Belgarath the Sorcerer. David Eddings
departure, but the abandoning of the city had happened some time back, so my companion and I couldn’t pick up any hint of a scent that might have told us which way the Ulgos had gone. We came across some mossy human bones, however, and I didn’t care for the implications of that. Was it possible that the Ulgos had all been killed? Had UL changed his mind and abandoned them?
I didn’t really have time to sort it out. Evening had fallen over the empty city, and my companion and I were still sniffing around in the empty buildings when a sudden bellow shattered the silence, a bellow that was coming from the sky. I went to the doorway of the building we’d been searching and looked up.
The light wasn’t really very good, but it was good enough for me to see that huge shape outlined against the evening sky.
It was the dragon, and her great wings were clawing at the sky and she was belching clouds of sooty fire with every bellow.
Notice that I speak of her in the singular and the feminine. This is no indication of any great perception on my part, since there was only one dragon in the entire world, and she was female. The two males the Gods had created had killed each other during the first mating season. I’d always felt rather sorry for her, but not this time. She, like the Hrulgin and the Algroths, was intent on killing things, but she was too stupid to be selective. She’d burn anything that moved.
Moreover, Torak had added a modification to the dragons when he and his brothers were creating them. They were totally immune to anything I might have been able to do to them with the Will and the Word.
‘One would be more content if you would do something about that,’ the wolf told me.
‘I am thinking about it,’ I replied.
‘Think faster. The bird is returning.’
Her faith in me was touching, but it didn’t help very much. I quickly ran over the dragon’s characteristics in my mind. She was invulnerable, she was stupid, and she was lonely. Those last two clicked together in my mind. I loped to the edge of the city, focused my will on a thicket a few miles south of the mountain, and set fire to it.
The dragon screeched and swooped off toward my fire, belching out her own flames as she went.
‘One wonders why you did that.’
‘Fire is a part of the mating ritual of her kind.’
‘How remarkable. Most birds mate in the spring.’
‘She is not exactly a bird. One thinks that we should leave these mountains immediately. There are strange things taking place here that one does not understand, and we have errands to attend to in the lowlands.’
She sighed. ‘It is always errands with you, isn’t it?’
‘It is the nature of the man-things,’ I told her.
‘But you are not a man-thing right now.’
I couldn’t dispute her logic, but we left anyway, and we reached Arendia two days later.
The tasks my Master had set for me involved certain Arends and some Tolnedrans. At the time, I didn’t understand why the Master was so interested in weddings. I understand now, of course. Certain people needed to be born, and I was out there laying ground work for all I was worth.
I’d rather thought that the presence of my companion might complicate things, but as it turned out, she was an advantage, since you definitely get noticed when you walk into an Arendish village or a Tolnedran town with a full-grown wolf at your side, and her presence did tend to make people listen to me.
Arranging marriages in those days wasn’t really all that difficult. The Arends – and to a somewhat lesser degree the Tolnedrans – had patriarchal notions, and children were supposed to obey their fathers in important matters. Thus, I was seldom obliged to try to convince the happy couple that they ought to get married. I talked with their fathers instead. I had a certain celebrity in those days. The war was still fresh in everybody’s mind, and my brothers and I had played fairly major roles in that conflict. Moreover, I soon found that the priesthood in both Arendia and Tolnedra could be very helpful. After I’d been through the whole business a couple of times, I began to develop a pattern. When the wolf and I went into a town, we’d immediately go to the temple of either Chaldan or Nedra. I’d identify myself and ask the local priests to introduce me to the fathers in question.
It didn’t always go smoothly, of course. Every so often I’d come across stubborn men who for one reason or another didn’t care for my choice of spouses for their children. If worse came to worst, though, I could always give them a little demonstration of what I could do about things that irritated me. That was usually enough to bring them around to my way of thinking.
‘One wonders why all of this is necessary,’ my companion said to me as we were leaving one Arendish village after I’d finally persuaded a particularly difficult man that his daughter’s happiness – and his own health – depended on the girl’s marriage to the young fellow we’d selected for her.
‘They will produce young ones,’ I tried to explain.
‘What an amazing thing,’ she responded dryly. A wolf can fill the simplest statement with all sorts of ironic implications. ‘Is that not the usual purpose of mating?’
‘Our purpose is to produce specific young ones.’
‘Why? One puppy is much like another, is it not? Character is developed in the rearing, not in the blood-line.’
We argued about that off and on for centuries, and I strongly suspect her of arguing largely because she knew that it irritated me. Technically, I was the leader of our odd little pack, but she wasn’t going to let me get above myself.
Arendia was a mournful sort of place in those days. The melancholy institution of serfdom had been well-established among the Arends even before the war with the Angaraks, and they brought it with them when they migrated to the west. I’ve never understood why anyone would submit to being a serf in the first place, but I suppose the Arendish character might have had something to do with it. Arends go to war with each other on the slightest pretext, and an ordinary farmer needs someone around to protect him from belligerent neighbors.
The lands the Arends had occupied in the central part of the continent had been open, and the fields had long been under cultivation. Their new home was a tangled forest, so they had to clear away the trees before they could plant anything. This was the work that fell to the serfs. The wolf and I soon became accustomed to seeing naked people chopping at trees. ‘One wonders why they take off their fur to do this,’ she said to me on one occasion. There’s no word in wolfish for ‘clothing,’ so she had to improvise.
‘It is because they only have one of the things they cover their bodies with. They put them aside while they are hitting the trees because they do not want them to be wounded while they work.’ I decided not to go into the question of the poverty of the serfs nor of the expense of a new canvas smock. The discussion was complicated enough already. How do you explain the concept of ownership to a creature that has no need for possessions of any kind?
‘This covering and uncovering of their bodies that the man-things do is foolishness,’ she declared. ‘Why do they do it?’
‘For warmth when it is cold.’
‘But they also do it when it is not cold. Why?’
‘For modesty, I suppose.’
‘What is modesty?’
I sighed. I wasn’t making much headway here. ‘It is just a custom among the man-things,’ I told her.
‘Oh. If it is a custom, it is all right,’ Wolves have an enormous respect for customs. Then she immediately thought of something else. She was always thinking of something else. ‘If it is the custom among man-things to cover their bodies sometimes but not others, it is not much of a custom, is it?’
I gave up. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Probably not.’