“An’ that be much of the source of Urvon’s power,” Feldegast added. “Ordinary Grolims be always schemin’ against each other an’ against their superiors, but Urvon’s Chandim have kept the Mallorean Grolims in line fer five hundred years now.”
“And the Temple Guardsmen?” Sadi added. “Are they Chandim, or Grolims, too?”
“Not usually,” Belgarath replied. “There are Grolims among them, of course, but most of them are Mallorean Angaraks. They were recruited before Vo Mimbre to serve as Torak’s personal bodyguard.”
“Why would a God need a bodyguard?”
“I never entirely understood that myself,” the old man admitted. “Anyway, after Vo Mimbre, there are still a few of them left ‑new recruits, veterans who’d been wounded in earlier battles and sent home, that sort of thing. Urvon persuaded them that he spoke for Torak, and now their allegiance is to him. After that, they recruited more young Angaraks to fill up the holes in their ranks. They do more than just guard the Temple now, though. When Urvon started having difficulties with the Emperors at Mal Zeth, he decided that he needed a fighting force, so he expanded them into an army.”
“ ‘Tis a practical arrangement,” Feldegast pointed out. “The Chandim provide Urvon with the sorcery he needs t’ keep the other Grolims toein’ the mark, an’ the simple Guardsmen provide the muscle t’ keep the ordinary folk from protestin’ their lot.”
“These Guardsmen, they’re just ordinary soldiers, then?” Durnik asked.
“Not really. They’re closer to being knights,” Belgarath replied.
“Like Mandorallen, you mean ‑all dressed in steel plate and with shields and lances and war horses and all that?”
“No, Goodman,” Feldegast answered. “They’re not nearly so grand. Lances an’ helmets and shields they have, certainly, but fer the rest, they rely on chain mail.
They be most nearly as stupid as Arends, however. Somethin’ about wearin’ all that steel empties the mind of every knight the world around.”
Belgarath was looking speculatively at Garion. “How muscular are you feeling?” he asked.
“Not very ‑why?”
“We’ve got a bit of a problem here. We’re far more likely to encounter Guardsmen than we are Chandim -but if we start unhorsing all these tin men with our minds, the noise is going to attract the Chandim like a beacon.”
Garion stared at him. “You’re not serious! I’m not Mandorallen, Grandfather.”
“No. You’ve got better sense than he has.”
“I will not stand by and hear my knight insulted!” Ce’Nedra declared hotly.
“Ce’Nedra,” Belgarath said almost absently, “hush.”
“Hush?”
“You heard me.” He scowled at her so blackly that she faltered and drew back behind Polgara for protection.
“The point, Garion,” the old man continued, “is that you’ve received a certain amount of training from Mandorallen in this sort of thing and you’ve had a bit of experience. None of the rest of us have.”
“I don’t have any armor.”
“You’ve got a mail shirt.”
“I don’t have a helmet ‑or a shield.”
“I could probably manage those, Garion,” Durnik offered.
Garion looked at his old friend. “I’m terribly disappointed in you, Durnik,” he said.
“You aren’t afraid, are you, Garion?” Ce’Nedra asked in a small voice.
“Well, no. Not really. It’s just that it’s so stupid ‑and it looks so ridiculous.”
“Have you got an old pot I could borrow, Pol?” Durnik asked.
“How big a pot?”
“Big enough to fit Garion’s head.”
“Now that’s going too far!” Garion exclaimed. “I’m not going to wear a kitchen pot on my head for a helmet. I haven’t done that since I was a boy.”
“I’ll modify it a bit,” Durnik assured him. “And then I’ll take the lid and make you a shield.” Garion walked away swearing to himself.
Velvet’s eyes had narrowed. She looked at Feldegast with no hint of her dimples showing. “Tell me, master juggler,” she said, “how is it that an itinerant entertainer, who plays for pennies in wayside taverns, knows so very much about the inner working of Grolim society here in Mallorea?”
“I be not nearly so foolish as I look, me lady,” he replied, “an’ I do have eyes an’ ears, an’ know how t’ use ’em.”
“You avoided that question rather well,” Belgarath complimented him.
The juggler smirked. “I thought so meself. Now,” he continued seriously, “as me ancient friend here says, ’tis not too likely that we’ll be encounterin’ the Chandim if it rains, fer a dog has usually the good sense t’ take t’ his kennel when the weather be foul ‑unless there be pressin’ need fer him t’ be out an’ about. ‘Tis far more probable fer us t’ meet Temple Guardsmen, fer a knight, be he Arendish or Mallorean, seems deaf t’ the gentle patter of rain on his armor. I shouldn’t wonder that our young warrior King over there be of sufficient might t’ be a match fer any Guardsman we might meet alone, but there always be the possibility of comin’ across ’em in groups. Should there be such encounters, keep yer wits about ye an’ remember that once a knight has started his charge, ’tis very hard fer him t’ swerve or change direction very much at all. A sidestep an’ a smart rap across the back of the head be usually enough t’ roll ’em out of the saddle, an’ a man in armor ‑once he’s off his horse- be like a turtle on his back, don’t y’ know.”
“You’ve done it a few times yourself, I take it?” Sadi murmured.
“I’ve had me share of misunderstandin’s with Temple Guardsmen,” Feldegast admitted, “an’ ye’ll note that I still be here t’ talk about ’em.”
Durnik took the cast iron pot Polgara had given him and set it in the center of their fire. After a time, he pulled it glowing out of the coals with a stout stick, placed the blade of a broken knife on a rounded rock, and then set the pot over it. He took up his axe, reversed it, and held the blunt end over the pot.
“You’ll break it,” Silk predicted. “Cast iron’s too brittle to take any pounding.”
“Trust me, Silk,” the smith said with a wink. He took a deep breath and began to tap lightly on the pot. The sound of his hammering was not the dull clack of cast iron, but the clear ring of steel, a sound that Garion remembered from his earliest boyhood. Deftly the smith reshaped the pot into a flat‑topped helmet with a fierce nose guard and heavy cheek pieces. Garion knew that his old friend was cheating just a bit by the faint whisper and surge he was directing at the emerging helmet.
Then Durnik dropped the helmet into a pail of water, and it hissed savagely, sending off a cloud of steam. The pot lid that the smith intended to convert into a shield, however, challenged even his ingenuity. It became quite obvious that, should he hammer it out to give it sufficient size to offer protection, it would be so thin that it would not even fend off a dagger stroke, much less a blow from a lance or sword. He considered that, even as he pounded on the ringing lid. He shifted his axe and made an obscure gesture at Toth. The giant nodded, went to the riverbank, returned with a pail full of clay, and dumped the bucket out in the center of the glowing shield. It gave off an evil hiss, and Durnik continued to pound.
“Uh‑ Durnik,” Garion said, trying not to be impolite, “a ceramic shield was not exactly what I had in mind, you know.”
Durnik gave him a grin filled with surpressed mirth.
“Look at it, Garion,” he suggested, not changing the tempo of his hammering.
Garion stared at the shield, his eyes suddenly wide. The glowing circle upon which Durnik was pounding was solid, cherry‑red steel. “How did you do that?”
“Transmutation!” Polgara gasped. “Changing one thing into something else! Durnik, where on earth did you ever learn to do that?”
“It’s just something I picked up, Pol.” He laughed. “As long as you’ve got a bit of steel to begin with ‑like old knife blade‑ you can make as much more as you want, out of anything that’s handy: cast iron, clay, just about anything.”
Ce’Nedra’s eyes had suddenly gone very wide. “Durnik,” she said in an almost reverent whisper, “could you have made it out of gold?”
Durnik thought about it, still hammering. “I suppose I could have,” he admitted, “but gold’s too heavy and soft to make a good shield, wouldn’t you say?”
“Could you make another one?” she wheedled. “For me? It wouldn’t have to be so big ‑at least not quite. Please, Durnik.”
Durnik finished the rim of the shield with a shower of crimson sparks and the musical ring of steeI on steel. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Ce’Nedra,” he told her. “Gold is valuable because it’s so scarce. If I started making it out of clay, it wouldn’t be long before it wasn’t worth anything at all. I’m sure you can see that.”