Demon Lord of Karanda

can find someplace 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 artwork, 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 muchlike 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 headhunters," 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