“I feel as if somebody’s been beating me with a stick,” Barak groaned, sinking to the ground in the brushy gully at the top of the cut. “A very big, dirty stick.”
They all sat on the ground among the prickly thornbushes in the gully, recovering from the dreadful climb. “I’ll have a look around,” Silk said after only a few moments. The small man had the body of an acrobat—supple, strong, and quick to restore itself. He crept up to the rim of the gully, ducking low under the thornbushes and worming his way the last few feet on his stomach to peer carefully over the top. After several minutes, he gave a low whistle, and they saw him motion sharply for them to join him.
Barak groaned again and stood up. Durnik, Mandorallen, and Garion also got stiffly to their feet.
“See what he wants,” Belgarath told them. “I’m not ready to start moving around just yet.”
The four of them started up the slope through the loose gravel toward the spot where Silk lay peering out from under a thornbush, crawling the last few feet as he had done.
“What’s the trouble?” Barak asked the little man as they came up beside him.
“Company,” Silk replied shortly, pointing out over the rocky, arid plain lying brown and dead under the flat gray sky.
A cloud of yellow dust, whipped low to the ground by the stiff, chill wind, gave evidence of riders.
“A patrol?” Durnik asked in a hushed voice.
“I don’t think so,” Silk answered. “Thulls aren’t comfortable on horses. They usually patrol on foot.”
Garion peered out across the arid waste. “Is that somebody out in front of them?” he asked, pointing at a tiny, moving speck a half mile or so in front of the riders.
“Ah,” Silk said with a peculiar kind of sadness.
“What is it?” Barak asked. “Don’t keep secrets, Silk. I’m not in the mood for it.”
“They’re Grolims,” Silk explained. “The one they’re chasing is a Thull trying to escape being sacrificed. It happens rather frequently.”
“Should Belgarath be warned?” Mandorallen suggested.
“It’s probably not necessary,” Silk replied. “The Grolims around here are mostly low-ranking. I doubt that any of them would have any skill at sorcery.”
“I’ll go tell him anyway,” Durnik said. He slid back away from the edge of the gully, rose, and went back down to where the old man rested with Aunt Pol and Relg.
“As long as we stay out of sight, we’ll probably be all right,” Silk told them. “It looks as if there are only three of them, and they’re concentrating on the Thull.”
The running man had moved closer. He ran with his head down and his arms pumping at his sides.
“What happens if he tries to hide here in the gully?” Barak asked.
Silk shrugged. “The Grolims will follow him.”
“We’d have to take steps at that point, wouldn’t we?” Silk nodded with a wicked little smirk.
“We could call him, I suppose,” Barak suggested, loosening his sword in its sheath.
“The same thought had just occurred to me.”
Durnik came back up the slope, his feet crunching in the gravel.
“Wolf says to keep an eye on them,” he reported, “but he says not to do anything unless they actually start into the gully.”
“What a shame!” Silk sighed regretfully.
The running Thull was clearly visible now. He was a thick-bodied man in a rough tunic, belted at the waist. His hair was shaggy and mudcolored, and his face was contorted into an expression of brutish panic. He passed the place where they hid, perhaps thirty paces out on the flats, and Garion could clearly hear his breath whistling in his throat as he pounded past. He was whimpering as he ran—an animal-like sound of absolute despair.
“They almost never try to hide,” Silk said in a soft voice tinged with pity. “All they do is run.” He shook his head.
“They’ll overtake him soon,” Mandorallen observed. The pursuing Grolims wore black, hooded robes and polished steel masks.
“We’d better get down,” Barak advised.
They all ducked below the gully rim. A few moments later, the three horses galloped by, their hooves thudding on the hard earth.
“They’ll catch him in a few more minutes,” Garion said. “He’s running right for the edge. He’ll be trapped.”
“I don’t think so,” Silk replied somberly.
A moment later they heard a long, despairing shriek, fading horribly into the gulf below.
“I more or less expected that,” Silk said.
Garion’s stomach wrenched at the thought of the dreadful height of the escarpment.
“They’re coming back,” Barak warned. “Get down.”
The three Grolims rode back along the edge of the gully. One of them said something Garion could not quite hear, and the other two laughed.
“The world might be a brighter place with three less Grolims in it,” Mandorallen suggested in a grim whisper.
“Attractive thought,” Silk agreed, “but Belgarath would probably disapprove. I suppose it’s better to let them go. We wouldn’t want anybody looking for them.”
Barak looked longingly after the three Grolims, then sighed with deep regret.
“Let’s go back down,” Silk said.
They all turned and crawled back down into the brushy gully. Belgarath looked up as they returned. “Are they gone?”
“They’re riding off,” Silk told him.
“What was that cry?” Relg asked.
“Three Grolims chased a Thull off the edge of the escarpment,” Silk replied.
“Why?”
“He’d been selected for a certain religious observance, and he didn’t want to participate.”
“He refused?” Relg sounded shocked. “He deserved his fate then.”
“I don’t think you appreciate the nature of Grolim ceremonies, Relg,” Silk said.
“One must submit to the will of one’s God,” Relg insisted. There was a sanctimonious note to his voice. “Religious obligations are absolute.”
Silk’s eyes glittered as he looked at the Ulgo fanatic. “How much do you know about the Angarak religion, Relg?” he asked.
“I concern myself only with the religion of Ulgo.”
“A man ought to know what he’s talking about before he makes judgments.”
“Let it lie, Silk,” Aunt Pol told him.
“I don’t think so, Polgara. Not this time. A few facts might be good for our devout friend here. He seems to lack perspective.” Silk turned back to Relg. “The core of the Angarak religion is a ritual most men find repugnant. Thulls devote their entire lives to avoiding it. That’s the central reality of Thullish life.”
“An abominable people.” Relg’s denunciation was harsh.
“No. Thulls are stupid—even brutish—but they’re hardly abominable. You see, Relg, the ritual we’re talking about involves human sacrifice.”
Relg pulled the veil from his eyes to stare incredulously at the rat-faced little man.
“Each year two thousand Thulls are sacrificed to Torak,” Silk went on, his eyes boring into Relg’s stunned face. “The Grolims permit the substitution of slaves, so a Thull spends his whole life working in order to get enough money to buy a slave to take his place on the altar if he’s unlucky enough to be chosen. But slaves die sometimes—or they escape. If a Thull without a slave is chosen, he usually tries to run. Then the Grolims chase him—they’ve had a lot of practice, so they’re very good at it. I’ve never heard of a Thull actually getting away.”
“It’s their duty to submit,” Relg maintained stubbornly, though he seemed a bit less sure of himself.
“How are they sacrificed?” Durnik asked in a subdued voice. The Thull’s willingness to hurl himself off the escarpment had obviously shaken him.
“It’s a simple procedure,” Silk replied, watching Relg closely. “Two Grolims bend the Thull backward over the altar, and a third cuts his heart out. Then they burn the heart in a little fire. Torak isn’t interested in the whole Thull. He only wants the heart.”