Guardians of the West

"Of course you weren't."

It's a very good idea, though. I'm glad you thought of it."

It was some time after midnight when Silk returned to the large, firelit room in Garion's headquarters. "It's a very unpleasant night out there," the little man said, shivering and rubbing his hands together. He went over to stand in front of the fire.

"Well, are they planning any surprises for us?" Barak asked him, lifting a copper tankard.

"Oh, yes," Silk replied. "They're building walls across the streets several houses back from our perimeter and they're putting them just around corners so you won't see them until you're right on top of them."

"With archers and tubs of boiling pitch in all the houses nearby?" Barak asked glumly.

"Probably." Silk shrugged. "Do you have any more of that ale? I'm chilled to the bone."

"We'll have to work on this a bit," Javelin mused.

"Good luck," Barak said sourly, going to the ale keg. "I hate fighting in towns. Give me a nice open field any time."

"But the towns are where all the loot is," Yarblek said to him.

"Is that all you ever think about?"

"We're in this life to make a profit, my friend," the rawboned Nadrak replied with a shrug.

"You sound just like Silk."

"I know. That's why we went into partnership."

It continued to snow lightly throughout the following day. The citizens of Rheon made a few more probing attacks on Garion's defensive perimeter, but for the most part they contented themselves with merely shooting arrows at anything that moved.

About midmorning the next day, Errand picked his way over the rubble of the fallen north wall and went directly to the house from which Garion was directing operations.

When he entered, his young face was tight with exhilaration, and he was panting noticeably. "That's exciting," he said.

"What is?" Garion asked him.

"Dodging arrows."

"Does Aunt Pol know you're here?"

"I don't think so. I wanted to see the city, so I just came."

"You're going to get us both in trouble, do you know that?"

Errand shrugged. "A scolding doesn't hurt all that much. Oh, I thought you ought to know that Hettar's here -or he will be in an hour or so. He's just a few miles to the south."

"Finally!" Garion said with an explosive release of his breath. "How did you find out?"

"Horse and I went out for a ride. He gets restless when he's penned up. Anyway, we were up on that big hill to the south, and I saw the Algars coming."

"Well, let's go meet them."

"Why don't we?"

When Garion and his young friend reached the top of the hill south of Rheon, they saw wave upon wave of Algar clansmen flowing over the snowy moors at a brisk canter. A single horseman detached himself from the front rank of that sea of horses and men and pounded up the hill, his long black scalplock flowing behind him. "Good morning, Garion," Hettar said casually as he reined in. "You've been well, I trust?"

"Moderately " Garion grinned at him.

"You've got snow up here."

Garion looked around in feigned astonishment. "Why, I do believe you're right. I hadn't even noticed that."

Another rider came up the hill, a man in a shabby, hooded cloak. "Where's your Aunt, Garion?" the man called when he was halfway up the hill.

"Grandfather?" Garion exclaimed with surprise. "I thought you were going to Mar Terrin."

Belgarath made an indelicate sound. " I did," he replied as he reined in his horse, "and it was an absolutely wasted trip. I'll tell you about it later. What's been going on here?"

Briefly Garion filled them in on the events of the past several weeks.

"You've been busy," Hettar noted.

"The time goes faster when you keep occupied."

"Is Pol inside the city, then?" Belgarath asked him.

"No. She and Ce'Nedra and the other ladies are staying in the camp we built when we first got here. The cultists have been counterattacking against our positions inside, so I didn't think it was entirely safe for them to be there."

"That makes sense. Why don't you round up everybody and bring them to the camp. I think we need to talk about a few things."

"All right, Grandfather."

It was shortly after noon when they gathered in the main tent in the Rivan encampment outside the city.

"Were you able to find anything useful, father?" Polgara asked Belgarath as the old man entered the tent.

Belgarath sprawled in a chair. "Some tantalizing hints was about all," he replied. "I get the feeling that Anheg's copy of the Ashabine Oracles has been rather carefully pruned somewhere along the way -or more likely at the very beginning. The modifications seem to be a part of the original text."

"Prophets don't usually tamper with their own prophecies," Polgara noted.

"This one would have -particularly if parts of the prophecy said things he didn't want to believe."

"Who was it?"

"Torak. I recognized his tone and his peculiar turn of phrase almost immediately."

"Torak?" Garion exclaimed, feeling a sudden chill.

Belgarath nodded. "There's an old Mallorean legend that says that after he destroyed Cthol Mishrak, Torak had a castle built at Ashaba in the Karandese Mountains. Once he moved in, an ecstasy came over him, and he composed the Ashabine Oracles. Anyway, the legend goes on to say that after the ecstasy had passed, Torak fell into a great rage. Apparently there were things in the prophecy that he didn't like. That could very well account for the tampering I detected. We've always been told that the word gives meaning to the event."

"Can you do that?"

"No. But Torak was so arrogant that he may have believed he could."

"But that puts us at a dead end, doesn't it?" Garion asked with a sinking feeling. "I mean -the Mrin Codex said that you had to look at all the mysteries, and if the Ashabine Oracles aren't correct-" He lifted his hands helplessly.

"There's a true copy somewhere," Belgarath replied confidently. "There has to be- otherwise the Codex would have given me different instructions."

"You're operating on pure faith, Belgarath," Ce'Nedra accused him.

"I know," he admitted. "I do that when I don't have anything else to fall back on."

"What did you find at Mar Terrin?" Polgara asked.

Belgarath made a vulgar sound. "The monks there may be very good at comforting the spirits of all those slaughtered Marags, but they're very bad at protecting manuscripts. The roof leaks in their library, and the copy of the Mallorean Gospels, naturally, was on a shelf right under the leak. It was so soggy that I could barely get the leaves apart, and the ink had run and smeared all over the pages. It was almost totally illegible. I spoke with the monks at some length about that." He scratched at one bearded cheek. "It looks as if I'm going to have to go a bit further afield to get what we need."