Because she felt helpless and wanted reassurance, she called softly. “Stave, where are the Humbled?” She did not trust herself to raise wild magic suddenly. She would need warning
Stave’s voice filtered back to her through the leaves. “Galt and Branl match our pace to the east, where we are certain of the skurj. Galt ranges ahead while Branl wards our rear at the outermost extent of our speech. To the west, Clyme watches. When the skurj approach, we will be forewarned while they are perhaps a league distant.”
A league, Linden thought; but the word told her nothing. She could not estimate distances in the constricted and bestrewn jungle. And she had no idea how swiftly the skurj might come. She only knew that tree trunks and boughs, fallen deadwood and swarming vines, rushed past her with disorienting quickness; that she crossed low hills and swept through shallow vales before she could count them; that Grueburn’s breathing was deep and hard, but far from desperation, and that her strength ran like valour in her veins. All of the Swordmainnir gave the impression that they were as fleet as Ranyhyn.
If they could sustain this pace, would they reach the boundaries of Andelain by noon?
Whatever happened, Linden would not have much time to prepare herself for Kastenessen’s attack.
Still she was too distracted to concentrate. Grueburn’s steps shook her; and the woodland inundated her senses with a cacophony of growth and decay. Sunlight began to glitter in the treetops. Around her, the forest seemed to unfurl endlessly, rumpled and unruly; manic with untended life. From the jouncing perspective of Grueburn’s arms, Salva Gildenbourne appeared impenetrable. The Swordmainnir should not have been able to move so rapidly. But at every twist and angle of the earth, every place where the trees clustered to form a barricade, every obstruction of vines and deadwood, the Cords found a path that allowed the Giants to run unhindered.
Hills and more hills. Swales and streambeds. Unexpected swaths of open grass bedecked with wildflowers. Small marshes like puddles in the jungle.
Every stride brought the need for wild magic nearer; and still Linden was not ready.
Snagged occasionally by snarls of brush, the company pelted down a long slope. Whenever Grueburn missed her footing and collided with a tree, she wrapped her free arm protectively around Linden; accepted the impact with her shoulder and ran on. Held against the woman’s armour, Linden felt the jolt as if she had been punched. But the branches that plucked at her face and arms only scratched her rarely; slightly. She kept her grip on the Staff.
She did not know how Mahrtiir’s Cords contrived to stay ahead of the Giants. She was familiar with the immense stamina of Coldspray’s people. And Stave was Haruchai. But there was nothing preternatural about the Ramen, except perhaps their communion with the Ranyhyn. Being smaller, Bhapa and Pahni had to sprint while the Swordmainnir trotted. Surely even their hardiness would not enable them to continue like this indefinitely?
At the bottom of the slope, the Cords led the Giants into a ravine like a jagged wound in the flesh of the terrain. There the ground was complicated with boulders, and the Giants were forced to move more slowly. In that respite, Linden cast her health-sense ahead; tried to catch a hint of Pahni’s condition. But the ravine twisted: the mossed granite of its walls blocked her view. The thick odours of damp, mould, and cold stone crowded her nose. She was tossed from side to side by Grueburn’s passage around and over the boulders. And the Giants in front of her filled her percipience. When she concentrated on Mahrtiir, Liand, and Anele, she could see that they were well. But she failed to detect Pahni’s presence.
“Mahrtiir?” she asked anxiously. “I’m worried about Pahni and Bhapa. How long can they keep this up?”
Over Kindwind’s shoulder, the Manethrall answered, “You have not been long acquainted with the Ramen, Ringthane. At need, we are able to run briefly with the Ranyhyn. And our inborn endurance is rigorously trained.
“My Cords will perform all that is asked of them.” After an instant’s hesitation, he added, “Yet it is plain that they near the limits of their strength. I do not wish them driven beyond themselves, if that may be avoided.”
As one, the Giants slowed their strides. Through the labour of their breathing, Linden heard Coldspray ask. “Stave?”
“The Cords have guided us well.” Stave did not sound winded. His voice betrayed none of his exertions. “We will sacrifice the benefit of their aid if we ask more haste than they can sustain.” To the Ironhand’s unspoken question, he replied, “The Humbled sense no peril.”
“Very well.” At the head of the company, Coldspray slackened her pace further. In all sooth, we also are weary. We have known no true rest for many days, and even Giants must tire.
“I gauge that we have traversed four leagues. Doubtless our foes gather against us. If the Manethrall’s Cords discover a favourable battleground, perhaps we will do well to await our doom there rather than hazard exhaustion.”
“Aye,” answered Mahrtiir. “Rime Coldspray, you possess wisdom as well as cunning. If Kastenessen desires to prevent us from Andelain, he must strike soon. Therefore speed is no longer our greatest requirement.”
Covered in omens of shadow, the Ironhand’s aura seemed to imply a wish for confirmation. Again she asked. “Stave?”
Stave’s tone resembled a shrug. “If the Chosen does not gainsay it, I concur with the Manethrall.” After a moment, he added, As do the Humbled. The time has come to seek terrain which may aid us.”
“Linden Giantfriend?” Coldspray inquired. “Do you consent?”
Four leagues? wondered Linden. Halfway to Andelain? She had no idea how much time had passed. Sunshine spangled the leaves in tiny flecks far overhead, but the sides of the ravine hid the sun. If the Giants had indeed covered four leagues
Coldspray, Mahrtiir, and Stave were right. Kastenessen would attack soon. She needed to prepare herself.
What in God’s name was he waiting for?
Perhaps he was not waiting. Perhaps he had already prepared an ambush in Andelain.
The possibility that the skurj were feasting among the Hills of Andelain made Linden feel sick. But she swallowed her trepidations.
“You’re probably right. In any case, I don’t have a better suggestion. I could use the rest. And I need a chance to pull myself together.”
At once, the Ironhand sent one of her unburdened comrades ahead to talk to Pahni and Bhapa. Stave and the other Giants continued along the depths of the ravine.
Vaguely Linden wondered how much ground Longwrath and his guards had lost-and how long he would delay before he tried to kill her again. But she could not afford to distract herself with such concerns. The Swordmainnir would protect her. She needed to focus her attention on power and the skurj; on Thomas Covenant’s ring and his illimitable resolve. Not for the first time, her circumstances pressed her to surpass herself.
A grieved and frightened part of her insisted that she was not Covenant, she was not. She had never been his equal. It was folly to pretend that she could match his capacity for extravagant and unforeseen victories.
But if Roger and the croyel had given her time to think in the cave of the EarthBlood, she would have said the same; and by doing so, she would have helped them destroy her. At least in part, she had succeeded against them because they had left her no room for self-doubt. Jeremiah’s wounded helplessness and the croyel’s cruelty had made her certain.
That certainty remained deep in her, as unshaken as buried stone. As long as she did not dwell on her inadequacies, she would be able to fight for what she loved; oppose what she loathed. She would find a way.
She had done so after the destruction of First Woodhelven.
Resting in Grueburn’s arms, Linden searched herself for scraps of Covenant’s power.
Gradually the walls of the ravine slumped away, releasing the company into a wide valley bordered on the south by an overgrown escarpment, high and thick with trees. Glimpsed through the jungle, the skyward thrust of the scarp looked too shee
r to be climbed. But Bhapa and Pahni found a path upward by angling across the rise, bracing themselves on tree trunks and clinging to bushes. The roots of the trees and brush were deeply knotted in the escarpment’s fissured bones: they held the Swordmainnir as easily as the Ramen. Linden’s company made the ascent with less difficulty than she would have thought possible.
Beyond the crest, Salva Gildenbourne lost elevation by slow increments; and the Giants quickened their pace. Here the soil lay more thinly over its bedrock. Wider spaces separated the trees: undergrowth no longer clogged the ground. At irregular intervals, rocks mantled with grey-green lichen jutted among Gilden, sycamore, and oak. For the first time since dawn, Linden could look around her and see all seven of the Swordmainnir. When she glanced at Liand, he smiled to reassure her.
Pahni remained out of sight ahead, hidden by broad-boughed trees and the heavy shoulders of the Giants; but now Linden caught hints of the Cord with her other senses. Although Pahni moved fluidly down the gentle slope, she emanated an unmistakable pang of fatigue. Linden could feel the Cord’s muscles trembling.
Soon, Linden thought. Bhapa would have to find a place that suited Mahrtiir soon.
Abruptly Stave’s head jerked. An instant later, he announced to Coldspray, “The skurj, Ironhand. Galt has discerned them.”
Fear clutched at Linden as the Swordmain asked, “Is he able to count their number?”
He cannot. They blur at the limit of his senses. However, they advance as though they are certain of us. And their pace exceeds ours. Soon Galt will endeavour to number them.”
Coldspray glanced back at Mahrtiir and Linden. “Shall we run, then? Is there hope in flight’?”
Presumably the Giants could carry Pahni and Bhapa.
“Galt deems that there is not,” replied Stave flatly. “Trees and terrain do not hinder the skurj. And they appear capable of great speed. Can you outrun them at need? Can you do so until we have gained Loric’s krill?”
The Ironhand shook her head. “We have run too much. Already weariness weighs upon us, though we are Giants, and proud of our strength. If it can be done, we must abide by the Manethrall’s counsel.”
“Then my Cords must be forewarned,” growled Mahrtiir. “They cannot hear the minds of the Humbled.”
“Cabledarm!” Coldspray called to one of the Giants. “This falls to you. Overtake the Cords. Aid them in their search.”
“Aye,” Cabledarm responded. “Who else?” She bared her teeth in a willing grin. “When wisdom and cunning exhaust themselves, simple strength must prevail.
“Observe and learn, Linden Giantfriend!” she shouted as she broke into a run. “It is with good cause that Cabledarm is acknowledged as the mightiest of the Swordmainnir!”
Assisted by the slope, she seemed to bound after Pahni.
“Mightiest, ha!” muttered Grueburn to her comrades. “I claim that title. Free my arms, and I will “acknowledge” any might that strives to prove itself against me.”
Several of the Giants chuckled; but Coldspray commanded sternly, “Quicken your strides, Swordmainnir. Haste now may earn a measure of respite ere the skurj assail us.”
The women picked up their pace. Linden expected them to race after Cabledarm, but they did not. Instead the Ironhand held them to a swift walk. After a moment, Linden realised that Coldspray did not want to overrun the Cords’ search for an abundance of loose stones- the ancient litter of scarps and tors- When-or if-Bhapa found a place that satisfied Mahrtiir’s requirements, Coldspray wished to head toward it without needing to double back.
Trembling as if she, too, had run for leagues, Linden touched her pocket to confirm that she still had Jeremiah’s racecar. Then she drew out Covenant’s ring.
Irregular splashes of sunshine caught the small metal circle as the sun rose toward midday. Whenever Covenant’s wedding band flared silver in her hand, Linden winced involuntarily. Please, God, she prayed without hearing herself. Please. The ring looked puny against the pale skin of her palm; too little to encompass either hope or contradiction.
Wild magic is only as powerful as the will, the determination, of the person it belongs to. The rightful white gold wielder.
With it, Covenant had mastered Nom; faced Kasreyn of the Gyre; denatured the virulence of the Banefire. Wielded by the Despiser, its savage ecstasy had exalted Covenant’s spirit to secure and sustain the Arch of Time. And Linden herself had caused a caesure. In the wrong hands, it’s still pretty strong. Nevertheless this immaculate instance of white gold was not hers.
It doesn’t really come to life until the person it belongs to chooses to use it.
Roger could have been lying; but she did not think so. Too much of what he had said matched her memories, her experiences.
Damn it. She clenched her fist around the ring. She had created one caesure: she could form another; catch the skurj in a mad whirl of instants and send them hurtling toward an imponderable future. If she were willing to take the risk-
When she had asked Roger about Falls, he had replied, Eventually they’ll destroy everything.
On that subject as well, she could believe that he had told the truth.
All right, she promised herself grimly. No more caesures. I’ll try something else.
But she did not know what she would be able to attempt.
In the distance ahead, she felt Cabledarm reach Pahni; felt the Giant sweep Pahni into her arms and go on running. They sought Bhapa, but they passed beyond Linden’s range without finding him.
Moving at Coldspray’s side, Stave spoke so that Linden and the Manethrall could hear him. “Branl reports no threat. It appears that Longwrath and his escort will not be assailed. And Clyme also descries no presage of harm. Therefore he and Branl come to join our defence.
“Galt will do likewise. However, he intends first to number the skurj. At present, he perceives less than a score. If he discovers no increase in their force, he will endeavour to learn if they may be made to turn aside.”
Linden flinched. One of those monsters could swallow Galt whole-
“Then he is a fool,” snapped the Ironhand.
Stolidly Stave replied, “He is Haruchai as well as Humbled, neither slow of wit nor weak of limb. He will not sacrifice himself except in our direct aid. Rather he will seek only to determine whether the skurj may be slowed or diverted.”
Coldspray started to respond, but a distant shout interrupted her. Muffled by trees and foliage, Cabledarm’s bellow was barely audible.
“A place is found! Alter your heading somewhat eastward!”
Eastward-Closer to the skurj.
The Ironhand stopped; turned to face Mahrtiir. “Manethrall,” she said tensely. our esteem for the Ramen grows ever greater. To say that your Cords have served us well is scant praise. We cannot delay for true gratitude. Know, however, that we are honoured to claim the friendship of a people who possess such fortitude and skill.”
Before he could answer, she spun away and began to run. At once, her comrades followed, angling slightly to the left as they rushed between the trees.
Linden did not know how far they ran. Fears confused her. Repeatedly she caught herself holding her breath. Nevertheless the pace of the Giants made it obvious that Salva Gildenbourne’s verdure was growing thin. As the soil lost its richness, it exposed new sheets of stone and older outcroppings of bedrock stained by weather and time and lichen. Few shrubs and saplings obstructed the strides of the Swordmainnir. Gilden, ancient oaks, and occasional, brittle birches stood farther apart, allowing swathes of sunlight to reach the ground. The Giants flashed through incursions of brightness as if they flickered in and out of predictable reality.
Ahead of them, the trees opened briefly. Through the gap, Linden spotted a rocky tor, high and rounded like the burial-mound of a titan. Then the Giants ran into full sunshine, brilliant as Staff-fire; and she found herself staring at a formation like a volcanic plug so immeasurably ancient that the eons had worn it down to rubble.
&nbs
p; It seemed tall to her: she could not have thrown a pebble to reach its crown. Yet it stood lower than the surrounding trees. Without Bhapa’s guidance, and Pahni’s, the Giants might easily have missed it.
Boulders as big as dwellings supported its sides, but the rest of the mound was composed of broken rocks in all sizes and shapes. From Linden’s perspective, the crest looked wide enough for all of the Giants to stand together and wield their weapons.
Mahrtiir’s eagerness suggested that the tor was exactly what he wanted. But Linden was not convinced. If her companions chose to defend themselves atop the mound, they would have no line of escape.
Bhapa stood, panting urgently, at the foot of the knuckled slope. But Cabledarm had carried Pahni up the tor. The Swordmain waved dramatically as her comrades emerged from the forest. “I recant my vaunt!” she crowed: a shout of delight. “Skill may accomplish much which lies beyond the reach of muscle and thew! The Manethrall’s Cords have humbled me. I would not have stumbled upon this admirable redoubt!”
“It will serve,” muttered Mahrtiir, peering at the mound with senses other than sight. “Here even Ramen may oppose Kastenessen’s vile beasts.”
Linden blinked in the sunlight; shook her head. Bhapa’s condition alarmed her. He gasped as if he were still running, on the edge of exhaustion. Dehydration made his limbs tremble. Apparently he had not paused for treasure-berries or water while he searched. After the battle of First Woodhelven, he had refused Mahrtiir’s place as Manethrall. Perhaps in compensation, he had nearly prostrated himself to prove worthy of Mahrtiir’s trust.
By finding this tor? Linden did not understand. The skurj devoured granite. She had assumed that the Cords sought an open rock field where the Giants could dodge and strike and flee. If they mounted the rocks, they would be trapped.
But the Ironhand did not seem to share Linden’s concern. “Serve?” she retorted as if Mahrtiir had made a jest. “It will do more than serve. It will concentrate our foes where the advantage of elevation and stone is ours. If Linden Giantfriend does not falter, we may yet hope for our lives.”
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