Demon Lord of Karanda

by David Eddings

  ‘I’d hardly say invincible. I was terrified the whole time—and so was Torak, I think. Was there something you really wanted to talk about?’

  Zakath leaned back in his chair, tapping thoughtfully at his pursed lips. ‘You know that eventually you and I will have to confront each other, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ Garion disagreed. ‘That’s not absolutely certain.’

  ‘There can only be one King of the World.’

  Garion’s look grew pained. ‘I’ve got enough trouble trying to rule one small island. I’ve never wanted to be King of the World.’

  ‘But I have—and do.’

  Garion sighed. ‘Then we probably will fight at that—sooner or later. I don’t think the world was intended to be ruled by one man. If you try to do that, I’ll have to stop you.’

  ‘I am unstoppable, Belgarion.’

  ‘So was Torak—or at least he thought so.’

  ‘That’s blunt enough.’

  ‘It helps to avoid a lot of misunderstandings later on. I’d say that you’ve got enough trouble at home without trying to invade my kingdom—or those of my friends. That’s not to mention the stalemate here in Cthol Murgos.’

  ‘You’re well informed.’

  ‘Queen Porenn is a close personal friend. She keeps me advised, and Silk picks up a great deal of information during the course of his business dealings.’

  ‘Silk?’

  ‘Excuse me. Prince Kheldar, I mean. Silk’s a nickname of sorts.’

  Zakath looked at him steadily. ‘In some ways we’re very much alike, Belgarion, and in other ways very different, but we still do what necessity compels us to do. Frequently, we’re at the mercy of events over which we have no control.’

  ‘I suppose you’re talking about the two Prophecies?’

  Zakath laughed shortly. ‘I don’t believe in prophecy. I only believe in power. It’s curious though that we’ve both been faced with similar problems of late. You recently had to put down an uprising in Aloria—a group of religious fanatics, I believe. I have something of much the same nature going on in Darshiva. Religion is a constant thorn in the side of any ruler, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I’ve been able to work around it—most of the time.’

  ‘You’ve been very lucky then. Torak was neither a good nor a kindly God, and his Grolim priesthood is vile. If I weren’t busy here in Cthol Murgos, I think I might endear myself to the next thousand or so generations by obliterating every Grolim on the face of the earth.’

  Garion grinned at him. ‘What would you say to an alliance with that in mind?’ he suggested.

  Zakath laughed briefly, and then his face grew somber again. ‘Does the name Zandramas mean anything to you?’ he asked.

  Garion edged around that cautiously, not knowing how much information Zakath had about their real reason for being in Cthol Murgos. ‘I’ve heard some rumors,’ he said.

  ‘How about Cthrag Sardius?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘You’re being evasive, Belgarion.’ Zakath gave him a steady look, then passed his hand wearily across his eyes.

  ‘I think you need some sleep,’ Garion told him.

  ‘Time for that soon enough—when my work is done.’

  ‘That’s up to you, I guess.’

  ‘How much do you know about Mallorea, Belgarion?’

  ‘I get reports—a little disjointed sometimes, but fairly current.’

  ‘No. I mean our past.’

  ‘Not too much, I’m afraid. Western historians tried very hard to ignore the fact that Mallorea was even there.’

  Zakath smiled wryly. ‘The University of Melcene has the same short-sightedness regarding the West,’ he noted. ‘Anyway, over the past several centuries—since the disaster at Vo Mimbre—Mallorean society has become almost completely secular. Torak was bound in sleep, Ctuchik was practicing his perversions here in Cthol Murgos, and Zedar was wandering around the world like a rootless vagabond—what ever happened to him, by the way? I thought he was at Cthol Mishrak.’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘We didn’t find his body.’

  ‘He isn’t dead.’

  ‘He’s not?’ Zakath looked stunned. ‘Where is he, then?’

  ‘Beneath the city. Belgarath opened the earth and sealed him up in solid rock under the ruin.’

  ‘Alive? Zakath’s exclamation came out in a choked gasp.

  ‘There was a certain amount of justification for it. Go on with your story.’

  Zakath shuddered and then recovered. ‘With the rest of them out of the way, the only religious figure left in Mallorea was Urvon, and he devoted himself almost exclusively to trying to make his palace at Mal Yaska more opulent than the imperial one at Mal Zeth. Every so often he’d preach a sermon filled with mumbo-jumbo and nonsense, but most of the time he seemed to have forgotten Torak entirely. With the Dragon God and his disciples no longer around, the real power of the Grolim Church was gone—oh, the priests babbled about the return of Torak, and they all paid lip service to the notion that one day the sleeping God would awaken, but the memory of him grew dimmer and dimmer. The power of the Church grew less and less, while that of the army—which is to say the imperial throne—grew more and more.’

  ‘Mallorean politics seem to be very murky,’ Garion observed.

  Zakath nodded. ‘It’s part of our nature, I suppose. At any rate, our society was functioning and moving out of the dark ages—slowly, perhaps, but moving. Then you suddenly appeared out of nowhere and awakened Torak—and just as suddenly put him permanently back to sleep again. That’s when all our problems started.’

  ‘Shouldn’t it have ended them? That’s sort of what I had in mind.’

  ‘I don’t think you grasp the nature of the religious mind, Belgarion. So long as Torak was there—even though he slept—the Grolims and the other hysterics in the empire were fairly placid, secure and comfortable in the belief that one day he would awaken, punish all their enemies and reassert the absolute authority of the unwashed and stinking priesthood. But when you killed Torak, you destroyed their comfortable sense of security. They were forced to face the fact that without Torak they were nothing. Some of them were so chagrined that they went mad. Others fell into absolute despair. A few, however, began to hammer together a new mythology—something to replace what you had destroyed with a single stroke of that sword over there.’

  ‘It wasn’t entirely my idea,’ Garion told him.

  ‘It’s results that matter, Belgarion, not intentions. Anyway, Urvon was forced to tear himself away from his quest for opulence and his wallowing in the adoration of the sycophants who surrounded him and get back to business. For a time he was in an absolute frenzy of activity. He resurrected all the moth-eaten old prophecies and twisted and wrenched at them until they seemed to say what he wanted them to say.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘He’s trying to convince people that a new God will come to rule over Angarak—either a resurrection of Torak himself or some new deity infused with Torak’s spirit. He’s even got a candidate in mind for this new God of Angarak.’

  ‘Oh? Who’s that?’

  Zakath’s expression became amused. ‘He sees his new God every time he looks in a mirror.’

  ‘You’re not serious!’

  ‘Oh, yes. Urvon’s been trying to convince himself that he’s at least a demigod for several centuries now. He’d probably have himself paraded all over Mallorea in a golden chariot—except that he’s afraid to leave Mal Yaska. As I understand it, there’s a very nasty hunchback who’s been hungering to kill him for eons—one of Aldur’s disciples, I believe.’

  Garion nodded. ‘Beldin,’ he said. ‘I’ve met him.’

  ‘Is he really as bad as the stories make him out to be?’

  ‘Probably even worse. I don’t think you’d want to be around to watch what he does, if he ever catches up with Urvon.’

  ‘I wish him good hunting, but Urvon’s not my only problem,
I’m afraid. Not long after the death of Torak, certain rumors started coming out of Darshiva. A Grolim priestess—Zandramas by name—also began to predict the coming of a new God.’

  ‘I didn’t know that she was a Grolim,’ Garion said with some surprise.

  Zakath nodded gravely. ‘She formerly had a very unsavory reputation in Darshiva. Then the so-called ecstacy of prophecy fell on her, and she was suddenly transformed by it. Now when she speaks, no one can resist her words. She preaches to multitudes and fires them with invincible zeal. Her message of the coming of a new God ran through Darshiva like wildfire and spread into Regel, Voresebo and Zamad as well. Virtually the entire northeast coast of Mallorea is hers.’

  ‘What’s the Sardion got to do with all this?’ Garion asked.

  ‘I think it’s the key to the whole business,’ Zakath replied. ‘Both Zandramas and Urvon seem to believe that whoever finds and possesses it is going to win out.’

  ‘Agachak—the Hierarch of Rak Urga—believes the same thing,’ Garion told him.

  Zakath nodded moodily. ‘I suppose I should have realized that. A Grolim is a Grolim—whether he comes from Mallorea or Cthol Murgos.’

  ‘It seems to me that maybe you should go back to Mallorea and put things in order.’

  ‘No, Belgarion, I won’t abandon my campaign here in Cthol Murgos.’

  ‘Is personal revenge worth it?’

  Zakath looked startled.

  ‘I know why you hated Taur Urgas, but he’s dead, and Urgit’s not at all like him. I can’t really believe that you’d sacrifice your whole empire just for the sake of revenging yourself on a man who can’t feel it.’

  ‘You know?’ Zakath’s face looked stricken. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Urgit did. He told me the whole story.’

  ‘With pride, I expect.’ Zakath’s teeth were clenched, and his face pale.

  ‘No, not really. It was with regret—and with contempt for Taur Urgas. He hated him even more than you do.’

  ‘That’s hardly possible, Belgarion. To answer your question, yes, I will sacrifice my empire—the whole world if need be—to spill out the last drop of the blood of Taur Urgas. I will neither sleep nor rest nor be turned aside from my vengeance, and I will crush whomever stands in my path.’

  ‘Tell him,’ the dry voice in Garion’s mind said suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell him the truth about Urgit.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Do it, Garion. He needs to know. There are things he has to do, and he won’t do them until he puts this obsession behind him.’

  Zakath was looking at him curiously.

  ‘Sorry, just receiving instructions,’ Garion explained lamely.

  ‘Instructions? From whom?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it. I was told to give you some information.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘Urgit isn’t a Murgo,’ he said flatly.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I said that Urgit isn’t a Murgo—at least not entirely. His mother was, of course, but his father was not Taur Urgas.’

  ‘You’re lying!’

  ‘No, I’m not. We found out about it while we were at the Drojim Palace in Rak Urga. Urgit didn’t know about it either.’

  ‘I don’t believe you, Belgarion!’ Zakath’s face was livid, and he was nearly shouting.

  ‘Taur Urgas is dead,’ Garion said wearily. ‘Urgit made sure of that by cutting his throat and burying him head down in his grave. He also claims that he had every one of his brothers—the real sons of Taur Urgas—killed to make himself secure on the throne. I don’t think there’s one drop of Urga blood left in the world.’

  Zakath’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s a trick. You’ve allied yourself with Urgit and brought me this absurd lie to save his life.’

  ‘Use the Orb, Garion,’ the voice instructed.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Take it off the pommel of the sword and hold it in your right hand. It’ll show Zakath the truths that he needs to know.’

  Garion rose to his feet. ‘If I can show you the truth, will you look?’ he asked the agitated Mallorean Emperor.

  ‘Look? Look at what?’

  Garion walked over to his sword and peeled off the soft leather sleeve covering the hilt. He put his hand on the Orb, and it came free with an audible click. Then he turned back to the man at the table. ‘I’m not exactly sure how this works,’ he said. ‘I’m told that Aldur was able to do it, but I’ve never tried it for myself. I thing you’re supposed to look into this.’ He extended his right arm until the Orb was in front of Zakath’s face.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘You people call it Cthrag Yaska,’ Garion replied.

  Zakath recoiled, his face blanching.

  ‘It won’t hurt you—as long as you don’t touch it.’

  The Orb, which for the past months had rather sullenly obeyed Garion’s continued instruction to restrain itself, slowly began to pulsate and glow in his hand, bathing Zakath’s face in its blue radiance. The Emperor half lifted his hand as if to push the glowing stone aside.

  ‘Don’t touch it,’ Garion warned again. ‘Just look.’

  But Zakath’s eyes were already locked on the stone as its blue light grew stronger and stronger. His hands gripped the edge of the table in front of him so tightly that his knuckles grew white. For a long moment he stared into that blue incandescence. Then, slowly, his fingers lost their grip on the table edge and fell back onto the arms of his chair. An expression of agony crossed his face. ‘They have escaped me,’ he groaned with tears welling out of his closed eyes, ‘and I have slaughtered tens of thousands for nothing.’ The tears began to stream down his contorted face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Zakath,’ Garion said quietly, lowering his hand. ‘I can’t change what’s already happened, but you had to know the truth.’

  ‘I cannot thank you for this truth,’ Zakath said, his shoulders shaking in the storm of his weeping. ‘Leave me, Belgarion. Take that accursed stone from my sight.’

  Garion nodded with a great feeling of compassion and shared sorrow. Then he replaced the Orb on the pommel of his sword, re-covered the hilt and picked up the great weapon. ‘I’m very sorry, Zakath,’ he said again, and then he quietly went out of the room, leaving the Emperor of boundless Mallorea alone with his grief.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Really, Garion, I’m perfectly fine,’ Ce’Nedra objected again.

  ‘I’m glad to hear that.’

  ‘Then you’ll let me get out of bed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ she pouted.

  ‘Would you like a little more tea?’ he asked, going to the fireplace, taking up a poker, and swinging out the iron arm from which a kettle was suspended.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she replied in a sulky little voice. ‘It smells, and it tastes awful.’

  ‘Aunt Pol says that it’s very good for you. Maybe if you drink some more of it, she’ll let you get out of bed and sit in a chair for a while.’ He spooned some of the dried, aromatic leaves from an earthenware pot into a cup, tipped the kettle carefully with the poker, and filled the cup with steaming water.

  Ce’Nedra’s eyes had momentarily come alight, but narrowed again almost immediately. ‘Oh, very clever, Garion,’ she said in a voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘Don’t patronize me.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he agreed blandly, setting the cup on the stand beside the bed. ‘You probably ought to let that steep for a while,’ he suggested.

  ‘It can steep all year if it wants to. I’m not going to drink it.’

  He sighed with resignation. ‘I’m sorry, Ce’Nedra,’ he said with genuine regret, ‘but you’re wrong. Aunt Pol says that you’re supposed to drink a cup of this every other hour. Until she tells me otherwise, that’s exactly what you’re going to do.’

  ‘What if I refuse?’ Her tone was belligerent.

  ‘I’m bigger than you are,’ he reminded her.

  Her eyes went
wide with shock. ‘You wouldn’t actually force me to drink it, would you?’

  His expression grew mournful. ‘I’d really hate to do something like that,’ he told her.

  ‘But you’d do it, wouldn’t you?’ she accused.

  He thought about it a moment, then nodded. ‘Probably,’ he admitted, ‘if Aunt Pol told me to.’

  She glared at him. ‘All right,’ she said finally. ‘Give me the stinking tea.’

  ‘It doesn’t smell all that bad, Ce’Nedra.’

  ‘Why don’t you drink it, then?’

  ‘I’m not the one who’s been sick.’

  She proceeded then to tell him—at some length—exactly what she thought of the tea and him and her bed and the room and the whole world in general. Many of the terms she used were very colorful—even lurid—and some of them were in languages that he didn’t recognize.

  ‘What on earth is all the shouting about?’ Polgara asked, coming into the room.

  ‘I absolutely hate this stuff!’ Ce’Nedra declared at the top of her lungs, waving the cup about and spilling most of the contents.

  ‘I wouldn’t drink it then,’ Polgara advised calmly.

  ‘Garion says that if I don’t drink it, he’ll pour it down my throat.’

  ‘Oh. Those were yesterday’s instructions.’ Polgara looked at Garion. ‘Didn’t I tell you that they change today?’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘As a matter of fact, you didn’t.’ He said it in a very level tone. He was fairly proud of that.

  ‘I’m sorry, dear. I must have forgotten.’

  ‘When can I get out of bed?’ Ce’Nedra demanded.

  Polgara gave her a surprised look. ‘Any time you want, dear,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact, I just came by to ask if you planned to join us for breakfast.’

  Ce’Nedra sat up in bed, her eyes like hard little stones. She slowly turned an icy gaze upon Garion and then quite deliberately stuck her tongue out at him.

  Garion turned to Polgara. ‘Thanks awfully,’ he said to her.

  ‘Don’t be snide, dear,’ she murmured. She looked at the fuming little Queen. ‘Ce’Nedra, weren’t you told as a child that sticking out one’s tongue is the worst possible form of bad manners?’