"David Eddings. Pawn of prophecy queen of sorcery magician's gambit (The Belgariad, Part one)" - читать интересную книгу автора

by the enraged attack. Garion was horrified at what he had done, but at
the same time there was the fiery taste of victory in his mouth.
Later, in the kitchen, where all injuries on the farm were routinely
taken, Aunt Pol tended their wounds with only minimal comments about them.
Rundorig seemed not to be seriously hurt, though his face had begun to
swell and turn purple in several places and he had difficulty focusing his
eyes at first. A few cold cloths on his head and one of Aunt Pol's potions
quickly restored him.
The cut on Garion's brow, however, required a bit more attention. She
had Durnik hold the boy down and then she took needle and thread and sewed
up the cut as calmly as she would have repaired a rip in a sleeve, all the
while ignoring the howls from her patient. All in all, she seemed much
more concerned about the dented kettles and battered pot lids than about
the war wounds of the two boys.
When it was over, Garion had a headache and was taken up to bed.
"At least I beat Kal Torak," he told Aunt Pol somewhat drowsily.
She looked at him sharply.
"Where did you hear about Torak?" she demanded.

"It's Kal Torak, Aunt Pol," Garion explained patiently.
"Answer me."
"The farmers were telling stories-old Cralto and the others-about Brand
and Vo Mimbre and Kal Torak and all the rest. That's what Rundorig and I
were playing. I was Brand and he was Kal Torak. I didn't get to uncover my
shield, though. Rundorig hit me on the head before we got that far."
"I want you to listen to me, Garion," Aunt Pol said, "and I want you to
listen carefully. You are never to speak the name of Torak again."
"It's Kal Torak, Aunt Pol," Garion explained again, "not just Torak."
Then she hit him - which she had never done before. The slap across his
mouth surprised him more than it hurt, for she did not hit very hard.
"You will never speak the name of Torak again. Neverl" she said. "This
is important, Garion. Your safety depends on it. I want your promise."
"You don't have to get so angry about it," he said in an injured tone.
"Promise."
"All right, I promise. It was only a game."
"A very foolish one," Aunt Pol said. "You might have killed Rundorig."
"What about me?" Garion protested.
"You were never in any danger," she told him. "Now go to sleep."
And as he dozed fitfully, his head light from his injury and the
strange, bitter drink his aunt had given him, he seemed to hear her deep,
rich voice saying, "Garion, my Garion, you're too young yet." And later,
rising from deep sleep as a fish rises toward the silvery surface of the
water, he seemed to hear her call, "Father, I need you." Then he plunged
again into a troubled sleep, haunted by a dark figure of a man on a black
horse who watched his every movement with a cold animosity and something
that hovered very near the edge of fear; and behind that dark figure he
had always known to be there but had never overtly acknowledged, even to
Aunt Pol, the maimed and ugly face he had briefly seen or imagined in the
fight with Rundorig loomed darkly, like the hideous fruit of an
unspeakable evil tree.