Shortly before sundown they went through a high pass lying in a notch between two mountains and stopped for the night in a little glen a few miles down on the far side.
“Keep the fire down as much as you can, Durnik,” Mister Wolf warned the smith. “Southern Murgos have sharp eyes and they can see the light from a fire from miles away. I’d rather not have company in the middle of the night.”
Durnik nodded soberly and dug his firepit somewhat deeper than usual.
Mandorallen was attentive to the Princess Ce’Nedra as they set up for the night, and Garion watched sourly. Though he had violently objected each time Aunt Pol had insisted that he serve as Ce’Nedra’s personal attendant, now that the tiny girl had her knight to fetch and carry for her, Garion felt somehow that his rightful position had in some way been usurped.
“We’re going to have to pick up our pace,” Wolf told them after they had finished a meal of bacon, bread, and cheese. “We’ve got to get through the mountains before the first storms hit, and we’re going to have to try to stay ahead of Brill and his Murgos.” He scraped a space clear on the ground in front of him with one foot, picked up a stick and began sketching a map in the dirt. “We’re here.” He pointed. “Maragor’s directly ahead of us. We’ll circle to the west, go through Tol Rane, and then strike northeast toward the Vale.”
“Might it not be shorter to cross Maragor?” Mandorallen suggested, pointing at the crude map.
“Perhaps,” the old man replied, “but we won’t do that unless we have to. Maragor’s haunted, and it’s best to avoid it if possible.”
“We are not children to be frightened of insubstantial shades,” Mandorallen declared somewhat stiffly.
“No one’s doubting your courage, Mandorallen,” Aunt Pol told him, “but the spirit of Mara wails in Maragor. It’s better not to offend him.”
“How far is it to the Vale of Aldur?” Durnik asked.
“Two hundred and fifty leagues,” Wolf answered. “We’ll be a month or more in the mountains, even under the best conditions. Now we’d better all get some sleep. Tomorrow’s likely to be a hard day.”
Chapter Four
WHEN THEY ROSE the next morning as the first pale hint of light was appearing on the eastern horizon, there was a touch of silvery frost on the ground and a thin scum of ice around the edges of the spring at the bottom of the glen. Ce’Nedra, who had gone to the spring to wash her face, lifted a leaf thin shard from the water and stared at it.
“It’s much colder up in the mountains,” Garion told her as he belted on his sword.
“I’m aware of that,” she replied loftily.
“Forget it,” he said shortly and stamped away, muttering.
They rode down out of the mountains in the bright morning sunlight, moving at a steady trot. As they rounded a shoulder of outcropping rock, they saw the broad basin that had once been Maragor, the District of the Marags, stretching out below them. The meadows were a dusty autumn green, and the streams and lakes sparkled in the sun. A tumbled ruin, looking tiny in the distance, gleamed far out on the plain.
Princess Ce’Nedra, Garion noticed, kept her eyes averted, refusing even to look.
Not far down the slope below them, a cluster of crude huts and lopsided tents lay in a steep gully where a frothy creek had cut down through the rocks and gravel. Dirt streets and paths wandered crookedly up and down the sides of the gully, and a dozen or so raggedlooking men were hacking somewhat dispiritedly at the creek bank with picks and mattocks, turning the water below the shabby settlement a muddy yellow brown.
“A town?” Durnik questioned. “Out here?”
“Not exactly a town,” Wolf replied. “The men in those settlements sift gravel and dig up the streambanks, looking for gold.”
“Is there gold here?” Silk asked quickly, his eyes bright.
“A little,” Wolf said. “Probably not enough to make it worth anyone’s time to look for it.”
“Why do they bother, then?”
Wolf shrugged. “Who knows?”
Mandorallen and Barak took the lead, and they moved down the rocky trail toward the settlement. As they approached, two men came out of one of the huts with rusty swords in their hands. One, a thin, unshaven man with a high forehead, wore a greasy Tolnedran jerkin. The other, much taller and bulkier, was dressed in the ragged tunic of an Arendish serf.
“That’s far enough,” the Tolnedran shouted. “We don’t let armed men come in here until we know what their business is.”
“You’re blocking the trail, friend,” Barak advised him. “You might find that unhealthy.”
“One shout from me will bring fifty armed men,” the Tolnedran warned.
“Don’t be an idiot, Reldo,” the big Arend told him. “That one with all the steel on him is a Mimbrate knight. There aren’t enough men on the whole mountain to stop him, if he decides to go through here.” He looked warily at Mandorallen. “What’re your intentions, Sir Knight?” he asked respectfully.
“We are but following the trail,” Mandorallen replied. “We have no interest in thy community.”
The Arend grunted. “That’s good enough for me. Let them pass, Reldo.” He slid his sword back under his rope belt.
“What if he’s lying?” Reldo retorted. “What if they’re here to steal our gold?”
“What gold, you jackass?” the Arend demanded with contempt. “There isn’t enough gold in the whole camp to fill a thimble – and Mimbrate knights don’t lie. If you want to fight with him, go ahead. After it’s over, we’ll scoop up what’s left of you and dump you in a hole someplace.”
“You’ve got a bad mouth, Berig,” Reldo observed darkly.
“And what do you plan to do about it?”
The Tolnedran glared at the larger man and then turned and walked away, muttering curses.
Berig laughed harshly, then turned back to Mandorallen. “Come ahead, Sir Knight,” he invited. “Reldo’s all mouth. You don’t have to worry about him.”
Mandorallen moved forward at a walk. “Thou art a long way from home, my friend.”
Berig shrugged. “There wasn’t anything in Arendia to keep me, and I had a misunderstanding with my lord over a pig. When he started talking about hanging, I thought I’d like to try my luck in a different country.”
“Seems like a sensible decision.” Barak laughed.
Berig winked at him. “The trail goes right on down to the creek,” he told them, “then up the other side behind those shacks. The men over there are Nadraks, but the only one who might give you any trouble is Tarlek. He got drunk last night, though, so he’s probably still sleeping it off.”
A vacant-eyed man in Sendarian clothing shambled out of one of the tents. Suddenly he lifted his face and howled like a dog. Berig picked up a rock and shied it at him. The Sendar dodged the rock and ran yelping behind one of the shacks. “One of these days I’m going to do him a favor and stick a knife in him,” Berig remarked sourly. “He bays at the moon all night long.”
“What’s his problem?” Barak asked.
Berig shrugged. “Crazy. He thought he could make a dash into Maragor and pick up some gold before the ghosts caught him. He was wrong.”
“What did they do to him?” Durnik asked, his eyes wide.
“Nobody knows,” Berig replied. “Every so often somebody gets drunk or greedy and thinks he can get away with it. It wouldn’t do any good, even if the ghosts didn’t catch you. Anybody coming out is stripped immediately by his friends. Nobody gets to keep any gold he brings out, so why bother?”
“You’ve got a charming society here,” Silk observed wryly.
Berig laughed. “It suits me. It’s better than decorating a tree in my lord’s apple orchard back in Arendia.” He scratched absently at one armpit. “I guess I’d better go do some digging,” he sighed. “Good luck.” He turned and started toward one of the tents.
“Let’s move along,” Wolf said quietly. “These places tend to get rowdy as the day wears on.”
“You seem to know quite a bit about them, father,” Aunt Pol noticed.
“They’re good places to hide,” he replied. “Nobody asks any questions. I’ve needed to hide a time or two in my life.”
“I wonder why?”
They started along the dusty street between the slapped-together shacks and patched tents, moving down toward the roiling creek. “Wait!” someone called from behind. A scruffy-looking Drasnian was running after them, waving a small leather pouch. He caught up with them, puffing. “Why didn’t you wait?” he demanded.
“What do you want?” Silk asked him.
“I’ll give you fifty pennyweight of fine gold for the girl,” the Drasnian panted, waving his leather sack again.
Mandorallen’s face went bleak, and his hand moved toward his sword hilt.