Fatal Revenant

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “Linden Avery, you have attained the stature of legends among the Giants. Had the Search not informed us that time flows otherwise in your world, your presence—aye, and your comparative youth—would surpass belief. You have been a redeemer of the Land, and mayhap of the wide Earth also. Yet now Lostson Longwrath craves the sacrifice of your life upon the altar of his derangement. Across a year of the world and thousands of leagues, he has pursued your death. If you do not grant us comprehension, we will remain as lost as he, and as bereft.”

  Linden swallowed heavily, trying to clear her throat of implications and dread. She understood too much as well as too little, and her heart trembled. Instead of answering the Ironhand directly, she murmured, “I don’t think that they’re aware of you. I think that they’re being commanded.”

  The skurj had attacked the Giants because Kastenessen wished it. So that Longwrath could elude his guardians. Now the creatures held back so that the mad Swordmain could get close to Linden again. Kastenessen meant to help him carry out his geas.

  Liand shook himself as though he were rousing from a trance. “Aye,” he whispered. “It must be so. The skurj would not otherwise act as they have done. They are appetite incarnate. Hunger rules them, as Longwrath also is ruled.”

  Like Joan, Linden thought. Joan’s despair was a kind of hunger. And turiya Raver tormented her, urging destruction.

  Kastenessen and Longwrath, Joan and Roger and Lord Foul: they all sought the same thing.

  Apart from the claiming of your vacant son, I have merely whispered a word of counsel here and there, and awaited events.

  Understanding too much, Linden knew that her need for the aid of the Swordmainnir was absolute, if only so that she might reach Andelain and Loric’s krill alive.

  And she could not tell them the truth. Not all of it: not the one thing which she had never revealed to anyone. If she did, they might turn their backs on her. Even Stave, Liand, and Mahrtiir might prefer a doom of their own making. The Humbled would oppose her with all of their great strength.

  He did not know of your intent.

  While Linden attempted to sort her conflicting priorities, Stave said, “A question, Rime Coldspray, if you will permit it?”

  Unsteady flames made Coldspray’s grin look crooked; broken. “I would ‘permit’ questions to any Master, Stave of the Haruchai, regardless of their unwelcome. But you stand with Linden Avery as Brinn, Cail, and others of your kind did with Thomas Covenant. You require no permission of mine.”

  “Then I ask if you have encountered Masters in your pursuit of Longwrath.”

  The Ironhand shook her head. “We have sighted none. But I cannot say that we have not been sighted. Our haste”—she scowled up at the stars—“has precluded care. Apart from forests, and the skurj, and Longwrath, we have observed little. If any Master discerned us at a distance, he did so without our notice.

  “Indeed,” she added, “we pray that we have been observed—that even now some Master bears word of us, and of the skurj, to mighty Revelstone. The folk of the Land must be forewarned.

  “Yet even a mounted Master will require many days to convey his tidings westward. For good or ill, your kinsmen will know naught of what transpires here until events have moved beyond their power to thwart or succor.”

  Stave bowed gravely. His flat mien concealed his reactions. But Mahrtiir said gruffly, “It is well. I doubt neither the valor of the Masters nor their dedication to the Land. Yet it is evident that no human flesh can withstand the skurj. Only Giants will serve here. The Masters would merely perish.” He turned his bandaged face toward Stave. “As will the Ramen, and indeed the Ringthane herself, if these Swordmainnir do not accompany us—and if the Ringthane does not call upon powers other than Law to preserve her.”

  Linden took a deep breath. “Mahrtiir is right,” she told Coldspray. “We need you. When we’re attacked again, I’m going to try using Covenant’s ring.” These Giants had heard the tales of the Search: they knew that she had claimed his wedding band. “But I haven’t exactly mastered it. And I don’t know how many skurj I can face at once.”

  Still hugging her Staff for reassurance, she began.

  “Here’s the short version. I want to reach Andelain. I hope to talk to the Dead.” She yearned to find Thomas Covenant among the Land’s attending ghosts—“And I need to locate Loric’s krill.” The Giants of the Search would not have neglected to mention High Lord Loric’s eldritch weapon. “I’m too weak the way I am. We’ve all seen that. The krill might let me use my Staff and Covenant’s ring at the same time.”

  Coldspray stared at her. “In that event,” the Ironhand said cautiously, “your strength will exceed comprehension.”

  “I hope so,” Linden responded. “I need to be that strong.”

  Then she told her story as well as her secret intentions permitted. She glossed over those details which the Giants might already know. For Stave’s sake, she said nothing of the ancient meeting of the Haruchai with the Insequent. And she did not dwell on the frightening similarities between Joan and Longwrath. But for herself, she omitted only the personal ramifications of her trials in the Land’s past, and of her experiences with the Mahdoubt. Everyone that she had encountered, everything that she had learned or done, since Roger had first taken Jeremiah from her, she endeavored to explain.

  While she spoke, the night grew deeper. Darkness gathered close around her, relieved only by firelight and the faint silver gilding of the stars. During her tale, the rest of the Giants arrived with Longwrath still shackled in their midst. When he saw Linden, he tried to roar around his gag; began to struggle feverishly. But the Swordmainnir quelled him with as much gentleness as possible. And she did not pause for him. She had to finish her story.

  Her friends listened uncomfortably. Until now, events had prevented her from telling them how Kevin’s Dirt inhibited the power of her Staff. And doubtless they knew her well enough to recognize—or guess at—some of her elisions. But they did not protest. Perhaps they had grown accustomed to the ways in which she did not allow herself to be fully understood. Although that possibility grieved her, she valued their silence. She had her own reasons for truncating her story, and some of her intentions were honest.

  After she was done, the Giants murmured together for a time, clearly troubled. Their fire-lit bulk seemed to fill the glade with apprehension. Then Rime Coldspray met Linden’s gaze across the erratic dance of the flames.

  “It is an extraordinary tale, Linden Avery. Your gift for brevity discomfits us. There is much that you have set aside. At another time, perhaps, we will ask more of you concerning the Insequent, Esmer, Kastenessen, and halfhands. Certainly we wish to grasp how it is that you remain among the living when you have been slain.”

  She glanced around at the rest of the Swordmainnir. When Stonemage, Grueburn, Galesend, and the others nodded, she faced Linden again.

  “However, the night grows short, and we cannot foretell how Kastenessen will direct his skurj. Therefore we must give precedence to a different concern.”

  Linden tightened her embrace on the Staff. She knew what was coming.

  The Ironhand appeared to select her words with care as she said, “We cannot do otherwise than surmise that Longwrath’s craving for your death bears upon your purpose in some fashion. Do you dispute this?”

  Linden shook her head. “Lord Foul seems to be everywhere these days. He told me that he hasn’t done anything himself. He just gives advice and waits to see what happens. But even if he’s telling the truth, he has a whole list of surrogates who could have twisted Longwrath’s mind.” Or his madness might be a distorted form of Earth-Sight—“One way or another, the Despiser wants to stop me.”

  “Then, Linden Avery,” Coldspray pronounced distinctly, “Chosen and Sun-Sage, it behooves me to observe that you have not named your purpose.”

  Linden feigned incomprehension. “What do you mean? I told you—”

  “You wish to speak to the Dead,” coun
tered the Swordmain. “You desire their knowledge and counsel. This we acknowledge. But you also seek the krill of Loric—and you have not justified your need for its immeasurable magicks.” Her voice had a whetted edge. “What use will you make of such vast puissance?”

  “I thought that I was clear,” Linden insisted. “I want to find my son. I want to free him from the croyel. I might have to fight my way through the Despiser to do that. I’ll certainly have to deal with Kastenessen and Roger—and the skurj. And I want to do as much as I can for the Land.”

  In that, she meant what she said.

  “Does your intent end there, Chosen?” asked Stave quietly. “Do you not also seek retribution?”

  I do not forgive.

  Linden rounded on him. “So what?” He did not deserve her anger, but she made no effort to restrain it. “That comes last.” She had too much to conceal. “If I want to pay back some of my son’s pain after I’ve rescued him, what do you care?”

  Coldspray folded her arms across her chest. “Linden Avery, you are not forthright.” Her eyes caught a combative glint from the firelight. “Your words have another meaning which you do not name. It is audible.

  “Will you not reveal how you propose to accomplish your ends? The power which you seek will not in itself uncover your son’s hiding place. It may defeat Kastenessen and his skurj, but it will not halt the ruptures which you name caesures, or silence the madness of Thomas Covenant’s lost mate. Nor will it reveal the machinations of the Despiser—or of the Elohim. It will merely enable the riving of the world.

  “Why do you wish to wield illimitable might? What will you accomplish with Loric’s krill that does not serve the Despiser?”

  Linden resisted an impulse to duck her head, hide her eyes. Coldspray searched her, and she did not mean to be exposed. The Waynhim believed that Good cannot be accomplished by evil means. Instinctively she agreed with them. Therefore she had to trust that her intended means were not evil. Nonetheless her desire to protect her secret was inherently dishonest: it compelled her to tell lies of omission.

  Yet some of her intentions were honest. She clung to that, and held the Ironhand’s probing gaze.

  “I’m sorry,” she said carefully. “I know this is hard. But I’m not going to tell you. I won’t say it out loud.” If she did, the granite of her heart might crack open, spilling more rage and terror and shame than she could bear. “I need your help. I want your friendship. But I’m not going to answer you.”

  Within her she holds the devastation of the Earth—

  Long ago, she had learned the cost of escape. If she told the truth, someone here would try to stop her. Even her friends might oppose her. The Humbled would attack her without hesitation. Then she would be spared the burdens that she had chosen to bear—and Jeremiah would be lost to her—and she would not be able to endure it.

  Liand, Pahni, and Bhapa stared at her openly. Mahrtiir’s stiffness suggested surprise. Apparently they had not thought so far ahead: they had focused their attention on the hazards of Linden’s journey rather than on its outcome. Only Stave betrayed no reaction. He may have recognized her need to avoid the enmity of the Humbled.

  Surely Galt, Branl, and Clyme would not have left the glade if Stave had not agreed to let them hear what he heard?

  “You prick my curiosity,” remarked Coldspray, poised and casual, like a woman ready to strike. “Do you seek to encourage our doubts? Is that your intention here?”

  In spite of his gag, Longwrath fought to make himself heard. Linden was sure that he wanted to howl, Slay her!

  How quickly, she wondered, could the Ironhand reach her glaive? Coldspray would not need it. None of the Swordmainnir would need their weapons. Linden was too small; too human. Any blow of their heavy fists would kill her.

  Trust yourself. The Giants of the Search had become her friends long before the Haruchai had learned to respect her.

  “Yes,” she answered as firmly as she could. “I need you to doubt me. If you don’t decide to help me for your own reasons instead of for mine, I’m doomed anyway. I don’t know how else to explain it. This is as close as I can come to the truth,” as close as she could afford to come. “I’ve told you what I want to accomplish. If you aren’t satisfied, you should walk away.”

  Coldspray considered Linden for a long moment while Longwrath writhed in protest and stars thronged the cold sky. One by one, the Ironhand looked into the eyes of each of her comrades. In the moving shadows spread by the fire, some of them appeared to glower. Others grimaced.

  Then she cocked her fists on her hips, threw back her head, and began to laugh.

  Her laughter was as rich and open-throated as an act of defiance. At first, Linden heard strain in it, effort and constriction: a difficult choice rather than humor. Almost at once, however, two or three and then more of the other Giants joined her; and her laughing loosened until it became untroubled mirth, full of gladness and freedom. Soon all of the Swordmainnir laughed with her, and their voices reached the heavens.

  Liand laughed as well, as if he had been released from his cares. Pahni and Bhapa smiled broadly, and Mahrtiir grinned below his bandage. Anele stroked the smooth stone of Coldspray armor and crooned as though he were being cradled. For a time, Longwrath ceased his struggles: his gagged rage fell silent. Stave surveyed them all impassively; but the firelight in his eye hinted at relief.

  Linden, too, would have laughed, if she could. The unfettered pleasure of the Giants reassured her. But she did not know what it meant.

  Gradually Rime Coldspray subsided. Still chuckling, she said, “Stone and Sea! We are Giants indeed. Though we live and die, we change as little as the permanence that we adore. In spite of our many centuries, we have not yet learned to be other than we are.

  “After our children,” she continued, speaking more directly to Linden. “tales are our greatest treasures. But there can be no story without hazard and daring, fortitude and uncertainty. Events and deeds which lack peril seldom enthrall. And joy is in the ears that hear, not in the mouth that speaks. Already you have supplied our most exigent need. You have allowed us to see that our seemingly lost and aimless voyages in Longwrath’s name are but the prelude to a far larger tale.

  “Linden Avery,” she proclaimed while her comrades went on laughing, “it is enough. Seeking the import of our many labors, we will accompany you. If Stave of the Haruchai stands at your side, joined by the courteous and considerate Ramen—and likewise this wide-eyed Stonedownor and the anguished son of Sunder and Hollian—the Swordmainnir can do no less. Indeed, I name you Giantfriend, both for your known love toward the Giants of the Search, and in token of our own esteem.

  “I have spoken.” Chuckling again, she asked, “Does our doubt content you? Will you now accept our comradeship, come good or ill, joy or woe?”

  At Coldspray’s words, some of the fear lifted from Linden’s heart. Although she could not laugh, she smiled warmly. “Thank you. The First and Pitchwife would be so proud—” The Giants may have had few children—too few—but they bred true. That was their birthright. “Meeting you is the best thing that’s happened to us since we left Revelstone.”

  Her voice broke as she finished. “God, I’ve missed you.”

  She believed now that none of her many enemies would be able to prevent her from reaching the Hills of Andelain.

  10.

  Struggles over Wild Magic

  During the remainder of that night, Linden slept little. Her story was strange to the Swordmainnir: it raised more issues than it explained. Although they expressed concern for the weariness of their new companions, the Giants needed to talk.

  They asked nothing more about Linden’s intentions. For a while, they discussed the actions of the Sandgorgons, pondering what those creatures would do now that they had satisfied their ancient “gratitude.” Then, with elaborate delicacy, Rime Coldspray indicated the bullet hole in Linden’s shirt and inquired about the relationship between death in her former world and
life in the Land.

  Linden could not explain it: she could only relate what she had experienced. Like the lightning which had taken Joan, bullets were too violent for doubt. Therefore Linden could only assume that she, Jeremiah, and Roger had perished in the instant of their passage to the Land. In some sense, their presence here was permanent: they would endure until they were slain.

  She had seen her son’s wounds, and Roger’s; but she did not want to remember them.

  Clearing his throat, Mahrtiir turned toward Stave. Softly, as if he were prompting the Haruchai, he said. “There are tales better known to the Bloodguard—”

  Stave nodded. To Coldspray, he said, “Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever was not the only man of the Chosen’s world summoned to the Land. In the time of the new Lords, when Elena daughter of Lena was High Lord of the Council, a man named Hile Troy appeared, invoked by Atiaran Trell-mate. He it was who led the Warward into Garroting Deep, bartering his soul to Caerroil Wildwood in exchange for the ruin of moksha Fleshharrower’s forces. Thus he ceased to be himself, for he was transformed, becoming Caer-Caveral, the last Forestal. For more than three millennia thereafter, he endured as the guardian of Andelain.”

  In spite of her fatigue, Linden listened closely. Long ago, Covenant had told her about Hile Troy and Caer-Caveral; but Stave offered details which were new to her.

  “The First of the Search and Pitchwife were present,” remarked Coldspray. “We know their tale. If we understand events aright, Caer-Caveral’s final sacrifice did much to enable Covenant Giantfriend’s victory over the Despiser.”

  Stave shrugged. “It may be so. The Masters and all Haruchai distrust violations of Law. We are not persuaded that the ur-Lord would have failed to achieve his victory by some other means if the Law of Life had remained unmarred.