The Wounded Land

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “In their loneness, they have chosen to serve the Law of which they do not partake. Each rhysh performs its own devoir. Thus the garden and the animals. In defiance of the Sunbane and all Lord Foul’s ill, this rhysh seeks to preserve things which grow by Law from natural seed, in the form which they were born to hold. Should the end of Sunbane ever come, the Land’s future will be assured of its natural life.”

  Covenant listened with a tightness in his throat. He was moved by both the scantness and the nobility of what the Waynhim were doing. In the myriad square leagues which comprised the vast ruin of the Sunbane, one cavern of healthy plants was a paltry thing. And yet that cavern represented such commitment, such faith in the Land, that it became grandeur. He wanted to express his appreciation, but could find no adequate words. Nothing could ever be adequate except the repeal of the Sunbane, allowing the Waynhim to have the future they served. The fear that their self-consecration might prove futile in the end blurred his vision, made him cover his eyes with his hands.

  When he looked up again, the sun was rising.

  It came in pale brown across the Plains, a desert sun. Land features were lifted out of darkness as the night bled away. When he glanced about him, he saw that he was sitting in the center of a wrecked Stonedown.

  Houses lay in rubble; lone walls stood without ceilings to support; architraves sprawled like corpses; slabs of stone containing windows canted against each other. At first, he guessed that the village had been hit by an earthquake. But as the light grew stronger, he saw more clearly.

  Ragged holes the size of his palm riddled all the stone as if a hail of vitriol had fallen on the village, chewing through the ceilings until they collapsed, tearing the walls into broken chunks, burning divots out of the hard ground. The place where he sat was pocked with acid marks. Every piece of rock in the area which had ever stood upright had been sieved into ruin.

  “Hellfire!” he murmured weakly. “What happened here?”

  Hamako had not moved; but his head was bowed. When he spoke, his tone said plainly that he was acutely familiar with the scene. “This also I desire to tell,” he sighed. “For this purpose I brought you here.”

  Behind him, a hillock cracked and opened, revealing within it the chamber from which he and Covenant had left the underground corridors. Eight Waynhim filed into the sunrise, closing the entrance after them. But Hamako seemed unaware of them.

  “This is During Stonedown, home of the Sunbane-warped who sought your life. They are my people.”

  The Waynhim ranged themselves in a circle around Hamako and Covenant. After an initial glance, Covenant concentrated on Hamako. He wanted to hear what the man was saying.

  “My people,” the former Stonedownor repeated. “A proud people—all of us. A score of turnings of the moon ago, we were hale and bold. Proud. It was a matter of great pride to us that we had chosen to defy the Clave.

  “Mayhap you have heard of the way in which the Clave acquires blood. All submit to this annexation, as did we for many generations. But it was gall and abhorrence to us, and at last we arose in refusal. Ah, pride. The Rider departed from us, and During Stonedown fell under the na-Mhoram’s Grim.”

  His voice shuddered. “It may be that you have no knowledge of such abominations. A fertile sun was upon us, and we were abroad from our homes, planting and reaping our sustenance—recking little of our peril. Then of a sudden the green of the sun became black—blackest ill—and a fell cloud ran from Revelstone toward During Stonedown, crossing against the wind.”

  He clenched his hand over his face, gripping his forehead in an effort to control the pain of memory.

  “Those who remained in their homes—infants, mothers, the injured and the infirm—perished as During Stonedown perished, in agony. All the rest were rendered homeless.”

  The events he described were vivid to him, but he did not permit himself to dwell on them. With an effort of will, he continued, “Then despair came upon us. For a day and a night, we wandered the brokenness of our minds, heeding nothing. We had not the heart to heed. Thus the Sunbane took my people unprotected. They became as you have seen them.

  “Yet I was spared. Stumbling alone in my loss—bemoaning the death of wife and daughter—I came by chance upon three of the Waynhim ere the sun rose. Seeing my plight, they compelled me to shelter.”

  He raised his head, made an attempt to clear his throat of grief. “From that time, I have lived and worked among the rhysh, learning the tongue and lore and Weird of the Waynhim. In heart and will, I have become one of them as much as a man may. But if that were the extent of my tale”—he glanced painfully at Covenant—“I would not have told it. I have another purpose.”

  Abruptly he stood and gazed around the gathered Waynhim. When Covenant joined him, he said, “Thomas Covenant, I say to you that I have become of the Waynhim. And they have welcomed me as kindred. More. They have made my loss a part of their Weird. The Sunbane-warped live dire lives, committing all possible harm ere they die. In my name, this rhysh has taken upon itself the burden of my people. They are watched and warded—preserved from hurt, sustained in life—prevented from wreaking the damage of their wildness. For my sake, they are kept much as the animals are kept, both aided and controlled. Therefore they remain alive in such numbers. Therefore the rhysh was unwilling to redeem dhraga. And therefore”—he looked squarely at Covenant—“both rhysh and I are to blame for the harm you suffered.”

  “No,” Covenant protested. “It wasn’t your fault. You can’t blame yourself for things you can’t foresee.”

  Hamako brushed this objection aside. “The Waynhim did not foresee their own creation. Yet the Weird remains.” But then, somehow, he managed a smile. “Ah, Covenant,” he said, “I do not speak for any love of blame. I desire only your comprehension.” He gestured around him. “The Waynhim have come to offer their aid in pursuit of your companions. I wish you to know what lies behind this offer, so that you may accept it in the spirit of its giving, and forgive us for what we have withheld from you.”

  A surge of respect and empathy blurred Covenant’s responses again. Because he had no other way to express what he felt, he said formally, as Atiaran had taught him, “I thank you. The giving of this gift honors me. Accepting it, I return honor to the givers.” Then he added, “You’ve earned the right.”

  Slowly the strain faded from Hamako’s smile. Without releasing Covenant’s gaze, he spoke to the Waynhim; and they answered in a tone of readiness. One of them stepped forward, placed something in his hand. When Hamako raised his hand, Covenant saw that the object was a stone dirk.

  He winced inwardly. But Hamako’s smile was the smile of a friend. Seeing Covenant’s uncertainty, the man said, “There is no harm for you in this. May I have your hand?”

  Consciously repressing a tremor, Covenant extended his right hand, palm downward.

  Hamako grasped his wrist, looked for a moment at the scars left by Joan’s nails, then abruptly drew a cut across the veins.

  Covenant flinched; but Hamako held him, did not permit him to withdraw.

  His anxiety turned to amazement as he saw that the cut did not bleed. Its edges opened, but no blood came from the wound.

  Dhraga approached. Its broken arm hung in a splint, but its other wounds were healing.

  It raised its uninjured hand. Carefully Hamako made an incision in the exposed palm. At once, dark blood swarmed down dhraga’s forearm.

  Without hesitation, the Waynhim reached out, placed its cut directly on Covenant’s. Hot blood smeared the back of his hand.

  At that instant, he became aware of the other Waynhim. They were chanting softly in the clear desert dawn. Simultaneously strength rushed up his arm, kicked his heart like a burst of elation. He felt suddenly taller, more muscular. His vision seemed to expand, encompassing more of the terrain. He could easily have wrested free of Hamako’s grasp. But he had no need to do so.

  Dhraga lifted its hand away.

  The bleeding had stopp
ed. Its blood was being sucked into his cut.

  Dhraga withdrew. Hamako gave the dirk to durhisitar. While durhisitar cut its palm just as dhraga’s had been cut, Hamako said, “Soon the power will come to appear unbearable, but I ask you to bear it. Remain quiet until all the Waynhim have shared this giving. If the ritual is completed, you will have the strength you require for a day—perhaps two.”

  Durhisitar put its cut upon Covenant’s. More might surged into him. He felt abruptly giddy with energy, capable of anything, everything. His incision absorbed durhisitar’s blood. When the creature stepped back, he could hardly hold himself still for the next Waynhim.

  Only after the third infusion did he realize that he was receiving something more than power. Dhraga he had recognized by its injuries—but how had he known durhisitar? He had never looked closely at that particular Waynhim. Yet he had known it by name, just as he knew the third Waynhim, dhubha, and the fourth, vraith. He felt ecstatic with knowledge.

  Drhami was fifth; ghohritsar, sixth. He was dancing with uncontainable might. Hamako’s knuckles whitened; but his grip had the weight of a feather. Covenant had to leash himself firmly to keep from exploding free and cavorting around the ruins like a wild man. The range of his hearing had become so wide that he could hardly distinguish words spoken nearby.

  Hamako was saying, “—remember your companions. Waste not this power. While it remains, stop for neither night nor doom.”

  Ghramin.

  Covenant felt as colossal as Gravin Threndor, as mighty as Fire-Lions. He felt that he could crush boulders in his arms, destroy Ravers with his hands.

  Dhurng: eighth and last.

  Hamako snatched back his hand as if the power in Covenant burned him. “Go now!” he cried. “Go for Land and Law, and may no malison prevail against you!”

  Covenant threw back his head, gave a shout that seemed to echo for leagues:

  “Linden!”

  Swinging around to the northwest, he released the flood-fire of his given strength and erupted, running toward Revelstone like a coruscation in the air.

  SEVENTEEN: Blood-Speed

  The sun ascended, brown-mantled and potent, sucking the moisture of life from the Land. Heat pressed down like the weight of all the sky. Bare ground was baked as hard as travertine. Loose dirt became dust and dust became powder until brown clogged the air and every surface gave off clouds like dead steam. Chimeras roamed the horizons, avatars of the Sunbane. The Center Plains lay featureless and unaneled under the bale of that sun.

  But Waynhim strength was glee in Covenant’s veins. Running easily, swiftly, he could not have stopped, even by choice; his muscles thronged with power; gaiety exalted his heart; his speed was delicious to him. Without exertion, he ran like the Ranyhyn.

  His progress he measured on a map in his mind—names of regions so dimly remembered that he could no longer identify when he had first heard them.

  Across the wide wilderland of Windscour: eleven leagues. Through the ragged hills of Kurash Festillin: three leagues.

  By noon he had settled into a long, fast stride, devouring distance as if his appetite for it were insatiable. Fortified by vitrim and power, he was immune to heat, dust, hallucination.

  Yet Vain followed as if the Demondim-spawn had been made for such swiftness. He ran the leagues lightly, and the ground seemed to leap from under his feet.

  Along the breadth of Victuallin Tayne, where in ancient centuries great crops had flourished: ten leagues. Up the long stone rise of Greshas Slant to higher ground: two leagues. Around the dry hollow of Lake Pelluce in the center of Andelainscion, olden fruiterer to the Land: five leagues.

  Covenant moved like a dream of strength. He had no sense of time, of strides measured by sweat and effort. The Waynhim had borne the cost of this power for him, and he was free to run and run. When evening came upon him, he feared he would have to slacken his pace; but he did not. Stars burnished the crisp desert night, and the moon rose half full, shedding silver over the waste. Without hesitation or hindrance, he told out the dark in names.

  Across the Centerpith Barrens: fourteen leagues. Down the Fields of Richloam, Sunbane-ruined treasure of the Plains: six leagues. Up through the jagged ridges of Emacrimma’s Maw: three leagues. Along Boulder Fash, strewn with confusion like the wreckage of a mountain: ten leagues.

  The night unfurled like an oriflamme: it snapped open over the Plains, and snapped away; and he went on running through the dawn. Outdistancing moon and stars, he caught the sunrise in the dry watercourse of the Soulsease River, five score leagues and more from Stonemight Woodhelven. Speed was as precious to him as a heart-gift. With Vain always at his back, he sipped vitrim and left the Soulsease behind, left the Center Plains behind to run and run, northwest toward Revelstone.

  Over the open flat of Riversward: five leagues. Through the fens of Graywightswath, which the desert sun made traversable: nine leagues. Up the rocks of the Bandsoil Bounds: three leagues.

  Now the sun was overhead, and at last he came to the end of his exaltation. His eldritch strength did not fail—not yet—but he began to see that it would fail. The knowledge gave him a pang of loss. Consciously he increased his pace, trying to squeeze as many leagues as possible from the gift of Bamako’s rhysh.

  Across the rolling width of Riddenstretch: twelve leagues.

  Gradually his mortality returned. He had to exert effort now to maintain his speed. His throat ached on the dust.

  Among the gentle hills, smooth as a soft-rumpled mantle, of Consecear Redoin: seven leagues.

  As the last rays of sunset spread from the Westron Mountains, he went running out of the hills, stumbled and gasped—and the power was gone. He was mortal again. The air rasped his lungs as he heaved for breath.

  For a while, he rested on the ground, lay panting until his respiration eased. Mutely he searched Vain for some sign of fatigue; but the Demondim-spawn’s black flesh was vague in the gloaming, and nothing could touch him. After a time, Covenant took two swallows from his dwindling vitrim, and started walking.

  He did not know how much time he had gained; but it was enough to renew his hope. Were his companions two days ahead of him? Three? He could believe that the Clave might not harm them for two or three days. If he met no more delays—

  He went briskly on his way, intending to walk through the night. He needed sleep; but his body felt less tired than it usually did after a hike of five leagues. Even his feet did not hurt. The power and the vitrim of the Waynhim had sustained him wondrously. With the sharpness of the air to keep him alert, he expected to cover some distance before he had to rest.

  But within a league he caught sight of a fire burning off to the left ahead of him.

  He could have bypassed it; he was far enough from it for that. But after a moment he shrugged grimly and started toward the fire. His involuntary hope that he had caught up with his friends demanded an answer. And if this light represented a menace, he did not want to put it behind him until he knew what it was.

  Creeping over the hard uneven ground, he crouched forward until he could make out details.

  The light came from a simple campfire. A few pieces of wood burned brightly. A bundle of faggots lay near three large sacks.

  Across the fire sat a lone figure in a vivid red robe. The hood of the robe had been pushed back, revealing the lined face and gray-raddled hair of a middle-aged woman. Something black was draped around her neck.

  She triggered an obscure memory in Covenant. He felt he had seen someone like her before, but could not recollect where or when. Then she moved her hands, and he saw that she held a short iron scepter with an open triangle affixed to its end. Curses crowded against his teeth. He identified her from Linden’s description of the Rider at Crystal Stonedown.

  Gritting to himself, he began to withdraw. This Rider was not the one he wanted. The Graveler of Stonemight Woodhelven had indicated that Linden’s abductor, Santonin na-Mhoram-in, was a man. And Covenant had no intention of risking h
imself against any Rider until no other choice remained. With all the stealth he could muster, he edged away from the light.

  Suddenly he heard a low snarl. A huge shape loomed out of the darkness, catching him between it and the fire. Growling threats, the shape advanced like the wall of a house.

  Then a voice cut the night,

  “Din!”

  The Rider, She stood facing Covenant and Vain and the snarl. “Din!” she commanded. “Bring them to me!”

  The shape continued to approach, forcing Covenant toward the campfire. As he entered the range of the light, he became gradually able to see the immense beast.

  It had the face and fangs of a saber-tooth, but its long body resembled that of a horse—a horse with shoulders as high as the top of his head, a back big enough to carry five or six people, and hair so shaggy that it hung to the creature’s thighs. Its feet were hooved. From the back of each ankle grew a barbed spur as long as a swordthorn.

  Its eyes were red with malice, and its snarl vibrated angrily. Covenant hastened to retreat as much as he could without moving too close to the Rider.

  Vain followed calmly with his back to the beast.

  “Halfhand!” the Rider barked in surprise. “I was sent to await you, but had no thought to meet with you so soon.” A moment later, she added, “Have no fear of Din. It is true—the Coursers are creatures of the Sunbane. But therefore they have no need of meat. And they are whelped in obedience. Din will lift neither fang nor spur against you without my command.”

  Covenant put the fire between him and the woman. She was a short, square individual, with a blunt nose and a determined chin. Her hair was bound carelessly at the back of her neck as if she had no interest in the details of her appearance. But her gaze had the directness of long commitment. The black cloth hanging around her neck ritualized the front of her robe like a chasuble.

  He distrusted her completely. But he preferred to take his chances with her rather than with her Courser. “Show me.” He cast a silent curse at the unsteadiness of his voice. “Send it away.”