Fatal Revenant t3cotc-2

by Stephen R. Donaldson

Elsewhere there were no clouds: only the vicinity of the tor was covered in storm. Nevertheless the thunderheads were swollen and livid, flagrant with lightning and wind and violence-

  — and rain.

  When she spun toward Liand, saw him standing with the orcrest clenched over his head, she realised what he had done.

  Stave had confirmed that the Sunstone could be used to cause weather-

  Liand held the Staff in the crook of his elbow. His other hand gripped the hand of the ur-vile loremaster palm to palm. Both his human skin and the loremaster’s black flesh were crusted with blood.

  Oh, God, Linden thought, oh, God, remembering how the ur-viles shared their strength and clarity. The loremaster must have cut its own palm as well as Liand’s; mingled its blood with his; infused him with its weird lore and puissance.

  With blood, the Demondim-spawn had shown him how to create a storm. They had made him able to do so, in spite of their own suffering in proximity to the Staff.

  Rain! Water-It was a weapon. Wind and thunder and lightning meant nothing: those elemental forces could not deter the skurj. But rain-!

  As soon as she understood what Liand was doing, Linden knew that he would fail. He had already surpassed all of his limits-and his Sunstone had not shattered. But no mere shower would cool or daunt the terrible fires of the skurj. He had achieved more than she could have imagined. Nevertheless he simply did not have enough power

  The Staff did not belong to him. It was hers: she had made it. Caerroil Wildwood had incised it with unfathomable implications, and had returned it to her.

  “Liand!” she yelled as she scrambled over the rocks toward him. “That’s brilliant! You’re brilliant!

  “Give me the Staff!

  Esmer made a sound like keening or exultation; but he did not leave the mound.

  She feared that Liand would not hear her. He had immersed himself utterly in his efforts; in his orcrest and her Staff and the loremaster’s blood. He may have gone beyond hearing.

  But as she neared him, he unfolded his elbow to release the Staff.

  Suddenly one of the monsters toppled, yowling, as if its serpentlike body had been cut in half. With a rage as loud as the massed thunder, Longwrath climbed onto the crest.

  Anointed and annealed by the gore of the creature that he had slain, his flamberge steamed in the gathering fall of rain.

  Without hesitation, he sprang at Linden. His great size and strength carried him toward her in three strides. His sword wheeled to send her head spinning far from the tor.

  In the same instant, Stave hurled a large rock that struck the side of Longwrath’s head. The impact staggered the mad Swordmain. He missed his footing; fell involuntarily to one knee with the tip of his blade inches from Linden’s face.

  Desperately Grueburn and Coldspray converged on Longwrath. Grueburn grappled for his sword-arm while Coldspray kicked him in the jaw.

  Linden heard a snapping sound that may have been Longwrath’s neck; but she did not falter. She was already shouting, “Melenkurion abatha!” as she snatched the Staff from Liand. “Duroc minas mill!” At once, Earthpower and Law poured through her as though she had uncapped a geyser. “Harad khabaal!”

  With every ounce of her passion and purpose, she reached for Liand’s storm. Wielding her fire like a scourge, she flailed at the rain until it become torrential.

  Between heartbeats, she transformed Liand’s showers. At once, they became a downpour so heavy that she seemed to have torn open an ocean in the sky. Water pounded the stones with such force that it nearly knocked her from her feet. Everything around her was inundated, hammered, bludgeoned, as if she stood directly under the cascade of the Mithil’s Plunge.

  Now there was no light at all apart from the fire of the Staff and the laval gaping of the monsters’ fangs. Liand had collapsed. The loremaster held him while a Waynhim retrieved his quenched orcrest and returned it to its pouch at his waist.

  Linden could no longer hear thunder: the torrent was louder. Rain swept the voices of her companions away. Only the furious consternation of the skurj pierced the downpour. They were creatures of magma and fire, stone and earth. They would not have survived if they had been dropped into the Sunbirth Sea. The whipped weight and ferocity of Linden’s rainstorm did not kill them. But it erupted into steam in their mouths. Crimson fume burst from their teeth. Explosive gouts of superheated vapour tore at their fangs, their flesh, while their necessary heat cooled. When they swallowed, they swallowed water as if it were poison.

  The sheer mass of the rain forced them to close their jaws. Then it drove them to eat their way into the ground, seeking an escape from the pummelling torrents.

  Linden’s fire was all that remained to light her companions.

  She could not blink fast enough to keep her vision clear. She could scarcely hold up her head. Through a cataclysm of water, she barely saw two of Longwrath’s guards clamber onto the crest. She heard nothing while the Giants yelled at each other, making swift decisions. She was focused heart and soul on the Staff and the storm. If Esmer remained or vanished, she did not notice it. She was only distantly aware that the Waynhim and ur-viles had scattered. She had no attention left for anything except rain.

  If she could sustain this downpour-

  Without disturbing Linden’s concentration, Grueburn lifted her from her feet. Stonemage cradled Liand like a sleeping child. Galesend carried Anele while Cabledarm bore Pahni. Still gripping the stump of her lost arm, Kindwind squatted so that Mahrtiir could climb her back, cling to her shoulders. One of Longwrath’s guards took Bhapa. The other and Coldspray supported Longwrath between them.

  Leaving one Giant dead on the peak and another presumably lost to Longwrath’s madness, the Swordmainnir and the Haruchai descended the tor in a perilous rush and ran south.

  Chapter Eleven: The Essence of the Land

  When the company had passed out from under the downpour into the ambiguous shelter of the trees, the Giants paused-briefly, briefly-so that Linden could shift her attention to healing.

  Kindwind’s arm was the most urgent of their wounds, but their hurts were many. Galesend had been nearly hamstrung by raking fangs. Coldspray, Cabledarm, and Stonemage bled from gashes like latticework on their arms and legs. And one of Longwrath’s guards wore fractured bones in her cheek: he must have struck her when he broke free to pursue Linden. Only Grueburn and the Swordmain who aided Coldspray with Longwrath’s unconscious bulk had avoided serious harm.

  In addition, the Humbled, the Ramen, Stave, Liand, and Anele had all been burned by splashes of gore. Among Linden’s original companions, she alone had escaped any physical hurt. Her injuries were more spiritual, and she had borne them longer.

  As soon as the Giants stopped, she withdrew her scourge of Earthpower from the thunderheads. Gritting her teeth against her fear of the skurj, she transformed her fire to more gentle flames and spread them over her friends. Rapidly she sealed Kindwind’s severed arm; stopped the bleeding of the Giants; sent a quick wash of Law and balm to soothe the Ramen, Liand, and Stave. But she did not offend the Humbled by offering to ease them. And she did not risk triggering Anele’s self-imposed defences. She already knew how fiercely he would fight against healing and sanity.

  Then the company ran again, dragging Longwrath with them. None of them knew when the skurj would attack again, and Liand’s storm clouds were beginning to scatter.

  Grueburn’s arms seemed as certain as the Earth’s bones. The senses of the Haruchai were preternaturally acute, and the Giants could see far. Surely they would know it when Kastenessen rallied his monsters?

  The skurj had vindicated Linden’s visions during her translation to the Land. If Lord Foul kept his promises, she would eventually have to face the Worm of the World’s End.

  In spite of her dreads, however, her efforts with the Staff had drained her. Fatigue blurred her attention for a time. Like the torrents which she had left behind, she frayed and drifted until only Jeremiah remained. Her s
on and Covenant.

  Within the Andelainian Hills, Loric’s krill summoned her like a beacon.

  Esmer had not rescued her or her companions. But the lodestone of his presence had drawn the Demondim spawn. And he had answered some of her questions.

  Aid and betrayal.

  Her foes were right to fear her.

  Slowly Liand regained consciousness, although he rested with his eyes closed in Stonemage’s embrace. The Humbled had already scattered to search for signs of pursuit behind or snares ahead. Mahrtiir watched over the company fervidly without his eyes. Alert for threats, Stave sped a few paces ahead of Grueburn.

  Later the sound of Grueburn’s stertorous breathing began to trouble Linden. The Giants had been under too much strain for too long. Their reserves of stamina were wearing thin. And they had lost two of their comrades. They needed to grieve.

  But ahead of her, Salva Gildenbourne relapsed to thick jungle. Once again, it became a tangle of thickets, vines, draped ivy, crowding trees, and deadwood monoliths like fallen kings. Without the guidance of the Cords, the Giants could not run unhindered; and they had no time to seek an easy route. They had to brunt their way by plain strength.

  The skurj could move faster than this; much faster. The fact that the Humbled detected nothing did not reassure Linden. It may have meant only that Kastenessen had received new counsel, and had begun to devise a surer assault. She did not believe that the furious Elohim would cease his efforts to prevent her from reaching Andelain.

  The company needed speed, but the Giants were too tired.

  Apparently Coldspray shared Linden’s concerns. Muttering Giantish obscenities, the Ironhand left her comrade to bear the burden of Longwrath alone. The woman draped his arms over her shoulders so that she could drag him on her back. Meanwhile Coldspray moved ahead of her people and began to hack a passage with her glaive. Arduously the Giants improved their pace.

  Linden’s percipience was focused behind her, northward toward the skurj. Too late to give warning, she felt Longwrath plant his feet and heave against the Giant supporting him. He moved so suddenly that Linden feared he would break the woman’s neck.

  But the Swordmain must have sensed his intent. She caught his wrists before his hands struck her throat. Holding him, she ducked under his arms and spun in an attempt to wrench him off balance, flip him to the ground.

  He countered by kicking her hard enough to loosen her grasp.

  The Giants heard that instant of struggle. Bracing themselves to protect their burdens, they turned quickly to face their comrade and Longwrath. Stave sprang to Grueburn’s side as Longwrath reached for his flamberge.

  But its sheath was empty. His sword had been left behind among the rocks and desperation of the tor.

  For a moment, he gaped at Linden, apparently torn between his hunger for her death and his need for his weapon. Then, howling, he wheeled and raced away, back toward the battle-mound.

  In the scales of his madness, his flamberge outweighed Linden’s blood.

  The Giant who had been carrying him started to give chase; but Coldspray called her back. “Permit him, Latebirth,” the Ironhand commanded sadly. “You are needed among us. And I deem that he is in no peril. While he covets Linden Giantfriend’s death, our foes will not harm him. He will return when he has retrieved his blade.”

  Cursing, Latebirth acquiesced. “The fault of Scend Wavegift’s death is mine, Ironhand,” she proclaimed loudly, bitterly. “Halewhole Bluntfist and I held Longwrath’s arms to aid him against the constraint of his shackles. Wavegift followed at his back. But I allowed my concern for your fate to loosen my clasp. When his shackles dropped from him, Bluntfist held him, but my grip was broken. With the hand that I should have restrained, he struck down Bluntfist. I endeavoured to grapple with him, but I stumbled, unable to avoid Bluntfist’s fall. While I floundered, he confronted Wavegift.

  “She was armed. He did not draw his blade. Therefore she hesitated. Doubtless she believed that Bluntfist and I would regain our feet swiftly to join her. But we hindered each other. While we rose, he slapped Wavegift’s blade aside and contrived to snap her neck. Then he ran. Though Bluntfist and I gave chase, we could not catch him.

  “With clumsiness and inattention, I have shamed the Swordmainnir as well as myself. Henceforth I will name myself Lax Blunderfoot. When our journey has come to its end, for good or ill, I will lay down my sword.”

  Stop, Linden wanted to say. We don’t have time for this. It doesn’t do any good. But she bit her lip and did not intervene. She understood Latebirth too well.

  “We will speak of your name in Andelain,” retorted Coldspray. “Our present straits forbid recrimination. We must have haste. Let your shame become anger, and aid me in shaping a path.”

  “Aye,” Latebirth muttered. “I hear you.” Drawing her sword, she stamped past Grueburn, Stave, and Linden to join Coldspray at the head of the company.

  With pity in his eyes, Liand watched the woman pass. Like Linden, he said nothing; but she could see that his emotions were kinder than hers.

  Together Rime Coldspray and Latebirth attacked the worst of the jungle’s impediments. In a kind of shared outrage, they cut vines, ivy, and deadwood aside, driving themselves past their fatigue so that their comrades could move more rapidly.

  Fortunately the knotted underbrush and trees soon thinned as the terrain became a declining slope littered with moss-furred rocks and fallen leaves. There clusters of elm and sycamore stood back from solitary Gilden, and few shrubs and creepers found enough soil for their roots. As the Giants trotted downward, their feet stirred up a haze of insects and the damp mould of fallen leaves.

  And at the bottom of the slope, the company found a stream turbulent with new rain. The invoked torrents of Liand’s storm filled the rushing current with silt, torn leaves, snapped twigs. Nevertheless the Swordmainnir paused once more so that the company could drink.

  When he had eased his thirst, Bhapa asked Mahrtiir’s permission to lead the Giants once more. But Coldspray shook her head before the Manethrall could respond.

  “While this stream tends southward, we need no guidance. And we are Giants, agile on rock-aye, even on slick stones concealed by debris. I cast no doubt on your skill, Cord, when I say that your aid will not quicken us here.”

  “Heed the Ironhand,” instructed Mahrtiir. His tone was unexpectedly gentle. You and Cord Pahni have won my pride. I do not doubt your resolve. Yet some further rest will harm neither you nor this company. When your aid becomes needful, you will be better able to provide it.”

  If Bhapa or Pahni replied, Linden did hear them. The Giants were already running again.

  Now their long, heavy strides raised a loud clatter of water. They splashed forward with extraordinary speed, sending spray in all directions. Within moments, Linden’s clothes were soaked, so wet that she shivered against Frostheart Grueburn’s stone armour.

  Here Stave could not keep pace: he sank too deeply into pools and holes that barely reached the Giants’ knees. Unwilling to fall behind, he left the stream and made his way among the trees, flickering through patches of sunlight as he dodged past trunks and tore through the undergrowth.

  Surely, Linden thought, surely this stream would lead the Giants into Andelain? But she could not credit that she and her companions had outrun the skurj- or Kastenessen’s savagery. Her enemies could not afford to let her reach her goal. If they failed to thwart her themselves, moksha Jehannum would suggest other tactics; summon other foes.

  The scraps of samadhi Sheol’s dark spirit wielded some form of influence among the Sandgorgons. And they had repaid their self-imposed debt. They are done with you. If the skurj could not catch her in time, and Roger’s resources proved useless in Salva Gildenbourne, moksha Raver might reach out to his rent brother-

  Linden had made too many mistakes. Acknowledging that the Sandgorgons had honoured their debt was only one of them.

  Still Stave reported that the Humbled discerned no sign of
pursuit. They saw no dangers ahead.

  How far had Grueburn carried Linden from the tor? She could not gauge the distance. The rapid stutter of trees and brush, shade and sunlight, along the western side of the stream confused her. And the foliage occluded any landmarks which might have defined the company’s progress. She was sure only that the sun was falling past midafternoon-and that the Giants could not continue to run like this much longer.

  The ragged labour of Grueburn’s respiration was painful to hear. Linden tried to close her mind to it, and failed. She was barely able to stop herself from counting the frantic beats of Grueburn’s heart.

  By degrees, however, the current slowed as its flood dissipated. At the same time, the hills on either side gradually seemed to acquire a kind of gentleness. Flowing through softer terrain, the stream became more direct. Still it tended southward across bursts of afternoon sunshine.

  Then Linden noticed that Salva Gildenbourne’s unkempt extravagance was changing. By degrees, the constricted throng of trees modulated into a more stately forest, and the undergrowth gave way to unexpected swaths of grass. Stands of twisted jacaranda and crowded mimosa were replaced by comfortable chestnuts, austere elms, nervous birches. The rich gold leaves of the Gilden caught more sunlight and shone like resplendence. At last, the Giants were able to leave the stream and travel unobstructed by water or unseen rocks and holes.

  And ahead of the company-

  In faint whiffs and suggestions, evanescent savours like caresses, Linden’s nerves found their first taste of Andelain.

  She sat up straighter; leaned forward with instinctive eagerness. Was it possible? Had she and her companions come four leagues since their battle on the tor? Without being attacked? She did not know how to believe it: it surpassed all of her expectations. Instinctively she distrusted her senses-and strained to confirm them.

  The Andelainian Hills. In some sense, consciously or unconsciously, she had been striving to reach them ever since she had first heard Thomas Covenant’s voice in her dreams; ever since she had begun to imagine that he walked among the Dead.