“He’s as bad as Hettar,” Silk observed to Barak.
The king of the Algars grinned openly as he slowly dismounted. His weak legs seemed almost to buckle as he carefully put his weight on them, and he held onto his saddle for support. “How did things go in Rak Cthol?” he asked.
“It wound up being rather noisy,” Belgarath replied.
“Did you find Ctuchik in good health?”
“Moderately. We corrected that, however. The whole affair set off an earthquake. Most of Rak Cthol slid off its mountaintop, I’m afraid.”
Cho-Hag grinned again. “What a shame.”
“Where’s Hettar?” Barak asked.
“Chasing Murgos, I imagine,” Cho-Hag replied. “Their rear guard got cut off, and they’re out there trying to find someplace to hide.”
“There aren’t very many hiding places on this plain, are there?” Barak asked.
“Almost none at all,” the Algar king agreed pleasantly.
A dozen or so Algar wagons crested a nearby hill, rolling toward them through the tall, brown grass. They were square-boxed conveyances, looking not unlike houses on wheels. They had roofs, narrow windows, and steps at the rear leading up to the doorway on the back of each wagon. It looked, Garion thought, almost like a moving city as they approached.
“I imagine Hettar’s going to be a while,” Cho-Hag noted. “Why don’t we have a bit of lunch? I’d like to get word to Anheg and Rhodar about what’s happened here as soon as possible, but I’m sure you’ll want to pass a few things along as well. We can talk while we eat.”
Several of the wagons were drawn up close together and their sides were let down and joined to form a spacious, low-ceilinged dining hall. Braziers provided warmth, and candles illuminated the interior of the quickly assembled hall, supplementing the bright winter sunlight streaming in through the windows.
They dined on roasted meat and mellow ale. Garion soon found that he was wearing far too many clothes. It seemed that he had not been warm in months, and the glowing braziers shimmered out a welcome heat. Although he was tired and very dirty, he felt warm and safe, and he soon found himself nodding over his plate, almost drowsing as Belgarath recounted the story of their escape to the Algar king.
Gradually, however, as the old man spoke, something alerted Garion. There was, it seemed, a trace too much vivacity in his grandfather’s voice, and Belgarath’s words sometimes seemed almost to tumble over each other. His blue eyes were very bright, but seemed occasionally a bit unfocused.
“So Zedar got away,” Cho-Hag was saying. “That’s the only thing that mars the whole affair.”
“Zedar’s no problem,” Belgarath replied, smiling in a slightly dazed way.
His voice seemed strange, uncertain, and King Cho-Hag looked at the old man curiously. “You’ve had a busy year, Belgarath,” he said.
“A good one, though.” The sorcerer smiled again and lifted his ale cup. His hand was trembling violently, and he stared at it in astonishment.
“Aunt Pol!” Garion called urgently.
“Are you all right, father?”
“Fine, Pol, perfectly fine.” He smiled vaguely at her, his unfocused eyes blinking owlishly. He rose suddenly to his feet and began to move toward her, but his steps were lurching, almost staggering. And then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the floor like a pole-axed cow.
“Father!” Aunt Pol exclaimed, leaping to his side.
Garion, moving almost as fast as his Aunt, knelt on the other side of the unconscious old man. “What’s wrong with him?” he demanded. But Aunt Pol did not answer. Her hands were at Belgarath’s wrist and brow, feeling for his pulse. She peeled back one of his eyelids and stared intently into his blank, unseeing eyes. “Durnik!” she snapped. “Get my herb-bag-quickly!”
The smith bolted for the door.
King Cho-Hag had half risen, his face deathly pale. “He isn’t—”
“No,” she answered tensely. “He’s alive, but only barely.”
“Is something attacking him?” Silk was on his feet, looking around wildly, his hand unconsciously on his dagger.
“No. It’s nothing like that.” Aunt Pol’s hands had moved to the old man’s chest. “I should have known,” she berated herself. “The stubborn, proud old fool! I should have been watching him.”
“Please, Aunt Pol,” Garion begged desperately, “what’s wrong with him?”
“He never really recovered from his fight with Ctuchik,” she replied. “He’s been forcing himself, drawing on his will. Then those rocks in the ravine—but he wouldn’t quit. Now he’s burned up all his vital energy and will. He barely has enough strength left to keep breathing.”
Garion had lifted his grandfather’s head and cradled it on his lap. “Help me, Garion!”
He knew instinctively what she wanted. He gathered his will and held out his hand to her. She grasped it quickly, and he felt the force surge out of him.
Her eyes were very wide as she intently watched the old man’s face. “Again!” And once more she pulled the quickly gathered will out of him.
“What are we doing?” Garion’s voice was shrill.
“Trying to replace some of what he has lost. Maybe—” She glanced toward the door. “Hurry, Durnik!” she shouted.
Durnik rushed back into the wagon.
“Open the bag,” she instructed, “and give me that black jar—the one that’s sealed with lead—and a pair of iron tongs.”
“Should I open the jar, Mistress Pol?” the smith asked.
“No. Just break the seal—carefully. And give me a glove—leather, if you can find one.”
Wordlessly, Silk pulled a leather gauntlet from under his belt and handed it to her. She pulled it on, opened the black jar, and reached inside with the tongs. With great care, she removed a single dark, oily-looking green leaf. She held it very carefully in the tongs. “Pry his mouth open, Garion,” she ordered.
Garion wedged his fingers between Belgarath’s clenched teeth and carefully pried the old man’s jaws apart. Aunt Pol pulled down her father’s lower lip, reached inside his mouth with the shiny leaf, and lightly brushed his tongue with it, once and once only.
Belgarath jumped violently, and his feet suddenly scraped on the floor. His muscles heaved, and his arms began to flail about.
“Hold him down,” Aunt Pol commanded. She pulled back sharply and held the leaf out of the way while Mandorallen and Barak jumped in to hold down Belgarath’s convulsing body. “Give me a bowl,” she ordered. “A wooden one.”
Durnik handed her one, and she deposited the leaf and the tongs in it. Then, with great care, she took off the gauntlet and laid it atop the leaf. “Take this,” she told the smith. “Don’t touch any part of the glove.”
“What do you want me to do with it, Mistress Pol?”
“Take it out and burn it—bowl and all—and don’t let anyone get into the smoke from it.”
“Is it that dangerous?” Silk asked.
“It’s even worse, but those are the only precautions we can take out here.”
Durnik swallowed very hard and left the wagon, holding the bowl as if it were a live snake.
Polgara took a small mortar and pestle and began grinding certain herbs from her bag into a fine powder as she watched Belgarath intently. “How far is it to the Stronghold, Cho-Hag?” she asked the Algar king.
“A man on a good horse could make it in half a day,” he replied.
“How long by wagon—a wagon driven carefully to avoid bouncing?”
“Two days.”
She frowned, still mixing the herbs in the mortar. “All right, there’s no help for it, I guess. Please send Hettar to Queen Silar. Have him tell her that I’m going to need a warm, well-lighted chamber with a good bed and no drafts. Durnik, I want you to drive the wagon. Don’t hit any bumps even if it means losing an hour.”