“But-”
“No, Ce’Nedra,” he said firmly.
“Garion‑“ she appealed, her voice anguished.
“He’s right, dear.”
“But‑“
“Never mind, Ce’Nedra,”
The fire had burned down to a bed of glowing coals.
Garion awoke with a start, sitting up suddenly. He was covered with sweat and trembling violently. Once again he had heard the wailing cry that he had heard the previous day, and the sound of it wrenched at his heart. He sat for a long time staring at the fire. In time, the sweat dried and his trembling subsided.
Ce’Nedra’s breathing was regular as she lay beside him, and there was no other sound in their well‑shielded encampment. He rolled carefully out of his blankets and walked to the edge of the grove of cedars to stare bleakly out across the fields lying dark and empty under an inky sky. Then, because there was nothing he could do about it, he returned to his bed and slept fitfully until dawn.
It was drizzling rain when he awoke. He got up quietly and went out of the tent to join Durnik, who was up the fire. “Can I borrow your axe?” he asked his friend.
Durnik looked up at him.
“I guess I’m going to need a lance to go with all that.” He looked rather distastefully at the helmet and shield lying atop his mail shirt near the packs and saddles.
“Oh,” the smith said. “I almost forgot about that. Is one going to be enough? They break sometimes, you know ‑at least Mandorallen’s always did.”
“I’m certainly not going to carry more than one.” Garion jabbed his thumb back over his shoulder at the hilt of his sword.” Anyway, I’ve always got this big knife to fall back on.”
The chill drizzle that had begun shortly before dawn was the kind of rain that made the nearby fields hazy and indistinct. After breakfast, they took heavy cloaks out of their packs and prepared to face a fairly unpleasant day. Garion had already put on his mail shirt, and he padded the inside of his helmet with an old tunic and jammed it down on his head. He felt very foolish as he clinked over to saddle Chretienne. The mail already smelled bad and it seemed, for some reason, to attract the chill of the soggy morning. He looked at his new‑cut lance and his round shield. “This is going to be awkward,” he said.
“Hang the shield from the saddle bow, Garion,” Durnik suggested, “and set the butt of your lance in the stirrup beside your foot. That’s the way Mandorallen does it.”
“I’ll try it,” Garion said. He hauled himself up into his saddle, already sweating under the weight of his mail.
Durnik handed him the shield, and he hooked the strap of it over the saddle bow. Then he took his lance and jammed its butt into his stirrup, pinching his toes in the process.
“You’ll have to hold it,” the smith told him. “It won’t stay upright by itself.”
Garion grunted and took the shaft of his lance in his right hand.
“You look very impressive, dear,” Ce’Nedra assured him.
“Wonderful,” he replied dryly.
They rode out of the cedar grove into the wet, miserable morning with Garion in the lead, feeling more than a little absurd in his warlike garb. The lance, he discovered almost immediately, had a stubborn tendency to dip its point toward the ground. He shifted his grip on it, sliding his hand up until he found its center of balance. The rain collected on the shaft of the lance, ran down across his clammy hand, and trickled into his sleeve. After a short while, a steady stream of water dribbled from his elbow. “I feel like a downspout,” he grumbled.
“Let’s pick up the pace,” Belgarath said to him. “It’s a long way to Ashaba, and we don’t have too much time.”
Garion nudged Chretienne with his heels, and the big gray moved out, at first at a trot and then in a rolling canter. For some reason that made Garion feel a bit less foolish.
The road which Feldegast had pointed out to them the previous evening was little traveled and this morning it was deserted. It ran past abandoned farmsteads, sad, bramble‑choked shells with the moldy remains of their thatched roofs all tumbled in. A few of the farmsteads had been burned, some only recently.
The road began to turn muddy as the earth soaked up the steady rain. The cantering hooves of their horses splashed the mud up to coat their legs and bellies and to spatter the boots and cloaks of the riders.
Silk rode beside Garion, his sharp face alert, and just before they reached the crest of each hill, he galloped on ahead to have a quick look at the shallow valley lying beyond.
By midmorning, Garion was soaked through, and he rode on bleakly, enduring the discomfort and the smell of new rust, wishing fervently that the rain would stop.
Silk came back down the next hill after scouting on ahead. His face was tight with a sudden excitement, and he motioned them all to stop.
“There are some Grolims up ahead,” he reported tersely.
“How many?” Belgarath asked.
“ About two dozen. They’re holding some kind of religious ceremony.”
The old man grunted. “Let’s take a look.” He looked at Garion. “Leave your lance with Durnik,” he said. “It sticks up too high into the air, and I’d rather not attract attention.”
Garion nodded and passed his lance over to the smith, then followed Silk, Belgarath, and Feldegast up the hill.
They dismounted just before they reached the crest and moved carefully to the top, where a brushy thicket offered some concealment.
The black‑robed Grolims were kneeling on the wet grass before a pair of grim altars some distance down the hill. A limp, unmoving form lay sprawled across each of them, and there was a great deal of blood. Sputtering braziers stood at the end of each altar, sending twin columns of black smoke up into the drizzle. The Grolims were chanting in the rumbling groan Garion had heard too many times before. He could not make out what they were saying.
“Chandim?” Belgarath softly asked the juggler.
“ ‘Tis hard t’ say fer certain, Ancient One,” Feldegast replied. “The twin altars would suggest it, but the practice might have spread. Grolims be very quick t’ pick up changes in Church policy. But Chandim or not, ‘twould be wise of us t’ avoid ’em. There be not much point in engagin’ ourselves in casual skirmishes with Grolims.”
“There are trees over on the east-side of the valley,” Silk said, pointing. “If we stay in among them, we’ll be out of sight.”
Belgarath nodded.
“How much longer are they likely to be praying?” Garion asked.
“Another half hour at least,” Feldegast replied.
Garion looked at the pair of altars, feeling an icy rage building up in him. “I’d like to cap their ceremony with a little personal visit,” he said.
“Forget it,” Belgarath told him. “You’re not here to ride around the countryside righting wrongs. Let’s go back and get the others. I’d like to get around those Grolims before they finish with their prayers.”
They picked their way carefully through the belt of dripping trees that wound along the eastern rim of the shallow valley where the Grolims were conducting their rites and returned to the muddy road about a mile beyond. Again they set out at the same distance‑eating canter, with Garion once more in the lead.
Some miles past the valley where the Grolims had sacrificed the two unfortunates, they passed a burning village that was spewing out a cloud of black smoke. There seemed to be no one about, though there were some signs of fighting near the burning houses.
They rode on without stopping.
The rain let up by midafternoon, though the sky remained overcast. Then, as they crested yet another hilltop in the rolling countryside, they saw another rider on the far side of the valley. The distance was too great to make out details, but Garion could see that the rider was armed with a lance.
“What do we do?” he called back over his shoulder at the rest of them.
“That’s why you’re wearing armor and carrying a lance, Garion,” Belgarath replied.
“Shouldn’t I at least give him the chance to stand aside?”
“To what purpose?” Feldegast asked. “He’ll not do it. Yer very presence here with yer lance an’ yer shield be a challenge, an’ he’ll not be refusin’ it. Ride him down, young Master. The day wears on, don’t y’ know.”
“ All right,” Garion said unhappily. He buckled his shield to his left arm, settled his helmet more firmly in place, and lifted the butt of his lance out of his stirrup.
Chretienne was already pawing at the earth and snorting defiantly.
“Enthusiast,” Garion muttered to him. “All right, let’s go, then.”
The big gray’s charge was thunderous. It was not a gallop, exactly, nor a dead run, but rather was a deliberately implacable gait that could only be called a charge.