Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Covenant grasped at the idea. Tugging his ring from his finger, he placed it on the square of clingor. It stuck firmly; he could not shake the ring loose, but he could peel the clingor away without difficulty. Nodding sharply to himself, he placed his ring on the leather, then opened his shirt and pressed the clingor to the center of his chest. It held there, gave him no discomfort. Rapidly, as if to seize an opportunity before it passed, he rebuttoned his shirt. To his surprise, he seemed to feel the weight of the ring on his heart, but he resolved to ignore it.

  Carefully Foamfollower refolded the clingor, replaced it within his jerkin. Then he studied Covenant again briefly. Covenant tried to smile in response, express his gratitude, but his face seemed only capable of snarls. At last, he turned away, reseated himself in the prow to watch the boat’s progress and absorb what Foamfollower had done for him.

  After musing for a time, he remembered Atiaran’s stone knife. It made possible a self-discipline that he sorely needed. He leaned over the side of the boat to wet his face, then took up the knife and painstakingly shaved his whiskers. The beard was eight days old, but the keen, slick blade slid smoothly over his cheeks and down his neck, and he did a passable job of shaving without cutting himself. But he was out of practice, no longer accustomed to the risk; the prospect of blood made his heart tremble. Then he began to see how urgently he needed to return to his real world, needed to recover himself before he altogether lost his ability to survive as a leper.

  Later that day came rain, a light drizzle which spattered the surface of the river, whorling the sky mirror into myriad pieces. The drops brushed his face like spray, seeped slowly into his clothes until he was as soaked and uncomfortable as if he had been drenched. But he endured it in a gray, dull reverie, thinking about what he gained and lost by hiding his ring.

  At last, the day ended. Darkness dripped into the air as if the rain were simply becoming blacker, and in the twilight Covenant and Foamfollower ate their supper glumly. The Giant was almost too weak to feed himself, but with Covenant’s help he managed a decent meal, drank a great quantity of diamondraught. Then they returned to their respective silences. Covenant was glad for the dusk; it spared him the sight of Foamfollower’s exhaustion. Unwilling to lie down on the damp floorboards, he huddled cold and wet against the side of the boat and tried to relax, sleep.

  After a time, Foamfollower began to chant faintly:

  Stone and Sea are deep in life,

  two unalterable symbols of the world:

  permanence at rest, and permanence in motion;

  participants in the Power that remains.

  He seemed to gather strength from the song, arid with it he impelled the boat steadily against the current, drove northward as if there were no fatigue that could make him falter.

  Finally the rain stopped; the cloud cover slowly broke open. But Covenant and Foamfollower found no relief in the clear sky. Over the horizon, the red moon stood like a blot, an imputation of evil, on the outraged background of the stars. It turned the surrounding terrain into a dank bloodscape, full of crimson and evanescent forms like uncomprehended murders. And from the light came a putrid emanation, as if the Land were illumined by a bane. Then Foamfollower’s plainsong sounded dishearteningly frail, futile, and the stars themselves seemed to shrink away from the moon’s course.

  But dawn brought a sunlight-washed day unriven by any taint or memory of taint. When Covenant raised himself to look around, he saw mountains directly to the north. They spread away westward, where the tallest of them were still snow-crested; but the range ended abruptly at a point in line with the White River. Already the mountains seemed near at hand.

  “Ten leagues,” Foamfollower whispered hoarsely. “Half a day against this current.”

  The Giant’s appearance filled Covenant with sharp dismay. Dull-eyed and slack-lipped, Foamfollower looked like a corpse of himself. His beard seemed grayer, as if he had aged several years overnight, and a trail of spittle he was helpless to control ran from the corner of his mouth. The pulse in his temples limped raggedly. But his grip on the tiller was as hard as a gnarled knot of wood, and the boat plowed stiffly up the briskening river.

  Covenant moved to the stern to try to be of help. He wiped the Giant’s lips, then held up the jug of diamondraught so that Foamfollower could drink. The fragments of a smile cracked the Giant’s lips, and he breathed, “Stone and Sea. It is no easy thing to be your friend. Tell your next ferryman to take you downstream. Destinations are for stronger souls than mine.”

  “Nonsense,” said Covenant gruffly. “They’re going to make up songs about you for this. Don’t you think it’s worth it?”

  Foamfollower tried to respond, but the effort made him cough violently, and he had to retreat into himself, concentrate the fading fire of his spirit on the clench of his fist and the progress of the boat.

  “That’s all right,” Covenant said softly. “Everyone who helps me ends up exhausted—one way or another. If I were a poet, I would make up your song myself.” Cursing silently at his helplessness, he fed the Giant sections of tangerine until there was no fruit left. As he looked at Foamfollower, the tall being shriven of everything except the power to endure, self-divested, for reasons Covenant could not comprehend, of every quality of humor or even dignity as if they were mere appurtenances, he felt irrationally in debt to Foamfollower, as if he had been sold—behind his back and with blithe unregard for his consent—into the usury of his only friend. “Everyone who helps me,” he muttered again. He found the prices the people of the Land were willing to pay for him appalling.

  Finally he was no longer able to stand the sight. He returned to the bow, where he stared at the looming mountains with deserted eyes and grumbled, I didn’t ask for this.

  Do I hate myself so much? he demanded. But his only answer was the rattle of Foamfollower’s breathing.

  Half the morning passed that way, measured in butchered hunks out of the impenetrable circumstance of time by the rasp of Foamfollower’s respiration. Around the boat the terrain stiffened, as if preparing itself for a leap into the sky. The hills grew higher and more ragged, gradually leaving behind the heather and banyan trees of the plains for a stiffer scrub grass and a few scattered cedars. And ahead the mountains stood taller beyond the hills with every curve of the river. Now Covenant could see that the east end of the range dropped steeply to a plateau like a stair into the mountains—a plateau perhaps two or three thousand feet high that ended in a straight cliff to the foothills. From the plateau came a waterfall, and some effect of the light on the rock made the cascade gleam pale blue as it tumbled. Furl Falls, Covenant said to himself. In spite of the rattle of Foamfollower’s breathing, he felt a stirring in his heart, as if he were drawing near to something grand.

  But the drawing near lost its swiftness steadily. As the White wound between the hills, it narrowed; and as a result, the current grew increasingly stiff. The Giant seemed to have passed the end of his endurance. His respiration sounded stertorous enough to strangle him at any time; he moved the boat hardly faster than a walk. Covenant did not see how they could cover the last leagues.

  He studied the riverbanks for a place to land the boat; he intended somehow to make the Giant take the boat to shore. But while he was still looking, he heard a low rumble in the air like the running of horses. What the hell—? A vision of ur-viles flared in his mind. He snatched up his staff from the bottom of the boat and clenched it, trying to control the sudden drum of his trepidation.

  The next moment, like a breaking wave over the crest of a hill upstream and east from the boat, came cantering a score of horses bearing riders. The riders were human, men and women. The instant they saw the boat, one of them shouted, and the group broke into a gallop, sweeping down the hill to rein in at the edge of the river.

  The riders looked like warriors. They wore high, soft-soled boots over black leggings, black sleeveless shirts covered by breastplates molded of a yellow metal, and yellow headbands. A shor
t sword hung from each belt, a bow and quiver of arrows from each back. Scanning them rapidly, Covenant saw the characteristic features of both Woodhelvennin and Stonedownor; some were tall and fair, light-eyed and slim, and others, square, dark, and muscular.

  As soon as their horses were stopped, the riders slapped their right fists in unison to their hearts, then extended their arms, palms forward, in the gesture of welcome. A man distinguished by a black diagonal line across his breastplate shouted over the water, “Hail, Rockbrother! Welcome and honor and fealty to you and to your people! I am Quaan, Warhaft of the Third Eoman of the Warward of Lord’s Keep!” He paused for a reply, and when Covenant said nothing, he went on in a more cautious tone, “Lord Mhoram sent us. He saw that important matters were moving on the river today. We are come as escort.”

  Covenant looked at Foamfollower, but what he saw only convinced him that the Giant was past knowing what happened around him. He slumped in the stern, deaf and blind to everything except his failing effort to drive the boat. Covenant turned back toward the Eoman and called out, “Help us! He’s dying!”

  Quaan stiffened, then sprang into action. He snapped an order, and the next instant he and two other riders plunged their horses into the river. The two others headed directly for the west bank, but Quaan guided his horse to intercept the boat. The mustang swam powerfully, as if such work were part of its training. Quaan soon neared the boat. At the last moment, he stood up on his mount’s back and vaulted easily over the gunwales. On command, his horse started back toward the east bank.

  Momentarily Quaan measured Covenant with his eyes, and Covenant saw in his thick black hair, broad shoulders, and transparent face that he was a Stonedownor. Then the Warhaft moved toward Foamfollower. He gripped the Giant’s shoulders and shook them, barking words which Covenant could not understand.

  At first, Foamfollower did not respond. He sat sightless, transfixed, with his hand clamped like a death grip onto the tiller. But slowly Quaan’s voice seemed to penetrate him. The cords of his neck trembled as he lifted his head, tortuously brought his eyes into focus on Quaan. Then, with a groan that seemed to spring from the very marrow of his bones, he released the tiller and fell over sideways.

  The craft immediately lost headway, began drifting back down river. But by this time the two other riders were ready on the west bank. Quaan stepped past Covenant into the bow of the boat, and when he was in position, one of the two riders threw the end of a long line to him. He caught it neatly and looped it over the prow. It stuck where he put it; it was not rope, but clingor. At once, he turned toward the east bank. Another line reached him, and he attached it also to the prow. The lines pulled taut; the boat stopped drifting. Then Quaan waved his arm, and the riders began moving along the banks, pulling the boat upstream.

  As soon as he understood what was being done, Covenant turned back to Foamfollower. The Giant lay where he had fallen, and his breathing was shallow, irregular. Covenant groped momentarily for some way to help, then lifted the leather jug and poured a quantity of diamondraught over Foamfollower’s head. The liquid ran into his mouth; he sputtered at it, swallowed heavily. Then he took a deep, rattling breath, and his eyes slitted open. Covenant held the jug to his lips, and after drinking from it, he stretched out flat in the bottom of the boat. At once, he fell into deep sleep.

  In relief, Covenant murmured over him, “Now that’s a fine way to end a song—‘and then he went to sleep.’ What good is being a hero if you don’t stay awake until you get congratulated?”

  He felt suddenly tired, as if the Giant’s exhaustion had drained his own strength, and sighing he sat down on one of the thwarts to watch their progress up the river, while Quaan went to the stern to take the tiller. For a while, Covenant ignored Quaan’s scrutiny. But finally he gathered enough energy to say, “He’s Saltheart Foamfollower, a—a legate from the Seareach Giants. He hasn’t rested since he picked me up in the center of Andelain—three days ago.” He saw comprehension of Foamfollower’s plight spread across Quaan’s face. Then he turned his attention to the passing terrain.

  The towing horses kept up a good pace against the White’s tightening current. Their riders deftly managed the variations of the riverbanks, trading haulers and slackening one rope or the other whenever necessary. As they moved north, the soil became rockier, and the scrub grass gave way to bracken. Gilden trees spread their broad boughs and leaves more and more thickly over the foothills, and the sunlight made the gold foliage glow warmly. Ahead, the plateau now appeared nearly a league wide, and on its west the mountains stood erect as if they were upright in pride.

  By noon, Covenant could hear the roar of the great falls, and he guessed that they were close to Revelstone, though the high foothills now blocked most of his view. The roaring approached steadily. Soon the boat passed under a wide bridge. And a short time later, the riders rounded a last curve, drew the boat into a lake at the foot of Furl Falls.

  The lake was round and rough in shape, wide, edged along its whole western side by Gilden and pine. It stood at the base of the cliff—more than two thousand feet of sheer precipice—and the blue water came thundering down into it from the plateau like the loud heart’s-blood of the mountains. In the lake, the water was as clean and cool as rain-washed ether, and Covenant could see clearly the depths of its bouldered bottom.

  Knotted jacarandas with delicate blue flowers clustered on the wet rocks at the base of the falls, but most of the lake’s eastern shore was clear of trees. There stood two large piers and several smaller loading docks. At one pier rested a boat much like the one Covenant rode in, and smaller craft—skiffs and rafts—were tied to the docks. Under Quaan’s guidance, the riders pulled the boat up to one of the piers, where two of the Eoman made it fast. Then the Warhaft gently awakened Foamfollower.

  The Giant came out of his sleep with difficulty, but when he pried his eyes open they were calm, unhaggard, though he looked as weak as if his bones were made of sandstone. With help from Quaan and Covenant, he climbed into a sitting position. There he rested, looking dazedly about him as if he wondered where his strength had gone.

  After a time, he said thinly to Quaan, “Your pardon, Warhaft. I am—a little tired.”

  “I see you,” Quaan murmured. “Do not be concerned. Revelstone is near.”

  For a moment, Foamfollower frowned in perplexity as he tried to remember what had happened to him. Then a look of recollection tensed his face. “Send riders,” he breathed urgently. “Gather the Lords. There must be a Council.”

  Quaan smiled. “Times change, Rockbrother. The newest Lord, Mhoram son of Variol, is a seer and oracle. Ten days ago he sent riders to the Loresraat, and to High Lord Prothall in the north. All will be at the Keep tonight.”

  “That is well,” the Giant sighed. “These are shadowed times. Terrible purposes are abroad.”

  “So we have seen,” responded Quaan grimly. “But Saltheart Foamfollower has hastened enough. I will send the fame of your brave journey ahead to the Keep. They will provide a litter to bear you, if you desire it.”

  Foamfollower shook his head, and Quaan vaulted up to the pier to give orders to one of his Eoman. The Giant looked at Covenant and smiled faintly. “Stone and Sea, my friend,” he said, “did I not say that I would bring you here swiftly?”

  That smile touched Covenant’s heart like a clasp of affection. Thickly he replied, “Next time take it easier. I can’t stand—watching—Do you always keep promises—this way?”

  “Your messages are urgent. How could I do otherwise?”

  From his leper’s perspective, Covenant countered, “Nothing’s that urgent. What good does anything do you if you kill yourself in the process?”

  For a moment, Foamfollower did not respond. He braced a heavy hand on Covenant’s shoulder, and heaved himself, tottering, to his feet. Then he said as if he were answering Covenant’s question, “Come. We must see Revelstone.”

  Willing hands helped him onto the pier, and shortly he was standi
ng on the shore of the lake. Despite the toll of his exertion, he dwarfed even the men and women on horseback. And as Covenant joined him, he introduced his passenger with a gesture like an according of dominion. “Eoman of the Warward, this is my friend, Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and message-bearer to the Council of Lords. He partakes of many strange knowledges, but he does not know the Land. Ward him well, for the sake of friendship, and for the semblance which he bears of Berek Heartthew, Earthfriend and Lord-Fatherer.”

  In response, Quaan gave, Covenant the salute of welcome. “I offer you the greetings of Lord’s Keep, Giant-wrought Revelstone,” he said. “Be welcome in the Land—welcome and true.”

  Covenant returned the gesture brusquely, but did not speak, and a moment later Foamfollower said to

  Quaan, “Let us go. My eyes are hungry to behold the great work of my forebears.”

  The Warhaft nodded, spoke to his command. At once, two riders galloped away to the east, and two more took positions on either side of the Giant so that he could support himself on the backs of their horses. Another warrior, a young, fair-haired Woodhelvennin woman, offered Covenant a ride behind her. For the first time, he noticed that the saddles of the Eoman were nothing but clingor, neither horned nor padded, forming broad seats and tapering on either side into stirrup loops. It would be like riding a blanket glued to both horse and rider. But though Joan had taught him the rudiments of riding, he had never overcome his essential distrust of horses. He refused the offer. He got his staff from the boat and took a place beside one of the horses supporting Foamfollower, and the Eoman started away from the lake with the two travelers.