A heavy bank of gray cloud had moved in off the Great Western Sea, and a stiff offshore breeze tugged at their garments as they mounted their horses in the courtyard of the Drojim.
“You know what to do, Oskatat?” Urgit asked his seneschal.
The big Murgo nodded. “The ships carrying the reinforcements will depart within two days, your Majesty. You have my word on that.”
“Good. I’d rather not fight this battle all by myself. Try not to use any more of those warrants than you absolutely have to.”
“Trust me.” Oskatat’s face creased into a bleak smile.
Urgit’s quick answering grin was wolfish. “And look after my mother,” he added.
“I’ve done that for many years—without her even being aware of it.”
Gravely the Murgo King leaned down from his saddle and shook hands with his friend. Then he straightened resolutely. “All right,” he said to the officer in charge of the guard detachment, “let’s go.”
They clattered out of the courtyard, and Silk drew in beside his brother. “What was that business about warrants?” he asked curiously.
Urgit laughed. “The generals might want to refuse to obey Oskatat’s orders,” he explained, “so I signed warrants for the execution of every one of them and left them with him to use as he sees fit.”
“Clever.”
“I should have thought of it years ago.” Urgit looked up at the racing clouds overhead, with his robe flapping in the rising wind. “I’m not a very good sailor, Kheldar,” he admitted with a shudder. “I tend to throw up a lot in rough weather.”
Silk laughed. “Then just remember always to stand at the leeward rail.”
The murky sky seemed somehow to Garion to be suited to the bleakness of Rak Urga. A city so devoid of any kind of beauty seemed unnatural when the sky was clear and the sun was shining. Now, however, it squatted under the roiling clouds like some torpid stone toad. The black-robed Murgos in the narrow streets stood aside for their king. Some of them bowed; others stood stony-faced and unbending as the party passed.
They rode through a square and then on down the stone-paved street that led to the Temple. “Captain,” Urgit called to the officer in the lead, “have one of your men stop by and tell the Hierarch that we’re leaving. He has someone in the Temple that he wants to send along with us.”
“As your Majesty commands,” the officer replied.
The cobbled street they were following rounded a corner, and they were able to see the harbor. It lay in a sheltered bay behind the headland standing at the narrow mouth of the Gulf of Urga and was dotted with black-painted Murgo ships. The familiar smell of the meeting of sea and land, a mixture of brine, seaweed, and dead fish, rose to meet Gar-ion’s nostrils, and his blood began to race at the prospect of once again going to sea.
‘“I The black ship moored at the side of the stone quay onto which they rode was larger than most of the other vessels in the harbor. It was a squat, broad-beamed scow with slanting masts and tarred planking. Silk eyed it distrustfully. “Do , - you really call that thing a ship?” he asked his brother. “I warned you about Murgo boats.” There was a brief disagreement about the horses when they reached the ship. “Totally out of the question, your Majesty,” the ship captain, a huge, evil-looking man, declared adamantly. “I don’t carry livestock on board my ship.” He stood towering over his king with a self-important expression slightly tinged with contempt on his face. Urgit’s expression became one of distress. “I’d say that it’s time for another exercise of the royal assertiveness,” Silk murmured to him.
Urgit gave him a quick look and then squared his shoulders. He turned back to the hulking ship’s master. “Load these horses on your ship, Captain,” he repeated his command in a firmer tone.
“I just told you that I don’t—”
“Did I say it too fast for you? Listen carefully this time. Put-the-horses-on-the-boat. If you don’t do exactly what I . tell you to do, I’ll have you nailed to the prow of your ship in place of a figurehead. Do we understand each other?”
The captain stepped back, his look of arrogance becoming one of doubt and apprehension. “Your Majesty—”
“Do it, Captain!” Urgit barked, “Now!”
The captain drew himself up sharply, saluted, and then turned to his crew. “You heard the king,” he said harshly. “Load the horses.” He stalked away, muttering to himself.
“You see,” Silk said. “It gets easier every time you do it, doesn’t it? All you have to remember is that your commands are not subjects for debate.”
“You know,” Urgit said with a tight grin, “I could actually get to like that.”
The sailors began to push the skittish horses up the narrow gangplank and then down a steeply slanting ramp into the hold of the vessel. They had loaded perhaps half of the animals when Garion heard the sound of a sullen drum coming from the narrow, cobbled steel leading down to the quay. A double file of black-robed Grolims in polished steel masks marched down the hill toward the water, moving with that peculiar, swaying gait Garion had seen in the Temple. Belgarath took Urgit by the sleeve and drew him out of earshot of his guards and the busy sailors. “We don’t need any surprises, here, Urgit,” he said firmly, “so let’s get through the formalities with Agachak as quickly as possible. Tell him that you’re going to Rak Cthaka to take personal command of the defense of the city. Let’s get your Dagashi on board ship and get out of here.”
“I don’t really have any choice about this, do I?” Urgit asked unhappily.
“No,” Belgarath replied. “Not very much at all.” The cadaverous Agachak rode in a litter carried by a dozen Grolims. At his side, her head erect, came the scarred priestess Chabat. Her eyes were ravaged from weeping, and her face was dreadfully pale. The look she directed at Sadi, however, was filled with implacable hatred.
Behind Agachak’s litter there came a hooded figure that did not walk with the stiff-legged, swaying gait of the Grolims in the Hierarch’s entourage, and Garion surmised that this man was the mysterious Kabach. He looked at the man curiously, but could not see the face concealed beneath the hood.
As the litter reached the gangway, Agachak signaled his bearers to a halt. “Your Majesty,” he greeted Urgit hollowly as his litter was lowered to the stones. “Dread Hierarch.”
“I received your message. Is the situation in the south as grave as I was led to believe?”
“I’m afraid so, Agachak. I’m going to take advantage of this ship to go to Rak Cthaka and take personal command.”
“You, your Majesty?” Agachak looked startled. “Is that altogether wise?”
“Perhaps not, but I’m sure I can’t do much worse than my generals have done. I’ve left orders that reinforcements are to be sent to the city by ship.”
“By ship? A daring innovation, your Majesty. I’m surprised that your generals agreed to it.”
“I didn’t ask them to agree. I finally realized that their duty to advise me doesn’t give them the authority to order me around.”
Agachak looked at him, his eyes thoughtful. “This is a new side of you, your Majesty,” he noted, stepping out of his litter to stand on the stones of the quay. “I thought it was time for a change.”
It was at that point that Garion felt a warning tingle and an oppressive kind of weight that seemed centered just above his ears. He glanced quickly at Polgara, and she nodded. It did not appear to be emanating from the Hierarch, who seemed wholly engrossed in his conversation with Urgit. Chabat stood to one side with her burning eyes fixed bale-fully on Sadi, but there was no hint of any mounting of her will. The quiet probing was coming from somewhere else.
“We should be able to reach Rak Cthaka in five or six days,” Urgit was saying to the red-robed Hierarch. “As soon as we arrive, I’ll get Ussa and his people started toward Rak Hagga with our Dagashi. They might have to swing south a bit to avoid the Malloreon advance, but they won’t lose too much time.”
“You must be very careful at Rak Cthaka, your Majesty,” Agachak cautioned. “It’s not only the fate of Cthol Murgos you carry on your shoulders; it’s the fate of the entire world.”
“I don’t concern myself too much with fate, Agachak. A man whose main concern has always been staying alive for the next hour or so doesn’t have much time to worry about next year. Where’s Kabach?”
The man in the hooded robe stepped out from behind the litter. “I’m here, your Majesty,” he said in a deep, resonant voice. There was something familiar about that voice, and a warning prickle ran up between Garion’s shoulder blades.
“Good,” Urgit said. “Have you any final instructions for him, Agachak?”
“I have said to him all that needs to be said,” the Hierarch responded.
“That covers everything, then.” Urgit looked around. “All right,” he said, “let’s all get on board that ship.”
“Perhaps not just yet, your Majesty,” the black-robed Dagashi said to him, stepping forward and pushing back his hood. Garion suppressed a start of surprise. Although his black beard had been shaved off, there was no question about the man’s identity. It was Harakan.
“There is one last thing your Majesty should know before we board,” Harakan declared in a voice clearly intended to
‘. be heard by everyone on the quay. “Were you aware of the
‘ feet that the man with the sword over there is Belgarion of
Riva?”
Urgit’s eyes went very wide as a ripple of amazement went through the priests and the soldiers standing on the slippery stones of the quay. The Murgo King, however, was quick to recover. “That’s a very interesting thing to suggest, Kabach,” he said carefully. “I’d be interested to know what makes you so sure.”
“It’s absolute nonsense,” Sadi spluttered.
Agachak’s sunken eyes were boring into Garion’s face. “I have seen Belgarion myself,” he intoned hollowly. “He was much younger then, but there is a resemblance.”
“A resemblance certainly, Dread Hierarch,” Sadi agreed quickly, “but that’s all. The young man has been in my service since he was a boy. Oh, I’ll admit that there are some superficial similarities of features, but I can assure you that this most definitely is not Belgarion.”
Silk was standing just behind Urgit, and his lips were moving very fast as he whispered to his new-found brother. The Murgo King was a skilled enough politician to control his expression, but his eyes darted nervously this way and that as he began to realize that he stood at the very center of an incipient explosion. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You still haven’t told us what makes you believe that this is Belgarion, Kabach,” he said.
“I was in Tol Honeth some years ago,” Harakan shrugged. “Belgarion was there at the same time—for a funeral, I think. Someone pointed him out to me.”
“I think the noble Dagashi is mistaken,” Sadi said. “His identification is based entirely on a fleeting glance from a distance. That hardly qualifies as definitive proof. I tell you that this is not Belgarion.”
“He lies,” Harakan said flatly. “I am of the Dagashi. We are trained observers.”
“That raises an interesting point, Agachak,” Urgit said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Harakan. “In spite of everything, the Dagashi are still Murgos, and every Murgo alive slashes his face as a blood offering to Torak.” He turned and pointed at two faint, thin white lines on his cheek. The king’s scarcely visible scars gave mute evidence that his self-mutilation had been none too fervent. “Look at our Dagashi there,” he continued. “I don’t see a single mark on his face, do you?”
“I was instructed by my elder not to make the customary blood offering,” Harakan said quickly. “He wanted me un- marked so that I could move around freely in the Kingdoms of the West.”
“I’m sorry, Kabach,” Urgit said with heavy skepticism, “but that story doesn’t hold water at all. The blood offering to Torak is a part of the rite of passage into manhood. Were you so precocious as a child that your elder decided to make you a spy before you were ten years old? And even if he had, you would still have been required to go through the rite before you could marry or even enter the Temple. The scars may not be on your face, but if you’re a Murgo, you’ve got scars on you someplace. Show us your scars, noble Dagashi. Let us see the proof of your fidelity to Torak and your uncontaminated Murgo blood.”
“Dread Hierarch,” Sadi said with a thoughtful expression on his face, “this is not the first accusation leveled at one of my servants.” He looked meaningfully at Chabat. “Is it possible that there is a faction among your Grolims that does not want this mission to succeed—some group hiding behind false beards?”
“Beard!” Silk exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “That’s why I couldn’t place him! He’s shaved off his beard!”
Urgit turned to look inquiringly at him. “What are you talking about, fellow?”
“Excuse me, your Majesty,” Silk said with exaggerated humility. “I just realized something, and it surprised me. I think I can clarify things here.”
“I certainly hope someone can. All right, go ahead.”
“Thank you, your Majesty.” Silk looked around with a beautifully feigned expression of nervousness. “I’m an Alorn, your Majesty,” he said, then held up one hand quickly. “Please hear me out,” he begged, half of the king and half of the surrounding Murgos. “I’m an Alorn, but I’m not a fanatic about it. The way I look at it, there’s plenty of room in the world for Alorns and Murgos. Live and let live, I always say. Anyway, last year I hired myself out as a soldier in King Belgarion’s army—the one that he raised to lay siege to the Bear-cult at Rheon in northeastern Drasnia. Well, to make it short, I was present when Belgarion and his friend from Sendaria—Durnik, I think his name is—captured the cult-leader, Ulfgar. He had a beard then, but I swear to you that this Kabach is the selfsame man. I ought to know. I helped to carry him into a house after Durnik knocked him senseless.”
“What would a Dagashi be doing in Drasnia?” Urgit asked with an artfully puzzled expression on his face,
“Oh, he’s not a Dagashi, your Majesty,” Silk explained. “When King Belgarion and his friends questioned him, it came out that he’s a Malloreon Grolim. Harakan, I think his name is.”
“Harakan?” Agachak said, turning quickly to fix the counterfeit Dagashi with his suddenly smoldering eyes.
“Ridiculous,” Harakan scoffed. “This little weasel is one of Belgarion’s servants. He’s lying to protect his master.”
“Is the name Harakan in any way significant, Agachak?” Urgit asked.
The Hierarch straightened, his eyes intent. “Harakan is Urvon’s underling,” he replied, “and I’ve heard that he’s been seen here in the west.”
“I think we’ve got a problem on our hands here, Agachak,” Urgit said. “These charges—both of them—are too serious to be ignored. We’ve got to get to the truth here.” The priestess Chabat’s eyes were narrowed, and her expression cunning. “Finding that truth is a simple matter, your Majesty,” she declared. “My master Agachak is the most powerful sorcerer in all of Cthol Murgos. He will have no difficulty in probing the minds of all who are here to find out who is speaking truth and who is lying.”
“Can you really do that, Agachak?” Urgit asked. Agachak shrugged. “It’s a simple matter.”
“Then by all means, do it. I’m not going on board that scow over there until I find out exactly who my shipmates are going to be.”
Agachak took a deep breath and began to draw in his will. “Master!” a Grolim with a purple satin lining on the hood of his robe exclaimed, leaping forward with one hand outstretched. “Beware!”
“How dare you?” Chabat shrieked at him, her eyes blazing.
The Grolim ignored her. “Master,” he said to Agachak, “there is great danger in what the priestess proposes. Should either of these men be telling the truth, you will be probing the mind of a powerful sorcerer, and your own mind will be totally vulnerable. A single thought could erase your entire consciousness.”
Agachak slowly relaxed his wilt, “Ah, yes,” he murmured. “I had not considered that danger.” He turned to
Chabat, catching the brief flicker of disappointment that crossed her face. “How curious that my Holy Priestess did not think of that before she suggested the probing—or did you, Chabat? Have you given up the notion of raising a demon to destroy me, then? Will you now fall back on so commonplace a thing as simple deceit? I’m terribly disappointed in you, my beloved.”
She shrank back, her scar-laced face frightened.
“This matter has to be settled, Agachak,” Urgit said. “I’m not going to go near that ship until I find out the truth here. I haven’t succeeded in staying alive for all these years by being foolhardy.”
“The question is largely academic now anyway,” Agachak replied. “None of these people will be leaving.”
“Agachak, I have to get to Rak Cthaka immediately.”
“Then go. I will find another party of slavers and hire another Dagashi.”
“That could take months,” Urgit protested. “Personally, I’m inclined to believe these slavers. Ussa has been very honest with me, and the young man over there has none of the bearing of a king. This one who calls himself Kabach, however, is highly suspect. If you were to look along the trail between here and Mount Kahsha, I think you might find the real Kabach in a shallow grave someplace. This man— whoever he is—has come very close to forestalling the mission to Rak Hagga with his accusation. Wouldn’t that be exactly what Urvon would want?”
“There’s a logic to what you say, your Majesty, but I don’t think I want any of them going on board that ship until I find out the truth.”
“Why not let them settle it for us, then?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“One of them—or possibly both—is a sorcerer. Let them fight each other, and we’ll see which one tries to destroy the other by sorcery.”
“Trial by combat?”
“Why not? It’s a bit antique, but the circumstances here seem to be appropriate.”
“There is merit in your plan, your Majesty.”
Urgit suddenly grinned. “Why don’t we clear a space?” he suggested. “We wouldn’t want to get singed when these two start hurling thunderbolts at each other.” He came over and took Garion’s arm. “Just stay calm,” he whispered,
“and don’t do anything conspicuous. Try to force him to use sorcery.” Then he pushed Garion forward into the circle that had quickly been formed on the stone quay. “Here is the supposed King of Riva,” he said to Agachak. “Now, if the ostensible Malloreon Grolim will be so good as to step forth, we’ll find out who’s been telling the truth.”
“I have no sword,” Harakan said sullenly.
“Simplicity in itself. Somebody give him a sword.”
Several were offered at once.
“I think you’re in deep trouble, Harakan,” Urgit smirked. “If you so much as twitch one finger, you’ll reveal yourself as a Malloreon Grolim, and my soldiers will shoot you full of arrows. On the other hand, if this is really Belgarion and you don’t use sorcery to defend yourself, he’ll burn you right down into a little pile of cinders. All in all, I think you’re in for a very bad afternoon.”
Garion ground his teeth together and began talking fervently to the Orb, telling the stone over and over again not to do anything out of the ordinary. Then he steeled himself and reached back over his shoulder. The great blade made a steely hiss as it came out of the scabbard.
Harakan handled his borrowed sword nervously, but the way he held it and his stance clearly indicated that he was a competent swordsman. A sudden anger filled Garion. This was the man who had been responsible for the attempt on Ce’Nedra’s life and for the murder of Brand. He dropped into a half crouch with Iron-grip’s sword extended in front of him. Harakan desperately tried to slap that great blade away with his own sword, and there was a steely ring as the two swords came together. Implacably, Garion stalked his enemy. His anger was so great that he had even forgotten the reason for this duel. He was no longer interested in unmasking Harakan. All he wanted to do was to kill him.
There was a rapid exchange of thrusts and parries, and the entire harbor rang with the steel song of the swords. Step by step Harakan retreated, and his eyes began to fill with fear. But finally Garion lost all patience with fencing. With his eyes ablaze he seized the hilt of his huge sword in both hands and swung it back over his shoulder. Had he delivered that blow, nothing could have stopped it.
Harakan’s cheeks blanched as he looked directly into the face of death. “Curse you!” he shouted at Garion, then flickered and vanished, to reappear briefly at the far end of the quay. He shimmered and swooped away in the form of a swift sea hawk.
“That sort of answers the question, doesn’t it, Agachak?” Urgit said quite calmly.
Agachak, however, his eyes ablaze with hate, also flashed into the form of a hawk. With two powerful strokes of his pinions, he drove himself into the air, shrieking for blood as he raced after the fleeing Harakan.
Garion’s hands were shaking. He turned and stalked toward Urgit with a scorching fury rising in his throat. With a great effort he restrained his sudden desire to take hold of the front of the smaller man’s doublet and hurl him far out into the harbor.
“Now—now don’t be hasty,” Urgit said, backing fearfully away.
Garion spoke from between clenched teeth in a dreadfully quiet voice. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“Naturally not,” Urgit agreed hastily. He stopped, a curious expression suddenly crossing his rat-like face. “Are you really Belgarion?” he asked in a hoarse whisper. “Would you like some proof?”
“No, no—that’s quite all right.” Urgit’s words came tumbling out. He stepped quickly around the still infuriated Gar-ion and crossed the quay to where Chabat stood. “Let us pray that your Hierarch succeeds in capturing that imposter,” he said. “Give him my regards upon his return. I'd wait, but I must board ship and depart at once.”
“Of course, your Majesty,” she replied in a voice that was nearly a purr. “I will take charge of these slavers until the Hierarch’s return.”
He stared at her.
“Since the entire purpose of this mission was to convey the Dagashi assassin to Rak Hagga, there’s no point in their going now, is there? They will have to remain here while we send to Kahsha for another Dagashi.” She looked at Sadi with an unconcealed smirk. “I will place them under my personal protection.”
Urgit looked at her narrowly. “Holy Priestess,” he said to her, “to be quite candid about it, I don’t think you can r be trusted. Your personal enmity toward this Nyissan is ^ painfully obvious, and he’s far too important to risk. I don’t think that you would be able to restrain yourself, once both Agachak and I are gone from Rak Urga. I think I’ll just take Ussa and his people with me—just to be on the safe side. When the Dagashi arrives from Mount Kahsha, send him along.”
Chabat’s eyes hardened, and her face grew angry. “The purpose of the mission to Rak Hagga is to fulfill a prophecy,” she declared, “and the fulfillment of prophecy is clearly in the domain of the Church.”
Urgit drew in a deep breath. Then he straightened from his usual slouching posture. “The mission is also a State matter, Holy Priestess. Agachak and I have been co-operating in this affair, and in his absence I assert the authority of the crown. Ussa and his people will go with me, and you will take your Grolims back to the Temple to await the return of your Hierarch.”
Chabat seemed taken aback by his sudden show of strength. She had obviously expected to brush aside any feeble objections he might raise, but this seemed to be a new Urgit. Her face hardened, and the flamelike scars writhed on her pale cheeks. “So,” she said, “it appears that our king is finally maturing. I think, however, that you will come to regret your passage into manhood at this particular time. Watch closely, High King of Cthol Murgos.” She bent, holding something in her hand, and began to mark symbols on the stones of the quay—symbols that glowed with an unholy light.
“Garion!” Silk cried in alarm, “Stop her!”
But Garion had also seen the glowing circle Chabat had drawn on the wet stones and the burning five-pointed star she was inscribing in its center and he recognized the meaning of those symbols immediately. He took a half step toward Chabat, even as she stepped into the protection of the circle and began muttering words in some unknown language.
As fast as he was, however, Polgara was even faster. “Chabat!” she said sharply, “Stop! This is forbidden!”
“Nothing is forbidden to one who has the power,” the priestess replied, her scarred and beautiful face filled with an overwhelming pride, “and who here can prevent me?”
Polgara’s face grew grim, “I can,” she said calmly. She raised her hand in a curious lifting gesture, and Garion felt the surge of her will. The sullen swells washing against the stones of the quay slowly rose until they broke across the top to swirl about the ankles of those who stood there.
The burning symbols Chabat had marked on the stones vanished as the water washed over them.
The Grolim priestess drew in her breath sharply and stared at Aunt Pol, realization slowly dawning in her eyes. “Who are you?”
“One who would save your life, Chabat,” Polgara answered. “The punishment for raising demons has always been the same. You might succeed once or twice—or even a few more times—but in the end, the demon will turn on you and tear you to pieces. Not even Torak in all his twisted madness would have dared to step across this line.”
“But I do dare! Torak is dead, and Agachak is not here to prevent me. No one can stop me.”
“I can, Chabat,” Polgara said quietly. “I will not permit you to do this.”
“And how will you stop me? I have the power.”
“But mine is greater.” Polgara let her cloak fall to the stones at her feet, bent, and removed her shoes. “You may have been able to control your demon the first time you raised him,” she said, “but your control is only temporary. You are no more than the doorway through which he enters this world. As soon as he feels his full strength, he will destroy you and be loosed upon this world to raven as he chooses. I beg of you, my sister, do not do this. Your life— and your very soul—are in deadly peril.”
“I have no fear,” Chabat rasped. “Not of my demon and not of you.”
“Then you’re a fool—on both counts.”
“You challenge me?”
“If I must. Will you meet me on my own ground, Chabat?” Polgara’s blue eyes were suddenly like ice, and the white lock at her brow flamed incandescently as she gathered in her will. Once again she raised her hand and the lead-gray swells again raised obediently to the edge of the quay. With that same dreadful calm, she stepped out onto the surface of the water and stood there, as if what lay under her feet was firm earth. A sudden moan rose from the Grolims as she turned to look at the awe-stricken priestess. “Well, Chabat,” she said, “will you join me here? Can you join me?”
Chabat’s scarred face grew ashen, but her eyes clearly showed that she could not refuse Aunt Pol’s challenge. “I will,” she rasped through clenched teeth. Then she, too, stepped off the quay, but floundered awkwardly as she sank to the knees in the dirty waters of the harbor.
“Is it so very difficult for you, then?” Polgara asked her. “If this little thing take sail of your will, how do you imagine that you will have enough power to control a demon? Abandon this desperate plan, Chabat. There is still time to save your own life.”
“Never!” Chabat shrieked with flecks of froth coming to her lips. With an enormous effort, she lifted herself until she stood on the surface and laboriously strode out several yards. Then, with her face once again twisted into that overwhelming triumph, she drew the symbols on the face of the water, inscribing them with sooty orange flame. Her voice rose again in the evil incantation of the summoning, rising and falling in its hideous cadences. The red scars on her cheeks seemed to grow pale, then suddenly glowed with a burning white light as she continued to recite the spell.
“Kheldar, what’s happening?” Urgit’s voice was shrill as he stared at the impossibility that was occurring before his eyes.
“Something very unpleasant,” Silk told him.
Chabat’s voice had risen to a shriek, and the surface of the harbor suddenly erupted before her in a seething cauldron of steam and fire. Out of the midst of those flames there arose something so hideous that it was beyond comprehension. It was vast and clawed and fanged, but the worst of all were its red, glowing eyes.
“Kill her!” Chabat cried, pointing at Polgara with a trembling hand. “I command thee to kill this witch!”
The demon looked at the priestess standing safely within the flaming circle of her protective symbols and then, with the still-boiling water surging around his vast trunk, he turned and started toward Polgara. But, with her face still calm, she raised one hand. “Stop!” she commanded, and Garion felt the enormous jolting force of her will.
The demon suddenly howled, his fanged muzzle lifted toward the gray clouds in a sudden agony of frustration.
“I said kill her!” Chabat shrieked again.
The monster slowly sank into the water, extending his two huge arms just beneath the surface. He began to turn, rotating slowly in the seething water. Faster and faster he spun, with the water sizzling around him. A vortex began to appear around him as he whirled, a sudden maelstrom very nearly as dreadful as the Cherek Bore.
Chabat howled her triumph, dancing on the surface of the water in an obscene caper, unaware that the flames with which she had drawn her symbols had been suddenly whirled away by the surging vortex.
As the spinning waters reached the spot where Polgara stood, she began to be drawn toward the deadly whirlpool and the slavering demon still whirling in its center.
“Pol!” Durnik shouted. “Look out!”
But it was too late. Caught in that inexorable maelstrom, she was carried round and round, slowly at first but then foster and faster as she was pulled in long spirals toward the center. As she neared it, however, she once again raised her hand and very suddenly she disappeared beneath the surging surface.
“Pol!” Durnik shouted again, his face suddenly gone deathly white. Struggling to pull off his tunic, he ran toward the edge of the quay. Belgarath, however, his face grimly set, caught the smith’s arm. “Stay out of it, Durnik!” he snapped, his voice cracking like a whip.
Durnik struggled with him, trying to pull himself free. “Let me go!” he yelled.
“I said not to interfere!”
Beyond the edge of the demon-created vortex, a single rose bobbed to the surface. It was a curiously familiar flower, its petals white on the outside and a deep, blushing crimson in the center. Garion stared at it, a sudden wild hope springing up in him.
At the center of the swirling vortex, the monstrous demon suddenly stopped, his burning eyes filled with bafflement. Without any warning he rose, arched forward, and plunged headfirst into the seething water.
“Find her!” the flame-marked Chabat screamed after her enslaved fiend. “Find her and kill her!”
The leaden waters of the harbor boiled and steamed as the huge demon surged this way and that beneath the surface. Quite suddenly, the movement stopped, and the air and the water grew deadly calm.
Chabat, still standing on the water and with the glowing light still illuminating the cruel scars on her cheeks, lifted both arms above her head in a gesture of exaltation. “Die, witch!” she shouted. “Feel the fangs of my servant rend your flesh!”
Suddenly a monstrous, scaly claw came up out of the water directly in front of her. “No!” she shrieked, “you cannot!” Then she looked in horror at the water upon which she stood, realizing at last that her protective symbols had been swept away. She took a faltering step backward, but the huge hand closed on her, its needle-sharp claws biting deeply into her body. Her blood spurted, and she screamed in agony, writhing in that awful grasp.
Then, with a huge bellow, the demon rose from the depths with his great, fanged muzzle agape. He lifted the struggling priestess aloft with a howl of hellish triumph. The Grolims and the Murgo soldiers on the quay broke and fled in terror as the monster started toward them.
The single rose that had floated to the surface of the harbor, however, had begun to glow with a strange blue light. It seemed to grow larger as the glow intensified. Then, her face calm, Polgara appeared in the very center of that coruscating incandescence. A few feet to her left there also appeared a nimbus of flickering light. Before the stunned eyes of those on the quay, the nimbus suddenly coalesced, and there, standing beside Polgara, Garion saw the glowing form of the God Aldur.
“Must it be so, Master?” Polgara asked in a voice that clearly revealed her reluctance.
“It must, my daughter,” Aldur replied sadly.
Polgara sighed. “Then so be it, Master.” She extended her left hand, and the God enclosed it in his. The gathering-in of her will roared in Garion’s mind like a tornado, and the force of it pushed against him with an awful power. Enclosed in blue light and linked by their touching hands, Polgara and Aldur stood side by side on the surface of the water, facing the hideous demon who still held the weakly struggling Cha-bat high in the air.
“I abjure thee, creature of darkness,” Polgara said in a great voice. “Return to the hell that spawned thee and never more corrupt this world by thy foul presence. Begone and take with thee the one who summoned thee.” She raised her hand, and the force of her will, combined with the will of the God Aldur, blazed forth from her palm. There was a vast thunderclap as the demon suddenly exploded into a huge ball of fire with the waters of the harbor geysering up around it.
‘Then he was gone, and with him disappeared the priestess
When Garion looked back, Aldur no longer stood at Polgara’s side. She turned and slowly walked back across the “^waves toward the quay. As she approached, Garion clearly saw that her eyes were filled with anguish.