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

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Instinctively Linden rose to her feet. She held the Staff upright beside her, its heel planted on the floor, as if she meant to call forth its power.

  Mahrtiir stood also; and Stave joined them. Liand mopped unceremoniously at a spill of broth in Anele’s beard, then surged erect as well.

  Hurrying now, the young woman offered them a quick Ramen bow.

  The Manethrall replied with a brusque nod. “Speak, Cord. We have awaited some word of what transpires in the night.”

  In the night—? Linden was surprised to realize that so much time had passed.

  Darkness would limit even the unquantified perceptions of the Ranyhyn.

  “Manethrall.” Pahni bowed again reflexively. Her voice held a tremor of anxiety as she said, “Shortly before sunset, Esmer came among us. He attempted to draw the Ranyhyn away.” She frowned to mask a distinctly Ramen disdain. “I had not thought him so foolish. He should have known that they would not abandon their riders.”

  “He is troubled,” Mahrtiir replied. His tone made it clear that he did not consider being troubled an adequate excuse.

  Pahni nodded. “Yet we were concerned, Bhapa and I, for he spoke slightingly to us, foretelling death. Then he departed, though we could not name where or how he had gone.

  “Because of his words, we widened our guard over the Ranyhyn. Still we found no sign of peril.

  “Shortly after moonrise, however, came Naharahn—the proud mare who has shown me such honor—”

  Abruptly the Cord fell silent, flustered by her awe and gratitude.

  Mahrtiir did not rush her.

  When Pahni had taken a deep breath to steady herself, she was able to continue. “Naharahn made it known to me that something discomfited her. What it was I could not determine by scent or sight or sound. But Whrany, who bears Bhapa, felt likewise disturbed. And their unrest spread swiftly among the other Ranyhyn.”

  To herself, Linden groaned. She was not ready to attempt another caesure. But she did not interrupt the Cord.

  “Sure of them,” Pahni finished, “Bhapa has descended toward the plains, seeking the cause of their concern. Before he departed, however, we agreed that you must be forewarned.”

  As she said this, Pahni looked through her lashes at the Manethrall as if she half expected him to reprimand her for leaving her assigned duties.

  He did not. Instead he said, “You have done rightly. Return now to the Ranyhyn.” In spite of his apparent calm, his voice held a rising eagerness. “We will follow when we have offered our respect to the Waynhim.”

  With another nod, he dismissed the Cord.

  Bowing once more, Pahni turned and hastened, fleet as a colt, out of the cave.

  Liand watched her go as if he wanted to run after her; but he made no move to leave Linden’s side.

  “It comes,” Stave said impassively. Outside the cave, Esmer’s dark hints were approaching fruition.

  Mahrtiir nodded, eager as a blade. He looked like a man who could hear the call of battle.

  Linden leaned heavily on the Staff. She was weary yet, deeply in need of rest; entirely unprepared. Yet this was the moment for which she had been waiting. Now the nature of Esmer’s betrayal would declare itself, and she would know what she had to do to save the Waynhim and her companions.

  The Staff was a powerful tool, fraught with dangerous possibilities; but it could not help her return to her proper time. Somehow she would have to find her way back to wild magic.

  “Linden?” asked Liand. “Does your knowledge of the Land suggest a name for this disturbance?” He glanced at Stave. “Is this another dark wonder which the Masters have concealed from us?”

  “I don’t know.” Abruptly she pulled herself upright. She had needs more profound than rest. At this moment, they began with the Waynhim, although they extended far beyond her ability to measure them. “Stave will tell us as much as he can. When the time comes.”

  Esmer had asked, How will you bear the burden of such powers? Either alone will transcend your strength. Together they will wreak only madness—

  Apparently he had always intended to “help” her face his betrayal by removing the barrier that his presence imposed on her access to Covenant’s ring.

  “Mahrtiir is right,” she added. “It’s time to go.”

  At once, she turned toward the waiting creatures.

  The Waynhim knew what threatened them: she was certain of that. Like the ur-viles, they understood Esmer’s intentions better than she did. Yet they had made no obvious move to prepare a defense. And she suspected that they would not, unless she led the way. Surrendering the Staff, they had to some extent made her responsible for the outcome of their lives.

  “I wish you could tell me what’s coming,” she said gravely. “I can’t even imagine how much danger I’ve put you in.” She had brought Cail’s son to them. “But it doesn’t change my debt to you. I don’t know what would have happened to the Staff without you—or what would happen to the Land—but I think we would all be doomed.

  “One thing I’m sure of. You did the right thing. You’ve been faithful to your Weird.”

  With all the dignity she could muster, she bowed, holding the Staff before her in acknowledgment. Then, so that she would not falter, she turned to Stave and said, “We’ve waited long enough. Let’s find out how bad this is.”

  The Haruchai also bowed to the Waynhim, as did Mahrtiir and Liand. Then the Stonedownor urged Anele to his feet; Mahrtiir hastened into the lead; and Stave accompanied Linden across the cave toward the egress.

  As she and her companions passed, the creatures formed a wedge and followed more slowly, chittering encouragement or farewells to each other.

  The angle of the tunnel beyond the cave soon blocked out the light. With the last reflected glow of the urns behind her, Linden could see nothing ahead. At her back, the bare feet of the Waynhim made a faint susurrus on the stone. The sound seemed to pursue her, sibilant and apprehensive, echoing softly about her ears like supplication.

  Too many of them will perish—

  Trepidation confused her steps; but Stave guided her with a light touch on her arm, ensuring that she did not stumble. The warm certainty of the Staff also sustained her. And soon the darkness receded on either side as the tunnel opened into the ravine, and the night sky spread a swath of starlight overhead. Sand yielding under her boots, she walked along the bottom of the ravine toward the open night of the foothills.

  There Mahrtiir awaited her with Pahni. When Linden and Stave reached him, the Manethrall announced in a contained whisper, “Cord Bhapa has not yet returned. The Ranyhyn remain on the hillside above us. They are restive, for the peril draws near. But they will not flee it.” His tone suggested pride in the great horses.

  “If you will heed my word,” he added, “we will mount so that they may respond swiftly to your desires.”

  Bhapa had only one good eye. His night vision would be hampered—

  “What about the ur-viles?” Linden asked, whispering as the Manethrall did.

  “An unwary foe,” he replied, “might deem that they have abandoned us, but they have not. Rather they have secreted themselves among the shadows below us.” Between Linden’s company and the advancing danger. “Doubtless they will attempt surprise on our behalf.” He considered the hillside briefly, then said, “It may be, also, that they seek to distance themselves from the Waynhim. If so, they are wise. The Demondim-spawn will not readily trust each other, or fight in each other’s defense.”

  Linden peered down the slopes, looked for some hint of the creatures. But she found none. Their lore and their blackness concealed them from her senses.

  Yet she could see better than she had expected. Above the jagged line of mountains distant in the east, a sallow moon a few days from its full had risen, shedding its wan light, bilious and unresolved, over the rumpled foothills and sprawling plains. In that uncertain illumination, the undulations of the lowland seemed to seethe gradually toward the horizon, ponderous a
nd fluid as seas, and the shallow vales and clefts which defined the hills were crowded with darkness. The vague shapes of the Ranyhyn, off to her right and uphill from her, were as ill-defined as shadows.

  “Ringthane,” insisted Mahrtiir. “Will you mount?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet. First I want you to talk to them.” She meant the ur-viles. “You or Pahni. They’ll understand.

  “Tell them to come when they hear me shouting.” If she succeeded at tearing open a Fall—and if she could devise no other response to the peril—“I don’t care how they feel about the Waynhim. I won’t be able to save anyone who isn’t near me.”

  Nodding sharply, the Manethrall turned away and strode into the night. For a moment, he slipped down the crease of the dry watercourse. Then he seemed to fade from sight as if, like the ur-viles, he had cloaked himself in darkness.

  Beyond question the Ramen understood stealth.

  “Stave,” Linden breathed to the Master, “tell the Waynhim. I need to know they’ll come to me when I call.”

  He did not ask why she did not speak to the creatures herself. Nevertheless she told him, “I have to think.”

  Noiselessly the Haruchai withdrew into the ravine; and Liand came to take his place at her side, bringing Anele with him.

  The old man stood as though he were alone, wrapped in madness. Holding his head up, he studied the dark with senses other than vision; alert to the nuances of the night. As if to himself, he murmured, “It is wrong. Wrong and terrible. Beings of nightmare walk the hills. They must not be permitted.”

  At that moment, he appeared as sane as Linden had ever seen him.

  She had to think.

  Summon a Fall: that was the obvious solution. Recover her grasp on wild magic and rip open time. Commit her companions, all of them, ur-viles and Waynhim as well, to the known horrors of a caesure so that they would not fall prey to Esmer’s betrayal. But she had pointed out the flaw in that reasoning to Stave. Something fatal had been unleashed on the South Plains; and it would not simply disappear, unmake itself, if she escaped. Deprived of its intended victims, it might seek to vent its destructiveness elsewhere.

  It might turn toward Mithil Stonedown. Liand’s ancestors would have no defense. And such an attack would violate the known history of the Land. It would weaken the essential integrity of time.

  Therefore Linden could not flee. First she had to meet the danger. She had brought it here: it was her responsibility.

  And still she could see nothing. Even her health-sense gave her no hints. The Ranyhyn scented peril on the air, or felt it through the earth. The Waynhim and the ur-viles knew their danger. In some fashion, Anele tasted the approach of nightmares. Yet Linden herself remained effectively blind.

  She held her breath for Bhapa’s return, hoping that the Cord would tell her what she needed to know. But when the imprecise night condensed at last into the form of a man, it was Mahrtiir rather than Bhapa who whispered her name.

  “I have done as you required. Now I urge you to heed me. We must mount. The swiftness of the Ranyhyn will ward us more surely than any garrote or fist.”

  “The Manethrall counsels well,” Stave observed. Linden had not seen him return: like Mahrtiir, he appeared to join her from among the secrets of the dark. “It is said that there is no glory to compare with riding a Ranyhyn in battle.”

  Now Linden did not delay. The Ranyhyn were under her protection as much as the Waynhim and the ur-viles. As much as Liand and Anele and the Ramen—

  With Mahrtiir in the lead, she and her companions climbed the hillside toward the great horses. Pahni took charge of Anele so that Liand could stay with Linden. And behind them came the Waynhim in formation, chanting rhythmically the rituals of their lore.

  However, the creatures did not ascend the slope. Instead they positioned themselves below the Ranyhyn, with the tip of their wedge pointing downward and somewhat to the east. There they awaited the attack.

  A warm breeze drifted into Linden’s face. The air had cooled little since sunset, and baked shale, loose dirt, and sparse grass held the heat. The minor exertion of climbing toward the Ranyhyn drew sweat from her temples, made her shirt cling to her back.

  Two or three of the horses whinnied softly in greeting. Others tossed their manes or stamped their hooves as if they were eager to run. Linden could not see clearly enough to tell them apart; but Hyn came to her and nuzzled her shoulder, urging her to mount.

  With the Staff in her hands, Linden relied on Stave to boost her onto the mare’s back. As he did so, the strained muscles in her legs protested. And she felt Hyn’s disquiet at once. It spoke to her nerves, flesh to flesh: a visceral quiver like a harbinger of panic. The great horses were not easily frightened, but Hyn was afraid now, champing for movement.

  When Linden touched the mare’s flank with the Staff, however, Hyn calmed herself, and her quivering subsided.

  Around them, the other riders went to their Ranyhyn. Pahni needed Liand’s help to seat Anele on Hrama: the old man had not relaxed his concentration northward, and made no effort to assist them. But the Master mounted Hynyn unaided, and Mahrtiir appeared to glide up onto his horse’s back. When Pahni had given Liand a subtle lift, she sprang lightly onto Naharahn. In moments, Whrany alone remained unridden.

  Still Bhapa had not returned.

  A silence spread around them, punctuated only by the restless movements of the horses and the low, focused barking of the Waynhim. No night birds called: no insects chirred or whined. The darkness seemed to be holding its breath, and the moon’s yellow light illumined little, as though it winced away from what it might witness. Linden felt an old malice gather among the slopes below her as if it welled up from within the ground. She did not know how to reply to it.

  “Chosen,” Stave pronounced suddenly, “be warned. It is dire. We did not know that this evil still endured. The old tellers have said that the ur-Lord destroyed it utterly.”

  As he spoke, Linden felt pressure rise against her percipience. At the limit of its reach, her health-sense decried malevolence swelling into the night.

  A moment later, she saw a distant flash of emerald like a flaring instance of sickness, an ignition of pure desecration. It was swallowed almost immediately by a black concussion which shook the night, a thunderclap of vitriol flung by one or several of the ur-viles. Before the vicious green vanished, however, she recognized it. It had been etched into her memory by horror.

  “God!” she panted. “Oh, God. It can’t be.”

  Beyond mistake that flash of rank emerald was the power of the Illearth Stone.

  Which should have been impossible. Stave was right: with wild magic, Covenant had extirpated that ancient bane from the Land. And he had won his expensive victory thousands of years before Linden had first been translated to the Land.

  Yet she knew from cruel experience that at least one small corrupt flake of the original Stone had survived Covenant’s victory. In the years before that final contest, Lord Foul had given fragments of the Illearth Stone to each of his Giant-Ravers so that they could command his armies. One such fragment had been wielded against the defenders of the Land somewhat to the south and west of Andelain; and during the conflict, a shard had broken off from that piece of the Stone: had broken off and been lost.

  The air seemed to grow warmer. It felt like a touch of steam. Nevertheless a chill slid along Linden’s spine as if her sweat had turned to ice.

  Lost, the green flake had remained so for centuries, leaking slow ruin into the hills, until it was discovered by a village of Woodhelvennin. By then, the Clave had come to rule the Land, and the lore of the Lords, which might have warned or protected the Woodhelven, had been corrupted. So the village was itself corrupted, generation after generation, until at last the evil shard was used against Linden, Sunder, and Hollian while Covenant rambled in Andelain alone.

  Later Covenant had destroyed that virulent flake as he had once shattered the Illearth Stone itself. But Linden remembe
red it still. She had felt its evil at a time when she did not know how to bear such knowledge.

  Now, staring appalled at the lurid emerald after-flash on her retinas, she wondered: if one little piece of that terrible bane had survived, why not more than one? The Giant-Ravers had fought a number of battles against the Land’s defenders. They had channeled immense forces through their fragments of the Stone. Other pieces could have broken off and been lost.

  She could imagine no other explanation. Somehow an enemy of the Land had found such a piece. Or Esmer had—

  It was possible. Time seldom hinders me. His access to the past made almost any act of treachery conceivable.

  The thought that she would have to confront the old bane which had nearly undone both the Council of Lords and Thomas Covenant shrilled along her nerves, making her guts squirm with dread.

  Another quick flare of green stained the night. Detonations of acid volleyed around it. The breeze falling from the mountainsides carried intimations of slaughter out into the moonlight.

  Among the Ranyhyn, shadows seemed to melt and solidify. Then Bhapa stood at Mahrtiir’s knee, gazing urgently up at the Manethrall. Even in the dark, his left arm and shoulder blazed with damage: Linden’s dismayed nerves discerned a wound like a deep burn. Lingering emerald flickered among fine droplets of black fluid in the hurt. He had been caught at the fringe of a blast; lashed with power.

  “Manethrall—” His throat clenched in pain. Forcing himself, he gasped softly, “I know not what they are. But they are many. And they hold—”

  He could not find words for what he had beheld.

  “We have seen it,” Mahrtiir replied through his teeth. “Mount at once. I cannot now tend to your wound.”

  The Cord nodded. For a moment, he appeared to crouch, huddling over his injury; and his hurt burned at Linden as if she, too, had been splashed with acid. Then he flung himself onto Whrany’s back.

  “Describe them, Cord.” Stave spoke quietly, but his tone cut through the restiveness of the horses. “What is their appearance? What did you discern of them?”

  Green malignance slashed the night, momentarily limning the exposed shape of the foothills. It looked more savage now, and reached farther: its wielders were advancing up the slope, or the ur-viles opposing it had been decimated. Frantic barking rose against the breeze. Scattered blooms and geysers of obsidian tattered the flash of emerald, but could not tear it apart.