Polgara nodded. “It usually works,” she agreed approvingly.
They went on down the street until Feldegast led them into another smelly alley. He fumbled with the latch to the wide door of a boarded‑up warehouse, then swung it open. “Here we are, then,” he said, and they all followed him inside. A long ramp led down into a cavernous cellar, where Yarblek and the little juggler moved aside a stack of crates to reveal the opening of another passageway.
They led their horses into the dark opening, and Feldegast remained outside to hide the passage again. When he was satisfied that the opening was no longer visible, he wormed his way through the loosely stacked crates to rejoin them. “An’ there we are,” he said, brushing his hands together in a self‑congratulatory way. “ No man at all kin possibly know that we’ve come this way, don’t y’ know, so let’s be off.”
Garion’s thoughts were dark as he trudged along the passageway, following Feldegast’s winking lantern. He had slipped away from a man for whom he had begun to develop a careful friendship and had left him behind in a plague‑stricken and burning city. There was probably very little that he could have done to aid Zakath, but his desertion of the man did not make him feel very proud.
He knew, however, that he had no real choice. Cyradis had been too adamant in her instructions. Compelled by necessity, he turned his back on Mal Zeth and resolutely set his face toward Ashaba.
PART THREE – ASHABA
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The road leading north from Mal Zeth passed through a fair, fertile plain where new‑sprouted grain covered the damp soil like a low, bright green mist and the warm spring air was filled with the urgent scent of growth. In many ways, the landscape resembled the verdant plains of Arendia or the tidy fields of Sendaria. There were villages, of course, with white buildings, thatched roofs, and dogs that came out to stand at the roadside and bark. The spring sky was an intense blue dotted with puffy white clouds grazing like sheep in their azure pastures.
The road was a dusty brown ribbon laid straight where the surrounding green fields were flat, and folded and curved where the land rose in gentle, rounded hills.
They rode out that morning in glistening sunshine with the sound of the bells fastened about the necks of Yarblek’s mules providing a tinkling accompaniment to the morning song of flights of birds caroling to greet the sun.
Behind them there rose a great column of dense black smoke, marking the huge valley where Mal Zeth lay burning.
Garion could not bring himself to look back as they rode away.
There were others on the road as well, for Garion and his friends were not the only ones fleeing the plague-stricken city. Singly or in small groups, wary travelers moved north, fearfully avoiding any contact with each other, leaving the road and angling far out into the fields whenever they overtook other refugees, and returning to the brown, dusty ribbon only when they were safely past.
Each solitary traveler or each group thus rode in cautious isolation, putting as much empty air about itself as possible.
The lanes branching off from the road and leading across the bright green fields were all blocked with barricades of fresh-cut brush, and bleak‑faced peasants stood guard at those barricades, awkwardly handling staffs and heavy, graceless crossbows and shouting warnings at any and all who passed to stay away.
“Peasants,” Yarblek said sourly as the caravan plodded past one such barricade. “They’re the same the world over. They’re glad to see you when you’ve got something they want, but they spend all the rest of their time trying to chase you away. Do you think they actually believe that anybody would really want to go into their stinking little villages?” Irritably he crammed his fur cap down lower over his ears.
“They’re afraid,” Polgara told him. “They know that their village isn’t very luxurious, but it’s all they have, and they want to keep if safe.”
“Do those barricades and threats really do any good?” he asked. “To keep out the plague, I mean?”
“Some, she said, “if they put them up early enough.”
Yarblek grunted, then looked over at Silk. “Are you open to a suggestion?” he asked.
“Depends,” Silk replied. The little man had returned to his customary travel clothing‑dark, unadorned, and nondescript.
“Between the plague and the demons, the climate here is starting to turn unpleasant. What say we liquidate all our holdings here in Mallorea and sit tight until things settle down?”
“You’re not thinking, Yarblek,” Silk told him. “Turmoil and war are good for business.”
Yarblek scowled at him. “Somehow I thought you might look at it that way.”
About a half mile ahead, there was another barricade, this one across the main road itself.
“What’s this?” Yarblek demanded angrily, reining in.
“I’ll go find out,” Silk said, thumping his heels against his horse’s flanks. On an impulse, Garion followed his friend.
When they were about fifty yards from the barricade, a dozen mud‑spattered peasants dressed in smocks made of brown sackcloth rose from behind it with leveled crossbows. “Stop right there!” one of them commanded threateningly. He was a burly fellow with a coarse beard and eyes that looked off in different directions.
“We’re just passing through, friend,” Silk told him.
“Not without paying toll, you’re not.”
“Toll?” Silk exclaimed. “This is an imperial highway. There’s no toll.”
“There is now. You city people have cheated and swindled us for generations and now you want to bring your diseases to us. Well, from now on, you’re going to pay. How much gold have you got?”
“Keep him talking,” Garion muttered, looking around.
“Well,” Silk said to the walleyed peasant in the tone of voice he usually saved for serious negotiations, “why don’t we talk about that?”
The village stood about a quarter of a mile away, rising dirty and cluttered‑looking atop a grassy knoll. Garion concentrated, drawing in his will, then he made a slight gesture in the direction of the village. “Smoke,” he muttered, half under his breath.
Silk was still haggling with the armed peasants, taking up as much time as he could.
“Uh ‑excuse me,” Garion interrupted mildly, “but is that something burning over there?” He pointed.
The peasants turned to stare in horror at the column of dense smoke rising from their village. With startled cries, most of them threw down their crossbows and ran out across the fields in the direction of the apparent catastrophe. The walleyed man ran after them, shouting at them to return to their posts. Then he ran back, waving his crossbow threateningly. A look of anguish crossed his face as he hopped about in an agony of indecision, torn between his desire for money that could be extorted from these travelers and the horrid vision of a fire raging unchecked through his house and outbuildings. Finally, no longer able to stand it, he also threw down his weapon and ran after his neighbors.
“Did you really set their village on fire?” Silk sounded a little shocked.
“Of course not,” Garion said.
“Where’s the smoke coming from then?”
“Lots of places.” Garion winked. “Out of the thatch on their roofs, up from between the stones in the streets, boiling up out of their cellars and granaries ‑lots of places. But it’s only smoke.” He swung down from Chretienne’s back and gathered up the discarded crossbows. He lined them up, nose down, in a neat row along the brushy barricade. “How long does it take to restring a crossbow?” he asked.
“Hours.” Silk suddenly grinned., “Two men to bend the limbs with a windlass and another two to hook the cable in place.”
“That’s what I thought,” Garion agreed. He drew his old belt knife and went down the line of weapons, cutting each twisted rope cable. Each bow responded with a heavy twang. “Shall we go, then?” he asked.
“What about this?” Silk pointed at the brushy barricade.
Garion shrugged. “I think we can ride around it.”
“What were they trying to do?” Durnik asked when they returned.
“An enterprising group of local peasants decided that the highway needed a tollgate about there.” Silk shrugged. “They didn’t really have the temperament for business affairs, though. At the first little distraction, they ran off and left the shop untended.”
They rode on past the now‑deserted barricade with Yarblek’s laden mules plodding along behind them, their bells clanging mournfully.
“I think we’re going to have to leave you soon,” Belgarath said to the fur‑capped Nadrak. “We have to get to Ashaba within the week, and your mules are holding us back.”
Yarblek nodded. “Nobody ever accused a pack mule of being fast on his feet,” he agreed. “I’ll be turning toward the west before long anyway. You can go into Karanda if you want to, but I want to get to the coast as quickly as possible.”