"To the Malloreans, you mean?" Durnik asked.
"No—to that girl. She had a marrying sort of expression on her face when they left."
"I think it's sweet," Ce'Nedra sniffed.
"Sweet? I think it's revolting." He looked around. "If we're going around the south end of the lake, we'd better get started."
They galloped south along the lake shore through the long, golden-slanting beams of afternoon sunlight until they were a couple of leagues from the place where Urgit and Praia had so abruptly left them. Then Silk, ranging once again ahead of them, crested a hill and motioned them to come ahead, but cautiously.
"What is it?" Belgarath asked when they joined him.
"There's something else burning up ahead," the little man reported. "I didn't get too close, but it looks like an isolated farmstead."
"Let's go look," Durnik said to Toth, and the two of them rode off in the direction of the smudge of smoke lying low on the horizon to the east.
"I'd certainly like to know if Urgit's doing all right," Silk said with a worried frown.
"You really like him, don't you?" Velvet asked him.
"Urgit? Yes, I think I do. We're very much alike in many ways." He looked at her. "I suppose that you're going to mention all of this in your report to Javelin?"
"Naturally."
"I really wish you wouldn't, you know."
"Why on earth not?"
"I'm not entirely sure. It's just that for some reason I don't think I want Drasnian Intelligence using my relationship to the King of Cthol Murgos for its own advantage. I think I want to keep it private."
A silver twilight was settling over the lake when Durnik and Toth returned with grim faces. "It was a Murgo farmstead," Durnik reported. "Some Malloreans had been there. I don't think they were regular troops—probably deserters of some kind. They looted and burned, and regular troops don't usually do that, if they've got officers around to control them. The house is gone, but the barn is still partially intact."
"Is there enough of it left to shelter us for the night?" Garion wanted to know.
Durnik looked dubious, then shrugged. "The roofs still mostly there."
"Is something wrong?" Belgarath asked him.
Durnik made a small gesture and then walked away until he was out of earshot of the rest. Garion and Belgarath followed him.
"What's the matter, Durnik?" Belgarath asked.
'The barn's good enough to give us shelter," the smith said quietly, "but I think you ought to know that those Mallorean deserters impaled everybody on the farmstead. I don't think you want the ladies to see that. It isn't very pleasant."
"Is there someplace where you can get the bodies under cover?" the old man asked.
"I'll see what we can do," Durnik sighed. "Why do people do that sort of thing?"
"Ignorance, usually. An ignorant man falls back on brutality out of a lack of imagination. Go with them, Garion. They might need some help. Wave a torch to let us know when you get finished."
The fact that it was nearly dark helped a little. Garion was unable to see the faces of the people on the stakes. There was a sod-roofed cellar at the back of the still-smoldering house, and they put the bodies there. Then Garion took up a torch and walked some distance from the house to signal to Belgarath. The barn was dry, and the fire Durnik built in a carefully cleared area on the stone floor soon warmed it.
"This is actually pleasant," Ce'Nedra declared with a smile as she looked around at the dancing shadows on the walls and rafters. She sat on a pile of fragrant hay and bounced tentatively a few times. "And this will make wonderful beds. I hope we can find a place like this every night."
Garion walked over to the door and looked out, not trusting himself to answer. He had grown up on a farm not really all that much different from this one, and the thought of a band of marauding soldiers swooping down on Faldor's farm, burning and killing, filled him with a vast outrage. A sudden image rose in his mind. The shadowy faces of the dead Murgos hanging on those stakes might very well have been the faces of his childhood friends, and that thought shook him to the very core of his being. The dead here had been Murgos, but they had also been farmers, and he felt a sudden kinship with them. The savagery that had befallen them began to take on the aspect of a personal affront, and dark thoughts began to fill his mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
By morning it was raining again, a drizzly sort of rain that made the surrounding countryside hazy and indistinct. They rode out from the ruins of the farmstead, dressed again in their slaver's robes, and turned northward along the eastern shore of the lake.
Garion rode in silence, his thoughts as sombre as the leaden waters of the lake lying to his left. The rage he had felt the previous evening had settled into an icy resolve. Justice, he had been told, was an abstraction, but he was determined that, should the Mallorean deserters responsible for the atrocity at the farm ever cross his path, he would turn the abstract into an immediate reality. He knew that Belgarath and Polgara did not approve of the sort of thing he had in mind, so he kept his peace and contemplated the idea of vengeance, if not justice.
When they reached the muddy road coming in off the northern end of the lake and stretching out toward the southeast and the city of Rak Cthaka, they found it clogged with a horde of terrified civilians, dressed for the most part in ragged clothing and carrying bundles of what few possessions they had been able to salvage.
"I think we'll stay off the road," Belgarath decided. "We could never make any time through that mob."
"Are we going on to Rak Cthaka?" Sadi asked him.
Belgarath looked at the crowd streaming along the road. "I don't think you could find a raft in Rak Cthaka right now, much less a ship. Let's go on into the forest and work our way south through the trees. I don't much like staying out in the open in hostile territory, and fishing villages are better places to hire boats than the piers of a major city."
"Why don't you and the others ride on," Silk suggested. "I'd like to ask a few questions."
Belgarath grunted. "That might not be a bad idea. Just don't be too long at it. I'd like to reach the Great Southern Forest sometime before the end of winter, if I can possibly manage it."
"I'll go with him, Grandfather," Garion offered. "I need to get my mind off some things I've seen lately, anyway."
The two of them rode through the knee-high grass toward the broad stream of frightened refugees fleeing southward. "Garion," Silk said, reining in his horse, "isn't that a Sendar—the one pushing the wheelbarrow?"
Garion shielded his eyes from the rain and peered at the sturdy fellow Silk had pointed out. "He sort of looks like a Sendar," he agreed. "What would a Sendar be doing down here in Cthol Murgos?"
"Why don't we go ask him? Sendars love to gossip, so he can probably give us some idea of what's happening." The little man walked his horse over until he was riding beside the stout man with the wheelbarrow. "Morning, friend," he said pleasantly. "You're a long way from home, aren't you?"
The stout man set down his barrow and eyed Silk's green Nyissan robe apprehensively. "I'm not a slave," he declared, "so don't get any ideas."
"This?" Silk laughed, plucking at the front of the robe. "Don't worry, friend, we're not Nyissans. We just found these on some bodies back there a ways. We thought they might be a help if we happened to run into somebody official. What in the world are you doing in Cthol Murgos?"
"Running," the Sendar said ruefully, "just like all the rest of this rabble. Didn't you hear about what's been happening?"
"No. We've been out of touch."
The stout man lifted the handles of his barrow again and trudged along the grassy shoulder of the road. "There's a whole Mallorean army marching west out of Gorut," he said. "They burned the town I lived in and killed half the people. They didn't even bother with Rak Cthaka, so that's where we're all going. I'm going to see if I can find a sea captain who's going in the general direction of Sendaria. For some reason, I'm suddenly hom
esick."
"You've been living in a Murgo town?" Silk asked with some surprise.
The fellow made a face. "It wasn't altogether by choice," he replied. "I had some trouble with the law in Tolnedra when I was there on business ten years ago and I took passage on board a merchantman to get out of the country. The captain was a scoundrel; when my money ran out, he sailed off and left me on the wharf at Rak Cthaka. I drifted on up to a town on the north side of the lake. They let me stay because I was willing to do things that are beneath Murgo dignity, but were too important to trust a slave to do. It was sort of degrading, but it was a living. Anyway, a couple days ago the Malloreans marched through. When they left, there wasn't a single building standing."
"How did you escape?" Silk asked him.
"I hid under a haystack until dark. That's when I joined this mob." He glanced over at the crowd of refugees slogging through the ankle-deep mud of the road. "Isn't that pathetic? They don't even have sense enough to spread out and walk on the grass. You certainly wouldn't see soldiers doing that, let me tell you."
"You've had some military experience, then?"
"I most certainly have," the stout man replied proudly. "I was a sergeant in Princess Ce'Nedra's army. I was at Thull Mardu with her."
"I missed that one," Silk told him with aplomb. "I was busy someplace else. Are there any Malloreans between here and the Great Southern Forest?"
"Who knows? I don't go looking for Malloreans. You don't really want to go into the forest, though. All this killing has stirred up the Raveners."
"Raveners? What's that?"
"Ghouls. They feed on dead bodies most of the time, but I've heard some very ugly stories lately. I'd make a special point of staying out of the forest, my friend."
"We might have to keep that in mind. Thanks for the information. Good luck when you get to Rak Cthaka, and I hope you make it back to Camaar."
"Right now, I'd settle for Tol Honeth. Tolnedran jails aren't really all that bad."
Silk grinned at him quickly, turned his horse, and led Garion away from the road at a gallop to rejoin the others.
That afternoon they forded the River Cthaka some leagues upstream from the coast. The drizzle slackened as evening approached, though the sky remained cloudy. Once they had reached the far side of the river, they could see the irregular, dark shape of the edge of the Great Southern Forest, looming up beyond perhaps a league of open grassland.
"Shall we try for it?" Silk asked.
"Let's wait," Belgarath decided. "I'm just a little concerned about what that fellow you talked with said. I'm not sure I want any surprises—particularly in the dark."
"There's a willow thicket downstream a ways," Durnik said, pointing at a fair-sized grove of spindly trees bordering the river a half mile or so to the south. "Toth and I can pitch the tents there."
"All right," Belgarath agreed.
"How far is it to Verkat now, Grandfather?" Garion asked as they rode down along the rain-swollen river toward the willows.
"According to the map, it's about fifty leagues to the southeast before we reach the coast opposite the island. Then we'll have to find a boat to get us across."
Garion sighed.
"Don't get discouraged," Belgarath told him. "We're making better time than I'd originally expected, and Zandramas can't run forever. There's only so much land in the world. Sooner or later we'll chase her down."
As Durnik and Toth pitched the tents, Garion and Eriond ranged out through the sodden willow thicket in search of firewood. It was difficult to find anything sufficiently dry to burn, and the effort of an hour yielded only enough twigs and small branches from under fallen trees to make a meager cook fire for Polgara. As she began to prepare their evening meal of beans and venison, Garion noted that Sadi was walking about their campsite, combing the ground with his eyes. "This isn't funny, dear," he said quite firmly. "Now you come out this very minute."
"What's the matter?" Durnik asked him.
"Zith isn't in her bottle," Sadi replied, still searching.
Durnik rose from where he was sitting quite rapidly. "Are you sure?"
"She thinks it's amusing to hide from me sometimes. Now, you come out immediately, you naughty snake."
"You probably shouldn't tell Silk," Belgarath advised. "He'll go directly into hysterics if he finds out that she's loose." The old man looked around. "Where is he, by the way?"
"He and Liselle went for a walk," Eriond told him.
"In all this wet? Sometimes I wonder about him."
Ce'Nedra came over and sat on the log beside Garion. He put his arm about her shoulders and drew her close to him. She snuggled down and sighed. "I wonder what Geran is doing tonight," she said wistfully.
"Sleeping, probably."
"He always looked so adorable when he was asleep." She sighed again and then closed her eyes.
There was a crashing back in the willows, and Silk suddenly ran into the circle of firelight, his eyes very wide and his face deathly pale.
"What's the matter?" Durnik exclaimed.
"She had that snake in her bodice!" Silk blurted.
"Who did?"
"Liselle!"
Polgara, holding a ladle in one hand, turned to regard the violently trembling little man with one raised eyebrow. "Tell me, Prince Kheldar," she said in a cool voice, "exactly what were you doing in the Margravine Liselle's bodice?"
Silk endured that steady gaze for a moment; then he actually began to blush furiously.
"Oh," she said, "I see." She turned back to her cooking.
It was past midnight, and Garion was not sure what it was that had awakened him. He moved slowly to avoid waking Ce'Nedra and carefully parted the tent flap to look out. A dense, clinging fog had arisen from the river, and all that he could see was a curtain of solid, dirty white. He lay quietly, straining his ears to catch any sound.
From somewhere off in the fog, he heard a faint clinking sound; it took him a moment to identify it. Finally he realized that what he was hearing was the sound of a mounted man wearing a mail shirt. He reached over in the darkness and took up his sword.
"I still think you ought to tell us what you found in that house before you set it on fire," he heard someone say in a gruff, Mallorean-accented voice. The speaker was not close, but sounds at night travelled far, so Garion could clearly understand what was being said.
"Oh, it wasn't much, Corporal," another Mallorean voice replied evasively. "A bit of this; a bit of that."
"I think you ought to share those things with the rest of us. We're all in this together, after all."
"Isn't it odd that you didn't think of that until after I managed to pick up a few things? If you want to share in the loot, then you should pay attention to the houses and not spend all your time impaling the prisoners."
"We're at war," the corporal declared piously. "It's our duty to kill the enemy."
"Duty," the second Mallorean snorted derisively. "We're deserters, Corporal. Our only duty is to ourselves. If you want to spend your time butchering Murgo farmers, that's up to you, but I'm saving up for my retirement."
Garion carefully rolled out from under the tent flap. He felt a peculiar calm, almost as if his emotions had somehow been set aside. He rose and moved silently to where the packs were piled and burrowed his hand into them one by one until his fingers touched steel. Then, carefully, so that it made no sound, he drew out his heavy mail shirt. He pulled it on and shrugged his shoulders a couple of times to settle it into place.
Toth was standing guard near the horses, his huge bulk looming in the fog.
"There's something I have to take care of," Garion whispered softly to the mute giant.
Toth looked at him gravely, then nodded. He turned, untied a horse from the picket line, and handed him the reins. Then he put one huge hand on Garion's shoulder, squeezed once in silent approval, and stepped back.
Garion did not want to give the Mallorean deserters time to lose themselves in the fog, so he pulled
himself up onto the unsaddled horse and moved out of the willow thicket at a silent walk.
The fading voices that had come out of the fog had seemed to be moving in the direction of the forest, and Garion rode quietly after them, probing the foggy darkness ahead with his ears and with his mind.
After he had ridden for perhaps a mile, he heard a raucous laugh coming from somewhere ahead and slightly to the left. "Did you hear the way they squealed when we impaled them?" a coarse voice came out of the clinging mist.
"That does it," Garion grated from between clenched teeth as he drew his sword. He directed his horse toward the sound, then nudged his heels at the animal's flanks. The horse moved faster, his hooves making no sound on the damp earth.
"Let's have some light," one of the deserters said.
"Do you think it's safe? There are patrols out looking for deserters."
"It's after midnight. The patrols are all in bed. Go ahead and light the torch."
After a moment, there was a fatally ruddy beacon glowing in the dark and reaching out to Garion.
His charge caught the deserters totally by surprise. Several of them were dead before they even knew that he was upon them. There were screams and shouts from both sides as he crashed through them, chopping them out of their saddles with huge strokes to the right and the left. His great blade sheared effortlessly through mail, bone, and flesh. He sent five of them tumbling to the ground as he thundered through their ranks. Then he whirled on the three who still remained. After one startled look one of them fled; another dragged his sword from its sheath, and the third, who held the torch, sat frozen in astonished terror.
The Mallorean with the sword feebly raised his weapon to protect his head from the dreadful blow Garion had already launched. The great overhand sweep, however, shattered the doomed man's sword blade and sheared down through his helmet halfway to his waist. Roughly, Garion kicked the twitching body off his sword and turned on the torch bearer.
"Please!" the terrified man cried, trying to back his horse away. "Have mercy!"
For some reason, that plaintive cry infuriated Garion all the more. He clenched his teeth together. With a single broad swipe, he sent the murderer's head spinning off into the foggy darkness.
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