Guardians of the West

  Or so men thought.

  Part One

  THE VALE OF ALDUR

  Chapter One

  It was late spring. The rains had come and passed, and the frost had gone out of the ground. Warmed by the soft touch of the sun, damp brown fields lay open to the sky, covered only by a faint green blush as the first tender shoots emerged from their winter’s sleep. Quite early one fine morning, when the air was still cool, but the sky gave promise of a golden day, the boy Errand, along with his family, left an inn lying in one of the quieter districts of the bustling port city of Camaar on the south coast of the kingdom of Sendaria. Errand had never had a family before, and the sense of belonging was new to him. Everything around him seemed colored, overshadowed almost, by the fact that he was now included in a small, tightly knit group of people bound together by love. The purpose of the journey upon which they set out that spring morning was at once simple and very profound. They were going home. Just as he had not had a family before, Errand had never had a home; and, though he had never seen the cottage in the Vale of Aldur which was their destination, he nonetheless yearned toward that place as if its every stone and tree and bush had been imprinted upon his memory and imagination since the day he was born.

  A brief rain squall had swept in off the Sea of the Winds about midnight and then had passed as quickly as it had come, leaving the gray, cobbled streets and tall, tile-roofed buildings of Cammar washed clean to greet the morning sun. As they rolled slowly through the streets in the sturdy wagon which Durnik the smith, after much careful inspection, had bought two days earlier, Errand, riding burrowed amongst the bags of food and equipment which filled the wagon bed, could smell the faint, salt tang of the harbor and see the bluish morning cast in the shadows of the red-roofed buildings they passed. Durnik, of course, drove the wagon, his strong brown hands holding the reins in that competent way with which he did everything, transmitting somehow along those leather straps to the wagon team the comforting knowledge that he was completely in control and knew exactly what he was doing.

  The stout, placid mare upon which Belgarath the Sorcerer rode, however, quite obviously did not share the comfortable security felt by the wagon horses. Belgarath, as he sometimes did, had stayed late in the taproom of the inn the previous night and he rode this morning slumped in the saddle, paying little or no heed to where he was going. The mare, also recently purchased, had not yet had the time to accustom herself to her new owner’s peculiarities, and his almost aggressive inattention made her nervous. She rolled her eyes often, as if trying to determine if this immobile lump mounted on her back really intended for her to go along with the wagon or not.

  Belgarath’s daughter, known to the entire world as Polgara the Sorceress, viewed her father’s semicomatose progress through the streets of Camaar with a steady gaze, reserving her comments for later. She sat beside Durnik, her husband of only a few weeks, wearing a hooded cape and a plain gray woolen dress. She had put aside the blue velvet gowns and jewels and rich, fur-trimmed capes which she had customarily worn while they had been at Riva and had assumed this simpler mode of dress as if almost with relief. Polgara was not averse to wearing finery when the occasion demanded it; and when so dressed, she appeared more regal than any queen in all the world. She had, however, an exquisite sense of the appropriate and she had dressed herself in these plain garments almost with delight, since they were appropriate to something she had wanted to do for uncounted centuries.

  Unlike his daughter, Belgarath dressed entirely for comfort. The fact that his boots were mismatched was neither an indication of poverty nor of carelessness. It stemmed rather from conscious choice, since the left boot of one pair was comfortable upon his left foot and its mate pinched his toes, whereas his right boot—from another pair—was most satisfactory, while its companion chafed his heel. It was much the same with the rest of his clothing. He was indifferent to the patches on the knees of his hose, unconcerned by the fact that he was one of the few men in the world who used a length of soft rope for a belt, and quite content to wear a tunic so wrinkled and gravy-spotted that persons of only moderate fastidiousness would not even have considered using it for a scrub-rag.

  The great oaken gates of Camaar stood open, for the war that had raged on the plains of Mishrak ac Thull, hundreds of leagues to the east, was over. The vast armies that had been raised by the Princess Ce’Nedra to fight that war had returned to their homes, and there was peace once more in the Kingdoms of the West. Belgarion, King of Riva and Overlord of the West, sat upon the throne in the Hall of the Rivan King with the Orb of Aldur once again in its proper place above his throne. The maimed God of Angarak was dead, and his eons-old threat to the West was gone forever.

  The guards at the city gate paid scant attention to Errand’s family as they passed, and so they left Camaar and set out upon the broad, straight imperial highway that stretched east towards Muros and the snow-topped mountains that separated Sendaria from the lands of the horse clans of Algaria.

  Flights of birds wheeled and darted in the luminous air as the wagon team and the patient mare plodded up the long hill outside Camaar. The birds sang and trilled almost as if in greeting and hovered strangely on stuttering wings above the wagon. Polgara raised her flawless face in the clear, bright light to listen.

  ‘What are they saying?’ Durnik asked.

  She smiled gently. ‘They’re babbling,’ she replied in her rich voice. ‘Birds do that a great deal. In general they’re happy that it’s morning and that the sun is shining and that their nests have been built. Most of them want to talk about their eggs. Birds always want to talk about their eggs.’

  ‘And of course they’re glad to see you, aren’t they?’

  ‘I suppose they are.’

  ‘Someday do you suppose you could teach me to understand what they’re saying?’

  She smiled at him. ‘If you wish. It’s not a very practical thing to know, however.’

  ‘It probably doesn’t hurt to know a few things that aren’t practical,’ he replied with an absolutely straight face.

  ‘Oh, my Durnik.’ She laughed, fondly putting her hand over his. ‘You’re an absolute joy, do you know that?’

  Errand, riding just behind them among the bags and boxes and the tools Durnik had so carefully selected in Camaar, smiled, feeling that he was included in the deep, warm affection they shared. Errand was not used to affection. He had been raised, if that is the proper term, by Zedar the Apostate, a man who had looked much like Belgarath. Zedar had simply come across the little boy in a narrow alleyway in some forgotten city and had taken him along for a specific purpose. The boy had been fed and clothed, nothing more, and the only words his bleak-faced guardian had ever spoken to him were, ‘I have an errand for you, boy.’ Because those were the only words he had heard, the only word the child spoke when he had been found by these others was ‘Errand.’ And since they did not know what else to call him, that had become his name.

  When they reached the top of the long hill, they paused for a few moments to allow the wagon horses to catch their breath. From his comfortable perch in the wagon, Errand looked out over the broad expanse of neatly walled fields lying pale green in the long, slanting rays of the morning sun. Then he turned and looked back toward Camaar with its red roofs and its sparkling blue-green harbor filled with the ships of a half-dozen kingdoms.

  ‘Are you warm enough?’ Polgara asked him.

  Errand nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘thank you.’ The words were coming more easily to him now, though he still spoke but rarely.

  Belgarath lounged in his saddle, absently rubbing at his short white beard. His eyes were slightly bleary, and he squinted as if the morning sunlight was painful to him. ‘I sort of like to start out a journey in the sunshine,’ he said. ‘It always seems to bode well for the rest of the trip.’ Then he grimaced. ‘I don’t know that it needs to be this bright, however.’

  ‘Are we feeling a bit delicate this morning, father?’ Polgara as
ked him archly.

  He turned to regard his daughter, his face set. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and say it, Pol? I’m sure you won’t be happy until you do.’

  ‘Why, father,’ she said, her glorious eyes wide with feigned innocence, ‘what makes you think I was going to say anything?’

  He grunted.

  ‘I’m sure you realize by now all by yourself that you drank a bit too much ale last night,’ she continued. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that, do you?’

  ‘I’m not really in the mood for any of this, Polgara,’ he told her shortly.

  ‘Oh, poor old dear,’ she said in mock commiseration. ‘Would you like to have me stir something up to make you feel better?’

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ he replied. ‘The aftertaste of your concoctions lingers for days. I think I prefer the headache.’

  ‘If a medicine doesn’t taste bad, it isn’t working,’ she told him. She pushed back the hood of the cape she wore. Her hair was long, very dark, and touched just over her left brow with a single lock of snowy white. ‘I did warn you, father,’ she said relentlessly.

  ‘Polgara,’ he said, wincing, ‘do you suppose we could skip the “I told you so’s?’

  ‘You heard me warn him, didn’t you, Durnik?’ Polgara asked her husband.

  Durnik was obviously trying not to laugh.

  The old man sighed, then reached inside his tunic and took out a small flagon. He uncorked it with his teeth and took a long drink.

  ‘Oh, father,’ Polgara said disgustedly, ‘didn’t you get enough last night?’

  ‘Not if this conversation is going to linger on this particular subject, no.’ He held out the flagon to his daughter’s husband. ‘Durnik?’ he offered.

  ‘Thanks all the same, Belgarath,’ Durnik replied, ‘but it’s a bit early for me.’

  ‘Pol?’ Belgarath said then, offering a drink to his daughter.

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Belgarath shrugged, recorking the bottle and tucking it away again. ‘Shall we move along then?’ he suggested. ‘It’s a very long way to the Vale of Aldur.’ And he nudged his horse into a walk.

  Just before the wagon rolled down on the far side of the hill, Errand looked back toward Camaar and saw a detachment of mounted men coming out through the gate. Glints and flashes of reflected sunlight said quite clearly that at least some of the garments the men wore were made of polished steel. Errand considered mentioning the fact, but decided not to. He settled back again and looked up at the deep blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds. Errand liked mornings. In the morning a day was always full of promise. The disappointments usually did not start until later.

  The soldiers who had ridden out of Camaar caught up with them before they had gone another mile. The commander of the detachment was a sober-faced Sendarian officer with only one arm. As his troops fell in behind the wagon, he rode up alongside. ‘Your Grace,’ he greeted Polgara formally with a stiff little bow from his saddle.

  ‘General Brendig,’ she replied with a brief nod of acknowledgement. ‘You’re up early.’

  ‘Soldiers are almost always up early, your Grace.’

  ‘Brendig,’ Belgarath said rather irritably, ‘is this some kind of coincidence, or are you following us on purpose?’

  ‘Sendaria is a very orderly kingdom, Ancient One,’ Brendig answered blandly. ‘We try to arrange things so that coincidences don’t happen.’

  ‘I thought so,’ Belgarath said sourly. ‘What’s Fulrach up to now?’

  ‘His Majesty merely felt that an escort might be appropriate.’

  ‘I know the way, Brendig. I’ve made the trip a few times before, after all.’

  ‘I’m sure of it, Ancient Belgarath,’ Brendig agreed politely. ‘The escort has to do with friendship and respect.’

  ‘I take it then that you’re going to insist?’

  ‘Orders are orders, Ancient One.’

  ‘Could we skip the “Ancient”?’ Belgarath asked plaintively.

  ‘My father’s feeling his years this morning, General.’ Polgara smiled, ‘All seven thousand of them.’

  Brendig almost smiled. ‘Of course, your Grace.’

  ‘Just why are we being so formal this morning, my Lord Brendig?’ she asked him. ‘I’m sure we know each other well enough to skip all that nonsense.’

  Brendig looked at her quizzically. ‘You remember when we first met?’ he asked.

  ‘As I recall, that was when you were arresting us, wasn’t it?’ Durnik asked with a slight grin.

  ‘Well—’ Brendig coughed uncomfortably. ‘—not exactly, Goodman Durnik. I was really just conveying his Majesty’s invitation to you to visit him at the palace. At any rate, Lady Polgara—your esteemed wife—was posing as the Duchess of Erat, you may remember.’

  Durnik nodded. ‘I believe she was, yes.’

  ‘I had occasion recently to look into some old books of heraldry and I discovered something rather remarkable. Were you aware, Goodman Durnik, that your wife really is the Duchess of Erat?’

  Durnik blinked. ‘Pol?’ he said incredulously.

  Polgara shrugged. ‘I’d almost forgotten,’ she said. ‘It was a very long time ago.’

  ‘Your title, nonetheless, is still valid, your Grace,’ Brendig assured her. ‘Every landholder in the District of Erat pays a small tithe each year into an account that’s being held in Sendar for you.’

  ‘How tiresome,’ she said.

  ‘Wait a minute, Pol,’ Belgarath said sharply, his eyes suddenly very alert. ‘Brendig, just how big is this account of my daughter’s—in round figures?’

  ‘Several million, as I understand it,’ Brendig replied.

  ‘Well,’ Belgarath said, his eyes going wide. ‘Well, well, well.’

  Polgara gave him a level gaze. ‘What have you got in your mind, father?’ she asked him pointedly.

  ‘It’s just that I’m pleased for you, Pol,’ he said expansively. ‘Any father would be happy to know that his child has done so well.’ He turned back to Brendig. ‘Tell me, General, just who’s managing my daughter’s fortune?’

  ‘It’s supervised by the crown, Belgarath,’ Brendig replied.

  “That’s an awful burden to lay on poor Fulrach,’ Belgarath said thoughtfully, ‘considering all his other responsibilities. Perhaps I ought to—’

  ‘Never mind, Old Wolf,’ Polgara said firmly.

  ‘I just thought—’

  ‘Yes, father. I know what you thought. The money’s fine right where it is.’

  Belgarath sighed. ‘I’ve never been rich before,’ he said wistfully.

  ‘Then you won’t really miss it, will you?’

  ‘You’re a hard woman, Polgara—to leave your poor old father sunk in deprivation like this.’

  ‘You’ve lived without money or possessions for thousands of years, father. Somehow I’m almost positive that you’ll survive.’

  ‘How did you get to be the Duchess of Erat?’ Durnik asked his wife.

  ‘I did the Duke of Vo Wacune a favor,’ she replied. ‘It was something that no one else could do. He was very grateful.’

  Durnik looked stunned. ‘But Vo Wacune was destroyed thousands of years ago,’ he protested.

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘I think I’m going to have trouble getting used to all this.’

  ‘You knew that I wasn’t like other women,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Does it really matter to you how old I am? Does it change anything?’

  ‘No,’ he said immediately, ‘not a thing.’

  ‘Then don’t worry about it.’

  They moved in easy stages across southern Sendaria, stopping each night at the solid, comfortable hostels operated by the Tolnedran legionnaires who patrolled and maintained the imperial highway and arriving in Muros on the afternoon of the third day after their departure from Camaar. Vast cattle herds from Algaria were already filling the acre upon acre of pens lying to the east of the
city, and the cloud of dust raised by their milling hooves blotted out the sky. Muros was not a comfortable town during the season of the cattle drives. It was hot, dirty, and noisy. Belgarath suggested that they pass it up and stop for the night in the mountains where the air would be less dust-clogged and the neighbors less rowdy.

  ‘Are you planning to accompany us all the way to the Vale?’ he asked General Brendig after they had passed the cattle pens and were moving along the Great North Road toward the mountains.

  ‘Ah—no, actually, Belgarath,’ Brendig replied, peering ahead at a band of Algar horsemen approaching along the highway. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ll be turning back about now.’

  The leader of the Algar riders was a tall, hawk-faced man in leather clothing, with a raven-black scalplock flowing behind him. When he reached the wagon, he reined in his horse. ‘General Brendig,’ he said in a quiet voice, nodding to the Sendarian officer.

  ‘My Lord Hettar,’ Brendig replied pleasantly.

  ‘What are you doing here, Hettar?’ Belgarath demanded.

  Hettar’s eyes went very wide. ‘I just brought a cattle herd across the mountains, Belgarath,’ he said innocently. ‘I’ll be going back now and I thought you might like some company.’

  ‘How strange that you just happen to be here at this particular time.’

  ‘Isn’t it, though?’ Hettar looked at Brendig and winked.

  ‘Are we playing games?’ Belgarath asked the pair of them. ‘I don’t need supervision and I definitely don’t need a military escort every place I go. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.’

  ‘We all know that, Belgarath,’ Hetter said placatingly. He looked at the wagon. ‘It’s nice to see you again, Polgara,’ he said pleasantly. Then he gave Durnik a rather sly look. ‘Married life agrees with you, my friend,’ he added. ‘I think you’ve put on a few pounds.’

  ‘I’d say that your wife has been adding a few extra spoonfuls to your plate as well.’ Durnik grinned at his friend.

  ‘Is it starting to show?’ Hettar asked.