“It’s not the easiest trail in the world.”
“Those Murgos are less than a day behind us, Belgarath. If we have to pick our way down, they’ll be on top of us before we make it.”
Belgarath pursed his lips, squinting at the dust clouds on the southern horizon. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Maybe we’d better think this through.” He raised his hand to call a halt. “It’s time to make a couple of decisions,” he told the rest of them. “The Murgos are a little closer than we really want them to be. It takes two to three days to make the descent into the Vale, and there are places where one definitely doesn’t want to be rushed.”
“We could always go on to that ravine we followed coming up,” Silk suggested. “It only takes a half day to go down that way.”
“But Lord Hettar and the Algar clans of King Cho-Hag await us in the Vale,” Mandorallen objected. “Were we to go on, would we not lead the Murgos down into undefended country?”
“Have we got any choice?” Silk asked him.
“We could light fires along the way,” Barak suggested. “Hettar will know what they mean.”
“So would the Murgos,” Silk said. “They’d ride all night and be right behind us every step of the way down.”
Belgarath scratched sourly at his short white beard. “I think we’re going to have to abandon the original plan,” he decided. “We have to take the shortest way down, and that means the ravine, I’m afraid. We’ll be on our own once we get down, but that can’t be helped.”
“Surely King Cho-Hag will have scouts posted along the foot of the escarpment,” Durnik said, his plain face worried.
“We can hope so,” Barak replied.
“All right,” Belgarath said firmly, “we’ll use the ravine. I don’t altogether like the idea, but our options seem to have been narrowed a bit. Let’s ride.”
It was late afternoon when they reached the shallow gully at the top of the steep notch leading down to the plain below. Belgarath glanced once down the precipitous cut and shook his head. “Not in the dark,” he decided. “Can you see any signs of the Algars?” he asked Barak, who was staring out at the plain below.
“I’m afraid not,” the red-bearded man answered. “Do you want to light a fire to signal them?”
“No,” the old man replied. “Let’s not announce our intentions.”
“I will need a small fire, though,” Aunt Pol told him. “We all need a hot meal.”
“I don’t know if that’s wise, Polgara,” Belgarath objected.
“We’ll have a hard day tomorrow, father,” she said firmly. “Durnik knows how to build a small fire and keep it hidden.”
“Have it your own way, Pol,” the old man said in a resigned tone of voice.
“Naturally, father.”
It was cold that night, and they kept their fire small and well sheltered. As the first light of dawn began to stain the cloudy sky to the east, they rose and prepared to descend the rocky cut toward the plain below.
“I’ll strike the tents,” Durnik said.
“Just knock them down,” Belgarath told him. He turned and nudged one of the packs thoughtfully with his foot. “We’ll take only what we absolutely have to have,” he decided. “We’re not going to have the time to waste on these.”
“You’re not going to leave them?” Durnik sounded shocked.
“They’ll just be in the way, and the horses will be able to move faster without them.”
“But—all of our belongings!” Durnik protested.
Silk also looked a bit chagrined. He quickly spread out a blanket and began rummaging through the packs, his quick hands bringing out innumerable small, valuable items and piling them in a heap on the blanket.
“Where did you get all those?” Barak asked him.
“Here and there,” Silk replied evasively.
“You stole them, didn’t you?”
“Some of them,” Silk admitted. “We’ve been on the road for a long time, Barak.”
“Do you really plan to carry all of that down the ravine?” Barak asked, curiously eyeing Silk’s treasures.
Silk looked at the heap, mentally weighing it. Then he sighed with profound regret. “No,” he said, “I guess not.” He stood up and scattered the heap with his foot. “It’s all very pretty though, isn’t it? Now I guess I’ll have to start all over again.” He grinned then. “It’s the stealing that’s fun, anyway. Let’s go down.” And he started toward the top of the steeply descending streambed that angled sharply down toward the base of the escarpment.
The unburdened horses were able to move much more rapidly, and they all passed quite easily over spots Garion remembered painfully from the upward climb weeks before. By noon they were more than halfway down.
Then Polgara stopped and raised her face. “Father,” she said calmly, “they’ve found the top of the ravine.”
“How many of them?”
“It’s an advance patrol—no more than twenty.”
Far above them they heard a sharp clash of rock against rock, and then, after a moment, another. “I was afraid of that,” Belgarath said sourly.
“What?” Garion asked.
“They’re rolling rocks down on us.” The old man grimly hitched up his belt. “All right, the rest of you go on ahead. Get down as fast as you can.
“Are you strong enough, father?” Aunt Pol asked, sounding concerned. “You still haven’t really recovered, you know.”
“We’re about to find out,” the old man replied, his face set. “Move—all of you.” He said it in a tone that cut off any possible argument. As they all began scrambling down over the steep rocks, Garion lagged farther and farther behind. Finally, as Durnik led the last packhorse over a jumble of broken stone and around a bend, Garion stopped entirely and stood listening. He could hear the clatter and slide of hooves on the rocks below and, from above, the clash and bounce of a large stone tumbling over the ravine, coming closer and closer. Then there was a familiar surge and roaring sound. A rock, somewhat larger than a man’s head, went whistling over him, angling sharply up out of the cut to fall harmlessly far out on the tumbled debris at the floor of the escarpment. Carefully Garion began climbing back up the ravine, pausing often to listen.
Belgarath was sweating as Garion came into sight around a bend in the ravine a goodly way above and ducked back out of the old man’s sight. Another rock, somewhat larger than the first, came bounding and crashing down the narrow ravine, bouncing off the walls and leaping into the air each time it struck the rocky streambed. About twenty yards above Belgarath, it struck solidly and spun into the air. The old man gestured irritably, grunting with the effort, and the rock sailed out in a long arc, clearing the walls of the ravine and falling out of sight.
Garion quickly crossed the streambed and went down several yards more, staying close against the rocky wall and peering back to be sure he was concealed from his grandfather.
When the next rock came bouncing and clashing down toward them, Garion gathered his will. He’d have to time it perfectly, he knew, and he peered around a corner, watching the old man intently. When Belgarath raised his hand, Garion pushed his own will in to join his grandfather’s, hoping to slip a bit of unnoticed help to him.
Belgarath watched the rock go whirling far out over the plain below, then he turned and looked sternly down the ravine. “All right, Garion,” he said crisply, “step out where I can see you.”
Somewhat sheepishly Garion went out into the center of the streambed and stood looking up at his grandfather.
“Why is it that you can never do what you’re told to do?” the old man demanded.
“I just thought I could help, that’s all.”
“Did I ask for help? Do I look like an invalid?”
“There’s another rock coming.”
“Don’t change the subject. I think you’re getting above yourself, young man.”