The Wounded Land

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  His face had neither eyes nor eye sockets. Though he had changed mightily in the ten years or thirty-five centuries since Covenant had last seen him, he did not appear to have aged at all.

  An impulse to kneel swept through Covenant, but he refused it. He sensed that if he knelt now there would be no end to his need to prostrate himself. Instead, he stood quiet before the man’s immense white music, and waited.

  After a moment, the man hummed sternly, “Thomas Covenant, do you know me?”

  Covenant met his eyeless gaze. “You’re Hile Troy.”

  “No.” The song was absolute. “I am Caer-Caveral, the Forestal of Andelain. In all the Land I am the last of my kind.”

  “Yes,” Covenant said. “I remember. You saved my life at the Colossus of the Fall—after I came out of Morinmoss. I think you must have saved me in Morinmoss, too.”

  “There is no Morinmoss.” Caer-Caveral’s melody became bleakness and pain. “The Colossus has fallen.”

  No Morinmoss? No forests? Covenant clenched himself, held the tears down. “What do you want from me? I’ll do anything.”

  The Forestal hummed for a moment without answering. Then he sang, “Thomas Covenant, have you beheld Andelain?”

  “Yes.” Clenching himself. “I’ve seen it.”

  “In all the Land, it is the last keep of the Law. With my strength, I hold its fabric unrent here. When I fail in the end—as fail I must, for I am yet Hile Troy withal, and the day comes when I must not refuse to sacrifice my power—there will be no restitution for the abysm of that loss. The Earth will pass into its last age, and nothing will redeem it.”

  “I know.” With his jaws locked. “I know.”

  “Thomas Covenant,” the tall man sang, “I require from you everything and nothing. I have not brought you here this night to ask, but to give. Behold!” A sweeping gesture of his staff scattered the grass with music; and there, through the melody like incarnations of song, Covenant saw them. Pale silver as if they were made of moonshine, though the moon had no such light, they stood before him. Caer-Caveral’s streaming argence illumined them as if they had been created out of Forestal-fire.

  Covenant’s friends.

  High Lord Mhoram, with the wise serenity of his eyes, and the crookedness of his smile.

  Elena daughter of Lena and rape, herself a former High Lord, beautiful and passionate. Covenant’s child; almost his lover.

  Bannor of the Bloodguard, wearing poise and capability and the power of judgment which could never be wrested from him.

  Saltheart Foamfollower, who towered over the others as he towered over all mortals in size, and humor, and purity of spirit.

  Covenant stared at them through the music as if the sinews of his soul were fraying. A moan broke from his chest, and he went forward with his arms outstretched to embrace his friends.

  “Hold!”

  The Forestal’s command froze Covenant before he could close the separation. Immobility filled all his muscles.

  “You do not comprehend,” Caer-Caveral sang more kindly. “You cannot touch them, for they have no flesh. They are the Dead. The Law of Death has been broken, and cannot be made whole again. Your presence here has called them from their sleep, for all who enter Andelain encounter their Dead here.”

  Cannot—? After all this time? Tears streamed down Covenant’s cheeks; but when Caer-Caveral released him, he made no move toward the specters. Almost choking on his loss, he said, “You’re killing me. What do you want?”

  “Ah, beloved,” Elena replied quickly, in the clear irrefusable voice which he remembered with such anguish, “this is not a time for grief. Our hearts are glad to behold you here. We have not come to cause you pain, but to bless you with our love. And to give you gifts, as the Law permits.”

  “It is a word of truth,” added Mhoram. “Feel joy for us, for none could deny the joy we feel in you.”

  “Mhoram,” Covenant wept, “Elena. Bannor. Oh, Foamfollower!”

  The Forestal’s voice took on a rumble like the threat of thunder. “Thus it is that men and women find madness in Andelain. This must not be prolonged. Thomas Covenant, it is well that your companions did not accompany you. The man and woman of the Land would break at the sight of their Dead. And the woman of your world would raise grim shades here. We must give our gifts while mind and courage hold.”

  “Gifts?” Covenant’s voice shook with yearning. “Why—? How—?” He was so full of needs that he could not name them all.

  “Ah, my friend, forgive us,” Mhoram said. “We may answer no questions. That is the Law.”

  “As in the summoning of dead Kevin which broke the Law of Death,” interposed Elena, “the answers of the Dead rebound upon the questioner. We will not harm you with our answers, beloved.”

  “And you require no answers.” Foamfollower was laughing in his gladness. “You are sufficient to every question.”

  Foamfollower! Tears burned Covenant’s face like blood. He was on his knees, though he could not remember kneeling.

  “Enough,” the Forestal hummed. “Even now he falters.” Graceful and stately, he moved to Covenant’s side. “Thomas Covenant, I will not name the thing you seek. But I will enable you to find it.” He touched Covenant’s forehead with his staff. A white blaze of music ran through Covenant’s mind. “The knowledge is within you, though you cannot see it. But when the time has come, you will find the means to unlock my gift.” As the song receded, it left nothing in its wake but a vague sense of potential.

  Caer-Caveral stepped aside; and High Lord Mhoram came soundlessly forward. “Ur-Lord and Unbeliever,” he said gently, “my gift to you is counsel. When you have understood the Land’s need, you must depart the Land, for the thing you seek is not within it. The one word of truth cannot be found otherwise. But I give you this caution: do not be deceived by the Land’s need. The thing you seek is not what it appears to be. In the end, you must return to the Land.”

  He withdrew before Covenant could ask him to say more.

  Elena took the High Lord’s place. “Beloved,” she said with a smile of deep affection, “it has befallen me to speak a hard thing to you. The truth is as you have feared it to be; the Land has lost its power to remedy your illness, for much great good has been undone by the Despiser. Therefore I rue that the woman your companion lacked heart to accompany you, for you have much to bear. But she must come to meet herself in her own time. Care for her, beloved, so that in the end she may heal us all.”

  Then her voice grew sharper, carrying an echo of the feral hate which had led her to break the Law of Death. “This one other thing I say to you also. When the time is upon you, and you must confront the Despiser, he is to be found in Mount Thunder—in Kiril Threndor, where he has taken up his abode.”

  Elena, Covenant moaned. You still haven’t forgiven me, and you don’t even know it.

  A moment later, Bannor stood before him. The Bloodguard’s Haruchai face was impassive, implacable. “Unbeliever, I have no gift for you,” he said without inflection. “But I say to you, Redeem my people. Their plight is an abomination. And they will serve you well.”

  Then Foamfollower came forward; and Covenant saw that the Giant was not alone. “My dear friend,” said Foamfollower gaily, “to me has fallen the giving of a gift beyond price. Behold!”

  He indicated his companion; and Covenant could tell at once that this figure was not one of the Dead. He wore a short gray tunic, and under it all his skin from head to foot was as black as the gaps between the stars. His form was perfectly shaped and strong; but his hair was black, his teeth and gums were black, his pupil-less eyes were pure midnight. He held himself as if he were oblivious to the Dead and the Forestal and Covenant. His eyes gazed emptily, regarding nothing.

  “He is Vain,” said Foamfollower, “the final spawn of the ur-viles.” Covenant flinched, remembering ur-viles. But the Giant went on, “He crowns all their generations of breeding. As your friend, I implore you: take him to be your companion.
He will not please you, for he does not speak, and serves no purpose but his own. But that purpose is mighty, and greatly to be desired. His makers have ever been lore-wise, though tormented, and when it comes upon him he, at least, will not fail.

  “I say that he serves no purpose but his own. Yet in order that you may accept him, the ur-viles have formed him in such a way that he may be commanded once. Once only, but I pray it may suffice. When your need is upon you, and there is no other help, say to him, ‘Nekhrimah, Vain,’ and he will obey.

  “Thomas Covenant. My dear friend.” Foamfollower bent close to him, pleading with him. “In the name of Hotash Slay, where I was consumed and reborn, I beg you to accept this gift.”

  Covenant could hardly refrain from throwing his arms around the Giant’s neck. He had learned a deep dread of the ur-viles and all their works. But Foamfollower had been his friend, and had died for it. Thickly he said, “Yes. All right.”

  “I thank you,” the Giant breathed, and withdrew.

  For a moment, there was silence. Wraith-light rose dimly, and the Dead stood like icons of past might and pain. Caer-Caveral’s song took on the cadence of a threnody. Crimson tinged the flow of his phosphorescence. Covenant felt suddenly that his friends were about to depart. At once, his heart began to labor, aching for the words to tell them that he loved them.

  The Forestal approached again; but High Lord Mhoram stayed him. “One word more,” Mhoram said to Covenant. “This must be spoken, though I risk much in saying it. My friend, the peril upon the Land is not what it was. Lord Foul works in new ways, seeking ruin, and his evil cannot be answered by any combat. He has said to you that you are his Enemy. Remember that he seeks always to mislead you. It boots nothing to avoid his snares, for they are ever beset with other snares, and life and death are too intimately intergrown to be severed from each other. But it is necessary to comprehend them, so that they may be mastered. When—” He hesitated momentarily. “When you have come to the crux, and have no other recourse, remember the paradox of white gold. There is hope in contradiction.”

  Hope? Covenant cried. Mhoram! Don’t you know I’m going to fail?

  The next moment, Caer-Caveral’s song came down firmly on the back of his neck, and he was asleep in the thick grass.

  THIRTEEN: Demondim-Spawn

  When he awoke, his face itched as if the grass had grown into his beard, and his back was warm with midmorning sun.

  He raised his head. He was still atop the knoll where he had met Caer-Caveral and the Dead. Andelain lay around him, unfolded like a flower to the sun. But he observed the trees and sky abstractly; the Hills had temporarily lost their power over him. He was too full of ashes to be moved.

  He remembered the previous night clearly. He remembered everything about it except the conviction of its reality.

  But that lasted for only a moment. When he sat up, changed his range of sight, he saw Vain.

  The Demondim-spawn made everything else certain.

  He stood just as he had the night before, lightly poised and oblivious. Covenant was struck once again by Vain’s physical perfection. His limbs were smooth and strong; his flesh bore no blemish; he might have been an idealized piece of statuary. He gave no sign that he was aware of Covenant’s awakening, that he was cognizant of Covenant at all. His arms hung relaxed, with the elbows slightly crooked, as if he had been made for readiness but had not yet been brought to life. No respiration stirred his chest; his eyes neither blinked nor shifted.

  Slowly Covenant reviewed the other gifts he had been given. They were all obscure to him. But Vain’s solidity conveyed a kind of reassurance. Covenant took his companion as a promise that the other gifts would prove to be equally substantial.

  Seeking relief from his sense of loss, he rose to his feet, faced Vain. He considered the dark form briefly, then said, “Foamfollower says you don’t talk. Is that true?”

  Vain did not react. An ambiguous smile hung on his lips, but no expression altered the fathomless ebony of his orbs. He might as well have been blind.

  “All right,” Covenant muttered. “You don’t speak. I hope the other things he said are true, too, I don’t want to test it. I’m going to put off commanding you as long as I can. If those ur-viles lied—” He frowned, trying to penetrate the mystery of his companion; but no intuition came to his aid. “Maybe Linden can tell me something about you.” Vain’s black gaze did not shift. After a moment, Covenant growled, “I also hope I don’t get in the habit of talking to you. This is ridiculous.”

  Feeling vaguely foolish, he glanced at the sun to ascertain his directions, then started down the knoll to begin the journey back to his Mends.

  The Demondim-spawn followed a few paces behind him. Vain moved as if he had memorized his surroundings long ago, and no longer needed to take notice of them. In spite of his physical solidity, his steps made no sound, left no impression in the grass.

  Covenant shrugged, and set off southwestward through the Hills of Andelain.

  By noon, he had eaten enough aliantha to comprise a feast, and had begun to recover his joy. Andelain did far more for him than give comfort to his eyes and ears or provide solace for his loss. Lord Foul had deprived him of the most exquisite pleasure of his previous visit here—the ability to feel health like a palpable cynosure in every green and living thing about him. But the Hills seemed to understand his plight, and adjust their appeal to offer him what he could enjoy. The air was refulgent with gay birds. The grass cushioned his feet, so that his knees and thighs felt exuberant at every stride. Aliantha nourished him until all his muscles were suffused with vitality.

  Thus Andelain transformed his grief, melded it into a granitic sense of purpose. He considered the hazards ahead of him without dread, and swore an implacable oath without fear or fury, an oath that Andelain would not fall while he still had breath or pulse to defend it.

  In the middle of the afternoon, he came upon a stream running placidly over a bed of fine sand, and stopped to give himself a bath. He knew that he would not be able to rejoin his companions by nightfall, so he did not begrudge the time. Stripping off his clothes, he scrubbed himself from head to foot with sand until he began to feel clean for the first time in many days.

  Vain stood beside the stream as if he had been rooted to that spot all his life. A mischievous impulse came over Covenant; without warning, he slapped a spray of water at the Demondim-spawn. Droplets gleamed on Vain’s obsidian flesh and dripped away, but he betrayed no flicker of consciousness.

  Hellfire, Covenant muttered. A touch of prescience darkened his mood. He began almost grimly to wash his clothes.

  Soon he was on his way again, with Vain trailing behind him.

  He had planned to continue walking until he reached the Mithil valley and his companions. But this night was the dark of the moon, and the stars did not give much light. As the last illumination of evening faded from the air, he decided to stop.

  For a time, he had trouble sleeping. An innominate anxiety disturbed his rest. Vain held himself like an effigy of darkness, hinting at dangers. An ur-vile, Covenant growled. He could not trust an ur-vile. They, the Demondim-spawn, were one of the ancient races of the Land; and they had served Lord Foul for millennia. Covenant had been attacked time and again by the roynish creatures. Eyeless and bloodthirsty, they had devoured scores of Wraiths at a time when he had been empty of power. Now he could not believe that the ur-viles which had given Vain to Foamfollower had told the truth.

  But the air and grass of Andelain were an elixir that answered his vague distress; and eventually he slept.

  He was awake and traveling in the exultation of sunrise. Regret clouded his mood now; he did not want to leave Andelain. But he did not let that slow him. He was concerned for his companions.

  Well before noon, he crested the last line of hills above the Mithil River.

  He had reached the valley too far east; the old oak at the corner of Andelain was half a league or more away to his right. He moved bris
kly toward it along the crests, watching intently for a glimpse of his friends.

  But when he neared the majestic tree, he could see no sign of Linden, Sunder, or Hollian.

  He stopped, scanned the barren region across the Mithil for some sign of his companions. It was larger than he had realized. In his eagerness to enter Andelain, he had paid little attention to the area. Now he saw that the wrecked rock and dead shale spread some distance south through the hills, and perhaps a league west into the Plains. Nothing grew anywhere in that blasted region; it lay opposite him like a corpse of stone. But its edges were choked by the teeming verdure of the fertile sun. Two periods of fertility without a desert interval between them to clear the ground made the area look like a dead island under green siege.

  But of Linden and the two Stonedownors there was no trace.

  Covenant pelted down the hillside. He hit the water in a shallow dive, clawed the surface of the Mithil to the south bank. In moments, he stood on the spot where he had said farewell to Linden.

  He remembered the place exactly, all the details matched his recollection, it was here, here—! “Linden!” His shout sounded small against the desolation of the rocks, disappeared without echo into the surrounding jungle. “Linden!”

  He could find no evidence that she had been here, that he had ever had any companions at all.

  The sun wore its green carcanet like a smirk of disdain. His mind went blank with dread for a moment. Curses he could not utter beat against his stupefaction. His companions were gone. He had left them, and in his absence something had happened to them. Another Rider? Without him to defend them—! What have I done? Pounding his fists dumbly at each other, he found himself staring into Vain’s unreachable eyes.

  The sight jarred him. “They were here!” he spat as if the Demondim-spawn had contradicted him. A shudder ran through him, became cold fury. He began to search the region, “They didn’t abandon me. Something chased them off. Or they were captured. They weren’t killed—or badly hurt. There’s no blood.”