David Eddings - Enchanter's End Game

Fulrach nodded. “Did you really kill Taur Urgas in a duel?” he asked.

Cho-Hag nodded. “It wasn’t really all that much of a duel. He was raving when he came at me and didn’t even try to defend himself. When Anheg signals, we’ll have the Mimbrates charge the Murgo front. The Murgos will probably break and run. I’ll follow after them with my clansmen to hurry them along. That should give you and your foot troops time to start upriver. Andorig and I’ll keep the Murgos off your back until you get clear. How does that sound?”

King Fulrach nodded. “It sounds workable,” he agreed. “Do you think they’ll try to follow us?”

Cho-Hag grinned. “I’ll encourage them not to,” he replied. “Have you got any idea of what’s going on across the river?”

“It’s hard to say, but things don’t look very good.”

“Can you think of any way we can send them help?”

“Not on short notice,” Fulrach answered.

“Neither can I,” Cho-Hag said. He began to pull himself back up into his saddle. “I’ll go give Andorig his instructions. Keep your eyes open for Anheg’s signal.”

“Belgarath!” Ce’Nedra called out silently, her hand tightly clasped about the amulet at her throat. “Belgarath, can you hear me?” She was standing several yards away from where Durnik was trying to make the unconscious Polgara as comfortable as possible. The princess had her eyes tightly closed and she was putting every ounce of concentration into casting her thought to the sky, reaching out with all her heart toward the ancient sorcerer.

“Ce’Nedra?” The old man’s voice was as clear as if he were standing beside her. “What are you doing? Where’s Polgara?”

“Oh, Belgarath!” The princess almost sobbed with relief. “Help us. Lady Polgara’s unconscious, and the Malloreans are attacking again. We’re being slaughtered, Belgarath. Help us.”

“Slow down,” he commanded brusquely. “What happened to Pol? Where are you?”

“We’re at Thull Mardu,” Ce’Nedra replied. “We had to take the city so that the Cherek fleet could go on down the river. The Malloreans and the Murgos crept up on us. They’ve been attacking since early this morning.”

Belgarath started to swear. “What’s wrong with Pol?” he demanded harshly.

“The Grolims brought in an awful storm, and then there was fog. Lady Polgara and Beldin made the wind blow, and then she just collapsed. Beldin said that she exhausted herself and that we have to let her sleep.”

“Where’s Beldin?”

“He said that he had to keep an eye on the Grolims. Can you help us?”

“Ce’Nedra, I’m a thousand leagues away from you. Garion, Silk, and I are in Mallorea—practically on Torak’s doorstep. If I so much as raise my hand, it will wake him, and Garion’s not ready to meet him yet.”

“We’re doomed, then,” Ce’Nedra wailed.

“Stop that,” he snapped. “This isn’t the time for hysterics. You’re going to have to wake Polgara.”

“We’ve tried—and Beldin says that we’ve got to let her rest.”

“She can rest later,” Belgarath retorted. “Is that bag she always carries somewhere about—the one she keeps all those herbs in?”

“I—I think so. Durnik was carrying it a little while ago.”

“Durnik’s with you? Good. Now listen, and listen carefully. Get the bag and open it. What you want will be in a silk pouch. Don’t open any jars or bottles. She keeps her poisons in those. In one of the silk bags you’ll find a yellow-colored powder. It has a very acrid odor to it. Put a spoonful or so of that powder into a pot of boiling water. Put the pot beside Pol’s head and cover her face with a cloak so she has to breathe the fumes.”

“What will that do?”

“It will wake her up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t argue with me, Ce’Nedra. She’ll wake up, believe me. Those fumes would wake up a dead stick. As soon as she’s awake, she’ll know what to do.”

Ce’Nedra hesitated. “Is Garion there?” she blurted finally.

“He’s asleep. We had a rough time last night.”

“When he wakes up, tell him that I love him.” She said it very fast, as if afraid that if she thought about it at all, she wouldn’t be able to say it.

“Why confuse him?” the old man asked her.

“Belgarath!” Ce’Nedra’s voice was stricken.

“I was teasing. I’ll tell him. Now get to work—and don’t do this any more. I’m trying to sneak up on Torak, and it’s a little hard to sneak when you’re shouting at somebody a thousand leagues away.”

“We aren’t shouting.”

“Oh yes we are—it’s a special kind of shouting, but it’s shouting all the same. Now take your hand off that amulet and get to work.” And then his voice was gone.

Durnik, of course, would never understand, so Ce’Nedra did what was necessary by herself. She rummaged around until she found a small pot. She filled it with water and set it on the small fire the smith had built the night before. Then she opened Polgara’s herb bag. The blond child, Errand, stood at her side, watching her curiously.

“What are you doing, Princess?” Durnik asked, still hovering anxiously over the sleeping Polgara.

“I’m fixing something to make her rest easier,” Ce’Nedra lied.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Some of those are very dangerous.”

“I know which one I’m looking for,” she replied. “Trust me, Durnik.”

The powder she finally located was so acrid that it made her eyes water. She carefully measured out a bit of it and dumped it into the pot. The steaming fumes were awful, and the princess kept her face averted as she carried the pot to where Polgara lay. She set the pot beside the lady’s pale, sleeping face and then laid a cloak across her. “Give me a stick,” the princess said to the smith.

Durnik, his face dubious, handed her a broken-off arrow.

Ce’Nedra carefully propped up the cloak, making a small tent over the pot and Polgara’s face.

“What now?” Durnik asked.

“Now we wait,” Ce’Nedra told him.

Then, coming from the direction of the battle, a group of Sendarian soldiers, evidently wounded, appeared at the top of the grassy bank surrounding the secluded little beach. Their jerkins all had bloodstains on them, and several of the men wore bandages. Unlike most of the wounded who had already passed that morning, however, these men still carried their weapons.

Under the tented cloak, Polgara began to cough.

“What have you done?” Durnik cried, snatching the cloak away.

“It was necessary,” Ce’Nedra replied. “I talked with Belgarath. He told me that I had to wake her up—and how to do it.”

“You’ll hurt her,” Durnik accused. With sudden, uncharacteristic anger, he kicked the fuming pot, sending it rolling down the beach toward the water’s edge.

Polgara’s eyelids were fluttering as she continued to cough. When she opened her eyes, however, her look was blank, uncomprehending.

“Can you spare us some water?” one of the wounded Sendars asked as the group of men approached.

“There’s a whole river right there,” Ce’Nedra replied absently, pointing even as she intently stared into Polgara’s eyes.

Durnik, however, gave the men a startled look, then suddenly reached for his sword.

But the men in Sendarian jerkins had jumped down from the bank and were already upon them. It took three of them to disarm the powerful smith and to hold his arms.

“You’re not Sendars,” Durnik exclaimed, struggling with his captors.

“How clever of you to notice,” one of them replied in an accent so guttural that it was almost unintelligible. Another of them drew his sword and stood over the dazed Polgara. “Stop fighting, friend,” he told Durnik with an ugly smirk, “or I’ll kill this woman.”