Slowly the Giant rose to his feet. He towered over Covenant until his head nearly touched the ceiling. “From faith.”
“You’ve been dealing with humans too long—you’re getting hasty. ‘Faith’ is too short a word. What do you mean?”
Foamfollower began picking his way among the flowers. “I mean the Lords. Consider, Covenant. Faith is a way of living. They have dedicated themselves wholly to the services of the Land. And they have sworn the Oath of Peace—committed themselves to serve the great goal of their lives in only certain ways, to choose death rather than submit to the destruction of passion which blinded High Lord Kevin and brought the Desecration. Come—can you believe that Lord Mhoram will ever despair? That is the essence of the Oath of Peace. He will never despair, nor ever do what despair commands—murder, desecrate, destroy. And he will never falter, because his Lordship, his service to the Land, will sustain him. Service enables service.”
“That’s not the same thing as hope.” With the Giant, Covenant moved out of Manhome to stand in the sunny flat. The bright light made him duck his head, and as he did so he noticed again the moss stains which charted his robe. Abruptly he looked back into the cave. There the greenery was arranged among the columbines to resemble moss lines on white samite.
He stifled a groan. As if he were articulating a principle, he said, “All you need to avoid despair is irremediable stupidity or unlimited stubbornness.”
“No,” insisted Foamfollower. “The Lords are not stupid. Look at the Land.” He gestured broadly with his arm as if he expected Covenant to view the whole country from border to border.
Covenant’s gaze did not go so far. But he looked blinking beyond the green flat toward the Plains. He heard the distant whistles of the Bloodguard call to the Ranyhyn, and the nickering answer. He noticed the fond wonder of the Winhomes who came out of the cave because they were too eager to wait in Manhome until the Ranyhyn appeared. After a moment, he said, “In other words, hope comes from the power of what you serve, not from yourself. Hellfire, Giant—you forget who I am.”
“Do I?”
“Anyway, what makes you such an expert on hope? I don’t see that you’ve got anything to despair about.”
“No?” The Giant’s lips smiled, but his eyes were hard under his buttressed brows, and his forehead’s scar shone vividly. “Do you forget that I have learned to hate? Do—But let that pass. How if I tell you that I serve you? I, Saltheart Foamfollower, Giant of Seareach and legate of my people?”
Covenant heard echoes in the question, like the distant wrack of timbers barely perceived through a high, silent wind, and he recoiled. “Don’t talk like a damned mystic. Say something I can understand.”
Foamfollower reached down to touch Covenant’s chest with one heavy finger, as if he marked a spot on Covenant’s mapped robe. “Unbeliever, you hold the fate of the Land in your hands. Soulcrusher moves against the Lords at the very time when our dreams of Home have been renewed. Must I explain that you have the power to save us, or orphan us until we share whatever doom awaits the Land?”
“Hellfire!” Covenant snapped. “How many times have I told you that I’m a leper? It’s all a mistake. Foul’s playing tricks on us.”
The Giant responded simply and quietly. “Then are you so surprised to learn that I have been thinking about hope?”
Covenant met Foamfollower’s eyes under the scarred overhang of his forehead. The Giant watched him as if the hope of the Unhomed were a sinking ship, and Covenant ached with the sense of his own helplessness to save that hope. But then Foamfollower said as if he were coming to Covenant’s rescue, “Be not concerned, my friend. This tale is yet too brief for any of us to guess its ending. As you say, I have spent too much time with hastening humans. My people would laugh greatly to see me—a Giant who has not patience enough for a long story. And the Lords contain much which may yet surprise Soulcrusher. Be of good heart. It may be that you and I have already shared our portion of the terrible purpose of these times.”
Gruffly Covenant said, “Giant, you talk too much.” Foamfollower’s capacity for gentleness surpassed him. Muttering, Hellfire, to himself, he turned away, went in search of his staff and knife. He could hear the noises of preparation from beyond the flat; and in the village the Winhomes were busy packing food in saddlebags. The company was readying itself, and he did not want to be behind-hand. He found his staff and knife with the bundle of his clothes laid out on a slab of stone amid the flowers, as if on display. Then he got a flustered, eager Winhome to provide him with water, soap, and a mirror. He felt that he owed himself a shave.
But when he had set the mirror so that he could use it, and had doused his face in water, he found Pietten standing solemnly in front of him; and in the mirror he saw that Llaura was behind him. Pietten stared at him as if the Unbeliever were as intangible as a wisp of smoke. And Llaura’s face seemed tight, as if she were forcing herself to do something she disliked. She pushed her hand unhappily through her hair, then said,
“You asked the Ramen to make a home for us here.”
He shrugged. “So did Foamfollower.”
“Why?”
His hearing picked out whole speeches of meaning behind her question. She held his gaze in the mirror, and he saw the memory of a burning tree in her eyes. He asked carefully, “Do you really think you might get a chance to hit back at Foul? Or be able to use it if you got it?” He looked away at Pietten. “Leave it to Mhoram and Prothall. You can trust them.”
“Of course.” Her tone said as clearly as words that she was incapable of distrusting the Lords.
“Then take the job you already have. Here’s Pietten. Think about what’s going to happen to him—more of what you’ve already been through. He needs help.”
Pietten yawned as if he were awake past his bedtime, and said, “They hate you.” He sounded as sober as an executioner.
“How?” Llaura returned defiantly. “Have you observed him? Have you seen how he sits awake at night? Have you seen how his eyes devour the moon? Have you seen his relish for the taste of blood? He is no child—no more.” She spoke as if Pietten were not there listening to her, and Pietten listened as if she were reciting some formula of no importance. “He is treachery concealed in a child’s form. How can I help him?”
Covenant wet his face again and began lathering soap. He could feel Llaura’s presence bearing on the back of his neck as he rubbed lather into his beard. Finally he muttered, “Try the Ranyhyn. He likes them.”
When she reached over him to take Pietten’s hand and draw the child away, Covenant sighed and set the knife to his beard. His hand was unsteady; he had visions of cutting himself. But the blade moved over his skin as smoothly as if it could remember that Atiaran had refused to injure him.
By the time he was done, the company had gathered outside Manhome. He hurried out to join the riders as if he feared that the Quest would leave without him.
The last adjustments of saddles and saddlebags were in progress, and shortly Covenant stood beside Dura.
The condition of the horses surprised him. They all gleamed with good grooming, and looked as well-fed and rested as if they had been under the care of the Ramen since the middle of spring. Some of the Eoman mounts which had been most exhausted were now pawing the ground and shaking their manes eagerly.
The whole company seemed to have forgotten where they were going. The warriors were laughing together. Old Birinair clucked and scolded over the way the Ramen handled his lillianrill brands. He treated the Ramen like spoiled children, and appeared to enjoy himself almost too much to hide it behind his dignity. Mhoram sat smiling broadly on Hynaril. And High Lord Prothall stood relaxed by his mount as if he had shed years of care. Only the Bloodguard, already mounted and waiting on their Ranyhyn, remained stern.
The company’s good spirits disturbed Covenant like a concealed threat. He understood that it arose in part from rest and reassurance. But he felt sure that it also arose from his meeting with th
e Ranyhyn. Like the Ramen, the warriors had been impressed; their desire to see in him a new Berek had been vindicated. The white gold wielder had shown himself to be a man of consequence.
The Ranyhyn were terrified! he snapped to himself. They saw Foul’s hold on me, and they were terrified. But he did not remonstrate aloud. He had made a promise of forbearance in return for his survival. Despite the tacit dishonesty of allowing his companions to believe what they wished of him, he held himself still.
As the riders laughed and joked, Manethrall Lithe came to stand before them, followed by several other Manethralls and a large group of Cords. When she had the company’s attention, she said, “The Lords have asked for the help of the Ramen in their fight against Fangthane the Render. The Ramen serve the Ranyhyn. We do not leave the Plains of Ra. That is life, and it is good—we ask for nothing else until the end, when all the Earth is Andelain, and man and Ranyhyn live together in peace without wolves or hunger. But we must aid the foes of Fangthane as we can. This we will do. I will go with you. My Cords will go with you if they choose. We will care for your horses on the way. And when you leave them to seek Fangthane’s hiding in the ground, we will keep them safe. Lords, accept this service as honor among friends and loyalty among allies.”
At once, the Cords Hurn, Thew, Grace, and Rustah stepped forward and avowed their willingness to go wherever Manethrall Lithe would lead them.
Prothall bowed to Lithe in the Ramen fashion. “The service you offer is great. We know that your hearts are with the Ranyhyn. As friends we would refuse this honor if our need as allies were not so great. The doom of these times compels us to refuse no aid or succor. Be welcome among us. Your hunter skill will greatly ease the hazards of our way. We hope to do you honor in return—if we survive our Quest.”
“Kill Fangthane,” said Lithe. “That will do us honor enough to the end of our days.” She returned Prothall’s bow, and all the assembled Ramen joined her.
Then the High Lord spoke to his companions. In a moment, the Quest for the Staff of Law was mounted and ready to ride. Led by Manethrall Lithe and her Cords, the company cantered away from Manhome as if in the village of the Ramen they had found abundant courage.
TWENTY-ONE: Treacher’s Gorge
They crossed the Plains northward in confidence and good spirits. No danger or report of danger appeared anywhere along their way. And the Ranyhyn rode the grasslands like live blazonry, challenges uttered in flesh. Foamfollower told gay tales as if he wished to show that he had reached the end of a passing travail. Quaan and his warriors responded with ripostes and jests. And the Ramen entertained them with displays of hunting skill. The company rode late into the first night, in defiance of the dismal moon. And the second night, they camped on the south bank of Roamsedge Ford.
But early the next morning they crossed the Ford and turned northeast up a broad way between the Roamsedge and Morinmoss. By midafternoon, they reached the eastmost edge of the Forest. From there, the Roamsedge, the northern border of the Plains, swung more directly eastward, and the company went on northeast, away from both Morinmoss and the Plains of Ra. That night, they slept on the edge of a stark, unfriendly flatland where no people lived and few willingly traveled. The whole region north of them was cut and scarred and darkened like an ancient battleground, a huge field that had been ruined by the shedding of too much blood. Scrub grass, stunted trees, and a few scattered aliantha took only slight hold on the uncompromising waste. The company was due south of Mount Thunder.
As the Quest angled northeastward across this land, Mhoram told Covenant some of its history. It spread east to Landsdrop, and formed the natural front of attack for Lord Foul’s armies in the ancient wars. From the Fall of the River Landrider to Mount Thunder was open terrain along the great cliff of Landsdrop. The hordes issuing from Foul’s Creche could ascend in scores of places to bring battle to the Upper Land. So it was that the first great battles in all the Land’s wars against the Despiser occurred across this ravaged plain. Age after age, the defenders strove to halt Lord Foul at Landsdrop, and failed because they could not block all the ways up from the Spoiled Plains and Sarangrave Flat. Then Lord Foul’s armies passed westward along the Mithil, and struck deep into the Center Plains. In the last war, before Kevin Landwaster had been finally driven to invoke the Ritual of Desecration, Lord Foul had crushed through the heart of the Center Plains, and had turned north to force the Lords to their final battle at Kurash Plenethor, now named Trothgard.
In the presence of so much old death, the riders did not travel loudly. But they sang songs during the first few days, and several times they returned to the legend telling of Berek Halfhand and the FireLions of Mount Thunder. On this wilderland Berek had fought, suffering the deaths of his friends and the loss of his fingers in battle. Here he had met despair, and had fled to the slopes of Gravin Threndor, the Peak of the FireLions. And there he had found both Earthfriendship and Earthpower. It was a comforting song, and the riders sang its refrain together as if they sought to make it true for themselves:
Berek! Earthfriend! help and weal,
Battle aid against the foe!
Earth gives and answers Power’s peal,
Ringing, Earthfriend! Help and heal!
Cleanse the Land from bloody death and woe!
They needed its comfort. The hard-reft and harrowed warland seemed to say that Berek’s victory was an illusion—that all his Earthfriendship and his Staff of Law and his lineage of Lords, his mighty works and the works of his descendants, amounted to so much scrub grass and charred rock and dust—that the true history of the Land was written here, in the bare topsoil and stone which lay like a litter of graves from the Plains of Ra to Mount Thunder, from Andelain to Landsdrop.
The atmosphere of the region agitated Foamfollower. He strode at Covenant’s side with an air of concealed urgency, as if he were repressing a desire to break into a run. And he talked incessantly, striving to buoy up his spirits with a constant stream of stories and legends and songs. At first, his efforts pleased the riders, appeased their deepening, hungry gloom like treasure-berries of entertainment. But the Questers were on their way toward the bleak, black prospect of Drool Rockworm, crouched like a bane in the catacombs of Mount Thunder. By the fourth day from Roamsedge Ford, Covenant felt that he was drowning in Giantish talk; and the voices of the warriors when they sang sounded more pleading than confident—like whistling against inexorable night.
With the Ramen to help him, Prothall found rapid ways over the rough terrain. Long after sunset on that fourth day—when the growing moon stood high and baleful in the night sky—the Quest made a weary camp on the edge of Landsdrop.
The next dawn, Covenant resisted the temptation to go and look over the great cliff. He wanted to catch a glimpse of the Lower Land, of the Spoiled Plains and Sarangrave Flat—regions which had filled Foamfollower’s talk in the past days. But he had no intention of exposing himself to an attack of vertigo. The fragile stability of his bargain did not cover gratuitous risks. So he remained in the camp when most of his companions went to gaze out over Landsdrop. But later, as the company rode north within a stone’s throw of the edge, he asked Lord Mhoram to tell him about the great cliff.
“Ah, Landsdrop,” Mhoram responded quietly. “There is talk, unfounded even in the oldest legends, that the cleft of Landsdrop was caused by the sacrilege which buried immense banes under Mount Thunder’s roots. In a cataclysm that shook its very heart, the Earth heaved with revulsion at the evils it was forced to contain. And the force of that dismay broke the Upper Land from the Lower, lifted it toward the sky. So this cliff reaches from deep in the Southron Range, past the Fall of the River Landrider, through the heart of Mount Thunder, at least half a thousand leagues into the mapless winter of the Northron Climbs. It varies in height from place to place. But it stands across all the Land, and does not allow us to forget.”
The Lord’s rough voice only sharpened Covenant’s anxiety. As the company rode, he held his gaze awa
y to the west, trusting the wilderland to anchor him against his instinctive fear of heights.
Before noon, the weather changed. Without warning, a sharp wind bristling with grim, preternatural associations sprang out of the north. In moments, black clouds seethed across the sky. Lightning ripped the air; thunder pounded like a crushing of boulders. Then, out of the bawling sky, rain struck like a paroxysm of rage—hit with savage force until it stung. The horses lowered their heads as if they were wincing. Torrents battered the riders, drenched, blinded them. Manethrall Lithe sent her Cords scouting ahead to keep the company from plunging over Landsdrop. Prothall raised his staff with bright fire flaring at its tip to help keep his companions from losing each other. They huddled together, and the Bloodguard positioned the Ranyhyn around them to bear the brunt of the attack.
In the white revelations of the lightning, Prothall’s flare appeared dim and frail, and thunder detonated hugely over it as if exploding at the touch of folly. Covenant crouched low on Dura’s back, flinched away from the lightning as if the sky were stone which the thunder shattered. He could not see the Cords, did not know what was happening around him; he was constantly afraid that Dura’s next step would take him over the cliff. He clenched his eyes to Prothall’s flame as if it could keep him from being lost.
The skill and simple toughness of the Ramen preserved the company, kept it moving toward Mount Thunder. But the journey seemed like wandering in the collapse of the heavens. The riders could only be sure of their direction because they were always forcing their way into the maw of the storm. The wind flailed the rain at their faces until their eyes felt lacerated and their cheeks shredded. And the cold drenching stiffened their limbs, paralyzed them slowly like the rigor of death. But they went on as if they were trying to beat down a wall of stone with their foreheads.
Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane Page 41
