Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  He considered throwing the ring away. But he knew he could not do it. The band was too heavy with remembered lost love and honor and mutual respect to be tossed aside. And an old beggar—

  If his bargain failed, he would have nothing left with which to defend himself against the darkness—no power or fertility or coherence—nothing but his own capacity for darkness, his violence, his ability to kill. That capacity led—he was too numb to resist the conclusion—as inalterably as leprosy to the destruction of the Land.

  There his numbness seemed to become complete. He could not measure his situation more than that. All he could do was trail behind Birinair’s flame and tell over his refusals like some despairing acolyte, desperate for faith, trying to invoke his own autonomy.

  He concentrated on his footing as if it were tenuous and the rock unsure—as if Birinair might lead him over the edge of an abyss.

  Gradually the character of their benighted journey changed. First, the impression of the surrounding tunnel altered. Behind the darkness, the walls seemed to open from time to time into other tunnels, and at one point the night took on an enormous depth, as if the company were passing over the floor of an amphitheater. In this blind openness, Birinair searched for his way. When the sense of vast empty space vanished, he led his companions into a stone corridor so low that his flame nearly touched the ceiling, so narrow that they had to pass in single file.

  Then the old Hearthrall took them through a bewildering series of shifts in direction and terrain and depth. From the low tunnel, they turned sharply and went down a long, steep slope with no discernible walls. As they descended, turning left and right at landmarks only Birinair seemed able to see, the black air became colder and somehow loathsome, as if it carried an echo of ur-viles. The cold came in sudden drafts and pockets, blowing through chasms and tunnels that opened unseen on either side into dens and coverts and passages and great Cavewightish halls, all invisible but for the timbre, the abrupt impression of space, which they gave the darkness.

  Lower down the sudden drafts began to stink. The buried air seemed to flow over centuries of accumulated filth, vast hordes of unencrypted dead, long abandoned laboratories where banes were made. At moments, the putrescence became so thick that Covenant could see it in the sir. And out of the adjacent openings came cold, distant sounds—the rattle of shale dropping into immeasurable faults; occasional low complaints of stress; soft, crystalline, chinking noises like the tap of iron hammers; muffled sepulchral detonations; and long tired sighs, exhalations of fatigue from the ancient foundations of the mountain. The darkness itself seemed to be muttering as the company passed.

  But at the end of the descent they reached a wavering stair cut into a rock wall, with lightless, hungry chasms gaping below them. And after that, they went through winding tunnels, along the bottoms of crevices, over sharp rock ridges like arêtes within the mountain, around pits with the moan of water and the reek of decay in their depths, under arches like entryways to grotesque festal halls—turned and climbed and navigated in the darkness as if it were a perilous limbo, trackless and fatal, varying only in the kind and extremity of its dangers. Needing proof of his own reality, Covenant moved with the fingers of his left hand knotted in his robe over his heart.

  Three times in broad, flat spaces which might have been halls or ledges or peak tops surrounded by plunges, the company stopped and ate cold food by the light of Birinair’s staff. Each meal helped; the sight of other faces around the flame, the consumption of tangible provender, acted like an affirmation or a pooling of the company’s capacity for endurance. Once, Quaan forced himself to attempt a jest, but his voice sounded so hollow in the perpetual midnight that no one had the heart to reply. After each rest, the Questers set out again bravely. And each time, their pooled fortitude evaporated more rapidly, as if the darkness inhaled it with increasing voracity.

  Later old Birinair led them out of cold and ventilated ways into close, musty, hot tunnels far from the main Wightwarrens. To reduce the risk of discovery, he chose a path through a section of the caves deader than the rest—silent and abandoned, with little fresh air left. But the atmosphere only raised the pitch of the company’s tension. They moved as if they were screaming voicelessly in anticipation of some blind disaster.

  They went on and on, until Covenant knew only that they had not marched for days because his ring had not yet started to glow with the rising of the moon. But after a time his white gold began to gleam like a crimson prophecy. Still they went on into what he now knew was night. They could not afford sleep or long rests. The peak of Drool’s present power was only one day away.

  They were following a tunnel with walls which seemed to stand just beyond the reach of Birinair’s tottering fire. Abruptly Terrel returned from his scouting position, loomed out of the darkness to appear before the old Hirebrand. Swiftly Prothall and Mhoram, with Lithe and Covenant behind them, hastened to Birinair’s side. Terrel’s voice held a note like urgency as he said, “Ur-viles approach—perhaps fifty. They have seen the light.”

  Prothall groaned; Mhoram spat a curse. Manethrall Lithe drew a hissing breath, whipped her cord from her hair as if she were about to encounter the stuff of which Ramen nightmares were made.

  But before anyone could take action, old Birinair seemed to snap like a dry twig. Shouting, “Follow!” he spun to his right and raced away into the darkness.

  At once, two Bloodguard sprinted after him. For an instant, the Lords hesitated. Then Prothall cried, “Melenkurion!” and dashed after Birinair. Mhoram began shouting orders; the company sprang into battle readiness.

  Covenant fled after Birinair’s bobbing fire. The Hirebrand’s shout had not sounded like panic. That cry—Follow!—urged Covenant along. Behind him, he heard the first commands and clatters of combat. He kept his eyes on Birinair’s light, followed him into a low, nearly airless tunnel.

  Birinair raced down the tunnel, still a stride or two ahead of the Bloodguard.

  Suddenly there came a hot noise like a burst of lightning; without warning a sheet of blue flame enveloped the Hirebrand. Dazzling, coruscating, it walled the tunnel from top to bottom. It roared like a furnace. And Birinair hung in it, spread-limbed and transfixed, his frame contorted with agony. Beside him, his staff flared and became ash.

  Without hesitation, the two Bloodguard threw themselves at the fire. It knocked them back like blank stone. They leaped together at Birinair, trying to force him through and past the flame sheet. But they had no effect; Birinair hung where he was, a charred victim in a web of blue fire.

  The Bloodguard were poised to spring again when the High Lord caught up with them. He had to shout to make himself heard over the crackling of power. “My place!” he cried, almost screaming. “He will die! Aid Mhoram!”

  He seemed to have fallen over an edge into distraction. His eyes had a look of chaos. Spreading his arms, he went forward and tried to embrace Birinair.

  The fire kicked him savagely away. He fell, and for a long moment lay facedown on the stone.

  Behind them, the battle mounted. The ur-viles had formed a wedge, and even with all the help of the Bloodguard and warriors, Mhoram barely held his ground. The first rush of the attack had driven the company back; Mhoram had retreated several yards into the tunnel where Birinair hung. There he made a stand. Despite Prothall’s cries and the roar of the fire behind him, he kept his face toward the ur-viles.

  Heavily Prothall raised himself. His head trembled on his tired old neck. But his eyes were no longer wild.

  He took a moment to recollect himself, knowing that he was already too late. Then, mustering his strength, he hurled his staff at the blue coruscation.

  The shod wood struck with a blinding flash. For one blank instant, Covenant could see nothing. When his vision cleared, he found the staff hanging in the sheet of flame. Birinair lay in the tunnel beyond the fire.

  “Birinair!” the High Lord cried. “My friend!” He seemed to believe that he could help the Hireb
rand if he reached him in time. Once again, he flung himself at the flame, and was flung back.

  The ur-viles pressed their attack ferociously, in hungry silence. Two of Quaan’s Eoman were felled as the company backed into the tunnel, and one more died now with an iron spike in his heart. A woman struck in too close to the wedge, and her hand was hacked off. Mhoram fought the loremaster with growing desperation. Around him, the Bloodguard battled skillfully, but they could find few openings in the wedge.

  Covenant peered through the blue sheet at Birinair. The Hirebrand’s face was unmarked, but it held a wide stare of agony, as if he had remained alive for one instant after his soul had been seared. The remains of his cloak hung about him in charred wisps.

  Follow!

  That call had not been panic. Birinair had had some idea. His shout echoed and compelled. His cloak hung about him—

  Follow!

  Covenant had forgotten something—something important. Wildly he started forward.

  Mhoram strove to strike harder. His strength played like lightning along his staff as he dealt blow after blow against the loremaster. Weakened by its losses, the wedge began to give ground.

  Covenant stopped, inches away from the sheet of power. Prothall’s staff was suspended vertically within it like a landmark. The fire seemed to absorb rather than give off heat. Covenant felt himself growing cold and numb. In the dazzling blue force, he saw a chance for immolation, escape.

  Abruptly the ur-vile loremaster gave a barking shout, and broke formation. It ducked past Mhoram and dashed into the tunnel toward the fire, toward the kneeling High Lord. Mhoram’s eyes flashed perilously, but he did not turn from the fight. He snapped an order to Quaan, and struck at the ur-viles with still fiercer force.

  Quaan leaped from the fight. He raced to unsling his bow, nock an arrow, and shoot before the loremaster reached Prothall.

  Vaguely Covenant heard the High Lord gasp against the dead air, “Ur-Lord! Beware!” But he did not listen. His wedding band burned as if the defiled moon were like the rocklight on Warrenbridge—a Word of Warning.

  He reached out his left hand, hesitated momentarily, then grasped the High Lord’s staff.

  Power surged. Bloody fire burst from his ring against the coruscating blue. The roar of the flame cycled upward beyond hearing. Then came a mighty blast, a silent explosion. The floor of the tunnel jumped as if its keel had struck a reef.

  The blue sheet fell in tatters.

  Quaan was too late to save Prothall. But the ur-vile did not attack the High Lord. It sprang over him toward Covenant. With all his strength, Quaan bent his bow and fired at the creature’s back.

  For an instant, Covenant stood still, listing crazily to one side and staring in horror at the abrupt darkness. Dim orange fire burned on his hand and arm, but the brilliant blue was gone. The fire gave no pain, though at first it clung to him as if he were dry wood. It was cold and empty, and it died out in sputtering flickers, as if after all he did not contain enough warmth to feed it.

  Then the loremaster, with Quaan’s arrow squarely between its shoulders, crashed into him and scattered him across the stone.

  A short time later, he looked up with his head full of mist. The only light in the tunnel came from Mhoram’s Lordsfire as he drove back the ur-viles. Then that light was gone, too; the ur-viles were routed. Tuvor and the Bloodguard, started after them to prevent them from carrying reports to Drool, but Mhoram called, “Let them go! We are already exposed. No reports of ur-viles matter now.” Voices gasped and groaned in the darkness; soon two or three of the warriors lit torches. The flames cast odd, dim shadows on the walls. The company drew together around Lord Mhoram and moved down to where Prothall knelt.

  The High Lord held Birinair’s charred form in his arms. But he brushed aside the sympathy and grief of the company. “Go on,” he said weakly. “Discover what he intended. I will be done with my farewells soon.” In explanation, he added, “He led in my place.”

  Mhoram laid a commiserating hand on the High Lord’s shoulder. But the dangers of their situation did not allow him to remain still. Almost certainly, Drool now knew where they were; the energies they had released would point them out like an accusing finger. “Why?” Mhoram wondered aloud. “Why was such power placed here? This is not Drool’s doing.” Carrying one of the torches, he started down the tunnel.

  From his collapse on the stone, Covenant replied in a grotesque, stricken voice. But he was answering a different question. “I forgot my clothes—left them behind.”

  Mhoram bent over him. Lighting his face with the torch, the Lord asked, “Are you injured? I do not understand. Of what importance are your old clothes?”

  The question seemed to require a world of explanation, but Covenant responded easily, glib with numbness and fog. “Of course I’m injured. My whole life is an injury.” He hardly listened to his own speech. “Don’t you see? When I wake up, and find myself dressed in my old clothes, not this moss-stained robe at all—why, that will prove that I really have been dreaming. If it wasn’t so reassuring, I would be terrified.”

  “You have mastered a great power,” Mhoram murmured.

  “That was an accident. It happened by itself. I was—I was trying to escape. Burn myself.”

  Then the strain overcame him. He lowered his head to the stone and went to sleep.

  He did not rest long; the air of the tunnel was too uncomfortable, and there was too much activity in the company. When he opened his eyes, he saw Lithe and several warriors preparing a meal over a low fire. With a trembling song on his lips, and tears spilling from his eyes, Prothall was using his blue fire to sear the injured woman’s wrist-stump.

  Covenant watched as she bore the pain; only when her wrist was tightly bandaged did she let herself faint. After that he turned away, sick with shared pain. He lurched to his feet, reeled as if he could not find his footing, had to brace himself against the wall. He stood there hunched over his aching stomach until Mhoram returned, accompanied by Quaan, Korik, and two other Bloodguard.

  The Warhaft was carrying a small iron chest.

  When Mhoram reached the fire, he spoke in quiet wonder. “The power was a defense placed here by High Lord Kevin. Beyond this tunnel lies a chamber. There we found the Second Ward of Kevin’s Lore—the Second of the Seven.”

  High Lord Prothall’s face lit up with hope.

  TWENTY-THREE: Kiril Threndor

  Reverently, Prothall took the chest. His fingers fumbled at the bindings. When he raised the lid, a pale, pearly glow like clean moonlight shone from within the cask. The radiance gave his face a look of beatitude as he ventured his hand into the chest to lift out an ancient scroll. When he raised it, the company saw that it was the scroll which shone.

  Quaan and his Eoman half knelt before the Ward, bowed their heads. Mhoram and Prothall stood erect as if they were meeting the scrutiny of the master of their lives. After a moment of amazement, Lithe joined the warriors. Only Covenant and the Bloodguard showed no reverence. Tuvor’s comrades stood casually alert, and Covenant leaned uncomfortably against the wall, trying to bring his unruly stomach under control.

  But he was not blind to the importance of that scroll. A private hope wrestled with his nausea. He approached it obliquely. “Did Birinair know—what you were going to find? Is that why?”

  “Why he ran here?” Mhoram spoke absently; all of him except his voice was focused on the scroll which Prothall held up like a mighty talisman. “Perhaps it is possible. He knew the old maps. No doubt they were given to us in the First Ward so that in time we might find our way here. It may be that his heart saw what our eyes did not.”

  Covenant paused, then asked, obliquely again, “Why did you let the ur-viles escape?”

  This time, the Lords seemed to hear his seriousness.

  With a piercing glance at him, Prothall replaced the scroll in the cask. When the lid was closed, Mhoram answered stiffly, “Unnecessary death, Unbeliever. We did not come here to slay ur-viles
. We will harm ourselves more by unnecessary killing than by risking a few live foes. We fight in need, not in lust or rage. The Oath of Peace must not be compromised.”

  But this also did not answer Covenant’s question. With an effort, he brought out his hope directly. “Never mind. This Second Ward—it doubles your power. You could send me back.”

  Mhoram’s face softened at the need for assurance, for consolation against impossible demands, in the question. But his reply denied Covenant. “Ah, my friend, you forget. We have not yet mastered the First Ward—not in generations of study. The best of the Loresraat have failed to unveil the central mysteries. We can do nothing with this new Ward now. Perhaps, if we survive this Quest, we will learn from the Second in later years.”

  There he stopped. His face held a look of further speech, but he said no more until Prothall sighed, “Tell him all. We can afford no illusions now.”

  “Very well.” Mhoram said hurriedly, “In truth, our possession of the Second Ward at such a time is perilous. It is clear from the First that High Lord Kevin prepared the Seven in careful order. It was his purpose that the Second Ward remain hidden until all the First was known. Apparently certain aspects of his Lore carry great hazard to those who have not first mastered certain other aspects. So he hid his Wards, and defended them with powers which could not be breached until the earlier Lore was mastered. Now his intent has been broken. Until we penetrate the First, we will risk much if we attempt the use of the Second.”

  He pulled himself up and took a deep breath. “We do not regret. For all our peril, this discovery may be the great moment of our age. But it may not altogether bless us.”

  In a low voice, Prothall added, “We raise no blame or doubt. How could any have known what we would find? But the doom of the Land is now doubly on our heads. If we are to defeat Lord Foul in the end, we must master powers for which we are not ready. So we learn hope and dismay from the same source. Do not mistake us—this risk we accept gladly. The mastery of Kevin’s Lore is the goal of our lives. But we must make clear that there is risk. I see hope for the Land, but little for myself.”