swamp. It was no more than an hour until we reached the top of the
hill we were climbing, and then we got our first look at the City of
Endless Night.
I could see Torak’s iron tower, of course, but that wasn’t what
concerned me. The light wasn’t good, naturally, but it was good enough
to reveal the fact that Cthol Mishrak had a wall around it. I swore.
“What’s wrong?” Dras asked me.
“You see that wall?”
“Yes.”
“That means we’ll have to go through a gate, and you don’t look all
that much like a Grolim.”
He shrugged.
“You worry too much, Belgarath,” he rumbled.
“We’ll just kill the gate-guards and then walk in like we own the
place.”
“I think we might be able to come up with something a little better
than that,” Algar said quietly.
“Let’s see how high the wall is.”
As I think I mentioned, the wind of that blizzard had swept the west
side of the hills bare of snow–and drifted it all on the east side. We
stared at those six-foot drifts. This wasn’t going at all well.
“There’s no help for it, Belgarath,” Cherek told me gravely.
“We’re going to have to follow that road.” He pointed at a narrow
track that wound up the hill from the gate of the city.
“Cherek,” I replied in a pained tone, “that path’s as crooked as a
broken-backed snake, and the snow’s piled up so high on both sides that
we won’t be able to see anybody coming toward us. We’ll be right on
top of him before we even know he’s there.”
He shrugged.
“But we’ll be expecting him,” he said.
“He won’t be expecting us. That’s all the advantage we really need,
isn’t it?”
It was sheer idiocy, of course, but for the life of me, I couldn’t
think of anything better–short of wading through the drifts, and we
didn’t have time for that. We had an appointment in Cthol Mishrak, and
I didn’t want to be late.
“We’ll try it,” I gave in.
We did encounter one Grolim on our way down to the city, but Algar and
Riva jumped him before he could even cry out, and they made quick work
of him with their daggers. Then they picked him up, swung him a few
times, and threw him up over the top of the snow bank to the left while
Dras kicked snow over the pool of blood in the middle of the trail.
“My sons work well together, don’t they?” Cherek noted with fatherly
pride.
“Very well,” I agreed.
“Now, how are we going to get off this trail before we reach the
gate?”
“We’ll get a little closer, and then we’ll burrow through the snow off
to one side. The last one through can kick the roof of our tunnel
down.
Nobody’ll ever know we’ve been here.”
“Clever. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Probably because you’re not used to living in snow country. When I
was about fifteen, there was a married woman in Val Alorn that sort of
took my eye. Her husband was old, but very jealous. I had a snow
tunnel burrowed all the way around his house before the winter was
over.”
“What an absolutely fascinating sidelight on your boyhood. How old was
she?”
“Oh, about thirty-five or so. She taught me all sorts of things.”
“I can imagine.”
“I could tell you about them, if you’d like.”
“Some other time, maybe. I’ve got a lot on my mind right now.”
I’ll wager you never read about that conversation in the Book of
Alorn.
Algar moved on slightly ahead of us, carefully peeking around each bend
in that winding path. Finally he came back.
“This is far enough,” he said shortly.
“The gate’s just around the next turn.”
“How high’s the wall?” his father asked.
“Not bad,” Algar replied.
“Only about twelve feet.”
“Good,” Cherek said.
“I’ll lead out. You boys know what to do when you come along
behind.”
They all nodded, taking no offense at being called “boys.” Cherek
lived to be over ninety, and he still called them “boys.”
Tunneling through snow isn’t nearly as difficult as it sounds, if
you’ve got some help. Cherek clawed his way through, angling slightly
upward as he swam through toward a point some fifty feet or so to the
left of the gate. Dras followed behind him, raising up every few
inches to compress the snow above him. Riva went next, pushing at the
sides with his shoulders to compress the snow there.
“You next,” Algar told me.
“Bounce up and down on your belly to flatten the floor of the
tunnel.”
“This isn’t a permanent structure, Algar,” I protested.
“We do sort of plan to leave, don’t we, Belgarath?”
“Oh. I guess I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
He was polite enough not to make an issue of that.
“I’ll come last,”
he told me.
“I know how to close up the entrance so that nobody’ll see it.”
Despite my sense of urgency, I knew that we still had at least fifteen
hours until the sun would peek briefly over the southern horizon
again.
We burrowed like moles for a couple of hours, and then I bumped into
Riva’s feet.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Why are we stopping?”
“Father’s reached the wall,” he replied.
“You see? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Where did you fellows come up with this?”
“We do it sometimes when we’re hunting, and it’s a very good way to
sneak up on enemies.”
“How are we going to get over the wall?”
“I’ll stand on Dras’ shoulders, and Algar’ll stand on Father’s. We’ll
hoist ourselves up on top of the wall and then pull the rest of you up.
It probably wouldn’t work if we were shorter. We came up with the idea
during the last clan war.” He peered on ahead.
“We can move on now.
Father’s out of the tunnel.”
We inched our way forward, and we were soon standing beside the wall.
Cherek and Dras braced their hands against the stones, and Algar and
Riva clambered up their backs, reached up, grabbed the top of the wall,
and pulled themselves up.
“Belgarath first,” Riva whispered down.
“Hold him up so I can reach his hand.”
Dras took me by the waist and lifted me up in the air. That’s how I
found out how strong Riva’s hands were. I halfway expected to see
blood come spurting out of the ends of my fingers when he seized my
outstretched hand.
And then we were inside the city. Beldin had described Cthol Mishrak
as a suburb of Hell, and I saw no reason to dispute that description.
The buildings were all jammed together, and the narrow, twisting
alleyways were covered over by the jutting second storys that butted
tightly together overhead. The idea made some sense in a city so far
north, I’ll grant you. At least the streets weren’t buried in snow,
but the total lack of any windows in the buildings made the streets
resemble hallways in some dungeon. They were poorly lighted by widely
spaced torches that guttered and gave off clouds of pitchy smoke. It
was depressing, but my friends and I didn’t really want brightly lit
boulevards. We were sneaking, and that’s an activity best performed in
the dark.
I’m not certain if those narrow, smoky corridors were unpopulated by
the arrangement between my friend in the attic and his opposite, or if
it was a custom here in the City of Endless Night–which stands to
reason, since the Hounds were out–but we didn’t encounter a soul as we
worked our way deeper and deeper into the very heart of Angarak.
We finally emerged in the unlovely square in the middle of the city and
looked through the perpetually murky air at the iron tower Beldin had
described. It was–naturally, when you take Torak’s personality into
account–even higher than Aldur’s tower. It was absolutely huge and
monumentally ugly. Iron doesn’t make for very pretty buildings. It
was black, of course, and even from a distance it looked pitted. It
had been there for almost two thousand years, after all. The Alorns
and I weren’t really looking at that monument to Torak’s ego, however.
We were looking at the pair of huge Hounds guarding the rivet-studded
door.
“Now what?” Algar whispered.
“Nothing simpler,” Dras said confidently.
“I’ll just walk across the square and bash out their brains with my
axe.”
I had to head that off immediately. The other Alorns might very well
see nothing at all wrong with his absurd plan.
“It won’t work,” I said quickly.
“They’ll start baying as soon as they see you, and that’ll rouse the
whole city.”
“Well, how are we going to get past them then?” he demanded
truculently.
“I’m working on it.” I thought very fast, and it suddenly came to me.
I knew it’d work, because it already had once.