White Gold Wielder

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Together they followed the Master’s example.

  While Honninscrave packed the canvas and bedding, Mistweave set out a cold breakfast. His red-rimmed eyes and weary demeanor held a cast of abashment: he was a Giant and had not expected Cail’s endurance to be greater than his. Now he appeared determined to work harder in compensation—and in support of Honninscrave. While Covenant, Linden, and the other Giants ate, Mistweave toiled about the camp, readying everything for departure.

  As Covenant and Linden settled into their sleds, bundled themselves against the mounting edge of the wind, the First addressed Honninscrave once more. She spoke softly, and the wind frayed away the sound of her voice.

  “From the vantage of your caamora, saw you any sign?”

  His new hardness made his reply sound oddly brutal:

  “None.”

  He and Mistweave shrugged themselves into the lines of the sleds. The First and Pitchwife went ahead. With Cail between the sleds and Vain and Findail in the rear, the company set off.

  Their progress was not as swift as it had been the previous day. The increased difficulty of the terrain was complicated by the air pouring and gusting down from the ridge. Fistsful of ice crystals rattled against the wood of the sleds, stung the faces of the travelers. White plumes and devils danced among the company. The edges of the landscape ached in the wind. Diamondraught and food formed a core of sustenance within him, but failed to spread any warmth into his limbs. He did not know how long he could hold out against the alluring and fatal somnolence of the cold.

  The next time he rubbed the ice from his lashes and raised his head, he found that he had not held out. Half the morning was gone. Unwittingly he had drifted into the passive stupor by which winter and leprosy snared their victims.

  Linden was sitting upright in her sled. Her head shifted tensely from side to side as if she were searching. For a groggy instant, Covenant thought that she was using her senses to probe the safety of the ice. But then she wrenched forward, and her voice snapped over the waste:

  “Stop!”

  Echoes rode eerily back along the wind: Stop! Stop! But ice and cold changed the tone of her shout, made it sound as forlorn as a cry raised from the Soulbiter.

  At once, the First turned to meet the sleds.

  They halted immediately below a pile of broken ice like the rubble of a tremendous fortress reduced by siege. Megalithic blocks and shards towered and loomed as if they were leaning to fall on the company.

  Linden scrambled out of her sled. Before anyone could ask her what she wanted, she coughed, “It’s getting colder.”

  The First and Pitchwife glanced at each other. Covenant moved to stand beside Linden, though he did not comprehend her. After a moment, the First said, “Colder, Chosen? We do not feel it.”

  “I don’t mean the winter,” Linden began at once, urgent to be understood. “It’s not the same.” Then she caught herself, straightened her shoulders. Slowly and sharply, she said, “You don’t feel it—but I tell you it’s there. It’s making the air colder. Not ice. Not wind. Not winter. Something else.” Her lips were blue and trembling. “Something dangerous.”

  And this north is perilous, Covenant thought dully, as if the chill made him stupid. What kind of peril? But when he opened his mouth, no words came.

  Honninscrave’s head jerked up. Pitchwife’s eyes glared white in his misshaped face.

  At the same instant, the First barked, “Arghule!” and sprang at Covenant and Linden.

  Thrusting them toward the sleds, she shouted, “We must flee!” Then she wheeled to scan the region.

  Covenant lost his footing, skidded into Cail’s grasp. The Haruchai flipped him unceremoniously onto his sled. Linden vaulted to her place. At once, Honninscrave and Mistweave heaved the sleds forward as quickly as the slick surface allowed.

  Before they had taken three strides, the ice a stone’s throw ahead rose up and came toward them.

  The moving shape was as wide as the height of a Giant, as thick as the reach of Covenant’s arms. Short legs bore it forward with deceptive speed. Dark gaps around its edge looked like maws.

  Cold radiated from it like a shout.

  The First slid to a halt, planted herself in the path of the creature. “Arghule!” she cried again. “Avoid!”

  Pitcbwife’s answering yell snatched her around. His arm hailed a gesture toward the ridge. “Arghuleh!”

  Two more creatures like the first had detached themselves from the rubble and were rushing toward the company.

  In the south appeared a fourth.

  Together they emitted cold as fierce as the cruel heart of winter.

  For an instant, the First froze. Het protest carried lornly across the wind. “But the arghuleh do not act thus.”

  Abruptly Findail melted into a hawk and flew away.

  Honninscrave roared a command: “Westward!” He was the Master of Starfare’s Gem, trained for emergencies. With a wrench that threw Covenant backward, he hauled his sled into motion. “We must break past!”

  Mistweave followed. As he labored for speed, he called over his shoulder to Linden, “Do not fear! We are Giants, proof against cold!”

  The next moment, the arghuleh attacked.

  The creature approaching the First stopped. At Pitchwife’s warning shout, she whirled to face the arghule. But it did not advance. Instead it waved one of its legs.

  From the arc of the gesture, the air suddenly condensed into a web of ice.

  Expanding and thickening as it moved, the web sailed toward the First like a hunter’s net. Before it reached her, it grew huge and heavy enough to snare even a Giant.

  At the same time, the arghule coming from the south halted, settled itself as though it were burrowing into the waste. Then violence boomed beneath it: ice shattered in all directions. And a crack sprang through the surface, ran like lightning toward the company. In the space between one heartbeat and another, the crack became as wide as the sleds.

  It passed directly under Vain. The Demondim-spawn disappeared so quickly that Covenant did not see him fall.

  Instinctively Covenant turned to look toward the other two arghuleh.

  They were almost close enough to launch their assaults.

  The sled lurched as Honninscrave accelerated. Covenant faced again toward the First.

  The web of ice was dropping over her head.

  Pitchwife struggled toward her. But his feet could not hold the treacherous surface. Cail sped lightly past him as if the Haruchai were as surefooted as a Ranyhyn.

  The First defended herself without her sword. As the web descended, she chopped at it with her left arm.

  It broke in a blizzard of splinters that caught the light like instant chiaroscuro and then rattled faintly away along the wind.

  But her arm came down encased by translucent ice. It covered her limb halfway to the shoulder, immobilized her elbow and hand. Fiercely she hammered at the sheath with her right fist But the ice clung to her like iron.

  The sleds gained momentum. Nearing the First, Honninscrave and Mistweave veered to the side in an effort to bypass the arghule. The crack which had swallowed Vain faded toward the north. Findail was nowhere to be seen. Linden clutched the rail of her sled, a soundless cry stretched over her face.

  Cail dashed past the First to challenge her assailant.

  As one, she and Pitchwife shouted after him, “No!”

  He ignored them. Straight at the creature he aimed his Haruchai strength.

  Before he could strike, the arghule bobbed as if it were bowing. Instantly a great hand of ice slapped down on him out of the empty air. It pounded him flat, snatched him under the bulk of the creature.

  Covenant fought to stand in the slewing sled. Cail’s fall went through him like an auger. The landscape was as white and ruined as wild magic. When his heart beat again, he was translated into fire. Power drove down through him, anchored him. Flame as hot as a furnace, as vicious as venom, cocked back his half-fist to hurl dest
ruction at the arghule.

  There a web flung by one of the trailing creatures caught him. The two arghuleh from the north had changed direction to pursue the company; then one of them had stopped to attack. The snare did not entirely reach him. But its leading edge struck the right side of his head, licked for an instant over his shoulder, snapped on his upraised fist.

  Wild magic pulverized the ice: nothing was left to encase him. But an immense force of cold slammed straight into his brain.

  Instantly paralysis locked itself around him.

  He saw what was happening; every event registered on him. But he was stunned and helpless, lost in a feral chill.

  While Honninscrave and Mistweave fought the sleds sideward to avoid the arghule, the First sprang to Cail’s aid with Pitchwife behind her. The creature sought to retreat; but she moved too swiftly. Bracing itself, it repeated the bow which had captured Cail.

  Her left arm was useless to her, but she ignored the handicap. Fury and need impelled her. As the arghule raised its ice, she put her whole body into one blow and struck the creature squarely with all the Giantish might of her good fist.

  The arghule shattered under the impact. The boom of its destruction echoed off the towering ridge.

  Amid volleying thunder, the sleds rushed past the First. he whirled to face the pursuing arghuleh.

  Pitchwife dove wildly into the remains of the creature. For an instant, he threw chunks and chips aside. Then he emerged, wearing frost and ice-powder as though even in death the arghule nearly had the capacity to freeze him. In his arms, he bore Cail.

  From head to foot, the Haruchai was sheathed like the First’s left arm in pure ice, bound rigid as if he were frozen past all redemption. Carrying him urgently, Pitchwife sped after the sleds.

  The First snatched up a white shard, hurled it at the arghuleh to make them hesitate. Then she followed the company.

  In response, the creatures squatted against the ice; and cracks like cries of frustration and hunger shot through the floe, gaping jaggedly after the travelers. For a moment, the First had to skid and dodge across a ground that was falling apart under her. Then she missed her footing, fell and rolled out of the path of the attack. The cracks searched on for the company; but the sleds were nearly out of range.

  The First regained her feet Soon she, too, was beyond the reach of the arghuleh.

  Covenant saw her come running up behind Pitchwife, clap him encouragingly on the shoulder. Pitchwife panted in great raw gasps as he strove to sustain his pace. The misshaping of his back made him appear to huddle protectively over Cail. Cail’s scar was unnaturally distinct, amplified by the translucence of his casing. He was the last of the Haruchai who had promised themselves to Covenant And Covenant still could not break the cold which clenched his mind. All hope of fire was gone.

  Linden was shouting to the First, “We’ve got to stop! Cail needs help! You need help!”

  Honninscrave and Mistweave did not slacken their pace. The First returned, “Should the arghuleh again draw nigh, will you perceive them?”

  “Yes!” Linden shot back. “Now that I know what they are!” Her tone was hard, certain. “We’ve got to stop! I don’t know how long he can stay alive like that!”

  The First nodded. “Master!” she barked. “We must halt!”

  At once, Honninscrave and Mistweave shortened their strides, let the sleds drag themselves to a standstill.

  Pitchwife managed a few more steps, then stumbled to his knees in a low bowl of snow. The wind whipped flurries around him. His breathing rattled hoarsely as he hunched over Cail, hugging the Haruchai as if he sought to warm Cail with his own life.

  Linden leaped from her sled before it stopped moving, caught her balance and hastened to Pitchwife’s side. But Covenant remained frozen while Honninscrave and Mistweave drew the sleds around to Pitchwife, Cail, Linden, and the First.

  Vain stood there as well. Covenant had not seen the Demondim-spawn arrive, did not know how he had escaped. Bits of ice clung to his tattered apparel, but his black form was unscathed. He did not breathe, and his midnight eyes were focused on nothing.

  Pitchwife set Cail down. Linden knelt beside the Haruchai, searched him with her eyes, then touched her fingers to his case. At once, pain hissed between her teeth. When she snatched back her hands, her fingertips left small patches of skin on the ice. Bright in the sunlight, red droplets oozed from her torn flesh. “Damn it!” she rasped, more frightened and angry than hurt, “that’s cold.” Raising her head to the First, she shivered, “You obviously know something about these arghuleh. Do you know how to treat this?”

  In reply, the First drew her falchion. Gripping it above her head, she brought its hilt down hard on the crust which locked her left arm. The ice broke and fell away, leaving her limb free, the skin undamaged. Stiffly she flexed her hand and wrist. A wince touched her face, but she changed it to a scowl.

  “See you? We are Giants—proof against cold as against fire. Requiring no other unction, we have learned none.” Her glare suggested that she deemed this ignorance to be a kind of failure.

  But Linden had no time for failure. “We can’t do that to him,” she muttered, thinking aloud. “We’d break half his bones.” She peered closely at Cail to confirm her perceptions. “He’s still alive—but he won’t last long.” Red-tipped, her fingers moved as if she had already forgotten their hurt. “We need fire.”

  Then she looked toward Covenant.

  At the sight of him, her eyes went wide with shock and fear. She had not realized that he had been hit by the cold of the arghuleh.

  It felt like a numb nail driven through the side of his head, impaling his mind painlessly. And it was slowly working its way deeper. His left eye had gone blind. Most of the nerves of his left side were as dead as leprosy. He wanted to cry out for help, but no longer knew how.

  From out of nowhere, Findail appeared. Regaining his abused human shape, he placed himself at the fringes of the company and fixed his attention on Linden.

  Ice muffled whatever she was saying. Covenant could not bear it: he did not want to die like this. Mad protests surged through him. All winter was his enemy; every league and ridge of the floe was an attack against him. From the pit of his dismay, he brought up name and venom as if he meant to rid the Earth of all cold forever, tear Time from its foundations in order to shear away the gelid death which locked his brain.

  But then there was another presence in him. It was alien and severe, desperate with alarm—and yet he found it strangely comforting. He struggled instinctively when it took his flame from him; but the cold and his impercipience made his strivings pointless. And the intrusion—an external identity which somehow inhabited his mind as if he had let down all his defenses—gave him warmth in return: the warmth of its own strict desire for him and the heat of his fire combined. For a moment, he thought he knew that other presence, recognized it intimately. Then the world turned into white magic and passion; and the cold fled.

  A few heartbeats later, his eyes squeezed back into focus, and he found himself on his hands and knees. Linden had withdrawn from him, leaving behind an ache of absence as if she had opened a door which enabled him to see how empty his heart was without her. Dull bereavement throbbed in his right forearm; but his ring still hung on the last finger of his halfhand. The wind sent chills ruffling through his clothes. The sun shone as if the desecration of the Sunbane would never be healed. He had failed again. And proved once more that she—

  This time she had simply reached into him and taken possession.

  There was no difference between that and what Lord Foul had done to Joan. What he was doing to the Land. No difference except the difference between Linden herself and the Despiser. And Gibbon-Raver had promised that she would destroy the Earth.

  She had the power to fulfill that prophecy now. She could take it whenever she wanted it.

  Urgent grief came over him—grief for both of them, for himself in his doomed inefficacy, for her in her d
ire plight. He feared he would weep aloud. But then the wind’s flat rush was punctuated by hoarse, hard breathing; and that sound restored his awareness of his companions.

  The ice which had held the Haruchai was gone, and Cail was coming back to life the hard way—fighting for every breath, wresting each inhalation with bared teeth from the near-death of cold. Even the merewives had not so nearly slain him. But Linden had restored him to the verge of survival. As Covenant watched, Cail carried himself the rest of the distance.

  Honninscrave, Mistweave, and the First studied Cail and Linden and Covenant with concern and appreciation mixed together in their faces. Pitchwife had mastered his own gasping enough to grin like a grimace. But Linden had eyes only for Covenant.

  She was wan with dismay at what she had done. From the first, her loathing for possession had been even greater than his; yet the necessity of it was thrust upon her time and again. She was forced to evil by the fundamental commitments which had made her a physician. And how was she forced? he asked himself. By her lack of power. If she were given his ring, as the Elohim desired, she would be saved the peril of this damnation.

  He could not do it. Anything else; he would do anything else. But not this. More than once, she had challenged his protective instincts, protested his desire to spare her. But how could he have explained that everything else—every other attempt at protection or preservation—was nothing more than an effort to pay for this one refusal? To give her something in compensation for what he would not give.

  Now he did it again. Ice-gnawed and frost-burned though he was—leprous, poisoned, and beaten—he wrenched his courage to its feet and faced her squarely. Swallowing grief, he said thickly, “I hope I didn’t hurt anybody.”

  It was not much. But for the time being it was enough. Her distress softened as if he had made a gesture of forgiveness. A crooked smile took the severity from her lips. Blinking at sudden tears, she murmured, “You’re hard to handle. The first time I saw you”—he remembered the moment as well as she did: he had slammed his door in her face—“I knew you were going to give me trouble.”