Once Mhoram’s hurts had been treated, he dismissed the warrior and the Healer. He knew that Amatin would want to speak with him, and he cleared the way for her before he began to eat. Then he turned to the food. Through his weariness, he ate deliberately, husbanding his strength so that when he was done he would be able to return to his work.
Lord Amatin matched his silence; she seemed to match the very rhythm of his jaws, as if his example were her only support in the face of a previously unguessed peril. Mhoram sensed that her years of devotion to Kevin’s Wards had left her peculiarly unprepared for what he had told her; her trust in the Lore of the Old Lords had been exceedingly great. So he kept silent while he ate; and when he was done, he remained still, resting himself while he waited for her to speak what was in her heart.
But her question, when it came, took a form he had not anticipated. “High Lord,” she said with a covert nod toward the krill, “if Thomas Covenant has returned to the Land—who summoned him? How was that call performed? And where is he?”
“Amatin—” Mhoram began.
“Who but the Despiser could do such a thing?”
“There are—”
“And if this is not Lord Foul’s doing, then where has Covenant appeared? How can he aid us if he is not here?”
“He will not aid us.” Mhoram spoke firmly to stop the tumble of her questions. “If there is help to be found in him, it will be aid for the Land, not aid for us against this siege. There are other places from which he may serve the Land—yes, and other summoners also. We and Lord Foul are not the only powers. The Creator himself may act to meet this need.”
Her waifish eyes probed him, trying to locate the source of his serenity. “I lack your faith in this Creator. Even if such a being lives, the Law which preserves the Earth precludes— Do not the legends say that if the Creator were to break the arch of Time to place his hand upon the Earth, then the arch and all things in it would come to an end, and the Despiser would be set free?”
“That is said,” Mhoram affirmed. “I do not doubt it. Yet the doom of any creation is upon the head of its Creator. Our work is enough for us. We need not weary ourselves with the burdens of gods.”
Amatin sighed. “You speak with conviction, High Lord. If I were to say such things, they would sound glib.”
“Then do not say them. I speak only of what gives me courage. You are a different person and will have a different courage. Only remember that you are a Lord, a servant of the Land—remember the love that brought you to this work, and do not falter.”
“Yes, High Lord,” she replied, looking intensely into him. “Yet I do not trust this power which makes Desecration possible. I will not hazard it.”
Her gaze turned him back to the krill. Its white gem flamed at him like the light of a paradox, a promise of life and death. Slowly he reached out and touched its hilt. But his exaltation had faded, and the krill’s heat made him withdraw his hand.
He smiled crookedly. “Yes,” he breathed as if he were speaking to the blade, “it is a hazard. I am very afraid.” Carefully he took a cloth from within his robe; carefully, he wrapped the krill and set it aside until it could be taken to a place where the Lorewardens could study it. Then he glanced up and saw that Amatin was trying to smile also.
“Come, sister Amatin,” he said to her bravery, “we have delayed our work too long.”
Together they made their way to the battle, and with Lord Loerya they called fire from their staffs to throw back the hordes of the Despiser.
The three were joined late in the afternoon by a bandaged and hobbling Trevor. But by that time, Revelstone had survived the worst frenzy of Satansfist’s assault. The Lords had given the Warward the support it needed. Under Quaan’s stubborn command, the warriors held back the onslaught. Wherever the Lords worked, the casualties among the defenders dropped almost to nothing, and the losses of the attackers increased vastly. In this kind of battle, the ur-viles could not focus their power effectively. As a result, the Lords were able to wreak a prodigious ruin among the Cavewights and other creatures. Before the shrouded day had limped into night, samadhi Raver called back his forces.
But this time he did not allow the Keep to rest. His attacks began again shortly after dark. Under the cover of cold winter blackness, ur-viles rushed forward to throw liquid vehemence at the battlements, and behind them tight companies of creatures charged, carrying shields and ladders. Gone now was the haphazard fury of the assault, the unconcerted wild attempt to breach the whole Keep at once. In its place were precision and purpose. Growling with hunger, the hordes shaped themselves to the task of wearing down Revelstone as swiftly and efficiently as possible.
In the days that followed, there was no let to the fighting. Satansfist controlled his assaults so that his losses did not significantly outrun the constant arrival of his reinforcements; but he exerted pressure remorselessly, allowing the warriors no respite in which to recover. Despite Quaan’s best efforts to rotate his Eoman and Eoward, so that each could rest in turn, the Warward grew more and more weary—and weary warriors were more easily slain. And those who fell could not be replaced.
But the Warward did not have to carry the burden of this battle alone. Gravelingases and Hirebrands and Lorewardens fought as well. People who had no other urgent work—homeless farmers and Cattleherds, artists, even older children—took over supporting tasks; they supplied arrows and other weapons, stood sentry duty, ran messages. Thus many Eoman were freed for either combat or rest. And the Lords rushed into action whenever Quaan requested their aid. They were potent and compelling; in their separate ways, they fought with the hard strength of people who knew themselves capable of Desecration and did not intend to be driven to that extreme.
Thus Lord’s Keep endured. Eoman after Eoman fell in battle every day; food stores shrank; the Healers’ supplies of herbs and poultices dwindled. Strain carved the faces of the people, cut away comfortable flesh until their skulls seemed to be covered by nothing but pressure and apprehension. But Revelstone protected its inhabitants, and they endured.
At first, the Lords concentrated their attention on the needs of the battle. Instinctively they shied away from their dangerous knowledge. They spent their energy in work and fighting, rather than in studying last resorts. But when the continuous adumbrations of assault had echoed through the Keep for six days, High Lord Mhoram found that he had begun to dread the moment when Satansfist would change his tactics—when the Raver and his master were ready to use the Stone and the Staff again. And during the seventh night, Mhoram’s sleep was troubled by dim dreams like shadows of his former visionary nightmares. Time and again, he felt that he could almost hear somewhere in the depths of his soul the sound of an Unfettered One screaming. He awoke in an inchoate sweat, and hastened upland to see if anything had happened to the Unfettered One of Glimmermere.
The One was safe and well, as were Loerya’s daughters. But this did not relieve Mhoram. It left a chill in the marrow of his bones like an echo of winter. He felt sure that someone, somewhere, had been slain in torment. Straightening himself against the shiver of dread, he called the other Lords to a Council, where for the first time he raised the question of how their new knowledge could be used against the Despiser.
His question sparked unspoken trepidations in them all. Amatin stared widely at the High Lord, Trevor winced, Loerya studied her hands—and Mhoram felt the acuteness of their reaction as if they were saying, Do you think then that we should repeat the work of Kevin Landwaster? But he knew they did not intend that accusation. He waited for them, and at last Loerya found her voice. “When you defended the Close—you worked against another’s wrong. How will you control this power if you initiate it?”
Mhoram had no answer.
Shortly Trevor forced himself to add, “We have nothing through which we could channel such might. It is in my heart that our staffs would not suffice—they would not be strong to control power of that extent. We lack the Staff of Law, and I know
of no other tool equal to this demand.”
“And,” Amatin said sharply, “this knowledge in which you dare to put your faith did not suffice for High Lord Kevin son of Loric. It only increased the cost of his despair. I have—I have given my life to his Lore, and I speak truly. Such power is a snare and a delusion. It cannot be controlled. It strikes the hand that wields it. Better to die in the name of Peace than to buy one day of survival at the cost of such peril!”
Again Mhoram had no answer. He could not name the reasons behind his question. Only the cold foreboding in his bones impelled him, told him that unknown horrors stalked the Land in places far distant from Revelstone. When Amatin concluded grimly, “Do you fear that ur-Lord Covenant may yet Desecrate us?” he could not deny that he was afraid.
So the Council ended without issue, and the Lords went back to the defense of the Keep.
Still the fighting went on without surcease. For four more days, the Lords wielded their staff fire with all the might and cunning they could conceive—and the Warward drove itself beyond its weariness as if it could not be daunted—and the other people of Revelstone did their utmost to hurl Cavewights, ur-viles, Stone-spawn, from the walls. But Satansfist did not relent. He pressed his assault as if his losses were meaningless, spent whole companies of his creatures to do any kind of damage to the city, however small. And the accumulating price that Lord’s Keep paid for its endurance grew more terrible day by day.
During the fifth day, Mhoram withdrew from the battle to inspect the condition of the city. Warmark Quaan joined him, and when they had seen the fatal diminishment of the stores, had taken the toll of lost lives, Quaan met Mhoram’s gaze squarely and said with a tremor in his brusque voice, “We will fall. If this Raver does not raise another finger against us, still we will fall.”
Mhoram held his old friend’s eyes. “How long can we hold?”
“Thirty days—at most. No more. Forty—if we deny food to the ill, and the injured, and the infirm.”
“We will not deny food to any who yet live.”
“Thirty, then. Less, if my warriors lose strength and permit any breach of the walls.” He faltered and his eyes fell. “High Lord, does it come to this? Is this the end—for us—for the Land?”
Mhoram put a firm hand on Quaan’s shoulder. “No, my friend. We have not come to the last of ourselves. And the Unbeliever— Do not forget Thomas Covenant.”
That name brought back Quaan’s war-hardness. “I would forget him if I could. He will—”
“Softly Warmark,” Mhoram interrupted evenly. “Do not be abrupt to prophesy doom. There are mysteries in the Earth of which we know nothing.”
After a moment, Quaan murmured, “Do you yet trust him?”
The High Lord did not hesitate. “I trust that Despite is not the sum of life.”
Quaan gazed back into this answer as if he were trying to find its wellspring. Some protest or plea moved in his face; but before he could speak, a messenger came to recall him to the fighting. At once, he turned and strode away.
Mhoram watched his stern back for a moment, then bestirred himself to visit the Healers. He wanted to know if any progress had been made with Trell Atiaran-mate.
In the low groaning hall which the Healers had made into a hospital for the hundreds of injured men and women, Mhoram found the big Gravelingas sprawled like a wreck on a pallet in the center of the floor. A fierce brain-fever had wasted him. To Mhoram’s cold dread, he looked like the incarnated fate of all Covenant’s victims—a fleshless future crouched in ambush for the Land. The High Lord’s hands trembled. He did not believe he could bear to watch that ineluctable ravage happen.
“At first, we placed him near the wall,” one of the attendants said softly, “so that he would be near stone. But he recoiled from it in terror. Therefore we have laid him here. He does not recover—but he no longer shrieks. Our efforts to succor him are confounded.”
“Covenant will make restitution,” Mhoram breathed in answer, as if the attendant had said something else. “He must.”
Trembling he turned away, and tried to find relief for his dismay in the struggle of Revelstone.
The next night, samadhi changed his tactics. Under cover of darkness, a band of Cavewights rushed forward and clambered up onto one of the main battlements, and when warriors ran out to meet the attack, two ur-vile wedges hidden in the night near the walls swiftly formed Forbiddings across the ends of the battlement, thus trapping the warriors, preventing any escape or rescue. Two Eoman were caught and slaughtered by the ur-viles before Lord Amatin was able to break down one of the Forbiddings.
The same pattern was repeated simultaneously at several points around the Keep.
Warmark Quaan had lost more than eight score warriors before he grasped the purpose of these tactics. They were not intended to break into Revelstone, but rather to kill defenders.
So the Lords were compelled to bear the brunt of defending against these new assaults; a Forbidding was an exercise of power which only they were equipped to counter. As long as darkness covered the approach of the ur-viles, the attacks continued, allowing the Lords no chance to rest. And when dawn came, Sheol Satansfist resumed the previous strategy of his assault.
After four nights of this, Mhoram and his comrades were near exhaustion. Each Forbidding cost two of them an arduous exertion; one Lord could not counteract the work of three or five score ur-viles swiftly enough. As a result, Amatin was now as pale and hollow-eyed as an invalid; Loerya’s once-sturdy muscles seemed to hang like ropes of mortality on her bones; and Trevor’s eyes flinched at everything he saw, as if even in the deepest safety of the Keep he was surrounded by ghouls. Mhoram himself felt that he had a great weight leaning like misery against his heart. They could all taste the accuracy of Quaan’s dire predictions, and they were sickening on the flavor.
During a brief moment of dazed half-sleep late that fourth night, the High Lord found himself murmuring, “Covenant, Covenant,” as if he were trying to remind the Unbeliever of a promise.
But the next morning the attacks stopped. A silence like the quietude of open graves blew into Revelstone on the wind. All the creatures had returned to their encampment, and in their absence Revelstone panted and quivered like a scourged prisoner between lashes. Mhoram took the opportunity to eat, but he put food into his mouth without seeing it and chewed without tasting it. In the back of his mind, he was trying to measure the remnant of his endurance. Yet he responded immediately when a messenger hastened up to him, informed him that samadhi Raver was approaching the Keep alone.
Protected by flanks of archers from any attack by the enemy occupying the tower, Mhoram and the other Lords went to one of the high balconies near the eastward point of the Keep and faced Satansfist.
The Giant-Raver approached sardonically, with a swagger of confidence and a spring of contempt in his stride. His huge fist gripped his fragment of the Stone, and it steamed frigidly in the freezing air. He stopped just beyond effective bow range, leered up at the Lords, and shouted stertorously, “Hail, Lords! I give you greeting! Are you well?”
“Well!” Quaan grated under his breath. “Let him come five paces nearer, and I will show him ‘well.’ ”
“My master is concerned for you!” samadhi continued. “He fears that you have begun to suffer in this unnecessary conflict!”
The High Lord’s eyes glinted at this gibe. “Your master lives for the suffering of others! Do you wish us to believe that he has eschewed Despite?”
“He is amazed and saddened that you resist him. Do you still not see that he is the one word of truth in this misformed world? His is the only strength—the one right. The Creator of the Earth is a being of disdain and cruelty! All who are not folly-blind know this. All who are not cowards in the face of the truth know that Lord Foul is the only truth. Has your suffering taught you nothing? Has Thomas Covenant taught you nothing? Surrender, I say! Give up this perverse and self-made misery—surrender! I swear to you that you will st
and as my equals in the service of Lord Foul!”
In spite of his mordant sarcasm, the Raver’s voice carried a strange power of persuasion. The might of the Stone was in his words, compelling his hearers to submit. As samadhi spoke, Mhoram felt that the flesh of his resistance was being carved away, leaving his bare bones exposed to the winter. His throat ached at the taste of abdication, and he had to swallow heavily before he could reply.
“Samadhi Sheol,” he croaked, then swallowed again and focused all his skeletal resolve in his voice. “Samadhi Sheol! You mock us, but we are not mocked. We are not blind—we see the atrocity which underlies your persuasion. Begone! Foul-chattel! Take this army of torment and despication—return to your master. He has made your suffering—let him take joy in it while he can. Even as we stand here, the days of his might are numbered. When his end comes upon him, be certain he will do nothing to preserve your miserable being. Begone, Raver! I have no interest in your cheap taunts.”
He hoped that the Raver would react with anger, do something which would bring him within reach of the archers. But Satansfist only laughed. Barking with savage glee, he turned away and gave a shout that sent his forces forward to renew their assault.
Mhoram turned also, pulled himself painfully around to face his fellow Lords. But they were not looking at him. They were intent on a messenger who stood trembling before them. Fear-sweat slicked his face despite the cold, and the muscles of his throat locked, clenched him silent. Mutely he reached into his tunic, brought out a cloth bundle. His hands shook as he unwrapped it.
After a febrile moment, he exposed the krill.
Its gem was as dull as death.
Mhoram thought he heard gasps, groans, cries, but he could not be sure. Dread roared in his ears, made other sounds indistinguishable. He snatched up the krill. Staring aghast at it, he fell to his knees, plunged as if his legs had broken. With all the force of his need, he thrust his gaze into the gem, tried to find some gleam of life in it. But the metal was cold to his touch, and the edges of the blade were dull. Blind, lusterless winter filled the furthest depths of the jewel.
Thomas Covenant 03: Power That Preserves Page 35
