the press of the horsemen rushing toward the beleaguered city. The cove had a gently sloping sand beach and was protected on three sides by steep, grass-covered banks. Durnik the smith and Olban quickly raised a tent for them, built a small fire, and then climbed up the bank to watch the attack.

“It’s going according to plan,” Durnik reported from his vantage point. “The Cherek ships are lining up side by side across the south channel. As soon as they get the planking in place, the troops on the other side will be able to cross.”

“Can you tell if the men inside have taken the south gate yet?” Olban demanded, peering toward the city.

“I can’t tell for sure,” Durnik replied. “There’s fighting going on in that part of the city, though.”

“I’d give anything to be there,” Olban lamented.

“You stay right where you are, young man,” Polgara told him firmly. “You appointed yourself bodyguard to the Rivan Queen, and you’re not going to go running off just because things are more interesting someplace else.”

“Yes, Lady Polgara,” the young Rivan answered, suddenly abashed. “It’s just ”

“Just what?”

“I wish I knew what was happening, that’s all. My father and my brothers are in the middle of the fighting, and I have to stand here and watch.”

A sudden great belch of flame shot up from inside the walls to illuminate the river with sooty red light.

Polgara sighed. “Why do they always have to bum things?” she asked sadly.

“It adds to the confusion, I suppose,” Durnik replied.

“Perhaps,” Polgara said, “but I’ve seen this happen too many times before. It’s always the same. There always has to be a fire. I don’t believe I care to watch any more of this.” She turned her back on the burning city and walked slowly away from the riverbank.

The night was interminable. Toward dawn, as the stars began to fade from the paling sky, the Princess Ce’Nedra, drawn with fatigue, stood atop a grassy bank near the cove, watching with a kind of sick fascination as the city of Thull Mardu died. Entire districts seemed to be in flames, and great fountains of orange sparks belched toward the sky as roofs caved in and buildings collapsed. What had seemed so stirring, so glorious in her anticipation had turned out to be something quite different in reality, and she was sick at what she had done. She still, nonetheless, brought her fingertips up to touch the amulet at her throat. She had to know what was happening. No matter how horrible the events were in the city, not knowing what was happening was even worse.

“Sort of a nice little fight,” she heard King Anheg say. The King of Cherek seemed to be someplace very high—atop the walls of the city perhaps.

“Pretty routine,” Barak, Earl of Trellheim, replied. “The Murgo garrison fought pretty well, but the Thulls kept falling all over themselves trying to surrender.”

“What did you do with all of them?” King Cho-Hag asked.

“We herded them into the central square,” Barak answered. “They’ve been amusing themselves by killing the Grolims we flushed out of the temple.”

Anheg suddenly chuckled, an evil sort of sound. “How’s Grodeg?” he asked.

“It looks like he’s going to live,” Barak said.

“That’s a shame. When I saw that axe sticking out of his back, I thought somebody’s solved one of my problems for me.”

“It was too low,” Barak said rather mournfully. “It broke his spine, but it didn’t hit anything else significant. He won’t be walking any more, but he’s still breathing.”

“You can’t depend on a Murgo to do anything right,” Anheg said in disgust.

“They did thin out the Bear-cult pretty thoroughly,” Barak noted cheerfully. “I don’t think there are more than two dozen of them left. They fought pretty well, though.”

“That’s what they were here for. How long do you think it will be before daylight?”

“Half an hour, maybe.”

“Where’s Rhodar?”

“He and Fulrach are sacking the warehouses,” King Cho-Hag replied. “The Murgos had some supply dumps here. Fulrach wants to confiscate them.”

“He would,” Anheg said. “Maybe we’d better send somebody for them. It’s getting on toward the time when we’ll want to think about pulling out of here. As soon as it gets light, all this smoke’s going to announce what we’ve done to anyone within twenty leagues. It’s about time to start the fleet moving, and it’s a long march back to the forts on top of the escarpment.”

“How long will it take you to get to the Sea of the East?” Cho-Hag asked.

“A couple of days,” Anheg told him. “You can move a ship pretty fast when you’ve got the current behind you. It will take your army a week at least to get back to the forts, won’t it?”

“Probably,” Cho-Hag said. “The infantry can’t move all that fast. There’s Brendig! I’ll send him to fetch Rhodar.” He shouted down to the Sendar. “Colonel Brendig, see if you can find Rhodar. Ask him to join us.”

“What’s that?” Barak asked suddenly.

“What’s what?” Anheg demanded.

“I thought I saw something out there—way to the south—where you can just start to make out that hilltop.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“It was just a flicker—something moving.”

“Probably a Murgo scout creeping in for a look.” Anheg laughed shortly. “I don’t imagine we’ll be able to keep what happened here a secret for very long.”

“There it is again,” Barak said.

“I saw it that time, too,” King Cho-Hag agreed.

There was a long silence as the sky imperceptibly grew lighter. Ce’Nedra held her breath.

“Belar!” Anheg swore in a stunned voice. “They stretch for miles!”

“Lelldorin!” Barak shouted down from the wall. “Brendig’s gone to get Rhodar. Go find them and tell them to get up here at once. The plain to the south is covered with Murgos.”

16

“Lady Polgara!” Ce’Nedra cried, jerking back the flap of the tent. “Lady Polgara!”

“What is it, Ce’Nedra?” Polgara’s voice came from the darkness inside the tent.

“Barak and Anheg are up on the walls of the city,” the princess said in a frightened voice. “They just saw a Murgo army coming up from the south.”

Polgara came quickly out into the firelight, holding the sleepy Errand by the hand. “Where’s Beldin?” she demanded.

“I haven’t seen him since early last night.”

Polgara raised her face and closed her eyes. A moment or so later there was a rushing sound of wings, and the large hawk settled to the sand not far from their flickering fire.

Beldin was swearing sulfurously even as he shimmered and blurred back into his natural shape.

“How did they slip past you, Uncle?” Polgara asked him.

“There are Grolims with them,” he growled, still sizzling the air around him with oaths. “The Grolims could feel me watching, so the troops moved only at night, and the Grolims shielded them.”

“Where did they hide in the daytime?”

“In the Thullish villages, apparently. There are dozens of communities out there. It never occurred to me to pay all that much attention to them.” He began to swear again, berating himself savagely for having missed the movement of the Murgo army.

“There’s no point in swearing about it, Uncle,” Polgara told him coolly. “It’s done, now.”

“Unfortunately there’s a bit more, Pol,” the sorcerer told her. “There’s another army at least as big coming in from the north—Malloreans, Nadraks, and Thulls. We’re caught right between them.”

“How long have we got before they reach us?” Polgara asked. Beldin shrugged. “Not long. The Murgos have some rough ground to cross—probably about an hour. The Malloreans will be here in quite a bit less.”

Polgara began to curse fervently under her breath. “Go to Rhodar,” she told the hunchback. “Tell him that we have to release Anheg’s fleet immediately—before the Angaraks can bring up catapults and destroy the ships where they’re anchored.”

The deformed man nodded and stooped slightly, curving his arms out like wings even as he began to waver and change.

“Olban,” Polgara called to the young Rivan, “go find Sir Mandorallen and Lord Hettar. Send them to me at once. Hurry.”

Olban gave her one startled look, then ran for his horse.

Durnik the smith came sliding down the grassy bank onto their little beach. His face was grave. “You and the ladies must leave at once, Mistress Pol,” he told her. “There’s going to be fighting here, and the middle of a battle’s no place for any of you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Durnik,” she replied with a trace of irritation. “I started all this, and I’m going to see it through.”

Ariana had gone back into the tent as soon as the situation became clear to her. She now emerged again, carrying the stout canvas bag in which she kept her medical supplies. “Have I thy permission to leave, Lady Polgara?” she asked with a certain cool professionalism. “In battle men are injured, and I must go make preparations for their care. This spot is somewhat too remote and confined to receive the wounded.”

Polgara gave her a quick look. “All right,” she agreed. “Just be careful not to get too close to the fighting.”

Taiba pulled on her cloak. “I’ll go with you,” she told Ariana. “I don’t know that much about it, but you can teach me as we go along.”

“Go help them get set up, Durnik,” Polgara told the smith. “Then come back here.”

Durnik nodded gravely and helped the two women up the steep bank. Mandorallen thundered up on his charger with Hettar at his side. “You know what’s happened?” Polgara demanded.

Mandorallen nodded.

“Is there any possibility of withdrawing before the enemy forces arrive?”

“Nay, my Lady Polgara,” the great knight replied. “They are too close. Moreover, our purpose has ever been to gain passage for the ships of Cherek into the Sea of the East. We must buy them time to sail beyond the reach of the siege engines of the Angaraks.”

“I didn’t want this,” Polgara said angrily and she began to mutter curses again.

Brand, the gray-cloaked Rivan Warder, accompanied by General Varana, rode up to join Mandorallen and Hettar at the top of the steep bank. The four of them dismounted and slid down the bank to the sand.

“We’ve begun evacuating the city,” the big Rivan said in his deep voice, “and most of the fleet is pulling anchor. We’re holding just enough ships to maintain the bridges across the south channel.”

“Is there any possibility of putting the entire army on one bank or the other?” Polgara asked him.

He shook his head. “There isn’t time, Polgara.”

“We’re going to be divided by the river,” she pointed out, “and neither force is going to be strong enough to meet the Angaraks coming against it.”

“A tactical necessity, my dear Lady Polgara,” General Varana told her. “We have to hold both banks until the fleet is clear.”

“I think Rhodar misjudged the Angarak intentions,” Brand said. “He was so sure that Taur Urgas and ’Zakath would both want to avoid taking casualties that he didn’t consider this possibility.”

General Varana clasped his muscular hands behind his back and limped back and forth along the little beach, his face creased with thought. “I think I begin to understand the meaning of that Murgo column we destroyed in the uplands,” he said.

“Your Grace?” Mandorallen asked, puzzled.

“It was a test of our commitment,” Varana explained. “The Angaraks needed to know when we were making our major move. One of the basic rules of war is not to become involved in serious conflicts if what you’re doing is merely diversionary. That column was bait. Unfortunately, we took it.”

“You mean we shouldn’t have attacked the column?” Hettar asked him.

Varana made a rueful face. “Apparently not. It gave away our intentions—let them know that this expedition was not a diversion. I underestimated Taur Urgas. He threw away a thousand men just to find out what we were up to.”

“What now?” Hettar asked.

“We get ready to fight,” Varana said. “I wish we had better terrain for it, but I suppose we’ll have to make do with what we have.”

Hettar looked out across the river, his hawk-face hungry. “I wonder if I’ve got time to make it over to the south bank,” he mused.

“One side or the other,” Brand said, looking puzzled. “What’s the difference?”

“The Murgos are over there,” Hettar replied. “I don’t really have anything against Malloreans.”

“This isn’t a personal fight, Lord Hettar,” Varana pointed out.

“It is with me,” Hettar said grimly.

“We must needs see to the safety of Lady Polgara and the princess,” Mandorallen said. “Mayhap an escort should be provided to convey them back to the forts atop the escarpment.”

Brand shook his head. “The region is likely to be patrolled heavily,” he disagreed. “It wouldn’t be safe.”

“He’s right, Mandorallen,” Polgara told the knight. “Besides, you need every man you’ve got right here.” She looked off toward the northeast. “Then, too, there’s that.” She pointed toward a heavy cloudbank that had begun to stain the sky just above the horizon. The clouds were an inky black, seething and rolling and illuminated from within by fitful flickers of lightning.

“A storm?” General Varana asked, looking a bit surprised.

“Not at this time of year—and certainly not from that direction,” Polgara replied. “The Grolims are up to something, and that’s going to be my fight. Deploy your forces, gentlemen. If there’s going to be a battle, let’s be ready for it.”

“The ships are moving,” Durnik reported as he and Olban came back to the sheltered little cove, “and the troops are leaving the city.”

King Rhodar rode up. His broad face was streaked with soot and perspiration. “Anheg’s leaving,” he said, swinging down from his saddle with a grunt.

“Where’s Fulrach?” Brand asked.

“He’s taking the bulk of the troops across to the south bank.”

“Isn’t that going to leave us a little undermanned on this side?” General Varana inquired politely.

“That bridge is too narrow,” Rhodar told him. “It would take hours to bring enough men across to make any difference. Brendig’s already got a crew undermining the supports so that we can bring the bridge down before the Angaraks get here.”

“What for?” Ce’Nedra asked him.

“Thull Mardu’s too good a vantage point, your Highness,” General Varana explained. “We don’t want any Angaraks on the island if we can help it.” He looked at King Rhodar. “Have you given any thought to tactics?” he asked.

“We want to give Anheg a half a day, if possible,” Rhodar replied. “The ground along the river gets marshy about twenty leagues downstream, and the Angaraks won’t be able to get close enough to pester him, once he gets that far. Let’s form up a conventional infantry line—pikemen, the legions, Sendars, and so on. We’ll put the archers in support and use the Algars to slash at the flanks. I want to hold the Mimbrate knights in reserve until the Malloreans mass up for their first charge.”

“That’s not a winning tactic, if your Majesty will forgive my saying so,” General Varana said.

“We aren’t here to win, Varana,” Rhodar told him. “We’re here to delay the Angaraks for about six hours and then withdraw. I’m not going to waste lives trying to win a battle I haven’t any chance of winning.” He turned to Hettar. “I want you to send a force of your clansmen on a sweep downriver. Tell them to uproot any Malloreans they find emplaced along the riverbank. The significance of the fleet still may have escaped ’Zakath and Taur Urgas. Angaraks aren’t good sailors, so they probably don’t realize what Anheg can do, once he gets into the Sea of the East.”

“Excuse me, your Majesty,” Varana objected, “but all of your strategy—even the fleet—is merely a delaying action.”

“That’s the whole point, Varana,” Rhodar told him bluntly. “All of this is really rather insignificant. What’s really important is going to happen in Mallorea when Belgarion reaches Cthol Mishrak. We’d better move, gentlemen. The Malloreans will be here before long, and we want to be ready for them.”

The cloudbank Polgara had pointed out was sweeping toward them with an alarming speed, a seething darkness of rolling purple, stalking forward on crooked legs of lightning. A hot wind seemed to flee out ahead of it, flattening the grass and whipping the manes and tails of the horses wildly. As King Rhodar and the others moved out to meet the approaching Mallorean army, Polgara, her face pale and her hair tossing behind her in the wind, climbed the grassy bank with Ce’Nedra and Durnik behind her and stood watching the approach of the cloud. “Take the child, Ce’Nedra,” she said quite calmly. “Don’t let go of him, no matter what happens.”

“Yes, Lady Polgara,” Ce’Nedra said, holding out her arms to Errand. The child came to her immediately, his serious little face unafraid. She picked him up and held him close, her cheek against his.

“Errand?” he said, pointing at the approaching storm.

Then, among the ranks of their army, shadowy figures rose up out of the ground. The figures wore black robes and polished steel masks and carried cruel-pointed short spears. Without pausing to even think, a mounted young Mimbrate knight swept his broadsword from its scabbard and swung the whistling blade at one of the steel-masked figures. His sword passed through the figure with no effect. As he struck, however, a sizzling bolt of lightning struck him, seeming to attach itself to the point of his helmet. He stiffened convulsively as the lightning, like a writhing snake of intense light, clung to the tip of his steel helm. Smoke boiled out of the slits of his visor as he roasted inside his armor. His horse lurched forward onto its knees while the ghastly, flickering light engulfed them both. Then the lightning was gone, and horse and man collapsed, stone dead.

Polgara hissed and then raised her voice. She did not seem to be speaking that loudly, but the effect of her words reached the farthest edges of the army. “Do not touch the shadows,” she warned. “They’re Grolim illusions and can’t hurt you unless you touch them. They’re here to draw the lightning to you, so stay clear of them.”

“But, Mistress Pol,” Durnik protested, “the troops won’t be able to hold ranks if they have to keep dodging the shadows.”

“I’ll take care of the shadows,” she replied grimly. She raised both arms above her head, her fists clenched. A look of dreadful concentration filled her face, and then she spoke a single word, opening her hands as she did so. The grass, which had been bending toward them in the hot wind preceding the storm, suddenly flattened in the opposite direction as the force of Polgara’s will rippled outward. As that force passed over each shadowy Grolim illusion, the figures seemed to flinch, then shrivel, and then with silent detonations, each shadow exploded into shards and fragments of darkness.

Polgara was gasping as the last of the shadows on the farthest edge of the army vanished, and she would have collapsed had Durnik not jumped to her side to support her. “Are you all right?” he asked worriedly.

“Just give me a moment,” she said, wilting against him. “That took a great deal of effort.” She smiled at him, a wan little smile, and then her head drooped wearily.

“Won’t they come back?” Ce’Nedra demanded. “What I mean is, it didn’t actually hurt the real Grolims, did it? Just their shadows.”

Polgara laughed weakly. “Oh, it hurt them, all right,” she replied. “Those Grolims don’t have shadows any more. Not one of them will ever cast a shadow again.”

“Not ever?” the princess gasped.

“Not ever.”

Then Beldin joined them, swooping in with the wind tearing at his feathers. “We’ve got work to do, Polgara,” he growled even as he shimmered into his natural shape. “We’re going to have to break up this storm they’re bringing in from the west. I talked with the twins. They’ll work on the southern side of it, and you and I’ll take this side.”

She looked at him inquiringly.

“Their army’s going to be advancing right behind the storm,” he explained. “There’s no point in trying to hold it back now. It’s got too much momentum. What we want to do is break open the rear edge of it and let it spill back over the Angaraks.”

“How many Grolims are working on the storm, Uncle?” she asked him.

“Who knows?” He shrugged. “But it’s taking every bit of effort they can muster just to keep it under control. If the four of us hit the back side all at once, the pressures in the storm itself will do the rest.”

“Why not just let it pass over?” Durnik asked. “Our troops aren’t children. They won’t fall apart just because of a little squall.”

“This isn’t just a little squall, blacksmith,” Beldin said acidly. Something large and white thudded to the ground a few feet away. “If you get four or five of those hailstones on top of the head, you won’t care how the battle turns out.”

“They’re as big as hens’ eggs,” Durnik said in astonishment.

“And they’ll probably get bigger.” Beldin turned back to Polgara. “Give me your hand,” he told her. “I’ll pass the signal to Beltira, and we’ll all strike at the same time. Get ready.”

More of the hailstones thudded into the springy turf, and one particularly large one shattered into a thousand fragments as it crashed down on a large rock with stunning force. From the direction of the army came an intermittent banging as the hailstones bounced off the armor of the Mimbrate knights or clanged down on the hastily raised shields of the infantry.

And then, mixed with the hail, the rain squalls struck-seething sheets of water driven before the wind like raging waves. It was impossible to see, and almost impossible to breathe. Olban jumped forward with his shield raised to protect Ce’Nedra and Errand. He winced once as a large hailstone struck his shoulder, but his shield arm did not waver.

“It’s breaking, Pol!” Beldin shouted. “Let’s push it once more. Let them eat their own storm for a while.”

Polgara’s face twisted into an agony of concentration, and then she half slumped as she and Beldin unleashed their combined wills at the rolling sky. The sound of it was beyond belief as the vast forces collided. The sky ripped suddenly apart and lightning staggered and lurched through the smoking air. Great, incandescent bolts crashed into each other high above, showering the earth beneath with fireballs. Men fell, charred instantly into black, steaming husks in the driving downpour, but the casualties were not only among the men of the west.

The vast storm with its intolerable pressures recoiled as the combined wills of Polgara and Beldin on the north bank and the twins on the south bank ripped open the back edge of it, and the advancing Malloreans received that recoil full in the teeth. A curtain of lightning swept back across their close-packed ranks like an enormous, blinding broom, littering the earth with their smoking dead. As the fabric of Grolim sorcery which had driven the stormfront toward the river ripped apart, the gale winds suddenly reversed and flowed back, shrieking and howling, confounding the advancing Angaraks with rain and hail.

From out of the center of the dreadful cloud overhead, swirling fingers of murky black twitched and reached down toward the earth with hideous roaring sounds. With a last, almost convulsive jerk, one of those huge, swirling funnels touched the earth in the midst of the redclad Malloreans. Debris sprayed up and out from the point of the dreadful vortex as, with ponderous immensity, it cut an erratic course two hundred yards wide directly through the enemy ranks. Men and horses were ripped to pieces by the insane winds within the swirling column of cloud, and bits of armor and shreds of red tunics—and worse—showered down on the stunned and terrified Malloreans on either side of the swath of absolute destruction moving inexorably through their midst.

“Beautiful!” Beldin exulted, hopping up and down in a grotesque display of glee.

There was the sudden sound of a great horn, and the close-packed ranks of Drasnian pikemen and Tolnedran legionnaires facing the faltering ranks of the Malloreans opened. From behind them, his armor streaming water, Mandorallen led the charge of the Mimbrate knights. Full upon the confused and demoralized Malloreans they fell, and the sound of the impact as they struck was a terrible, rending crash, punctuated by screams. Rank upon rank was crushed beneath the charge, and the terrified Malloreans wavered and then broke and fled. Even as they ran, the clans of Algar swept in among them from the flanks, their sabres flashing in the rain.

At a second blast of Mandorallen’s horn, the charging Mimbrates reined in, wheeled and galloped back, leaving a vast wreckage behind them.

The rain slackened fitfully, little more than errantly passing showers now, and patches of blue appeared among the racing clouds overhead. The Grolim storm had broken and dispersed back across the plains of Mishrak ac Thull.

Ce’Nedra looked toward the south bank and saw that the storm there had also dispersed and that the forces under the command of King Cho-Hag and King Korodullin were assaulting the front ranks of the demoralized Murgo army. Then the princess looked sharply at the south channel of the river. The last bridges of Cherek ships had broken loose during the violent storm, and there was now only open water on that side of the island. The last troops remaining in the city were streaming across the bridge over the north channel. A tall Sendarian lad was among the last to cross. As soon as he reached the bank, he came immediately upriver. As he drew nearer, Ce’Nedra recognized him. It was Rundorig, Garion’s boyhood friend from Faldor’s farm, and he was openly weeping.

“Goodman Durnik,” he sobbed as he reached them, “Doroon’s dead.”

“What did you say?” Lady Polgara demanded, raising her tired face suddenly.

“Doroon, Mistress Pol,” Rundorig wept. “He drowned. We were crossing over to the south bank when the storm broke the ropes holding the ships. Doroon fell into the river, and he didn’t know how to swim. I tried to save him, but he went under before I could reach him.” The tall young man buried his face in his hands.

Polgara’s face went absolutely white, and her eyes filled with sudden tears. “Take care of him, Durnik,” she told the smith, then turned and walked away, her head bowed in her grief.

“I tried, Durnik,” Rundorig blurted, still sobbing. “I really tried to reach him—but there were too many people in my way. I couldn’t get to him in time. I saw him go under, and there was nothing I could do.”

Durnik’s face was very grave as he put his arm about the weeping boy’s shoulders. The smith’s eyes were also filled, and he said nothing. Ce’Nedra, however, could not weep. She had reached out her hand and plucked these unwarlike young men from their homes and dragged them halfway across the world, and now one of Garion’s oldest friends had died in the chill waters of the River Mardu. His death was on her head, but she could not weep. A terrible fury suddenly filled her. She turned to Olban. “Kill them!” she hissed from between clenched teeth.

“My Queen?” Olban gaped at her.

“Go!” she commanded. “Take your sword and go. Kill as many Angaraks as you can—for me, Olban. Kill them for me!” And then she could weep.

Olban looked first at the sobbing little princess and then at the milling ranks of the Malloreans, still reeling from the savagery of the Mimbrate assault. His face grew exultant as he drew his sword. “As my Queen commands!” he shouted and ran to his horse.

Even as the decimated front ranks of the Malloreans fled, hurried by the sabre-wielding Algars, greater and greater numbers of their countrymen reached the field, and soon the low hills to the north were covered with them. Their red tunics made it look almost as if the earth itself were bleeding. It was not the Malloreans, however, who mounted the next attack. Instead, thick-bodied Thulls in mud-colored smocks marched reluctantly into position. Directly behind the Thulls, mounted Malloreans urged them on with whips.

“Basic Mallorean strategy,” Beldin growled. “’Zakath wants to let the Thulls do most of the dying. He’ll try to save his own troops for the campaign against Taur Urgas.”

Ce’Nedra raised her tear-streaked face. “What do we do now?” she asked the misshapen sorcerer.

“We kill Thulls,” he said bluntly. “A charge or two by the Mimbrates ought to break their spirits. Thulls don’t make very good soldiers, and they’ll run away as soon as we give them the chance.”

Even as the sluggish forces of Mishrak ac Thull flowed like a mudslide downhill toward the solid line of pikemen and legionnaires, the Asturian archers just to the rear of the infantry raised their bows and filled the air with a solid, arching sheet of yard-long arrows. The Thulls quailed as rank after rank melted under the withering storm of arrows. The shouts of the Malloreans at the rear became more desperate, and the crack of their whips filled the air.

And then Mandorallen’s horn sounded, the ranks of infantry opened, and the armored knights of Mimbre charged again. The Thulls took one look at the steel-clad men and horses crashing toward them and immediately bolted. The Mallorean whip-men were swarmed under and trampled in the panic-stricken flight of the Thull army.

“So much for the Thulls.” Beldin grunted with satisfaction as he watched the rout. He grinned an evil grin. “I imagine that ’Zakath will speak firmly to King Gethell about this.”

Mandorallen’s knights thundered back to their positions behind the infantry, and the two armies glared at each other across a field littered with Angarak dead.

Ce’Nedra began to shiver as a sudden chill swept the battlefield.

Although the sun had broken through the ragged clouds as the Grolim storm rapidly dispersed, there was no warmth to it. Even though all trace of wind had died, it grew colder. Then from the ground and from the dark surface of the river, tendrils of fog began to rise.

Beldin hissed. “Polgara,” he snapped to the grieving sorceress, “I need you.”

“Leave me alone, Uncle,” she replied in a voice still choked with sorrow.

“You can cry later,” he told her harshly. “The Grolims are drawing the heat out of the air. If we don’t stir up a wind, the fog’s going to get so thick you’ll be able to walk on it.”

She turned, and her face was very cold. “You don’t respect anything, do you?” she said flatly.

“Not much,” he admitted, “but that’s beside the point. If the Grolims can build up a good fog bank, we’ll have the whole stinking Mallorean army on top of us before we can even see them coming. Let’s go, Pol. People get killed; it happens. You can get sentimental about it later.” He held out his gnarled, lumpy hand to her.

The tendrils of fog had begun to thicken, lying in little pockets now. The littered battlefield in front of the infantry lines seemed to waver, and then disappeared entirely as the fog congealed into a solid wall of white.

“Wind, Pol,” Beldin said, taking hold of her hand. “As much wind as you can raise.”

The struggle which ensued then was a silent one. Polgara and Beldin, their hands joined together, gathered in their wills and then reached out with them, probing, searching for some weakness in the mass of dead-calm air that imprisoned the thickening fog along the banks of the river. Fitful little gusts of breeze swirled the eddying fog, then died as quickly as they had arisen.

“Harder, Pol,” Beldin urged. His ugly face streamed with rivulets of sweat as he struggled with the vast inertness of unmoving air.

“It’s not going to work this way, Uncle,” she declared, pulling her hand free. Her face showed her own strain. “There’s nothing to get hold of. What are the twins doing?”

“The Hierarchs of Rak Cthol are riding with Taur Urgas,” the hunchback replied. “The twins have their hands full dealing with them. They won’t be able to help.”

Polgara straightened then, steeling herself. “We’re trying to work too close,” she said. “Every time we start a little local breeze, a dozen Grolims jump in and smother it.”

“All right,” Beldin agreed.

“We’ll have to reach out farther,” she continued. “Start the air moving somewhere out beyond their range so that by the time it gets here, it has so much momentum that they can’t stop it.”

Beldin’s eyes narrowed. “That’s dangerous, Pol,” he told her. “Even if we can do it, it’s going to exhaust the both of us. If they throw anything else at us, neither of us will have any strength left to fight them.”

“It’s a gamble, Uncle,” she admitted, “but the Grolims are stubborn. They’ll try to protect this fog bank even after all chance of maintaining it has gone. They’ll get tired, too. Maybe too tired to try anything else.”

“I don’t like maybes.”

“Have you got a better idea?”

“Not right now, no.”

“All right, then.”

They joined hands again.

It took, it seemed to the princess, an eternity. With her heart in her throat she stared at the two of them as they stood with their hands joined and their eyes closed—reaching out with their minds toward the hot, barren uplands to the west, trying with all their strength to pull that heated air down into the broad valley of the River Mardu. All around her, Ce’Nedra seemed to feel the oppressive chill of Grolim thought lying heavily on the stagnant air, holding it, resisting all effort to dissipate the choking fog.

Polgara was breathing in short gasps, her chest heaving and her face twisted with an inhuman striving. Beldin, his knotted shoulders hunched forward, struggled like a man attempting to lift a mountain.

And then Ce’Nedra caught the faintest scent of dust and dry, sunparched grass. It was only momentary, and she thought at first that she had imagined it. Then it came again, stronger this time, and the fog eddied sluggishly. But once more that faint scent died, and with it the breath of air that had carried it.

Polgara groaned then, an almost strangled sound, and the fog began to swirl. The wet grass at Ce’Nedra’s feet, drenched with droplets of mist, bent slightly, and the dusty smell of the Thullish uplands grew stronger.

It seemed that the blanket of concentration that had held the fog motionless became more desperate as the Grolims fought to stop the quickening breeze pouring down the valley from the acrid stretches to the west. The blanket began to tatter and to fall apart as the weaker of the Grolims, pushed beyond their capacity, collapsed in exhaustion.

The breeze grew stronger, became a hot wind that rippled the surface of the river. The grass bent before it, and the fog began to seethe like some vast living thing, writhing at the touch of the arid wind.

Ce’Nedra could see the still-burning city of Thull Mardu now, and the infantry lines drawn up on the plain beside the river.

The hot, dusty wind blew stronger, and the fog, as insubstantial as the thought that had raised it from the earth, dissolved, and the morning sun broke through to bathe the field in golden light.

“Polgara!” Durnik cried in sudden alarm.

Ce’Nedra whirled in time to see Polgara, her face drained deathly white, slowly toppling to the earth.

17

Lelldorin of Wildantor had been nervously pacing back and forth along the ranks of his bowmen, stopping often to listen for any sound coming out of the fog from the field lying in front of the massed infantry. “Can you hear anything?” he asked urgently of a Tolnedran legionnaire standing nearby.

The Tolnedran shook his head.

That same whisper came out of the fog from a dozen different places.

“Can you hear anything?”

“Can you hear anything?”

“What are they doing?”

Somewhere to the front, there was a faint clink.

“There!” everyone cried almost in unison.

“Not yet!” Lelldorin snapped to one of his countrymen who was raising his bow. “It could be just a wounded Thull out there. Save your arrows.”

“Is that a breeze?” a Drasnian pikeman asked. “Please, Belar, let it be a breeze.”

Lelldorin stared into the fog, nervously fingering his bowstring. Then he felt a faint touch of air on his cheek.

“A breeze,” someone exulted.

“A breeze.” The phrase raced through the massed army.

Then the faint breath of air died, and the fog settled again, seeming thicker than ever.

Someone groaned bitterly.

The fog stirred then and began to eddy sluggishly. It was a breeze! Lelldorin held his breath.

The fog began to move, flowing gray over the ground like water.

“There’s something moving out there!” a Tolnedran barked. “Get ready!”

The flowing fog moved faster, thinning, melting in the hot, dusty breeze blowing down the valley. Lelldorin strained his eyes to the front. There were moving shapes out there, no more than seventy paces from the infantry.

Then, as if all its stubborn resistance had broken at once, the fog shimmered and dissolved, and the sun broke through. The entire field before them was filled with Malloreans. Their stealthy forward pace froze momentarily as they flinched in the sudden light of the sun.

“Now!” Lelldorin shouted, raising his bow. Behind him, his archers with one universal motion followed his action, and the sudden release of a thousand bowstrings all at once was like some vast, thrumming note. A whistling sheet of arrows soared over the heads of the solidly standing infantry, seemed to hang motionless in the air for a moment, then hurtled into the close-packed Mallorean ranks.

The creeping attack of the Malloreans did not waver or falter; it simply dissolved. With a vast, sighing groan, entire regiments fell in their tracks under the Asturian arrow storm.

Lelldorin’s hand flickered to the forest of arrows thrust point—first into the turf at his feet. He smoothly nocked another shaft, drew and released. And then again—and again. The sheet of arrows overhead was like some great slithering bridge arching over the infantry and riddling the Malloreans as it fell among them.

The storm of Asturian arrows crept inexorably across the field, and the Mallorean dead piled up in windrows as if some enormous scythe had passed through their ranks.

And then Sir Mandorallen’s brazen horn sounded its mighty challenge, the ranks of archers and infantry opened, and the earth shook beneath the thunder of the charge of the Mimbrate knights.

Demoralized by the arrow storm and the sight of that inexorable charge descending upon them, the Malloreans broke and fled. Laughing delightedly, Lelldorin’s cousin Torasin lowered his bow to jeer at the backs of the routed Angaraks.

“We did it, Lelldorin!” he shouted, still laughing. “We broke their backs!” He was half turned now, not facing the littered field. His bow was in his hands; his dark hair was thrown back; and his face reflected his exultant delight. Lelldorin would always remember him so.

“Tor! Look out!” Lelldorin shouted, but it was too late. The Mallorean answer to the Asturian arrow storm was a storm of their own. From a hundred catapults concealed behind the low hills to the north, a great cloud of rocks hurtled into the air and crashed down into the close-packed ranks along the riverbank. A stone perhaps somewhat larger than a man’s head struck Torasin full in the chest, smashing him to the ground.

“Tor!” Lelldorin’s cry was anguished as he ran to his stricken cousin. Torasin’s eyes were closed, and blood was flowing from his nose. His chest was crushed.

“Help me!” Lelldorin cried to a group of serfs standing nearby. The serfs obediently moved to assist him, but their eyes, speaking louder than any words, said that Torasin was already dead.

Barak’s face was bleak as he stood at the tiller of his big ship. His oarsmen stroked to the beat of a muffled drum, and the ship raced downriver.

King Anheg of Cherek lounged against the rail. He had pulled off his helmet so that the cool river air could blow the stink of smoke out of his hair. His coarse-featured face was as grim as his cousin’s. “What do you think their chances are?” he asked.

“Not very good,” Barak replied bluntly. “We never counted on the Murgos and Malloreans hitting us at Thull Mardu. The army’s split in two by the river, and both halves of it are outnumbered. They’re going to have a bad time of it, I’m afraid.” He glanced over his shoulder at the half dozen small, narrow-beamed boats trailing in the wake of his big ship. “Close it up!” he bellowed at the men in the smaller boats.

“Malloreans ahead! On the north bank!” the lookout at the mast shouted. “About a half a mile!”

“Wet down the decks,” Barak ordered.

The sailors tossed buckets on long ropes over the side, hauled up water, and soaked the wooden decks.

“Signal the ships behind us,” Anheg told the bearded sailor standing in the very stern of the ship. The sailor nodded, turned and lifted a large flag attached to a long pole. He began to wave it vigorously at the ships strung out behind them.

“Be careful with that fire!” Barak shouted to the men clustered around a raised platform filled with gravel and covered with glowing coals. “If you set us ablaze, you’ll all have to swim to the Sea of the East.”

Just to the front of the platform stood three heavy-limbed catapults, cocked and ready.

King Anheg squinted ahead at the Malloreans gathered around a dozen or so siege engines standing solidly on the north bank. “Better send in your arrow-boats now,” he suggested.

Barak grunted and waved his arm in a broad chopping motion to the six narrow boats in his wake. In answer, the lean little boats leaped ahead, cutting through the water. Mounted at the prow of each arrowboat stood a long-armed catapult armed with a loosely packed bundle of arrows. Aided by the current, the narrow little boats sped past, their oars bending.

“Load the engines!” Barak roared to the men around the gravel-based fire. “And don’t slop any of that tar on my decks.”

With long iron hooks, the sailors lifted three large earthenware pots out of the coals. The pots contained a seething mixture of tar, pitch, and naptha. They were quickly dipped in tar barrels and then hastily wrapped in naptha-soaked rags. Then they were placed in the baskets of the waiting engines.

As the arrow-boats, speeding like greyhounds, swept in close to shore where the Malloreans struggled to aim their catapults, the arrow-bundles were suddenly hurled high into the air by the lashing arms of the Cherek engines. The arrows rose swiftly, then slowed at the top of their arching flight, separating and spreading out as they flew. Then, in a deadly rain, they fell upon the red-tunicked Malloreans.

Barak’s ship, trailing just behind the arrow-boats, ran in close to the brush-covered riverbank, and the red-bearded man stood with both of his big hands on the tiller, staring intently at his catapult master, a gray-bearded old sailor with arms like oak stumps. The catapult master was squinting at a line of notches chipped into the railing in front of his engines. Over his head he held a long white baton and he indicated direction by pointing it either to the right or the left. Barak moved his tiller delicately in response to the movements of the baton. Then the baton cut sharply straight down, and Barak locked his tiller in an iron grip. The rags wrapped around the pots leaped into flame as they were touched by waiting torches.

“Shoot!” the catapult master barked. With a thudding crash, the beams lashed forward, hurling the flaming pots and their deadly contents in a high arch toward the struggling Malloreans and their siege engines. The pots burst open upon impact, spraying fire in front of them. The Mallorean catapults were engulfed in flame.

“Good shooting,” Anheg noted professionally.

“Child’s play,” Barak shrugged. “A shoreline emplacement isn’t much of a challenge, really.” He glanced back. The arrow-boats of Greldik’s ship were sweeping in to rake the Malloreans with more arrows, and the catapults on his bearded friend’s decks were cocked and loaded. “Malloreans don’t appear to be any brighter than Murgos. Didn’t it ever occur to them that we might shoot back?”

“It’s an Angarak failing,” Anheg replied. “It shows up in all their writings. Torak never encouraged creative thinking.”

Barak gave his cousin a speculative look. “You know what I think, Anheg? I think that all that fuss you raised back at Riva—about Ce’Nedra leading the army, I mean—I think that it wasn’t entirely sincere. You’re too intelligent to be so stubborn about something that wasn’t that important.”

Anheg winked broadly.

“No wonder they call you Anheg the sly,” Barak chuckled. “What was it all about?”

“It pulled Brand’s teeth.” The King of Cherek grinned. “He’s the one who could have stopped Ce’Nedra cold if I’d given him the chance. Rivans are very conservative, Barak. I sided with Brand and did all the talking. Then when I gave in, he didn’t have any ground left to stand on.

“You were very convincing. I thought for a while that your reason had slipped.”

“Thank you,” the Cherek King replied with a mock bow. “When you’ve got a face like mine, it’s easy for people to think the worst about you. I’ve found that useful from time to time. Here come the Algars.” He pointed at the hills just behind the burning Mallorean siege engines. A great crowd of horsemen came surging over the hilltops to sweep down like a wolf pack upon the confounded Malloreans.

Anheg sighed then. “I’d like to know what’s happening to them back there at Thull Mardu,” he said. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever find out, though.”

“Not very likely,” Barak agreed. “We’ll all get sunk eventually, once we get out into the Sea of the East.”

“We’ll take a lot of Malloreans with us, though, won’t we, Barak?”

Barak’s reply was an evil grin.

“I don’t really care much for the notion of drowning,” Anheg said, making a face.

“Maybe you’ll get lucky and catch an arrow in the belly.”

“Thanks,” Anheg said sourly.

An hour or so later, after three more Angarak positions on the riverbanks had been destroyed, the land along the River Mardu turned marshy, flattening out into a sea of reeds and bending cattails. At Anheg’s orders, a raft piled high with firewood was moored to a dead snag and set afire. Once the blaze was going well, buckets of greenish crystals were hurled into the flames. A thick pillar of green smoke began to climb into the blue sky.

“I hope Rhodar can see that.” The King of Cherek frowned.

“If he can’t, the Algars will,” Barak replied. “They’ll get word back to him.”

“I just hope he’s got enough time left to make his retreat.”

“Me too,” Barak said. “But as you say, we’ll probably never know.”

King Cho-Hag, Chief of the Clan-Chiefs of Algaria, sat his horse beside King Korodullin of Arendia. The fog was nearly gone now, and only a filmy haze remained. Not far away, the twin sorcerers, Beltira and Belkira, exhausted by their efforts, sat side by side on the ground, their heads bowed and their chests heaving. Cho-Hag shuddered inwardly at the thought of what might have happened if the two saintly old men had not been there. The hideous illusions of the Grolims that had risen from the earth just before the storm had struck terror into the hearts of the bravest warriors. Then the storm, its intensity deafening, had smashed down on the army, and after that had come the choking fog. The two sweet-faced sorcerers, however, had met and overcome each Grolim attack with calm determination. Now the Murgos were coming, and it was time for steel instead of sorcery.

“I’d let them get a little closer,” Cho-Hag advised in his quiet voice as he and Korodullin watched the veritable sea of Murgos advancing against the emplaced ranks of Drasnian pikemen and Tolnedran legionnaires.

“Art thou sure of thy strategy, Cho-Hag?” the young Arendish King asked with a worried frown. “It hath ever been the custom of the knights of Mimbre to meet an attack head-on. Thy proposal to charge the flanks puzzles me.”

“It will kill more Murgos, Korodullin,” Cho-Hag replied, shifting his weak legs in their stirrups. “When your knights charge in from either flank, you’ll cut off whole regiments of the enemy. Then we can grind the ones who’ve been cut off up against the infantry.”

“It is passing strange to me to work thus with foot troops,” Korodullin confessed. “I have a vast ignorance of unmounted combat.”

“You aren’t alone, my friend,” Cho-Hag told him. “It’s as alien to me as it is to you. It would be unfair of us, though, not to let the foot troops have a few Murgos, wouldn’t it? They did walk a long way, after all.”

The King of Arendia considered that gravely. He was quite obviously incapable of anything remotely resembling humor. “I had not considered that,” he confessed. “ ’Twould be selfish in the extreme of us to deny them some part in the battle, I must agree. How many Murgos dost thou think would be their fair portion?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Cho-Hag replied with a straight face. “A few thousand or so, I imagine. We wouldn’t want to appear stingy—but it doesn’t do to be over generous, either.”

Korodullin sighed. “It is a difficult line to walk, King Cho-Hag—this fine division between parsimony and foolish prodigality.”

“One of the prices of kingship, Korodullin.”

“Very true, Cho-Hag, very true.” The young King of Arendia sighed again and bent all his concentration to the problem of how many of the advancing Murgos he could really afford to give away. “Thinkest thou that two Murgos apiece might content those who fight afoot?” he asked rather hesitantly.

“Sounds fair to me.”

Korodullin smiled then with happy relief. “Then that is what we shall allot them,” he declared. “I have not divided up Murgos before, but it is not nearly so difficult as I had imagined.”

King Cho-Hag began to laugh.

Lady Ariana put her arms about Lelldorin’s shaking shoulders and drew him gently away from the pallet upon which his cousin’s body lay.

“Can’t you do something, Ariana?” he pleaded, tears streaming down his face. “Perhaps a bandage of some sort—and a poultice.”

“He is beyond my art, my Lord,” Ariana replied gently, “and I share thy sorrow at his death.”

“Don’t say that word, Ariana. Torasin can’t be dead.”

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” she said simply. “He is gone, and none of my remedies or skill can bring him back.”

“Polgara can do it,” Lelldorin declared suddenly, an impossible hope leaping into his eyes. “Send for Polgara.”

“I have no one to send, my Lord,” Ariana told him, looking around the makeshift tent where she and Taiba and a few others were caring for the wounded. “The injured men here command all our attention and care.”

“I’ll go then,” Lelldorin declared, his eyes still streaming tears. He spun and dashed from the tent.

Ariana sighed mournfully and drew a blanket over Torasin’s pale face. Then she turned back to the wounded men who were being carried in a steady stream into her tent.

“Don’t bother yourself with him, my Lady,” a lean-faced Arendish serf told her as she bent over the body of the man’s companion. Ariana looked at the thin serf inquiringly.

“He’s dead,” the serf explained. “He took a Mallorean arrow right through the chest.” He looked down at the dead man’s face. “Poor Detton,” he sighed. “He died in my arms. Do you know what his last words were?”

Ariana shook her head.

“He said, ‘At least I had a good breakfast.’ And then he died.”

“Why didst thou bring him here, since thou didst know he was already dead?” Ariana asked him gently.

The lean, bitter-faced serf shrugged. “I didn’t want to leave him just lying in a muddy ditch like a dead dog,” he replied. “In his whole life, nobody ever treated him as if he mattered at all. He was my friend, and I didn’t want to leave him there like a pile of garbage.” He laughed a short, bitter laugh. “I don’t suppose it matters very much to him, but at least there’s a little bit of dignity here.” He awkwardly patted the dead man’s shoulder. “Sorry, Detton,” he said, “but I guess I’d better go back to the fighting.”

“What is thy name, friend?” Ariana asked.

“I’m called Lammer, my Lady.”

“Is the need for thee in the battle urgent?”

“I doubt it, my Lady. I’ve been shooting arrows at the Malloreans. I’m not very good at it, but it’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“My need for thee is greater, then,” she declared. “I have many wounded here and few hands to help with their care. Despite thy surly exterior, I sense a great compassion in thee. Wilt thou help me?”

He regarded her for a moment. “What do you want me to do?” he said.

“Taiba is boiling cloth for bandages over that fire there,” she replied. “See to the fire first, then thou wilt find a cart just outside with blankets in it. Bring in the blankets, good Lammer. After that I will have other tasks for thee.”

“All right,” Lammer replied laconically, moving toward the fire.

“What can we do for her?” the Princess Ce’Nedra demanded of the misshapen Beldin. The princess was staring intently into Polgara’s pale, unconscious face as the sorceress lay exhausted in the arms of Durnik the smith.

“Let her sleep,” Beldin grunted. “She’ll be all right in a day or so.”

“What’s the matter with her?” Durnik asked in a worried voice.

“She’s exhausted,” Beldin snapped. “Isn’t that obvious?”

“Just from raising a breeze? I’ve seen her do things that looked a lot harder.”

“You don’t have the faintest idea of what you’re talking about, blacksmith,” Beldin growled. The hunchbacked sorcerer was himself pale and shaking. “When you start tampering with the weather, you’re putting your hands on the most powerful forces in the world. I’d rather try to stop a tide or uproot a mountain than stir up a breeze in dead air.”

“The Grolims brought in that storm,” Durnik said.

“The air was already moving. Dead-calm air is altogether different. Do you have the remotest idea of how much air you’ve got to move to stir even the faintest breath of air? Do you know what kind of pressures are involved—how much all that air weighs?”

“Air doesn’t weigh anything,” Ce’Nedra protested.

“Really?” Beldin replied with heavy sarcasm. “I’m so glad you told me. Would the two of you shut up and let me get my breath?”

“But how is it that she collapsed and you didn’t?” Ce’Nedra protested.

“I’m stronger than she is,” Beldin replied, “and more vicious. Pol throws her whole heart into things when she gets excited. She always did. She pushed beyond her strength, and it exhausted her.” The twisted little man straightened, shook himself like a dog coming out of water and looked around, his face bleak. “I’ve got work to do,” he said. “I think we’ve pretty much worn out the Mallorean Grolims, but I’d better keep an eye on them, just to be safe. You two stay here with Pol—and keep an eye on that child.” He pointed at Errand, who stood on the sandy beach with his small face very serious.

Then Beldin crouched, shimmering already into the form of a hawk, and launched himself into the air almost before his feathers were fully formed.

Ce’Nedra stared after him as he spiraled upward over the battlefield and then turned her attention back to the unconscious Polgara.

The charge of Korodullin’s Mimbrate knights came at the last possible moment. Like two great scythes, the armored men on their massive chargers sliced in at a thundering gallop from the flanks with their lances leveled and cut through the horde of Murgos rushing toward the waiting pikemen and legionnaires. The results were devastating. The air was filled with screams and the sounds of steel striking steel with stunning impact. In the wake of the charge lay a path of slaughtered Murgos, a trail of human wreckage a hundred yards wide.

King Cho-Hag, sitting on his horse on a hilltop some distance to the west, nodded his approval as he watched the carnage. “Good,” he said finally. He looked around at the eager faces of the Algar clansmen clustered around him. “All right, my children,” he said calmly, “let’s go cut up the Murgo reserves.” And he led them at a gallop as they poured down off the hill, smoothly swung around the outer flanks of the tightly packed assault forces and then slashed into the unprepared Murgo units bringing up the rear.

The slash-and-run tactics of the clans of the Algars left heaps of sabred dead in their wake as they darted in and out of the milling confusion of terrified Murgos. King Cho-Hag himself led several charges, and his skill with the sabre, which was legendary in Algaria, filled his followers with an awed pride as they watched his whiplike blows raining down on Murgo heads and shoulders. The whole thrust of Algar strategy was based on speed—a sudden dash on a fast horse and a series of lightninglike sabre slashes, and then out before the enemy could gather his wits. King Cho-Hag’s sabre arm was the fastest in Algaria.

“My King!” one of his men shouted, pointing toward the center of several close-packed Murgo regiments milling about in a shallow valley a few hundred yards away. “There’s the black banner!”

King Cho-Hag’s eyes suddenly gleamed as a wild hope surged through him. “Bring my banner to the front!” he roared, and the clansman who carried the burgundy-and-white banner of the Chief of the Clan-Chiefs galloped forward with the standard streaming above his head. “Let’s go, my children!” Cho-Hag shouted and drove his horse directly at the Murgos in the valley. With sabre raised, the crippled King of the Algars led his men down into the Murgo horde. His warriors slashed to the right and to the left, but Cho-Hag plunged directly at the center, his eyes feed on the black banner of Taur Urgas, King of the Murgos.

And then, in the midst of the household guard, Cho-Hag saw the blood-red mail of Taur Urgas himself. Cho-Hag raised his bloody sabre and shouted a ringing challenge.

“Stand and fight, you Murgo dog!” he roared.

Startled by that shout, Taur Urgas wheeled his horse to stare incredulously at the charging King of Algaria. His eyes suddenly bulged with the fervid light of insanity, and his lips, foam-flacked, drew back in a snarl of hatred. “Let him come!” he grated. “Clear the way for him!”

The startled members of his personal guard stared at him.

“Make way for the King of Algaria!” Taur Urgas shrieked. “He is mine!”

And the Murgo troops melted out of Cho-Hag’s path.

The Algar King reined in his horse. “And so it’s finally come, Taur Urgas,” he said coldly.

“It has indeed, Cho-Hag,” Taur Urgas replied. “I’ve waited for this moment for years.”

“If I’d known you were waiting, I’d have come sooner.”

“Today is your last day, Cho-Hag.” The Murgo King’s eyes were completely mad now, and foam drooled from the corners of his mouth.

“Do you plan to fight with threats and hollow words, Taur Urgas? Or have you forgotten how to draw your sword?”

With an insane shriek, Taur Urgas ripped his broad-bladed sword from its scabbard and drove his black horse toward the Algar King.

“Die!” he howled, slashing at the air even as he charged. “Die, Cho-Hag!”

It was not a duel, for there were proprieties in a duel. The two kings hacked at each other with an elemental brutality, thousands of years of pent-up hatred boiling in their blood. Taur Urgas, totally mad now, sobbed and gibbered as he swung his heavy sword at his enemy. Cho-Hag, cold as ice and with an arm as fast as the flickering tongue of a snake, slid the crushing Murgo blows aside, catching them on his sliding sabre and flicking his blade like a whip, its edge biting again and again into the shoulders and face of the King of the Murgos.

The two armies, stunned by the savagery of the encounter, recoiled and gave the mounted kings room for their deadly struggle.

Frothing obscenities, Taur Urgas hacked insanely at the elusive form of his foe, but Cho-Hag, colder yet, feinted and parried and flicked his whistling sabre at the Murgo’s bleeding face.

Finally, driven past even what few traces of reason were left to him, Taur Urgas hurled his horse directly at Cho-Hag with a wild animal scream. Standing in his stirrups, he grasped his sword hilt in both hands, raising it like an axe to smash his enemy forever. But Cho-Hag danced his horse to one side and thrust with all his strength, even as Taur Urgas began his massive blow. With a steely rasp, his sabre ran through the Murgo’s blood-red mail and through the tensed body, to emerge dripping from his back.

Unaware in his madness that he had just received a mortal wound, Taur Urgas raised his sword again, but the strength drained from his arms and the sword fell from his grasp. With stunned disbelief, he gaped at the sabre emerging from his chest, and a bloody froth burst from his mouth. He lifted his hands like claws as if to tear away the face of his enemy, but Cho-Hag contemptuously slapped his hands away, even as he pulled his slender, curved blade out of the Murgo’s body with a slithering whistle.

“And so it ends, Taur Urgas,” he declared in an icy voice.

“No!” Taur Urgas croaked, trying to pull a heavy dagger from his belt.

Cho-Hag watched his feeble efforts coldly. Dark blood suddenly spurted from the open mouth of the Murgo King, and he toppled weakly from his saddle. Struggling, coughing blood, Taur Urgas lurched to his feet, gurgling curses at the man who had just killed him.

“Good fight, though,” Cho-Hag told him with a bleak smile, and then he turned to ride away.

Taur Urgas fell, clawing at the turf in impotent rage. “Come back and fight,” he sobbed. “Come back.”

Cho-Hag glanced over his shoulder. “Sorry, your Majesty,” he replied, “but I have pressing business elsewhere. I’m sure you understand.” And with that he began to ride away.

“Come back!” Taur Urgas wailed, belching blood and curses and digging his fingers into the earth. “Come back!” Then he collapsed facedown in the bloody grass. “Come back and fight, Cho-Hag!” he gasped weakly.

The last that Cho-Hag saw of him, the dying King of Cthol Murgos was biting at the sod and clawing at the earth with trembling fingers. A vast moan shuddered through the tight-packed regiments of the Murgos, and a sudden cheer rose from the ranks of the Algars as Cho-Hag, victorious, rode back to join the army.

“They’re coming again,” General Varana announced with cool professionalism as he watched the waves of oncoming Malloreans.

“Where is that signal?” Rhodar demanded, staring intently downriver. “What’s Anheg doing down there?”

The front ranks of the Mallorean assault struck with a resounding crash. The Drasnian pikemen began to thrust with their long, widebladed spears, wreaking havoc among the red-garbed attackers, and the legions raised their shields in the interlocked position that presented a solid wall against which the Malloreans beat futilely. Upon a sharp, barked command, the legionnaires turned their shields slightly and each man thrust his lance out through the opening between his shield and the next. The Tolnedran lances were not as long as the Drasnian pikes, but they were long enough. A huge, shuddering cry went through the front ranks of the Malloreans, and they fell in heaps beneath the feet of the men behind.

“Are they going to break through?” Rhodar puffed. Even though he was not directly involved in the fighting, the Drasnian King began to pant at each Mallorean charge.

Varana carefully assessed the strength of the assault. “No,” he concluded, “not this time. Have you worked out how you’re going to make your withdrawal? It’s a little difficult to pull back when your troops are engaged.”

“That’s why I’m saving the Mimbrates,” Rhodar replied. “They’re resting their horses now for one last charge. As soon as we get the signal from Anheg, Mandorallen and his men will shove the Malloreans back, and the rest of us will run like rabbits.”

“The charge will only hold them back for so long,” Varana advised, “and then they’ll come after you again.”

“We’ll form up again upriver a ways,” Rhodar said.

“It’s going to take a long time to get back to the escarpment if you’re going to have to stop and fight every half mile or so,” Varana told him.

“I know that,” Rhodar snapped peevishly. “Have you got any better ideas?”

“No,” Varana replied. “I was just pointing it out, that’s all.”

“Where is that signal?” Rhodar demanded again.

On a quiet hillside some distance from the struggle taking place on the north bank, the simpleminded serf boy from the Arendish forest was playing his flute. His melody was mournful, but even in its sadness, it soared to the sky. The boy did not understand the fighting and he had wandered away unnoticed. Now he sat alone on the grassy hillside in the warm, midmorning sunlight with his entire soul pouring out of his flute.

The Mallorean soldier who was creeping up behind him with drawn sword had no ear for music. He did not know—or care—that the song the boy played was the most beautiful song any man had ever heard.

The song ended very suddenly, never to begin again.

The stream of casualties being carried to Ariana’s makeshift hospital grew heavier, and the overtaxed Mimbrate girl was soon forced into making some cruel decisions. Only those men with some chance of survival could be treated. The mortally hurt were quickly given a drink of a bitter-tasting potion of herbs that would ease their pain and then were left to die. Each such decision wrung Ariana’s heart, and she worked with tears standing in her eyes.

And then Brand, the Rivan Warder, entered the tent with a stricken face. The big Rivan’s mail shirt was blood-spattered, and there were savage sword cuts along the edge of his broad, round shield. Behind him, three of his sons bore the limp, bleeding form of their younger brother, Olban.

“Can you see to him?” Brand asked Ariana hoarsely.

A single glance, however, told the blond girl that the wound in Olban’s chest was mortal. “I can make him comfortable,” she replied a bit evasively. She quickly knelt beside the bleeding young man, lifted his head, and held a cup to his lips.

“Father,” Olban said weakly after he had drunk, “I have something I have to tell you.”

“Time enough for that later,” Brand told him gruffly, “after you’re better.”

“I’m not going to get better, father,” Olban said in a voice scarcely more than a whisper.

“Nonsense,” Brand told him, but there was no conviction in his voice.

“There’s not much time, father,” Olban said, coughing weakly. “Please listen.”

“Very well, Olban,” the Warder said, leaning forward to catch his son’s words.

“At Riva—after Belgarion came—I was humiliated because you had been deposed. I couldn’t bear it, father.” Olban coughed again, and a bloody froth came to his lips.

“You should have known me better than that, Olban,” Brand said gently.

“I do—now.” Olban sighed. “But I was young and proud, and Belgarion—a nobody from Sendaria—had pushed you from your rightful place.”

“It wasn’t my place to begin with, Olban,” Brand told him. “It was his. Belgarion’s the Rivan King. That has nothing to do with position or place. It’s a duty—and it’s his, not mine.”

“I hated him,” Olban whispered. “I began to follow him every place. Wherever he went, I wasn’t far behind him.”

“What for?” Brand asked.

“At first I didn’t know. Then one day he came out of the throne room wearing his robe and crown. He seemed so puffed-up with his own importance—as if he really was a king instead of just a common Sendarian scullion. Then I knew what I had to do. I took my dagger and I threw it at his back.”

Brand’s face suddenly froze.

“For a long time after that, I tried to avoid him,” Olban continued. “I knew that what I had done was wrong—even as the dagger left my fingers. I thought that if I stayed away from him, he’d never find out that I was the one who’d tried to kill him. But he has powers, father. He has ways of knowing things no man could possibly know. He sought me out one day and gave me back the dagger I’d thrown at him and he told me that I should never tell anyone what I’d done. He did that for you, father—to keep my disgrace from you.”

Grim-faced, Brand rose to his feet. “Come,” he said to his other three sons. “We have fighting to do—and no time to waste on traitors.” Quite deliberately he turned his back on his dying son.

“I tried to repay his mercy, father,” Olban pleaded. “I pledged my life to protecting his queen. Doesn’t that count for anything?” Brand’s face was stony, and he kept his back turned in grim silence. “Belgarion forgave me, father. Can’t you find it in your heart to forgive me too?”

“No,” Brand said harshly, “I cannot.”

“Please, father,” Olban begged. “Don’t you have one tear for me?”

“Not one,” Brand told him, but Ariana saw that his words were a lie. The grim, gray-clad man’s eyes were full, but his face remained granitelike. Without another word, he strode from the tent.

Wordlessly, each of Olban’s brothers clasped his hand in turn, and then they left to follow their father.

Olban wept quietly for a time, but then his growing weakness and the drug Ariana had given him drained away his grief. He lay, half dozing on his pallet for a time, then struggled to raise himself and beckoned to the Mimbrate girl. She knelt beside him, supporting him with one arm about his shoulders and her head bent to catch his faltering words. “Please,” he whispered. “Please tell her Majesty what I said to my father—and tell her how sorry I was.” And then his head fell forward against Ariana, and he quietly died in her arms.

Ariana had no time to mourn, for precisely then three Sendars carried Colonel Brendig into her tent. The colonel’s left arm was mangled beyond all hope of repair.

“We were bringing down the bridge that crosses to the city,” one of the Sendars reported tersely. “There was a support that wouldn’t give way, so the colonel went down himself to chop it away. When it finally broke, the timbers of the bridge fell on him.”

Ariana gravely examined Brendig’s shattered arm. “I fear there is no recourse, my Lord,” she told him. “The arm will have to come off, lest it mortify and carry thy life away with it.”

Brendig nodded soberly. “That’s about what I’d expected,” he replied. “I suppose we’d better get on with it then.”

“There!” King Rhodar shouted, pointing downriver. “The smoke—it’s green! That’s the signal. We can start the retreat now.”

General Varana, however, was staring at the riverbank upstream. “It’s too late, I’m afraid, your Majesty,” he said quietly. “A column of Malloreans and Nadraks have just reached the river to the west of us. It very much looks as if we’ve been cut off.”

18

The news of the death of Taur Urgas spread through the Murgo army in a vast groan, and the heart went out of the black-robed troops. Taur Urgas had been feared by his men, but his savage madness had lent them all a peculiar sense that they were invincible. They had felt somehow that nothing could stand in his path, and that they, as the instruments of his brutal will, shared in some measure his apparent invulnerability. But with his death, each Murgo became aware with a sudden cold touch of fear that he also could die, and the assault on the armies of the west along the south bank faltered.

King Cho-Hag watched the crumbling of the Murgo resolve with a certain grim satisfaction, then rode down to the lines of infantry and the milling Mimbrate knights to confer with the other leaders. King Fulrach strode forward from the ranks of his Sendars. The dumpy, brown-bearded monarch looked almost comical in his burnished breastplate, but his sword showed signs of recent use, and his helmet was dented in a couple of places, mute evidence that the King of Sendaria had participated in the fight.

“Have you seen Anheg’s signal yet?” Fulrach demanded as he approached.

Cho-Hag shook his head. “It should come any time now, though,” he replied. “We’d better make some plans. Have you seen Korodullin?”

“The physicians are working on him,” Fulrach said.

“Is he hurt?” Cho-Hag was startled.

“I don’t think it’s too serious. He went to help his friend, the Baron of Vo Ebor, and a Murgo hit him in the head with a mace. His helmet absorbed most of the blow. He’s bleeding out of the ears a bit, but the physicians say he’ll recover. The baron’s in worse shape, though.”

“Who’s in charge of the Mimbrates, then?”

“Sir Andorig. He’s a good man in a fight, but his understanding is a bit limited.”

Cho-Hag laughed shortly. “You’ve just described most of Arendia, my friend. They’re all good in a fight, and they all have limited understanding.” Carefully he dismounted, holding onto his saddle as his weak legs nearly buckled. “We can make our decisions without Andorig’s help, I think.” He looked at the retreating Murgos. “As soon as we see Anheg’s signal, I think we’re going to want to get out of here in a hurry. The Murgos are demoralized right now, but they’ll probably stiffen up again as soon as the shock wears off.”

Fulrach nodded. “Did you really kill Taur Urgas in a duel?” he asked.

Cho-Hag nodded. “It wasn’t really all that much of a duel. He was raving when he came at me and didn’t even try to defend himself. When Anheg signals, we’ll have the Mimbrates charge the Murgo front. The Murgos will probably break and run. I’ll follow after them with my clansmen to hurry them along. That should give you and your foot troops time to start upriver. Andorig and I’ll keep the Murgos off your back until you get clear. How does that sound?”

King Fulrach nodded. “It sounds workable,” he agreed. “Do you think they’ll try to follow us?”

Cho-Hag grinned. “I’ll encourage them not to,” he replied. “Have you got any idea of what’s going on across the river?”

“It’s hard to say, but things don’t look very good.”

“Can you think of any way we can send them help?”

“Not on short notice,” Fulrach answered.

“Neither can I,” Cho-Hag said. He began to pull himself back up into his saddle. “I’ll go give Andorig his instructions. Keep your eyes open for Anheg’s signal.”

“Belgarath!” Ce’Nedra called out silently, her hand tightly clasped about the amulet at her throat. “Belgarath, can you hear me?” She was standing several yards away from where Durnik was trying to make the unconscious Polgara as comfortable as possible. The princess had her eyes tightly closed and she was putting every ounce of concentration into casting her thought to the sky, reaching out with all her heart toward the ancient sorcerer.

“Ce’Nedra?” The old man’s voice was as clear as if he were standing beside her. “What are you doing? Where’s Polgara?”

“Oh, Belgarath!” The princess almost sobbed with relief. “Help us. Lady Polgara’s unconscious, and the Malloreans are attacking again. We’re being slaughtered, Belgarath. Help us.”

“Slow down,” he commanded brusquely. “What happened to Pol? Where are you?”

“We’re at Thull Mardu,” Ce’Nedra replied. “We had to take the city so that the Cherek fleet could go on down the river. The Malloreans and the Murgos crept up on us. They’ve been attacking since early this morning.”

Belgarath started to swear. “What’s wrong with Pol?” he demanded harshly.

“The Grolims brought in an awful storm, and then there was fog. Lady Polgara and Beldin made the wind blow, and then she just collapsed. Beldin said that she exhausted herself and that we have to let her sleep.”

“Where’s Beldin?”

“He said that he had to keep an eye on the Grolims. Can you help us?”

“Ce’Nedra, I’m a thousand leagues away from you. Garion, Silk, and I are in Mallorea—practically on Torak’s doorstep. If I so much as raise my hand, it will wake him, and Garion’s not ready to meet him yet.”

“We’re doomed, then,” Ce’Nedra wailed.

“Stop that,” he snapped. “This isn’t the time for hysterics. You’re going to have to wake Polgara.”

“We’ve tried—and Beldin says that we’ve got to let her rest.”

“She can rest later,” Belgarath retorted. “Is that bag she always carries somewhere about—the one she keeps all those herbs in?”

“I—I think so. Durnik was carrying it a little while ago.”

“Durnik’s with you? Good. Now listen, and listen carefully. Get the bag and open it. What you want will be in a silk pouch. Don’t open any jars or bottles. She keeps her poisons in those. In one of the silk bags you’ll find a yellow-colored powder. It has a very acrid odor to it. Put a spoonful or so of that powder into a pot of boiling water. Put the pot beside Pol’s head and cover her face with a cloak so she has to breathe the fumes.”

“What will that do?”

“It will wake her up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t argue with me, Ce’Nedra. She’ll wake up, believe me. Those fumes would wake up a dead stick. As soon as she’s awake, she’ll know what to do.”

Ce’Nedra hesitated. “Is Garion there?” she blurted finally.

“He’s asleep. We had a rough time last night.”

“When he wakes up, tell him that I love him.” She said it very fast, as if afraid that if she thought about it at all, she wouldn’t be able to say it.

“Why confuse him?” the old man asked her.

“Belgarath!” Ce’Nedra’s voice was stricken.

“I was teasing. I’ll tell him. Now get to work—and don’t do this any more. I’m trying to sneak up on Torak, and it’s a little hard to sneak when you’re shouting at somebody a thousand leagues away.”

“We aren’t shouting.”

“Oh yes we are—it’s a special kind of shouting, but it’s shouting all the same. Now take your hand off that amulet and get to work.” And then his voice was gone.

Durnik, of course, would never understand, so Ce’Nedra did what was necessary by herself. She rummaged around until she found a small pot. She filled it with water and set it on the small fire the smith had built the night before. Then she opened Polgara’s herb bag. The blond child, Errand, stood at her side, watching her curiously.

“What are you doing, Princess?” Durnik asked, still hovering anxiously over the sleeping Polgara.

“I’m fixing something to make her rest easier,” Ce’Nedra lied.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Some of those are very dangerous.”

“I know which one I’m looking for,” she replied. “Trust me, Durnik.”

The powder she finally located was so acrid that it made her eyes water. She carefully measured out a bit of it and dumped it into the pot. The steaming fumes were awful, and the princess kept her face averted as she carried the pot to where Polgara lay. She set the pot beside the lady’s pale, sleeping face and then laid a cloak across her. “Give me a stick,” the princess said to the smith.

Durnik, his face dubious, handed her a broken-off arrow.

Ce’Nedra carefully propped up the cloak, making a small tent over the pot and Polgara’s face.

“What now?” Durnik asked.

“Now we wait,” Ce’Nedra told him.

Then, coming from the direction of the battle, a group of Sendarian soldiers, evidently wounded, appeared at the top of the grassy bank surrounding the secluded little beach. Their jerkins all had bloodstains on them, and several of the men wore bandages. Unlike most of the wounded who had already passed that morning, however, these men still carried their weapons.

Under the tented cloak, Polgara began to cough.

“What have you done?” Durnik cried, snatching the cloak away.

“It was necessary,” Ce’Nedra replied. “I talked with Belgarath. He told me that I had to wake her up—and how to do it.”

“You’ll hurt her,” Durnik accused. With sudden, uncharacteristic anger, he kicked the fuming pot, sending it rolling down the beach toward the water’s edge.

Polgara’s eyelids were fluttering as she continued to cough. When she opened her eyes, however, her look was blank, uncomprehending.

“Can you spare us some water?” one of the wounded Sendars asked as the group of men approached.

“There’s a whole river right there,” Ce’Nedra replied absently, pointing even as she intently stared into Polgara’s eyes.

Durnik, however, gave the men a startled look, then suddenly reached for his sword.

But the men in Sendarian jerkins had jumped down from the bank and were already upon them. It took three of them to disarm the powerful smith and to hold his arms.

“You’re not Sendars,” Durnik exclaimed, struggling with his captors.

“How clever of you to notice,” one of them replied in an accent so guttural that it was almost unintelligible. Another of them drew his sword and stood over the dazed Polgara. “Stop fighting, friend,” he told Durnik with an ugly smirk, “or I’ll kill this woman.”

“Who are you?” Ce’Nedra demanded indignantly. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Actually, we’re members of the Imperial Elite Guard,” the man with the sword answered urbanely. “And we’re here, your Highness, to extend to you the invitation of his Imperial Majesty ’Zakath, Emperor of Mallorea. His Majesty requests the honor of your presence in his pavilion.” His face hardened, and he looked at his men. “Bring them,” he ordered. “Let’s get out of here before someone comes along and starts asking questions.”

“They’re digging in,” Hettar reported to King Rhodar, gesturing toward the west and their now-blocked escape route. “They’ve already got a trench-line running from the river for about a half a mile.”

“Is there any chance of going around them?” Rhodar asked.

Hettar shook his head. “That whole flank’s seething with Nadraks.”

“We’ll have to go through them, then,” the King of Drasnia decided. “I can’t very well attack trenches with cavalry,” Hettar pointed out.

“We’ll storm them with the infantry units,” Rhodar declared. “We’ll have a certain advantage. The Asturian bows have a longer range than the short ones the Malloreans use. We’ll move the archers to the front as we advance. They can rake the trenches and then harass the Mallorean archers behind the lines. The pikemen will go in first.” The sweating fat man looked at General Varana. “Can your legionnaires clear the trenches once we open a hole for you?”

Varana nodded. “We train extensively for trench fighting,” he replied confidently. “We’ll clear the trenches.”

“We’ll bring the wounded with the main force,” Rhodar said. “Somebody locate Polgara and the princess. It’s time to leave.”

“What task hast thou for Lord Hettar and me,” Mandorallen inquired. The great knight’s armor showed a number of dents, but he spoke as calmly as if he had not spent the entire morning involved in heavy fighting.

“I want you and your knights to hold the rear,” Rhodar told him. “Keep that army out there off my back.” He turned to Hettar. “And I want you and your clansmen to go to work on the Nadraks. I don’t want them to come swarming in while we’re working in the trenches.”

“It’s a desperate move, King Rhodar,” General Varana said seriously. “Attacking even hasty fortifications is always costly, and you’re going to do it with another army coming at you from the rear. If your attack is beaten back, you’ll be caught between two superior forces. They’ll grind you to dogmeat right on the spot.”

“I know,” Rhodar admitted glumly, “but our only hope of escape is breaking through those lines that have us blocked off. We’ve got to get back upriver. Tell your men that we have to take those trenches on the first charge. Otherwise, we’re all going to die right here. All right, gentlemen, good luck.”

Once again Mandorallen led his steel-clad knights in their fearsome charge, and once again the attacking Malloreans recoiled, driven back by the dreadful shock as the mounted men of Mimbre struck their front ranks. This time, however, the pikemen and legionnaires, as soon as they were disengaged from the enemy, turned sharply to the left and, at a jingling trot, abandoned their positions to follow the Sendars and Asturians who were already withdrawing from the field toward the west.

The delaying action of the Mimbrate knights was costly. Riderless horses galloped wildly about the battlefield, quite frequently adding to the havoc by trampling through the Mallorean ranks. Here and there among the red tunics that carpeted the field lay the single gleaming form of a fallen knight. Again and again the Mimbrates hurled themselves against the advancing red tide, slowing the Malloreans, but not quite able to stop them.

“It’s going to be tight, your Majesty,” General Varana advised as he and King Rhodar rode toward the hastily drawn lines blocking their escape. “Even if we break through, the bulk of the Mallorean forces are going to be hot on our heels.”

“You’ve got a great talent for the obvious, General,” Rhodar replied. “As soon as we get through, we’ll put the archers at the rear and let the Malloreans march through a rain of arrows. That will hold them back.”

“Until the archers run out of arrows,” Varana added.

“After we break through, I’ll send the Algars on ahead. Fulrach’s got whole wagonloads of arrows at the rapids.”

“Which is two days march ahead.”

“Do you always look at the dark side of things?”

“Just trying to anticipate, your Majesty.”

“Would you mind anticipating someplace else?”

The Algars had moved out to the right flank of the retreating army and were gathering in their characteristic small bands, preparing to charge the Nadraks drawn up on the hills above the river. Hettar, his scalp lock streaming, moved forward at a steady lope, his sabre drawn and his eyes like flint. The Nadraks appeared at first to be awaiting his charge, but then, amazingly, they turned away and rode rapidly toward the river.

From the midst of that sudden surge, a half dozen men riding under the Nadrak banner swerved out toward the advancing Algars. One of the riders was waving a short stick with a white rag tied to it. The group reined in sharply about a hundred yards in front of Hettar’s horse.

“I’ve got to talk to Rhodar,” one of the Nadraks bellowed in a shrill voice. He was a tall, emaciated man with a pockmarked face and a scraggly beard, but on his head he wore a crown.

“Is this some trick?” Hettar shouted back.

“Of course it is, you jackass,” the scrawny man replied. “But it’s not on you this time. Get me to Rhodar at once.”

“Keep an eye on them,” Hettar told a nearby Clan-Chief, pointing at the Nadrak forces now streaming toward the Mallorean trenches lying in the path of the retreating army. “I’ll take this maniac to see King Rhodar.” He turned and led the group of Nadrak warriors toward the advancing infantry.

“Rhodar!” the thin man wearing the crown shrieked as they approached the Drasnian King. “Don’t you ever answer your mail?”

“What are you doing, Drosta?” King Rhodar shouted back.

“I’m changing sides, Rhodar,” King Drosta lek Thun replied with an almost hysterical laugh. “I’m joining forces with you. I’ve been in touch with your queen for weeks. Didn’t you get her messages?”

“I thought you were playing games.”

“Naturally I’m playing games.” The Nadrak King giggled. “I’ve always got something up my sleeve. Right now my army’s opening an escape route for you. You do want to escape, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“So do I. My troops will butcher the Malloreans in those trenches, and then we can all make a run for it.”

“I don’t trust you, Drosta,” Rhodar said bluntly.

“Rhodar,” Drosta said in mock chagrin, “how can you say that to an old friend?” He giggled again, his voice shrill and nervous.

“I want to know why you’re changing sides in the middle of a battle—particularly when your side’s winning.”

“Rhodar, my kingdom’s awash with Malloreans. If I don’t help you to defeat them, ’Zakath will simply absorb Gar og Nadrak. It’s much too long and involved to talk about now. Will you accept my aid?”

“I’ll take all the help I can get.”

“Good. Maybe later we can get drunk together and talk things over, but for right now, let’s get out of here before ’Zakath hears about this and comes after me personally.” The King of Gar og Nadrak laughed again, the same shrill, almost hysterical laugh as before. “I did it, Rhodar,” he exulted. “I actually betrayed ’Zakath of Mallorea and got away with it.”

“You haven’t gotten away with it yet, Drosta,” Rhodar told him dryly.

“I will if we run fast enough, Rhodar, and right now I really feel like running.”

’Zakath, dread Emperor of boundless Mallorea, was a man of medium height with glossy black hair and a pale, olive-tinged complexion. His features were regular, even handsome, but his eyes were haunted by a profound melancholy. He appeared to be about thirty-five years old, and he wore a plain linen robe with no ornament or decoration upon it to indicate his exalted rank.

His pavilion stood in the center of the camp of the Malloreans, a vast sea of tents standing on the plains of Mishrak ac Thull. The earthen floor of the pavilion was covered with priceless Mallorean carpets, and the polished tables and chairs were inlaid with gold and with mother of pearl. Candles filled the pavilion with glowing light. Somewhere nearby, a small group of musicians played subdued melodies set in a minor key.

The Emperor’s only companion was a half grown cat, a common, mackerel-striped tabby with that gangling, long-legged awkwardness of the adolescent feline. While ’Zakath watched with a sort of sad-eyed amusement, the young cat stalked a scrap of balled-up parchment, her feet noiseless on the carpet and her face set in a look of intent concentration.

As Princess Ce’Nedra and her companions were escorted into the pavilion, ’Zakath, seated on a low, cushioned divan, held up his hand for silence, his eyes still fixed on the cat.

“She hunts,” the Emperor murmured in a dead voice.

The cat crept nearer to her intended prey, crouched and shifted her hind feet nervously, her bottom twitching from side to side and her tail lashing. Then she leaped at the parchment. The ball crackled as she pounced on it, and, startled, she jumped high into the air. She batted the ball experimentally with one paw; suddenly finding a new game, she bounded it across the floor with a series of soft-pawed jabs, scampering after it with awkward enthusiasm.

’Zakath smiled sadly. “A young cat,” he said, “with much yet to learn.” He rose gracefully to his feet and bowed to Ce’Nedra. “Your Imperial Highness,” he greeted her formally. His voice was resonant, but there was that peculiar deadness in it.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Ce’Nedra replied, inclining her head in response.

“Please, Goodman,” ’Zakath said to Durnik, who was supporting the still-dazed Polgara, “let the lady rest here.” He indicated the divan. “I’ll send for my physicians, and they will see to her indisposition.”

“Your Majesty is too kind.” Ce’Nedra mouthed the ritual phrase, but her eyes were searching ’Zakath’s face for some hint of his real intentions. “One is surprised to meet such courtesy-under the circumstances.”

He smiled again, rather whimsically. “And, of course, all Malloreans are supposed to be raving fanatics—like Murgos. Courtesy is out of character, right?”

“We have very little information about Mallorea and its people,” the princess responded. “I was not certain what to expect.”

“That’s surprising,” the Emperor observed. “I have a great deal of information about your father and your Alorn friends.”

“Your Majesty has the aid of Grolims in gathering intelligence,” Ce’Nedra said, “while we must rely on ordinary men.”

“The Grolims are overrated, Princess. Their first loyalty is to Torak; their second to their own hierarchy. They tell me only what they want to tell me—although periodically I manage to have a bit of additional information extracted from one of them. It helps to keep the rest of them honest.”

An attendant entered the pavilion, fell to his knees, and pressed his face to the carpet.

“Yes?” ’Zakath inquired.

“Your Imperial Majesty asked that the King of Thulldom be brought here,” the attendant replied.

“Ah, yes. I’d nearly forgotten. Please excuse me for a moment, Princess Ce’Nedra—a small matter requiring my attention. Please, you and your friends make yourselves comfortable.” He looked critically at Ce’Nedra’s armor. “After we’ve dined, I’ll have the women of my household see to more suitable clothing for you and for Lady Polgara. Does the child require anything?” He looked curiously at Errand, who was intently watching the cat.

“He’ll be all right, your Majesty,” Ce’Nedra replied. Her mind was working very rapidly. This urbane, polished gentleman might be easier to deal with than she had anticipated.

“Bring in the King of the Thulls,” ’Zakath ordered, his hand wearily shading his eyes.

“At once, your Imperial Majesty,” the attendant said, scrambling to his feet and backing out of the pavilion, bent in a deep bow.

Gethell, the King of Mishrak ac Thull, was a thick-bodied man with lank, mud-colored hair. His face was a pasty white as he was led in, and he was trembling violently. “Y-Your Imperial Majesty,” he stammered in a croaking voice.

“You forgot to bow, Gethell,” ’Zakath reminded him gently. One of the Mallorean guards doubled his fist and drove it into Gethell’s stomach. The Thull monarch doubled over.

“Much better,” ’Zakath said approvingly. “I’ve asked you here in regard to some distressing news I received from the battlefield, Gethell. My commanders report that your troops did not behave well during the engagement at Thull Mardu. I am no soldier, but it seems to me that your men might have stood at least one charge by the Mimbrate knights before they ran away. I’m informed however, that they did not. Have you any explanation for that?”

Gethell began to babble incoherently.

“I thought not,” ’Zakath told him. “It’s been my experience that the failure of people to do what’s expected of them is the result of poor leadership. It appears that you’ve not taken the trouble to encourage your men to be brave. That was a serious oversight on your part, Gethell.”

“Forgive me, dread ’Zakath,” the King of the Thulls wailed, falling to his knees in terror.

“But of course I forgive you, my dear fellow,” ’Zakath told him. “How absurd of you to think that I wouldn’t. A reprimand of some sort is in order, though, don’t you think?”

“I freely accept full responsibility,” Gethell declared, still on his knees.

“Splendid, Gethell. Absolutely splendid. I’m so glad that this interview is going so well. We’ve managed to avoid all kinds of unpleasantness.” He turned to the attendant. “Would you be so good as to take King Gethell out and have him flogged?” he asked.

“At once, your Imperial Majesty.”

Gethell’s eyes started from his head as the two soldiers dragged him to his feet.

“Now,” ’Zakath mused. “What do we do with him after we’ve flogged him?” He thought a moment. “Ah, I know. Is there any stout timber in the vicinity?”

“It’s all open grassland, your Imperial Majesty.”

“What a pity.” ’Zakath sighed. “I was going to have you crucified, Gethell, but I suppose I’ll have to forgo that. Perhaps an extra fifty lashes will serve as well.”

Gethell began to blubber.

“Oh, come now, my dear fellow, that just won’t do. You are a king, after all, and you absolutely must provide a good example for your men. Run along now. I have guests. One hopes that the sight of your public flogging will give your troops greater incentive to do better. They’ll reason that if I’d do that to you, then what I’ll do to them will be infinitely worse. When you recover, encourage them in that belief, because the next time this happens, I’ll have made arrangements to have the necessary timber on hand. Take him away,” he said to his men without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

“Forgive me for the interruption, your Highness,” he apologized. “These little administrative details consume so much of one’s time.” The King of the Thulls was dragged sobbing from the pavilion. “I’ve ordered a small supper for you and your friends, Princess Ce’Nedra,” ’Zakath continued. “All the finest delicacies. Then I’ll make arrangements for the absolute comfort of you and your companions.”

“I hope that this won’t offend your Imperial Majesty,” Ce’Nedra began bravely, “but one is curious about your plans in regard to our future.”

“Please set your mind at rest, your Highness,” ’Zakath replied in his dead-sounding voice. “Word has reached me that the madman, Taur Urgas, is dead. I will never be able to repay you for that service, and I bear you absolutely no ill will whatsoever.” He glanced toward one corner of his tent where his cat, purring ecstatically, was lying on her back in Errand’s lap with all four paws in the air. The smiling child was gently stroking her furry belly. “How charming,” ’Zakath murmured in an oddly melancholy voice.

Then the Emperor of boundless Mallorea rose and approached the divan where Durnik supported Lady Polgara. “My Queen,” he said, bowing to her with profound respect. “Your beauty quite transcends all reports.”

Polgara opened her eyes and gave him a level gaze. A wild hope leaped in Ce’Nedra’s heart. Polgara was conscious.

“You are courteous, my Lord,” Polgara told him in a weak voice.

“You are my queen, Polgara,” ’Zakath told her, “and I can now understand my God’s ages-old longing for you.” He sighed then as his apparently habitual melancholy descended upon him once again.

“What are you going to do with us?” Durnik asked, his arms still holding Polgara protectively.

’Zakath sighed again. “The God of my people is not a good or kindly God,” he told the smith. “If the arranging of things had been left to me, all might have been different. I was not consulted, however. I am Angarak, and I must bow to the will of Torak. The sleep of the Dragon God grows fitful, and I must obey his commands. Though it wounds me deeply, I must turn you and your companions over to the Grolims. They will deliver you up to Zedar, disciple of Torak in Cthol Mishrak, City of Night, where he will decide your fate.”