Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant 02 - Fatal Revenant

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Trembling as if she, too, had run for leagues, Linden touched her pocket to confirm that she still had Jeremiah’s racecar. Then she drew out Covenant’s ring.

  Irregular splashes of sunshine caught the small metal circle as the sun rose toward midday. Whenever Covenant’s wedding band flared silver in her hand, Linden winced involuntarily. Please, God, she prayed without hearing herself. Please. The ring looked puny against the pale skin of her palm; too little to encompass either hope or contradiction.

  Wild magic is only as powerful as the will, the determination, of the person it belongs to. The rightful white gold wielder.

  With it, Covenant had mastered Nom; faced Kasreyn of the Gyre; denatured the virulence of the Banefire. Wielded by the Despiser, its savage ecstasy had exalted Covenant’s spirit to secure and sustain the Arch of Time. And Linden herself had caused a caesure. In the wrong hands, it’s still pretty strong. Nevertheless this immaculate instance of white gold was not hers.

  It doesn’t really come to life until the person it belongs to chooses to use it.

  Roger could have been lying; but she did not think so. Too much of what he had said matched her memories, her experiences.

  Damn it. She clenched her fist around the ring. She had created one caesure: she could form another; catch the skurj in a mad whirl of instants and send them hurtling toward an imponderable future. If she were willing to take the risk—

  When she had asked Roger about Falls, he had replied, Eventually they’ll destroy everything.

  On that subject as well, she could believe that he had told the truth.

  All right, she promised herself grimly. No more caesures. I’ll try something else.

  But she did not know what she would be able to attempt.

  In the distance ahead, she felt Cabledarm reach Pahni; felt the Giant sweep Pahni into her arms and go on running. They sought Bhapa, but they passed beyond Linden’s range without finding him.

  Moving at Coldspray’s side, Stave spoke so that Linden and the Manethrall could hear him. “Branl reports no threat. It appears that Longwrath and his escort will not be assailed. And Clyme also descries no presage of harm. Therefore he and Branl come to join our defense.

  “Galt will do likewise. However, he intends first to number the skurj. At present, he perceives less than a score. If he discovers no increase in their force, he will endeavor to learn if they may be made to turn aside.”

  Linden flinched. One of those monsters could swallow Galt whole—

  “Then he is a fool,” snapped the Ironhand.

  Stolidly Stave replied, “He is Haruchai as well as Humbled, neither slow of wit nor weak of limb. He will not sacrifice himself except in our direct aid. Rather he will seek only to determine whether the skurj may be slowed or diverted.”

  Coldspray started to respond, but a distant shout interrupted her. Muffled by trees and foliage, Cabledarm’s bellow was barely audible.

  “A place is found! Alter your heading somewhat eastward!”

  Eastward—Closer to the skurj.

  The Ironhand stopped; turned to face Mahrtiir. “Manethrall,” she said tensely. “our esteem for the Ramen grows ever greater. To say that your Cords have served us well is scant praise. We cannot delay for true gratitude. Know, however, that we are honored to claim the friendship of a people who possess such fortitude and skill.”

  Before he could answer, she spun away and began to run. At once, her comrades followed, angling slightly to the left as they rushed between the trees.

  Linden did not know how far they ran. Fears confused her. Repeatedly she caught herself holding her breath. Nevertheless the pace of the Giants made it obvious that Salva Gildenbourne’s verdure was growing thin. As the soil lost its richness, it exposed new sheets of stone and older outcroppings of bedrock stained by weather and time and lichen. Few shrubs and saplings obstructed the strides of the Swordmainnir. Gilden, ancient oaks, and occasional, brittle birches stood farther apart, allowing swathes of sunlight to reach the ground. The Giants flashed through incursions of brightness as if they flickered in and out of predictable reality.

  Ahead of them, the trees opened briefly. Through the gap, Linden spotted a rocky tor, high and rounded like the burial-mound of a titan. Then the Giants ran into full sunshine, brilliant as Staff-fire; and she found herself staring at a formation like a volcanic plug so immeasurably ancient that the eons had worn it down to rubble.

  It seemed tall to her: she could not have thrown a pebble to reach its crown. Yet it stood lower than the surrounding trees. Without Bhapa’s guidance, and Pahni’s, the Giants might easily have missed it.

  Boulders as big as dwellings supported its sides, but the rest of the mound was composed of broken rocks in all sizes and shapes. From Linden’s perspective, the crest looked wide enough for all of the Giants to stand together and wield their weapons.

  Mahrtiir’s eagerness suggested that the tor was exactly what he wanted. But Linden was not convinced. If her companions chose to defend themselves atop the mound, they would have no line of escape.

  Bhapa stood, panting urgently, at the foot of the knuckled slope. But Cabledarm had carried Pahni up the tor. The Swordmain waved dramatically as her comrades emerged from the forest. “I recant my vaunt!” she crowed: a shout of delight. “Skill may accomplish much which lies beyond the reach of muscle and thew! The Manethrall’s Cords have humbled me. I would not have stumbled upon this admirable redoubt!”

  “It will serve,” muttered Mahrtiir, peering at the mound with senses other than sight. “Here even Ramen may oppose Kastenessen’s vile beasts.”

  Linden blinked in the sunlight; shook her head. Bhapa’s condition alarmed her. He gasped as if he were still running, on the edge of exhaustion. Dehydration made his limbs tremble. Apparently he had not paused for treasure-berries or water while he searched. After the battle of First Woodhelven, he had refused Mahrtiir’s place as Manethrall. Perhaps in compensation, he had nearly prostrated himself to prove worthy of Mahrtiir’s trust.

  By finding this tor? Linden did not understand. The skurj devoured granite. She had assumed that the Cords sought an open rock field where the Giants could dodge and strike and flee. If they mounted the rocks, they would be trapped.

  But the Ironhand did not seem to share Linden’s concern. “Serve?” she retorted as if Mahrtiir had made a jest. “It will do more than serve. It will concentrate our foes where the advantage of elevation and stone is ours. If Linden Giantfriend does not falter, we may yet hope for our lives.”

  If Linden did not falter—

  “Galt hastens toward us,” Stave announced. “The skurj pass beneath him. He has failed to deflect their course. Therefore he will endeavor to outrun them. He descries eighteen of the creatures. If others follow, he cannot yet discern them.”

  “And the distance?” asked Coldspray.

  “Less than a league.”

  The Ironhand nodded sharply. “Then we must ascend now. Linden Avery may ready her power while we prepare ourselves.”

  Coldspray’s comrades responded quickly. As Grueburn and Stonemage confronted the piled boulders, the last unburdened Giant lifted Bhapa into her arms and began to climb.

  Supporting herself with her free hand, Grueburn worked her way upward. Time and weight had made the tor more stable than it appeared. And the Giants were intimately familiar with stone in every manifestation. None of them slipped on their way to the crest of the mound.

  There the rocks were jagged and dangerous. Cracked granite and slick basalt protruded everywhere, as raw-edged as teeth: an invitation to twisted ankles, scraped shins, snapped bones. Combat would be difficult here. The Giants would have to watch where they placed their feet as closely as they studied their assailants. However, the crown formed a rough circle broader than Linden had guessed, perhaps thirty paces from edge to edge. Her defenders would have more than enough room to fight.

  Grueburn set her down carefully. Bracing herself on uneven angles and splits, Linden loo
ked at Pahni to gauge the young Cord’s condition. Like Bhapa, Pahni was close to the end of her strength—and seriously dehydrated. And she lacked his years of training and stamina. In spite of her Ramen pride, she sagged against Cabledarm.

  As soon as Stonemage released him, Liand sprang over the rocks toward Pahni. He seemed careless of the treacherous surface, but his Stonedownor heritage must have guided his feet. He reached her in a moment; caught her in his arms. When he had held her for a few heartbeats, he panted. “Water. She is hardy, but she must have water.”

  “As must Cord Bhapa,” muttered Coldspray distantly. Her gaze searched the eastward expanse of Salva Gildenbourne as if she sought to see past or through the trees. “We have none. And I will not risk one of my comrades to seek out a stream.” Then she glanced at Liand, smiling to reassure him. “Yet we would be abject indeed, unworthy of ourselves, if we had failed to secure some meager store of diamondraught.”

  Liand stared, uncomprehending and frightened; but Linden’s anxiety for the Cords eased. She remembered diamondraught well. It was a potent liquor distilled to suit Giants. But it had virtues in common with aliantha: it would restore Bhapa and Pahni for a while.

  Grinning, Grueburn and Stonemage reached under their armor and brought out stone flasks that looked small in their massive hands. By some application of Giantish lore, the flasks had been fashioned flat and slightly curved so that they fit comfortably inside the shaped armor.

  Grueburn gave her flask to Liand; let him care for Pahni while Stonemage tended to Bhapa.

  Relieved, Linden turned to consider the state of her other companions.

  The Giants were visibly tired. They had been under too much strain for too long: their huge vitality had begun to fray like overstressed hawsers. But they still had reserves of endurance. And a few swallows of diamondraught appeared to lift their hearts.

  At need, they would fight with the force of gales.

  When Galesend released him, Anele moved, blind and sure-footed, toward the center of the crown. There he sat down, wedged into a snug crack between boulders. Bowing his head, he began to stroke the stone and hum as if he wished to soothe it.

  Less certain than Anele, Mahrtiir felt his way around the rim of the crest, apparently examining the stones. Then he said to Stave. “You comprehend the worth of this vantage?”

  “I do,” replied Stave impassively. “As will the Humbled. I honor your foresight, Manethrall.”

  “I merit no honor, Stave of the Haruchai.” Mahrtiir continued his scrutiny of the mound. “I will be of scant use in these straits.” Then he bared his teeth. “Yet I am gladdened that my devotion to the lessons of struggle and combat has been of service.”

  “Manethrall,” Rime Coldspray put in like a reprimand. “your tales are as mournful as Linden Avery’s, and as bitter in their concision. Do not speak of them here.”

  “Aye,” Mahrtiir growled under his breath. “I hear you.” His bandage obscured his eyeless mien.

  Muttering empty curses, Linden scanned the region around the tor.

  When she looked to the west, she saw Clyme emerge from the forest. He ran easily; flung himself at the steep sides of the tor without obvious difficulty. She saw at a glance that he had told Stave the truth: his injuries were almost entirely healed.

  A few moments later, Branl approached from the northeast. He sped to join Linden and her companions, unhampered by the rugged climb, as if he were as much an acolyte of stone as the Giants. He, too, was nearly whole.

  Linden felt Galt’s absence like a burr in her mind. She wanted to wait for him; to hear his report on the movements of the skurj. To postpone as long as possible the moment when she would need to concentrate on white gold. Every life around her depended on her ability to wield Covenant’s ring. Fearing failure, she hesitated to make the attempt.

  For that very reason, however, she could not afford to procrastinate any longer. She could not. Her companions had trapped themselves, and her. The skurj did not yet impinge upon her health-sense, but they were near. Kastenessen was not the Despiser. If Roger had described him honestly, his driving agony would make him impatient, intolerant of delay. She did not know why he had waited so long—

  Now, she commanded herself. Do it now.

  Liand still hovered over Pahni. Nevertheless Linden called his name as if she were callous to his apprehension. When he turned toward her, she said simply, “Here,” and handed him the Staff of Law.

  Instant possibilities flared in his eyes. He had asked her to do this. Perhaps he thought that holding the Staff would enable him to channel more Earthpower through his orcrest.

  Linden nodded to him, accepting the promise of his nascent excitement. Then, half cowering as though she felt naked without her Staff, exposed to shame and inadequacy, she clambered awkwardly toward a flat sheet of basalt within ten paces of the crest’s eastern rim. There she seated herself cross-legged, folded Covenant’s ring in both hands as if she were praying, and tried to think her way to wild magic.

  Around her, the Giants drank small sips of diamondraught; talked quietly among themselves; adjusted their armor and readied their weapons. Clyme and Branl watched the east for Galt and peril. Stave waited, apparently relaxed, beside Linden. At Mahrtiir’s command, the Cords gathered to protect Anele.

  Two or three paces beyond the old man, Liand stood alone with the Staff and his unspoken desires.

  For the first time, Linden noticed the breeze that gusted over the tor, rustling like whispers among the treetops on all sides. Its touch made her aware of tiny lines of pain like damp streaks on her cheeks and forehead. She had been scratched during the rush of the Giants through Salva Gildenbourne. Bits of scab crusted her small hurts.

  But some of the branches must have caught at her shirt hard enough to snag and tear the red flannel. Minor rents were scattered over her shoulders and down her arms. A few of them held droplets of dried blood. Like the bullet hole over her heart—like the cryptic grass stains on her jeans—the tears and plucked threads seemed trivial; meaningless. They did not reveal her doom.

  Jeremiah needed her. She needed Thomas Covenant. Nothing else mattered.

  The door that opened on silver fire lay within her somewhere. She only had to find it.

  But when she reached inward, there was no door. Instead a twist of nausea squirmed in her stomach.

  Oh, God! Sudden terror thudded through her. That’s it! That’s what he’s been waiting for!

  Hardly realizing what she did, Linden dropped the ring. It dangled, useless, from its chain as she sprang to her feet—

  —and Esmer materialized in front of her as if he had created himself out of wind and sunlight.

  Kastenessen’s grandson, by theurgy if not by blood. I serve him utterly. As I also serve you.

  Without hesitation, Stave stepped between her and Cail’s son; the son of the merewives. Shouting in surprise, the Giants wheeled. Their ready blades hissed across the breeze. Branl moved toward Stave. Undisturbed or simply uncaring, Clyme continued to watch for Galt and the skurj.

  “Mane and Tail!” Mahrtiir snapped. “Esmer, no! This is not mere betrayal. It is Kastenessen’s triumph, and Fangthane’s.”

  If Liand reacted, Linden did not hear or feel it.

  Esmer’s presence precluded wild magic. Beyond question, this was what Kastenessen had been waiting for.

  Yet Linden’s terror became dismay as she stared at Esmer. Unconsciously she had expected him to heal himself; to appear immaculate and severe, poised for power. But she was wrong. His graceful cymar hung in tatters, fouled with dirt and blood. And the wounds which he had suffered in his bizarre struggle with the Harrow, Roger, and the Demondim-spawn remained. His flesh had been burned and torn because he had declined to defend himself. Now his hurts stank of filth. Some of them were festering.

  The green seethe of his gaze resembled weeping seas. Dolor and gall twisted his countenance. He looked like he had come to ensure Linden’s death; to make certain that both the Sta
ff of Law and Covenant’s ring fell to Kastenessen—or to Roger and Lord Foul, if Kastenessen disdained such powers.

  Coldspray stood behind him. “Is this indeed Esmer?” she asked through her teeth. “Then I will dismiss him.” Raising her stone sword, she demanded, “Turn, caitiff cateran, and make the acquaintance of my glaive.”

  Without glancing away from Linden, Esmer cried, “Hold!” The word was a yelp of chagrin.

  Sharply Stave said. “Do not, Rime Coldspray. His powers are unfathomable and virulent. Should he so choose, he will shatter this mound, sweeping us into the maws of the skurj. Your strength will merely provoke him. You cannot prevail.”

  Coldspray hesitated, but did not lower her sword. “Linden Avery—” she began; then stopped as if in shock.

  Until Mahrtiir barked her name, Linden did not see that the peak of the tor teemed with ur-viles and Waynhim.

  In silence, they swarmed like shadows around the far taller Giants: several score of them, all that had survived the Harrow, and Roger, and the weapons of the Cavewights. Once again, their lore had enabled them to divine Esmer’s intentions. And they had veiled their presence until he manifested himself. Now they massed around Linden and Cail’s son, encircling Stave and Branl.

  “Linden Avery—” Coldspray repeated. With an effort, she quenched her surprise. “What is your will? Are these the creatures that have aided you? The Demondim-spawn? Why then do they now ward Esmer? We cannot oppose him without harming them.”

  In response, the Waynhim and ur-viles began to shout, raucous as wild dogs. Their yipping howls and harsh coughs filled the air. They seemed to cast a pall over the tor as if their inherent darkness obscured the sunlight.

  None of them brandished weapons. Even the loremaster did not.