Castle of Wizardry (13 page)

They all stared at her as the significance of her extreme precautions struck them.

"Move, gentlemen," she told them firmly. "His life may depend on a certain speed."

THE WAGON SEEMED barely to crawl. The high, thin cloud had swept in again to hide the sun, and a kind of leaden chill descended on the featureless plain of southern Algaria. Garion rode inside the wagon, thick-headed and numb with exhaustion, watching with dreadful concern as Aunt Pol hovered over the unconscious Belgarath. Sleep was out of the question. Another crisis could arise at any time and he had to be ready to leap to her aid, joining his will and the power of his amulet with hers. Errand, his small face grave, sat quietly in a chair at the far side of the wagon, his hands firmly clasped around the pouch Durnik had made for hirn. The sound of the Orb still hung in Garion's ears, muted but continual. He had grown almost accustomed to the song in the weeks since they had left Rak Cthol; but at quiet moments or when he was tired, it always seemed to return with renewed strength. It was somehow a comforting sound.

Aunt Pol leaned forward to touch Belgarath's chest. "What's wrong?" Garion asked in a sharp whisper.

"Nothing's wrong, Garion," she replied calmly. "Please don't keep saying that every time I so much as move. If something's wrong, I'll tell you."

"I'm sorry - I'm just worried, that's all."

She turned to give him a steady look. "Why don't you take Errand and go up and ride on top of the wagon with Silk and Durnik?"

"What if you need me?"

"I'll call you, dear."

"I'd really rather stay, Aunt Pol."

"I'd really rather you didn't. I'll call if I need you."

"But"

"Now, Garion."

Garion knew better than to argue. He took Errand out the back door of the wagon and up the steps to the top.

"How is he?" Silk asked.

"How should I know? All I know is that she chased me out." Garion's reply was a bit surly.

"That might be a good sign, you know."

"Maybe."
Garion looked around. Off to the west there was a range of low hills. Rearing above them stood a vast pile of rock.

"The Algar Stronghold," Durnik told Garion, pointing.

"Are we that close?"

"That's still a good day's ride."

"How high is it?" Garion asked.

"Four or five hundred feet at least," Silk told him. "The Algars have been building at it for several thousand years. It gives them something to do after the calving season."

Barak rode up. "How's Belgarath?" he asked as he approached.

"I think he might be improving just a little," Garion answered. "I don't know for sure, though."

"That's something, anyway." The big man pointed toward a gully just ahead. "You'd better go around that," he told Durnik. "King ChoHag says that the ground gets a bit rough through there."

Durnik nodded and changed the wagon's direction.

Throughout the day, the Stronghold of the Algars loomed higher and higher against the western horizon. It was a vast, towering fortress rearing out of the dun-colored hills.

"A monument to an idea that got out of hand," Silk observed as he lounged idly atop the wagon.

"I don't quite follow that," Durnik said.

"Algars are nomads," the little man explained. "They live in wagons like this one and follow their herds. The Stronghold gives Murgo raiders something to attack. That's its only real purpose.
Very practical, really.
It's much easier than looking for them all over these plains. The Murgos always come here, and it's a convenient place to wipe them out."

"Don't the Murgos realize that?" Durnik looked a bit skeptical.

"Quite possibly, but they come here anyway because they can't resist the place. They simply can't accept the fact that nobody really lives here." Silk
grinned
his ferretlike little grin. "You know how stubborn Murgos are. Anyway, over the years the Algar clans have developed a sort of competition. Every year they try to outdo one another in hauling
rock,
and the Stronghold keeps growing higher and higher."

"Did Kal Torak really
lay
siege to it for eight years?" Garion asked him.

Silk nodded. "They say that his army was like a sea of Angaraks dashing itself to pieces against the walls of the Stronghold. They might still be here, but they ran out of food. That's always been the problem with large armies. Any fool can raise an army, but you start running into trouble around suppertime."

As they approached the man-made mountain, the gates opened and a party emerged to greet them. In the lead on a white palfrey rode Queen Silar with Hettar close behind. At a certain point they stopped and sat waiting.

Garion lifted a small trapdoor in the roof of the wagon. "We're here, Aunt Pol," he reported in a hushed voice.

"Good," she replied.

"How's grandfather?"

"He's sleeping. His breathing seems a bit stronger. Go ask Cho-Hag to take us inside immediately. I want to get father into a warm bed as soon as possible."

"Yes, Aunt Pol." Garion lowered the trapdoor and then went down the steps at the rear of the slowly moving wagon. He untied his horse, mounted and rode to the front of the column where the Algar queen was quietly greeting her husband.

"Excuse me," he said respectfully, swinging down from his horse, "but Aunt Pol wants to get Belgarath inside at once."

"How is he?" Hettar asked.

"Aunt Pol says that his breathing's getting stronger, but she's still worried."

From the rear of the group that had emerged from the Stronghold, there was a flurry of small hooves. The colt that had been born in the hills above Maragor burst into view and came charging directly at them. Garion immediately found himself swarmed under by the colt's exuberant greetings. The small horse nuzzled him and butted at him with its head, then pranced away only to gallop back again. When Garion put his hand on the animal's neck to calm him, the colt quivered with joy at his touch.

"He's been waiting for you," Hettar said to Garion. "He seems to have known you were coming."

The wagon drew up and stopped. The door opened, and Aunt Pol looked out.

"Everything's ready, Polgara," Queen Silar told her.

"Thank you, Silar."

"Is he recovering at all?"

"He seems better, but it's very hard to say for sure at this point." Errand, who had been watching from the top of the wagon, suddenly clambered down the steps at the rear, hopped to the ground, and ran out along the legs of the horses.

"Catch him, Garion," Aunt Pol said. "I think he'd better ride in here with me until we get inside the Stronghold."

As Garion started after the little boy, the colt scampered away, and Errand, laughing with delight, ran after him.
"Errand!"
Garion called sharply. The colt, however, had turned in midgallop and suddenly bore down on the child, his hooves flailing wildly. Errand, showing no signs of alarm, stood smiling directly in its path. Startled, the little horse stiffened his legs and skidded to a stop. Errand laughed and held out his hand. The colt's eyes were wide as he sniffed curiously at the hand, and then the boy touched the small animal's face.

Again within the vaults of his mind Garion seemed to hear that strange, bell-like note, and the dry voice murmured, "Done," with a peculiar sort of satisfaction.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Garion asked silently, but there was no answer. He shrugged and picked Errand up to avoid any chance collision between horse and child. The colt stood staring at the two of them, its eyes wide as if in amazement; when Garion turned to carry Errand back to the wagon, it trotted alongside, sniffing and even nuzzling at the child. Garion wordlessly handed Errand up to Aunt Pol and looked her full in the face. She said nothing as she took the child, but her expression told him plainly that something very important had just happened.

As he turned to remount his horse, he felt that someone was watching him, and he turned quickly toward the group of riders that had accompanied Queen Silar from the Stronghold. Just behind the queen was a tall girl mounted on a roan horse. She had long, dark brown hair, and the eyes she had fixed on Garion were gray, calm, and very serious. Her horse pranced nervously, and she calmed him with a quiet word and a gentle touch,
then
turned to gaze openly at Garion again. He had the peculiar feeling that he ought to know her.

The wagon creaked as Durnik shook the reins to start the team, and they all followed King Cho-Hag and Queen Silar through a narrow gate into the Stronghold. Garion saw immediately that there were no buildings inside the towering fortress. Instead there was a maze of stone walls perhaps twenty feet high twisting this way and that without any apparent plan.

"But where is thy city, your Majesty?" Mandorallen asked in perplexity.

"Inside the walls themselves," King Cho-Hag replied. "They're thick enough and high enough to give us all the room we could possibly need."

"What purpose hath all this, then?"

"It's just a trap." The king shrugged. "We permit attackers to break through the gates, and then we deal with them in here. We want to go this way." He led them along a narrow alleyway.

They dismounted in a courtyard beside the vast wall. Barak and Hettar unhooked the latches and swung the side of the wagon down. Barak tugged thoughtfully at his beard as he looked at the sleeping Belgarath. "It would probably disturb him less if we just took him inside bed and all," he suggested.

"Right," Hettar agreed, and the two of them climbed up into the wagon to lift out the sorcerer's bed.

"Just don't bounce him around," Polgara cautioned. "And don't drop him."

"We've got him, Polgara," Barak assured her. "I know you might not believe it, but we're almost as concerned about him as you are."

With the two big men carrying the bed, they passed through an arched doorway into a wide, torch-lighted corridor and up a flight of stairs, then along another hallway to another flight.

"Is it much farther?" Barak asked. Sweat was running down his face into his beard. "This bed isn't getting any lighter, you know."

"Just up here," the Algar Queen told him.

"I hope he appreciates all this when he wakes up," Barak grumbled. The room to which they carried Belgarath was large and airy. A glowing brazier stood in each corner and a broad window overlooked the maze inside the walls of the Stronghold. A canopied bed stood against one wall and a large wooden tub against the other.

"This will be just fine," Polgara said approvingly. "Thank you, Silar."

"We love him too, Polgara," Queen Silar replied quietly.

Polgara drew the drapes, darkening the room. Then she turned back the covers, and Belgarath was transferred to the canopied bed so smoothly that he did not even stir.

"He looks a little better," Silk said.

"He needs sleep, rest and quiet more than anything right now," Polgara told him, her eyes intent on the old man's sleeping face.

"We'll leave you with him, Polgara," Queen Silar said. She turned to the rest of them. "Why don't we all go down to the main hall? Supper's nearly ready, but in the meantime I'll have some ale brought in."

Barak's eyes brightened noticeably, and he started toward the door. "Barak," Polgara called to him, "aren't you and Hettar forgetting something?" She looked pointedly at the bed they had used for a stretcher.

Barak sighed. He and Hettar picked up the bed again.

"I'll send some supper up for you, Polgara," the queen said.

"Thank you, Silar." Aunt Pol turned to Garion, her eyes grave. "Stay for a few moments, dear," she asked, and he remained as the others all quietly left.

"Close the door, Garion," she said, pulling a chair up beside the sleeping old man's bed.

He shut the door and crossed the room back to her. "Is he really getting better, Aunt Pol?"

She nodded. "I think we're past the immediate danger. He seems stronger physically. But it's not his physical body I'm worried about- it's his mind. That's why I wanted to talk to you alone."