A dark-robed Grolim in his polished steel mask had stepped out from behind the rocks. Garion could quite clearly feel the priest’s exultation turning to dismay as Barak and Mandorallen systematically chopped his warriors to pieces. The Grolim drew himself up, and Garion sensed that he was gathering his will to strike. But it was too late. Relg had already closed on him. The zealot’s heavy shoulders surged as he grasped the front of the Grolim’s robe with his knotted hands. Without apparent effort he lifted and pushed the man back against the flattened face of a house-sized boulder.
At first it appeared that Relg only intended to hold the Grolim pinned against the rock until the others could assist him with the struggling captive, but there was a subtle difference. The set of his shoulders indicated that he had not finished the action he had begun with lifting the man from his feet. The Grolim hammered at Relg’s head and shoulders with his fists, but Relg pushed at him inexorably. The rock against which the Grolim was pinned seemed to shimmer slightly around him.
“Relg—no!” Silk’s cry was strangled.
The dark-robed Grolim began to sink into the stone face, his arms flailing wildly as Relg pushed him in with a dreadful slowness. As he went deeper into the rock, the surface closed smoothly over him. Relg continued to push, his arms sliding into the stone as he sank the Grolim deeper and deeper. The priest’s two protruding hands continued to twitch and writhe, even after the rest of his body had been totally submerged. Then Relg drew his arms out of the stone, leaving the Grolim behind. The two hands sticking out of the rock opened once in mute supplication, then stiffened into dead claws.
Behind him, Garion could hear the muffled sound of Silk’s retching. Barak and Mandorallen had by now engaged two of the remaining Murgos, and the sound of clashing sword blades rang in the chill air. The last Murgo, his eyes wide with fright, wheeled his horse and bolted. Without a word, Durnik jerked his axe free of his saddle and galloped after him. Instead of striking the man down, however, Durnik cut across in front of his opponent’s horse, turning him, driving him back. The panic-stricken Murgo flailed at his horse’s flanks with the flat of his sword, turning away from the grim-faced smith, and plunged at a dead run back up over the ridge with Durnik close behind him.
The last two Murgos were down by then, and Barak and Mandorallen, both wild-eyed with the exultation of battle, were looking around for more enemies.
“Where’s that last one?” Barak demanded.
“Durnik’s chasing him,” Garion said.
“We can’t let him get away. He’ll bring others.”
“Durnik’s going to take care of it,” Belgarath told him.
Barak fretted. “Durnik’s a good man, but he’s not really a warrior. Maybe I’d better go help him.”
From beyond the ridge there was a sudden scream of horror, then another. The third cut off quite suddenly, and there was silence.
After several minutes, Durnik came riding back alone, his face somber.
“What happened?” Barak asked. “He didn’t get away, did he?”
Durnik shook his head. “I chased him into the bog, and he ran into some quicksand.”
“Why didn’t you cut him down with your axe?”
“I don’t really like hitting people,” Durnik replied.
Silk was staring at Durnik, his face still ashen. “So you just chased him into quicksand instead and then stood there and watched him go down? Durnik, that’s monstrous!”
“Dead is dead,” Durnik told him with uncharacteristic bluntness. “When it’s over, it doesn’t really matter how it happened, does it?” He looked a bit thoughtful. “I am sorry about the horse, though.”
24
The next morning they followed the ridgeline that angled off toward the east. The wintry sky above them was an icy blue, and there was no warmth to the sun. Relg kept his eyes veiled against the light and muttered prayers as he rode to ward off his panic. Several times they saw dust clouds far out on the desolation of sand and salt flats to the south, but they were unable to determine whether the clouds were caused by Murgo patrols or vagrant winds.
About noon, the wind shifted and blew in steadily from the south. A ponderous cloud, black as ink, blotted out the jagged line of peaks lying along the southern horizon. It moved toward them with a kind of ominous inexorability, and flickers of lightning glimmered in its sooty underbelly.
“That’s a bad storm coming, Belgarath,” Barak rumbled, staring at the cloud.
Belgarath shook his head. “It’s not a storm,” he replied. “It’s ashfall. That volcano out there is erupting again, and the wind’s blowing the ash this way.”
Barak made a face, then shrugged. “At least we won’t have to worry about being seen, once it starts,” he said.
“The Grolims won’t be looking for us with their eyes, Barak,” Aunt Pol reminded him.
Belgarath scratched at his beard. “We’ll have to take steps to deal with that, I suppose.”
“This is a large group to shield, father,” Aunt Pol pointed out, “and that’s not even counting the horses.”
“I think you can manage it, Pol. You were always very good at it.”
“I can hold up my side as long as you can hold up yours, Old Wolf.”
“I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to help you, Pol. Ctuchik himself is looking for us. I’ve felt him several times already, and I’m going to have to concentrate on him. If he decides to strike at us, he’ll come very fast. I’ll have to be ready for him, and I can’t do that if I’m all tangled up in a shield.”
“I can’t do it alone, father,” she protested. “Nobody can enclose this many men and horses without help.”
“Garion can help you.”
“Me?” Garion jerked his eyes off the looming cloud to stare at his grandfather.
“He’s never done it before, father,” Aunt Pol pointed out.
“He’s going to have to learn sometime.”
“This is hardly the time or place for experimentation.”
“He’ll do just fine. Walk him through it a time or two until he gets the hang of it.”
“Exactly what is it I’m supposed to do?” Garion asked apprehensively.
Aunt Pol gave Belgarath a hard look and then turned to Garion. “I’ll show you dear,” she said. “The first thing you have to do is stay calm. It really isn’t all that difficult.”
“But you just said—”
“Never mind what I said, dear. Just pay attention.”
“What do you want me to do?” he asked doubtfully.
“The first thing is to relax,” she replied, “and think about sand and rock.”
“That’s all?”
“Just do that first. Concentrate.”
He thought about sand and rock.
“No, Garion, not white sand. Black sand—like the sand all around us.”
“You didn’t say that.”
“I didn’t think I had to.”
Belgarath started to laugh.
“Do you want to do this, father?” she demanded crossly. Then she turned back to Garion. “Do it again, dear. Try to get it right this time.”
He fixed it in his mind.
“That’s better,” she told him. “Now, as soon as you get sand and rock firmly in your mind, I want you to sort of push the idea out in a half circle so that it covers your entire right side. I’ll take care of the left.”
He strained with it. It was the hardest thing he had ever done. “Don’t push quite so hard, Garion. You’re wrinkling it, and it’s very hard for me to make the seams match when you do that. Just keep it steady and smooth.”
“I’m sorry.” He smoothed it out.
“How does it look, father?” she asked the old man.
Garion felt a tentative push against the idea he was holding.