David Eddings - Belgariad 2 - Queen of Sorcery

QUEEN OF SORCERY

For Helen,

who gave me the most precious thing in my life,

and for Mike,

who taught me how to play.

PROLOGUE

Being an Account of the Battle of the Kingdoms of the West against the most

heinous Invasion and Evil of Kal Torak.

-based upon The Battle of Vo Mimbre

IN THE YOUTH of the world, the evil God Torak stole the Orb of Aldur and

fled, seeking dominion. The Orb resisted, and its fire maimed him with a

dreadful burning. But he would not give it up, for it was precious to him.

Then Belgarath, a sorcerer and disciple of the God Aldur, led forth the

king of the Alorns and his three sons, and they reclaimed the Orb from the

iron tower of Torak. Torak sought to pursue, but the wrath of the Orb

repelled him and drove him back.

Belgarath set Cherek and his sons to be kings over four great kingdoms in

eternal guard against Torak. The Orb he gave to Riva to keep, saying that

so long as a descendant of Riva held the Orb the West would be safe.

Century followed century with no menace from Torak, until the spring of

4865, when Drasnia was invaded by a vast horde of Nadraks, Thulls, and

Murgos. In the center of this sea of Angaraks was borne the huge iron

pavilion of one called Kal Torak, which means King and God. Cities and

villages were razed and burned, for Kal Torak came to destroy, not to

conquer. Those of the people who lived were given to the steel-masked

Grolim priests for sacrifice in the unspeakable rites of the Angaraks. None

survived save those who fled to Algaria or were taken from the mouth of the

Aldur River by Cherek warships.

Next the horde struck south at Algaria. But there they found no cities. The

nomadic Algarian horsemen fell back before them, then struck in vicious

hit-and-run attacks. The traditional seat of the Algarian kings was the

Stronghold, a man-made mountain with stone walls thirty feet thick. Against

this, the Angaraks hurled themselves in vain before settling down to

besiege the place. The siege lasted for eight futile years.

This gave the West time to mobilize and prepare. The generals gathered at

the Imperial War College in Tol Honeth and planned their strategy. National

differences were set aside, and Brand, the Warder of Riva, was chosen to

have full command. With him came two strange advisers: an ancient but

vigorous man who claimed knowledge even of the Angarak kingdoms; and a

strikingly handsome woman with a silver lock at her brow and an imperious

manner. To these Brand listened, and to them he paid almost deferential

respect.

In the late spring of 4875, Kal Torak abandoned his siege and turned west

toward the sea, pursued still by Algar horsemen. In the mountains, the

Ulgos came forth from their caverns by night and wreaked fearful slaughter

on the sleeping Angaraks. But still were the forces of Kal Torak beyond

counting. After a pause to regroup, the host proceeded down the valley of

the River Arend toward the city of Vo Mimbre, destroying all in its path.

Early in the summer, the Angaraks deployed for the assault upon the city.

On the third day of the battle, a horn was heard to blow three times. Then

the gates of Vo Mimbre opened, and the Mimbrate knights charged out to fall

upon the front of the Angarak horde, the iron-shod hoofs of their chargers

trampling living and dead. From the left came Algar cavalry, Drasnian

pikemen, and veiled Ulgo irregulars. And from the right came the Cherek

berserks and the legions of Tolnedra.

Attacked on three sides, Kal Torak committed his reserves. It was then that

the gray-clad Rivans, the Sendars, and the Asturian archers came upon his

forces from the rear. The Angaraks began to fall like mown wheat and were

overcome by confusion.

Then the Apostate, Zedar the Sorcerer, went in haste to the black iron

pavilion from which Kal Torak had not yet emerged. And to the Accursed One

he said, "Lord, throe enemies have thee surrounded in great numbers. Yea,

even the gray Rivans have come in their numbers to cast defiance at thy

might."

Kal Torak arose in anger and declared, "I will come forth, that the false

keepers of Cthrag Yaska, the jewel which was mine, shall see me and know

fear of me. Send to me my kings."

"Great Lord," Zedar told him, "thy kings are no more. The battle hath

claimed their lives and those of a multitude of thy Grolim priests as

well."

Kal Torak's wrath grew great at these words, and fire spat from his right

eye and from the eye that was not. He ordered his servants to bind his

shield to the arm on which he had no hand and he took up his dread black

sword. With this, he went forth to do battle.

Then came a voice from the midst of the Rivans, saying, "In the name of

Belar I defy thee, Torak. In the name of Aldur I cast my despite in thy

teeth. Let the bloodshed be abated, and I will meet thee to decide the

battle. I am Brand, Warder of Riva. Meet me or take the stinking host away

and come no more against the kingdoms of the West."

Kal Torak strode apart from the host and cried, "Where is he who dares pit

his mortal flesh against the King of the World? Behold, I am Torak, King of

Kings and Lord of Lords. I will destroy this loud-voiced Rivan. Mine

enemies shall perish, and Cthrag Yaska shall again be mine."

Brand stood forth. He bore a mighty sword and a shield muffled with cloth.

A grizzled wolf marched at his side, and a snowy owl hovered over his head.

Brand said, "I am Brand and I will contend with thee, foul and misshapen

Torak."

When Torak saw the wolf, he said, "Begone, Belgarath. Flee if thou wouldst

save thy life." And to the owl he said, "Abjure thy father, Polgara, and

worship me. I will wed thee and make thee Queen of the World."

But the wolf howled defiance, and the owl screeched her scorn. Torak raised

his sword and smote down upon the shield of Brand. Long they fought, and

many and grievous were the blows they struck. Those who stood near to see

them were amazed. The fury of Torak grew great, and his sword battered the

shield of Brand until the Warder fell back before the onslaught of the

Accursed One. Then the wolf howled and the owl shrieked in one voice

together, and the strength of Brand was renewed.

With a single motion, the Rivan Warder unveiled his shield, in the center

of which stood a round jewel, in size like the heart of a child. As Torak

gazed upon it, the stone began to glow and flame. The Accursed One drew

back from it. He dropped his shield and sword and raised his arms before

his face to ward away the dread fire of the stone.

Brand struck, and his sword pierced Torak's visor to strike into the eye

that was not and plunge into the Accursed One's head. Torak fell back and

gave a great cry. He plucked out the sword and threw off his helmet. Those

who watched recoiled in terror, for his face was seared by some great fire

and was horrible to behold. Weeping blood, Torak cried out again as he

beheld the jewel which he had named Cthrag Yaska and for which he had

brought his war into the West. Then he collapsed, and the earth resounded

with his fall.

A great cry went up from the host of the Angaraks when they saw what had

befallen Kal Torak, and they sought to flee in their panic. But the armies

of the West pursued them and slew them, so that when the smoky dawn broke

on the fourth day, the host was no more.

Brand asked that the body of the Accursed One be brought to him, that he

might behold him who would be king of all the world. But the body was not

to be found. In the night, Zedar the Sorcerer had cast an enchantment and

passed unseen through the armies of the West, bearing away the one he had

chosen as master.

Then Brand took counsel with his advisers. And Belgarath said to him,

"Torak is not dead. He only sleeps. For he is a God and cannot be slain by

any mortal weapon."

"When will he awaken?" Brand asked. "I must prepare the West against his

return."

Polgara answered, "When once again a King of Riva's line sits on his

northern throne, the Dark God will waken to do war with him."

Brand frowned, saying, "But that is neverl" For all knew that the last

Rivan King had been slain with his family in 4002 by Nyissan assassins.

Again the woman spoke. "In the fullness of time the Rivan King will rise to

claim his own, as the ancient Prophecy foretells. More cannot be said."

Brand was content and set his armies to cleaning the battlefield of the

wreckage of Angaraks. And when that was finished, the kings of the West

gathered before the city of Vo Mimbre and held council. Many were the

voices raised in praise of Brand.

Soon men began crying that Brand should henceforth be chosen as ruler of

all the West. Only Mergon, ambassador of Imperial Tolnedra, protested in

the name of his Emperor, Ran Borune IV. Brand refused the honor, and the

proposal was dropped, so that there was again peace among those assembled

in council. But in return for peace, a demand was made of Tolnedra.

The Gorim of the Ulgos spoke first in a loud voice. "In fulfillment of the

Prophecy, there must be promised a princess of Tolnedra to be wife unto the

Rivan King who will come to save the world. This the Gods require of us."

Again Mergon protested. "The Hall of the Rivan King is empty and desolate.

No king sits upon the Rivan throne. How many a princess of Imperial

Tolnedra be wed with a phantom?"

Then the woman who was Polgara replied. "The Rivan King will return to

assume his throne and claim his bride. From this day forward, therefore,

each princess of Imperial Tolnedra shall present herself in the Hall of the

Rivan King upon her sixteenth birthday. She shall be clad in her wedding

gown and shall abide there for three days against the coming of the King.

If he comes not to claim her, then she shall be free to return to her

father for whatever he may decree for her."

Mergon cried out. "All Tolnedra shall rise against this indignity. No! It

shall not be!"

The wise Gorim of the Ulgos spoke again. "Tell your Emperor that this is

the will of the Gods. Tell him also that in the day Tolnedra fails in this,

the West shall rise against him and scatter the sons of Nedra to the winds

and pull down the might of the Empire, until Imperial Tolnedra is no more."

At that, seeing the might of the armies before him, the ambassador

submitted to the matter. All then agreed and were bound to it.

When that was done, the nobles of strife-torn Arendia came to Brand,

saying, "The king of the Mimbrates is dead and the duke of the Asturians

also. Who now shall rule us? For two thousand years has war between Mimbre

and Asturia rent fair Arendia. How may we become one people again?"

Brand considered. "Who is heir to the Mimbrate throne?" "Korodullin is

crown prince of the Mimbrates," the nobles replied. "And to whom descends

the Asturian line?"

"Mayaserana is the daughter of the Asturian duke," they told him. Brand

said, "Bring them to me." And when they were brought before Brand, he said

to them, "The bloodshed between Mimbre and Asturia must end. Therefore, it

is my will that you be wed to each other and that the houses which so long

have warred shall thus be joined."

The two cried against the judgment, for they were filled with ancient

enmity and with the pride of their separate lines. But Belgarath took

Korodullin aside and spoke in private with him. And Polgara withdrew

Mayaserana to a separate place and was long in converse with her. No man

learned then or later what was said to the two young people. But when they

returned to where Brand waited, Mayaserana and Korodullin were content that

they should be wed. And this was the final act of the council that met

after the battle of Vo Mimbre.

Brand spoke to all the kings and nobles one final time before departing for

the north.

"Much has been wrought here that is good and shall endure. Behold, we have

met together against the Angaraks and they have been overthrown. Evil Torak

is quelled. And the covenant we have made here among us prepares the West

for the day of the Prophecy when the Rivan King shall return and Torak

shall wake from his long sleep to contend again for empire and dominion.

All that may be done in this day to prepare for the great and final war has

been done. We can do no more. And here, perchance, the wounds of Arendia

have been healed, and the strife of more than two thousand years may see

its end. So far as may be, I am content with it all.

"Hail, then, and farewell!"

He turned from them and rode north with the grizzled man who was Belgarath

and the queenly woman who was Polgara by his side. They took ship at Camaar

in Sendaria and set sail for Riva. And Brand returned no more to the

kingdoms of the West.

But of his companions are many tales told. And of that telling, what may be

true and what false few men may know.

Part One

ARENDIA

[Image]

Chapter One

VO WACUNE WAS NO MORE. Twenty-four centuries had passed since the city of

the Wacite Arends had been laid waste, and the dark, endless forests of

northern Arendia had reclaimed the ruins. Broken walls had toppled and been

swallowed up in the moss and wet brown bracken of the forest floor, and

only the shattered stumps of the once proud towers moldered among the trees

and fog to mark the place where Vo Wacune had stood. Sodden snow blanketed

the mist-shrouded ruins, and trickles of water ran down the faces of

ancient stones like tears.

Garion wandered alone down the tree-choked avenues of the dead city, his

stout gray wool cloak drawn tight against the chill, and his thoughts as

mournful as the weeping stones around him. Faldor's farm with its green,

sun-drenched fields was so far behind him that it seemed lost in a kind of

receding haze, and he was desperately homesick. No matter how hard he tried

to hold onto them, details kept escaping him. The rich smells of Aunt Pol's

kitchen were only a faint memory; the ring of Durnik's hammer in the smithy

faded like the dying echo of the last note of a bell, and the sharp, clear

faces of his playmates wavered in his remembrance of them until he could no

longer be sure that he would even recognize them. His childhood was

slipping away, and try though he might he could not hold on to it.

Everything was changing; that was the whole problem. The core of his life,

the rock upon which his childhood had been built, had always been Aunt Pol.

In the simple world of Faldor's farm she had been Mistress Pol, the cook,

but in the world beyond Faldor's gate she was Polgara the Sorceress, who

had watched the passage of four millennia with a purpose beyond mortal

comprehension.

And Mister Wolf, the old vagabond storyteller, had also changed. Garion

knew now that this old friend was in fact his great-great grandfather -

with an infinite number of additional "greats" added on for good measure -

but that behind that roguish old face there had always been the steady gaze

of Belgarath the Sorcerer, who had watched and waited as he had looked upon

the folly of men and Gods for seven thousand years. Garion sighed and

trudged on through the fog.

Their very names were unsettling. Garion had never wanted to believe in

sorcery or magic or witchcraft. Such things were unnatural, and they

violated his notion of solid, sensible reality. But too many things had

happened to allow him to hold on to his comfortable skepticism any longer.

In a single, shattering instant the last vestiges of his doubt had been

swept away. As he had watched with stunned disbelief, Aunt Pol had erased

the milky stains from the eyes of Martje the witch with a gesture and a

single word, restoring the madwoman's sight and removing her power to see

into the future with a brutal evenhandedness. Garion shuddered at the

memory of Martje's despairing wail. That cry somehow marked the point at

which the world had become less solid, less sensible, and infinitely less

safe.

Uprooted from the only place he had ever known, unsure of the identities of

the two people closest to him, and with his whole conception of the

difference between the possible and the impossible destroyed, Garion found

himself committed to a strange pilgrimage. He had no idea what they were

doing in this shattered city swallowed up in trees, and not the faintest

idea where they would go when they left. The only certainty that remained

to him was the single grim thought to which he now clung; somewhere in the

world there was a man who had crept through the predawn darkness to a small

house in a forgotten village and had murdered Garion's parents; if it took

him the rest of his life, Garion was going to find that man, and when he

found him, he was going to kill him. There was something strangely

comforting in that one solid fact.

He carefully climbed over the rubble of a house that had fallen outward

into the street and continued his gloomy exploration of the ruined city.

There was really nothing to see. The patient centuries had erased nearly

all of what the war had left behind, and slushy snow and thick fog hid even

those last remaining traces. Garion sighed again and began to retrace his

steps toward the moldering stump of the tower where they had all spent the

previous night.

As he approached, he saw Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol standing together some

distance from the ruined tower, talking quietly. The old man's rust-colored

hood was turned up, and Aunt Pol's blue cloak was drawn about her. There

was a look of timeless regret on her face as she looked out at the foggy

ruins. Her long, dark hair spilled down her back, and the single white lock

at her brow seemed paler than the snow at her feet.

"There he is now," Mister Wolf said to her as Garion approached them.

She nodded and looked gravely at Garion. "Where have you been?" she asked.

"No place," Garion replied. "I was thinking, that's all."

"I see you've managed to soak your feet."

Garion lifted one of his sodden brown boots and looked down at the muddy

slush clinging to it. "The snow's wetter than I thought," he apologized.

"Does wearing that thing really make you feel better?" Mister Wolf asked,

pointing at the sword Garion always wore now.

"Everybody keeps saying how dangerous Arendia is," Garion explained.

"Besides, I need to get used to it." He shifted the creaking new leather

sword belt around until the wirebound hilt was not so obvious. The sword

had been an Erastide present from Barak, one of several gifts he had

received when the holiday had passed while they were at sea.

"It doesn't really suit you, you know," the old man told him somewhat

disapprovingly.

"Leave him alone, father," Aunt Pol said almost absently. "It's his, after

all, and he can wear it if he likes."

"Shouldn't Hettar be here by now?" Garion asked, wanting to change the

subject.

"He may have run into deep snow in the mountains of Sendaria," Wolf

replied. "He'll be here. Hettar's very dependable."

"I don't see why we just didn't buy horses in Camaar."

"They wouldn't have been as good," Mister Wolf answered, scratching at his

short, white beard. "We've got a long way to go, and I don't want to have

to worry about a horse foundering under me somewhere along the way. It's a

lot better to take a little time now than to lose more time later."

Garion reached back and rubbed at his neck where the chain of the curiously

carved silver amulet Wolf and Aunt Pol had given him for Erastide had

chafed his skin.

"Don't worry at it, dear," Aunt Pol told him.

"I wish you'd let me wear it outside my clothes," he complained. "Nobody

can see it under my tunic."

"It has to be next to your skin."

"It's not very comfortable. It looks nice enough, I suppose, but sometimes

it seems cold, and other times it's hot, and once in a while it seems to be

awfully heavy. The chain keeps rubbing at my neck. I guess I'm not used to

ornaments."

"It's not entirely an ornament, dear," she told him. "You'll get used to it

in time."

Wolf laughed. "Maybe it will make you feel better to know that it took your

Aunt ten years to get used to hers. I was forever telling her to put it

back on."

"I don't know that we need to go into that just now, father," Aunt Pol

answered coolly.

"Do you have one, too?" Garion asked the old man, suddenly curious about

it.

"Of course."

"Does it mean something that we all wear them?"

"It's a family custom, Garion," Aunt Pol told him in a tone that ended the

discussion. The fog eddied around them as a chill, damp breeze briefly

swirled through the ruins.

Garion sighed. "I wish Hettar would get here. I'd like to get away from

this place. It's like a graveyard."

"It wasn't always this way," Aunt Pol said very quietly.

"What was it like?"

"I was happy here. The walls were high, and the towers soared. We all

thought it would last forever." She pointed toward a rank patch of

winter-browned brambles creeping over the broken stones. "Over there was a

flower-filled garden where ladies in pale yellow dresses used to sit while

young men sang to them from beyond the garden wall. The voices of the young

men were very sweet, and the ladies would sigh and throw bright red roses

over the wall to them. And down that avenue was a marble-paved square where

the old men met to talk of forgotten wars and long-gone companions. Beyond

that there was a house with a terrace where I used to sit with friends in

the evening to watch the stars come out while a boy brought us chilled

fruit and the nightingales sang as if their hearts were breaking." Her

voice drifted off into silence. "But then the Asturians came," she went on,

and there was a different note then. "You'd be surprised at how little time

it takes to tear down something that took a thousand years to build."

"Don't worry at it, Pol," Wolf told her. "These things happen from time to

time. There's not a great deal we can do about it."

"I could have done something, father," she replied, looking off into the

ruins. "But you wouldn't let me, remember?"

"Do we have to go over that again, Pol?" Wolf asked in a pained voice. "You

have to learn to accept your losses. The Wacite Arends were doomed anyway.

At best, you'd have only been able to stall off the inevitable for a few

months. We're not who we are and what we are in order to get mixed up in

things that don't have any meaning."

"So you said before." She looked around at the filmy trees marching away in

the fog down the empty streets. "I didn't think the trees would come back

so fast," she said with a strange little catch in her voice. "I thought

they might have waited a little longer."

"It's been almost twenty-five centuries, Pol."

"Really? It seems like only last year."

"Don't brood about it. It'll only make you melancholy. Why don't we go

inside? The fog's beginning to make us all a bit moody."

Unaccountably, Aunt Pol put her arm about Garion's shoulders as they turned

toward the tower. Her fragrance and the sense of her closeness brought a

lump to his throat. The distance that had grown between them in the past

few months seemed to vanish at her touch.

The chamber in the base of the tower had been built of such massive stones

that neither the passage of centuries nor the silent, probing tendrils of

tree roots had been able to dislodge them. Great, shallow arches supported

the low stone ceiling, making the room seem almost like a cave. At the end

of the room opposite the narrow doorway a wide crack between two of the

rough-hewn blocks provided a natural chimney. Durnik had soberly considered

the crack the previous evening when they had arrived, cold and wet, and

then had quickly constructed a crude but efficient fireplace out of rubble.

"It will serve," the smith had said "Not very elegant perhaps, but good

enough for a few days."

As Wolf, Garion and Aunt Pol entered the low, cavelike chamber, a good fire

crackled in the fireplace, casting looming shadows among the low arches and

radiating a welcome warmth. Durnik in his brown leather tunic was stacking

firewood along the wall. Barak, huge, redbearded, and mail-shined, was

polishing his sword. Silk, in an unbleached linen shirt and black leather

vest, lounged idly on one of the packs, toying with a pair of dice.

"Any sign of Hettar yet?" Barak asked, looking up.

"It's a day or so early," Mister Wolf replied, going to the fireplace to

warm himself.

"Why don't you change your boots, Garion?" Aunt Pol suggested, hanging her

blue cloak on one of the pegs Durnik had hammered into a crack in the wall.

Garion lifted his pack down from another peg and began rummaging through

it.

"Your stockings, too," she added.

"Is the fog lifting at all?" Silk asked Mister Wolf.

"Not a chance."

"If I can persuade you all to move out from in front of the fire, I'll see

about supper," Aunt Pol told them, suddenly very businesslike. She began

setting out a ham, a few loaves of dark, peasant bread, a sack of dried

peas and a dozen or so leathery-looking carrots, humming softly to herself

as she always did when she was cooking.

The next morning after breakfast, Garion pulled on a fleece-lined overvest,

belted on his sword, and went back out into the fog-muffled ruins to watch

for Hettar. It was a task to which he had appointed himself, and he was

grateful that none of his friends had seen fit to tell him that it wasn't

really necessary. As he trudged through the slushcovered streets toward the

broken west gate of the city, he made a conscious effort to avoid the

melancholy brooding that had blackened the previous day. Since there was

absolutely nothing he could do about his circumstances, chewing on them

would only leave a sour taste in his mouth. He was not exactly cheerful

when he reached the low piece of wall by the west gate, but he was not

precisely gloomy either.

The wall offered some protection, but the damp chill still crept through

his clothes, and his feet were already cold. He shivered and settled down

to wait. There was no point in trying to see any distance in the fog, so he

concentrated on listening. His ears began to sort out the sounds in the

forest beyond the wall, the drip of water from the trees, the occasional

sodden thump of snow sliding from the limbs, and the tapping of a

woodpecker working on a dead snag several hundred yards away.

"That's my cow," a voice said suddenly from somewhere off in the fog.

Garion froze and stood silently, listening.

"Keep her in your own pasture, then," another voice replied shortly. "Is

that you, Lammer?" the first voice asked.

"Right. You're Detton, aren't you?"

"I didn't recognize you. How longs it been?"

"Four or five years, I suppose," Lammer judged.

"How are things going in your village?" Detton asked.

"We're hungry. The taxes took all our food."

"Ours too. We've been eating boiled tree roots."

"We haven't tried that yet. We're eating our shoes."

"How's your wife?" Detton asked politely.

"She died last year," Lammer answered in a flat, unemotional voice. "My

lord took our son for a soldier, and he was killed in a battle somewhere.

They poured boiling pitch on him. After that my wife stopped eating. It

didn't take her long to die."

"I'm sorry," Detton sympathized. "She was very beautiful."

"They're both better off," Lammer declared. "They aren't cold or hungry

anymore. Which kind of tree roots have you been eating?"

"Birch is the best," Detton told him. "Spruce has too much pitch, and oak's

too tough. You boil some grass with the roots to give them a bit of

flavor."

"I'll have to try it."

"I've got to get back," Detton said. "My lord's got me clearing trees, and

he'll have me flogged if I stay away too long."

"Maybe I'll see you again sometime."

"If we both live."

"Good-bye, Detton."

"Good-bye, Lammer."

The two voices drifted away. Garion stood quite still for a long time after

they were gone, his mind numb with shock and with tears of sympathy

standing in his eyes. The worst part of it was the matter-of fact way in

which the two had accepted it all. A terrible anger began to burn in his

throat. He wanted suddenly to hit somebody.

Then there was another sound off in the fog. Somewhere in the forest nearby

someone was singing. The voice was a light, clear tenor, and Garion could

hear it quite plainly as it drew closer. The song was filled with ancient

wrongs, and the refrain was a call to battle. Irrationally, Garion's anger

focused on the unknown singer. His vapid bawling about abstract injustices

seemed somehow obscene in the face of the quiet despair of Lammer and

Detton. Without thinking, Garion drew his sword and crouched slightly

behind the shattered wall.

The song came yet nearer, and Garion could hear the step of a horse's

hooves in the wet snow. Carefully he poked his head out from behind the

wall as the singer appeared out of the fog no more than twenty paces away.

David Eddings - Belgariad 2 - Queen of Sorcery

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