Magician's Gambit

Wolf sighed. "The Grolims must have chased her out of her cave and put her to hunting for us. Sometimes they go too far."
    "Should we tell the others about her?"
    "It would only worry them. Sometimes it's better not to say anything."
    The great wings flapped again, and there was a long, despairing cry from the darkness, a cry filled with such aching loneliness that Garion felt a great surge of pity welling up in him.
    Wolf sighed again. "There's nothing we can do," he said. "Let's go back to the tents."

Chapter Eight
    THE WEATHER CONTINUED raw and unsettled as they rode for the next two days up the long, sloping rise toward the snow-covered summits of the mountains. The trees became sparser and more stunted as they climbed and finally disappeared entirely. The ridgeline flattened out against the side of one of the mountains, and they rode up onto a steep slope of tumbled rock and ice where the wind scoured continually.
    Mister Wolf paused to get his bearings, looking around in the pale afternoon light. "That way," he said finally, pointing. A saddleback stretched between two peaks, and the sky beyond roiled in the wind. They rode up the slope, their cloaks pulled tightly about them.
    Hettar came forward with a worried frown on his hawk face. "That pregnant mare's in trouble," he told Wolf. "I think her time's getting close."
    Without a word Aunt Pol dropped back to look at the mare, and her face was grave when she returned. "She's no more than a few hours away, father," she reported.
    Wolf looked around. "There's no shelter on this side."
    "Maybe there'll be something on the other side of the pass," Barak suggested, his beard whipping in the wind.
    Wolf shook his head. "I think it's the same as this side. We're going to have to hurry. We don't want to spend the night up here."
    As they rode higher, occasional spits of stinging sleet pelted them, and the wind gusted even stronger, howling among the rocks. As they crested the slope and started through the saddle, the full force of the gale struck them, driving a tattered sleet squall before it.
    "It's even worse on this side, Belgarath," Barak shouted over the wind. "How far is it down to the trees?"
    "Miles," Wolf replied, trying to keep his flying cloak pulled around him.
    "The mare will never make it," Hettar said. "We've got to find shelter."
    "There isn't any," Wolf stated. "Not until we get to the trees. It's all bare rock and ice up here."
    Without knowing why he said it - not even aware of it until he spoke - Garion made a shouted suggestion. "What about the cave?"
    Mister Wolf turned and looked sharply at him. "What cave? Where?"
    "The one in the side of the mountain. It isn't far." Garion knew the cave was there, but he did not know how he knew.
    "Are you sure?"
    "Of course. It's this way." Garion turned his horse and rode up the slope of the saddle toward the vast, craggy peak on their left. The wind tore at them as they rode, and the driving sleet half blinded them. Garion moved confidently, however. For some reason every rock about them seemed absolutely familiar, though he could not have said why. He rode just fast enough to stay in front of the others. He knew they would ask questions, and he didn't have any answers. They rounded a shoulder of the peak and rode out onto a broad rock ledge. The ledge curved along the mountainside, disappearing in the swirling sleet ahead.
    "Where art thou taking us, lad?" Mandorallen shouted to him.
    "It's not much farther," Garion yelled back over his shoulder.
    The ledge narrowed as it curved around the looming granite face of the mountain. Where it bent around a jutting cornice, it was hardly more than a footpath. Garion dismounted and led his horse around the cornice. The wind blasted directly into his face as he stepped around the granite outcrop, and he had to put his hand in front of his face to keep the sleet from blinding him. Walking that way, he did not see the door until it was almost within reach of his hands.
    The door in the face of the rock was made of iron, black and pitted with rust and age. It was broader than the gate at Faldor's farm, and the upper edge of it was lost in the swirling sleet.
    Barak, following close behind him, reached out and touched the iron door. Then he banged on it with his huge fist. The door echoed hollowly. "There is a cave," he said back over his shoulder to the others. "I thought that the wind had blown out the boy's senses."
    "How do we get inside?" Hettar shouted, the wind