Pawn of Prophecy

would go twice as far to make a profit. Such goods as this commonly move along the North Caravan Route out of Gar og Nadrak to Boktor. Mallorean carpets are prized by the wealthy. I don't much care for them myself, since I'm not fond of anything that has to do with the Angaraks."
    "How many kinds of Angaraks are there?" Garion asked. "I know there are Murgos and Thulls, and I've heard stories about the Battle of Vo Mimbre and all, but I don't know much about them really."
    "There are five tribes of them," Barak said, sitting back down and resuming his polishing, "Murgos and Thulls, Nadraks and Malloreans, and of course the Grolims. They live in the four kingdoms of the east Mallorea, Gar og Nadrak, Mishrak ac Thull and Cthol Murgos."
    "Where do the Grolims live?"
    "They have no special place," Barak replied grimly. "The Grolims are the priests of Torak One-eye and are everywhere in the lands of the Angaraks. They're the ones who perform the sacrifices to Torak. Grolim knives have spilled more Angarak blood than a dozen Vo Mimbres."
    Garion shuddered.
    "Why should Torak take such pleasure in the slaughter of his own people?" he asked.
    "Who can say?" Barak shrugged. "He's a twisted and evil God. Some believe that he was made mad when he used the Orb of Aldur to crack the world and the Orb repaid him by burning out his eye and consuming his hand."
    "How could the world be cracked?" Garion asked. "I've never understood that part of the story."
    "The power of the Orb of Aldur is such that it can accomplish anything," Barak told him. "When Torak raised it, the earth was split apart by its power, and the seas came in to drown the land. The story's very old, but I think that it's probably true."
    "Where is the Orb of Aldur now?" Garion asked suddenly.
    Barak looked at him, his eyes icy blue and his face thoughtful, but he didn't say anything.
    "Do you know what I think?" Garion said on a sudden impulse. "I think that it's the Orb of Aldur that's been stolen. I think it's the Orb that Mister Wolf is trying to find."
    "And I think it would be better if you didn't think so much about such things," Barak warned.
    "But I want to know," Garion protested, his curiosity driving him even in the face of Barak's words and the warning voice in his mind. "Everyone treats me like an ignorant boy. All I do is tag along with no idea of what we're doing. Who is Mister Wolf, anyway? Why did the Algars behave the way they did when they saw him? How can he follow something that he can't see? Please tell me, Barak."
    "Not I." Barak laughed. "Your Aunt would pull out my beard whisker by whisker if I made that mistake."
    "You're not afraid of her, are you?"
    "Any man with good sense is afraid of her," Barak said, rising and sliding his sword into its sheath.
    "Aunt Pol?" Garion asked incredulously.
    "Aren't you afraid of her?" Barak asked pointedly.
    "No," Garion said, and then realized that was not precisely true. "Well-not really afraid. It's more-" He left it hanging, not knowing how to explain it.
    "Exactly," Barak said. "And I'm no more foolhardy than you, my boy. You're too full of questions I'd be far wiser not to answer. If you want to know about these things, you'll have to ask your Aunt."
    "She won't tell me," Garion said glumly. "She won't tell me anything. She won't even tell me about my parents-not really."
    Barak frowned.
    "That's strange," he said.
    "I don't think they were Sendars," Garion said. "Their names weren't Sendarian, and Silk says that I'm not a Sendar - at least I don't look like one."
    Barak looked at him closely. "No," he said finally. "Now that you mention it, you don't. You look more like a Rivan than anything else, but not quite that either."
    "Is Aunt Pol a Rivan?"
    Barak's eyes narrowed slightly. "I think we're getting to some more of those questions I hadn't better answer," he said.
    "I'm going to find out someday," Garion said.
    "But not today," Barak said. "Come along. I need some exercise. Let's go out into the innyard and I'll teach you how to use a sword."
    "Me?" Garion said, all his curiosity suddenly melting away in the excitement of that thought.
    "You're at an age where you should begin to learn," Barak said. "The occasion may someday arise when it will be a useful thing for you to know."
    Late that afternoon when Garion's arm had begun to ache from the effort of swinging Barak's heavy sword and the whole idea of learning the skills of a warrior had become a great deal less exciting, Mister Wolf and