Then she was roused by the jolting of Grueburn’s strides, the stentorian rasp of the Swordmain’s breathing. In terror, she returned to herself. Sensations of crawling and poison clung to her like muck sweat. Pincers and fangs bit into her under her clothes. She wanted fire; ached to scour herself with flame. But there were no spiders, no centipedes, no vile insects. She only felt them. Grueburn’s stubborn struggle did not redeem what Linden had become.
Past Coldspray’s bulk, and Cirrus Kindwind’s, white flickers of Liand’s Sunstone reached Linden. He and Stonemage were leading the company after the Waynhim. But they no longer ran. The tunnel leading away from the chasm and the Lost Deep had become a narrow split with a floor like strewn wreckage. The Giants still carried all of their human companions except the Haruchai; but they had to move with care. At intervals, protrusions of rock constricted the passage, forcing them to squeeze through sideways.
Linden had no health-sense and no power. Stave still carried Covenant’s ring. She was being eaten alive: everyone she cared about was going to die. Devoured faces and centipedes were promises that would not be broken. And Esmer stayed close to her, ensuring her futility. His many wounds looked as septic as plague-spots.
She expected to sight the Ardent ahead, with Liand. But the Insequent was not there. Only the Humbled escorted Liand and Stonemage, Covenant and Kindwind, Jeremiah and the croyel and Coldspray.
Without percipience, Linden could not gauge Covenant’s condition. She could not cleanse herself of corruption. But she had no reason to think that he had escaped the chaos of his memories: not while Esmer remained nearby.
Grueburn’s broad chest and thick shoulders blocked Linden’s view to the rear. But when the Swordmain turned to push past an obstruction, Linden scanned the figures behind her.
She saw them limned in fire and apprehension, dark shapes lurching ahead of the bane’s rage. Apparently the constraints and twisting of the split did not hinder She Who Must Not Be Named. Despite Her terrible size and Her throng of identities, She seemed able to alter Her form as She wished. She was like spiders, roaches, beetles: there was no crack too small for Her to enter, no cave too immense for Her to fill. No mere physical barrier could restrict Her. The things that fed on carrion were venomous in every crevice and cranny. The width of the passage might compel Her to pick off Linden’s companions one at a time; but it would not hamper the bane’s seething energies.
In silhouette, Linden saw Stormpast Galesend carrying Anele, Cabledarm with Pahni, other Giants—presumably Bluntfist and Latebirth bearing Bhapa and Mahrtiir. As far as she could tell, none of the Swordmainnir had fallen. But her impressions were too indistinct for certainty. The jagged path of the crevice cast too many shadows. The Giants fleeing behind her resembled stilted menhirs, distorted and ungainly.
Of the Ardent—or the ur-viles—she saw no sign.
Then Grueburn turned ahead to move more quickly, picking her path over the refuse of ages, and Linden could not look back.
“The Ardent?” Hysteria scraped her voice raw. Uselessly she slapped at the crawling inside her shirt, her jeans. “Where is he? Have we lost him?”
Esmer would know, if Grueburn and Stave did not.
Without the Ardent’s powers—
Cail’s son did not answer. “The Insequent,” panted Grueburn, “vowed to aid the ur-viles. How he thought to do so, I cannot conceive.” He could not resist She Who Must Not Be Named with ribbands. “Nevertheless he remains behind us.”
“Can you tell what he’s doing?” Linden asked.
“I cannot. The bane fills my senses.”
“He exceeds all expectation,” stated Stave. Orcrest or his inborn wards against Kevin’s Dirt preserved the former Master’s percipience. “His fright is plain. Nonetheless he joins his knowledge to the efforts of the ur-viles. His apparel does not harm the bane. The ur-viles do not. Yet when it extends its force, their lore and his garment turn the theurgy aside. Together they slow the bane’s advance.”
Linden understood fright. She could not have done what the Ardent was doing. She was covered with gnawing and toxins; hungry ruin. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw horror below her; watched hideous strength destroy the Hazard; felt her fall—
She had killed her own mother. She deserved whatever happened to her.
Staring wildly, she tried to focus her attention on the rough walls of the crevice. She wanted to believe that it would hold. That the world would hold. But she could not. Soon a monster that relished anguish and despair would consume the roots of the mountain. She slapped at her chewed skin and achieved nothing.
Beyond the fragments of Liand’s light, the entombed darkness was absolute. Immeasurable leagues of granite and schist were veined with obsidian and quartz and strange ores like the slow blood of Gravin Threndor. Long ago, she had believed that the Wightwarrens ran deep; that the cave of the EarthBlood was deep. But until now she had failed to grasp the true meaning of depth. Breathing should have been impossible. The air here must have been trapped for eons, too stagnant to sustain life. It was no wonder that Grueburn had to fight for breath.
Presumably Liand was refreshing the atmosphere with Earthpower. But he could not do enough. Moment by moment, suffocation crowded around Linden. The stone itself was reified asphyxia. Her lungs labored in her chest as if they were being crushed by panic and granite.
In Revelstone long days ago, Liand had taught her that she could draw Earthpower and Law from her Staff even when Kevin’s Dirt had blinded her completely. At that time, however, Kastenessen’s bitter brume had hung high above her; and she had been perhaps two hundred leagues from its source, protected by enduring barricades of gutrock. Now She Who Must Not Be Named was close—Frayed and terrified, Linden did not believe that she would ever be able to overcome the bane’s dire magicks.
And without the benign fire of her Staff, she could not drive the sensations of insects from her nerves and skin. Before long, she would go mad.
She needed help, but no one could help her: not now. The progress of the Giants was too arduous to permit succor. And her fragmented glimpses of the way ahead suggested that the crevice was about to become impassable. It was beginning to cant to the side, narrowing and twisting as it followed a line of weakness through limestone and brittle shale. Beyond Liand’s Sunstone, the split tilted at an angle that became sharper by sudden increments.
Linden trusted the Waynhim. She tried to trust them. But they appeared to be leading the company along a path which only they could follow. Perhaps she, the Haruchai, and the Ramen might contrive to creep after the smaller creatures when the crack leaned close to the horizontal. But the Swordmainnir would be trapped. And if Coldspray released the croyel—
“Ha!” Liand’s call echoed down the split: a shout of relief. “The Waynhim have not misled us! Here is the way!”
As the crevice tilted farther, Rime Coldspray squatted abruptly, set her back against the lower wall. Clutching Jeremiah and the croyel with one arm, and holding the krill with the other, she used her legs to thrust herself headfirst along the split. The stone looked too rough to permit skidding in that fashion, but her cataphract served as a sled. She was able to keep moving.
Ahead of the Ironhand, Kindwind used one shoulder and her maimed arm to shove herself forward, still clasping Covenant. At a word from Grueburn, Linden turned so that she could grip the Swordmain’s breastplate with both hands, hook her heels around Grueburn’s waist. The Staff she carried pressed between her chest and Grueburn’s as the Giant braced her hands on the lower wall and scuttled along on all fours.
Every point at which Linden’s body touched Grueburn was a torment of maggots.
Behind them, Galesend followed Grueburn’s example. Anele’s eyes glared in brief glints from the orcrest and the krill, but he appeared to understand Galesend’s intent. The constriction of the split did not allow Linden to see past the old man’s protector.
Then Liand’s light was cut off as though he and Stonemage ha
d fallen out of reach. A rush of failure filled Linden’s lungs. Sickening swarms of creatures had burrowed too deeply into her: she feared that she would never breathe again.
Somehow she clung to Frostheart Grueburn.
“Here!” Kindwind shouted. “A clear passage! If the Ardent and the ur-viles endure, they will gain a more defensible path.”
Through bites and squirming that had no tangible form, Linden seemed to catch a memory from Covenant, as if pieces of their past had leaked out of his chaotic recollections. When they had first come to the Land together—when they had been gaoled in Mithil Stonedown—Sunder had touched Covenant’s forehead with the Graveler’s Sunstone at Covenant’s urging. By that action, Sunder had awakened Covenant’s ring, triggering wild magic with orcrest.
Linden might be able to do something similar—if she could get close to Liand. Any hint of health-sense might rebuff her dismay; her accumulating collapse. Then she might be able to choose Earthpower and Law instead of carrion. She could use the flame of her Staff to scour her flesh clean.
If only she could breathe—
“As soon as you can,” she gasped with her last air. “Take me to Liand. I need his orcrest.”
Grueburn nodded. She was panting too hard to speak.
Kindwind and Covenant were gone. With her arms rigid around Jeremiah and the croyel, Rime Coldspray skidded farther. The monster gazed straight at Linden. Its grin showed its fangs.
Then Coldspray stopped. When she heaved herself and her burdens upright, she did not collide with the upper wall of the split. Instead she and they vanished into a break in the stone.
Half a dozen heartbeats later, Grueburn carried Linden there; and Linden snatched scraps of better air from the Sunstone. As Grueburn turned her back to the lower wall, Linden shifted to face upward. Past the Giants ahead of her, she caught a brief dazzle of purity.
Here a wider fault intersected the split. The new crevice was level at first: then it ascended steeply into the immured dark. Shards of orcrest-light showed the Waynhim scrambling at the slope. Their hands and feet dislodged clots of ancient dirt like scurrying beetles. Stonemage and Liand had already neared the foot of the climb. But behind them, behind Kindwind and Covenant, Coldspray had paused to rest. There she held her burdens with the croyel’s visage turned away from Linden. The Ironhand’s grip on the krill did not waver.
She must have heard Linden’s appeal. Linden would have to pass her in order to catch up with Liand.
He was too far away.
In that position, the dagger’s argence shone straight into Linden’s face. It shed stark streaks along the stone; found sudden gleams like inspirations on facets of mica and quartz; exposed the sullen sheen of moisture oozing downward.
The sensations of scurrying in Linden’s clothes intensified. Scores of biting things sought tender flesh hidden from the light. She could not endure it; could not wait for Grueburn to reach the Stonedownor.
Halfway between Kindwind and Coldspray, Esmer stood watching as if he had no real interest in anything that transpired among Mount Thunder’s roots.
“Hurry,” Linden pleaded: a raw cough of suffocation.
Groaning for air, Grueburn thrust herself upright, strode toward the Ironhand.
Millennia ago, wild magic had destroyed the original Staff of Law; but Linden was too desperate to care. As soon as she could, she extended her own Staff. Frantically she jabbed one iron-shod heel into the heart of the gem’s radiance.
For a terrible instant, she felt nothing. After all, why should she? The krill was not orcrest: the Staff was not white gold. And she had no health-sense. She could not focus her needs. She could only try to pray while imminent wails bubbled in the back of her throat.
Then a gentle surge of energy touched her hands, a palpable warmth—
Quickly she jerked back the Staff, hugged it to her chest; concentrated every supplication of her life on the runed black wood.
Hindered by proximity to the bane’s magicks, flickers of new life leaked into her aggrieved nerves.
She clung to that vitality, stoked it. Demanded. Cajoled.
By small increments, it grew stronger. A flame as evanescent as a will-o’-the-wisp slid along the shaft. Too frail to be sustained, it evaporated. But another took its place, and another—and the third spread. Briefly it traced the runes as if the wood had been etched with oil. Then it lit other fires. A tumble of flames leapt out as if they sprang from Linden’s chest.
Light as kindly and sapid as sunshine cascaded into the crevice. Soon she stood in the core of a pillar of fire; of Earthpower and life.
On all sides, Kevin’s Dirt restricted her strength. Her power was a pale mockery of the forces which she had summoned on other occasions. Nevertheless it fed her spirit; implied possible transformations. It would suffice.
It had to.
Febrile with haste, she pulled flame tightly around her; clad herself in conflagration. Then she began scrubbing every distressed inch of her body with cleanliness.
The gnawing and pinching, the crawling, the quick slither of hysteria: they fell away one by one, incinerated or quashed. When she had burned them all to ash, however, she found that nothing had changed. The conviction that she had become carrion, that she bred only death—her true despair—lay too deep for any anodyne that she knew how to provide for herself. A sickness of the soul afflicted her; and the devouring faces of She Who Must Not Be Named drew closer by the moment.
Nevertheless she could breathe easily again. She could see. The revulsion of centipedes and spiders had been banished. Her companions sucked fresh air into their lungs. Coldspray offered her a grin of gratitude.
Stave’s flat mien betrayed no sign of doubt. But Esmer regarded Linden as if her ailment were his.
Climbing higher, the Waynhim had ascended past a bulge in the fissure’s wall. Below them on the slope, Stonemage waited with Liand, beckoning urgently. In the illumination of his Sunstone and her Staff, Linden saw that Kindwind and the Humbled had also stopped. They must have felt Coldspray and Grueburn halt.
Linden studied Covenant long enough to confirm that he remained lost in the world’s past. Then she turned to gauge her other companions.
Anele’s fright cried out to her nerves. Galesend’s alarm mounted as her comrades gathered at her back. Nevertheless Linden ignored them; forced herself to cast her senses farther.
Beyond the Giants, she tasted the rank vitriol of the ur-viles in rabid bursts. Among them, the feverish gibber of the Ardent’s incantations added his support against the baleful gnash of teeth and pain—
She Who Must Not Be Named was too close.
Fresh panic stung Linden. “Oh, God.” She had taken too much time for herself. “We have to go.”
“Aye,” growled the Ironhand. She needed no urging. Bearing Jeremiah and his doom and the eldritch threat of the krill, she headed for the slope. In spite of her long weariness and her exigent burdens, she managed a brief sprint.
Grueburn followed immediately, hurrying over the damp grit and scree of the crevice floor. At her back came Galesend and the rest of the Swordmainnir.
As Grueburn heaved her bulk up the loose surface of the ascent, Linden felt the Ardent squeeze out of the canted split. She perceived him clearly now. His wheeze of effort scraped along her nerves as he lifted himself into the air on strips of fabric that clung to the crude walls. Rising, he made way for the ur-viles below him.
Then Linden smelled burning—
—from the Insequent. His raiment had lost many of its colors. Scores of his ribbands had been charred black, or scorched to brittle threads. She tasted his sweating frenzy like iron on her tongue; his sharp fear and fraying resolve; his desperation. Yet he did not flee ahead of the ur-viles. Instead he braced himself high above them, guarding their retreat.
As they straggled out of the split, the creatures seemed ragged and unsteady; routed. The narrowing of the passage had forced them to disperse their wedge: they had been unable to combin
e their theurgies. As a result, some of them had been horribly damaged. Linden sensed creatures with cleft hands or feet, missing limbs. She felt a few ur-viles collapse on the damp dirt and fail to rise. Through the bane’s ferocity, she smelled the acrid pulse of unnatural blood.
They were the last of their kind. One by one, they were being decimated.
Floundering, they formed a new wedge in the crevice. She could not guess how many of them had been lost. Ten? More? Nevertheless they prepared to continue fighting. After a long moment, their loremaster appeared out of the split, wielding its ruddy jerrid. As the largest and strongest of the creatures reclaimed its position at the point of the wedge, the power of the whole formation snapped into focus.
A turmoil of screaming faces thrust into the crevice. It filled the fault from wall to wall.
The ur-viles responded with a spray of fluid force, bitter and corrosive. Their magicks were too puny to injure the bane; but they made the faces pause—
While She Who Must Not Be Named summoned Her many selves in pursuit, the creatures backed away.
The bane must have been certain of Her victims. She did not deign to hasten. The Demondim-spawn were able to put a little distance between themselves and their chosen foe.
Distracted by alarm, Linden’s concentration slipped. Her fire faltered.
At once, she felt renewed squirming inside her boots, along the waist of her jeans, across her breasts. Nightmare spiders and centipedes as avid as rapine resumed their interrupted feast.
She heard herself whimpering: a thin frail sound like the cry of a dying child. She tried to stop, tried to close her throat against a surge of hysteria as sour as bile, and could not. She was an unburied corpse ripe with rot, helpless to refuse any dire appetite.
Abruptly a different scream shocked the air: a howl of such extremity that it seemed to draw blood from the Ardent’s throat. In a display of strength that staggered Linden, his ribbands wrenched huge chunks of rock out of the walls.
Against All Things Ending Page 33
