The Humor and Magic of The Belgariad Series

Garion and a sword

I just couldn’t quit talking about the Dragonlance books as my eyes had been opened to the awesomeness that is fantasy. I talked so much my cousin told me to read The Belgariad. David Eddings, here I come!

Now, I’m going to be honest — the first time I heard the name Belgariad, I thought it sounded like a medieval breakfast cereal. “Start your morning with Belgari-O’s! Fortified with prophecy and destiny!” But once I cracked open Pawn of Prophecy, I was hooked faster than a farm boy handed a sword and a mysterious destiny — which, in this case, is exactly what happens.

Enter Garion. Poor, sweet, wonderfully oblivious Garion. He’s the everyteen hero we all secretly (or not so secretly) were. He grew up on a farm, had a cool aunt who made great stews and gave off major “don’t mess with me, I know magic” vibes, and thought his biggest problem was which chores he’d be stuck with next. Classic setup, right? Until of course, magic, wizards, and someone stole a very important object of ultimate power showed up like they were kicking off a fantasy bingo night.

Suddenly Garion’s not just a farm boy — he’s knee-deep in ancient prophecies, shape-shifting sorcerers, and enough magical MacGuffins to make your head spin.

But what made The Belgariad really hit me as a kid — and still sticks with me today — wasn’t just the quest or the magic (although yes, obviously, that was awesome). It was the characters. David Eddings didn’t just give us a hero — he gave us an ensemble cast worthy of a magical sitcom.

You’ve got Silk, the weaselly little merchant-spy who’s basically what you’d get if a raccoon learned how to do accounting and martial arts. He’s sneaky, hilarious, and somehow always knows just enough to make everyone nervous. He was my favorite as a kid — and let’s be real, he still is. I mean, if I had a gold coin for every time Silk lied, cheated, or pickpocketed someone for a noble cause, I could probably afford my own fantasy kingdom by now.

Then there’s Barak. Giant viking with anger management issues and a soft spot for Garion. He turns into a bear. An actual bear. And somehow that’s not even the weirdest part of his character arc.

And of course, Aunt Pol. Or should I say Polgara the Sorceress. You know, the centuries-old, silver-streaked sorceress who could fry your eyebrows off with a look but still makes sure you eat your vegetables. She’s the backbone of the whole series. She’s also the poster child for the phrase “don’t mess with grandma, she knows ancient magic and has no time for your nonsense.”

Now let’s talk wizards. No fantasy series is complete without a wizard who’s old, cryptic, suspiciously spry for someone supposedly hundreds of years old, and partial to oversized cloaks. That’s Belgarath. He’s Garion’s… well, it gets complicated. But suffice it to say, if there’s trouble, Belgarath either caused it, already dealt with it 200 years ago, or is about to fix it with a sarcastic grunt and a little time-bending sorcery.

What really set The Belgariad apart for me was how funny it was. So many fantasy books — even the great ones — take themselves a bit too seriously. Not Eddings. He knew that when you put a farm boy, a grumpy sorceress, a spy with sticky fingers, and a man who occasionally becomes a bear on a road trip to save the world… there’s going to be comedy. There’s going to be banter. And there’s going to be someone (probably Silk) making snarky comments while everyone else is trying to survive the latest magical catastrophe.

And the magic system? Oh, it’s vague. Delightfully vague. There are rules, sure, but they mostly boil down to: “Don’t do something unless you really mean it… or the universe might explode.” Which, honestly, is how I treat email these days.

As I tore through the five books — Pawn of Prophecy, Queen of Sorcery, Magician’s Gambit, Castle of Wizardry, and Enchanters’ End Game — I started to feel like I was growing up with Garion. Each book was like a level-up in the school of “How to Be a Reluctant Chosen One 101.” And by the end, when the prophecy gets all prophecy-y and the final showdown arrives, I was ready to charge into battle myself. Okay, not really. But I did dramatically turn the last page and stare into the distance like I’d just saved the world. My dog was not impressed.

The best part, though? The Belgariad led me straight into The Malloreon — the sequel series. Because when you’ve spent five books watching a group of dysfunctional fantasy heroes save the world, you want more. You need more. You want to know what happens when “happily ever after” turns out to be “happily, but now there’s a new prophecy and oh no, not again.”

And yes, The Malloreon gave me more dragons. I mean, technically dragon singular, but it still counts. And that’s important, because let’s be real — no fantasy adventure is complete without at least one dragon looking majestic and/or breathing fire at the wrong moment.

Looking back now, what strikes me about The Belgariad is how it managed to mix humor, heart, and high fantasy into something that felt welcoming. It wasn’t grimdark. It wasn’t intimidating. It was a story you could get lost in — full of magic, wizards, and the idea that maybe, just maybe, even a clueless farm kid could change the world.

So here’s to Garion, Polgara, Silk, and the whole magical misfit gang. Thanks for making me believe that destinies can be rewritten, magic doesn’t always follow the rules, and sometimes the best weapon is a sarcastic remark at the worst possible time.

And if you’ve never read The Belgariad — now’s the time. Because whether you’re twelve years old and hiding under the covers with a flashlight, or forty-something and rereading it while yelling “I forgot how good this was!” to your kids — it’s still an epic ride.