Castle of Wizardry

much of a boat," Silk replied, "but it's the only one we've got. Let's not take chances with it."
    They got a fire going and erected their single tent as the sun slowly settled in a cloudbank to the west, painting the marsh in a ruddy glow. Silk dug out a few pans and began to work on supper.
    "It's too hot," Garion advised critically as the rat-faced little man prepared to lay strips of bacon in a smoking iron pan.
    "Do you want to do this?"
    "I was just warning you, that's all."
    "I don't have your advantages, Garion," Silk replied tartly. "I didn't grow up in Polgara's kitchen the way you did. I just make do the best I can."
    "You don't have to get grumpy about it," Garion said. "I just thought you'd like to know that the pan's too hot."
    "I think I can manage without any more advice."
    "Suit yourself - but you're going to burn the bacon."
    Silk gave him an irritated look and started slapping bacon slices into the pan. The slices sizzled and smoked, and their edges turned black almost immediately.
    "I told you so," Garion murmured.
    "Belgarath," Silk complained, "make him leave me alone."
    "Come away, Garion," the old man said. "He can burn supper without any help."
    "Thanks," Silk responded sarcastically.
    Supper was not an absolute disaster. After they had eaten, they sat watching as the fire burned down and purple evening crept across the fens. The frogs took up their vast chorus among the reeds, and birds perched on the bending stalks of cattails, clucking and murmuring sleepily. There were faint splashes and rippling sounds in the brown water about them and occasional eruptions of bubbles as swamp gas gurgled to the surface. Silk sighed bitterly. "I hate this place," he said. "I absolutely hate it."
    That night Garion had a nightmare. It was not the first he had suffered since they had left Riva; and as he sat up, sweat-drenched and trembling, he was positive it would not be the last. It was not a new nightmare, but rather was one which had periodically haunted his sleep since boyhood. Unlike an ordinary bad dream, this one did not involve being chased or threatened, but consisted rather of a single image - the image of a hideously maimed face. Although he had never actually seen the owner of the face, he knew exactly whose face it was, and now he knew why it inhabited his darkest dreams.
    The next day dawned cloudy with a threat of approaching rain. As Belgarath stirred up the fire and Silk rummaged through his pack for something suitable for breakfast, Garion stood looking out at the swamp around him. A flight of geese swept by overhead in a ragged V, their wings whistling and their muted cries drifting, lonely and remote. A fish jumped not far from the edge of the hummock, and Garion watched the ripples widening out toward the far shore. He looked for quite some time at that shore before he realized exactly what it was he was seeing. Concerned, then a bit alarmed, he began to peer first this way and then that.
    "Grandfather!" he cried. "Look!"
    "At what?"
    "It's all changed. There aren't any channels any more. We're in the middle of a big pond, and there isn't any way out of it." He spun around, desperately trying to see some exit, but the edges of the pond in which they sat were totally unbroken. There were no channels leading out of it, and the brown water was absolutely still, showing no evidence of current.
    Then in the center of the pond, without making so much as a ripple, a round, furred head emerged from the water. The animal's eyes were very large and bright; it had no external ears, and its little nose was as black as a button. It made a peculiar chirping noise, and another head emerged out of the water a few feet away.
    "Fenlings!" Silk gasped, drawing his short sword with a steely rustle.
    "Oh, put that away," Belgarath told him disgustedly. "They aren't going to hurt you."
    "They've trapped us, haven't they?"
    "What do they want?" Garion asked.
    "Breakfast, obviously," Silk answered, still holding his sword.
    "Don't be stupid, Silk," Belgarath told him. "Why would they want to eat a raw Drasnian when there's a whole swampful of fish available? Put the sword away."
    The first fenling which had poked its head up out of the water lifted one of its webbed forefeet and made a peremptory gesture. The webbed foot was strangely handlike.
    "They seem to want us to follow them," Belgarath said calmly.
    "And you're going to do it?" Silk was aghast. "Are you mad?"
    "Do we have any choice?"
    Without