David Eddings - Queen of Sorcery

“It won’t start, Mistress Pol,” Durnik replied helplessly. “It’s too wet.”

She looked quickly at the pile of sodden wood the smith had gathered.

Her eyes narrowed, and she made a quick gesture. Garion’s ears rang strangely and there was a sudden hissing. A cloud of steam burst from the wood, and then crackling flames curled up from the sticks. Durnik jumped back, startled.

“The small pot, Garion,” Aunt Pol instructed, “and water. Quickly.” She pulled off her blue cloak and covered Lelldorin with it.

Silk, Barak and Hettar stood at the edge of the slope, heaving large rocks over the edge. Garion could hear the clatter and clash of the rocks striking the boulders below and the barking of the Algroths, punctuated by an occasional howl of pain.

He cradled his friend’s head in his lap, terribly afraid. “Is he going to be all right?” he appealed to Aunt Pol.

“It’s too early to tell,” she answered. “Don’t bother me with questions just now.”

“They’re running!” Barak shouted.

“They’re still hungry,” Wolf replied grimly. “They’ll be back.”

From far off in the forest there came the sound of a brassy horn.

“What’s that?” Silk asked, still puffing from the effort of heaving the heavy stones over the edge.

“Someone I’ve been expecting,” Wolf answered with a strange smile. He raised his hands to his lips and whistled shrilly.

“I can manage now, Garion,” Aunt Pol said, mashing a thick paste into a steaming pad of wet linen bandage. “You and Durnik go help the others.”

Reluctantly Garion lowered Lelldorin’s head to the wet turf and ran over to where Wolf stood. The slope below was littered with dead and dying Algroths, crushed by the rocks Barak and the others had hurled down on them.

“They’re going to try again,” Barak said, hefting another rock. “Can they get at us from behind?”

Silk shook his head. “No. I checked. The back of the hill’s a sheer face.”

The Algroths came out of the woods below, barking and snarling as they loped forward with their half crouched gait. The first of them had already crossed the road when the horn blew again, very close this time.

And then a huge horse bearing a man in full armor burst out of the trees and thundered down upon the attacking creatures. The armored man crouched over his lance and plunged directly into the midst of the startled Algroths. The great horse screamed as he charged, and his iron-shod hoofs churned up big clots of mud. The lance crashed through the chest of one of the largest Algroths and splintered from the force of the blow. The splintered end took another full in the face. The knight discarded the shattered lance and drew his broadsword with a single sweep of his arm. With wide swings to the right and left he chopped his way through the pack, his warhorse trampling the living and the dead alike into the mud of the road. At the end of his charge he whirled and plunged back again, once more opening a path with his sword. The Algroths turned and fled howling into the woods.

“Mandorallen!” Wolf shouted. “Up here!”

The armored knight raised his blood-spattered visor and looked up the hill. “Permit me to disperse this rabble first, my ancient friend,” he answered gaily, clanged down his visor, and plunged into the rainy woods after the Algroths.

“Hettar!” Barak shouted, already moving.

Hettar nodded tersely, and the two of them ran to their horses. They swung into their saddles and plunged down the wet slope to the aid of the stranger.

“Your friend shows a remarkable lack of good sense,” Silk observed to Mister Wolf, wiping the rain from his face. “Those things will turn on him any second now.”

“It probably hasn’t occurred to him that he’s in any danger,” Wolf replied. “He’s a Mimbrate, and they tend to think they’re invincible.” The fight in the woods seemed to last for a long time. There were shouts and ringing blows and shrieks of terror from the Algroths. Then Hettar, Barak, and the strange knight rode out of the trees and trotted up the tor. At the top, the armored man clanged down from his horse. “Well met, my old friend,” he boomed to Mister Wolf. “Thy friends below were most frolicsome.” His armor gleamed wetly in the rain.

“I’m glad we found something to entertain you,” Wolf said dryly.

“I can still hear them,” Durnik reported. “I think they’re still running.”

“Their cowardice hath deprived us of an amusing afternoon,” the knight observed, regretfully sheathing his sword and removing his helmet.

“We must all make sacrifices,” Silk drawled.

The knight sighed. “All too true. Thou art a man of philosophy, I see.” He shook the water out of the white plume on his helmet.

“Forgive me,” Mister Wolf said. “This is Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor. He’ll be going with us. Mandorallen, this is Prince Kheldar of Drasnia and Barak, Earl of Trellheim and cousin to King Anheg of Cherek. Over there is Hettar, son of Cho-Hag, chief of the Clan-Chiefs of Algaria. The practical one is Goodman Durnik of Sendaria, and this boy is Garion, my grandson—several times removed.”

Mandorallen bowed deeply to each of them. “I greet you, comrades all,” he declaimed in his booming voice. “Our adventure hath seen a fortuitous beginning. And pray tell, who is this lady, whose beauty doth bedazzle mine eye?”

“A pretty speech, Sir Knight,” Aunt Pol replied with a rich laugh, her hand going almost unconsciously to her damp hair. “I’m going to like this one, father.”

“The legendary Lady Polgara?” Mandorallen asked. “My life hath now seen its crown.” His courtly bow was somewhat marred by the creaking of his armor.

“Our injured friend is Lelldorin, son of the Baron of Wildantor,” Wolf continued. “You may have heard of him.”

Mandorallen’s face darkened slightly. “Indeed. Rumor, which sometimes loth run before us like a barking dog, hath suggested that Lelldorin of Wildantor hath raised on occasion foul rebellion against the crown.”

“That’s of no matter now,” Wolf stressed. “The business which has brought us together is much more serious than all that. You’ll have to put it aside.”

“It shall be as you say, noble Belgarath,” Mandorallen declared immediately, though his eyes still lingered on the unconscious Lelldorin.

“Grandfather!” Garion called, pointing at a mounted figure that had suddenly appeared on the side of the stony hilltop. The figure was robed in black and sat a black horse. He pushed back his hood to reveal a polished steel mask cast in the form of a face that was at once beautiful and strangely repelling. A voice deep in Garion’s mind told him that there was something important about the strange rider—something he should remember—but whatever it was eluded him.

“Abandon this quest, Belgarath.” The voice was hollow behind the mask.

“You know me better than that, Chamdar,” Mister Wolf said calmly, quite obviously recognizing the rider. “Was this childishness with the Algroths your idea?”

“And you should know me better than that,” the figure retorted derisively. “When I come against you, you can expect things to be a bit more serious. For now, there are enough underlings about to delay you. That’s all we really need. Once Zedar has carried Cthrag Yaska to my Master, you can try your power against the might and will of Torak, if you’d like.”

“Are you running errands for Zedar, then?” Wolf asked.

“I run no man’s errands,” the figure replied with heavy contempt. The rider seemed solid, as real as any of them standing on the hilltop, but Garion could see the filmy drizzle striking the rocks directly beneath horse and man. Whatever the figure was, the rain was falling right through it.