Magician's Gambit

frowned. "It's always been locked before," he muttered.
    "Do you think it's a trap?" Barak rumbled, his hand dipping under the Murgo robe to find his sword hilt.
    "It's possible, but we don't have much choice." Belgarath pulled the door open the rest of the way, and they all slipped through as another shriek came from the altar. The door slowly closed behind them as the gong shuddered the stones of the Temple. They started down the worn stone steps beyond the door. The stairway was narrow and poorly lighted, and it went down sharply, curving always to the right.
    "We're right up against the outer wall, aren't we?" Silk asked, touching the black stones on his left.
    Belgarath nodded. "The stairs lead down to Ctuchik's private place." They continued down until the walls on either side changed from blocks to solid stone.
    "He lives below the city?" Silk asked, surprised.
    "Yes," Belgarath replied. "He built himself a sort of hanging turret out from the rock of the peak itself."
    "Strange idea," Durnik said.
    "Ctuchik's a strange sort of person," Aunt Pol told him grimly.
    Belgarath stopped them. "The stairs go down about another hundred feet," he whispered. "There'll be two guards just outside the door to the turret. Not even Ctuchik could change that - no matter what he's planning."
    "Sorcerers?" Barak asked softly.
    "No. The guards are ceremonial more than functional. They're just ordinary Grolims."
    "We'll rush them then."
    "That won't be necessary. I can get you close enough to deal with them, but I want it quick and quiet." The old man reached inside his Murgo robe and drew out a roll of parchment bound with a strip of black ribbon. He started down again with Barak and Mandorallen close behind him.
    The curve of the stairway brought a lighted area into view as they descended. Torches illuminated the bottom of the stone steps and a kind of antechamber hewn from the solid rock. Two Grolims priests stood in front of a plain black door, their arms folded.
    "Who approaches the Holy of Holies?" one of them demanded, putting his hand to his sword hilt.
    "A messenger," Belgarath announced importantly. "I bear a message for the Master from the Hierarch of Rak Goska." He held the rolled parchment above his head.
    "Approach, messenger."
    "Praise the name of the Disciple of the Dragon God of Angarak," Belgarath boomed as he marched down the steps with Mandorallen and Barak flanking him. He reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped in front of the steel-masked guards. "Thus have I performed my appointed task," he declared, holding out the parchment.
    One of the guards reached for it, but Barak caught his arm in a huge fist. The big man's other hand closed swiftly about the surprised Grolim's throat.
    The other guard's hand flashed toward his sword hilt, but he grunted and doubled over sharply as Mandorallen thrust a long, needle-pointed poniard up into his belly. With a kind of deadly concentration the knight twisted the hilt of the weapon, probing with the point deep inside the Grolim's body. The guard shuddered when the blade reached his heart and collapsed with a long, gurgling sigh.
    Barak's massive shoulder shifted, and there was a grating crunch as the bones in the first Grolim's neck came apart in his deadly grip. The guard's feet scraped spasmodically on the floor for a moment, and then he went limp.
    "I feel better already," Barak muttered, dropping the body.
    "You and Mandorallen stay here," Belgarath told him. "I don't want to be disturbed once I'm inside."
    "We'll see to it," Barak promised. "What about these?" He pointed at the two dead guards.
    "Dispose of them, Relg," Belgarath said shortly to the Ulgo.
    Silk turned his back quickly as Relg knelt between the two bodies and took hold of them, one with each hand. There was a sort of muffled slithering as he pushed down, sinking the bodies into the stone floor.
    "You left a foot sticking out," Barak observed in a detached tone.
    "Do you have to talk about it?" Silk demanded.
    Belgarath took a deep breath and put his hand to the iron door handle. "All right," he said to them quietly, "let's go, then." He pushed open the door.

Chapter Twenty-seven
    THE WEALTH OF empires lay beyond the black door. Bright yellow coins - gold beyond counting - lay in heaps on the floor; carelessly scattered among the coins were rings, bracelets, chains, and crowns, gleaming richly. Blood-red bars from the mines of Angarak stood in stacks along the wall, interspersed here and there by