Magician's Gambit

rubble at its base and stretching off into the distance in either direction.
    "Impossible," Barak stated flatly. "We'll never be able to climb that."
    "We won't have to," Silk told him confidently. "I know a trail."
    "A secret trail, I suppose?"
    "Not exactly a secret," Silk replied. "I don't imagine too many people know about it, but it's right out in plain sight - if you know where to look. I had occasion to leave Mishrak ac Thull in a hurry once, and I stumbled across it."
    "One gets the feeling that you've had occasion to leave just about every place in a hurry at one time or another."
    Silk shrugged. "Knowing when it's time to run is one of the most important things people in my profession ever learn."
    "Will the river ahead not prove a barrier?" Mandorallen asked, looking at the sparkling surface of the Aldur River lying between them and the grim, black cliff. He was running his fingertips lightly over his side, testing for tender spots.
    "Mandorallen, stop that," Aunt Pol told him. "They'll never heal if you keep poking at them."
    "Me thinks, my Lady, that they are nearly whole again," the knight replied. "Only one still causes me any discomfort."
    "Well, leave it alone."
    "There's a ford a few miles upstream," Belgarath said in answer to the question. "The river's down at this time of year, so we won't have any difficulty crossing." He started out again, leading them down the gradual slope toward the Aldur.
    They forded late that afternoon and pitched their tents on the far side. The next morning they moved out to the foot of the escarpment.
    "The trail's just a few miles south," Silk told them, leading the way along the looming black cliff.
    "Do we have to go up along the face of it?" Garion asked apprehensively, craning his neck to look up the towering wall.
    Silk shook his head. "The trail's a streambed. It cuts down through the cliff. It's a little steep and narrow, but it will get us safely to the top."
    Garion found that encouraging.
    The trail appeared to be little more than a crack in the stupendous cliff, and a trickle of water ran out of the opening to disappear into the jumble of rocky debris along the base of the escarpment.
    "Are you sure it goes all the way to the top?" Barak asked, eyeing the narrow chimney suspiciously.
    "Trust me," Silk assured him.
    "Not if I can help it."
    The trail was awful, steep and strewn with rock. At times it was so narrow that the packhorses had to be unloaded before they could make it through and they had to be literally manhandled up over basalt boulders that had fractured into squares, almost like huge steps. The trickle of water running down the cut made everything slick and muddy. To make matters even worse, thin, high clouds swept in from the west and a bitterly cold draft spilled down the narrow cut from the arid plains of Mishrak ac Thull, lying high above.
    It took them two days, and by the time they reached the top, a mile or so back from the brink of the escarpment, they were all exhausted.
    "I feel as if somebody's been beating me with a stick," Barak groaned, sinking to the ground in the brushy gully at the top of the cut. "A very big, dirty stick."
    They all sat on the ground among the prickly thornbushes in the gully, recovering from the dreadful climb. "I'll have a look around," Silk said after only a few moments. The small man had the body of an acrobat - supple, strong, and quick to restore itself. He crept up to the rim of the gully, ducking low under the thornbushes and worming his way the last few feet on his stomach to peer carefully over the top. After several minutes, he gave a low whistle, and they saw him motion sharply for them to join him.
    Barak groaned again and stood up. Durnik, Mandorallen, and Garion also got stiffly to their feet.
    "See what he wants," Belgarath told them. "I'm not ready to start moving around just yet."
    The four of them started up the slope through the loose gravel toward the spot where Silk lay peering out from under a thornbush, crawling the last few feet as he had done.
    "What's the trouble?" Barak asked the little man as they came up beside him.
    "Company," Silk replied shortly, pointing out over the rocky, arid plain lying brown and dead under the flat gray sky.
    A cloud of yellow dust, whipped low to the ground by the stiff, chill wind, gave evidence of riders.
    "A patrol?" Durnik asked in a hushed voice.
    "I don't think so," Silk answered. "Thulls aren't comfortable on horses. They usually patrol on