Enchanter's End Game

Rhodar decided. "Pass the word to anchor the ships. We'll wait here until dark."
    Barak nodded and made a quick gesture to a waiting sailor. The man quickly raised a tall pole with a bit of bright red bunting nailed to its tip, and the fleet behind them slowed in answer to the signal. There was a creaking of windlasses as the anchors settled to the bottom, and the ships rocked and swung sluggishly in the current.
    "I still don't like this part," Anheg growled morosely. "Too many things can go wrong in the dark."
    "They'll go wrong for them, too," Brand told him.
    "We've been over it a dozen times, Anheg," Rhodar said. "We all agreed that it's the best plan."
    "It's never been done before," Anheg said.
    "That's the whole point, isn't it?" Varana suggested. "The people inside the city won't expect it."
    "Are you sure your men will be able to see where they're going?" Anheg demanded of Relg.
    The zealot nodded. He was wearing his cowled leaf mail shirt and was carefully testing the edge of his hook-pointed knife. "What you think of as darkness is normal light for us," he replied.
    Anheg scowled at the purpling sky overhead. "I hate being the first one to try something new," he announced.
    They waited as evening settled on the plain. From the thickets at the river's edge, birds clucked sleepily, and the frogs began their evening symphony. Slowly out of the gathering darkness, the cavalry units began to group up along the banks. The Mimbrate knights on their great chargers massed into ranks, and the Algar clansmen spread like a dark sea beyond them. Commanding the south bank were Cho-Hag and Korodullin. The north was led by Hettar and Mandorallen.
    Slowly it grew darker.
    A young Mimbrate knight who had been injured during the attack on the Murgo column stood leaning against the rail, looking pensively out into the twilight. The knight had dark, curly hair and the snowy complexion of a young girl. His shoulders were broad, his neck columnar, and his eyes had an open innocence in them. His expression, however, was faintly melancholy.
    The waiting had become unbearable, and Ce'Nedra had to talk to someone. She leaned on the rail beside the young man. "Why so sad, Sir Knight?" she asked him quietly.
    "Because I am forbidden to take part in this night's adventure by reason of this slight injury, your Majesty," he replied, touching his splinted arm. He seemed unsurprised by her presence or by the fact that she had spoken to him.
    "Do you hate the Angaraks so much that missing the chance to kill them causes you pain?" Ce'Nedra's question was gently mocking.
    "Nay, my Lady," he answered. "I have no malice in me for any man, whatever his race. What I lament is being denied the chance to try my skills in the contest."
    "Contest? Is that how you think of it?"
    "Assuredly, your Majesty. In what other light should it be considered? I hold no personal rancor toward the men of Angarak, and it is improper to hate throe opponent in a test of arms. Some few men have fallen beneath my lance or my sword at diverse tourneys, but I have never hated any of them. Much to the contrary, I have had some affection for them as we strove with one another."
    "But you were trying to cripple them." Ce'Nedra was startled at the young man's casual attitude.
    "It is a part of the contest, your Majesty. A true test of arms may not be decided save by the injury or death of one of the combatants."
    "What's your name, Sir Knight?" she asked him.
    "I am Sir Beridel," he replied, "son of Sir Andorig, Baron of Vo Enderig."
    "The man with the apple tree?"
    "The very same, your Majesty." The young man seemed pleased that she had heard of his father and the strange duty Belgarath had imposed on him. "My father now rides at the right hand of King Korodullin. I would ride with them this night but for this stroke of ill fortune." He looked sadly at his broken arm.
    "There will be other nights, Sir Beridel," she assured him, "and other contests."
    "Truly, your Majesty," he agreed. His face brightened momentarily, but then he sighed and went back to his somber brooding.
    Ce'Nedra drifted away, leaving him to his thoughts.
    "You can't really talk to them, you know," a rough voice said to her from the shadows. It was Beldin, the ugly hunchback.
    "He doesn't seem to be afraid of anything," Ce'Nedra said a bit nervously. The foul-mouthed sorcerer always made her nervous.
    "He's a Mimbrate Arend," Beldin snorted. "He doesn't have enough brains to be afraid."
    "Are all the men