Surveying Drool’s forces, Mhoram said softly, “Take heart, my friends. You have done well. Now let us make our end so bravely that even our enemies will remember it. Do not despair. There are many chances between the onset of a war and victory. Let us teach Lord Foul that he will never taste victory until the last friend of the Land is dead.”
But Prothall whispered, “No. No.” Facing upward toward the crest of Mount Thunder, he planted his feet and closed his eyes. With slow resolution, he raised the Staff of Law level with his heart and gripped it in both. fists. “It must be possible,” he breathed. “By the Seven! It must.” His knuckles whitened on the intricate runed and secret surface of the Staff. “Melenkurion Skyweir, help me. I do not accept this end.” His brows slowly knotted over his shut, sunken eyes, and his head bowed until his beard touched his heart. From between his pale lips came a whispered, wordless song. But his voice rattled so huskily in his chest that his song sounded more like a dirge than an invocation.
Drool’s forces poured down and surged up at the company inexorably. Mhoram watched them with a rictus of helplessness on his humane lips.
Suddenly a desperate chance blazed in his eyes. He spun, gripped Covenant with his gaze, whispered, “There is a way! Prothall strives to call the FireLions. He cannot succeed—the power of the Staff is closed, and we have not the knowledge to unlock it. But white gold can release that power. It can be done!”
Covenant recoiled as if Mhoram had betrayed him. No! he panted. I made a bargain—!
Then, with a sickening, vertiginous twist of insight, he caught a glimpse of Lord Foul’s plan for him, glimpsed what the Despiser was doing to him. Here was the killing blow which had lain concealed behind all the machinations, all the subterfuge.
Hell and blood!
Here was the point of impact between his opposing madnesses. If he attempted to use the wild magic—if his ring had power—if it had no power—He flinched at the reel and strike of dark visions—the company slain—the Staff destroyed—thousands of creatures dead, all that blood on his head, his head.
“No,” he gasped thickly. “Don’t ask me. I promised I wouldn’t do any more killing. You don’t know what I’ve done—to Atiaran—to—I made a bargain so I wouldn’t have to do any more killing.”
The ur-viles and Cavewights were almost within bowshot now. The Eoman had arrows nocked and ready. Drool’s hordes slowed, began to poise for the last spring of attack.
But Mhoram’s eyes did not release Covenant. “There will be still more killing if you do not. Do you believe that Lord Foul will be content with our deaths? Never! He will slay and slay again until all life without exception is his to corrupt or destroy. All life, do you hear? Even these creatures that now serve him will not be spared.”
“No!” Covenant groaned again. “Don’t you see? This is just what he wants. The Staff will be destroyed—or Drool will be destroyed—or we’ll—No matter what happens, he’ll win. He’ll be free. You’re doing just what he wants.”
“Nevertheless!” Mhoram returned fervidly. “The dead are dead—only the living may hope to resist Despite.”
Hellfire! Covenant groped for answers like a man incapable of his own distress. But he found none. No bargain or compromise met his need. In his pain, he cried out wildly, protested, appealed, “Mhoram! It’s suicide! You’re asking me to go crazy!”
The peril in Mhoram’s eyes did not waver. “No, Unbeliever. You need not lose your mind. There are other answers—other songs. You can find them. Why should the Land be destroyed for your pain? Save or damn! Grasp the Staff!”
“Damnation!” Fumbling furiously for his ring, Covenant shouted, “Do it yourself!” He wrenched the band from his finger and tried to throw it at Mhoram. But he was shaking madly; his fingers slipped. The ring dropped to the stone, rolled away.
He scrambled after it. He did not seem to have enough digits to catch it; it skidded past Prothall’s feet. He lurched toward it again—then missed his footing, fell, and smacked his forehead on the stone.
Distantly he heard the thrum of bowstrings; the battle had begun. But he paid no attention. He felt that he had cracked his skull. When he raised his head, he found that his vision was wrong; he was seeing double.
The moss-stain chart of his robe smeared illegibly in his sight. Now he had lost whatever chance he had to read it, decipher the cryptic message of Morinmoss. He saw two of Mhoram as the Lord held up the ring. He saw two Prothalls above him, clutching the Staff and trying with the last strength of his life-force to compel its power to his will. Two Bannors turned away from the fight toward the Lords.
Then Mhoram stooped to Covenant. The Lord lashed out, caught his right wrist. The grip was so fierce that he felt his bones grinding together. It forced his hand open, and when his two fingers were spread and vulnerable, Mhoram shoved the ring onto his index digit. It stuck after the first knuckle. “I cannot usurp your place,” the double Lord grated. He stood and roughly pulled Covenant erect. Thrusting his double face at the Unbeliever, he hissed, “By the Seven! You fear power more than weakness.”
Yes! Covenant moaned at the pain in his wrist and head. Yes! I want to survive!
The snap of bowstrings came now as fast as the warriors could ready their arrows. But their supply of shafts was limited. And the ur-viles and Cavewights hung back, risking themselves only enough to draw the warriors’ fire. Drool’s forces were in no hurry. The ur-viles particularly looked ready to relish the slow slaughter of the company.
But Covenant had no awareness to spare for such things. He stared in a kind of agony at Mhoram. The Lord seemed to have two mouths—lips stretched over multiplied teeth—and four eyes, all aflame with compulsions. Because he could think of no other appeal, he reached his free hand to his belt, took out Atiaran’s knife, and extended it toward Mhoram. Through his teeth, he pleaded, “It would be better if you killed me.”
Slowly Mhoram’s grip eased. His lips softened; the fire of his eyes faded. His gaze seemed to turn inward, and he winced at what he beheld. When he spoke, his voice sounded like dust. “Ah, Covenant—forgive me. I forget myself. Foamfollower— Foamfollower understood this. I should have heard him more clearly. It is wrong to ask for more than you give freely. In this way, we come to resemble what we hate.” He released Covenant’s wrist and stepped back. “My friend, this is not on your head. The burden is ours, and we bear it to the end. Forgive me.”
Covenant could not answer. He stood with his face twisted as if he were about to howl. His eyes ached at the duplicity of his vision. Mhoram’s mercy affected him more than any argument or demand. He turned miserably toward Prothall. Could he not find somewhere the strength for that risk? Perhaps the path of escape lay that way—perhaps the horror of wild magic was the price he would have to pay for his freedom. He did not want to be killed by ur-viles. But when he raised his arm, he could not tell which of those hands was his, which of those two Staffs was the real one.
Then, with a flat thrum, the last arrow was gone. The Cavewights gave a vast shout of malice and glee. At the command of the ur-viles, they began to approach. The warriors drew their swords, braced themselves for their useless end. The Bloodguard balanced on the balls of their feet.
Trembling, Covenant tried to reach toward the staff. But his head was spinning, and a whirl of darkness jumped dizzily at him. He could not overcome his fear; he was appalled at the revenge his leprosy would wreak on him for such audacity. His hand crossed half the distance and stopped, clutched in unfingered impotence at the empty air.
Ah! he cried lornly. Help me!
“We are the Bloodguard.” Bannor’s voice was almost inaudible through the loud lust of the Cavewights. “We cannot permit this end.”
Firmly he took Covenant’s hand and placed it on the Staff of Law, midway between Prothall’s straining knuckles.
Power seemed to explode in Covenant’s chest. A silent concussion, a shock beyond hearing, struck the ravine like a convulsion of the mountain. The blast kn
ocked the Questers from their feet, sent all the ur-viles and Cavewights sprawling among the boulders. Only the High Lord kept his feet. His head jerked up, and the Staff bucked in his hands.
For a moment, there was stillness in the ravine—a quiet so intense that the blast seemed to have deafened all the combatants. And in that moment, the entire sky over Gravin Threndor turned black with impenetrable thunder.
Then came noise—one deep bolt of sound as if the very rock of the mountain cried out—followed by long waves of hot, hissing sputters. The clouds dropped until they covered the crest of Mount Thunder.
Great yellow fires began to burn on the shrouded peak.
For a time, the company and their attackers lay in the ravine as if they were afraid to move. Everyone stared up at the fires and the thunderheads.
Suddenly the flames erupted. With a roar as if the air itself were burning, fires started charging like great, hungry beasts down every face and side of the mountain.
Shrieking in fear, the Cavewights sprang up and ran. A few hurled themselves madly against the walls of the ravine. But most of them swept around the company’s rock and fled downward, trying to outrun the FireLions.
The ur-viles went the other way. In furious haste, they scrambled up the ravine toward the entrance to the catacombs.
But before they could reach safety, Drool appeared out of the cleft above them. The Cavewight was crawling, too crippled to stand. But in his fist he clutched a green stone which radiated intense wrong through the blackness of the clouds. His scream carried over the roar of the Lions:
“Crush! Crush!”
The ur-viles stopped, caught between fears.
While the creatures hesitated, the company started down the ravine. Prothall and Covenant were too exhausted to support themselves, so the Bloodguard bore them, throwing them from man to man over the boulders, dragging them along the tumbled floor of the ravine.
Ahead, the Cavewights began to reach the end of the cut. Some of them ran so blindly that they plunged over the cliff; others scattered in either direction along the edge, wailing for escape.
But behind the company, the ur-viles formed a wedge and again started downward. The Questers were barely able to keep their distance from the wedge.
The roar of the flaming air grew sharper, fiercer. Set free by the power of the Peak, boulders tumbled from the cliffs. The FireLions moved like molten stone, sprang down the slopes as if spewed out of the heart of an inferno. Still far above the ravine, the consuming howl of their might seemed to double and treble itself with each downward lunge. A blast of scorched air blew ahead of them like a herald, trumpeting the progress of fire and volcanic hunger. Gravin Threndor shuddered to its roots.
The difficulty of the ravine eased as the company neared the lower end, and Covenant began to move for himself. Impelled by broken vision, overborne hearing, gaining rampage, he shook free of the Bloodguard. Moving stiff-kneed like a puppet, he jerked in a dogged, stumbling line for the cliff.
The other Questers swung to the south along the edge. But he went directly to the precipice. When he reached it, his legs barely had the strength to stop him. Tottering weakly, he looked down the drop. It was sheer for two thousand feet, and the cliff was at least half a league wide.
There was no escape. The Lions would get the company before they reached any possible descent beyond the cliff—long before.
People yelled at him, warning him futilely; he could hardly hear them through the roaring air. He gave no heed. That kind of escape was not what he wanted. And he was not afraid of the fall: he could not see it clearly enough to be afraid.
He had something to do.
He paused for a moment, summoning his courage. Then he realized that one of the Bloodguard would probably try to save him. He wanted to accomplish his purpose before that could happen.
He needed an answer to death.
Pulling off his ring, he held it firmly in his half-fingerless hand, cocked his arm to throw the band over the cliff.
His eyes followed the ring as he drew back his arm, and he stopped suddenly, struck by a blow of shame. The metal was clean. His vision still saw two rings, but both were flat argent; the stain was gone from within them.
He spun from the cliff, searched up the ravine for Drool.
He heard Mhoram shout, “Bannor! It is his choice!” The Bloodguard was sprinting toward him. At Mhoram’s command, Bannor pulled to a halt ten yards away, despite his Vow. The next instant, he rejected the command, leaped toward Covenant again.
Covenant could not focus his vision. He caught a glimpse of fiery Lions pouncing toward the crevice high up the ravine. But his sight was dominated by the ur-vile wedge. It was only three strides away from him. The loremaster had already raised its stave to strike.
Instinctively Covenant tried to move. But he was too slow. He was still leaning when Bannor crashed into him, knocked him out of the way.
With a mad, exulting bark as if they had suddenly seen a vision, the ur-viles sprang forward as one and plunged over the cliff. Their cries as they fell sounded ferociously triumphant.
Bannor lifted Covenant to his feet. The Bloodguard urged him toward the rest of the company, but he broke free and stumbled a few steps up the slope, straining his eyes toward the crevice. “Drool! What happened to Drool?” His eyes failed him. He stopped, wavered uncertainly, raged, “I can’t see!”
Mhoram hastened to him, and Covenant repeated his question, shouting it into the Lord’s face.
Mhoram replied gently, “Drool is there, in the crevice. Power that he could not master destroys him. He no longer knows what he does. In a moment, the FireLions will consume him.”
Covenant strove to master his voice by biting down on it. “No!” he hissed. “He’s just another victim. Foul planned this all along.” Despite his clamped teeth, his voice sounded broken.
Comfortingly Mhoram touched his shoulder. “Be at peace, Unbeliever. We have done all we can. You need not condemn yourself.”
Abruptly Covenant found that his rage was gone—collapsed into dust. He felt blasted and wrecked, and he sank to the ground as if his bones could no longer hold him. His eyes had a tattered look, like the sails of a ghost ship. Without caring what he did, he pushed his wedding band back onto his ring finger.
The rest of the company was moving toward him. They had given up their attempt at flight; together, they watched the progress of the Lions. The midnight clouds cast a gloom over the whole mountain, and through the dimness the pouncing fires blazed and coruscated like beasts of sun flame. They sprang down the walls into the ravine, and some of them bounded upward toward the crevice.
Lord Mhoram finally shook himself free of his entrancement. “Call your Ranyhyn,” he commanded Bannor. “The Bloodguard can save themselves. Take the Staff and the Second Ward. Call the Ranyhyn and escape.”
Bannor met Mhoram’s gaze for a long moment, measuring the Lord’s order. Then he refused stolidly. “One of us will go. To carry the Staff and Ward to Lord’s Keep. The rest remain.”
“Why? We cannot escape. You must live—to serve the Lords who must carry on this war.”
“Perhaps.” Bannor shrugged slightly. “Who can say? High Lord Kevin ordered us away, and we obeyed. We will not do such a thing again.”
“But this death is useless!” cried Mhoram.
“Nevertheless.” The Bloodguard’s tone was as blank as iron. Then he added, “But you can call Hynaril. Do so, Lord.”
“No,” Mhoram sighed with a tired smile of recognition. “I cannot. How could I leave so many to die?”
Covenant only half listened. He felt like a derelict, and he was picking among the wreckage of his emotions, in search of something worth salvaging. But part of him understood. He put the two fingers of his right hand between his lips and gave one short, piercing whistle.
All the company stared at him. Quaan seemed to think that the Unbeliever had lost his mind; Mhoram’s eyes jumped at wild guesses. But Manethrall Lithe tossed he
r cord high in the air and crowed, “The Ranyhyn! Mane of the World! He calls them!”
“How?” protested Quaan. “He refused them.”
“They reared to him!” she returned with a nickering laugh. “They will come.”
Covenant had stopped listening altogether. Something was happening to him, and he lurched to his feet to meet it upright. The dimensions of his situation were changing. To his blurred gaze, the comrades of the company grew slowly harder and solider—took on the texture of native rock. And the mountain itself became increasingly adamantine. It seemed as immutable as the cornerstone of the world. He felt veils drop from his perception; he saw the unclouded fact of Gravin Threndor in all its unanswerable power. He paled beside it; his flesh grew thin, transient. Air as thick as smoke blew through him, chilling his bones. The throat of his soul contracted in silent pain. “What’s happening to me?”
Around the cliff edge to the south, Ranyhyn came galloping. Like a blaze of hope, they raced the down rush of the Lions. At once, a hoarse cheer broke from the warriors. “We are saved!” Mhoram cried. “There is time enough!” With the rest of the company, he hurried forward to meet the swift approach of the Ranyhyn.
Covenant felt that he had been left alone. “What’s happening to me?” he repeated dimly toward the hard mountain.
But Prothall was still at his side. Covenant heard the High Lord say in a kind old voice that seemed as loud as thunder, “Drool is dead. He was your summoner, and with his death the call ends. That is the way of such power.
“Farewell, Unbeliever! Be true! You have wrought greatly for us. The Ranyhyn will preserve us. And with the Staff of Law and the Second Ward, we will not be unable to defend against the Despiser’s ill. Take heart. Despair and bitterness are not the only songs in the world.”
But Covenant wailed in mute grief. Everything around him—Prothall and the company and the Ranyhyn and the FireLions and the mountain—became too solid for him. They overwhelmed his perceptions, passed beyond his senses into gray mist. He clutched about him and felt nothing. He could not see; the Land left the range of his eyes. It was too much for him, and he lost it.
Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane Page 49
