"David Eddings. Castle of wizardry enchanters' end game (The Belgariad, Part two)" - читать интересную книгу автора

humming softly to herself. After Relg had performed his ritual of
purification over the dead Murgo's body, they remounted and rode on. The
sliver of moon stood high overhead in the chill sky, casting a pale light
down on the black sands, and Garion looked about constantly as he rode,
trying to pick out any possible dangers lurking ahead. He glanced
frequently at Aunt Pol, wishing that she were not so completely cut off
from him, but she seemed to be totally absorbed in maintaining her shield
of will. She rode with Errand pulled closely against her, and her eyes
were distant, unfathomable. Garion looked hopefully at Belgarath, but the
old man, though he looked up from his doze at times, seemed largely
unaware of his surroundings. Garion sighed, and his eyes resumed their
nervous scrutiny of the trail ahead. They rode on through the tag-end of
night in the biting chill with the faint moonlight about them and the
stars glittering like points of ice in the sky above.
Suddenly Garion heard a roaring in his mind - a sound that had a
peculiar echo to it - and the shield of force surrounding Aunt Pol
shimmered with an ugly orange glow. He jerked his will in sharply and
gestured with a single word. He had no idea what word he used, but it
seemed to work. Like a horse blundering into a covey of feeding birds, his
will scattered the concerted attack on Aunt Pol and Errand. There had been
more than one mind involved in the attack - he sensed that - but it seemed
to make no difference. He caught a momentary flicker of chagrin and even
fear as the joined wills of Aunt Pol's attackers broke and fled from him.
"Not bad,"the voice in his mind observed. "A little clumsy, perhaps,
but not bad at all."
"It's the first time I ever did it, " Garion replied. "1'll get better
with more practice."
"Don't get overconfident," the voice advised dryly, and then it was
gone.
He was growing stronger, there was no doubt about that. The ease with
which he had dispersed the combined wills of that group of Grolims Aunt
Pol had called the Hierarchs amazed him. He faintly began to understand
what Aunt Pol and Belgarath meant in their use of the word "talent." There
seemed to be some kind of capacity, a limit beyond which most sorcerers
could not go. Garion realized with a certain surprise that he was already
stronger than men who had been practicing this art for centuries, and that
he was only beginning to touch the edges of his talent. The thought of
what he might eventually be able to do was more than a little frightening.
It did, however, make him feel somewhat more secure. He straightened in
his saddle and rode a bit more confidently. Perhaps leadership wasn't so
bad after all. It took some getting used to, but once you knew what you
were doing, it didn't seem all that hard.
The next attack came as the eastern horizon had begun to grow pale
behind them. Aunt Pol, her horse, and the little boy all seemed to vanish
as absolute blackness engulfed them. Garion struck back instantly and he
added a contemptuous little twist to it - a stinging slap at the joined
minds that had mounted the attack. He felt a glow of self satisfaction at
the surprise and pain in the minds as they flinched back from his quick
counterblow. There was a glimpse - just a momentary one - of nine very old
men in black robes seated around a table in a room somewhere. One of the