Castle of Wizardry

little boy in it. "Listen to me, all of you," she said. "Until we're out of this, none of you come any closer to me than this. I don't want any of you getting hurt." She drew herself up, and the white lock in her hair seemed to blaze.
    "Wait," Garion exclaimed.
    "I don't dare. They could attack again at any moment. It's going to be up to you to protect your grandfather and the others."
    " Me?"
    "You're the only one who can do it. You have the power. Use it." She raised her hand.
    "How many of them are there that I have to fight off?" Garion demantled, but he already felt the sudden surge and the peculiar roaring sound in his mind as Aunt Pol's will thrust out. The air about her seemed to shimmer, distorting like heat-waves on a summer afternoon. Garion could actually feel the barrier encircling her. "Aunt Pol?" he said to her. Then he raised his voice and shouted, "Aunt Pol!"
    She shook her head and pointed at her ear. She seemed to say something, but no sound penetrated the shimmering shield she had erected.
    "How many?" Garion mouthed the words exaggeratedly.
    She held up both hands with one thumb folded in.
    "Nine?" he mouthed again.
    She nodded and then drew her cloak in around the little boy.
    "Well, Garion?" Silk asked then, his eyes penetrating, "What do we do now?"
    "Why are you asking me?"
    "You heard her. Belgarath's still in a daze, and she's busy. You're in charge now."
    "Me?"
    "What do we do?" Silk pressed. "You've got to learn to make decisions."
    "I don't know." Garion floundered helplessly.
    "Never admit that," Silk told him. "Act as if you know - even if you don't."
    "We-uh-we'll wait until it gets dark, I guess - then we'll keep going the same way we have been."
    "There." Silk grinned. "See how easy it is?"

Chapter Three
    THERE WAS THE faintest sliver of a moon low over the horizon as they started out across the black sand of the wasteland in the biting chill. Garion felt distinctly uncomfortable in the role Silk had thrust upon him. He knew that there had been no need for it, since they all knew where they were going and what they had to do. If any kind of leadership had actually been required, Silk himself was the logical one to provide it; but instead, the little man had placed the burden squarely on Garion's shoulders and now seemed to be watching intently to see how he would handle it.
    There was no time for leadership or even discussion when, shortly after midnight, they ran into a party of Murgos. There were six of them, and they came galloping over a low ridge to the south and blundered directly into the middle of Garion's party. Barak and Mandorallen reacted with that instant violence of trained warriors, their swords whistling out of their sheaths to crunch with steely ringing sounds into the mail-skirted bodies of the startled Murgos. Even as Garion struggled to draw his own sword, he saw one of the black-robed intruders tumble limply out of his saddle, while another, howling with pain and surprise, toppled slowly backward, clutching at his chest. There was a confusion of shouts and shrill screams from terrified horses as the men fought in the darkness. One frightened Murgo wheeled his mount to flee, but Garion, without even thinking, pulled his horse in front of him, sword raised to strike. The desperate Murgo made a frantic swing with his own weapon, but Garion easily parried the badly aimed swipe and flicked his blade lightly, whiplike, across the Murgo's shoulder. There was a satisfying crunch as the sharp edge bit into the Murgo's mail shirt. Garion deftly parried another clumsy swing and whipped his blade again, slashing the Murgo across the face. All the instruction he had received from his friends seemed to click together into a single, unified style that was part Cherek, part Arendish, part Algar, and was distinctly Garion's own. This style baked the frightened Murgo, and his efforts became more desperate. But each time he swung, Garion easily parried and instantly countered with those light, flicking slashes that inevitably drew blood. Garion felt a wild, surging exultation boiling in his veins as he fought, and there was a fiery taste in his mouth.
    Then Relg darted in out of the shadows, jerked the Murgo off balance, and drove his hook-pointed knife up under the man's ribs. The Murgo doubled over sharply, shuddered, then fell dead from his saddle.
    "What did you do that for?" Garion demanded without thinking. "That was my Murgo."
    Barak, surveying the carnage, laughed, his