The Runes of the Earth: The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant - Book One

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Linden nodded vacantly. Her uselessness galled her. For the time being, at least, she had come to the end of herself.

  Scant moments later, however, Manethrall Hami called her Cords into motion. Around Linden, the comparatively whole young men and women prepared themselves to carry their dead and fallen comrades, some in slings across their backs, others cradled in their arms. Liand readied Somo for an ascent they could scarcely see. And Linden realized that she was staring at a darkness deeper than shadows: the ur-viles.

  Without thinking about it, she had expected them to depart. Surely they had already done what they came to do? Yet they remained, obviously waiting for something. Did they mean to accompany the Ramen? Did they anticipate another attack? Or were they wary of the moment when their interests might diverge from those of the Ramen?

  Then Stave came to her side. “Chosen,” he announced, “I must bear you again.” Gloom obscured his features. If he had bared his teeth at her, she would not have known it. “If I do not, your weariness will hold you here, and you will be exposed to cold beyond your endurance.”

  Too worn out to do otherwise, she surrendered herself and the immediate future to his ambiguous care.

  As the Cords settled their burdens, the ur-viles also prepared to move. Apparently the disturbing creatures intended to accompany them.

  Then the Ramen began to climb. Linden had assumed that they would move slowly and rest often, laden as they were. But she soon saw that she had underestimated their toughness. They managed the jagged slope more swiftly than she could have imagined.

  And the ur-viles ascended with ease. The proportions of their limbs aided them here: although they looked awkward upright, they could use their hands for climbing as readily as their feet. Somehow they had put their weapons away, so that their hands were empty; unencumbered.

  Soon it became obvious that only Liand and Somo could not match the pace of the Ramen. Alone, Liand might have kept up well enough; but in the deepening twilight the mustang had to pick its footing carefully. Otherwise it might snap a foreleg among the stones.

  At a word from Manethrall Hami, the lone unburdened Cord dropped back to Liand. “Join your companions,” the young woman told him brusquely. “I will guide your mount.”

  “No.” Liand may have shaken his head. “I brought Somo to this. The responsibility is mine.”

  The Cord might have argued; but Stave put in, “You have wrought sufficient folly for one day, Stonedownor. Do not be foolish in this. The horselore of the Ramen surpasses you. Your mount will fare better in her care than in yours.”

  “Linden?” Liand asked out of the darkness. He may have meant, What should I do?

  He may have meant, Tell this damn Master to leave me alone.

  Sighing to herself, Linden answered, “I think the Ramen know what they’re doing. Somo should be safe with her.”

  “Very well,” Liand muttered to the Cord. “I have tended the mounts of Mithil Stonedown since I grew tall enough to curry them. If you do not return Somo to me, you will answer for it.”

  The young woman snorted under her breath, but made no other retort.

  Liand scrambled up the rocks to Stave’s side. “I know nothing of these Ramen, Master,” he said softly. “You have concealed them from us. If I am foolish, how could it be otherwise? You have kept secret all that might have made us wise.”

  Stave ignored the justice of Liand’s accusation.

  Overhead the sky had turned purple with evening. Slowly it dimmed toward black. For some time now, the breeze had gathered force as cold poured like a stream into the narrows of the rift. Linden felt chills seep into her skin in spite of Stave’s intransigent warmth. Soon she would start to shiver under the mounting weight of the wind.

  A day and a half in the Land, hardly more than that, and she had already become as helpless as an infant. Jeremiah needed her. More than that: he needed her to be a figure of power, the stuff of legends; rapt with wild magic and efficacy. Yet here she lay, cradled weakly in the arms of a man who had turned his back on such things.

  Ahead of her, the Ramen and ur-viles moved in their distinct groups, as obscure as clouds against the vague background of the rocks. Yearning to find some use for herself, she asked abruptly, “Stave, will you talk to me?”

  He replied without turning his head. “What do you wish me to say?”

  “Tell me what you know about ur-viles.” She desired a concession from him; something more personal than the forbearance he had shown the Ramen. “You called them a great evil, but they don’t act like it.”

  Out of the gloaming, Stave said, “They are as strange to us as to you. We cannot account for them. We have never understood them.”

  Linden persisted. “You still know more about them than I do. Their history. Where they come from. All I’ve ever heard is that they were made, not born. Created by the Demondim—whoever they were. I need more.

  “Isn’t there anything else you can tell me?”

  For a long moment, Stave appeared to consider the deeper ramifications of her question. Deliberately over the centuries, the Haruchai had suppressed the history of the Land. Now she asked him to speak of it—and in Liand’s presence.

  Finally he countered, “Chosen, do you comprehend what you request? This foolish young man has elected to dare his fate with you. If I give you answer, and he seeks later to relate what he has heard, we must prevent him.

  “You appear to value kindness. Will you treat him so roughly?”

  Before Linden could object, Liand put in stiffly, “Your words sow confusion, Master. You threaten me rather than the Chosen. Therefore the choice is mine to make. To pretend otherwise is not honest. It ill becomes you.”

  A subliminal tension seemed to run through Stave’s chest. “Have a care, Stonedownor,” he replied. “You are not equal to such determinations.”

  “Because,” Linden protested, “you don’t allow him to be.” Stave’s inflexibility exasperated her. “He’s right. If you think he’s too ignorant to understand the risks, that’s your doing. No one else’s.”

  The Haruchai had made themselves responsible for all the Land. Under the circumstances, the unexpected aid of the ur-viles must have undermined Stave’s convictions. And he may have felt disturbed by the way in which the presence of the Demondim-spawn lent credibility to Anele’s impossible tale. Perhaps his need to understand the creatures was as acute as Linden’s.

  “Very well,” he said at last. His voice held no hint of concession. “I will answer. This Stonedownor must be wary of us as he sees fit.”

  The indistinct group of the Ramen appeared nearer than it had earlier. Stave was gaining on them—or they had slowed their pace to listen.

  “You have been told, Linden Avery, that the Haruchai first came to the Land in the time of High Lord Kevin Landwaster.” Having accepted this task, Stave spoke steadily, in spite of his taciturn nature. Nevertheless his tone conveyed an impression of awkwardness, as though he were translating a richer and more numinous tongue into blunt human language. “I say this again to explain that they did not know the High Lord’s father, Loric son of Damelon, who earned the name of Vilesilencer. They heard only tales of those years, and of the black Viles which had haunted the Land. We cannot now declare which of those tales were true.”

  Linden settled herself in the Master’s arms. His decision to speak gave her an obscure comfort. It suggested that he could still compromise, in spite of his native severity.

  “It was said by some,” he told her as well as Liand and the listening Ramen, “that the Viles were creatures of miasma, evanescent and dire, arising from ancient banes buried within Mount Thunder as mist arises from tainted waters. Others claimed that they were specters and ghouls, the tormented spirits of those who had fallen victim to Corruption’s evil. And yet others proclaimed that they were fragments of the One Forest’s lost soul, remnants of spirit rent by the slaughter of the trees, and ravenous for harm.

  “On three things, however
, the tales agreed. First, the Viles appeared where they willed, elusive as swamp lights, wreaking mortification and horror. Next, their lore, which they had gained from the buried banes of the Earth, was black and ruinous, delving into matters which the old Lords could not penetrate. And last, the evil of the Viles was inspired by their loathing of themselves.

  “Doubt-ridden, perhaps, by the cleaner spirits from which they had arisen, or by the havoc which Corruption required of them, they desired above all things to become other than they were. And toward that desire they bent all their terrible lore.

  “Therefore they created the Demondim, laboring long in the Lost Deep. And for a time it appeared that they had succeeded in their self-loathing, for the Demondim were unlike their makers. Among the Lords, they were described as ‘powerful and austere.’ It was said of them that they were ‘once friendly’ to the trees.

  “Still the Viles were a bane upon the Land. For that reason, High Lord Loric took up the challenge of silencing their evil. And in this he prevailed, though at great cost. Because their lore was a mystery to him, beyond his conception, he enlisted the aid of the Demondim against their makers. There he learned dismay, and could never again be truly whole, for he did not know that Corruption had been at work among the Demondim, sending his Ravers to teach them self-Despite, the same abhorrence of themselves which had long tormented the Viles.

  “Because they had been swayed, the Demondim became the foes of the forests. For the same reason, they returned to the breeding dens of the Viles in order to begin the making of the ur-viles. And for that same reason, the aid which the Demondim granted to Loric Vilesilencer was Despite in another form, for it arose from their self-loathing. They turned against their makers because Corruption is cunning, and because they saw no value in their own creation.

  “Thus was High Lord Loric’s victory over evil made possible by Corruption. So were planted the seeds of doubt and chagrin which later blossomed in Kevin Landwaster and the Ritual of Desecration.”

  Shades of evening still held the sky, but night now filled the rift, welling up from the memories of the rubble; flowing downward from the dark past of the ur-viles. And with it came the ice-sharp wind which Manethrall Hami had promised. Cold soughed and hissed in the background of Stave’s words.

  Yet he was not chilled. His people made their home among the ice and snows of the Westron Mountains. The passion in his veins gave him all the warmth he required.

  Bearing Linden upward appeared to cost him no effort at all.

  “The Bloodguard,” he stated flatly, “heard only tales of the Viles, but of the Demondim their experience was certain. Among other causes, High Lord Kevin was driven to Desecration by his failure to answer the darkness of the Vile-spawn.

  “The Viles were in some form wraiths, as enduring and insidious as mist. The ur-viles were”—he hesitated momentarily, corrected himself—“are as you see them, tangible flesh which may be slain, despite their deep lore. But the Demondim possessed a middle nature, at once both and neither, partaking of miasma and flesh together. As did the Viles, they persisted outside or beyond life and death. As do the ur-viles, they had forms which could be touched and harmed.”

  “I do not understand,” Liand put in. “How is it possible?”

  “The Demondim were animate dead,” Stave answered, “creatures such as those that came near to causing the fall of Revelstone in the time of High Lord Mhoram. Those creatures, however, were mere lifeless forms serving the power of the Illearth Stone. The Demondim were the lore and bitterness of the Viles made manifest in slain flesh, corpses with the puissance of Lords. The vitriol which the ur-viles wield for destruction pulsed in their hearts. Clad in cerements and rot, the Demondim arose from the graves of the fallen, and their touch was fire.

  “They might be halted by blade or flame, but they could not be extinguished. From them, High Lord Kevin learned lessons of despair which doomed his spirit. Given time, an army of such creatures might overrun the Earth.”

  Out of the night, Manethrall Hami said, “The Ramen remember. We named them Fangs, the Teeth of the Render, and all their deeds were dire.”

  “Indeed,” Stave responded. “The Ramen fought valiantly and often along the Roamsedge to bar the Demondim from the Plains of Ra, and were not defeated.

  “Yet the Demondim did not comprise an army. Their numbers were too few. Neither scruple nor opposition restricted them, but they had turned against their makers, and therefore the Viles were gone. Nor did the Demondim turn their lore to the spawning of yet more Demondim. They had learned to abhor themselves, and had no desire to seek their own increase. Rather they studied and labored to re-fashion themselves in living flesh.”

  Covenant had told Linden similar things. She had met both ur-viles and Waynhim. However, she had no wish to interrupt what Stave was saying.

  “While Corruption wrought covertly to mar the Council of Lords,” he told the dark climb, “the Demondim also labored in secret, wielding their lore over breeding vats and fens in the Lost Deep, the lightless pits and caverns beneath the Wightwarrens of Mount Thunder. There among forgotten banes and ancient cruelties, they strove with lore and power to make of themselves new creatures.

  “And from their labors emerged living flesh at last. Some were ur-viles, while others came forth as Waynhim, smaller than ur-viles, more grey than black, and less inclined to bloodshed. Why this should be so, the Haruchai do not know. Perhaps among the Demondim lingered the memory that they had once stood apart from the lust and loathing of the Viles. Perhaps some aspect or faction of the Demondim had not been entirely seduced by Despite. Whatever the cause, the truth remains that both ur-viles and Waynhim were created in the same fashion. Yet the Waynhim sought to heal their abhorrence in service rather than to quench it in slaughter, as the ur-viles did.

  “So the downfall of the Demondim came upon them. They were undone by the Ritual of Desecration. Corruption had not forewarned his servants, or they had declined to heed their peril. It may be that they desired their own destruction. Thus the Landwaster’s despair achieved this one victory. Though ur-viles and Waynhim endured, the Demondim were swept aside.”

  “That also,” announced Manethrall Hami softly, “the Ramen do not forget. We have known both Waynhim and ur-viles. In that time, an extravagant cruelty ruled the ur-viles, and all the Land feared them. They had indeed become mortal, however, and could be slain.” Her voice held relish. “Many were the creatures which perished at the hands of the Ramen.”

  Stave nodded. “Yet they had become less than they were, for in the Ritual of Desecration even such beings as ur-viles and Waynhim were diminished. Much of the black lore of the Viles and the Demondim endured to them—and much did not.

  “This the new Lords knew because in numbers both Waynhim and ur-viles continued to dwindle. Indeed, both had become the last of their kind. They created no descendants, and when they were slain nothing returned of them.”

  Linden squirmed, suddenly uncomfortable in the Haruchai’s arms. He seemed to imply that the success of the Ramen against the ur-viles would not have been possible if the lore of the Demondim-spawn had retained its original force.

  The Manethrall responded sharply, “And do you therefore discount us, Bloodguard? Do you deem that our battles were less fiercely fought, or our blood less freely spilled, because our foes had become less than they were?

  “Much has been altered since the Bloodguard were turned to Fangthane’s service. You are Masters now, and a threat to harmless old men. Yet I see that the arrogance of your kind persists.”

  Linden groaned to herself. She could not imagine what had caused the almost subcutaneous animosity between Stave and the Ramen. They had just met; could not know each other. Any grievance between them was several thousand years old.

  However, Stave’s reply sounded courteous enough, if not conciliatory. “You mistake me, Manethrall. I speak only of ur-viles and Waynhim, not of Ramen. The courage of the Ramen was beyond question, and their dev
otion to the Ranyhyn proved greater than the fidelity of the Bloodguard.”

  But then his tone grew harder. “Yet we ‘persist’ in the Land’s service. What has become of the Ramen and their devotion?

  “In the time of the Sunbane, they withdrew the Ranyhyn from the Land. That was wisely done, for the Ranyhyn required preservation. Yet many centuries have now passed, and where are the great horses?

  “The Ramen remain. That we see. They live secretly among these mountains, for purposes which are likewise secret. But what of the Ranyhyn? Do they also remain, Manethrall? Have they expired in some inhospitable region? Were they led from ruin to ruin by their Ramen? Or have you returned without them, thinking to deny them the birthright of their true home?”

  Linden expected an angry rejoinder from the Manethrall; but instead she heard the rush of bare feet, the whisper of skin running over stone. The dark felt suddenly ominous around her, fretted with cold.

  In the last glow of the sky, she saw ur-viles crowding between her and the Ramen. They barked to each other harshly, or to her, but she could not understand them.

  Oh, shit.

  Trying to forestall a conflict, she snapped, “Stave, stop. Put me down. We don’t need this. The Ramen are helping us. What more do you want?”

  For a moment, the Haruchai strode up the rocks in silence. Then he stopped against an abrupt wall of ur-viles. The creatures had barred his way completely.

  Facing them, he dropped Linden’s legs to set her on her feet. Liand scrambled to her side as she groped for balance on the uneven surface. She feared that she would see red blades gleaming among the black creatures, but no weapons marked the night.

  The ur-viles smelled of decaying leaves and carrion: things which had become rotten.

  What in hell was going on?

  And what were “Ranyhyn”? Both Hami and Stave had mentioned them earlier, but she did not know what the name implied.

  She wished urgently that she could understand the ur-viles.

  “Manethrall,” she called out softly, “I’m sorry. He doesn’t speak for me. I don’t even know what he’s talking about. But you don’t have to be enemies. The Haruchai I’ve known have always been faithful. No matter what happened, they stood by us.”