"A most unseemly specter," Mandorallen observed. "Who was this rude shade?"
"It was Chamdar," Aunt Pol said, returning her attention to the injured Lelldorin, "one of the chief priests of the Grolims. Father and I have met him before."
"I think we'd better get off this hilltop," Wolf stated. "How soon will Lelldorin be able to ride?"
"A week at least," Aunt Pol replied, "if then."
"That's out of the question. We can't stay here."
"He can't ride," she told him firmly.
"Couldn't we make a litter of some sort?" Durnik suggested. "I'm sure I can make something we can sling between two horses so we can move him without hurting him."
"Well, Pol?" Wolf asked.
"I suppose it will be all right," she said a little dubiously.
"Let's do it then. We're much too exposed up here, and we've got to move on."
Durnik nodded and went to the packs for rope to use in building the litter.
Chapter Seven
SIR MANDORALLEN, BARON OF VO MANDOR, was a man of slightly more than medium height. His hair was black and curly, his eyes were deep blue, and he had a resonant voice in which he expressed firmly held opinions. Garion did not like him. The knight's towering self confidence, an egotism so pure that there was a kind of innocence about it, seemed to confirm the worst of Lelldorin's dark pronouncements about Mimbrates; and Mandorallen's extravagant courtesy to Aunt Pol struck Garion as beyond the bounds of proper civility. To make matters even worse, Aunt Pol seemed quite willing to accept the knight's flatteries at face value.As they rode through the continuing drizzle along the Great West Road, Garion noted with some satisfaction that his companions appeared to share his opinion. Barak's expression spoke louder than words; Silk's eyebrows lifted sardonically at each of the knight's pronouncements; and Durnik scowled.
Garion, however, had little time to sort out his feelings about the Mimbrate. He rode close beside the litter upon which Lelldorin tossed painfully as the Algroth Polson seared in his wounds. He offered his friend what comfort he could and exchanged frequent worried looks with Aunt Pol, who rode nearby. During the worst of Lelldorin's paroxysms, Garion helplessly held the young man's hand, unable to think of anything else to do to ease his pain.
"Bear thine infirmity with fortitude, good youth," Mandorallen cheerfully advised the injured Asturian after a particularly bad bout that left Lelldorin gasping and moaning. "This discomfort of throe is but an illusion. Thy mind can put it to rest if thou wouldst have it so."
"That's exactly the kind of comfort I'd expect from a Mimbrate," Lelldorin retorted from between clenched teeth. "I think I'd rather you didn't ride so close. Your opinions smell almost as bad as your armor."
Mandorallen's face flushed slightly. "The venom which loth rage through the body of our injured friend hath, it would seem, bereft him of civility as well as sense," he observed coldly.
Lelldorin half raised himself in the litter as if to respond hotly, but the sudden movement seemed to aggravate his injury, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
"His wounds are grave," Mandorallen stated. "Thy poultice, Lady Polgara, may not suffice to save his life."
"He needs rest," she told him. "Try not to agitate him so much."
"I will place myself beyond the reach of his eye," Mandorallen replied. "Through no fault of mine own, my visage is hateful to him and doth stir him to unhealthful choler." He moved his warhorse ahead at a canter until he was some distance in front of the rest of them.
"Do they all talk like that?" Garion asked with a certain rancor. "Thee's and thou's and cloth's?"
"Mimbrates tend to be very formal," Aunt Pol explained. "You'll get used to it."
"I think it sounds stupid," Garion muttered darkly, glaring after the knight.
"An example of good manners won't hurt you all that much, Garion."
They rode on through the dripping forest as evening settled among the trees.
"Aunt Pol?" Garion asked finally.
"Yes, dear?"
"What was that Grolim talking about when he said that about you and Torak?"
"It's something Torak said once when he was raving. The Grolims took it seriously, that's all." She pulled her blue cloak tighter about her.
"Doesn't it worry you?"
"Not particularly."
"What was that Prophecy the Grolim was talking about? I didn't understand any of that." The word "Prophecy" for some reason stirred something very deep in him.
"The Mrin Codex," she answered. "It's a very old version, and the writing's almost illegible. It mentions companions - the bear, the rat, and the man who will live twice. It's the only version that says anything about them. Nobody knows for certain that it really means anything."
"Grandfather thinks it does, doesn't he?"
"Your grandfather has a number of curious notions. Old things impress him - probably because he's so old himself."
Garion was going to ask her about this Prophecy that seemed to exist in more than one version, but Lelldorin moaned then and they both immediately turned to him.
They arrived shortly thereafter at a Tolnedran hostel with thick, whitewashed walls and a red tile roof. Aunt Pol saw to it that Lelldorin was placed in a warm room, and she spent the night sitting by his bed caring for him. Garion padded worriedly down the dark hallway in his stocking feet a half-dozen times before morning to check on his friend, but there seemed to be no change.
By daybreak the rain had let up. They started out in the grayish dawn with Mandorallen still riding some distance ahead until they reached at last the edge of the dark forest and saw before them the vast, open expanse of the Arendish central plain, dun-colored and sere in the last few weeks of winter. The knight stopped there and waited for them to join him, his face somber.
"What's the trouble?" Silk asked him.
Mandorallen pointed gravely at a column of black smoke rising from a few miles out on the plain.
"What is it?" Silk inquired, his rat face puzzled.
"Smoke in Arendia can mean but one thing," the knight replied, pulling on his plumed helmet. "Abide here, dear friends. I will investigate, but I fear the worst." He set his spurs to the flanks of his charger and leaped forward at a thunderous gallop.
"Wait!" Barak roared after him, but Mandorallen rode on obliviously. "That idiot," the big Cherek fumed. "I'd better go with him in case there's trouble."