Rivan Codex Series

by Eddings, David

  Brendig nodded soberly. "That's about what I'd expected," he replied. "I suppose we'd better get on with it then."

  "There!" King Rhodar shouted, pointing downriver. "The smoke - it's green! That's the signal. We can start the retreat now."

  General Varana, however, was staring at the riverbank upstream. "It's too late, I'm afraid, your Majesty," he said quietly. "A column of Malloreans and Nadraks have just reached the river to the west of us. It very much looks as if we've been cut off."

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE NEWS OF the death of Taur Urgas spread through the Murgo army in a vast groan, and the heart went out of the black-robed troops. Taur Urgas had been feared by his men, but his savage madness had lent them all a peculiar sense that they were invincible. They had felt somehow that nothing could stand in his path, and that they, as the instruments of his brutal will, shared in some measure his apparent invulnerability. But with his death, each Murgo became aware with a sudden cold touch of fear that he also could die, and the assault on the armies of the west along the south bank faltered.

  King Cho-Hag watched the crumbling of the Murgo resolve with a certain grim satisfaction, then rode down to the lines of infantry and the milling Mimbrate knights to confer with the other leaders. King Fulrach strode forward from the ranks of his Sendars. The dumpy, brown-bearded monarch looked almost comical in his burnished breastplate, but his sword showed signs of recent use, and his helmet was dented in a couple of places, mute evidence that the King of Sendaria had participated in the fight.

  "Have you seen Anheg's signal yet?" Fulrach demanded as he approached.

  Cho-Hag shook his head. "It should come any time now, though," he replied. "We'd better make some plans. Have you seen Korodullin?"

  "The physicians are working on him," Fulrach said.

  "Is he hurt?" Cho-Hag was startled.

  "I don't think it's too serious. He went to help his friend, the Baron of Vo Ebor, and a Murgo hit him in the head with a mace. His helmet absorbed most of the blow. He's bleeding out of the ears a bit, but the physicians say he'll recover. The baron's in worse shape, though."

  "Who's in charge of the Mimbrates, then?"

  "Sir Andorig. He's a good man in a fight, but his understanding is a bit limited."

  Cho-Hag laughed shortly. "You've just described most of Arendia, my friend. They're all good in a fight, and they all have limited understanding." Carefully he dismounted, holding onto his saddle as his weak legs nearly buckled. "We can make our decisions without Andorig's help, I think." He looked at the retreating Murgos. "As soon as we see Anheg's signal, I think we're going to want to get out of here in a hurry. The Murgos are demoralized right now, but they'll probably stiffen up again as soon as the shock wears off."

  Fulrach nodded. "Did you really kill Taur Urgas in a duel?" he asked.

  Cho-Hag nodded. "It wasn't really all that much of a duel. He was raving when he came at me and didn't even try to defend himself. When Anheg signals, we'll have the Mimbrates charge the Murgo front. The Murgos will probably break and run. I'll follow after them with my clansmen to hurry them along. That should give you and your foot troops time to start upriver. Andorig and I'll keep the Murgos off your back until you get clear. How does that sound?"

  King Fulrach nodded. "It sounds workable," he agreed. "Do you think they'll try to follow us?"

  Cho-Hag grinned. "I'll encourage them not to," he replied. "Have you got any idea of what's going on across the river?"

  "It's hard to say, but things don't look very good."

  "Can you think of any way we can send them help?"

  "Not on short notice," Fulrach answered.

  "Neither can I," Cho-Hag said. He began to pull himself back up into his saddle. "I'll go give Andorig his instructions. Keep your eyes open for Anheg's signal."

  "Belgarath!" Ce'Nedra called out silently, her hand tightly clasped about the amulet at her throat. "Belgarath, can you hear me?" She was standing several yards away from where Durnik was trying to make the unconscious Polgara as comfortable as possible. The princess had her eyes tightly closed and she was putting every ounce of concentration into casting her thought to the sky, reaching out with all her heart toward the ancient sorcerer.

  "Ce'Nedra?" The old man's voice was as clear as if he were standing beside her. "What are you doing? Where's Polgara?"

  "Oh, Belgarath!" The princess almost sobbed with relief. "Help us. Lady Polgara's unconscious, and the Malloreans are attacking again. We're being slaughtered, Belgarath. Help us."

  "Slow down," he commanded brusquely. "What happened to Pol? Where are you?"

  "We're at Thull Mardu," Ce'Nedra replied. "We had to take the city so that the Cherek fleet could go on down the river. The Malloreans and the Murgos crept up on us. They've been attacking since early this morning."

  Belgarath started to swear. "What's wrong with Pol?" he demanded harshly.

  "The Grolims brought in an awful storm, and then there was fog. Lady Polgara and Beldin made the wind blow, and then she just collapsed. Beldin said that she exhausted herself and that we have to let her sleep."

  "Where's Beldin?"

  "He said that he had to keep an eye on the Grolims. Can you help us?"

  "Ce'Nedra, I'm a thousand leagues away from you. Garion, Silk, and I are in Mallorea - practically on Torak's doorstep. If I so much as raise my hand, it will wake him, and Garion's not ready to meet him yet."

  "We're doomed, then," Ce'Nedra wailed.

  "Stop that," he snapped. "This isn't the time for hysterics. You're going to have to wake Polgara."

  "We've tried - and Beldin says that we've got to let her rest."

  "She can rest later," Belgarath retorted. "Is that bag she always carries somewhere about - the one she keeps all those herbs in?"

  "I - I think so. Durnik was carrying it a little while ago."

  "Durnik's with you? Good. Now listen, and listen carefully. Get the bag and open it. What you want will be in a silk pouch. Don't open any jars or bottles. She keeps her poisons in those. In one of the silk bags you'll find a yellow-colored powder. It has a very acrid odor to it. Put a spoonful or so of that powder into a pot of boiling water. Put the pot beside Pol's head and cover her face with a cloak so she has to breathe the fumes."

  "What will that do?"

  "It will wake her up."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Don't argue with me, Ce'Nedra. She'll wake up, believe me. Those fumes would wake up a dead stick. As soon as she's awake, she'll know what to do."

  Ce'Nedra hesitated. "Is Garion there?" she blurted finally.

  "He's asleep. We had a rough time last night."

  "When he wakes up, tell him that I love him." She said it very fast, as if afraid that if she thought about it at all, she wouldn't be able to say it.

  "Why confuse him?" the old man asked her.

  "Belgarath!" Ce'Nedra's voice was stricken.

  "I was teasing. I'll tell him. Now get to work - and don't do this any more. I'm trying to sneak up on Torak, and it's a little hard to sneak when you're shouting at somebody a thousand leagues away."

  "We aren't shouting."

  "Oh yes we are - it's a special kind of shouting, but it's shouting all the same. Now take your hand off that amulet and get to work." And then his voice was gone.

  Durnik, of course, would never understand, so Ce'Nedra did what was necessary by herself. She rummaged around until she found a small pot. She filled it with water and set it on the small fire the smith had built the night before. Then she opened Polgara's herb bag. The blond child, Errand, stood at her side, watching her curiously.

  "What are you doing, Princess?" Durnik asked, still hovering anxiously over the sleeping Polgara.

  "I'm fixing something to make her rest easier," Ce'Nedra lied.

  "Are you sure you know what you're doing? Some of those are very dangerous."

  "I know which one I'm looking for," she replied. "Trust me, Durnik."

  The powder she fi
nally located was so acrid that it made her eyes water. She carefully measured out a bit of it and dumped it into the pot. The steaming fumes were awful, and the princess kept her face averted as she carried the pot to where Polgara lay. She set the pot beside the lady's pale, sleeping face and then laid a cloak across her. "Give me a stick," the princess said to the smith.

  Durnik, his face dubious, handed her a broken-off arrow.

  Ce'Nedra carefully propped up the cloak, making a small tent over the pot and Polgara's face.

  "What now?" Durnik asked.

  "Now we wait," Ce'Nedra told him.

  Then, coming from the direction of the battle, a group of Sendarian soldiers, evidently wounded, appeared at the top of the grassy bank surrounding the secluded little beach. Their jerkins all had bloodstains on them, and several of the men wore bandages. Unlike most of the wounded who had already passed that morning, however, these men still carried their weapons.

  Under the tented cloak, Polgara began to cough.

  "What have you done?" Durnik cried, snatching the cloak away.

  "It was necessary," Ce'Nedra replied. "I talked with Belgarath. He told me that I had to wake her up - and how to do it."

  "You'll hurt her," Durnik accused. With sudden, uncharacteristic anger, he kicked the fuming pot, sending it rolling down the beach toward the water's edge.

  Polgara's eyelids were fluttering as she continued to cough. When she opened her eyes, however, her look was blank, uncomprehending.

  "Can you spare us some water?" one of the wounded Sendars asked as the group of men approached.

  "There's a whole river right there," Ce'Nedra replied absently, pointing even as she intently stared into Polgara's eyes.

  Durnik, however, gave the men a startled look, then suddenly reached for his sword.

  But the men in Sendarian jerkins had jumped down from the bank and were already upon them. It took three of them to disarm the powerful smith and to hold his arms.

  "You're not Sendars," Durnik exclaimed, struggling with his captors.

  "How clever of you to notice," one of them replied in an accent so guttural that it was almost unintelligible. Another of them drew his sword and stood over the dazed Polgara. "Stop fighting, friend," he told Durnik with an ugly smirk, "or I'll kill this woman."

  "Who are you?" Ce'Nedra demanded indignantly. "What do you think you're doing?"

  "Actually, we're members of the Imperial Elite Guard," the man with the sword answered urbanely. "And we're here, your Highness, to extend to you the invitation of his Imperial Majesty 'Zakath, Emperor of Mallorea. His Majesty requests the honor of your presence in his pavilion." His face hardened, and he looked at his men. "Bring them," he ordered. "Let's get out of here before someone comes along and starts asking questions."

  "They're digging in," Hettar reported to King Rhodar, gesturing toward the west and their now-blocked escape route. "They've already got a trench-line running from the river for about a half a mile."

  "Is there any chance of going around them?" Rhodar asked.

  Hettar shook his head. "That whole flank's seething with Nadraks."

  "We'll have to go through them, then," the King of Drasnia decided. "I can't very well attack trenches with cavalry," Hettar pointed out.

  "We'll storm them with the infantry units," Rhodar declared. "We'll have a certain advantage. The Asturian bows have a longer range than the short ones the Malloreans use. We'll move the archers to the front as we advance. They can rake the trenches and then harass the Mallorean archers behind the lines. The pikemen will go in first." The sweating fat man looked at General Varana. "Can your legionnaires clear the trenches once we open a hole for you?"

  Varana nodded. "We train extensively for trench fighting," he replied confidently. "We'll clear the trenches."

  "We'll bring the wounded with the main force," Rhodar said. "Somebody locate Polgara and the princess. It's time to leave."

  "What task hast thou for Lord Hettar and me," Mandorallen inquired. The great knight's armor showed a number of dents, but he spoke as calmly as if he had not spent the entire morning involved in heavy fighting.

  "I want you and your knights to hold the rear," Rhodar told him. "Keep that army out there off my back." He turned to Hettar. "And I want you and your clansmen to go to work on the Nadraks. I don't want them to come swarming in while we're working in the trenches."

  "It's a desperate move, King Rhodar," General Varana said seriously. "Attacking even hasty fortifications is always costly, and you're going to do it with another army coming at you from the rear. If your attack is beaten back, you'll be caught between two superior forces. They'll grind you to dogmeat right on the spot."

  "I know," Rhodar admitted glumly, "but our only hope of escape is breaking through those lines that have us blocked off. We've got to get back upriver. Tell your men that we have to take those trenches on the first charge. Otherwise, we're all going to die right here. All right, gentlemen, good luck."

  Once again Mandorallen led his steel-clad knights in their fearsome charge, and once again the attacking Malloreans recoiled, driven back by the dreadful shock as the mounted men of Mimbre struck their front ranks. This time, however, the pikemen and legionnaires, as soon as they were disengaged from the enemy, turned sharply to the left and, at a jingling trot, abandoned their positions to follow the Sendars and Asturians who were already withdrawing from the field toward the west.

  The delaying action of the Mimbrate knights was costly. Riderless horses galloped wildly about the battlefield, quite frequently adding to the havoc by trampling through the Mallorean ranks. Here and there among the red tunics that carpeted the field lay the single gleaming form of a fallen knight. Again and again the Mimbrates hurled themselves against the advancing red tide, slowing the Malloreans, but not quite able to stop them.

  "It's going to be tight, your Majesty," General Varana advised as he and King Rhodar rode toward the hastily drawn lines blocking their escape. "Even if we break through, the bulk of the Mallorean forces are going to be hot on our heels."

  "You've got a great talent for the obvious, General," Rhodar replied. "As soon as we get through, we'll put the archers at the rear and let the Malloreans march through a rain of arrows. That will hold them back."

  "Until the archers run out of arrows," Varana added.

  "After we break through, I'll send the Algars on ahead. Fulrach's got whole wagonloads of arrows at the rapids."

  "Which is two days march ahead."

  "Do you always look at the dark side of things?"

  "Just trying to anticipate, your Majesty."

  "Would you mind anticipating someplace else?"

  The Algars had moved out to the right flank of the retreating army and were gathering in their characteristic small bands, preparing to charge the Nadraks drawn up on the hills above the river. Hettar, his scalp lock streaming, moved forward at a steady lope, his sabre drawn and his eyes like flint. The Nadraks appeared at first to be awaiting his charge, but then, amazingly, they turned away and rode rapidly toward the river.

  From the midst of that sudden surge, a half dozen men riding under the Nadrak banner swerved out toward the advancing Algars. One of the riders was waving a short stick with a white rag tied to it. The group reined in sharply about a hundred yards in front of Hettar's horse.

  "I've got to talk to Rhodar," one of the Nadraks bellowed in a shrill voice. He was a tall, emaciated man with a pockmarked face and a scraggly beard, but on his head he wore a crown.

  "Is this some trick?" Hettar shouted back.

  "Of course it is, you jackass," the scrawny man replied. "But it's not on you this time. Get me to Rhodar at once."

  "Keep an eye on them," Hettar told a nearby Clan-Chief, pointing at the Nadrak forces now streaming toward the Mallorean trenches lying in the path of the retreating army. "I'll take this maniac to see King Rhodar." He turned and led the group of Nadrak warnors toward the advancing infantry.

  "Rhodar!" the thin man
wearing the crown shrieked as they approached the Drasnian King. "Don't you ever answer your mail?"

  "What are you doing, Drosta?" King Rhodar shouted back.

  "I'm changing sides, Rhodar," King Drosta lek Thun replied with an almost hysterical laugh. "I'm joining forces with you. I've been in touch with your queen for weeks. Didn't you get her messages?"

  "I thought you were playing games."

  "Naturally I'm playing games." The Nadrak King giggled. "I've always got something up my sleeve. Right now my army's opening an escape route for you. You do want to escape, don't you?"

  "Of course I do."

  "So do I. My troops will butcher the Malloreans in those trenches, and then we can all make a run for it."

  "I don't trust you, Drosta," Rhodar said bluntly.

  "Rhodar," Drosta said in mock chagrin, "how can you say that to an old friend?" He giggled again, his voice shrill and nervous.

  "I want to know why you're changing sides in the middle of a battle - particularly when your side's winning."

  "Rhodar, my kingdom's awash with Malloreans. If I don't help you to defeat them, 'Zakath will simply absorb Gar og Nadrak. It's much too long and involved to talk about now. Will you accept my aid?"

  "I'll take all the help I can get."

  "Good. Maybe later we can get drunk together and talk things over, but for right now, let's get out of here before 'Zakath hears about this and comes after me personally." The King of Gar og Nadrak laughed again, the same shrill, almost hysterical laugh as before. "I did it, Rhodar," he exulted. "I actually betrayed 'Zakath of Mallorea and got away with it."

  "You haven't gotten away with it yet, Drosta," Rhodar told him dryly.

  "I will if we run fast enough, Rhodar, and right now I really feel like running."

  'Zakath, dread Emperor of boundless Mallorea, was a man of medium height with glossy black hair and a pale, olive-tinged complexion. His features were regular, even handsome, but his eyes were haunted by a profound melancholy. He appeared to be about thirty-five years old, and he wore a plain linen robe with no ornament or decoration upon it to indicate his exalted rank.