Barak beat at his horse's rump with the flat of his sword and kicked savagely at the animal's flanks until the horse, finally more afraid of him than the Algroths, charged. With two great sweeps, one to either side, Barak killed two of the beasts as he plunged through. A third, claws outstretched, tried to leap on his back, but stiffened and collapsed facedown in the mud with one of Lelldorin's arrows between its shoulders. Barak wheeled his horse and chopped at the three remaining creatures. "Let's go!" he bellowed.
Garion heard Lelldorin gasp and turned quickly. With sick horror he saw that a lone Algroth had crept out of the woods beside the road and was clawing at his friend, trying to hook him out of the saddle. Weakly, Lelldorin beat at the goat face with his bow. Garion desperately drew his sword, but Hettar, coming from behind, was already there. His curved sabre ran through the beast's body, and the Algroth shrieked and fell writhing to the ground beneath the pounding hoofs of the pack animals.
The horses, running now in sheer panic, scrambled toward the slope of the boulder-strewn tor. Garion glanced back over his shoulder and saw Lelldorin swaying dangerously in his saddle, his hand pressed to his bleeding side. Garion pulled in savagely on his reins and turned his horse.
"Save yourself, Garion!" Lelldorin shouted, his face deadly pale.
"No!" Garion sheathed his sword, pulled in beside his friend and took his arm, steadying him in the saddle. Together they galloped toward the tor with Garion straining to hold the injured young man.
The tor was a great jumble of earth and stone thrusting up above the tallest trees around it. Their horses scrambled and clattered up the side among the wet boulders. When they reached the small flat area at the top of the tor where the pack animals huddled together, trembling in the rain, Garion slid out of his saddle in time to catch Lelldorin, who toppled slowly to one side.
"Over here," Aunt Pol called sharply. She was pulling her small bundle of herbs and bandages out of one of the packs. "Durnik, I'll need a fire - at once."
Durnik looked around helplessly at the few scraps of wood lying in the rain at the top of the tor. "I'll try," he said doubtfully.
Lelldorin's breathing was shallow and very fast. His face was still a deadly white, and his legs would not hold him. Garion held him up, a sick fear in the pit of his stomach. Hettar took the wounded man's other arm, and between them they half carried him to where Aunt Pol knelt, opening her bundle.
"I have to get the poison out immediately," she told them. "Garion, give me your knife."
Garion drew his dagger and handed it to her. Swiftly she ripped open Lelldorin's brown tunic along his side, revealing the savage wounds the Algroth's claws had made.
"This will hurt," she said. "Hold him."
Garion and Hettar took hold of Lelldorin's arms and legs, holding him down.
Aunt Pol took a deep breath and then deftly sliced open each of the puffy wounds. Blood spurted and Lelldorin screamed once. Then he fainted.
"Hettar!" Barak shouted from atop a boulder near the edge of the slope. "We need you!"
"Go!" Aunt Pol told the hawk-faced Algar. "We can handle this now. Garion, you stay here." She was crushing some dried leaves and sprinkling the fragments into the bleeding wounds. "The fire, Durnik," she ordered.
"It won't start, Mistress Pol," Durnik replied helplessly. "It's too wet."
She looked quickly at the pile of sodden wood the smith had gathered.
Her eyes narrowed, and she made a quick gesture. Garion's ears rang strangely and there was a sudden hissing. A cloud of steam burst from the wood, and then crackling flames curled up from the sticks. Durnik jumped back, startled.
"The small pot, Garion," Aunt Pol instructed, "and water. Quickly." She pulled off her blue cloak and covered Lelldorin with it.
Silk, Barak and Hettar stood at the edge of the slope, heaving large rocks over the edge. Garion could hear the clatter and clash of the rocks striking the boulders below and the barking of the Algroths, punctuated by an occasional howl of pain.
He cradled his friend's head in his lap, terribly afraid. "Is he going to be all right?" he appealed to Aunt Pol.
"It's too early to tell," she answered. "Don't bother me with questions just now."
"They're running!" Barak shouted.
"They're still hungry," Wolf replied grimly. "They'll be back."
From far off in the forest there came the sound of a brassy horn.
"What's that?" Silk asked, still puffing from the effort of heaving the heavy stones over the edge.
"Someone I've been expecting," Wolf answered with a strange smile. He raised his hands to his lips and whistled shrilly.
"I can manage now, Garion," Aunt Pol said, mashing a thick paste into a steaming pad of wet linen bandage. "You and Durnik go help the others."
Reluctantly Garion lowered Lelldorin's head to the wet turf and ran over to where Wolf stood. The slope below was littered with dead and dying Algroths, crushed by the rocks Barak and the others had hurled down on them.
"They're going to try again," Barak said, hefting another rock. "Can they get at us from behind?"
Silk shook his head. "No. I checked. The back of the hill's a sheer face."
The Algroths came out of the woods below, barking and snarling as they loped forward with their half crouched gait. The first of them had already crossed the road when the horn blew again, very close this time.
And then a huge horse bearing a man in full armor burst out of the trees and thundered down upon the attacking creatures. The armored man crouched over his lance and plunged directly into the midst of the startled Algroths. The great horse screamed as he charged, and his ironshod hoofs churned up big clots of mud. The lance crashed through the chest of one of the largest Algroths and splintered from the force of the blow. The splintered end took another full in the face. The knight discarded the shattered lance and drew his broadsword with a single sweep of his arm. With wide swings to the right and left he chopped his way through the pack, his warhorse trampling the living and the dead alike into the mud of the road. At the end of his charge he whirled and plunged back again, once more opening a path with his sword. The Algroths turned and fled howling into the woods.
"Mandorallen!" Wolf shouted. "Up here!"
The armored knight raised his blood-spattered visor and looked up the hill. "Permit me to disperse this rabble first, my ancient friend," he answered gaily, clanged down his visor, and plunged into the rainy woods after the Algroths.
"Hettar!" Barak shouted, already moving.
Hettar nodded tersely, and the two of them ran to their horses. They swung into their saddles and plunged down the wet slope to the aid of the stranger.
"Your friend shows a remarkable lack of good sense," Silk observed to Mister Wolf, wiping the rain from his face. "Those things will turn on him any second now."
"It probably hasn't occurred to him that he's in any danger," Wolf replied. "He's a Mimbrate, and they tend to think they're invincible." The fight in the woods seemed to last for a long time. There were shouts and ringing blows and shrieks of terror from the Algroths. Then Hettar, Barak, and the strange knight rode out of the trees and trotted up the tor. At the top, the armored man clanged down from his horse. "Well met, my old friend," he boomed to Mister Wolf. "Thy friends below were most frolicsome." His armor gleamed wetly in the rain.
"I'm glad we found something to entertain you," Wolf said dryly.
"I can still hear them," Durnik reported. "I think they're still running."
"Their cowardice hath deprived us of an amusing afternoon," the knight observed, regretfully sheathing his sword and removing his helmet.
"We must all make sacrifices," Silk drawled.
The knight sighed. "All too true. Thou art a man of philosophy, I see." He shook the water out of the white plume on his helmet.
"Forgive me," Mister Wolf said. "This is Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor. He'll be going with us. Mandorallen, this is Prince Kheldar of Drasnia and Barak, Earl of Trellheim and c
ousin to King Anheg of Cherek. Over there is Hettar, son of Cho-Hag, chief of the Clan-Chiefs of Algaria. The practical one is Goodman Durnik of Sendaria, and this boy is Garion, my grandson - several times removed."
Mandorallen bowed deeply to each of them. "I greet you, comrades all," he declaimed in his booming voice. "Our adventure hath seen a fortuitous beginning. And pray tell, who is this lady, whose beauty doth bedazzle mine eye?"
"A pretty speech, Sir Knight," Aunt Pol replied with a rich laugh, her hand going almost unconsciously to her damp hair. "I'm going to like this one, father."
"The legendary Lady Polgara?" Mandorallen asked. "My life hath now seen its crown." His courtly bow was somewhat marred by the creaking of his armor.
"Our injured friend is Lelldorin, son of the Baron of Wildantor," Wolf continued. "You may have heard of him."
Mandorallen's face darkened slightly. "Indeed. Rumor, which sometimes doth run before us like a barking dog, hath suggested that Lelldorin of Wildantor hath raised on occasion foul rebellion against the crown."
"That's of no matter now," Wolf stressed. "The business which has brought us together is much more serious than all that. You'll have to put it aside."
"It shall be as you say, noble Belgarath," Mandorallen declared immediately, though his eyes still lingered on the unconscious Lelldorin.
"Grandfather!" Garion called, pointing at a mounted figure that had suddenly appeared on the side of the stony hilltop. The figure was robed in black and sat a black horse. He pushed back his hood to reveal a polished steel mask cast in the form of a face that was at once beautiful and strangely repelling. A voice deep in Garion's mind told him that there was something important about the strange rider - something he should remember - but whatever it was eluded him.
"Abandon this quest, Belgarath." The voice was hollow behind the mask.
"You know me better than that, Chamdar," Mister Wolf said calmly, quite obviously recognizing the rider. "Was this childishness with the Algroths your idea?"
"And you should know me better than that," the figure retorted derisively. "When I come against you, you can expect things to be a bit more serious. For now, there are enough underlings about to delay you. That's all we really need. Once Zedar has carried Cthrag Yaska to my Master, you can try your power against the might and will of Torak, if you'd like."
"Are you running errands for Zedar, then?" Wolf asked.
"I run no man's errands," the figure replied with heavy contempt. The rider seemed solid, as real as any of them standing on the hilltop, but Garion could see the filmy drizzle striking the rocks directly beneath horse and man. Whatever the figure was, the rain was falling right through it.
"Why are you here then, Chamdar?" Wolf demanded.
"Let's call it curiosity, Belgarath. I wanted to see for myself how you'd managed to translate the Prophecy into everyday terms." The figure looked around at the others on the hilltop. "Clever," it said with a certain grudging admiration. "Where did you find them all?"
"I didn't have to find them, Chamdar," Wolf answered. "They've been there all along. If any part of the Prophecy is valid, then it all has to be valid, doesn't it? There's no contrivance involved at all, Each one has come down to me through more generations than you can imagine."
The figure seemed to hiss with a sharp intake of its breath. "It isn't complete yet, old man."
"It will be, Chamdar," Wolf replied confidently. "I've already seen to that."
"Which is the one who will live twice?" the figure asked suddenly. Wolf smiled coldly, but did not answer.
"Hail, my Queen," the figure said mockingly then to Aunt Pol.
"Grolim courtesy always leaves me quite cold," she returned with a frosty look. "I'm not your queen, Chamdar."
"You will be, Polgara. My Master said that you are to become his wife when he comes into his kingdom. You'll be queen of all the world."
"That puts you at a bit of a disadvantage, doesn't it, Chamdar? If I'm to become your queen, you can't really cross me, can you?"
"I can work around you, Polgara, and once you've become the bride of Torak, his will becomes your will. I'm sure you won't hold any old grudges at that point."
"I think we've had about enough of this, Chamdar," Mister Wolf said. "Your conversation's beginning to bore me. You can have your shadow back now." He waved his hand negligently as if brushing away a troublesome fly. "Go," he commanded.
Once again Garion felt that strange surge and that hollow roaring in his mind. The horseman vanished.
"You didn't destroy him, did you?" Silk gasped in a shocked voice.
"No," Mister Wolf told him. "It was all just an illusion. It's a childish trick the Grolims find impressive. A shadow can be projected over quite some distance if you want to take the trouble. All I did was send his shadow back to him." He grinned suddenly with a sly twist to his lips. "Of course I selected a somewhat indirect route. It may take a few days to make the trip. It won't actually hurt him, but it's going to make him a bit uncomfortable - and extremely conspicuous."
"A most unseemly specter," Mandorallen observed. "Who was this rude shade?"
"It was Chamdar," Aunt Pol said, returning her attention to the injured Lelldorin, "one of the chief priests of the Grolims. Father and I have met him before."
"I think we'd better get off this hilltop," Wolf stated. "How soon will Lelldorin be able to ride?"
"A week at least," Aunt Pol replied, "if then."
"That's out of the question. We can't stay here."
"He can't ride," she told him firmly.
"Couldn't we make a litter of some sort?" Durnik suggested. "I'm sure I can make something we can sling between two horses so we can move him without hurting him."
"Well, Pol?" Wolf asked.
"I suppose it will be all right," she said a little dubiously.
"Let's do it then. We're much too exposed up here, and we've got to move on."
Durnik nodded and went to the packs for rope to use in building the litter.
Chapter Seven
Sir Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor, was a man of slightly more than medium height. His hair was black and curly, his eyes were deep blue, and he had a resonant voice in which he expressed firmly held opinions. Garion did not like him. The knight's towering self confidence, an egotism so pure that there was a kind of innocence about it, seemed to confirm the worst of Lelldorin's dark pronouncements about Mimbrates; and Mandorallen's extravagant courtesy to Aunt Pol struck Garion as beyond the bounds of proper civility. To make matters even worse, Aunt Pol seemed quite willing to accept the knight's flatteries at face value.
As they rode through the continuing drizzle along the Great West Road, Garion noted with some satisfaction that his companions appeared to share his opinion. Barak's expression spoke louder than words; Silk's eyebrows lifted sardonically at each of the knight's pronouncements; and Durnik scowled.
Garion, however, had little time to sort out his feelings about the Mimbrate. He rode close beside the litter upon which Lelldorin tossed painfully as the Algroth poison seared in his wounds. He offered his friend what comfort he could and exchanged frequent worried looks with Aunt Pol, who rode nearby. During the worst of Lelldorin's paroxysms, Garion helplessly held the young man's hand, unable to think of anything else to do to ease his pain.
"Bear throe infirmity with fortitude, good youth," Mandorallen cheerfully advised the injured Asturian after a particularly bad bout that left Lelldorin gasping and moaning. "This discomfort of throe is but an illusion. Thy mind can put it to rest if thou wouldst have it so."
"That's exactly the kind of comfort I'd expect from a Mimbrate," Lelldorin retorted from between clenched teeth. "I think I'd rather you didn't ride so close. Your opinions smell almost as bad as your armor."
Mandorallen's face flushed slightly. "The venom which doth rage through the body of our injured friend hath, it would seem, bereft him of civility as well as sense," he observed coldly.
Lelldorin half raised him
self in the litter as if to respond hotly, but the sudden movement seemed to aggravate his injury, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
"His wounds are grave," Mandorallen stated. "Thy poultice, Lady Polgara, may not suffice to save his life."
"He needs rest," she told him. "Try not to agitate him so much."
"I will place myself beyond the reach of his eye," Mandorallen replied. "Through no fault of mine own, my visage is hateful to him and doth stir him to unhealthful choler." He moved his warhorse ahead at a canter until he was some distance in front of the rest of them.
"Do they all talk like that?" Garion asked with a certain rancor. "Thee's and thou's and doth's?"
"Mimbrates tend to be very formal," Aunt Pol explained. "You'll get used to it."
"I think it sounds stupid," Garion muttered darkly, glaring after the knight.
"An example of good manners won't hurt you all that much, Garion."
They rode on through the dripping forest as evening settled among the trees.
"Aunt Pol?" Garion asked finally.
"Yes, dear?"
"What was that Grolim talking about when he said that about you and Torak?"
"It's something Torak said once when he was raving. The Grolims took it seriously, that's all." She pulled her blue cloak tighter about her.
"Doesn't it worry you?"
"Not particularly."
"What was that Prophecy the Grolim was talking about? I didn't understand any of that." The word "Prophecy" for some reason stirred something very deep in him.
"The Mrin Codex," she answered. "It's a very old version, and the writing's almost illegible. It mentions companions - the bear, the rat, and the man who will live twice. It's the only version that says anything about them. Nobody knows for certain that it really means anything."
"Grandfather thinks it does, doesn't he?"
"Your grandfather has a number of curious notions. Old things impress him - probably because he's so old himself."
Garion was going to ask her about this Prophecy that seemed to exist in more than one version, but Lelldorin moaned then and they both immediately turned to him.
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