"The birth of your son."

"What?" Barak sounded stunned. "How?"

"In the usual way, I'd imagine," Hettar replied.

"I mean how did you find out?"

"Anheg sent word to us."

"When was he born?"

"A couple months ago." Hettar looked nervously down at the battle which was raging on both sides of the river and in the middle of the ford as well. "I really have to go," he said. "If I don't hurry, there won't be any Murgos left." And he drove his heels into his horse's flanks and plunged down the hill.

"He hasn't changed a bit," Silk noted.

Barak was standing with a somewhat foolish grin on his big, redbearded face.

"Congratulations, my Lord," Mandorallen said to him, clasping his hand.

Barak's grin grew broader.

It quickly became obvious that the situation of the encircled Murgos below was hopeless. With his army cut in two by the river, Taur Urgas was unable to mount even an orderly retreat. The forces he had brought across the river were quickly swarmed under by King Cho-Hag's superior numbers, and the few survivors of that short, ugly melee plunged back into the river, protectively drawn up around the red and black banner of the Murgo king. Even in the ford, however, the Algar warriors pressed him. Some distance upriver Garion could see hors.e.m.e.n plunging into the icy water to be carried down by the current to the shallows of the ford in an effort to cut off escape. Much of the fight in the river was obscured by the sheets of spray kicked up by struggling horses, but the bodies floating downstream testified to the savagery of the clash.

Briefly, for no more than a moment, the red and black banner of Taur Urgas was confronted by the burgundy-and-white horse-banner of King Cho-Hag, and then the two were swept apart.

"That could have been an interesting meeting," Silk noted. "ChoHag and Taur Urgas have hated each other for years."

Once the king of the Murgos regained the east bank, he rallied what forces he could, turned, and fled back across the open gra.s.sland toward the escarpment with Algar clansmen hotly pursuing him. For the bulk of his army, however, there was no escape. Since their horses had not yet descended the narrow ravine from the top of the escarpment, they were forced to fight on foot. The Algars swept down upon them in waves, sabres flashing in the morning sun. Faintly, Garion could hear the screams. Sickened finally, he turned away, unable to watch the slaughter any longer.

The little boy, who was standing close beside Aunt Pol with his hand in hers, looked at Garion gravely. "Errand," he said with a sad conviction.

By midmorning the battle was over. The last of the Murgos on the far bank of the river had been destroyed, and Taur Urgas had fled with the tattered remnants of his army back up the ravine. "Good fight," Barak observed professionally, looking down at the bodies littering both banks of the river and bobbing limply in the shallows downstream from the ford.

"The tactics of thy Algar cousins were masterly," Mandorallen agreed. "Taur Urgas will take some time to recover from this morning's chastis.e.m.e.nt."

"I'd give a great deal to see the look on his face just now." Silk laughed. "He's probably frothing at the mouth."

King Cho-Hag, dressed in steel-plated black leather and with his horse-banner streaming triumphantly in the bright morning sun, came galloping up the hill toward them, closely surrounded by the members of his personal guard. "Interesting morning," he said with typical Algar understatement as he reined in. "Thanks for bringing us so many Murgos."

"He's as bad as Hettar," Silk observed to Barak.

The king of the Algars grinned openly as he slowly dismounted. His weak legs seemed almost to buckle as he carefully put his weight on them, and he held onto his saddle for support. "How did things go in Rak Cthol?" he asked.

"It wound up being rather noisy," Belgarath replied.

"Did you find Ctuchik in good health?"

"Moderately. We corrected that, however. The whole affair set off an earthquake. Most of Rak Cthol slid off its mountaintop, I'm afraid."

Cho-Hag grinned again. "What a shame."

"Where's Hettar?" Barak asked.

"Chasing Murgos, I imagine," Cho-Hag replied. "Their rear guard got cut off, and they're out there trying to find someplace to hide."

"There aren't very many hiding places on this plain, are there?" Barak asked.

"Almost none at all," the Algar king agreed pleasantly.

A dozen or so Algar wagons crested a nearby hill, rolling toward them through the tall, brown gra.s.s. They were square-boxed conveyances, looking not unlike houses on wheels. They had roofs, narrow windows, and steps at the rear leading up to the doorway on the back of each wagon. It looked, Garion thought, almost like a moving city as they approached.

"I imagine Hettar's going to be a while," Cho-Hag noted. "Why don't we have a bit of lunch? I'd like to get word to Anheg and Rhodar about what's happened here as soon as possible, but I'm sure you'll want to pa.s.s a few things along as well. We can talk while we eat."

Several of the wagons were drawn up close together and their sides were let down and joined to form a s.p.a.cious, low-ceilinged dining hall. Braziers provided warmth, and candles illuminated the interior of the quickly a.s.sembled hall, supplementing the bright winter sunlight streaming in through the windows.

They dined on roasted meat and mellow ale. Garion soon found that he was wearing far too many clothes. It seemed that he had not been warm in months, and the glowing braziers shimmered out a welcome heat. Although he was tired and very dirty, he felt warm and safe, and he soon found himself nodding over his plate, almost drowsing as Belgarath recounted the story of their escape to the Algar king.

Gradually, however, as the old man spoke, something alerted Garion. There was, it seemed, a trace too much vivacity in his grandfather's voice, and Belgarath's words sometimes seemed almost to tumble over each other. His blue eyes were very bright, but seemed occasionally a bit unfocused.

"So Zedar got away," Cho-Hag was saying. "That's the only thing that mars the whole affair."

"Zedar's no problem," Belgarath replied, smiling in a slightly dazed way.

His voice seemed strange, uncertain, and King Cho-Hag looked at the old man curiously. "You've had a busy year, Belgarath," he said.

"A good one, though." The sorcerer smiled again and lifted his ale cup. His hand was trembling violently, and he stared at it in astonishment.

"Aunt Pol!" Garion called urgently.

"Are you all right, father?"

"Fine, Pol, perfectly fine." He smiled vaguely at her, his unfocused eyes blinking owlishly. He rose suddenly to his feet and began to move toward her, but his steps were lurching, almost staggering. And then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the floor like a pole-axed cow.

"Father!" Aunt Pol exclaimed, leaping to his side.

Garion, moving almost as fast as his Aunt, knelt on the other side of the unconscious old man. "What's wrong with him?" he demanded. But Aunt Pol did not answer. Her hands were at Belgarath's wrist and brow, feeling for his pulse. She peeled back one of his eyelids and stared intently into his blank, unseeing eyes. "Durnik!" she snapped. "Get my herb-bag-quickly!"

The smith bolted for the door.

King Cho-Hag had half risen, his face deathly pale. "He isn't-"

"No," she answered tensely. "He's alive, but only barely."

"Is something attacking him?" Silk was on his feet, looking around wildly, his hand unconsciously on his dagger.

"No. It's nothing like that." Aunt Pol's hands had moved to the old man's chest. "I should have known," she berated herself. "The stubborn, proud old fool! I should have been watching him."

"Please, Aunt Pol," Garion begged desperately, "what's wrong with him?"

"He never really recovered from his fight with Ctuchik," she replied. "He's been forcing himself, drawing on his will. Then those rocks in the ravine - but he wouldn't quit. Now he's burned up all his vital energy and will. He barely has enough strength left to keep breathing."

Garion had lifted his grandfather's head and cradled it on his lap. "Help me, Garion!"

He knew instinctively what she wanted. He gathered his will and held out his hand to her. She grasped it quickly, and he felt the force surge out of him.

Her eyes were very wide as she intently watched the old man's face. "Again!" And once more she pulled the quickly gathered will out of him.

"What are we doing?" Garion's voice was shrill.

"Trying to replace some of what he has lost. Maybe-" She glanced toward the door. "Hurry, Durnik!" she shouted.

Durnik rushed back into the wagon.

"Open the bag," she instructed, "and give me that black jar - the one that's sealed with lead - and a pair of iron tongs."

"Should I open the jar, Mistress Pol?" the smith asked.

"No. Just break the seal - carefully. And give me a glove - leather, if you can find one."

Wordlessly, Silk pulled a leather gauntlet from under his belt and handed it to her. She pulled it on, opened the black jar, and reached inside with the tongs. With great care, she removed a single dark, oily-looking green leaf. She held it very carefully in the tongs. "Pry his mouth open, Garion," she ordered.

Garion wedged his fingers between Belgarath's clenched teeth and carefully pried the old man's jaws apart. Aunt Pol pulled down her father's lower lip, reached inside his mouth with the shiny leaf, and lightly brushed his tongue with it, once and once only.

Belgarath jumped violently, and his feet suddenly sc.r.a.ped on the floor. His muscles heaved, and his arms began to flail about.

"Hold him down," Aunt Pol commanded. She pulled back sharply and held the leaf out of the way while Mandorallen and Barak jumped in to hold down Belgarath's convulsing body. "Give me a bowl," she ordered. "A wooden one."

Durnik handed her one, and she deposited the leaf and the tongs in it. Then, with great care, she took off the gauntlet and laid it atop the leaf. "Take this," she told the smith. "Don't touch any part of the glove."

"What do you want me to do with it, Mistress Pol?"

"Take it out and burn it - bowl and all - and don't let anyone get into the smoke from it."

"Is it that dangerous?" Silk asked.

"It's even worse, but those are the only precautions we can take out here."

Durnik swallowed very hard and left the wagon, holding the bowl as if it were a live snake.

Polgara took a small mortar and pestle and began grinding certain herbs from her bag into a fine powder as she watched Belgarath intently. "How far is it to the Stronghold, Cho-Hag?" she asked the Algar king.

"A man on a good horse could make it in half a day," he replied.

"How long by wagon-a wagon driven carefully to avoid bouncing?"

"Two days."

She frowned, still mixing the herbs in the mortar. "All right, there's no help for it, I guess. Please send Hettar to Queen Silar. Have him tell her that I'm going to need a warm, well-lighted chamber with a good bed and no drafts. Durnik, I want you to drive the wagon. Don't hit any b.u.mps even if it means losing an hour."

The smith nodded.

"He's going to be all right, isn't he?" Barak asked, his voice strained and his face shocked by Belgarath's sudden collapse.

"It's really too early to say," she replied. "He's been on the point of collapse for days maybe. But he wouldn't let himself go. I think he's past this crisis, but there may be others." She laid one hand on her father's chest. "Put him in bed carefully. Then I want a screen of some kind around the bed - blankets will do. We have to keep him very quiet and out of drafts. No loud noises."

They all stared at her as the significance of her extreme precautions struck them.

"Move, gentlemen," she told them firmly. "His life may depend on a certain speed."

Chapter Six.

THE WAGON SEEMED barely to crawl. The high, thin cloud had swept in again to hide the sun, and a kind of leaden chill descended on the featureless plain of southern Algaria. Garion rode inside the wagon, thick-headed and numb with exhaustion, watching with dreadful concern as Aunt Pol hovered over the unconscious Belgarath. Sleep was out of the question. Another crisis could arise at any time and he had to be ready to leap to her aid, joining his will and the power of his amulet with hers. Errand, his small face grave, sat quietly in a chair at the far side of the wagon, his hands firmly clasped around the pouch Durnik had made for hirn. The sound of the Orb still hung in Garion's ears, muted but continual. He had grown almost accustomed to the song in the weeks since they had left Rak Cthol; but at quiet moments or when he was tired, it always seemed to return with renewed strength. It was somehow a comforting sound.

Aunt Pol leaned forward to touch Belgarath's chest. "What's wrong?" Garion asked in a sharp whisper.

"Nothing's wrong, Garion," she replied calmly. "Please don't keep saying that every time I so much as move. If something's wrong, I'll tell you."

"I'm sorry - I'm just worried, that's all."

She turned to give him a steady look. "Why don't you take Errand and go up and ride on top of the wagon with Silk and Durnik?"

"What if you need me?"

"I'll call you, dear."

"I'd really rather stay, Aunt Pol."

"I'd really rather you didn't. I'll call if I need you."

"But "

"Now, Garion."

Garion knew better than to argue. He took Errand out the back door of the wagon and up the steps to the top.

"How is he?" Silk asked.

"How should I know? All I know is that she chased me out." Garion's reply was a bit surly.

"That might be a good sign, you know."

"Maybe." Garion looked around. Off to the west there was a range of low hills. Rearing above them stood a vast pile of rock.