Demon Lord of Karanda

fastened about the necks of Yarblek's mules providing a tinkling accompaniment to the morning song of flights of birds caroling to greet the sun.
    Behind them there rose a great column of dense black smoke, marking the huge valley where Mal Zeth lay burning.
    Garion could not bring himself to look back as they rode away.
    There were others on the road as well, for Garion and his friends were not the only ones fleeing the plague-stricken city. Singly or in small groups, wary travelers moved north, fearfully avoiding any contact with each other, leaving the road and angling far out into the fields whenever they overtook other refugees, and returning to the brown, dusty ribbon only when they were safely past.
    Each solitary traveler or each group thus rode in cautious isolation, putting as much empty air about itself as possible.
    The lanes branching off from the road and leading across the bright green fields were all blocked with barricades of fresh-cut brush, and bleak-faced peasants stood guard at those barricades, awkwardly handling staffs and heavy, graceless crossbows and shouting warnings at any and all who passed to stay away.
    "Peasants," Yarblek said sourly as the caravan plodded past one such barricade. "They're the same the world over. They're glad to see you when you've got something they want, but they spend all the rest of their time trying to chase you away. Do you think they actually believe that anybody would really want to go into their stinking little villages?" Irritably he crammed his fur cap down lower over his ears.
    "They're afraid," Polgara told him. "They know that their village isn't very luxurious, but it's all they have, and they want to keep if safe."
    "Do those barricades and threats really do any good?" he asked. "To keep out the plague, I mean?"
    "Some, she said, "if they put them up early enough."
    Yarblek grunted, then looked over at Silk. "Are you open to a suggestion?" he asked.
    "Depends," Silk replied. The little man had returned to his customary travel clothing-dark, unadorned, and nondescript.
    "Between the plague and the demons, the climate here is starting to turn unpleasant. What say we liquidate all our holdings here in Mallorea and sit tight until things settle down?"
    "You're not thinking, Yarblek," Silk told him. "Turmoil and war are good for business."
    Yarblek scowled at him. "Somehow I thought you might look at it that way."
    About a half mile ahead, there was another barricade, this one across the main road itself.
    "What's this?" Yarblek demanded angrily, reining in.
    "I'll go find out," Silk said, thumping his heels against his horse's flanks. On an impulse, Garion followed his friend.
    When they were about fifty yards from the barricade, a dozen mud-spattered peasants dressed in smocks made of brown sackcloth rose from behind it with leveled crossbows. "Stop right there!" one of them commanded threateningly. He was a burly fellow with a coarse beard and eyes that looked off in different directions.
    "We're just passing through, friend," Silk told him.
    "Not without paying toll, you're not."
    "Toll?" Silk exclaimed. "This is an imperial highway. There's no toll."
    "There is now. You city people have cheated and swindled us for generations and now you want to bring your diseases to us. Well, from now on, you're going to pay. How much gold have you got?"
    "Keep him talking," Garion muttered, looking around.
    "Well," Silk said to the walleyed peasant in the tone of voice he usually saved for serious negotiations, "why don't we talk about that?"
    The village stood about a quarter of a mile away, rising dirty and cluttered-looking atop a grassy knoll. Garion concentrated, drawing in his will, then he made a slight gesture in the direction of the village. "Smoke," he muttered, half under his breath.
    Silk was still haggling with the armed peasants, taking up as much time as he could.
    "Uh -excuse me," Garion interrupted mildly, "but is that something burning over there?" He pointed.
    The peasants turned to stare in horror at the column of dense smoke rising from their village. With startled cries, most of them threw down their crossbows and ran out across the fields in the direction of the apparent catastrophe. The walleyed man ran after them, shouting at them to return to their posts. Then he ran back, waving his crossbow threateningly. A look of anguish crossed his face as he hopped about in an agony of indecision, torn between his desire for money that could be