“You’re a devious young man, Garion. What’s Kheldar doing? He’s running through those stands like a pickpocket hard at work.”
“As soon as he heard what we’re planning, he went out to place a few wagers.”
Zakath suddenly burst out laughing. “I wish I’d known. I’d have given him some money to wager for me, as well.”
“Getting it back from him might have been a little difficult, though.”
Their friend, Baron Astellig, was unhorsed on the second pass. “Is he all right?” Zakath asked with concern.
“He’s still moving,” Garion said. “He probably just broke one of his legs.”
“At least we won’t have to fight him. I hate hurting friends. Of course, I don’t have all that many friends.”
“You probably have more than you realize.”
After the third pass of the front rank, Zakath said, “Garion, have you ever studied fencing?”
“Alorns don’t use light swords, Zakath. Except for the Al-gars.”
“I know, but the theory is similar. If you twist your wrist or elbow at the last instant, you could knock your opponent’s lance aside. Then you could correct your aim and smash into the center of his shield when his lance is completely out of position. He wouldn’t have a chance at that point, would he?”
Garion considered it. “It’s highly unorthodox,” he said dubiously.
“So’s using sorcery, isn’t it? Would it work?”
“Zakath, you’re using a fifteen-foot lance, and it weighs about two pounds a foot. You’d need arms like a gorilla to move it around that fast.”
“Not really. You don’t really have to move it that far back and forth. Just a tap would do. Can I try it?”
“It’s your idea. I’ll be here to pick you up if it doesn’t work.”
“I knew I could count on you.” Zakath’s voice sounded excited—even boyish.
“Oh, Gods,” Garion murmured almost in despair.
“Anything wrong?” Zakath asked.
“No, I guess not. Go ahead and try it, if you feel that you have to.”
“What difference does it make? I can’t get hurt, can I?”
“I wouldn’t go entirely that far. Do you see that?” Garion pointed at a knight who had just been unhorsed and had come down on his back across the center pole of the lists, scattering bits and pieces of his armor in all directions.
“He’s not really hurt, is he?”
‘,. “He’s still moving—a little bit—but they’ll need a blacksmith fo get him out of his armor before the physicians can go to work On him.” … “I still mink it might work,” Zakath said stubbornly.
“We’ll give you a splendid funeral if it doesn’t. All right. It’s our turn. Let’s go get our lances.”
The blunted lances were padded at the tip with layer upon layer of woolly sheepskin tightly wrapped in canvas. The result was a round padded ball that looked totally humane, but which Garion knew would hurl a man from his saddle with terrific force, and it was not the impact-of the lance that broke bones, Other ft was the violent contact with the ground. He was a bit
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distracted at the point when he began to focus his will, and so the best word he could come up with as a release for that will was “Make it that way.” He was not entirely positive that it worked exactly as he had planned. His first opponent was hurled from his saddle at a point some five feet before Garion’s lance touched his shield. Garion adjusted the aura of force around their lances. Zakath’s technique, Garion saw with some surprise, worked flawlessly. A single, almost unnoticeable, twist of his forearm deflected his opponent’s lance, and then his own blunted lance smashed directly into the center of the knight’s shield. A man hurled forcefully from the back of a charging horse flies through the air for quite some distance, Garion noticed, and the crash when he hits the ground sounds much like that which might come from a collapsing smithy. Both their opponents were carried senseless from the field.
It was a bad day for the pride of Perivor. As their experience with their enhanced weapons increased, the Rivan King and the Emperor of Mallorea quite literally romped through the ranks of the steel-clad knights of Perivor, filling the dispensaries with row upon row of groaning injured. It was more than a rout. It soon reached disastrous proportions. At last, with even their unthinking Mimbrate heritage sobered by the realization that they were facing an invincible pair, the knights of Perivor gathered and took counsel with each other. And then, en masse, they yielded.
“What a shame,” Zakath said regretfully. “I was starting to enjoy this.”
Garion decided to ignore that.
As the two started back toward the stands to make the customary salute to the king, white-eyed Naradas came forward with an oily smile. “Congratulations, Sir Knights,” he said. “Ye are men of great prowess and extraordinary skill. Ye have won the field and the laurels of the day. Mayhap ye have heard of the great prize of honor and glory that is to be bestowed upon the champions of this field?”
“No,” Garion said flatly. “I can’t say that we have.”
‘ ‘Ye have contested this day for the honor of subduing a troublesome beast that betimes hath disturbed the peace of our fair kingdom.”
“What kind of beast?” Garion asked suspiciously.
“Why, a dragon, of course, Sir Knight.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“He’s tricked us again, hasn’t he?” Beldin growled when they had returned to their quarters following the tourney. “White-eyes is beginning to irritate me just a bit. I think I’ll take some steps.”
“Too noisy,” Belgarath told him, “The people here are not entirely Mimbrate.” He turned to Cyradis. “There’s a certain sound sorcery makes,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied. “I know.”
“Can vow hear it?”
She nodded.
“Are there other Dais here on the island who can hear it, as well?” . “Yes, Ancient Belgarath.”
“How about these counterfeit Mimbrates? They’re at least half Dal. Is it possible that some of them might be able to hear it, too?”
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“Entirely so.”
“Grandfather,” Garion said in a worried tone, “that means that half the people in Dal Perivor heard what I did to the lances.”
“Not over the noise of the crowd, they didn’t.”
“I didn’t know that would make a difference.”
“Of course it does.”
“Well,” Silk said grimly, “I won’t use sorcery, and I can guarantee that there won’t be any noise.”
“But there will be a certain amount of evidence, Kheldar,” Sadi pointed out, “and since we’re the only strangers in the palace, there might be some embarrassing questions if they find Naradas with one of your daggers sticking out of his back. Why don’t you let me handle it? I can make things look much more natural.”
“You’re talking about cold-blooded murder, Sadi,” Durnik accused.
“I appreciate your sensibilities, Goodman Durnik,” the eunuch replied, “but Naradas has already tricked us twice and, each time he does, he delays us that much more. We have to get him out of the way.”
“He’s right, Durnik,” Belgarath said.
“Zith?” Velvet suggested to Sadi.
He shook his head. “She won’t leave her babies—not even for the pleasure of biting someone. I have a few other things that are just as effective. They’re not quite as fast perhaps, but they get the job done.”
“Zakath and I still have to come up against Zandramas,” Garion said glumly, “and this tune we’ll have to do it alone— because of that stupid tournament.”
“It won’t be Zandramas,” Velvet told him. “Ce’Nedra and I spoke with some of the young ladies here at court while you two were out there being magnificent. They told us that this ‘fearsome beast’ has been showing up from time to time for centuries now, and Zandramas has only been active for a dozen years, hasn’t she? I really think the dragon you’ll be fighting will be the real one.”
“I’m not so sure, Liselle,” Polgara disagreed. “Zandramas can take the form of that dragon at any time. If the real one is asleep in her lair, it could very well be Zandramas who’s been out there terrorizing the countryside this time—all as a part of the scheme to force a confrontation before we get to the place of the meeting.”
“I’ll know which it is as soon as I get a look at it,” Garion said.
“How?” Zakath asked him.
“The first time we met, I cut off about four feet of her tail. If the one we run into out there has a stub tail, we’ll know it’s Zandramas.”
‘ ‘Do we really have to go to this celebration tonight? *’ Beldin asked.
“It’s expected, uncle,” Aunt Pol told him.
“But I haven’t got a single solitary thing to wear, don’t y’ know,” he said roguishly, lapsing back into Feldegast’s brogue.
“We’ll take care of you, uncle,” she said ominously.