Suddenly the thought of that previous event struck him forcibly. The situation then was so similar to this one that it seemed all at once like some elaborate game. The moves on the board were almost identical, and in each case he had been placed in the uncomfortable position of being required to block that last crucial move where a king would die and a kingdom would collapse. He felt oddly powerless, as if his entire life were in the fingers of two faceless players maneuvering pieces in the same patterns on some vast board in a game that, for all he knew, had lasted for eternity. There was no question about what had to be done. The players, however, seemed content to leave it up to him to come up with a way to do it.
King Korodullin appeared shaken when he returned to the throne room with Mister Wolf a half hour later, and he controlled his expression with obvious difficulty. "Forgive me, gentles all," he apologized, "but I have had disturbing news. For the present time, however, let us put aside our cares and celebrate this historic visit. Summon musicians and command that a banquet be made ready."
There was a stir near the door, and a black-robed man entered with a half dozen Mimbrate knights in full armor following him closely, their eyes narrow with suspicion and their hands on their sword hilts as if daring anyone to bar their leader's path. As the robed man strode nearer, Garion saw his angular eyes and scarred cheeks. The man was a Murgo.
Barak put a firm hand on Hettar's arm.
The Murgo had obviously dressed in haste and he seemed slightly breathless from his burned trip to the throne room. "Your Majesty," he rasped, bowing deeply to Korodullin, "I have just been advised that visitors have arrived at thy court and have made haste here to greet them in the name of my king, Taur Urgas."
Korodullin's face grew cold. "I do not recall summoning thee, Nachak," he said.
"It is, then, as I had feared," the Murgo replied. "These messengers have spoken ill of my race, seeking to dissever the friendship which loth exist between the thrones of Arendia and of Cthol Murgos. I am chagrined to find that thou bast given ear to slanders without offering me opportunity to reply. Is this just, august Majesty?"
"Who is this?" Mister Wolf asked Korodullin.
"Nachak," the king replied, "the ambassador of Cthol Murgos. Shall I introduce thee to him, Ancient One?"
"That won't be necessary," Mister Wolf answered bleakly. "Every Murgo alive knows who I am. Mothers in Cthol Murgos frighten their children into obedience by mentioning my name."
"But I am not a child, old man," Nachak sneered. "I'm not afraid of you."
"That could be a serious failing," Silk observed.
The Murgo's name had struck Garion almost like a blow. As he looked at the scarred face of the man who had so misled Lelldorin and his friends, he realized that the players had once again moved their pieces into that last crucial position, and that who would win and who would lose once again depended entirely on him.
"What lies have you told the king?" Nachak was demanding of Mister Wolf.
"No lies, Nachak," Wolf told him. "Just the truth. That should be enough."
"I protest, your Majesty," Nachak appealed to the king. "I protest in the strongest manner possible. All the world knows of his hatred for my people. How can you allow him to poison your mind against us?"
"He forgot the thees and thous that time," Silk commented slyly.
"He's excited," Barak replied. "Murgos get clumsy when they're excited. It's one of their shortcomings."
"Alorns!" Nachak spat.
"That's right, Murgo," Barak said coldly. He was still holding Hettar's arm.
Nachak looked at them, and then his eyes widened as he seemed to see Hettar for the first time. He recoiled from the Algar's hate-filled stare, and his half dozen knights closed protectively around him. "Your Majesty," he rasped, "I know that man to be Hettar of Algaria, a known murderer. I demand that you arrest him."
"Demand, Nachak?" the king asked with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Thou wilt present demands to me in my own court?"
"Forgive me, your Majesty," Nachak apologized quickly. "The sight of that animal so disturbed me that I forgot myself."
"You'd be wise to leave now, Nachak," Mister Wolf recommended. "It's not really a good idea for a Murgo to be alone in the presence of so many Alorns. Accidents have a way of happening under such conditions."
"Grandfather," Garion said urgently. Without knowing exactly why, he knew that it was time to speak. Nachak must not be allowed to leave the throne room. The faceless players had made their final moves, and the game must end here. "Grandfather," he repeated, "there's something I have to tell you."
"Not now, Garion." Wolf was still looking with hard eyes at the Murgo.
"It's important, grandfather. Very important."
Mister Wolf turned as if to reply sharply, but then he seemed to see something - something that no one else in the throne room could see and his eyes widened in momentary amazement. "All right, Garion," he said in a strangely quiet voice. "Go ahead."
"Some men are planning to kill the king of Arendia. Nachak's one of them." Garion had said it louder than he'd intended, and a sudden silence fell over the throne room at his words.
Nachak's face went pale, and his hand moved involuntarily toward his sword hilt, then froze. Garion was suddenly keenly aware of Barak hulking just behind him and Hettar, grim as death in black leather towering beside him. Nachak stepped back and made a quick gesture to his steel-clad knights. Quickly they formed a protective ring around him, their hands on their weapons. "I won't stay and listen to such slander," the Murgo declared.
"I have not yet given thee my permission to withdraw, Nachak," Korodullin informed him coolly. "I require thy presence yet a while." The young king's face was stern, and his eyes bored into the Murgo's. Then he turned to Garion. "I would hear more of this. Speak truthfully, lad, and fear not reprisal from any man for thy words."
Garion drew a deep breath and spoke carefully. "I don't really know all the details, your Majesty," he explained. "I found out about it by accident."
"Say what thou canst," the king told him.
"As nearly as I can tell, your Majesty, next summer when you travel to Vo Astur, a group of men are going to try to kill you somewhere on the highway."
"Asturian traitors, doubtless," a gray-haired courtier suggested.