King of The Murgos

Garion and Eriond began breaking the branches they had gathered into manageable lengths, Silk rode back down the hill to rejoin them. "You can see quite a way from up there," he reported as he swung down from his saddle. "We're about ten leagues above the high road from Muros."
    "Could you see the River Malerin?" Belgarath asked him.
    Silk shook his head. "Not the river itself," he replied, "but there's a fairly good-sized valley off to the south. I'd imagine that it runs through there."
    "I was fairly close then. How's the terrain look between here and the high road?"
    "We've got some rough going ahead of us," Silk told him. "It's steep, and the woods look pretty dense."
    "We'll have to make the best time we can. Once we get to the high road, we'll be all right."
    Silk made a sour face. "There's another problem, though," he said. "There's a storm coming in from the west."
    Durnik lifted his face to sniff at the frosty air and nodded. "Snow," he confirmed. "You can smell it coming."
    Silk gave him a disgusted look. "You had to say it, didn't you, Durnik?" he said almost accusingly.
    Durnik's look was slightly puzzled.
    "Didn't you know that talking about unpleasant things makes them happen?"
    "Silk, that's pure nonsense."
    The little man sniffed. "I know—but it's true all the same."
    The breakfast of bread, dried fruit, and bacon Aunt Pol prepared for them was simple, but there was more than enough to satisfy them all. When they had finished, they repacked, quenched their fire with water from the icy brook, and rode on down the steep slope, following the course of the tumbling stream through the white-trunked birch forest.
    Durnik fell in beside the mute Toth as they rode. "Tell me, Toth," he said tentatively, eyeing the frothy white water pitching down over mossy green boulders, "have you ever done any fishing?"
    The huge man smiled shyly.
    "Well, I've got lines and hooks in one of the packs. Maybe if we get the chance ..." Durnik left it hanging.
    Toth's smile broadened into a grin.
    Silk stood up in his stirrups and peered on ahead. "That storm isn't much more than a half-hour away," he told them.
    Belgarath grunted. "I doubt that we'll make very good time once it hits," he replied.
    "I hate snow." Silk shivered glumly.
    "That's a peculiar trait in a Drasnian."
    "Why do you think I left Drasnia in the first place?"
    The heavy bank of cloud loomed in front of them as they continued on down the hill. The morning sunlight paled and then disappeared as the leading edge of the storm raced high overhead to blot out the crisp blue of the autumn sky. "Here it comes," Eriond said cheerfully as the first few flakes began to dance and swirl in the stiff breeze moving up the ridge toward them.
    Silk gave the young man a sour look, crammed his battered hat down lower over his ears and pulled his shabby cloak tighter about him. He looked at Belgarath. "I don't suppose you'd consider doing something about this?" he asked pointedly.
    "It wouldn't be a good idea."
    "Sometimes you're a terrible disappointment to me, Belgarath," Silk said, drawing himself even more deeply into his cloak.
    It began to snow harder, and the trees about them became hazy and indistinct in the shifting curtain of white that came seething up through the forest.
    A mile or so farther down the hill they left the birch trees and entered a dark green forest of towering firs. The thick evergreens broke the force of the wind, and the snow sifted lazily down through the boughs, lightly dusting the needle-strewn floor of the forest. Belgarath shook the snow out of the folds of his cloak and looked around, choosing a route.
    "Lost again?" Silk asked.
    "No, not really." The old man looked back at Durnik. "How far down this hill do you think we're going to have to go to get below this?" he asked.
    Durnik scratched at his chin. "It's sort of hard to say," he replied. He turned to the mute at his side. "What do you think, Toth?" he asked.
    The giant lifted his head and sniffed at the air, then made a series of obscure gestures with one hand.
    "You're probably right," Durnik agreed. He turned back to Belgarath. "If the slope stays this steep, we ought to be able to get below the snowline sometime this afternoon—if we keep moving."
    "Well, I guess we'd better move along then," Belgarath said and led the way on down the hill at a jolting trot.
    It continued to snow. The light dusting on the ground beneath the firs became a covering, and the dimness that had hovered