"I don't understand."
"Barak," Silk said, "I think that one of us is going to have to inform the Lady Polgara that our Garion needs some further education."
"You're skilled with words, Silk," Barak said. "I'm sure you ought to be the one to tell her."
"Why don't we throw dice for the privilege?" Silk suggested.
"I've seen you throw dice before, Silk." Barak laughed.
"Of course we could simply stay here a while longer," Silk said slyly. "I rather imagine that Garion's new playmate would be quite happy to complete his education, and that way we wouldn't have to bother Lady Polgara about it."
Garion's ears were flaming. "I'm not as stupid as all that," he said hotly. "I know what you're talking about, and you don't have to say anything to Aunt Pol about it." He stamped away angrily, kicking at the snow.
After Barak had talked for a while longer with his shipbuilder and the harbor had begun to darken with the approach of evening, they started back toward the palace. Garion sulked along behind, still offended by their laughter. The clouds which had hung overhead since their arrival in Val Alorn had begun to tatter, and patches of clear sky began to appear. Here and there single stars twinkled as evening slowly settled in the snowy streets. The soft light of candles began to glow in the windows of the houses, and the few people left in the streets hurried to get home before dark.
Garion, still loitering behind, saw two men entering a wide door beneath a crude sign depicting a cluster of grapes. One of them was the sandy-bearded man in the green cloak that he had seen in the palace the night before. The other man wore a dark hood, and Garion felt a familiar tingle of recognition. Even though he couldn't see the hooded man's face, there was no need of that. They had looked at each other too often for there to be any doubt. As always before, Garion felt that peculiar restraint, almost like a ghostly finger touching his lips. The hooded man was Asharak, and, though the Murgo's presence here was very important, it was for some reason impossible for Garion to speak of it. He watched the two men only for a moment and then hurried to catch up with his friends. He struggled with the compulsion that froze his tongue, and then tried another approach.
"Barak," he asked, "are there many Murgos in Val Alorn?"
"There aren't any Murgos in Cherek," Barak said. "Angaraks aren't allowed in the kingdom on pain of death. It's our oldest law. It was laid down by old Cherek Bear-shoulders himself. Why do you ask?"
"I was just wondering," Garion said lamely. His mind shrieked with the need to tell them about Asharak, but his lips stayed frozen.
That evening, when they were all seated at the long table in King Anheg's central hall with a great feast set before them, Barak entertained them with a broadly exaggerated account of Garion's encounter with the young people on the hillside.
"A great blow it was," he said in expansive tones, "worthy of the mightiest warrior and truly struck upon the nose of the foe. The bright blood flew, and the enemy was dismayed and overcome. Like a hero, Garion stood over the vanquished, and, like a true hero, did not boast nor taunt his fallen opponent, but offered instead advice for quelling that crimson flood. With simple dignity then, he quit the field, but the brighteyed maid would not let him depart unrewarded for his valor. Hastily, she pursued him and fondly clasped her snowy arms about his neck. And there she lovingly bestowed that single kiss that is the true hero's greatest reward. Her eyes flamed with admiration, and her chaste bosom heaved with newly wakened passion. But modest Garion innocently departed and tarried not to claim those other sweet rewards the gentle maid's fond demeanor so clearly offered. And thus the adventure ended with our hero tasting victory but tenderly declining victory's true compensation."
The warriors and kings at the long table roared with laughter and pounded the table and their knees and each others' backs in their glee. Queen Islena and Queen Silar smiled tolerantly, and Queen Porenn laughed openly. Lady Merel, however, remained stony-faced, her expression faintly contemptuous as she looked at her husband.
Garion sat with his face aflame, his ears besieged with shouted suggestions and advice.
"Is that really the way it happened, nephew?" King Rhodar demanded of Silk, wiping tears from his eyes.
"More or less," Silk replied. "Lord Barak's telling was masterly, though a good deal embellished."
"We should send for a minstrel," the Earl of Seline said. "This exploit should be immortalized in song."
"Don't tease him," Queen Porenn said, looking sympathetically at Garion.
Aunt Pol did not seem amused. Her eyes were cold as she looked at Barak.
"Isn't it odd that three grown men can't keep one boy out of trouble?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.
"It was only one blow, my Lady," Silk protested, "and only one kiss, after all."
"Really?" she said. "And what's it going to be next time? A duel with swords, perhaps, and even greater foolishness afterward?"
"There was no real harm in it, Mistress Pol," Durnik assured her. Aunt Pol shook her head. "I thought you at least had good sense, Durnik," she said, "but now I see that I was wrong."
Garion suddenly resented her remarks. It seemed that no matter what he did, she was ready to take it in the worst possible light. His resentment flared to the verge of open rebellion. What right had she to say anything about what he did? There was no tie between them, after all, and he could do anything he wanted without her permission if he felt like it. He glared at her in sullen anger.
She caught the look and returned it with a cool expression that seemed almost to challenge him. "Well?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said shortly.
Chapter Fifteen
THE NEXT MORNING dawned bright and crisp. The sky was a deep blue, and the sunlight was dazzling on the white mountaintops that rose behind the city. After breakfast, Mister Wolf announced that he and Aunt Pol would again meet privately that day with Fulrach and the Alorn Kings.
"Good idea," Barak said. "Gloomy ponderings are good for kings. Unless one has regal obligations, however, it's much too fine a day to be wasted indoors." He grinned mockingly at his cousin.
"There's a streak of cruelty in you that I hadn't suspected, Barak," King Anheg said, glancing longingly out a nearby window.
"Do the wild boars still come down to the edges of the forest?" Barak asked.
"In droves," Anheg replied even more disconsolately.
"I thought I might gather a few good men and go out and see if we can thin their numbers a bit," Barak said, his grin even wider now.
"I was almost sure you had something like that in mind," Anheg said moodily, scratching at his unkempt hair.
"I'm doing you a service, Anheg," Barak said. "You don't want your kingdom overrun with the beasts, do you?"
Rhodar, the fat King of Drasnia, laughed hugely. "I think he's got you, Anheg," he said.
"He usually does," Anheg agreed sourly.
"I gladly leave such activities to younger and leaner men," Rhodar said. He slapped his vast paunch with both hands. "I don't mind a good supper, but I'd rather not have to fight with it first. I make too good a target. The blindest boar in the world wouldn't have much trouble finding me."
"Well, Silk," Barak said, "what do you say?"
"You're not serious," Silk said.
"You must go along, Prince Kheldar," Queen Porenn insisted. "Someone has to represent the honor of Drasnia in this venture."
Silk's face looked pained.
"You can be my champion," she said, her eyes sparkling.
"Have you been reading Arendish epics again, your Highness?" Silk asked acidly.
"Consider it a royal command," she said. "Some fresh air and exercise won't hurt you. You're starting to look dyspeptic."
Silk bowed ironically. "As you wish, your Highness," he said. "I suppose that if things get out of hand I can always climb a tree."
"How about you, Durnik?" Barak asked.
"I don't know much about hunting, friend Barak," Durnik said doubtfully, "bu
t I'll come along if you like."
"My Lord?" Barak asked the Earl of Seline politely.
"Oh, no, Lord Barak." Seline laughed. "I outgrew my enthusiasm for such sport years ago. Thanks for the invitation, however."
"Hettar?" Barak asked the rangy Algar. Hettar glanced quickly at his father.
"Go along, Hettar," Cho-Hag said in his soft voice. "I'm sure King Anheg will lend me a warrior to help me walk."
"I'll do it myself, Cho-Hag," Anheg said. "I've carned heavier burdens."
"I'll go with you then, Lord Barak," Hettar said. "And thanks for asking me." His voice was deep and resonant, but very soft, much like that of his father.
"Well, lad?" Barak asked Garion.
"Have you lost your wits entirely, Barak?" Aunt Pol snapped. "Didn't you get him into enough trouble yesterday?"
That was the last straw. The sudden elation he'd felt at Barak's invitation turned to anger. Garion gritted his teeth and threw away all caution. "If Barak doesn't think I'll just be in the way, I'll be glad to go along," he announced defiantly.
Aunt Pol stared at him, her eyes suddenly very hard.
"Your cub is growing teeth, Pol." Mister Wolf chuckled.
"Be still, father," Aunt Pol said, still glaring at Garion.
"Not this time, Miss," the old man said with a hint of iron in his voice. "He's made his decision, and you're not going to humiliate him by unmaking it for him. Garion isn't a child now. You may not have noticed, but he's almost man high and filling out now. He'll soon be fifteen, Pol. You're going to have to relax your grip sometime, and now's as good a time as any to start treating him like a man."
She looked at him for a moment.
"Whatever you say, father," she said at last with deceptive meekness. "I'm sure we'll want to discuss this later, though-in private."
Mister Wolf winced.
Aunt Pol looked at Garion then. "Try to be careful, dear," she said, "and when you come back, we'll have a nice long talk, won't we?"
"Will my Lord require my aid in arming himself for the hunt?" Lady Merel asked in the stilted and insulting manner she always assumed with Barak.
"That won't be necessary, Merel," Barak said.
"I would not neglect any of my duties," she said.
"Leave it alone, Merel," Barak said. "You've made your point."
"Have I my Lord's permission then to withdraw?" she asked.
"You have," he said shortly.
"Perhaps you ladies would like to join me," Queen Islena said. "We'll cast auguries and see if we can predict the outcome of the hunt."
Queen Porenn, who stood somewhat behind the Queen of Cherek, rolled her eyes upward in resignation.
Queen Silar smiled at her.
"Let's go then," Barak said. "The boars are waiting."
"Sharpening their tusks, no doubt," Silk said.
Barak led them down to the red door of the armory where they were joined by a grizzled man with enormously broad shoulders who wore a bullhide shirt with metal plates sewn on it.
"This is Torvik," Barak introduced the grizzled man, "Anheg's chief huntsman. He knows every boar in the forest by his first name."
"My Lord Barak is overkind," Torvik said, bowing.
"How does one go about this hunting of boars, friend Torvik?" Durnik asked politely. "I've never done it before."
"It's a simple thing," Torvik explained. "I take my huntsmen into the forest and we drive the beasts with noise and shouting. You and the other hunters wait for them with these." He gestured at a rack of stout, broad-headed boar spears. "When the boar sees you standing in his way, he charges you and tries to kill you with his tusks, but instead you kill him with your spear."
"I see," Durnik said somewhat doubtfully. "It doesn't sound very complicated."
"We wear mail shirts, Durnik," Barak said. "Our hunters are hardly ever injured seriously."
" `Hardly ever' has an uncomfortable ring of frequency to it, Barak," Silk said, fingering a mail shirt hanging on a peg by the door.
"No sport is very entertaining without a certain element of risk." Barak shrugged, hefting a boar spear.
"Have you ever thought of throwing dice instead?" Silk asked.
"Not with your dice, my friend." Barak laughed.
They began pulling on mail shirts while Torvik's huntsmen carried several armloads of boar spears out to the sleighs waiting in the snowy courtyard of the palace.
Garion found the mail shirt heavy and more than a little uncomfortable. The steel rings dug at his skin even through his heavy clothes, and every time he tried to shift his posture to relieve the pressure of one of them, a half dozen others bit at him. The air was very cold as they climbed into the sleighs, and the usual fur robes seemed hardly adequate.
They drove through the narrow, twisting streets of Val Alorn toward the great west gate on the opposite side of the city from the harbor. The breath of the horses steamed in the icy air as they rode.
The ragged old blind woman from the temple stepped from a doorway as they passed in the bright morning sun. "Hail, Lord Barak," she croaked. "Thy Doom is at hand. Thou shalt taste of it before this day's sun finds its bed."
Without a word Barak rose in his sleigh, took up a boar spear and cast it with deadly accuracy full at the old woman.
With surprising speed, the witch-woman swung her staff and knocked the spear aside in midair. "It will avail thee not to try to kill old Martje." She laughed scornfully. "Thy spear shall not find her, neither shall thy sword. Go thou, Barak. Thy Doom awaits thee." And then she turned toward the sleigh in which Garion sat beside the startled Durnik. "Hail, Lord of Lords," she intoned. "Thy peril this day shall be great, but thou shall survive it. And it is thy peril which shall reveal the mark of the beast which is the Doom of thy friend Barak." And then she bowed and scampered away before Barak could lay his hands on another spear.
"What was that about, Garion?" Durnik asked, his eyes still surprised.
"Barak says she's a crazy old blind woman," Garion said. "She stopped us when we arrived in Val Alorn after you and the others had already passed."
"What was all that talk about Doom?" Durnik asked with a shudder.
"I don't know," Garion said. "Barak wouldn't explain it."
"It's a bad omen so early in the day," Durnik said. "These Chereks are a strange people."
Garion nodded in agreement.
Beyond the west gate of the city were open fields, sparkling white in the full glare of the morning sun. They crossed the fields toward the dark edge of the forest two leagues away with great plumes of powdery snow flying out behind their racing sleighs.
Farmsteads lay muffled in snow along their track. The buildings were all made of logs and had high-peaked wooden roofs.
"These people seem to be indifferent to danger," Durnik said. "I certainly wouldn't want to live in a wooden house - what with the possibility of fire and all."
"It's a different country, after all," Garion said. "We can't expect the whole world to live the way we do in Sendaria."
"I suppose not," Durnik sighed, "but I'll tell you, Garion, I'm not very comfortable here. Some people just aren't meant for travel. Sometimes I wish we'd never left Faldor's farm."
"I do too, sometimes," Garion admitted, looking at the towering mountains that seemed to rise directly out of the forest ahead. "Someday it will be over, though, and we'll be able to go home again."
Durnik nodded and sighed once more.
By the time they had entered the woods, Barak had regained his temper and his good spirits, and he set about placing the hunters as if nothing had happened. He led Garion through the calf deep snow to a large tree some distance from the narrow sleigh track.
"This is a good place," he said. "There's a game trail here, and the boars may use it to try to escape the noise of Torvik and his huntsmen. When one comes, brace yourself and hold your spear with its point aimed at his chest. They don't see very well, and he'll run full into your spear before he even knows it's there.
After that it's probably best to jump behind a tree. Sometimes the spear makes them very angry."
"What if I miss?" Garion asked.
"I wouldn't do that," Barak advised. "It's not a very good idea."
"I didn't mean that I was going to do it on purpose," Garion said. "Will he try to get away from me or what?"
"Sometimes they'll try to run," Barak said, "but I wouldn't count on it. More likely he'll try to split you up the middle with his tusks. At that point it's usually a good idea to climb a tree."
"I'll remember that," Garion said.
"I won't be far away if you have trouble," Barak promised, handing Garion a pair of heavy spears. Then he trudged back to his sleigh, and they all galloped off, leaving Garion standing alone under the large oak tree.
It was shadowy among the dark tree trunks, and bitingly cold. Garion walked around a bit through the snow, looking for the best place to await the boar. The trail Barak had pointed out was a beaten path winding back through the dark brush, and Garion found the size of the tracks imprinted in the snow on the path alarmingly large. The oak tree with low-spreading limbs began to look very inviting, but he dismissed that thought angrily. He was expected to stand on the ground and meet the charge of the boar, and he decided that he would rather die than hide in a tree like a frightened child.
The dry voice in his mind advised him that he spent far too much time worrying about things like that. Until he was grown, no one would consider him a man, so why should he go to all the trouble of trying to seem brave when it wouldn't do any good anyway?
The forest was very quiet now, and the snow muffled all sounds. No bird sang, and there was only the occasional padded thump of snow sliding from overloaded branches to the earth beneath. Garion felt terribly alone. What was he doing here? What business had a good, sensible Sendarian boy here in the endless forests of Cherek, awaiting the charge of a savage wild pig with only a pair of unfamiliar spears for company?
What had the pig ever done to him? He realized that he didn't even particularly like the taste of pork.
He was some distance from the beaten forest track along which their sleighs had passed, and he set his back to the oak tree, shivered, and waited.
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