The smith nodded.
“He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” Barak asked, his voice strained and his face shocked by Belgarath’s sudden collapse.
“It’s really too early to say,” she replied. “He’s been on the point of collapse for days maybe. But he wouldn’t let himself go. I think he’s past this crisis, but there may be others.” She laid one hand on her father’s chest. “Put him in bed carefully. Then I want a screen of some kind around the bed—blankets will do. We have to keep him very quiet and out of drafts. No loud noises.”
They all stared at her as the significance of her extreme precautions struck them.
“Move, gentlemen,” she told them firmly. “His life may depend on a certain speed.”
6
The wagon seemed barely to crawl. The high, thin cloud had swept in again to hide the sun, and a kind of leaden chill descended on the featureless plain of southern Algaria. Garion rode inside the wagon, thick-headed and numb with exhaustion, watching with dreadful concern as Aunt Pol hovered over the unconscious Belgarath. Sleep was out of the question. Another crisis could arise at any time and he had to be ready to leap to her aid, joining his will and the power of his amulet with hers. Errand, his small face grave, sat quietly in a chair at the far side of the wagon, his hands firmly clasped around the pouch Durnik had made for him. The sound of the Orb still hung in Garion’s ears, muted but continual. He had grown almost accustomed to the song in the weeks since they had left Rak Cthol; but at quiet moments or when he was tired, it always seemed to return with renewed strength. It was somehow a comforting sound.
Aunt Pol leaned forward to touch Belgarath’s chest. “What’s wrong?” Garion asked in a sharp whisper.
“Nothing’s wrong, Garion,” she replied calmly. “Please don’t keep saying that every time I so much as move. If something’s wrong, I’ll tell you.”
“I’m sorry—I’m just worried, that’s all.”
She turned to give him a steady look. “Why don’t you take Errand and go up and ride on top of the wagon with Silk and Durnik?”
“What if you need me?”
“I’ll call you, dear.”
“I’d really rather stay, Aunt Pol.”
“I’d really rather you didn’t. I’ll call if I need you.”
“But—”
“Now, Garion.”
Garion knew better than to argue. He took Errand out the back door of the wagon and up the steps to the top.
“How is he?” Silk asked.
“How should I know? All I know is that she chased me out.” Garion’s reply was a bit surly.
“That might be a good sign, you know.”
“Maybe.” Garion looked around. Off to the west there was a range of low hills. Rearing above them stood a vast pile of rock.
“The Algar Stronghold,” Durnik told Garion, pointing.
“Are we that close?”
“That’s still a good day’s ride.”
“How high is it?” Garion asked.
“Four or five hundred feet at least,” Silk told him. “The Algars have been building at it for several thousand years. It gives them something to do after the calving season.”
Barak rode up. “How’s Belgarath?” he asked as he approached.
“I think he might be improving just a little,” Garion answered. “I don’t know for sure, though.”
“That’s something, anyway.” The big man pointed toward a gully just ahead. “You’d better go around that,” he told Durnik. “King Cho-Hag says that the ground gets a bit rough through there.”
Durnik nodded and changed the wagon’s direction.
Throughout the day, the Stronghold of the Algars loomed higher and higher against the western horizon. It was a vast, towering fortress rearing out of the dun-colored hills.
“A monument to an idea that got out of hand,” Silk observed as he lounged idly atop the wagon.
“I don’t quite follow that,” Durnik said.
“Algars are nomads,” the little man explained. “They live in wagons like this one and follow their herds. The Stronghold gives Murgo raiders something to attack. That’s its only real purpose. Very practical, really. It’s much easier than looking for them all over these plains. The Murgos always come here, and it’s a convenient place to wipe them out.”
“Don’t the Murgos realize that?” Durnik looked a bit skeptical.
“Quite possibly, but they come here anyway because they can’t resist the place. They simply can’t accept the fact that nobody really lives here.” Silk grinned his ferretlike little grin. “You know how stubborn Murgos are. Anyway, over the years the Algar clans have developed a sort of competition. Every year they try to outdo one another in hauling rock, and the Stronghold keeps growing higher and higher.”
“Did Kal Torak really lay siege to it for eight years?” Garion asked him.
Silk nodded. “They say that his army was like a sea of Angaraks dashing itself to pieces against the walls of the Stronghold. They might still be here, but they ran out of food. That’s always been the problem with large armies. Any fool can raise an army, but you start running into trouble around suppertime.”
As they approached the man-made mountain, the gates opened and a party emerged to greet them. In the lead on a white palfrey rode Queen Silar with Hettar close behind. At a certain point they stopped and sat waiting.
Garion lifted a small trapdoor in the roof of the wagon. “We’re here, Aunt Pol,” he reported in a hushed voice.
“Good,” she replied.
“How’s grandfather?”
“He’s sleeping. His breathing seems a bit stronger. Go ask Cho-Hag to take us inside immediately. I want to get father into a warm bed as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Aunt Pol.” Garion lowered the trapdoor and then went down the steps at the rear of the slowly moving wagon. He untied his horse, mounted and rode to the front of the column where the Algar queen was quietly greeting her husband.
“Excuse me,” he said respectfully, swinging down from his horse, “but Aunt Pol wants to get Belgarath inside at once.”
“How is he?” Hettar asked.
“Aunt Pol says that his breathing’s getting stronger, but she’s still worried.”
From the rear of the group that had emerged from the Stronghold, there was a flurry of small hooves. The colt that had been born in the hills above Maragor burst into view and came charging directly at them. Garion immediately found himself swarmed under by the colt’s exuberant greetings. The small horse nuzzled him and butted at him with its head, then pranced away only to gallop back again. When Garion put his hand on the animal’s neck to calm him, the colt quivered with joy at his touch.
“He’s been waiting for you,” Hettar said to Garion. “He seems to have known you were coming.”
The wagon drew up and stopped. The door opened, and Aunt Pol looked out.
“Everything’s ready, Polgara,” Queen Silar told her.
“Thank you, Silar.”
“Is he recovering at all?”
“He seems better, but it’s very hard to say for sure at this point.” Errand, who had been watching from the top of the wagon, suddenly clambered down the steps at the rear, hopped to the ground, and ran out along the legs of the horses.
“Catch him, Garion,” Aunt Pol said. “I think he’d better ride in here with me until we get inside the Stronghold.”
As Garion started after the little boy, the colt scampered away, and Errand, laughing with delight, ran after him. “Errand!” Garion called sharply. The colt, however, had turned in midgallop and suddenly bore down on the child, his hooves flailing wildly. Errand, showing no signs of alarm, stood smiling directly in its path. Startled, the little horse stiffened his legs and skidded to a stop. Errand laughed and held out his hand. The colt’s eyes were wide as he sniffed curiously at the hand, and then the boy touched the small animal’s face.
Again within the vaults of his mind Garion seemed to hear that strange, bell-like note, and the dry voice murmured, “Dome,” with a peculiar sort of satisfaction.