“Grandfather,” Garion said urgently. Without knowing exactly why, he knew that it was time to speak. Nachak must not be allowed to leave the throne room. The faceless players had made their final moves, and the game must end here. “Grandfather,” he repeated, “there’s something I have to tell you.”
“Not now, Garion.” Wolf was still looking with hard eyes at the Murgo.
“It’s important, grandfather. Very important.”
Mister Wolf turned as if to reply sharply, but then he seemed to see something – something that no one else in the throne room could see and his eyes widened in momentary amazement. “All right, Garion,” he said in a strangely quiet voice. “Go ahead.”
“Some men are planning to kill the king of Arendia. Nachak’s one of them.” Garion had said it louder than he’d intended, and a sudden silence fell over the throne room at his words.
Nachak’s face went pale, and his hand moved involuntarily toward his sword hilt, then froze. Garion was suddenly keenly aware of Barak hulking just behind him and Hettar, grim as death in black leather towering beside him. Nachak stepped back and made a quick gesture to his steel-clad knights. Quickly they formed a protective ring around him, their hands on their weapons. “I won’t stay and listen to such slander,” the Murgo declared.
“I have not yet given thee my permission to withdraw, Nachak,” Korodullin informed him coolly. “I require thy presence yet a while.” The young king’s face was stern, and his eyes bored into the Murgo’s. Then he turned to Garion. “I would hear more of this. Speak truthfully, lad, and fear not reprisal from any man for thy words.”
Garion drew a deep breath and spoke carefully. “I don’t really know all the details, your Majesty,” he explained. “I found out about it by accident.”
“Say what thou canst,” the king told him.
“As nearly as I can tell, your Majesty, next summer when you travel to Vo Astur, a group of men are going to try to kill you somewhere on the highway.”
“Asturian traitors, doubtless,” a gray-haired courtier suggested.
“They call themselves patriots,” Garion answered.
“Inevitably,” the courtier sneered.
“Such attempts are not uncommon,” the king stated. “We will take steps to guard against them. I thank thee for this information.”
“There’s more, your Majesty,” Garion added. “When they attack, they’re going to be wearing the uniforms of Tolnedran legionnaires.”
Silk whistled sharply.
“The whole idea is to make your nobles believe that you’ve been killed by the Tolnedrans,” Garion continued. “These men are sure that Mimbre will immediately declare war on the Empire, and that as soon as that happens the legions will march in. Then, when everybody here is involved in the war, they’re going to announce that Asturias no longer subject to the Arendish throne. They’re sure that the rest of Asturia will follow them at that point.”
“I see,” the king replied thoughtfully. “‘This a well-conceived plan, but with a subtlety uncharacteristic of our wild-eyed Asturian brothers. But I have yet heard nothing linking the emissary of Taur Urgas with this treason.”
“The whole plan was his, your Majesty. He gave them all the details and the gold to buy the Tolnedran uniforms and to encourage other people to join them.”
“He lies!” Nachak burst out.
“Thou shalt have opportunity to reply, Nachak,” the king advised him. He turned back to Garion. “Let us pursue this matter further. How camest thou by this knowledge?”
“I can’t say, your Majesty,” Garion replied painfully. “I gave my word not to. One of the men told me about it to prove that he was my friend. He put his life in my hands to show how much he trusted me. I can’t betray him.”
“Thy loyalty speaks well of thee, young Garion,” the king commended him, “but thy accusation against the Murgo ambassador is most grave. Without violating thy trust, canst thou provide corroboration?”
Helplessly, Garion shook his head.
“This is a serious matter, your Majesty,” Nachak declared. “I am the personal representative of Taur Urgas. This lying urchin is Belgarath’s creature, and his wild, unsubstantiated story is an obvious attempt to discredit me and to drive a wedge between the thrones of Arendia and Cthol Murgos. This accusation must not be allowed to stand. The boy must be forced to identify these imaginary plotters or to admit that he lies.”
“He hath given his pledge, Nachak,” the king pointed out.
“He says so, your Majesty,” Nachak replied with a sneer. “Let us put him to the test. An hour on the rack may persuade him to speak freely.”
“I’ve seldom had much faith in confessions obtained by torment,” Korodullin said.
“If it please your Majesty,” Mandorallen interjected, “it may be that I can help to resolve this matter.”
Garion threw a stricken look at the knight. Mandorallen knew Lelldorin, and it would be a simple thing for him to guess the truth. Mandorallen, moreover, was a Mimbrate, and Korodullin was his king. Not only was he under no compulsion to remain silent, but his duty almost obliged him to speak.
“Sir Mandorallen,” the king responded gravely, “thy devotion to truth and duty are legendary. Canst thou perchance identify these plotters?”
The question hung there.
“Nay, Sire,” Mandorallen replied firmly, “but I know Garion to be a truthful and honest boy. I will vouch for him.”
“That’s scanty corroboration,” Nachak asserted. “I declare that he lies, so where does that leave us?”
“The lad is my companion,” Mandorallen said. “I will not be the instrument of breaking his pledge, since his honor is as dear to me as mine own. By our law, however, a cause incapable of proof may be decided by trial at arms. I will champion this boy. I declare before this company that this Nachak is a foul villain who hath joined with diverse others to slay my king.” He pulled off his steel gauntlet and tossed it to the floor. The crash as it struck the polished stone seemed thunderous. “Take up my gage, Murgo,” Mandorallen said coldly, “or let one of thy sycophant knights take it up for thee. I will prove thy villainy upon thy body or upon the body of thy champion.”
Nachak stared first at the mailed gauntlet and then at the great knight standing accusingly before him. He licked his lips nervously and looked around the throne room. Except for Mandorallen, none of the Mimbrate nobles present were under arms. The Murgo’s eyes narrowed with a sudden desperation. “Kill him!” he snarled at the six men in armor surrounding him.
The knights looked shocked, doubtful.
“Kill him!” Nachak commanded them. “A thousand gold pieces to the man who spills out his life!”
The faces of the six knights went flat at his words. As one man they drew their swords and spread out, moving with raised shields toward Mandorallen. There were gasps and cries of alarm as the nobles and their ladies scrambled out of the way.
“What treason is this?” Mandorallen demanded of them. “Are ye so enamored of this Murgo and his gold that ye will draw weapons in the king’s presence in open defiance of the law’s prohibitions? Put up your swords.”
But they ignored his words and continued their grim advance.
“Defend thyself, Sir Mandorallen,” Korodullin urged, half rising from his throne. “I free thee of the law’s constraint.”
Barak, however, had already begun to move. Noting that Mandorallen had not carried his shield into the throne room, the red-bearded man jerked an enormous two-handed broadsword down from the array of banners and weapons at one side of the dais. “Mandorallen!” he shouted and with a great heave he slid the huge blade skittering and bouncing across the stone floor toward the knight’s feet. Mandorallen stopped the sliding weapon with one mailed foot, stooped, and picked it up.
The approaching knights looked a bit less confident as Mandorallen lifted the six-foot blade with both hands.
Barak, grinning hugely, drew his sword from one hip and his war axe from the other. Hettar, his drawn sabre held low, was circling the clumsy knights on catlike feet. Without thinking, Garion reached for his own sword, but Mister Wolf’s hand closed on his wrist. “You stay out of it,” the old man told him and pulled him clear of the impending fight.
Mandorallen’s first blow crashed against a quickly raised shield, shattering the arm of a knight with a crimson surcoat over his armor and hurling him into a clattering heap ten feet away. Barak parried a sword stroke from a burly knight with his axe and battered at the man’s raised shield with his own heavy sword. Hettar toyed expertly with a knight in green-enameled armor, easily avoiding his opponent’s awkward strokes and flicking the point of his sabre at the man’s visored face.
The steely ring of sword on sword echoed through Korodullin’s throne room, and showers of sparks cascaded from the clash of edge against edge. With huge blows, Mandorallen smashed at a second man. A vast sweep of his two-handed sword went under the knight’s shield, and the man shrieked as the great blade bit through his armor and into his side. Then he fell with blood spouting from the sheared-in gash that reached halfway through his body.