Guardians of the West

"Whose name?"

"'Zakath's..would you believe that it indicates the word 'Kal'?"

"Kal Zakath?" Belgarath stared at him incredulously.

"Isn't that outrageous?" Beldin chortled. "I guess that the Mallorean emperors have been secretly yearning to take that title since just after the battle of Vo Mimbre, but they were always afraid that Torak might wake up and take offense at their presumption. Now that he's dead, a fair number of Malloreans have begun to call their ruler 'Kal Zakath' -the ones who want to keep their heads do, at any rate."

"What does 'Kal' mean?" Errand asked.

"It's an Angarak word that means King and God," Belgarath explained. "Five hundred years ago, Torak set aside the Mallorean emperor and personally led his hordes against the west. The Angaraks -all of them: Murgos, Nedraks, and Thulls, as well as the Malloreans -called him Kal Torak."

"What happened?" Errand asked curiously. "When Kal Torak invaded the West, I mean?"

Belgarath shrugged. "It's a very old story."

"Not until you've heard it," Errand told him.

Beldin gave Belgarath a sharp look. "He is quick, isn't he?"

Belgarath looked at Errand thoughtfully. "All right," he said. "Putting it very briefly, Kal Torak smashed Drasnia, laid siege to the Algarian Stronghold for eight years, and then crossed Ulgoland to the plains of Arendia. The Kingdoms of the West met him at Vo Mimbre, and he was struck down in a duel with the Rivan Warder."

"But not killed."

"No. Not killed. The Rivan Warder struck him straight through the head with his sword, but Torak wasn't killed. He was only bound in slumber until a king sat once again on the throne of Riva."

"Belgarion," Errand said.

"Right. You know what happened then. You were there, after all."

Errand sighed. "Yes," he said sadly.

Belgarath turned back to Beldin. "All right," he said, "what's going on in Mallorea?"

"Things are about the same as always," Beldin replied, taking a drink of ale and belching thunderously. "The bureaucracy is still the glue that holds everything together. There are still plots and intrigues in Melcene and Mal Zeth. Karanda and Darshiva and Gandahar are on the verge of open rebellion, and the Grolims are still afraid to go near Kell."

"The Mallorean Grolims are still a functioning church then?" Belgarath seemed a little surprised. "I thought that the citizenry might have taken steps -the way they did in Mishrak ac Thull. I understand that the Thulls started building bonfires with Grolims."

"Kal Zakath sent a few orders back to Mal Zeth," Beldin told him, "and the army stepped in to stop the slaughter. After all, if you plan to be King and God, you're going to need yourself a church. Zakath seems to think that it might be easier to use one that's already established."

"What does Urvon think of that idea?"

"He' s not making much of an issue of it right now. Before the army moved in, the people of Mallorea were finding a great deal of entertainment in hanging Grolims up on iron hooks. Urvon is staying in Mal Yaska and keeping very quiet. I think he believes that the fact that he's still alive might just be an oversight on the part of his exalted Majesty, Kal Zakath. Urvon is a slimy snake, but he's no fool."

"I've never met him."

"You haven't missed a thing," Beldin said sourly. He held out his tankard. "You want to fill this?"

"You're drinking up all of my ale, Beldin."

"You can always steal more. The twins never lock their doors. Anyway, Urvon was a disciple of Torak, the same as Ctuchik and Zedar. He doesn't have any of their good qualities, however."

"They didn't have any good qualities," Belgarath said, handing him back the refilled tankard.

"Compared to Urvon, they did. He's a natural-born bootlicker, a fawning, contemptible sneak. Even Torak despised him. But, like all people with those charming traits, as soon as he got the least little bit of power, he went absolutely berserk with it. He's not satisfied with bows as a sign of respect; he wants people to grovel before him."

"You seem moderately unfond of him," Belgarath noted.

"I loathe that piebald back stabber."

"Piebald?"

"He's got patches of skin on his face and hands with no color at all, so he looks all splotchy -as if he had some gruesome disease. I'm viewed in some quarters as passing ugly, but Urvon could scare a troll into fits. Anyway, if Kal Zakath wants to turn the Grolim church into a state religion with his face on the altars instead of Torak's, he's going to have to deal with Urvon first, and Urvon always stays holed up in Mal Yaska, completely surrounded by Grolim sorcerers. Zakath won't be able to get near him. I can't even get near him. I give it a try every hundred years or so, hoping that somebody might get careless or that I might get lucky enough to get a large, sharp hook into his guts. What I'd really like to do, though, is drag him face down over red-hot coals for a few weeks."

Belgarath looked a little surprised at the little man's vehemence. "That's all he's doing then? Staying under cover in Mal Yaska?"

"Not hardly! Urvon plots and schemes even in his sleep. In the last year and a half -ever since Belgarion ran his sword through Torak- Urvon's been scrambling around, trying to preserve what's left of his church. There are some old, moth-eaten prophecies -the Grolims call them Oracles- from a place called Ashaba in the Karandese Mountains. Urvon dusted them off and he's been twisting them around so that they seem to say that Torak will return -that he's not dead, or that he'll be resurrected or possibly reborn."

Belgarath snorted. "What nonsense!"

"Of course it is, but he had to do something. The Grolim church was convulsing like a headless snake, and Zakath was right on the verge of putting his fist around everybody's throat to make sure that every time any Angarak bowed, it would be to him. Urvon made sure that there were very few copies of these Ashabine Oracles left lying about and he's been inventing all sorts of things and claiming that he found them in the prophecies. That's about the only thing holding Zakath off right now and probably that wouldn't even work, if the emperor weren't so busy trying to decorate every tree he comes across with a Murgo or two."

"Did you have any trouble moving around in Mallorea?"

Beldin snorted a crude obscenity. "Of course not. Nobody even notices the face of a deformed man. Most people couldn't tell you if I'm an Alorn or a Marag. They can't see past the hump on my back." He rose from his chair, went to the cask, and refilled his tankard again. "Belgarath," he said very seriously, "does the name Cthrag Sardius mean anything to you?"