"Don't touch me," Relg said and continued to pray.
Silk stood, beating the dust and sand out of his clothing. "Do these storms come up often?" he asked.
"It's the season for them," Belgarath replied.
"Delightful," Silk said sourly.
Then a deep rumbling sound seemed to come from deep in the earth beneath them, and the ground heaved. "Earthquake!" Belgarath warned sharply. "Get the horses out of there!"
Durnik and Barak dashed back inside the shelter and led the horses out from behind the trembling wall and onto the salt flat.
After several moments the heaving subsided.
"Is Ctuchik doing that?" Silk demanded. "Is he going to fight us with earthquakes and sandstorms?"
Belgarath shook his head. "No. Nobody's strong enough to do that. That's what's causing it." He pointed to the south. Far across the wasteland they could make out a line of dark peaks. A thick plume was rising from one of them, towering into the air, boiling up in great black billows as it rose. "Volcano," the old man said. "Probably the same one that erupted last summer and dropped all the ash on Sthiss Tor."
"A fire-mountain?" Barak rumbled, staring at the great cloud that was growing up out of the mountaintop. "I've never seen one before."
"That's fifty leagues away, Belgarath," Silk stated. "Would it make the earth shake even here?"
The old man nodded. "The earth's all one piece, Silk. The force that's causing that eruption is enormous. It's bound to cause a few ripples. I think we'd better get moving. Taur Urgas' patrols will be out looking for us again, now that the sandstorm's blown over."
"Which way do we go?" Durnik asked, looking around, trying to get his bearings.
"That way." Belgarath pointed toward the smoking mountain.
"I was afraid you were going to say that," Barak grumbled.
They rode at a gallop for the rest of the day, pausing only to rest the horses. The dreary wasteland seemed to go on forever. The black sand had shifted and piled into new dunes during the sandstorm, and the thick-crusted salt flats had been scoured by the wind until they were nearly white. They passed a number of the huge, bleached skeletons of the sea monsters which had once inhabited this inland ocean. The bony shapes appeared almost to be swimming up out of the black sand, and the cold, empty eye sockets seemed somehow hungry as they galloped past.
They stopped for the night beside another shattered outcropping of scab-rock. Although the wind had died, it was still bitterly cold, and firewood was scanty.
The next morning as they set out again, Garion began to smell a strange, foul odor. "What's that stink?" he asked.
"The Tarn of Cthok," Belgarath replied. "It's all that's left of the sea that used to be here. It would have dried out centuries ago, but it's fed by underground springs."
"It smells like rotten eggs," Barak said.
"There's quite a bit of sulfur in the ground water around here. I wouldn't drink from the lake."
"I wasn't planning to." Barak wrinkled his nose.
The Tarn of Cthok was a vast, shallow pond filled with oily-looking water that reeked like all the dead fish in the world. Its surface steamed in the icy air, and the wisps of steam gagged them with the dreadful stink. When they reached the southern tip of the lake, Belgarath signalled for a halt. "This next stretch is dangerous," he told them soberly. "Don't let your horses wander. Be sure you stay on solid rock. Ground that looks firm quite often won't be, and there are some other things we'll need to watch out for. Keep your eyes on me and do what I do.
When I stop, you stop. When I run, you run." He looked thoughtfully at Relg. The Ulgo had bound another cloth across his eyes, partially to keep out the light and partially to hide the expanse of the sky above him.
"I'll lead his horse, Grandfather," Garion offered.
Belgarath nodded. "It's the only way, I suppose."
"He's going to have to get over that eventually," Barak said.
"Maybe, but this isn't the time or place for it. Let's go." The old man moved forward at a careful walk.
The region ahead of them steamed and smoked as they approached it. They passed a large pool of gray mud that bubbled and fumed, and beyond it a sparkling spring of clear water, boiling merrily and cascading a scalding brook down into the mud. "At least it's warmer," Silk observed.
Mandorallen's face was streaming perspiration beneath his heavy helmet. "Much warmer," he agreed.
Belgarath had been riding slowly, his head turned slightly as he listened intently.
"Stop!" he said sharply.
They all reined in.
Just ahead of them another pool suddenly erupted as a dirty gray geyser of liquid mud spurted thirty feet into the air. It continued to spout for several minutes, then gradually subsided.
"Now!" Belgarath barked. "Run!" He kicked his horse's flanks, and they galloped past the still-heaving surface of the pool, the hooves of their horses splashing in the hot mud that had splattered across their path. When they had passed, the old man slowed again and once more rode with his ear cocked toward the ground.
"What's he listening for?" Barak asked Polgara.
"The geysers make a certain noise just before they erupt," she answered.
"I didn't hear anything."
"You don't know what to listen for."
Behind them the mud geyser spouted again.
"Garion!" Aunt Pol snapped as he turned to look back at the mud plume rising from the pool. "Watch where you're going!"
He jerked his eyes back. The ground ahead of him looked quite ordinary.
"Back up," she told him. "Durnik, get the reins of Relg's horse."
Durnik took the reins, and Garion began to turn his mount.
"I said to back up," she repeated.
Garion's horse put one front hoof on the seemingly solid ground, and the hoof sank out of sight. The horse scrambled back and stood trembling as Garion held him in tightly. Then, carefully, step by step, Garion backed to the solid rock of the path they followed.
"Quicksand," Silk said with a sharp intake of his breath.
"It's all around us," Aunt Pol agreed. "Don't wander off the path - any of you."
Silk stared with revulsion at the hoofprint of Garion's horse, disappearing on the surface of the quicksand. "How deep is it?"
"Deep enough," Aunt Pol replied.
They moved on, carefully picking their way through the quagmires and quicksand, stopping often as more geysers - some of mud, some of frothy, boiling water - shot high into the air. By late afternoon, when they reached a low ridge of hard, solid rock beyond the steaming bog, they were all exhausted from the effort of the concentration it had taken to pass through the hideous region.
"Do we have to go through any more like that?" Garion asked.
"No," Belgarath replied. "It's just around the southern edges of the Tarn."
"Can one not go around it, then?" Mandorallen inquired.
"It's much longer if you do, and the bog helps to discourage pursuit."
"What's that?" Relg cried suddenly.
"What's what?" Barak asked him.
"I heard something just ahead - a kind of click, like two pebbles knocking together."
Garion felt a quick kind of wave against his face, almost like an unseen ripple in the air, and he knew that Aunt Pol was searching ahead of them with her mind.
"Murgos!" she said.
"How many?" Belgarath asked her.
"Six and a Grolim. They're waiting for us just behind the ridge."
"Only six?" Mandorallen said, sounding a little disappointed.
Barak grinned tightly. "Light entertainment."
"You're getting to be as bad as he is," Silk told the big Cherek.
"Thinkest thou that we might need some plan, my Lord?" Mandorallen asked Barak.
"Not really," Barak replied. "Not for just six. Let's go spring their trap."
The two warriors moved into the lead, unobtrusively loosening their swords in their scabbards.
"Has the sun gone down yet?" Relg asked Garion.
"It's just setting."
Relg pulled the binding from around his eyes and tugged down the dark veil. He winced and squinted his large eyes almost shut.
"You're going to hurt them," Garion told him. "You ought to leave them covered until it gets dark."
"I might need them," Relg said as they rode up the ridge toward the waiting Murgo ambush.
The Murgos gave no warning. They rode out from behind a large pile of black rock and galloped directly at Mandorallen and Barak, their swords swinging. The two warriors, however, were waiting for them and reacted without that instant of frozen surprise which might have made the attack successful. Mandorallen swept his sword from its sheath even as he drove his warhorse directly into the mount of one of the charging Murgos. He rose in his stirrups and swung a mighty blow downward, splitting the Murgo's head with his heavy blade. The horse, knocked off his feet by the impact, fell heavily backward on top of his dying rider. Barak, also charging at the attackers, chopped another Murgo out of the saddle with three massive blows, spattering bright red blood on the sand and rock around them.
A third Murgo sidestepped Mandorallen's charge and struck at the knight's back, but his blade clanged harmlessly off the steel armor. The Murgo desperately raised his sword to strike again, but stiffened and slid from his saddle as Silk's skilfully thrown dagger sank into his neck, just below the ear.
A dark-robed Grolim in his polished steel mask had stepped out from behind the rocks. Garion could quite clearly feel the priest's exultation turning to dismay as Barak and Mandorallen systematically chopped his warriors to pieces. The Grolim drew himself up, and Garion sensed that he was gathering his will to strike. But it was too late. Relg had already closed on him. The zealot's heavy shoulders surged as he grasped the front of the Grolim's robe with his knotted hands. Without apparent effort he lifted and pushed the man back against the flattened face of a house-sized boulder.
At first it appeared that Relg only intended to hold the Grolim pinned against the rock until the others could assist him with the struggling captive, but there was a subtle difference. The set of his shoulders indicated that he had not finished the action he had begun with lifting the man from his feet. The Grolim hammered at Relg's head and shoulders with his fists, but Relg pushed at him inexorably. The rock against which the Grolim was pinned seemed to shimmer slightly around him.
"Relg - no!" Silk's cry was strangled.
The dark-robed Grolim began to sink into the stone face, his arms flailing wildly as Relg pushed him in with a dreadful slowness. As he went deeper into the rock, the surface closed smoothly over him. Relg continued to push, his arms sliding into the stone as he sank the Grolim deeper and deeper. The priest's two protruding hands continued to twitch and writhe, even after the rest of his body had been totally submerged. Then Relg drew his arms out of the stone, leaving the Grolim behind. The two hands sticking out of the rock opened once in mute supplication, then stiffened into dead claws.
Behind him, Garion could hear the muffled sound of Silk's retching. Barak and Mandorallen had by now engaged two of the remaining Murgos, and the sound of clashing sword blades rang in the chill air. The last Murgo, his eyes wide with fright, wheeled his horse and bolted. Without a word, Durnik jerked his axe free of his saddle and galloped after him. Instead of striking the man down, however, Durnik cut across in front of his opponent's horse, turning him, driving him back. The panic-stricken Murgo flailed at his horse's flanks with the flat of his sword, turning away from the grim-faced smith, and plunged at a dead run back up over the ridge with Durnik close behind him.
The last two Murgos were down by then, and Barak and Mandorallen, both wild-eyed with the exultation of battle, were looking around for more enemies.
"Where's that last one?" Barak demanded.
"Durnik's chasing him," Garion said.
"We can't let him get away. He'll bring others."
"Durnik's going to take care of it," Belgarath told him.
Barak fretted. "Durnik's a good man, but he's not really a warrior. Maybe I'd better go help him."
From beyond the ridge there was a sudden scream of horror, then another. The third cut off quite suddenly, and there was silence.
After several minutes, Durnik came riding back alone, his face somber.
"What happened?" Barak asked. "He didn't get away, did he?"
Durnik shook his head. "I chased him into the bog, and he ran into some quicksand."
"Why didn't you cut him down with your axe?"
"I don't really like hitting people," Durnik replied.
Silk was staring at Durnik, his face still ashen. "So you just chased him into quicksand instead and then stood there and watched him go down? Durnik, that's monstrous!"
"Dead is dead," Durnik told him with uncharacteristic bluntness. "When it's over, it doesn't really matter how it happened, does it?" He looked a bit thoughtful. "I am sorry about the horse, though."
Chapter Twenty-four
THE NEXT MORNING they followed the ridgeline that angled off toward the east. The wintry sky above them was an icy blue, and there was no warmth to the sun. Relg kept his eyes veiled against the light and muttered prayers as he rode to ward off his panic. Several times they saw dust clouds far out on the desolation of sand and salt flats to the south, but they were unable to determine whether the clouds were caused by Murgo patrols or vagrant winds.
About noon, the wind shifted and blew in steadily from the south. A ponderous cloud, black as ink, blotted out the jagged line of peaks lying along the southern horizon. It moved toward them with a kind of ominous inexorability, and flickers of lightning glimmered in its sooty underbelly.
"That's a bad storm coming, Belgarath," Barak rumbled, staring at the cloud.
Belgarath shook his head. "It's not a storm," he replied. "It's ashfall. That volcano out there is erupting again, and the wind's blowing the ash this way."
Barak made a face, then shrugged. "At least we won't have to worry about being seen, once it starts," he said.
"The Grolims won't be looking for us with their eyes, Barak," Aunt Pol reminded him.
Belgarath scratched at his beard. "We'll have to take steps to deal with that, I suppose."
"This is a large group to shield, father," Aunt Pol pointed out, "and that's not even counting the horses."
"I think you can manage it, Pol. You were always very good at it."
"I can hold up my side as long as you can hold up yours, Old Wolf."
"I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to help you, Pol. Ctuchik himself is looking for us. I've felt him several times already, and I'm going to have to concentrate on him. If he decides to strike at us, he'll come very fast. I'll have to be ready for him, and I can't do that if I'm all tangled up in a shield."
"I can't do it alone, father," she protested. "Nobody can enclose this many men and horses without help."
"Garion can help you."
"Me?" Garion jerked his eyes off the looming cloud to stare at his grandfather.
"He's never done it before, father," Aunt Pol pointed out.
"He's going to have to learn sometime."
"This is hardly the time or place for experimentation."
"He'll do just fine. Walk him through it a time or two until he gets the hang of it."
"Exactly what is it I'm supposed to do?" Garion asked apprehensively.
Aunt Pol gave Belgarath a hard look and then turned to Garion. "I'll show you dear," she said. "The first thing you have to do is stay calm. It really isn't all that difficult."
"But you just said-"
"Never mind what I said, dear. Just pay attention."
"What do you want me to do?" he asked doubtfully.
"The first thing is to relax," she replied, "and think about sand and rock."
"That's all?"
"Just do that first. Concentrate."
He thought about sand and rock.
"No, Garion, not white
sand. Black sand - like the sand all around us."
"You didn't say that."
"I didn't think I had to."
Belgarath started to laugh.
"Do you want to do this, father?" she demanded crossly. Then she turned back to Garion. "Do it again, dear. Try to get it right this time."
He fixed it in his mind.
"That's better," she told him. "Now, as soon as you get sand and rock firmly in your mind, I want you to sort of push the idea out in a half circle so that it covers your entire right side. I'll take care of the left."
He strained with it. It was the hardest thing he had ever done. "Don't push quite so hard, Garion. You're wrinkling it, and it's very hard for me to make the seams match when you do that. Just keep it steady and smooth."
"I'm sorry." He smoothed it out.
"How does it look, father?" she asked the old man.
Garion felt a tentative push against the idea he was holding.
"Not bad, Pol," Belgarath replied. "Not bad at all. The boy's got talent."
"Just exactly what are we doing?" Garion asked. In spite of the chill, he felt sweat standing out on his forehead.
"You're making a shield," Belgarath told him. "You enclose yourself in the idea of sand and rock, and it merges with the real sand and rock all around us. When Grolims go looking for things with their minds, they're looking for men and horses. They'll sweep right past us, because all they'll see here is more sand and more rock."
"That's all there is to it?" Garion was quite pleased with how simple it was.
"There's a bit more, dear," Aunt Pol said. "We're going to extend it now so that it covers all of us. Go out slowly, a few feet at a time."
That was much less simple. He tore the fabric of the idea several times before he got it pushed out as far as Aunt Pol wanted it. He felt a strange merging of his mind with hers along the center of the idea where the two sides joined.
"I think we've got it now, father," Aunt Pol said.
"I told you he could do it, Pol."
The purple-black cloud was rolling ominously up the sky toward them, and faint rumbles of thunder growled along its leading edge.
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