The Wounded Land

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “And you do it all by killing people,” he rasped. “Where do you get that much blood?”

  She turned her head away in distaste for his question. “Doubtless you possess that knowledge,” she said stiffly. “If you desire further enlightenment, consult the na-Mhoram.”

  “I will,” he promised. The state of the sacred enclosure reminded him that the Clave saw as evil a whole host of things which he knew to be good; and actions which they called good made his guts heave. “In the meantime, tell me what the na-Mhoram”—to irritate her, he used the title sardonically—“has in mind for me. He wants my help. What does he want me to do?”

  This was obviously a question for which she had come prepared. Without hesitation, she said, “He desires to make of you a Reader.”

  A Reader, he muttered to himself. Terrific.

  “For several reasons,” she went on evenly. “The distinction between Reading and soothreading is narrow, but severe. Perhaps with your white ring the gap may be bridged, giving the Clave knowledge to guide its future. Also with your power, perhaps still more of the Sunbane may be consumed. Perhaps you may exert a mastery over the region around Revelstone, freeing it from the Sunbane. This is our hope. As you wielded more power, the Sunbane would grow weaker, permitting the expansion of your mastery, spreading safety farther out into the Land. Thus the work of generations might be compressed into one lifetime.

  “It is a brave vision, Halfhand, worthy of any man or woman. A great saving of life and Land. For that reason Gibbon na-Mhoram rescinded the command of your death.”

  But he was not persuaded. He only listened to her with half his mind. While she spoke, he became aware of an alteration in Vain. The Demondim-spawn no longer stood completely still. His head shifted from side to side, as if he heard a distant sound and sought to locate its source. His black orbs were focused. When Akkasri said, “Will you answer, Halfhand?” Covenant ignored her. He felt suddenly sure that Vain was about to do something. An obscure excitement pulled him away from the wall, poised him for whatever might happen.

  Abruptly Vain started away along the curving hall.

  “Your companion!” the na-Mhoram-cro barked in surprise and agitation. “Where does he go?”

  “Let’s find out.” At once, Covenant strode after Vain.

  The Demondim-spawn moved like a man with an impeccable knowledge of Revelstone. Paying no heed to Covenant and Akkasri, or to the people he passed, he traversed corridors and stairways, disused meeting halls and refectories; and at every opportunity he descended, working his way toward the roots of the Keep.

  Akkasri’s agitation increased at every descent. But, like Vain, Covenant had no attention to spare for her. Searching his memory, he tried to guess Vain’s goal. He could not. Before long, Vain led him into passages he had never seen before. Torches became infrequent. At times, he could barely distinguish the black Demondim-spawn from the dimness.

  Then without warning, Vain arrived in a cul-de-sac lit only by light reflecting from some distance behind him. As Covenant and Akkasri caught up with him, he was staring at the end of the corridor as if the thing he desired were hidden beyond it.

  “What is it?” Covenant did not expect Vain to reply; he spoke only to relieve his own tension. “What are you after?”

  “Halfhand,” snapped the na-Mhoram-cro, “he is your companion.” She seemed afraid, unprepared for Vain’s action. “You must control him. He must stop here.”

  “Why?” Covenant drawled, trying to vex her into a lapse of caution, a revelation. “What’s so special about this place?”

  Her voice jumped. “It is forbidden!”

  Vain faced the blind stone as if he were thinking. Then he stepped forward and touched the wall. For a long moment, his hands probed the surface.

  His movements struck a chord in Covenant’s memory. There was something familiar about what Vain was doing.

  Familiar?

  The next instant, Vain reached up to a spot on the wall above his head. Immediately lines of red tracery appeared in the stone. They spread as if he had ignited an intaglio: in moments, red limned a wide doorway.

  The door swung open, revealing a torch-lit passage.

  Yes! Covenant shouted to himself. When he and Foamfollower had tried to enter Foul’s Creche, the Giant had found and opened a similar door just as Vain had found and opened this one.

  But what was that kind of door doing in Revelstone? Neither the Giants nor the Lords had ever used such entrances.

  In a sudden rush of trepidation, he saw Akkasri’s movement a moment too late to stop her. Swift with urgency, she snatched a rukh from under her robe and decanted blood onto her hands. Now fire sprang from the triangle; she began shouting words he could not understand.

  Vain had already disappeared into the passage. Before the door could close itself again, Covenant sprinted after the Demondim-spawn.

  This hall doubled back parallel to the one he had just left. It was well-lit. He could see that this place had not been part of the original Giant-work. Walls, floor, ceiling, all were too roughly formed. The Giants had never delved stone so carelessly. Leaping intuitively ahead of himself, he guessed that this tunnel had not been cut until after the passing of the Council, It had been made by the Clave for their own secret purposes.

  Beyond him, a side corridor branched off to the left. Vain took this turning. Covenant followed rapidly.

  In ten strides, the Demondim-spawn reached a massive iron door. It had been sealed with heavy bolts sunk deep into the stone, as if the Clave intended it to remain shut forever.

  A faint pearly light marked the cracks around the metal.

  Vain did not hesitate. He went to the door, found a place to wedge his fingers into the cracks. His back and shoulders tensed. Pressure squeezed new fluid from his burns.

  Covenant heard running behind him, but did not turn away. His amazement tied him to Vain.

  With a prodigious burst of strength, Vain tore the door from its moorings. Ringing like an anvil, it fell to the floor. In a wash of nacreous illumination, he stepped past the threshold.

  Covenant followed like a man in a trance.

  They entered a large chamber crammed with tables, walled to the ceiling with shelves. Hundreds of scrolls, caskets, pouches, periapts filled the shelves. The tables were piled high with staffs, swords, scores of talismans. The light came from three of the richest caskets, set high on the back wall, and from several objects on the tables. Dumb with astonishment, Covenant recognized the small chest which had once held the krill of Loric Vilesilencer. The chest was open and empty.

  He gaped about him, unable to think, realize, understand.

  A moment later, Akkasri and two people dressed like Riders raced into the chamber and leaped to a halt. They brandished flaming rukhs. “Touch nothing!” one of them barked.

  Vain ignored them as if he had already forgotten they had the power to harm him. He moved to one of the far tables. There he found what he sought: two wide bands of dull gray iron.

  Covenant identified them more by instinct than any distinctive feature.

  The heels of the Staff of Law.

  The Staff of Law, greatest tool of the Council of Lords, formed by Berek Halfhand from a branch of the One Tree. It was destroyed by wild magic when Lord Foul had forced dead Elena to wield it against the Land. Bannor had borne the heels back to Revelstone after the Despiser’s defeat.

  Before anyone could react, Vain donned the bands.

  One he slipped over his right hand. It should have been too small; but it went past his knuckles without effort, and fitted snugly to his wrist.

  The other he pulled onto his left foot. The iron seemed elastic. He drew it over his arch and heel easily, settled it tight about his ankle.

  A Rider gasped. Akkasri and another woman faced Covenant. “Halfhand,” Akkasri’s companion snapped, “this is upon your head. The Aumbrie of the Clave is forbidden to all. We will not tolerate such violation.”

  Her tone brou
ght Covenant back to himself. Dangers bristled in the air. Thinking rapidly, he said, “All the lore of the Lords— everything that used to belong to the Council. It’s all here. It’s all intact.”

  “Much is intact,” Akkasri said rigidly. “The Council was decadent. Some was lost.”

  Covenant hardly heard her. “The First and Second Wards.” He gestured toward the shining caskets. “The Third Ward? Did they find the Third Ward?” Foreseeing the Ritual of Desecration, Kevin Landwaster had hidden all his knowledge in Seven Wards to preserve it for future Councils; but during High Lord Mhoram’s time, only the first two and the last had been found.

  “Evidently,” a Rider retorted. “Little good it did them.”

  “Then why”—Covenant put all his appalled amazement into his voice—“don’t you use it?”

  “It is lore for that which no longer exists.” The reply had the force of an indictment. “It has no value under the Sunbane.”

  Oh, hell. Covenant could find no other words for his dismay. Hell and blood.

  “Come!” The Rider’s command cut like a lash. But it was not directed at Covenant. She and her companions had turned toward Vain. Their rukhs burned redly, summoning power.

  Vain obeyed, moving as if he had remembered the source of his injury. Akkasri grabbed his arm, tried to pull the band from his wrist; but the metal was iron and inflexible.

  Gesturing with their rukhs, she and the Riders escorted Vain from the Aumbrie as if Covenant were not present.

  He followed them. To his surprise, they herded Vain away from the hidden doorway.

  They went some distance down the rough corridor. Then the passage turned sharply, and debouched into a huge hall lit by many torches. The air was gray with smoke.

  With a stab of shock, Covenant realized that the hall was a dungeon.

  Scores of bolted iron doors seriated both walls. In each, heavy bars guarded a small window. Half a thousand people could have been imprisoned here, and no one who lacked Vain’s instincts or knowledge could ever have found them.

  As Covenant stared about him, the implications of the Riders’ anger burned into clarity in his mind. Gibbon had not intended him to know of this place.

  How many other secrets were there in Revelstone?

  One of the Riders hurried to a door and shot back the bolts. Within lay a cell barely wide enough to contain a straw pallet.

  With their rukhs, Akkasri and the other Rider forced Vain toward the door.

  He turned under the architrave. His captors flourished threats of fire; but he made no move against them. He aimed one look at Covenant. His black face wore an expression of appeal.

  Covenant glared back, uncomprehending. Vain?

  A gift beyond price, Foamfollower had said. No purpose but his own.

  Then it was too late. The door clanged shut on Vain. The Rider thrust home the bolts.

  Uselessly Covenant protested, What do you want from me?

  The next instant, a brown arm reached between the window bars of a nearby cell. Fingers clawed the air, desperate for freedom.

  The gesture galvanized Covenant. It was something he understood. He dashed toward that door.

  A Rider shouted at him, forbidding him. He paid no heed.

  As he gained the door, the arm withdrew. A flat face pressed against the bars. Impassive eyes gazed out at him.

  He almost lost his balance in horror. The prisoner was one of the Haruchai—one of Bannor’s people, who made their home high in the fastnesses of the Westron Mountains. He could not mistake the stern characteristic mien of the race that had formed the Bloodguard, could not mistake the resemblance to Bannor, who had so often saved his life.

  In Andelain, Bannor’s shade had said, Redeem my people. Their plight is an abomination.

  Suppressing the tonal hit of his native tongue, the Haruchai said, “Ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder, I salute you. You are remembered among the Haruchai.” The implacable rigor of his personality seemed incapable of supplication. “I am Brinn. Will you set us free?”

  Then hot iron struck the back of Covenant’s neck, and he stumbled like a cripple into darkness.

  His unconsciousness was agony, and he could do nothing to assuage it. For a time as painful as frenzy, he lay deaf and blind. But gradually the darkness turned to rain. Torrents, muffled by granite, poured down walls, cascaded off eaves and parapets, rattled against oriels. The sound carried him back to himself. He became aware of the texture of blankets against his skin, aware of the deadness in his fingers and feet, the numbness of loss.

  Remembering leprosy, he remembered everything, with an acuteness that made him press his face to the bed, knot his hands in the blanket under him. Vain. The Haruchai. The attack of the Riders.

  That hidden door, which led to the Aumbrie, and the dungeon.

  It was the same kind of door which the Despiser had formerly used in Foul’s Creche. What was such a door doing in Revelstone?

  A shudder ran through him. He rolled over, wincing at the movement. The back of his neck was stiff and sore. But the bones were intact, and the damage to his muscles did not seem permanent.

  When he opened his eyes, he found Gibbon sitting beside his bed. The na-Mhoram’s beatific face was tightened to express concern; but his red eyes held only peril.

  A quick glance showed Covenant that he lay in the bedroom of his suite. He struggled to sit up. Sharp pains lanced through his back and shoulders; but the change of position enabled him to cast a glance at his right hand.

  His ring was still there. Whatever else the Clave intended, they apparently did not intend to steal the white gold.

  That steadied him. He looked at the na-Mhoram again, and made an intuitive decision not to raise the issue of the door. He had too many other dangers to consider.

  “Doubtless,” Gibbon said with perfect blandness, “your neck gives you pain. It will pass. Swarte employed excessive force. I have reprimanded her.”

  “How—?” The hurt seemed to cramp his voice. He could barely squeeze out a hoarse whisper. “How long have I been out?”

  “It is now midday of the second day of rain.”

  Damnation, Covenant groaned. At least one whole day. He tried to estimate how many people the Clave had killed in that period of time, but could not. Perhaps they had killed Brinn—He thrust the idea away.

  “Akkasri,” he breathed, filling the name with accusation.

  Gibbon nodded calmly. “Akkasri na-Mhoram-in.”

  “You lied to me.”

  The na-Mhoram’s hebetude seemed impervious to offense. “Perhaps. My intent was not false. You came to Revelstone rife with hostility and suspicion. I sought means to allay your mistrust—and at the same time to ward against you if your purpose was evil. Therefore I informed you that Akkasri was of the na-Mhoram-cro. I desired to win your faith. In that I was not false. Guised as a na-Mhoram-cro, Akkasri could answer many questions without presenting to you the apparent threat of power. This I believed because of your treatment of Memla na-Mhoram-in. I regret that the outcome went amiss.”

  This sounded plausible; but Covenant rejected it with a shake of his head. Immediately a stab of soreness made him grimace. Muttering darkly to himself, he massaged his neck. Then he changed the subject, hoping to unsettle Gibbon. “What the hell are you doing with one of the Haruchai in your goddamn prison?”

  But the na-Mhoram appeared immune to discomfiture. Folding his arms, he said, “I sought to withhold that knowledge from you. Already you believe that you have sufficient cause for mistrust. I desired that you should have no more such reasons until you learned to see the sovereign importance of our work.”

  Abruptly Gibbon went in another direction. “Halfhand, did the Haruchai name you truly? Are you indeed ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder?”

  “What difference does that make?” growled Covenant.

  “That name is mentioned often in the ancient legends. After the First Betrayer, Thomas Cov
enant was the greatest of all a-Jeroth’s servants.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” This new distortion of the Land’s history dismayed him. But he was determined to evade Gibbon’s snare. “How could I possibly be that Thomas Covenant? Where I come from, the name’s common. So are white gold rings.”

  Gibbon gazed redly at him; but Covenant did not blink. A lie for a lie, he rasped. Finally the na-Mhoram admitted, “You have not the look of such age.” Then he went on, “But I was speaking of the Haruchai.

  “Halfhand, we have not one Haruchai in our hold. We have threescore and seven.”

  Three—! Covenant could not keep the horror off his face.

  “There.” Gibbon gestured at him. “I had cause to fear your response.”

  “By God!” Covenant spat fiercely. “You ought to fear the Haruchai! Don’t you know what you’re dealing with?”

  “I respect them entirely.” The na-Mhoram’s dull calm was complete. “Their blood is potent and precious.”

  They were my friends! Covenant could hardly refrain from shouting aloud. What in the name of all bloody hellfire and damnation do you think you’re doing?

  “Halfhand, you know that our work requires blood,” Gibbon continued reasonably. “As the Sunbane grows, the Banefire must grow to resist it. We are long beyond the time when the people of the Land could meet all our need.

  “Five generations past, when Offin na-Mhoram led the Clave, he was faced with the defeat of our dream. He had neared the limit of what the Land could supply, and it did not suffice. I will not dwell on his despair. It is enough to say that at that time—by chance or mercy—the Haruchai came to our aid.”

  He shrugged. “It is true that they did not intend the aid we found in them. Five came from the Westron Mountains in the name of their legends, seeking the Council. But Offin did not flinch his opportunity. He took the five captive.