He had other titles, however. Some were purely honorary, others not so much so. ‘Godslayer,’ for example, involved certain duties which were not likely to come up very often. ‘Lord of the Western Sea’ caused him almost no concern whatsoever, since he had concluded quite early that the waves and tides needed little supervision and that fish, for the most part, were entirely capable of managing their own government. Most of Garion’s headaches stemmed directly from the grand-sounding title, ‘Overlord of the West.’ He had assumed at first—since the war with the Angarakas was over—that this title, like the others, was merely something in the nature of a formality, something impressive, but largely empty, which had been tacked on to all the rest, sort of to round them out. It earned him, after all, no tax revenue; it had no special crown or throne; and there was no administrative staff to deal with day-to-day problems.
But to his chagrin, he soon discovered that one of the peculiarities of human nature was the tendency to want to take problems to the person in charge. Had there not been an Overlord of the West, he was quite sure that his fellow monarchs would have found ways to deal with all those perplexing difficulties by themselves. But as long as he occupied that exalted position, they all seemed to take an almost childlike delight in bringing him the more difficult, the most agonizing, and the most utterly insoluble problems and then happily sitting back with trusting smiles on their faces while he struggled and floundered with them.
As a case in point, there was the situation which arose in Arendia during the summer of Garion’s twenty-third year. The year had gone fairly well up until that point. The misunderstanding which had marred his relationship with Ce’Nedra had been smoothed over, and Garion and his complicated little wife were living together in what might best be described as domestic felicity. The campaign of Emperor Kal Zakath of Mallorea, whose presence on this continent had been a great cause for concern, had bogged down in the mountains of western Cthol Murgos and showed some promise of grinding on for decades far from the borders of any of the Kingdoms of the West. General Varana, the Duke of Anadile, functioning as regent for the ailing Emperor Ran Borune XXIII, had clamped down quite firmly on the excesses of the great families of Tolnedra in their unseemly scramble for the Imperial Throne. All in all, Garion had been looking forward to a period of peace and tranquility until that warm, early summer day when the letter arrived from King Korodullin of Arendia.
Garion and Ce’Nedra had been spending a quiet afternoon together in the comfortable royal apartment, talking idly of little, unimportant things—more for the pleasure of each other’s company than out of any real concern for the subjects at hand. Garion lounged in a large, blue velvet armchair by the window, and Ce’Nedra sat before a gilt-edged mirror, brushing her long, copper-colored hair. Garion was very fond of Ce’Nedra’s hair. Its color was exciting. It smelled good, and there was one delightfully vagrant curl that always seemed to want to tumble appealingly down the side of her smooth, white neck. When the servant brought the letter from the King of Arendia, tastefully carried on a silver tray, Garion took his eyes off his lovely wife almost regretfully. He broke the ornately stamped wax seal and opened the crackling parchment.
‘Who is it from, Garion?’ Ce’Nedra asked, still pulling the brush through her hair and regarding her reflection in the mirror with a kind of dreamy contentment.
‘Korodullin,’ he replied and then began to read.
‘To his Majesty, King Belgarion of Riva, Overlord of the West, greetings:’ the letter began.
‘It is our fervent hope that this finds thee and thy queen in good health and tranquil spirits. Gladly would I permit my pen the leisure to dwell fulsomely upon the regard and affection my queen and I bear thee and her Majesty, but a crisis hath arisen here in Arendia; and because it doth derive directly from the actions of certain friends of thine, I have resolved to seek thy aid in meeting it.
‘To our great sorrow, our dear friend the Baron of Vo Ebor succumbed at last to those grievous wounds which he received upon the battlefield at Thull Mardu. His passing this spring hath grieved us more than I can tell thee. He was a good and faithful knight. His heir, since he and the baroness Nerina were childless, is a distant nephew, one Sir Embrig, a somewhat rash knight more interested, I fear, in the title and lands of his inheritance than in the fact that he doth intrude himself upon the tragic baroness. With airs most unbecoming to one of gentle birth, he journeyed straightway to Vo Ebor to take possession of his new estates and with him he brought diverse other knights of his acquaintance, his cronies and drinking companions. When they reached Vo Ebor, Sir Embrig and his cohorts gave themselves over to unseemly carouse, and when they were all deep in their cups, one of these rude knights expressed admiration for the person of the but recently widowed Nerina. Without pausing to think or to consider the lady’s bereavement, Sir Embrig promptly promised her hand to his drunken companion. Now in Arendia, by reason of certain of our laws, Sir Embrig hath indeed this right, though no true knight would so incivilly insist on imposing his will upon a kinswoman in her time of grief.
‘The news of this outrage was carried at once to Sir Mandorallen, the mighty Baron of Vo Mandor, and that great knight went immediately to horse. What transpired upon his arrival at Vo Ebor thou canst well imagine, given Sir Mandorallen’s prowess and the depth of his regard for the Baroness Nerina. Sir Embrig and his cohorts rashly attempted to stand in his path, and there were, as I understand, some fatalities and a great number of grievous injuries as a result. Thy friend removed the baroness to his own keep at Vo Mandor, where he holds her in protective custody. Sir Embrig, who—regrettably perhaps—will recover from his wounds, hath declared that a state of war doth exist between Ebor and Mandor and he hath summoned to his cause diverse noblemen. Other noblemen flock to the banner of Sir Mandorallen, and southwestern Arendia doth stand on the brink of general war. I have even been informed that Lelldorin of Wildantor, ever a rash youth, hath raised an army of Asturian bowmen and at this moment doth march southward with them, intending to aid his old comrade in arms.
‘Thus it doth stand. Know that I am reluctant to bring the power of the Arendish crown to bear in this matter, since, should I be compelled to make a judgment, I would be forced by our laws to decide in favor of Sir Embrig.
‘I appeal to thee, King Belgarion, to come to Arendia and to use thy influence with thy former companions and dear friends to bring them back from the precipice upon which they now stand. Only thy intercession, I fear, can avert this impending disaster.
In hope and friendship,
Korodullin.’
Garion stared helplessly at the letter. ‘Why me?’ he demanded without even thinking.
‘What does he say, dear?’ Ce’Nedra asked, laying aside her brush and picking up an ivory comb.
‘He says that—’ Garion broke off. ‘Mandorallen and Lelldorin—’ he got up and began to swear. ‘Here,’ he said, thrusting the letter at her. ‘Read it.’ He began to pace up and down with his fists clenched behind his back, still muttering curse words.
Ce’Nedra read the letter as he continued pacing. ‘Oh dear,’ she said finally in dismay. ‘Oh dear.’
‘That sums it up pretty well, I’d say.’ He started swearing again.
‘Garion, please don’t use that kind of language. It makes you sound like a pirate. What are you going to do about this?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘Well, you’re going to have to do something.’
‘Why me?’ he burst out. ‘Why do they always bring these things to me?’
‘Because they all know that you can take care of these little problems better than anybody else.’
‘Thanks,’ he said drily.
‘Be nice,’ she told him. Then she pursed her lips thoughtfully, tapping her cheek with the ivory comb. ‘You’ll need your crown, of course—and I think the blue and silver doublet would be nice.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You’re going to
have to go to Arendia to get this all straightened out, and I think you should look your very best—Arends are so conscious of appearances. Why don’t you go see about a ship? I’ll pack a few things for you.’ She looked out the window at the golden afternoon sunlight. ‘Do you think it might be too warm for you to wear your ermine?’
‘I won’t be wearing ermine, Ce’Nedra. I’ll be wearing armor and my sword.’
‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Garion. All you have to do is go there and tell them to stop.’
‘Maybe, but I have to get their attention first. This is Mandorallen we’re talking about—and Lelldorin. We’re not dealing with sensible people, remember?’
A little frown creased her forehead. ‘That is true,’ she admitted. But then she gave him an encouraging little smile. ‘I’m sure you can fix it, though. I have every confidence in you.’
‘You’re as bad as all the rest,’ he said a bit sullenly.
‘But you can, Garion. Everybody says so.’
‘I guess I’d better go talk to Brand,’ he said glumly. ‘There are some things that need to be attended to, and this is likely to take me a few weeks.’
‘I’ll take care of them for you, dear,’ she said reassuringly, reaching up and patting his cheek. ‘You just run along now. I can manage things here very well while you’re gone.’
He stared at her with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
When he arrived at Vo Mandor on a cloudy morning several days later, the situation had deteriorated even further. The forces of Sir Embrig were in the field, encamped not three leagues from Mandorallen’s castle, and Mandorallen and Lelldorin had marched from the city to meet them. Garion thundered up to the gates of his friend’s stout fortress on the war horse he had borrowed from an accommodating baron upon his arrival in Arendia. He wore the full suit of steel armor that had been a gift from King Korodullin, and Iron-grip’s enormous sword rode in its scabbard across his back. The gates swung wide for him, and he entered the courtyard, swung awkwardly down from his saddle, and demanded to be taken immediately to the Baroness Nerina.
He found her pale-faced and dressed all in black, standing somberly on the battlements, searching the cloudy sky to the east for the telltale columns of smoke which would announce that the battle had begun. ‘It doth lie upon me, King Belgarion,’ she declared almost morbidly. ‘Strife and discord and anguish hath derived from me since the day I first wed my dear departed lord.’
‘There’s no need to blame yourself,’ Garion told her. ‘Mandorallen can usually get himself into trouble without help from anyone. When did he and Lelldorin leave?’
‘Somewhat past noon yesterday,’ she replied. ‘Methinks the battle will be joined ’ere long.’ She looked mournfully down at the flagstones of courtyard lying far below and sighed.
‘I guess I’d better go then,’ he said grimly. ‘Maybe if I can get there before they start, I can head this off.’
‘I have just had a most excellent thought, your Majesty,’ she declared, a bright little smile lighting up her pale face. ‘I can make thy task much easier.’
‘I hope somebody can,’ he said. ‘The way things look right now, I’m going to be in for a very bad morning.’
‘Make haste then, your Majesty, to the field where rude war even now doth hover above our dear friends, and advise them that the cause of their impending battle hath departed from this sad world.’
‘I’m not sure I follow that.’
‘It is most simple, your Majesty. Since I am the cause of all this strife, it doth lie upon me to end it.’
He looked at her suspiciously. ‘Just what are we talking about here, Nerina? How do you propose to bring all those idiots to their senses?’
Her smile became actually radiant. ‘I have but to hurl myself from this lofty battlement, my Lord, and join my husband in the silence of the grave to end this dreadful bloodshed before it hath begun. Go quickly, my Lord. Descend to that courtyard far below and take to horse. I will descend by this shorter, happier route and await thee upon those rude stones below. Then mayest thou carry the news of my death to the battlefield. Once I am dead, no man’s blood need be spilt over me.’ She put one hand on the rough stone of the parapet.
‘Oh, stop that,’ he said in disgust, ‘and get away from there.’
‘Ah, nay, your Majesty,’ she said quite firmly. ‘This is the best of all possible answers. At one stroke I can avert this impending battle and rid myself of this burdensome life.’
‘Nerina,’ he said in a flat voice, ‘I’m not going to let you jump, and that’s all there is to that.’
‘Surely thou wouldst not be so rude as to lay hands upon my person to prevent me,’ she said in a shocked tone of voice.
‘I won’t have to,’ he said. He looked at her pale, uncomprehending face and realized that she did not have the faintest idea of what he was talking about. ‘On second thought, maybe it’s not such a bad idea after all. The trip down to that courtyard is likely to take you about a day and a half, so it should give you time to think this all the way through—besides, it might just possibly keep you out of mischief while I’m gone.’
Her eyes went suddenly wide as what he was saying to her seeped ever so slowly into her mind. ‘Thou wouldst not use sorcery to foil my most excellent solution,’ she gasped.
‘Try me.’
She looked at him helplessly, tears coming to her eyes. ‘This is most unchivalrous of thee, my Lord,’ she accused him.
‘I was raised on a farm in Sendaria, my lady,’ he reminded her. ‘I didn’t have the advantages of a noble upbringing, so I have these little lapses from time to time. I’m sure you’ll forgive me for not letting you kill yourself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to stop that nonsense out there.’ He turned and clanked toward the stairs. ‘Oh,’ he said, looking over his shoulder at her, ‘don’t get any ideas about jumping as soon as my back’s turned either. I have a long arm, Nerina—a very long arm.’
She stared at him, her lip trembling.
‘That’s better,’ he said and went on down the stairs.
The servants in Mandorallen’s castle took one look at Garion’s stormy face as he strode into the courtyard below and prudently melted out of his path. Laboriously, he hauled himself into the saddle of the huge roan war horse upon which he had arrived, adjusted the great sword of the Rivan King in its scabbard across his back, and looked around. ‘Somebody bring me a lance,’ he commanded.
They brought him several, stumbling over each other in their haste to comply. He selected one and then set off at a thundering gallop.
The citizens of the town of Vo Mandor, which lay just beyond the walls of Mandorallen’s keep, were as prudent as the servants within the walls had been. A wide path was opened along the cobblestone streets as the angry King of Riva passed through, and the town gates stood wide open for him.
Garion knew that he was going to have to get their attention, and Arends on the verge of battle are notoriously difficult to reach. He would need to startle them with something. As he thundered through the green Arendish countryside, past neat, thatch-roofed villages and groves of beech and maple, he cast an appraising eye toward the gray, scudding clouds overhead, and the first faint hints of a plan began to form in his mind.
When he arrived, he found the two armies drawn up on opposite sides of a broad, open meadow. As was the age-old Arendish custom, a number of personal challenges had been issued, and those matters were in the process of being settled as a sort of prelude to the grand general mêlée which would follow. Several armored knights from either side were tilting in the center of the field as the two armies looked on approvingly. Enthusiastically, the brainless, steel-clad young nobles crashed into each other, littering the turf with splinters from the shattered remains of their lances.
Garion took in the situation at a single glance, scarcely pausing before riding directly into the middle of the fray. It must be admitted that he cheated just a little during the encounter. The la
nce he carried looked the same as those with which the Mimbrate knights were attempting to kill or maim each other. About the only real difference lay in the fact that his lance, unlike theirs, would not break, no matter what it encountered and was, moreover, enveloped in a kind of nimbus of sheer force. Garion had no real desire to run the sharp steel tip of that lance through anybody. He merely wanted them off their horses. On his first course through the center of the startled, milling knights, he hurled three of them from their saddles in rapid succession. Then he wheeled his charger and unhorsed two more so quickly that the vast clatter they made as they fell merged into a single sound.
It needed a bit more, however, something suitably spectacular to penetrate the solid bone Arends used for heads. Almost negligently, Garion discarded his invincible lance, reached back over his shoulder and drew the mighty sword of the Rivan King. The Orb of Aldur blazed forth its dazzling blue light, and the sword itself immediately burst into flame. As always, despite its vast size, the sword in his hand had no apparent weight, and he wielded it with blinding speed. He drove directly at one startled knight, chopping the amazed man’s lance into foot-long chunks as he worked his way up the weapon’s shaft. When only the butt remained, Garion smashed the knight from his saddle with the flat of the burning sword. He wheeled then, chopped an upraised mace neatly in two and rode the bearer of the mace into the ground, horse and all.
Stunned by the ferocity of his attack, the wide-eyed Mimbrate knights drew back. It was not merely his overwhelming prowess in battle, however, that made them retreat. From between clenched teeth, the King of Riva was swearing sulfurously, and his choice of oaths made strong men go pale. He looked around, his eyes ablaze, then gathered in his will. He raised his flaming sword and pointed it at the roiling sky overhead. ‘NOW!’ he barked in a voice like the cracking of a whip.
The clouds shuddered, almost seeming to flinch as the full force of Belgarion’s will smote them. A sizzling bolt of lightning as thick as the trunk of a mighty tree crashed to earth with a deafening thunderclap that shook the ground for miles in every direction. A great, smoking hole appeared in the turf where the bolt had struck. Again and again Garion called down the lightning. The noise of thunder ripped and rolled through the air, and the reek of burning sod and singed earth hung like a cloud over the suddenly terrified armies.