Coldspray tried again. “Linden—”
Esmer cut her off. Suddenly disdainful, he rasped, “They do not ward me, Giant. That is the import of their speech.
“You possess a gift of tongues obtained from the Elohim. By my will, it is withdrawn. At no time will you be permitted to comprehend these creatures.
“However, they command me to inform you that they serve the Wildwielder. They acknowledge Giants. They have known the Unhomed, for good or ill. If you strike at them, they will not guard themselves. For her sake, they will raise neither hand nor theurgy against you. Yet you play no part in their desires.”
Coldspray glanced around at her comrades, then shook her head in bafflement. By my will—Apparently Esmer had the power to enforce his word.
Linden had made a promise to the ur-viles and Waynhim. If you can ever figure out how to tell me what you need or want from me, I’ll do it. Now Esmer had erased her only chance to understand them.
“But they also wish you to apprehend,” he continued less scornfully. “that their lore will not slow the skurj. They cannot preserve you.” An emotion that resembled remorse troubled his gaze. “They intend only to ensure that I may harm neither you nor any of the Wildwielder’s companions. If they mean to proffer some further service, they do not speak of it.”
The Ironhand’s shoulders sagged. As if in defeat, she dropped her glaive back into its sheath. “Then we must perish, son of malice. Kastenessen’s beasts are too many. We cannot defeat them without wild magic—and we are informed that your presence prevents any use of white gold.
“Is that your purpose? Will you impose our deaths?”
“It is my nature.” Hauteur fumed like spray from Esmer’s eyes, but his voice winced. “I am made to be what I am. I do not command the skurj. Like them, I am commanded.”
Fierce with alarm and granite rage, Linden wanted to retort; but Stave spoke first. Facing Esmer impassively, he said, “You are swift to cast blame, Esmer mere-son. It is your word that because of the Haruchai ‘there will be endless havoc.’ Yet is it not sooth that you fault Cail your sire and his kindred for your deeds rather than for theirs? The ‘havoc’ will be of your making, not ours. When we fall”—his tone sharpened—“we fall by your hand, Esmer, not by any act or reticence of the Haruchai.”
Esmer flinched. But he did not respond. And he did not withdraw.
Before Linden could voice her own accusations, Clyme announced, “Galt approaches.” His voice carried, blunt as a fist, through the clamor of the Demondim-spawn. “The skurj follow. They do not hasten, but they come.”
Involuntarily Linden imagined a path of blight and withering in Salva Gildenbourne’s abundance, formed by the fiery passage of Kastenessen’s monsters.
“Are they eighteen?” asked Coldspray tensely. “Does that remain Galt’s count?”
“It does,” Clyme answered. “He has discerned no others.”
Branl’s lack of expression suggested a sneer as he turned abruptly away from Linden, Esmer, and Stave. The ur-viles and Waynhim parted for him: their barking subsided as if they had given up demanding translation. A few of them watched Branl join Coldspray and Clyme. Others shifted their attention toward Anele and Liand.
“Eighteen.” The Ironhand bowed her head. “It cannot be done.” But then she raised her chin, bared her teeth. “Nevertheless we will attempt it.”
Her eyes flared dangerously as she began positioning her comrades to defend the tor.
Linden had tried before: she tried again. But she found no wild magic within herself. The door was gone. The sick clench of her stomach confirmed its absence. She could not pierce the barrier imposed by Esmer’s proximity.
And she could not oppose the skurj effectively with her Staff: not while Kevin’s Dirt held sway.
Nevertheless she was not beaten. She refused to accept it. Aid and betrayal. Esmer’s presence was a betrayal. Therefore he was vulnerable. His divided nature would compel him to help her, if she could ask the right questions, insist on the right answers; find the right lever—
You must be the first to drink of the EarthBlood.
His gaze remained fixed on her as if none of her companions existed. He ignored the Demondim-spawn. In a voice that steamed with pleading, he asked. “Wildwielder, why have you come to this place?” His wounds seemed to ooze concern like pus. “What madness drives you? Have you not been told that you must not enter Andelain? Do you hear neither friend nor foe?”
Linden shook her head. “Damn it, Esmer,” she countered. “can’t you even heal yourself? Is this really what Kastenessen wants?” Or Lord Foul?
She intended to put as much pressure on Esmer as she could. And she was not going to reveal her underlying purpose: the bedrock on which she had founded all of her actions since Melenkurion Skyweir.
His manner stiffened. “I have inherited many gifts. There is no healing among them.”
Cruelly Linden insisted, “Your own grandfather wants you like this?” Flagrantly wounded, suppurating with pain. “He doesn’t want you whole?”
Esmer squirmed. “Delivering the Demondim-spawn to this time, I displeased him. Defending them against the Harrow, I displeased him greatly. His wrath is boundless. Therefore I am here.”
Behind him, Galt appeared on the rim of the mound. The Master’s chest heaved, demanding air, but he did not look weak or hurt—or troubled. “They come,” he informed Coldspray and the other Giants. “Strength alone will not avail against them. Yet we will strive to create opportunities for your blades.”
The Ironhand nodded grimly. “Aye. Some few of them we will slay, with your aid. Then we must pray that they do not pause to feast upon their fallen and multiply.”
“That also,” replied Branl. “we will endeavor to prevent.”
“As will I,” Mahrtiir promised gruffly. “Blindness will not hamper my aim.”
Linden clenched her fists until her knuckles ached. Her palm and fingers missed the ciphered warmth of the Staff. “All right, Esmer,” she said through her teeth. “So Kastenessen is mad at you. So what? Give me something to count against this betrayal. Tell me why no one wants me to go to Andelain.”
She did not have much time.
His eyes bled anger and self-castigation. “I know not how to serve you, other than by preventing you from ruin.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” she retorted. “I’m not going to ruin anything. If you go away—if you let me use wild magic—I won’t threaten the Arch. I can’t. I’m not the ring’s rightful wielder.” Roger had insisted on that. She believed him despite his many falsehoods. “I don’t have enough power.”
Esmer drew himself up. “You are mistaken.” Now he seemed to seethe with squalls as if she had insulted his intelligence. “There are two white golds. Each alone may damage Law. When both are wielded, their peril swells.”
Covenant had told her to be careful with wild magic. It feeds the caesures.
“Kastenessen’s desires are not the Despiser’s,” Esmer continued harshly. “He cares naught for the Arch of Time. Rather he yearns for the destruction of the Elohim. Yet he is but one against many. And the skurj are merely the skurj. He cannot sate his hunger by direct challenge. However, your white ring, and the other, may accomplish his desires. The ending of life within the Arch will achieve it. It will consume his true foes. Therefore Kastenessen commits his creatures against you. Your efforts to withstand them will commingle with the madness of the other Wildwielder. Your puissance will conduce to the end of those who Appointed him to bereavement and agony.”
Again Linden shook her head. “No. That still doesn’t make sense. If Kastenessen wants me to use wild magic, why are you here? Didn’t you say that you were commanded?”
Esmer made a show of patience while his eyes frothed and his wounds wept. “The attack of the skurj is a blade with two edges. Because of my presence, you will perish. Then your ring will fall into the hands of some other being. Kastenessen does not covet it for himself. No Elohim tr
uly desires white gold. For such beings, its peril transcends its promise of might. But lesser wights crave it avidly. Should Thomas Covenant’s son or the Harrow gain possession of your ring, they will evoke wild magic sufficient to feed Kastenessen’s hunger.
“However, my grandsire is wroth with me. He execrates my wish to serve you. Therefore I am commanded here, as both a punishment and a snare. My presence ensures your death—and his triumph. Yet should you discover some means to sway me, so that I am induced to betray him, you yourself will provide his triumph.”
Abruptly the entire tor trembled. While Linden spread her feet to keep her balance, a scream of fire erupted beyond the eastern edge of the crest. Virulence shocked her senses as the skurj broke from the ground. From where she stood, the rim blocked her view of the beasts; but she recognized that they were many. Each roar exacerbated the others until the very air seemed to shriek with pain.
She closed her mind to the sound. She could not afford to quail. She would not. Therefore she chose to believe that the Giants would contrive to hold back the creatures.
“So either way Kastenessen wins,” she rasped at Esmer. “All right. I get that. But you still haven’t told me why you’re here. Since he can’t lose, why do you bother to do what he tells you? Why do you care?”
He ducked his head. His manner changed as unpredictably as wind-torn waves. “It is my nature. I must strive to serve you.”
“Then tell me how I can get enough Earthpower from my Staff to hold off those monsters.”
“You cannot,” he said as though he feared her in spite of her helplessness. “That is the true purpose of Kevin’s Dirt. My grandsire and I labored long and assiduously among the fouled depths and banes of Gravin Threndor to procure this outcome.”
You? Linden thought, aghast. You did that?
“We have been aided,” Esmer admitted. “The extremes of Kastenessen’s excruciation madden him. His thoughts do not cohere. But he has been counseled by moksha Raver. Jehannum serves him, winning connivance from Thomas Covenant’s son as from Cavewights and other powers. At the Raver’s urging, my grandsire severed his hand to exalt Thomas Covenant’s son. The magic to raise Kevin’s Dirt from the roots of Mount Thunder was Kastenessen’s, and mine. But the ploy was moksha Jehannum’s.”
Linden swallowed her dismay. Esmer was helping her: she knew that. He had told her where to look for Kastenessen—and perhaps how to end Kevin’s Dirt. He had revealed how her disparate foes had been induced to work together. But he had given her nothing that would thwart the skurj.
If he answered her questions in order to betray Kastenessen, he was doing his grandsire no harm.
“You’re just talking, Esmer,” she said, deliberately dismissive. “You can say whatever you want because you know that I won’t live to do anything about it. If you want to prove that you’re worthy of your father,” of Cail, whose courage had been as boundless as Kastenessen’s rage. “tell me something useful. Tell me why no one wants me to go to Andelain.”
Without warning, the first of the skurj reared into view.
The sight staggered her; broke her concentration. Even in full daylight, the beast seemed to dominate the sky. Its heat washed over the tor, terrible and chancrous: its massive jaws gaped, blazing with repeated rows of fangs like magma shaped and whetted until the teeth resembled kukris. Heat shouted from the monster’s deep maw as if it articulated the Earth’s quintessential hunger.
The ur-viles and Waynhim huddled around Linden, apparently cowed. Their subdued chittering sounded like whimpers.
Rime Coldspray confronted the creature with her sword held ready. Yet she did not strike. She might have been immobilized; stricken with terror; helpless before the lambent ineluctable fangs of the skurj. But she was not. She was waiting—
The beast towered over her, savoring her death. Then the tremendous kraken jaws pounced for her head. If it caught her, it would bite her in half.
Branl interrupted the creature’s strike. Before it reached Coldspray, he flung a heavy rock down the throat of the skurj.
Reflexively the monster paused. It closed its jaws to swallow; concealed the sick radiance of its fangs.
In that instant, Coldspray swung her glaive. With all of her Giantish might and her Swordmainnir training, she cut into and through the heavy muscles at one hinge of the creature’s jaws.
The skurj fell into a convulsion of pain. Yowling through a spray of vile blood, it plunged out of sight.
Dear God—An abundance of loose stones. Now Linden understood. The mound was not a trap: it was an armory. Her companions could use the autonomic reactions of the creatures against them. Branl, Galt, and Clyme—even Mahrtiir—could force the skurj to pause.
Any interruption would create openings for the Giants.
But Coldspray’s blow appeared to infuriate the rest of the skurj. Their roaring lashed the air: their heat stank like gangrene. Eight or ten of them charged upward simultaneously. The others were close behind. Threats of slaughter scaled into lunacy as the creatures arched above the tor to crash slavering toward the Giants.
In the space between heartbeats, one small sliver of time, Linden whirled toward Stave. “The Seven Words!” she panted. “They affect the skurj!”
The Giants believed that the monsters could not hear. But Linden had seen one of them hesitate before the implicit theurgy of the Seven Words.
Stave acknowledged her with a nod. Then he sprang away, shifting easily among the Demondim-spawn to inform her companions.
Around the entire rim of the crown, battle exploded.
“Wildwielder!” Esmer shouted. “Forswear your purpose in Andelain, and I will depart!” A cryptic desperation edged his voice. “Do as you will with the Harrow. Others will oppose your efforts to retrieve your son. I will not!”
Pallid with strain, Linden faced him again. The horrid gaping of fangs made his features ruddy and lurid: it seemed to fill his hurts with disease. A bloody sunset shone in his eyes. Her companions were fighting for their lives; everyone who had aided her; her friends—
There was nothing that she could do to help them.
“That’s not an answer, Esmer.” If she turned her back on Andelain—on Covenant and the krill—she would sacrifice her only chance to save the Land. Terror and evil would rampage wherever they wished. “The Harrow isn’t here.”
“If I depart, he will come.” Esmer’s mien was rife with supplication. “He will remove you from this doom. Your death would complicate his desires.”
Should you discover some means to sway me—
The Giants were too few. The Humbled and Mahrtiir were fewer still. Kindwind tried to stop a skurj by jamming her sword past its teeth into the back of its maw. She hurt it; drove it back. But it clamped its jaws as it pulled away, taking her sword and her hand and all of her forearm with it. Blood fountained from the severed stump.
Guided by percipience, Mahrtiir heaved stones bigger than his fists between the fangs of the beasts. He yelled the Seven Words with such ferocity that the tor itself quivered. Skurj after skurj was forced to pause and swallow—or to falter. But that was the limit of what he could accomplish. If he touched one of the creatures, its hide would scald the flesh from his bones.
One of Clyme’s rocks interrupted a flash of fangs and incandescence. In that instant, Grueburn ducked beneath the skurj and drove her sword upward through its hide behind its jaws; buried her blade to the hilt. Somehow she struck a vital nerve-center, perhaps the monster’s brain. Spasming frantically, the skurj toppled down the stones. When its bulk collided with another creature, that beast tumbled as well.
Giants began to shout the Seven Words: a cacophony of invocation.
It was not enough.
Grinding her teeth, Linden demanded, “And if he does? If the Harrow offers me a bargain that I can live with? Will he save my friends? Can he rescue all of us?”
Esmer snorted contemptuously. “Doubtless he is able to do so. He will not. He need not. He cares na
ught for your companions. Knowing where your son is imprisoned, he requires no other suasion. He will not hazard himself for any cause other than white gold and the Staff of Law. If you insist upon the salvation of your companions, he will merely await a later opportunity to acquire your powers.
“The might of wild magic will be diminished if it is not ceded voluntarily. That he will regret. Nevertheless this plight serves his ends also.”
Bhapa and Pahni hovered uselessly over Anele. When they could, they threw stones at the skurj. The old man made mewling noises deep in his throat. His hands clutched at granite and basalt as if he thought that the broken rocks might redeem him.
Emulating Grueburn, Onyx Stonemage ducked under a blaze of fangs and thrust her sword like a spear behind the beast’s jaws. But she missed her target. In a vast roar of pain and blood, the skurj struck at her; slammed her to the jagged stones.
For a moment, her armor blocked the monster’s bite. At the same time, however, the beast’s fury twisted her blade within its wound. Before her cataphract failed, her thrust became a killing stroke. The skurj recoiled, seized by death. Its blood drenched her, stinking like offal, as the creature fell.
Two skurj were dead. At least one had been badly wounded.
Too many remained.
Stave joined the Humbled. Together they hurled a barrage of rock. Risking her whole arm, Cabledarm succeeded at chopping one huge maw into a grin that could not close by cutting through the muscles at both corners of the jaw. With a volcanic howl, the skurj lurched away. A froth of vile blood spattered the tor.
“But he knows where Jeremiah is,” Linden insisted, panting urgently. “Isn’t that why you tried to suck him into a Fall? To keep him from helping me rescue my son?”
Esmer groaned. “It is. It was.” His pleading became a kind of frenzy. “Your son is beyond price. But if you will forswear your purpose in Andelain, the threat to Kastenessen is diminished. Therefore your son’s worth declines. The Harrow will serve Kastenessen’s desires, though he intends only his own glory. It cannot be otherwise when wild magic and Law are wielded by greed and aggrandizement.”
Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant 02 - Fatal Revenant Page 80
