Guardians of the West

Polgara was coolly inspecting a couple of unconscious survivors. "These two will sleep for a while," she noted, rolling back an eyelid to examine the glazed eye underneath. "Bring that one down, father," she said, pointing at the man Belgarath had suspended in midair, "In one piece, if you can manage it. I'd like to question him."

"Of course, Pol." The old man's eyes were sparkling, and his grin very nearly split his face.

"Father," she said, "when are you ever going to grow up?"

"Why, Polgara," he said mockingly, "what a thing to say."

The floating cultist had finally realized his situation and had dropped his sword. He stood trembling on the insubstantial air, with his eyes bulging in terror and his limbs twitching violently. When Belgarath gently lowered him to the ground, he immediately collapsed in a quivering heap.

The old man firmly grasped him by the front of his fur tunic and hauled him roughly into a half -standing position. "Do you know who I am?" he demanded, thrusting his face into that of the cringing captive.

"You-I-"

"Do you?" Belgarath's voice cracked like a whip.

"Yes," the man choked.

"Then you know that if you try to run away, I'll just hang you back up in the air again and leave you there. You know that I can do that, don't you?"

"Yes."

"That won't be necessary, father," Polgara said coolly. "This man is going to be very co-operative."

"I will say nothing, witch-woman," the captive declared, though his eyes were still a bit wild.

"Ah, no, my friend," she told him with a chilly little smile. "You will say everything. You'll talk for weeks if I need you to." She gave him a hard stare and made a small gesture in front of his face with her left hand. "Look closely, friend," she said. "Enjoy every single detail."

The bearded Bear-cultist stared at the empty air directly in front of his face, and the blood drained from his cheeks. His eyes started from his head in horror, and he shrieked, staggering back. Grimly, she made a sort of hooking gesture with her still-extended hand, and his retreat stopped instantly. "You can't run away from it," she said, "and unless you talk -right now- it will stand in front of your face until the day you die."

"Take it away!" he begged in an insane shriek. "Please, I'll do anything -anything!"

"I wonder where she learned to do that," Belgarath murmured to Garion. "I could never do it to anybody -and I've tried."

"He'll tell you whatever he knows now, Garion," Polgara said then. "He's aware of what will happen if he doesn't."

"What have you done with my son?" Garion demanded of the terrified man.

The prisoner swallowed hard, and then he straightened defiantly. "He's far beyond your reach now, King of Riva."

The rage welled up in Garion again, and, without thinking, he reached over his shoulder for his sword.

"Garion!" Polgara said sharply.

The cultist flinched back, his face going pale. "Your son is alive," he said hastily. Then a smug look crossed his face. "But the next time you meet him, he will kill you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Ulfgar has consulted the oracles. You are not the Rivan King we have awaited for all these centuries. It's the next King of Riva who will unite Aloria and lead us against the kingdoms of the south. It is your son, Belgarion, and he will lead us because he will be raised to share our beliefs."

"Where is my son?" Garion shouted at him.

"Where you will never find him," the prisoner taunted. "We will raise and nurture him in the true faith, as befits an Alorn monarch. And when he is grown, he will come and kill you and take his crown and his sword and his Orb from your usurping hand." The man's eyes were bulging, his limbs shook with religious ecstasy, and there was foam on his lips. "You will die by your own son's hand, Belgarion of Riva," he shrieked, "and King Geran will lead all Alorns against the unbelievers of the south, as Belar commanded."

"We're not getting too far with this line of questioning," Belgarath said. "Let me try for a while." He turned to the wild-eyed captive. "How much do you know about this Ulfgar?" he asked.

"Ulfgar is the Bear-lord, and he has even more power than you, old man."

"Interesting notion," Belgarath murmured. "Have you ever met this master sorcerer -or even seen him, for that matter?"

"Well-" the captive hedged.

"I didn't think so. How did you know he wanted you to come here and abduct Belgarion's son, then?"

The captive bit his lip.

"Answer me!"

"He sent a messenger," the man replied sullenly.

A sudden thought occurred to Garion. "Was this Ulfgar of yours behind the attempt to kill my wife?" he demanded.

"Wife!" The cultist sneered. "No Alorn takes a Tolnedran mongrel to wife. You -Iron-grip's heir- should know that better than any man. Naturally we tried to kill the Tolnedran wench. It was the only way to rid Aloria of the infection you brought here."

"You're starting to irritate me, friend," Garion said bleakly. "Don't do that."

"Let's get back to this messenger," Belgarath said. "You say that the baby is where we can't reach him, but you're still here, aren't you? Could it just possibly be that it was the messenger who was the actual abductor and that you and your friends are merely underlings?"

The cultist's eyes grew wild, and he looked this way and that like a trapped animal. His limbs began to tremble violently .

"I think we're approaching a question that you don't want to answer, friend," Belgarath suggested.

It came almost like a blow. There was a wrenching kind of feeling to it, almost as if someone were reaching inside a skull to twist and crush the brain within. The captive shrieked, gave Belgarath one wild look, then spun, took three quick steps, and hurled himself off the edge of the cliff behind him.

"Question me now!" he shrieked as he plummeted down into the twilight that was rising out of the dark, angry waters surging about the rocks at the foot of the cliff. Then, even as he fell, Garion heard peal upon peal of insane laughter fading horribly as the fanatic dropped away from them.

Aunt Pol started quickly toward the edge, but Belgarath reached out and took her arm. "Let him go, Pol," he said.

"It wouldn't be a kindness to save him now. Someone put something in his mind that crushed out his sanity as soon as he was asked that certain question."