A kind of unthinking serenity had come over Garion, a calm resolve much akin to that which he had felt when he had faced Torak in the decaying ruins of the City of Endless Night half a world away. As he thought back on that dreadful night, he began to grope his way toward a startling truth. The maimed God had not been striving for a purely physical victory. He had been trying with all the dreadful force of his will to force them to submit to him, and it had been their steadfast refusal to yield, more than Garion’s flaming sword, which had defeated him in the end. Slowly, almost like the onset of dawn, the truth came to Garion. Although evil might seem invincible as it stalked the world in darkness, it nonetheless yearned toward the light, and only in the surrender of the light could the darkness prevail. So long as the Child of Light remained firm and unyielding, he was still invincible. As he stood in the dark cave listening to the shimmering aftersound of UL’s departure, Garion seemed to see directly into the mind of his enemy. Beneath it all, Torak had been afraid, and even now that same fear gnawed at the heart of Zandramas.
And then Garion perceived yet another truth, a truth at once enormously simple and at the same time so profound that the scope of it shook every fiber of his being. There was no such thing as darkness! What seemed so vast and overwhelming was nothing more than the absence of light. So long as the Child of Light kept that firmly in mind, the Child of Dark could never win. Torak had known this; Zandramas knew it; and now at last Garion himself understood it, and the knowledge brought with it a surging exultation.
“It gets easier once you understand, doesn’t it?” the young man they had always called Errand asked quietly.
“You knew what I was thinking, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Does that bother you?”
“No. I suppose not.” Garion looked around. The gallery in which they stood suddenly seemed very dark now that UL was gone. Garion knew the way back, but the idea which he had just grasped seemed to require some kind of affirmation. He turned his head and spoke directly to the Orb riding on the pommel of his great sword. “Could you give us a bit of light?” he asked it.
The Orb responded by igniting into blue fire and at the same time filling Garion’s mind with its crystal song. Garion looked at Eriond. “Shall we go back now? Aunt Pol was sort of worried when she couldn’t find you.”
As they turned and followed the deserted gallery back along the way they had come, Garion laid his arm affectionately across his young friend’s shoulders. For some reason they seemed very close just now.
They emerged from the gallery at the brink of the dim abyss where pale lights dotted the sheer walls and the murmur of a waterfall far below came whispering up to them.
Garion suddenly remembered something that had happened the day before. “What is it about you and water that concerns Aunt Pol so much?” he asked curiously.
Eriond laughed. “Oh, that. When I was little—just after we moved into Poledra’s cottage in the Vale—I used to fall into the river fairly often.”
Garion grinned. “That seems like a perfectly natural thing to me.”
“It hasn’t happened for a long time now, but I think that Polgara feels that maybe I’m saving it up for a special occasion of some sort.”
Garion laughed, and they entered the cubicle-lined corridor that led toward the Gorim’s cavern. The Ulgos who lived and worked there threw startled glances in their direction as they passed.
“Uh—Belgarion,” Eriond said, “the Orb is still glowing.”
“Oh,” Garion replied, “I’d forgotten about that.” He looked back over his shoulder at the cheerfully burning stone. “It’s all right now,” he told it. “You can stop.” The Orb’s final flicker seemed faintly disappointed. The others were gathered at breakfast in the central room of the Gorim’s house. Polgara looked up as the two of them entered. “Where have you—” she began, then stopped as she looked into Eriond’s eyes more closely. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” she asked instead.
Eriond nodded. “Yes,” he replied. “UL wanted to talk with us. There were some things we needed to know.”
Belgarath pushed aside his plate, his face becoming intent. “I think you’d better tell us about this,” he said to them. “Take your time and don’t skip over anything.”
Garion crossed to the table and sat down beside Ce’Nedra. He described the meeting with the Father of the Gods carefully, trying as best he could to repeat UL’s exact words. “And then he said that Eriond and I shared the same spirit and that we were supposed to aid and sustain each other,” he concluded.
“Was that all he said?” Belgarath asked. “Pretty much, yes.”
“Except that he told us he was with us,” Eriond added. “He didn’t say anything more specific about this certain time when everything has to be completed?” the old man demanded with a slightly worried expression.
Garion shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, Grandfather. I’m afraid not.”
Belgarath’s expression suddenly became exasperated. “I hate working to a schedule I haven’t seen,” he muttered. “I can’t tell if I’m ahead or behind.” Ce’Nedra had been clinging to Garion, her face filled with both concern and relief. “Are you really sure he said that our baby is all right?” she demanded.
“He said that he is well,” Eriond assured her. “He told us that the one who holds him will see to his needs and that for the moment he’s in no danger.”
“For the moment?” Ce’Nedra exclaimed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He didn’t get any more specific, Ce’Nedra,” Garion said.
“Why didn’t you ask UL where he is?”
“Because I’m sure he wouldn’t have told me. Finding Geran and Zandramas is my job, and I don’t think they’re going to let me evade it by getting somebody else to do it for me.”
“They? Who are they?”
“The Prophecies—both of them. They’re playing a game, and we all have to follow the rules—even if we don’t know what they are.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“Go tell them. It wasn’t my idea.”
Aunt Pol was looking oddly at Eriond. “Have you known?” she asked him. “About your name, I mean?”
“I knew I had another name. When you called me Errand, it didn’t seem quite right, for some reason. Do you mind very much, Polgara?”
She rose with a smile, came around the table, and embraced him warmly. “No, Eriond,” she told him, “I don’t mind at all.”
“Just exactly what is the task UL set for you?” Belgarath asked.
“He said that I’d recognize it when I came to it.”
“Is that all he said about it?”
“He said that it was very important and that it was going to change me.”
Belgarath shook his head. “Why does everything always have to be in riddles?” he complained.
“It’s another one of those rules Garion mentioned,” Silk told him, refilling his goblet from one of the flagons. “Well, what next, old man?”
Belgarath thought about it, tugging at an earlobe and looking up at one of the faintly glowing lamps. “I think it’s fairly safe to say that this meeting was the thing that was supposed to happen here at Prolgu,” he said, “so I expect that it’s time for us to move along. It might not hurt for us to get where we’re going a little early, but I’m positive that it’s going to be a disaster if we get there late.” He rose from his seat and put his hand on the Gorim’s frail shoulder. “I’ll try to get word to you from time to time,” he promised. “Could you ask some of your people to lead us through the caves to Arendia? I want to get out into the open as soon as possible.”
“Of course, my old friend,” the Gorim replied, “and may UL guide your steps.”
“I hope somebody does,” Silk murmured.
Belgarath gave him a hard look.
“It’s all right, Belgarath,” Silk said expansively. “The fact that you get lost all the time doesn’t diminish our respect for you in the slightest. I’m sure it’s just a bad habit you picked up somewhere—probably because your mind was on weightier matters.”
Belgarath looked at Garion. “Did we really have to bring him along.?”
“Yes, Grandfather, we really did.”
It was shortly after sunrise two days later when they reached the irregularly shaped cave mouth that opened out into a birch forest. The white trees lifted their bare limbs toward an intensely blue sky, and fallen leaves covered the ground with a carpet of gold. The Ulgos who had guided them through the caves winced visibly and drew back from the sunlight. They murmured a few words to Belgarath, he thanked them, and then they retreated back into the protective darkness.
“You have absolutely no idea how much better I feel now,” Silk said with relief as he emerged from the cave and looked around at the frosty morning sunlight. Here and there back among the trees were patches of frozen snow, crusty and sparkling in the slanting rays of the morning sun; somewhere off to the left, they could hear the rush and babble of a mountain brook tumbling over stones.
“Have you any notion of exactly where we are?” Durnik asked Belgarath as they rode out into the birch trees.
The old man squinted back over his shoulder, gauging the angle of the new-risen sun. “My guess is that we’re in the foothills above central Arendia,” he replied.
“South of the lower end of the Arendish forest?” Silk asked.
“That’s hard to say for sure.”
The little Drasnian looked around. “I’d better take a look,” he said. He pointed at a hill rising out of the forest. “I might be able to see something from up there.”
“And I think some breakfast might be in order,” Polgara said. “Let’s find a clear spot and build a fire.”
“I won’t be too long,” Silk said, turning his horse and riding off through the white trunks of the birches.
The rest of them rode on down the slope, the hooves of their horses rustling the deep-piled carpet of golden leaves. Several hundred yards into the forest, they reached a clearing on the banks of the brook they had heard when they had emerged from the cave. Polgara drew in her horse. “This should do,” she decided. “Garion, why don’t you and Eriond gather some firewood? I think some bacon and toasted bread might be nice.”
“Yes, Aunt Pol,” he said automatically, swinging down from his saddle. Eriond joined him, and the two of them went back in among the white trees in search of fallen limbs.
“It’s pleasant being back out in the sunlight again,” Eriond said as he pulled a large branch out from under a fallen tree. “The caves are nice enough, I suppose, but I like to be able to look at the sky.”
Garion felt very close to this open-faced young man. The experience they had shared in the cave had brought them even closer together and had focused an idea that had hovered on the edge of Garion’s awareness for several years now. The fact that both he and Eriond had been raised by Aunt Pol and Durnik had made them in many respects very much tike brothers. He considered that as he bundled several large limbs together with a length of rope. He realized at the same time that he knew very little about Eriond and what might have happened to him before they had found him at Rak Cthol. “Eriond,” he said curiously, “can you remember anything at all about where you lived before Zedar found you?”
The young man looked up toward the sky, his eyes lost in thought. “It was in a city of some kind, I think,” he replied. “I seem to remember streets—and shops.”
“Do you remember your mother at all?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t remember living in any place for very long—or staying with the same people. It seems that I just used to go to a door, and people would take me inside and give me something to eat and a place to sleep.” Garion felt a sudden sharp pang of sympathy. Eriond was as much—or even more—an orphan as he was himself, “Do you remember the day when Zedar found you?” he asked. Eriond nodded. “Yes,” he replied, “quite clearly. It was cloudy, and there weren’t any shadows, so I couldn’t tell exactly what time of day it was. I met him in a very narrow street—an alley of some kind, I think. I remember that his eyes had a sort of injured look in them—as if something terrible had happened to him.” He sighed. “Poor Zedar.”
“Did he ever talk to you?”
“Not very often. About all he ever said was that he had an errand for me. He used to talk in his sleep once in a while, though. I remember that he used to say ‘Master.’ Sometimes when he said it, his voice would be full of love. Other times it was full of fear. It was almost as if he had two entirely different Masters.”
“He did. At first he was one of the disciples of Aldur. Then later, his Master was Torak.”
“Why do you suppose he did that, Belgarion? Changed Masters, I mean?”
“I don’t know, Eriond. I really don’t know.”
Durnik had built a small fire in the center of the clearing, and Polgara, humming softly to herself, was setting out her pots and pans beside it. As Garion and Eriond began breaking the branches they had gathered into manageable lengths, Silk rode back down the hill to rejoin them. “You can see quite a way from up there,” he reported as he swung down from his saddle. “We’re about ten leagues above the high road from Muros.”
“Could you see the River Malerin?” Belgarath asked him.
Silk shook his head. “Not the river itself,” he replied, “but there’s a. fairly good-sized valley off to the south. I’d imagine that it runs through there.”
“I was fairly close then. How’s the terrain look between here and the high road?”
“We’ve got some rough going ahead of us,” Silk told him. “It’s steep, and the woods look pretty dense.”
“We’ll have to make the best time we can. Once we get to the high road, we’ll be all right.”
Silk made a sour face. “There’s another problem, though,” he said. “There’s a storm coming in from the west.”
Durnik lifted his face to sniff at the frosty air and nodded. “Snow,” he confirmed. “You can smell it coming.”
Silk gave him a disgusted look. “You had to say it, didn’t you, Durnik?” he said almost accusingly.
Durnik’s look was slightly puzzled.
“Didn’t you know that talking about unpleasant things makes them happen?”
“Silk, that’s pure nonsense.”
The little man sniffed. “I know—but it’s true all the same.”
The breakfast of bread, dried fruit, and bacon Aunt Pol prepared for them was simple, but there was more than enough to satisfy them all. When they had finished, they repacked, quenched their fire with water from the icy brook, and rode on down the steep slope, following the course of the tumbling stream through the white-trunked birch forest.
Durnik fell in beside the mute Toth as they rode. “Tell me, Toth,” he said tentatively, eyeing the frothy white water pitching down over mossy green boulders, “have you ever done any fishing?”
The huge man smiled shyly.
“Well, I’ve got lines and hooks in one of the packs. Maybe if we get the chance ...” Durnik left it hanging.
Toth’s smile broadened into a grin.
Silk stood up in his stirrups and peered on ahead. “That storm isn’t much more than a half-hour away,” he told them.
Belgarath grunted. “I doubt that we’ll make very good time once it hits,” he replied.
“I hate snow.” Silk shivered glumly.
“That’s a peculiar trait in a Drasnian.”
“Why do you think I left Drasnia in the first place?”
The heavy bank of cloud loomed in front of them as they continued on down the hill. The morning sunlight paled and then disappeared as the leading edge of the storm raced high overhead to blot out the crisp blue of the autumn sky. “Here ft comes,” Eriond said cheerfully as the first few flakes began to dance and swirl in the stiff breeze moving up the ridge toward them.
Silk gave the young man a sour look, crammed his battered hat down lower over his ears and pulled his shabby cloak tighter about him. He looked at Belgarath. “I don’t suppose you’d consider doing something about this?” he asked pointedly.
“It wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Sometimes you’re a terrible disappointment to me, Belgarath,” Silk said, drawing himself even more deeply into his cloak.
It began to snow harder, and the trees about them became hazy and indistinct in the shifting curtain of white that came seething up through the forest.
A mile or so farther down the hill they left the birch trees and entered a dark green forest of towering firs. The thick evergreens broke the force of the wind, and the snow sifted lazily down through the boughs, lightly dusting the needle-strewn floor of the forest. Belgarath shook the snow out of the folds of his cloak and looked around, choosing a route.
“Lost again?” Silk asked.
“No, not really.” The old man looked back at Durnik. “How far down this hill do you think we’re going to have to go to get below this?” he asked.
Durnik scratched at his chin. “It’s sort of hard to say,” he replied. He turned to the mute at his side. “What do you think, Toth?” he asked.
The giant lifted his head and sniffed at the air, then made a series of obscure gestures with one hand.
“You’re probably right,” Durnik agreed. He turned back to Belgarath. “If the slope stays this steep, we ought to be able to get below the snowline sometime this afternoon—if we keep moving.”
“Well, I guess we’d better move along then,” Belgarath said and led the way on down the hill at a jolting trot.
It continued to snow. The light dusting on the ground beneath the firs became a covering, and the dimness that had hovered among the dark tree trunks faded as the white snow brought its peculiar, sourceless light.
They stopped about noon and took a quick lunch of bread and cheese, then continued to descend through the forest toward Arendia. By midafternoon, as Durnik and Toth had predicted, the snow was mixed with a chill rain. Soon the few large, wet flakes were gone, and they rode through a steady drizzle that wreathed down among the trees.
Late in the afternoon the wind picked up, and the rain driven before it was cold and unpleasant. Durnik looked around. “I think that it’s about time for us to find a place to stop for the night,” he said. “We’ll need shelter from this wind, and finding dry firewood might be a bit of a problem.” The huge Toth, whose feet very nearly dragged on the ground on either side of his horse, looked around and then pointed toward a dense thicket of sapling evergreens standing at the far edge of the broad clearing they had just entered. Once again he began to move his hands in those peculiar gestures. Durnik watched him intently for a few moments, then nodded, and the two of them rode on across to the thicket, dismounted, and went to work.
The campsite they constructed was well back among the slender tree trunks of the thicket where the force of the wind was broken and the dense branches shed the rain like a thatched roof. The two of them bent a half circle of the tall saplings over and tied their tips to the trunks of other trees to form a domelike framework of considerable size. Then they covered the frame with tent canvas and tied it in place securely. The resulting structure was a round-topped, open-fronted pavilion perhaps as big as a fair-sized room. At the front, they dug in a firepit and lined it with rocks.
The rain had soaked down the forest, and collecting dry firewood was difficult, but Garion drew upon the experience he had gained during the quest for the Orb to seek out those sheltered hollows under fallen trees, the spots on the leeward sides of large tree trunks and the brush-choked areas under overhanging rocks where dry twigs and branches could be found. By evening he and Eriond had piled up a considerable supply of wood not far from the fire pit where Polgara and Ce’Nedra were preparing supper.
There was a small spring several hundred yards on down the slope, and Garion slipped and slid downhill with two leather waterbags slung over his shoulders. The light was fading rapidly under the dark, windswept evergreens, and the ruddy glow of their campfire beckoned cheerfully as he started back up through the trees with the full waterbags hanging pendulously down against his thighs.
Polgara had hung her damp cloak on a tree limb and was humming softly to herself as she and Ce’Nedra worked over the fire.
“Why, thank you, your Majesty,” Ce’Nedra said as Gar-ion handed her the waterbags. Her little smile was somehow wistful, as if she were making a conscious effort to be light hearted.
“It’s my pleasure, your Majesty,” he replied with a florid bow. “A good scullion can always find water when the cook’s helper needs it.”
She smiled briefly, kissed his cheek, and then sighed and went back to dicing vegetables for the stew Polgara was stirring.
After they had eaten, they all sat drowsily before the fire, listening to the sound of the wind in the treetops and the seething hiss of the rain in the forest about them.
“How far did we come today?” Ce’Nedra asked in a voice near sleep as she leaned wearily against Garion’s shoulder.
“Seven or eight leagues, I’d guess,” Durnik replied. “It’s slow going when you don’t have a road to follow.”
“We’ll make better time, once we hit the high road from Muros to the Great Fair,” Silk added. His eyes brightened at that thought, and his long, pointed nose started to twitch.
“Never mind,” Belgarath told him.
“We will need supplies, Belgarath,” Silk said, his eyes still bright.
“I think we’ll let Durnik take care of that. People who do business with you always seem to develop this sense of outrage once they’ve had time to think things through.”
“But, Belgarath, I thought you said that you were in a hurry.”
“I don’t quite get the connection.”
“People always travel faster when somebody’s chasing them—or hadn’t you noticed that?”
Belgarath gave him a long, hard look. “Just let it drop, Silk,” he said, “Why don’t we all get some sleep?” he suggested to the rest of them. “We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
It was well after midnight when Garion suddenly started into wakefulness. He lay rolled up in his blankets beside Ce’Nedra, listening to her regular breathing and the soft patter of the rain on the tree limbs. The wind had died, and the fire at the front of their snug shelter had burned down to a few ruddy coals. He shook the last remnants of sleep from his mind, trying to remember what it was that had awakened him.
“Don’t make any noise,” Belgarath said softly from the far side of the shelter.
“Did something wake you, too, Grandfather?”
“I want you to get out of your blankets very slowly,” the old man said in a voice so quiet that it scarcely reached Garion’s ears, “and get your hands on your sword.”
“What is it, Grandfather?”
“Listen!” Belgarath said.
From high overhead in the rainy darkness there came the ponderous flap of vast wings and a sudden flare of sooty red light. The wings flapped again, and then the sound was gone.
“Move, Garion,” Belgarath said urgently. “Get your sword—and put something over the Orb so that she can’t see the glow from it.”
Garion untangled his legs from his blankets and groped in the darkness for Iron-grip’s sword.
Again there was the vast flapping sound overhead, and then a strange, hissing cry, accompanied by another flare of that sooty red light.
“What’s that?” Ce’Nedra cried out.
“Be still, girl!” Belgarath snapped.
They lay tensely in the darkness as the flapping sound faded off into the rainswept night.
“What’s out there, Belgarath?” Silk asked tensely.
“She’s a very large beast,” the old man replied quietly. “Her eyes aren’t very good, and she’s as stupid as a stump, but she’s very dangerous. She’s hunting. Possibly she smells the horses—or us.”
“How do you know it’s a she?” Durnik asked.
“Because there’s only one of them left in the world. She doesn’t come out of her cave very often, but over the centuries enough people have caught glimpses of her to give rise to all those legends.”
“I’m starting to get a very uneasy feeling about this,” Silk murmured.
“She doesn’t really look that much like the dragons in all those drawings,” Belgarath continued, “but she is big, and she does fly.”
“Oh, come now, Belgarath,” Durnik scoffed. “There’s no such thing as a dragon.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Now, why don’t you go out and explain that to her?”
“Is she the same creature we heard that night in the mountains above Maragor?” Garion asked.
“Yes. Have you got your sword?”
“Right here, Grandfather.”
“Good. Now, very slowly, creep out and smother the last of those coals with dirt. Fire attracts her, so let’s not take any chances on a sudden flare-up.”
Garion inched his way out through the open front of the shelter and hurriedly scooped dirt over the fire pit with his hands.
“Is it really a flying lizard?” Silk whispered hoarsely. “No,” Belgarath replied, “actually she’s a species of bird. She has a long, snakelike tail, and what she’s covered with looks more like scales than feathers. She also has teeth— lots of very long, sharp teeth.”
“Just exactly how big is she?” Durnik asked. “You remember Faldor’s barn?”
“Yes.”
“About that big,”
From quite some distance off there came another screeching bellow and the murky red flare.
“Her fire isn’t really all that serious,” Belgarath continued in the same low voice, “particularly since these woods are so wet. It’s when she catches you in dry grass that it starts to be a problem. She’s big, but she’s not very brave—and on the ground she’s as clumsy as a pig on a frozen pond. If it gets down to a fight, we probably won’t be able to hurt her very much. About the best we can hope for is to frighten her off.”
“Fight?” Silk choked. “You’re not serious.”
“We may not have any choice. If she’s hungry and picks up our scent or the scent of the horses, she’ll tear these woods apart looking for us. She has a few sensitive spots. Her tail is probably the best. Her wings get in the way, so she can’t see behind her too well, and when she’s on the ground, she can’t turn very fast.”
“Let’s see if I’ve got this straight,” Silk said. “You want us to sneak up behind this dragon and hit it on the tail, is that it?”
“Approximately, yes.”
“Belgarath, have you lost your mind? Why not just use sorcery to drive it away?”
“Because she’s immune to sorcery,” Polgara explained calmly. “It was one of the little refinements Torak added when he and the other Gods created her species. He was so impressed with the concept of a dragon that he chose it as his totem creature. He tried in every way he could to make it invincible.”
“It was one of his character defects,” Belgarath added sourly. “All right, the dragon is clumsy and stupid and she’s not used to pain. If we’re careful, we can probably frighten her away without anyone getting hurt.”
“She’s coming back,” Eriond said.
They listened as the flapping of those huge wings reverberated again through the sodden forest.
“Let’s get out into the open,” Belgarath said tensely.
“That’s a good idea,” Silk agreed. “If I have to do this, I want lots of level running room around me.”
“Ce’Nedra,” Polgara said, “I want you to get as far back into this thicket as you can. Find a place to hide.”
“Yes, Lady Polgara,” Ce’Nedra replied in a frightened little voice.
They crept out of the shelter into the darkness. The rain had slackened to a kind of misty drizzle wreathing down among the trees. Their horses, picketed not far away, snorted nervously, and Garion could smell the sharp odor of their fear over the resinous scent of wet evergreens.
“All right,” Belgarath whispered. “Spread out—and be careful. Don’t try to attack her unless you’re sure that her attention is someplace else.”
They crept out of the thicket into the broad clearing and started across. Garion, sword in hand, moved carefully, feeling for obstructions with his feet. When he reached the far side, he located a large tree trunk and went around behind it.
They waited tensely, straining their eyes toward the rainswept night sky.
The heavy flapping of great wings reverberated down among the trees, and once again they heard that vast bellow. Even as the sound crashed down on them, Garion saw the huge billow of smoky flame in the sky overhead and, outlined by that flame, the shape of the dragon herself. She was even bigger than he had imagined. Her wings might easily have shaded an acre. Her cruel beak was agape, and he could clearly see her pointed teeth with the flames writhing about them. She had a very long, snakelike neck, huge talons, and a long, reptilian tail that lashed at the air behind her as she plunged down toward the clearing.
Then Eriond stepped out from behind a tree trunk and walked out into the center of the clearing as calmly as if he were merely taking a midmorning stroll.
“Eriond!” Polgara cried as, with a triumphant shriek, the dragon swooped down into the clearing. Talons extended, she struck at the unprotected young man. Her beak gaped, and vast billows of sooty orange flame poured forth to engulf him. With fear for the boy clutching at his heart, Garion ran forward with his sword aloft; but even as he ran at the huge beast, he felt the sudden familiar surge of Aunt Pol’s will, and Eriond vanished as she translocated him to safety.
The earth shook as the dragon struck the ground, and her vast roar of frustration filled the clearing with the ruddy light of her fire. She was enormous. Her half-folded, scaly-looking wings reared above her higher than any house. Her lashing tail was thicker than the body of a horse, and her curved, tooth-studded beak was dreadful. A sickening stench filled the clearing each time she belched forth her billows of flame. By the light of her fire, Garion could clearly see her slitted yellow eyes. From what Belgarath had said, he expected a look of dull stupidity, but the burning eyes that searched the clearing were alert and filled with an intense, frightening eagerness.
Then Durnik and Toth were upon her. They dashed from the shelter of the trees, Durnik with his axe and Toth with the smith’s sharp-bladed spade, and methodically they began to chop at the dragon’s writhing tail. She shrieked, belching flame into the air, and began to claw at the sodden forest loam with her talons.
“Look out!” Silk shouted. “She’s turning!”
The dragon whirled awkwardly, her wings beating at the air and her talons throwing up huge clots of earth, but Durnik and Toth had already run back into the shelter of the trees. As she swept the clearing with her burning eyes, Silk nimbly darted out behind her with his short, broad-bladed Drasnian sword in his hand. Again and again he drove it into the base of her huge tail. Then, as she floundered around to meet his attack, he danced clear to regain the safety of the surrounding forest.
And then Eriond stepped into the clearing again. Without any sign of fear but with a grave expression on his face, he walked out of the trees and moved directly toward the raging beast. “Why are you doing this?” he asked her calmly. “You know that this isn’t the time or place.”
The dragon almost seemed to flinch back at the .sound of his voice, and her burning eyes grew wary.
“You can’t avoid what’s going to happen,” he continued seriously. “None of us can—and you can’t change it with this kind of foolishness. You’d better go. We really don’t want to have to hurt you.”
The dragon faltered, and Garion suddenly sensed that she was not only baffled, but that she was also afraid. Then she seemed to clench herself. With an enraged bellow, she sent out a vast sheet of flame from her gaping beak to engulf Eriond, who made no effort to escape.
Every nerve in Garion’s body shrieked at him to run to his young friend’s aid, but he found that he could not move so much as a muscle. He stood, sword in hand, locked in a kind of helpless stasis.
As the billow of flame subsided, Eriond emerged from it unscathed and with an expression of regretful firmness on his face. “I’d hoped that we wouldn’t have to do this,” he said to the dragon, “but you aren’t giving us too much choice, you know.” He sighed. “All right, Belgarion,” he said, “make her go away—but please try not to hurt her too much.”
With a kind of surging exultation, as if those words had somehow released him from all restraint, Garion ran directly up behind the dragon with his suddenly blazing sword and began to rain blows on her unprotected back and tail. The awful reek of burning flesh filled the clearing, and the dragon shrieked in pain. She flailed her huge tail in agony, and it was more to protect himself from that ponderous lashing than out of any conscious effort to injure the beast that Garion swung a massive blow with Iron-grip’s sword. The sharp edge sheared effortlessly through scale and flesh and bone, smoothly lopping off about four feet of the writhing tip of the tail.
The shriek which thundered from the dragon’s beak was shattering, and her fire boiled skyward in a huge cloud. A great jet of streaming blood spurted from the wound the sword had left, splashing into Garion’s face and momentarily blinding him.
“Garion!” Polgara shouted. “Look out!”
He clawed at his eyes to clear away the hot blood. With terrifying agility, the dragon whirled, her talons tearing at the earth and her wings thundering. The Orb exploded into intense fire, and its blue flame ran anew up the sword, hissing and smoking as it burned away the thick blood which besmeared the blade. In the very act of striking at him with her beak, the dragon flinched back from the incandescence of the burning sword. Garion raised his blade, and once again the dragon flinched, retreating step by step across the wet clearing.
She was afraid! For some reason, the blue fire of the sword frightened her! Shrieking and trying desperately to defend herself with furnace-like gusts of fire, she backed away, her wounded tail still spraying the clearing with blood. There was clearly something about the fire of the Orb which she found unbearable. Once again filled with that wild surge of excitement, Garion raised his sword, and a searing pillar of fire erupted from its tip. He began to lash at the dragon with that whip of flame and heard the crackling sizzle as it seared her wings and shoulders. Fiercely he flogged her with the flame of his sword until, with a howl of agony, she turned and fled, tearing the earth with her talons and desperately flapping the huge sails of her wings.
Ponderously, she hurled herself into the air and clawed at the night with her wings, struggling to lift her vast bulk. She crashed through the upper branches of the firs at the edge of the clearing, fighting in panic to rise above the forest until she was clear. Shrieking, she flew off toward the southwest, filling the murky air with seething clouds of fire and streaming blood behind her as she went.
A stunned silence fell over them all as they looked up at the great beast fleeing through the rainy sky.
Polgara, her face dreadfully pale, came out from under the trees to confront Eriond. “Just exactly what were you thinking of?” she asked him in a terribly quiet voice.
“I don’t quite follow you, Polgara,” he replied, looking puzzled.
She controlled herself with an obvious effort. “Doesn’t the word ‘danger’ have any meaning to you at all?”
“You mean the dragon? Oh, she wasn’t really all that dangerous.”
“She did sort of bury you up to the eyebrows in fire, Eriond,” Silk pointed out.
“Oh, that,” Eriond smiled. “But the fire wasn’t real.” He looked around at the rest of them. “Didn’t you all know that?” he asked, looking slightly surprised. “It was only an illusion. That’s all that evil ever really is—an illusion. I’m sorry if any of you were worried, but I didn’t have time to explain.”
Aunt Pol stared at the unperturbed young man for a moment, then turned her eyes on Garion, who stood still holding his burning sword. “And you—you—” Words somehow failed her. Slowly she sank her face into her trembling hands. “Two of them,’ she said in a terrible voice. “Two of them! I don’t think I can stand this—not two of them.”
Durnik looked at her gravely, then handed his axe to the giant Toth. He stepped over and put his arm about her shoulders. “There, there,” he said. For a moment she seemed to resist, but then she suddenly buried her face in his shoulder. “Come along now, Pol,” he said soothingly and gently turned her around to walk her back to their shelter. “Things won’t seem nearly so bad in the morning.”