Hurled to the floor by that awesome blast, Garion tumbled against the wall. Without thinking, he caught the little boy, who was flung against him like a rag doll. The round stone clattered as it bounced against the rocks of the wall. Garion reached out to catch it, but Aunt Pol’s hand closed on his wrist. “No!” she said. “Don’t touch it. It’s the Orb.”
Garion’s hand froze.
The little boy squirmed out of his grasp and ran after the rolling Orb. “Errand.” He laughed triumphantly as he caught it.
“What happened?” Silk muttered, struggling to his feet and shaking his head.
“Ctuchik destroyed himself,” Aunt Pol replied, also rising. “He tried to unmake the Orb. The Mother of the Gods will not permit unmaking.” She looked quickly at Garion. “Help me with your grandfather.”
Belgarath had been standing almost in the center of the explosion that had destroyed Ctuchik. The blast had thrown him halfway across the room, and he lay in a stunned heap, his eyes glazed and his hair and beard singed.
“Get up, father,” Aunt Pol said urgently, bending over him.
The turret began to shudder, and the basalt pinnacle from which it hung swayed. A vast booming sound echoed up out of the earth. Bits of rock and mortar showered down from the walls of the room as the earth quivered in the aftershock of Ctuchik’s destruction.
In the rooms below, the stout door banged open and Garion heard pounding feet. “Where are you?” Barak’s voice bellowed.
“Up here,” Silk shouted down the stairway.
Barak and Mandorallen rushed up the stone stairs. “Get out of here!” Barak roared. “The turret’s starting to break away from the rock. The Temple up there’s collapsing, and there’s a crack two feet wide in the ceiling where the turret joins the rock.”
“Father!” Aunt Pol said sharply, “you must get up!”
Belgarath stared at her uncomprehendingly. “Pick him up,” she snapped at Barak.
There was a dreadful tearing sound as the rocks that held the turret against the side of the peak began to rip away under the pressures of the convulsing earth.
“There!” Relg said in a ringing voice. He was pointing at the back wall of the turret where the stones were cracking and shattering. “Can you open it? There’s a cave beyond.”
Aunt Pol looked up quickly, focused her eyes on the wall and pointed one finger. “Burst!” she commanded. The stone wall blew back into the echoing cave like a wall of straw struck by a hurricane.
“It’s pulling loose!” Silk yelled, his voice shrill. He pointed at a widening crack between the turret and the solid face of the peak. “Jump!” Barak shouted. “Hurry!”
Silk flung himself across the crack and spun to catch Relg, who had followed him blindly. Durnik and Mandorallen, with Aunt Pol between them, leaped across as the groaning crack yawned wider. “Go, boy!” Barak commanded Garion. Carrying the still-dazed Belgarath, the big Cherek was lumbering toward the opening.
“The childl” the voice in Garion’s mind crackled, no longer dry or disinterested. “Save the child or everything that has ever happened is meaninglessl”
Garion gasped, suddenly remembering the little boy. He turned and ran back into the slowly toppling turret. He swept up the boy in his arms and ran for the hole Aunt Pol had blown in the rock.
Barak jumped across, and his feet scrambled for an awful second on the very edge of the far side. Even as he ran, Garion pulled in his strength. At the instant he jumped, he pushed back with every ounce of his will. With the little boy in his arms he literally flew across the awful gap and crashed directly into Barak’s broad back.
The little boy in his arms with the Orb of Aldur cradled protectively against his chest smiled up at him. “Errand?” he asked.
Garion turned. The turret was leaning far out from the basalt wall, its supporting stones cracking, ripping away from the sheer face. Ponderously, it toppled outward. And then, with the shards and fragments of the Temple of Torak hurtling past it, it sheared free of the wall and fell into the awful gulf beneath.
The floor of the cave they had entered was heaving as the earth shuddered and shock after shock reverberated up through the basalt pinnacle. Huge chunks of the walls of Rak Cthol were ripping free and plunging past the cave mouth, flickering down through the red light of the newly risen sun.
“Is everybody here?” Silk demanded, looking quickly around. Then, satisfied that they were all safe, he added, “We’d better get back from the opening a bit. This part of the peak doesn’t feel all that stable.”
“Do you want to go down now?” Relg asked Aunt Pol. “Or do you want to wait until the shaking subsides?”
“We’d better move,” Barak advised. “These caves will be swarming with Murgos as soon as the quake stops.”
Aunt Pol glanced at the half conscious Belgarath and then seemed to gather herself. “We’ll go down,” she decided firmly. “We still have to stop to pick up the slave woman.”
“She’s almost certain to be dead,” Relg asserted quickly. “The earthquake’s probably brought the roof of that cave down on her.”
Aunt Pol’s eyes were flinty as she looked him full in the face.
No man alive could face that gaze for long. Relg dropped his eyes. “All right,” he said sullenly. He turned and led them back into the dark cave with the earthquake rumbling beneath their feet.
* * *
Here ends Book Three of The Belgariad.
Book Four, Castle of Wizardry,
brings Garion and Ce’Nedra to the first realization of their heritage as the Prophecy moves them toward its fulfillment, and Garion discovers there are powers more difficult than sorcery.
About the Author
David Eddings was born in Spokane, Washington, in 1931, and was raised in the Puget Sound area north of Seattle. He received a Bachelor of Arts degree from Reed College in Portland, Oregon, in 1954 and a Master of Arts degree from the University of Washington in 1961. He has served in the United States Army, worked as a buyer for the Boeing Company, has been a grocery clerk, and has taught college English. He has lived in many parts of the United States.
His first novel, High Hunt (published by Putnam in 1973), was a contemporary adventure story. The field of fantasy has always been of interest to him, however, and he turned to The Belgariad in an effort to develop certain technical and philosophical ideas concerning that genre.
Eddings currently resides with his wife, Leigh, in the northwest.