Thomas Covenant 02: The Illearth War

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The knife tugged at his beard, but the sharpness of the blade kept the pull from becoming painful. And soon her fingers found his knotted jaw muscles. She stroked his clenching to reassure him. With an effort, he opened his eyes. She met his gaze as if she were

  smiling through a mist of love. Gently, she tilted back his head, and cleaned the beard away from his neck with smooth, confident strokes.

  Then she was done. His bared flesh felt vivid in the air, and he rubbed his face with his hands, relishing the fresh texture of his cheeks and neck. Again he wanted to kiss Elena. To answer her smile, he stood up and said, “Now I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  She grasped the Staff of Law, sprang lightly to her feet. In a tone of high gaiety, she said to Amok, “Will you now lead us to the Seventh Ward?”

  Amok beckoned brightly, as if he were inviting her to a game, and started once more toward the place where the cleft of Rivenrock vanished under Melenkurion Skyweir. Morin quickly repacked his bundle, and placed himself behind Amok; Elena and Covenant followed the First Mark; and Bannor brought up the rear.

  In this formation, they began the last phase of their quest for the Power of Command.

  They crossed the plateau briskly: Amok soon reached the juncture of cliff and cleft. There he waved to his companions, grinned happily, and jumped into the crevice.

  Covenant gasped in spite of himself, and hurried with Elena to the edge. When they peered into the narrow blackness of the chasm, they saw Amok standing on a ledge in the opposite wall. The ledge began fifteen or twenty feet below and a few feet under the overhang of the mountain. It was not clearly visible. The blank stone and shadowed dimness of the cleft formed a featureless abyss. Amok seemed to be standing on darkness which led to darkness.

  “Hellfire!” Covenant groaned as he looked down. He felt dizzy already. “Forget it. Just forget I ever mentioned it.”

  “Come!” said Amok cheerfully. “Follow!” His voice sounded over the distant, subterranean gush of the river. With an insouciant stride, he moved away into the mountain. At once, the gloom swallowed him completely.

  Morin glanced at the High Lord. When she nodded, he leaped into the cleft, landed where Amok had been standing a moment before. He took one step to the side, and waited.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Covenant muttered as if he were talking to the dank, chill breeze which blew out of the crevice. “I’m no Bloodguard. I’m just ordinary flesh and blood. I get dizzy when I stand on a chair. Sometimes I get dizzy when I just stand.”

  The High Lord was not listening to him. She murmured a few old words to the Staff, and watched intently as it burst into flame. Then she stepped out into the darkness. Morin caught her as her feet touched the ledge. She moved past him, and positioned herself so that the light of the Staff illuminated the jump for Covenant.

  The Unbeliever found Bannor looking at him speculatively.

  “Go on ahead,” said Covenant. “Give me time to get up my courage. I’ll catch up with you in a year or two.” He was sweating again, and his perspiration stung the scraped skin of his cheeks and neck. He looked up at the mountain to steady himself, efface the effects of the chasm from his mind.

  Without warning, Bannor caught him from behind, lifted him, and carried him to the cleft.

  “Don’t touch me!” Covenant sputtered. He tried to break free, but Bannor’s grip was too strong. “By hell! I—!” His voice scaled into a yell as Bannor threw him over the edge.

  Morin caught him deftly, and placed him, wide-eyed and trembling, on the ledge at Elena’s side.

  A moment later, Bannor made the jump, and the First Mark passed Covenant and Elena to stand between her and Amok. Covenant watched their movements through a stunned fog. Numbly he pressed his back against the solid stone; and stared into the chasm as if it were a tomb. Some time seemed to pass before he noticed the High Lord’s reassuring hold on his arm.

  “Don’t touch me,” he repeated aimlessly. “Don’t touch me.”

  When she moved away, he followed her automatically, turning his back on the sunlight and open sky above the cleft.

  He rubbed his left shoulder against the stone wall, and kept close to Elena, stayed near her light. The Staff s incandescence cast a viridian aura over the High Lord’s party, and reflected garishly off the dark, flat facets of the stone. It illuminated Amok’s path without penetrating the gloom ahead. The ledge—never more than three feet wide—moved steadily downward. Above it, the ceiling of the cleft slowly expanded, took on the dimensions of a cavern. And the cleft itself widened as if it ran toward a prodigious hollow in the core of Melenkurion Skyweir.

  Covenant felt the yawning rent in the mountain rock as if it were beckoning to him, urging him seductively to accept the drowsy abandon of vertigo, trust the chasm’s depths. He pressed himself harder against the stone, and clung to Elena’s back with his eyes. Around him, darkness and massed weight squeezed the edges of the Staffs light. And at his back, he could hear the hovering vulture wings of his private doom. Gradually he understood that he was walking into a crisis.

  Underground! he rasped harshly at his improvidence. He could not forget how he had fallen into a crevice under Mount Thunder. That experience had brought him face-to-face with the failure of his old compromise, his bargain with the Ranyhyn. Hellfire! He felt he had done nothing to ready himself for an ordeal of caves.

  Ahead of him, the High Lord followed Morin and Amok. They adjusted themselves to her pace, and she moved as fast as she safely could on the narrow ledge. Covenant was hard pressed to keep up with her. Her speed increased his apprehension; it made him feel that the rift was spreading its jaws beside him. He labored fearfully down the ledge. It demanded all his concentration.

  He had no way to measure duration or distance—had nothing with which to judge time except the accumulation of his fear and strain and weariness—but gradually the character of the cavern’s ceiling changed. It spread out like a dome. After a while, Elena’s fire lit only one small arc of the stone. Around it, spectral shapes peopled the darkness. Then the rough curve of rock within the Staff’s light became gnarled and pitted, like the slow clenching of a frown on the cave’s forehead. And finally the frown gave way to stalactites. Then the upper air bristled with crooked old shafts and spikes—poised spears and misdriven nails—pending lamias—slow, writhed excrescences of the mountain’s inner sweat. Some of these had fiat facets which reflected the Staff’s fire in fragments, casting it like a chiaroscuro into the recessed groins of the cavern. And others leaned toward the ledge as if they were straining ponderously to strike the heads of the human interlopers.

  For some distance, the stalactites grew thicker, longer, more intricate, until they filled the dome of the cavern. When Covenant mustered enough fortitude to look out over the crevice, he seemed to be gazing into a blue-lit, black, inverted forest—a packed stand of gnarled and ominous old trees with their roots in the ceiling. They created the impression that it was possible, on the sole trail of the ledge, for him to lose his way.

  The sensation excoriated his stumbling fear. When Elena came abruptly to a stop, he almost hung his arms around her.

  Beyond her in the Staff’s velour light, he saw that a massive stalactite had angled downward and attached itself to the lip of the ledge. The stalactite hit there as if it had been violently slammed into place. Despite its ancientness, it seemed to quiver with the force of impact. Only a strait passage remained between the stalactite and the wall.

  Amok halted before this narrow gap. He waited until his companions were close behind him. Then, speaking over his shoulder in an almost reverential tone, he said, “Behold Damelon’s Door—entryway to the Power of Command. For this reason among others, none may approach the Power in my absence. The knowledge of this unlocking is contained in none of High Lord Kevin’s Wards. And any who dare Damelon’s Door without this unlocking will not find the Power. They will wander forever torn and pathless in the wilderness beyond. Now hear me. Pass swiftly through the
entryway when it is opened. It will not remain open long.”

  Elena nodded intently. Behind her, Covenant braced himself on her shoulder with his right hand. He had a sudden inchoate feeling that this was his last chance to turn back, to recant or undo the decisions which had brought him here. But the chance—if it was a chance—passed as quickly as it had come. Amok approached the Door.

  With slow solemnity, the youth extended his right hand, touched the blank plane of the gap with his index finger. In silence he held his finger at that point, level with his chest.

  A fine yellow filigree network began to grow in the air. Starting from Amok’s fingertip, the delicate web of light spread outward in the plane of the gap. Like a skein slowly crystallizing into visibility, it expanded until it filled the whole Door.

  Amok commanded, “Come,” and stepped briskly through the web.

  He did not break the delicate strands of light. Rather he disappeared as he touched them. Covenant could see no trace of him on the ledge beyond the Door.

  Morin followed Amok. He, too, vanished as he came in contact with the yellow web.

  Then the High Lord started forward. Covenant stayed with her. He kept his grip on her shoulder; he was afraid of being separated from her. Boldly she stepped into the gap. He held her and followed. When he touched the glistening network, he winced, but he felt no pain. A swift tingling like an instant of ants passed over his flesh as he crossed the gap. He could feel Bannor close behind him.

  He found himself standing in a place different from the one he had expected.

  As he looked around him, the web faded, vanished. But the Staff of Law continued to burn. Back through the gap, he could see the ledge and the stalactites and the chasm. But no chasm existed on this side of Damelon’s Door. Instead there stretched a wide stone floor in which stalactites and stalagmites stood like awkward colonnades, and a mottled ceiling hunched over the open spaces. Hushed stillness filled the air; a moment passed before Covenant realized that he could no longer hear the low background rumble of Melenkurion Skyweir’s river.

  With an encompassing gesture, Amok said formally, “Behold the Audience Hall of Earthroot. Here in ages long forgotten the sunless lake would rise in season to meet those who sought its waters. Now as the Earthpower fades from mortal knowledge, the Audience Hall is unwet. Yet it retains a power of mazement, to foil those who are unready in heart and mind. All who enter here without the proper unlocking of Damelon’s Door will be forever lost to life and use and name.”

  Grinning he turned to Elena. “High Lord, brighten the Staff for a moment.”

  She seemed to guess his intention. She straightened as if she anticipated awe; eagerness seemed to gleam on her forehead. Murmuring ritualistically, she struck the Staff’s heel on the stone. The Staff flared, and a burst of flame sprang toward the ceiling.

  The result staggered Covenant. The surge of flame sparked a reaction in all the stalactites and stalagmites. They became instantly glittering and reflective. Light ignited on every column, resonated, rang in dazzling peals back and forth across the cave. It burned into his eyes from every side until he felt that he was caught on the clapper of an immense bell of light. He tried to cover his eyes, but the clangor went on in his mind. Gasping searching blindly for support, he began to founder.

  Then Elena silenced the Staff. The clamoring light faded away, echoed into the distance like the aftermath of a clarion. Covenant found that he was on his knees with his hands clamped over his ears. Hesitantly he looked up. All the reflections were gone; the columns had returned to their former rough illuster. As Elena helped him to his feet, he was muttering weakly, “By hell. By hell.” Even her fond face, and the flat, unamazed countenances of the Bloodguard, could not counteract his feeling that he no longer knew where he was. And when Amok led the High Lord’s party onward, Covenant kept stumbling as if he could not find his footing on the stone.

  After they left the perilous cavern, time and distance passed confusedly for him. His retinas retained a capering dazzle which disoriented him. He could see that the High Lord and Amok descended a slope which spread out beyond the range of the Staffs light like a protracted shore, a colonnaded beach left dry by the recession of a subterranean sea. But his feet could not follow their path. His eyes told him that Amok led them directly down the slope, but his sense of balance registered alterations in direction, changes in the pitch and angle of descent. Whenever he closed his eyes, he lost all impression of straightness; he reeled on the uneven surface of a crooked trail.

  He did not know where or how far he had traveled when Elena stopped for a brief meal. He did not know how long the halt lasted, or what distance he walked when it was over. All his senses were out of joint. When the High Lord halted again, and told him to rest, he sank down against a stalagmite and went to sleep without question.

  In dreams he wandered like one of the lore who had improvidently braved Damelon’s Door in search of Earthroot—he could hear shrill, stricken wails of loss as if he were crying for his companions, crying for himself—and he awoke to a complete confusion. The darkness made him think that someone had pulled the fuses of his house while he lay bleeding and helpless on the floor beside his coffee table. Numbly he groped for the receiver of the telephone, hoping that Joan had not yet hung up on him. But then his fumbling fingers recognized the texture of stone. With a choked groan, he sprang to his feet in the midnight under Melenkurion Skyweir.

  Almost at once, the Staff flamed. In the blue light, Elena arose to catch him with her free arm and clasp him tightly. “Beloved!” she murmured. “Ah, beloved. Hold fast. I am here.” He hugged her achingly, pressed his face into her sweet hair until he could still his pain, regain his self-command. Then he slowly released her. He strove to express his thanks with a smile, but it broke and fell into pieces in his face. In a raw, rasping voice, he said, “Where are we?”

  Behind him, Amok fluted, “We stand in the Aisle of Approach. Soon we will gain Earthrootstair.”

  “What”—Covenant tried to clear his head—“what time is it?”

  “Time has no measure under Melenkurion Skyweir,” the youth replied imperviously.

  “Oh, bloody hell.” Covenant groaned at the echo he heard in Amok’s answer. He had been told too often that white gold was the crux of the arch of Time.

  Elena came to his relief. “The sun has risen to midmorning,” she said. “This is the thirty-third day of our journey from Revelstone.” As an afterthought, she added, “Tonight is the dark of the moon.”

  The dark of the moon, he muttered mordantly to himself. Have mercy—Terrible things happened when the moon was dark. The Wraiths of Andelain had been attacked by ur-viles—Atiaran had never forgiven him for that.

  The High Lord seemed to see his thoughts in his face. “Beloved,” she said calmly, “do not be so convinced of doom.” Then she turned away and started to prepare a spare meal.

  Watching her—seeing her resolution and personal force implicit even in the way she performed this simple task—Covenant clenched his teeth, and kept the silence of his bargain.

  He could hardly eat the food she handed to him. The effort of silence made him feel ill; holding down his passive lie seemed to knot his guts, make sustenance unpalatable. Yet he felt that he was starving. To ease his inanition, he forced down a little of the dry bread and cured meat and cheese. The rest he returned to Elena. He felt almost relieved when she followed Amok again into the darkness.

  He went dumbly after her.

  Sometime during the previous day, the High Lord’s party had left behind the Audience Hall. Now they traveled a wide, featureless tunnel like a road through the stone. Elena’s light easily reached the ceiling and walls. Their surfaces were oddly smooth, as if they had been rubbed for long ages by the movement of something rough and powerful. This smoothness made the tunnel seem like a conduit or artery. Covenant distrusted it; he half expected thick, laval ichor to come rushing up through it. As he moved, he played nervously with his ring,
as if that small circle were the binding of his self-control.

  Elena quickened her steps. He could see in her back that she was impelled by her mounting eagerness for the Power of Command.

  At last, the tunnel changed. Its floor swung in a tight curve to the left, and its right wall broke off, opening into another crevice. This rift immediately became a substantial gulf. The stone shelf of the road narrowed until it was barely ten feet wide, then divided into rude steep stairs as it curved downward. In moments, the High Lord’s party was on a stairway which spiraled around a central shaft into the chasm.

  Many hundreds of feet below them, a fiery red glow lit the bottom of the gulf. Covenant felt that he was peering into an inferno.

  He remembered where he had seen such light before. It was rocklight—radiated stone-shine like that which the Cavewights used under Mount Thunder.

  The descent affected him like vertigo. Within three rounds of the shaft, his head was reeling. Only Elena’s unwavering light, and his acute concentration as he negotiated the uneven steps, saved him from pitching headlong over the edge. But he was grimly determined not to ask either Elena or Bannor for help. He could afford no more indebtedness; it would nullify his bargain, tip the scales of payment against him. No! he muttered to himself as he lurched down the steps. No. No more. Don’t be so bloody helpless. Save something to bargain with. Keep going. Distantly he heard himself panting, “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.”

  A spur of nausea roweled him. His muscles bunched as if they were bracing for a fall. But he hugged his chest, and clung to Elena’s light for support. Her flame bobbed above her like a tongue of courage. Slowly its blue illumination took on a red tinge as she worked down toward the gulf’s glow.

  He made the descent grimly, mechanically, like a volitionless puppet stalking down the irregular steps of his designated end. Round by round, he approached the source of the rocklight. Soon the red illumination made the Staffs flame unnecessary, and High Lord Elena extinguished it. Ahead of her, Amok began to move more swiftly, as if he were impatient, jealous of all delays which postponed the resolution of his existence. But Covenant followed at his own pace, effectively unconscious of anything but the spiraling stairs and his imperious dizziness. He went down the last distance through a high wash of rocklight as numbly as if he were sleepwalking.