“Belar!” Silk swore under his breath.
“All bow down to the First Disciple of your God!” Urvon declaimed in his shrill voice. “It is my command that ye honor him.”
There was a murmur of amazement among the assembled Chandim, and Garion, peering down from above, thought that he could detect a certain reluctance on the faces of some of them.
“Bow to him!” Urvon shrieked, starting to his feet. “He is my Disciple!” The Chandim looked first at the frothing madman on the dais and then at the cruel face of Harakan. Fearfully they sank to their knees.
“I am pleased to see such willing obedience to the commands of our God,” Harakan observed sardonically. “I shall remember it always.” There was a scarcely veiled threat in his voice.
“Know ye all that my Disciple speaks with my voice,” Urvon announced, resuming his seat upon the throne. “His words are my words, and ye will obey him even as ye obey me.”
“Hear the words of our God,” Harakan intoned in that same sardonic voice, “for mighty is the God of Angarak, and swift to anger should any fail to heed him. Know further that I, Mengha, am now the sword of Urvon as well as his voice, and that the chastisement of the disobedient is in my hands.” The threat was no longer veiled, and Harakan swept his eyes slowly across the faces of the assembled priests as if challenging each of them to protest his elevation.
“Hail Mengha, Disciple of the living God!” one of the mailed Guardsmen shouted.
“Hail Mengha!” the other Guardsmen responded, smashing their fists against their shields in salute.
“Hail Mengha!” the Karands shrieked.
“Hail Mengha!” the kneeling Chandim said at last, cowed finally into submission. And then the great Hounds crept forward on their bellies to fawn about Harakan's feet and to lick his hands.
“It is well,” the enthroned madman declared in his shrill voice. “Know that the God of Angarak is pleased with ye.”
And then another figure appeared in the throne room below, coming through the same rotted drapes which had admitted Urvon. The figure was slender and dressed in a robe of clinging black satin. Its head was partially covered by a black hood, and it was carrying something concealed beneath its robe. When it reached the altar, it tipped back its head in a derisive laugh, revealing a face with at once an unearthly beauty and an unearthly cruelty all cast in marble white. “You poor fools,” the figure rasped in a harsh voice. “Think you to raise a new God over Angarak without my permission?”
“I have not summoned thee, Zandramas!” Urvon shouted at her.
“I feel no constraint to heed thy summons, Urvon,” she replied in a voice filled with contempt, “nor its lack. I am not thy creature, as are these dogs. I serve the God of Angarak, in whose coming shalt thou be cast down.”
“I am the God of Angarak!” he shrieked.
Harakan had begun to come around the altar toward her.
“And wilt thou pit thy puny will against the Will of the Child of Dark, Harakan?” she asked coolly. “Thou mayest change thy name, but thy power is no greater.” Her voice was like ice.
Harakan stopped in his tracks, his eyes suddenly wide.
She turned back to Urvon. “I am dismayed that I was not notified of thy deification, Urvon,” she continued, “for should I have known, I would have come before thee to pay thee homage. and seek thy blessing.” Then her lip curled in a sneer that distorted her face. “Thou?” she said. “Thou, a God? Thou mayest sit upon the throne of Torak for all eternity whilst this shabby ruin crumbles about thee, and thou wilt never become a God. Thou mayest fondle dross and call it gold, and thou wilt never become a God. Thou mayest bask in the canine adulation of thy cringing dogs, who even now befoul thy throne room with their droppings, and thou wilt never become a God. Thou mayest hearken greedily to the words of thy tame demon, Nahaz, who even now whispers the counsels of madness in thine ear, and thou wilt never become a God.”
“I am a God!” Urvon shrieked, starting to his feet again.
“So? It may be even as thou sayest, Urvon,” she almost purred. “But if thou art a God, I must tell thee to enjoy thy Godhood whilst thou may, then, for even as maimed Torak, thou art doomed.”
“Who hath the might to slay a God?” he foamed at her.
Her laugh was dreadful. “Who hath the might? Even he who reft Torak of his life. Prepare thyself to receive the mortal thrust of the burning sword of Iron-grip, which spilled out the life of thy master, for thus I summon the Godslayer!”
And then she reached forward and placed the cloth-wrapped bundle which she had been concealing beneath her robe on the black altar. She raised her face and looked directly at the crack through which Garion was staring in frozen disbelief. “Behold thy son, Belgarion,” she called up to him, “and hear his crying!” She turned back the cloth to reveal the infant Geran. The baby's face was contorted with fear, and he began to wail, a hopeless, lost sound.
All thought vanished from Garion's mind. The wailing was the sound he had been hearing over and over again since he had left Mal Zeth. It was not the wail of that doomed child in those plague-stricken streets that had haunted his dreams. It was the voice of his own son!
Powerless to resist that wailing call, he leaped to his feet. It was as if there were suddenly sheets of flame before his eyes, flames that erased everything from his mind but the desperate need to go to the child wailing on the altar below.
He realized dimly that he was running through the shadowy, leaf-strewn halls, roaring insanely even as he ripped Iron-grip's sword from its sheath.
The moldering doors of long-empty rooms flashed by as he ran full tilt along the deserted corridor. Dimly behind him, he heard Silk's startled cry. “Garion! No!” Heedless, his brain afire, he ran on with the great Sword of Riva blazing in his hand before him as he went.
Even years later, he did not remember the stairs. Vaguely, he remembered emerging in the lower hall, raging.
There were Temple Guardsmen and Karands there, flinching before him and trying feebly to face him, but he seized the hilt of his sword in both hands and moved through them like a man reaping grain. They fell in showers of blood as he sheared his way through their ranks.
The great door to the dead God's throne room was closed and jolted, but Garion did not even resort to sorcery. He simply destroyed the door -and those who were trying desperately to hold it closed- with his burning sword.
The fire of madness filled his eyes as he burst into the throne room, and he roared at the terrified men there, who gaped at the dreadful form of the Godslayer, advancing on them, enclosed in a nimbus of blue light. His lips were peeled back from his teeth in a snarl, and his terrible sword, all ablaze, flickered back and forth before him like the shears of fate.
A Grolim jumped in front of him with one arm upraised as Garion gathered his will with an inrushing sound he scarcely heard. Garion did not stop, and the other Grolims in the throne room recoiled in horror as the point of his flaming sword came sliding out from between the rash priest's shoulder blades. The mortally wounded Grolim stared at the sizzling blade sunk into his chest. He tried with shaking hands to clutch at the blade, but Garion kicked him off the sword and continued his grim advance.
A Karand with a skull-surmounted staff stood in his path, desperately muttering an incantation. His words cut off abruptly, however, as Garion's sword passed through his throat.
“Behold the Godslayer, Urvon!” Zandramas exulted. “Thy life is at an end, God of Angarak, for Belgarion hath come to spill it out, even as he spilled out the life of Torak!” Then she turned her back on the cringing madman. “All hail the Child of Light!” she announced in ringing tones. She smiled her cruel smile at him. “Hail, Belgarion,” she taunted him. “Slay once again the God of Angarak, for that hath ever been thy task. I shall await thy coming in the Place Which Is No More.” And then she took up the wailing babe in her arms, covered it with her cloak again, shimmered, and vanished.
Garion was suddenly filled with chagrin as he realized that he had been cruelly duped. Zandramas had not actually been here with his son, and all his overpowering rage had been directed at an empty projection. Worse than that, he had been manipulated by the haunting nightmare of the wailing child which he now realized she had put into his mind to force him to respond to her taunting commands. He faltered then, his blade lowering and its fire waning.
“Kill him!” Harakan shouted. “Kill the one who slew Torak!”
“Kill him!” Urvon echoed in his insane shriek. “Kill him and offer his heart up to me in sacrifice!”
A half-dozen Temple Guardsmen began a cautious, clearly reluctant, advance. Garion raised his sword again; its light flared anew, and the Guardsmen jumped back.
Harakan sneered as he looked at the armored men.
“Behold the reward for cowardice,” he snapped. He extended one hand, muttered a single word, and one of the Guardsmen shrieked and fell writhing to the floor as his mail coat and helmet turned instantly white-hot, roasting him alive.
“Now obey me!” Harakan roared. “Kill him!”
The terrified Guardsmen attacked more fervently then, forcing Garion back step by step. Then he heard the sound of running feet in the corridor outside. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw the others come bursting into the throne room.
“Have you lost your mind?” Belgarath demanded angrily.
“I'll explain later,” Garion told him, still half-sick with frustration and disappointment. He returned his attention to the armored men before him and began swinging his great sword in wide sweeps, driving them back again.
Belgarath faced the Chandim on one side of the central aisle, concentrated for an instant, then gestured shortly. Suddenly a raging fire erupted from the stones of the floor all along the aisle.
Something seemed to pass between the old man and Polgara. She nodded, and quite suddenly the other side of the aisle was also walled off by flame.
Two of the Guardsmen had fallen beneath Garion's sword, but others, accompanied by wild-eyed Karands, were rushing to the aid of their comrades, though they flinched visibly from the flames on either side of the aisle up which they were forced to attack.
“Combine your wills!” Harakan was shouting to the Chandim. “Smother the flames!”
Even as he closed with the Guardsmen and the Karands, beating down their upraised swords and hacking at them with Iron-grip's blade, Garion felt the rush and surge of combined will. Despite the efforts of Belgarath and Polgara, the fires on either side of the aisle flickered and grew low.
One of the huge Hounds came loping through the ranks of the Guardsmen facing Garion. Its eyes were ablaze, and its tooth-studded muzzle agape. It leaped directly at his face, snapping and growling horribly, but fell twitching and biting at the floor as he split its head with his sword.
And then Harakan thrust his way through the Guardsmen and Karands to confront Garion. “And so we meet again, Belgarion,” he snarled in an almost doglike voice. “Drop your sword, or I will slay your friends -and your wife. I have a hundred Chandim with me, and not even you are a match for so many.” And he began to draw in his will.
Then, to Garion's amazement, Velvet ran forward past him, her arms stretched toward the dread Grolim. “Please!” she wailed. “Please don't kill me!” And she threw herself at Harakan's feet, clutching at his black robe imploringly as she cringed and groveled before him.
Thrown off balance by this sudden and unexpected display of submissiveness, Harakan let his will dissipate and he backed away, trying to shake her hand from his robe and kicking at her to free himself. But she clung to him, weeping and begging for her life.
“Get her off me!” he snapped at his men, turning his head slightly. And that briefest instant of inattention proved fatal. Velvet's hand moved so quickly that it seemed to blur in the air. She dipped swiftly into her bodice; when her hand emerged, she held a small, bright-green snake.
“A present for you, Harakan!” she shouted triumphantly. “A present for the leader of the Bear-cult from Hunter!” And she threw Zith full into his face.
He screamed once the first time Zith bit him, and his hands came up to claw her away from his face, but the scream ended with a horrid gurgle, and his hands convulsed helplessly in the air in front of him. Squealing and jerking, he reeled backward as the irritated little reptile struck again and again. He stiffened and arched back across the altar, his feet scuffing and scrabbling on the floor and his arms flopping uselessly. He banged his head on the black stone, his eyes bulging and his swollen tongue protruding from his mouth. Then a dark froth came from his lips, he jerked several more times, and his body slid limply off the altar.
“And that was for Bethra,” Velvet said to the crumpled form of the dead man lying on the floor before the altar.
The Chandim and their cohorts again drew back in fear as they stared at the body of their fallen pack leader.
“They are few!” Urvon shrieked at them. “We are many! Destroy them all! Your God commands it!”
The Chandim gaped first at Harakan's contorted body, then at the crowned madman on the throne, then at the terrible little snake who had coiled herself atop the altar with her head raised threateningly as she gave vent to a series of angry hisses.
“That's about enough of this,” Belgarath snapped. He let the last of the flames die and began to refocus his will. Garion also straightened, pulling in his own will even as he felt the tightened Chandim start to focus their power for a final, dreadful confrontation.
“What is all this now?” Feldegast laughed, suddenly coming forward until he stood between Garion and his foes. “Surely, good masters, we can put aside all this hatred and strife. I'll tell ye what I'll do. Let me give ye a demonstration of me skill, an' we'll laugh together an' make peace between us once an' fer all. No man at all kin keep so great a hatred in his heart while he's bubblin' with laughter, don't y' know.” Then he began to juggle, seeming to pull brightly colored balls out of the air. The Grolims gaped at him, stunned by this unexpected interruption, and Garion stared incredulously at the performer, who seemed deliberately bent on self-destruction. Still juggling, Feldegast flipped his body onto the back of a heavy bench, holding himself upside down over it with one hand while he continued to juggle with his free hand and his feet. Faster and faster the balls whirled, more and more of them coming, it seemed out of thin air. The more the balls whirled, the brighter they became until at last they were incandescent and the inverted little man was juggling balls of pure fire.
Then he flexed the arm that was holding him in place, tossing himself high over the bench. When his feet touched the floor, however, it was no longer Feldegast the juggler who stood there. In place of the roguish entertainer stood the gnarled, hunchbacked shape of the sorcerer Beldin. With a sudden evil laugh, he began to hurt his fireballs at the startled Grolims and their warriors.
His aim was unerring, and the deadly fireballs pierced Grolim robes, Guardsmen's mail coats, and Karandese fur vests with equal facility. Smoking holes appeared in the chests of his victims, and he felled them by the dozen. The throne room filled with smoke and the reek of burning flesh as the grinning, ugly little sorcerer continued his deadly barrage.
“You!” Urvon shrieked in terror, the sudden appearance of the man he had feared for so many thousands of years shocking him into some semblance of sanity, even as the terrified Chandim and their cohorts broke and fled, howling in tight.
“So good to see you again, Urvon,” the hunchback said to him pleasantly. “Our conversation was interrupted the last time we were talking, but as I recall, I'd just promised to sink a white-hot hook into your belly and yank out all your guts.” He held out his gnarled right hand, snapped his fingers, and there was a sudden flash. A cruel hook, smoking and glowing, appeared in his fist. “Why don't we continue with that line of thought?” he suggested, advancing on the splotchy-faced man cowering on the throne.
Then the shadow which had lurked behind the madman's shoulder came out from behind the throne.
“Stop,” it said in a voice that was no more than a crackling whisper. No human throat could have produced that sound. “I need this thing,” it said, pointing a shadowy hand in the direction of the gibbering Disciple of Torak. “It serves my purposes, and I will not let you kill it.”
“You would be Nahaz, then,” Beldin said in an ominous voice.
“I am,” the figure whispered. “Nahaz, Lord of Demons and Master of Darkness.”
“Go find yourself another plaything, Demon Lord,” the hunchback grated. “This one is mine.”
“Will you pit your will against mine, sorcerer?”
“If need be.”
“Look upon my face, then, and prepare for death.” The demon pushed back its hood of darkness, and Garion recoiled with a sharp intake of his breath. The face of Nahaz was hideous, but it was not the misshapen features alone which were so terrifying. There emanated from its burning eyes a malevolent evil so gross that it froze the blood. Brighter and brighter those eyes burned with evil green fire until their beams shot forth toward Beldin. The gnarled sorcerer clenched himself and raised one hand. The hand suddenly glowed an intense blue, a light that seemed to cascade down over his body to form a shield against the demon's power.
“Your will is strong,” Nahaz hissed. “But mine is stronger.”
Then Polgara came down the littered aisle, the white lock at her brow gleaming. On one side of her strode Belgarath and on the other Durnik. As they reached him, Garion joined them. They advanced slowly to take up positions flanking Beldin, and Garion became aware that Eriond had also joined them, standing slightly off to one side.
“Well, Demon,” Polgara said in a deadly voice, “will you face us all?”
Garion raised his sword and unleashed its fire. “And this as well?” he added, releasing all restraints on the Orb.
The Demon flinched momentarily, then drew itself erect again, its horrid face bathed in that awful green fire. From beneath its robe of shadow, it took what appeared to be a scepter or a wand of some kind that blazed an intense green. As it raised that wand, however, it seemed to see something that had previously escaped its notice. An expression of sudden fear crossed its hideous face, and the fire of the wand died, even as the intense green light bathing its face flickered and grew wan and weak. Then it raised its face toward the vaulted ceiling and howled -a dreadful, shocking sound. It spun quickly, moving toward the terrified Urvon. It reached out with shadowy hands, seized the gold-robed madman, and lifted him easily from the throne. Then it fled, its fire pushing out before it like a great battering ram, blasting out the walls of the House of Torak as it went.
The crown which had surmounted Urvon's brow fell from his head as Nahaz carried him from the crumbling house, and it clanked when it hit the floor with the tinny sound of brass.