Belgarath closed his eyes. “Durnik,” he said as Polgara started drawing designs on his face with her quill, “you and the others will stay back here. See if you can find someplace a little better hidden than this gully.”
“All right, Belgarath,” the smith agreed. “How will we know when it’s safe to come down to the lake-shore?”
“When the screaming dies out.”
“Don’t move your lips, father,” Polgara told him, frowning in concentration as she continued her drawing."Did you want me to blacken your beard too?”
“Leave it the way it is. Superstitious people are always impressed by venerability, and I look older than just about anybody.”
She nodded her agreement. “Actually, father, you look older than dirt.”
“Very funny, Pol,” he said acidly. “Are you just about done?”
“Did you want the death symbol on your forehead?” she asked.
“Might as well,” he grunted. “Those cretins down there won’t recognize it, but it looks impressive.”
By the time Polgara had finished with her artwork, Silk returned with assorted garments.
“Any problems?” Durnik asked him.
“Simplicity itself.” Silk shrugged. “A man whose eyes are fixed on heaven is fairly easy to approach from behind, and a quick rap across the back of the head will usually put him to sleep.”
“Leave your mail shirt and helmet, Garion,” Belgarath said. “Karands don’t wear them. Bring your sword, though.”
“I’d planned to.” Garion began to struggle out of his mail shirt. After a moment, Ce’Nedra came over to help him.
“You’re getting rusty,” she told him after they had hauled off the heavy thing. She pointed at a number of reddish-brown stains on the padded linen tunic he wore under the shirt.
“It’s one of the drawbacks to wearing armor,” he replied.
“That and the smell,” she added, wrinkling her nose. “You definitely need a bath, Garion.”
“I’ll see if I can get around to it one of these days,” he said. He pulled on one of the fur vests Silk had stolen.
Then he tied on the crude leggings and crammed on a rancid-smelling fur cap. “How do I look?” he asked her.
“Like a barbarian,” she replied.
“That was sort of the whole idea.”
“I didn’t steal you a hat,” Silk was saying to Belgarath. “I thought you might prefer to wear feathers.”
Belgarath nodded. “All of us mighty wizards wear feathers,” he agreed. “It’s a passing fad, I’m sure, but I always like to dress fashionably.” He looked over at the horses. “I think we’ll walk,” he decided. “When the noise starts, the horses might get a bit skittish.” He looked at Polgara and the others who were staying behind. “This shouldn’t take us too long,” he told them confidently and strode off down the gully with Garion and Silk close behind him.
They emerged from the mouth of the gully at the south end of the knoll and walked down the hill toward the crowd gathering on the lake-shore.
“I don’t see any sign of their wizard yet,” Garion said, peering ahead.
“They always like to keep their audiences waiting for a bit,” Belgarath said. “It’s supposed to heighten the anticipation or something.”
The day was quite warm as they walked down the hill, and the rancid smell coming from their clothing grew stronger. Although they did not really look that much like Karands, the people in the crowd they quietly joined paid them scant attention. Every eye seemed to be fixed on a platform and one of those log altars backed by a line of skulls on stakes.
“Where do they get all the skulls?” Garion whispered to Silk.
“They used to be headhunters,” Silk replied. “The Angaraks discouraged that practice, so now they creep around at night robbing graves. I doubt if you could find a whole skeleton in any graveyard in all of Karanda.”
“Let’s get closer to the altar,” Belgarath muttered. “I don’t want to have to shove my way through this mob when things start happening.”
They pushed through the crowd. A few of the greasy-haired fanatics started to object to being thrust aside, but one look at Belgarath’s face with the hideous designs Polgara had drawn on it convinced them that here was a wizard of awesome power and that it perhaps might be wiser not to interfere with him.
Just as they reached the front near the altar, a man in a black Grolim robe strode out through the gate of the lakeside village, coming directly toward the altar.
“I think that’s our wizard,” Belgarath said quietly.
“A Grolim?” Silk sounded slightly surprised.
“Let’s see what he’s up to.”
The black-robed man reached the platform and stepped up to stand in front of the altar. He raised both hands and spoke harshly in a language Garion did not understand. His words could have been either a benediction or a curse. The crowd fell immediately silent. Slowly the Grolim pushed back his hood and let his robe fall to the platform. He wore only a loincloth, and his head had been shaved. His body was covered from crown to toe with elaborate tattoos.
Silk winced. “That must have really hurt,” he muttered.
“Prepare ye all to look upon the face of your God,” the Grolim announced in a large voice, then bent to inscribe the designs on the platform before the altar.
“That’s what I thought,” Belgarath whispered. “That circle he drew isn’t complete. If he were really going to raise a demon, he wouldn’t have made that mistake.” The Grolim straightened and began declaiming the words of the incantation in a rolling, oratorical style.
“He’s being very cautious,” Belgarath told them. “He’s leaving out certain key phrases. He doesn’t want to raise a real demon accidentally. Wait.” The old man smiled bleakly. “Here he goes.”
Garion also felt the surge as the Grolim’s will focused and then he heard the familiar rushing sound.
“Behold the Demon Lord Nahaz,” the tattooed Grolim shouted, and a shadow-encased form appeared before the altar with a flash of fire, a peal of thunder, and a cloud of sulfur-stinking smoke. Although the figure was no larger than an ordinary man, it looked very substantial for some reason.
“Not too bad, really,” Belgarath admitted grudgingly.
“It looks awfully solid to me, Belgarath,” Silk said nervously.
“It’s only an illusion, Silk,” the old man quietly reassured him. “A good one, but still only an illusion.”
The shadowy form on the platform before the altar rose to its full height and then pulled back its hood of darkness to reveal the hideous face Garion had seen in Torak’s throne room at Ashaba.
As the crowd fell to its knees with a great moan, Belgarath drew in his breath sharply. “When this crowd starts to disperse, don’t let the Grolim escape,” he instructed. “He’s actually seen the real Nahaz, and that means that he was one of Harakan’s cohorts. I want some answers out of him.” Then the old man drew himself up. “Well, I guess I might as well get started with this,” he said. He stepped up in front of the platform. “Fraud!” he shouted in a great voice. “Fraud and fakery!”
The Grolim stared at him, his eyes narrowing as he saw the designs drawn on his face. “On your knees before the Demon Lord,” he blustered.
“Fraud!” Belgarath denounced him again. He stepped up onto the platform and faced the stunned crowd. “This is no wizard, but only a Grolim trickster,” he declared.
“The Demon Lord will tear all your flesh from your bones,” the Grolim shrieked.
“All right,” Belgarath replied with calm contempt. “Let’s see him do it. Here. I’ll even help him.” He pulled back his sleeve, approached the shadowy illusion hovering threateningly before the altar and quite deliberately ran his bare arm into the shadow’s gaping maw. A moment later, his hand emerged, coming, or so it appeared, out of the back of the Demon Lord’s head. He pushed his arm further until his entire wrist and forearm were sticking out of the back of the illusion. Then, quite deliberately, he wiggled his fingers at the people gathered before the altar.