Thomas Covenant 02: The Illearth War

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  This was no gait for distance, no easy, strength conserving pace. It was a gallop to surpass the best fleetness of ordinary horses. And it did not slow or falter. At full stretch, the Ranyhyn came out of Sarangrave Flat under the eaves of Landsdrop before moonrise. Then they veered away just east of southward along the line of the cliff.

  On the open ground, their running became harder. The rough foothills of Landsdrop cut across their way like rumpled folds in the earth, forced them to plummet down and then labor up uncertain slopes twenty times a league. And southward the terrain worsened. The grass slowly failed from the hillsides, so that the Ranyhyn pounded over bare rock and shale and scree.

  The moon was nearly full, and in its light Mount Thunder, ancient Gravin Threndor, was visible against the sky. Already it dominated the southern horizon, and as the mission traveled, it lifted its crown higher and higher.

  Under its shadow, the Ranyhyn mastered both the night and the foothills. Breathing hoarsely, blowing foam, sweating and straining extremely, but never faltering, they struck daylight no more than five leagues from the Defiles Course. Now they began to stumble and slip on the hillsides, scattering froth from their lips, tearing the skin of their knees. Yet they refused to fail.

  In the middle of the morning on the tenth day, they lumbered over the crest of one ankle and dropped down into the narrow valley between Mount Thunder’s legs—the valley of the Defiles Course.

  To their right at the base of the mountain was the head of the river. There rank black water erupted roaring from under a sheer cliff. This was the Soulsease River of Andelain transformed. That fair river entered Mount Thunder through Treacher’s Gorge, then plunged into the depths of the earth, where it ran through abandoned Wightwarrens and Demondim breeding dens, Cavewightish slag and refuse pits, charnels and offal grounds and lakes of acid, the excreta of the buried banes. When it broke out thick, oily, and fetid at the base of Gravin Threndor, it carried the sewage of the catacombs, the pollution of ages of filthy use.

  From Mount Thunder to Lifeswallower, the Great Swamp, nothing lived along the banks of the Defiles Course except Sarangrave Flat, which grew thickest on either side of the Course, flourishing on the black water. But high in the sides of the valley were two or three thin streams of clean water, which nourished grass and shrubs and some trees, so that only the bottom of the valley was barren. There the Ranyhyn rested at last. Quivering and blowing, they put their noses in a stream to drink.

  The Lords disregarded their own weariness, went immediately in search of amanibhavam. Shortly Shetra returned with a double handful of the horse-healing grass. With it she tended the Ranyhyn while Hyrim brought more of it to her. Only when all the great horses had eaten some of the amanibhavam did the Lords allow themselves to rest.

  Then the Bloodguard turned their attention to the task of building a raft. The only trees hardy enough to grow in the valley were teaks, and in one stand nearby three of the tallest were dead. Their ironwood trunks showed what had happened to them; when they had grown above a certain size, their roots had reached down deep enough to touch soil soaked by the river, and so they had died.

  Using hatchets and clingor ropes, the Bloodguard were able to bring down these three trees. Each they sectioned into four logs of roughly equal length. When they had rolled the logs down to the dead bank of the Course, they began lashing them together with clingor thongs.

  The task was slow because of the size and weight of the ironwood logs, and the Bloodguard worked carefully to make sure that the raft was secure. But they were fifteen, and made steady progress. Shortly after noon, the raft was complete. After they had prepared several steering poles, they were ready to continue on their way.

  The Lords readied themselves also. After a moment of melding, they bid ceremonious farewell to the Ranyhyn. Then they came down to the banks of the Defiles Course and bid Korik launch the raft.

  Two of the Bloodguard fastened ropes to the raft while the others positioned themselves along its sides. Together they lifted the massive ironwood logs, heaved the raft into the river. It bucked in the stiff current, but the two ropes secured it. Cerrin and Sill leaped out onto it to see how it held together. When they gave their approval, Korik signed for the Lords to precede him.

  Lord Shetra sprang down to the raft, and at once set about wedging her staff between the center logs so that she could use its power for a rudder. Lord Hyrim followed her, as did the other Bloodguard, until only the two who held the ropes remained on the bank. Lord Shetra began to sing quietly, calling up the Earthpower through her staff. When she was ready, she nodded to Korik.

  At his command, the last two Bloodguard sprang for the raft as the current ripped it away.

  The raft plunged, swirled; the boiling water spun it out into the middle of the river.

  But then Lord Shetra caught her balance. The power of her staff took hold like a Gildenlode rudder in the hands of a Giant. The raft resisted her, but slowly it became steady. She piloted it down the torrent of the stream, and in moments the mission rushed out of the valley back into the grasp of Sarangrave Flat.

  Free of the constriction of the valley, the Defiles Course gradually widened, slowed. Then it began to wind and spill out into the waterways of the Sarangrave, and the worst of the current was past.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Lord Shetra remained in the stern of the raft, guided it along the black water. The riverbed bent and twisted as the Defiles Course became more and more woven into the fabric of Sarangrave Flat. Side currents ran into and away from the main stream, and rocky eyots topped with tufts of jungle began to dot the river. When the pace of the Course grew sluggish, she used her staff to propel the raft; she needed headway to navigate the channels. By evening she was greatly weary.

  Then four of the Bloodguard took up the poles and began thrusting the raft through twilight into night, where only their dark-familiar eyes could see well enough to keep the raft moving safely. Lord Shetra ate the meal Hyrim prepared for her over a small lillianrill fire, then dropped into slumber despite the stink and spreading dampness of the river.

  But at dawn she returned to work, plying the Defiles Course with her staff.

  However, Lord Hyrim soon came to her aid. Alternately they propelled the raft throughout the day, and at night they rested while the Bloodguard used their poles. In this way, the mission traveled down the Defiles Course until the evening of the twelfth day. During the days, the sky was clear, and the sunlight was full of butterflies. The raft made good progress.

  But that night dark clouds hid the moon, and rain soaked the Lords, damaging their sleep. When Korik called to them in the last blackness before dawn, they both threw off their blankets at once and came to their feet.

  Korik pointed into the night. In the darkness of a jungled islet ahead of the raft, there was a faint light. It flickered and waned like a weak fire on wet wood, but revealed nothing.

  As the raft approached the eyot, the Lords stared at it. Then Shetra whispered, “That is a made light. It is not natural to the Sarangrave.”

  The Bloodguard agreed. None of the Flat’s light-bearing animals or insects were abroad in the rain.

  “Pull in to the islet,” Shetra breathed. “We must see the maker of this light.”

  Korik gave the orders. The Bloodguard at the poles moved the raft so that it floated toward the head of the islet. When it was within ten yards of the edge, Doar and Pren slipped into the water. They swam to the eyot, then faded up into the underbrush. The steersmen swung the raft so that it floated downstream within jumping distance of the bank.

  The islet was long and narrow. As the mission floated by almost within reach of the low-hanging branches, the light came into clearer view. It was a thin flame—a weak flickering like the burn of a torch. But it revealed nothing around it except the tree shadows which passed between it and the raft.

  When the raft was some distance past it, the light went out. Both the Lords started, raised their staffs, but they said nothin
g. The steering Bloodguard leaned on their poles until one side of the raft nudged the bank. Almost at once, Doar and Pren leaped out onto the logs, bearing between them the battered form of a man.

  Immediately, the steersmen sent the raft swinging out into the main channel. Lord Hyrim bent to light a lillianrill rod.

  In the rain the torch shone dimly, but it revealed the man. His face and limbs were streaked with dirt and grime, clotted with the blood of numerous small wounds, cuts, and scratches. Surrounded by dirt and blood, the whites of his eyes glistened. His clothes, like the wounds and mud on him, spoke of a long struggle to survive the Flat. The remains of a uniform hung about him in shreds.

  Only one piece of his apparel was intact. He wore a scarred metal breastplate, yellow under the filth, with one black diagonal insignia across it.

  “By the Seven!” Lord Shetra said. “A Warhaft!”

  She caught hold of the man’s shoulders. But then she recoiled as if the man had burned her. “Melenkurion! Warhaft,” she cried, “what has been done to you? Your flesh is ice!”

  The man gave no sign that he heard her. He stood where Doar and Pren had placed him, and his head hung to one side. His breathing was shallow. He did not move in any way, except to blink his eyes at long intervals.

  But Shetra did not wait for answers. “Hyrim,” she said, “this man is freezing!” She snatched up her blanket, threw it over him. Lord Hyrim built his torch into a fire. There he boiled a stoneware pot of water until it was clean, while Shetra seated the man by the fire. She took hold of his head to force some springwine between his lips.

  The cold of his flesh blistered her fingers.

  She and Hyrim wrapped their hands in blankets for protection, then laid the man down by the fire and stripped him of his rags. They washed him with boiling water. When he was clean, Lord Shetra drew a stone vial of hurtloam from her robe, and spread some of the healing mud over the worst of his wounds.

  Dawn came through the rain. In the light, the Bloodguard saw the result of the Lords’ work. The man’s skin looked like the flesh of a corpse: On his wounds, the hurtloam lay impotent. The cold in him was uneased.

  Yet he breathed and blinked. When the Lords covered him and lifted him into a sitting posture, he squeezed his eyes, and water began to run from them like tears. It spread out over his cheeks and formed beads of ice in his beard.

  “By the Seven. By the Seven!” Lord Shetra moaned. “He is dead, and yet he lives. What has been done to him?”

  Lord Hyrim made no answer.

  After a time, Korik spoke for the Bloodguard. “He is Hoerkin, a Warhaft of the Warward. He commanded the First Eoman of the Tenth Eoward. The High Lord sent his command to seek out the Giants in Seareach.”

  “Yes,” Hyrim murmured. “I remember. When his Eoman did not return, the High Lord sent Callindrill and Amatin to attempt the Sarangrave. Twenty-one warriors—Warhaft Hoerkin and his command—all lost. Callindrill and Amatin found no trace.”

  Lord Shetra addressed herself to the man. “Hoerkin. Warhaft Hoerkin. Do you hear me? Speak! I am Shetra Verement-mate, Lord of the Council of Revelstone. I adjure you to speak.”

  At first, Hoerkin did not respond. Then his jaw moved, and a low noise came from his mouth.

  “I am ahamkara, the Door. I am sent—”

  His voice trailed off into the flow of his tears.

  “Sent? Door?” Shetra said. “Hoerkin, speak!”

  The Warhaft did not seem to hear. He sat in silence, while his tears formed clusters of ice in his beard.

  Then Lord Hyrim commanded, “Ahamkara, answer!”

  Hoerkin swallowed, and spoke.

  “I am ahamkara, the Door. I am sent to bear witness to—to—”

  He faltered, but resumed a moment later.

  “I am sent to bear witness to the downfall of Giants.”

  For all the Bloodguard, Korik said, “You lie!” And Lord Shetra sprang on Hoerkin. Regardless of the pain, she gripped his face between her hands, and shouted, “Despiser!”

  He gave a cry and tore himself from her grasp. Huddling with his face against the logs of the raft, he sobbed like a child.

  Appalled Shetra backed away from him. At Lord Hyrim’s side, she stopped and waited. Long moments passed before Hoerkin moved. Then he pushed himself up into his former posture. Still his tears ran down into his beard.

  “—the downfall of Giants. There were three, brothers of one birth. Omen of the end. They serve Satansheart Soulcrusher.”

  He stopped again.

  After a moment, Korik said, “This cannot be. It is impossible. The Giants of Seareach are the Rockbrothers of the Land.”

  Hoerkin did not respond. Staring at the logs of the raft, he sat like dead clay. But soon he spoke again.

  “—crusher. They are named Fleshharrower, Satansfist—and one other not to be named.”

  He swallowed once more.

  “They are the three Ravers.”

  For a time, all the mission was silent. Then both Hyrim and Shetra strove to compel Hoerkin to say more. But he remained beyond their reach, unspeaking.

  At last, Lord Shetra said to Hyrim, “How do you hear his words? What meaning do you see?”

  “I hear truth,” Lord Hyrim said. “Omen of the end.”

  Korik said, “No. By the Vow, it is impossible.”

  Quickly Lord Hyrim said, “Do not swear by your Vow here.”

  His reproof was just. The Bloodguard were not ignorant of his meaning. Korik did not speak again. But Lord Shetra said, “I agree with Korik. It surpasses belief to think that a Raver could master any Giant. If the Despiser’s power extended so far, why did he not enslave Giants in the past?”

  Lord Hyrim answered her, “That is true. The Ravers do not suffice. They do not explain. But now Lord Foul has possession of the Illearth Stone. That was not so in the age of the Old Lords. Perhaps the Ravers and the Stone together—”

  “Hyrim, we are speaking of the Giants! If such an ill had come upon them, they would have sent word to us.”

  “Yes,” Lord Hyrim said. “How was it done?”

  “Done?”

  “How were they prevented? What has been done to them?”

  “To them?” said Lord Shetra. “Ask a more immediate question. What has been done to Hoerkin? What has been done to us?”

  “It is the Despiser’s way. In the battle of Soaring Woodhelven—we are told—he damaged the Heer Llaura and the child Pietten so that they would help destroy what they loved.”

  “They were used to bait a trap. Hyrim, we are baited!”

  She did not wait for an answer. She sprang to the rear of the raft, jammed her staff between the logs, began her song. Strength ran through the ironwood; the raft moved forward through the rain. “Join me!” she called to Lord Hyrim. “We must flee this place!”

  Lord Hyrim climbed wearily to his feet. “At Soaring Woodhelven, the trap was complete without Llaura and Pietten. They were an arrogance—a taunt—unnecessary.” As he spoke, his breath began to labor in his chest. The muscles of his neck corded with the strain of inhaling.

  The Bloodguard, too, could not breathe easily.

  In moments, Hyrim fell to his knees, clutching at his chest. Lord Shetra gasped at the effort of each breath.

  The rain falling on the river seemed to make no sound.

  Then Warhaft Hoerkin leaped to his feet. From between his lips came a low moan of pain. The sound was terrible. His head bent back, and his cry rose until it became a scream.

  It was the same scream which had caused the Ranyhyn to panic.

  Korik was the first of the Bloodguard to recover his strength. At once, he knocked the Warhaft from the raft.

  Hoerkin sank like a stone. The voice was immediately silent.

  Yet the thickness of the air only increased. It tightened around the mission like a fist.

  Lord Hyrim struggled to his feet. To Doar, he panted, “Did you put out his fire? Hoerkin’s fire?”

  “No,” Doar sa
id. “It fell when we laid hands upon him.”

  “By the Seven!” Hyrim said. “It was you! The Bloodguard! Not the Ranyhyn. This ill force listens to you!—to the power of the Vow!”

  The Bloodguard had no answer. The Vow was not something which could be concealed or denied.

  But Lord Shetra was surprised. Her strength dropped away from the raft.

  At Korik’s command, the four steersmen took up their poles, and thrust the raft toward the north bank of the Course. He wished to meet the attack on land, if he could. He made the steersmen responsible for the raft, then called the other Bloodguard to the defense of the Lords.

  In that instant, the river erupted. Silently water blasted upward, hurling the raft into the air, overturning it.

  Behind the burst, a black tentacle flicked out of the water. It twisted, coiled, caught Lord Shetra.

  Most of the Bloodguard dove clear of the fall of the raft. But Sill and Lord Hyrim were directly under it.

  With Pren and Tull, Korik swam for the place where Lord Shetra had been taken. But the dark water blinded them; they could see nothing, find nothing. The river seemed to have no bottom.

  Korik made his decision. The mission to Seareach was in his hands. In a tone that allowed no refusal, he ordered the Bloodguard out of the Course.

  Soon he stood on the north bank in the fringe of the jungle. Most of the other Bloodguard were with him. Sill and Lord Hyrim had preceded them. The Lord was uninjured; Sill had protected him from the raft.

  Downriver, two of the steersmen were tying up the raft, while the other two dove for the company’s supplies.

  There was no sign of Cerrin and Lord Shetra.

  Hyrim was coughing severely—he had swallowed some of the rank water—but he struggled to his feet, and gasped, “Save her!”

  But the Bloodguard made no move to obey. The mission to Seareach was in their hands. And they knew that Cerrin was still alive. He could call to them if their aid would be worth the cost.