Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant 02 - Fatal Revenant

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Then she pulled away. For an instant, Linden thought that the Giant had suffered more fire and hurt than she could endure. But in her fist, she clutched a rancid pulsing mass.

  With a hideous shriek that nearly split Linden’s eardrums, the skurj collapsed. At first, the conflagration of its fangs continued to throb and flicker. Slowly, however, darkness filled the creature’s maw, and she knew that it was dead.

  Growling Giantish obscenities, the woman flung the monster’s organ far out over the trees.

  The woman who had produced the shackles retrieved her stone longsword. When she had wiped it on the bank of the watercourse, she slipped it into a sheath at her back.

  Fumbling as if he were disoriented, Mahrtiir felt his way to Linden; touched her face and arms to assure himself that she was unharmed. “Mane and Tail, Ringthane,” he murmured. “Are they Giants? Truly?”

  She seemed to hear weeping in the background of his voice. But he was too proud to surrender to his astonishment and relief.

  When she tried to answer, her throat closed on the words.

  How many Giants were there? She counted ten women and the madman. Two stood guard over him, ensuring that he did not regain his feet. Seven quickly formed a protective perimeter around Linden, Stave, Mahrtiir, and Galt. And one—the Giant with the shackles and the stone glaive—turned toward Linden.

  She was a bit shorter and less muscular than her prisoner, but she emanated great strength. Streaks of grey marked her short hair, which appeared to sweep back from her forehead of its own accord. The lined toughness of her skin suggested age—whatever that word might mean among people who lived as long as Giants—but there was no hint of diminished vigor in her demeanor or her movements. Combat and hardship smoldered in her eyes. The precise symmetry of her features was marred by a deep bruise on her right cheekbone. Rerebraces of hardened leather protected her upper arms: old scars latticed her forearms and hands.

  Her manner announced that she was the leader of the Giants.

  Both Stave and Galt bowed deeply, honoring the ancient respect of the Haruchai for the Giants; and Stave said. “We are timely met, Giant. Unexpected aid is twice welcome. And we”—he flicked a glance at Galt—“I did not anticipate your return to the Land.”

  The woman ignored Stave and the Humbled. To Linden, she said brusquely, “You would do well to extinguish your flame. In this dire wood, darkness is less perilous than power.”

  Linden swallowed heavily, struggling to clear her throat of relief and dismay and memory. The Giant’s air of command and obvious prowess reminded her poignantly of the First of the Search. This woman’s countenance did not resemble the First’s. Nor did her armor. Nonetheless she seemed to have emerged from Linden’s distant past, bringing with her Linden’s love for the First and Pitchwife, for lost Honninscrave and doomed Seadreamer.

  And Linden had failed against the skurj. She was adrift in recollection, bereavement, inadequacy. Because she could not find any other words, she said dully, “You killed it.”

  She had done little more than slow the monster. Soon it would have consumed her—

  The Staff’s light was all that kept the Giants from vanishing.

  “For a short time,” the Giant replied. “Its death and your magicks will soon draw others of its kind. They will devour its remains and multiply. When they have feasted, two or three will become four or six. With each death, their numbers increase.

  “Again I ask you to quench your flame. Then we must depart with as much haste as we may. These creatures—knowing nothing of them, we name them were-menhirs—are not laggardly. Ere long they will assail us in numbers too great for our strength.”

  Linden stared in chagrin. With each death—? The skurj reproduced by eating their own dead? Trembling, she clung to Earthpower and Law; to herself. Without fire, she would be at the night’s mercy.

  What in God’s name were the Giants doing here? And why did one of them want to kill her?

  “You’re a Swordmain,” she murmured as if she were stupefied. All of the Giants were Swordmainnir. Even the madman—“Like the First of the Search.”

  They could have been a war party—

  Grimly the Giant answered, “And you are Linden Avery, called Chosen and Sun-Sage”—she grinned like a threat—“if the tales of our people have not been excessively embellished. As the Master has said, we are timely met. But if you do not—”

  Sudden relief shook Linden. With a convulsive effort, she stifled her fire; let herself fall into darkness. She was known: these Giants knew her. She did not need to fear facing them without light.

  The survivors of the Search had carried stories of their adventures back to their people. The Giants loved such tales; told and retold them in eager detail. And their lives were measured by centuries rather than years or decades. They would not have forgotten her. Or Covenant. Or the love for the Land which the First and Pitchwife had learned in Andelain.

  For a moment, she was lost; blinded. The intense mephitic stench and sickness of the monster’s corpse overwhelmed her senses. She required other dimensions of perception in order to distinguish the figures around her, Stave, Galt, and Mahrtiir as well as the Giants.

  Unsteadily she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. I couldn’t stop that thing.” It was only one of the skurj—“Kevin’s Dirt is worse than I thought. We would all be dead if you hadn’t found us.”

  “Linden Avery”—the Giant’s tone was iron—“our cause for gratitude is no less than yours. We must exchange tales. Yet our foremost need is for distance from this beast’s remains.”

  “Chosen,” Stave said at once. “the Swordmain speaks sooth. We have now no guard to the east, and the skurj surely draw nigh. We must gather our companions and make haste.”

  “Companions?” asked the woman sharply. “You are not alone?”

  “Only some of us are here.” Linden’s voice still shook. “We have—” She was about to say,—a madman of our own to worry about. But the injustice of comparing Anele to the Giant who had tried to hack her down stopped her. “We have an old man with us. The others are protecting him.”

  “They approach,” stated Galt flatly. “Though you do not acknowledge our presence, Giant, you hear us. Watch to the west.”

  “The unwelcome of the Masters is not forgotten,” the woman rasped. “We—” Then she halted: Linden felt her stiffen. “Stone and Sea! Your companions are a beacon, Linden Avery. Surely every were-menhir—do you name them skurj?—within a score of leagues speeds hither.”

  At once, the leader of the Giants shouted, “Quell your power, stranger! You summon a peril too swift to be outrun!”

  Glimmering among the benighted trees, Liand’s Sunstone shone like a star.

  “Linden?” he called in the distance; and Bhapa added, “Ringthane?” Then they fell silent. A moment later, the radiance of the orcrest winked out.

  Linden felt them now, all of them: Liand and Anele, Bhapa and Pahni, Clyme and Branl. They were less than a stone’s throw away. She might have descried them sooner if the dead skurj had not occluded her health-sense.

  Presumably Branl or Clyme had commanded Liand to obey the Giant. If so, Linden was sure that the Humbled had not deigned to explain why.

  To reassure her friends, she shouted, “Hurry! The skurj is dead. We’ve met some people who might help us. But we have to get away from here!”

  “You presume much, Linden Avery,” growled the Giant; but she did not sound vexed. Rather she conveyed the impression that she was grinning fiercely. “How do you conclude that we may be inclined to aid you?”

  Thinking of Giants who grinned and laughed, Linden grew calmer. “Because you know who I am. The Giants of the Search were my friends. Grimmand Honninscrave and Cable Seadreamer died protecting Thomas Covenant and me. The First and Pitchwife went into the Wightwarrens of Mount Thunder with us. Remembering them gives me hope.

  “You saved my life. And if that isn’t enough, one of you just tried to kill me.” S
he had mentioned Seadreamer. After a severe blow to the head, he had gained what his people called “Earth-Sight,” a vision of a terrible danger abroad in the world. The mad Giant had also been hit hard. Now he wanted her dead. If he, too, were guided by Earth-Sight—Weakly she finished, “The way I see it, that makes you responsible for me.”

  The Giant barked a harsh laugh. “We are too well known to you. All doubt that you are in good sooth Linden Avery, Chosen and Sun-Sage, is thus dispelled. Accept my name in token that Longwrath’s sufferings do not define our goodwill. I am Rime Coldspray, the Ironhand of the Swordmainnir. Though I am far from the mightiest among us, I am so honored”—again her tone suggested a grin—“for my many years as for my low cunning.”

  The Giants guarding the madman chuckled as if Rime Coldspray had made a familiar jest. Apparently his name was Longwrath.

  In response, Mahrtiir proclaimed, “The giving of your name honors us. I am Mahrtiir, a Manethrall of the Ramen. Two of those who draw nigh are my Cords. Though we are unknown to you, we have some knowledge of you. In the distant past of our race, we were acquainted with your lost kindred, the Giants of Seareach. They were much loved, for they were mirthful and kind, leal and compassionate, in spite of their bereavement.

  “I have no eyes, yet I behold you well, Rime Coldspray, Ironhand. I do not hesitate to avow that you will find naught but friendship among the Ramen.”

  His stern courtesy dignified the darkness. Hearing him, Linden felt obliquely reproached. He may have been trying to compensate for her comparative impolitesse.

  “We are likewise honored by the gift of your name,” replied the Giant. “Having known Giants, you are doubtless aware that we find much pleasure in courtesies. Nor do we turn aside from fulsomeness in praise or thanksgiving.” The Ironhand’s companions chuckled again; but she continued darkly. “For the present, however, we must delay further joy. Your followers arrive, and our circumstances require haste.”

  As Coldspray spoke, Linden heard her friends. The Cords and the Humbled did not make a sound in the dense undergrowth; but Liand stumbled occasionally, and Anele shuffled his feet as if he were feeling his way, reluctant to come near the dead skurj.

  As the group emerged from the trees above the watercourse, Linden tasted Liand’s astonishment, Anele’s confused apprehension and relief. The wonder of the Cords was vivid as they saw ancient tales come to life before them. But Mahrtiir did not allow them an opportunity for questions or explanations.

  “Cords, guide us,” he commanded. “We require a path suitable for Giants. We must proceed toward Andelain, but more urgent is our need to elude the coming skurj.” With an edge of asperity in his voice, he added, “Doubtless the Humbled will guard our passage. Their caution will suffice.”

  Without hesitation, Bhapa swallowed his amazement and disappeared back into the forest, heading south and west from the stream. Pahni was younger; too young to contain her emotions so promptly. After a moment, however, she turned to follow Bhapa.

  To Rime Coldspray, the Manethrall said gruffly, “The Ramen are skilled in this. Their guidance will speed us. And the arrogance of the Masters is matched by their discernment and prowess. They will do much to ensure our safety.”

  Galt, Branl, and Clyme appeared to consult with each other. Then they withdrew into the night on both sides of Bhapa’s heading. If they took offense at the attitude of the Ironhand, or at Mahrtiir’s assumption of command, they did not show it.

  At a gesture from Coldspray, the Swordmainnir guarding Longwrath pulled him to his feet. Others retrieved the bundles and bedrolls dropped by Linden’s companions. “Two matters remain,” the Ironhand told Linden and Mahrtiir roughly. “Shackled, Longwrath cannot hasten. Yet I dare not unbind his legs with the target of his madness so near at hand. Five of us will accompany him at his pace, both to ward him and to preserve you, Linden Avery. The rest will follow the Manethrall’s Cords more swiftly.

  “However—” She surveyed Linden and Mahrtiir, Liand and Anele. “Giants are not formed for stealth. Yet we pass with ease over or through obstacles which would deter you. And the clamor of our movements does not attract the were-menhirs, the skurj. They appear deaf to ordinary sound.

  “Linden Avery, Manethrall Mahrtiir, will you permit us to bear you and your companions?”

  Perhaps out of courtesy, she did not mention Mahrtiir’s blindness, or Anele’s.

  “Linden—?” asked Liand in a congested voice.

  Linden had nearly exhausted herself against the skurj. On foot, she would not have been able to keep pace with Liand and Anele and Stave. The Giants would leave her far behind.

  She looked at Stave. When he nodded, she said to the Ironhand. “If you don’t mind. That’s probably a good idea.”

  Rime Coldspray gestured again; and four Giants strode forward. As one, effortlessly, they swept Linden, Mahrtiir, Liand, and Anele into their arms, holding her and her companions upright so that they sat on the forearms of the women. In that position, they could lean against the Giants’ chests and watch where they were going.

  Anele may or may not have understood what was happening. But he appeared comfortable in his seat. Perhaps the well-meaning strength of the Giants reassured him.

  Skirting the ground polluted by the skurj, Coldspray led her Swordmainnir out of the watercourse and into the jungle while the remaining Giants gathered to herd Longwrath along more slowly. Stave joined the Ironhand, trotting smoothly through the brush.

  At first, Linden felt helpless; vaguely vulnerable. She did not know how to hold the Staff so that it would not catch on branches or vines. But gradually the oaken steadiness of the Giant calmed her. Coldspray was right: the Swordmainnir were not stealthy. They crashed through brush and boughs, leaving a tumult of frightened birds and animals in their wake. However, they were protected from thorns and jutting branches by armor and tough skin. In addition, they seemed to need as little illumination as the Haruchai or the Cords. And Bhapa and Pahni guided them well. In relays, so that one led the way while the other searched ahead, the Cords found a relatively clear route. The Giants were able to move with surprising speed.

  —deaf to ordinary sound. Linden considered the idea. The skurj were creatures of the Earth’s deep lava. What need did they have for organs of hearing? They had other senses.

  Certainly Kastenessen did. So why had he sent just one of his monsters against her? To be sure of her location? Probe her power? Measure the effectiveness of Kevin’s Dirt? In every case, the outcome of his gambit would please him. And his next attack would be more vicious—

  Aiding Linden, the Giants had accepted a greater hazard than they knew.

  At present, however, she caught no hint of Kastenessen or the skurj, or of any malevolence. And the solidity of the woman who carried her inspired a familiar trust. The mere presence of the Swordmainnir comforted her. By degrees, the pressure in her chest loosened.

  While Giants and Ramen and Haruchai cared for her and her friends, Linden sank into herself. Resting, she tried to think about the challenge of finding the elusive mental or spiritual door which opened on wild magic.

  She knew now that she could not confront the skurj with her Staff and live: not unless she first freed the Land from Kevin’s Dirt. As matters stood, she needed Covenant’s ring.

  Time passed, undefined except by the long strides of the Giants, the sharp breakage of branches and undergrowth. Pahni and Bhapa guided the company with unflagging stamina and woodcraft. No one spoke until Rime Coldspray asked abruptly, “Why do you accompany me, Master? Your comrades ward our way. Why do you not join their vigilance?”

  Breathing easily in spite of the pace, Stave replied. “You have honored us with your name, Ironhand. Intending honor, I offer mine. I am Stave of the Haruchai, outcast by the Masters of the Land for my service to Linden Avery the Chosen.

  “The others are the Humbled, maimed to resemble the ur-Lord, Covenant Giantfriend. It is the task of the Humbled to affirm and preserve the commitments of
the Masters. They ward us because they mistrust the Chosen. They consider that her powers and needs may compel her to commit Desecration. I do not. For that reason, I have been spurned by my kindred.

  “I accompany you because I have claimed a place at her side, as have the Ramen and the Stonedownor—and also the old man, after his fashion.” The Giants of the Search had known Sunder and Hollian. Presumably these Swordmainnir would recognize Stave’s term for Liand. “I have learned to fear many things, but I no longer oppose any deed or desire of the Chosen’s.”

  Coldspray strode forward sternly for a moment. Then she said. “Permit me to comprehend you, Stave of the Haruchai. Have I heard you aright? Were the choice yours, would you welcome the return of Giants to the Land?”

  In response, Stave made a sound that was as close as Linden had ever heard him come to laughter. “Rime Coldspray,” he answered, “Ironhand of the Swordmainnir, since the Chosen’s coming I have been humbled both profoundly and often. I no longer deem myself wise enough to discourage the friendship of Giants.”

  To Linden’s ears, Stave seemed to be indulging in a peculiarly Haruchai form of humor.

  “Then, Stave of the Haruchai,” replied the Ironhand gravely. “I am indeed honored by the gift of your name. Among us, the tales of the Haruchai are many and admirable. We have long been grieved by the dissuasion of the Masters, for we love friendship wherever it may be found. Take no offense when I ask if these Humbled are trustworthy to watch over us.”

  Stave did not hesitate. “While they encounter no discrepancy among their commitments, they remain Haruchai. They will preserve any life with theirs, if doing so does not betray their opposition to Corruption, or to the corrupting use of Earthpower.”

  Coldspray considered his answer. “And is this force which the Chosen wields not a ‘corrupting use of Earthpower’?”

  “The Masters are uncertain. Therefore the Humbled guard against her, but do not demand the surrender of her powers. In our present straits, they will grant to her—and to you—their utmost service.”