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

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Then Linden saw in horror that the extravagant efforts of the Masters did not diminish the horde. Instead the trees and Cavewights and men and monsters which fell, apparently slain, seemed to melt out of existence, disappearing into the ground; and from the dirt emerged new shapes to replace them. Now creatures in the form of ur-viles stood among the combatants; monsters that resembled Giants; savage yellow beasts like kresh.

  The Demondim arose from the graves of the fallen, Stave had said, and their touch was fire. They could resurrect themselves in every form which had ever been slain before the gates of Revelstone.

  It was only a matter of time before all of the Haruchai were killed.

  Abruptly Anele vanished from her perceptions. He had stood alone amid the clamor, a cynosure of red heat and fury surrounded by the fading and solidifying forms of the Demondim, the splashing of opalescent corrosion, the daunting concussions of the Stone. Then, without warning, she could no longer discern him. Blankness answered her questing health-sense. As far as she could tell, he was utterly gone, erased from the face of the plain.

  Holding a shout of Staff-fire before her, Linden urged Hyn faster. With her companions braced about her, she carried her power into the battle.

  The Masters parted from her path. They may have assumed that she meant to measure herself against the Illearth Stone. But she had no such intention. She was too weary and mortal to contend with the Stone’s virulence directly. Not while its source remained hidden from her; unapproachable; immune to assault. Her only thought was to find Anele.

  Like the Haruchai, the Demondim withdrew to allow her passage. Or she may have driven them back with the Staff’s lucid flame. She no longer knew what she did. She knew only that she did not mean to turn aside.

  Then from within the chaos Hynyn burst into her path, sides heaving, coat soaked and glossy with blood. And on his back sat Stave as if they had endured a furnace together. Acid had charred the Master’s tunic to tatters, scored galls across his ribs and down his arms. And it had eaten away the left side of his face. The bones of his cheek showed through the streaming wound, and his eye was lost in burns. Nonetheless he somehow contrived to support Anele’s limp form in front of him.

  The old man still lived. His heart beat: air leaked in and out of his lungs. The Earthpower which had preserved him through so many other ordeals had sustained him again.

  Linden might have shouted his name, but he would not have heard her. The heat which had carried him into the fray was gone, leaving him unconscious.

  Frantic now, and stretched past her limits, she whirled the fire of the Staff around her, forcing more of the Demondim to pull back. As she did so, she yelled to her friends and Stave—to the Waynhim and ur-viles—to all of the embattled Haruchai—“Run! We’ve got to get out of here!”

  The clangor of blows and powers swallowed her cry; yet the Ranyhyn understood her instantly. As one, they turned, half sitting on their haunches in order to launch themselves back the way they had come. With Hynyn among them, they stretched for Revelstone at a pounding gallop.

  But now Linden hardly noticed what they did. Between one heartbeat and the next, the battle had dropped away from her. All of her attention was fixed on Anele. She clung to him with her senses as if that might keep him alive.

  The Waynhim and ur-viles had been behind her, guarding her back. Now in an instant the Ranyhyn rushed past them, leaving them exposed to the assault of their makers.

  Linden did not see that the Masters must have heard her, or had made their own decision to withdraw. As she and her companions broke free of the horde, however, the Haruchai abruptly jumped back from their opponents and began to run. Some of them whistled for their mounts. And some of those calls were answered. But most of the warriors simply ran. A few followed after the Ranyhyn as if to shield their flight. A large majority, however, headed for the ur-viles and Waynhim.

  In their own way, the Waynhim had served the Land as diligently as any of the Lords. And Linden had told the Masters through Stave that the ur-viles deserved protection.

  Encircling the creatures, the Haruchai took up positions to fight a rearguard action back toward the entrance to Lord’s Keep.

  But Linden was unaware of them. She had closed herself to all distractions; and so she did not see that the horde had slowed its pace, allowing its foes to retreat ahead of it. Apparently the Demondim did not desire to overwhelm their last descendants and the surviving warriors, but preferred rather to herd their opponents toward the illusory haven of Revelstone. They let the opportunity for carnage escape them.

  While Hyn’s hooves beat the hard ground, Linden counted Anele’s heartbeats until she began to believe that they were not failing; that his peculiar strength had preserved him somehow. Then, gradually, she expanded her awareness to include Stave’s wounds and Hynyn’s labored gait.

  They would live because she did not mean to let them die. She had already lost too many people who had trusted her, and had come no nearer to rescuing her son. Nevertheless she was relieved to discern that they were in no immediate danger.

  Hynyn had lost too much blood: the stallion was in acute pain. Yet his hurts were not as severe as Stave’s. The Master’s pulse had a ragged, thready beat, hampered by agony, and his burns fumed hotly, exacerbated by the lingering vitriol of the Demondim. An ordinary man would already have died—

  But even Stave’s preternatural toughness might fail him if his injuries were not treated soon. His left eye was already lost, and his other wounds were worse. She was not certain that even the theurgy of the Staff would be enough to save him; and the convictions of the Masters would probably require them to spurn hurtloam.

  Linden’s choices had become too expensive. The prices that other people paid in her name, because she had done what she did, seemed too high to be borne.

  She was aware of nothing except the hurts of her companions as the Ranyhyn flashed from sunlight into the shadows of the tunnel under Revelstone’s watchtower. For a long moment, their hooves raised a tumult of trod stone and echoes, so that they seemed to gallop through the residue of the battle which they had left behind. Then they burst back into the sun’s warmth in the walled courtyard which separated the watchtower from the main bulk of the Keep, and there the Ranyhyn scrambled to a halt, stopping urgently on stiffened legs.

  Before them were the massive inner gates of Revelstone.

  The gates stood open as if in welcome. But no lamps or torches lit the hall beyond them, and the wide jaws of Lord’s Keep offered only darkness.

  10.

  Troubled Sanctuary

  As she entered Revelstone for the third time in her life, Linden Avery yearned for illumination.

  In a sense, she knew the high forehall well. She had struggled and survived here against the Clave and the na-Mhoram’s Grim. But it was dark now, and she could see nothing to assure her that she knew where she was.

  Apparently the Masters did not need light. Their sight was acute. And their senses were not truncated by Kevin’s Dirt.

  She lacked their abilities. Already she could feel her percipience fading, eroded by the tainted pall which overhung the Land. Soon she would be able to discern only the surfaces around her, none of the depths. She would be blind to all that was not lit and plain.

  But she was not blind yet. The Staff of Law in her hands sustained her when she felt too weary to hold up her head.

  When she and those with her—her companions and their mounts, the ragged and gasping Demondim-spawn, and the Masters who had survived the horde, along with most of their horses—had entered the prow-shaped promontory of Revelstone, the heavy gates were closed, both those at the base of the watchtower and those within the courtyard. The Demondim had advanced too slowly to kill more of the Land’s retreating defenders; and now the monsters were sealed out of Revelstone. Scores of people, creatures, and mounts crowded the forehall, awaiting decisions.

  With the gates shut, Linden could no longer taste the approach of the Illearth
Stone; but she trembled to think what would happen when that immeasurable evil was unleashed against the wrought stone of Lord’s Keep.

  The choices of the Masters had left Revelstone virtually defenseless. They had denied the Land its heritage of lore and Earthpower. And Stave’s kinsmen had just demonstrated that mere skill and strength could not stand against the powers of the Demondim.

  Linden did not dismount. She was reluctant to leave the security of Hyn’s back. Like the Staff, Hyn’s fortitude and loyalty enabled her to exceed herself. In spite of her exhaustion, she called up fire from the Staff and held it flaming over her head. If she could not accomplish anything else, she meant to at least see—

  As the warm buttery light reached for the walls of the cavernous hall, she studied the condition of her companions. Only Stave and Bhapa needed care immediately. Mahrtiir and Pahni had suffered less dangerous hurts. Indeed, they had already slipped down from their Ranyhyn to tend Whrany and Hynyn with amanibhavam and tenderness, stifling their wonder at the legendary Keep as well as their ancient animosity toward the Haruchai. And neither Liand nor the Demondim-spawn had been exposed to acid and emerald since passing through the Fall. As for Anele, the old man had emerged scatheless from the horde. He remained unconscious—perhaps Stave had struck him again—but he breathed more easily now, relaxing into natural sleep.

  A significant number of the Masters had been wounded, but none as grievously as Stave. Apparently every warrior with serious injuries had fallen to the Demondim. The rest had been able to evade the worst attacks of the monsters.

  Gazing around the forehall, Linden estimated that a score or two of the Haruchai had spent their lives to purchase escape for her and her companions.

  So much bloodshed—Too much. She had surpassed the limits of what she could accept.

  A Master whom she did not know approached her through the restless throng, the wavering shadows, and asked for her attention. He knew her name. No doubt they all did. Stave had already spoken of her.

  She could not imagine what else he might have told his kinsmen.

  This Master carried himself with a commanding certainty. He may have been a leader among his people. The silver in his hair lent him dignity: the scars on his face and arms testified to his prowess. He wore no insignia or emblems, no marks of status, but the other Haruchai deferred to him subtly, honoring him more by posture and stance than by any overt signs of respect.

  Nevertheless Linden ignored him. She had been pushed beyond herself, and other needs were more important to her.

  While she could still rely on her health-sense to inform her actions, she sent tendrils of force curling from the comfortable wood in her hands; extended Law and healing to both Stave and Bhapa at once.

  Stave’s eye was a scalded mess. She could not repair it: she could only clean it and stop the bleeding. Therefore she closed her heart to it. Fortunately his other injuries were similar to Bhapa’s: far more severe, but alike in kind. She could apply the same balm of Earthpower to both men. However, she did not neglect Stave’s sore hip. And she cleared the cataract from Bhapa’s eye. He might have avoided the worst of his hurts if he had been able to see more clearly; if she had thought to treat his vision when she had first gained the Staff.

  Finally she stretched out her care to the most dangerous wounds of the Ranyhyn. She did not know how else to thank them for all that they had done in her name.

  While she worked, a hush filled the hall. Pahni, Liand, and Mahrtiir regarded her gravely. The older Master held his peace. None of the other Haruchai made a sound. The Ranyhyn and even the lesser horses ceased their restive stamping, their snorted whimpers. Huddling together, the Waynhim tended to each other in silence, while the ur-viles licked their wounds.

  When she was done, a wave of exhaustion broke over her, and she nearly faded from consciousness. She had been under too much strain for far too long. The Staff’s strength lapsed in her tired hands, restoring the darkness of the forehall, leaving her isolated in her personal night.

  Then Mahrtiir said softly, “My thanks, Ringthane,” and she roused herself with a jerk. Perhaps she would be able to rest later: she could not do so now. She had other responsibilities which she did not mean to ignore.

  “You are Linden Avery the Chosen,” announced a nearby voice, “and you hold both white gold and the Staff of Law. Stave has spoken of you. I am Handir, by right of years and attainment the Voice of the Masters. In their name, I bid you welcome.”

  His tone suggested his scars and his age, in spite of its lack of inflection.

  “Good for you,” Linden muttered gracelessly. The forehall was as dark as a tomb. It seemed crowded with fears and suffering; demands which she did not know how to meet. “If we’re so welcome and all, how about giving us some light?”

  Stave had saved her by bringing her here. Without the aid of the Masters, she would not have been able to keep her companions, or herself, alive. But he had also betrayed her. His people would imprison Anele. And they might well do the same to her.

  Jeremiah had tried to warn her—

  The horses nickered and snorted, clattering their distress against the stone floor with their hooves; but no one answered Linden’s query until Mahrtiir rasped, “It is the Ringthane who asks it, sleepless ones. She has ridden Hyn of the Ranyhyn across fifteen score leagues and uncounted centuries to this fell place. Will you disdain even her?”

  As if in response to the Manethrall’s indignation, a torch sputtered and took flame at the far end of the forehall, away from the gates. It revealed a Master carrying an armload of brands. Without haste, he began distributing torches among his people.

  Vaguely Linden wondered how many Haruchai had not ridden out to meet the Demondim. How many losses could they sustain, and still hold fast to their convictions?

  Were there enough Masters to defend the Keep?

  As small fires spread from brand to brand, a flickering light slowly filled the hall. It cast ambiguous shadows among the people and horses until they resembled Demondim, fading in and out of definition.

  Liand remained mounted behind Handir, two other Masters, and Mahrtiir’s stallion. As soon as she met the Stonedownor’s worried gaze, he said, “My sight fails, Linden. Soon I will be reduced to what I was in Mithil Stonedown.” The thought clearly grieved him, but he set it aside. “Yet I see naught to trouble me. But my heart misgives me still. I do not trust these Masters, though they have snatched us back from death.”

  For his sake, she sighed, “We’re safe enough,” although her voice shook, “at least for now. They may be Masters, but they’re still Haruchai. They’ll take care of us as well as they can.”

  And they would do so as long as they could, with Demondim massed beyond the gates, and the power of the Illearth Stone rampant against them.

  Handir waited until she was finished. Then he informed Liand, “I have bid you welcome. In the Chosen’s name, I have welcomed you all. Has this no meaning among Stonedownors?”

  Facing Linden again, he asserted, “We have become the Masters of the Land because we are Haruchai. While Revelstone stands, you are guests among us, and need fear no harm.”

  “Does that include the ur-viles?” she asked promptly. “And the Waynhim? None of us would have survived without them. Even Stave—”

  Her throat closed. Too many Haruchai lay dead beyond the Keep’s gates. The Demondim may have already assumed their corpses—

  “We know nothing of their needs,” the Voice of the Masters said inflexibly. “They will be released to the plateau of Glimmermere, where they may care for themselves as they are able.”

  At his words, one of her fears fell away. She had once visited the eldritch lake of Glimmermere: she had seen the unassailable purity of its waters. And she had heard long ago that the plateau above and behind the promontory of Lord’s Keep was guarded by sheer cliffs for many leagues. In Glimmermere’s vicinity, the Waynhim and ur-viles would be beyond the immediate reach of the Demondim; safe as long as the
Masters could hold back the horde.

  A moment of yearning for the cleanliness of the tarn undermined Linden’s attention, and she missed what Handir said next. Something about the Ranyhyn—? Because he appeared to expect a response, she murmured distantly, “Thank you. I’m sorry I haven’t been more gracious. We’ve been through a lot.”

  And her difficulties were far from ended. Entering into Revelstone had merely transformed them.

  Before Handir could reply, Mahrtiir snapped, “The Ringthane may accept your wishes, Bloodguard. The Ramen do not. The Ranyhyn will not submit to your care. Rather you will release them also to the upland plateau, where they will be tended by the Ramen, and where they may remain or depart, as they choose. To propose otherwise is arrogance.

  “And your welcome is without substance. You avow that you will provide for our safety ‘while Revelstone stands.’ That is scant comfort, sleepless one. You cannot cast down the Demondim, and are utterly surpassed by the Illearth Stone. Yet you make no preparation for defense.”

  Shadows shifted ominously across the Manethrall’s visage. “You name yourself ‘the Voice of the Masters.’ Heed my voice, Bloodguard. The gates of Revelstone are mighty, but they will not long remain unbreached. Ere the sun sets, the Demondim will enter this hall, and then it will be revealed that your welcome is as empty as your arrogance. If the Ringthane does not preserve you, the Masters will perish from the Land.”

  The gates, Linden thought unexpectedly. Something about the gates—

  Handir continued to regard her for a moment as though he wondered whether Mahrtiir spoke for her. Then he turned impassively to the Raman.

  “You are mistaken, Manethrall, in many things.” If the Master felt either impatience or scorn, his tone concealed it. “We have offered to care for the Ranyhyn because we seek to do them honor. They have been too long absent from the Land, and we have craved their return. But we intend no disregard toward the Ramen. Nor will we gainsay your word. The Ranyhyn will be released, as you have instructed, and you will tend to them.”