David Eddings: Castle of Wizardry

“Life’s full of little disappointments,” Silk told him sardonically. “As I remember it, the eastern edge of the Vale is very steep and rough. It will take a couple of days at least to make it down, and I don’t think we’ll want to try it with all of Murgodom snapping at our heels.”

It was midafternoon when Relg returned. His exertions seemed to have quieted some of the turmoil in his mind, but there was still a haunted look in his eyes, and he deliberately avoided Taiba’s violet-eyed gaze. “I pulled down the ceilings of all the galleries leading to this cave,” he reported shortly. “We’re safe now.”

Polgara, who had seemed asleep, opened her eyes. “Get some rest,” she told him.

He nodded and went immediately to his blankets.

They rested in the cave through the remainder of the day, taking turns on watch at the narrow opening. The wasteland of black sand and wind-scoured rock lying out beyond the tumbled scree at the base of the pinnacle was alive with Murgo horsemen scurrying this way and that in a frenzied, disorganized search.

“They don’t seem to know what they’re doing,” Garion observed quietly to Silk as the two of them watched. The sun was just sinking into a bank of cloud on the western horizon, staining the sky fiery red, and the stiff wind brought a dusty chill with it as it seeped into the cave opening.

“I imagine that things are a bit scrambled up in Rak Cthol,” Silk replied. “No one’s in charge any more, and that confuses Murgos. They tend to go all to pieces when there’s nobody around to give them orders.”

“Isn’t that going to make it hard for us to get out of here?” Garion asked. “What I mean is that they’re not going anyplace. They’re just milling around. How are we going to get through them?”

Silk shrugged. “We’ll just pull up our hoods and mill around with the rest of them.” He pulled the coarse cloth of the Murgo robe he wore closer about him to ward off the chill and turned to look back into the cave. “The sun’s going down,” he reported.

“Let’s wait until it’s completely dark,” Polgara replied. She was carefully bundling the little boy up in one of Garion’s old tunics.

“Once we get out a ways, I’ll drop a few odds and ends,” Silk said. “Murgos can be a little dense sometimes, and we wouldn’t want them to miss our trail.” He turned to look back out at the sunset. “It’s going to be a cold night,” he remarked to no one in particular.

“Garion,” Aunt Pol said, rising to her feet, “you and Durnik stay close to Taiba. She’s never ridden before, and she might need some help at first.”

“What about the little boy?” Dumik asked.

“He’ll ride with me.”

“And Belgarath?” Mandorallen inquired, glancing over at the still-sleeping old sorcerer.

“When the time comes, we’ll just put him on his horse,” Polgara replied. “I can keep him in his saddle—as long as we don’t make any sudden changes in direction. Is it getting any darker?”

“We’d better wait for a little longer,” Silk answered. “There’s still quite a bit of light out there.”

They waited. The evening sky began to turn purple, and the first stars came out, glittering cold and very far away. Torches began to appear among the searching Murgos. “Shall we go?” Silk suggested, rising to his feet.

They led their horses quietly out of the cave and down across the scree to the sand. There they stopped for several moments while a group of Murgos carrying torches galloped by several hundred yards out. “Don’t get separated,” Silk told them as they mounted.

“How far is it to the edge of the wasteland?” Barak asked the little man, grunting as he climbed up onto his horse.

“Two days’ hard riding,” Silk replied. “Or nights in this case. We’ll probably want to take cover when the sun’s out. We don’t look all that much like Murgos.”

“Let’s get started,” Polgara told him.

They moved out at a walk, going slowly until Taiba became more sure of herself and Belgarath showed that he could stay in his saddle even though he could not yet communicate with anyone. Then they nudged their horses into a canter that covered a great deal of ground without exhausting the horses.

As they crossed the first ridge, they rode directly into a large group of Murgos carrying torches.

“Who’s there?” Silk demanded sharply, his voice harsh with the characteristic accents of Murgo speech. “Identify yourselves.”

“We’re from Rak Cthol,” one of the Murgos answered respectfully.

“I know that, blockhead,” Silk barked. “I asked your identity.”

“Third Phalanx,” the Murgo said stiffly.

“That’s better. Put out those torches. How do you expect to see anything beyond ten feet with them flaring in your eyes?”

The torches were immediately extinguished.

“Move your search to the north,” Silk commanded. “The Ninth Phalanx is covering this sector.”

“But ”

“Are you going to argue with me?”

“No, but—”

“Move! Now!”

The Murgos wheeled their horses about and galloped off into the darkness.

“Clever,” Barak said admiringly.

Silk shrugged. “Pretty elementary,” he replied. “People are grateful for a bit of direction when they’re confused. Let’s move along, shall we?”

There were other encounters during the long, cold, moonless night as they rode west. They were inescapable in view of the hordes of Murgos scouring the wasteland in search of them, but Silk handled each such meeting smoothly, and the night passed without significant incident.

Toward morning the little man began artfully dropping various articles to mark their trail. “A bit overdone, perhaps,” he said critically, looking at an old shoe he had just tossed into the hoof churned sand behind them.

“What are you mumbling about?” Barak asked him.

“Our trail,” Silk replied. “We want them to follow us, remember? They’re supposed to think we’re headed toward Tolnedra.”

“So?”

“I was just suggesting that this is a bit crude.”

“You worry too much about things like that.”

“It’s a question of style, my dear Barak,” Silk replied loftily. “Sloppy work tends to be habit-forming.”

As the first steel-gray light of dawn began to creep across the wintry sky, they took shelter among the boulders of one of the ridges that laced the floor of the wasteland. Durnik, Barak and Mandorallen stretched the canvas of their tents tautly over a narrow ravine on the west side of the ridge and sprinkled sand on top of it to disguise their makeshift shelter.

“It’s probably best not to build a fire,” Durnik said to Polgara as they led their horses in under the canvas, “what with the smoke and all.”

She nodded her agreement. “We could all use a hot meal,” she said, “but I suppose we’ll have to wait.”

They ate a cold breakfast of bread and cheese and began to settle in, hoping to sleep out the day so that they could ride on the next night.

“I could definitely use a bath,” Silk said, brushing sand out of his hair.

The little boy looked at nim, frowning slightly. Then he walked over and offered him the Orb. ‘Errand’” he asked.

Silk carefully put his hands behind his back and shook his head. “Is that the only word he knows?” he asked Polgara.

“It seems to be,” she replied.

“I don’t quite get the connection,” Silk said. “What does he mean by it.

“He’s probably been told that he has an errand to run,” she explained, “to steal the Orb. I imagine that Zedar’s been telling him that over and over since he was a baby, and the word stuck in his mind.”

“It’s a bit disconcerting.” Silk was still holding his hands behind his back. “It seems oddly appropriate sometimes.”