“There is some possibility of division in the enemy ranks, my Lord,” Kharel replied. “Taur Urgas is behaving as if he considers himself the only possible choice as overgeneral of the Angarak armies; at the moment, he’s got the advantage of numbers on his side. That may change if the Malloreans manage to land a big enough army. There are rumors that ’Zakath would like to dispute the leadership of Taur Urgas, but he’s reluctant to try it in the face of four million Murgos.”
“Let’s try to keep it that way,” Rhodar said. “Taur Urgas is insane, and crazy men make mistakes. I’ve heard about ’Zakath, and I’d rather not face him in the field.”
King Cho-Hag spoke wryly. “Even as it stands without the Malloreans, we’re going to be taking the field at about a two to one disadvantage—and that’s assuming that we can persuade the Arends and Tolnedrans to join us.”
“It’s a rotten way to start a war, Rhodar,” Anheg complained.
“We’ll just have to adjust our tactics,” Rhodar replied. “We’ve got to avoid a pitched battle as long as possible to save as many men as we can.”
“I thought we weren’t even considering a battle,” Barak objected, “and Belgarath said that all he wants is a diversion.”
“The situation’s changed, Barak,” King Rhodar declared. “We hadn’t counted on the southern Murgos or the Malloreans being in place this soon. We’re going to have to do something a bit more significant than stage a few hit—and-run attacks. The Angaraks have enough men now to be able to ignore minor raids and skirmishes. If we don’t make a major thrust—and very soon they’ll spread out all over the eastern half of the continent.”
“Belgarath doesn’t like it when you change plans on him,” Anheg reminded Rhodar.
“Belgarath isn’t here, and he doesn’t know what’s going on. If we don’t act rather decisively, he and Belgarion and Kheldar haven’t a hope of getting through.”
“You’re talking about a war we can’t win, Rhodar,” Anheg said bluntly.
“I know,” King Rhodar admitted.
There was a long silence.
“So that’s the way it is, then,” Brand said finally.
“I’m afraid so,” Rhodar told them somberly. “There has to be a diversion, or Belgarion and his sword will never get to the meeting with Torak. That’s the only thing that really matters, and we’ll all have to lay down our lives if necessary to make it happen.”
“You’re going to get us all killed, Rhodar,” Anheg said bluntly, “and all our armies with us.”
“If that’s what it takes, Anheg,” Rhodar answered grimly. “If Belgarion doesn’t get to Torak, our lives don’t mean anything, anyway. Even if we all have to die to get him there, it’s still worth it.”
Ce’Nedra’s fingertips slid numbly from her amulet as she fell back in her chair. Suddenly she began to weep. “I won’t do it,” she sobbed. “I can’t.” She saw before her a multitude—an army of widows and orphans all staring accusingly at her, and she shrank from their eyes. If she perpetrated this horror, the rest of her life would be spent in an agony of self loathing. Still weeping, she stumbled to her feet, fully intending to rush to the council chamber and declare that she would have nothing further to do with this futile war. But then she stopped as the image of Garion’s face rose in her mind—that serious face with the unruly hair she always wanted to straighten. He depended on her. If she shrank from this, the Angaraks would be free to hunt him down. His very life—and with it the future of the world—was in her hands. She had no choice but to continue. If only she did not know that the campaign was doomed! It was the knowledge of the disaster that awaited them that made it all so terrible.
Knowing that it was useless, she began to tug at the chain that held the amulet about her neck. Had it not been for the amulet, she would have remained blissfully ignorant of what lay ahead. Still sobbing, she yanked frantically at the chain, ignoring the sting as it cut into the soft skin of her neck. “I hate you!” she blurted irrationally at the silver amulet with its crowned tree.
But it was useless. The medallion would remain chained about her neck for the rest of her life. Ashen-faced, Ce’Nedra let her hands drop. Even if she were able to remove the amulet, what good would it do? She already knew and she must conceal the knowledge in her heart. If the faintest hint of what she knew showed in her face or her voice, she would fail—and Garion would suffer for her failure. She must steel herself and face the world as if certain of victory.
And so it was that the Rivan Queen drew herself erect and bravely lifted her chin—even though her heart lay like lead in her breast.
25
Barak’s new ship was larger by half than most of the other Cherek warboats in the fleet, but she moved before the spring breeze like a gull skimming low over the water. Fleecy white clouds ran across the blue sky, and the surface of the Sea of the Winds sparkled in the sunlight as the great ship heeled over and cut cleanly through the waves. Low on the horizon before them rose the green shoreline of the hook of Arendia. They were two days out from Riva, and the Cherek fleet spread out behind them in a vast crowd of sails, carrying the gray-cloaked Rivans to join the armies of King Fulrach of Sendaria.
Ce’Nedra nervously paced the deck near the prow, her blue cloak tossing in the wind and her armor gleaming. Despite the dreadful knowledge concealed in her heart, there was an excitement to all of this. The gathering of men, swords, and ships, the running before the wind, the sense of a unified purpose, all combined to make her blood race and to fill her with an exhilaration she had never felt before.
The coast ahead loomed larger—a white sand beach backed by the dark green of the Arendish forest. As they neared the shoreline, an armored knight on a huge roan stallion emerged from the trees and rode down the beach to the edge of the water where foamy breakers crashed on the damp sand. The princess shaded her eyes with one hand and peered intently at the gleaming knight. Then, as he turned with a broad sweep of his arm which told them to continue up the coast, she saw the crest on his shield. Her heart suddenly soared.
“Mandorallen!” she cried out in a vibrant trumpet note as she clung to the ropes in the very prow of Barak’s ship, with the wind whipping at her hair.
The great knight waved a salute and, spurring his charger, galloped through the seething foam at the edge of the beach, the silver and blue pennon at the tip of his lance snapping and streaming over his head. Their ship heeled over as Barak swung the tiller, and, separated by a hundred yards or so of foaming surf, the ship and the rider on the beach kept abreast of each other.
It was a moment Ce’Nedra would remember for all her life—a single image so perfect that it seemed forever frozen in her memory. The great ship flew before the wind, cutting the sparkling blue water, with her white sails booming; the mighty warhorse on the beach plunged through the gleaming foam at the edge of the sand with spray flying out from beneath his great hooves. Locked together in that endless moment, ship and rider raced along in the warm spring sunshine toward a wooded promontory a mile ahead, with Ce’Nedra exulting in the ship’s prow and her flaming hair streaming like a banner.
Beyond the promontory lay a sheltered cove, and drawn up on the beach stood the camp of the Sendarian army, row upon orderly row of dun-colored tents. Barak swung his tiller over, and his sails flapped as the ship coasted into the cove with the Cherek fleet close behind.
“Ho, Mandorallen!” Barak bellowed as the anchor ropes sang and great iron anchors plunged down through crystal water toward the sandy bottom.
“My Lord Barak,” Mandorallen shouted his reply, “welcome to Arendia. Lord Brendig hath devised a means to speed thy disembarking.” He pointed to where a hundred or so Sendarian soldiers were busily poling a series of large rafts into position, lashing them together to form a long floating wharf extending out into the waters of the cove.