Magician's Gambit

  The hooting laughter of the rock-wolves drew closer.

  "Let's find an open place and build a fire," the old man said. "The rock-wolves are afraid of fire, and there's no point in fighting with them and Grul if we don't have to."

  "There?" Durnik suggested, pointing to a broad, snow-covered bar protruding out into the dark water of the river. The bar was joined to the near bank by a narrow neck of gravel and sand.

  "It's defensible, Belgarath," Barak approved, squinting at the bar. "The river will keep them off our backs, and they can only come at us across that one narrow place."

  "It will do," Belgarath agreed shortly. "Let's go."

  They rode out onto the snow-covered bar and quickly scraped an area clear with their feet while Durnik worked to build a fire under a large, gray driftwood snag that half blocked the narrow neck of the bar. Within a few moments, orange flames began to lick up around the snag. Durnik fed the fire with sticks until the snag was fully ablaze. "Give me a hand," the smith said, starting to pile larger pieces of wood on the fire. Barak and Mandorallen went to the jumbled mass of driftwood piled against the upstream edge of the gravel and began hauling limbs and chunks of log to the fire. At the end of a quarter of an hour they had built a roaring bonfire that stretched across the narrow neck of sand, cutting them off completely from the dark trees on the riverbank.

  "It's the first time I've been warm all day." Silk grinned, backing up to the fire.

  "They're coming," Garion warned. Back among the dark tree trunks, he had caught a few glimpses of furtive movements.

  Barak peered through the flames. "Big brutes, aren't they?" he observed grimly.

  "About the size of a donkey," Belgarath confirmed.

  "Are you sure they're afraid of fire?" Silk asked nervously.

  "Most of the time."

  "Most of the time?"

  "Once in a while they get desperate - or Grul could drive them toward us. They'd be more afraid of him than of the fire."

  "Belgarath," the weasel-faced little man objected, "sometimes you've got a nasty habit of keeping things to yourself."

  One of the rock-wolves came out onto the riverbank just upstream from the bar and stood sniffing the air and looking nervously at the fire. Its forelegs were noticeably longer than its hind ones, giving it a peculiar, half erect stance, and there was a large, muscular hump across its shoulders. Its muzzle was short, and it seemed snub-faced, almost like a cat. Its coat was a splotchy black and white, marked with a pattern hovering somewhere between spots and stripes. It paced nervously back and forth, staring at them with a dreadful intensity and yelping its highpitched, hooting laugh. Soon another came out to join it, and then another. They spread out along the bank, pacing and hooting, but staying well back from the fire.

  "They don't look like dogs exactly," Durnik said.

  "They're not," Belgarath replied. "Wolves and dogs are related, but rock-wolves belong to a different family."

  By now ten of the ugly creatures lined the bank, and their hooting rose in a mindless chorus.

  Then Ce'Nedra screamed, her face deathly pale and her eyes wide with horror.

  The Eldrak shambled out of the trees and stood in the middle of the yelping pack. It was about eight feet tall and covered with shaggy black fur. It wore an armored shirt that had been made of large scraps of chainmail tied together with thongs; over the mail, also held in place with thongs, was a rusty breastplate that appeared to have been hammered out with rocks until it was big enough to fit around the creature's massive chest. A conical steel helmet, split up the back to make it fit, covered the brute's head. In its hand the Eldrak held a huge, steelwrapped club, studded with spikes. It was the face, however, that had brought the scream to Ce'Nedra's lips. The Eldrak had virtually no nose, and its lower jaw jutted, showing two massive, protruding tusks. Its eyes were sunk in deep sockets beneath a heavy ridge of bone across its brow, and they burned with a hideous hunger.

  "That's far enough, Grul," Belgarath warned the thing in a cold, deadly voice.

  "'Grat come back to Grul's mountains?" the monster growled. Its voice was deep and hollow, chilling.

  "It talks?" Silk gasped incredulously.

  "Why are you following us, Grul?" Belgarath demanded.

  The creature stared at them, its eyes like fire. "Hungry, 'Grat," it growled.

  "Go hunt something else," the old man told the monster.

  "Why? Horses here - men. Plenty to eat."

  "But not easy food, Grul," Belgarath replied.

  A hideous grin spread across Grul's face. "Fight first," he said, "then eat. Come 'Grat. Fight again."

  "Grat?" Silk asked.

  "He means me. He can't pronounce my name - it has to do with the shape of his jaw."

  "You fought that thing?" Barak sounded stunned.

  Belgarath shrugged. "I had a knife up my sleeve. When he grabbed me, I sliced him open. It wasn't much of a fight."

  "Fight!" Grul roared. He hammered on his breastplate with his huge fist. "Iron," he said. "Come, 'Grat. Try to cut Grul's belly again. Now Grul wear iron - like men wear." He began to pound on the frozen ground with his steel-shod club. "Fight!" he bellowed. "Come, 'Grat. Fight!"

  "Maybe if we all go after him at once, one of us might get in a lucky thrust," Barak said, eyeing the monster speculatively.

  "Thy plan is flawed, my Lord," Mandorallen told him. "We must lose several companions should we come within range of that club."

  Barak looked at him in astonishment. "Prudence, Mandorallen? Prudence from you?"

  "It were best, I think, should I undertake this alone," the knight stated gravely. "My lance is the only weapon that can seek out the monster's life with safety."

  "There's something to what he says," Hettar agreed.

  "Come fight!" Grul roared, still beating on the ground with his club.

  "All right," Barak agreed dubiously. "We'll distract him then - come at him from two sides to get his attention. Then Mandorallen can make his charge."

  "What about the rock-wolves?" Garion asked.

  "Let me try something," Durnik said. He took up a burning stick and threw it, spinning and flaring, at the nervous pack surrounding the monster. The rock-wolves yelped and shied quickly away from the tumbling brand. "They're afraid of the fire, all right," the smith said. "I think that if we all throw at once and keep throwing, their nerve will break and they'll run."

  They all moved to the fire.

  "Now!" Durnik shouted sharply. They began throwing the blazing sticks as fast as they could. The rock-wolves yelped and dodged, and several of them screamed in pain as the tumbling firebrands singed them.

  Grul roared in fury as the pack dodged and scurried around his feet, trying to escape the sudden deluge of fire. One of the singed beasts, maddened by pain and fright, tried to leap at him. The Eldrak jumped out of its way with astonishing agility and smashed the rock-wolf to the ground with his great club.

  "He's quicker than I thought," Barak said. "We'll have to be careful."

  "They're running!" Durnik shouted, throwing another fiery stick. The pack had broken under the rain of burning brands and turned to flee howling back into the woods, leaving the infuriated Grul standing alone on the riverbank, hammering at the snow-covered ground with his spiked club. "Come fight!" he roared again. "Come fight!" He advanced one huge step and smashed his club at the snow again.

  "We'd better do whatever we're going to do now," Silk said tensely. "He's getting himself worked up. We'll have him out here on the bar with us in another minute or two."

  Mandorallen nodded grimly and turned to mount his charger.

  "Let the rest of us distract him first," Barak said. He drew his heavy sword. "Let's go!" he shouted and leaped over the fire. The others followed him, spreading out in a half circle in front of the towering Grul. Garion reached for his sword.

  "Not you," Aunt Pol snapped. "You stay here."

  "But "

  "Do as I say."

  One of Silk's d
aggers, skillfully thrown from several yards away, sank into Grul's shoulder while the creature was advancing on Barak and Durnik. Grul howled and turned to charge Silk and Hettar, swinging his vast club. Hettar dodged, and Silk danced back out of reach. Durnik began pelting the monster with fist-sized rocks from the riverbank. Grul turned back, raging now, with flecks of foam dripping from his pointed tusks.

  "Now, Mandorallen!" Barak shouted.

  Mandorallen couched his lance and spurred his warhorse. The huge armored animal leaped forward, its hooves churning gravel, jumped the fire, and bore down on the astonished Grul. For a moment it looked as if their plan might work. The deadly, steel-pointed lance was leveled at Grul's chest, and it seemed that nothing could stop it from plunging through his huge body. But the monster's quickness again astonished them all. He leaped to one side and smashed his spiked club down on Mandorallen's lance, shattering the stout wood.

  The force of Mandorallen's charge, however, could not be stopped. Horse and man crashed into the great brute with a deafening impact. Grul reeled back, dropping his club, tripping, falling with Mandorallen and his warhorse on top of him.

  "Get him!" Barak roared, and they all dashed forward to attack the fallen Grul with swords and axes. The monster, however, levered his legs under Mandorallen's thrashing horse and thrust the big animal off. A great, flailing fist caught Mandorallen in the side, throwing him for several yards. Durnik spun and dropped, felled by a glancing blow to the head even as Barak, Hettar, and Silk swarmed over the fallen Grul.

  "Father!" Aunt Pol cried in a ringing voice.

  There was suddenly a new sound directly behind Garion - first a deep, rumbling snarl followed instantly by a hair-raising howl. Garion turned quickly and saw the huge wolf he had seen once before in the forests of northern Arendia. The old gray wolf bounded across the fire and entered the fight, his great teeth flashing and tearing.

  "Garion, I need you!" Aunt Pol was shaking off the panic-stricken princess and pulling her amulet out of her bodice. "Take out your medallion-quickly!"

  He did not understand, but he drew his amulet out from under his tunic. Aunt Pol reached out, took his right hand, and placed the mark on his palm against the figure of the owl on her own talisman; at the same time, she took his medallion in her other hand. "Focus your will," she commanded.

  "On what?"

  "On the amulets. Quickly!"

  Garion brought his will to bear, feeling the power building in him tremendously, amplified somehow by his contact with Aunt Pol and the two amulets. Polgara closed her eyes and raised her face to the leaden sky. "Mother!" she cried in a voice so loud that the echo rang like a trumpet note in the narrow valley.

  The power surged out of Garion in so vast a rush that he collapsed to his knees, unable to stand. Aunt Pol sank down beside him.

  Ce'Nedra gasped.

  As Garion weakly raised his head, he saw that there were two wolves attacking the raging Grul - the gray old wolf he knew to be his grandfather, and another, slightly smaller wolf that seemed surrounded by a strange, flickering blue light.

  Grul had struggled to his feet and was laying about him with his huge fists as the men attacking him chopped futilely at his armored body. Barak was flung out of the fight and fell to his hands and knees, shaking his head groggily. Grul brushed Hettar aside, his eyes alight with dreadful glee as he lunged toward Barak with both huge arms raised. But the blue wolf leaped snarling at his face. Grul swung his fist and gaped with astonishment as it passed directly through the flickering body. Then he shrieked with pain and began to topple backward as Belgarath, darting in from behind to employ the wolf's ancient tactic, neatly hamstrung him with great, ripping teeth. The towering Grul, howling, fell and struck the earth like some vast tree.

  "Keep him down!" Barak roared, stumbling to his feet and staggering forward.

  The wolves were ripping at Grul's face, and he flailed his arms, trying to beat them away. Again and again his hands passed through the body of the strange, flickering blue wolf. Mandorallen, his feet spread wide apart and holding the hilt of his broadsword with both hands, chopped steadily at the monster's body, his great blade shearing long rents in Grul's breastplate. Barak swung huge blows at Grul's head, his sword striking sparks from the rusty steel helmet. Hettar crouched at one side, eyes intent, sabre ready, waiting. Grul raised his arm to ward off Barak's blows, and Hettar lunged, thrusting his sabre through the exposed armpit and into the huge chest. A bloody froth spouted from Grul's mouth as the sabre ripped through his lungs. He struggled to a half sitting position.

  Then Silk, who had lurked just at the edge of the fight, darted in, set the point of his dagger against the back of Grul's neck and smashed a large rock against the dagger's pommel. With a sickening crunch, the dagger drove through bone, angling up into the monster's brain. Grul shuddered convulsively. Then he collapsed.

  In the moment of silence that followed, the two wolves looked at each other across the monster's dead face. The blue wolf seemed to wink once; in a voice which Garion could hear quite clearly - a woman's voice - she said, "How remarkable." With a seeming smile and one last flicker, she vanished.

  The old gray wolf raised his muzzle and howled, a sound of such piercing anguish and loss that Garion's heart wrenched within him.

  Then the old wolf seemed to shimmer, and Belgarath knelt in his place. He rose slowly to his feet and walked back toward the fire, tears streaming openly down his grizzled cheeks.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "IS HE GOING to be all right?" Barak asked anxiously, hovering over the still unconscious Durnik as Aunt Pol examined the large purple contusion on the side of the smith's face.

  "It's nothing serious," she replied in a voice seeming to droop with a great weariness.

  Garion sat nearby with his head in his hands. He felt as if all the strength had been wrenched out of his body.

  Beyond the heaped coals of the rapidly dying bonfire, Silk and Hettar were struggling to remove Mandorallen's dented breastplate. A deep crease running diagonally from shoulder to hip gave mute evidence of the force of Grul's blow and placed so much stress on the straps beneath the shoulder plates that they were almost impossible to unfasten.

  "I think we're going to have to cut them," Silk said.

  "I pray thee, Prince Kheldar, avoid that if possible," Mandorallen answered, wincing as they wrenched at the fastenings. "Those straps are crucial to the fit of the armor, and are most difficult to replace properly."

  "This one's coming now," Hettar grunted, prying at a buckle with a short iron rod. The buckle released suddenly and the taut breastplate rang like a softly struck bell.

  "Now I can get it," Silk said, quickly loosening the other shoulder buckle.

  Mandorallen sighed with relief as they pulled off the dented breastplate. He took a deep breath and winced again.

  "Tender right here?" Silk asked, putting his fingers lightly to the right side of the knight's chest. Mandorallen grunted with pain, and his face paled visibly. "I think you've got some cracked ribs, my splendid friend," Silk told him. "You'd better have Polgara take a look."

  "In a moment," Mandorallen said. "My horse?"

  "He'll be all right," Hettar replied. "A strained tendon in his right foreleg is all."

  Mandorallen let out a sigh of relief. "I had feared for him."

  "I feared for us all there for a while," Silk said. "Our oversized playmate there was almost more than we could handle."

  "Good fight, though," Hettar remarked.

  Silk gave him a disgusted look, then glanced up at the scudding gray clouds overhead. He jumped across the glowing coals of their fire and went over to where Belgarath sat staring into the icy river. "We're going to have to get off this bar, Belgarath," he urged. "The weather's going bad on us again, and we'll all freeze to death if we stay out here in the middle of the river tonight."

  "Leave me alone," Belgarath muttered shortly, still staring at the river.

  "Polgara?" Silk turned to her.
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  "Just stay away from him for a while," she told him. "Go find a sheltered place for us to stay for a few days."

  "I'll go with you," Barak offered, hobbling toward his horse.

  "You'll stay here," Aunt Pol declared firmly. "You creak like a wagon with a broken axle. I want to have a look at you before you get a chance to damage yourself permanently."

  "I know a place," Ce'Nedra said, rising and pulling her cloak about her shoulders. "I saw it when we were coming down the river. I'll show you."

  Silk looked inquiringly at Aunt Pol.

  "Go ahead," she told him. "It's safe enough now. Nothing else would live in the same valley with an Eldrak."

  Silk laughed. "I wonder why? Coming, Princess?" The two of them mounted and rode off through the snow.

  "Shouldn't Durnik be coming around?" Garion asked his Aunt.

  "Let him sleep," she replied wearily. "He'll have a blinding headache when he wakes up."

  "Aunt Pol?"

  "Yes?"

  "Who was the other wolf?"

  "My mother, Poledra."

  "But isn't she-"

  "Yes. It was her spirit."

  "You can do that?" Garion was stunned by the enormity of it.

  "Not alone," she said. "You had to help me."

  "Is that why I feel so-" It was an effort even to talk.

  "It took everything we could both raise to do it. Don't ask so many questions just now, Garion. I'm very tired and I still have many things to do."

  "Is Grandfather all right?"

  "He'll come around. Mandorallen, come here."

  The knight stepped over the coals at the neck of the bar and walked slowly toward her, his hand pressed lightly against his chest.

  "You'll have to take off your shirt," she told him. "And please sit down."

  About a half hour later Silk and the princess returned. "It's a good spot," Silk reported. "A thicket in a little ravine. Water, shelter - everything we need. Is anybody seriously hurt?"

  "Nothing permanent." Aunt Pol was applying a salve to Barak's hairy leg.