Queen of Sorcery

trail he had left when he had entered. The big man's face was pale, and he frequently averted his eyes from some of the more savagely mutilated corpses that littered their way.
    When they emerged, they found the streets of Sthiss Tor darker than night and filled with hysterical crowds wailing in terror. Barak, with a torch he had taken from the palace wall in one hand and his huge sword in the other, led them into the street. Even in their panic the Nyissans made way for him.
    "What is this, Polgara?" he growled over his shoulder, waving the torch slightly as if to brush the darkness away. "Is it some kind of sorcery?"
    "No," she answered. "It's not sorcery."
    Tiny flecks of gray were falling through the torchlight. "Snow?" Barak asked incredulously.
    "No," she said. "Ashes."
    "What's burning?"
    "A mountain," she replied. "Let's get back to the ship as quickly as we can. There's more danger from this crowd than from any of this." She threw her light cloak about Garion's shoulders and pointed down a street where a few torches bobbed here and there. "Let's go that way."
    The ash began to fall more heavily. It was almost like dirty gray flour sifting down through the sodden air, and there was a dreadful, sulfurous stink to it.
    By the time they reached the wharves, the absolute darkness had begun to pale. The ash continued to drift down, seeping into the cracks between the cobblestones and gathering in little windrows along the edges of the buildings. Though it was growing lighter, the falling ash, like fog, blotted out everything more than ten feet away.
    The wharves were total chaos. Crowds of Nyissans, shrieking and wailing, were trying to climb into boats to flee from the choking ash that sifted with deadly silence down through the damp air. Mad with terror, many even leaped into the deadly waters of the river.
    "We're not going to be able to get through that mob, Polgara," Barak said. "Stay here a moment." He sheathed his sword, jumped up and caught the edge of a low roof. He pulled himself up and stood outlined dimly above them. "Ho, Greldik!" he roared in a huge voice that carried even over the noise of the crowd.
    "Barak!" Greldik's voice came back. "Where are you?"
    "At the foot of the pier," Barak shouted. "We can't get through the crowd."
    "Stay there," Greldik yelled back. "We'll come and get you."
    After a few moments there was the tramp of heavy feet on the wharf and the occasional sound of blows. A few cries of pain mingled with the sounds of panic from the crowd. Then Greldik, Mandorallen and a half dozen burly sailors armed with clubs strode out of the ashfall, clearing a path with brutal efficiency.
    "Did you get lost?" Greldik yelled up to Barak.
    Barak jumped down from the roof. "We had to stop by the palace," he answered shortly.
    "We were growing concerned for thy safety, my Lady," Mandorallen told Aunt Pol, pushing a gibbering Nyissan out of his way. "Good Durnik returned some hours ago."
    "We were delayed," she said. "Captain, can you get us on board your ship?"
    Greldik gave her an evil grin.
    "Let's go then," she urged. "As soon as we get on board, it might be a good idea to anchor out in the river a little way. This ash will settle after a while, but these people are going to be hysterical until it does. Has there been any word from Silk or my father yet?"
    "Nothing, my Lady," Greldik said.
    "What is he doing?" she demanded irritably of no one in particular. Mandorallen drew his broadsword and marched directly into the face of the crowd, neither slowing nor altering his course. The Nyissans melted out of his path.
    The crowd pressing at the edge of the wharf beside Greldik's ship was even thicker, and Durnik, Hettar and the rest of the sailors lined the rail with long boat-hooks, pushing the terror-stricken people away.
    "Run out the plank," Greldik shouted as they reached the edge of the wharf.
    "Noble captain," a bald Nyissan blubbered, clinging to Greldik's fur vest. "I'll give you a hundred gold pieces if you'll let me aboard your ship."
    Disgusted, Greldik pushed him away.
    "A thousand gold pieces," the Nyissan promised, clutching Greldik's arm and waving a purse.
    "Get this baboon off me," Greldik ordered.
    One of the sailors rather casually clubbed the Nyissan into insensibility, then bent and yanked the purse from his grip. He opened the purse and poured the coins out into one hand. "Three pieces of silver," he said with disgust. "All the rest is copper." He turned back and kicked the