Chapter Fourteen
THE SNOW GRADUALLY slackened throughout the rest o the day and by evening only a few solitary flakes drifted down through the darkening air as they set up for the night in a grove of dense spruces. During the night, however, the temperature fell, and the air was bitterly cold when they arose the next morning.
"How much farther to Prolgu?" Silk asked, standing close to the fire with his shivering hands stretched out to its warmth.
"Two more days," Belgarath replied.
"I don't suppose you'd consider doing something about the weather?" the little man asked hopefully.
"I prefer not to do that unless I absolutely have to," the old man told him. "It disrupts things over a very wide area. Besides, the Gorim doesn't like us to tamper with things in his mountains. The Ulgos have reservations about that sort of thing."
"I was afraid you might look at it that way."
Their route that morning twisted and turned so often that by noon Garion was completely turned around. Despite the biting cold, the sky was overcast, a solid lead-gray. It seemed somehow as if the cold had frozen all color from the world. The sky was gray; the snow was a flat, dead white; and the tree trunks were starkly black. Even the rushing water in the streams they followed flowed black between snow-mounded banks. Belgarath moved confidently, pointing their direction as each succeeding valley intersected with another.
"Are you sure?" the shivering Silk asked him at one point. "We've been going upstream all day, now you say we go down."
"We'll hit another valley in a few miles. Trust me, Silk. I've been here before."
Silk pulled his heavy cloak tighter. "It's just that I get nervous on unfamiliar ground," he objected, looking at the dark water of the river they followed.
From far upstream came a strange sound, a kind of mindless hooting that was almost like laughter. Aunt Pol and Belgarath exchanged a quick look.
"What is it?" Garion asked.
"Rock-wolf," Belgarath answered shortly.
"It doesn't sound like a wolf."
"It isn't." The old man looked around warily. "They're scavengers for the most part and, if it's just a wild pack, they probably won't attack. It's too early in the winter for them to be that desperate. If it's one of the packs that has been raised by the Eldrakyn, though, we're in for trouble." He stood up in his stirrups to look ahead. "Let's pick up the pace a bit," he called to Mandorallen, "and keep your eyes open."
Mandorallen, his armor glittering with frost, glanced back, nodded, and moved out at a trot, following the seething black water of the mountain river.
Behind them the shrill, yelping laughter grew louder.
"They're following us, father," Aunt Pol said.
"I can hear that." The old man began searching the sides of the valley with his eyes, his face creased with a worried frown. "You'd better have a look, Pol. I don't want any surprises."
Aunt Pol's eyes grew distant as she probed the thickly forested sides of the valley with her mind. After a moment, she gasped and then shuddered. "There's an Eldrak out there, father. He's watching us. His mind is a sewer."
"They always are," the old man replied. "Could you pick up his name?"
"Grul."
"That's what I was afraid of. I knew we were getting close to his range." He put his fingers to his lips and whistled sharply.
Barak and Mandorallen halted to wait while the rest caught up with them. "We've got trouble," Belgarath told them all seriously. "There's an Eldrak out there with a pack of rock-wolves. He's watching us right now. It's only a question of time until he attacks."
"What's an Eldrak?" Silk asked.
"The Eldrakyn are related to Algroths and Trolls, but they're more intelligent - and much bigger."
"But only one?" Mandorallen asked.
"One's enough. I've met this one. His name is Grul. He's big, quick, and as cruel as a hook-pointed knife. He'll eat anything that moves, and he doesn't really care if it's dead or not before he starts to eat."
The hooting laughter of the rock-wolves drew closer.
"Let's find an open place and build a fire," the old man said. "The rock-wolves are afraid of fire, and there's no point in fighting with them and Grul if we don't have to."
"There?" Durnik suggested, pointing to a broad, snow-covered bar protruding out into the dark water of the river. The bar was joined to the near bank by a narrow neck of gravel and sand.
"It's defensible, Belgarath," Barak approved, squinting at the bar. "The river will keep them off our backs, and they can only come at us across that one narrow place."
"It will do," Belgarath agreed shortly. "Let's go."
They rode out onto the snow-covered bar and quickly scraped an area clear with their feet while Durnik worked to build a fire under a large, gray driftwood snag that half blocked the narrow neck of the bar. Within a few moments, orange flames began to lick up around the snag. Durnik fed the fire with sticks until the snag was fully ablaze. "Give me a hand," the smith said, starting to pile larger pieces of wood on the fire. Barak and Mandorallen went to the jumbled mass of driftwood piled against the upstream edge of the gravel and began hauling limbs and chunks of log to the fire. At the end of a quarter of an hour they had built a roaring bonfire that stretched across the narrow neck of sand, cutting them off completely from the dark trees on the riverbank.
"It's the first time I've been warm all day." Silk grinned, backing up to the fire.
"They're coming," Garion warned. Back among the dark tree trunks, he had caught a few glimpses of furtive movements.
Barak peered through the flames. "Big brutes, aren't they?" he observed grimly.
"About the size of a donkey," Belgarath confirmed.
"Are you sure they're afraid of fire?" Silk asked nervously.
"Most of the time."
"Most of the time?"
"Once in a while they get desperate - or Grul could drive them toward us. They'd be more afraid of him than of the fire."
"Belgarath," the weasel-faced little man objected, "sometimes you've got a nasty habit of keeping things to yourself."
One of the rock-wolves came out onto the riverbank just upstream from the bar and stood sniffing the air and looking nervously at the fire. Its forelegs were noticeably longer than its hind ones, giving it a peculiar, half erect stance, and there was a large, muscular hump across its shoulders. Its muzzle was short, and it seemed snub-faced, almost like a cat. Its coat was a splotchy black and white, marked with a pattern hovering somewhere between spots and stripes. It paced nervously back and forth, staring at them with a dreadful intensity and yelping its highpitched, hooting laugh. Soon another came out to join it, and then another. They spread out along the bank, pacing and hooting, but staying well back from the fire.
"They don't look like dogs exactly," Durnik said.
"They're not," Belgarath replied. "Wolves and dogs are related, but rock-wolves belong to a different family."
By now ten of the ugly creatures lined the bank, and their hooting rose in a mindless chorus.
Then Ce'Nedra screamed, her face deathly pale and her eyes wide with horror.
The Eldrak shambled out of the trees and stood in the middle of the yelping pack. It was about eight feet tall and covered with shaggy black fur. It wore an armored shirt that had been made of large scraps of chainmail tied together with thongs; over the mail, also held in place with thongs, was a rusty breastplate that appeared to have been hammered out with rocks until it was big enough to fit around the creature's massive chest. A conical steel helmet, split up the back to make it fit, covered the brute's head. In its hand the Eldrak held a huge, steelwrapped club, studded with spikes. It was the face, however, that had brought the scream to Ce'Nedra's lips. The Eldrak had virtually no nose, and its lower jaw jutted, showing two massive, protruding tusks. Its eyes were sunk in deep sockets beneath a heavy ridge of bone across its brow, and they burned with a hideous hunger.
"That's far enough, Grul," Belgarath warned the thing in a cold, deadly voice.
"'Grat come back to Grul's mountains?" the monster growled. Its voice was deep and hollow, chilling.
"It talks?" Silk gasped incredulously.
"Why are you following us, Grul?" Belgarath demanded.
The creature stared at them, its eyes like fire. "Hungry, 'Grat," it growled.
"Go hunt something else," the old man told the monster.
"Why? Horses here - men. Plenty to eat."
"But not easy food, Grul," Belgarath replied.
A hideous grin spread across Grul's face. "Fight first," he said, "then eat. Come 'Grat. Fight again."
"Grat?" Silk asked.
"He means me. He can't pronounce my name - it has to do with the shape of his jaw."
"You fought that thing?" Barak sounded stunned.
Belgarath shrugged. "I had a knife up my sleeve. When he grabbed me, I sliced him open. It wasn't much of a fight."
"Fight!" Grul roared. He hammered on his breastplate with his huge fist. "Iron," he said. "Come, 'Grat. Try to cut Grul's belly again. Now Grul wear iron - like men wear." He began to pound on the frozen ground with his steel-shod club. "Fight!" he bellowed. "Come, 'Grat. Fight!"
"Maybe if we all go after him at once, one of us might get in a lucky thrust," Barak said, eyeing the monster speculatively.
"Thy plan is flawed, my Lord," Mandorallen told him. "We must lose several companions should we come within range of that club."