David Eddings - Enchanter's End Game

The reek of rust, stagnation, and decay was much stronger, coming to Garion’s wolf sharp nose in almost overpowering waves. It was a gagging smell, and he clamped his muzzle shut and tried not to think about it.

“Who’s there?” a voice came sharply from just ahead of them. A Grolim with a drawn sword stepped out into the rubble-strewn street, peering intently into the deep shadows where the three crouched, frozen into immobility. Garion sensed rather than heard or saw Silk’s slow, deliberate reach toward the dagger sheathed at the back of his neck. Then the little man’s arm swung sharply down, and his knife made a fluttering whistle as it sped with deadly accuracy, turning end for end as it flew.

The Grolim grunted, doubling over sharply, then he sighed and toppled forward, his sword clanging as it fell.

“Let’s move!” Silk ran past the huddled form of the dead Grolim sprawled on the stones.

Garion smelled fresh blood as he loped past, and the smell brought a sudden, hot taste to his mouth.

They reached the massive tangle of twisted girders and crumpled plates that had been the iron tower and crept silently through the open doorway into the total blackness of the chamber within. The smell of rust was everywhere now; coupled with it was a smell of ancient, brooding evil. Garion stopped, sniffing nervously at the tainted air, feeling his hackles rising on his ruffed neck. With an effort, he suppressed the low growl that rose involuntarily in his throat.

He felt Belgarath’s shoulder brush him and he followed the old wolf, guided now by scent alone in the utter blackness. At the far end of the huge, empty, iron room there was another doorway.

Belgarath stopped, and Garion felt again that faint brushing whisper as the old man slowly shifted back into the shape of a man. Garion clenched in his own will and let himself gradually flow back into his own form.

Silk was breathing a string of colorful curses, fervent but almost inaudible.

“What’s the matter?” Belgarath whispered.

“I forgot to stop for my knife,” Silk replied, grating his teeth together. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“What now, Grandfather?” Garion asked, his whisper hoarse.

“Just beyond this door, there’s a flight of stairs leading down.”

“What’s at the bottom?”

“A cellar. It’s a sort of tomb where Zedar’s got Torak’s body. Shall we go down?”

Garion sighed, then squared his shoulders. “I guess that’s what we came for,” he replied.

“You don’t actually believe I’ll accept that, do you, Zedar?” Garion froze in the act of putting his hand on the iron door at the foot of the stairs. “You can’t evade your responsibility with the pretence of necessity,” the voice beyond the door continued.

“Aren’t we all driven by necessity, Polgara?” a stranger’s voice replied with a kind of weary sadness. “I won’t say that I was blameless, but wasn’t my apostacy predestined? The universe has been divided against itself since the beginning of time, and now the two Prophecies rush toward each other for their final meeting when all will be resolved. Who can say that what I have done was not essential to that meeting?”

“That’s an evasion, Zedar,” Aunt Pol told him.

“What’s she doing here?” Garion whispered to Belgarath.

“She’s supposed to be here,” Belgarath whispered back with an odd note of satisfaction. “Listen.”

“I don’t think we’ll gain anything by wrangling with each other, Polgara,” Zedar the Apostate was saying. “We each believe that what we did was right. Neither of us could ever persuade the other to change sides at this point. Why don’t we just let it go at that?”

“Very well, Zedar,” Aunt Pol replied coolly.

“What now?” Silk breathed.

“There should be others in there, too,” Belgarath answered softly. “Let’s make sure before we go bursting in.”

The iron door in front of them did not fit tightly, and faint light seeped through the cracks around the frame. Garion could make out Belgarath’s intent face in that dim light.

“How’s your father?” Zedar asked in a neutral tone.

“About the same as always. He’s very angry with you, you know.”

“That was to be expected, I suppose.”

“He’s finished eating, Lady Polgara,” Garion heard Ce’Nedra say. He looked sharply at Belgarath, but the old man put one finger to his lips.

“Spread one of those pallets out for him, dear,” Aunt Pol instructed, “and cover him with some blankets. It’s very late, and he’s sleepy.”

“I’ll do that,” Durnik offered.

“Good,” Belgarath breathed. “They’re all here.”

“How did they get here?” Silk whispered.

“I haven’t the faintest idea, and I’m not going to worry about it. The important thing is that they’re here.”

“I’m glad you were able to rescue him from Ctuchik,” Zedar said. “I grew rather fond of him during the years we spent together.”

“Where did you find him?” Aunt Pol asked. “We’ve never been able to pin down what country he’s from.”

“I forgot precisely,” Zedar answered, and his voice was faintly troubled. “Perhaps it was Camaar or Tol Honeth or maybe some city on the other side of Mallorea. The details keep slipping away from me almost as if I weren’t supposed to examine them too closely.”

“Try to remember,” she said. “It might be important.”

Zedar sighed. “If it amuses you,” he said. He paused as if thinking. “I’d grown restless for some reason,” he began. “It was—oh, fifty or sixty years ago. My studies no longer interested me, and the bickering of the various Grolim factions began to irritate me. I took to wandering about—not really paying much attention to where I was. I must have crossed and crisscrossed the Kingdoms of the West and the Angarak Kingdoms a half dozen times in those years.

“Anyway, I was passing through some city somewhere when the idea struck me all at once. We all know that the Orb will destroy anyone who touches it with the slightest trace of evil in his heart, but what would it do to someone who touched it in total innocence? I was stunned by the simplicity of the idea. The street I was on was full of people, and I needed quiet to consider this remarkable idea, so I turned a corner into some forgotten alley, and there the child was—almost as if he’d been waiting for me. He seemed to be about two years old at the time—old enough to walk and not much more. I held out my hand to him and said, ‘I have a little errand for you, my boy.’ He came to me and repeated the word, ‘Errand.’ It’s the only word I’ve ever heard him say.”

“What did the Orb do when he first touched it?” Aunt Pol asked him. “It flickered. In some peculiar way it seemed to recognize him, and something seemed to pass between them when he laid his hand on it.” He sighed. “No, Polgara, I don’t know who the child is—or even what he is. For all I know, he may even be an illusion. The idea to use him in the first place came to me so suddenly that I sometimes wonder if perhaps it was placed in my mind. It’s entirely possible, I suppose, that I didn’t find him, but that he found me.” He fell silent again.

There was a long pause on the other side of the iron door.

“Why, Zedar?” Aunt Pol asked him very quietly. “Why did you betray our Master?” Her voice was strangely compassionate.

“To save the Orb,” he replied sadly. “At least, at first that was the idea. From the moment I first saw it, it owned me. After Torak took it from our Master, Belgarath and the others began making their plans to regain it by force, but I knew that if Aldur himself did not join his hand with theirs to strike directly at Torak, they would fail—and Aldur would not do that. I reasoned that if force must fail, then guile might succeed. I thought that by pretending allegiance to Torak, I might gain his confidence and steal it back from him.”