Castle of Wizardry (6 page)

The little boy delightedly deposited the Orb in the leather pouch. "Errand," he declared firmly.

"I suppose so," Durnik agreed. He pulled the drawstring tight and then tied the pouch to the bit of rope the boy wore as a belt. "There we are, Errand.
All safe and secure now."

Errand examined the pouch carefully, tugging at it a few times as if to be sure it was tightly tied. Then he gave a happy little laugh, put his arms about Durnik's neck and kissed his cheek.

"He's a good lad," Durnik said, looking a trifle embarrassed.

"He's totally innocent," Aunt Pol told him from where she was examining the sleeping Belgarath. "He has no idea of the difference between good and evil, so everything in the world seems good to him."

"I wonder what it's like to see the world that way," Taiba mused, gently touching the child's smiling face. "No sorrow; no fear; no pain - just to love everything you see because you believe that everything is good."

Relg, however, had looked up sharply.
The troubled expression that had hovered on his face since he had rescued the trapped slave woman fell away to be replaced by that look of fanatic zeal that it had always worn before.
"Monstrous!" he gasped.

Taiba turned on him, her eyes hardening. "What's so monstrous about happiness?" she demanded, putting her arm about the boy.

"We aren't here to be happy," he replied, carefully avoiding her eyes.

"Why are we here then?" she challenged.

"To serve our God and to avoid sin."
He still refused to look at her, and his tone seemed a trifle less certain.

"Well, I don't have a God," she retorted, "and the child probably doesn't either, so if it's all the same to you, he and I will just concentrate on trying to be happy - and if a bit of sin gets involved in it, so what?"

"Have you no shame?" His voice was choked.

"I am what I am," she replied, "and I won't apologize, since I didn't have very much to say about it."

"Boy," Relg snapped at the child, "
come
away from her at once."

Taiba straightened, her face hardening even more, and she faced him defiantly. "What do you think you're going to do?" she demanded.

"I will fight sin wherever I find it," he declared.

"Sin, sin, sin
!
" she flared.
"Is that all you ever think about?"

"It's my constant care. I guard against it every moment."

She laughed.
"How tedious.
Can't you think of anything better to do? Oh, I forgot," she added mockingly. "There's all that praying
too,
isn't there?
All that bawling at your God about how vile you are.
I think you must bore this UL of yours tremendously sometimes, do you know that?"

Enraged, Relg raised his fist. "Don't ever speak UL's name again!"

"Will you hit me if I do? It doesn't matter that much. People have been hitting me all my life. Go ahead, Relg. Why don't you hit me?" She lifted her smudged face to him.

Relg's hand fell.

Sensing her advantage, Taiba put her hands to the throat of the rough gray dress Polgara had given her. "I can stop you, Relg," she told him.

She began unfastening the dress. "Watch me. You look at me all the time anyway - I've seen you with your hot eyes on me. You call me names and say that I'm wicked, but still you watch. Look then. Don't try to hide it." She continued to unfasten the front of the dress. "If you're free of sin, my body shouldn't bother you at all."

Relg's eyes were bulging now.

"My body doesn't bother me, but it bothers you very much, doesn't it? But is the wickedness in my mind or yours? I can sink you in sin any time I want to. All I have to do is this." And she pulled open the front of her dress.

Relg spun about, making strangled noises.

"Don't you want to look, Relg?" she mocked him as he fled.

"You have a formidable weapon there, Taiba," Silk congratulated her.

"It was the only weapon I had in the slave pens," she told him. "I learned to use it when I had to." She carefully rebuttoned her dress and turned back to Errand as if nothing had happened.

"What's all the shouting?" Belgarath mumbled, rousing slightly, and they all turned quickly to him.

"Relg and Taiba were having a little theological discussion," Silk replied lightly. "The finer points were very interesting. How are you?" But the old man had already drifted back into sleep.

"At least he's starting to come around," Durnik noted.

"It will be several days before he's fully recovered," Polgara told him, putting her hand to Belgarath's forehead. "He's still terribly weak."

Garion slept for most of the day, wrapped in his blankets and lying on the stony ground. When the chill and a particularly uncomfortable rock under his hip finally woke him, it was late afternoon. Silk sat
guard near the mouth of the ravine, staring out at the black sand and the grayish salt flats, but the rest were
all asleep. As he walked quietly down to where the little man sat, Garion noticed that Aunt Pol slept with Errand in her arms, and he pushed away a momentary surge of jealousy. Taiba murmured something as he passed, but a quick glance told him that she was not awake. She was lying not far from Relg; in her sleep, her hand seemed to be reaching out toward the slumbering Ulgo.

Silk's sharp little face was alert and he showed no signs of weariness. "Good morning," he murmured, "or whatever."

"Don't you ever get tired?" Garion asked him, speaking quietly so that his voice would not disturb the others.

"I slept a bit," Silk told him.

Durnik came out from under the canvas roof to join them, yawning and rubbing at his eyes. "I'll relieve you now," he said to Silk. "Did you see anything?" He squinted out toward the lowering sun.

Silk shrugged.
"Some Murgos.
They were a couple of miles off to the south. I don't think anyone's found our trail yet. We might have to make it a little more obvious for them."

Garion felt a peculiar, oppressive sort of weight on the back of his neck. He glanced around uncomfortably. Then, with no warning, there was a sudden sharp stab that seemed to go straight into his mind. He gasped and tensed his will, pushing the attack away.

"What's wrong?" Silk asked sharply.

"A Grolim," Garion snarled, clenching his will as he prepared to fight.

"Garion!"
It was Aunt Pol, and her voice sounded urgent. He turned and darted back in under the canvas with Silk and Durnik on his heels. She had risen to her feet and was standing with her arms protectively about Errand.

"That was a Grolim, wasn't it?" Garion demanded, his voice sounding a bit shrill.

"It was more than one," she replied tensely. "The Hierarchs control the Grolims now that Ctuchik's dead. They've joined their wills to try to kill Errand."

The others, awakened by her sharp cry, were stumbling to their feet and reaching for weapons.

"Why are they after the boy?" Silk asked.

"They know that he's the only one who can touch the Orb. They think that if he dies, we won't be able to get it out of Cthol Murgos."

"What do we do?" Garion asked her, looking around helplessly.

"I'm going to have to concentrate on protecting the child," she told him. "Step back, Garion."

"What?"

"Get back away from me." She bent and drew a circle in the sand, enclosing herself and the little boy in it. "Listen to me, all of you," she said. "Until we're out of this, none of you come any closer to me than this. I don't want any of you getting hurt." She drew herself up, and the white lock in her hair seemed to blaze.

"Wait," Garion exclaimed.

"I don't dare. They could attack again at any moment. It's going to be up to you to protect your grandfather and the others."

"Me?"

"You're the only one who can do it. You have the power. Use it." She raised her hand.

"How many of them are there that I have to fight off?" Garion demantled, but he already felt the sudden surge and the peculiar roaring sound in his mind as Aunt Pol's will thrust out. The air about her seemed to shimmer, distorting like heat-waves on a summer afternoon. Garion could actually feel the barrier encircling her. "Aunt Pol?" he said to her. Then he raised his voice and shouted, "Aunt Pol!"

She shook her head and pointed at her ear. She seemed to say something, but no sound penetrated the shimmering shield she had erected.

"How many?"
Garion mouthed the words exaggeratedly.

She held up both hands with one thumb folded in.

"Nine?" he mouthed again.

She nodded and then drew her cloak in around the little boy.

"Well, Garion?" Silk asked then, his eyes penetrating, "What do we do now?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"You heard her. Belgarath's still in a daze, and she's busy. You're in charge now."

"Me?"

"What do we do?" Silk pressed. "You've got to learn to make decisions."

"I don't know." Garion floundered helplessly.

"Never admit that," Silk told him. "Act as if you know - even if you don't."

"We-uh-we'll wait until it gets dark, I guess - then we'll keep going the same way we have been."

"There." Silk grinned. "See how easy it is?"

THERE WAS THE faintest sliver of a moon low over the horizon as they started out across the black sand of the wasteland in the biting chill. Garion felt distinctly uncomfortable in the role Silk had thrust upon him. He knew that there had been no need for it, since they all knew where they were going and what they had to do. If any kind of leadership had actually been required, Silk himself was the logical one to provide it; but instead, the little man had placed the burden squarely on Garion's shoulders and now seemed to be watching intently to see how he would handle it.

There was no time for leadership or even discussion when, shortly after midnight, they ran into a party of Murgos. There were six of them, and they came galloping over a low ridge to the south and blundered directly into the middle of Garion's party. Barak and Mandorallen reacted with that instant violence of trained warriors, their swords whistling out of their sheaths to crunch with steely ringing sounds into the mail-skirted bodies of the startled Murgos. Even as Garion struggled to draw his own sword, he saw one of the black-robed intruders tumble limply out of his saddle, while another, howling with pain and surprise, toppled slowly backward, clutching at his chest. There was a confusion of shouts and shrill screams from terrified horses as the men fought in the darkness. One frightened Murgo wheeled his mount to flee, but Garion, without even thinking, pulled his horse in front of him, sword raised to strike. The desperate Murgo made a frantic swing with his own weapon, but Garion easily parried the badly aimed swipe and flicked his blade lightly, whiplike, across the Murgo's shoulder. There was a satisfying crunch as the sharp edge bit into the Murgo's mail shirt. Garion deftly parried another clumsy swing and whipped his blade again, slashing the Murgo across the face. All the instruction he had received from his friends seemed to click together into a single, unified style that was part Cherek, part Arendish, part Algar, and was distinctly Garion's own. This style balked the frightened Murgo, and his efforts became more desperate. But each time he swung, Garion easily parried and instantly countered with those light, flicking slashes that inevitably drew blood. Garion felt a wild, surging exultation boiling in his veins as he fought, and there was a fiery taste in his mouth.

Then Relg darted in out of the shadows, jerked the Murgo off balance, and drove his hook-pointed knife up under the man's ribs. The Murgo doubled over sharply, shuddered,
then
fell dead from his saddle.

"What did you do that for?" Garion demanded without thinking. "That was my Murgo."

Barak, surveying the carnage,
laughed,
his sudden mirth startling in the darkness. "He's turning savage on us, isn't he?"

"His skill is noteworthy, however," Mandorallen replied approvingly.