The Wounded Land

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Ceer and Stell dove into the convulsions. They disappeared, then regained their feet, with the Graveler held, gasping, between them. Dead coils thudded against their backs as they bore Sunder out of danger.

  All Covenant’s power was gone, snuffed by Linden’s outcry. Cold gripped the marrow of his bones. Visions of green children and suffocation. Bloody hell.

  His companions gaped at him. Linden’s hands squeezed the sides of her head, fighting to contain her fear. Covenant expected her to shout abuse at him. But she did not. “It’s my fault.” Her voice was a low rasp. “I should have seen that thing.”

  “No.” Stell spoke as if he were immune to contradiction. “It came when you had passed. The fault is mine. The Graveler was in my care.”

  Hellfire, Covenant groaned uselessly. Hell and damnation.

  With an effort, Linden jerked down her hands and forced herself to the Graveler’s side. He breathed in short gasps over the pain in his chest. She examined him for a moment, scowling at what she perceived. Then she muttered, “You’ll live.” Outrage and helplessness made her voice as bitter as bile.

  The Haruchai began to move. Stell retrieved his sack. Brinn reformed the line of the company. Holding herself rigid, Linden took her place. They went on through the swamp.

  They tried to hurry. But the water became deeper, holding them back. Its cold rank touch shamed Covenant’s skin. Hollian could not keep her feet; she had to cling to Harn’s sack and let him pull her. Sunder’s injury made him wheeze as if he were expiring.

  But finally the reeds gave way to an open channel; and a short distance beyond it lay a sloping bank of marshgrass. The bottom dropped away. The company had to swim.

  When they gained solid ground, they saw that all their apparel was covered with a slick brown slime. It stank in Covenant’s nostrils. Linden could not keep the nausea off her mien.

  With characteristic dispassion, the Haruchai ignored their uncleanliness. Brinn stood on the bank, studying the west. Hergrom moved away until he reached a tree he could climb. When he returned, he reported flatly that none of the green acid-creatures were in sight.

  Still the company hurried. Beyond the slope, they dropped into a chaos of stunted copses and small poisonous creeks which appeared to run everywhere without moving. Twilight came upon them while they were still winding through the area, obeying Linden’s strident command to let no drop of the water touch them.

  In the dusk, they saw the first sign of pursuit. Far behind them among the copses was a glimpse of emerald. It disappeared at once. But no one doubted its meaning. “Jesus God,” Linden moaned. “I can’t stand it.”

  Covenant cast an intent look at her. But the gloaming obscured her face. The darkness seemed to gnaw at her features.

  In silence, the quest ate a meal and tried to prepare to flee throughout the night.

  Dark tensed about them as the sunset was cut off by Landsdrop. But then, strangely, the streams began to emit light. A nacreous glow, ghostly and febrile, shone out of the waters like diseased phosphorescence. And this light, haunting the copses with lines of pearly filigree, seemed to flow, though the water had appeared stagnant. The glow ran through the region, commingling and then separating again like a web of moonlight, but tending always toward the northeast.

  In that direction, some distance away, Sarangrave Flat shone brightly. Eldritch light marked the presence of a wide radiance.

  Covenant touched Brinn’s arm, nodding toward the fire. Brinn organized the company, then carefully led the way forward.

  Darkness made the distance deceptive; the light was farther away than it appeared to be. Before the questers covered half the intervening ground, tiny emerald fires began to gather behind them. Shifting in and out of sight as they passed among the copses, the acid-creatures stole after the company.

  Covenant closed his mind to the pursuit, locked his gaze on the silver ahead. He could not endure to think about the coming attack—the attack which he had made inevitable.

  Tracking the glow lines of the streams as if they were a map, Brinn guided the quest forward as swiftly as his caution permitted.

  Abruptly he stopped.

  Pearl-limned, he pointed ahead. For a moment, Covenant saw nothing. Then he caught his breath between his teeth to keep himself still.

  Stealthy, dark shapes were silhouetted between the company and the light. At least two of them, as large as saplings.

  Firmly Hergrom pressed Covenant down into a crouch. His companions hid against the ground. Covenant saw Brinn gliding away, a shadow in the ghost-shine. Then the Haruchai was absorbed by the copses and the dark.

  Covenant lost sight of the moving shapes. He stared toward where he had last seen them. How long would Brinn take to investigate and return?

  He heard a sound like a violent expulsion of breath.

  Instinctively he tried to jump to his feet. Hergrom restrained him.

  Something heavy fell through underbrush. Blows were struck. The distance muffled them; but he could hear their strength.

  He struggled against Hergrom. An instant later, the Haruchai released him. The company rose from hiding. Cail and Ceer moved forward. Stell and Harn followed with the Stonedownors.

  Covenant took Linden’s hand and pulled her with him after Sunder.

  They crossed two streams diagonally, and then all the glowing rills lay on their right. The flow of silver gathered into three channels, which ran crookedly toward the main light. But the quest had come to firm ground. The brush between the trees was heavy. Only the Haruchai were able to move silently.

  Near the bank of the closest stream, they found Brinn. He stood with his fists on his hips. Nacre reflected out of his flat eyes like joy.

  He confronted a figure twice as tall as himself. A figure like a reincarnation in the eldritch glow. A dream come to life. Or one of the Dead.

  A Giant!

  “The old tellers spoke truly,” Brinn said.

  “I am gladdened.” The Giant folded his thick arms over his chest, which was as deep and solid as the trunk of an oak. He wore a sark of mail, formed of interlocking granite discs, and heavy leather leggings. Across his back, he bore a huge bundle of supplies. He had a beard like a fist. His eyes shone warily from under massive brows. The blunt distrust of his stance showed that he and Brinn had exchanged blows—and that he did not share Brinn’s gladness.

  “Then you have knowledge which I lack.” His voice rumbled like stones in a subterranean vault. “You and your companions.” He glanced over the company. “And your gladness”—he touched the side of his jaw with one hand—“is a weighty matter.”

  Suddenly Covenant’s eyes were full of tears. They blinded him; he could not blink away visions of Saltheart Foamfollower—Foamfollower, whose laughter and pure heart had done more to defeat Lord Foul and heal the Land than any other power, despite the fact that his people had been butchered to the last child by a Giant-Raver wielding a fragment of the Illearth Stone, thus fulfilling the unconscious prophecy of their home in Seareach, which they had named Coercri, The Grieve.

  All killed, all the Unhomed. They sprang from a sea-faring race, and in their wandering they had lost their way back to their people. Therefore they had made a new place for themselves in Seareach where they had lived for centuries, until three of their proud sons had been made into Giant-Ravers, servants of the Despiser. Then they had let themselves be slain, rather than perpetuate a people who could become the thing they hated.

  Covenant wept for them, for the loss of so much love and fealty. He wept for Foamfollower, whose death had been gallant beyond any hope of emulation. He wept because the Giant standing before him now could not be one of the Unhomed, not one of the people he had learned to treasure.

  And because, in spite of everything, there were still Giants in the world.

  He did not know that he had cried aloud until Hollian touched him. “Ur-Lord. What pains you?”

  “Giant!” he cried. “Don’t you know me?” Stumbling he went
past Linden to the towering figure. “I’m Thomas Covenant.”

  “Thomas Covenant.” The Giant spoke like the murmuring of a mountain. With gentle courtesy, as if he were moved by the sight of Covenant’s tears, he bowed. “The giving of your name honors me. I take you as a friend, though it is strange to meet friends in this fell place. I am Grimmand Honninscrave.” His eyes searched Covenant. “But I am disturbed at your knowledge. It appears that you have known Giants, Giants who did not return to give their tale to their people.”

  “No,” Covenant groaned, fighting his tears. Did not return? Could not. They lost their way, and were butchered. “I’ve got so much to tell you.”

  “At another time,” rumbled Honninscrave, “I would welcome a long tale, be it however grievous. The Search has been scarce of story. But peril gathers about us. Surely you have beheld the skest? By mischance, we have placed our necks in a garrote. The time is one for battle or cunning rather than tales.”

  “Skest?” Sunder asked stiffly over the pain of his ribs. “Do you speak of the acid-creatures, which are like children of burning emerald?”

  “Grimmand Honninscrave.” Brinn spoke as if Sunder were not present. “The tale of which the ur-Lord speaks is known among us also. I am Brinn of the Haruchai. Of my people, here also are Cail, Stell, Harn, Ceer, and Hergrom. I give you our names in the name of a proud memory.” He met Honninscrave’s gaze. “Giant,” he concluded softly, “you are not alone.”

  Covenant ignored both Brinn and Sunder. Involuntarily only half conscious of what he was doing, he reached up to touch the Giant’s hand, verify that Honninscrave was not a figment of silver-shine and grief. But his hands were numb, dead forever. He had to clench himself to choke down his sorrow.

  The Giant gazed at him sympathetically. “Surely,” he breathed, “the tale you desire to tell is one of great rue. I will hear it—when the time allows.” Abruptly he turned away. “Brinn of the Haruchai, your name and the names of your people honor me. Proper and formal sharing of names and tales is a joy for which we also lack time. In truth, I am not alone.

  “Come!” he cried over his shoulder.

  At his word, three more Giants detached themselves from the darkness of the trees and came striding forward.

  The first to reach his side was a woman. She was starkly beautiful, with hair like fine-spun iron, and stern purpose on her visage. Though she was slimmer than he, and slightly shorter, she was fully caparisoned as a warrior. She wore a corselet and leggings of mail, with greaves on her arms; a helm hung from her belt, a round iron shield from her shoulders. In a scabbard at her side, she bore a broadsword nearly as tall as Covenant.

  Honninscrave greeted her deferentially. He told her the names which the company had given him, then said to them, “She is the First of the Search. It is she whom I serve.”

  The next Giant had no beard. An old scar like a sword cut lay under both his eyes across the bridge of his nose. But in countenance and apparel he resembled Honninscrave closely. His name was Cable Seadreamer. Like Honninscrave, he was unarmed and carried a large load of supplies.

  The fourth figure stood no more than an arm’s reach taller than Covenant. He looked like a cripple. In the middle of his back, his torso folded forward on itself, as if his spine had crumbled, leaving him incapable of upright posture. His limbs were grotesquely muscled, like tree boughs being choked by heavy vines. And his mien, too, was grotesque—eyes and nose misshapen, mouth crookedly placed. The short hair atop his beardless head stood erect as if in shock. But he was grinning, and his gaze seemed quaintly gay and gentle; his ugliness formed a face of immense good cheer.

  Honninscrave spoke the deformed Giant’s name: “Pitchwife.”

  Pitchwife? Covenant’s old empathy for the destitute and the crippled made him wonder, Doesn’t he even rate two names?

  “Pitchwife, in good sooth,” the short Giant replied as if he could read Covenant’s heart. His chuckle sounded like the running of a clear spring. “Other names have I been offered in plenty, but none pleased me half so well.” His eyes sparkled with secret mirth. “Think on it, and you will comprehend.”

  “We comprehend.” The First of the Search spoke like annealed iron. “Our need now is for flight or defense.”

  Covenant brimmed with questions. He wanted to know where these Giants had come from, why they were here. But the First’s tone brought him back to his peril. In the distance, he caught glimpses of green, a line forming like a noose,

  “Flight is doubtful,” Brinn said dispassionately. “The creatures of this pursuit are a great many.”

  “The skest, yes,” rumbled Honninscrave. “They seek to herd us like cattle.”

  “Then,” the First said, “we must prepare to make defense.”

  “Wait a minute.” Covenant grasped at his reeling thoughts. “These skest. You know them. What do you know about them?”

  Honninscrave glanced at the First, then shrugged. “Knowledge is a tenuous matter. We know nothing of this place or of its life. We have heard the speech of these beings. They name themselves skest. It is their purpose to gather sacrifices for another being, which they worship. This being they do not name.”

  “To us”—Brinn’s tone hinted at repugnance—“it is known as the lurker of the Sarangrave.”

  “It is the Sarangrave.” Linden sounded raw, over-wrought. Days of intimate vulnerability had left her febrile and defenseless. “This whole place is alive somehow.”

  “But how do you even know that much?” Covenant demanded of Honninscrave. “How can you understand their language?”

  “That also,” the Giant responded, “is not knowledge. We possess a gift of tongues, for which we bargained most acutely with the Elohim. But what we have heard offers us no present aid.”

  Elohim. Covenant recognized that name. He had first heard it from Foamfollower. But such memories only exacerbated his sense of danger. He had hoped that Honninscrave’s knowledge would provide an escape; but that hope had failed. With a wrench, he pulled himself into focus.

  “Defense isn’t going to do you any good either.” He tried to put force into his gaze. “You’ve got to escape.” Foamfollower died because of me. “If you break through the lines, they’ll ignore you. I’m the one they want.” His hands made urging gestures he could not restrain. “Take my friends with you.”

  “Covenant!” Linden protested, as if he had announced an intention to commit suicide.

  “It appears,” Pitchwife chuckled, “that Thomas Covenant’s knowledge of Giants is not so great as he believes.”

  Brinn did not move; his voice held no inflection. “The ur-Lord knows that his life is in the care of the Haruchai. We will not leave him. The Giants of old also would not depart a companion in peril. But there is no bond upon you. It would sadden us to see harm come upon you. You must flee.”

  “Yes!” Covenant insisted.

  Frowning, Honninscrave asked Brinn, “Why does the ur-Lord believe that the skest gather against him?”

  Briefly Brinn explained that the company knew about the lurker of the Sarangrave.

  At once, the First said, “It is decided.” Deftly she unbound her helm from her belt, settled it on her head. “This the Search must witness. We will find a place to make defense.”

  Brinn nodded toward the light in the northeast. The First glanced in that direction. “It is good.” At once, she turned on her heel and strode away.

  The Haruchai promptly tugged Covenant, Linden, and the Stonedownors into motion. Flanked by Honninscrave and Seadreamer, with Pitchwife at their backs, the company followed the First.

  Covenant could not resist. He was paralyzed with dread. The lurker knew of him, wanted him; he was doomed to fight or die. But his companions—the Giants—Foamfollower had walked into the agony of Hotash Slay for his sake. They must not—!

  If he hurt any of his friends, he felt sure he would go quickly insane.

  The skest came in pursuit. They thronged out of the depths of the Flat, form
ing an unbroken wall against escape. The lines on either side tightened steadily. Honninscrave had described it accurately: the questers were being herded toward the light.

  Oh, hell!

  It blazed up in front of them now, chasing the night with nacre, the color of his ring. He guessed that the water glowed as it did precisely because his ring was present. They were nearing the confluence of the streams. On the left, the jungle retreated up a long hillside, leaving the ground tilted and clear as far ahead as he could see; but the footing was complicated by tangled ground creepers and protruding roots. On the right, the waters formed a lake the length of the hillside. Silver hung like a preternatural vapor above the surface. Thus concentrated, the light gave the surrounding darkness a ghoul-begotten timbre, as if such glowing were the peculiar dirge and lamentation of the accursed. It was altogether lovely and heinous.

  A short way along the hillside, the company was blocked by a barrier of skest. Viscid green fire ran in close-packed child forms from the water’s edge up the hillside to curve around behind the quest.

  The First stopped and scanned the area. “We must cross this water.”

  “No!” Linden yelped at once. “We’ll be killed.”

  The First cocked a stern eyebrow. “Then it would appear,” she said after a moment of consideration, “that the place of our defense has been chosen for us.”

  A deformed silence replied. Pitchwife’s breathing whistled faintly in and out of his cramped lungs. Sunder hugged Hollian against the pain in his chest. The faces of the Haruchai looked like death masks. Linden was unraveling visibly toward panic.

  Softly, invidiously, the atmosphere began to sweat under the ululation of the lurker.

  It mounted like water in Covenant’s throat, scaled slowly upward in volume and pitch. The skest poured interminably through the thick scream. Perspiration crawled his skin like formication. Venom beat in him like a fever.

  Cable Seadreamer clamped his hands over his ears, then dropped them when he found he could not shut out the howl. A mute snarl bared his teeth.

  Calmly as if they felt no need for haste, the Haruchai unpacked their few remaining bundles of firewood. They meted out several brands apiece among themselves, offering the rest to the Giants. Seadreamer glared at the wood uncomprehendingly; but Pitchwife took several faggots and handed the rest to Honninscrave. The wood looked like mere twigs in the Giants’ hands.