Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “Are there other dangers?” Quaan asked. “Will we need our weapons?”

  “No. Lord Foul’s servants have done great harm to the Forests in ages past. Perhaps Grimmerdhore has lost its power, but Morinmoss remembers. And tonight is the dark of the moon. Even Drool Rockworm is not mad enough to order his forces into Morinmoss at such a time. And the Despiser has never been such a fool.”

  Quietly the riders dismounted. Some of the Eoman fed the horses, while others prepared a quick meal. Soon all the company except Covenant had eaten. And after the meal, while the Bloodguard watched, the Questers laid themselves down to rest before the long passage of the Forest.

  When they were roused again and ready to travel, Prothall strode up to the edge of the hillcrest. The breeze was stronger there; it fluttered his black-sashed blue robe as he raised his staff and cried loudly, “Hail, Morinmoss! Forest of the One Forest! Enemy of our enemies! Morinmoss, hail!” His voice fell into the expanse of the woods forlornly, without echo. “We are the Lords—foes to your enemies, and learners of the lillianrill lore! We must pass through!

  “Harken, Morinmoss! We hate the ax and game which hurt you! Your enemies are our enemies. Never have we brought edge of ax or flame of fire to touch you—nor ever shall. Morinmoss, harken! Let us pass!”

  His call disappeared into the depths of the Forest. At last, he lowered his arms, then turned and came back to the company. He mounted his horse, looked once more sternly over the riders. At his signal, they rode down toward the knuckled edges of Morinmoss.

  They seemed to fall like a stone into the Forest. One moment, they were still winding down the hillside above the trees; the next, they had penetrated the gloomy deep, and the sunlight closed behind them like an unregainable door. Birinair went at the head of the company, with his Hirebrand’s staff held across his mount’s neck; and behind him rode First Mark Tuvor on the Ranyhyn stallion Marny—for the Ranyhyn had nothing to fear from the old anger of Morinmoss, and Marny could guide Birinair if the aged Hearthrall went astray. Behind Tuvor came Prothall and Mhoram, with Llaura at Mhoram’s back; and behind them came Covenant and Foamfollower. The Giant still carried the sleeping child. Then followed Quaan and his Eoman, bunched together among the Bloodguard.

  There was room for them to pass. The trees with their dark-mingled ebony and russet trunks were widely placed, leaving space between them for undergrowth and animals; and the riders found their way without difficulty. But the trees were not tall. They rose for fifteen or twenty feet on squat trunks, then spread outward in gnarled, drooping branches heavy with foliage, so that the company was completely enshrouded in the gloom of Morinmoss. The branches interwove until each tree seemed to be standing with its arms braced heavily on the shoulders of its kindred. And from the limbs hung great curtains and strands of moss—dark, thick, damp moss falling from the branches like slow blood caught and frozen as it bled. The moss dangled before the riders as if it were trying to turn them aside, deflect them from their path. And on the deep, mossy ground the hooves of the horses made no sound. The riders went their way as silently as if they had been translated into an illusion.

  Instinctively dodging away from the dark touch of the moss, Covenant peered into the Forest’s perpetual gloaming. As far as he could see in all directions, he was surrounded by the grotesque ire of moss and branch and trunk. But beyond the limit of his explicit senses he could see more—see, and smell, and in the silence of the Forest hear, the brooding heart of the woods. There the trees contemplated their grim memories—the broad, budding burst of self-awareness, when the spirit of the wood lay grandly over hundreds of leagues of rich earth; and the raw plummet of pain and horror and disbelief, spreading like ripples on an ocean until the farthest leaves in the Land shivered, when the slaughter of the trees began, root and branch and all cut and consumed by ax and flame, and stumps dragged away; and the scurry and anguish of the animals, slaughtered too or bereft of home and health and hope; and the clear song of the Forestal, whose tune taught the secret, angry pleasure of crushing, of striking hack at tiny men and tasting their blood at the roots; and the slow weakness which ended even that last fierce joy, and left the trees with nothing but their stiff memories and their despair as they watched their rage fall into slumber.

  Covenant sensed that the trees knew nothing of Lords or friendship; the Lords were too recent in the Land to be remembered. No, it was weakness, the failure of spirit, that let the riders pass—weakness, sorrow, helpless sleep. Here and there, he could hear trees that were still awake and aching for blood. But they were too few, too few. Morinmoss could only brood, bereft of force by its own ancient mortality.

  A hand of moss struck him, and left moisture on his face. He wiped the wet away as if it were acid.

  Then the sun set beyond Morinmoss, and even that low light was gone. Covenant leaned forward in his saddle, alert now, and afraid that Birinair would lose his way, or stumble into a curtain of moss and be smothered. But as darkness seeped into the sir as if it were dripping from the enshrouding branches, a change came over the wood. Gradually a silver glow grew on the trunks—grew and strengthened as night filled the Forest, until each tree stood shimmering like a lost soul in the gloom. The silver light was bright enough to show the riders their way. Across the shifting patterns of the glow, the moss sheets hung like shadows of an abyss—black holes into emptiness—giving the wood a blotched, leprous look. But the company huddled together, and rode on through a night illumined only by the gleam of the trees, and by the red burn of Covenant’s ring.

  He felt that he could hear the trees muttering in horror at the offense of his wedding band. And its pulsing red glow appalled him. Moss fingers flicked his face with a wet, probing touch. He clenched his hands over his heart, trying to pull himself inward, reduce himself and pass unnoticed—rode as if he carried an ax under his robe, and was terrified lest the trees discover it.

  That long ride passed like the hurt of a wound. Acute throbs finally blurred together, and at last the company was again riding through the dimness of day. Covenant shivered, looked about within himself. What he saw left him mute. He felt that the cistern of his rage was full of darkness.

  But he was caught in toils of insoluble circumstance. The darkness was a cup which he could neither drink nor dash aside.

  And he was trembling with hunger.

  He could hardly restrain himself from striking back at the damp clutch of the moss.

  Still the company traveled the perpetual twilight of Morinmoss. They were silent, stifled by the enshrouding branches; and in the cloying quiet, Covenant felt as lost as if he had missed his way in the old Forest which had covered all the Land. With vague fury, he ducked and dodged the grasping of the moss. Time passed, and he had a mounting desire to scream.

  Then, finally, Birinair waved his staff over his head and gave a weak shout. The horses understood; they stumbled into a tired run beside the strong step of the Ranyhyn. For a moment, the trees seemed to stand back, as if drawing away from the company’s madness. Then the riders broke out into sunshine. They found themselves under a noon sky on a slope which bent gradually down to a river lying squarely across their way. Birinair and Marny had brought them unerringly to Roamsedge Ford.

  Hoarsely shouting their relief, the warriors set heels to their mounts, and the company swept down the slope at a brave gallop. Shortly the horses splashed into the stream, showering themselves and their glad riders with the cool spray of the Roamsedge. On the southern bank, Prothall called a halt. The passage of Morinmoss was over.

  Once halted, the company tasted the toll of the passage. Their foodless vigil had weakened the riders. But the horses were in worse condition. They quivered with exhaustion. Once their last run was over, their necks and backs sagged; they scarcely had the strength to eat or drink. Despite the nickering encouragement of the Ranyhyn, two of the Eoman mustangs collapsed on their sides on the grass, and the others stood around with unsteady knees like foals. “Rest—rest,” Prothall
said in rheumy anxiety. “We go no farther this day.” He walked among the horses, touching them with his old hands and humming a strengthening song.

  Only the Ranyhyn and the Bloodguard were unmarred by fatigue. Foamfollower lowered the child Pietten into Llaura’s arms, then dropped himself wearily on his back on the stiff grass. Since the company had left Soaring Woodhelven, he had been unnaturally silent; he had avoided speaking as if he feared his voice would betray him. Now he appeared to feel the strain of traveling without the support of stories and laughter.

  Covenant wondered if he would ever hear the Giant laugh again.

  Sourly he reached a hand up to get his staff from Dura’s saddle, and noticed for the first time what Morinmoss had done to his white robe. It was spattered and latticed with dark green stains—the markings of the moss.

  The stains offended him. With a scowl, he looked around the company. The other riders must have been more adept at dodging; they showed none of the green signature of the moss. Lord Mhoram was the only exception; each shoulder of his robe bore a dark stripe like an insignia.

  Roughly Covenant rubbed at the green. But it was dry and set. Darkness murmured in his ears like the distant rumor of an avalanche. His shoulders hunched like a strangler’s. He turned away from the Questers, stamped back into the river. Knotting his fingers in his robe, he tried to scrub out the stains of the Forest.

  But the marks had become part of the fabric, immitigable; they clung to his robe, signing it like a chart, a map to unknown regions. In a fit of frustration, he pounded the river with his fists. But its current erased his ripples as if they had never existed.

  He stood erect and dripping in the stream. His heart labored in his chest. For a moment, he felt that his rage must either overflow or crack him to the bottom.

  None of this is happening— His jaw quivered. I can’t stand it.

  Then he heard a low cry of surprise from the company. An instant later, Mhoram commanded quietly, “Covenant. Come.”

  Spitting protests against so many things that he could not name them all, he turned around. The Questers were all facing away from him, their attention bent on something which he could not see because of the water in his eyes.

  Mhoram repeated, “Come.”

  Covenant wiped his eyes, waded to the bank, and climbed out of the river. He made his dripping way through the Eoman until he reached Mhoram and Prothall.

  Before them stood a strange woman.

  She was slim and slight—no taller than Covenant’s shoulder—and dressed in a deep brown shift which left her legs and arms free. Her skin was sun darkened to the color of earth. Her long black hair she wore tied into one strand by a heavy cord. The effect was severe, but this was relieved by a small necklace of yellow flowers. Despite her size, she stood proudly, with her arms folded and her legs slightly apart, as if she could deny the company entrance to the Plains of Ra if she chose. She watched Covenant’s approach as if she had been waiting for him.

  When he stopped, joining Mhoram and Prothall, she raised her hand and gave him the salute of welcome awkwardly, as if it were not a natural gesture for her. “Hail, Ringthane,” she said in a clear, nickering voice. “White gold is known. We homage and serve. Be welcome.”

  He shook the water from his forehead and stared at her.

  After greeting him, she turned with a ritual precision toward each of the others. “Hail, High Lord Prothall. Hail, Lord Mhoram. Hail, Saltheart Foamfollower. Hail, First Mark Tuvor. Hail, Warhaft Quaan.” In turn, they saluted her gravely, as if they recognized her as a potentate.

  Then she said, “I am Manethrall Lithe. We see you. Speak. The Plains of Ra are not open to all.”

  Prothall stepped forward. Raising his staff, he held it in both hands level with his forehead and bowed deeply. At this, the woman smiled faintly. Holding her own palms beside her head, she matched his bow. This time, her movement was smooth, natural. “You know us,” she said. “You come from afar, but you are not unknowing.”

  Prothall replied, “We know that the Manethralls are the first tenders of the Ranyhyn. Among the Ramen, you are most honored. And you know us.”

  He stood close to her now, and the slight stoop of his agedness inclined him over her. Her brown skin and his blue robe accentuated each other like earth and sky. But still she withheld her welcome. “No,” she returned. “Not know. You come from afar. Unknown.”

  “Yet you speak our names.”

  She shrugged. “We are cautious. We have watched since you left Morinmoss. We heard your talk.”

  We? Covenant wondered blankly.

  Slowly her eyes moved over the company. “We know the sleepless ones—the Bloodguard.” She did not appear pleased to see them. “They take the Ranyhyn into peril. But we serve. They are welcome.” Then her gaze settled on the two collapsed horses, and her nostrils flared. “You have urgency?” she demanded, but her tone said that she would accept few justifications for the condition of the mustangs. At that, Covenant understood why she hesitated to welcome the Lords, though they must have been known to her, at least by legend or reputation; she wanted no one who mistreated horses to enter the Plains of Ra.

  The High Lord answered with authority, “Yes. Fangthane lives.”

  Lithe faltered momentarily. When her eyes returned to Covenant, they swarmed with hints of distant fear. “Fangthane,” she breathed. “Enemy of Earth and Ranyhyn. Yes. White gold knows. The Ringthane is here.” Abruptly her tone became hard. “To save the Ranyhyn from rending.” She looked at Covenant as if demanding promises from him.

  He had none to give her. He stood angrily dripping, too soaked with hunger to respond in repudiation or acquiescence or shame. Soon she retreated in bafflement. To Prothall, she said, “Who is he? What manner of man?”

  With an ambivalent smile, Prothall said, “He is ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder. He is a stranger to the Land. Do not doubt him. He turned the battle for us when we were beset by the servants of Fangthane—Cavewights and ur-viles, and a griffin spawned in some unknown pit of malice.”

  Lithe nodded noncommittally, as if she did not understand all his words. But then she said, “There is urgency. No action against Fangthane must be hindered or delayed. There have been other signs. Rending beasts have sought to cross into the Plains. High Lord Prothall, be welcome in the Plains of Ra. Come with all speed to Manhome. We must take counsel.”

  “Your welcome honors us,” the High Lord responded. “We return honor in accepting. We will reach Manhome the second day from today—if the horses live.”

  His cautious speech made Lithe laugh lightly. “You will rest in the hospitality of the Ramen before the sun sets a second time from this moment. We have not served the Ranyhyn knowledgeless from the beginning. Cords! Up! Here is a test for your Maneing.”

  At once, four figures appeared; they suddenly stood up from the grass in a loose semicircle around the company as if they had risen out of the ground. The four, three men and a woman, were as slight as Manethrall Lithe, and dressed like her in brown over their tanned skin; but they wore no flowers, and had short lengths of rope wrapped around their waists.

  “Come, Cords,” said Lithe. “Stalk these riders no longer. You have heard me welcome them. Now tend their horses and their safety. They must reach Manhome before nightfall of the next day.” The four Ramen stepped forward, and Lithe said to Prothall, “Here are my Cords—Thew, Hurn, Grace, and Rustah. They are hunters. While they learn the ways of the Ranyhyn and the knowing of the Manethralls, they protect the Plains from dangerous beasts. I have spent much time with them—they can care for your mounts.”

  With courteous nods to the company, the Cords went straight to the horses and began examining them.

  “Now,” Lithe continued, “I must depart. The word of your coming must cross the Plains. The Winhomes must prepare for you. Follow Rustah. He is nearest to his Maneing. Hail, Lords! We will eat together at nightfall of the new day.”

  Without waiting
for a reply, the Manethrall turned southward and sprinted away. She ran with surprising speed; in a few moments, she had crested a hill and vanished from sight.

  Watching her go, Mhoram said to Covenant, “It is said that a Manethrall can ran with the Ranyhyn—for a short time.”

  Behind them, Cord Hurn muttered, “It is said—and it is true.”

  Mhoram faced the Cord. He stood as if waiting to speak. His appearance was much like Lithe’s, though his hair had not been permitted to grow as long as hers, and his features had a dour cast. When he had Mhoram’s attention, he said, “There is a grass which will heal your horses. I must leave you to bring it.”

  Gently the Lord responded, “The knowing is yours. Do what is best.”

  Hurn’s eyes widened, as if he had not expected soft words from people who mistreated horses. Then, uncertain of his movements, he saluted Mhoram in Lords’ fashion. Mhoram returned a Ramen bow. Hurn grinned, and was about to gallop away when Covenant abruptly asked, “Why don’t you ride? You’ve got all those Ranyhyn.”

  Mhoram moved swiftly to restrain Covenant. But the damage was already done. Hurn stared as if he had heard blasphemy, and his strong fingers twitched the rope from about his waist, holding it between his fists like a garrote. “We do not ride.”

  “Have a care, Hurn,” said Cord Rustah softly. “The Manethrall welcomed him.”

  Hurn glared at his companion, then roughly re-knotted his rope around his waist. He spun away from the company, and soon vanished as if he had disappeared into the earth.

  Gripping Covenant’s arm, Mhoram said sternly, “The Ramen serve the Ranyhyn. That is their reason for life. Do not affront them, Unbeliever. They are quick to anger—and the deadliest hunters in the Land. There might be a hundred of them within the range of my voice, and you would never know. If they chose to slay you, you would die ignorant.”