Demon Lord of Karanda

by David Eddings

  Ce’Nedra smiled sweetly. ‘Why, yes, Lady Polgara, as a matter of fact I was. That’s why I only do it on special occasions.’

  ‘I think I’ll take a walk,’ Garion said to no one in particular. He went to the door, opened it, and left.

  Some days later he lounged in one of the sitting rooms that had been built in the former women’s quarters where he and the others were lodged. The room was peculiarly feminine. The furniture was softly cushioned in mauve, and the broad windows had filmy curtains of pale lavender. Beyond the windows lay a snowy garden, totally embraced by the tall wings of this bleak Murgo house. A cheery fire crackled in the half-moon arch of a broad fireplace, and at the far corner of the room an artfully contrived grotto, thick with green fern and moss, flourished about a trickling fountain. Garion sat brooding out at a sunless noon—at an ash-colored sky spitting white pellets that were neither snow nor hail but something in between—and realized all of a sudden that he was homesick for Riva. It was a peculiar thing to come to grips with here on the opposite end of the world. Always before, the word ‘homesick’ had been associated with Faldor’s farm—the kitchen, the broad central courtyard, Durnik’s smithy, and all the other dear, treasured memories. Now, suddenly, he missed that storm-lashed coast, the security of that grim fortress hovering above the bleak city lying below, and the mountains, heavy with snow, rising stark white against a black and stormy sky.

  There was a faint knock at the door.

  ‘Yes?’ Garion said absently, not looking around.

  The door opened almost timidly. ‘Your Majesty?’ a vaguely familiar voice said.

  Garion turned, looking back over his shoulder. The man was chubby and bald and he wore brown, a plain serviceable color, though his robe was obviously costly, and the heavy gold chain about his neck loudly proclaimed that this was no minor official. Garion frowned slightly. ‘Haven’t we met before?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t you General Atesca’s friend—uh—’

  ‘Brador, your Majesty,’ the brown-robed man supplied. ‘Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Now I remember. Come in, your Excellency, come in.’

  ‘Thank you, your Majesty.’ Brador came into the room and moved toward the fireplace, extending his hands to its warmth. ‘Miserable climate.’ He shuddered.

  ‘You should try a winter in Riva,’ Garion said, ‘although it’s summer there right now.’

  Brador looked out the window at the snowy garden. ‘Strange place, Cthol Murgos,’ he said. ‘One’s tempted to believe that all of Murgodom is deliberately ugly, and then one comes across a room like this.’

  ‘I suspect that the ugliness was to satisfy Ctuchik—and Taur Urgas,’ Garion replied. ‘Underneath, Murgos probably aren’t much different from the rest of us.’

  Brador laughed. ‘That sort of thinking is considered heresy in Mal Zeth,’ he said.

  ‘The people in Val Alorn feel much the same way.’ Garion looked at the bureaucrat. ‘I expect that this isn’t just a social call, Brador,’ he said. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Brador said soberly, ‘I absolutely have to speak with the Emperor. Atesca tried to arrange it before he went back to Rak Verkat, but—’ He spread his hands helplessly. ‘Could you possibly speak to him about it? The matter is of the utmost urgency.’

  ‘I really don’t think there’s very much I can do for you, Brador,’ Garion told him. ‘Right now I’m probably the last person he’d want to talk to.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I told him something that he didn’t want to hear.’

  Brador’s shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘You were my last hope, your Majesty,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  Brador hesitated, looking around nervously as if to assure himself that they were alone. ‘Belgarion,’ he said then in a very quiet voice, ‘have you ever seen a demon?’

  ‘A couple of times, yes. It’s not the sort of experience I’d care to repeat.’

  ‘How much do you know about the Karands?’

  ‘Not a great deal. I’ve heard that they’re related to the Morindim in northern Gar og Nadrak.’

  ‘You know more about them than most people, then. Do you know very much about the religious practices of the Morindim?’

  Garion nodded. ‘They’re demon-worshippers. It’s not a particularly safe form of religion, I’ve noticed.’

  Brador’s face was bleak. ‘The Karands share the beliefs and practices of their cousins on the arctic plains of the West,’ he said. ‘After they were converted to the worship of Torak, the Grolims tried to stamp out those practices, but they persisted in the mountains and forests.’ He stopped and looked fearfully around again. ‘Belgarion,’ he said, almost in a whisper, ‘does the name Mengha mean anything to you?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. Who’s Mengha?’

  ‘We don’t know—at least not for certain. He seems to have come out of the forest to the north of Lake Karanda about six months ago.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He marched—alone—to the gates of Calida in Jenno and called for the surrender of the city. They laughed at him, of course, but then he marked some symbols on the ground. They didn’t laugh any more after that.’ The Melcene bureaucrat’s face was gray. ‘Belgarion, he unloosed a horror on Calida such as man has never seen before. Those symbols he drew on the ground summoned up a host of demons—not one or a dozen, but a whole army of them. I’ve talked with survivors of that attack. They’re mostly mad—mercifully so, I think—and what happened at Calida was utterly unspeakable.’

  ‘An army of them?’ Garion exclaimed.

  Brador nodded. ‘That’s what makes Mengha so dreadfully dangerous. As I’m sure you know, usually when someone summons a demon, sooner or later it gets away from him and kills him, but Mengha appears to have absolute control of all the fiends he raises and he can call them up by the hundreds. Urvon is terrified, and he’s even begun to experiment with magic himself, hoping to defend Mal Yaska against Mengha. We don’t know where Zandramas is, but her apostate Grolim cohorts are desperately striving also to summon up these fiends. Great Gods, Belgarion, help me! This unholy infection will spread out of Mallorea and sweep the world. We’ll all be engulfed by howling fiends, and no place, no matter how remote, will provide a haven for the pitiful remnants of mankind. Help me to persuade Kal Zakath that his petty little war here in Cthol Murgos has no real meaning in the face of the horror that’s emerging in Mallorea.’

  Garion gave him a long, steady look, then rose to his feet. ‘You’d better come with me, Brador,’ he said quietly. ‘I think we need to talk with Belgarath.’

  They found the old sorcerer in the book-lined library of the house, poring over an ancient volume bound in green leather. He set his book aside and listened as Brador repeated what he had told Garion. ‘Urvon and Zandramas are also engaging in this insanity?’ he asked when the Melcene had finished.

  Brador nodded. ‘According to our best information, Ancient One,’ he replied.

  Belgarath slammed his fist down and began to swear. ‘What are they thinking of?’ he burst out, pacing up and down. ‘Don’t they know that UL himself had forbidden this?’

  ‘They’re afraid of Mengha,’ Brador said helplessly. ‘They feel that they must have some way to protect themselves from his horde of fiends.’

  ‘You don’t protect yourself from demons by raising more demons,’ the old man fumed. ‘If even one of them breaks free, they’ll all get loose. Urvon or Zandramas might be able to handle them, but sooner or later some underling is going to make a mistake. Let’s go see Zakath.’

  ‘I don’t think we can get in to see him just now, Grandfather,’ Garion said dubiously. ‘He didn’t like what I told him about Urgit.’

  ‘That’s too bad. This is something that won’t wait for him to regain his composure. Let’s go.’

  The three of them went quickly through the corridors of the house to the large antechamber they had entered wi
th General Atesca upon their arrival from Rak Verkat.

  ‘Absolutely impossible,’ the colonel at the desk beside the main door declared when Belgarath demanded to see the Emperor immediately.

  ‘As you grow older, Colonel,’ the old man said ominously, ‘you’ll discover just how meaningless the word “impossible” really is.’ He raised one hand, gestured somewhat theatrically, and Garion heard and felt the surge of his will.

  A number of battle flags mounted on stout poles projected out from the opposite wall perhaps fifteen feet from the floor. The officious colonel vanished from his chair and reappeared precariously astride one of those poles with his eyes bulging and his hands desperately clinging to his slippery perch.

  ‘Where would you like to go next, Colonel?’ Belgarath asked him. ‘As I recall, there’s a very tall flagpole out front. I could set you on top of it if you wish.’

  The colonel stared at him in horror.

  ‘Now, as soon as I bring you down from there, you’re going to persuade your Emperor to see us at once. You’re going to be very convincing, Colonel—that’s unless you want to be a permanent flagpole ornament, of course.’

  The colonel’s face was still pasty white when he emerged from the guarded door leading to the audience chamber, and he flinched violently every time Belgarath moved his hand. ‘His Majesty consents to see you,’ he stammered.

  Belgarath grunted. ‘I was almost sure that he would.’

  Kal Zakath had undergone a noticeable transformation since Garion had last seen him. His white linen robe was wrinkled and stained, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His face was deathly pale, his hair was unkempt, and he was unshaven. Spasmlike tremors ran through his body, and he looked almost too weak to stand. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded in a barely audible voice.

  ‘Are you sick?’ Belgarath asked him.

  ‘A touch of fever, I think.’ Zakath shrugged. ‘What’s so important that you felt you had to force your way in here to tell me about it?’

  ‘Your empire’s collapsing, Zakath,’ Belgarath told him flatly. ‘It’s time you went home to mend your fences.’

  Zakath smiled faintly. ‘Wouldn’t that be so very convenient for you?’ he said.

  ‘What’s going on in Mallorea isn’t convenient for anybody. Tell him, Brador.’

  Nervously, the Melcene bureaucrat delivered his report.

  ‘Demons?’ Zakath retorted sceptically. ‘Oh, come now, Belgarath. Surely you don’t expect me to believe that, do you? Do you honestly think that I’ll run back to Mallorea to chase shadows and leave you behind to raise an army here in the West to confront me when I return?’ The palsylike shaking Garion had noted when they had entered the room seemed to be growing more severe. Zakath’s head bobbed and jerked on his neck, and a stream of spittle ran unnoticed from one corner of his mouth.

  ‘You won’t be leaving us behind, Zakath,’ Belgarath replied. ‘We’re going with you. If even a tenth of what Brador says is true, I’m going to have to go to Karanda and stop this Mengha. If he’s raising demons, we’re all going to have to put everything else aside to stop him.’

  ‘Absurd!’ Zakath declared agitatedly. His eyes were unfocused now, and his weaving and trembling had become so severe that he was unable to control his limbs. ‘I’m not going to be tricked by a clever old man into—’ He suddenly started up from his chair with an animallike cry, clutching at the sides of his head. Then he toppled forward to the floor, twitching and jerking.

  Belgarath jumped forward and took hold of the convulsing man’s arms. ‘Quick!’ he snapped. ‘Get something between his teeth before he bites off his tongue!’

  Brador grabbed up a sheaf of reports from a nearby table, wadded them up, and jammed them into the frothing Emperor’s mouth.

  ‘Garion!’ Belgarath barked, ‘get Pol—fast!’

  Garion started toward the door at a run.

  ‘Wait!’ Belgarath said, sniffing suspiciously at the air above the face of the man he was holding down. ‘Bring Sadi, too. There’s a peculiar smell here. Hurry!’

  Garion bolted. He ran through the hallways past startled officials and servants and finally burst into the room where Polgara was quietly talking with Ce’Nedra and Velvet. ‘Aunt Pol!’ he shouted. ‘Come quickly! Zakath just collapsed!’ Then he spun, ran a few more steps down the hall and shouldered open the door to Sadi’s room. ‘We need you,’ he barked at the startled eunuch. ‘Come with me.’

  It took only a few moments for the three of them to return to the polished door in the anteroom.

  ‘What’s going on?’ the Angarak colonel demanded in a frightened voice, barring their way.

  ‘Your Emperor is sick,’ Garion told him. ‘Get out of the way.’ Roughly he pushed the protesting officer to one side and yanked the door open.

  Zakath’s convulsions had at least partially subsided, but Belgarath still held him down.

  ‘What is it, father?’ Polgara asked, kneeling beside the stricken man.

  ‘He threw a fit.’

  ‘The falling sickness?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It wasn’t quite the same. Sadi, come over here and smell his breath. I’m getting a peculiar odor from him.’

  Sadi approached cautiously, leaned forward, and sniffed several times. Then he straightened, his face pale. ‘Thalot,’ he announced.

  ‘A poison?’ Polgara asked him.

  Sadi nodded. ‘It’s quite rare.’

  ‘Do you have an antidote?’

  ‘No, my Lady,’ he replied. ‘There isn’t an antidote for thalot. It’s always been universally fatal. It’s seldom used because it acts very slowly, but no one ever recovers from it.’

  ‘Then he’s dying?’ Garion asked with a sick feeling.

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes. The convulsions will subside, but they’ll recur with increasing frequency. Finally . . .’ Sadi shrugged.

  ‘There’s no hope at all?’ Polgara asked.

  ‘None whatsoever, my Lady. About all we can do is make his last few days more comfortable.’

  Belgarath started to swear. ‘Quiet him down, Pol,’ he said. ‘We need to get him into bed and we can’t move him while he’s jerking around that way.’

  She nodded and put one hand on Zakath’s forehead. Garion felt the faint surge, and the struggling Emperor grew quiet.

  Brador, his face very pale, looked at them. ‘I don’t think we should announce this just yet,’ he cautioned. ‘Let’s just call it a slight illness for the moment until we can decide what to do. I’ll send for a litter.’

  The room to which the unconscious Zakath was taken was plain to the point of severity. The Emperor’s bed was a narrow cot. The only other furniture was a single plain chair and a low chest. The walls were white and unadorned, and a charcoal brazier glowed in one corner. Sadi went back to their chambers and returned with his red case and the canvas sack in which Polgara kept her collection of herbs and remedies. The two of them consulted in low tones while Garion and Brador pushed the litterbearers and curious soldiers from the room. Then they mixed a steaming cup of a pungent-smelling liquid. Sadi raised Zakath’s head and held it while Polgara spooned the medicine into his slack-lipped mouth.

  The door opened quietly, and the green-robed Dalasian healer, Andel, entered. ‘I came as soon as I heard,’ she said. ‘Is the Emperor’s illness serious?’

  Polgara looked at her gravely. ‘Close the door, Andel,’ she said quietly.

  The healer gave her a strange look, then pushed the door shut. ‘Is it that grave, my Lady?’

  Polgara nodded. ‘He’s been poisoned,’ she said. ‘We don’t want word of it to get out just yet.’

  Andel gasped. ‘What can I do to help?’ she asked coming quickly to the bed.

  ‘Not very much, I’m afraid,’ Sadi told her.

  ‘Have you given him the antidote yet?’

  ‘There is no antidote.’

  ‘There must be. Lady Polgara—’

  Polgara sadly shook her hea
d.

  ‘I have failed then,’ the hooded woman said in a voice filled with tears. She turned from the bed, her head bowed, and Garion heard a faint murmur that somehow seemed to come from the air above her—a murmur that curiously was not that of a single voice. There was a long silence, and then a shimmering appeared at the foot of the bed. When it cleared, the blindfolded form of Cyradis stood there, one hand slightly extended. ‘This must not be,’ she said in her clear, ringing voice. ‘Use thine art, Lady Polgara. Restore him. Should he die, all our tasks will fail. Bring thy power to bear.’

  ‘It won’t work, Cyradis,’ Polgara replied, setting the cup down. ‘If a poison affects only the blood, I can usually manage to purge it, and Sadi has a whole case full of antidotes. This poison, however, sinks into every particle of the body. It’s killing his bones and organs as well as his blood, and there’s no way to leech it out.’

  The shimmering form at the foot of the bed wrung its hands in anguish. ‘It cannot be so,’ Cyradis wailed. ‘Hast thou even applied the sovereign specific?’

  Polgara looked up quickly. ‘Sovereign specific? A universal remedy? I know of no such agent.’

  ‘But it doth exist, Lady Polgara. I know not its origins nor its composition, but I have felt its gentle power abroad in the world for some years now.’

  Polgara looked at Andel, but the healer shook her head helplessly. ‘I do not know of such a potion, my lady.’

  ‘Think, Cyradis,’ Polgara said urgently. ‘Anything you can tell us might give us a clue.’

  The blindfolded Seeress touched the fingertips of one hand lightly to her temple. ‘Its origins are recent,’ she said, half to herself. ‘It came into being less than a score of years ago—some obscure flower, or so it seemeth to me.’

  ‘It’s hopeless, then,’ Sadi said. ‘There are millions of kinds of flowers.’ He rose and crossed the room to Belgarath. ‘I think we might want to leave here—almost immediately,’ he murmured. ‘At the first suggestion of the word “poison”, people start looking for the nearest Nyissan—and those associated with him. I think we’re in a great deal of danger right now.’