Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant 02 - Fatal Revenant

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “‘Powers,’” Coldspray mused. But she did not question Stave further.

  The Giants of the Search must have taken back to their people stories of Covenant’s victory over Lord Foul, of Linden and her Staff—and of white gold. The First and Pitchwife had seen Covenant exert wild magic. They had seen Linden claim his ring when he was gone. Rime Coldspray and the other Swordmainnir would know everything that their ancestors had done and witnessed.

  Longwrath must have learned that history as well. It may have shaped his insanity—

  Linden sighed to herself. At least she would not have to explain how she intended to fight the skurj.

  Belatedly she realized that she did not know the name of the woman who carried her. Weary and fearful, and troubled by her unpredictable relationship with Covenant’s ring, she had paid scant attention to the people around her.

  One way or another, their lives were in her hands.

  But she could not think of a way to address the woman without sounding brusque and graceless; too stilted to be polite. Like the courtesies of the Ramen, those of the Giants exceeded her.

  While she groped for an approach, the dense canopy of Salva Gildenbourne opened unexpectedly. By starlight and percipience, she saw that Bhapa and Pahni had guided the Giants into a small glade. For some reason, the quality of the soil here discouraged trees. Instead wild grasses and brush flourished, interspersed with the piquant promise of aliantha.

  The Cords awaited the Giants in the center of the glade. There Clyme had joined them. When Coldspray and her comrades stopped to consider their surroundings—unrelieved jungle on all sides, dark as midnight—the Master said, “Even Giants rest betimes, though their hardiness is beyond question. Ranging widely, we have found no sign of peril. If you will accept our counsel, you will abide here until the dawn. And if you will not sleep, mayhap you will find succor in your tales.”

  The Ironhand’s posture stiffened. “The Masters mislike our tales,” she said coldly: an old grievance.

  “For the present,” replied Clyme impassively, “we find no harm in them.” His lack of inflection seemed to suggest that he did not expect Linden or her companions to live long enough to speak of what they heard.

  Coldspray glared at him for a moment. Then she turned to Stave. “What is your word, Stave of the Haruchai?”

  His manner conveyed a shrug. “In this the Humbled counsel wisely. The Chosen and the Stonedownor require rest—aye, and the Ramen as well, though it would be foolish to doubt their fortitude or resolve. And we would be well served by an exchange of tales.”

  Rime Coldspray looked at Linden. “Linden Avery?”

  Linden nodded. “Please.” She was tired of being a burden. “I need time to think. And we really have to talk. I want to know what you’re doing here,” at this precise point in Lord Foul’s machinations, with a deranged man who craved her death. “You may not realize how much trouble you’re in.

  “If we rest for a while,” she added. “the others can catch up with us.”

  Then she said quickly, “But be careful with Anele.” She pointed at the old man. “Strange things happen to him when he stands on grass. This glade isn’t like any place that we’ve been before.” The grasses were wilder, tasseled like wheat, with thin, sawing blades. “Blankets seem to protect him, but stone would be better.”

  “There is no stone, Ringthane,” Bhapa observed. “Here the loam lies deep.”

  Coldspray studied Anele: his blind, staring eyes, his tangled hair and beard, his emaciated limbs; his air of madness and secret power. “Will any manner of stone suffice?”

  Before Linden could answer, Anele announced, “He has no friend but stone. The stone of the Land is unkindly. It remembers. Yet it preserves him.”

  The Swordmain chuckled humorlessly. “Then I will offer you stone which is not of the Land. Perchance it also will preserve you, and hold no remembrance.”

  First she unslung her sheathed glaive from her shoulders. Then she undid the hidden clasps which secured her armor. When she set the heavy curved plates on the ground, they formed a kind of cradle. If the stone had not been molded to fit her, Anele could have stretched out on it.

  The Giant bearing Anele lowered him to the armor. At the same time, Linden, Liand, and Mahrtiir were placed on their feet. Immediately Liand moved toward Linden, brimming with questions. But the Manethrall told Bhapa and Pahni to gather deadwood from the forest. “Fire will comfort the darkness of our straits. In this, I do not fear the skurj. Their hungers are too vast to regard such small fare.”

  Both Coldspray and Clyme indicated their agreement. When the Cords headed obediently for the trees, Liand shook himself, shrugged, and joined them. Holding Pahni’s hand, he let her lead him into the darker night of Salva Gildenbourne.

  The Ironhand faced Linden again. “As I have said, Longwrath’s shackles hinder him. Some time will pass before my comrades join us. Yet I hold little fear for them. Of necessity, we have grown adept at discerning the evils which you name skurj. I have caught no fresh scent of them. And it appears that the Masters who ward us concur.”

  “It is the word of the Humbled,” Clyme insisted. “that there is no imminent peril.”

  Coldspray seemed to ignore him. “Therefore, Linden Avery, I deem that the time is apt for tales. By the light of the stars, and with a fire for warmth, let us each account for the strange fortune of our encounter.”

  Now that she was no longer held by the heat of the Giant’s arms, or shrouded by the warm vitality of the forest, Linden found that the night had turned cold. A breeze seemed to flow down into the glade from the heavens, sharp and chill.

  Hugging the Staff to her chest, she said, “I agree.” Then she asked, “But don’t you have any supplies? I haven’t seen your people carrying anything.”

  The Ironhand chuckled again, still without humor. “You approach the conclusion of our tale. We are Giants, and love the journey from a tale’s birth to its ending. You observe truly that we bear neither sustenance nor unworn apparel. If our weapons fail us, we have no others. However, at need we are able to endure some measure of privation.” A brief spatter of laughter arose from the other Giants; but Coldspray did not pause. “And in this glade, none need fear hunger. Informed by tales, we know the virtue of aliantha. Neither our pleasure nor our solemnity will be hindered by inanition while we hold our Giantclave, seeking the import of our encounter. We must clarify our path toward a future which appears as tangled and trackless as this wood.”

  “Solemnity, ha!” muttered one of the other Giants. “In her lifetime, Rime Coldspray has never drawn a solemn breath.”

  The woman’s companions laughed softly again.

  “You forget, Frostheart Grueburn,” retorted Coldspray, “you who laugh at all jests and comprehend none, that I am not merely immeasurably aged and wise. I am also ripe with cunning. And while I retain my sight, I have not grown deaf. I hear you when you scoff at me.”

  Now the Ironhand’s comrades laughed outright, and one of them punched affectionately at the shoulder of the Swordmain called Frostheart Grueburn. With a shiver, Linden realized that Grueburn was the woman who had just carried her for several leagues through Salva Gildenbourne.

  These Giants had rescued her from both Longwrath and Kastenessen’s monster; and she had barely thanked them—

  While she searched herself for graciousness, Liand returned laden with firewood. As he crossed to the center of the glade, an unnamed Swordmain produced a pair of rocks and a pouch of tinder from a pocket covered by her cataphract. When he had dropped his burden, she built a small mound of twigs, leaves, and bark, sprinkled them with flakes of tinder, and began striking sparks with her stones.

  Brushing debris from his jerkin and leggings, Liand came to stand beside Linden. “Giants, Linden?” he asked in a whisper. “Are these indeed Giants? You have made no more than passing mention of such folk, and I did not think to query Pahni concerning them. Yet it is plain that you know them well.” His tone did
not reproach her. “When I beheld Sandgorgons, I conceived that the wide Earth held no greater wonder—aye, and no greater terror—for they were mighty and fearsome beyond my imagining. Now, however, I have felt the terrible puissance of the skurj. And I have been borne kindly by a Giant, when I had not grasped that such folk walked the world.

  “Linden, I—” Liand’s eyes echoed sparks. “Perhaps my wits are sluggish. Only now does it occur to me that I do not comprehend how you are able to bear such knowledge. I am filled to bursting, and I have neither spoken with ancient Lords nor given battle in the depths of the Earth. We have witnessed powers which surpass me utterly, yet they revolve about you as moths do about a lamp—and with as little effect.

  “I do not ask why you have not spoken more of Giants. They will soon speak of themselves. I ask how you contrive to endure all that you have known and done. You exceed forces and beings whose sheer magnitude turns my heart and mind to dust.”

  The Ironhand drew closer as he spoke. “Do not be dismayed, Stonedownor,” she advised him. “There is no mystery here. She is Linden Avery, Chosen and Sun-Sage. Our tales say that she is merely magnificent.”

  At the fringe of the jungle, Pahni’s slim form stepped out of deeper blackness. She, too, carried a load of dead branches.

  “No,” Linden protested uncomfortably. “You’re thinking of Covenant. I’m just me.” Then she faced Liand. “And I’m not the only one who exceeds.” If she had ever done so. “I’m not the one who gave those Woodhelvennin their health-sense.”

  Flames had begun to bloom from the mound of twigs and tinder. The Giant put away her pouch and stones, feeding larger bits of wood to the fire as it took hold. Aching for warmth and reassurance, Linden moved closer to the small blaze.

  “It’s Jeremiah, Liand,” she murmured. “He’s how I do it. I would have fallen apart days ago, but I can’t afford to. I can’t let anything stop me. Lord Foul has my son.”

  He’s belonged to Foul for years.

  But if she found the krill—If she could evoke Thomas Covenant—

  “And you do not forgive,” Stave remarked. “There is strength in ire, Chosen. But it may also become a snare.”

  With the Staff in the crook of her arm, Linden held out her hands to the flames. Tell that to Kastenessen, she thought bitterly. Tell the Despiser. But she kept her retort to herself.

  Pahni added her wood to Liand’s pile, then went to stand beside him. A moment later, Bhapa approached with his arms full. When Mahrtiir had studied the supply of firewood as though he could see it, he nodded. “You are weary,” he told the Cords. “Gather aliantha and rest. As more wood is needed, perhaps Stave will guide me to obtain it.”

  Pahni and Bhapa started to obey; but Coldspray stopped them. “You have labored much, and are indeed worn, Ramen. Permit us to perform this service.” She motioned for two of her comrades. “Stormpast Galesend and Onyx Stonemage have ears to hear. They will not be denied our tales while they gather treasure-berries.”

  In response, Mahrtiir bowed. “Centuries have passed into millennia,” he pronounced. “but the Giants remain considerate and compassionate. Gladly we accept the honor of your courtesy.”

  Rime Coldspray smiled. “In appearance, the Ramen are a nomadic and brusque people. Yet their politeness would grace a courtly kingdom. Were the Masters as gracious, much that now lies fallow would flourish.”

  Both Stave and Clyme gazed at her without expression, and said nothing.

  When the Manethrall had seated himself near the fire, Bhapa sank to the ground beside him. Pahni linked her arm with Liand’s. In a more formal tone, the Ironhand continued. “Linden Avery, it is unmistakable that you are the intersection of our tales. Yet mayhap this truth is not evident to you. Therefore I will speak first, though we are far from Home, and beset by perils which we cannot comprehend. When you have heard of our ventures, you will be better able to determine how you may account for our needs as well as your own.”

  Linden edged a bit closer to the crackling fire. Its dancing illumination cast light and shadows across the faces of the Swordmainnir. At one moment, their strong faces seemed grotesque and suspicious, and at another, fraught with mirth.

  “Thank you,” she said as clearly as she could. “We just met a few hours ago, and already I haven’t thanked you enough. The Giants of the Search were my friends. I loved them. I hope that when we’ve talked, we’ll be able to face our problems together.”

  She wanted the help of these women.

  Coldspray nodded soberly. “A worthy desire. Thus I begin.”

  She remained standing, tall against the heavens, while Frostheart Grueburn and the Giant who tended the fire sat cross-legged nearby, and Galesend and Stonemage wandered the glade, picking aliantha. Anele had curled himself into Coldspray’s armor as if he had lost interest in everything except the touch of her stone. But Linden, Liand, and Pahni rested on one side of the fire, and Mahrtiir and Bhapa squatted opposite them. Stave remained near Linden. After a moment, Clyme drifted into the night, presumably to join Galt and Branl as they watched over the glade. He must have trusted Stave to relay the story of the Swordmainnir.

  “Giants live long, as you know,” began the Ironhand. “This is well, for we are not a fecund race, and our children, whom we treasure, are too few to content us. Thus we account for our restless roving of the Earth. Our hearts seldom find fullness among our families.

  “It was with wonder, joy, and astonishment that we greeted the return of the Search, led by the First and her mate, Pitchwife. It was with mingled delight and weeping that we heard their tales, narratives of bitter loss and brave triumph, cruel suffering and dear friendship. But in the succeeding years, our happiness and amazement were multiplied when the First of the Search, Gossamer Glowlimn, gave birth to a son, and then to a second, and then in her later years to a third. This we deemed nigh miraculous, and our celebrations—which I will not describe, for one night is too brief—endured for decades.

  “Yet wonder was compounded upon wonder, and joy upon joy, for as the centuries turned, the youngest son of Pitchwife and Gossamer Glowlimn, who was named Soar Gladbirth, found love and a mate in Sablehair Foamheart, called by all who knew her Filigree for her delicacy and loveliness. And in the fullness of time, Filigree also gave birth to sons, first one and then another. That alone would have made Glowlimn and Pitchwife a treasury of tales and pride, for across the millennia it has been rare and precious that two Giants were so blessed with descendants. Yet Filigree and Gladbirth were not done. When some decades had passed, they received the gift of a third son.

  “Now our exultation knew no bounds. The Giants have ever lived their lives on the verge of diminishment. Our seafaring ways are in themselves hazardous, the loss of the Giants who became the Unhomed of the Land was rue and gall to us, and our children are not numerous, as I have said. In the sons of Filigree and Gladbirth, we felt that we had been granted an augury of hope, a promise that the seed of the Giants had regained its lost vitality.”

  Firelight shed fraught shadows across Coldspray’s features. “Linden Avery, the third son of the third son of Glowlimn and Pitchwife was Exalt Widenedworld. But now the Giants of Home name him Lostson, and among the Swordmainnir he is called Longwrath.”

  To herself, Linden groaned for Pitchwife’s sake, and for the First’s. But she did not interrupt the Ironhand’s tale.

  “The fault is mine,” continued Rime Coldspray, “if indeed the notion of ‘fault’ retains its meaning in such matters. Rare among our men, Widenedworld was drawn to the Swordmain craft. In jest, we say that our men are too soft of heart for battle. However, the truth is merely that their passions flow differently. All Giants love stone and sea, ‘permanence at rest and permanence in motion,’ but the adoration of our men is more direct. They are drawn to the fashioning of ships and dwellings intended to endure. Perhaps because the joy of birth and children is both uncommon and fleeting, our women seek skills and purposes which are likewise fleeting. So it occurs t
hat we are women, as you have seen.”

  While the Ironhand spoke, Galesend and Stonemage returned to the fire with their huge hands full of aliantha. In silence, they shared treasure-berries liberally among Linden and her companions. Linden accepted her portion and ate, although she scarcely noticed her own hunger, or the piquant nourishment of the fruit. All of her attention was focused on Rime Coldspray.

  “Yet Exalt Widenedworld wished to join the Swordmainnir,” Coldspray said without pausing, “and so he was made welcome. Thereafter his training revealed that he was prodigious in both might and aptitude, born to the sword and all weapons. Were our present plight a Search, and he whole in mind, I do not doubt that he would be the First.”

  Briefly she bowed her head. Then she raised her countenance and her courage to the disconsolate stars. “However, this is no Search. It is not guided by Earth-Sight. It is a journey of sorrow, and after our fashion we are as truly lost as Lostson Longwrath.

  “When Widenedworld had mastered our more familiar skills, it fell to me to teach him cunning. Often we speak of cunning mirthfully, but the refinement of which I speak is no jest. It is the quality by which skill is transformed to art. I am the Ironhand, not because I am the mightiest of the Swordmainnir—”

  “It is certain that she is not,” put in Grueburn affectionately.

  “—but because,” Coldspray explained, “I am able to best those who are mightier. Therefore the teaching of Exalt Widenedworld became my particular task.

  “Gifted as he was, and exuberant of heart, within brief decades I found myself hard pressed to master him. And one day, by doom or ill chance, I misjudged his growth in our craft. With cunning rather than strength, I caused what I believed to be a breach in his self-defense, and into that breach I struck, intending to slap his forehead with the flat of my blade, blunt stone which the Swordmainnir wield in training. However, he had in some measure foiled me. By his own cunning, he had drawn me beyond my balance, and there he strove to turn my blade. Sadly either too little cunning or too much betrayed him. Because he had unbalanced me, I struck with too much force. And because he turned but did not deflect my blade, I struck with its edge.”