The Malloreon: Book 02 - King of the Murgos

by David Eddings

‘Inside! Now!’

  They all filed into the cell, and the black-robed priest slammed the door behind them. The sound of the key grating in the lock seemed very loud for some reason.

  ‘Garion,’ Ce’Nedra said in a frightened little voice, ‘what’s happening? Why are they doing this?’

  He put his arm comfortingly about her shoulders. ‘Eriond got into trouble,’ he explained. ‘Sadi’s going to try to talk us all out of this.’

  ‘What if he can’t?’

  ‘Then we’ll do it the other way.’

  Silk looked around at the dimly lit cell with a disdainful sniff. ‘Dungeons always show such a lack of imagination,’ he remarked, scuffing at the moldy straw littering the floor with one foot.

  ‘Have you had such a wide experience with dungeons, Kheldar?’ Velvet asked him.

  ‘I’ve been in a few from time to time.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve never found it convenient to stay for more than a few hours.’ He raised up on his tiptoes to peer out through the small barred window in the door. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘no guards.’ He looked at Belgarath. ‘Do you want me to open this?’ he asked, tapping on the door with one knuckle. ‘I don’t think we can accomplish very much from in here.’

  ‘Please be patient, Prince Kheldar,’ Sadi said. ‘If we break out of this cell, I’ll never be able to smooth this over.’

  ‘I’ve got to find out what they’ve done with Eriond,’ Polgara told the eunuch firmly. ‘Go ahead and open it, Silk.’

  ‘Polgara?’ a light, familiar voice came from the next cell. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Eriond!’ she said with relief. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, Polgara. They put chains on me, but they aren’t too uncomfortable.’

  ‘Why did you do that—what you did in the Sanctum?’

  ‘I didn’t like those fires.’

  ‘I didn’t either, but—’

  ‘I really didn’t like them, Polgara. That sort of thing has to be stopped, and we have to start somewhere.’

  ‘How did you put them out?’ Belgarath asked through the barred window in the door. ‘Garion was there when you did it and he says that he didn’t hear or feel anything.’

  ‘I’m not sure, Belgarath. I don’t think I actually did anything special to make them go out. I just decided that I didn’t want them to burn any more, so I sort of let them know how I felt, and they just went out.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘As closely as I can remember, yes.’

  Belgarath turned from the door, his face baffled. ‘When we get out of here, that boy and I are going to have a very long talk about this. I’ve meant to do that about a half-dozen times, and every time I make up my mind, I get smoothly diverted.’ He looked at Garion. ‘The next time you talk to your friend, tell him to stop that. It irritates me.’

  ‘He already knows that, Grandfather. I think that’s why he does it.’

  Somewhere down the corridor outside, a heavy iron door clanged open, and there came the sound of marching feet.

  ‘Grolims,’ Silk said quietly from the barred window.

  ‘Who else?’ Belgarath asked sourly.

  The approaching group stopped outside, and a key grated in the lock of Eriond’s cell. The door creaked open. ‘You, boy,’ a harsh voice barked. ‘Come with us.’

  ‘Father,’ Polgara whispered urgently.

  The old man held up one hand. ‘Wait,’ he muttered.

  Then someone rattled a key in the lock of their cell door, and it also clanged open. ‘Agachak has returned,’ the Grolim in the open doorway announced curtly. ‘You will come out of there now.’

  ‘Splendid,’ Sadi said with relief. ‘Whatever this is all about, I’m sure it can be cleared up in just a few minutes.’

  ‘No talking!’ The Grolim turned abruptly and started down the corridor while a dozen of his fellows fell in behind the prisoners with drawn weapons.

  Agachak, the Hierarch of Rak Urga, was a cadaverous-looking man with a long beard. He sat upon a thronelike chair in a large room lighted by flaring torches and hung with dark maroon drapes. The Hierarch’s hooded robe was blood red, and his sunken eyes burned beneath their shaggy gray brows. Eriond, still in chains, sat calmly on a rough wooden stool before him, and the slim priestess, Chabat, her purple-lined hood pushed back and the red scars on her cheeks seeming to reflect the torchlight, stood at her master’s elbow with a look of cruel triumph on her face.

  ‘Which one of you is Ussa of Sthiss Tor?’ the Hierarch demanded in a hollow-sounding voice.

  Sadi stepped forward with an oily bow. ‘I am Ussa, Holy One,’ he said.

  ‘You’re in a great deal of trouble, Ussa,’ Chabat told him, her throaty voice almost purring. Her lips twisted into an ugly smirk.

  ‘But I have done nothing.’

  ‘Here in Cthol Murgos, the master is responsible for the misdeeds of the servant.’

  Agachak’s eyes bored into Sadi, though his bony white face remained expressionless. ‘Let us proceed,’ he commanded. ‘Who is to present the evidence in this matter?’

  Chabat turned and gestured to a hooded Grolim standing near the wall. ‘Sorchak will serve as the priest-inquisitor, Master,’ she replied in the tone of one who feels fully in charge of a situation. ‘I’m sure you’re aware of his zeal.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Agachak said in a noncommittal tone. ‘I might have guessed that it would be Sorchak.’ The faintest hint of sardonic amusement touched his lips. ‘Very well, priest-inquisitor, you may present the charges.’

  The black-robed Grolim stepped forward, pushing his green-lined hood back from his tangled hair. ‘The matter itself is simple, my Lord,’ he declared in his strident voice. ‘There were dozens of witnesses present, so there can be no question of this young villain’s guilt. The implications of that guilt, however, must be pursued.’

  ‘Pronounce your sentence, Great Hierarch,’ Chabat urged the dead-looking man on the throne. ‘I will wring the whole truth from this greasy Nyissan and from his servants.’

  ‘I have heard talk of guilt, Chabat,’ he replied, ‘but I have still not heard the charges or the evidence.’

  Chabat looked slightly taken aback by his words. ‘I but thought to spare you the tedium of a formal inquiry, Master. I am convinced of the truth of Sorchak’s words. You have always accepted my judgment in such matters before.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Agachak said, ‘but I think that this time I might like to judge for myself.’ He looked at the greasy-haired priest standing before him. ‘The charges, Sorchak,’ he said. ‘Exactly what is it that the young man is accused of doing?’ There was a faint note of dislike in the Hierarch’s voice.

  Sorchak’s bulging eyes grew slightly less certain as he sensed Agachak’s unspoken animosity. Then he drew himself up. ‘Early this evening,’ he began, ‘just as the holiest rite of our faith was about to be performed on the altar in the Sanctum, this young man entered and extinguished the altar fires. That is what he did, and it is that of which I accuse him. I swear that he is guilty.’

  ‘Absurd,’ Sadi protested. ‘Are the fires at the altar not perpetually attended? How could this boy have gotten close enough to them to put them out?’

  ‘How dare you question the sworn word of a priest of Torak?’ Chabat said angrily, her scarred cheeks writhing. ‘Sorchak has sworn to his guilt, and therefore he is guilty. To question the word of a priest is death.’

  Agachak’s sunken eyes were veiled as he looked at her. ‘I think that I might like to hear the evidence that has so persuaded you and the priest-inquisitor for myself, Chabat,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘Accusation and guilt are not always the same thing, and the question raised by Ussa is quite relevant.’

  A faint hope surged through Garion at the Hierarch’s words. Agachak knew. He was completely aware of Chabat’s involvement with Sorchak, and the very eagerness with which she defended the rancid-smelling Grolim’s every word affronted her master.

  ‘Well, priest-inquisitor,’ Ag
achak continued, ‘how did this boy manage to put out the altar fires? Has there been some laxity in guarding them?’

  Sorchak’s eyes grew wary as he realized that he was on dangerous ground. ‘I have many witnesses, my Lord,’ he declared. ‘There is universal agreement by all who were present that the Sanctum was desecrated by means of sorcery.’

  ‘Ah, sorcery, is it? That would explain everything, of course.’ Agachak paused, his dreadful eyes fixed on the now-sweating Sorchak. ‘I have noticed, however, that the cry “witch” or “sorcerer” is frequently raised when there is a lack of solid evidence. Is there no other explanation for what happened in the Sanctum? Is the priest-inquisitor’s case so weak that he must fall back on so tired and worn-out an accusation?’

  Chabat’s expression was incredulous, and Sorchak began to tremble.

  ‘Fortunately, the matter is easily resolved,’ Agachak added. ‘The gift of sorcery has a slight drawback. Others with the same gift can clearly sense the use of the power.’ He paused. ‘You didn’t know that, did you, Sorchak? A priest of the Green hoping for elevation to the Purple would have been more diligent in his studies and would have known that—but you have been otherwise occupied, haven’t you?’ He turned to the priestess at his side. ‘I am surprised, however, that you did not instruct your protege here more completely before you let him make this kind of charge, Chabat. You might have prevented his making a fool of himself—and of you.’

  Her eyes blazed, and the flamelike scars on her face went livid; then suddenly they began to glow as if an inner fire were running beneath her skin.

  ‘Well, Chabat,’ he said in a calm, deadly voice, ‘has the moment come then? Will you finally try your will against mine?’

  The awful question hung in the air, and Garion found that he was holding his breath. Chabat, however, averted her eyes and turned her face away from the Hierarch, the fires in her cheeks fading.

  ‘A wise decision, Chabat.’ Agachak turned to Sadi. ‘Well, Ussa of Sthiss Tor, how say you to the charge that your servant here is a sorcerer?’

  ‘The priest of Torak is in error, my Lord,’ Sadi replied diplomatically. ‘Believe me, this young dunce is no sorcerer. He spends ten minutes every morning trying to decide which of his shoes goes on which foot. Look at him. There’s not the faintest glimmer of intelligence in those eyes. He doesn’t even have sense enough to be afraid.’

  Chabat’s eyes grew angry again, though there was in them now a faint hint that she was no longer so sure of herself. ‘What would a Nyissan slaver know of sorcery, Master?’ she sneered. ‘You know of the habits of the snake-people. Doubtless this Ussa’s mind is so fuddled with drugs that one of his servants could be Belgarath himself, and he wouldn’t know it.’

  ‘A very interesting point,’ Agachak murmured. ‘Now, let us examine this matter. We know that the altar fires went out. That much is certain. Sorchak declares that this young man extinguished them by means of sorcery—though he has no proof to substantiate that charge. Ussa of Sthiss Tor, who may be drugged to the point of insensibility, maintains that the young man is a simpleton and thus totally incapable of so extraordinary an act. Now, how may we resolve this dilemma?’

  ‘Put them to the torment, Holy One,’ Chabat suggested eagerly. ‘I myself will wring the truth from them—one by one.’

  Garion tensed himself and looked carefully at Belgarath. The old man stood quite calmly with his short, silvery beard gleaming in the ruddy torchlight. He gave no sign that he might be preparing for any kind of direct action.

  ‘Your fondness for the torture chamber is well known, Chabat,’ Agachak was saying coldly. ‘Your skill is such that your victims usually say exactly what you want them to say—which is not always the absolute truth.’

  ‘I do but serve my God, Master,’ she declared proudly.

  ‘We all serve here, my Holy Priestess,’ he rebuked her, ‘and you would be wise not to assert your own excessive piety in order to elevate yourself—or your underling for that matter.’ He looked at Sorchak with undisguised contempt. ‘I am still Hierarch here, and I will make the final decision in this matter.’

  The scar-faced priestess shrank back, her eyes suddenly fearful. ‘Forgive me, Agachak,’ she stammered. ‘This monstrous crime has filled me with righteous outrage, but as you say, the final decision is wholly yours.’

  ‘I find your acceptance of my authority gratifying, Chabat. I thought you might have forgotten.’

  Just then there was a stir at the back of the torchlit room. Two burly Murgos with long, polished halberds in their hands rudely pushed aside the Grolims clustered near the door. With their dark faces impassive, they banged the butts of their weapons on the floor in unison. ‘Make way!’ one of them boomed. ‘Make way for Urgit, High King of Cthol Murgos!’

  The man who sauntered into the room surrounded by guards looked like no Murgo Garion had ever seen before. He was short and had a slender but wiry build. His black hair was lank and his features narrow. His robe was carelessly open at the front, revealing the fact that, instead of the customary mail shirt, he wore a western-style doublet and hose of rich purple. His iron crown was perched somewhat rakishly on one side of his head. His expression was sardonic, but his eyes were wary. ‘Agachak,’ he greeted the Hierarch perfunctorily, ‘I gave some thought to the news which was brought to you at the Drojim, and I finally concluded that I might be of some use to you in sorting out the cause of this regrettable incident.’

  ‘The Temple is honored by the presence of the High King,’ Agachak intoned formally.

  ‘And the High King is honored to be so kindly received by the Hierarch of Rak Urga,’ Urgit replied. He look around. ‘Do you have a chair handy?’ he asked. ‘I’ve had a long, tiring day.’

  ‘See to it,’ Agachak said flatly to the priestess standing beside his throne.

  Chabat blinked, then a slow flush mounted her cheeks. ‘A chair for his Majesty,’ she commanded harshly, ‘and be quick about it.’

  One of the Grolims near the door scurried out and returned a moment later with a heavy chair.

  ‘Thanks awfully,’ the King said, sinking into the chair. He looked at Agachak. ‘I have a small confession to make, Holy One,’ he said with an apologetic cough. ‘As I was about to enter your presence in this room, I lingered for a time in the hallway outside, hoping to acquaint myself with the details of this affair.’ He laughed shortly. ‘Listening at doors is an old habit of mine, I’m afraid. It comes from my anxious childhood. Anyway, I managed to hear the charges presented by the priest-inquisitor. To be perfectly candid, Agachak, he’s got a very shaky case.’ He gave the Hierarch a quick, ingratiating look. ‘But of course you’ve already pointed that out, haven’t you?’

  Agachak nodded briefly, his face unreadable.

  ‘Now,’ Urgit went on quickly, ‘I most certainly wouldn’t want to interfere in what is clearly a Church matter, but wouldn’t you say that there are dozens of possible natural explanations for this incident?’ He looked hopefully at Agachak; then reassured by the look of agreement on the Hierarch’s face, he continued. ‘I mean, we’ve all seen fires go out before, haven’t we? Do we really need to go so far afield to come up with a reason for this really unremarkable occurrence? Isn’t it more likely that the keepers of the Temple fires grew careless and that the fires just went out on their own—as fires starved for fuel are likely to do?’

  ‘Absolute nonsense!’ the greasy-haired Sorchak snapped.

  Urgit flinched visibly, his eyes going in appeal to Agachak.

  ‘You forget yourself, priest-inquisitor,’ the Hierarch said. ‘Our guest is the High King of Cthol Murgos; if you offend him, I may decide to give him your head by way of apology.’

  Sorchak swallowed hard. ‘Please forgive me, your Majesty,’ he choked. ‘I spoke before I thought.’

  ‘Quite all right, old boy.’ Urgit forgave him with a magnanimous wave of his hand. ‘Sometimes we all speak too quickly when we’re excited.’ He turned back to the Hiera
rch. ‘I regret this catastrophe as much as anyone, Agachak,’ he said,’ but this Nyissan slaver was sent here by Jaharb, and both you and I know how desperately urgent his mission is to the Church and to the State. Don’t you think that as a matter of policy we could let this incident pass?’

  ‘Surely you’re not just going to let these charges drop?’ Chabat’s voice was shrill as she faced the Hierarch. ‘Who is to be punished for the desecration of the Sanctum?’

  Urgit’s face grew unhappy, and he once again appealed to Agachak for support with pleading eyes. Garion clearly saw that this was not a strong king. Even the slightest resistance to his diffidently offered proposals made him instinctively retreat or seek support from someone he perceived to be stronger.

  Agachak turned slowly to look the scarred priestess full in the face. ‘All this shouting is beginning to weary me, Chabat,’ he told her bluntly. ‘If you can’t modulate your voice, you can leave.’

  She stared at him in stunned disbelief.

  ‘There is far more at stake here than the fact that some fires went out,’ he said to her. ‘As was foretold ages ago, the time for the final meeting between the Child of Light and the Child of Dark is at hand. If I am not the one who is present at that meeting, you will find yourself bowing to either Urvon or Zandramas. I doubt that either one of them would find your antics amusing enough to make them decide to let you go on living. As for the charge of sorcery, there’s an easy way to settle that once and for all.’ He rose from his throne, walked across to Eriond, and placed one hand on each side of his head.

  Polgara drew in her breath sharply, and Garion carefully began to gather in his will.

  Eriond looked up into the face of the dead-looking Hierarch with a gentle smile on his face.

  ‘Faugh!’ Agachak said in disgust, pulling his hands quickly back. ‘This beardless boy is an innocent. There’s no evidence in his mind that he has ever tasted power.’ He turned to look at Sorchak. ‘I find your charges groundless, priest-inquisitor, and I dismiss them.’

  Sorchak’s face went white, and his eyes bulged.

  ‘Have a care, Sorchak,’ the Hierarch said ominously. ‘If you protest my decision too strenously, I might just decide that this whole incident was your fault. Chabat is sick with disappointment that she has no one to torture to death.’ His look grew sly as he glanced at the priestess. ‘Would you like to have Sorchak, my dear?’ he asked her. ‘I have always delighted in giving you these little gifts. I’ll even watch with some pleasure while you slowly pull out his entrails with red-hot hooks.’