Pawn of Prophecy

sudden blow to his forehead. He lay on the damp earth, gasping and sobbing, trying to clear his head.
    And then there were hands on him, horrid, unseen hands. A thousand terrors flashed through his mind at once, and he struggled desperately, trying to draw his dagger.
    "Oh, no," a voice said. "None of that, my rabbit." His dagger was taken from him.
    "Are you going to eat me?" Garion babbled, his voice breaking.
    His captor laughed.
    "On your feet, rabbit," he said, and Garion felt himself pulled up by a strong hand. His arm was taken in a firm grasp, and he was half dragged through the woods.
    Somewhere ahead there was a light, a winking fire among the trees, and it seemed that he was being taken that way. He knew that he must think, must devise some means of escape, but his mind, stunned by fright and exhaustion, refused to function.
    There were three wagons sitting in a rough half circle around the fire. Durnik was there, and Wolf, and Aunt Pol, and with them a man so huge that Garion's mind simply refused to accept the possibility that he was real. His tree-trunk sized legs were wrapped in furs cross-tied with leather thongs, and he wore a chain-mail shirt that reached to his knees, belted at the waist. From the belt hung a ponderous sword on one side and a short-handled axe on the other. His hair was in braids, and he had a vast, bristling red beard.
    As they came into the light, Garion was able to see the man who had captured him. He was a small man, scarcely taller than Garion himself, and his face was dominated by a long pointed nose. His eyes were small and squinted, and his straight, black hair was raggedly cut. The face was not the sort to inspire confidence, and the man's stained and patched tunic and short, wicked-looking sword did little to contradict the implications of the face.
    "Here's our rabbit," the small, weasel-like man announced as he pulled Garion into the circle of the firelight. "And a merry chase he led me, too."
    Aunt Pol was furious.
    "Don't you ever do that again," she said sternly to Garion.
    "Not so quick, Mistress Pol," Wolf said. "It's better for him to run than to fight just yet. Until he's bigger, his feet are his best friends."
    "Have we been captured by robbers?" Garion asked in a quavering voice.
    "Robbers?" Wolf laughed. "What a wild imagination you have, boy. These two are our friends."
    "Friends?" Garion asked doubtfully, looking suspiciously at the redbearded giant and the weasel-faced man beside him. "Are you sure?" The giant laughed then too, his voice rumbling like an earthquake.
    "The boy seems mistrustful," he boomed. "Your face must have warned him, friend Silk."
    The smaller man looked sourly at his burly companion.
    "This is Garion," Wolf said, pointing at the boy. "You already know Mistress Pol." His voice seemed to stress Aunt Pol's name. "And this is Durnik, a brave smith who has decided to accompany us."
    "Mistress Pol?" the smaller man said, laughing suddenly for no apparent reason.
    "I am known so," Aunt Pol said pointedly.
    "It shall be my pleasure to call you so then, great lady," the small man said with a mocking bow.
    "Our large friend here is Barak," Wolf went on. "He's useful to have around when there's trouble. As you can see, he's not a Sendar, but a Cherek from Val Alorn."
    Garion had never seen a Cherek before, and the fearful tales of their prowess in battle became suddenly quite believable in the presence of the towering Barak.
    "And I," the small man said with one hand to his chest, "am called Silk - not much of a name, I'll admit, but one which suits me - and I am from Boktor in Drasnia. I am a juggler and an acrobat."
    "And also a thief and a spy," Barak rumbled good-naturedly.
    "We all have our faults," Silk admitted blandly, scratching at his scraggly whiskers.
    "And I'm called Mister Wolf in this particular time and place," the old man said. "I'm rather fond of the name, since the boy there gave it to me."
    "Mister Wolf?" Silk asked, and then he laughed again. "What a merry name for you, old friend."
    "I'm delighted that you find it so, old friend," Wolf said flatly. "Mister Wolf it shall be, then," Silk said. "Come to the fire, friends. Warm yourselves, and I'll see to some food."
    Garion was still uncertain about the oddly matched pair. They obviously knew Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf - and just as obviously by different names. The fact that Aunt Pol might not be whom he had always thought she was was very disturbing. One of the foundation