“How much do you know about the Karands?”
“Not a great deal. I’ve heard that they’re related to the Morindim in northern Gar og Nadrak.”
“You know more about them than most people, then. Do you know very much about the religious practices of the Morindim?”
Garion nodded. “They’re demon worshippers. It’s not a particularly safe form of religion, I’ve noticed.”
Brador’s face was bleak. “The Karands share the beliefs and practices of their cousins on the arctic plains of the West,” he said. “After they were converted to the worship of Torak, the Grolims tried to stamp out those practices, but they persisted in the mountains and forests.” He stopped and looked fearfully around again.
“Belgarion,” he said, almost in a whisper, “does the name Mengha mean anything to you?”
“No. I don’t think so. Who’s Mengha?”
“We don’t know ‑at least not for certain. He seems to have come out of the forest to the north of Lake Karanda about six months ago.”
“And?”
“He marched ‑alone‑ to the gates of Calida in Jenno and called for the surrender of the city. They laughed at him, of course, but then he marked some symbols on the ground. They didn’t laugh any more after that.” The Melcene bureaucrat’s face was gray. “Belgarion, he unloosed a horror on Calida such as man has never seen before. Those symbols he drew on the ground summoned up a host of demons ‑not one, or a dozen, but a whole army of them. I’ve talked with survivors of that attack. They’re mostly mad ‑mercifully so, I think‑ and what happened at Calida was utterly unspeakable.”
“An army of them?” Garion exclaimed.
Brador nodded. “That’s what makes Mengha so dreadfully dangerous. As l’m sure you know, usually when someone summons a demon, sooner or later it gets away from him and kills him, but Mengha appears to have absolute control of all the fiends he raises and he can call them up by the hundreds. Urvon is terrified and he’s even begun to experiment with magic himself, hoping to defend Mal Yaska against Mengha. We don’t know where Zandramas is, but her apostate Grolim cohorts are desperately striving also to summon up these fiends. Great Gods, Belgarion, help me! This unholy infection will spread out of Mallorea and sweep the world. We’ll all be engulfed by howling fiends, and no place, no matter how remote, will provide a haven for the pitiful remnants of mankind. Help me to persuade Kal Zakath that his petty little war here in Cthol Murgos has no real meaning in the face of the horror that’s emerging in Mallorea.”
Garion gave him a long, steady look, then rose to his feet. “You’d better come with me, Brador,” he said quietly. “I think we need to talk with Belgarath.”
They found the old sorcerer in the book‑lined library of the house, poring over an ancient volume bound in green leather. He set his book aside and listened as Brador repeated what he had told Garion. “Urvon and Zandramas are also engaging in this insanity?” he asked when the Melcene had finished.
Brador nodded. “ According to our best information, Ancient One,” he replied.
Belgarath slammed his fist down and began to swear. “What are they thinking of?” he burst out, pacing up and down. “Don’t they know that UL himself had forbidden this?”
“They’re afraid of Mengha,” Brador said helplessly. “They feel that they must have some way to protect themselves from his horde of fiends.”
“You don’t protect yourself from demons by raising more demons,” the old man fumed. “If even one of them breaks free, they’ll all get loose. Urvon or Zandramas might be able to handle them, but sooner or later some underling is going to make a mistake. Let’s go see Zakath.”
“I don’t think we can get in to see him just now, Grandfather,” Garion said dubiously. “He didn’t like what I told him about Urgit.”
“That’s too bad. This is something that won’t wait for him to regain his composure. Let’s go.”
The three of them went quickly through the corridors of the house to the large antechamber they had entered with General Atesca upon their arrival from Rak Verkat.
“Absolutely impossible,” the colonel at the desk beside the main door declared when Belgarath demanded to see the Emperor immediately.
“As you grow older, Colonel,” the old man said ominously, “you’ll discover just how meaningless the word ‘impossible’ really is.” He raised one hand, gestured somewhat theatrically, and Garion heard and felt the surge of his will.
A number of battle flags mounted on stout poles projected out from the opposite wall perhaps fifteen feet from the floor. The officious colonel vanished from his chair and reappeared precariously astride one of those poles with his eyes bulging and his hands desperately clinging to his slippery perch.
“Where would you like to go next, Colonel?” Belgarath asked him. “As I recall, there’s a very tall flagpole out front. I could set you on top of it if you wish.”
The colonel stared at him in horror.
“Now, as soon as I bring you down from there, you’re going to persuade your Emperor to see us at once. You’re going to be very convincing, Colonel ‑that’s unless you want to be a permanent flagpole ornament, of course.”
The colonel’s face was still pasty white when he emerged from the guarded door leading to the audience chamber, and he flinched violently every time Belgarath moved his hand. “His Majesty consents to see you,” he stammered.
Belgarath grunted.” I was almost sure that he would.”
Kal Zakath had undergone a noticeable transformation since Garion had last seen him. His white linen robe was wrinkled and stained, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His face was deathly pale, his hair was unkempt, and he was unshaven. Spasm-like tremors ran through his body, and he looked almost too weak to stand. “What do you want?” he demanded in a barely audible voice.
“Are you sick?” Belgarath asked him.
“A touch of fever, I think.” Zakath shrugged. “What’s so important that you felt you had to force your way in here to tell me about it?”
“Your empire’s collapsing, Zakath,” Belgarath told him flatly. “It’s time you went home to mend your fences.”
Zakath smiled faintly. “Wouldn’t that be so very convenient for you?” he said.
“What’s going on in Mallorea isn’t convenient for anybody. Tell him, Brador.”
Nervously, the Melcene bureaucrat delivered his report.
“Demons?” Zakath retorted skeptically. “Oh, come now, Belgarath. Surely you don’t expect me to believe that, do you? Do you honestly think that I’ll run back to Mallorea to chase shadows and leave you behind to raise an army here in the West to confront me when I return?”
The palsy-like shaking Garion had noted when they had entered the room seemed to be growing more severe. Zakath’s head bobbed and jerked on his neck, and a stream of spittle ran unnoticed from one corner of his mouth.
“You won’t be leaving us behind, Zakath,” Belgarath replied. “We’re going with you. If even a tenth of what Brador says is true, I’m going to have to go to Karanda and stop this Mengha. If he’s raising demons, we’re all going to have to put everything else aside to stop him.”
“Absurd!” Zakath declared agitatedly. His eyes were unfocused now, and his weaving and trembling had become so severe that he was unable to control his limbs.
“I’m not going to be tricked by a clever old man into‑“ He suddenly started up from his chair with an animal-like cry, clutching at the sides of his head. Then he toppled forward to the floor, twitching and jerking.
Belgarath jumped forward and took hold of the convulsing man’s arms. “Quick!” he snapped. “Get something between his teeth before he bites off his tongue!”
Brador grabbed up a sheaf of reports from a nearby table, wadded them up, and jammed them into the frothing Emperor’s mouth.
“Garion!” Belgarath barked. “Get Pol ‑fast!”
Garion started toward the door at a run.
“Wait!” Belgarath said, sniffing suspiciously at the air above the face of the man he was holding down. “Bring Sadi, too. There’s a peculiar smell here. Hurry!”
Garion bolted. He ran through the hallways past startled officials and servants and finally burst into the room where Polgara was quietly talking with Ce’Nedra and Velvet. “Aunt Pol!” he shouted, “Come quickly! Zakath just collapsed!” Then he spun, ran a few more steps down the hall, and shouldered open the door to Sadi’s room. “We need you,” he barked at the startled eunuch. “Come with me.”
It took only a few moments for the three of them to return to the polished door in the anteroom.
“What’s going on?” the Angarak colonel demanded in a frightened voice, barring their way.
“Your Emperor is sick,” Garion told him. “Get out of the way.” Roughly he pushed the protesting officer to one side and yanked the door open.