Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant 02 - Fatal Revenant

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  She had called herself a healer. Now she set about justifying her name.

  She did not know how long she labored; could not count the men and women whom she retrieved from the ruins of war. When smoke and strain blurred her vision, the woman, Palla, led her by the hand while the man, Jevin, called out the location of her next patient. Whenever Vertorn thrust a flagon into her grasp, she gulped down a few swallows of whatever it contained. Everything else was a nightmare succession of rent flesh, shattered bone, rampant infection, and multiplied agony.

  People were reduced to this by battle and pain: they became nothing more than the sum of their sufferings. And like them, she shrank. Long after she had passed the conscious borders of her endurance, and had become mere scraps of awareness, fragments composed almost exclusively of health-sense and Earthpower—blinded by tears, deaf to sobbing and wails, nearly insensate—she continued from hurt to hurt, and did not heed the cost. That she could not save them all, just one tent of three, meant nothing to her. Only the wound immediately in front of her held any significance: the mortifying infection; the instance of pleurisy, or pneumonia, or scabies, or inanition; the mute or whimpering protest of savaged flesh.

  Dimly she felt in Palla’s touch, heard in Jevin’s voice, that their ailments were no less than Vertorn’s had been. But she had nothing to spare for them. And she neglected to draw on the Staff for her own needs. She had grown unreal to herself; had become mere percipience and flame. A healer who collapsed from exhaustion could treat no one. But she trusted the steady exertion of so much Earthpower to protect her from prostration.

  Then, however, she finished tending a man whose abdomen had been savagely lacerated—and Jevin did not call her to a new location. Nor did Palla draw her along the rows. Instead a voice that may have been Vertorn’s addressed her.

  “My lady?” he said tentatively. “My lady Linden. You must desist. You must restore yourself. Lord Berek has come. He requires speech with you.”

  When Linden did not respond, the physician reached through flame to slap her cheek lightly. “My lady, hear me. It is Lord Berek who desires to speak with you.”

  Linden drew a shuddering breath. Unsteadily she released the Staff’s power; let it fall away. Then she found herself hanging between Palla and Jevin while they struggled to uphold her. Blinking at the smoke in her eyes, the blood, the lingering sight of wounds, she saw Vertorn offer a flagon to her lips.

  “Drink,” he commanded, peremptory with trepidation. “The wine is rank, but I have included herbs to nourish you. You must be restored. It is imperative.”

  Dully she accepted a few swallows from the flagon. The wine had an acrid taste, raw and biting, but it gave a small measure of energy to her overstrained nerves and muscles.

  Lord Berek—

  There was something that Vertorn wanted her to understand.

  Lord Berek has come.

  She tried to say, Let him wait. This is more important. But she was not strong enough. And Vertorn’s interruption forced her to recognize that she could not refuse him. She had only reduced the suffering in the tent; the argute throb of infection and fever; the predatory crouch of death. She would not be able to end it alone.

  She needed help—

  The thought that Berek wished to speak with her seemed inconsequential; unworthy of regard. But she had to speak to him.

  Now she clasped the Staff hungrily, almost begging for its beneficence. Without its nourishment, she would hardly be able to walk. The plight of the wounded required more from her.

  When she had imposed a degree of Earthpower on her depleted nerves, her worn heart, she murmured hoarsely. “You’ll have to lead me. I can’t see very well.”

  There was too much smoke in the air. And the outcome of sword-cuts and disease was more vivid to her than mere rows of rancid pallets or insignificant tent poles.

  Jevin and Palla continued to support her. While she moved—slowly, slowly, feeble as an old woman—she sent some of the Staff’s sovereign healing, as much as she could muster, through herself into the physicians. Faintly she gave them a little Earthpower, a small portion of health. Like Vertorn, they were essential: they would have to care for the fallen when she was gone.

  In spite of the smoke, she saw her task clearly. It was too much for her. Somehow she would have to win Berek’s aid.

  She must have been closer to the opening of the tent than she realized. When Vertorn stepped aside, bowing his deference, she beheld Berek Halfhand for the first time.

  Involuntarily she stopped; stared. She had not expected to encounter a man who seemed more compelling, more crucial, than the injuries and deaths of his warriors.

  There was Earthpower in him, that was obvious: as potent as Anele’s inheritance, but closer to the surface, more readily accessible. However, his numinous energy was not what caused him to stand out from his escort of warriors as if he were somehow more real than they, more significant and substantial.

  Nor did his vividness, his particular intensity, arise from his physical presence. He was little more than half a head taller than Linden: a stocky man, broad of shoulder and girth; prematurely bald, with deep eyes, a short-cropped beard the color of old iron, and a nose that had been dented by a blow. His hands looked as heavy as truncheons, and they had seen hard use in spite of the loss of two of his fingers; the same two which had been amputated from Covenant. The slashed and battered condition of his cuirass and vambraces proclaimed that he did not remain aloof from battle. He was a powerful man, familiar with fighting for his life. Yet that also did not account for his obvious dominance, his air of unmistakable authority. Most of the men and women in his escort were muscular and injured, marked by an interminable series of fierce engagements.

  No, it was his emotional aura that made him seem more distinct, more necessary, than the people with him. Covenant had said, He’s charismatic as all hell, but Linden saw more. With her full senses, she discerned that he was haunted by death; that loss and despair had been carved into the bedrock of his nature. And the sheer depth of his bereavements had taught him a desperate compassion. She loathed war, but her abhorrence lacked the intimacy of his, the hideously prolonged exposure to that which rent his heart. Now he grieved for his foes as much as for his own forces. When he slew them, he did so as if he were weeping; as if his strokes were sobs. He fought—and fought endlessly, season after season, battle upon battle—only because the darkness which drove his enemies left him no choice. And because he had given his oath to the Land.

  He would have questions for her. He would demand answers. And Linden could not imagine arguing with such a man, or attempting to persuade him. When Vertorn announced with a bow. “My lord Berek, here is my lady Linden,” she did not respond. Nothing that she could say would raise her to the stature of the man who had created the first Staff of Law and founded the Council of Lords.

  Yet Berek bowed to her as though her muteness were eloquence, and his gratitude enfolded her like an embrace. “My lady,” he said in a voice made gruff by incessant shouting. “your coming is a great benison, a boon beyond our conception. Already you have wrought miracles among us. Yet even a sightless man may behold your weariness. Will you not rest? With your consent, I will provide food and safety, and such small comforts as we possess, and will count myself glad to do so.”

  Without warning, tears which were not caused by smoke and fatigue filled Linden’s eyes. She had not expected gentle courtesy from a man fighting for survival. Nevertheless she stiffened slightly; drew back as if she had taken offense. Surely, she would have said if she had not forgotten her voice, surely your wounded are more important? There are two more tents.

  Berek studied her, apparently gauging her silence. Then he offered in the same tone, “If you will not rest, name any aid that you require. If it exists, and if it is possible for us, it will be granted to you.”

  He seemed to understand that she could not turn away from his injured, his dying. In her place, he would have felt as she
did.

  Roughly Linden squeezed the tears from her eyes. Like wild magic, her voice was hidden from her; but she searched until she found it.

  “Lord Berek,” she said in a thin croak. “My lord.” That was as close as she could come to matching his courtesy. “You’ve changed. You see different things now. New things.”

  He nodded, frowning. “It is strange to me, glorious but unclear.” Her question may have perplexed or disturbed him: he had reason to wonder how she knew such things. Yet he answered without hesitation. “I cannot identify the significance of that which I now behold.”

  You will, Linden would have told him. Just give it time. But too many people were dying. She could not afford to waste words. Instead she asked. “Have you seen any mud—or fine sand—that sparkles? Gleams? Like it has bits of gold in it? Or flecks of sunlight?”

  Berek’s frown deepened. “I have, my lady.” Plainly he wanted to inquire, What do you know of this? How is it that you comprehend my transformation? But he did not. “It lies along the flow of water in streams and rivers. Sadly, I have no lore to name it.”

  Her heart lifted a little. “Is there any of it nearby?”

  “There is, my lady.” Again he did not question her. “We endeavor to place our encampments near water, as armies must. A creek lies a stone’s throw distant. When we broke the ice to draw water, I glimpsed a sand such as you describe.”

  To herself, Linden breathed, Thank God. “It’s called hurtloam.” Unexpected hope filled her with trembling. “It’s full of the same power that’s changing you, the same power that you saw in the Fire-Lions. It heals.”

  Hearing herself, she wanted to wince. Heals was too small a word for the mystery of hurtloam. But she continued in spite of her inadequacy. “We need it. As much as you can find. Bring it here. And carry it in stone.” Stone would preserve its efficacy. “I’ll show your people how to use it.”

  Surely now he would question her, and expect to be answered? Surely he would not comply merely because she had spoken?

  But Berek turned at once to his escort. “Hand Damelon.”

  A young man stepped forward promptly. Linden would have guessed that he was no older than Liand, although he had seen as much hard combat as anyone around him. He saluted by tapping his right fist twice against his twisted and mended cuirass, then asked. “My lord?”

  Linden was too tired and numb to feel surprise. Damelon—Through the grime and blood of battle, the young man’s resemblance to his father was unmistakable, although he was somewhat taller and not as broad. Also he lacked Berek’s damaged nose as well as Berek’s emanation of Earthpower.

  She was looking at the future High Lord Damelon Giantfriend, the man who would one day discover the Blood of the Earth.

  Humbled by the presence of legends, she hardly heard Berek say, “Hand, you have gathered the names of those who report alterations to their sight and senses.”

  “I have, my lord.” Presumably a Hand was an aide of some kind. “Some two score remain able to wield their weapons.”

  In response, Berek ordered. “Inform each Haft and Warhaft,” although there was no command in his voice. He had no reason to doubt that he would be obeyed. “All who are able to discern the gleaming in the sand will hasten to the creek, bearing any stone which may be used to convey the sand hither. They will search diligently for as much as may be found. Others will bear torches to light the search.”

  Damelon nodded. “At once, my lord.” With a second salute, the young man strode quickly out of the tent.

  Berek returned his deep gaze to Linden. “Surely there is more, my lady?” His voice was rough with compassion. “You are one, and those who suffer, many. For their sake, will you not name further aid?”

  Linden took a step backward. She had felt another warrior perish, a man no more than half a dozen paces away. Everywhere in the tent, she heard wounds cry out for succor.

  “Just let me work, my lord.” She doubted that Covenant, Jeremiah, or the Theomach would—or could—help her. And Covenant and Jeremiah would not be able to abide Berek’s presence. Assuming that they had reached the camp unhindered—“I can’t think of anything else.” She did not feel equal to the challenge of explaining aliantha. “We need to talk. I know that. But first—”

  She gestured weakly around the wide tent.

  “Yet you are weary,” Berek countered, “nearly falling. Is there naught that you require for yourself?”

  Linden paused for a moment. Almost timidly, she murmured. “I left three companions behind. I hope that they’re safe.” Then she turned her back on Berek Halfhand.

  While she reached out mentally for the strength of the Staff, she whispered to Palla, “Guide me, please. I need to rest my eyes.” She did not know another way to contain her weeping.

  If Berek’s people found enough hurtloam, she could allow herself—

  As Palla led her away, Berek commanded gently. “Healer Vertorn, you will interrupt the lady Linden after each healing. You will not permit her to continue until she has swallowed a little of your wine and eaten a mouthful of bread.”

  “My lord, it will be done,” replied the physician. Linden felt him hurrying after her.

  But she soon forgot such details. Within moments, she had immersed herself once more in the hurts of the wounded and the fire of the Staff.

  This time, however, she did not neglect to draw on Earthpower for support. And she did not resist Vertorn’s efforts to minister to her. The prospect of hurtloam had that effect on her: she no longer felt driven to care for every need except her own.

  At some point during her endless progress back and forth around the tent, she became peripherally aware that Berek had not departed. He seemed to be standing guard, not over her, but for her; ready to give her his assistance if she required it. But she did not let his presence distract her from the next sword-cut and spear-thrust, the next trauma, the next putrefying infection. She swallowed wine and chewed bread as Palla guided her from patient to patient, and did not relax her flames.

  By degrees, she grew stronger, in spite of her exertions. Vertorn’s herbed wine was a mild restorative. Bits of bread gave her a little nourishment. And the Staff sustained her. It could not redeem her mortality, but it preserved her concentration so that she was able to work effectively.

  Then the first of the hurtloam arrived, carried in stone urns or on brittle pieces of slate. Linden dipped her finger into the glittering sand to show Vertorn, Palla, and Jevin how little was required for each wound, and how wondrously it took effect; and as she did so, she granted healing to herself. Spangles of revitalization lit the blood in her veins, coursing through her heart until her pulse lost its febrile weakness, and the trembling in her muscles receded. Gradually the illimitable gift of the Land restored her to herself.

  She was dimly amazed by the abundance of the vein of hurtloam which Berek had discovered. A score of his people made several trips each to convey the sand. Perhaps this was simply another instance of the Land’s largesse, undiminished because it had not been used until now. Or perhaps, like the Fire-Lions, it expressed the Land’s response to Berek’s oath.

  When Linden could finally blink the smoke and tears from her eyes—when she was able to see as well as feel the excitement, the near ecstasy, of the three physicians—she sent Vertorn, Jevin, and the irregular stream of warriors bearing hurtloam to the other tents. Those warriors, too, had been healed as they gathered the sand, and they carried their burdens with eager alacrity.

  She did not think about ripples or time. She thought about lives that would have been lost, men and women who still needed care; and she was not afraid.

  For a while, she and Palla labored over the pallets alone, moving as efficiently as they could through the array of injuries and infections. But soon she realized that the worst was over. Dozens of warriors remained stricken, but none were near death. Some would cling to life for another day or two, some considerably longer. And Berek understood hurtloam now: he wou
ld search for it everywhere. In addition, Linden saw in Palla that touching the ineffable sand had awakened the physician’s latent health-sense. She, and Vertorn and Jevin, and perhaps every warrior who had been healed by it, would be able to recognize hurtloam for themselves.

  If Linden rested now, she would not have so many—too many—lives on her conscience.

  To spare herself, she began a more partial form of treatment, focusing on infections, pneumonia, and other illnesses rather than wounds. These required her keenest percipience, but they needed subtler care; demanded less raw power.

  In her concentration, she did not immediately notice the growing mutter of voices outside the tent; the occasional shouts. But then she heard Covenant rasp distinctly, “Hellfire! Get your hands off me, you overgrown oaf!”

  “Covenant!” protested Jeremiah. “We can’t—Berek—!”

  Other voices protested as well. “Warhaft!” Yellinin shouted. “Lord Berek commanded courtesy!” And Basila added, “Are you deaf? The tale of her healing is everywhere!”

  But Krenwill, who had vouched for Linden’s truthfulness, countered, “You do not see them, Basila. I did not until we gained the light of the encampment. They are sealed against discernment. Unnaturally sealed. They may conceal vast powers. Fatal powers, Yellinin. If they mean harm to Lord Berek—”

  “Warhaft Inbull!” roared a man who sounded like Damelon. “You will desist! Lord Berek has commanded courtesy.”

  “I will not,” a guttural voice retorted. “Let Lord Berek chastise me if he must. I will not hazard his life on the faith of strangers merely because they journey with a woman who heals.”

  Oh, shit. Forgetting the wounded, Linden dropped her fire and ran.

  Ahead of her, the tent flaps burst open. Both Jeremiah and Covenant were flung inward by a huge man with rage on his face and blood on his knuckles.

  An instant later, Damelon sprang in front of the Warhaft, attempting to restrain Inbull by main strength. But the big man swatted Damelon aside as though the Hand were a minor annoyance.