Magician's Gambit

  "I suppose we'd better begin keeping an eye out for Brill," Silk said hopefully one snowy afternoon. "It's about time for him to show up again."

  "Not very likely," Belgarath replied. "Murgos avoid Ulgoland even more than they avoid the Vale. Ulgos dislike Angaraks intensely."

  "So do Alorns."

  "Ulgos can see in the dark, though," the old man told him. "Murgos who come into these mountains tend not to wake up from their first night's sleep up here. I don't think we need to worry about Brill."

  "Pity," Silk remarked with a certain disappointment.

  "It won't hurt to keep our eyes open, though. There are worse things than Murgos in the mountains of Ulgo."

  Silk scoffed. "Aren't those stories exaggerated?"

  "No. Not really."

  "The region abounds with monsters, Prince Kheldar," Mandorallen assured the little man. "Some years back, a dozen foolish young knights of my acquaintance rode into these mountains to test their bravery and prowess against the unseemly beasts. Not one returned."

  When they crested the next ridge, the full force of a winter gale struck them. Snow, which had grown steadily heavier as they climbed, drove horizontally in the howling wind.

  "We'll have to take cover until this blows over, Belgarath," Barak shouted above the wind, fighting to keep his flapping bearskin cape around him.

  "Let's drop down into this next valley," Belgarath replied, also struggling with his cloak. "The trees down there should break the wind."

  They crossed the ridge and angled down toward the pines clustered at the bottom of the basin ahead. Garion pulled his cloak tighter and bowed his head into the shrieking wind.

  The thick stand of sapling pine in the basin blocked the force of the gale, but the snow swirled about them as they reined in.

  "We're not going to get much farther today, Belgarath," Barak declared, trying to brush the snow out of his beard. "We might as well hole up here and wait for morning."

  "What's that?" Durnik asked sharply, cocking his head to one side.

  "The wind," Barak shrugged.

  "No. Listen."

  Above the howling of the wind, a shrill whinnying sound came to them.

  "Look there." Hettar pointed.

  Dimly they saw a dozen horselike animals crossing the ridge behind them. Their shapes were blurred by the thickly falling snow, and their line as they moved seemed almost ghostly. On a rise just above them stood a huge stallion, his mane and tail tossing in the wind. His neigh was almost a shrill scream.

  "Hrulgin!" Belgarath said sharply.

  "Can we outrun them?" Silk asked hopefully.

  "I doubt it," Belgarath replied. "Besides, they've got our scent now. They'll dog our trail from here to Prolgu if we try to run."

  "Then we must teach them to fear our trail and avoid it," Mandorallen declared, tightening the straps on his shield. His eyes were very bright.

  "You're falling back into your old habits, Mandorallen," Barak observed in a grumpy voice.

  Hettar's face had assumed that curiously blank expression it usually did when he was communicating with his horses. He shuddered finally, and his eyes went sick with revulsion.

  "Well?" Aunt Pol asked him.

  "They aren't horses," he began.

  "We know that, Hettar," she replied. "Can you do anything with them? Frighten them off perhaps?"

  He shook his head. "They're hungry, Polgara," he told her, "and they have our scent. The herd stallion seems to have much more control over them than he would if they were horses. I might be able to frighten one or two of the weaker ones - if it weren't for him."

  "Then we'll have to fight them all," Barak said grimly, buckling on his shield.

  "I don't think so," Hettar replied, his eyes narrowing. "The key seems to be the stallion. He dominates the whole herd. I think that if we kill him, the rest will turn and run."

  "All right," Barak said, "we try for the stallion then."

  "We might want to make some kind of noise," Hettar suggested. "Something that sounds like a challenge. That might make him come out to the front to answer it. Otherwise, we'll have to go through the whole herd to get to him."

  "Mayhap this will provoke him," Mandorallen said. He lifted his horn to his lips and blew a brassy note of ringing defiance that was whipped away by the gale.

  The stallion's shrill scream answered immediately.

  "It sounds as if it's working," Barak observed. "Blow it again, Mandorallen."

  Mandorallen sounded his horn again, and again the stallion shrilled his reply. Then the great beast plunged down from the ridgetop and charged furiously through the herd toward them. When he reached the forefront, he shrieked again and reared up on his hind legs, his front claws flashing in the snowy air.

  "That did it," Barak barked. "Let's go!" He jammed his spurs home, and his big gray leaped forward, spraying snow behind him. Hettar and Mandorallen swept out to flank him, and the three plunged forward through the thickly falling snow toward the screaming Hrulga stallion. Mandorallen set his lance as he charged, and a strange sound drifted back on the wind as he thundered toward the advancing Hrulgin. Mandorallen was laughing.

  Garion drew his sword and pulled his horse in front of Aunt Pol and Ce'Nedra. He realized that it was probably a futile gesture, but he did it anyway.

  Two of the Hrulgin, perhaps at the herd stallion's unspoken command, bounded forward to cut off Barak and Mandorallen while the stallion himself moved to meet Hettar as if recognizing the Algar as the greatest potential danger to the herd. As the first Hrulga reared, his fangs bared in a catlike snarl and his clawed feet widespread, Mandorallen lowered his lance and drove it through the snarling monster's chest. Bloody froth burst from the Hrulga's mouth, and he toppled over backward, clawing the broken shaft of Mandorallen's lance into splinters as he fell.

  Barak caught a clawed swipe on his shield and split open the head of the second Hrulga with a vast overhand swing of his heavy sword. The beast collapsed, his convulsions churning the snow.

  Hettar and the herd stallion stalked each other in the swirling snow. They moved warily, circling, their eyes locked on each other with a deadly intensity. Suddenly the stallion reared and lunged all in one motion, his great forelegs wide and his claws outspread. But Hettar's horse, his mind linked with his rider's, danced clear of the furious charge. The Hrulga spun and charged again, and once again Hettar's horse jumped to one side. The infuriated stallion screamed his frustration and lunged in, his claws flailing. Hettar's horse sidestepped the enraged beast, then darted in, and Hettar launched himself from his saddle and landed on the stallion's back. His long, powerful legs locked about the Hrulga's ribs and his right hand gathered a great fistful of the animal's mane.

  The stallion went mad as he felt for the first time in the entire history of his species the weight of a rider on his back. He plunged and reared and shrieked, trying to shake Hettar off. The rest of the herd, which had been moving to the attack, faltered and stared in uncomprehending horror at the stallion's wild attempts to dislodge his rider. Mandorallen and Barak reined in, dumbfounded, as Hettar rode the raging stallion in circles through the blizzard. Then, grimly, Hettar slid his left hand down his leg and drew a long, broad dagger from his boot. He knew horses, and he knew where to strike.

  His first thrust was lethal. The churned snow turned red. The stallion reared one last time, screaming and with blood pouring out of his mouth, and then he dropped back to stand on shuddering legs. Slowly his knees buckled and he toppled to one side. Hettar jumped clear.

  The herd of Hrulgin turned and fled, squealing, back into the blizzard.

  Hettar grimly cleaned his dagger in the snow and resheathed it in his boot. Briefly he laid one hand on the dead stallion's neck, then turned to look through the trampled snow for the sabre he had discarded in his wild leap onto the stallion's back.

  When the three warriors returned to the shelter of the trees, Mandorallen and Barak were staring at Hettar with a look of profound re
spect.

  "It's a shame they're mad," the Algar said with a distant look on his face. "There was a moment just a moment-when I almost got through to him, and we moved together. Then the madness came back, and I had to kill him. If they could be tamed-" He broke off and shook his head. "Oh, well." He shrugged regretfully.

  "You wouldn't actually ride something like that?" Durnik's voice was shocked.

  "I've never had an animal like that under me," Hettar said quietly. "I don't think I'll ever forget what it was like." The tall man turned and walked some distance away and stood staring out into the swirling snow.

  They set up for the night in the shelter of the pines. The next morning the wind had abated, although it was still snowing heavily when they set out again. The snow was already knee-deep, and the horses struggled as they climbed.

  They crossed yet another ridge and started down into the next valley. Silk looked dubiously around at the thick-falling snow settling through the silent air. "If it gets much deeper, we're going to bog down, Belgarath," he said glumly. "Particularly if we have to keep climbing like this."

  "We'll be all right now," the old man assured him. "We follow a series of valleys from here. They lead right up to Prolgu, so we can avoid the peaks."

  "Belgarath," Barak said back over his shoulder from his place in the lead, "there are some fresh tracks up here." He pointed ahead at a line of footprints plowed through the new snow across their path.

  The old man moved ahead and stopped to examine the tracks. "Algroth," he said shortly. "We'd better keep our eyes open."

  They rode warily down into the valley where Mandorallen paused long enough to cut himself a fresh lance.

  "I'd be a little dubious about a weapon that keeps breaking," Barak observed as the knight remounted.

  Mandorallen shrugged, his armor creaking. "There are always trees about, my Lord," he replied.

  Back among the pines that carpeted the valley floor, Garion heard a familiar barking.

  "Grandfather," he warned.

  "I hear them," Belgarath answered.

  "How many, do you think?" Silk asked.

  "Perhaps a dozen," Belgarath said.

  "Eight," Aunt Pol corrected firmly.

  "If they are but eight, will they dare attack?" Mandorallen asked. "Those we met in Arendia seemed to seek courage in numbers."

  "Their lair's in this valley, I think," the old man replied. "Any animal tries to defend its lair. They're almost certain to attack."

  "We must seek them out, then," the knight declared confidently.

  "Better to destroy them now on ground of our own choosing than to be surprised in some ambush."

  "He's definitely backsliding," Barak observed sourly to Hettar.

  "He's probably right this time, though," Hettar replied.

  "Have you been drinking, Hettar?" Barak asked suspiciously.

  "Come, my Lords," Mandorallen said gaily. "Let us rout the brutes so that we may continue our journey unmolested." He plowed off through the snow in search of the barking Algroths.

  "Coming, Barak?" Hettar invited as he drew his sabre.

  Barak sighed. "I guess I'd better," he answered mournfully. He turned to Belgarath. "This shouldn't take long. I'll try to keep our bloodthirsty friends out of trouble."

  Hettar laughed.

  "You're getting to be as bad as he is," Barak accused as the two of them moved into a gallop in Mandorallen's wake.

  Garion and the others sat waiting tensely in the sifting snowfall. Then the barking sounds off in the woods suddenly turned into yelps of surprise. The sound of blows began to ring through the trees, and there were shrieks of pain and shouts as the three warriors called to each other. After perhaps a quarter of an hour, they came galloping back with the deep snow spraying out from their horses' hooves.

  "Two of them got away," Hettar reported regretfully.

  "What a shame," Silk replied.

  "Mandorallen," Barak said with a pained look, "you've picked up a bad habit somewhere. Fighting's a serious business, and all this giggling and laughing of yours smacks of frivolity."

  "Doth it offend thee, my Lord?"

  "It's not so much that it offends me, Mandorallen. It's more a distraction. It breaks my concentration."

  "I shall strive to moderate my laughter in future, then."

  "I'd appreciate it."

  "How did it go?" Silk asked.

  "It wasn't much of a fight," Barak replied. "We caught them completely by surprise. I hate to admit it, but our chortling friend there was right for once."

  Garion thought about Mandorallen's changed behavior as they rode on down the valley. Back at the cave where the colt had been born, Durnik had told Mandorallen that fear could be conquered by laughing at it, and, though Durnik had probably not meant it in precisely that way, Mandorallen had taken his words quite literally. The laughter which so irritated Barak was not directed at the foes he met, but rather at the enemy within him. Mandorallen was laughing at his own fear as he rode to each attack.

  "It's unnatural," Barak was muttering to Silk. "That's what bothers me so much. Not only that, it's a breach of etiquette. If we ever get into a serious fight, it's going to be terribly embarrassing to have him giggling and carrying on like that. What will people think?"

  "You're making too much of it, Barak," Silk told him. "Actually, I think it's rather refreshing."

  "You think it's what?"

  "Refreshing. An Arend with a sense of humor is a novelty, after all sort of like a talking dog."

  Barak shook his head in disgust. "There's absolutely no point in ever trying to discuss anything seriously with you, Silk, do you know that? The compulsion of yours to make clever remarks turns everything into a joke."

  "We all have our little shortcomings," Silk admitted blandly.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE SNOW GRADUALLY slackened throughout the rest o the day and by evening only a few solitary flakes drifted down through the darkening air as they set up for the night in a grove of dense spruces. During the night, however, the temperature fell, and the air was bitterly cold when they arose the next morning.

  "How much farther to Prolgu?" Silk asked, standing close to the fire with his shivering hands stretched out to its warmth.

  "Two more days," Belgarath replied.

  "I don't suppose you'd consider doing something about the weather?" the little man asked hopefully.

  "I prefer not to do that unless I absolutely have to," the old man told him. "It disrupts things over a very wide area. Besides, the Gorim doesn't like us to tamper with things in his mountains. The Ulgos have reservations about that sort of thing."

  "I was afraid you might look at it that way."

  Their route that morning twisted and turned so often that by noon Garion was completely turned around. Despite the biting cold, the sky was overcast, a solid lead-gray. It seemed somehow as if the cold had frozen all color from the world. The sky was gray; the snow was a flat, dead white; and the tree trunks were starkly black. Even the rushing water in the streams they followed flowed black between snow-mounded banks. Belgarath moved confidently, pointing their direction as each succeeding valley intersected with another.

  "Are you sure?" the shivering Silk asked him at one point. "We've been going upstream all day, now you say we go down."

  "We'll hit another valley in a few miles. Trust me, Silk. I've been here before."

  Silk pulled his heavy cloak tighter. "It's just that I get nervous on unfamiliar ground," he objected, looking at the dark water of the river they followed.

  From far upstream came a strange sound, a kind of mindless hooting that was almost like laughter. Aunt Pol and Belgarath exchanged a quick look.

  "What is it?" Garion asked.

  "Rock-wolf," Belgarath answered shortly.

  "It doesn't sound like a wolf."

  "It isn't." The old man looked around warily. "They're scavengers for the most part and, if it's just a wild pack, they probably won't attack. It's too
early in the winter for them to be that desperate. If it's one of the packs that has been raised by the Eldrakyn, though, we're in for trouble." He stood up in his stirrups to look ahead. "Let's pick up the pace a bit," he called to Mandorallen, "and keep your eyes open."

  Mandorallen, his armor glittering with frost, glanced back, nodded, and moved out at a trot, following the seething black water of the mountain river.

  Behind them the shrill, yelping laughter grew louder.

  "They're following us, father," Aunt Pol said.

  "I can hear that." The old man began searching the sides of the valley with his eyes, his face creased with a worried frown. "You'd better have a look, Pol. I don't want any surprises."

  Aunt Pol's eyes grew distant as she probed the thickly forested sides of the valley with her mind. After a moment, she gasped and then shuddered. "There's an Eldrak out there, father. He's watching us. His mind is a sewer."

  "They always are," the old man replied. "Could you pick up his name?"

  "Grul."

  "That's what I was afraid of. I knew we were getting close to his range." He put his fingers to his lips and whistled sharply.

  Barak and Mandorallen halted to wait while the rest caught up with them. "We've got trouble," Belgarath told them all seriously. "There's an Eldrak out there with a pack of rock-wolves. He's watching us right now. It's only a question of time until he attacks."

  "What's an Eldrak?" Silk asked.

  "The Eldrakyn are related to Algroths and Trolls, but they're more intelligent - and much bigger."

  "But only one?" Mandorallen asked.

  "One's enough. I've met this one. His name is Grul. He's big, quick, and as cruel as a hook-pointed knife. He'll eat anything that moves, and he doesn't really care if it's dead or not before he starts to eat."