The Seeress of Kell

it weighs about two pounds a foot. You'd need arms like a gorilla to move it around that fast.”
    "Not really. You don't really have to move it that far back and forth. Just a tap would do. Can I try it?"
    "It's your idea. I'll be here to pick you up if it doesn't work."
    "I knew I could count on you." Zakath's voice sounded excited even boyish.
    "Oh, Gods," Garion murmured almost in despair.
    "Anything wrong?" Zakath asked.
    "No, I guess not. Go ahead and try it, if you feel that you have to."
    "What difference does it make? I can't get hurt, can I?"
    "I wouldn't go entirely that far. Do you see that?" Garion pointed at a knight who had just been unhorsed and had come down on his back across the center pole of the lists, scattering bits and pieces of his armor in all directions.
    "He's not really hurt, is he?"
    "He's still moving a little bit but they'll need a blacksmith to get him out of his armor before the physicians can go to work On him."
    "I still mink it might work," Zakath said stubbornly.
    "We'll give you a splendid funeral if it doesn't. All right. It's our turn. Let's go get our lances."
    The blunted lances were padded at the tip with layer upon layer of woolly sheepskin tightly wrapped in canvas. The result was a round padded ball that looked totally humane, but which Garion knew would hurl a man from his saddle with terrific force, and it was not the impact of the lance that broke bones, often it was the violent contact with the ground. He was a bit distracted at the point when he began to focus his will, and so the best word he could come up with as a release for that will was "Make it that way." He was not entirely positive that it worked exactly as he had planned. His first opponent was hurled from his saddle at a point some five feet before Garion's lance touched his shield. Garion adjusted the aura of force around their lances. Zakath's technique, Garion saw with some surprise, worked flawlessly. A single, almost unnoticeable, twist of his forearm deflected his opponent's lance, and then his own blunted lance smashed directly into the center of the knight's shield. A man hurled forcefully from the back of a charging horse flies through the air for quite some distance, Garion noticed, and the crash when he hits the ground sounds much like that which might come from a collapsing smithy. Both their opponents were carried senseless from the field.
    It was a bad day for the pride of Perivor. As their experience with their enhanced weapons increased, the Rivan King and the Emperor of Mallorea quite literally romped through the ranks of the steel-clad knights of Perivor, filling the dispensaries with row upon row of groaning injured. It was more than a rout. It soon reached disastrous proportions. At last, with even their unthinking Mimbrate heritage sobered by the realization that they were facing an invincible pair, the knights of Perivor gathered and took counsel with each other. And then, en masse, they yielded.
    "What a shame," Zakath said regretfully. "I was starting to enjoy this."
    Garion decided to ignore that.
    As the two started back toward the stands to make the customary salute to the king, white-eyed Naradas came forward with an oily smile. "Congratulations, Sir Knights," he said. "Ye are men of great prowess and extraordinary skill. Ye have won the field and the laurels of the day. Mayhap ye have heard of the great prize of honor and glory that is to be bestowed upon the champions of this field?"
    "No," Garion said flatly. "I can't say that we have."
    " Ye have contested this day for the honor of subduing a troublesome beast that betimes hath disturbed the peace of our fair kingdom."
    "What kind of beast?" Garion asked suspiciously.
    "Why, a dragon, of course, Sir Knight."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    "He's tricked us again, hasn't he?" Beldin growled when they had returned to their quarters following the tourney. "White-eyes is beginning to irritate me just a bit. I think I'll take some steps."
    "Too noisy," Belgarath told him, "The people here are not entirely Mimbrate." He turned to Cyradis. "There's a certain sound sorcery makes," he said.
    "Yes," she replied. "I know."
    "Can you hear it?"
    She nodded.
    "Are there other Dals here on the island who can hear it, as well?"
    "Yes, Ancient Belgarath."
    "How about these counterfeit Mimbrates? They're at least half Dal. Is it possible that some of them might be able to hear it, too?"
    "Entirely so."
    "Grandfather," Garion said in a worried tone, "that