“He’s dead. So’s my mother.” Garion found that if he said it quickly, it didn’t hurt so much.
Lelldorin’s eyes filled in sudden, impulsive sympathy. He put his hand consolingly on Garion’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice almost breaking. “It must have been a terrible loss.”
“I was a baby.” Garion shrugged, trying to sound offhand about it. “I don’t even remember them.” It was still too personal to talk about.
“Some pestilence?” Lelldorin asked gently.
“No,” Garion answered in the same flat tone. “They were murdered.”
Lelldorin gasped and his eyes went wide.
“A man crept into their village at night and set fire to their house,” Garion continued unemotionally. “My grandfather tried to catch him, but he got away. From what I understand, the man is a very old enemy of my family.”
“Surely you’re not going to let it stand like that?” Lelldorin demanded.
“No,” Garion replied, still looking out into the fog. “As soon as I’m old enough, I’m going to find him and kill him.”
“Good lad!” Lelldorin exclaimed, suddenly catching Garion in a rough embrace. “We’ll find him and cut him to pieces.”
“We?”
“I’ll be going with you, of course,” Lelldorin declared. “No true friend could do any less.” He was obviously speaking on impulse, but just as obviously he was totally sincere. He gripped Garion’s hand firmly. “I swear to you, Garion, I won’t rest until the murderer of your parents lies dead at your feet.”
The sudden declaration was so totally predictable that Garion silently berated himself for not keeping his mouth shut. His feelings in the matter were very personal, and he was not really sure he wanted company in his search for his faceless enemy. Another part of his mind, however, rejoiced in Lelldorin’s impulsive but unquestioning support. He decided to let the subject drop. He knew Lelldorin well enough by now to realize that the young man undoubtedly made a dozen devout promises a day, quickly offered in absolute sincerity, and just as quickly forgotten.
They talked then of other things, standing close together beside the shattered wall with their dark cloaks drawn tightly about them.
Shortly before noon Garion heard the muffled sound of horses’ hooves somewhere out in the forest. A few minutes later, Hettar materialized out of the fog with a dozen wild-looking horses trailing after him. The tall Algar wore a short, fleece-lined leather cape. His boots were mudspattered and his clothes travel-stained, but otherwise he seemed unaffected by his two weeks in the saddle.
“Garion,” he said gravely by way of greeting and Garion and Lelldorin stepped out to meet him.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Garion told him and introduced Lelldorin. “We’ll show you where the others are.”
Hettar nodded and followed the two young men through the ruins to the tower where Mister Wolf and the others were waiting. “Snow in the mountains,” the Algar remarked laconically by way of explanation as he swung down from his horse. “It delayed me a bit.” He pulled his hood back from his shaved head and shook out his long, black scalp lock.
“No harm’s been done,” Mister Wolf replied. “Come inside to the fire and have something to eat. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
Hettar looked at the horses, his tan, weathered face growing strangely blank as if he were concentrating. The horses all looked back at him, their eyes alert and their ears pointed sharply forward. Then they turned and picked their way off among the trees.
“Won’t they stray?” Durnik wanted to know.
“No,” Hettar answered. “I asked them not to.”
Durnik looked puzzled, but he let it pass.
They all went into the tower and sat near the fireplace. Aunt Pol cut dark bread and pale, yellow cheese for them while Durnik put more wood on the fire.
“Cho-Hag sent word to the Clan-Chiefs,” Hettar reported, pulling off his cape. He wore a black, long-sleeved horsehide jacket with steel discs riveted to it to form a kind of flexible armor. “They’re gathering at the Stronghold for council.” He unbelted the curved sabre he wore, laid it to one side and sat near the fire to eat.
Wolf nodded. “Is anyone trying to get through to Prolgu?”
“I sent a troop of my own men to the Gorim before I left,” Hettar responded. “They’ll get through if anyone can.”
“I hope so,” Wolf stated. “The Gorim’s an old friend of mine, and I’ll need his help before all this is finished.”
“Aren’t your people afraid of the Land of the Ulgos?” Lelldorin inquired politely. “I’ve heard that there are monsters there that feed on the flesh of men.”
Hettar shrugged. “They stay in their lairs in the wintertime. Besides, they’re seldom brave enough to attack a full troop of mounted men.” He looked over at Mister Wolf. “Southern Sendaria’s crawling with Murgos. Or did you know that?”
“I could have guessed,” Wolf replied. “Did they seem to be looking for anything in particular?”
“I don’t talk with Murgos,” Hettar said shortly. His hooked nose and fierce eyes made him look at that moment like a hawk about to swoop down to the kill.
“I’m surprised you weren’t delayed even more,” Silk bantered. “The whole world knows how you feel about Murgos.”
“I indulged myself once,” Hettar admitted. “I met two of them alone on the highway. It didn’t take very long.”
“Two less to worry about, then,” Barak grunted with approval.
“I think it’s time for some plain talk,” Mister Wolf said, brushing crumbs off the front of his tunic. “Most of you have some notion of what we’re doing, but I don’t want anybody blundering into something by accident. We’re after a man named Zedar. He used to be one of my Master’s disciples – then he went over to Torak. Early last fall he somehow slipped into the throne room at Riva and stole the Orb of Aldur. We’re going to chase him down and get it back.”
“Isn’t he a sorcerer too?” Barak asked, tugging absently at a thick red braid.
“That’s not the term we use,” Wolf replied, “but yes, he does have a certain amount of that kind of power. We all did – me, Beltira and Belkira, Belzedar – all the rest of us. That’s one of the things I wanted to warn you about.”
“You all seem to have the same sort of names,” Silk noticed.
“Our Master changed our names when he took us as disciples. It was a simple change, but it meant a great deal to us.”
“Wouldn’t that mean that your original name was Garath?” Silk asked, his ferret eyes narrowing shrewdly.
Mister Wolf looked startled and then laughed. “I haven’t heard that name for thousands of years. I’ve been Belgarath for so long that I’d almost completely forgotten Garath. It’s probably just as well. Garath was a troublesome boy – a thief and a liar among other things.”
“Some things never change,” Aunt Pol observed.
“Nobody’s perfect,” Wolf admitted blandly.
“Why did Zedar steal the Orb?” Hettar asked, setting aside his plate.
“He’s always wanted it for himself,” the old man replied. “That could be it – but more likely he’s trying to take it to Torak. The one who delivers the Orb to One-Eye is going to be his favorite.”
“But Torak’s dead,” Lelldorin objected. “The Rivan Warder killed him at Vo Mimbre.”
“No,” Wolf said. “Torak isn’t dead; only asleep. Brand’s sword wasn’t the one destined to kill him. Zedar carried him off after the battle and hid him someplace. Someday he’ll awaken – probably someday fairly soon, if I’m reading the signs right. We’ve got to get the Orb back before that happens.”
“This Zedar’s caused a lot of trouble,” Barak rumbled. “You should have dealt with him a long time ago.”
“Possibly,” Wolf admitted.
“Why don’t you just wave your hand and make him disappear?” Barak suggested, making a sort of gesture with his thick fingers.
Wolf shook his head. “I can’t. Not even the Gods can do that.”
“We’ve got some big problems, then,” Silk said with a frown. “Every Murgo from here to Rak Goska’s going to try to stop us from catching Zedar.”
“Not necessarily,” Wolf disagreed. “Zedar’s got the Orb, but Ctuchik commands the Grolims.”
“Ctuchik?” Lelldorin asked.
“The Grolim High Priest. He and Zedar hate each other. I think we can count on him to try to keep Zedar from getting to Torak with the Orb.”
Barak shrugged. “What difference does it make? You and Polgara can use magic if we run into anything difficult, can’t you?”
“There are limitations on that sort of thing,” Wolf said a bit evasively.
“I don’t understand,” Barak said, frowning.
Mister Wolf took a deep breath. “All right. As long as it’s come up, let’s go into that too. Sorcery – if that’s what you want to call it – is a disruption of the natural order of things. Sometimes it has certain unexpected effects, so you have to be very careful about what you do with it. Not only that, it makes-” He frowned. “-Let’s call it a sort of noise. That’s not exactly what it is, but it serves well enough to explain. Others with the same abilities can hear that noise. Once Polgara and I start changing things, every Grolim in the West is going to know exactly where we are and what we’re doing. They’ll keep piling things in front of us until we’re exhausted.”