Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to David Eddings.
Oh, yes, just a note: when Thulls and Grolims and Nadraks and Murgos and Malloreans are mentioned, it doesn't mean the races, it means the social classes, because that was what they called them. The Thulls were what they called the peasants, the Grolims were priests, the Nadraks were merchants, the Murgos were noblemen, and the Malloreans were soldiers.
________________________________________________________________________
For a while I paid no attention to what I had heard that night when they thought I was asleep. I was far too busy practicing with the blunt wooden sword my father had given me for my nineth birthday, and I ran around the house and the room, battling imaginary opponents that were fierce and skilled, but I beat nonetheless. My mind filled with the thrill and excitement of that imaginary world of glory, I forgot the implications of the things my mother and father had said that strange night.
But one day as I was watching my mother mend my favorite tunic, the question came to my mind, and I asked it without thinking. "Mother, what does Father do?"
Absentmindedly, as her needle dipped into the fabric again, she answered, "He takes furs the trappers give him, cures them, and sells them to the higher classes."
"No, I mean when he goes to fight the Grolims."
My mother's head jerked up sharply. "How do you know about that?" she asked in a low, urgent voice.
Puzzled, I told her. "One night when he came back, I heard you and him talking. I thought everyone was supposed to worship Torak, and willingly give sacrifices to him."
My mother returned to her sewing, but there tension in the lines of her body. "Yes, we are all supposed to do so."
"Then why does Father go and rescue Thulls?"
Mother put down the tunic and her needle, and turned to face me, her dark eyes serious. "Listen very carefully, my son. Your father goes out to rescue Thulls because he doesn't believe what they do is right. He thinks that just because the Thulls are peasants, they shouldn't be killed just to appease their god. He believes that Torak should never have allowed it, and he has vowed to do everything to stop it. What he's doing is very, very dangerous, and he could be killed. But he does it anyway because he knows it is right."
My eyes wide, I asked her, "And do you think it's right, too, Mother?"
She took a deep breath. "Yes. I would join him, too, but once you were born, we decided I should take care of you. But, my son, never ever tell anyone about this. If you do, your father and I could be taken by the Grolims and killed for what we do. You have to keep this secret, and never tell anyone, no matter who it is."
I nodded, still wide-eyed.
"This secret will be just our secret, my son. None except your father, his partners, I, and you know it."
"And the Thulls too?"
"Your father and his partners dress all in black. The Thulls do not know who rescues them, because if they did, they would probably tell the information to the Malloreans."
"And the Malloreans would arrest them?"
"Yes, and probably you and I, too."
"But we didn't rescue them."
"We knew about it. Do you see why this is important? You must not tell your friends, strangers, your father's customers, anyone. You must keep this secret locked away in your brain and never let it out."
I nodded solemnly, impressed by my mother's grave face. "Yes, mother."
"Good." Then she took me in her arms and kissed me, and held me for a long moment. Finally she released me, with a smile on her face, and told me to go play in the garden.
I had nine years on my back now, though, and I felt I was too old to go out and play in the garden like a little child. "Can't I do anything else?" I asked.
A smile tugged at my mother's mouth. "Like what?"
"I don't know. Chop firewood, or something."
"Perhaps you can ask your father when he comes home."
"Yes, mother." I looked around, and saw my 'sword' lying on the floor nearby. Running to get it, I began to battle my imaginary opponents. "Ha! Take that!" I shouted. "Die, evil villain!" And whirled about in a frenzy of wind-milling arms and sword.
When my father walked in and I stopped fighting to run up and ask him what I could do, his dark, serious glance went to the sword. "Well, son," he said in the quiet voice that I always heard him use, and seemed to have something else behind the words, "why don't we teach you how to use a sword?"
And so began my lessons. My father did not have much time, what with curing and bargaining furs during the day and going out to liberate Thulls from their sacrificial 'duties' at night, but he still found time to show me a new move, or correct a stance of mine, every evening. It was all very exciting, and I now could spar realistically with the air or even the table, which I unmercifully hacked until my mother told me to stop.
In all my excitement, I overlooked the significance of the weapon of the sword.
It was on my tenth birthday that I received my first real sword. It was also on that day that my life shattered.
The morning of my birthday, I woke up to find two packages beside my bed. Opening them in great excitement, I found a new pair of boots and some wound balm, and pulled on my new footwear to admire. Then I noticed the long, thin shape that was lying a little distance away. In awe, I scrambled over to stare at it, and pulled off the furs shrouding it to reveal the gleaming blade of a sword. I gaped at it, tentatively rubbing my fingers over the smooth steel. Even back in that primitive day it was a beautiful sword, smooth and long. The blade shone, not with mirror brightness, but with a dangerous gleam that just made it more deadly. I was so busy staring at the sword, with its simple leather-bound hilt, that I did not notice that Father and Mother had come up and watch me, and when I looked up and saw them, I was still speechless.
My father smiled slightly at the look on my face, and my mother came forward to embrace me. "May you have a glorious age-turning," she murmured to me.
The rest of the day I spent practicing with the sword, nearly slicing Maid's apron open, to her intense displeasure. Maid had grown more and more ill-tempered over the years, but I hardly paid her any mind any more. I put a sizable gash in one of the tables in the large room downstairs, and cut my finger twice, but I was too happy with my new present to mind. My movements in the drill of the sword were still rather awkward, and in that faraway day swordsmanship was little but hacking at things in the right places, and putting enough force behind it to do damage.
I was still small at that time, not having reached the time of my growth, when my limbs became long and gangly, and my attacks were fierce and intense, though my body itself was small. In the place of the unoffending tables and chairs I imagined Grolims, leering out at me with their dark faces---though I had never seen the Grolims of Torak---long knives suspended, ready to cut an innocent Thull's heart out. My overactive imagination spun the pleading look on the Thull's face, the desperation in the eyes, the reaching out of one unbound hand toward me in a gesture that broke my heart, even though it was only in my imagination. I renewed my attack with the ferocity of a tiger cub, blood surging through my head and blinding me with rage, and I knew nothing but the desire to avenge.
When I finally came to myself again, the chair was in splinters, and I was panting heavily. I glanced around quickly, to see if anyone had seen my crazy exhibition, but there was no one there, and I sat down to rest, wondering if that was what my father felt when he saw the helpless Thulls being murdered. I somehow couldn't imagine my father feeling intense emotion, but then I remembered the urgency, the weariness in his voice. Thinking about the concept of two different personalities was very strange to me. Perhaps, like the House, my father had an Outside and an Inside. I pondered this as I sat, my sword lying forgotten in my hand.
The day passed quickly as they all did, in an eternal stretch of laughter and emotion and happiness. Then, they were brim-full of intense emotion, whether it was sadness at a hurt or a restriction, or exhilaration in the realms of bright imagination, or love for my mother and father that came from the depths of my little heart. It seemed when I was a child, the world was alive and beautiful, unmarred by the dark thoughts that came as age advanced. But I never thought that age would come so quickly, so swiftly, and so deadly.
That night, as I squirmed beneath the covers of the bed, my mother told me a special story since it was my birthday, her soothing voice rising and falling in cadences.
"There was a little boy, who was born in a great tall House in the depths of the woods of the land where the Angaraks lived, and inside this boy there glowed a strange fire that was strange and beautiful. This fire sprang out in a blazing flame when joy overwhelmed him, and dwindled to a small wavering tongue when he was sad, and it was always within him, to warm his soul.
"And this little boy's flame grew as he became older, and soon it sprang out within him and he used it to slay bad men who would kill his friends, and mother and father, and no one could touch the ones he loved, because of the fire he used as a gift and a weapon. And this little boy grew powerful, and was the greatest of all Angaraks, for he did not believe in the sacrificial ceremonies performed by the Grolims of Torak, and he delivered many, just as did his father within him.
"This little boy shook the world with his steps, and spoke to all living creatures, and even became one with them, that he might deal out justice and good to those who walked the land, which would be ripped apart by war."
Slowly I slipped away into darkness, reveling in the visions spun by my mother's voice.
*
When I woke, the house was in turmoil. The door of the room had been thrown open, and little candles were bobbing up and down the hallway. My mother stood at the door, looking out into the dark hall, dressed in a heavy brocade gown. I cautiously sat up, wondering what was happening.
My father slipped in the door and closed it behind him, taking my mother by the shoulders with the haste of someone in a hurry. I leaned forward.
"Take the boy and go," my father was saying urgently. "I don't know how they found out, but they did. Now you must go. Ykeruksn, Deowncskke, and I will fight them."
"You can't fight them alone!" my mother protested, her voice raw with emotion. "Gareshnyk, I'm staying too!"
"And what of our son?"
"He can go with the nurse. We'll go a different way. Please, Gareshnyk!"
My father glanced back, pressing his ear to the door. "They're coming. They've got dogs, Ilumaken. Dogs and knives."
"I don't care. I was with you before he was born, and I'll be with you again. If I've got to go down, I'll go down with you. Fighting."
My father listened again. Now I could hear the yelps of hounds and sound of many men shouting in the distance, and it frightened me. I slipped out of my bed. "Mother?" I asked, my little voice sounding frightened in the cold darkness. "What's going on?"
"The bad men are coming, my son. They found out that your father was rescuing Thulls, and they're coming."
"The Grolims? How?"
"I don't know," my father put in. "Ilumaken, this isn't wise."
"I don't care," my mother said fiercely, then turned to me. "We're going to go try to make a stand, with your father's partners. The maid will help you get to safety."
Maid. My brow furrowed. "But I want to go with you. I can use a sword."
My father groaned softly.
"No, son," my mother said firmly. "We'll see you again. Now we need to get out of here."
I grabbed my sword in the darkness, buckled it on, and pulled traveling clothes on. My mother's hands shook as they put together a bundle for me. Then we crept out into the corridor. The shouts and screams were louder here, and the sound of battle echoed through the hall. There was a bright flash from somewhere downstairs, of glittering red and gold, and I was suddenly aware of the seeping heat that was permeating the air.
"Fire," muttered my father. "There goes my livelihood."
"But not our lives," my mother told him. "Maid?"
"Here." The Maid loomed out of the darkness. For a minute I thought she had a ghastly grin on her face, but then she came into the brief light of our candle and I saw she was frowning.
"Take the boy and get to safety," my father told her. "We're going out the back door."
We dashed to the end of the hall, peering down the stairs. Yellow flame licked up the wooden steps, wavering dangerously in its flickering light like some liquid tiger poising on the stairs. Then we turned and ran back to the other end, uncomfortably conscious of the heat rising in the room, sweat rolling down our faces. My father tapped along the wall, searching for a spot as the fire rose higher, crackling and spitting. He found it and a panel in the wall opened, revealing the dark forest outside. We dashed out, and I looked back at our house, from the outside for the first time. The downstairs faced out on a narrow street, and the upstairs was on a hill. Flame consumed it from within, and the yelps and howls of dogs were heard.
My father pointed for the maid. "That way!" he hissed, and he and my mother took off in the opposite direction. I felt a horrible wrench as they went, but turned as Maid took my arm and dragged me off into the woods. A dog's cry was uncomfortably near as we went on and on, stumbling through the brush, Maid dragging me over logs submerged in the forest floor and thick fern-growth. We were nearing the dog, as I could tell from the increased volume and I hissed to Maid, "Not that way! We're getting closer to them!"
She tried to hit me, but I dodged, as she growled, "Shut up, little brat."
"No!" I braced my legs. "Why are we going nearer to them? Tell me!"
"Guess, brat." She yanked at me, and I stumbled forward, she dragging me toward the sounds. "You aren't the pampered baby of the household any more."
There were horses riding through the trees at us, some riders clothed in red, others in robes of deepest black, their hoods pulled up. I felt a chill go through me, as foreboding swamped my senses. I found I was trembling, scared. I'd never been in this kind of danger before, and I didn't know what to think. I was so naïve I didn't even realize the obvious implications of what Maid was doing and had said.
"Halt!" the front rider, dressed in red with a mail tunic commanded in the harsh, guttural language of Old Angarak.
"It is I." Maid spoke up in her nasal, whining voice. "With their boy."
I stared at them both. Maid knew him? Who was he?
"Good. Did it go as suggested?"
"It did, my lord. They are heading straight into the ambush."
The Mallorean smiled. "And Gareshnyk and his blasted wife are doomed. Torak bless you, who were loyal enough to inform us of his blasphemous practices."
I was in such a state of shock I didn't realize what they had said until it had sunk in. Then fiery rage welled up inside me, a deep yearning to avenge. But I was just a boy, and I was too scared to take action, too scared of these huge soldiers wearing clothes of steel. I stood there silently, raging within myself. There was a great surging feeling in my head, as if I was gathering something up.
Suddenly a black-robed figure started forward suddenly. "My lord." His voice was harsh and rasping.
"What?" the Mallorean looked at him suspiciously.
"The boy." The figure pointed at me. "His mind is aware."
"Aware? What do you mean?" the Mallorean frowned.
The black-robed figure drew back his hood and revealed a face dominated by heavy scars running down the side of it. His burning eyes were fixed intensely on me, and I realized with a sudden icy feeling that this was a Grolim, a priest of Torak. "His mind is aware, Yurkwonse. Aware of its own will."
This meant absolutely nothing to me, but the Mallorean's eyes widened suddenly. "Are you sure?"
"I am trained in these things."
The Mallorean eyed me dubiously. "He'll never agree, Gerkokag."
"He will have to." A grim smile split the Grolim's scarred face. "And I know just how he can demonstrate his loyalty to Torak."
Oh, yes, just a note: when Thulls and Grolims and Nadraks and Murgos and Malloreans are mentioned, it doesn't mean the races, it means the social classes, because that was what they called them. The Thulls were what they called the peasants, the Grolims were priests, the Nadraks were merchants, the Murgos were noblemen, and the Malloreans were soldiers.
________________________________________________________________________
For a while I paid no attention to what I had heard that night when they thought I was asleep. I was far too busy practicing with the blunt wooden sword my father had given me for my nineth birthday, and I ran around the house and the room, battling imaginary opponents that were fierce and skilled, but I beat nonetheless. My mind filled with the thrill and excitement of that imaginary world of glory, I forgot the implications of the things my mother and father had said that strange night.
But one day as I was watching my mother mend my favorite tunic, the question came to my mind, and I asked it without thinking. "Mother, what does Father do?"
Absentmindedly, as her needle dipped into the fabric again, she answered, "He takes furs the trappers give him, cures them, and sells them to the higher classes."
"No, I mean when he goes to fight the Grolims."
My mother's head jerked up sharply. "How do you know about that?" she asked in a low, urgent voice.
Puzzled, I told her. "One night when he came back, I heard you and him talking. I thought everyone was supposed to worship Torak, and willingly give sacrifices to him."
My mother returned to her sewing, but there tension in the lines of her body. "Yes, we are all supposed to do so."
"Then why does Father go and rescue Thulls?"
Mother put down the tunic and her needle, and turned to face me, her dark eyes serious. "Listen very carefully, my son. Your father goes out to rescue Thulls because he doesn't believe what they do is right. He thinks that just because the Thulls are peasants, they shouldn't be killed just to appease their god. He believes that Torak should never have allowed it, and he has vowed to do everything to stop it. What he's doing is very, very dangerous, and he could be killed. But he does it anyway because he knows it is right."
My eyes wide, I asked her, "And do you think it's right, too, Mother?"
She took a deep breath. "Yes. I would join him, too, but once you were born, we decided I should take care of you. But, my son, never ever tell anyone about this. If you do, your father and I could be taken by the Grolims and killed for what we do. You have to keep this secret, and never tell anyone, no matter who it is."
I nodded, still wide-eyed.
"This secret will be just our secret, my son. None except your father, his partners, I, and you know it."
"And the Thulls too?"
"Your father and his partners dress all in black. The Thulls do not know who rescues them, because if they did, they would probably tell the information to the Malloreans."
"And the Malloreans would arrest them?"
"Yes, and probably you and I, too."
"But we didn't rescue them."
"We knew about it. Do you see why this is important? You must not tell your friends, strangers, your father's customers, anyone. You must keep this secret locked away in your brain and never let it out."
I nodded solemnly, impressed by my mother's grave face. "Yes, mother."
"Good." Then she took me in her arms and kissed me, and held me for a long moment. Finally she released me, with a smile on her face, and told me to go play in the garden.
I had nine years on my back now, though, and I felt I was too old to go out and play in the garden like a little child. "Can't I do anything else?" I asked.
A smile tugged at my mother's mouth. "Like what?"
"I don't know. Chop firewood, or something."
"Perhaps you can ask your father when he comes home."
"Yes, mother." I looked around, and saw my 'sword' lying on the floor nearby. Running to get it, I began to battle my imaginary opponents. "Ha! Take that!" I shouted. "Die, evil villain!" And whirled about in a frenzy of wind-milling arms and sword.
When my father walked in and I stopped fighting to run up and ask him what I could do, his dark, serious glance went to the sword. "Well, son," he said in the quiet voice that I always heard him use, and seemed to have something else behind the words, "why don't we teach you how to use a sword?"
And so began my lessons. My father did not have much time, what with curing and bargaining furs during the day and going out to liberate Thulls from their sacrificial 'duties' at night, but he still found time to show me a new move, or correct a stance of mine, every evening. It was all very exciting, and I now could spar realistically with the air or even the table, which I unmercifully hacked until my mother told me to stop.
In all my excitement, I overlooked the significance of the weapon of the sword.
It was on my tenth birthday that I received my first real sword. It was also on that day that my life shattered.
The morning of my birthday, I woke up to find two packages beside my bed. Opening them in great excitement, I found a new pair of boots and some wound balm, and pulled on my new footwear to admire. Then I noticed the long, thin shape that was lying a little distance away. In awe, I scrambled over to stare at it, and pulled off the furs shrouding it to reveal the gleaming blade of a sword. I gaped at it, tentatively rubbing my fingers over the smooth steel. Even back in that primitive day it was a beautiful sword, smooth and long. The blade shone, not with mirror brightness, but with a dangerous gleam that just made it more deadly. I was so busy staring at the sword, with its simple leather-bound hilt, that I did not notice that Father and Mother had come up and watch me, and when I looked up and saw them, I was still speechless.
My father smiled slightly at the look on my face, and my mother came forward to embrace me. "May you have a glorious age-turning," she murmured to me.
The rest of the day I spent practicing with the sword, nearly slicing Maid's apron open, to her intense displeasure. Maid had grown more and more ill-tempered over the years, but I hardly paid her any mind any more. I put a sizable gash in one of the tables in the large room downstairs, and cut my finger twice, but I was too happy with my new present to mind. My movements in the drill of the sword were still rather awkward, and in that faraway day swordsmanship was little but hacking at things in the right places, and putting enough force behind it to do damage.
I was still small at that time, not having reached the time of my growth, when my limbs became long and gangly, and my attacks were fierce and intense, though my body itself was small. In the place of the unoffending tables and chairs I imagined Grolims, leering out at me with their dark faces---though I had never seen the Grolims of Torak---long knives suspended, ready to cut an innocent Thull's heart out. My overactive imagination spun the pleading look on the Thull's face, the desperation in the eyes, the reaching out of one unbound hand toward me in a gesture that broke my heart, even though it was only in my imagination. I renewed my attack with the ferocity of a tiger cub, blood surging through my head and blinding me with rage, and I knew nothing but the desire to avenge.
When I finally came to myself again, the chair was in splinters, and I was panting heavily. I glanced around quickly, to see if anyone had seen my crazy exhibition, but there was no one there, and I sat down to rest, wondering if that was what my father felt when he saw the helpless Thulls being murdered. I somehow couldn't imagine my father feeling intense emotion, but then I remembered the urgency, the weariness in his voice. Thinking about the concept of two different personalities was very strange to me. Perhaps, like the House, my father had an Outside and an Inside. I pondered this as I sat, my sword lying forgotten in my hand.
The day passed quickly as they all did, in an eternal stretch of laughter and emotion and happiness. Then, they were brim-full of intense emotion, whether it was sadness at a hurt or a restriction, or exhilaration in the realms of bright imagination, or love for my mother and father that came from the depths of my little heart. It seemed when I was a child, the world was alive and beautiful, unmarred by the dark thoughts that came as age advanced. But I never thought that age would come so quickly, so swiftly, and so deadly.
That night, as I squirmed beneath the covers of the bed, my mother told me a special story since it was my birthday, her soothing voice rising and falling in cadences.
"There was a little boy, who was born in a great tall House in the depths of the woods of the land where the Angaraks lived, and inside this boy there glowed a strange fire that was strange and beautiful. This fire sprang out in a blazing flame when joy overwhelmed him, and dwindled to a small wavering tongue when he was sad, and it was always within him, to warm his soul.
"And this little boy's flame grew as he became older, and soon it sprang out within him and he used it to slay bad men who would kill his friends, and mother and father, and no one could touch the ones he loved, because of the fire he used as a gift and a weapon. And this little boy grew powerful, and was the greatest of all Angaraks, for he did not believe in the sacrificial ceremonies performed by the Grolims of Torak, and he delivered many, just as did his father within him.
"This little boy shook the world with his steps, and spoke to all living creatures, and even became one with them, that he might deal out justice and good to those who walked the land, which would be ripped apart by war."
Slowly I slipped away into darkness, reveling in the visions spun by my mother's voice.
*
When I woke, the house was in turmoil. The door of the room had been thrown open, and little candles were bobbing up and down the hallway. My mother stood at the door, looking out into the dark hall, dressed in a heavy brocade gown. I cautiously sat up, wondering what was happening.
My father slipped in the door and closed it behind him, taking my mother by the shoulders with the haste of someone in a hurry. I leaned forward.
"Take the boy and go," my father was saying urgently. "I don't know how they found out, but they did. Now you must go. Ykeruksn, Deowncskke, and I will fight them."
"You can't fight them alone!" my mother protested, her voice raw with emotion. "Gareshnyk, I'm staying too!"
"And what of our son?"
"He can go with the nurse. We'll go a different way. Please, Gareshnyk!"
My father glanced back, pressing his ear to the door. "They're coming. They've got dogs, Ilumaken. Dogs and knives."
"I don't care. I was with you before he was born, and I'll be with you again. If I've got to go down, I'll go down with you. Fighting."
My father listened again. Now I could hear the yelps of hounds and sound of many men shouting in the distance, and it frightened me. I slipped out of my bed. "Mother?" I asked, my little voice sounding frightened in the cold darkness. "What's going on?"
"The bad men are coming, my son. They found out that your father was rescuing Thulls, and they're coming."
"The Grolims? How?"
"I don't know," my father put in. "Ilumaken, this isn't wise."
"I don't care," my mother said fiercely, then turned to me. "We're going to go try to make a stand, with your father's partners. The maid will help you get to safety."
Maid. My brow furrowed. "But I want to go with you. I can use a sword."
My father groaned softly.
"No, son," my mother said firmly. "We'll see you again. Now we need to get out of here."
I grabbed my sword in the darkness, buckled it on, and pulled traveling clothes on. My mother's hands shook as they put together a bundle for me. Then we crept out into the corridor. The shouts and screams were louder here, and the sound of battle echoed through the hall. There was a bright flash from somewhere downstairs, of glittering red and gold, and I was suddenly aware of the seeping heat that was permeating the air.
"Fire," muttered my father. "There goes my livelihood."
"But not our lives," my mother told him. "Maid?"
"Here." The Maid loomed out of the darkness. For a minute I thought she had a ghastly grin on her face, but then she came into the brief light of our candle and I saw she was frowning.
"Take the boy and get to safety," my father told her. "We're going out the back door."
We dashed to the end of the hall, peering down the stairs. Yellow flame licked up the wooden steps, wavering dangerously in its flickering light like some liquid tiger poising on the stairs. Then we turned and ran back to the other end, uncomfortably conscious of the heat rising in the room, sweat rolling down our faces. My father tapped along the wall, searching for a spot as the fire rose higher, crackling and spitting. He found it and a panel in the wall opened, revealing the dark forest outside. We dashed out, and I looked back at our house, from the outside for the first time. The downstairs faced out on a narrow street, and the upstairs was on a hill. Flame consumed it from within, and the yelps and howls of dogs were heard.
My father pointed for the maid. "That way!" he hissed, and he and my mother took off in the opposite direction. I felt a horrible wrench as they went, but turned as Maid took my arm and dragged me off into the woods. A dog's cry was uncomfortably near as we went on and on, stumbling through the brush, Maid dragging me over logs submerged in the forest floor and thick fern-growth. We were nearing the dog, as I could tell from the increased volume and I hissed to Maid, "Not that way! We're getting closer to them!"
She tried to hit me, but I dodged, as she growled, "Shut up, little brat."
"No!" I braced my legs. "Why are we going nearer to them? Tell me!"
"Guess, brat." She yanked at me, and I stumbled forward, she dragging me toward the sounds. "You aren't the pampered baby of the household any more."
There were horses riding through the trees at us, some riders clothed in red, others in robes of deepest black, their hoods pulled up. I felt a chill go through me, as foreboding swamped my senses. I found I was trembling, scared. I'd never been in this kind of danger before, and I didn't know what to think. I was so naïve I didn't even realize the obvious implications of what Maid was doing and had said.
"Halt!" the front rider, dressed in red with a mail tunic commanded in the harsh, guttural language of Old Angarak.
"It is I." Maid spoke up in her nasal, whining voice. "With their boy."
I stared at them both. Maid knew him? Who was he?
"Good. Did it go as suggested?"
"It did, my lord. They are heading straight into the ambush."
The Mallorean smiled. "And Gareshnyk and his blasted wife are doomed. Torak bless you, who were loyal enough to inform us of his blasphemous practices."
I was in such a state of shock I didn't realize what they had said until it had sunk in. Then fiery rage welled up inside me, a deep yearning to avenge. But I was just a boy, and I was too scared to take action, too scared of these huge soldiers wearing clothes of steel. I stood there silently, raging within myself. There was a great surging feeling in my head, as if I was gathering something up.
Suddenly a black-robed figure started forward suddenly. "My lord." His voice was harsh and rasping.
"What?" the Mallorean looked at him suspiciously.
"The boy." The figure pointed at me. "His mind is aware."
"Aware? What do you mean?" the Mallorean frowned.
The black-robed figure drew back his hood and revealed a face dominated by heavy scars running down the side of it. His burning eyes were fixed intensely on me, and I realized with a sudden icy feeling that this was a Grolim, a priest of Torak. "His mind is aware, Yurkwonse. Aware of its own will."
This meant absolutely nothing to me, but the Mallorean's eyes widened suddenly. "Are you sure?"
"I am trained in these things."
The Mallorean eyed me dubiously. "He'll never agree, Gerkokag."
"He will have to." A grim smile split the Grolim's scarred face. "And I know just how he can demonstrate his loyalty to Torak."