David Eddings: Queen of Sorcery

Mister Wolf had been half-dozing in his saddle. He looked up, blinking a bit.

“All right,” he replied, “but let’s get back from the road a bit. Our fire could attract attention, and too many people know we’re in Arendia already.”

“There’s a woodcutter’s track right there.” Durnik pointed at a break in the trees just ahead. “It should lead us back into the trees.”

“All right,” Wolf agreed.

The sound of their horses’ hooves was muffled by the sodden leaves on the forest floor as they turned in among the trees to follow the narrow track. They rode silently for the better part of a mile until a clearing opened ahead of them.

“How about here?” Durnik asked. He indicated a brook trickling softly over mossy stones on one side of the clearing.

“It will do,” Wolf agreed.

“We’re going to need shelter,” the smith observed.

“I bought tents in Camaar,” Silk told him. “They’re in the packs.”

“That was foresighted of you,” Aunt Pol complimented him.

“I’ve been in Arendia before, my Lady. I’m familiar with the weather.”

“Garion and I’ll go get wood for a fire then,” Durnik said, climbing down from his horse and untying his axe from his saddle.

“I’ll help you,” Lelldorin offered, his face still troubled.

Durnik nodded and led the way off into the trees. The woods were soaked, but the smith seemed to know almost instinctively where to find dry fuel. They worked quickly in the lowering twilight and soon had three large bundles of limbs and fagots. They returned to the clearing where Silk and the others were erecting several dun-colored tents. Durnik dropped his wood and cleared a space for the fire with his foot. Then he knelt and began striking sparks with his knife from a piece of flint into a wad of dry tinder he always carried. In a short time he had a small fire going, and Aunt Pol set out her pots beside it, humming softly to herself.

Hettar came back from tending the horses, and they all stood back watching Aunt Pol prepare a supper from the stores Count Reldegen had pressed on them before they had left his house that morning.

After they had eaten, they sat around the fire talking quietly.

“How far have we come today?” Durnik asked.

“Twelve leagues,” Hettar estimated.

“How much farther do we have to go to get out of the forest?”

“It’s eighty leagues from Camaar to the central plain,” Lelldorin replied.

Durnik sighed. “A week or more. I’d hoped that it’d be only a few days.”

“I know what you mean, Durnik,” Barak agreed. “It’s gloomy under all these trees.”

The horses, picketed near the brook, stirred uneasily. Hettar rose to his feet.

“Something wrong?” Barak asked, also rising.

“They shouldn’t be—” Hettar started. Then he stopped. “Back!” he snapped.

“Away from the fire. The horses say there are men out there. Many—with weapons.” He jumped back from the fire, drawing his sabre.

Lelldorin took one startled look at him and bolted for one of the tents. Garion’s sudden disappointment in his friend was almost like a blow to the stomach.

An arrow buzzed into the light and shattered on Barak’s mail shirt.

“Arm yourselves!” the big man roared, drawing his sword.

Garion grasped Aunt Pol’s sleeve and tried to pull her from the light.

“Stop that!” she snapped, jerking her sleeve free. Another arrow whizzed out of the foggy woods. Aunt Pol flicked her hand as if brushing away a fly and muttered a single word. The arrow bounced back as if it had struck something solid and fell to the ground.

Then with a hoarse shout, a gang of rough, burly men burst from the edge of the trees and splashed across the brook, brandishing swords. As Barak and Hettar leaped forward to meet them, Lelldorin reemerged from the tent with his bow and began loosing arrows so rapidly that his hands seemed to blur as they moved. Garion was instantly ashamed that he had doubted his friend’s courage.

With a choked cry, one of the attackers stumbled back, an arrow through his throat. Another doubled over sharply, clutching at his stomach, and fell to the ground, groaning. A third, quite young and with a pale, downy beard on his cheeks, dropped heavily and sat plucking at the feathers on the shaft protruding from his chest with a bewildered expression on his boyish face. Then he sighed and slumped over on his side with a stream of blood coming from his nose.

The ragged-looking men faltered under the rain of Lelldorin’s arrows, and then Barak and Hettar were upon them. With a great sweep, Barak’s heavy sword shattered an upflung blade and crunched down into the angle between the neck and shoulder of the black-whiskered man who had held it. The man collapsed. Hettar made a quick feint with his sabre, then ran it smoothly through the body of a pockmarked ruffian. The man stiffened, and a gush of bright blood burst from his mouth as Hettar pulled out his blade. Durnik ran forward with his axe, and Silk drew his long dagger from under his vest and ran directly at a man with a shaggy brown beard. At the last moment, he dived forward, rolled and struck the bearded man full in the chest with both feet. Without pausing he came up and ripped his dagger into his enemy’s belly. The dagger made a wet, tearing sound as it sliced upward, and the stricken man clutched at his stomach with a scream, trying to hold in the blue-colored loops and coils of his entrails that seemed to come boiling out through his fingers.

Garion dived for the packs to get his own sword, but was suddenly grabbed roughly from behind. He struggled for an instant, then felt a stunning blow on the back of his head, and his eyes filled with a blinding flash of light.

“This is the one we want,” a rough voice husked as Garion sank into unconsciousness.

He was being carried—that much was certain. He could feel the strong arms under him. He didn’t know how long it had been since he had been struck on the head. His ears still rang, and he was more than a little sick to his stomach. He stayed limp, but carefully opened one eye. His vision was blurred and uncertain, but he could make out Barak’s bearded face looming above him in the darkness, and merged with it, as once before in the snowy woods outside Val Alorn, he seemed to see the shaggy face of a great bear. He closed his eyes, shuddered, and started to struggle weakly.

“It’s all right, Garion,” Barak said, his voice sunk in a kind of despair. “It’s me.”

Garion opened his eyes again, and the bear seemed to be gone. He wasn’t even sure he had ever really seen it.

“Are you all right?” Barak asked, setting him on the ground.

“They hit me on the head,” Garion mumbled, his hand going to the swelling behind his ear.

“They won’t do it again,” Barak muttered, his tone still despairing. Then the huge man sank to the ground and buried his face in his hands. It was dark and difficult to see, but it looked as if Barak’s shoulders were shaking with a kind of terrible suppressed grief—a soundless, wrenching series of convulsive sobs.

“Where are we?” Garion asked, looking around into the darkness.

Barak coughed and wiped at his face.

“Quite a ways from the tents. It took me a little while to catch up to the two who were carrying you off.”

“What happened?” Garion was still a bit confused.

“They’re dead. Can you stand up?”

“I don’t know.” Garion tried to get up, but a wave of giddiness swept over him, and his stomach churned.

“Never mind. I’ll carry you,” Barak said in a now—grimly practical voice. An owl screeched from a nearby tree, and its ghostly white shape drifted off through the trees ahead of them. As Barak lifted him, Garion closed his eyes and concentrated on keeping his stomach under control.