King of the Murgos

by David Eddings

  ‘Why do you tease him so much, Liselle?’ Ce’Nedra asked, pulling her brush through her flaming locks.

  ‘I’m getting even with him,’ Velvet replied with an impish smile. ‘When I was a little girl, he used to tease me outrageously. Now it’s my turn.’

  ‘You always seem to know just exactly what to say to offend him the most.’

  ‘I know him very well, Ce’Nedra. I’ve been watching him for years now. I know every single one of his weaknesses and I know exactly where he’s the most sensitive.’ The blond girl’s eyes grew soft. ‘He’s a legend in Drasnia, you know. At the Academy, whole seminars are devoted to his exploits. We all try to emulate him, but none of us has his outrageous flair.’

  Ce’Nedra stopped brushing and gave her friend a long, speculative look.

  ‘Yes?’ Velvet said, returning the look.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Ce’Nedra said and went back to brushing her hair.

  The desert night was surprisingly chill. The air was so totally devoid of moisture that each day’s heat evaporated almost as soon as the sun went down. As they set out from Kahsha in the steely dawn light, Garion found that he was actually shivering. By midmorning, however, the burning sun had once again turned the barren waste of Araga into an inferno. It was nearly noon by the time they reached the foothills along the western rim of the desert and began the climb that took them up out of that hideous furnace.

  ‘How long until we get to Rak Urga, good Master?’ Sadi asked Tajak, who once again escorted them.

  ‘A week or so.’

  ‘Distances are very great in this part of Cthol Murgos, aren’t they?’

  ‘It’s a very large country.’

  ‘And very empty.’

  ‘Only if you don’t look around you.’

  Sadi looked at him inquiringly.

  ‘Along that ridge, for example.’ Tajak pointed toward the ragged stretch of rock outlined against the western sky where a single black-robed Murgo sat astride his horse, watching them.

  ‘How long has he been there?’ Sadi asked.

  ‘For the past hour. Don’t you ever look up?’

  ‘In Nyissa, we always watch the ground. Snakes, you know.’

  ‘That explains it, I suppose.’

  ‘What’s he doing up there?’

  ‘Watching us. King Urgit likes to keep track of strangers.’

  ‘Is he likely to cause trouble?’

  ‘We are Dagashi, Nyissan. Other Murgos do not cause us trouble.’

  ‘It’s a great comfort to have so formidable an escort, good Tajak.’

  The country through which they rode for the next week was rocky and only sparsely vegetated. Garion had some difficulty adjusting to the notion that it was late summer here in the southern latitudes. The turn of the seasons had always been so immutable that emotionally and perhaps in his very blood, he found that he could not actually accept the idea that they were reversed here at the bottom of the world.

  At a certain point in their journey southward, he felt the well-covered Orb on the pommel of the sword that rode across his back tug strongly off toward the left. He nudged his horse up beside Belgarath’s. ‘Zandramas turned east here,’ he reported quietly.

  The old man nodded.

  ‘I hate to lose the trail,’ Garion said. ‘If Sadi’s wrong about where she’s going, it could take months to find it again.’

  ‘We wasted a lot of time on the Bear-cult, Garion,’ the old man replied. ‘We have to make that up, and that means taking a few gambles.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right, Grandfather, but I still don’t like it.’

  ‘I don’t much either, but I don’t think we have any choice, do we?’

  A series of squalls blew in off the Great Western Sea as they proceeded down the rocky spine of the Urga peninsula, an indication that autumn was rapidly approaching. Although the squalls were blustery, they carried only fitful spates of rain, and the journey continued without interruption. They more frequently saw mounted Murgo patrols now, ranging along the ridge tops and outlined against the dirty gray sky. The Murgos, however, prudently gave the Dagashi a wide berth.

  And then, about noon on a windy day when heavy clouds rolled in off the vast ocean, they topped a hill and looked down at a large body of water embraced by steep rock cliffs.

  ‘The Gulf of Urga,’ Tajak said tersely, pointing at that leaden sea.

  A peninsula jutted out from the far shore, sheltering the entrance to the gulf with a rocky headland. Embraced by the curve of that headland was a harbor dotted with black-hulled ships, and rising from that harbor was a fair-sized town.

  ‘Is that it?’ Sadi asked.

  Tajak nodded. ‘Rak Urga,’ he said.

  A ferry awaited them on the narrow beach, bobbing in the sullen waves rolling in from the open sea. It was a large, wide-beamed barge manned by two score wretched-looking slaves under the watchful eye of a Murgo boatman armed with a long whip. Tajak and his men led the way down to the gravel strand, then turned without a word and rode back up the trail.

  The channel running from the Great Western Sea into the Gulf of Urga was not wide, and Garion could clearly make out the low stone buildings of Rak Urga squatting under a murky sky on the far side. Sadi spoke briefly with the Murgo, a few coins changed hands, and then they led their horses aboard. The Murgo barked a short command to his slaves, cracking his whip over their heads by way of emphasis. Desperately, the slaves pushed the barge off the gravel beach with their oars, casting fearful glances at their cruel-faced master and his whip. Once they were clear of the beach, they quickly took their places and began to row, pulling hard for the city across the narrow channel. The Murgo paced up and down the length of the barge, his face alert, and his eyes intently on his slaves, watching for any hint of flagging effort. Once, when they were about halfway across, he partially raised his whip, apparently for no other reason than out of a desire to use it.

  ‘Excuse me, noble ferryman,’ Silk said, stepping in front of him, ‘but did you know that your boat is leaking?’

  ‘Leaking?’ the Murgo replied sharply, lowering his whip. ‘Where?’

  ‘I can’t really be sure, but there’s quite a bit of water down in the bottom.’

  The Murgo called to his steersman in the stern and then quickly raised a wooden grating so that the two of them could peer down into the shallow bottom of his boat. ‘That’s bilgewater,’ he said in disgust, motioning his steersman back to his post. ‘Don’t you know anything about boats?’

  ‘Not much,’ Silk admitted. ‘I saw the water and thought you ought to know about it. Sorry to have bothered you.’ He walked forward to rejoin the others.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Belgarath asked.

  ‘Durnik’s face was getting a bit bleak.’ Silk shrugged. ‘I didn’t want his passion for justice to get the better of him.’

  Belgarath looked at the smith.

  ‘I’m not going to stand around idly, if he starts flogging those poor men,’ Durnik declared, his face stiff. ‘The minute he raises that whip, he’s going to find himself swimming.’

  ‘You see what I mean?’ Silk said.

  Belgarath looked as if he were about to say something, but Polgara stepped in front of him. ‘Leave him alone, father,’ she said. ‘It’s the way he is, and I wouldn’t change him for the world.’

  The harbor of Rak Urga was even more congested with ships than it had appeared to be from the other side. The steersman of the barge picked his way carefully through all those anchored vessels toward the stone quays jutting out into the lead-gray chop of the channel. A dozen or more of the wide-beamed Murgo ships were moored to the quays, bumping against woven rope fenders as gangs of slaves unloaded them.

  The barge drew in close to the sheltered side of one of the quays, and the horses were carefully led up a slanting stone ramp, made slippery by clinging seaweed. Ce’Nedra looked down at the garbage-strewn water sloshing below and sniffed disdainfully. ‘Why do seaports always look—and
smell—the same?’ she murmured.

  ‘Probably because the people who live in them find all that water irresistible,’ Velvet replied.

  Ce’Nedra looked puzzled.

  ‘It’s just too convenient,’ the Drasnian girl explained. ‘They always seem to forget that the garbage they throw into the harbor this morning will come back to haunt them with the afternoon tide.’

  When they reached the top of the ramp, a self-important Murgo stood waiting for them, his heavy black robe flapping in the stiff breeze. ‘You there,’ he said arrogantly. ‘State your business.’

  Sadi stepped forward and gave the Murgo an oily bow. ‘I am Ussa,’ he replied, ‘registered slave trader from Sthiss Tor. I have all the necessary documents.’

  ‘There’s no slave market in Rak Urga,’ the Murgo declared suspiciously. ‘Hand over your documents.’

  ‘Of course.’ Sadi dipped his hand inside his green robe and brought out a packet of folded parchment.

  ‘If you’re not dealing in slaves, what are you doing here?’ the Murgo demanded, taking the packet from him.

  ‘I’m merely doing a favor for my good friend Jaharb, Chief Elder of the Dagashi,’ Sadi told him.

  The Murgo paused in the very act of opening the packet. ‘Jaharb?’ he said a bit apprehensively.

  Sadi nodded. ‘Since I was passing this way anyhow, he asked me to stop by and deliver a message to Agachak, the Hierarch of Rak Urga.’

  The Murgo swallowed hard and thrust the documents back into Sadi’s hands as if they had suddenly grown hot. ‘On your way, then,’ he said shortly.

  ‘My thanks, noble sir,’ Sadi said with another bow. ‘Excuse me, but could you direct me to the Temple of Torak? This is my first visit to Rak Urga.’

  ‘It lies at the head of the street running up from this quay,’ the Murgo answered.

  ‘Again my thanks. If you’ll give me your name, I’ll tell Agachak how helpful you were.’

  The Murgo’s face took on a pasty hue. ‘That won’t be neccessary,’ he said quickly, then turned and walked away.

  ‘The names Jaharb and Agachak appear to have a certain impact here,’ Silk suggested.

  Sadi smiled. ‘I imagine that, if you were to mention them in the same breath, every door in town would open for you,’ he agreed.

  Rak Urga was not an attractive city. The streets were narrow, and the buildings were built of roughly squared-off stones and topped by gray slate roofs that overhung the streets, putting the thoroughfares into a perpetually gloomy twilight. It was not merely that gray bleakness, however, that made the city so dreary. There was about it an air of cold unconcern for normal human feelings, coupled with a sense of lingering fear. Grim-faced Murgos in their black robes moved through the streets, neither speaking nor even acknowledging the presence of their fellow townsmen.

  ‘Why are these people all so unfriendly toward each other?’ Eriond asked Polgara.

  ‘It’s a cultural trait,’ she told him. ‘Murgos were the aristocracy at Cthol Mishrak before Torak ordered them to migrate to this continent. They are absolutely convinced that Murgos are the supreme creation of the universe—and every one of them is convinced that he’s superior to all the rest. It doesn’t leave them very much to talk about.’

  There was a pall of greasy black smoke hanging over the city, bringing with it a sickening stench.

  ‘What is that dreadful smell?’ Velvet asked, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘I don’t think you really want to know,’ Silk told her with a bleak look on his face.

  ‘Surely they aren’t still—’ Garion left it hanging.

  ‘It seems so,’ the little man replied.

  ‘But Torak’s dead. What’s the sense of it?’

  ‘Grolims have never really been all that much concerned about the fact that what they do doesn’t make sense, Garion,’ Belgarath said. ‘The source of their power has always been terror. If they want to keep the power, they have to continue the terror.’

  They rounded a corner and saw a huge black building ahead of them. A column of dense smoke rose from a large chimney jutting up from the slate roof, blowing first this way and then that in the gusty wind coming up from the harbor.

  ‘Is that the Temple?’ Durnik asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Polgara replied. She pointed at the two massive, nail-studded doors forming the only break in the blank, featureless wall. Directly above those doors there hung the polished steel replica of the face of Torak. Garion felt the familiar chill in his blood as he looked at the brooding face of his enemy. Even now, after all that had happened in the City of Endless Night, the face of Torak filled him with dread, and he was not particularly surprised to find that he was actually trembling as he approached the entrance to the Temple of the maimed God of Angarak.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sadi slid down from his saddle, went up to the nail-studded doors, and clanged the rusty iron knocker, sending hollow echoes reverberating back into the temple.

  ‘Who comes to the House of Torak?’ a muffled voice demanded from inside.

  ‘I bear a message from Jaharb, Chief Elder at Mount Kahsha, for the ears of Agachak, Hierarch of Rak Urga.’

  There was a momentary pause inside, and then one of the doors creaked open and a pock-marked Grolim looked cautiously out at them. ‘You are not of the Dagashi,’ he said accusingly to Sadi.

  ‘No, as a matter of fact, I’m not. There’s an arrangement between Jaharb and Agachak, and I’m part of it.’

  ‘I have not heard of such an arrangement.’

  Sadi looked pointedly at the unadorned hood of the Grolim’s robe, an obvious indication that the priest was of low rank. ‘Forgive me, servant of Torak,’ he said coolly, ‘but is your Hierarch in the habit of confiding in his doorman?’

  The Grolim’s face darkened as he glared at the eunuch. ‘Cover your head, Nyissan,’ he said after a long moment. ‘This is a holy place.’

  ‘Of course.’ Sadi pulled the hood of his green robe up over his shaven scalp. ‘Will you have someone see to our horses?’

  ‘They will be taken care of. Are these your servants?’ The Grolim looked past Sadi’s shoulder at the others, who still sat their horses in the cobbled street.

  ‘They are, noble priest.’

  ‘Tell them to come with us. I will take you all to Chabat.’

  ‘Excuse me, priest of the Dragon God. My message is for Agachak.’

  ‘No one sees Agachak without first seeing Chabat. Bring your servants and follow me.’

  The rest of them dismounted and passed through the grim doors into the torchlit corridor beyond. The sickening odor of burning flesh which had pervaded the city was even stronger here in the Temple. A sense of dread came over Garion as he followed the Grolim and Sadi along the smoky hallway into the Temple. The place reeked of an ancient evil, and the hollow-faced priests they passed in the corridor all looked at them with heavy suspicion and undisguised malice.

  And then there came from somewhere in the building an agonized shriek, followed by a great iron clang. Garion shuddered, fully aware of the meaning of those sounds.

  ‘Is the ancient rite of sacrifice still performed?’ Sadi asked the Grolim in some surprise. ‘I would have thought that the practice might have fallen into disuse—all things considered.’

  ‘Nothing has happened to make us discontinue the performance of our holiest duty, Nyissan,’ the Grolim replied coldly. ‘Each hour we offer up a human heart to the God Torak.’

  ‘But Torak is no more.’

  The Grolim stopped, his face angry. ‘Never speak those words again!’ he snapped. ‘It is not the place of a foreigner to utter such blasphemy within the walls of the Temple. The spirit of Torak lives on, and one day he will be reborn to rule the world. He himself will wield the knife when his enemy, Belgarion of Riva, lies screaming on the altar.’

  ‘Now there’s a cheery thought,’ Silk murmured to Belgarath. ‘We get to do it all over again.’

  ‘Just shut up, Silk,’ Belga
rath muttered.

  The chamber to which the Grolim underpriest led them was large and dimly lighted by several oil lamps. The walls were lined with black drapes, and the air was thick with incense. A slim, hooded figure sat behind a large table with a guttering black candle at its elbow and a heavy, black-bound book before it. A kind of warning tingle prickled Garion’s scalp as he sensed the power emanating from that figure. He glanced quickly at Polgara, and she nodded gravely.

  ‘Forgive me, Holy Chabat,’ the pock-marked Grolim said in a slightly trembling voice as he genuflected before the table, ‘but I bring a messenger from Jaharb the assassin.’

  The figure at the table looked up, and Garion suppressed a start of surprise. It was a woman. There was about her face a kind of luminous beauty, but it was not that which struck his eye. Cruelly inscribed into each of her pale cheeks were deep red scars that ran down from her temples to her chin in an ornate design, a design which appeared to represent flames. Her eyes were dark and smoldering, and her full-lipped mouth was drawn into a contemptuous sneer. A deep purple piping marked the edge of her black hood. ‘So?’ she said in a harshly rasping voice. ‘And how is it that the Dagashi now entrust their messages to foreigners?’

  ‘I—I thought not to ask, Holy Chabat,’ the Grolim faltered. ‘This one claims to be a friend of Jaharb.’

  ‘And you chose not to question him further?’ Her harsh voice sank into a menacing whisper, and her eyes bored into the suddenly trembling underpriest. Then her gaze slowly shifted to Sadi. ‘Say your name,’ she commanded.

  ‘I am Ussa of Sthiss Tor, Holy Priestess,’ he replied. ‘Jaharb instructed me to present myself to your Hierarch and to give him a message.’

  ‘And what is that message?’

  ‘Ah—forgive me, Holy Priestess, but I was told that it was for Agachak’s ears alone.’

  ‘I am Agachak’s ears,’ she told him, her voice dreadfully quiet. ‘Nothing reaches his ears that I have not heard first.’ It was the tone of her voice that made Garion suddenly understand. Although this cruelly scarred woman had somehow risen to a position of power here in the Temple, she was still uncertain about that power. She bore her uncertainty like an open wound, and the slightest questioning of her authority roused in her an abiding hatred for whomever doubted her. Fervently he hoped that Sadi realized how extremely dangerous she was.