“We do want them to find our trail, after all,” Silk reminded him. “It’s up to you of course, Garion, but if we exterminate all the Murgos in the area, there won’t be anyone left to report our direction back to Rak Cthol, will there?”
“Oh,” Garion said, feeling a little sheepish, “I forgot about that.”
“You have to keep the grand plan in view, Garion, and not lose sight of it during these little side adventures.”
“Maybe I got carried away.”
“A good leader can’t afford to do that.”
“All right.” Garion began to feel embarrassed.
“I just wanted to be sure you understood, that’s all.”
Garion didn’t answer, but he began to see what it was about Silk that irritated Belgarath so much. Leadership was enough of a burden without these continuously comments from the weasel-faced little man to complicate things.
“Are you all right?” Taiba was saying to Relg with a strange note of concern in her voice. The Ulgo was still on his knees beside the body of the Murgo he had killed.
“Leave me alone,” he told her harshly.
“Don’t be stupid. Are you hurt? Let me see.”
“Don’t touch me!” He cringed away from her outstretched hand. “Belgarion, make her get away from me.”
Garion groaned inwardly. “What’s the trouble now?” he asked.
“I killed this man,” Relg replied. “There are certain things I have to do – certain prayers – purification. She’s interfering.”
Garion resisted an impulse to swear. “Please, Taiba,” he said as calmly as he could, “just leave him alone.”
“I just wanted to see if he was all right,” Taiba answered a bit petulantly. “I wasn’t hurting him.” She had an odd look on her face that Garion could not begin to understand. As she stared at the kneeling Ulgo, a curious little smile flickered across her lips. Without warning, she reached her hand out toward him again.
Relg shrank back. “No!” he gasped.
Taiba chuckled, a throaty, wicked little sound, and walked away, humming softly to herself. After Relg had performed his ritual of purification over the dead Murgo’s body, they remounted and rode on. The sliver of moon stood high overhead in the chill sky, casting a pale light down on the black sands, and Garion looked about constantly as he rode, trying to pick out any possible dangers lurking ahead. He glanced frequently at Aunt Pol, wishing that she were not so completely cut off from him, but she seemed to be totally absorbed in maintaining her shield of will. She rode with Errand pulled closely against her, and her eyes were distant, unfathomable. Garion looked hopefully at Belgarath, but the old man, though he looked up from his doze at times, seemed largely unaware of his surroundings. Garion sighed, and his eyes resumed their nervous scrutiny of the trail ahead. They rode on through the tag-end of night in the biting chill with the faint moonlight about them and the stars glittering like points of ice in the sky above.
Suddenly Garion heard a roaring in his mind – a sound that had a peculiar echo to it – and the shield of force surrounding Aunt Pol shimmered with an ugly orange glow. He jerked his will in sharply and gestured with a single word. He had no idea what word he used, but it seemed to work. Like a horse blundering into a covey of feeding birds, his will scattered the concerted attack on Aunt Pol and Errand. There had been more than one mind involved in the attack – he sensed that – but it seemed to make no difference. He caught a momentary flicker of chagrin and even fear as the joined wills of Aunt Pol’s attackers broke and fled from him.
“Not bad,”the voice in his mind observed. “A little clumsy, perhaps, but not bad at all.”
“It’s the first time I ever did it, ” Garion replied. “I’ll get better with more practice.”
“Don’t get overconfident,” the voice advised dryly, and then it was gone.
He was growing stronger, there was no doubt about that. The ease with which he had dispersed the combined wills of that group of Grolims Aunt Pol had called the Hierarchs amazed him. He faintly began to understand what Aunt Pol and Belgarath meant in their use of the word “talent.” There seemed to be some kind of capacity, a limit beyond which most sorcerers could not go. Garion realized with a certain surprise that he was already stronger than men who had been practicing this art for centuries, and that he was only beginning to touch the edges of his talent. The thought of what he might eventually be able to do was more than a little frightening.
It did, however, make him feel somewhat more secure. He straightened in his saddle and rode a bit more confidently. Perhaps leadership wasn’t so bad after all. It took some getting used to, but once you knew what you were doing, it didn’t seem all that hard.
The next attack came as the eastern horizon had begun to grow pale behind them. Aunt Pol, her horse, and the little boy all seemed to vanish as absolute blackness engulfed them. Garion struck back instantly and he added a contemptuous little twist to it – a stinging slap at the joined minds that had mounted the attack. He felt a glow of self satisfaction at the surprise and pain in the minds as they flinched back from his quick counterblow. There was a glimpse – just a momentary one – of nine very old men in black robes seated around a table in a room somewhere. One of the walls of the room had a large crack in it, and part of the ceiling had collapsed as a result of the earthquake that had convulsed Rak Cthol. Eight of the evil old men looked surprised and frightened; the ninth one had fainted. The darkness surrounding Aunt Pol disappeared.
“What are they doing?” Silk asked him.
“They’re trying to break through Aunt Pol’s shield,” Garion replied. “I gave them something to think about.” He felt a little smug about it.
Silk looked at him, his eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Don’t overdo things, Garion,” he advised.
“Somebody had to do something,” Garion protested.
“That’s usually the way it works out. All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t lose your perspective.”
The broken wall of peaks that marked the western edge of the waste land was clearly visible as the light began to creep up the eastern sky. “How far would you say it is?” Garion asked Durnik.
The smith squinted at the mountains ahead. “Two or three leagues at least,” he judged. “Distances are deceiving in this kind of light.”
“Well?” Barak asked. “Do we take cover for the day here or do we make a run for it?”
Garion thought about that. “Are we going to change direction as soon as we get to the mountains?” he asked Mandorallen.
“It would seem better mayhap to continue our present course for some little distance first,” the knight replied thoughtfully. “A natural boundary such as that which lies ahead might attract more than passing scrutiny.”
“That’s a good point,” Silk agreed.
Garion scratched at his cheek, noticing that his whiskers had begun to sprout again. “Maybe we should stop here then,” he suggested. “We could start out again when the sun goes down, get up into the mountains a way and then rest. When the sun comes up tomorrow morning, we can change our route. That way, we’ll have light enough to see any tracks we leave and cover them up.”
“Seems like a good plan,” Barak approved.
“Let’s do it that way then,” Garion decided.
They sought out another ridge and another ravine, and once again concealed it with their tent canvas. Although he was tired, Garion was reluctant to lose himself in sleep. Not only did the cares of leadership press heavily on him, but he also felt apprehensive about the possibility of an attack by the Hierarchs coming while he was asleep. As the others began to unroll their blankets, he walked about rather aimlessly, stopping to look at Aunt Pol, who sat with her back against a large rock, holding the sleeping Errand and looking as distant as the moon behind her shimmering shield. Garion sighed and went on down to the mouth of the ravine where Durnik was attending to the horses. It had occurred to him that all their lives depended on the well-being of their mounts, and that gave him something else to worry about.
“How are they?” he asked Durnik as he approached.
“They’re bearing up fairly well,” Durnik replied. “They’ve come a long way, though, and it’s beginning to show on some of them.”
“Is there anything we can do for them?”
“A week’s rest in a good pasture, perhaps,” Durnik answered with a wry smile.
Garion laughed. “I think we could all use a week’s rest in a good pasture.”