King of the Murgos

by David Eddings

  Xbel was standing not far from the giant Toth, eyeing his awesomely muscled arms speculatively. ‘I saw one of the boats of the snake-people late last summer,’ she mentioned, not taking her eyes off the huge mute, ‘down where our river empties out into the big lake.’

  ‘You never mentioned it Xbel,’ Xantha said.

  ‘I forgot. Is anybody really interested in what the snake-people do?’

  ‘Big lake?’ Durnik said with a puzzled frown. ‘I don’t remember any big lakes here in this Wood.’

  ‘It’s the one that tastes funny,’ Xbel told him. ‘And you can’t see the other side.’

  ‘You must mean the Great Western Sea, then.’

  ‘Whatever you want to call it,’ she replied indifferently. She continued to look Toth up and down.

  ‘Did this Nyissan ship just sail on by?’ Belgarath asked her.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It got burned up. But that was after somebody got off.’

  ‘Xbel,’ Polgara said, stepping between the tawny-haired little Dryad and the object of her scrutiny, ‘do you think you can remember exactly what you saw?’

  ‘I suppose so. It wasn’t really very much, though. I was hunting, and I saw a boat go up to the beach on the south side of the river. This human in a black cloak with the hood pulled up got off with something in its arms. Then the black boat went back out into the water, and the human on the beach waved one hand at it. That’s when the ship caught on fire—all over. All at once.’

  ‘What happened to the crew?’ Durnik asked her.

  ‘You know those big fish with all the teeth?’

  ‘Sharks?’

  ‘I guess so. Anyway, the water around the boat was full of them. When the humans jumped off the boat to get away from the fire, the fish ate them all up.’ She sighed. ‘It was a terrible waste. I was hoping that maybe one or two might have gotten away—or maybe even three.’ She sighed again.

  ‘What did the human on the beach do then?’ Polgara asked.

  Xbel shrugged. ‘It waited until the ship burned all up and then it went into the woods on the south side of the river.’ She stepped around Polgara, her eyes still fixed on the huge mute. ‘If you’re not using this one, Polgara, do you suppose I could borrow it for a little while? I’ve never seen one quite as big.’

  Garion spun and ran toward his horse, but Eriond was already there. He held out the reins of his own chestnut stallion. ‘He’s faster, Belgarion,’ he said. ‘Take him.’

  Garion nodded shortly and swung into the saddle.

  ‘Garion!’ Ce’Nedra cried, ‘where are you going?’

  But he was already plunging into the forest at a gallop. He was not really thinking as the stallion thundered through the leafless Wood. The only semblance of a thought in his mind was the image the indifferent Xbel had implanted there—a dark figure on the beach with something in its arms. Slowly, however, something else intruded itself on his awareness. There was something strange about the stallion’s gait. About every fourth or fifth stride, the horse gave a peculiar lurch, and the wood seemed to blur for an instant. Then the gallop would continue until the next lurch and blurring.

  The distance from Xantha’s tree to the beach where the River of the Woods emptied into the Great Western Sea was considerable, he knew. At even the fastest gallop, it would take the better part of a day and a half to cover it. But wasn’t that the glint of winter sunlight on a huge body of water coming through the trees just ahead?

  There was another lurch and that odd blurring; quite suddenly the stallion set his forelegs stiffly, sliding through the sand at the very edge of the rolling surf.

  ‘How did you do that?’

  The horse looked back over one shoulder inquiringly.

  Then Garion looked around in dismay. ‘We’re on the wrong side of the river,’ he cried. ‘We’re supposed to be over there.’ He drew on his will, preparing to translocate himself to the south beach, but the horse wheeled, took two steps, and lurched again.

  They were suddenly on the sandy south beach, and Garion was clinging to the saddle to keep from falling off. For an irrational moment, he wanted to scold the animal for not warning him, but there was something much more important to attend to. He slid down from his saddle and ran along the damp sand at the edge of the water, drawing Iron-grip’s sword as he went. The Orb glowed eagerly as he held up the blade. ‘Geran!’ he shouted to it. ‘Find my son.’

  Between two strides, the Orb tugged at him, almost jerking him off-balance. He slid to a stop on the hard-packed sand, feeling the powerful pull of the sword in his hands. The tip lowered, touched the sand once, and then the Orb flared triumphantly as the blade pointed unerringly up the driftwood-littered beach toward the scrubby forest at its upper end.

  It was true! Although he had secretly feared that the hints they had received might have been just another clever ruse, the trail of Zandramas and of his infant son was here after all. A sudden wave of exultation surged through him.

  ‘Run Zandramas!’ he called out. ‘Run as fast as you can! I have your trail now, and the world isn’t big enough for you to find any place to hide from me!’

  Chapter Seven

  A chill dampness hung in the air beneath the tangled limbs overhead, and the smell of stagnant water and decay filled their nostrils. The trees twisted upward from the dark floor of the jungle, seeking the light. Gray-green moss hung in streamers from the trees, and ropy vines crawled up their trunks like thick-bodied serpents. A pale, wispy fog hovered back among the trees, rising foul-smelling and dank from black ponds and sluggishly moving streams.

  The road they followed was ancient, and it was overgrown with tangled brush. Garion rode now at the head of the party with his sword resting on the pommel of his saddle and the Orb eagerly tugging him on. It was late afternoon, and the day that had been gray and overcast to begin with settled slowly, almost sadly toward evening.

  ‘I didn’t know that the Nyissans had ever built roads,’ Ce’Nedra said, looking at the weed-choked track lying ahead of them.

  ‘They were all abandoned after the Marag invasion at the end of the second millennium,’ Belgarath told her. ‘The Nyissans discovered that their highway system provided too easy a route for a hostile army, so Salmissra ordered that all the roads be allowed to go back to the jungle.’

  The sword in Garion’s hands swung slightly, pointing toward the thick undergrowth at the side of the road. He frowned slightly, reining in. ‘Grandfather,’ he said, ‘the trail goes off into the woods.’

  The rest of them pulled up, peering into the obscuring bushes. ‘I’ll go take a look,’ Silk said, sliding down from his horse and walking toward the side of the road.

  ‘Watch out for snakes,’ Durnik called after him.

  Silk stopped abruptly. ‘Thanks,’ he said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. Then he pushed into the brush, moving carefully and with his eyes fixed on the ground.

  They waited, listening to the rustling crackle as Silk moved around back in the undergrowth. ‘There’s a campsite back here,’ he called to them, ‘an old fire pit and several lean-tos.’

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ Belgarath said, swinging down out of his saddle.

  They left Toth with the horses and pushed back into the stiffly rustling brush. Some yards back from the road they came to a clearing and found Silk standing over a cold fire pit with a number of charred sticks lying at the bottom. ‘Was Zandramas here?’ he asked Garion.

  Garion moved forward, holding out his sword. It moved erratically in his hands, pointing first this way and then that. Then it tugged him toward one of the partially collapsed shelters. When he reached it, the sword dipped, touched the ground inside the rude lean-to, and the Orb flared.

  ‘I guess that answers that question,’ Silk said with a certain satisfaction.

  Durnik had knelt by the fire pit and was carefully turning over the charred sticks and peering into the ashes beneath. ‘It’s been several months,’ he said.

  Silk looked aro
und. ‘From the number of shelters I’d say that at least four people made camp here.’

  Belgarath grunted. ‘Zandramas isn’t alone any more, then.’

  Eriond had been curiously poking into the crude shelters and he reached down, picked something up from the ground inside one of them, and came back to join the rest. Wordlessly, he held out the object in his hand to Ce’Nedra.

  ‘Oh,’ she cried, taking it quickly and clutching it tightly against her.

  ‘What is it, Ce’Nedra?’ Velvet asked.

  The little queen, her eyes brimming, mutely held out the object Eriond had just given her. It was a small, wool-knit cap, lying damp and sad-looking in her hand. ‘It’s my baby’s,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘He was wearing it the night he was stolen.’

  Durnik cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘It’s getting late,’ he said quietly. ‘Did we want to set up for the night here?’

  Garion looked at Ce’Nedra’s agonized face. ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘Let’s go on just a little farther.’

  Durnik also looked at the grieving queen. ‘Right,’ he agreed.

  About a half mile farther down the road, they reached the ruins of a long-abandoned city, half buried in the rank jungle growth. Trees buckled up the once-broad streets, and climbing vines wreathed their way upward about the empty towers.

  ‘It seems like a good location,’ Durnik said, looking around the ruins. ‘Why did the people just go away and leave it empty?’

  ‘There could be a half-dozen reasons, Durnik,’ Polgara said. ‘A pestilence, politics, war—even a whim.’

  ‘A whim?’ he looked startled.

  ‘This is Nyissa,’ she reminded him. ‘Salmissra rules here, and her authority over her people is the most absolute in all the world. If she came here at some time in the past and told the people to leave, they’d have left.’

  He shook his head disapprovingly. ‘That’s wrong,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, dear,’ she agreed. ‘I know.’

  They made camp in the abandoned ruins, and the next morning they continued to ride in a generally southeasterly direction. As they pushed deeper and deeper into the Nyissan jungle, there was a gradual change in the vegetation. The trees loomed higher, and their trunks grew thicker. The underbrush became more dense, and the all-pervading reek of stagnant water grew stronger. Then, shortly before noon, a slight, vagrant breeze suddenly brought another scent to Garion’s nostrils. It was an odor of such overpowering sweetness that it almost made him giddy.

  ‘What is that lovely fragrance?’ Velvet asked, her brown eyes softening.

  Just then they rounded a bend, and there, standing in glory at the side of the road, rose the most beautiful tree Garion had ever seen. Its leaves were a shimmering gold, and long crimson vines hung in profusion from its limbs. It was covered with enormous blossoms of red, blue, and vivid lavender, and among those blossoms hung rich-looking clusters of shiny purple fruit that seemed almost ready to burst. An overwhelming sense of longing seemed to come over him as the sight and smell of that glorious tree touched his very heart.

  Velvet, however, had already pushed past him, her face fixed in a dreamy smile as she rode toward the tree.

  ‘Liselle!’ Polgara’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘Stop!’

  ‘But—’ Velvet’s voice was vibrant with longing.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Polgara commanded. ‘You’re in dreadful danger.’

  ‘Danger?’ Garion said. ‘It’s only a tree, Aunt Pol.’

  ‘Come with me, all of you,’ she commanded. ‘Keep a tight rein on your horses, and don’t go anywhere near that tree.’ She rode slowly forward at a walk, holding her horse’s reins firmly in both hands.

  ‘What’s the matter, Pol?’ Durnik asked.

  ‘I thought that all of those had been destroyed,’ she muttered, looking at the gorgeous tree with an expression of flinty hatred.

  ‘But—’ Velvet objected, ‘why would anyone want to destroy something so lovely?’

  ‘Of course it’s lovely. That’s how it hunts.’

  ‘Hunts?’ Silk said in a startled voice. ‘Polgara, it’s only a tree. Trees don’t hunt.’

  ‘This one does. One taste of its fruit is instant death, and the touch of its blossoms paralyzes every muscle in the body. Look there.’ She pointed at something in the high grass beneath the tree. Garion peered into the grass and saw the skeleton of a large-sized animal. A half dozen of the crimson tendrils hanging from one of the flower-decked branches had poked their way down into the animal’s rib cage and interwoven themselves into the mossy bones.

  ‘Do not look at the tree,’ Polgara told them all in a deadly tone. ‘Do not think about the fruit, and try not to inhale the fragrance of its flowers too deeply. The tree is trying to lure you to within range of its tendrils. Ride on and don’t look back.’ She reined in her horse.

  ‘Aren’t you coming, too?’ Durnik asked with a worried look.

  ‘I’ll catch up,’ she replied. ‘I have to attend to this monstrosity first.’

  ‘Do as she says,’ Belgarath told them. ‘Let’s go.’

  As they rode on past that beautiful, deadly tree, Garion felt a wrench of bitter disappointment; as they moved farther down the road away from it, he seemed to hear a silent snarl of frustration. Startled, he glanced back once and was amazed to see the crimson tendrils hanging from the branches writhing and lashing at the air in a kind of vegetative fury. Then he turned back quickly as Ce’Nedra made a violent retching sound.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he cried.

  ‘The tree!’ she gasped. ‘It’s horrible! It feeds on the agony of its victims as much as upon their flesh!’

  As they rounded another bend in the road, Garion felt a violent surge, and there was a huge concussion behind them, followed by the sizzling crackle of a fire surging up through living wood. In his mind he heard an awful scream filled with pain, anger, and a malevolent hatred. A pall of greasy black smoke drifted low to the ground, bringing with it a dreadful stench.

  It was perhaps a quarter of an hour later when Polgara rejoined them. ‘It will not feed again,’ she said with a note of satisfaction in her voice. She smiled almost wryly. ‘That’s one of the few things Salmissra and I have ever agreed upon,’ she added. ‘There’s no place in the world for that particular tree.’

  They rode on down into Nyissa, following the weed-choked track of the long-abandoned highway. About noon of the following day, Eriond’s chestnut stallion grew restive, and the blond young man pulled up beside Garion, who still rode in the lead with his sword on the pommel of his saddle. ‘He wants to run.’ Eriond laughed gently. ‘He always wants to run.’

  Garion looked over at him. ‘Eriond,’ he said, ‘there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’

  ‘Yes, Belgarion?’

  ‘When I was riding your horse to the beach back up there in the Wood of the Dryads, he did something that was sort of odd.’

  ‘Odd? How do you mean?’

  ‘It should have taken nearly two days to reach the sea, but he did it in about a half an hour.’

  ‘Oh,’ Eriond said, ‘that.’

  ‘Can you explain how he does it?’

  ‘It’s something he does sometimes when he knows that I’m in a hurry to get someplace. He kind of goes to another place, and when he comes back, you’re much farther along than you were when he started.’

  ‘Where is this other place?’

  ‘Right here—all around us—but at the same time, it’s not. Does that make any sense?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  Eriond frowned in concentration. ‘You told me one time that you could change yourself into a wolf—the same way Belgarath does.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you said that when you do that, your sword is still with you, but at the same time it’s not.’

  ‘That’s what Grandfather told me.’

  ‘I think that’s where this other place is—the same place where your swo
rd goes. Distance doesn’t seem to mean the same thing there as it does here. Does that explain it at all?’

  Garion laughed. ‘It doesn’t even come close, Eriond, but I’ll take your word for it.’

  About midafternoon the next day, they reached the marshy banks of the River of the Serpent where the highway turned toward the east, following the winding course of that sluggish stream. The sky had cleared, though the pale sunlight had little warmth to it.

  ‘Maybe I’d better scout on ahead,’ Silk said. ‘The road looks a bit more well traveled along this stretch, and we didn’t exactly make a lot of friends the last time we were here.’ He spurred his horse into a brisk canter; in a few minutes he was out of sight around a bend in the weed-choked road.

  ‘We won’t have to go through Sthiss Tor, will we?’ Ce’Nedra asked.

  ‘No,’ Belgarath replied. ‘It’s on the other side of the river.’ He looked at the screen of trees and brush lying between the ancient highway and the mossy riverbank. ‘We should be able to slip past it without too much trouble.’

  An hour or so later, they rounded a bend in the road and caught a glimpse of the strange, alien-looking towers of the capital of the snake-people rising into the air on the far side of the river. There seemed to be no coherent pattern to Nyissan architecture. Some of the towers rose in slender spires, and others were bulky, with bulblike tops. Some even twisted in spirals toward the sky. They were, moreover, painted every possible hue—green, red, yellow, and even some in a garish purple. Silk was waiting for them a few hundred yards farther along the road. ‘There won’t be any trouble getting past here without being seen from the other side,’ he reported, ‘but there’s someone on up ahead who wants to talk to us.’

  ‘Who?’ Belgarath asked sharply.

  ‘He didn’t say, but he seemed to know we were coming.’

  ‘I don’t like that very much. Did he say what he wants?’

  ‘Only that he’s got a message of some kind for us.’

  ‘Let’s go find out about this.’ The old man looked at Garion. ‘You’d better cover the Orb,’ he suggested. ‘Let’s keep it out of sight just to be on the safe side.’