Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The next moment, another party of marauders charged forward. The warriors’ horses were too terrified to do anything but run. So Korik’s group fled, dashed east and north with the enemy on their heels. By the time they lost the pursuit, they had been driven so far into Andelain that they had not been able to rejoin Prothall until the fourth day.

  Early in the evening, the reunited company set up camp. While they prepared supper, a cool wind slowly mounted out of the north. At first it felt refreshing, full of Andelainian scents. But as moonrise neared, it stiffened with a palpable wrench until it was scything straight through the valley. Covenant could taste its unnaturalness; he had felt something like it before. Like a whip, it drove dark cloudbanks southward.

  As the evening wore on, no one seemed inclined toward sleep. Depression deepened in the company as if the wind were taut with dismay. On opposite sides of the camp, Foamfollower and Quaan paced out their uneasiness. Most of the warriors squatted around in dejected attitudes, fiddling aimlessly with their weapons. Birinair poked in unrelieved dissatisfaction at the fire. Prothall and Mhoram stood squarely in the wind as if they were trying to read it with the nerves of their faces. And Covenant sat with his head bowed under a flurry of memories.

  Only Variol and Tamarantha remained ungloomed. Arm in arm, the two ancient Lords sat and stared with a dreaming, drowsy look into the fire, and the firelight flickered like writing on their foreheads.

  Around the camp, the Bloodguard stood as stolid as stone.

  Finally Mhoram voiced the feeling of the company. “Something happens—something dire. This is no natural wind.”

  Under the clouds, the eastern horizon glowed red with moonlight. From time to time, Covenant thought be saw an orange flicker in the crimson, but he could not be sure. Covertly he studied his ring, and found the same occasional orange cast under the dominating blood. But he said nothing. He was too ashamed of Drool’s hold on him.

  Still no storm came. The wind blew on, rife with red mutterings and old ice, but it brought nothing but clouds and discouragement to the company. At last, most of the warriors dozed fitfully, shivering against the cut of the wind as it bore its harvest of distress toward Doom’s Retreat and the Southron Wastes.

  There was no dawn; clouds choked the rising sun. But the company was roused by a change in the wind. It dropped and warmed, swung slowly toward the west. But it did not feel healthier—only more subtle. Several of the warriors rolled out of their blankets, clutching their swords.

  The company ate in haste, impelled by the indefinite apprehension of the breeze. The old Hirebrand, Birinair, was the first to understand. While chewing a mouthful of bread, he suddenly jerked erect as if he had been slapped. Quivering with concentration, he glowered at the eastern horizon, then spat the bread to the ground. “Burning!” he hissed. “The wind. I smell it. Burning. What? I can smell—Burning—a tree!

  “A tree!” he wailed. “Ah, they dare!”

  For an instant, the company stared at him in silence. Then Mhoram ejaculated, “Soaring Woodhelven is in flames!”

  His companions sprang into action. Shrilly the Bloodguard whistled for the Ranyhyn. Prothall snapped orders which Quaan echoed in a raw shout. Some of the warriors sprinted to saddle the horses, while others broke camp. By the time Covenant was dressed and mounted on Dura, the Quest was ready to ride. At once, it galloped away eastward along the Mithil.

  Before long, the horses began to give trouble. Even the freshest ones could not keep pace with the Ranyhyn, and the mustangs which had been with Korik in Andelain had not recovered their strength. The terrain did not allow for speed; it was too uneven. Prothall sent two Bloodguard ahead as scouts. But after that he was forced to move more slowly; he could not afford to leave part of his force behind. Still, he kept the pace as fast as possible. It was a frustrating ride—Covenant seemed to hear Quaan grinding his teeth—but it could not be helped. Grimly Prothall held the fresher horses back.

  By noon, they reached the ford of the Mithil. Now they could see smoke due south of them; and the smell of burning was powerful in the air. Prothall commanded a halt to water the horses. Then the riders pushed on, urging their weakest mounts to find somewhere new resources of strength and speed.

  Within a few leagues, the High Lord had to slow his pace still more; the scouts had not returned. The possibility that they had been ambushed clenched his brow, and his eyes glittered as if the orbs had facets of granite. He held the riders to a walk while he sent two more Bloodguard ahead.

  These two returned before the company had covered a league. They reported that Soaring Woodhelven was dead. The area around it was deserted; signs indicated that the first two scouts had ridden away to the south.

  Muttering, “Melenkurion!” under his breath, Prothall led the riders forward at a canter until they reached the remains of the tree village.

  The destruction was a fiendish piece of work. Fire had reduced the original tree to smoldering spars less than a hundred feet tall, and the charred trunk had been split from top to bottom, leaving the two halves leaning slightly away from each other. Occasional flames still flickered near their tips. And all around the base of the tree, corpses littered the ground as if the earth were already too full of dead to contain the population of the village. Other Woodhelvennin bodies, unburned, were scattered generally in a line to the south across the glade.

  Along this southward line, a few dead Cavewights sprawled in battle contortion. But near the tree there was only one body which was not human—one dead ur-vile. It lay on its long back on the south of the tree, facing the split trunk; and its soot-black frame was as twisted as the iron stave still clutched in its hands. Nearby lay a heavy iron plate nearly ten feet across.

  The stench of dead, burned flesh appalled the surrounding glade. A memory of Woodhelvennin children writhed in Covenant’s guts. He felt like vomiting.

  The Lords seemed stupefied by the sight, stunned to realize that people under their care could be so murdered. After a moment, First Mark Tuvor reconstructed the battle for them.

  The folk of Soaring Woodhelven had not had a chance.

  Late the previous day, Tuvor judged, a large party of Cavewights and ur-viles—the trampling of the glade attested that the party was very large—had surrounded the tree. They had kept out of effective arrow range. Instead of assaulting the Woodhelvennin directly, they sent a few of their number—almost certainly ur-viles—forward under cover of the iron plate. Thus protected, the ur-viles set flame to the tree.

  “A poor fire,” Birinair inserted. Approaching the tree, he tapped it with his staff. A patch of charcoal fell away, showing white wood underneath. “Strong fire consumes everything,” he muttered. “Almost, they survived. This is good wood. Make the flame a little weaker—and the wood survives. Those who dared—only strong enough by a little. Numbers are nothing. Strength counts. Of course. A narrow chance. Or if the Hirebrand had known. Been ready. He could have prepared the tree—given it strength. They could have lived. Ah! I should have been here. They would not do this to wood in my care.”

  Once the fire began, Tuvor explained, the attackers simply shot arrows to prevent the flames from being put out—and waited for the desperate Woodhelvennin to attempt escape. Hence the line of unburned bodies running southward; that was the direction taken by the sortie. Then, when the fire was too great for the Woodhelvennin to resist further, the ur-vile loremaster split the tree to destroy it utterly, and to shake any survivors from its limbs.

  Again Birinair spoke. “He learned. Retribution. The fool—not master of his own power. The tree struck him down. Good wood. Even burning, it was not dead. The Hirebrand—a brave man. Struck back. And—and before the Desecration the lillianrill could have saved what life is left.” He scowled as if he dared anyone to criticize him. “No more. This I cannot.” But a moment later his imperiousness faded, and he turned sadly back to gaze on the ruined tree as if silently asking it to forgive him.

  Covenant did not question Tuvo
r’s analysis; he felt too sickened by the blood-thick reek around him. But Foamfollower did not seem affected in that way. Dully he asserted, “This is not Drool’s doing. No Cavewight is the master of such strategy. Winds and clouds to disguise the signs of attack, should any help be near. Iron protection carried here from who knows what distance. An attack with so little waste of resource. No, the hand of Soulcrusher is here from first to last. Stone and Sea!” Without warning, his voice caught, and he turned away, groaning his Giantish plainsong to steady himself.

  Into the silence, Quaan asked, “But why here?” There was an edge like panic in his voice. “Why attack this place?”

  Something in Quaan’s tone, some hint of hysteria among brave but inexperienced, appalled young warriors, called Prothall back from the wilderland where his thoughts wandered. Responding to Quaan’s emotion rather than to his question, the High Lord said sternly, “Warhaft Quaan, there is much work to be done. The horses will rest, but we must work. Burial must be dug for the dead. After their last ordeal, it would be unfitting to set them to the pyre. Put your Eoman to the task. Dig graves in the south glade—there.” He indicated a spread of grass about a hundred feet from the riven tree. “We—” he referred to his fellow Lords. “We will carry the dead to their graves.”

  Foamfollower interrupted his plainsong. “No. I will carry. Let me show my respect.”

  “Very well,” Prothall replied. “We will prepare food and consider our situation.” With a nod, he sent Quaan to give orders to the Eoman. Then, turning to Tuvor, he asked that sentries be posted. Tuvor observed that eight Bloodguard were not enough to watch every possible approach to an open area as large as the glade, but if he sent the Ranyhyn roaming separately around the bordering hills, he might not need to call on the Eoman for assistance. After a momentary pause, the First Mark asked what should be done about the missing scouts.

  “We will wait,” Prothall responded heavily.

  Tuvor nodded, and moved away to communicate with the Ranyhyn. They stood in a group nearby, looking with hot eyes at the burned bodies around the tree. When Tuvor joined them, they clustered about him as if eager to do whatever he asked, and a moment later they charged out of the glade, scattering in all directions.

  The Lords dismounted, unpacked the sacks of food, and set about preparing a meal on a small lillianrill fire Birinair built for them. Warriors took all the horses upwind from the tree, unsaddled and tethered them. Then the Eoman went to begin digging.

  Taking great care not to step on any of the dead, Foamfollower moved toward the tree, reached the iron plate. It was immensely heavy, but he lifted it and carried it beyond the ring of bodies. There he began gently placing corpses on the plate, using it as a sled to move the bodies to their graves. Knots of emotion jumped and bunched across his buttressed forehead, and his eyes flared with a dangerous enthusiasm.

  For a while, Covenant was the only member of the company without an assigned task. The fact disturbed him. The stench of the dead—Baradakas included somewhere among them, he thought achingly, Baradakas and Llaura and children, children!—made him remember Soaring Woodhelven as he had left it days ago: tall and proud, lush with the life of a fair people.

  He needed something to do to defend himself.

  As he scanned the company, he noticed that the warriors lacked digging tools. They had brought few picks and shovels with them; most of them were trying to dig with their hands or their swords. He walked over to the tree. Scattered around the trunk were many burned branches, some of them still solid in the core. Though he had to pick his way among the dead—though the close sight of all that flesh smeared like moldering wax over charred bones hurt his guts—he gathered branches that he could not break across his knee. These he carried away from the tree, then used his Stonedownor knife to scrape them clean and cut them into stakes. The work blackened his hands, his white robe, and the knife twisted awkwardly in his half-fingered grip, but he persisted.

  The stakes he gave to the warriors, and with them they were able to dig faster. Instead of individual graves, they dug trenches, each deep and long enough to hold a dozen or more of the dead. Using Covenant’s stakes, the warriors began to finish their graves faster than Foamfollower could fill them.

  Late in the afternoon, Prothall called the company to eat. By that time, nearly half the bodies had been buried. No one felt like consuming food with their lungs full of acrid air and their eyes sore of tormented flesh, but the High Lord insisted. Covenant found this strange until he tasted the food. The Lords had prepared a stew unlike anything he had eaten in the Land. Its savor quickened his hunger, and when he swallowed it, it soothed his distress. It was the first meal he had had since the previous day, and he surprised himself by eating ravenously.

  Most of the warriors were done eating, and the sun was about to set, when their attention was snatched erect by a distant hail. The southmost sentry answered, and a moment later the two missing Bloodguard came galloping into the glade. Their Ranyhyn were soaked with sweat.

  They brought two people with them: a woman, and a boy-child the size of a four-year-old, both Woodhelvennin, both marked as if they had survived a battle.

  The tale of the scouts was quickly told. They had reached the deserted glade, and had found the southward trail of the Woodhelvennin’s attempted escape. And they had seen some evidence that all the people might not have been killed. Since the enemy had gone—so there was no compelling need to ride back to warn the Lords—they had decided to search for survivors. They had erased the signs, so that any returning marauders might not find them, and had ridden south.

  Early in the afternoon, they found the woman and child fleeing madly without thought or caution. Both appeared injured; the child gave no sign of awareness at all, and the woman vacillated between lucidity and incoherence. She accepted the Bloodguard as friends, but was unable to tell them anything. However, in a lucid moment, she insisted that an Unfettered Healer lived a league or two away. Hoping to gain knowledge from the woman, the scouts took her to the cave of the Healer. But the cave was empty—and appeared to have been empty for many days. So the scouts brought the two survivors back to Soaring Woodhelven.

  The two stood before the Lords, the woman clutching the child’s unresponsive hand. The boy gazed incuriously about him, but did not notice faces or react to voices. When his hand slipped from the woman’s, his arm fell limply to his side; he neither resisted nor complied when she snatched it up again. His unfocused eyes seemed preternaturally dark, as if they were full of black blood.

  The sight of him jabbed Covenant. The boy could have been the future of his own son, Roger—the son of whom he had been dispossessed, reft as if even his fatherhood had been abrogated by leprosy. Children! Foul? he panted. Children?

  As if in oblique answer to his thoughts, the woman suddenly said, “He is Pietten son of Soranal. He likes the horses.”

  “It is true,” one of the scouts responded. “He rode before me and stroked the Ranyhyn’s neck.”

  But Covenant was not listening. He was looking at the woman. Confusedly he sorted through the battle wreckage of her face, the cuts and burns and grime and bruises. Then he said hesitantly, “Llaura?”

  The sun was setting, but there was no sunset. Clouds blanked the horizon, and a short twilight was turning rapidly into night. But as the sun fell, the air became thicker and more sultry, as if the darkness were sweating in apprehension.

  “Yes, I know you,” the woman said in a flagellated voice. “You are Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder. In the semblance of Berek Halfhand. Jehannum spoke truth. Great evil has come.” She articulated with extreme care, as if she were trying to balance her words on the edge of a sword. “I am Llaura daughter of Annamar, of the Heers of Soaring Woodhelven. Our scouts must have been slain. We had no warning. Be—”

  But as she tried to say the words, her balance failed, and she collapsed into a hoarse, repeating moan—“Uhn, uhn, uhn, uhn”—as if the connection between he
r brain and her throat broke, leaving her struggling frantically with her inability to speak. Her eyes burned with furious concentration, and her head shook as she tried to form words. But nothing came between her juddering lips except, “Uhn, uhn, uhn.”

  The Bloodguard scout said, “So she was when we found her. At one moment, she can speak. A moment later, she cannot.”

  Hearing this, Llaura clenched herself violently and pushed down her hysteria, rejecting what the scout said. “I am Llaura,” she repeated, “Llaura—of the Heers of Soaring Woodhelven. Our scouts must have been slain. I am Llaura, I am Llaura,” she insisted. “Beware—” Again her voice broke into moaning, “Uhn, uhn.”

  Her panic mounted. “Be—uhn, uhn, uhn. Be—uhn, uhn. I am Llaura. You are the Lords. You must l—uhn, uhn. Amb—uhn, uhn, uhn.” As she fought, Covenant glanced around the company. Everyone was staring intently at Llaura, and Variol and Tamarantha had tears in their eyes. “Somebody do something,” he muttered painfully. “Somebody.”

  Abruptly Llaura seemed to collapse. Clutching her throat with her free hand, she shrieked, “You must hear me!” and started to fall.

  As her knees gave way, Prothall stepped forward and caught her. With fierce strength, he gripped her upper arms and held her erect before him. “Stop,” he commanded. “Stop. Do not speak anymore. Listen, and use your head to answer me.”

  A look of hope flared across Llaura’s eyes, and she relaxed until Prothall set her on her feet. Then she regained the child’s hand.

  “Now,” the High Lord said levelly, staring deep into her ravaged eyes. “You are not mad. Your mind is clear. Something has been done to you.”