“Prolgu,” Belgarath said, pointing at the peak with one hand while he clung to his wind-whipped cloak with the other.
“How do we get up there?” Silk asked, staring at the steep walls dimly visible in the driving snow.
“There’s a road,” the old man replied. “It starts over there.” He pointed to a vast pile of jumbled rock to one side of the peak.
“We’d better hurry then, Belgarath,” Barak said. “This storm isn’t going to improve much.”
The old man nodded and moved his horse into the lead. “When we get up there,” he shouted back to them over the sound of the shrieking wind, “we’ll find the city. It’s abandoned, but you may see a few things lying about—broken pots, some other things. Don’t touch any of them. The Ulgos have some peculiar beliefs about Prolgu. It’s a very holy place to them, and everything there is supposed to stay just where it is.”
“How do we get down into the caves?” Barak asked.
“The Ulgos will let us in,” Belgarath assured him. “They already know we’re here.”
The road that led to the mountaintop was a narrow ledge, inclining steeply up and around the sides of the peak. They dismounted before they started up and led their horses. The wind tugged at them as they climbed, and the driving snow, more pellets than flakes, stung their faces.
It took them two hours to wind their way to the top, and Garion was numb with cold by the time they got there. The wind seemed to batter at him, trying to pluck him off the ledge, and he made a special point of staying as far away from the edge as possible.
Though the wind had been brutal on the sides of the peak, once they reached the top it howled at them with unbroken force. They passed through a broad, arched gate into the deserted city of Prolgu with snow swirling about them and the wind shrieking insanely in their ears.
There were columns lining the empty streets, tall, thick columns reaching up into the dancing snow. The buildings, all unroofed by time and the endless progression of the seasons, had a strange, alien quality about them. Accustomed to the rigid rectangularity of the structures in the other cities he had seen, Garion was unprepared for the sloped corners of Ulgo architecture. Nothing seemed exactly square. The complexity of the angles teased at his mind, suggesting a subtle sophistication that somehow just eluded him. There was a massiveness about the construction that seemed to defy time, and the weathered stones sat solidly, one atop the other, precisely as they had been placed thousands of years before.
Durnik seemed also to have noticed the peculiar nature of the structures, and his expression was one of disapproval. As they all moved behind a building to get out of the wind and to rest for a moment from the exertions of the climb, he ran his hand up one of the slanted corners. “Hadn’t they ever heard of a plumb line?” he muttered critically.
“Where do we go to find the Ulgos?” Barak asked, pulling his bearskin cloak even tighter about him.
“It isn’t far,” Belgarath answered.
They led their horses back out into the blizzard-swept streets, past the strange, pyramidal buildings.
“An eerie place,” Mandorallen said, looking around him. “How long hath it been abandoned thus?”
“Since Torak cracked the world,” Belgarath replied. “About five thousand years.”
They trudged across a broad street through the deepening snow to a building somewhat larger than the ones about it and passed inside through a wide doorway surmounted by a huge stone lintel. Inside, the air hung still and calm. A few flakes of snow drifted down through the silent air, sifting through the narrow opening at the top where the roof had been and lightly dusting the stone floor.
Belgarath moved purposefully to a large black stone in the precise center of the floor. The stone was cut in such a way as to duplicate the truncated pyramidal shape of the buildings in the city, angling up to a flat surface about four feet above the floor. “Don’t touch it,” he warned them, carefully stepping around the stone.
“Is it dangerous?” Barak asked.
“No,” Belgarath said. “It’s holy. The Ulgos don’t want it profaned. They believe that UL himself placed it here.” He studied the floor intently, scraping away the thin dusting of snow with his foot in several places. “Let’s see.” He frowned slightly. Then he uncovered a single flagstone that seemed a slightly different color from those surrounding it. “Here we are,” he grunted. “I always have to look for it. Give me your sword, Barak.”
Wordlessly the big man drew his sword and handed it to the old sorcerer.
Belgarath knelt beside the flagstone he’d uncovered and rapped sharply on it three times with the pommel of Barak’s heavy sword. The sound seemed to echo hollowly from underneath.
The old man waited for a moment, then repeated his signal. Nothing happened.
A third time Belgarath hammered his three measured strokes on the echoing flagstone. A slow grinding sound started in one corner of the large chamber.
“What’s that?” Silk demanded nervously.
“The Ulgos,” Belgarath replied, rising to his feet and dusting off his knees. “They’re opening the portal to the caves.”
The grinding continued and a line of faint light appeared suddenly about twenty feet out from the east wall of the chamber. The line became a crack and then slowly yawned wider as a huge stone in the floor tilted up, rising with a ponderous slowness. The light from below seemed very dim.
“Belgarath,” a deep voice echoed from beneath the slowly tilting stone, “Yad ho, groja UL. ”
“Yad ho, groja UL. dad mar ishum,” Belgarath responded formally. “Peed mo, Belgarath. Mar ishum Ulgo,” the unseen speaker said.
“What was that?” Garion asked in perplexity.
“He invited us into the caves,” the old man said. “Shall we go down now?”
16
IT took all of Hettar’s force of persuasion to start the horses moving down the steeply inclined passageway that led into the dimness of the caves of Ulgo. Their eyes rolled nervously as they took step after braced step down the slanting corridor, and they all flinched noticeably as the grinding stone boomed shut behind them. The colt walked so close to Garion that they frequently bumped against each other, and Garion could feel the little animal’s trembling with every step.
At the end of the corridor two figures stood, each with his face veiled in a kind of filmy cloth. They were short men, shorter even than Silk, but their shoulders seemed bulky beneath their dark robes. Just beyond them an irregularly shaped chamber opened out, faintly lighted by a dim, reddish glow.
Belgarath moved toward the two, and they bowed respectfully to him as he approached. He spoke with them briefly, and they bowed again, pointing toward another corridor opening on the far side of the chamber. Garion nervously looked around for the source of the faint red light, but it seemed lost in the strange, pointed rocks hanging from the ceiling.
“We go this way,” Belgarath quietly told them, crossing the chamber toward the corridor the two veiled men had indicated to him.
“Why are their faces covered?” Durnik whispered.
“To protect their eyes from the light when they opened the portal.”
“But it was almost dark inside that building up there,” Durnik objected.
“Not to an Ulgo,” the old man replied.
“Don’t any of them speak our language?”
“A few—not very many. They don’t have much contact with outsiders. We’d better hurry. The Gorim is waiting for us.”