Magician's Gambit

in many strange ways," Aunt Pol told her. Her tone was offhand, but the look she directed at the tiny princess was penetrating.
    Ce'Nedra flickered one quick look at Garion, and then averted her eyes, blushing slightly.
    Garion considered the exchange between his Aunt Pol and the princess as he rode. It was quite obvious that Aunt Pol had been telling the little girl something important, but whatever it was escaped him.
    They rode for several days across the Vale and then moved up into the foothills which clustered along the flanks of the ragged peaks that formed the land of the Ulgos. Once again the seasons changed as they rode. It was early autumn as they crested the first low range, and the valleys beyond were aflame with crimson leaves. At the top of a second, higher range, the trees had been swept bare, and the wind had the first bite of winter in it as it whistled down from the peaks. The sky grew overcast, and tendrils of cloud seeped down the rocky gorges above them. Spits of intermittent snow and rain pelted them as they climbed higher up the rocky slopes.
    "I suppose we'd better begin keeping an eye out for Brill," Silk said hopefully one snowy afternoon. "It's about time for him to show up again."
    "Not very likely," Belgarath replied. "Murgos avoid Ulgoland even more than they avoid the Vale. Ulgos dislike Angaraks intensely."
    "So do Alorns."
    "Ulgos can see in the dark, though," the old man told him. "Murgos who come into these mountains tend not to wake up from their first night's sleep up here. I don't think we need to worry about Brill."
    "Pity," Silk remarked with a certain disappointment.
    "It won't hurt to keep our eyes open, though. There are worse things than Murgos in the mountains of Ulgo."
    Silk scoffed. "Aren't those stories exaggerated?"
    "No. Not really."
    "The region abounds with monsters, Prince Kheldar," Mandorallen assured the little man. "Some years back, a dozen foolish young knights of my acquaintance rode into these mountains to test their bravery and prowess against the unseemly beasts. Not one returned."
    When they crested the next ridge, the full force of a winter gale struck them. Snow, which had grown steadily heavier as they climbed, drove horizontally in the howling wind.
    "We'll have to take cover until this blows over, Belgarath," Barak shouted above the wind, fighting to keep his flapping bearskin cape around him.
    "Let's drop down into this next valley," Belgarath replied, also struggling with his cloak. "The trees down there should break the wind."
    They crossed the ridge and angled down toward the pines clustered at the bottom of the basin ahead. Garion pulled his cloak tighter and bowed his head into the shrieking wind.
    The thick stand of sapling pine in the basin blocked the force of the gale, but the snow swirled about them as they reined in.
    "We're not going to get much farther today, Belgarath," Barak declared, trying to brush the snow out of his beard. "We might as well hole up here and wait for morning."
    "What's that?" Durnik asked sharply, cocking his head to one side.
    "The wind," Barak shrugged.
    "No. Listen."
    Above the howling of the wind, a shrill whinnying sound came to them.
    "Look there." Hettar pointed.
    Dimly they saw a dozen horselike animals crossing the ridge behind them. Their shapes were blurred by the thickly falling snow, and their line as they moved seemed almost ghostly. On a rise just above them stood a huge stallion, his mane and tail tossing in the wind. His neigh was almost a shrill scream.
    "Hrulgin!" Belgarath said sharply.
    "Can we outrun them?" Silk asked hopefully.
    "I doubt it," Belgarath replied. "Besides, they've got our scent now. They'll dog our trail from here to Prolgu if we try to run."
    "Then we must teach them to fear our trail and avoid it," Mandorallen declared, tightening the straps on his shield. His eyes were very bright.
    "You're falling back into your old habits, Mandorallen," Barak observed in a grumpy voice.
    Hettar's face had assumed that curiously blank expression it usually did when he was communicating with his horses. He shuddered finally, and his eyes went sick with revulsion.
    "Well?" Aunt Pol asked him.
    "They aren't horses," he began.
    "We know that, Hettar," she replied. "Can you do anything with them? Frighten them off perhaps?"
    He shook his head. "They're hungry, Polgara," he told her, "and they have our scent. The herd stallion seems to have much more control over them than he would if they were