David Eddings - Queen of Sorcery

“The weather must be changing,” Durnik said, looking up. “I wish I could see the sky.”

Garion nodded and tried to shake off the sense of impending danger. Mandorallen in his armor and Barak in his mail shirt rode at the head of the party, and Hettar in his horsehide jacket with steel plates riveted to it rode at the rear. The ominous sense of foreboding seemed to have reached them all, and they rode warily with their hands near their weapons and their eyes searching for trouble.

Then quite suddenly Tolnedran legionnaires were all around them, rising from the bushes or stepping out from behind trees. They made no attempt to attack, but stood in their brightly polished breastplates with their short spears at the ready.

Barak swore, and Mandorallen reined in his charger sharply. “Stand aside!” he ordered the soldiers, lowering his lance.

“Easy,” Barak cautioned.

The Dryads, after one startled look at the soldiers, melted into the gloomy woods.

“What thinkest thou, Lord Barak?” Mandorallen asked blithely. “They cannot be over a hundred. Shall we attack them?”

“One of these days you and I are going to have to have a long talk about a few things,” Barak said. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that Hettar was edging closer, then he sighed. “Well, I suppose we might as well get on with it.” He tightened the straps on his shield and loosened his sword in its sheath. “What do you think, Mandorallen? Should we give them a chance to run away?”

“A charitable suggestion, Lord Barak,” Mandorallen agreed.

Then, some distance up the trail, a body of horsemen rode out from under the shadowy trees. Their leader was a large man wearing a blue cloak trimmed with silver. His breastplate and helmet were inlaid with gold, and he rode a prancing chestnut stallion whose hooves churned the damp leaves lying on the ground. “Splendid,” he said as he rode up. “Absolutely splendid.”

Aunt Pol fixed the newcomer with a cold eye. “Don’t the legions have anything better to do than to waylay travelers?” she demanded.

“This is my legion, Madam,” the man in the blue cloak said arrogantly, “and it does what I tell it to. I see that you have the Princess Ce’Nedra with you.”

“Where I go and with whom is my concern, your Grace,” Ce’Nedra said loftily. “It’s of no concern to the Grand Duke Kador of the House of Vordue.”

“Your father is most concerned, Princess,” Kador said. “All Tolnedra’s searching for you. Who are these people?”

Garion tried with a dark scowl and a shake of his head to warn her, but it was too late.

“The two knights who lead our party are Sir Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor, and Lord Barak, Earl of Trellheim,” she announced. “The Algar warrior who guards our rear is Hettar, son of Cho-Hag, Chief of the Clan-Chiefs of Algaria. The lady—”

“I can speak for myself, dear,” Aunt Pol said smoothly. “I’m curious to know what brings the Grand Duke of Vordue so far into southern Tolnedra.”

“I have interests here, Madam,” Kador said.

“Evidently,” Aunt Pol replied.

“All the legions of the Empire are searching for the princess, but it’s I who have found her.”

“I’m amazed to find a Vorduvian so willing to aid in the search for a Borune princess,” Aunt Pol observed. “Especially considering the centunes of enmity between your two houses.”

“Shall we cease this idle banter?” Kador suggested icily. “My motives are my own affair.”

“And unsavory, no doubt,” she added.

“I think you forget yourself, Madam,” Kador said. “I am, after all, who I am—and more to the point, who I will become.”

“And who will you become, your Grace?” she inquired.

“I will be Ran Vordue, Emperor of Tolnedra,” Kador announced.

“Oh? And just what’s the future Emperor of Tolnedra doing in the Wood of the Dryads?”

“I’m doing what’s necessary to protect my interests,” Kador said stiffly. “For the moment, it’s essential that the Princess Ce’Nedra be in my custody.”

“My father may have something to say about that, Duke Kador,” Ce’Nedra said, “and about this ambition of yours.”

“What Ran Borune says is of no concern to me, your Highness,” Kador told her. “Tolnedra needs me, and no Borune trick is going to deny me the Imperial Crown. It’s obvious that the old man plans to marry you to a Honeth or a Horbite to raise some spurious claim to the throne. That could complicate matters, but I intend to keep things simple.”

“By marrying me yourself?” Ce’Nedra asked scornfully. “You’ll never live that long.”

“No,” Kador said. “I wouldn’t be interested in a Dryad wife. Unlike the Borunes, the House of Vordue believes in keeping its line pure and uncontaminated.”

“So you’re going to hold me prisoner?” Ce’Nedra asked.

“That’d be impossible, I’m afraid,” Duke Kador told her. “The Emperor has ears everywhere. It’s really a shame you ran away just when you did, your Highness. I’d gone to a great expense to get one of my agents into the Imperial kitchen and to obtain a quantity of a rare Nyissan poison. I’d even taken the trouble to compose a letter of sympathy to your father.”

“How considerate of you,” Ce’Nedra said, her face turning pale.

“Unfortunately, I’ll have to be more direct now,” Kador went on. “A sharp knife and a few feet of dirt should end your unfortunate involvement in Tolnedran politics. I’m very sorry, Princess. There’s nothing personal in it, you understand, but I have to protect my interests.”

“Thy plan, Duke Kador, hath one small flaw,” Mandorallen said, carefully leaning his lance against a tree.

“I fail to see it, Baron,” Kador said smugly.

“Throe error lay in rashly coming within reach of my sword,” Mandorallen told him. “Thy head is forfeit now, and a man with no head has little need of a crown.”

Garion knew that a part of Mandorallen’s brashness arose from his desperate need to prove to himself that he was no longer afraid.

Kador looked at the knight apprehensively. “You wouldn’t do that,” he said without much certainty. “You’re too badly outnumbered.”

“Thou art imprudent to think so,” Mandorallen said. “I am the hardiest knight on life and fully armed. Thy soldiers will be as blades of grass before me. Thou art doomed, Kador.” And with that he drew his great sword.

“It was bound to happen,” Barak said wryly to Hettar and drew his own sword.

“I don’t think we’ll do that,” a new voice announced harshly. A familiar black-robed man rode out from behind a nearby tree on a sable-colored horse. He muttered a few quick words and gestured sharply with his right hand. Garion felt a dark rush and a strange roaring in his mind. Mandorallen’s sword spun from his grip.

“My thanks, Asharak,” Kador said in a relieved tone. “I hadn’t anticipated that.”

Mandorallen pulled off his mailed gauntlet and nursed his hand as if he had been struck a heavy blow. Hettar’s eyes narrowed, and then went strangely blank. The Murgo’s black mount glanced curiously at him once and then looked away almost contemptuously.

“Well, Sha-dar,” Asharak gloated with an ugly smirk on his scarred face, “would you like to try that again?”

Hettar’s face had a sick look of revulsion on it. “It’s not a horse,” he said. “It looks like a horse, but it’s something else.”

“Yes,” Asharak agreed. “Quite different, really. You can sink yourself into its mind if you want, but I don’t think you’ll like what you find there.” He swung down from his saddle and walked toward them, his eyes burning. He stopped in front of Aunt Pol and made an ironic bow. “And so we meet again, Polgara.”