But whatever had damaged them had hurt him more. His limbs were so gnarled that he could hardly stand; saliva ran uncontrolled from his drooping lips; and he was sweating profusely, as if he could no longer endure the heat of his own domain. He gripped the Staff in an attitude of fierce possessiveness and desperation. Only his eyes had not changed. They shone redly, without iris or pupil, and seemed to froth like malicious lava, eager to devour.
Covenant felt a strange mixture of pity and loathing. But he had only a moment to wonder what had happened to Drool. Then he had to brace himself. The Cavewight began hobbling painfully toward him.
Groaning at the ache in his limbs, Drool stopped a few paces from Covenant. He released one hand from the intricately runed Staff to point a trembling finger at Covenant’s wedding band. When he spoke, he cast continual, twitching leers back over his shoulder, as if referring to an invisible spectator. His voice was as gnarled and wracked as his arms and legs.
“Mine!” he coughed. “You promised. Mine. Lord Drool, Staff and ring. You promised. Do this, you said. Do that. Do not crush. Wait now.” He spat viciously. “Kill later. You promised. The ring if I did what you said. You said.” He sounded like a sick child. “Drool. Lord Drool! Power! Mine now.”
Slavering thickly, he reached a hand for Covenant’s Wig.
Covenant reacted in instant revulsion. With his burning staff, he struck a swift blow, slapped Drool’s hand away.
At the impact, his staff broke into slivers as if Drool’s flesh were vehement iron.
But Drool gave a coughing roar of rage, and stamped the heel of the Staff of Law on the floor. The stone jumped under Covenant’s feet; he pitched backward, landed with a jolt that seemed to stop his heart.
He lay stunned and helpless. Through a throbbing noise in his ears, he heard Drool cry, “Slay him! Give the ring!” He rolled over. Sweat blurred his vision; blearily, he saw the Cavewights converging toward him. His heart felt paralyzed in his chest, and he could not get his feet under him. Retching for air, he tried to crawl out of reach.
The first Cavewight caught hold of his neck, then abruptly groaned and fell away to the side. Another Cavewight fell; the rest drew back in confusion. One of them cried fearfully, “Bloodguard! Lord Drool, help us!”
“Fool!” retorted Drool, coughing as if his lungs were in shreds. “Coward! I am power! Slay them!”
Covenant climbed to his feet, wiped the sweat from his eyes, and found Bannor standing beside him. The Bloodguard’s robe hung tattered from his shoulders, and a large bruise on his brow closed one eye. But his hands were poised, alert. He carried himself on the balls of his feet, ready to leap in any direction. His flat eyes held a dull gleam of battle.
Covenant felt such a surge of relief that he wanted to hug Bannor. After his long, lightless ordeal, he felt suddenly rescued, almost redeemed. But his gruff voice belied his emotion. “What the hell took you so long?”
The Cavewights came forward slowly, timorously, and surrounded Covenant and Bannor. Drool raged at them in hoarse gasps.
Overhead, the chiaroscuro of the stalactites danced gaily.
With startling casualness, Bannor replied that he had landed badly after killing the ur-vile, and had lost consciousness. Then he had been unable to locate Covenant in the darkness. Lashed by Drool’s strident commands, a Cavewight charged Covenant from behind. But Bannor spun easily, felled the creature with a kick. “The flame of your staff revealed you,” he continued. “I chose to follow.” He paused to spring at two of the nearest attackers. They retreated hastily. When he spoke again, his foreign Haruchai tone held a note of final honesty. “I withheld my aid, awaiting proof that you are not a foe of the Lords.”
Something in the selfless and casual face that Bannor turned toward death communicated itself to Covenant. He answered without rancor, “You picked a fine time to test me.”
“The Bloodguard know doubt. We require to be sure.”
Drool mustered his strength to shriek furiously, “Fools! Worms! Afraid of only two!” He spat. “Go! Watch! Lord Drool kills.”
The Cavewights gave way, and Drool came wincing forward. He held the Staff of Law before him like an ax.
Bannor leaped, launched a kick at Drool’s face.
But for all his crippled condition, Drool Rockworm was full of power. He did not appear to feel Bannor’s attack. In ponderous fury, he raised the Staff to deal a blast which would incinerate Bannor and Covenant where they stood. Against the kind of might he wielded, they were helpless.
Still Bannor braced himself in front of Covenant to meet the blow. Flinching, Covenant waited for the pain that would set him free.
But Drool was already too late. He had missed his chance, neglected other dangers. Even as he raised the Staff, the company of the Quest, led by First Mark Tuvor and High Lord Prothall, broke into Kiril Threndor.
They looked battered, as if they had just finished a skirmish with Drool’s outer defenses, but they were whole and dour-handed, and they entered the chamber like a decisive wave. Prothall stopped Drool’s blast with a shout full of authority. Before the Cavewights could gather themselves together, the Eoman fell on them, drove them from the cave. In a moment, Drool was surrounded by a wide ring of warriors and Bloodguard.
Slowly, with an appearance of confusion, he retreated until he was half-crouching on his dais. He looked around the circle as if unable to realize what had happened. But his spatulate hands held the Staff in a grip as grim as death.
Then, grotesquely, his laval eyes took on an angle of cunning. Twitching nods over his shoulder, he hissed in a raw voice, “Here—this is fair. Fair. Better than promises. All of them—here. All little Lords and puny Bloodguard—humans. Ready for crushing.” He started to laugh, broke into a fit of coughing. “Crush!” he spat when he regained control of himself. “Crush with power.” He made a noise like a cracking of bones in his throat. “Power! Little Lords. Mighty Drool. Better than promises.”
Prothall faced the Cavewight squarely. Giving his staff to Mhoram, he stepped forward to the dais with Tuvor at his side. He stood erect; his countenance was calm and clear. Supported by their years of abnegation, his eyes neither wavered nor burned. In contrast, Drool’s red orbs were consumed with the experience of innumerable satiations—an addictive gluttony of power. When the High Lord spoke, even the rattle of his old voice sounded like authority and decision. Softly he said, “Give it up. Drool Rockworm, hear me. The Staff of Law is not yours. It is not meant for you. Its strength must only be used for the health of the Land. Give it to me.”
Covenant moved to stand near the High Lord. He felt that he had to be near the Staff.
But Drool only muttered, “Power? Give it up? Never.” His lips went on moving, as if he were communing over secret plans.
Again, Prothall urged, “Surrender it. For your own sake. Are you blind to yourself? Do you not see what has happened to you? This power is not meant for you. It destroys you. You have used the Staff wrongly. You have used the Illearth Stone. Such powers are deadly. Lord Foul has betrayed you. Give the Staff to me. I will strive to help you.”
But that idea offended Drool. “Help?” he coughed. “Fool! I am Lord Drool. Master! The moon is mine. Power is mine. You are mine. I can crush! Old man—little Lord. I let you live to make me laugh. Help? No, dance. Dance for Lord Drool.” He waved the Staff threateningly. “Make me laugh. I let you live.”
Prothall drew himself up, and said in a tone of command, “Drool Rockworm, release the Staff.” He advanced a step.
With a jerk like a convulsion of hysteria, Drool raised the Staff to strike.
Prothall rushed forward, tried to stop him. But Tuvor reached the Cavewight first. He caught the end of the Staff.
Shivering with rage, Drool jabbed the iron heel of the Staff against Tuvor’s body. Bloody light flashed. In that instant the First Mark’s flesh became transparent; the company could see his bones burning like dry sticks. Then he fell, reeling backward to collapse in Covenan
t’s arms.
His weight was too great for the Unbeliever to hold; Covenant sank to the stone under it. Cradling Tuvor, he watched the High Lord.
Prothall grappled with Drool. He grasped the Staff with both hands to prevent Drool from striking him. They wrestled together for possession of it.
The struggle looked impossible for Prothall. Despite his decrepitude, Drool retained some of his Cavewightish strength. And he was full of power. And Prothall was old.
With Tuvor in his arms, Covenant could do nothing. “Help him!” he cried to Mhoram. “He’ll be killed!”
But Lord Mhoram turned his back on Prothall. He knelt beside Covenant to see if he could aid Tuvor. As he examined the First Mark, he said roughly, “Drool seeks to master the Staff with malice. The High Lord can sing a stronger song than that.”
Appalled, Covenant shouted, “He’ll be killed! You’ve got to help him!”
“Help him?” Mhoram’s eyes glinted dangerously. Pain and raw restraint sharpened his voice as he said, “He would not welcome my help. He is the High Lord. Despite my Oath”—he choked momentarily on a throat full of passion—“I would crush Drool.” He invested Drool’s word, crush, with a potential for despair that silenced Covenant.
Panting, Covenant watched the High Lord’s fight. He was horrified by the danger, by the price both Lords were willing to pay.
Then battle erupted around him. Cavewights charged into Kiril Threndor from several directions. Apparently Drool had been able to send out a silent call; his guards were answering. The first forces to reach the chamber were not large, but they sufficed to engage the whole company. Only Mhoram did not join the fight. He knelt beside Covenant and stroked the First Mark’s face, as if he were transfixed by Tuvor’s dying.
Shouting stertorously over the clash of weapons, Quaan ordered his warriors into a defensive ring around the dais and the Lords. Loss and fatigue had taken their toll on the Eoman, but stalwart Quaan led his command as if the Lords’ need rendered him immune to weakness. Among the Bloodguard, his Eoman parried, thrust, fought on the spur of his exhortations.
The mounting perils made Covenant reel. Prothall and Drool struggled horribly above him. The fighting around him grew faster and more frenzied by the moment. Tuvor lay expiring in his lap. And he could do nothing about any of it, help none of them. Soon their escape would be cut off, and all their efforts would be in vain.
He had not foreseen this outcome to his bargain.
Drool bore Prothall slowly backward. “Dance!” he raged.
Tuvor shuddered; his eyes opened. Covenant looked away from Prothall. Tuvor’s lips moved, but he made no sound.
Mhoram tried to comfort him. “Have no fear. This evil will be overcome—it is in the High Lord’s hands. And your name will be remembered with honor wherever trust is valued.”
But Tuvor’s eyes held Covenant, and he managed to whisper one word, “True?” His whole body strained with supplication, but Covenant did not know whether he asked for a promise or a judgment.
Yet the Unbeliever answered. He could not refuse a Bloodguard, could not deny the appeal of such expensive fidelity. The word stuck in his throat, but he forced it out. “Yes.”
Tuvor shuddered again, and died with a flat groan as if the chord of his Vow had snapped. Covenant gripped his shoulders, shook him; there was no response.
On the dais, Drool had forced Prothall to his knees, and was bending the High Lord back to break him. In futility and rage, Covenant howled, “Mhoram!”
The Lord nodded, surged to his feet. But he did not attack Drool. Holding his staff over his head, he blared in a voice that cut through the clamor of the battle, “Melenkurion abatha! Minas mill khabaal!” From end to end, his staff burst into incandescent fire.
The power of the Words jolted Drool, knocked him back a step. Prothall regained his feet.
More Cavewights rushed into Kiril Threndor. Quaan and his Eoman were driven back toward the dais. At last, Mhoram sprang to their aid. His staff burned furiously as he attacked. Around him, the Bloodguard fought like wind devils, leaping and kicking among the Cavewights so swiftly that the creatures interfered with each other when they tried to strike back.
But Drool’s defenders kept coming, pouring into the cave. The company began to founder in the rising onslaught.
Then Prothall cried over the din, “I have it! The moon is free!”
He stood triumphant on the dais, with the Staff of Law upraised in his hands. Drool lay at his feet, sobbing like a piece of broken rock. Between spasms of grief, the creature gasped, “Give it back. I want it.”
The sight struck fear into the Cavewights. They recoiled, quailed back against the walls of the chamber.
Released from battle, Quaan and his warriors turned toward Prothall and gave a raw cheer. Their voices were hoarse and worn, but they exulted in the High Lord’s victory as if he had won the future of the Land.
Yet overhead the dancing lights of Kiril Threndor went their own bedizened way.
Covenant snapped a look at his ring. Its argent still burned with blood. Perhaps the moon was free; he was not.
Before the echoes of cheering died—before anyone could move—a new sound broke over them. It started softly, then expanded until it filled the chamber like a collapse of the ceiling. It was laughter—Lord Foul’s laughter, throbbing with glee and immitigable hate. Its belittling weight dominated them, buried them in their helplessness; it paralyzed them, seemed to cut them off from their own heartbeats and breathing. While it piled onto them, they were lost.
Even Prothall stood still. Despite his victory, he looked old and feeble, and his eyes had an unfocused stare as if he were gazing into his own coffin. And Covenant, who knew that laugh, could not resist it.
But Lord Mhoram moved. Springing onto the dais, he whirled his staff around his head until the air hummed, and blue lightning bolted upward into the clustered stalactites. “Then show yourself, Despiser!” he shouted. “If you are so certain, face us now! Do you fear to try your doom with us?”
Lord Foul’s laughter exploded with fiercer contempt. But Mhoram’s defiance had broken its transfixion. Prothall touched Mhoram’s shoulder. The warriors gripped their swords, placed themselves in grim readiness behind the Lords.
More Cavewights entered the chamber, though they did not attack. At the sight of them, Drool raised himself on his crippled arms. His bloody eyes boiled still, clinging to fury and malice to the end. Coughing as if he were about to heave up his heart, he gasped, “The Staff. You do not know. Cannot use it. Fools. No escape. None. I have armies. I have the Stone.” With a savage effort, he made himself heard through the laughter. “Illearth Stone. Power and power. I will crush. Crush.” Flailing one weak arm at his guards, he screamed in stricken command, “Crush!”
Wielding their weapons, the Cavewights surged forward.
TWENTY-FOUR: The Calling of Lions
They came in a mass of red eyes dull with empty determination. But Lord Foul’s bodiless laughter seemed to slow them. They waded through it as if it were a quagmire, and their difficult approach gave the company time to react. At Quaan’s command, the warriors ringed Mhoram and Prothall. The Bloodguard took fighting positions with the Eoman.
Mhoram called to Covenant.
Slowly Covenant raised his head. He looked at his companions, and they seemed pitifully few to him. He tried to get to his feet. But Tuvor was too heavy for him to lift. Even in death, the massive devotion of the First Mark surpassed his strength.
He heard Manethrall Lithe shout, “This way! I know the way!” She was dodging among the Cavewights toward one of the entrances. He watched her go as if he had already forsaken her. He could not lift Tuvor because he could not get a grip with his right hand; two fingers were not enough.
Then Bannor snatched him away from the fallen First Mark, thrust him toward the protective ring of the Eoman. Covenant resisted. “You can’t leave him!” But Bannor forced him among the warriors. “What are you doing?”
he protested. “We’ve got to take him along. If you don’t send him back, he won’t be replaced.” He spun to appeal to the Lords. “You can’t leave him!”
Mhoram’s lips stretched taut over his teeth. “We must.”
From the mouth of the tunnel she had chosen, Lithe called, “Here!” She clenched her cord around a Cavewight’s neck, and used the creature’s body to protect herself from attack. “This is the way!” Other Cavewights converged on her, forced her backward.
In response, Prothall lit his old staff, swung it, and led a charge toward her. With Mhoram’s help, he burned passage for his companions through the massed Cavewights.
Bright Lordsfire intimidated the creatures. But before the company had gained the tunnel Lithe had chosen, a wedge of ur-viles drove snarling into the chamber from a nearby entrance. They were led by a mighty loremaster, as black as the catacombs, wielding an iron stave that looked wet with power or blood.
Prothall cried, “Run!” The Questers dashed for the tunnel.
The ur-viles raced to intercept them.
The company was faster. Prothall and Mhoram gained the passage, and parted to let the others enter between them.
But one of the warriors decided to help his comrades escape. He suddenly veered away from the Eoman. Whirling his sword fervidly, he threw himself at the ur-vile wedge.
Mhoram yelled, started back out into the chamber to help him. But the loremaster brushed the warrior aside with a slap of its stave, and he fell. Dark moisture covered him from head to foot; he screamed as if he had been drenched in acid. Mhoram barely evaded the stave’s backstroke, retreated to Prothall’s side in the mouth of the passage.
There they tried to stand. They opposed their blazing blue flame to the ur-viles. The loremaster struck at them again and again; they blocked each blow with their staffs; gouts of flaming fluid, igniting blue and then turning quickly black, spattered on all sides at every clash. But the wedge fought with a savagery which drove the Lords backward step by step into the tunnel.
Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane Page 47
