;• “But he’s so grubby,” Zakath said, eyeing the filthy dwarf.
“He’s grubby because he doesn’t care,” Garion said. v “This is the form he uses to go among us. It’s ugly, so he doesn’t waste time on it. His other form is so magnificent it would blind you.”
“Other form?”
“It’s a peculiarity of ours. Sometimes a human form isn’t practical for some of the things we have to do. Beldin likes to fly, so he spends most of his time as a blue-banded hawk.”
“I’m a falconer, Garion. I don’t believe there is such a bird.”
“Tell him that.” Garion pointed at the ugly dwarf ripping the chicken apart with his teeth by the roadside.
“You could have cut it up first, uncle,” Polgara said.
“Why?” He took another huge bite.
“It’s more polite.”
“Pol, I taught you how to fly and how to hunt. Don’t you try to teach me how to eat.”
“I don’t think ‘eat’ is the right word, uncle. You’re not an eater; you’re a ravener.”
“We all do it our own way, Pol.” He belched. “You do it with a silver fork off a porcelain plate, and I do it with my talons and beak in a ditch beside the road. It all gets to the same place no matter how you do it.” He raked a patch of burned skin off the chicken leg he was holding in one hand. “This isn’t too bad,” he conceded, “at least not after you get down to the real meat.”
“Anything up ahead?” Belgarath asked him.
“A few troops, some terrified civilians, and a Grolim now and then. That’s about it.”
“Any demons?”
“I didn’t see any. Of course that doesn’t mean they’re not lurking around somewhere. You know how it is with demons. Are you going to travel at night again?”
Belgarath thought about it. “I don’t think so,” he decided. “It takes too long to do it that way, and time’s running out on us. Let’s just make a run for it.”
“Suit yourself.” Beldin discarded the remains of the chicken and stood up. “I’ll keep an eye out up ahead and let you know when you’re about to run into trouble.” The hunchback bent, spread his arms, and soared up into the murky sky.
“Torak’s teeth!” Zakath exclaimed. “He is a blue-banded hawk!”
“He invented it himself,” Belgarath said. “He didn’t like the regular colors. Let’s move along.”
Although it was nearly summer, there was a dreary chill hanging over Darshiva. Garion could not be certain if it was the result of the prevailing overcast or if it derived from some other, more ominous, source. The white snags of dead trees lined the road, and the air was thick with the reek of fungus, decay, and stagnant water. They passed long- deserted villages tumbled now into ruins. A roadside temple seemed to huddle mournfully with fungus creeping up its walls like some loathsome disease. Its doors gaped open, and the polished steel mask of the face of Torak, which should have surmounted them, was gone. Belgarath reined in his horse and dismounted. “I’ll be right back,” he said. He went up the steps of the temple and looked inside. Then he turned and came back. “I thought they might have done that,” he said.
“Done what, father?” Aunt Pol asked him.
“They’ve taken Torak’s face down from the wall behind the altar. There’s a blank mask there now. They’re waiting to see what the New God looks like.”
They took shelter for the night beside the half-tumbled wall of a ruined village. They built no fire and traded off standing watch. At first light the next morning, they pushed on. The countryside grew more bleak and foreboding with each passing mile.
About midmorning, Beldin swooped in, flared his wings, and settled to earth. He shimmered into his own form and stood waiting for them. “There are some troops blocking the road about a mile ahead,” he announced.
“Any chance of getting around them?” Belgarath asked.
“I doubt it. The country’s pretty flat there, and all the vegetation’s been dead for years.”
“How many are there?” Silk asked.
“Fifteen or so. They’ve got a Grolim with them.”
“Any idea which side they’re on?” Belgarath said.
“They’re not that distinctive.”
“ Do you want me to see if I can talk our way past them?” Silk offered.
Belgarath looked at Beldin. “Are they deliberately blocking the road, or are they just camped on it?”
“They’ve built a barricade out of dead logs.”
“That answers that, then. Talk isn’t going to do us any good.” He mulled it over.
“We could wait until dark and then slip around them,” Velvet suggested.
“We’d lose a whole day that way,” Belgarath replied. “I don’t see any help for it. We’re going to have to go through them. Try not to kill any more of them than you absolutely have to.”
“That gets right to the point, doesn’t it?” Zakath said wryly to Garion.
“There’s no sense in trying to surprise them, I suppose?” Belgarath asked Beldin.
The dwarf shook his head. “They’ll see you coming for at least a half a mile.” He went to the side of the road, wrenched a half-rotten stump out of the ground, and pounded it against a rock until all the decayed wood had been knocked loose. The gnarled taproot made a fearsome-looking cudgel.
“Well, I guess we’d better go have a look,” Belgarath said bleakly.
They rode on to the crest of the hill and looked down the road toward the barricade and the troops standing behind it. Zakath peered at them. “Darshivans,” he said.
“How can you tell from this distance?” Silk asked him.
“By the shape of their helmets.” The Mallorean narrowed his eyes. “Darshivan soldiers are not notoriously brave and they get very little in the way of training. Do you think there might be some way we can lure them out from behind that barricade?”
Garion looked down at the soldiers crouched behind their logs. “I’d say they’ve been told not to let anybody past,” he said. “What if we charge them and then at the last minute swing out and around them? They’ll run for their horses. Then we turn around and charge back at them. They’ll be confused and milling around, and we’ll be able to pin them up against their own barricade. It shouldn’t be too hard to put a fair number of them on the ground. The rest should run at that point.”
“That’s not a bad plan, Garion. You’re quite a tactician. Have you had any formal military training?”
“No. I just picked it up.”
In a land of brittle, dead trees, a lance was quite out of the question, so Garion strapped his shield to his left arm and drew his sword.
“All right,” Belgarath said, “let’s give it a try. It might hold down the casualties.”
“One other thing,” Silk added. “I think we should make a special point of not letting any of them get on a horse. A man on foot can’t go for help very fast. If we run off their horses, we can be out of the area before they can bring in reinforcements.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Belgarath said. “All right. Let’s go-” They urged their horses into a gallop and charged down die road toward the barricade, brandishing their weapons. As they pounded down the hill, Garion saw Zakath pulling a curious-looking leather half-glove clad with steel onto his right hand.
Just before they reached the barricade and the alarmed soldiers standing behind it, they veered sharply to the left, then galloped around the obstruction and back onto the road.
“After them!” a black-robed Grolim screamed at the startled troops. “Don’t let them escape!”
Garion rode on past the soldiers’ picketed horses, then wheeled Chretienne around. He charged back with the others close on his heels and rode full into the face of the confused Darshivans. He did not really want to kill any of diem, so he laid about him with the flat of the blade rather than the edge. He put three of them down as he crashed through their ranks; behind him he could hear the sound of blows and cries of pain. The Grolim rose before him, and he could feel the black-robed man drawing in his will. He did not falter, but simply rode the priest down. Then he wheeled again. Toth was laying about him with his heavy staff, and Durnik was busily caving in helmets with the butt Of his axe. Zakath, however, was leaned far over in his saddle. He had no weapon in his hand but rather was smashing his metal-clad fist into the faces of the Darshivan soldiers. The glove appeared to be quite effective.
Then, from where the soldiers’ horses were picketed, there came a blood-curdling howl. The great silver wolf was snapping and snarling at the horses. They lunged back in panic, the picket rope snapped, and they fled.