“Thank you,” he murmured to Naybahn. He needed to express his gratitude, whether or not the Ranyhyn understood him. “I forgot about this place—if I ever knew it existed. You came back to the Land at the right time. None of us would have gotten this far without you.” Especially Linden. “And we sure as hell wouldn’t get any farther.”
Naybahn whickered softly, tossed his head. The silver shining in his eyes looked like pride.
Covenant wanted to ask Branl how Clyme and Mhornym fared with the Harrow’s mount. But an answer to that question would not quicken their arrival, or restore the destrier’s stamina, or relieve Covenant’s underlying fears. Instead he inquired abruptly, “How far are we from Foul’s Creche?”
Branl appeared to consult a map of his memories. “In a direct line, ur-Lord, the ruins of Corruption’s former abode lie no more than fifteen leagues distant. However, these cliffs are rugged, forbidding clear passage. I gauge that we must traverse a score of leagues—if,” he added, “the riven promontory of Ridjeck Thome is indeed our destination.” Then he shrugged. “If our goal lies elsewhere, the Ranyhyn know it. The Humbled do not.”
With a wave of one hand, Covenant dismissed Branl’s proviso. “Assume we’re going to Foul’s Creche. Where else is Joan likely to be? That place is too damn fitting.” A wilderness of broken granite between the Sunbirth Sea and the Shattered Hills: enough rubble to symbolize dozens of millennia. Joan’s attacks on Time required a physical manifestation. She tore instants into chaos by destroying stones. The Earth was the incarnation of the Laws which enabled it to live: she struck at one by harming the other. And Covenant did not doubt that the Despiser’s malice still permeated the wreckage of Foul’s Creche. The evil of the Illearth Stone lingered there as well. Such things would enhance turiya Herem’s possession. “So how long will it take us to get there?”
Branl studied Covenant flatly. “Since you choose to rely upon assumptions, ur-Lord, I will do the same. If your mount regains strength sufficient to bear you, I gauge that we will sight the remains of Ridjeck Thome at nightfall on the morrow.”
Another day—Hell and blood, Covenant swore to himself. Too much time had already passed, and the Worm was coming. The Earth did not have long to live. Yet so far he and the Land’s last defenders had accomplished nothing except Jeremiah’s rescue from the Lost Deep, and from the croyel. True, Esmer had been put to rest. But his release had been the gift of the ur-viles and Waynhim, and of Stave. Covenant himself had done little to justify his return to life.
He needed to face Joan.
He needed to be ready. He could not afford to fail.
But he still had no idea how to answer her anguish.
Eventually Clyme entered the cave with Mhornym and the destrier. While the horses relieved their long thirst, Branl left to search the slopes above the cliff for more aliantha. He was still absent when Mhornym and Naybahn led the Harrow’s mount back out of the chamber to feed, leaving Covenant alone with Clyme and the krill. For a time, the steady tug of air through the cave seemed to draw off more heat than the dagger offered, siphoning every possibility of comfort through the crack in the cliff-face. But then Branl returned with a double handful of treasure-berries; and when Covenant had eaten, the fruit’s rich sustenance gave him a measure of protection from the cold.
The seeds he thrust into one of his pockets so that he could scatter them on fertile soil later.
Later the three horses also returned; and Clyme left to stand guard over the covert. The destrier still looked like a living derelict, dull-eyed and shambling. Small convulsions ran through its muscles, and it moved as though it sought to limp with all four legs simultaneously. Nevertheless Covenant saw hints of nascent recovery. Two or three days of rest and abundant fodder might well restore the charger’s contentious spirit.
Ah, hell, he sighed. He had no choice: he would ride as long as his mount lasted. After that, he would have to walk—or to run, if he could manage that much haste.
Whatever happened, he was not going to ride the Ranyhyn. Broken promises would not save the Land. There are always evil means. He had said that to the Humbled. The only way to avoid evil means is to do nothing. Nevertheless he had no intention of discarding any more promises. He had already done enough harm to vindicate Lord Foul’s expectations. Mere days ago, he had sacrificed Elena to She Who Must Not Be Named. If he had no other choice, he meant to kill Joan: an evil means if ever there was one. And he had hurt Linden—
His own humanity would turn against him if he started breaking his promises.
Fortunately Mhornym, Naybahn, and the destrier gave off a surprising amount of warmth in the constricted space. Together they and the krill softened the chamber’s chill. By slow increments, the air acquired a modicum of comfort, and the stone surrendered some of its cold. After a while, Covenant began to think about sleep.
Stretching out on a step near the krill, he closed his eyes and tried to let himself drift. But instead of slumber and dreams, he sank into unbidden memories.
For no reason that he could name, he remembered quellvisks.
Monsters as tall as Giants. Six taloned limbs, each gnarled with muscle and theurgy. Eyes all around their crude skulls. Fangs dripping venomous magicks. Minds capable of lore and bitter ambition. Once they had been very different beings, a species of sentient herbivores. The transformation which had created quellvisks from such creatures had been Lord Foul’s only dangerous achievement during his centuries among the Demimages of Vidik Amar. Doing what he could with monsters both too intelligent and too savage to be ruled, the Despiser had given them an aspiration which might serve his purpose. When the quellvisks had rendered the Demimages extinct, Lord Foul had convinced them that they could master the entire Earth if they first slew the Elohim.
By that means, the Despiser had hoped to awaken the Worm.
Even in that distant age, the Elohim were too self-absorbed to regard the threat. They did not go out to battle because they saw no need: they believed that the quellvisks would turn against each other; destroy themselves. Therefore the Despiser considered the Elohim ripe for ruin. But they were roused from their rapt immersions when the quellvisks found their way to Elemesnedene.
When the Elohim finally fought back for the first and last time in the Earth’s history, they did so without restraint or pity. They had been affronted to the core of their surquedry, and they left nothing of their foes except bones.
Undisturbed, the Worm of the World’s End had continued its slumber.
“Ur-Lord.”
Involuntarily Covenant remembered what the Elohim had done with those bones. Muirwin Delenoth, resting place of abhorrence. Somewhere on the Lower Land west of the Shattered Hills. As if the Land were a midden for everything that the Elohim despised.
“Unbeliever,” Branl said more insistently. “You must rouse.” He shook Covenant’s shoulder. “There is peril.”
With a startled jerk, Covenant opened his eyes.
For a moment, he could see nothing except the blaze of the krill, bright as a tocsin in his blurred gaze. As he blinked, however, his covert took shape around the gem’s light. The stream ran, undimmed, across the cave to tumble down the outer precipice. Branl stood stolidly over him, waiting for him to shed the remnants of his dreams.
Outside, the past day’s gale still blew. It moaned as it struggled through the cave.
The destrier had folded its legs under it to sleep on the other side of the stream. The beast appeared to be resting deeply. But there was something missing—
With an awkward heave, Covenant pushed himself to sit up. Swallowing sleep, he asked hoarsely, “Where are the Ranyhyn?”
“Creatures approach, ur-Lord,” answered Branl, “a score of small beings. When Clyme discerned their advance, Naybahn and Mhornym appeared to do so as well. They have departed. It is my thought that they mean to watch over us in Clyme’s stead, freeing him to join in your defense.”
Creatures? Covenant shook his head; tried to clea
r away his confusion. Defense? His fears were as confused as the previous day’s storms. While he strove to knit Branl’s words into a sequence that made sense, he asked, “What time is it?”
Branl regarded him without expression. “Dawn lags behind the creatures. We must perforce meet with them in darkness. And we must not await them here. In this place, their advance will be constricted. That is to our benefit. But we cannot flee at need. Therefore we must stand on open ground.”
Covenant started to rise. Then he sat down again. “Wait a minute. Let’s think about this.” The krill was his only weapon, but he could not carry it unwrapped. And he might not be able to use it without touching the metal. “These creatures. What are they? What do they want? How do you know they’re dangerous?”
If the Humbled felt impatient, he did not show it. “They are human-like in form, but small, little more than shoulder-height, with large eyes well suited to sight in darkness. Though they resemble children, they are naked against the elements, clad neither in garments nor in pelts. Upon some few occasions, the Masters have beheld such creatures, always at a considerable distance, and always within Sarangrave Flat. Indeed, the waters of the Sarangrave appear to be their habitation. And while we have taken note of them, they have betrayed no awareness of us.
“Now, however—” Branl paused as if he were speaking mind to mind with Clyme. “They have strayed far from their accustomed marshlands. And their approach is unerring. It cannot be doubted that they have come to seek you out.
“Also there is this to consider. In each hand, they bear a green flame which does not bend to the dictates of the wind. This theurgy appears to enable their departure from their native waters.” Branl’s tone became sharper. “It’s the precise emerald of the Illearth Stone, and of the skest.
“You will recall that the skest once served the lurker of the Sarangrave. Now they have become the minions of Corruption. These creatures may be skest in some new guise, perhaps altered by the baleful seepages of Gravin Threndor. Whatever their origins, however, the nature of their magicks cannot be mistaken. It is green and malefic, binding their hearts to cruel hungers.
“Their purpose cannot be other than harm. Therefore we must be prepared to give battle, and to flee.”
Covenant peered up at the Humbled. He wanted to ask how Branl proposed to save his sleeping mount. And he wanted to remind Branl of the sur-jheherrin, creatures that had once saved him and his companions—including several Haruchai—from the lurker. The sur-jheherrin were descended from the jheherrin, the Soft Ones, who had rescued Covenant and Saltheart Foamfollower during their approach to the Shattered Hills and Foul’s Creche. Not everything bred in the Sarangrave was evil.
But instead he posed a different question. “Has Clyme tried talking to them?”
The Haruchai lacked the Giants’ gift of tongues. But the jheherrin had been capable of human speech.
Branl raised an eyebrow: for him, a dramatic show of surprise. “He has not.”
“Maybe he should do that. Before we get into a fight we don’t want.”
The Humbled cocked his head in what Covenant assumed was Clyme’s direction. After a moment, Branl replied, “Clyme will make the attempt. To his senses, the creatures do not appear to unite their theurgies. Each wields only its own might. He deems it unlikely that they are able to overwhelm or slay him.”
Covenant resisted an impulse to hold his breath. How long would this take? He had no idea how far the creatures were from Clyme’s position. Would Covenant and Branl still have time to escape the cave? With the charger?
The moments seemed to stretch, mocked by the quickness of the stream. In the absence of the Ranyhyn, Covenant felt colder; more vulnerable. Branl waited, motionless. He did not react to whatever he heard from Clyme.
Abruptly the Master spoke. “The creatures name themselves the Feroce. At the behest of their High God, they crave an audience with the Pure One.”
Covenant winced. The Feroce? He had lost any memory of them. But “the Pure One”—
Ah, Foamfollower! Hellfire. He remembered too much about the Pure One.
Without thinking, he told Branl, “They have the wrong man.” Then he caught himself. “No, don’t say that.” In the legends of the jheherrin, the Pure One had been their promised savior. If the Feroce believed that Covenant rather than Saltheart Foamfollower had rescued the jheherrin from the Maker, the Despiser, they were mistaken. But that error might help him avoid a conflict. “Don’t give them an excuse to stop talking.
“Ask them why they want an audience. What do they want to talk about?”
Branl gave no sign that he was relaying Covenant’s desires to Clyme, but Covenant did not doubt him. He was Haruchai.
A few heartbeats later, the Humbled announced, “The Feroce avow that they intend no subterfuge. They acknowledge their enmity. They acknowledge that they have attempted harm. They acknowledge that their first purpose has failed. In pain and desperation, their High God now seeks alliance with the Pure One.”
Covenant’s mind whirled as though he stood on a precipice. Attempted harm? What harm? If the Feroce had attacked Linden—! Anger and possibilities spun swiftly; too swiftly. The creatures had invoked jheherrin legends. Long millennia ago, the jheherrin had misjudged Covenant. But if the Feroce knew those legends, they might be descendants of the sur-jheherrin: they might believe what the jheherrin had believed.
Attempted harm?
Apparently they were being honest.
Then who in hell was their “High God”? The lurker? If they lived in the Sarangrave—
An alliance with the lurker was impossible. The idea was insane. But he had no difficulty imagining potential benefits.
He was running too far ahead of himself. Grimly he muttered, “I don’t know what’s going on here. But I’m going to guess.
“If the Feroce want to talk, tell them to come here. Just three of them. The rest have to keep a safe distance. Clyme can decide what that means. And tell them I have High Lord Loric’s krill. A long time ago, I hurt the lurker with it. I won’t hesitate to use it again if I think I’m being threatened.”
If the creatures had not come in good faith.
Studying Covenant, Branl hesitated. “Ur-Lord, is this wise? Our covert has no other egress. If the Feroce do not endeavor to slay us, they may nonetheless impose an effective imprisonment. Snared here, you will be prevented from seeking your former mate.”
“I know that,” Covenant sighed. “Of course you’re right. But I can’t forget the sur-jheherrin .” Or the jheherrin. “Life in the Sarangrave isn’t as simple as it looks. If the Feroce want to talk to the Pure One, I can’t ignore them.” Without the jheherrin, he would have died among the Shattered Hills. “Just tell Clyme what I said. If they try to send more than three—if they do anything he doesn’t like—he can warn you.”
Frowning slightly, Branl nodded. Then he moved to stand guard against the far wall beside the entrance to the chamber.
The destrier went on sleeping. It seemed too profoundly weary to hear anything; or to care.
A dozen heartbeats later, the Humbled reported, “The Feroce comply. Three of them approach. Their manner is fearful. The others withdraw according to Clyme’s instructions.” Then he added, “The Ranyhyn stand ready in the night above our covert. Doubtless they will come to our aid at need.”
“Good,” Covenant breathed. If creatures wielding fires that resembled the bale of the Illearth Stone meant to assail him, he doubted that Mhornym and Naybahn would be able to provide an effective defense. Still their alert proximity reassured him.
He tried to compose himself while remembrances clamored for his attention. The jheherrin had called themselves the soft ones. Maker-work, the occasional failures of the Despiser’s efforts to breed armies; suffered to live only because Lord Foul enjoyed their abjection. Their flesh had resembled mud: they seemed to have been molded from clay. But they had shapes—Child-forms. Serpents. Grotesque mimicries of Cavewights. Others
. And they had legends, tales of the Un-Maker-made: the stock from which Lord Foul had created monsters and jheherrin.
According to the tales, those ancestors were also Makers. Unlike the Despiser, however, they were not seedless. From their bodies came forth young who grew and in turn made young. And some of them survived or escaped or avoided Lord Foul’s violation. They endured beyond his influence, still free of the Maker. Still capable of children.
Those memories were bitter to Covenant. He had been so tormented and sick—To him, and to Foamfollower, the jheherrin had described their legends. It is said that when the time is ready, a young will be birthed without flaw—a pure offspring impervious to the Maker and his making—unafraid. It is said that this pure one will come bearing tokens of power to the Maker’s home. He wanted to forget, and could not. It is said that he will redeem the jheherrin if they prove—if he finds them worthy—that he will win from the Maker their release from fear and mud—But he had done nothing to redeem the jheherrin: nothing except bear the burden of his ring. He was a leper. He would always be a leper. Birthed without flaw? There was nothing pure about him.
No, it was Saltheart Foamfollower who had provided for the Maker’s defeat. Cleansed in the savage caamora of Hotash Slay, he had laughed in Lord Foul’s face and died, giving Covenant the strength to destroy the Illearth Stone. He rather than Covenant had become the Pure One.
That the sur-jheherrin thousands of years later still considered Covenant to be their Pure One only exacerbated his grief for Foamfollower—and his sense of his own unworth.
Yet here he sat like a monarch in exile, awaiting creatures who wanted an audience with the Pure One. For the Land’s sake, and for Linden’s—even for Joan’s—he was willing to consider any alliance that the Feroce might mistakenly offer him.
Against All Things Ending Page 78
