Fatal Revenant t3cotc-2

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  She had stood on Kevin’s Watch when it fell; she and Anele. She groaned as she imagined what a caesure might do to any substance less stubborn than granite.

  Bhapa looked helplessly at Mahrtiir. “Alas, I know not. The auras of human habitations are little things on the scale of Falls. I was able to descry the caesure, and to be certain of it, because it is an immense ill. I felt nothing of the Woodhelven.”

  “In that case,” said Linden grimly, “I think it’s time to ride hard. The Woodhelvennin might need us. And if they don’t, I want to get past that thing before it can change directions.”

  Automatically she dismissed the idea of pursuing the caesure in order to quench it. Doing so would delay her. Each of Joan’s temporal violations was short-lived: she knew that. Otherwise the Arch would already have fallen. If no one-no other force-sustained the Fall, it would soon expend itself and vanish.

  The Manethrall and Stave shared a nod. Then all of the Ranyhyn stretched their strides in unison, accelerating smoothly until they raced like coursers into the southeast.

  Under other circumstances, Hyn’s vitality and swiftness might have exhilarated Linden. But now her attention was focused ahead. With the Staff, she sharpened her senses and cast her percipience farther, seeking the caesure.

  Initially she felt it in small suggestions, innominate flickers of distortion. But soon she was sure of it. She had learned to distinguish between the queasiness that afflicted her in Esmer’s presence and the more visceral sick squirming caused by the proximity of Falls. Esmer made her ill by disturbing her connection with aspects of herself: the impact of caesures ran deeper. On an almost cellular level, they threatened her dependence upon tangible reality.

  And a caesure was there, where Bhapa had indicated: ahead of her and to the right, slipping erratically southward. If its heading did not shift, it would not endanger her company. Rather it would carry Joan’s unreasoning violence into the distance until it dissipated itself. And while it lasted, its destructiveness would depend less on the amount of wild magic that Joan had unleashed than on what lay along its mindless road.

  With an effort, Linden swallowed her fear of what the Fall might do. The silent acquiescence of Stave and the Humbled assured her that there were no villages or habitations near the caesure’s present course. The Haruchai would certainly have warned her if lives were at stake.

  Only one concern remained: First Woodhelven.

  Gripping the Staff of Law until her knuckles ached, Linden leaned along Hyn’s neck, silently urging the mare and all of the Ranyhyn to run faster.

  A long rising slope blocked the view ahead. It fell away to lower ground on the south: to the north, it mounted toward a rocky tor, rugged with old stone. But along the company’s path the ascent was too gradual to slow the pounding horses. They sped upward over earth that lost its scruff of grass to become an ungiving admixture of flint, crumbled shale, and bare dirt. The hooves of the Ranyhyn pelted debris behind them with every stride. The horses following Linden were forced to space themselves so that they did not run in the spray of jagged pebbles and grit kicked up by Hyn and Hynyn, Whrany and Narunal.

  Along the lower terrain, she saw evidence of the caesure’s passage. The ground there was as barren as the slope, but it had a churned look, as though it had been raked by thousands of claws. A stretch of disturbed soil nearly a stone’s throw across led like a crooked road into the south.

  God, the Fall was big-

  Now Linden spotted what appeared to be a storm around the caesure’s seething column. The sky was free of clouds, uncluttered from horizon to horizon. Nevertheless lightning flared in the distance, crackling around the caesure like a nimbus. The air thickened as if it were crowded with thunderheads; full of theurgy rather than moisture and wind.

  She stifled a gasp of chagrin. The Fall was not the only peril. Some power as lorewise and puissant as the Demondim was striving urgently to interrupt or influence the caesure.

  Biting her lip, she turned her head away. Stave had said that First Woodhelven occupied a fertile lowland surrounded by bare hills. If it lay beyond this rise, it may have been directly in the path of the Fall.

  The crest was near. Already she could see past it to more hills perhaps half a league distant; slopes as barren as the dirt over which the Ranyhyn galloped.

  Oh, God, she groaned as Hyn bore her to the top of the rise. Please. No.

  Then the Ranyhyn swept over the crest, poured like a torrent down the far side; and Linden saw that First Woodhelven had not been spared.

  It occupied a wide, low valley which stretched beyond the tor in the northwest and curved away to the east; a slow crescent of soil made arable by a bright brook and seasonal flooding. As Stave had suggested, the lowland was contained by hills like mounds of shale, dirt, and marl. But centuries of water and overflow had made the bottom of the valley as hospitable as pasturage.

  At one time-perhaps as long as half an hour ago-the tree-village must have been extraordinary: a magnificent banyan straddling the stream, sending down tendrils in thick clusters to become new roots and secondary trunks until the single tree formed an extensive grove. Massive boughs by the thousands must have offered their leaves to the heavens, growing between and among each other until they provided abundant opportunities for homes as well as for paths from trunk to trunk. And the homes themselves must have been extraordinary as well, for they would have been fashioned, not of planks and timbers, but of interwoven limbs and branches, and sheltered by a dense thatch-work of twigs and leaves. All along the brook, the crops of the Woodhelvennin would have flourished.

  If Linden had seen First Woodhelven before the caesure hit, the sight might have gladdened her sore heart. She would have been so proud of Sunder and Hollian-But she and her companions had not reached the tree-village in time to save it.

  Now it looked like a cyclone had torn through it. Ancient trunks as thick as five or six Giants standing together had been shattered; split apart and scattered like kindling. Their oozing stumps were jagged as fractured bones. Broken boughs made a trail of wreckage in the wake of the Fall: rent wood in jumbled clusters resembled the piles of pyres: leaves littered the ground like bloodshed.

  After millennia of growth and health, generation following generation, a thriving community had become a catastrophe.

  Yet for Linden that was not the worst of it, although the damage cried out to her senses. The tree was only wood. Precious beyond measure, its ruin nonetheless did not communicate the full cost of the caesure. More poignant to her was the condition of the fields-and of the Woodhelvennin themselves.

  On either side of the Fall’s path, the fields remained untouched. They had been recently ploughed and tended, and wore the fresh vulnerable green of new crops. But where the caesure had passed, it had dragged carnage through the soil, maiming First Woodhelven’s hopes for food; for a future. Raw dirt ached in the sunlight like a weeping gall in the body of the Land.

  And all around the calamity of their homes stood the banyan-dwellers, hundreds of men, women, and children milling in shock and dismay, utterly lost.

  Among them moved two Masters. No doubt that explained why the Woodhelvennin were still alive: the unblinded senses of the Masters had warned the villagers to gather their families and flee before the Fall struck. And a few horses had been saved as well. But the Haruchai could do nothing to ease the effects, the force and impact, of the disaster. The Woodhelvennin gazed dumbly upon the devastation of their lives, too appalled to think or take action. They did not know how to bear the sheer casualness, the complete lack of purpose or desire, with which their homes and possessions and tasks had been reduced to debris.

  Lacking any knowledge of the Land’s history, they had no context for atrocity.

  In Berek Halfhand’s camp, Linden had gone without hesitation to do what she could for the victims of his war. This was different. The Woodhelvennin were not wounded: their hearts rather than their bodies had been pierced. With all of her power, she
could not make their spirits whole again.

  And she had shared no responsibility for the sufferings of Berek’s warriors. First Woodhelven’s razing she could have prevented, if she had insisted on haste hours earlier, when her company had broken camp-

  If she had not restored Joan’s wedding band-

  She hardly noticed that the Ranyhyn, the whole company, had slowed to a halt on the rise above the shattered grove. A deep rage held her attention.

  Roger had said of Falls, Wherever they are at a particular moment, every bit of time in that precise spot happens at once. He had tried to explain why the fabric of reality had not already been irreparably shredded. Since they’re moving, they give those bits of time back as fast as they pick up new ones. In addition, the Law of Time strove to preserve itself. Presumably Thomas Covenant himself fought to defend it. And Joan’s inability to concentrate prevented the caesures from expanding to consume everything. Thus the larger integrity of causality and sequence endured despite the severity of the Falls.

  Nevertheless the restoration of Law as the caesure passed contributed to its destructiveness. Every instant of First Woodhelven’s life had been superimposed-and then those instants had been flung back into their natural order. The result was a doubled violation. In effect, the Fall’s departure did as much harm as its arrival.

  Linden concentrated on such things in an effort to control the wild scramble of guilt and sorrow that made her want to rage at the heavens rather than seek some means to ease the villagers. In another moment, she might turn her back on them. She hungered to ride like vengeance after the Fall and rip it out of existence. The eldritch storm surrounding it she would sweep aside. She had stood on Gallows Howe: she yearned to repay savagery with destruction.

  “Chosen.” Stave put his hand on her arm as if to pull her back from a kind of insanity. “The fault is mine. I urged caution when you craved haste.”

  In response, Mahrtiir made a fierce spitting sound. “Do not speak of fault here, Haruchai. Neither you nor the Ringthane is gifted with foreknowledge. There is no fault. There is only the need of these stricken Woodhelvennin.”

  Fault, Linden thought, biting her lip until it bled. Oh, there was fault, and plenty of it. The Manethrall was right: she could not have known. Even Joan, abused and broken, did not deserve blame. But Lord Foul was another matter. Kastenessen and Roger, the Ravers and the skurj and the croyel: the Despiser had aimed them like a barrage at the Land.

  “All right,” she said with her mouth full of blood. “I understand. Let’s go see what we can do for those poor people.”

  But she did not move. Instead she struggled to suppress her outrage. She needed a moment of clarity, of containment, in which she might regain some aspect of the Linden Avery who healed. That woman had never fully emerged from the depths of Melenkurion Skyweir.

  There must be something-

  Rubbing the blood from her lip with the back of her hand, she tightened the grip of her heels on Hyn’s flanks; mutely asked the mare to approach the remains of First Woodhelven. But as Hyn began to walk, Galt called sharply. “Linden Avery!”

  He rode a short way off to her right, guarding the company from the south. When she jerked a look at him, he announced, “The Fall’s course has been altered. It turns toward us, compelled by some power which we do not recognise. And it moves swiftly. If it does not veer aside, it will soon be upon us.”

  Flinching, Linden snatched her percipience toward the south and saw that he was right. The caesure was retracing its ruin, harried by a palpable cloudless storm. And it was coming fast-

  Some silent part of her snarled curses, but she paid no attention to them. The Fall’s advance evoked a different clarity than the one that she had tried to impose on herself.

  “Go!” she shouted at Galt and his comrades as though she had the right to command them. “Get those people out of there,” away from their riven homes, their lost lives. “Take them west. I’ll try to snuff that thing. But I don’t know what I’m up against. If something goes wrong, they’ll be right in front of it.”

  If the skurj came, they would approach from the east.

  Because he was a Master, she expected him to refuse. Yet he did not. Wheeling his Ranyhyn, he headed at a gallop into the lowland.

  Immediately Branl joined him. Clyme took a moment to unsling the slate from his back and pass it in its harness to Stave, transferring responsibility for Anele. Then he sped after the other Humbled.

  In their minds, all three of them may have been calling to the Masters among the Woodhelvennin.

  So many people-It would take time to rally them. They were too stunned to think for themselves.

  “Mahrtiir!” Linden flung a gesture after the Humbled. “Help those people. What’s coming isn’t just a Fall. Somebody is pushing that thing.” Someone nearby: someone who wanted the caesure to devour the Woodhelvennin-or to assail her. “Get as many of them on horses as you can. Make them move.”

  When the Manethrall hesitated, she urged him, “Go! Leave Liand and Anele with me.” She could not ask Liand to watch over Anele and aid the villagers at the same time; and the old man was close to panic, filled by the old dread which had driven him to climb Kevin’s Watch. If he left Hrama’s back and tried to fend for himself-if his feet touched barren ground- “Stave will take care of them.”

  “Ringthane.” Mahrtiir nodded an acknowledgment, then turned Narunal to follow the Humbled. As the Ranyhyn gathered speed, the Manethrall shouted. “Cords!”

  Bhapa was already in motion, racing to catch up with Mahrtiir. Pahni gave Liand a quick desperate look before she sent Naharahn after Whrany.

  Liand had already taken out his orcrest. He gripped it tightly while he murmured to Hrama and Rhohm, imploring them to stay together.

  The sight of Liand’s Sunstone made Anele cower as if he feared it-feared sanity-more than the caesure.

  On all sides of Linden and her remaining companions were flint, shale, eroded sandstone, dirt. Hardly a hundred paces away lay the torn path of the Fall. If Anele dismounted, even for a moment, Kastenessen would find him. The pain-maddened Elohim would know where to send the skurj. And if he gained full possession of the old man, he might attack Linden directly while she fought the caesure and its unseen drover.

  Kastenessen might already be somewhere nearby. Surely he was capable of herding a Fall wherever he wished?

  “How long-?” Abruptly she found that she could not speak: her throat was too dry. She had to swallow several times before she could ask Stave, “How much time do we have?”

  The Haruchai gazed into the south for a moment, then glanced behind him to consider the tree-dwellers. “If the Woodhelvennin comprehend their peril, and do not refuse to be commanded, they will be spared.”

  If the Fall did not change directions to pursue them-

  “In that case”- Linden took a deep breath, held it, let it out-let’s go down there.” She indicated the furrowed ground where the Fall had passed. “We’ll be able to see farther.”

  On this terrain, one place would not be more dangerous than another for Anele.

  Stave nodded. Beckoning for Liand and Anele to follow, he nudged Hynyn into a trot, angling across the slope to keep his distance from the blasted village while he sought an unobstructed view to the south.

  Fighting her urgent anger, Linden dropped back briefly to ride beside Liand. “You know what you have to do?”

  His black eyebrows accentuated the apprehension in his eyes. “Linden?”

  “Remember what I told you,” she ordered brusquely. “Protect Anele. Whatever happens. Get Stave to help you if you need him. I’ll stop the caesure.” Somehow. “But you have to keep Anele away from Kastenessen. We can’t face another attack right now.”

  Of any kind.

  When the Stonedownor said, “I will,” biting off the words as though they caused him pain, she left him, riding faster to catch up with Stave.

  “Did you hear me?” she asked as she reached Stave’
s side. On his back, he bore the pane of slate. “I know how you feel about protecting me. But you can’t fight a Fall. You can’t fight that storm. Helping Liand keep Anele safe is the best thing that you can do for me.”

  For a moment, Stave appeared to contemplate what she requested of him. Then he replied evenly, “Your fate is mine, Chosen. I will have no other. Yet while I may, I will do as you desire.” Without expression, he met her gaze. “Have I not shown that I am able to abandon you for the old man’s sake?”

  He had left her to retrieve Anele from the horde of the Demondim-

  Trying to smile, Linden bared her teeth. “You have. I should know better than to tell you what to do.”

  As soon as she reached the centre of the caesure’s raked path, she turned to face the south. For a few heartbeats, Hyn’s muscles quivered as if she were afraid; as if she longed to carry Linden out of danger. Then Hynyn snorted assertively, and the mare seemed to calm herself.

  The Fall was moving faster than Linden had anticipated. It was already clear to her ordinary sight: a swirling miasma of wrongness in the shape of a tornado. Its emanations burrowed along her nerves as though hornets hived in her belly. And it was growing-The storm driving it seemed to increase its virulence and size as well as its speed. It would strike like the bludgeon of a titan.

  Now she could discern the storm itself distinctly, although it had no clouds to account for the lurid punch of its thunder or the bright flare and sizzle of its lightning. Her health-sense perceived the turmoil in etched detail: it resembled a squall at sea. But its forces were too great for a mere squall. Its vehemence suggested the fury of a hurricane.

  She had never seen theurgy like that before. More than once, however, she had felt a similar puissance: when Esmer had attacked Stave; and again when he had blocked the ur-viles from assailing Roger and the croyel. Before she and her companions had risked the Land’s past to search for the Staff of Law, the Ramen had informed her that he wields a storm among the mountains-

  With it, he had summoned a caesure for her.

  “Damn it,” she breathed more to herself than to Stave. “That’s Esmer.”