The old man nodded. “The earth’s all one piece, Silk. The force that’s causing that eruption is enormous. It’s bound to cause a few ripples. I think we’d better get moving. Taur Urgas’ patrols will be out looking for us again, now that the sandstorm’s blown over.”
“Which way do we go?” Durnik asked, looking around, trying to get his bearings.
“That way.” Belgarath pointed toward the smoking mountain.
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Barak grumbled.
They rode at a gallop for the rest of the day, pausing only to rest the horses. The dreary wasteland seemed to go on forever. The black sand had shifted and piled into new dunes during the sandstorm, and the thick-crusted salt flats had been scoured by the wind until they were nearly white. They passed a number of the huge, bleached skeletons of the sea monsters which had once inhabited this inland ocean. The bony shapes appeared almost to be swimming up out of the black sand, and the cold, empty eye sockets seemed somehow hungry as they galloped past.
They stopped for the night beside another shattered outcropping of scab-rock. Although the wind had died, it was still bitterly cold, and firewood was scanty.
The next morning as they set out again, Garion began to smell a strange, foul odor. “What’s that stink?” he asked.
“The Tarn of Cthok,” Belgarath replied. “It’s all that’s left of the sea that used to be here. It would have dried out centuries ago, but it’s fed by underground springs.”
“It smells like rotten eggs,” Barak said.
“There’s quite a bit of sulfur in the ground water around here. I wouldn’t drink from the lake.”
“I wasn’t planning to.” Barak wrinkled his nose.
The Tarn of Cthok was a vast, shallow pond filled with oily-looking water that reeked like all the dead fish in the world. Its surface steamed in the icy air, and the wisps of steam gagged them with the dreadful stink. When they reached the southern tip of the lake, Belgarath signalled for a halt. “This next stretch is dangerous,” he told them soberly. “Don’t let your horses wander. Be sure you stay on solid rock. Ground that looks firm quite often won’t be, and there are some other things we’ll need to watch out for. Keep your eyes on me and do what I do.
When I stop, you stop. When I run, you run.” He looked thoughtfully at Relg. The Ulgo had bound another cloth across his eyes, partially to keep out the light and partially to hide the expanse of the sky above him.
“I’ll lead his horse, Grandfather,” Garion offered.
Belgarath nodded. “It’s the only way, I suppose.”
“He’s going to have to get over that eventually,” Barak said.
“Maybe, but this isn’t the time or place for it. Let’s go.” The old man moved forward at a careful walk.
The region ahead of them steamed and smoked as they approached it. They passed a large pool of gray mud that bubbled and fumed, and beyond it a sparkling spring of clear water, boiling merrily and cascading a scalding brook down into the mud. “At least it’s warmer,” Silk observed.
Mandorallen’s face was streaming perspiration beneath his heavy helmet. “Much warmer,” he agreed.
Belgarath had been riding slowly, his head turned slightly as he listened intently.
“Stop!” he said sharply.
They all reined in.
Just ahead of them another pool suddenly erupted as a dirty gray geyser of liquid mud spurted thirty feet into the air. It continued to spout for several minutes, then gradually subsided.
“Now!” Belgarath barked. “Run!” He kicked his horse’s flanks, and they galloped past the still-heaving surface of the pool, the hooves of their horses splashing in the hot mud that had splattered across their path. When they had passed, the old man slowed again and once more rode with his ear cocked toward the ground.
“What’s he listening for?” Barak asked Polgara.
“The geysers make a certain noise just before they erupt,” she answered.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“You don’t know what to listen for.”
Behind them the mud geyser spouted again.
“Garion!” Aunt Pol snapped as he turned to look back at the mud plume rising from the pool. “Watch where you’re going!”
He jerked his eyes back. The ground ahead of him looked quite ordinary.
“Back up,” she told him. “Durnik, get the reins of Relg’s horse.”
Durnik took the reins, and Garion began to turn his mount.
“I said to back up,” she repeated.
Garion’s horse put one front hoof on the seemingly solid ground, and the hoof sank out of sight. The horse scrambled back and stood trembling as Garion held him in tightly. Then, carefully, step by step, Garion backed to the solid rock of the path they followed.
“Quicksand,” Silk said with a sharp intake of his breath.
“It’s all around us,” Aunt Pol agreed. “Don’t wander off the path—any of you.”
Silk stared with revulsion at the hoofprint of Garion’s horse, disappearing on the surface of the quicksand. “How deep is it?”
“Deep enough,” Aunt Pol replied.
They moved on, carefully picking their way through the quagmires and quicksand, stopping often as more geysers—some of mud, some of frothy, boiling water—shot high into the air. By late afternoon, when they reached a low ridge of hard, solid rock beyond the steaming bog, they were all exhausted from the effort of the concentration it had taken to pass through the hideous region.
“Do we have to go through any more like that?” Garion asked.
“No,” Belgarath replied. “It’s just around the southern edges of the Tarn.”
“Can one not go around it, then?” Mandorallen inquired.
“It’s much longer if you do, and the bog helps to discourage pursuit.”
“What’s that?” Relg cried suddenly.
“What’s what?” Barak asked him.
“I heard something just ahead—a kind of click, like two pebbles knocking together.”
Garion felt a quick kind of wave against his face, almost like an unseen ripple in the air, and he knew that Aunt Pol was searching ahead of them with her mind.
“Murgos!” she said.
“How many?” Belgarath asked her.
“Six and a Grolim. They’re waiting for us just behind the ridge.”
“Only six?” Mandorallen said, sounding a little disappointed.
Barak grinned tightly. “Light entertainment.”
“You’re getting to be as bad as he is,” Silk told the big Cherek.
“Thinkest thou that we might need some plan, my Lord?” Mandorallen asked Barak.
“Not really,” Barak replied. “Not for just six. Let’s go spring their trap.”
The two warriors moved into the lead, unobtrusively loosening their swords in their scabbards.
“Has the sun gone down yet?” Relg asked Garion.
“It’s just setting.”
Relg pulled the binding from around his eyes and tugged down the dark veil. He winced and squinted his large eyes almost shut.
“You’re going to hurt them,” Garion told him. “You ought to leave them covered until it gets dark.”
“I might need them,” Relg said as they rode up the ridge toward the waiting Murgo ambush.
The Murgos gave no warning. They rode out from behind a large pile of black rock and galloped directly at Mandorallen and Barak, their swords swinging. The two warriors, however, were waiting for them and reacted without that instant of frozen surprise which might have made the attack successful. Mandorallen swept his sword from its sheath even as he drove his warhorse directly into the mount of one of the charging Murgos. He rose in his stirrups and swung a mighty blow downward, splitting the Murgo’s head with his heavy blade. The horse, knocked off his feet by the impact, fell heavily backward on top of his dying rider. Barak, also charging at the attackers, chopped another Murgo out of the saddle with three massive blows, spattering bright red blood on the sand and rock around them.
A third Murgo sidestepped Mandorallen’s charge and struck at the knight’s back, but his blade clanged harmlessly off the steel armor. The Murgo desperately raised his sword to strike again, but stiffened and slid from his saddle as Silk’s skilfully thrown dagger sank into his neck, just below the ear.