Demon Lord Of Karanda (47 page)

‘Let’s pull back out of sight,’ Belgarath suggested. ‘I’d rather not attract too much attention.’

They walked their horses down the back side of the knoll and then some distance away from the road to a shallow gully that offered concealment and dismounted there. Garion climbed back up out of the gully on foot and lay down in the tall grass to keep watch.

About a half-hour later, Silk came loping back over the top of the knoll. Garion rose from the grass and signaled to him.

When the little man reached the gully and dismounted, his expression was disgusted. ‘Religion,’ he snorted. ‘I wonder what the world would be like without it. That gathering down there is for the purpose of witnessing the performance of a powerful wizard, who absolutely guarantees that he can raise a demon—despite the notable lack of success of others lately. He’s even hinting that he might be able to persuade the Demon Lord Nahaz himself to put in an appearance. That crowd’s likely to be there all day.’

‘Now what?’ Sadi asked.

Belgarath walked down the gully a ways, looking thoughtfully up at the sky. When he came back, his look was determined. ‘We’re going to need a couple more of those,’ he said, pointing at Silk’s disguise.

‘Nothing simpler,’ Silk replied. ‘There are still enough latecomers going down that hill for me to be able to waylay a few. What’s the plan?’

‘You, Garion, and I are going down there.’

‘Interesting notion, but I don’t get the point.’

‘The wizard, whoever he is, is promising to raise Nahaz, but Nahaz is with Urvon and isn’t very likely to show up. After what we saw happen at that village yesterday, it’s fairly obvious that failing to produce a demon is a serious mistake for a wizard to make. If our friend down there is so confident, it probably means that he’s going to create an illusion—since nobody’s been able to produce the real thing lately. I’m good at illusions myself, so I’ll just go down and challenge him.’

‘Won’t they just fall down and worship
your
illusion?’ Velvet asked him.

His smile was chilling. ‘I don’t really think so, Liselle,’ he replied. ‘You see, there are demons, and then there are
demons.
If I do it right, there won’t be a Karand within five leagues of this place by sunset—depending on how fast they can run, of course.’ He looked at Silk. ‘Haven’t you left yet?’ he asked pointedly.

While Silk went off in search of more disguises, the old sorcerer made a few other preparations. He found a long, slightly crooked branch to use as a staff and a couple of feathers to stick in his hair. Then he sat down and laid his head back against one of their packs. ‘All right, Pol,’ he instructed his daughter, ‘make me hideous.’

She smiled faintly and started to raise one hand.

‘Not
that
way. Just take some ink and draw some designs on my face. They don’t have to be too authentic-looking. The Karands have corrupted their religion so badly that they wouldn’t recognize authenticity if they stepped in it.’

She laughed and went to one of the packs, returning a moment later with an inkpot and a quill pen.

‘Why on earth are you carrying ink, Lady Polgara?’ Ce’Nedra asked.

‘I like to be prepared for eventualities as they arise. I went on a long journey once and had to leave a note for someone along the way. I didn’t have ink with me, so I ended up opening a vein to get something to write with. I seldom make the same mistake twice. Close your eyes, father. I always like to start with the eyelids and work my way out.’

Belgarath closed his eyes. ‘Durnik,’ he said as Polgara started drawing designs on his face with her quill, ‘you and the others will stay back here. See if you can find some place a little better hidden than this gully.’

‘All right, Belgarath,’ the smith agreed. ‘How will we know when it’s safe to come down to the lake shore?’

‘When the screaming dies out.’

‘Don’t move your lips, father,’ Polgara told him, frowning in concentration as she continued her drawing. ‘Did you want me to blacken your beard, too?’

‘Leave it the way it is. Superstitious people are always impressed by venerability, and I look older than just about anybody.’

She nodded her agreement. ‘Actually, father, you look older than dirt.’

‘Very funny, Pol,’ he said acidly. ‘Are you just about done?’

‘Did you want the death symbol on your forehead?’ she asked.

‘Might as well,’ he grunted. ‘Those cretins down there won’t recognize it, but it looks impressive.’

By the time Polgara had finished with her art work, Silk returned with assorted garments.

‘Any problems?’ Durnik asked him.

‘Simplicity itself.’ Silk shrugged. ‘A man whose eyes are fixed on heaven is fairly easy to approach from behind, and a quick rap across the back of the head will usually put him to sleep.’

‘Leave your mail shirt and helmet, Garion,’ Belgarath said. ‘Karands don’t wear them. Bring your sword, though.’

‘I’d planned to.’ Garion began to struggle out of his mail shirt. After a moment, Ce’Nedra came over to help him.

‘You’re getting rusty,’ she told him after they had hauled off the heavy thing. She pointed at a number of reddish-brown stains on the padded linen tunic he wore under the shirt.

‘It’s one of the drawbacks to wearing armor,’ he replied.

‘That and the smell,’ she added, wrinkling her nose. ‘You
definitely
need a bath, Garion.’

‘I’ll see if I can get around to it one of these days,’ he said. He pulled on one of the fur vests Silk had stolen. Then he tied on the crude leggings and crammed on a rancid-smelling fur cap. ‘How do I look?’ he asked her.

‘Like a barbarian,’ she replied.

‘That was sort of the whole idea.’

‘I didn’t steal you a hat,’ Silk was saying to Belgarath. ‘I thought you might prefer to wear feathers.’

Belgarath nodded. ‘All of us mighty wizards wear feathers,’ he agreed. ‘It’s a passing fad, I’m sure, but I always like to dress fashionably.’ He looked over at the horses. ‘I think we’ll walk,’ he decided. ‘When the noise starts, the horses might get a bit skittish.’ He looked at Polgara and the others who were staying behind. ‘This shouldn’t take us too long,’ he told them confidently and strode off down the gully with Garion and Silk close behind him.

They emerged from the mouth of the gully at the south end of the knoll and walked down the hill toward the crowd gathering on the lake shore.

‘I don’t see any sign of their wizard yet,’ Garion said, peering ahead.

‘They always like to keep their audiences waiting for a bit,’ Belgarath said. ‘It’s supposed to heighten the anticipation or something.’

The day was quite warm as they walked down the hill, and the rancid smell coming from their clothing grew stronger. Although they did not really look that much like Karands, the people in the crowd they quietly joined paid them scant attention. Every eye seemed to be fixed on a platform and one of those log altars backed by a line of skulls on stakes.

‘Where do they get all the skulls?’ Garion whispered to Silk.

‘They used to be head-hunters,’ Silk replied. ‘The Angaraks discouraged that practice, so now they creep around at night robbing graves. I doubt if you could find a whole skeleton in any graveyard in all of Karanda.’

‘Let’s get closer to the altar,’ Belgarath muttered. ‘I don’t want to have to shove my way through this mob when things start happening.’ They pushed through the crowd. A few of the greasy-haired fanatics started to object to being thrust aside, but one look at Belgarath’s face with the hideous designs Polgara had drawn on it convinced them that here was a wizard of awesome power and that it perhaps might be wiser not to interfere with him.

Just as they reached the front near the altar, a man in a black Grolim robe strode out through the gate of the lakeside village, coming directly toward the altar.

‘I think that’s our wizard,’ Belgarath said quietly.

‘A Grolim?’ Silk sounded slightly surprised.

‘Let’s see what he’s up to.’

The black-robed man reached the platform and stepped up to stand in front of the altar. He raised both hands and spoke harshly in a language Garion did not understand. His words could have been either a benediction or a curse. The crowd fell immediately silent. Slowly the Grolim pushed back his hood and let his robe fall to the platform. He wore only a loincloth, and his head had been shaved. His body was covered from crown to toe with elaborate tattoos.

Silk winced. ‘That must have
really
hurt,’ he muttered.

‘Prepare ye all to look upon the face of your God,’ the Grolim announced in a large voice, then bent to inscribe the designs on the platform before the altar.

‘That’s what I thought,’ Belgarath whispered. ‘That circle he drew isn’t complete. If he were
really
going to raise a demon, he wouldn’t have made that mistake.’

The Grolim straightened and began declaiming the words of the incantation in a rolling, oratorical style.

‘He’s being very cautious,’ Belgarath told them. ‘He’s leaving out certain key phrases. He doesn’t want to raise a
real
demon accidentally. Wait.’ The old man smiled bleakly. ‘Here he goes.’

Garion also felt the surge as the Grolim’s will focused and then he heard the familiar rushing sound.

‘Behold the Demon Lord Nahaz,’ the tattooed Grolim shouted, and a shadow-encased form appeared before the altar with a flash of fire, a peal of thunder, and a cloud of sulfur-stinking smoke. Although the figure was no larger than an ordinary man, it looked very substantial for some reason.

‘Not too bad, really,’ Belgarath admitted grudgingly.

‘It looks awfully solid to me, Belgarath,’ Silk said nervously.

‘It’s only an illusion, Silk,’ the old man quietly reassured him. ‘A good one, but still only an illusion.’

The shadowy form on the platform before the altar rose to its full height and then pulled back its hood of darkness to reveal the hideous face Garion had seen in Torak’s throne room at Ashaba.

As the crowd fell to its knees with a great moan, Belgarath drew in his breath sharply. ‘When this crowd starts to disperse, don’t let the Grolim escape,’ he instructed. ‘He’s actually seen the real Nahaz, and that means that he was one of Harakan’s cohorts. I want some answers out of him.’ Then the old man drew himself up. ‘Well, I guess I might as well get started with this,’ he said. He stepped up in front of the platform. ‘Fraud!’ he shouted in a great voice. ‘Fraud and fakery!’

The Grolim stared at him, his eyes narrowing as he saw the designs drawn on his face. ‘On your knees before the Demon Lord,’ he blustered.

‘Fraud!’ Belgarath denounced him again. He stepped up onto the platform and faced the stunned crowd. ‘This is no wizard, but only a Grolim trickster,’ he declared.

‘The Demon Lord will tear all your flesh from your bones,’ the Grolim shrieked.

‘All right,’ Belgarath replied with calm contempt. ‘Let’s see him do it. Here. I’ll even help him.’ He pulled back his sleeve, approached the shadowy illusion hovering threateningly before the altar and quite deliberately ran his bare arm into the shadow’s gaping maw. A moment later, his hand emerged, coming, or so it appeared, out of the back of the Demon Lord’s head. He pushed his arm further until his entire wrist and forearm were sticking out of the back of the illusion. Then, quite deliberately, he wiggled his fingers at the people gathered before the altar.

A nervous titter ran through the crowd.

‘I think you missed a shred or two of flesh, Nahaz,’ the old man said to the shadowy form standing before him. ‘There still seems to be quite a bit of meat clinging to my fingers and arm.’ He pulled his arm back out of the shadow and then passed both hands back and forth through the Grolim’s illusion. ‘It appears to lack a bit of substance, friend,’ he said to the tattooed man. ‘Why don’t we send it back where you found it? Then I’ll show you and your parishioners here a
real
demon.’

He put his hands derisively on his hips, leaned forward slightly from the waist, and blew at the shadow. The illusion vanished, and the tattooed Grolim stepped back fearfully.

‘He’s getting ready to run,’ Silk whispered to Garion. ‘You get on that side of the platform, and I’ll get on this. Thump his head for him if he comes your way.’

Garion nodded and edged around toward the far side of the platform.

Belgarath raised his voice again to the crowd. ‘You fall upon your knees before the reflection of the Demon Lord,’ he roared at them. ‘What will you do when I bring before you the King of Hell?’ He bent and quickly traced the circle and pentagram about his feet. The tattooed priest edged further away from him.

‘Stay, Grolim,’ Belgarath said with a cruel laugh. ‘The King of Hell is always hungry, and I think he might like to devour you when he arrives.’ He made a hooking gesture with one hand, and the Grolim began to struggle as if he had been seized by a powerful, invisible hand.

Then Belgarath began to intone an incantation quite different from the one the Grolim had spoken, and his words reverberated from the vault of heaven as he subtly amplified them into enormity. Seething sheets of varicolored flame shot through the air from horizon to horizon.

‘Behold the Gates of Hell!’ he roared, pointing.

Far out on the lake, two vast columns seemed to appear; between them were great billowing clouds of smoke and flame. From behind that burning gate came the sound of a multitude of hideous voices shrieking some awful hymn of praise.

‘And now I call upon the King of Hell to reveal himself!’ the old man shouted, raising his crooked staff. The surging force of his will was vast, and the great sheets of flame flickering in the sky actually seemed to blot out the sun and to replace its light with a dreadful light of its own.

From beyond the gate of fire came a huge whistling sound that descended into a roar. The flames parted, and the shape of a mighty tornado swept between the two pillars. Faster and faster the tornado whirled, turning from inky black to pale, frozen white. Ponderously, that towering white cloud advanced across the lake, congealing as it came. At first it appeared to be some vast snow wraith with hollow eyes and gaping mouth. It was quite literally hundreds of feet tall, and its breath swept across the now-terrified crowd before the altar like a blizzard.