Chapter 9
Javelin's long fingers tapped on the tabletop distractedly, his eyes grave as he faced his king. "Your Majesty, it seems the Nadrak girl was right. The Morindim are at this point barely twenty leagues from Boktor, and moving fast. They do not seem to stop for anything."
"I can barely wait for her to start gloating," Kheva muttered. "Very well, where are the troops sent from the other kingdoms?"
"The Algars have arrived, of course, as your Majesty is aware, and the amount of supplies massed is measured on quite a grand scale. The Arends, Tolnedrans, and Nyissans are passing through Ulgoland with the help of Beltira and Belkira, the Alorn twin sorcerers, who are protecting them from the monsters. The Chereks are sailing up the Mrin River, and the Rivans are in the Gulf of Cherek. If we can find some way to delay the Morindim force, the Chereks will be able to reach Boktor in time, and possibly the Rivans, although the Arends, Tolnedrans, and Nyissans may not get here before the battle." Javelin paused thoughtfully. "If you could get a Nyissan up here faster than the rest, that might serve as the distraction, especially if half the Morindim army collapsed writhing as they marched."
Kheva gnawed on his thumb. "I could ask Belgarath."
"I'd advise that, your Majesty."
"I'll also send the Algars out to start building up the fortifications for the blockade of the North Caravan Route. I think I need to talk with some of my generals and Belgarath about what we're going to do." He opened the door and told the guard standing outside, "Go bring the Tolnedran generals, Belgarath, Belgarion, Polgara, my mother, and Cyradis." He sighed. "And Ayan, as well."
"Yes, your Majesty." The guard saluted the young king, then ran off down the hall.
Kheva closed the door, sighing. "Why does she always have to be right, Javelin?" he asked his chief of intelligence, slumping into a chair. "She was right about this whole thing being my problem, she was right about mobilizing the army, she was right about working on the battle tactics, she was right about the Morindim being on our doorstep, she was right about me being unobservant and stupid and spoiled."
Javelin tactfully kept silent.
"Fourteen!" Kheva muttered. "She's fourteen, and somehow she manages to out-think me, out-talk me, out-plan me. Me, who is three years older than her!"
"Everyone has different skills, your Majesty."
"Right," muttered Kheva skeptically. He seemed about to say more, but was interrupted by the arrival of the Tolnedran generals, who filed in quietly and took their places along the table. Belgarath was next, and he too took a seat, the light gleaming on his silvery beard. Ayan, her eyes questioning, also arrived soon after, dressed as usual in the tight leather clothes of the Nadraks, with Porenn beside her.
Garion was last to arrive, and as he entered, he announced, "Aunt Pol's with Cyradis. I don't think either of them would be indisposed to come right now."
"You mean she's--" asked Kheva.
Garion nodded. "Zakath'll be disappointed not to be present for the birth of his heir, but I don't think they're anything we can do about it. We didn't exactly ask for the Morindim and Karands to get itchy feet at this particular time." He looked along the table, noting those present. Their faces were all grim and serious, he thought. Even Ayan. The young girl's face, framed by the luxurious blue-black hair, was grave. He glanced over at Kheva, surprised that the young king had been able to discern Ayan's brilliant mind underneath the bickering that they always took part in. His mind flew back to a number of times when he and Ce'Nedra had gone through that. Kheva and Ayan's arguments were usually more sophisticated, though. No screaming insults or shouting mindlessly.
Garion sat down, sighing deeply. They were at a war council once again. When would it ever end? His eyes strayed to Belgarath, his eyes inscrutable. Usually the old man was lazy, indolent, and mischievous. Now, however, his eyes, lined grimly, betrayed just how many years of war, of peace, of study, of pain, of seeing others die, he had gone through. Garion wondered once more about the inner qualities of his grandfather. Belgarath was the first disciple of Aldur, with the weight of all the responsibility that that signified weighing heavily on him. He was the oldest man in the world, his memory stretching back before the cracking of the world, before anyone could even imagine. He was the most powerful man in the world, with the ability to incinerate mountains and with the power of a god at his back. He had seen thousands of people he loved die, including the one of the ones he loved most: his dearest daughter. He had killed thousands of people, not enjoying it, not relishing it, but knowing it had to be done. Garion's mind reeled with how much memory, sheer weight, lay in that old man's head. His face was no longer the face of the old storyteller, the lazy scholar. His face was the face of Belgarath the Sorcerer: old, with a strange regal quality that made the faces of Kheva and Anheg and even himself, Garion, fade and pale before comparison.
Garion realized at last why his grandfather sometimes seemed lazy, indolent, immoral. It was the only he had of handling that sheer power, the weight of memory and years beyond counting. Garion thought of how old he was: almost thirty, and it seemed like he had been living forever. And his grandfather had gone through seven thousand. He acted the way he did sometimes to hold onto his sanity, his humanity.
Garion dragged his mind back from that awesome precipice of revelation, and turned his gaze to Kheva, the young king's clear emotions of worry and anxiety showing on his face. Kheva was a handsome young man, his dark hair slightly wavy, and his body lean and conditioned. The gold circlet on his head gleamed slightly, seeming perfectly in place on his brow. He had never gone through a war as the king, Garion realized. Thull Mardu had happened only a few months after he was born, and his father had not died until he was six.
Porenn's face was gentle as she looked at Ayan. She had been very close to Vella, Garion remembered, and Ayan, as Vella's daughter, would remind her of the fiery Nadrak woman quite often. Ayan was already beginning to display the signs of Vella's sensuality, and--Garion's eyes went back to Kheva--certain people had definitely noticed it.
The Tolnedran generals, sitting side by side, had various expressions. Some were concentrated, doubtless thinking out battle movements, others had annoyance in their faces--thinking of their vanished retirement--and the rest were concerned, probably thinking of friends or family.
Kheva rose, and the council of war began.
Silk winked at Urgit as his knife deftly slid through the thick canvas at the back of the tent. "Never, ever, imprison important captives in tents," he whispered quietly.
"You're amazing, Kheldar," Urgit whispered back, picking up the sword they had stolen from the snoring guard.
"After you, brother," Silk grinned, holding the tent flap open. Urgit slid out quietly, and Silk followed, letting the sliced piece swing back into place. The prison tent was near the back of the encampment, and they found themselves in the dark forest that covered the mountains.
-What about our horses?- Urgit asked Silk in the finger language.
-Hold on.- Silk slid off on his belly, and Urgit crouched behind a screen of brush to wait. He bit his lip as the moments passed, then turned to scan the forest for look-outs. Two dark shapes loomed out of the gloom, and he sprang up, biting back a startled yelp. Then he saw Silk, leading the horses, and breathed a sigh of relief.
-Are these ours?-
-No,- Silk answered. -I couldn't find ours, so I took the liberty of borrowing two from those fine gentlemen.-
Urgit snorted with laughter, but swung on his new horse, and soon they were cantering off through the forest. "So, what did that little venture reveal to us?" he asked his brother, veering to one side to avoid a tree.
Silk thought, rubbing his long, pointed nose. "That HE, the Karand and Morindim leader, is enlisting everyone; Angaraks, Karands, and Morindim alike. Senji told us there's a force attacking Mal Zeth, and marching down through Gar Og Nadrak, as well as the one we know took over Rak Cthan. Now we know there's also one that was sent to block off the Urga Peninsula."
"How many men can this madman HAVE, anyway?" Urgit asked, almost to himself.
Townspeople streamed in the gate of Boktor, called in from their farms and the surrounding villages to take refuge in the walled capital. Wagons filled with supplies, children, women, and old ones trundled through the gate, directed by a few Drasnians who pointed the way to the open area where they could stay.
In the opposite direction, out the gate, poured streams of armed men: Rivans cloaked in gray, their grim faces quelling any frivolous emotion; burly Chereks clinking in chain-mail, their axes and huge swords swinging at their belts, wild grins on their faces; Drasnian pikemen, their wiry forms dwarfed by their huge weapons; lean Algars mounted on horses, their dark scalp-locks flowing in the breeze; strict formations of Tolnedran legions, their golden armor gleaming in the sunlight; clanking Mimbrates covered in thick steel; green-clad Asturians twanging their bows eagerly, and testing the tips of sharpened arrows; and here or there a Nyissan, their shaved heads reflecting light, laden down with bags of powder that would have strange and unmentionable effect on any brave enough to stand in their way.
In the distance the great mounds of earth were visible, barring the way across the North Caravan Route. Pits dug in front had been lined with sharp stakes and covered with brush, and barriers of tangled tree branches were to either side of the road, ideal launching places for the arrows of the Asturians.
The last of the townspeople disappeared through the gate, and the warriors of the West took up their positions. In the distance a cloud of dust loomed, and they all knew that the inevitable was happening...
The battle was near at hand.