“Stop,” a rumbling voice suddenly, shockingly, said directly ahead of them. Garion’s eyes, accustomed slightly now to the gloom of the woods, saw a vague outline of something so huge that it could not possibly be a man.
“A giant!” he screamed in a sudden panic. Then, because he was exhausted and because everything that had happened that evening had simply piled too much upon him all at one time, his nerve broke and he bolted into the trees.
“Garion!” Aunt Pol’s voice cried out after him, “come back!”
But panic had taken hold of him. He ran on, falling over roots and bushes, crashing into trees and tangling his legs in brambles. It seemed like some endless nightmare of blind flight. He ran full tilt into a lowhanging, unseen branch, and sparks flared before his eyes with the sudden blow to his forehead. He lay on the damp earth, gasping and sobbing, trying to clear his head.
And then there were hands on him, horrid, unseen hands. A thousand terrors flashed through his mind at once, and he struggled desperately, trying to draw his dagger.
“Oh, no,” a voice said. “None of that, my rabbit.” His dagger was taken from him.
“Are you going to eat me?” Garion babbled, his voice breaking.
His captor laughed.
“On your feet, rabbit,” he said, and Garion felt himself pulled up by a strong hand. His arm was taken in a firm grasp, and he was half dragged through the woods.
Somewhere ahead there was a light, a winking fire among the trees, and it seemed that he was being taken that way. He knew that he must think, must devise some means of escape, but his mind, stunned by fright and exhaustion, refused to function.
There were three wagons sitting in a rough half circle around the fire. Durnik was there, and Wolf, and Aunt Pol, and with them a man so huge that Garion’s mind simply refused to accept the possibility that he was real. His tree-trunk sized legs were wrapped in furs cross-tied with leather thongs, and he wore a chain-mail shirt that reached to his knees, belted at the waist. From the belt hung a ponderous sword on one side and a short-handled axe on the other. His hair was in braids, and he had a vast, bristling red beard.
As they came into the light, Garion was able to see the man who had captured him. He was a small man, scarcely taller than Garion himself, and his face was dominated by a long pointed nose. His eyes were small and squinted, and his straight, black hair was raggedly cut. The face was not the sort to inspire confidence, and the man’s stained and patched tunic and short, wicked-looking sword did little to contradict the implications of the face.
“Here’s our rabbit,” the small, weasel-like man announced as he pulled Garion into the circle of the firelight. “And a merry chase he led me, too.”
Aunt Pol was furious.
“Don’t you ever do that again,” she said sternly to Garion.
“Not so quick, Mistress Pol,” Wolf said. “It’s better for him to run than to fight just yet. Until he’s bigger, his feet are his best friends.”
“Have we been captured by robbers?” Garion asked in a quavering voice.
“Robbers?” Wolf laughed. “What a wild imagination you have, boy. These two are our friends.”
“Friends?” Garion asked doubtfully, looking suspiciously at the redbearded giant and the weasel-faced man beside him. “Are you sure?” The giant laughed then too, his voice rumbling like an earthquake.
“The boy seems mistrustful,” he boomed. “Your face must have warned him, friend Silk.”
The smaller man looked sourly at his burly companion.
“This is Garion,” Wolf said, pointing at the boy. “You already know Mistress Pol.” His voice seemed to stress Aunt Pol’s name. “And this is Durnik, a brave smith who has decided to accompany us.”
“Mistress Pol?” the smaller man said, laughing suddenly for no apparent reason.
“I am known so,” Aunt Pol said pointedly.
“It shall be my pleasure to call you so then, great lady,” the small man said with a mocking bow.
“Our large friend here is Barak,” Wolf went on. “He’s useful to have around when there’s trouble. As you can see, he’s not a Sendar, but a Cherek from Val Alorn.”
Garion had never seen a Cherek before, and the fearful tales of their prowess in battle became suddenly quite believable in the presence of the towering Barak.
“And I,” the small man said with one hand to his chest, “am called Silk – not much of a name, I’ll admit, but one which suits me – and I am from Boktor in Drasnia. I am a juggler and an acrobat.”
“And also a thief and a spy,” Barak rumbled good-naturedly.
“We all have our faults,” Silk admitted blandly, scratching at his scraggly whiskers.
“And I’m called Mister Wolf in this particular time and place,” the old man said. “I’m rather fond of the name, since the boy there gave it to me.”
“Mister Wolf?” Silk asked, and then he laughed again. “What a merry name for you, old friend.”
“I’m delighted that you find it so, old friend,” Wolf said flatly. “Mister Wolf it shall be, then,” Silk said. “Come to the fire, friends. Warm yourselves, and I’ll see to some food.”
Garion was still uncertain about the oddly matched pair. They obviously knew Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf – and just as obviously by different names. The fact that Aunt Pol might not be whom he had always thought she was was very disturbing. One of the foundation stones of his entire life had just disappeared.
The food which Silk brought was rough, a turnip stew with thick chunks of meat floating in it and crudely hacked off slabs of bread, but Garion, amazed at the size of his appetite, fell into it as if he had not eaten for days.
And then, his stomach full and his feet warmed by the crackling campfire, he sat on a log, half dozing.
“What now, Old Wolf?” he heard Aunt Pol ask. “What’s the idea behind these clumsy wagons?”
“A brilliant plan,” Wolf said, “even if I do say it myself. There are, as you know, wagons going every which way in Sendaria at this time of year. Harvests are moving from field to farm, from farm to village and from village to town. Nothing is more unremarkable in Sendaria than wagons. They’re so common that they’re almost invisible. This is how we’re going to travel. We’re now honest freight haulers.”
“We’re what?” Aunt Pol demanded.
“Wagoneers,” Wolf said expansively. “Hard-working transporters of the goods of Sendaria – out to make our fortunes and seek adventure, bitten by the desire to travel, incurably infected by the romance of the road.”
“Have you any idea how long it takes to travel by wagon?” Aunt Pol asked.
“Six to ten leagues a day,” he told her. “Slow, I’ll grant you, but it’s better to move slowly than to attract attention.”
She shook her head in disgust.
“Where first, Mister Wolf?” Silk asked.
“To Darine,” Wolf announced. “If the one we’re following went to the north, he’ll have to have passed through Darine on his way to Boktor and beyond.”
“And what exactly are we carrying to Darine?” Aunt Pol asked.
“Turnips, great lady,” Silk said. “Last morning my large friend and I purchased three wagonloads of them in the village of Winold.”
“Turnips?” Aunt Pol asked in a tone that spoke volumes.
“Yes, great lady, turnips,” Silk said solemnly.
“Are we ready, then?” Wolf asked.
“We are,” the giant Barak said shortly, rising with his mail shirt clinking.
“We should look the part,” Wolf said carefully, eyeing Barak up and down. “Your armor, my friend, is not the sort of garb an honest wagoneer would wear. I think you should change it for stout wool.”
Barak’s face looked injured.
“I could wear a tunic over it,” he suggested tentatively.
“You rattle,” Silk pointed out, “and armor has a distinctive fragrance about it. From the downwind side you smell like a rusty ironworks, Barak.”
“I feel undressed without a mail shirt,” Barak complained.
“We must all make sacrifices,” Silk said.
Grumbling, Barak went to one of the wagons, jerked out a bundle of clothes and began to pull off his mail shirt. His linen undertunic bore large, reddish rust stains.
“I’d change tunics as well,” Silk suggested. “Your shirt smells as bad as the armor.”
Barak glowered at him. “Anything else?” he demanded. “I hope, for decency’s sake, you don’t plan to strip me entirely.”
Silk laughed.
Barak pulled off his tunic. His torso was enormous and covered with thick red hair.
“You look like a rug,” Silk observed.
“I can’t help that,” Barak said. “Winters are cold in Cherek, and the hair helps me to stay warm.” He put on a fresh tunic.
“It’s just as cold in Drasnia,” Silk said. “Are you absolutely sure your grandmother didn’t dally with a bear during one of those long winters?”