Pawn of Prophecy

stones of his entire life had just disappeared.
    The food which Silk brought was rough, a turnip stew with thick chunks of meat floating in it and crudely hacked off slabs of bread, but Garion, amazed at the size of his appetite, fell into it as if he had not eaten for days.
    And then, his stomach full and his feet warmed by the crackling campfire, he sat on a log, half dozing.
    "What now, Old Wolf?" he heard Aunt Pol ask. "What's the idea behind these clumsy wagons?"
    "A brilliant plan," Wolf said, "even if I do say it myself. There are, as you know, wagons going every which way in Sendaria at this time of year. Harvests are moving from field to farm, from farm to village and from village to town. Nothing is more unremarkable in Sendaria than wagons. They're so common that they're almost invisible. This is how we're going to travel. We're now honest freight haulers."
    "We're what?" Aunt Pol demanded.
    "Wagoneers," Wolf said expansively. "Hard-working transporters of the goods of Sendaria - out to make our fortunes and seek adventure, bitten by the desire to travel, incurably infected by the romance of the road."
    "Have you any idea how long it takes to travel by wagon?" Aunt Pol asked.
    "Six to ten leagues a day," he told her. "Slow, I'll grant you, but it's better to move slowly than to attract attention."
    She shook her head in disgust.
    "Where first, Mister Wolf?" Silk asked.
    "To Darine," Wolf announced. "If the one we're following went to the north, he'll have to have passed through Darine on his way to Boktor and beyond."
    "And what exactly are we carrying to Darine?" Aunt Pol asked.
    "Turnips, great lady," Silk said. "Last morning my large friend and I purchased three wagonloads of them in the village of Winold."
    "Turnips?" Aunt Pol asked in a tone that spoke volumes.
    "Yes, great lady, turnips," Silk said solemnly.
    "Are we ready, then?" Wolf asked.
    "We are," the giant Barak said shortly, rising with his mail shirt clinking.
    "We should look the part," Wolf said carefully, eyeing Barak up and down. "Your armor, my friend, is not the sort of garb an honest wagoneer would wear. I think you should change it for stout wool."
    Barak's face looked injured.
    "I could wear a tunic over it," he suggested tentatively.
    "You rattle," Silk pointed out, "and armor has a distinctive fragrance about it. From the downwind side you smell like a rusty ironworks, Barak."
    "I feel undressed without a mail shirt," Barak complained.
    "We must all make sacrifices," Silk said.
    Grumbling, Barak went to one of the wagons, jerked out a bundle of clothes and began to pull off his mail shirt. His linen undertunic bore large, reddish rust stains.
    "I'd change tunics as well," Silk suggested. "Your shirt smells as bad as the armor."
    Barak glowered at him. "Anything else?" he demanded. "I hope, for decency's sake, you don't plan to strip me entirely."
    Silk laughed.
    Barak pulled off his tunic. His torso was enormous and covered with thick red hair.
    "You look like a rug," Silk observed.
    "I can't help that," Barak said. "Winters are cold in Cherek, and the hair helps me to stay warm." He put on a fresh tunic.
    "It's just as cold in Drasnia," Silk said. "Are you absolutely sure your grandmother didn't dally with a bear during one of those long winters?"
    "Someday your mouth is going to get you into a great deal of trouble, friend Silk," Barak said ominously.
    Silk laughed again. "I've been in trouble most of my life, friend Barak."
    "I wonder why," Barak said ironically.
    "I think all this could be discussed later," Wolf said pointedly. "I'd rather like to be away from here before the week's out, if I can."
    "Of course, old friend," Silk said, jumping up. "Barak and I can amuse each other later."
    Three teams of sturdy horses were picketed nearby, and they all helped to harness them to the wagons.
    "I'll put out the fire," Silk said and fetched two pails of water from a small brook that trickled nearby. The fire hissed when the water struck it, and great clouds of steam boiled up toward the low-hanging tree limbs.
    "We'll lead the horses to the edge of the wood," Wolf said. "I'd rather not pick my teeth on a low branch."
    The horses seemed almost eager to start and moved without urging along a narrow track through the dark woods. They stopped at the edge of the open fields, and Wolf looked around carefully to see if anyone was in sight.
    "I don't see anybody," he said. "Let's get moving."
    "Ride with me, good smith," Barak said to