The Malloreon: Book 03 - Demon Lord Of Karanda

by David Eddings

  ‘That is a truly offensive letter,’ Sadi murmured. He looked at Belgarath, who continued to pound his fist on the wall in impotent fury. ‘I’m surprised that he’s taking it so well—all things considered.’

  ‘It answers a lot of questions, though,’ Velvet said thoughtfully.

  ‘Such as what?’ Silk asked.

  ‘We were wondering if Zandramas was still here. Quite obviously, she’s not. Not even an idiot would leave that kind of message for Belgarath and then stay around where he could get his hands on her.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he agreed. ‘There’s no real point in our staying here, then, is there? The Orb has picked up the trail again, so why don’t we just slip out of the house again and go after Zandramas?’

  ‘Without findin’ out who’s here?’ Feldegast objected. ‘Me curiosity has been aroused, an’ I’d hate t’ go off with it unsatisfied.’ He glanced across the room at the fuming Belgarath. ‘Besides, it’s goin’ t’ be a little while before our ancient friend there regains his composure. I think I’ll go along t’ the far end of the hall an’ see if I kin find a place where I kin look down into the lower part of the house—just t’ answer some burnin’ questions which have been naggin’ at me.’ He went to the table and lighted one of the candles from his little lantern. ‘Would ye be wantin’ t’ come along with me, Prince Kheldar?’ he invited.

  Silk shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ll go, too,’ Garion said. He handed the book to Polgara and then pointedly looked at the raging Belgarath. ‘Is he going to get over that eventually?’

  ‘I’ll talk with him, dear. Don’t be too long.’

  He nodded, and then he, Silk, and the juggler quietly left the library.

  There was a room at the far end of the hall. It was not particularly large, and there were shelves along the walls. Garion surmised that it had at one time been a storeroom or a linen closet. Feldegast squinted appraisingly at the leaf-strewn floor, then closed his lantern.

  The leaves had piled deep in the corners and along the walls, but in the sudden darkness a faint glow shone up through them, and there came the murmur of voices from below.

  ‘Me vile-tempered old friend seems t’ have been right,’ Feldegast whispered. ‘’Twould appear that the mortar has quite crumbled away along that wall. ‘Twill be but a simple matter t’ brush the leaves out of the way an’ give ourselves some convenient spy holes. Let’s be havin’ a look an’ find out who’s taken up residence in the House of Torak.’

  Garion suddenly had that strange sense of reexperiencing something that had happened a long time ago. It had been in King Anheg’s palace at Val Alorn, and he had followed the man in the green cloak through the deserted upper halls until they had come to a place where crumbling mortar had permitted the sound of voices to come up from below. Then he remembered something else. When they had been at Tol Honeth, hadn’t Belgarath said that most of the things that had happened while they were pursuing Zedar and the Orb were likely to happen again, since everything was leading up to another meeting between the Child of Light and the Child of Dark? He tried to shake off the feeling, but without much success.

  They removed the leaves from the crack running along the far wall of the storeroom carefully, trying to avoid sifting any of them down into the room below. Then each of them selected a vantage point from which to watch and listen.

  The room into which they peered was very large. Ragged drapes hung at the windows, and the corners were thick with cobwebs. Smoky torches hung in iron rings along the walls, and the floor was thick with dust and the litter of ages. The room was filled with black-robed Grolims, a sprinkling of roughly clad Karands, and a large number of gleaming Temple Guardsmen. Near the front, drawn up like a platoon of soldiers, a group of the huge black Hounds of Torak sat on their haunches expectantly. In front of the Hounds stood a black altar, showing signs of recent use, flanked on either side by a glowing brazier. Against the wall on a high dais was a golden throne, backed by thick, tattered black drapes and by a huge replica of the face of Torak.

  ‘’Twas Burnt-face’s throne room, don’t y’ know,’ Feldegast whispered.

  ‘Those are Chandim, aren’t they?’ Garion whispered back.

  ‘The very same—both human an’ beast—along with their mail-shirted bully boys. I’m a bit surprised that Urvon has chosen t’ occupy the place with his dogs—though the best use fer Ashaba has probably always been as a kennel.’

  It was obvious that the men in the throne room were expecting something by the nervous way they kept looking at the throne.

  Then a great gong sounded from below, shimmering in the smoky air.

  ‘On your knees!’ a huge voice commanded the throng in the large room. ‘Pay obeisance and homage to the new God of Angarak!’

  ‘What?’ Silk exclaimed in a choked whisper.

  ‘Watch an’ be still!’ Feldegast snapped.

  From below there came a great roll of drums, followed by a brazen fanfare. The rotten drapes near the golden throne parted, and a double file of robed Grolims entered, chanting fervently, even as the assembled Chandim and Guardsmen fell to their knees and the Hounds and the Karands groveled and whined.

  The booming of the drums continued, and then a figure garbed in cloth of gold and wearing a crown strode imperiously out from between the drapes. A glowing nimbus surrounded the figure, though Garion could clearly sense that the will that maintained the glow emanated from the goldclad man himself. Then the figure lifted its head in a move of overweening arrogance. The man’s face was splotched—some patches showing the color of healthy skin and others a hideous dead white. What chilled Garion’s blood the most, however, was the fact that the man’s eyes were totally mad.

  ‘Urvon!’ Feldegast said with a sudden intake of his breath. ‘You piebald son of a mangy dog!’ All trace of his lilting accent had disappeared.

  Directly behind the patch-faced madman came a shadowy figure, cowled so deeply that its face was completely obscured. The black that covered it was not that of a simple Grolim robe, but seemed to grow out of the figure itself, and Garion felt a cold dread as a kind of absolute evil permeated the air about that black shape.

  Urvon mounted the dais and seated himself on the throne, his insane eyes bulging and his face frozen in that expression of imperious pride. The shadow-covered figure took its place behind his left shoulder and bent forward toward his ear, whispering, whispering.

  The Chandim, Guardsmen, and Karands in the throne room continued to grovel, fawning and whining, even as did the Hounds, while the last disciple of Torak preened himself in the glow of their adulation. A dozen or so of the black-robed Chandim crept forward on their knees, bearing gilded chests and reverently placing them on the altar before the dais. When they opened the chests, Garion saw that they were all filled to the brim with red Angarak gold and with jewels.

  ‘These offerings are pleasing to mine eyes,’ the enthroned Disciple declared in a shrill voice. ‘Let others come forth to make also their offerings unto the new God of Angarak.’

  There was a certain amount of consternation among the Chandim and a few hasty consultations.

  The next group of offerings were in plain wooden boxes; when they were opened, they revealed only pebbles and twigs. Each of the Chandim who bore those boxes to the altar surreptitiously removed one of the gilded chests after depositing his burden on the black stone.

  Urvon gloated over the chests and boxes, apparently unable to distinguish between gold and gravel, as the line continued to move toward the altar, each priest laying one offering on the altar and removing another before returning to the end of the line.

  ‘I am well pleased with ye, my priests,’ Urvon said in his shrill voice when the charade had been played out. ‘Truly, ye have brought before me the wealth of nations.’

  As the Chandim, Karands, and Guardsmen rose to their feet, the shadowy figure at Urvon’s shoulder continued to whisper.

  ‘And now will I receive Lord Mengha,’
the madman announced, ‘most favored of all who serve me, for he has delivered unto me this familiar spirit who revealed my high divinity unto me.’ He indicated the shadow behind him.

  ‘Summon the Lord Mengha that he may pay homage to the God Urvon and be graciously received by the new God of Angarak.’ The voice that boomed that command was as hollow as a voice issuing from a tomb.

  From the door at the back of the hall came another fanfare of trumpets, and another hollow voice responded. ‘All hail Urvon, new God of Angarak,’ it intoned. ‘Lord Mengha approacheth to make his obeisance and to seek counsel with the living God.’

  Again there came the booming of drums, and a man robed in Grolim black paced down the broad aisle toward the altar and the dais. As he reached the altar, he genuflected to the madman seated on Torak’s throne.

  ‘Look now upon the awesome face of Lord Mengha, most favored servant of the God Urvon and soon to become First Disciple,’ the hollow voice boomed.

  The figure before the altar turned and pushed back his hood to reveal his face to the throng.

  Garion started, suppressing a gasp of surprise. The man standing before the altar was Harakan.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘Belar!’ Silk swore under his breath.

  ‘All bow down to the First Disciple of your God!’ Urvon declaimed in his shrill voice. ‘It is my command that ye honor him.’

  There was a murmur of amazement among the assembled Chandim, and Garion, peering down from above, thought that he could detect a certain reluctance on the faces of some of them.

  ‘Bow to him!’ Urvon shrieked, starting to his feet. ‘He is my Disciple!’

  The Chandim looked first at the frothing madman on the dais and then at the cruel face of Harakan. Fearfully they sank to their knees.

  ‘I am pleased to see such willing obedience to the commands of our God,’ Harakan observed sardonically. ‘I shall remember it always.’ There was a scarcely veiled threat in his voice.

  ‘Know ye all that my Disciple speaks with my voice,’ Urvon announced, resuming his seat upon the throne. ‘His words are my words, and ye will obey him even as ye obey me.’

  ‘Hear the words of our God,’ Harakan intoned in that same sardonic voice, ‘for mighty is the God of Angarak, and swift to anger should any fail to heed him. Know further that I, Mengha, am now the sword of Urvon as well as his voice, and that the chastisement of the disobedient is in my hands.’ The threat was no longer veiled, and Harakan swept his eyes slowly across the faces of the assembled priests as if challenging each of them to protest his elevation.

  ‘Hail Mengha, Disciple of the living God!’ one of the mailed Guardsmen shouted.

  ‘Hail Mengha!’ the other Guardsmen responded, smashing their fists against their shields in salute.

  ‘Hail Mengha!’ the Karands shrieked.

  ‘Hail Mengha!’ the kneeling Chandim said at last, cowed finally into submission. And then the great Hounds crept forward on their bellies to fawn about Harakan’s feet and to lick his hands.

  ‘It is well,’ the enthroned madman declared in his shrill voice. ‘Know that the God of Angarak is pleased with ye.’

  And then another figure appeared in the throne room below, coming through the same rotted drapes which had admitted Urvon. The figure was slender and dressed in a robe of clinging black satin. Its head was partially covered by a black hood, and it was carrying something concealed beneath its robe. When it reached the altar, it tipped back its head in a derisive laugh, revealing a face with at once an unearthly beauty and an unearthly cruelty all cast in marble white. ‘You poor fools,’ the figure rasped in a harsh voice. ‘Think you to raise a new God over Angarak without my permission?’

  ‘I have not summoned thee, Zandramas!’ Urvon shouted at her.

  ‘I feel no constraint to heed thy summons, Urvon,’ she replied in a voice filled with contempt, ‘nor its lack. I am not thy creature, as are these dogs. I serve the God of Angarak, in whose coming shalt thou be cast down.’

  ‘I am the God of Angarak!’ he shrieked.

  Harakan had begun to come around the altar toward her.

  ‘And wilt thou pit thy puny will against the Will of the Child of Dark, Harakan?’ She asked coolly. ‘Thou mayest change thy name, but thy power is no greater.’ Her voice was like ice.

  Harakan stopped in his tracks, his eyes suddenly wary.

  She turned back to Urvon. ‘I am dismayed that I was not notified of thy deification, Urvon,’ she continued, ‘for should I have known, I would have come before thee to pay thee homage and seek thy blessing.’ Then her lip curled in a sneer that distorted her face. ‘Thou?’ she said. ‘Thou, a God? Thou mayest sit upon the throne of Torak for all eternity whilst this shabby ruin crumbles about thee, and thou wilt never become a God. Thou mayest fondle dross and call it gold, and thou wilt never become a God. Thou mayest bask in the canine adulation of thy cringing dogs, who even now befoul thy throne room with their droppings, and thou wilt never become a God. Thou mayest hearken greedily to the words of thy tame demon, Nahaz, who even now whispers the counsels of madness in thine ear, and thou wilt never become a God.’

  ‘I am a God!’ Urvon shrieked, starting to his feet again.

  ‘So? It may be even as thou sayest, Urvon,’ she almost purred. ‘But if thou art a God, I must tell thee to enjoy thy Godhood whilst thou may, then, for even as maimed Torak, thou art doomed.’

  ‘Who hath the might to slay a God?’ he foamed at her.

  Her laugh was dreadful. ‘Who hath the might? Even he who reft Torak of his life. Prepare thyself to receive the mortal thrust of the burning sword of Iron-grip, which spilled out the life of thy master, for thus I summon the Godslayer!’

  And then she reached forward and placed the cloth-wrapped bundle which she had been concealing beneath her robe on the black altar. She raised her face and looked directly at the crack through which Garion was staring in frozen disbelief. ‘Behold thy son, Belgarion,’ she called up to him, ‘and hear his crying!’ She turned back the cloth to reveal the infant Geran. The baby’s face was contorted with fear, and he began to wail, a hopeless, lost sound.

  All thought vanished from Garion’s mind. The wailing was the sound he had been hearing over and over again since he had left Mal Zeth. It was not the wail of that doomed child in those plague-stricken streets that had haunted his dreams. It was the voice of his own son! Powerless to resist that wailing call, he leaped to his feet. It was as if there were suddenly sheets of flame before his eyes, flames that erased everything from his mind but the desperate need to go to the child wailing on the altar below.

  He realized dimly that he was running through the shadowy, leaf-strewn halls, roaring insanely even as he ripped Iron-grip’s sword from its sheath.

  The moldering doors of long-empty rooms flashed by as he ran full tilt along the deserted corridor. Dimly behind him, he heard Silk’s startled cry. ‘Garion! No!’ Heedless, his brain afire, he ran on with the great Sword of Riva blazing in his hand before him as he went.

  Even years later, he did not remember the stairs. Vaguely, he remembered emerging in the lower hall, raging.

  There were Temple Guardsmen and Karands there, flinching before him and trying feebly to face him, but he seized the hilt of his sword in both hands and moved through them like a man reaping grain. They fell in showers of blood as he sheared his way through their ranks.

  The great door to the dead God’s throne room was closed and bolted, but Garion did not even resort to sorcery. He simply destroyed the door—and those who were trying desperately to hold it closed—with his burning sword.

  The fire of madness filled his eyes as he burst into the throne room, and he roared at the terrified men there, who gaped at the dreadful form of the Godslayer, advancing on them, enclosed in a nimbus of blue light. His lips were peeled back from his teeth in a snarl, and his terrible sword, all ablaze, flickered back and forth before him like the shears of fate.

  A Grolim jumped in fron
t of him with one arm upraised as Garion gathered his will with an inrushing sound he scarcely heard. Garion did not stop, and the other Grolims in the throne room recoiled in horror as the point of his flaming sword came sliding out from between the rash priest’s shoulder blades. The mortally wounded Grolim stared at the sizzling blade sunk into his chest. He tried with shaking hands to clutch at the blade, but Garion kicked him off the sword and continued his grim advance.

  A Karand with a skull-surmounted staff stood in his path, desperately muttering an incantation. His words cut off abruptly, however, as Garion’s sword passed through his throat.

  ‘Behold the Godslayer, Urvon!’ Zandramas exulted. ‘Thy life is at an end, God of Angarak, for Belgarion hath come to spill it out, even as he spilled out the life of Torak!’ Then she turned her back on the cringing madman. ‘All hail the Child of Light!’ she announced in ringing tones. She smiled her cruel smile at him. ‘Hail, Belgarion,’ she taunted him. ‘Slay once again the God of Angarak, for that hath ever been thy task. I shall await thy coming in the Place Which Is No More.’ And then she took up the wailing babe in her arms, covered it with her cloak again, shimmered, and vanished.

  Garion was suddenly filled with chagrin as he realized that he had been cruelly duped. Zandramas had not actually been here with his son, and all his overpowering rage had been directed at an empty projection. Worse than that, he had been manipulated by the haunting nightmare of the wailing child which he now realized she had put into his mind to force him to respond to her taunting commands. He faltered then, his blade lowering and its fire waning.

  ‘Kill him!’ Harakan shouted. ‘Kill the one who slew Torak!’

  ‘Kill him!’ Urvon echoed in his insane shriek. ‘Kill him and offer his heart up to me in sacrifice!’

  A half-dozen Temple Guardsmen began a cautious, clearly reluctant, advance. Garion raised his sword again; its light flared anew, and the Guardsmen jumped back.

  Harakan sneered as he looked at the armored men. ‘Behold the reward for cowardice,’ he snapped. He extended one hand, muttered a single word, and one of the Guardsmen shrieked and fell writhing to the floor as his mail coat and helmet turned instantly white-hot, roasting him alive.