“The Murgos killed his parents when he was very young. He had to watch while they did it.”
She gasped. “How awful!”
“If you children don’t mind,” Silk said sarcastically, “I’m trying to listen for horses.”
Somewhere beyond the trail they had just left, Garion heard the thudding sound of horses’ hooves moving at a trot. He sank down deeper into the leaves and watched, scarcely breathing.
When the Murgos appeared, there were about fifteen of them, mailshirted and with the scarred cheeks of their race. Their leader, however, was a man in a patched and dirty tunic and with coarse black hair. He was unshaven, and one of his eyes was out of line with its fellow. Garion knew him.
Silk drew in a sharp breath with an audible hiss. “Brill,” he muttered.
“Who’s Brill?” Ce’Nedra whispered to Garion.
“I’ll tell you later,” he whispered back. “Shush!”
“Don’t shush me!” she flared.
A stem look from Silk silenced them.
Brill was talking sharply to the Murgos, gesturing with short, jerky movements. Then he raised his hands with his fingers widespread and stabbed them forward to emphasize what he was saying. The Murgos all nodded, their faces expressionless, and spread out along the trail, facing the woods and the thicket where Garion and the others were hiding. Brill moved farther up the trail. “Keep your eyes open,” he shouted to them. “Let’s go.”
The Murgos started to move forward at a walk, their eyes searching. Two of them rode past the thicket so close that Garion could smell the sweat on their horses’ flanks.
“I’m getting tired of that man,” one of them remarked to the other.
“I wouldn’t let it show,” the second one advised.
“I can take orders as well as any man,” the first one said, “but that one’s beginning to irritate me. I think he would look better with a knife between his shoulder blades.”
“I don’t think he’d like that much, and it might be a little hard to manage.”
“I could wait until he was asleep.”
“I’ve never seen him sleep.”
“Everybody sleeps—sooner or later.”
“It’s up to you,” the second replied with a shrug, “but I wouldn’t try anything rash—unless you’ve given up the idea of ever seeing Rak Hagga again.”
The two of them moved on out of earshot.
Silk crouched, gnawing nervously at a fingernail. His eyes had narrowed to slits, and his sharp little face was intent. Then he began to swear under his breath.
“What’s wrong, Silk?” Garion whispered to him.
“I’ve made a mistake,” Silk answered irritably. “Let’s go back to the others.” He turned and crawled through the bushes toward the spring at the center of the thicket.
Mister Wolf was seated on a log, scratching absently at his splinted arm. “Well?” he asked, looking up.
“Fifteen Murgos,” Silk replied shortly. “And an old friend.”
“It was Brill,” Garion reported. “He seemed to be in charge.”
“Brill?” The old man’s eyes widened with surprise.
“He was giving orders and the Murgos were following them,” Silk said. “They didn’t like it much, but they were doing what he told them to do. They seemed to be afraid of him. I think Brill’s something more than an ordinary hireling.”
“Where’s Rak Hagga?” Ce’Nedra asked. Wolf looked at her sharply.
“We heard two of them talking,” she explained. “They said they were from Rak Hagga. I thought I knew the names of all the cities in Cthol Murgos, but I’ve never heard of that one.”
“You’re sure they said Rak Hagga?” Wolf asked her, his eyes intent.
“I heard them too,” Garion told him. “That was the name they used—Rak Hagga.”
Mister Wolf stood up, his face suddenly grim. “We’re going to have to hurry then. Taur Urgas is preparing for war.”
“How do you know that?” Barak asked him.
“Rak Hagga’s a thousand leagues south of Rak Goska, and the southern Murgos are never brought up into this part of the world unless the Murgo king is on the verge of going to war with someone.”
“Let them come,” Barak said with a bleak smile.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get our business attended to first. I’ve got to go to Rak Cthol, and I’d prefer not to have to wade through whole armies of Murgos to get there.” The old man shook his head angrily. “What is Taur Urgas thinking of?” he burst out. “It’s not time yet.”
Barak shrugged. “One time’s as good as another.”
“Not for this war. Too many things have to happen first. Can’t Ctuchik keep a leash on that maniac?”
“Unpredictability is part of Taur Urgas’ unique charm,” Silk observed sardonically. “He doesn’t know himself what he’s going to do from one day to the next.”
“Knowest thou the king of the Murgos?” Mandorallen inquired.
“We’ve met,” Silk replied. “We’re not fond of each other.”
“Brill and his Murgos should be gone by now,” Mister Wolf said. “Let’s move on. We’ve got a long way to go, and time’s starting to catch up with us.” He moved quickly toward his horse.
Shortly before sundown they went through a high pass lying in a notch between two mountains and stopped for the night in a little glen a few miles down on the far side.
“Keep the fire down as much as you can, Durnik,” Mister Wolf warned the smith. “Southern Murgos have sharp eyes and they can see the light from a fire from miles away. I’d rather not have company in the middle of the night.”
Durnik nodded soberly and dug his firepit somewhat deeper than usual.
Mandorallen was attentive to the Princess Ce’Nedra as they set up for the night, and Garion watched sourly. Though he had violently objected each time Aunt Pol had insisted that he serve as Ce’Nedra’s personal attendant, now that the tiny girl had her knight to fetch and carry for her, Garion felt somehow that his rightful position had in some way been usurped.
“We’re going to have to pick up our pace,” Wolf told them after they had finished a meal of bacon, bread, and cheese. “We’ve got to get through the mountains before the first storms hit, and we’re going to have to try to stay ahead of Brill and his Murgos.” He scraped a space clear on the ground in front of him with one foot, picked up a stick and began sketching a map in the dirt. “We’re here.” He pointed. “Maragor’s directly ahead of us. We’ll circle to the west, go through Tol Rane, and then strike northeast toward the Vale.”
“Might it not be shorter to cross Maragor?” Mandorallen suggested, pointing at the crude map.
“Perhaps,” the old man replied, “but we won’t do that unless we have to. Maragor’s haunted, and it’s best to avoid it if possible.”
“We are not children to be frightened of insubstantial shades,” Mandorallen declared somewhat stiffly.
“No one’s doubting your courage, Mandorallen,” Aunt Pol told him, “but the spirit of Mara wails in Maragor. It’s better not to offend him.”
“How far is it to the Vale of Aldur?” Durnik asked.
“Two hundred and fifty leagues,” Wolf answered. “We’ll be a month or more in the mountains, even under the best conditions. Now we’d better all get some sleep. Tomorrow’s likely to be a hard day.”
4
When they rose the next morning as the first pale hint of light was appearing on the eastern horizon, there was a touch of silvery frost on the ground and a thin scum of ice around the edges of the spring at the bottom of the glen. Ce’Nedra, who had gone to the spring to wash her face, lifted a leaf thin shard from the water and stared at it.
“It’s much colder up in the mountains,” Garion told her as he belted on his sword.
“I’m aware of that,” she replied loftily.
“Forget it,” he said shortly and stamped away, muttering.
They rode down out of the mountains in the bright morning sunlight, moving at a steady trot. As they rounded a shoulder of outcropping rock, they saw the broad basin that had once been Maragor, the District of the Marags, stretching out below them. The meadows were a dusty autumn green, and the streams and lakes sparkled in the sun. A tumbled ruin, looking tiny in the distance, gleamed far out on the plain.