Thomas Covenant 02: The Illearth War

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  He called out, “Mhoram!” But his voice had an unwanted beseeching tone. To counter it, he began shoving himself into his clothes. When the Lord appeared in the doorway, Covenant did not meet his eyes. He pulled on his T-shirt and jeans, laced up his boots, then moved away to the third room of his suite.

  There he found a door opening onto a balcony. With Mhoram behind him, he stepped out into the open air. At once, perspectives opened, and a spasm of vertigo clutched at him. The balcony hung halfway up the southern face of Revelstone—more than a thousand feet straight above the foothills which rested against the base of the mountain. The depth of the fall seemed to gape unexpectedly under his feet. His fear of heights whirred in his ears; he flung his arms around the stone railing, clung to it, clutched it to his chest.

  In a moment, the worst of the spasm passed. Mhoram asked him what was wrong, but he did not explain. Breathing deeply, he pushed himself erect, and stood with his back pressed against the reassuring stone of the Keep. From there, he took in the view.

  As he remembered it, Revelstone filled a long wedge of the mountains which stood immediately to the west. It had been carved out of the mountain promontory by the Giants many centuries ago, in the time of Old Lord Damelon Giantfriend. Above the Keep was a plateau which went beyond it west and north, past Furl Falls for a distance of a league or two before rising up into the rugged Westron Mountains. The Falls were too far away to be seen, but in the distance the White River angled away south and slightly east from its head in the pool of Furl Falls.

  Beyond the river to the southwest, Covenant made out the open plains and hills that led toward Trothgard. In that direction, he saw no sign of cultivation or habitation; but eastward from him were ripe fields, stands of trees, streams, villages—all glowing under the sun as if they were smiling with health. Looking over them, he sensed that the season was early autumn. The sun stood in the southern sky, the air was not as warm as it seemed, and the breeze which blew gently up the face of Revelstone was flavored with the loamy lushness of fall.

  The Land’s season—so different from the spring weather from which he had been wrenched away—gave him a renewed sense of discrepancy, of stark and impossible translation. It reminded him of many things, but he forced himself to begin with the previous evening. Stiffly he said, “Has it occurred to you that Foul probably let that poor Waynhim go just to get you to call me here?”

  “Of course,” Mhoram replied. “That is the Despiser’s way. He intends you to be the means of our destruction.”

  “Then why did you do it? Hellfire! You know how I feel about this—I told you often enough. I don’t want—I’m not going to be responsible for what happens to you.”

  Lord Mhoram shrugged. “That is the paradox of white gold. Hope and despair run together for us. How could we refuse the risk? Without every aid which we can find or make for ourselves, we cannot meet Lord Foul’s might. We trust that at the last you will not turn your back on the Land.”

  “You’ve had forty years to think about it. You ought to know by now how little I deserve or even want your trust.”

  “Perhaps. Warmark Hile Troy argues much that way—though there is much about you that he does not know. He feels that faith in one who is so unwilling is folly. And he is not convinced that we will lose this war. He makes bold plans. But I have heard the Despiser laughing. For better or worse, I am seer and oracle for this Council. I hear—I approve the High Lord’s decision of summoning. For many reasons.

  “Thomas Covenant, we have not spent our years in seclusion here, dreaming sweet dreams of peace while Lord Foul grows and moves against us. From your last moment in the Land to this day, we have striven to prepare our defense. Scouts and Lords have ridden the Land from end to end, drawing the people together, warning them, building what lore we have. I have braved the Shattered Hills, and fought on the mange of Hotash Slay—but of that I do not speak. I brought back knowledge of the Ravers. Dukkha alone did not move us to summon you.”

  Even in the direct beam of the sun, the word Ravers gave Covenant a chill he could not suppress. Remembering the other Waynhim he had seen, dead, with an iron spike through its heart—killed by a Raver—he asked, “What about them? What did you learn?”

  “Much or little,” Mhoram sighed, “according to the uses of the knowledge. The importance of this lore cannot be mistaken—and yet its value eludes us.

  “While you were last in the Land, we learned that the Ravers were still aboard—that like their master they had not been undone by the Ritual of Desecration, which Kevin Landwaster wreaked in his despair. Some knowledge of these beings had come to us through the old legends, the Lore of the First Ward, and the teachings of the Giants. We knew that they were named Sheol, Jehannum, and Herem, and that they lived without bodies, feeding upon the souls of others. When the Despiser was powerful enough to give them strength, they enslaved creatures or people by entering into their bodies, subduing their wills, and using the captured flesh to enact their master’s purposes. Disguised in forms not their own, they were well hidden, and so could gain trust among their foes. By that means, many brave defenders of the Land were lured to their deaths in the age of the Old Lords.

  “But I have learned more. There near Foul’s Creche, I was beaten—badly overmastered. I fled through the Shattered Hills with only the staff of Variol my father between me and death, and could not prevent my foe from laying hands upon me. I had thought that I was in battle with a supreme loremaster of the ur-viles. But I learned—I learned otherwise.”

  Lord Mhoram stared unseeing into the depths of the sky, remembering with grim, concentrated eyes what had happened to him. After a moment, he continued: “It was a Raver I fought—a Raver in the flesh of an ur-vile. The touch of its hand taught me much. In the oldest time—beyond the reach of our most hoary legends, even before the dim time of the coming of men to the Land, and the cruel felling of the One Forest—the Colossus of the Fall had both power and purpose. It stood on Landsdrop like a forbidding fist over the Lower Land, and with the might of the Forest denied a dark evil from the Upper Land.”

  Abruptly he broke into a slow song like a lament, a quiet declining hymn which told the story of the Colossus as the Lords had formerly known it, before the son of Variol had gained his new knowledge. In restrained sorrow over lost glory, the song described the Colossus of the Fall—the huge stone monolith, upraised in the semblance of a fist, which stood beside the waterfall where the River Landrider of the Plains of Ra became the Ruinwash of the Spoiled Plains.

  Since a time that was ancient before Berek Lord-Fatherer lost half his hand, the Colossus had stood in lone somber guard above the cliff of Landsdrop; and the oldest hinted legends of the Old Lords told of a time, during the ages of the One Forest’s dominion in the Land, when that towering fist had held the power to forbid the shadow of Despite—held it, and did not wane until the felling of the Forest by that unsuspected enemy, man, had cut too deeply to be halted. But then, outraged and weakened by the slaughter of the trees, the Colossus had unclasped its interdict, and let the shadow free. From that time, from the moment of that offended capitulation, the Earth had slowly lost the power or the will or the chance to defend itself. So the burden of resisting the Despiser had fallen to a race which had brought the shadow upon itself, and the Earth lay under the outcome.

  “But it was not Despite which the Colossus resisted,” Mhoram resumed when his song was done. “Despite was the bane of men. It came with them into the Land from the cold anguish of the north, and from the hungry kingdom of the south. No, the Colossus of the Fall forbade another foe—three tree-and soil-hating brothers who were old in the Spoiled Plains before Lord Foul first cast his shadow there. They were triplets, the spawn of one birth from the womb of their long forgotten mother, and their names were samadhi, moksha, and turiya. They hated the Earth and all its growing things, just as Lord Foul hates all life and love. When the Colossus eased its interdict, they came to the Upper Land, and in their lust for rava
ge and dismay fell swiftly under the mastery of the Despiser. From that time, they have been his highest servants. They have performed treachery for him when he could not show his hand, and have fought for him when he would not lead his armies.

  “It was samadhi, now named Sheol, who mastered the heart of Berek’s liege—Sheol who slaughtered the champions of the Land, and drove Berek, half-unhanded and alone, to his extremity on the slopes of Mount Thunder. It was turiya and moksha, Herem and Jehannum, who lured the powerful and austere Demondim to their breeding dens, and to the spawning of the ur-viles. Now the three are united with Lord Foul again—united, and clamoring for the decimation of the Land. But alas—alas for my ignorance and weakness. I cannot foresee what they will do. I can hear their voices, loud with lust for the ripping of trees and the scorching of soil, but their intent eludes me. The Land is in such peril because its servants are weak.”

  The rough eloquence of Mhoram’s tone carried Covenant along, and under its spell the brilliant sunlight seemed to darken in his eyes. Grimly, unwillingly, he caught a sense of the looming and cruel ill which crept up behind the Land’s spirit, defying its inadequate defenders. And when he looked at himself, he saw nothing but omens of futility. Other people who had protested their weakness to him had suffered terribly at the hands of his own irreducible and immedicable impotence. Harshly—more harshly than he intended—he asked, “Why?”

  Mhoram turned away from his private visions, and cocked an inquiring eyebrow at Covenant.

  “Why are you weak?”

  The Lord met this with a wry smile. “Ah, my friend—I had forgotten that you ask such questions. You lead me into long speeches. I think that if I could reply to you briefly, I would not need you so.” But Covenant did not relent, and after a pause Mhoram said, “Well, I cannot refuse to answer. But come—there is food waiting. Let us eat. Then I will make what answer I can.”

  Covenant refused. Despite his hunger, he was unwilling to make any more concessions to the Land until he knew better where he stood.

  Mhoram considered him for a moment, then replied in a measured tone, “1f what you say is true—if Land and Earth and all are nothing more than a dream, a threat of madness for you—then still you must eat. Hunger is hunger, and need is need. How else—?”

  “No.” Covenant dismissed the idea heavily.

  At that, the gold flecks in Mhoram’s eyes flared, as if they reflected the passion of the sun, and he said levelly, “Then answer that question yourself. Answer it, and save us. If we are helpless and unfriended, it is your doing. Only you can penetrate the mysteries which surround us.”

  “No,” Covenant repeated. He recognized what Mhoram was saying, and refused to tolerate it. No, he responded to the heat of Mhoram’s look. That’s too much like blaming me for being a leper. It’s not my fault. “You go too far.”

  “Ur-Lord,” Mhoram replied, articulating each word distinctly, “there is peril upon the Land. Distance will not restrain me.”

  “That isn’t what I meant. I meant you’re taking what I said too far. I’m not the—the shaper. I’m not in control. I’m just another victim. All I know is what you tell me.

  “What I want to know is why you keep trying to make me responsible. What makes you any weaker than I am? You’ve got the Staff of Law. You’ve got the rhadhamaerl and lillianrill. What makes you so bloody weak?”

  The heat slowly faded from the Lord’s gaze. Folding his arms so that his staff was clasped across his chest, he smiled crookedly. “Your question grows with each asking. If I require you to ask again, I fear that nothing less than a Giant’s tale will suffice for answer. Forgive me, my friend. I know that our peril cannot be laid on your head. Dream or no—there is no difference for us. We must serve the Land.

  “Now, I must first remind you that the rhadhamaerl and lillianrill are another question, separate from the weakness of the Lords. The stonelore of the rhadhamaerl, and the woodlore of the lillianrill, have been preserved from past ages by the people of Stonedown and Woodhelven. In their exile after the Ritual of Desecration, the people of the Land lost much of the richness of their lives. They were sorely bereft, and could cling only to that lore which enabled them to endure. Thus, when they returned to the Land, they brought with them those whose work in exile was to preserve and use the lore—Gravelingases of the rhadhamaerl, and Hirebrands of the lillianrill. It is the work of Hirebrand and Gravelingas to make the lives of the villages bounteous—warm in winter and plentiful in summer, true to the song of the Land.

  The Lore of High Lord Kevin Landwaster is another matter. That knowledge is the concern of the Loresraat and the Lords.

  “The age of the Old Lords, before Lord Foul broke into open war with Kevin son of Loric, was among the bravest and gladdest and strongest of all the times of the Land. Kevin’s Lore was mighty with Earthpower, and pure with Landservice. Health and gaiety flowered in the Land, and the bright Earth jewel of Andelain bedizened the Land’s heart with precious woods and stones. That was a time –

  “Yet it came to an end. Despair darkened Kevin, and in the Ritual of Desecration he destroyed that which he loved, intending to destroy the Despiser as well. But before the end, he was touched with prophecy or foresight, and found means to save much of power and beauty. He warned the Giants and the Ranyhyn, so that they might flee. He ordered the Bloodguard into safety. And he left his Lore for later ages—hid it in Seven Wards so that it would not fall into wrong or unready hands. The First Ward he gave to the Giants, and when the exile was ended they gave it to the first of the new Lords, the forebears of this Council. In turn, these Lords conceived the Oath of Peace and carried it to all the people of the Land—an Oath to guard against Kevin’s destroying passion. And these Lords, our forebears, swore themselves and their followers in fealty and service to the Land and the Earthpower.

  “Now, my friend, you know we have found the Second Ward. The Two contain much knowledge and much power, and when they are mastered they will lead us to the Third Ward. In this way, mastery will guide us until all Kevin’s Lore is ours. But we fail—we fail to penetrate. How can I say it? We translate the speech of the Old Lords. We learn the skills and rites and songs of the Lore. We study Peace, and devote ourselves to the life of the Land. And yet something lacks. In some way, we miscomprehend—we do not suffice. Only a part of the power of this knowledge answers to our touch. We can learn nothing of the other Wards—and little of the Seven Words which evoke the Earthpower. Something—ur-Lord, it is something in us which fails. I feel it in my heart. We lack. We have not the stature of mastery.”

  The Lord fell silent, musing with his head down and his cheek pressed against his staff. Covenant watched him for a time. The warmth of the sun and the cool breeze seemed to underscore Mhoram’s stern self-judgment. Revelstone itself dwarfed the people who inhabited it.

  Yet the Lord’s influence or example strengthened Covenant. At last, he found the courage to ask his most important question. “Then why am I here? Why did he let you summon me? Doesn’t he want the white gold?”

  Without raising his head, Mhoram said, “Lord Foul is not yet ready to defeat you. The wild magic still surpasses him. Instead, he strives to make you destroy yourself. I have seen it.”

  “Seen it?” Covenant echoed softly, painfully.

  “In gray visions I have caught glimpses of the Despiser’s heart. In this matter, I speak from sure comprehension. Even now, Lord Foul believes that his might is not equal to the wild magic. He is not yet ready to battle you.

  “Remember that forty years ago Drool Rockworm held both Staff and Stone. Desiring still more power—desiring all power—he exerted himself against you in ways which the Despiser would not have chosen—ways which were wasteful or foolish. Drool was mad. And Lord Foul had no wish to teach him wisdom.

  “Matters are otherwise now. Lord Foul wastes no power, takes no risks which do not gain his ends. He seeks indirectly to make you do his bidding. If it comes to the last, and you are still unmastered, h
e will fight you—but only when he is sure of victory. Until that time, he will strive to bend your will so that you will choose to strike against the Land—or to withhold your hand from our defense, so that he will be free to destroy us.

  “But he will make no open move against you now. He fears the wild magic. White gold is not bound by the law of Time, and he must prevent its use until he can know that it will not be used against him.”

  Covenant heard the truth of Mhoram’s words. The Despiser had told him much the same thing, high on Kevin’s Watch, when he had first appeared in the Land. He shivered under the livid memory of Lord Foul’s contempt—shivered and felt cold, as if behind the clean sunlight over Revelstone blew the dank mist of Despite, dampening his soul with the smell of attar, filling his ears on a level just beyond hearing with the rumble of an avalanche. Looking into Mhoram’s eyes, he knew that he had to speak truly as well, reply as honestly as he could.

  “I don’t have any choice.” Even this made him want to duck his head in shame, but he forced himself to hold the Lord’s gaze. “I’ll have to do it that way. Even if that’s not the one good answer—even if madness is not the only danger in dreams. Even if I believed in this wild magic. I haven’t got one idea how to use it.”

  With an effort, Mhoram smiled gently. But the somberness of his glance overshadowed his smile. He met Covenant’s eyes unwaveringly, and when he spoke, his voice was sad. “Ah, my friend, what will you do?”

  The uncritical softness of the question caught Covenant by the throat. He was not prepared for such sympathy. With difficulty, he answered, “I’ll survive.”

  Mhoram nodded slowly, and a moment later he turned away, back toward the room. As he reached the door, he said, “I am late. The Council waits for me. I must go.”

  But before the Lord could leave, Covenant called after him, “Why aren’t you the High Lord?” He was trying to find some way to thank Mhoram. “Don’t they appreciate you around here?”