Chapter 17
General Vador of the Tolnedran legions paced back and forth, shouting orders to his troops. The legions wheeling, marching back and forth with razor precision, in perfect formation, with their shields facing outwards, and their other hands holding spears through the gaps.
Lord Barak of the Cherek beserkers clanged his huge sword on his shield, roaring out commands to his fellow Chereks and imprecations at the foe. His men, dressed in chain mail and fur and carrying axes or swords, roared out in response, their blades glinting in the light.
Archer Lelldorin of the Asturian bowmen stretched his bowstring, limbering up the mighty longbow. "Let them feel our rain of death!" he yelled, his red-gold hair wildly disheveled and his face alight with excitement, waving his bow about.
Sir Mandorallen of the Mimbrate knights paced up and down, clanking in his armor. Sliding his visor up, he looked at his fellow knights, then out over the edge of the pass to the plain below, where distant black figures were marching. "Hear this, thou enemies of the West and thou invaders of this fair land, thou shalt fall beneath the threshing hooves of our mighty warhorses, and thou shalt be cut down like hay by our mighty blades, for, even if we doth be inclined to give thee mercy, none canst stand against us, the foremost knights in all the world!" The Mimbrate knights gave out a cheer.
Lord Hettar of the Algarian horsemen stretched his lean body, placing one hand on the side of his horse's head as the stallion looked down at him and whickered nervously, murmuring soft words to the animal. His eyes went distant, and the horse calmed, as did the other mounts of the Algars. The Algars looked on the sight with understanding, for their future Clan Chief of Clan Chiefs was a Sha-Dar.
Baron Khendo of the Drasnian pikemen carefully lifted his huge weapon, testing the feel of it as he always did before a battle. For some reason, he didn't feel as eager as he usually did. Maybe it was the fact that these Morindim fought with poison. That was cheating, he thought. Of course, he was offended mostly by the thought that someone else besides the Drasnians had come up with it, rather than the cheating itself. Or maybe it was because Prince Kheldar's child had died. Javelin, the chief of Drasnian intelligence, had gone into mourning for his great-niece/nephew, and that somehow put a black cloud over everything.
Lord Kail of the Rivan infantry stood tall and grim in his bleak clothes, his lined eyes scanning the ranks of his countrymen. War. Once again. He thought of his brother Olban, who had died in the Battle of Thull Mardu. Died with no one by his side, thought a traitor to the Rivan King. But he hadn't been, really, and Kail had seen the tears filling his father's eyes as he had turned away from his dying son. His father was dead, too. Dead at the hands of the Bear Cult. Kail felt an icy anger burn within him. His family had paid dearly for peace. And now these Morindim were threatening it.
Torchek of the Nadraks shifted his lean form, glad they had got there in time. Of course, Drosta hadn't wanted to send the forces to aid, but the messenger the girl sent back had said that if the Morindim weren't defeated, they would start rampaging over the entire western continent. Torchek thought the postscript about the Alorns becoming angry at the lack of aid and invading Gar Og Nadrak probably had something to do with it, too.
Belgarath turned to the nine other sorcerers who stood in a little group, watching the marching army. Zedar's bowed form was a little apart from the rest, and he was speaking to no one. "Any plan?"
"We can move out there to attack before they even get to our army," Garion said, shading his eyes to look at the cloud of dust that was marching across the dry grass. "We don't want to take chances."
"Good idea," Belgarath said. "Should we go for the leader or the army?"
"The army would take too long, Belgarath," one of the twins told him. "Let's go for the leader."
"The army might break and run if their leader's dead," the other one said.
Silently, the nine blurred into hawks, and winged up into the air, followed by a raven as black as night.
"See?" Aunt Pol's voice hissed in Garion's mind. "He hasn't changed at all."
Garion glanced over at Zedar with his piercing golden eyes. He noticed that Poledra, who had refused to come watch Zedar be brought up, was staying close. "Grandmother's ready if he makes a move, isn't she?" he asked.
"Yes," Aunt Pol replied grimly. Garion twisted his head back around, focusing on the black marchers ahead. His blood pounded through his veins in a very unsettling way, and he felt as if he were about to break free of sanity any moment. If he had human hands and fingers, he would have fidgeted. But now he could only settle for clacking his beak in rapid, staccato bursts.
"Garion, would you stop that?" Belgarath asked irritably. "You're making me nervous."
"Welcome to the group, father," Aunt Pol said sarcastically.
"My, my, aren't we touchy today?" murmured Belkira.
"Who?" asked Durnik.
"Everyone," said Beltira. "We're all on edge."
"As usual," Belkira added.
"Right before a battle."
"Would you stop that?" growled Belgarath. "I thought you'd managed to break yourselves of that habit."
"We try."
"But we always slip back."
"To the old ways."
"Now I know why it annoyed Beldin," Belgarath sighed.
Senji looked back at them. "The twisted one who came to the University of Melcene with you and Belgarion? Whatever happened to him?"
"He finished his job," Poledra said quietly, moving slightly up. "In the end, they changed into two hawks, one with blue bands on his wings, the other with lavender, and they flew off into the sky."
"They?" asked Senji, frowning slightly.
"He and the woman he loved."
"She wasn't a sorcerer, was she?"
"No. She was a Nadrak woman."
"A Nadrak woman?"
"Ayan's mother, to be exact."
Senji looked startled. "But Ayan wasn't Beldin's child, was she?"
"No. Vella was married to another man, but he was killed by a bear."
"Father!" Aunt Pol's voice was sharp, drawing their attention to the black marching horde.
"What, Pol?"
"Look closely at it. Very closely."
There was a silence, then Belgarath groaned, and began swearing.
"What?" asked Senji anxiously.
"The illusion-caster!" Belgarath snarled, and went back to swearing, biting off curses with his beak.
"They aren't really there, right?" Garion guessed. "They're somewhere else, and they tricked us into thinking they made less time than they did."
"Then where are they?" Senji asked, peering around.
"There." The voice in their minds was quiet, and only faintly familiar to Garion. It had a strange overtone of sadness. Garion tried to look deeper into the mind, but it was a black wall. They turned to look at the raven. It had turned, and was flying toward the entrance of the gorge.
The swift hawks caught up with the ebony raven in seconds, and were racing along beside him, headed for the entrance of the gorge where the armies of the West were concealed.
"Are you sure?" Poledra's voice was harsh and skeptical.
Zedar turned to regard her with one emerald eye. "Yes," he replied after a moment.
"I'd better warn our forces," Belgarath said.
"What about the illusion?" Senji asked anxiously. "Will the armies be able to see through it?"
"It won't work in close range," Belgarath answered. "Not a large-scale one like that."
But there was a swift shimmering near the gorge.
"He realized we've seen through it," Pelath murmured in his quiet voice.
Sure enough, the shield vanished, and the real marching Morindim appeared, funneling swiftly into the gorge.
Belgarath's mind reached ahead. "Barak! Hettar!"
Garion followed the thought, and was suddenly with Barak, feeling the red-bearded Cherek's perplexity. "What? Belgarath?" The voice was blurred and indistinct.
"Don't talk, Barak, think!" Belgarath snapped.
"What are you doing, Belgarath?" The voice was clearer now.
"The Morindim were an illusion. The real ones are entering the gorge right now."
There was a pause.
"We're ready, Belgarath. Everyone's just nervous with tension."
"Good. Give the order for them to ready themselves. We'll get back there as quickly as we can."
Belgarath turned to the rest of them as Garion's thought returned to his hawk body.
"Garion, to the Rivan infantry. Pol, you go to the Mimbrates. Beltira and Belkira, to the Drasnians. Pelath, take the Algarians. Senji, you take the Nadraks. Durnik, the Asturians. No, the Tolnedrans. Dear, you can take the Asturians." He sighed. "I get the Chereks. Zedar..."
But the black raven had already climbed the updraft of air. "Scout from overhead." Zedar's 'voice' was bitter. "Don't go near the armies of the West."
Belgarath didn't reply.
They all beat their wings faster, urging their light bodies on, then diving to the hidden armies so fast it looked like they were plummeting out of control. Far above them, the raven circled higher, over the battlefield.
Garion landed among his gray-cloaked subjects, and shifted back so he was his tall, sandy-haired form once again. He looked about, and a surge of pride rose in him for his grim, serious people. They stood firm, watching the advancing Morindim come, their faces grave and their demeanors somber. They knew what the waves of black pouring in the gorge meant. They knew this wasn't just a frolick on a spring day, or a boar hunt, or a practice session. They knew this was war.
Belgarath's voice came to Garion. "We're ready. Give the signal."
Garion climbed to the peak of the outcrop, reaching behind him with two hands. There was a grating noise as the massive sword of the Rivan King cleared the sheath. Garion lifted the awesome blade and held it extended with both hands above his head. The sword burst into brilliant blue flame, tinting Garion's skin and clothes with a radiant light. Those watching thought a star had fallen from the sky and shone out from the mountain.
The intense blue light illuminated in an eerie light the rocky landscape. The Morindim stopped dead, waiting warily. There was the blast of a hunting horn, the rattle of rocks under pounding hooves, and a shaking of the earth. From around a turn in the gorge Mimbrate knights galloped, dreams of glory shining through their visors. A rain of steel-tipped arrows shot down from the sky, sweeping through the black wave like a deadly rain. Chereks, brandishing their war axes and howling with the insanity that only beserkers have, charged from behind the horde, cutting off the escape from the gorge. A small black winged shape circled above. The knives of the Morindim cleared their sheaths and glimmered in the sunlight, the sunlight that was a mockery of the slaughter that would now commense.
Garion gazed out over the charging forces.
Let the battle begin.