“Shall we try for it?” Silk asked.
“Let’s wait,” Belgarath decided. “I’m just a little concerned about what that fellow you talked with said. I’m not sure I want any surprises—particularly in the dark.”
“There’s a willow thicket downstream a ways,” Durnik said, pointing at a fair-sized grove of spindly trees bordering the river a half mile or so to the south. “Toth and I can pitch the tents there.”
“All right,” Belgarath agreed.
“How far is it to Verkat now, Grandfather?” Garion asked as they rode down along the rain-swollen river toward the willows.
“According to the map, it’s about fifty leagues to the southeast before we reach the coast opposite the island. Then we’ll have to find a boat to get us across.”
Garion sighed.
“Don’t get discouraged,” Belgarath told him. “We’re making better time than I’d originally expected, and Zandramas can’t run forever. There’s only so much land in the world. Sooner or later we’ll chase her down.”
As Durnik and Toth pitched the tents, Garion and Eriond ranged out through the sodden willow thicket in search of firewood. It was difficult to find anything sufficiently dry to burn, and the effort of an hour yielded only enough twigs and small branches from under fallen trees to make a meager cook fire for Polgara. As she began to prepare their evening meal of beans and venison, Garion noted that Sadi was walking about their campsite, combing the ground with his eyes. “This isn’t funny, dear,” he said quite firmly. “Now you come out this very minute.”
“What’s the matter?” Durnik asked him.
“Zith isn’t in her bottle,” Sadi replied, still searching.
Durnik rose from where he was sitting quite rapidly. “Are you sure?”
“She thinks it’s amusing to hide from me sometimes. Now, you come out immediately, you naughty snake.”
“You probably shouldn’t tell Silk,” Belgarath advised. “He’ll go directly into hysterics if he finds out that she’s loose.” The old man looked around. “Where is he, by the way?”
“He and Liselle went for a walk,” Eriond told him.
“In all this wet? Sometimes I wonder about him.”
Ce’Nedra came over and sat on the log beside Garion. He put his arm about her shoulders and drew her close to him. She snuggled down and sighed. “I wonder what Geran is doing tonight,” she said wistfully.
“Sleeping, probably.”
“He always looked so adorable when he was asleep.” She sighed again and then closed her eyes.
There was a crashing back in the willows, and Silk suddenly ran into the circle of firelight, his eyes very wide and his face deathly pale.
“What’s the matter?” Durnik exclaimed.
“She had that snake in her bodice!” Silk blurted.
“Who did?”
“Liselle!”
Polgara, holding a ladle in one hand, turned to regard the violently trembling little man with one raised eyebrow. “Tell me, Prince Kheldar,” she said in a cool voice, “exactly what were you doing in the Margravine Liselle’s bodice?”
Silk endured that steady gaze for a moment; then he actually began to blush furiously.
“Oh,” she said, “I see.” She turned back to her cooking.
It was past midnight, and Garion was not sure what it was that had awakened him. He moved slowly to avoid waking Ce’Nedra and carefully parted the tentflap to look out. A dense, clinging fog had arisen from the river, and all that he could see was a curtain of solid, dirty white. He lay quietly, straining his ears to catch any sound.
From somewhere off in the fog, he heard a faint clinking sound; it took him a moment to identify it. Finally he realized that what he was hearing was the sound of a mounted man wearing a mail shirt. He reached over in the darkness and took up his sword.
“I still think you ought to tell us what you found in that house before you set it on fire,” he heard someone say in a gruff, Malloreon-accented voice. The speaker was not close, but sounds at night traveled far, so Garion could clearly understand what was being said.
“Oh, it wasn’t much, Corporal,” another Malloreon voice replied evasively. “A bit of this; a bit of that.”
“I think you ought to share those things with the rest of us. We’re all in this together, after all.”
“Isn’t it odd that you didn’t think of that until after I managed to pick up a few things? If you want to share in the loot, then you should pay attention to the houses and not spend all your time impaling the prisoners.”
“We’re at war,” the corporal declared piously. “It’s our duty to kill the enemy.”
“Duty,” the second Malloreon snorted derisively. “We’re deserters, Corporal. Our only duty is to ourselves. If you want to spend your time butchering Murgo fanners, that’s up to you, but I’m saving up for my retirement.”
Garion carefully rolled out from under the tent flap. He felt a peculiar calm, almost as if his emotions had somehow been set aside. He rose and moved silently to where the packs were piled and burrowed his hand into them one by one until his fingers touched steel. Then, carefully, so that it made no sound, he drew out his heavy mail shirt. He pulled it on and shrugged his shoulders a couple of times to settle it into place.
Toth was standing guard near the horses, his huge bulk looming in the fog.
“There’s something I have to take care of,” Garion whispered softly to the mute giant.
Toth looked at him gravely, then nodded. He turned, untied a horse from the picket line, and handed him the reins. Then he put one huge hand on Garion’s shoulder, squeezed once in silent approval, and stepped back.
Garion did not want to give the Malloreon deserters time to lose themselves in the fog, so he pulled himself up onto the unsaddled horse and moved out of the willow thicket at a silent walk.
The fading voices that had come out of the fog had seemed to be moving in the direction of the forest, and Garion rode quietly after them, probing the foggy darkness ahead with his ears and with his mind.
After he had ridden for perhaps a mile, he heard a raucous laugh coming from somewhere ahead and slightly to the left. “Did you hear the way they squealed when we impaled them?” a coarse voice came out of the clinging mist.
“That does it,” Garion grated from between clenched teeth as he drew his sword. He directed his horse toward the sound, then nudged his heels at the animal’s flanks. The horse moved faster, his hooves making no sound on the damp earth.
“Let’s have some light,” one of the deserters said.
“Do you think it’s safe? There are patrols out looking for deserters.”
“It’s after midnight. The patrols are all in bed. Go ahead and light the torch.”
After a moment, there was a fatally ruddy beacon glowing in the dark and reaching out to Garion.
His charge caught the deserters totally by surprise. Several of them were dead before they even knew that he was upon them. There were screams and shouts from both sides as he crashed through them, chopping them out of their saddles with huge strokes to the right and the left. His great blade sheared effortlessly through mail, bone, and flesh. He sent five of them tumbling to the ground as he thundered through their ranks. Then he whirled on the three who still remained. After one startled look, one of them fled; another dragged his sword from its sheath, and the third, who held the torch, sat frozen in astonished terror.
The Malloreon with the sword feebly raised his weapon to protect his head from the dreadful blow Garion had already launched. The great overhand sweep, however, shattered the doomed man’s sword blade and sheared down through his helmet halfway to his waist. Roughly, Garion kicked the twitching body off his sword and turned on the torch bearer.
“Please!” the terrified man cried, trying to back his horse away. “Have mercy!”
For some reason, that plaintive cry infuriated Garion all the more. He clenched his teeth together. With a single broad swipe, he sent the murderer’s head spinning off into the foggy darkness.
He pulled his horse up sharply, cocked his head for a moment to pick up the sound of the last Malloreon’s galloping flight, and set out in pursuit.
It took him only a few minutes to catch up with the fleeing deserter. At first he had only the sound to follow, but then he was able to make out the dim, shadowy form racing ahead of him in the fog. He veered slightly to the right, plunged on past the desperate man, then pulled his horse directly into the shadowy deserter’s path.
“Who are you?” the unshaven Malloreon squealed as he hauled his mount to a sudden, rearing stop. “Why are you doing this?”
“I am justice,” Garion grated at him and quite deliberately ran the man through.