Pawn of Prophecy

was no chance for that as they rode.
    Once they reached the outskirts of the city, they nudged their horses into a fast canter. The snow was falling more seriously now, and the hoof churned ground in the vast cattle pens was already faintly dusted with white.
    "It's going to be a cold night," Silk shouted as they rode.
    "We could always go back to Muros," Barak suggested. "Another scuffle or two might warm your blood."
    Silk laughed and put his heels to his horse again.
    The encampment of the Algars was three leagues to the east of Muros. It was a large area surrounded by a stout palisade of poles set in the ground. The snow by now was falling thickly enough to make the camp look hazy and indistinct. The gate, flanked by hissing torches, was guarded by two fierce-looking warriors in leather leggings, snow-dusted jerkins of the same material, and pot-shaped steel helmets. The points of their lances glittered in the torchlight.
    "Halt," one of the warriors commanded, leveling his lance at Mister Wolf. "What business have you here at this time of night?"
    "I have urgent need of speaking with your herd master," Wolf replied politely. "May I step down?"
    The two guards spoke together briefly.
    "You may come down," one of them said. "Your companions, however, must withdraw somewhat - but not beyond the light."
    "Algars!" Silk muttered under his breath. "Always suspicious."
    Mister Wolf climbed down from his horse, and, throwing back his hood, approached the two guards through the snow.
    Then a strange thing happened. The elder of the two guards stared at Mister Wolf, taking in his silver hair and beard. His eyes suddenly opened very wide. He quickly muttered something to his companion, and the two men bowed deeply to Wolf.
    "There isn't time for that," Wolf said in annoyance. "Convey me to your herd master."
    "At once, Ancient One," the elder guard said quickly and hurried to open the gate.
    "What was that about?" Garion whispered to Aunt Pol.
    "Algars are superstitious," she said shortly. "Don't ask so many questions."
    They waited with snow settling down upon them and melting on their horses. After about a half hour, the gate opened again and two dozen mounted Algars, fierce in their rivet-studded leather vests and steel helmets, herded six saddled horses out into the snow.
    Behind them Mister Wolf walked, accompanied by a tall man with his head shaved except for a flowing scalp lock.
    "You have honored our camp by your visit, Ancient One," the tall man was saying, "and I wish you all speed on your journey."
    "I have little fear of being delayed with Algar horses under us," Wolf replied.
    "My riders will accompany you along a route they know which will put you on the far side of Muros within a few hours," the tall man said. "They will then linger for a time to be certain you are not followed."
    "I cannot express my gratitude, noble herd master," Wolf said, bowing.
    "It is I who am grateful for the opportunity to be of service," the herd master said, also bowing.
    The change to their new horses took only a minute. With half of their contingent of Algars leading and the other half bringing up the rear, they turned and rode back toward the west through the dark, snowy night.

Chapter Ten
    GRADUALLY, ALMOST IMPERCEPTIBLY, the darkness became paler as the softly falling snow made indistinct even the arrival of morning. Their seemingly inexhaustible horses pounded on through the growing light, the sound of their hooves muffled by the snow now lying fetlock-deep on the broad surface of the Great North Road. Garion glanced back once and saw the jumbled tracks of their passage stretching behind them and, already at the hazy gray limit of his vision, beginning to fill with concealing snow.
    When it was fully light, Mister Wolf reined in his steaming horse and proceeded at a walk for a time.
    "How far have we come?" he asked Silk.
    The weasel-faced man who had been shaking the snow out of the folds of his cloak looked around, trying to pick out a landmark in the misty veil of dropping flakes.
    "Ten leagues," he said finally. "Perhaps a bit more."
    "This is a miserable way to travel," Barak rumbled, wincing slightly as he shifted his bulk in the saddle.
    "Think of how your horse must feel." Silk grinned at him.
    "How far is it to Camaar?" Aunt Pol asked.
    "Forty leagues from Muros," Silk told her.
    "We'll need shelter then," she said. "We can't gallop forty leagues without rest, no matter who's behind us."
    "I don't think we need to