"Doesn't he realize that he hasn't got a chance?" Lelldorin inquired. "There are too many land-hungry Mimbrate knights around the governor for him to even think of granting an estate to an Asturian."
"I've told him the same thing myself," Torasin declared with scathing contempt, "but there's no reasoning with him. His behavior degrades our whole family."
Lelldorin shook his head commiseratingly as they reached an upper hall. He looked around quickly then. "I have to talk with you, Tor," he blurted, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Torasin looked at him sharply.
"My father's committed me to Belgarath's service in a matter of great importance," Lelldorin hurried on in that same hushed voice. "I don't know how long we'll be gone, so you and the others will have to kill Korodullin without me."
Torasin's eyes went wide with horror. "We're not alone, Lelldorin!" he said in a strangled voice.
"I'll go down to the other end of the hall," Garion said quickly.
"No," Lelldorin replied firmly, taking hold of Garion's arm. "Garion's my friend, Tor. I have no secrets from him."
"Lelldorin, please," Garion protested. "I'm not an Asturian - I'm not even an Arend. I don't want to know what you're planning."
"But you will know, Garion, as proof of my trust in you," Lelldorin declared. "Next summer, when Korodullin journeys to the ruined city of Vo Astur to hold court there for the six weeks that maintain the fiction of Arendish unity, we're going to ambush him on the highway."
"Lelldorin!" Torasin gasped, his face turning white.
But Lelldorin was already plunging on. "It won't be just a simple ambush, Garion. This will be a master stroke at Mimbre's heart. We're going to ambush him in the uniforms of Tolnedran legionnaires and cut him down with Tolnedran swords. Our attack will force Mimbre to declare war on the Tolnedran Empire, and Tolnedra will crush Mimbre like an eggshell. Mimbre will be destroyed, and Asturia will be free!"
"Nachak will have you killed for this, Lelldorin," Torasin cried. "We've all been sworn to secrecy on a blood oath."
"Tell the Murgo that I spit on his oath," Lelldorin said hotly. "What need have Asturian patriots for a Murgo henchman?"
"He's providing us with gold, you blockhead!" Torasin raged, almost beside himself. "We need his good red gold to buy the uniforms, the swords, and to strengthen the backbones of some of our weaker friends."
"I don't need weaklings with me," Lelldorin said intensely. "A patriot does what he does for love of his country-not for Angarak gold."
Garion's mind was moving quickly now. His moment of stunned amazement had passed. "There was a man in Cherek," he recalled. "The Earl of Jarvik. He also took Murgo gold and plotted to kill a king."
The two stared at him blankly.
"Something happens to a country when you kill its king," Garion explained. "No matter how bad the king is or how good the people are who kill him, the country falls apart for a while. Everything is confused, and there's nobody to point the country in any one direction. Then, if you start a war between that country and another one at the same time, you add just that much more confusion. I think that if I were a Murgo, that's exactly the kind of confusion I'd want to see in all the kingdoms of the West."
Garion listened to his own voice almost in amazement. There was a dry, dispassionate quality in it that he instantly recognized. From the time of his earliest memories that voice had always been there - inside his mind - occupying some quiet, hidden corner, telling him when he was wrong or foolish. But the voice had never actively interfered before in his dealings with other people. Now, however, it spoke directly to these two young men, patiently explaining.
"Angarak gold isn't what it seems to be," he went on. "There's a kind of power in it that corrupts you. Maybe that's why it's the color of blood. I'd think about that before I accepted any more red gold from this Murgo Nachak. Why do you suppose he's giving you gold and helping you with this plan of yours? He's not an Asturian, so patriotism couldn't have anything to do with it, could it? I'd think about that, too."
Lelldorin and his cousin looked suddenly troubled.
"I'm not going to say anything about this to anybody," Garion said. "You told me about it in confidence, and I really wasn't supposed to hear about it anyway. But remember that there's a lot more going on in the world right now than what's happening here in Arendia. Now I think I'd like to get some sleep. If you'll show me where my bed is, I'll leave you to talk things over all night, if you'd like."
All in all, Garion thought he'd handled the whole thing rather well. He'd planted a few doubts at the very least. He knew Arends well enough by now to realize that it probably wouldn't be enough to turn these two around, but it was a start.
Chapter Four
The following morning they rode out early while the mist still hung among the trees. Count Reldegen, wrapped in a dark cloak, stood at his gate to bid them farewell; and Torasin, standing beside his father, seemed unable to take his eyes off Garion's face. Garion kept his expression as blank as possible. The fiery young Asturian seemed to be filled with doubts, and those doubts might keep him from plunging headlong into something disastrous. It wasn't much, Garion realized, but it was the best he could manage under the circumstances.
"Come back soon, Belgarath," Reldegen said. "Sometime when you can stay longer. We're very isolated here, and I'd like to know what the rest of the world's doing. We'll sit by the fire and talk away a month or two.
Mister Wolf nodded gravely. "Maybe when this business of mine is over, Reldegen." Then he turned his horse and led the way across the wide clearing that surrounded Reldegen's house and back once again into the gloomy forest.
"The count's an unusual Arend," Silk said lightly as they rode along. "I think I actually detected an original thought or two in him last evening."
"He's changed a great deal," Wolf agreed.
"He sets a good table," Barak said. "I haven't felt this full since I left Val Alorn."
"You should," Aunt Pol told him. "You ate the biggest part of one deer by yourself."
"You're exaggerating, Polgara," Barak said.
"But not by very much," Hettar observed in his quiet voice. Lelldorin had pulled his horse in beside Garion's, but he had not spoken. His face was as troubled as his cousin's had been. It was obvious that he wanted to say something and just as obvious that he didn't know how to begin.
"Go ahead," Garion said quietly. "We're good enough friends that I'm not going to be upset if it doesn't come out exactly right."
Lelldorin looked a little sheepish.
"Am I really that obvious?"
"Honest is a better word for it," Garion told him. "You've just never learned to hide your feelings, that's all."
"Was it really true?" Lelldorin blurted. "I'm not doubting your word, but was there really a Murgo in Cherek plotting against King Anheg?"
"Ask Silk," Garion suggested, "or Barak, or Hettar-any of them. We were all there."
"Nachak isn't like that, though," Lelldorin said quickly, defensively.
"Can you be sure?" Garion asked him. "The plan was his in the first place, wasn't it? How did you happen to meet him?"
"We'd all gone down to the Great Fair, Torasin, me, several of the others. We bought some things from a Murgo merchant, and Tor made a few remarks about Mimbrates-you know how Tor is. The merchant said that he knew somebody we might be interested in meeting and he introduced us to Nachak. The more we talked with him, the more sympathetic he seemed to become to the way we felt."
"Naturally."
"He told us what the king is planning. You wouldn't believe it."
"Probably not."
Lelldorin gave him a quick, troubled look. "He's going to break up our estates and give them to landless Mimbrate nobles." He said it accusingly.
"Did you verify that with anybody but Nachak?"
"How could we? The Mimbrates wouldn't admit it if we confronted them with it, but it's the kind of thing Mimbrates would do."
"So
you've only got Nachak's word for it? How did this plan of yours come up?"
"Nachak said that if he were an Asturian, he wouldn't let anybody take his land, but he said that it'd be too late to try to stop them when they came with knights and soldiers. He said that if he were doing it, he'd strike before they were ready and that he'd do it in such a way that the Mimbrates wouldn't know who'd done it. That's when he suggested the Tolnedran uniforms."
"When did he start giving you money?"
"I'm not sure. Tor handled that part of it."
"Did he ever say why he was giving you money?"
"He said it was out of friendship."
"Didn't that seem a little odd?"
"I'd give someone money out of friendship," Lelldorin protested.
"You're an Asturian," Garion told him. "You'd give somebody your life out of friendship. Nachak's a Murgo, though, and I've never heard that they were all that generous. What it comes down to, then, is that a stranger tells you that the king's planning to take your land. Then he gives you a plan to kill the king and start a war with Tolnedra; and to make sure you succeed with his plan, he gives you money. Is that about it.
Lelldorin nodded mutely, his eyes stricken.
"Weren't any of you just the least bit suspicious?"
Lelldorin seemed almost about to cry.
"It's such a good plan," he burst out finally. "It couldn't help but succeed."
"That's what makes it so dangerous," Garion replied.
"Garion, what am I going to do?" Lelldorin's voice was anguished.
"I don't think there's anything you can do right now," Garion told him. "Maybe later, after we've had time to think about it, we'll come up with something. If we can't, we can always tell my grandfather about it. He'll think of a way to stop it."
"We can't tell anybody," Lelldorin reminded him. "We're pledged to silence."
"We might have to break that pledge," Garion said somewhat reluctantly. "I don't see that either of us owes that Murgo anything, but it's going to have to be up to you. I won't say anything to anybody without your permission."
"You decide," Lelldorin pleaded then. "I can't do it, Garion."
"You're going to have to," Garion told him. "I'm sure that if you think about it, you'll see why."
They reached the Great West Road then, and Barak led them south at a brisk trot, cutting off the possibility of further discussion.
A league or so down the road they passed a muddy village, a dozen or so turf roofed huts with walls made of wattles plastered over with mud. The fields around the village were dotted with tree stumps, and a few scrawny cows grazed near the edge of the forest. Garion could not control his indignation as he looked at the misery implicit in the crude collection of hovels.
"Lelldorin," he said sharply, "look!"
"What? Where?" The blond young man came out of his troubled preoccupation quickly as if expecting some danger.
"The village," Garion told him. "Look at it."
"It's only a serfs' village," Lelldorin said indifferently. "I've seen hundreds like it." He seemed ready to return to his own inner turmoil.
"In Sendaria we wouldn't keep pigs in places like that." Garion's voice rang with fervor. If he could only make his friend see!
Two ragged serfs were dispiritedly hacking chunks of firewood from one of the stumps near the road. As the party approached, they dropped their axes and bolted in terror for the forest.
"Does it make you proud, Lelldorin?" Garion demanded. "Does it make you feel good to know that your own countrymen are so afraid of you that they run from the very sight of you?"
Lelldorin looked baffled.
"They're serfs, Garion," he said as if that explained.
"They're men. They're not animals. Men deserve to be treated better."
"I can't do anything about it. They aren't my serfs." And with that Lelldorin's attention turned inward again as he continued to struggle with the dilemma Garion had placed upon him.
By late afternoon they had covered ten leagues and the cloudy sky was gradually darkening as evening approached.
"I think we're going to have to spend the night in the forest, Belgarath," Silk said, looking around. "There's no chance of reaching the next Tolnedran hostel."
Mister Wolf had been half-dozing in his saddle. He looked up, blinking a bit.
"All right," he replied, "but let's get back from the road a bit. Our fire could attract attention, and too many people know we're in Arendia already."
"There's a woodcutter's track right there." Durnik pointed at a break in the trees just ahead. "It should lead us back into the trees."
"All right," Wolf agreed.
The sound of their horses' hooves was muffled by the sodden leaves on the forest floor as they turned in among the trees to follow the narrow track. They rode silently for the better part of a mile until a clearing opened ahead of them.
"How about here?" Durnik asked. He indicated a brook trickling softly over mossy stones on one side of the clearing.
"It will do," Wolf agreed.
"We're going to need shelter," the smith observed.
"I bought tents in Camaar," Silk told him. "They're in the packs."
"That was foresighted of you," Aunt Pol complimented him.
"I've been in Arendia before, my Lady. I'm familiar with the weather."
"Garion and I'll go get wood for a fire then," Durnik said, climbing down from his horse and untying his axe from his saddle.
"I'll help you," Lelldorin offered, his face still troubled.
Durnik nodded and led the way off into the trees. The woods were soaked, but the smith seemed to know almost instinctively where to find dry fuel. They worked quickly in the lowering twilight and soon had three large bundles of limbs and fagots. They returned to the clearing where Silk and the others were erecting several dun-colored tents. Durnik dropped his wood and cleared a space for the fire with his foot. Then he knelt and began striking sparks with his knife from a piece of flint into a wad of dry tinder he always carried. In a short time he had a small fire going, and Aunt Pol set out her pots beside it, humming softly to herself.
Hettar came back from tending the horses, and they all stood back watching Aunt Pol prepare a supper from the stores Count Reldegen had pressed on them before they had left his house that morning.
After they had eaten, they sat around the fire talking quietly.
"How far have we come today?" Durnik asked.
"Twelve leagues," Hettar estimated.
"How much farther do we have to go to get out of the forest?"
"It's eighty leagues from Camaar to the central plain," Lelldorin replied.
Durnik sighed. "A week or more. I'd hoped that it'd be only a few days."
"I know what you mean, Durnik," Barak agreed. "It's gloomy under all these trees."
The horses, picketed near the brook, stirred uneasily. Hettar rose to his feet.
"Something wrong?" Barak asked, also rising.
"They shouldn't be-" Hettar started. Then he stopped. "Back!" he snapped.
"Away from the fire. The horses say there are men out there. Many - with weapons." He jumped back from the fire, drawing his sabre.
Lelldorin took one startled look at him and bolted for one of the tents. Garion's sudden disappointment in his friend was almost like a blow to the stomach.
An arrow buzzed into the light and shattered on Barak's mail shirt.
"Arm yourselves!" the big man roared, drawing his sword.
Garion grasped Aunt Pol's sleeve and tried to pull her from the light.
"Stop that!" she snapped, jerking her sleeve free. Another arrow whizzed out of the foggy woods. Aunt Pol flicked her hand as if brushing away a fly and muttered a single word. The arrow bounced back as if it had struck something solid and fell to the ground.
Then with a hoarse shout, a gang of rough, burly men burst from the edge of the trees and splashed across the brook, brandishing swords. As Barak and Hettar leaped forward to meet the
m, Lelldorin reemerged from the tent with his bow and began loosing arrows so rapidly that his hands seemed to blur as they moved. Garion was instantly ashamed that he had doubted his friend's courage.
With a choked cry, one of the attackers stumbled back, an arrow through his throat. Another doubled over sharply, clutching at his stomach, and fell to the ground, groaning. A third, quite young and with a pale, downy beard on his cheeks, dropped heavily and sat plucking at the feathers on the shaft protruding from his chest with a bewildered expression on his boyish face. Then he sighed and slumped over on his side with a stream of blood coming from his nose.
The ragged-looking men faltered under the rain of Lelldorin's arrows, and then Barak and Hettar were upon them. With a great sweep, Barak's heavy sword shattered an upflung blade and crunched down into the angle between the neck and shoulder of the black-whiskered man who had held it. The man collapsed. Hettar made a quick feint with his sabre, then ran it smoothly through the body of a pockmarked ruffian. The man stiffened, and a gush of bright blood burst from his mouth as Hettar pulled out his blade. Durnik ran forward with his axe, and Silk drew his long dagger from under his vest and ran directly at a man with a shaggy brown beard. At the last moment, he dived forward, rolled and struck the bearded man full in the chest with both feet. Without pausing he came up and ripped his dagger into his enemy's belly. The dagger made a wet, tearing sound as it sliced upward, and the stricken man clutched at his stomach with a scream, trying to hold in the blue-colored loops and coils of his entrails that seemed to come boiling out through his fingers.
Garion dived for the packs to get his own sword, but was suddenly grabbed roughly from behind. He struggled for an instant, then felt a stunning blow on the back of his head, and his eyes filled with a blinding flash of light.
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