Eddings, David - The Belgariad - 5 Books

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The Belgariad: Pawn of ProphecyDavid Eddings

THE BELGARIAD

Part One

PAWN OF PROPHECY

For Theone

who told me stories but could not stay for mine

and for Arthur,

who showed me the way to become a man and who shows me still.

PROLOGUE

Being a History of the War of the Gods and the Acts of Belgarath the Sorcerer

-adapted from The Book of Alorn

WHEN THE WORLD was new, the seven Gods dwelt in harmony, and the races of man

were as one people. Belar, youngest of the Gods, was beloved by the Alorns. He

abode with them and cherished them, and they prospered in his care. The other

Gods also gathered peoples about them, and each God cherished his own people.

But Belar's eldest brother, Aldur, was God over no people. He dwelt apart from

men and Gods, until the day that a vagrant child sought him out. Aldur accepted

the child as his disciple and called him Belgarath. Belgarath learned the secret

of the Will and the Word and became a sorcerer. In the years that followed,

others also sought out the solitary God. They joined in brotherhood to learn at

the feet of Aldur, and time did not touch them.

Now it happened that Aldur took up a stone in the shape of a globe, no larger

than the heart of a child, and he turned the stone in his hand until it became a

living soul. The power of the living jewel, which men called the Orb of Aldur,

was very great, and Aldur worked wonders with it.

Of all the Gods, Torak was the most beautiful, and his people were the Angaraks.

They burned sacrifices before him, calling him Lord of Lords, and Torak found

the smell of sacrifice and the words of adoration sweet. The day came, however,

when he heard of the Orb of Aldur, and from that moment he knew no peace.

Finally, in a dissembling guise, he went to Aldur. "My brother," he said, "it is

not fitting that thou shouldst absent thyself from our company and counsel. Put

aside this jewel which hath seduced thy mind from our fellowship."

Aldur looked into his brother's soul and rebuked him. "Why lost thou seek

lordship and dominion, Torak? Is not Angarak enough for thee? Do not in thy

pride seek to possess the Orb, lest it slay thee."

Great was Torak's shame at the words of Aldur, and he raised his hand and smote

his brother. Taking the jewel, he fled.

The other Gods besought Torak to return the Orb, but he would not. Then the

races of man rose up and came against the hosts of Angarak and made war on them.

The wars of the Gods and of men raged across the land until, near the high

places of Korim, Torak raised the Orb and forced its will to join with his to

split the earth asunder. The mountains were cast down, and the sea came in. But

Belar and Aldur joined their wills and set limits upon the sea. The races of

man, however, were separated one from the others, and the Gods also.

Now when Torak raised the living Orb against the earth, its mother, it awoke and

began to glow with holy flame. The face of Torak was seared by the blue fire. In

pain he cast down the mountains; in anguish he cracked open the earth; in agony

he let in the sea. His left hand flared and burned to ashes, the flesh on the

left side of his face melted like wax, and his left eye boiled in its socket.

With a great cry, he cast himself into the sea to quench the burning, but his

anguish was without end.

When Torak rose from the water, his right side was still fair, but his left was

burned and scarred hideously by the fire of the Orb. In endless pain, he led his

people away to the east, where they built a great city on the plains of

Mallorea, which they called Cthol Mishrak, City of Night, for Torak hid his

maiming in darkness. The Angaraks raised an iron tower for their God and placed

the Orb in an iron cask in the topmost chamber. Often Torak stood before the

cask, then fled weeping, lest his yearning to look on the Orb overpower him and

he perish utterly.

The centuries rolled past in the lands of the Angarak, and they came to call

their maimed God Kal-Torak, both King and God.

Belar had taken the Alorns to the north. Of all men, they were the most hardy

and warlike, and Belar put eternal hatred for Angarak in their hearts. With

cruel swords and axes they ranged the north, even to the fields of eternal ice,

seeking a way to their ancient enemies.

Thus it was until the time when Cherek Bear-shoulders, greatest king of the

Alorns, traveled to the Vale of Aldur to seek out Belgarath the Sorcerer. "The

way to the north is open," he said. "The signs and the auguries are propitious.

Now is the time ripe for us to discover the way to the City of Night and regain

the Orb from One-eye."

Poledra, wife of Belgarath, was great with child, and he was reluctant to leave

her. But Cherek prevailed. They stole away one night to join Cherek's sons, Dras

Bull-neck, Algar Fleet-foot, and Riva Iron-grip.

Cruel winter gripped the northland, and the moors glittered beneath the stars

with frost and steel-gray ice. To seek out their way, Belgarath cast an

enchantment and took the shape of a great wolf. On silent feet, he slunk through

the snow-floored forests where the trees cracked and shattered in the sundering

cold. Grim frost silvered the ruff and shoulders of the wolf, and ever after the

hair and beard of Belgarath were silver.

Through snow and mist they crossed into Mallorea and came at last to Cthol

Mishrak. Finding a secret way into the city, Belgarath led them to the foot of

the iron tower. Silently they climbed the rusted stairs which had known no step

for twenty centuries. Fearfully they passed through the chamber where Torak

tossed in pain-haunted slumber, his maimed face hidden by a steel mask.

Stealthily they crept past the sleeping God in the smoldering darkness and came

at last to the chamber where lay the iron cask in which rested the living Orb.

Cherek motioned for Belgarath to take the Orb, but Belgarath refused. "I may not

touch it," he said, "lest it destroy me. Once it welcomed the touch of man or

God, but its will hardened when Torak raised it against its mother. It will not

be so used again. It reads our souls. Only one without ill intent, who is pure

enough to take it and convey it in peril of his life, with no thought of power

or possession, may touch it now."

"What man has no ill intent in the silence of his soul?" Cherek asked. But Riva

Iron-grip opened the cask and took up the Orb. Its fire shone through his

fingers, but he was not burned.

"So be it, Cherek," Belgarath said. "Your youngest son is pure. It shall be his

doom and the doom of all who follow him to bear the Orb and protect it." And

Belgarath sighed, knowing the burden he had placed upon Riva.

"Then his brothers and I will sustain him," Cherek said, "for so long as this

doom is upon him."

Riva muffled the Orb in his cloak and hid it beneath his tunic. They crept again

through the chambers of the maimed God, down the rusted stairs, along the secret

way to the gates of the city, and into the wasteland beyond.

Soon after, Torak awoke and went as always into the Chamber of the Orb. But the

cask stood open, and the Orb was gone. Horrible was the wrath of Kal-Torak.

Taking his great sword, he went down from the iron tower and turned and smote it

once, and the tower fell. To the Angaraks he cried out in a voice of thunder.

"Because you are become indolent and unwatchful and have let a thief steal that

for which I paid so dear, I will break your city and drive you forth. Angarak

shall wander the earth until Cthrag Yaska, the burning stone, is returned to

me." Then he cast down the City of Night in ruins and drove the hosts of Angarak

into the wilderness. Cthol Mishrak was no more.

Three leagues to the north, Belgarath heard the wailing from the city and knew

that Torak had awakened. "Now will he come after us," he said, "and only the

power of the Orb can save us. When the hosts are upon us, Iron-grip, take the

Orb and hold it so they may see it."

The hosts of Angarak came, with Torak himself in the forefront, but Riva held

forth the Orb so that the maimed God and his hosts might behold it. The Orb knew

its enemy. Its hatred flamed anew, and the sky became alight with its fury.

Torak cried out and turned away. The front ranks of the Angarak hosts were

consumed by fire, and the rest fled in terror.

Thus Belgarath and his companions escaped from Mallorea and passed again through

the marches of the north, bearing the Orb of Aldur once more into the Kingdoms

of the West.

Now the Gods, knowing all that had passed, held council, and Aldur advised them,

"If we raise war again upon our brother Torak, our strife will destroy the

world. Thus we must absent ourselves from the world so that our brother may not

find us. No longer in flesh, but in spirit only may we remain to guide and

protect our people. For the world's sake it must be so. In the day that we war

again, the world will be unmade."

The Gods wept that they must depart. But Chaldan, Bull-God of the Arends, asked,

"In our absence, shall not Torak have dominion?"

"Not so," Aldur replied. "So long as the Orb remains with the line of Riva

Iron-grip, Torak shall not prevail."

So it was that the Gods departed, and only Torak remained. But the knowledge

that the Orb in the hand of Riva denied him dominion cankered his soul.

Then Belgarath spoke with Cherek and his sons. "Here we must part, to guard the

Orb and to prepare against the coming of Torak. Let each turn aside as I have

instructed and make preparations."

"We will, Belgarath," vowed Cherek Bear-shoulders. "From this day, Aloria is no

more, but the Alorns will deny dominion to Torak as long as one Alorn remains."

Belgarath raised his face. "Hear me, Torak One-eye," he cried. "The living Orb

is secure against thee, and thou shalt not prevail against it. In the day that

thou comest against us, I shall raise war against thee. I will maintain watch

upon thee by day and by night and will abide against thy coming, even to the end

of days."

In the wastelands of Mallorea, Kal-Torak heard the voice of Belgarath and smote

about him in fury, for he knew that the living Orb was forever beyond his reach.

Then Cherek embraced his sons and turned away, to see them no more. Dras went

north and dwelt in the lands drained by River Mrin. He built a city at Boktor

and called his lands Drasnia. And he and his descendants stood athwart the

northern marches and denied them to the enemy. Algar went south with his people

and found horses on the broad plains drained by Aldur River. The horses they

tamed and learned to ride for the first time in the history of man, mounted

warriors appeared. Their country they called Algaria, and they became nomads,

following their herds. Cherek returned sadly to Val Alorn and renamed his

kingdom Cherek, for now he was alone and without sons. Grimly he built tall

ships of war to patrol the seas and deny them to the enemy.

Upon the bearer of the Orb, however, fell the burden of the longest journey.

Taking his people, Riva went to the west coast of Sendaria. There he built

ships, and he and his people crossed to the Isle of the Winds. They burned their

ships and built a fortress and a walled city around it. The city they called

Riva and the fortress the Hall of the Rivan King. Then Belar, God of the Alorns,

caused two iron stars to fall from the sky. Riva took up the stars and forged a

blade from one and a hilt from the other, setting the Orb upon it as a

pommel-stone. So large was the sword that none but Riva could wield it. In the

wasteland of Mallorea, Kal-Torak felt in his soul the forging of the sword and

he tasted fear for the first time.

The sword was set against the black rock that stood at the back of Riva's

throne, with the Orb at the highest point, and the sword joined to the rock so

that none but Riva could remove it. The Orb burned with cold fire when Riva sat

upon the throne. And when he took down his sword and raised it, it became a

great tongue of cold fire.

The greatest wonder of all was the marking of Riva's heir. In each generation,

one child in the line of Riva bore upon the palm of his right hand the mark of

the Orb. The child so marked was taken to the throne chamber, and his hand was

placed upon the Orb, so that it might know him. With each infant touch, the Orb

waxed in brilliance, and the bond between the living Orb and the line of Riva

became stronger with each joining.

After Belgarath had parted from his companions, he hastened to the Vale of

Aldur. But there he found that Poledra, his wife, had borne twin daughters and

then had died. In sorrow he named the elder Polgara. Her hair was dark as the

raven's wing. In the fashion of sorcerers, he stretched forth his hand to lay it

upon her brow, and a single lock at her forehead turned frost-white at his

touch. Then he was troubled, for the white lock was the mark of the sorcerers,

and Polgara was the first female child to be so marked.

His second daughter, fair-skinned and golden-haired, was unmarked. He called her

Beldaran, and he and her dark-haired sister loved her beyond all else and

contended with each other for her affection.

Now when Polgara and Beldaran had reached their sixteenth year, the Spirit of

Aldur came to Belgarath in a dream, saying, "My beloved disciple, I would join

thy house with the house of the guardian of the Orb. Choose, therefore, which of

thy daughters thou wilt give to the Rivan King to be his wife and the mother of

his line, for in that line lies the hope of the world, against which the dark

power of Torak may not prevail."

In the deep silence of his soul, Belgarath was tempted to choose Polgara. But,

knowing the burden which lay upon the Rivan King, he sent Beldaran instead, and

wept when she was gone. Polgara wept also, long and bitterly, knowing that her

sister must fade and die. In time, however, they comforted each other and came

at last to know each other.

They joined their powers to keep watch over Torak. And some men say that they

abide still, keeping their vigil through all the uncounted centuries.

Part One

SENDARIA

Chapter One

THE FIRST THING the boy Garion remebered was the kitchen at Faldor's farm. For

all the rest of his life he had a special warm feeling for kitchens and those

peculiar sounds and smells that seemed somehow to combine into a bustling

seriousness that had to do with love and food and comfort and security and,

above all, home. No matter how high Garion rose in life, he never forgot that

all his memories began in that kitchen.

The kitchen at Faldor's farm was a large, low-beamed room filled with ovens and

kettles and great spits that turned slowly in cavernlike arched fireplaces.

There were long, heavy worktables where bread was kneaded into loaves and

chickens were cut up and carrots and celery were diced with quick, crisp rocking

movements of long, curved knives. When Garion was very small, he played under

those tables and soon learned to keep his fingers and toes out from under the

feet of the kitchen helpers who worked around them. And sometimes in the late

afternoon when he grew tired, he would lie in a corner and stare into one of the

flickering fires that gleamed and reflected back from the hundred polished pots

and knives and long-handled spoons that hung from pegs along the whitewashed

walls and, all bemused, he would drift off into sleep in perfect peace and

harmony with all the world around him.

The center of the kitchen and everything that happened there was Aunt Pol. She

seemed somehow to be able to be everywhere at once. The finishing touch that

plumped a goose in its roasting pan or deftly shaped a rising loaf or garnished

a smoking ham fresh from the oven was always hers. Though there were several

others who worked in the kitchen, no loaf, stew, soup, roast, or vegetable ever

went out of it that had not been touched at least once by Aunt Pol. She knew by

smell, taste, or some higher instinct what each dish required, and she seasoned

them all by pinch or trace or a negligent-seeming shake from earthenware spice

pots. It was as if there was a kind of magic about her, a knowledge and power

beyond that of ordinary people. And yet, even at her busiest, she always knew

precisely where Garion was. In the very midst of crimping a pie crust or

decorating a special cake or stitching up a freshly stuffed chicken she could,

without looking, reach out a leg and hook him back out from under the feet of

others with heel or ankle.

As he grew a bit older, it even became a game. Garion would watch until she

seemed far too busy to notice him, and then, laughing, he would run on his

sturdy little legs toward a door. But she would always catch him. And he would

laugh and throw his arms around her neck and kiss her and then go back to

watching for his next chance to run away again.

He was quite convinced in those early years that his Aunt Pol was quite the most

important and beautiful woman in the world. For one thing, she was taller than

the other women on Faldor's farm-very nearly as tall as a man-and her face was

always serious-even sternexcept with him, of course. Her hair was long and very

dark-almost black-all but one lock just above her left brow which was white as

new snow. At night when she tucked him into the little bed close beside her own

in their private room above the kitchen, he would reach out and touch that white

lock; she would smile at him and touch his face with a soft hand. Then he would

sleep, content in the knowledge that she was there, watching over him.

Faldor's farm lay very nearly in the center of Sendaria, a misty kingdom

bordered on the west by the Sea of the Winds and on the east by the Gulf of

Cherek. Like all farmhouses in that particular time and place, Faldor's

farmstead was not one building or two, but rather was a solidly constructed

complex of sheds and barns and hen roosts and dovecotes all facing inward upon a

central yard with a stout gate at the front. Along the second story gallery were

the rooms, some spacious, some quite tiny, in which lived the farmhands who

tilled and planted and weeded the extensive fields beyond the walls. Faldor

himself lived in quarters in the square tower above the central dining hall

where his workers assembled three times a day-sometimes four during harvest

time-to feast on the bounty of Aunt Pol's kitchen.

All in all, it was quite a happy and harmonious place. Farmer Faldor was a good

master. He was a tall, serious man with a long nose and an even longer jaw.

Though he seldom laughed or even smiled, he was kindly to those who worked for

him and seemed more intent on maintaining them all in health and well-being than

extracting the last possible ounce of sweat from them. In many ways he was more

like a father than a master to the sixty-odd people who lived on his

freeholding. He ate with them-which was unusual, since many farmers in the

district sought to hold themselves aloof from their workers-and his presence at

the head of the central table in the dining hall exerted a restraining influence

on some of the younger ones who tended sometimes to be boisterous. Farmer Faldor

was a devout man, and he invariably invoked with simple eloquence the blessing

of the Gods before each meal. The people of his farm, knowing this, filed with

some decorum into the dining hall before each meal and sat in the semblance at

least of piety before attacking the heaping platters and bowls of food that Aunt

Pol and her helpers had placed before them.

Because of Faldor's good heart-and the magic of Aunt Pol's deft fingers-the farm

was known throughout the district as the finest place to live and work for

twenty leagues in any direction. Whole evenings were spent in the tavern in the

nearby village of Upper Gralt in minute descriptions of the near-miraculous

meals served regularly in Faldor's dining hall. Less fortunate men who worked at

other farms were frequently seen, after several pots of ale, to weep openly at

descriptions of one of Aunt Pol's roasted geese, and the fame of Faldor's farm

spread wide throughout the district.

The most important man on the farm, aside from Faldor, was Durnik the smith. As

Garion grew older and was allowed to move out from under Aunt Pol's watchful

eye, he found his way inevitably to the smithy. The glowing iron that came from

Durnik's forge had an almost hypnotic attraction for him. Durnik was an

ordinary-looking man with plain brown hair and a plain face, ruddy from the heat

of his forge. He was neither tall nor short, nor was he thin or stout. He was

sober and quiet, and like most men who follow his trade, he was enormously

strong. He wore a rough leather jerkin and an apron of the same material. Both

were spotted with burns from the sparks which flew from his forge. He also wore

tight-fitting hose and soft leather boots as was the custom in that part of

Sendaria. At first Durnik's only words to Garion were warnings to keep his

fingers away from the forge and the glowing metal which came from it. In time,

however, he and the boy became friends, and he spoke more frequently.

"Always finish what you set your hand to," he would advise. "It's bad for the

iron if you set it aside and then take it back to the fire more than is

needful."

"Why is that?" Garion would ask.

Durnik would shrug. "It just is."

"Always do the very best job you can," he said on another occasion as he put a

last few finishing touches with a file on the metal parts of a wagon tongue he

was repairing.

"But that piece goes underneath," Garion said. "No one will ever see it."

"But I know it's there," Durnik said, still smoothing the metal. "If it isn't

done as well as I can do it, I'll be ashamed every time I see this wagon go

by-and I'll see the wagon every day."

And so it went. Without even intending to, Durnik instructed the small boy in

those solid Sendarian virtues of work, thrift, sobriety, good manners, and

practicality which formed the backbone of the society.

At first Aunt Pol worried about Garion's attraction to the smithy with its

obvious dangers; but after watching from her kitchen door for a while, she

realized that Durnik was almost as watchful of Garion's safety as she was

herself and she became less concerned.

"If the boy becomes pestersome, Goodman Durnik, send him away," she told the

smith on one occasion when she had brought a large copper kettle to the smithy

to be patched, "or tell me, and I'll keep him closer to the kitchen."

"He's no bother, Mistress Pol," Durnik said, smiling. "He's a sensible boy and

knows enough to keep out of the way."

"You're too good-natured, friend Durnik," Aunt Pol said. "The boy is full of

questions. Answer one and a dozen more pour out."

"That's the way of boys," Durnik said, carefully pouring bubbling metal into the

small clay ring he'd placed around the tiny hole in the bottom of the kettle. "I

was questionsome myself when I was a boy. My father and old Barl, the smith who

taught me, were patient enough to answer what they could. I'd repay them poorly

if I didn't have the same patience with Garion."

Garion, who was sitting nearby, had held his breath during this conversation. He

knew that one wrong word on either side would have instantly banished him from

the smithy. As Aunt Pol walked back across the hard-packed dirt of the yard

toward her kitchen with the new-mended kettle, he noticed the way that Durnik

watched her, and an idea began to form in his mind. It was a simple idea, and

the beauty of it was that it provided something for everyone.

"Aunt Pol," he said that night, wincing as she washed one of his ears with a

rough cloth.

"Yes?" she said, turning her attention to his neck.

"Why don't you marry Durnik?"

She stopped washing. "What?" she asked.

"I think it would be an awfully good idea."

"Oh, do you?" Her voice had a slight edge to it, and Garion knew he was on

dangerous ground.

"He likes you," he said defensively.

"And I suppose you've already discussed this with him?"

"No," he said. "I thought I'd talk to you about it first."

"At least that was a good idea."

"I can tell him about it tomorrow morning, if you'd like."

His head was turned around quite firmly by one ear. Aunt Pol, Garion felt, found

his ears far too convenient.

"Don't you so much as breathe one word of this nonsense to Durnik or anyone

else," she said, her dark eyes burning into his with a fire he had never seen

there before.

"It was only a thought," he said quickly.

"A very bad one. From now on leave thinking to grown-ups." She was still holding

his ear.

"Anything you say," he agreed hastily.

Later that night, however, when they lay in their beds in the quiet darkness, he

approached the problem obliquely.

"Aunt Pol?"

"Yes?"

"Since you don't want to marry Durnik, whom do you want to marry?"

"Garion," she said.

"Yes?"

"Close your mouth and go to sleep."

"I think I've got a right to know," he said in an injured tone.

"Garion!"

"All right. I'm going to sleep, but I don't think you're being very fair about

all this."

She drew in a deep breath. "Very well," she said. "I'm not thinking of getting

married. I have never thought of getting married and I seriously doubt that I'll

ever think of getting married. I have far too many important things to attend to

for any of that."

"Don't worry, Aunt Pol," he said, wanting to put her mind at ease. "When I grow

up, I'll marry you."

She laughed then, a deep, rich laugh, and reached out to touch his face in the

darkness. "Oh no, my Garion," she said. "There's another wife in store for you."

"Who?" he demanded.

"You'll find out," she said mysteriously. "Now go to sleep."

"Aunt Pol?"

"Yes?"

"Where's my mother?" It was a question he had been meaning to ask for quite some

time.

There was a long pause, then Aunt Pol sighed.

"She died," she said quietly.

Garion felt a sudden wrenching surge of grief, an unbearable anguish. He began

to cry.

And then she was beside his bed. She knelt on the floor and put her arms around

him. Finally, a long time later, after she had carried him to her own bed and

held him close until his grief had run its course, Garion asked brokenly, "What

was she like? My mother?"

"She was fair-haired," Aunt Pol said, "and very strong and very beautiful. Her

voice was gentle, and she was very happy."

"Did she love me?"

"More than you could imagine."

And then he cried again, but his crying was quieter now, more regretful than

anguished.

Aunt Pol held him closely until he cried himself to sleep.

There were other children on Faldor's farm, as was only natural in a community

of sixty or so. The older ones on the farm all worked, but there were three

other children of about Garion's age on the freeholding. These three became his

playmates and his friends.

The oldest boy was named Rundorig. He was a year or two older than Garion and

quite a bit taller. Ordinarily, since he was the eldest of the children,

Rundorig would have been their leader; but because he was an Arend, his sense

was a bit limited and he cheerfully deferred to the younger ones. The kingdom of

Sendaria, unlike other kingdoms, was inhabited by a broad variety of racial

stocks. Chereks, Algars, Drasnians, Arends, and even a substantial number of

Tolnedrans had merged to form the elemental Sendar. Arends, of course, were very

brave, but were also notoriously thick-wined.

Garion's second playmate was Doroon, a small, quick boy whose background was so

mixed that he could only be called a Sendar. The most notable thing about Doroon

was the fact that he was always running; he never walked if he could run. Like

his feet, his mind seemed to tumble over itself, and his tongue as well. He

talked continually and very fast and he was always excited.

The undisputed leader of the little foursome was the girl Zubrette, a

golden-haired charmer who invented their games, made up stories to tell them,

and set them to stealing apples and plums from Faldor's orchard for her. She

ruled them as a little queen, playing one against the other and inciting them

into fights. She was quite heartless, and each of the three boys at times hated

her even while remaining helpless thralls to her tiniest whim.

In the winter they slid on wide boards down the snowy hillside behind the

farmhouse and returned home, wet and snow-covered, with chapped hands and

glowing cheeks as evening's purple shadows crept across the snow. Or, after

Durnik the smith had proclaimed the ice safe, they would slide endlessly across

the frozen pond that lay glittering frostily in a little dale just to the east

of the farm buildings along the road to Upper Gralt. And, if the weather was too

cold or on toward spring when rains and warm winds had made the snow slushy and

the pond unsafe, they would gather in the hay barn and leap by the hour from the

loft into the soft hay beneath, filling their hair with chaff and their noses

with dust that smelled of summer.

In the spring they caught polliwogs along the marshy edges of the pond and

climbed trees to stare in wonder at the tiny blue eggs the birds had laid in

twiggy nests in the high branches.

It was Doroon, naturally, who fell from a tree and broke his arm one fine spring

morning when Zubrette urged him into the highest branches of a tree near the

edge of the pond. Since Rundorig stood helplessly gaping at his injured friend

and Zubrette had run away almost before he hit the ground, it fell to Garion to

make certain necessary decisions. Gravely he considered the situation for a few

moments, his young face seriously intent beneath his shock of sandy hair. The

arm was obviously broken, and Doroon, pale and frightened, bit his lip to keep

from crying.

A movement caught Garion's eye, and he glanced up quickly. A man in a dark cloak

sat astride a large black horse not far away, watching intently. When their eyes

met, Garion felt a momentary chill, and he knew that he had seen the man

before-that indeed that dark figure had hovered on the edge of his vision for as

long as he could remember, never speaking, but always watching. There was in

that silent scrutiny a kind of cold animosity curiously mingled with something

that was almost, but not quite, fear. Then Doroon whimpered, and Garion turned

back.

Carefully he bound the injured arm across the front of Doroon's body with his

rope belt, and then he and Rundorig helped the injured boy to his feet.

"At least he could have helped us," Garion said resentfully.

"Who?" Rundorig said, looking around.

Garion turned to point at the dark-cloaked man, but the rider was gone.

"I didn't see anyone," Rundorig said.

"It hurts," Doroon said.

"Don't worry," Garion said. "Aunt Pol will fix it."

And so she did. When the three appeared at the door of her kitchen, she took in

the situation with a single glance.

"Bring him over here," she told them, her voice not even excited. She set the

pale and violently trembling boy on a stool near one of the ovens and mixed a

tea of several herbs taken from earthenware jars on a high shelf in the back of

one of her pantries.

"Drink this," she instructed Doroon, handing him a steaming mug.

"Will it make my arm well?" Doroon asked, suspiciously eyeing the evil-smelling

brew.

"Just drink it," she ordered, laying out some splints and linen strips.

"Ick! It tastes awful," Doroon said, making a face.

"It's supposed to," she told him. "Drink it all."

"I don't think I want any more," he said.

"Very well," she said. She pushed back the splints and took down a long, very

sharp knife from a hook on the wall.

"What are you going to do with that?" he demanded shakily.

"Since you don't want to take the medicine," she said blandly, "I guess it'll

have to come off."

"Off?" Doroon squeaked, his eyes bulging.

"Probably about right there," she said, thoughtfully touching his arm at the

elbow with the point of the knife.

Tears coming to his eyes, Doroon gulped down the rest of the liquid and a few

minutes later he was nodding, almost drowsing on his stool. He screamed once,

though, when Aunt Pol set the broken bone, but after the arm had been wrapped

and splinted, he drowsed again. Aunt Pol spoke briefly with the boy's frightened

mother and then had Durnik carry him up to bed.

"You wouldn't really have cut off his arm," Garion said.

Aunt Pol looked at him, her expression unchanging. "Oh?" she said, and he was no

longer sure. "I think I'd like to have a word with Mistress Zubrette now," she

said then.

"She ran away when Doroon fell out of the tree," Garion said.

"Find her."

"She's hiding," Garion protested. "She always hides when something goes wrong. I

wouldn't know where to look for her."

"Garion," Aunt Pol said, "I didn't ask you if you knew where to look. I told you

to find her and bring her to me."

"What if she won't come?" Garion hedged.

"Garion!" There was a note of awful finality in Aunt Pol's tone, and Garion

fled.

"I didn't have anything to do with it," Zubrette lied as soon as Garion led her

to Aunt Pol in the kitchen.

"You," Aunt Pol said, pointing at a stool, "sit!"

Zubrette sank onto the stool, her mouth open and her eyes wide.

"You," Aunt Pol said to Garion, pointing at the kitchen door, "outl"

Garion left hurriedly.

Ten minutes later a sobbing little girl stumbled out of the kitchen. Aunt Pol

stood in the doorway looking after her with eyes as hard as ice.

"Did you thrash her?" Garion asked hopefully.

Aunt Pol withered him with a glance. "Of course not," she said. "You don't

thrash girls."

"I would have," Garion said, disappointed. "What did you do to her?"

"Don't you have anything to do?" Aunt Pol asked.

"No," Garion said, "not really."

That, of course, was a mistake.

"Good," Aunt Pol said, finding one of his ears. "It's time you started to earn

your way. You'll find some dirty pots in the scullery. I'd like to have them

scrubbed."

"I don't know why you're angry with me," Garion objected, squirming. "It wasn't

my fault that Doroon went up that tree."

"The scullery, Garion," she said. "Now."

The rest of that spring and the early part of the summer were quiet. Doroon, of

course, could not play until his arm mended, and Zubrette had been so shaken by

whatever it was that Aunt Pol had said to her that she avoided the two other

boys. Garion was left with only Rundorig to play with, and Rundorig was not

bright enough to be much fun. Because there was really nothing else to do, the

boys often went into the fields to watch the hands work and listen to their

talk.

As it happened, during that particular summer the men on Faldor's farm were

talking about the Battle of Vo Mimbre, the most cataclysmic event in the history

of the west. Garion and Rundorig listened, enthralled, as the men unfolded the

story of how the hordes of Kal Torak had quite suddenly struck into the west

some five hundred years before.

It had all begun in 4865, as men reckoned time in that part of the world, when

vast multitudes of Murgos and Nadraks and Thulls had struck down across the

mountains of the eastern escarpment into Drasnia, and behind them in endless

waves had come the uncountable numbers of the Malloreans.

After Drasnia had been brutally crushed, the Angaraks had turned southward onto

the vast grasslands of Algaria and had laid siege to that enormous fortress

called the Algarian Stronghold. The siege had lasted for eight years until

finally, in disgust, Kal Torak had abandoned it. It was not until he turned his

army westward into Ulgoland that the other kingdoms became aware that the

Angarak invasion was directed not only against the Alorns but against all of the

west. In the summer of 4875 Kal Torak had come down upon the Arendish plain

before the city of Vo Mimbre, and it was there that the combined armies of the

west awaited him.

The Sendars who participated in the battle were a part of the force under the

leadership of Brand, the Rivan Warder. That force, consisting of Rivans, Sendars

and Asturian Arends, assaulted the Angarak rear after the left had been engaged

by Algars, Drasnians and Ulgos; the right by Tolnedrans and Chereks; and the

front by the legendary charge of the Mimbrate Arends. For hours the battle had

raged until, in the center of the field, Brand had met in a single combat with

Kal Torak himself. Upon that duel had hinged the outcome of the battle.

Although twenty generations had passed since that titanic encounter, it was

still as fresh in the memory of the Sendarian farmers who worked on Faldor's

farm as if it had happened only yesterday. Each blow was described, and each

feint and parry. At the final moment, when it seemed that he must inevitably be

overthrown, Brand had removed the covering from his shield, and Kal Torak, taken

aback by some momentary confusion, had lowered his guard and had been instantly

struck down.

For Rundorig, the description of the battle was enough to set his Arendish blood

seething. Garion, however, found that certain questions had been left unanswered

by the stories.

"Why was Brand's shield covered?" he asked Cralto, one of the older hands.

Cralto shrugged. "It just was," he said. "Everyone I've ever talked with about

it agrees on that."

"Was it a magic shield?" Garion persisted.

"It may have been," Cralto said, "but I've never heard anyone say so. All I know

is that when Brand uncovered his shield, Kal Torak dropped his own shield, and

Brand stabbed his sword into Kal Torak's head through the eye, or so I am told."

Garion shook his head stubbornly. "I don't understand," he said. "How would

something like that have made Kal Torak afraid?"

"I can't say," Cralto told him. "I've never heard anyone explain it."

Despite his dissatisfaction with the story, Garion quite quickly agreed to

Rundorig's rather simple plan to re-enact the duel. After a day or so of

posturing and banging at each other with sticks to simulate swords, Garion

decided that they needed some equipment to make the game more enjoyable. Two

kettles and two large pot lids mysteriously disappeared from Aunt Pol's kitchen;

and Garion and Rundorig, now with helmets and shields, repaired to a quiet place

to do war upon each other.

It was all going quite splendidly until Rundorig, who was older, taller and

stronger, struck Garion a resounding whack on the head with his wooden sword.

The rim of the kettle cut into Garion's eyebrow, and the blood began to flow.

There was a sudden ringing in Garion's ears, and a kind of boiling exaltation

surged up in his veins as he rose to his feet from the ground.

He never knew afterward quite what happened. He had only sketchy memories of

shouting defiance at Kal Torak in words which sprang to his lips and which even

he did not understand. Rundorig's familiar and somewhat foolish face was no

longer the face before him but rather was replaced by something hideously maimed

and ugly. In a fury Garion struck at that face again and again with fire

seething in his brain.

And then it was over. Poor Rundorig lay at his feet, beaten senseless by the

enraged attack. Garion was horrified at what he had done, but at the same time

there was the fiery taste of victory in his mouth.

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TheBelgariad:PawnofProphecyDavidEddingsTHEBELGARIADPartOnePAWNOFPROPHECYForTheonewhotoldmestoriesbutcouldnotstayformineandforArthur,whoshowedmethewaytobecomeamanandwhoshowsmestill.PROLOGUEBeingaHistoryoftheWaroftheGodsandtheActsofBelgaraththeSorcerer-adaptedfromTheBookofAlornWHENTHEWORLDwasnew,these...

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Eddings, David - The Belgariad - 5 Books

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