Nevertheless he struck without warning. Dropping his ruined racecar, he sprang at Linden. A reflection of ruddy fire flashed on his oaken dagger as he raised it high. Guided and compelled by the fulvous glare and sharp teeth of the croyel, he hammered his splinter of deadwood into the back of her right hand where it gripped the Staff.
He may have wanted to nail her hand to the long shaft; cripple her somehow. If so, he failed. The clean wood of the Staff was impervious to his stiletto. When it had pierced her hand, his sharp scrap of Garroting Deep was turned aside.
For a moment, however, the pain of her wound nearly unmade her. It bit into her nerves like fangs and acid. She scarcely felt the warm spurting of her blood as it streamed over her left hand and down the Staff; yet she might as well have been crucified. She would have lapsed into shock at once if the air of the cave had not filled her lungs with distilled Earthpower. But instead she cried out as though Jeremiah’s blow had ripped through the centre of her chest. A brief rush of tears joined the pulsing flow of her blood.
Then, as suddenly as a crisis of the heart, she detached herself from the pain; distanced it as though it belonged to someone else. Dispassionately she surveyed the shard jutting through her hand. The confusion of her health-sense was gone: in chagrin and desperation, she had at last tuned her perceptions to the precise pitch and timbre of the Earth Blood’s atmosphere, and her eyes no longer required the protection of tears. She could see her injury distinctly. Apart from the pain, it was not serious: that was plain. Her son’s-no, the croyel’s-dagger had skidded between the bones. It had missed the larger arteries and veins. She would not lose dangerous amounts of blood. If she survived Roger’s and the croyel’s intentions, any untainted application of Earthpower would heal her.
But she could not unclose her fingers from the Staff. The wound paralysed them: their nerves had shut down. And she had no attention to spare for them. Other exigencies consumed her.
She could see clearly; might never weep again. Nevertheless she made no attempt to stand. Instead she remained on her knees as though the croyel’s attack had accomplished its purpose.
Roger waited until Jeremiah had stepped back; resumed his pose of slack passivity. Then Covenant’s son jeered, “Shame on you, Dr. Avery. You should know this. The Theomach is a meddling asshole, but he doesn’t lie. And I told you the truth.
“Why did we need you? Because otherwise the Elohim would have stopped us. They’re terrified somebody is going to wake up the Worm of the World’s End. As long as we had the Sun-Sage, the Wildwielder”- he pronounced her titles contemptuously, scathing her- “they could convince themselves they didn’t need to do anything. They believe you’re going to protect the Arch and deal with Kastenessen, so why should they bother?
“No, Doctor. The question you should be asking is, why did we have to take you out of your own time to get what we wanted?” He paused, apparently expecting her to respond-or enjoying her helplessness. But she was not beaten: not yet. Her detachment defended her from the excruciation of Jeremiah’s dagger in her hand. And her son’s enslavement galvanised her. While Roger mocked her, she gathered herself.
He still had not explained why he-or his masters-considered it vital to keep her away from Andelain. The creature had attacked to distract her.
Apart from the claiming of your vacant son, I have merely whispered a word of counsel here and there, and awaited events.
Goaded by her son’s suffering, Linden wanted to rage at Roger, This is all your doing. Kastenessen is in too much pain to think. Lord Foul isn’t willing to risk himself. And Esmer can’t pick a side. It’s on your head. Even your own mother-You’re responsible for all of it.
He had kidnapped her son; had dragged Jeremiah into the path of death.
But she remained where she knelt as if she were transfixed between her own agony and Jeremiah’s. She did not choose to waste the remnants of her will and courage on empty recrimination.
It was clear that Roger would not explain his fear of Andelain. She set that issue aside.
All right.” She did not raise her voice above a lorn whisper. She had no strength to spare. “Tell me, since that’s obviously what you want. Why did you take me out of my own time’?” “It’s complicated,” he said at once, gleefully. “Of course, we told you the truth. The EarthBlood really isn’t accessible where you belong. Elena’s battle with Kevin is going to tear this whole place apart. There won’t be anything left of this tunnel and that nice convenient trough.
“But Foul still wants to tear down the Arch of Time. He wants to escape. He wants revenge. And he’s tired of being defeated by my shit of a father. This way-” Roger cast another swath of fire and eagerness around the cave. “Dr. Avery, this way he can’t fail.
“First,” he explained as if he were proud of himself, “there was always the chance you might do something to violate Time. We gave you plenty of opportunities. If you did, good. We’d be spared the trouble of coming here. But if you didn’t, you still might trust us enough to let one of us drink first. Then we could Command the Worm to wake up.” He grinned ferociously. “Since you haven’t done either of those things, we can just kill you and drink anyway.
“But even if that doesn’t work-if we can’t kill you, which doesn’t seem very plausible under the circumstances-you’re still stuck here.” His halfhand blazed, casting familiar embers into his eyes. “Ten thousand years in your own past. With a Staff of Law. And my ring. Every breath you take is going to violate Time. And you can’t escape without a caesure.” He snarled a laugh. “I almost hope you survive so you can try that. Please. The Laws of Death and Life haven’t been damaged yet. You’ll shatter the world. But if you don’t, you’re still going to change everything.
“There’s more, of course, but I won’t bother you with it. Here’s the point. Frankly, Dr. Avery, ever since we got you away from your present, there haven’t been any possible outcomes that don’t give us exactly what we want. Plus, of course, we get to watch you cower. We get to watch you suffer for your poor kid. That alone makes all this trouble worthwhile.” Linden should have quailed. His certainty was as bitter as the touch of a Raver: it should have defeated her. But it did not. How often had she heard Lord Foul or his servants prophesy destruction, attempting to impose despair? And how often had Thomas Covenant shown her that it was possible to stand upright under the weight of utter hopelessness?
Still kneeling, feigning weakness, she protested. “You aren’t making sense.” Deliberately she let the pain in her hand leak into her voice. “You want to rouse the Worm. You want to break the Arch. But then you’ll be destroyed. Lord Foul can escape. You can’t. Why are you so eager to die?” “Well, it’s true,” Roger drawled happily. “Kastenessen hasn’t thought it through. All he cares about is wreaking havoc on the Elohim. If he’s killed in the carnage, at least he won’t hurt anymore.
“The croyel and I have other plans. Foul has promised to take us with him. And he’ll keep that promise. He needs your kid. Hell, he owns him. How else do you suppose the croyel got access to everything your kid knows, everything he can do? He’s belonged to Foul for years.
“But even if Foul tries to cheat us, we’ll still get what we want. The croyel can use your kid’s talent. You’ve seen that. He’ll make us a door. A portal to eternity.” He glanced around at the tunnel. “All the materials he needs are right here. While the Worm tears this world apart, we’ll open our door and go through it.
“Face it, Dr. Avery.” Passion and brimstone condemned Roger’s gaze. “You’ve done everything conceivable to help us become gods.” Inadvertently Roger aided her. He hurt her more severely than any mere physical wound. The thought that the Despiser had claimed her son long ago-that Jeremiah may have participated in his own subservience to the croyel- was worse than any threat of absolute ruin, any image of apocalypse. Roger may have been lying in an attempt to break her. Instead he transfigured her.
They have done this to my son.
While Ro
ger talked, she anchored herself on the muddy void of Jeremiah’s gaze, the slackness of Jeremiah’s cheeks and jaw, the useless dexterity of his dangling hands. Her pain and blood and repudiation she focused on the cruel parasite feeding from his neck.
“I’m sure that’s fascinating,” she said through her teeth. “You’ll enjoy it. But there are a few things you don’t understand.” His eyes widened in amusement; false surprise. “Like what’?” Linden bowed her head as though she intended to prostrate herself. Past the concealment of her hair, she muttered. “Like who I am.” Then she drew lightning as pure as charged sunlight from the upraised iron heel of the Staff and hurled it simultaneously at both Roger and the croyel.
While her blast flared and echoed in the constriction of the tunnel, she surged to her feet. Unable still to uncramp her pierced hand from the Staff, she used her left to shift the shaft so that she could brace its length under her left arm, hold it like a lance.
Her attack was abrupt and brief; yet it should have damaged her foes. But it did not. It failed to reach them. Reeling backward, Roger flung out an eruption of magma to intercept the Staffs blaze.
Swift as prescience, the croyel emitted a vehement wall which blocked and dispersed Linden’s blow.
Roger caught himself; roared with fury. Aiming his fist at her, he unleashed a scend of fire and lava. At the same time, the creature sent waves of force toward her like crashing breakers in a storm. Together he and the croyel strove to drive her back against the lode-face of the EarthBlood.
If she fell there, the Blood itself would incinerate her.
She responded with untarnished Earthpower and Law; threw pure flame against the corrupted theurgy of Kastenessen’s hand and the savage unnatural coercion of the croyel. Shouting her son’s name as though it were a war cry, she met the ferocity of her enemies with power that filled the depths of the mountain like daylight.
Yet Roger and his companion were not damaged or daunted: they hardly seemed to feel her assault. Grinning as if he could taste triumph and delight, Roger poured out magic to cast down her fire; tried to melt her flesh. And the creature raised Jeremiah’s arms to invoke invisible forces. Pressures grated in the air like grinding teeth as they mounted against her; against the lash of flame which was her only defence.
The Staff bucked in Linden’s grasp. It seemed to burn. Its limitations were hers: it could not channel more force than her human blood and bone could summon or contain. She stumbled half a step toward the trough. Her flame no longer flooded the cave. The croyel’s barricade held it back. Crimson and sulphur tainted her sunfire as Roger’s eagerness probed into it; reached through it.
Abruptly the deadwood piercing her hand caught fire and burned away, searing the inside of her wound; sealing it. She was scourged backward again.
For an instant, she seemed to see herself falter and fail, see her flesh scorched like charcoal, see the Staff turn black as Roger’s heat devoured it. Then she rallied.
They have done this to my son.
With a wordless shout, she thrust the Staff behind her so that its end plunged into the trough of EarthBlood.
At once, fresh strength galvanised her. A torrent of Earthpower rushed through the Staff and became incandescence. Her conflagration spurned the stain of brimstone: it pounded heavily against the repulsion of the croyel. Light that should have blinded her and could not washed through the cave and along the tunnel as the brilliance of Law scaled higher; expanded until it appeared to transcend Melenkurion Skyweir’s constricting rock.
The wall emanating from Jeremiah’s enslaver receded. Eldritch dazzling effaced the croyel’s eyes: she could no longer see them, or they had been liquefied in the creature’s skull. Briefly Roger’s flail of scoria lost a portion of its virulence. Kastenessen’s might and pain contracted around Roger’s quivering fist.
But he seemed able to draw on limitless power as though he siphoned it from the magma of the Earth’s core. Even as Linden’s fire grew and grew, claiming more and more puissance from the mountain’s ichor, his ruddy heat swelled again. A furnace spilled from his hand. Heat like liquid granite drove back her bright flame.
Again the creature pressed its strength against hers. Its eyes emerged from the flood of sunfire. The Staff thrummed and twisted in her hands, against her ribs. Concussions ran unsteadily along its shaft: she felt the wood’s desperation pulse like a stricken heart. Every iota of force that she could summon spouted and flared from the iron which bound her Staff-and it was not enough.
Yet even then she was not defeated. They have done this to my son! Instead of recognising that she was lost, she remembered.
I do not desire the destruction of the Earth.
She did not believe that the Theomach had aided her entirely for his own ends. He had given her as many hints has he could without violating the integrity of the Land’s history.
In this circumstanceAnd he had risked revealing secrets to Berek Halfhand in her presence; secrets which she would never have known otherwise.
— her mind cannot be distinguished from the Arch of Time.
She accepted the danger. She was Linden Avery, and did not choose to be defeated.
Bracing her Staff in the trough of EarthBlood, she shouted in her son’s name. “Melenkurion abatha! Duroc minas mill! Harad khabaal!” Instantly her fire was multiplied. It seemed to increase a hundredfold; a thousand-She herself became stronger, as if she had received a transfusion of vitality. The fear-even the possibility-that she might fall and perish dropped from her. The Staff steadied itself in her clasp. The whole mountain sang in her veins.
They have done this to my son!
She shouted and shouted, and did not stop. “Melenkurion abatha!” And as she pronounced the Seven Words, both Roger’s pyrotic fury and the croyel’s invisible repulsion were driven back. “Duroc minas mill!” Roger gaped in sudden fright. The abominable gaze of the creature wavered, considering retreat. “Harad khabaal!” Flames like a volcanic convulsion staggered her foes.
And the Skyweir’s deepest roots answered her.
From Rivenrock, she had felt the imminence of an earthquake. Roger had confirmed it. It’ll be massive. Irrefusable pressures were accumulating in the gutrock; natural forces so cataclysmic that they would split the tremendous peak. But it won’t happen for years and years.
He had not expected her to fight so fiercely. Their battle must have triggered a premature tectonic shift; loosed a rupture before its time.
She did not care. The granite’s visceral groan meant nothing to her. She fought for her son, and went on shouting; invoking Earthpower on a scale that staggered her foes. When the floor of the cave lurched as though the whole of Melenkurion Skyweir had shrugged, she gave no heed.
But Roger and the croyel cared. Consternation twisted his blunt features: he feared the mountain’s violence. And the creature turned away from her, apparently seeking escape. They assailed her for a moment longer. Then the stone lurched again, and abruptly they fled.
“Melenkurion abatha!”
Pausing only to retrieve Jeremiah’s crumpled racecar, Linden followed them; harried them with fire. As she pursued them along the tunnel, she continued to shout with all of her strength. And she trailed the end of her Staff in the rivulet so that she would not lose the Earth Blood’s imponderable might.
“Duroc minas mill!”
Roger and the croyel did not strike at her now: they fought to preserve themselves. He sent gouts and gobbets of laval ire to hinder the impact of her sunflame. His companion filled the tunnel with a yammer of force, striving to slow her onslaught.
“Harad khabaal!”
Her power was constrained by the tunnel; concentrated by it. But theirs was also. Although she strode after them wreathed in fury, unleashing a continuous barrage of magic and Law, she could not break through their brimstone and repulsion swiftly enough to outpace their retreat. In spite of the EarthBlood and the Seven Words and the Staff of Law-in spite of the extravagance of her betrayed
heart-they reached the subterranean waterfall unscathed.
The falls erupted in steam as Roger passed through it; but the croyel’s barrier warded off the scalding detonation. For a moment, no more than a heartbeat or two, Linden lost sight of them as they rushed down the piled rocks. Then the stone shuddered again, harder this time. She lost her footing, fell against the wall of the tunnel. At once, she sprang up again, borne by fire. With Earthpower, she parted the crushing waters and began to hasten perilously over the slick stones. But her foes were already halfway down the length of the cavern, limned in rocklight.
The mountain’s tremors repeated themselves more frequently. Their ferocity mounted. Soon they became an almost constant seizure. As Linden skidded to the cavern floor and tried to race after Roger and her helpless son, slabs of granite and schist the size of houses sheared off from the ceiling and collapsed on all sides.
Thunder filled the air with catastrophe. It seemed as loud as the ruin of worlds.
Now she had to fight for Jeremiah’s life as well as her own. She knew what Roger and the croyel would do. Given any respite from her assault, any relief at all, they would combine their lore to transport themselves out of the mountain. They might fail in the presence of so much Earthpower, but they would certainly make the attempt. She had to do more than compel them to defend themselves. She had to drive them apart, fill the space between them with a ravage of flame. Otherwise her son would be snatched away. She was ten millennia from her proper time, and would never find him again.
But the ceiling was falling. Even the sides of the cavern were falling. Massive stone columns and monoliths toppled as the roots of Melenkurion Skyweir shook. The river danced in its course; overran its rims amid the hail of shattered menhirs and rubble. Orogenic thunder detonated through the cavern.
The croyel repelled the rock. Despite the magnitude of the quake, the creature protected Jeremiah and Roger. But Linden had no defence except Earthpower; no lore except the Seven Words.
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