The Belgariad 5: Enchanter's End Game (5 page)

He let his mind drift back to what the Nadrak had said about a queen. He quickly dismissed the notion that any of the queens staying at Riva might, under any circumstances, have assumed such authority. That left only Aunt Pol. The Nadrak's information could have been garbled a bit; but in Belgarath's absence, Aunt Pol might have taken charge of things - although that was not like her, at all. What could possibly have happened back there to force her to go to such extremes?

As the afternoon wore on, more and more of the men in the tavern grew reeling drunk, and occasional fights broke out - although the fights usually consisted of shoving matches, since few in the room were sober enough to aim a good blow. Their companion drank steadily and eventually laid his head down on his arms and began to snore.

"I think we've got just about everything we can use here," Belgarath suggested quietly. "Let's drift on out. From what our friend here says, I don't think it'd be a good idea to sleep in town."

Silk nodded his agreement, and the three of them rose from the table and made their way through the crowd to the side door.

"Did you want to pick up any supplies?" the little man asked.

Belgarath shook his head. "I have a feeling that we want to get out of here as soon as possible."

Silk gave him a quick look, and the three of them untied their horses, mounted and rode back out into the red dirt street. They moved at a walk to avoid arousing suspicion, but Garion could feel a sort of tense urgency to put this raw, mud-smeared village behind them. There was something threatening in the air, and the golden late afternoon sun seemed somehow shadowed, as if by an unseen cloud. As they were passing the last rickety house on the downhill edge of the village, they heard an alarmed shout from somewhere back near the center of town. Garion turned quickly and saw a party of perhaps twenty mounted men in red tunics plunging at a full gallop toward the tavern the three of them had just left. With a practiced skill, the scarlet-clad strangers swung down from their horses and immediately covered all the doors to cut off an escape for those inside.

"Malloreans!" Belgarath snapped. "Make for the trees!" And he drove his heels into his horse's flanks.

They galloped across the weedy, stump-cluttered clearing that surrounded the village, toward the edge of the forest and safety, but there was no outcry or pursuit. The tavern appeared to contain enough fish to fill the Mallorean net. From a safe vantage point beneath spreading tree limbs, Garion, Silk, and Belgarath watched as a disconsolate-looking string of Nadraks, chained together at the ankle, were led out of the tavern into the red dust of the street to stand under the watchful eyes of the Mallorean recruiters.

"It looks like our friend has joined the army, after all," Silk observed.

"Better him than us," Belgarath replied. "We might be just a little out of place in the middle of an Angarak horde." He squinted at the ruddy disk of the setting sun. "Let's move out. We've got a few hours before dark. It looks as if military service might be contagious in this vicinity, and I wouldn't want to catch it."

THE FOREST OF Nadrak was unlike the Arendish forest lying far to the south. The differences were subtle, and it took Garion several days to put his finger on them. For one thing, the trails they followed had no sense of permanence about them. They were so infrequently traveled that they were not beaten into the loamy soil of the forest floor. In the Arendish forest, the marks of man were everywhere, but here man was an intruder, merely passing through. Moreover, the forest in Arendia had definite boundaries, but this ocean of trees went on to the farthest edge of the continent, and it had stood so since the beginning of the world.

The forest teemed with life. Tawny deer flickered among the trees, and vast, shaggy bison, with curved black horns shiny as onyx, grazed in clearings. Once a bear, grumbling and muttering irritably, lumbered across the trail in front of them. Rabbits scurried through the undergrowth and partridges exploded into flight from underfoot with a heartstopping thunder of wings. The ponds and streams abounded with fish, muskrat, otter, and beaver. There were also, they soon discovered, smaller forms of life. The mosquitoes seemed only slightly smaller than sparrows, and there was a nasty little brown fly that bit anything that moved.

The sun rose early and set late, dappling the dark forest floor with golden light. Although it was midsummer now, it was never exactly hot, and the air was rich with that smell of urgent growth common to the lands of the north, where summer was short and winter very long.

Belgarath seemed not to sleep at all once they entered the forest. Each evening, as Silk and Garion wearily rolled themselves in their blankets, the old sorcerer threaded his way back into the shadowy trees and disappeared. Once, several hours past dusk on a night filled with starlight, Garion awoke briefly and heard the loping touch of paws skittering lightly across a leaf carpeted clearing; even as he drifted back to sleep, he understood. The great silver wolf who was his grandfather roamed the night, scouring the surrounding forest for any hint of pursuit or danger.

The old man's nocturnal roamings were as silent as smoke, but they did not pass unnoticed. Early one morning, before the sun rose and while the trees were still hazy and half obscured by ground fog, several shadowy shapes drifted among the dark trunks and stopped not far away. Garion, who had just risen and was preparing to stir up the fire, froze half bent over. As he slowly straightened, he could feel eyes on him, and his skin prickled peculiarly. Perhaps ten feet away stood a huge, dark gray wolf. The wolf's expression was serious, and its eyes were as yellow as sunlight. There was an unspoken question in those golden eyes, and Garion realized that he understood that question.

"One wonders why you are doing that?"

"Doing what?" Garion asked politely, responding automatically in the language of wolves.

"Going about in that peculiar form."

"It's necessary to do it."

"Ah." With exquisite courtesy the wolf did not pursue the matter further. "One is curious to know if you don't find it somewhat restricting," he noted however.

"It's not as bad as it looks - once one gets used to it."

The wolf looked unconvinced. He sat down on his haunches. "One has seen the other one several times in the past few darknesses," he said in the manner of wolves, "and one is curious to know why you and he have come into our range."

Garion knew instinctively that his answer to that question was going to be very important. "We are going from one place to another," he replied carefully. "It is not our intention to seek dens or mates in your range or to hunt the creatures that are yours." He could not have explained how he knew what to say.

The wolf seemed satisfied with his response. "One would be pleased if you would present our esteem to the one with fur like frost," he said formally. "One has noted that he is worthy of great respect."

"One would be pleased to give him your words," Garion responded, a bit surprised at how easily the elaborate phrasing came to him.

The wolf lifted his head and sniffed at the air. "It is time for us to hunt," he said. "May you find what you seek."

"May your hunt be successful," Garion returned.

The wolf turned and padded back into the fog, followed by his companions.

"On the whole, you handled that rather well, Garion," Belgarath said from the deep shadows of a nearby thicket.

Garion jumped, a bit startled. "I didn't know you were there," he said.

"You should have," the old man replied, stepping out of the shadows.

"How did he know?" Garion asked. "That I'm a wolf sometimes, I mean?"

"It shows. A wolf is very alert to that sort of thing."

Silk came out from under the tree where he had been sleeping. The little man's step was wary, but his nose twitched with curiosity. "What was that all about?" he asked.

"The wolves wanted to know what we were doing in their territory," Belgarath replied. "They were investigating to see if they were going to have to fight us."

"Fight?" Garion was startled.

"It's customary when a strange wolf enters the hunting range of another pack. Wolves prefer not to fight - it's a waste of energy - but they will, if the situation demands it."

"What happened?" Silk asked. "Why did they just go away like that?"

"Garion convinced them that we were just passing through."

"That was clever of him."

"Why don't you stir up the fire, Garion?" Belgarath suggested. "Let's have some breakfast and move on. It's still a long way to Mallorea, and we don't want to run out of good weather."

Later that same day, they rode down into a valley where a collection of log houses and tents stood beside a fair-sized stream at the edge of a meadow.

"Fur traders," Silk explained to Garion, pointing at the rough settlement. "'There are places like this on just about every major stream in this part of the forest." The little man's pointed nose began to twitch, and his eyes grew bright. "A lot of buying and selling goes on in these little towns."

"Never mind," Belgarath told him pointedly. "Try to keep your predatory instincts under control."

"I wasn't even considering anything," Silk protested.

"Really? Aren't you feeling well?"

Silk loftily ignored that.

"Wouldn't it be safer to go around it?" Garion asked as they rode across the broad meadow.

Belgarath shook his head. "I want to know what's going on ahead of us, and the quickest way to find out is to talk to people who've been there. We'll drift in, circulate for an hour or so and then drift on out again. Just keep your ears open. If anyone asks, we're on our way toward the north range to look for gold."

There were differences between the hunters and trappers who roamed the streets of this settlement and the miners they had met in the last village. They were more open for one thing - less surly and distinctly less belligerent. Garion surmised that the enforced solitude of their occupation made them appreciate companionship all the more during their infrequent visits to the fur-trading centers. Although they drank probably as much as the miners, their drinking seemed to lead more often to singing and laughter than to fighting.

A large tavern stood near the center of the village, and they rode slowly along a dirt street toward it. "Side door," Belgarath said tersely as they dismounted in front of the tavern, and they led their horses around the building and tied them at the porch railing.

The interior of the tavern was cleaner, less crowded, and somewhat lighter than the miners' tavern had been, and it smelled of woods and open air instead of damp, musty earth. The three of them sat at a table not far from the door and ordered cups of ale from a polite servingman. The ale was a rich, dark brown, well chilled, and surprisingly inexpensive.

"The fur buyers own the place," Silk explained, wiping foam from his upper lip. "They've discovered that a trapper is easier to bargain with if he's a little drunk, so they make the ale cheap and plentiful."

"I suppose that makes sense," Garion admitted, "but don't the trappers know that?"

"Of course they do."

"Why do they drink before they do business, then?"

Silk shrugged. "They like to drink."

The two trappers seated at the next table were renewing an acquaintanceship that obviously stretched back a dozen years or more. Their beards were both touched with gray, but they spoke lightheartedly in the manner of much younger men.

"You have any trouble with Morindim while you were up there?" one was asking the other.

The second shook his head. "I put pestilence-markers on both ends of the valley where I set out my traps," he replied. "A Morind will go a dozen leagues out of his way to avoid a spot that's got pestilence."

The first nodded his agreement. "That's usually the best way. Gredder always claimed that curse-markers worked better; but as it turned out, he was wrong."

"I haven't seen him in the last few seasons."

"I'd be surprised if you had. The Morindim got him about three years ago. I buried him myself - what was left of him anyway."

"Didn't know that. Spent a winter with him once over on the head waters of the Cordu. He was a mean-tempered sort of a man. I'm surprised that the Morindim would cross a curse-marker, though."

"As near as I could judge, some magician came along and uncursed his markers. I found a dried weasel foot hung from one of them with three stems of grass tied around each toe."

"That's a potent spell. They must have wanted him pretty badly for a magician to take that much trouble."

"You know how he was. He could irritate people ten leagues away just walking by."

"That's the truth."

"Not any more, though. His skull's decorating some Morind magician's quest-staff now."

Garion leaned toward his grandfather. "What do they mean when they talk about markers?" he whispered.

"They're warnings," Belgarath replied. "Usually sticks poked into the ground and decorated with bones or feathers. The Morindim can't read, so you can't just put up a signboard for them."