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    David Eddings Synopsis: The wait is over. Herein lies the life story of Belgarath the Sorcerer, and his account of the great struggle that went on before The Belgariad and The Malloreon. The age-old war was ended at last, and Destiny once again rolled on in its proper course. Only a single person remained to tell of the near-forgotten times when Gods still walked the lands, giving comfort and counsel to their mortal children. Only one man alive could speak with certain knowledge of how the Dark God Torak stole the Orb of-Aldur and broke the very world apart, consigning the Gods themselves to the hell of war, along with hapless humanity. Only one individual was left who could relate the whole, fearsome story. That lone witness to history was known to all the world. He was called the Ancient One, the Old Wolf--Belgarath the Sorcerer. And he had been a part of that history from the beginning. He who would come to be called the Sorcerer was born in the tiny village of Gara, long before the epic struggle for the Orb ever began. As a youth he left his home to wander the wide world--and found his way into the service of a God. Years of study and work would follow that choice, molding the boy into a man, and forging the man into an instrument of Prophecy. Here, then, is his tale in full: the story of the strife that split the world asunder and of how the God Aldur and his chosen disciples would toil to set Destiny aright--a monumental undertaking fated to span the eons. Foremost in the chronicles of that labor would be Belgarath. His ceaseless devotion was foredoomed to cost him the very thing he held most dear--and his loyal service would extend on, through the echoing centuries of loss, of struggle, and of ultimate triumph. David Eddings joins forces with his wife and longtime collaborator, Leigh, on a journey to the awesome beginning of the centuries of conflict between two mortally opposed Destinies. Here is the saga of

  • the seven thousand-year war of men and Kings and Gods, of a strange fate and a Prophecy that must be fulfilled. Welcome back, back to the time before The Belgariad and The Malloreon... DAVID ED DINGS was born in Spokane, Washington, in 1931 and was raised in the Puget Sound area north of Seattle. He received a Bachelor of Arts degree from Reed College in Portland, Oregon, in 1954 and a Master of Arts degree from the University of Washington in 1961. He has served in the United States Army, has worked as a buyer for the Boeing Company, has been a grocery clerk, and has taught college English. He has lived in many parts of the United States. His first novel, High Hunt (published by Putnam in 1973), was a contemporary adventure story. The field of fantasy has always been of interest to him, however, and he turned to The Belgariad in an effort to develop certain technical and philosophical ideas concerning the genre. Eddings and his wife, Leigh, currently reside in the Southwest. Jacket painting: Laurence Schwinger Jacket design: David Stevenson Printed in USA By David Eddings Published by Ballantine Books: THE BELGARIAD Book One: Pawn of Prophecy Book Two: Queen of Sorcery Book Three: Magician's Gambit Book Four: Castle of Wizardry Book Five: Enchanter's End Game THE MALLOREON Book One: Guardians of the West Book Two: King of the Murgos Book Three: Demon Lord of Karanda Book Four: Sorceress of Darshiva Book Five: The Seeress of Kell THE ELENIUM Book One: The Diamond Throne Book Two: The Ruby Knight Book Three: The Sapphire Rose THE TAMULI Book One: Domes of Fire Book Two: The Shining Ones Book Three: The Hidden City HIGH HUNT THE LOSERS

  • belgarath THE SORCERER DAVID AND LEIGH ED DINGS A Del Rey Book Published by Ballantine Books Copyright 1995 by David Eddings Maps copyright 1995 by Christine Levis and Shelly Shapiro Endpaper map copyright 1995 by Larry Schwinger All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States of America by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc." New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. ISBN 0345373243 Borders and artwork 1995 by Holly Johnson Text design by Holly Johnson Manufactured in the United States of America For Owen We have all been at this since April of 1982. Your friendship, guidance, and faith in us has been greatly cherished. One more to go! Leigh and David A note to the reader: We're sure that the reader has noticed a slight modification of the authorial attribution on the cover of this slender volume. The reader is now privy to one of the worst-kept secrets in contemporary fiction. There are two names on the cover because it took two of us to write this book, and this has been going on from the very beginning. The recognition (finally) of the hitherto unacknowledged coauthor of these assorted works is no more than simple justice--if justice can ever be called simple. It's time to give credit where credit is due, so let's make it official, shall we? Prologue It was well past midnight and very cold. The moon had risen, and her pale light made the frost crystals lying in the snow sparkle like carelessly strewn diamonds. In a peculiar way it seemed to Garion almost as if the snow-covered earth were reflecting the starry sky overhead. "I think they're gone now," Durnik said, peering upward. His breath steamed in the icy, dead-calm air. "I can't see that rainbow any more." "Rainbow?" Belgarath asked, sounding slightly amused. "You know what I mean. Each of them has a different-colored light.

  • Aldur's is blue, Issa's is green, Chaldan's is red, and the others all have different colors. Is there some significance to that?" "It's probably a reflection of their different personalities," Belgarath replied. "I can't be entirely positive, though. My Master and I never got around to discussing it." He stamped his feet in the snow. "Why don't we go back?" he suggested. "It's cold out here." They turned and started back down the hill toward the cottage, their feet crunching in the frozen snow. The farmstead at the foot of the hill looked warm and comforting. The thatched roof of the cottage was thick with snow, and the icicles hanging from the eaves glittered in the moon light. The outbuildings Durnik had constructed were dark, but the windows of the cottage were all aglow with golden lamplight that spread softly out over the mounded snow in the yard. A column of blue-grey wood-smoke rose straight and unwavering from the chimney, rising, it seemed, to the very stars. It probably had not really been necessary for the three of them to accompany their guests to the top of the hill to witness their departure, but it was Durnik's house, and Durnik was a Sendar. Sendars are meticulous about proprieties and courtesies. "Eriond's changed," Garion noted as they neared the bottom of the hill. "He seems more certain of himself now." Belgarath shrugged. "He's growing up. It happens to everybody--except to Belar, maybe. I don't think we can ever expect Belar to grow up." "Belgarath!" Durnik sounded shocked. "That's no way for a man to speak about his God!" "What are you talking about?" "What you just said about Belar. He's the God of the Alorns, and you're an Alorn, aren't you?" "Whatever gave you that peculiar notion? I'm no more an Alorn than you are."

  • "I always thought you were. You've certainly spent enough time with them." "That wasn't my idea. My Master gave them to me about five thousand years ago. There were a number of times when I tried to give them back, but he wouldn't hear of it." "Well, if you're not an Alorn, what are you?" "I'm not really sure. It wasn't all that important to me when I was young. I do know that I'm not an Alorn. I'm not crazy enough for that." "Grandfather!" Garion protested. "You don't count, Garion. You're only half Alorn." They reached the door of the cottage and carefully stamped the snow off their feet before entering. The cottage was Aunt Pol's domain, and she had strong feelings about people who tracked snow across her spotless floors. The interior of the cottage was warm and filled with golden lamplight that reflected from the polished surfaces of Aunt Pol's copper-bottomed pots and kettles and pans hanging from hooks on either side of the arched fireplace. Durnik had built the table and chairs in the center of the room out of oak, and the lamplight enhanced the golden color of the wood. The three of them immediately went to the fireplace to warm their hands and feet. The door to the bedroom opened, and Poledra came out. "Well," she said, "did you see them off?" "Yes, dear," Belgarath replied. "They were going in a generally northeasterly direction the last time I looked." "How's Pol?" Durnik asked. "Happy," Garion's tawny-haired grandmother replied. "That's not exactly what I meant. Is she still awake?" Poledra nodded.

  • "She's lying in bed admiring her handiwork." "Would it be all right if I looked in on her?" "Of course. Just don't wake the babies." "Make a note of that, Durnik," Belgarath advised. "Not waking those babies is likely to become your main purpose in life for the next several months." Durnik smiled briefly and went into the bedroom with Poledra. "You shouldn't tease him that way, Grandfather," Garion chided. "I wasn't teasing, Garion. Sleep's very rare in a house with twins. One of them always seems to be awake. Would you like something to drink? I think I can probably find Pol's beer barrel." "She'll pull out your beard if she catches you in her pantry." "She isn't going to catch me, Garion. She's too busy being a mother right now." The old man crossed the room to the pantry and began rummaging around. Garion pulled off his cloak, hung it on a wooden peg, and went back to th