5.
Inheritances
042
Carrying her Staff and Covenant’s ring and Jeremiah’s healed toy as if they were empty of import, Linden climbed the slopes with Stave and Mahrtiir like a woman ascending Gallows Howe.
The hills seemed high to her now; more difficult than she remembered. A kind of moral weakness dragged at her muscles. She did not want to see Liand’s cairn—and could not refuse. Like the company’s circumstances, the outcome of her efforts to save her son called for more courage than she could imagine.
Only Thomas Covenant had it in him to meet the challenge of doom and death: she believed that. Only his instinct for incalculable victories—But she did not know how to reach him.
She wanted to turn and simply walk away forever.—as she must—Unfortunately she had abdicated her right to choose. Her friends had promised to make her decisions for her. Looking at Liand’s monument was only the first of them. Obedient to her own surrender, she forced her way up the shale and grit of the hillsides until she reached the ridge.
There the desiccated browns of the surrounding terrain made the white spine of gypsum appear unnaturally stark, almost pure; as distinct as chalk. Along the ridge, bits of quartz and mica caught the sun and flashed like implied omens. No doubt dust would have billowed from the strides of the Swordmainnir in any breeze; but the air was as still as a tombstone. Arid heat and haze rather than dust gave the sky a tan hue.
Immediately in front of the company, the handiwork of the Giants dominated the east, a long oval mound towering over the ridge from slope to slope. With sweat and strength and love, Rime Coldspray and her comrades had piled rocks the size of kresh and Cavewights and even mustangs to cover Liand’s death with homage. A few of the boulders were as big as huts. In an abstract way, Linden had understood that the Giants were mighty, and that they had labored long. Nevertheless she was taken aback by the scale of the cairn. Liand had been given a barrow suitable for a king.
It seemed more final than his ruined corpse.
Oh, Liand. Through her reluctance and shame, Linden felt her eyes burn with unattainable tears. Nothing could comfort her for the Stonedownor’s passing. Still she felt that the Giants had done him justice.
“A small gesture only,” explained Coldspray as if she were embarrassed. “Being Giants, we had it in our hearts to dig away this stretch of the ridge, and that beyond as well, thus forming a pediment for the cairn. But time pressed against us, and we abandoned our first intent.”
“Nonetheless,” Mahrtiir stated after a moment, “what you have done is well done. Be assured that it is well done.”
Instead of speaking, Stave bowed in the manner of the Haruchai, first to the Ironhand, then to the high mound of stone.
Still Covenant did not react. Creviced memories held him.
On a hilltop some distance to the north, Clyme stood with his back to the company. In the south, Branl also faced away. The two Humbled seemed to disregard their companions; but Linden understood their vigilance. They had not forgotten their many enemies. Joan’s attack during the night had demonstrated that even here, tens or scores of leagues from more obvious dangers, the company was not safe. Clyme and Branl did not assume that the Land’s last defenders would be safe anywhere.
“If it is well done,” Rime Coldspray said finally, “we are content. I name our grief and honor complete. Now let us consider our course. We cannot remain as we are while the Worm threatens to unmake all that we have known and loved and needed.”
Her words may have been addressed to Linden; but Linden stood with her head bowed and did not respond. What could she have said?
“Our foes are easily counted,” replied Mahrtiir grimly. “The Timewarden’s former mate craves our ruin. Only her madness preserves us from endless caesures. Further we are told that his son amasses Cavewights to claim both the Ringthane’s child and the croyel. Given opportunity, Kastenessen may strike again, as we know to our great cost. Also it is his theurgy which shapes Kevin’s Dirt, hampering Earthpower across the Upper Land. And we are told as well that both Sandgorgons and skurj assail Salva Gildenbourne. Indeed, they may dare the ravage of Andelain, for the krill no longer defends the heart of the Land’s loveliness.”
That one detail, at least, had been Covenant’s doing, not Linden’s. It was all that had enabled the company to capture Jeremiah.
“These are fearsome perils in all sooth,” Mahrtiir observed, “terrible and heinous. In addition, however, Esmer endures, compelled to treachery. And we must not forget the Worm itself as it seeks the roots of Melenkurion Skyweir.”
The Manethrall paused briefly, then said, “I do not regard such lesser wights as kresh and skest. In themselves, they are mere servants. Nor do I consider turiya Raver. If he does not remain with his victim, she is nothing. Contemplation of Lostson Longwrath I leave to the Swordmainnir, who are better able to comprehend his plight. The Insequent have turned aside. And I do not cite the lurker of the Sarangrave, though we stand nigh unto its demesne. Ancient tales suggest that it is little more than a monstrous appetite devoid of thought or aspiration.
“However, I must speak of moksha Jehannum. Where he toils, and what he strives to gain, are hidden from us. I cannot discount She Who Must Not Be Named. Aroused, the bane may rise still farther, wreaking vast torment. And I must not neglect the purest abomination, dire Fangthane himself, Despiser of Land and life. It is by his will that all other perils and evils have awakened. There can be no reply to the Worm unless Fangthane also is answered.”
Mahrtiir paused again; turned his bandaged face toward each of his companions one by one. Explicitly he did not spare Linden his scrutiny. After giving them a moment to absorb his summation, he asked, “What say you? Is my tale complete?”
The Giants shifted their feet uncomfortably. Some of them looked daunted in spite of their native resilience and courage. Pahni stood like a woman in shock. Bhapa fretted as if he wished to flee. Between them, Covenant mumbled something that sounded like a list of all the trees in the One Forest. But Anele had fallen silent in Galesend’s arms, apparently conscious of nothing except orcrest and dread.
Linden did not want to speak. She felt beaten down by Mahrtiir’s toll of troubles, almost immured, as if his words were stones. When no one else responded, however, she forced herself to say, “One of us ought to at least mention the Elohim. They’re probably all scrambling to save themselves. But Infelice sure as hell didn’t want us to rescue Jeremiah. Now that we have him, she may be desperate enough to interfere.”
Like the Manethrall, Coldspray scanned the company. Having ascertained that no one wished to offer a comment, she nodded once, harshly. “Then we are agreed. The tale is complete, though its unadorned brevity resembles a wound. Now we must make known the counsels of our hearts.”
Looking directly at Pahni and Bhapa, she continued, “And here none may keep silent. Every thought and insight and apprehension must be heard.” She seemed to think that the Cords might be too diffident or weary to express themselves. “Any word may serve to inspire guidance, but it cannot if it is not uttered.”
Like Coldspray, Mahrtiir faced the Cords. “Harken well. The Ironhand’s command is also mine. I comprehend the hurt of speaking only to be countered or dismissed. But our straits require this of us. Naught can be gained without risk of hurt.”
Bhapa nodded with a nauseated grimace. But Pahni surprised Linden by answering, “The Ardent has said that the Ringthane’s need for death is great.” She sounded vague, almost stupefied. Nothing flickered in her eyes to indicate that she was aware of her own bitterness. “I see no promise that her need has been sated.”
Restore him!
I can’t. I would if I could.
Mahrtiir’s wince was visible in spite of his bandage; but he did not reprimand the girl.
As if in Linden’s defense, Frostheart Grueburn said, “The withdrawal of the Insequent is lamentable. Our grief over the Ardent’s passing is whetted by our inability to seek further explication of his auguries.”
After a moment, Onyx Stonemage added, “Nor are we able to ask aid of the ur-viles and Waynhim. Doubtless their lore is great. Certainly we have witnessed their strange puissance. While Esmer lives, however, we are deprived of our gift of tongues. It may be that Linden Giantfriend remains able to call upon them. But if so, we would not comprehend their counsel.”
More sternly, the Ironhand stated, “It is bootless to dwell upon queries which cannot or will not be answered. We must consider deeds which are within our compass.”
“Then, Ironhand,” said Cabledarm, “let us begin by discarding deeds which are not within our compass.” Her tone suggested a dour jest, although her expression was somber. “Neither the Sandgorgons nor the skurj merit concern. Our mere strength and swords cannot defeat such creatures.”
Halewhole Bluntfist agreed. “And let us discard also the Worm itself, and She Who Must Not Be Named, and Fangthane Despiser. Doubtless such evils must be answered. There again, however, strength and swords will achieve no worthy effect. Those who wield wild magic and Earthpower”—she glanced at Galt—“aye, and Loric’s eldritch krill must devise our course. We cannot.”
Linden swallowed an empty protest. Clearly Bluntfist and the others were still counting on her; and they were wrong. Yet she could frame no real objection. The Giants were being practical: their reasoning made sense.
Coldspray considered her comrades briefly. Then she admitted, “Nor do we suffice against Esmer mere-son. There we must place our trust in the ur-viles and Waynhim. As for the Elohim, their plight is beyond our ken. Thus our deliberation is simplified. We need contemplate only the Timewarden’s former mate—their son and his army of Cavewights—and mad Kastenessen.”
Only? Linden thought. Only? But before she could find her voice, Mahrtiir put in sharply, “And also the Ringthane’s son and the croyel. That burden has not been relieved by Liand’s death.”
“Aye,” Rime Coldspray assented. “I hear you, Manethrall. Nonetheless his plight is a matter of theurgy. While Linden Giantfriend remains thwarted by the croyel, and Covenant Timewarden is absent, we can do naught to ease the boy.”
“Aye,” grumbled Mahrtiir in turn, conceding the Ironhand’s point.
Linden gnawed her lip and tried to guess what conclusion the Giants and the Ramen would reach.
“Thus,” Coldspray said again. “The Timewarden’s former mate. Their son. Kastenessen.” She looked around at her comrades once more. “Upon another occasion, I will require your condolences for such concision. For the present—” Then she faced the two Haruchai. “Master. Stave. You have not spoken. Do you consent to the nature of our counsels? Is there aught which we must add or discard ere we continue?”
A glance like a knife passed between the Humbled and the former Master, although their miens were impassive; and a spatter of tension ran down Linden’s spine. She could not see beneath the surface of either man, but she felt—
As if to the air rather than to Coldspray or Stave, Galt said, “I will speak when your deliberations are done.”
“And I will answer you,” promised Stave.
Without explanation, he shifted his gaze to the Ironhand.
“I would urge,” he told her, “that some forewarning must be conveyed to the Masters in Revelstone. Yet I cannot conceive how my desire may be accomplished. If the word of an Elohim is to be believed, scant days remain to us, and even a rider Ranyhyn-mounted must have more than a few to gain Lord’s Keep.”
He shrugged delicately. “Thus my wishes for my kindred come to naught.” With an air of formality, he concluded, “Ironhand of the Swordmainnir, I am content with your counsels.”
Rime Coldspray replied with a nod as grave as a bow. Then she said to everyone, “Now we must further simplify our course. To my mind, the choice has become one of urgency. Which of the three perils that we have selected poses the most severe or immediate threat?”
Involuntarily Linden shook her head. She did not mean to interfere with Coldspray’s leadership, or with Mahrtiir’s; but she answered without thinking.
“Urgency isn’t the problem. They’re all urgent,” Jeremiah more than anything else. “The problem is finding them. I can’t even guess where Joan is. But Esmer and the Ardent told us that Roger is in Mount Thunder.” Somewhere among the Wightwarrens. “And Kastenessen has to be there, too, since he’s drawing on the bane to power Kevin’s Dirt. Locating them sounds impossible, but it probably isn’t. If we get close enough, we won’t have to find either of them. They’ll find us.”
Abruptly she stopped. This was not what she wanted. She had good reason to avoid more responsibility. And she doubted that the Humbled would respect any choices except their own.
In dismay, she argued against herself. “At least we know where Jeremiah is.”
We need to help him somehow. Please.
After a quick consultation with her comrades, the Ironhand mused, “The distance is not insurmountable. The remaining portion of the Ardent’s largesse may be stretched to sustain a trek of several days. Yet qualms disturb me. I fear the suddenness with which Covenant Timewarden’s former mate is able to strike. And within the Wightwarrens of Mount Thunder, of which we have heard tales, we will traverse passages and confusions unknown to us, yet intimately familiar to the Cavewights. Doubtless the Timewarden’s son and his forces will offer battle at a time and place where every circumstance is unfavorable to us.”
Linden said nothing.
“Also,” continued the Ironhand, “I am reluctant to turn my back upon the intent of the Ardent. Aye, he did not name his purpose. Yet the great cost of his service has won my regard. I cannot conclude that our presence here is without value.”
“By your reasoning, then, Ironhand,” Mahrtiir concluded harshly, “we are returned to our starting place. We cannot choose a path toward any point of our compass. In my heart remains the belief that what has transpired here”—he pointed at Liand’s cairn—“must serve as our lodestone. Yet its import eludes me.” In frustration, he muttered a Ramen curse. “Therefore I can offer no further counsel.”
Abruptly Bhapa took a step forward. “Perhaps—” he began, then stopped, staring as though his own thoughts shocked him.
“Speak, Cord,” the Manethrall commanded at once.
Please, Linden repeated, if only to herself. Somebody think of something.
Bhapa appeared to fumble for words. “Earlier.” He swallowed hard. “When Cord Pahni returned to us.” He glanced, flinching, at Linden, then forced himself to meet Mahrtiir’s eyeless scrutiny. “The Ringthane asked why we did not summon the Ranyhyn to ease Pahni’s sorrow. I replied”—again he swallowed—“with disrespect, hearing no esteem for the Ranyhyn in her. Yet now—”
Once more, he faltered.
The Manethrall waited. Carefully Rime Coldspray prompted, “Yet now—”
A flush spread like shame across the Cord’s face. In a rush, he said, “If we summon the Ranyhyn, and entrust ourselves to their wisdom, perhaps they will consent to select our path.
“They are the Ranyhyn,” he insisted as if his companions had objected. “Though they have ever allowed both the Ramen and their riders to choose their roads, they share insights which surpass us. Perhaps they can discern the whereabouts of the Timewarden’s former mate. Or they may recognize the Ardent’s purpose. They may elect to resume the journey which he was unable to complete.
“Surely any destination deemed condign by the Ranyhyn is preferable to our present bafflement.”
There Mahrtiir silenced Bhapa. “Enough, Cord,” the Manethrall said, unexpectedly mild in spite of his palpable excitement. “This is unforeseen counsel. I now comprehend your hesitation in speaking of it. Ramen do not presume to such thoughts. Before the Ringthane’s coming, however, no Raman had presumed to ride the Ranyhyn. Yet when that occasion presented itself, they made plain their approval. I do not doubt that they will approve once more.”
His eagerness stirred the company. The Giants lifted their heads as though they had caught the scent of hope.
Hyn! Linden thought. Hynyn. Naharahn and Bhanoryl and Mhornym and the others. In their sparse horserite, Hyn and Hynyn had found a way to share their concerns without manipulating her choices. And they were responsible for persuading Stave to alter his allegiance despite the combined indignation of the Masters. Her many mistakes had taught her to trust them.
Suddenly she missed Hyn with all her heart: the mare’s proud carriage and fleet-ness, the affection in her soft eyes, the certainty of every step. Hyn would know—
With a clarion note in his voice, Mahrtiir asked, “What say you, Ironhand of the Swordmainnir? Lacking other wisdom, we are baffled. And I conceive that Liand’s steadfastness came as near as any human may to the fidelity of the Ranyhyn. If we determine to abide by their guidance, his openness and valor will indeed be made our lodestone.”
Again Rime Coldspray spoke quietly with her comrades. When she was ready to answer, her eyes shone.
“The Swordmainnir,” she announced, “are content in all sooth. Our knowledge of the Ranyhyn is scant. Yet we have witnessed their glory and service. To our sight, they resemble the wonder and mystery of Andelain made flesh. And we have seen the reverence in which they are held by all whose experience of them exceeds our own. When Galt has revealed the will of the Humbled, we will gladly hear the call which summons such horses—aye, and gladly be led by them.”
As she spoke, Bhapa squared his shoulders. His shame was transformed: it became a glow of pride that Linden had never seen in him before. And Pahni’s expressionless stare lost some of its dullness. The prospect of seeing the Ranyhyn again seemed to ameliorate her deep exhaustion and grief.
But Linden’s own anticipation faded almost immediately. She had forgotten Galt’s promise to speak—and she feared what he might say.
Brusquely Stave told Galt, “The time has come. Your silence is both unjust and hurtful. You demean companions who have entrusted their lives to your honor and service.”
His tone doused the rising spirits of the Ramen. A frown gathered on Coldspray’s brow, and Halewhole Bluntfist looked like a woman about to take umbrage. Latebirth betrayed a small wince of surprise.
To Stave, Galt nodded. “I will do so.” Then he turned his head to address the company.
“In the Unbeliever’s absence from himself,” he said as if his words were without portent, “we approve your wish to rely upon the Ranyhyn. Knowing them of old through our memories of the Bloodguard, we do not doubt that they will guide us well.”
Nothing in his tone betrayed the nature of his intentions as he added, “When they have come, and have given their consent to your desires, I will slay the croyel.”
At once, a jolt like the touch of a caesure struck the company. Bhapa cried out in protest, and Mahrtiir’s garrote seemed to leap of its own accord into his hands. “Stone and Sea!” roared Coldspray. “Are you mad, Haruchai?” Two other Giants reached for their swords, but did not draw them.
Stillness clogged the air, making it difficult to breathe. Instinctively Linden sprang toward Jeremiah, drawing obsidian like panic from the Staff of Law. Flame gusted into the sky, as stark and black as the Staff itself: a blare of darkness against the heavens. But she did not see it. She saw only Galt’s impassive mien, and the fraught gnashing of the croyel’s fangs, and the ferocity in its acid eyes.
Mahrtiir and the Ironhand called Linden’s name simultaneously. A stunned turmoil gripped the rest of the company. Galt’s fist tightened on the krill. He gripped Jeremiah’s shoulder harder; studied Linden like a man who never blinked. But Stave reached past her power to set his hand like a barrier between her and Galt.
“Withhold, Chosen,” he said sharply. “I will implore you if I must. He is Haruchai, a Master, one of the Humbled. If he chooses death, your power cannot stop his hand.”
“Must,” Anele echoed almost inaudibly. “Cannot.”
Spreading midnight fire like sheet-lightning over the ridgecrest, Linden whirled to confront Covenant.
“Stop him!” she cried in a voice as dark as her flame. “You’ve told them and told them! You’ve supported me ever since I brought you back!” And Esmer had healed Jeremiah’s crumpled toy. Surely that implied some possibility of salvation for her son? “Don’t let him do this!”
Covenant stood unsteadily between Bhapa and Pahni. He did not so much as glance at Linden. Lost in memories, he looked as forlorn as a disturbed grave. The muscles of his jaw knotted and released, knotted and released, like the struggle of his mute heart.
“Linden Avery.” Stave was almost shouting. “Quench your fire. The Unbeliever cannot reply. Were he able to do so, I do not doubt that he would forbid the Humbled. But he cannot. And such stained Earthpower is surely a beacon to every lorewise being who seeks our harm.
“I have said that I will answer Galt. I will do so. But you must end this dire display.”
At last, Linden’s mind seemed to catch up with her actions; her desperation. In spite of the fury pounding in her ears—fury or despair—she understood Stave. Covenant could not respond: not as he was. And she had never meant to oppose any Haruchai with Earthpower or wild magic. Stave’s people were the Land’s friends, if they were not hers.
—your power cannot stop his hand.
Trembling as if she were feverish or freezing, Linden panted, “All right. All right. Answer him. Do it now.”
Every sinew in her body shuddered as she forced herself to swallow her frenzy and her Staff’s fire.
Momentary relief spattered among the Giants, the Ramen. Then it was gone. Even Anele’s blind gaze seemed to follow her as she faced Galt again. Only Jeremiah showed no sign that he was aware of his peril: only Jeremiah and Covenant.
“Speak, Galt,” Stave demanded. “Account for your intent so that your companions may comprehend it. Then hear my reply.”
“I will do so,” Galt repeated. “Betimes others have concealed their purposes. But we are the Humbled, and Masters, and Haruchai. We scorn such conduct.”
To Linden, his every word sounded as heavy as the beat of a dirge.
“Our reasons are many,” he began. “Least among them is that I will not bear this monstrous being upon the back of Bhanoryl, or upon that of any Ranyhyn. All Haruchai honor the Ranyhyn. I will not impose the evil of the croyel upon them.”
Immediately Mahrtiir retorted, “You impose nothing, Master.” His scorn was as harsh as Galt’s. His garrote he held taut between his fists. “The Ranyhyn will bear you and the boy and the monster, or they will not. Their choices are not yours to make.”
Galt ignored the Manethrall. More to the Giants than to Stave, the Ramen, or Linden, he said, “A weightier reason is that my present task fetters me. Against the assault which slew the Stonedownor, I could not act without risking the croyel’s release. I will not again suffer this waste of my strength when every strength is needed.”
As steady as a boulder, Stave replied, “If your impatience surpasses your flawed restraint, cede the krill to me. I will bear the burden in your stead.”
Stave also Galt ignored. “A still greater argument,” he continued like the thud of funereal drums, “is that the boy’s plight cannot be redeemed. That has been demonstrated beyond question. It has been amply witnessed.”
No, Linden insisted. No. But the Humbled did not heed her silent protest.
“Linden Avery’s mad quest for her son has met its irreparable doom. Lacking any good cause, we have endured many bitter hazards in her name, and have gained naught but an increase of sorrow. Now our need for the croyel’s death exceeds the value of the boy’s life. The Unbeliever has commanded us to honor Linden Avery’s wishes. In his present state, we cannot. We must serve according to our avowed Mastery.”
“There your reasoning falters,” Stave pronounced. “You arrogate to yourselves a foresight which you do not possess. One failure does not foretell another. That the Chosen has not found some means to relieve her son does not ordain that she can not or will not. To claim otherwise is to assert certainty concerning events and deeds which have not yet occurred.”
Yes, Linden thought. Please. I’m going to try again. As soon as I think of a way to do it. I just need time.
But still Galt ignored Stave. Now he appeared to speak exclusively to the Giants as if he considered the rest of the company suspect; flawed by their loyalties.
“However, the greatest reason is this. When the time comes to confront our foes, the Unbeliever will require the krill. High Lord Loric invested this blade and this gem with a mighty theurgy. Like my own strength, that theurgy is wasted in its present use. It is wasted utterly, though it will be utterly needed.
“The Unbeliever did not wrest it from its place merely to capture and preserve the boy. He foresaw far graver exigencies, else he would not have surrendered all of Andelain to ravage and ruin. It cannot be his intent that Andelain should perish for the sake of Linden Avery’s irretrievable child.”
To this, the Swordmainnir responded with silence and glowering. Linden felt their anger rise. The set of Rime Coldspray’s jaw seemed to rebuff Galt at every point.
For centuries or millennia, the Masters had rebuffed the Giants—
But if Stave felt any frustration at Galt’s attitude, he did not show it. Instead he continued to answer. Now, however, he spoke so slowly that he seemed to drawl, emphasizing every assertion.
“Then, Humbled,” he said as if he had assumed Covenant’s authority, “you will stay your hand while you await the Unbeliever’s return to himself. Your other persuasions are chaff. They are mere impatience misnamed devotion. But the reason of the Unbeliever’s need has merit. It is incontestable. Yet his absence is also incontestable. He cannot require the krill while he remains as he is. And it is neither honest nor honorable to kill the boy when no purpose is served. It is murder.
“Have the Humbled come to this? Do they commit murder, when the Haruchai have always refused assent to such crimes?”
Now Galt met Stave’s single gaze. Briefly he flexed his fingers on the haft of the krill, eased the pressure of his grip on Jeremiah. When he replied, Linden thought that she heard a subtle discomfiture in his tone.
“It may chance that the touch of the krill will restore the Unbeliever to himself.”
Still slowly, Stave said, “Or it may chance that it will not. Then the son of Linden Avery the Chosen will have been slain, and you will have accomplished nothing, and your vaunted devoir will be made a mockery of itself.”
Linden hung on Stave’s response. Inwardly she burned to hear what Galt would say next.
But he did not reply.
Without warning, he and Stave both stiffened as if they were about to leap at each other’s throats. Then Stave grabbed her arm, snatched her away from Galt and Jeremiah—
—turned her in time to see Clyme launch himself off the crest where he had stood watch.
In his right hand, Clyme gripped a long spear by its shaft. Blood marked the point of the spear and the side of his left shoulder. His tunic there had been rent.
“Ware and ward!” Stave shouted. “We are assailed!”
As Clyme plunged downward, the hilltop of his vantage-point exploded in a blast of heat and fury like brimstone.
Oh, God—!
Around Linden, Giants wrenched their swords from their scabbards. Rime Coldspray gave them no commands: they were Swordmainnir and knew their tasks. Long strides swept them into a defensive arc to protect their smaller companions. Those Giants carrying supplies threw their bundles southward off the ridge. The Ironhand brandished her glaive, loosening her arms and wrists.
As the Giants readied themselves, Stave called, “The Unbeliever’s son brings Cavewights against us! Concealed by some glamour, they eluded Clyme’s senses. Only the spear in its flight forewarned him!”
Linden wanted to protest, They can’t be here. We’re too far from Mount Thunder. But she could not breathe, and had no voice.
Once again, Roger Covenant had caught the company by surprise. Cavewights charging closer should have raised a cloud of dust—unless the air was too still for dust, or the creatures ran entirely on stone. Or Roger’s glamour was so complete that it masked every sign of his coming.
Grimly Manethrall Mahrtiir ordered his Cords to protect Covenant. “Doubtless Branl will aid you! Entrust the Ringthane to Stave, and to me!”
For a moment, Linden saw nothing except Clyme’s pelting haste. The spear was stone, massive and ungainly; yet he carried it with ease. Several hills intervened between him and the ridge, all lower than the crest he had left. He dropped into a valley, then reappeared, still some distance away.
Then she felt a silent shock. With her health-sense rather than her ears, she heard a shredding sound like the rip of claws through fabric. An instant later, her foes became visible as if they had been translated here by some immense magic.
A wave of Cavewights had already broken over the hill where Clyme had stood, scores of them. More poured around the slopes on either side, tall and gangling, with disproportionately long limbs, club-heads, eyes like molten crimson, too much strength. They all wielded weapons: swords as crude as claymores, truncheons like battering-rams, heavy spears, axes chipped from blocks of flint. Like the creatures that had attacked after the destruction of First Woodhelven, they wore slabs of armor fashioned from the benighted stone of Gravin Threndor. And they kept coming, more Cavewights than the rocks of Liand’s cairn; more than Linden had ever seen before: more than enough to sweep even Giants away like debris in a flood.
How—?
Unable to match their pace on his own legs, Roger rode the shoulders of a Cavewight. Glee and triumph distorted his features, effacing any resemblance to his father. His right fist was a blaze of power like deep magma. He seemed to hold the savagery of a dozen skurj in one hand: a piece of Kastenessen’s essential agony and rage.
How had he and the Cavewights come so far in so short a time?
Alone among the Giants, Stormpast Galesend held back. She held her longsword ready in one hand. With the other arm, she cradled Anele’s flinching terror.
“Ironhand!” she yelled through the advancing clamor. “What must I do? The old man hampers me!”
Swiftly Coldspray scanned the company’s formation. She glanced at Linden’s dismay, then turned away, cursing.
“Set him upon the cairn! Its stone will ward him! Against so many, we must trust that he will evade spears!”
Perhaps Anele would draw enough sanity from Liand’s orcrest to duck and dodge.
As Galesend obeyed, the Ironhand snapped at Linden, “We cannot prevail against so many—or against such theurgy! We must have your aid!”
Linden understood. Oh, she understood. Still she felt paralyzed, overtaken by confusion and dread. Kastenessen must have told Roger where she was; where Galt held the croyel. But how had Roger and his Cavewights arrived so soon? As far as she knew, he could not transport himself or anyone else magically without the croyel’s help.
Anele appeared to recognize his peril. He clambered frantically up the boulders until he gained the crown of the cairn. There he searched for a niche or covert between the rocks; a place to hide himself.
Crossing the lower hills toward the base of the ridge, the Cavewights howled like ghouls. Their lust for blood was ancient, especially the blood of Giants. In their own eyes, at least, it was justified. The First of the Search and Pitchwife had done much to prevent the resurrection of Drool Rockworm.
Clyme and Branl reached the gypsum ridge well ahead of the creatures. For an instant, they considered the formation of the Giants, regarded Bhapa and Pahni holding Covenant’s arms, consulted mind to mind with Galt. Then Clyme joined the Swordmainnir. Branl stood between Covenant and the coming onslaught. To the Cords, he said flatly, “Flee with the Unbeliever when you must. He must be preserved.”
“How—?” Linden tried to ask Stave. The question stuck in her throat.
Over his shoulder, Stave told Galt, “Again I offer myself in your place. Acquiescence is preferable to murder. If you would give battle, release the krill to me.”
Without hesitation, Galt answered, “I will not. You will retain it when it is required by the Unbeliever. And you will not slay the croyel, whatever the cost. You will name it preferable to see every defender of the Land butchered.”
Stave looked toward Anele, glanced sidelong at Linden. Then he shrugged. Relaxed and ready, he prepared to defend her.
Her friends needed her. And she would never be able to resurrect Covenant again: not if he fell here. She would have to burn as many Cavewights as she could. She would have to oppose Roger with every scrap of her strength.
In the absence of Kevin’s Dirt, she could be mighty—
Yet her greatest fear was for Jeremiah. It shackled her. She could too easily imagine the fluid motion of Galt’s arm as he pulled the krill across the croyel’s throat—
“How,” she managed to croak, “did they get here so fast?”
“I am uncertain,” Stave told her without apparent curiosity. “However, I speculate that Kastenessen has wielded his strange magicks to aid them. Through Anele, he has become certain of our location. And there is precedent. The attack of the ur-Lord’s son and his Cavewights at First Woodhelven defied mundane forms of travel. The distance from Gravin Threndor was too great, and the Cavewights know little of theurgy. Yet the ur-Lord’s son contrived to strike when we were vulnerable, as we are here.
“If we judge by Esmer’s condition, Kastenessen does not ease the straits of his servants when they have displeased him. Perhaps this accounts for the ur-Lord’s son’s flight on the shoulders of a Cavewight when he had failed against us.”
The cacophony of howling became a kind of ululation, a full-throated demand for killing. In their eagerness, several Cavewights flung their spears. But they had not yet reached the foot of the ridge, and their shafts fell short. Those that struck within reach, the Giants snatched up and returned with startling vehemence.
The company had the advantage of elevation. Roger and his forces would have to fight an uphill battle. Nevertheless half that many Cavewights would have been enough to overwhelm the ridge eventually.
More sharply, Stave urged, “Ready yourself, Chosen.” But she was already too late.
Shouting avidly, Roger hurled a second blast of brimstone and lava. In a frenzy, Linden tried to haul fire from her Staff, impose concentration on her conflicted heart. She could only persuade Galt to stay his hand by driving back the assault: she had no other argument that he would heed. But distress slowed her efforts to summon Earthpower.
Unimpeded, Roger’s fury slammed into the side of the cairn.
Anele!
Heavy stones erupted outward, shattering as they slashed the air. In a welter of rubble and spraying shards, nearly a third of the cairn was torn away. A few smaller fragments pelted the Giants and Clyme; but most of the wreckage carried beyond the company.
Roger had attacked the cairn, the cairn. He was trying to kill Anele. Or destroy the Sunstone.
For the duration of a heartbeat, no more than that, Linden searched the crown of the pile for the old man, her first companion, the hope of the Land. She spotted him almost instantly, crouched and gibbering on the south side of the cairn.
Then she reached far down into herself for Jeremiah’s sake, and for her friends, and brought up a cyclone of flame from the willing wood of the Staff.
Her fire was as black as the shaft itself; as the lightless depths of mountains. And as it gyred into the pale sky, the runes written into the Staff shone like purest silver, articulating Caerroil Wildwood’s ire and grief. Arcane symbols gave their consent.
They made Linden stronger.
Her counterattack was a driving gale that nearly unseated Roger. If he had defended himself with anything less than Kastenessen’s desecrated hand, her outrage and despair would have charred the marrow of his bones. But his magma caught her blow; held it back as if he were equal to every aspect of her.
Bhapa was panting, “Ringthane, Ringthane,” as though she had appalled him. Stave regarded Earthpower transformed to fuligin with a suggestion of chagrin in his eye. Apparently they had not grasped the true scale of her transubstantiation. Liand’s death had completed a change begun in the graveyard of Jeremiah’s mind; an alteration inspired by She Who Must Not Be Named, and by dreams of being carrion, and by Gallows Howe.
Below her, the first Cavewights reached the foot of the ridge. Mad as a rabble, and vicious as kresh, they charged upward, a rising scend of slaughter.
The Ironhand gave them a moment. Then, crying, “Stone and Sea!” she and Frostheart Grueburn and Halewhole Bluntfist sprang to meet the rabid rush.
From the tumult of creatures, spears streaked the air. A few crossed the path of Linden’s black flame and became powder, harmless amid the howling. Stave caught one, used it to deflect another, then threw it back, all in the same motion. Pahni and Bhapa jerked Covenant away from a shaft which would have nailed him to the crumbling gypsum. Branl grabbed two more out of the air. When he returned them, one burst into slivers against the rough armor of its target; but the other took a Cavewight in the throat and sent the creature sprawling backward, sweeping half a dozen more off their feet as it fell.
Coldspray, Grueburn, and Bluntfist did not waste their swords on armor. With wheeling strokes as fatal as Linden’s fire, they hacked at arms and legs, at exposed necks and skulls. Then, as their first assailants fell, tripping Cavewights lower on the slope, the three Swordmainnir allowed themselves to be driven back. Deliberately they retreated to higher ground.
At the same time, Latebirth, Cabledarm, and Onyx Stonemage flung themselves into the battle, protecting their comrades with their own attack. Stonemage had claimed a spear. Now she fought with two weapons, swinging her longsword and jabbing with the spear as though she had spent centuries training to do so.
That quick succession of countering assaults, three and then three, disrupted the initial charge; blunted it. More and more Cavewights stumbled over their fallen. Some lost their footing. Others staggered aside. When Coldspray, Grueburn, and Bluntfist rushed downward again, they drove their foes back.
In the confusion of toppling bodies and spraying blood, the first onslaught of the Cavewights became a rout.
But they were thinking creatures in spite of their bloodlust. Too many of them had tried to attack the company’s position directly. Now they adjusted their tactics. From the rear of the army, scores of Cavewights turned to challenge the ridge in the west, beyond the reach of swords. Others pounded upward in the east, apparently intending to use the remains of the cairn for cover while they massed against the Giants.
Linden saw what they were doing, but she paid no attention. With her whole heart, she sent an unremitting torrent of ebony at Roger. Runes shone like inscribed wild magic as she strove to batter down Roger’s defenses, repay his bitter betrayals; fought to prevent Galt from deciding to kill the croyel.
In Galt’s grasp, the monster yowled encouragement or instructions at Roger and the Cavewights. Froth splashed from its fangs like venom. Despite its desperation and malice, however, it did not dare to press its throat against the krill in order to chew on Jeremiah’s neck.
One-handed, Cirrus Kindwind left her comrades and went to confront the surge of Cavewights in the west. Apparently satisfied by the chaos immediately below him, Clyme joined her. Alone, Stormpast Galesend began to fight her way around the cairn toward the eastern threat. Entrusting Covenant to the Cords, Branl took Clyme’s place among the other Swordmainnir.
A doomed struggle. Only a few score of the Cavewights had attempted the ridge, and more came as if they were numberless. To an extent, the Ironhand’s alternating sallies downward had succeeded. The surface below her was already slick with blood and gore, churned to mud. The creatures climbing there slipped and skidded, rose arduously: they were vulnerable. But to the east and west, throngs of weapons and red eyes gained ground. Soon Coldspray would be forced to send Swordmainnir to support Kindwind and Galesend. Then direct assaults would become more effective.
From his hilltop, Roger seemed to ignore the rest of the battle. Like the Cavewights, however, he changed his tactics. Sitting the shoulders of his mount, he blared magic like scoria at Linden’s black fire until he had formed an angled wall of power that caused her flame to glance away. Then, with the suddenness of a convulsion, he flung eldritch lava at the cairn again.
Roaring, Cirrus Kindwind charged her foes. At her side, Clyme struck hard and deep. Blood ran from cuts on Grueburn’s arms and legs. Latebirth bore similar wounds. Spear-points and blades had scored Coldspray’s cataphract: truncheons smashed the shaped stone away in flakes.
Linden was almost too late to protect the mound that shielded Anele. At the last instant, however, she realized what Roger was doing. Frenzy pounded in her temples as she nudged his bolt aside. It ruptured the far corner of the pile, sent a small rain of boulders and shards onto the Cavewights in the east, but did no serious harm to the stones where Anele cowered.
The old man looked like he was screaming, but Linden heard nothing except the loud rage of the creatures and the vicious sizzle of Roger’s onslaught.
Retreating by increments, Pahni and Bhapa tugged Covenant from side to side to avoid spears and hurled axes, thrown scraps of rock. Even now, he showed no sign that he would ever return from his memories. Nevertheless Linden thought that she felt Galt’s grip tighten on the krill.
With nothing to guide him except his health-sense, Manethrall Mahrtiir suddenly dove headlong down the slope; hit fouled mud and rolled; collided with the legs of Cavewights scrambling for purchase on the slick ridgeside. Instead of trying to hurt single creatures, he twisted among them, kicking at their ankles and knees, fighting beneath the reach of their weapons to knock them off balance. On a slope made treacherous by blood and spilled guts, he was impossibly successful. Below the Ironhand and her comrades, a small swath of Cavewights went down as if he had scythed them from their feet.
He would be dead in moments, suffocated under the weight of falling bodies if no weapon pierced him. While he lived, however, he wrought such turmoil that two of the Swordmainnir were freed to fight elsewhere. Heaving for breath, Latebirth ran to join Cirrus Kindwind and Clyme. Drenched in blood, Bluntfist followed Stormpast Galesend around the cairn.
Nonetheless more and more Cavewights reached the long spine among the hills. Then they no longer had to struggle upward. On gypsum crushed to dust, they gathered from east and west. Only the comparative narrowness of the ridge kept them from over-running the Giants immediately.
With Clyme, Kindwind and Latebirth fought like berserkers. Their great strength and uncounted years of training wrought devastation. But the Cavewights were too many—
Linden could not see Galesend and Bluntfist past the cairn; but she did not doubt that they would soon be overwhelmed.
Branl needed no request to go after the Manethrall. Like a boulder pitched from a rampart, he plunged out of sight into the melee around Mahrtiir.
Stave did not so much as glance at Galt as he moved to take Branl’s place with Coldspray and Stonemage, Grueburn and Cabledarm. Screams and shrieking punctuated the battle-howl of the Cavewights—and still they came.
Inspired by dread for Jeremiah, Linden adjusted her attack on Roger. Instead of opposing him squarely, she lowered her aim. In a flash of black puissance, she incinerated the Cavewight carrying Covenant’s son; reduced the creature to instantaneous ash. And as Roger fell, cursing, in a flurry of limbs, she turned her fire like a scourge against the Cavewights around him. Before he could flounder to his feet, she set ablaze every creature that might have shielded him. When she resumed flailing at him again, he stood alone on his hilltop, an eyot of absolute ferocity above the tide of Cavewights and the carnage.
Cabledarm fell to one knee, an axe embedded in her thigh, with her longsword thrust through the throat of her attacker. Before other creatures could inundate her, Stave wrenched loose the axe and spun among them, delivering hacked limbs and gashed necks on all sides. Snarling in pain, Cabledarm cleared her sword; hobbled to follow Stave with Frostheart Grueburn at her shoulder. Together the two Swordmainnir and the former Master cleared a space at the gore-streaked edge of the ridge.
Into that space climbed Branl with Mahrtiir hanging on his back. The Humbled wore blood as thick as a cloak: cuts covered the Manethrall like fretwork. But they were still alive.
With a word, Coldspray sent Onyx Stonemage to join the fighting beyond the cairn. The Ironhand seemed to wade through blows and bodies, whirling her glaive in a fierce blur, as she labored to support Grueburn and Cabledarm.
In another moment, or perhaps two, they would all be hacked down. Every Giant. Every Haruchai except Galt. Manethrall Mahrtiir. There would be no one left to defend the Cords and Covenant, or Galt and Jeremiah, or Anele, except Linden herself.
Seeing what was about to happen, Bhapa and Pahni began to drag Covenant down the far side of the ridge.
They would not get far.
Surely Galt was ready to slice open the croyel’s throat so that he could carry Loric’s krill into the fight? He would need it. Linden could hardly believe that he had waited so long.
No! she yelled to herself, harsh as vitriol, bitter as the dirt of Gallows Howe. No! I will not allow it!
Screaming the Seven Words, she redoubled her pitch-dark assault on Covenant’s son. Flame as black as the core of an eclipsed sun struck at him from both shod heels of her Staff. Between the iron bands, Caerroil Wildwood’s script flared with unconstrained possibilities. If she could stop Roger, kill him, his Cavewights might falter. Galt might refrain from causing Jeremiah’s death.
But she was the one who faltered. Caught by surprise, her concentration broke when she sensed Anele’s descent from the cairn. In one fist, he held the orcrest blazing as if it were a remedy for possession. His moonstone eyes shone like sunlight, articulating his inheritance of Earthpower.
Anele, don’t!
Already he was exposed to any blow that she failed to intercept. Through the clang of weapons and pain, she heard the iterated refrain of his compulsions.
“Must.”
“Cannot.”
As he worked his way down the last boulders, however, his “Cannot” sank to a whimper. “Must” became a cracked-voiced shout.
Cavewights fought forward from the east and west; closed like the jaws of a trap. More creatures gained the ridge just beyond the reach of Rime Coldspray’s glaive, Grueburn’s and Cabledarm’s longswords. Even with the strong support of Stave and Branl, three Giants were not enough. Weak with wounds, Mahrtiir could no longer stand or struggle. In the west, Kindwind, Latebirth, and Clyme fell back involuntarily. Together Stonemage, Bluntfist, and Galesend appeared around the edge of the cairn, slashing fervidly as they retreated.
None of them were enough.
Linden had no choice: she had to swallow her desire to kill Roger Covenant. She and all of her companions were about die. If Galt slew the croyel now, he would be too late: even the undefined magicks of the krill could not hold back so many assailants. But if he did not, he would be slain himself, and the monster would escape with Jeremiah.
In either case, Covenant would fall soon after the rest of the company.
Raging the Seven Words like curses, Linden turned the black fury of her Staff against the nearest Cavewights. Struck by her force and frenzy, they burst into flame like kindling; staggered away screaming in agony as they perished.
But while she scorched the bones of her immediate assailants, she could do nothing to hinder Roger. He was free at last to strike in any manner that pleased him.
Yet he did not. Instead he withheld his virulence. Standing alone on his hilltop with his hands braced on his hips, he yelled triumph at the battle.
More Cavewights surged closer, and were set afire, and died. The heat of their burning scalded Linden’s eyes. It drove the Giants, Stave, and the two Humbled back to form a final cordon around Linden and Galt, Jeremiah and the croyel. Nevertheless Roger’s army continued to surge through the bonfires of dying creatures. The Ramen and Covenant were given up for lost.
Pure and dazzling as a cynosure of coercion or doom, Anele thrust his way into the center of the cordon.
Through Linden’s torrents of flame, he said distinctly, “It was for this. Sunder my father and Hollian my mother urged me to it, but I have always been conscious of my fate. I live only because I am the Land’s last hope.”
His eyes were the precise hue and brightness of orcrest as he confronted Jeremiah. With both hands, he reached for the sides of Jeremiah’s head. In one, he gripped the Sunstone urgently. The other he held open as though he meant to stroke the boy’s cheek.
Possessed by Kastenessen, he had approached Liand in a similar fashion. Now he was sane. The interaction between the orcrest’s Earthpower and his native magicks warded him.
Terror burned in the croyel’s yellow gaze. Yet Jeremiah did not struggle. He regarded Anele emptily, understanding nothing.
But the old man did not touch the boy. He was interrupted.
Without warning, Esmer plunged out of the sky like a falling meteor.
Covenant had accused him of choosing Kastenessen’s legacy over Cail’s. You are indeed betrayed, Esmer had replied, but not by me.
His arrival shattered Linden’s power. It seemed to stun the nerves of her hands, leaving them numb on the Staff. Nausea writhed in her guts. He was a mass of wounds, rank and suppurating. Odious infections stained the tatters of his cymar, and his mien was anguish. Pain splashed from his eyes like spume. Nevertheless he came bearing concussions which tossed boulders from the cairn, caused upheavals like eruptions in the ridge. Quakes staggered the Giants. Linden nearly fell. Yowling in alarm, Cavewights sprang backward. Anele was flung aside. He collapsed like a bundle of rags on the gypsum.
Screaming, “Havoc!” Esmer strode after the old man. Anele brandished the Sunstone frantically, but he could do nothing. Unanswerable as a hurricane, Esmer raised his arms as if he meant to crack open the heavens; rain down chaos on the Land’s last hope.
As abrupt as Esmer’s coming, a score of ur-viles and Waynhim appeared within the cordon as though they had been incarnated by his vehemence. His hands fisted the sky, ready to hurl ruin. But before he could strike, the loremaster sprang at his arms.
With a jolt of force that seemed to shift the world, the loremaster clamped iron manacles onto Esmer’s wrists; sealed the bands.
In that instant, Linden’s nausea vanished. All of Esmer’s power vanished. The concussions endangering the ridge ceased. Bound together and helpless, his hands fell. They held nothing that could threaten Anele. When he plunged to his knees, he was sobbing.
To Linden, his cries sounded like relief: a release too long desired and denied for words.
In the distance, Roger gave a shriek of rage. At once, he began mustering a blast to shred the flesh of the Swordmainnir, hammer lava into the heart of their last defense.
Cavewights yammered in response. Roger’s fury rallied them. Swinging their weapons, they surged forward.
He would not care how many of them were slain.
But Anele scrambled back to his feet. Brushing past Esmer, he hastened toward Jeremiah again with his eyes and his orcrest as bright as little suns.
Linden felt Roger’s power gather like the force of a volcano. She tasted Anele’s urgency and the croyel’s terror. As if Galt’s hand were etched in the air, she saw their tension on the haft of the krill. Around her, the Giants wheeled for a final effort. At the same time, the Demondim-spawn rushed to form a fighting wedge with their loremaster at its tip. But she could not help them. Everything was happening too quickly. Esmer and manacles. Ur-viles, Waynhim, Anele.—the hope of the Land. Jeremiah passive as a puppet. The massed throng of Cavewights. Roger Covenant.
The krill’s gem began to blaze as Joan poured wild magic through it. In another moment, the blade would grow hot enough to sear Galt’s skin. Joan—or turiya Raver—wanted him to drop the dagger; wanted the croyel set loose.
Linden needed enough sheer force to counter every attack simultaneously, and she did not know how to find it in herself.
She heard combat rage around her; felt the wedge of ur-viles and Waynhim summon their lore in a killing gout of vitriol; sensed Roger’s desperation to attack through too many intervening bodies. But she did not see the hurled axe spinning across the sunlight toward Anele.
Galt saw it. And he was Haruchai: he had time to consider the axe, the press of Cavewights, the company’s vulnerability. He had time to regard the distrusted old man and choose.
Instead of pulling Jeremiah and the croyel to either side—and instead of killing the monster so that he could fight for his companions with Loric’s krill—he spun in place. As swift as thought, he turned his back to the axe without taking Jeremiah beyond Anele’s reach.
Almost that quickly, Anele sprang in front of the boy.
The axe was flint, heavy as a bludgeon. Its jagged blade bit deep into Galt’s back between his shoulder-blades, deep enough to slice through the intransigent rectitude of his heart. Blood and life gushed from the wound, taking with them every pulse of determination. As his dead fingers uncurled, the krill rolled out of his grasp and fell. Then he folded to the ground as though all of his joints had been severed.
For an instant—no more than an instant—the croyel was free.
But its escape came too late; or it had misjudged its opportunity. It still clung to Jeremiah. Rather than flinging itself aside, it pounced at his neck with its fangs, seeking the nameless magicks hidden within him.
Too late. Too slow.
Anele had already pressed his hands and the Sunstone to the sides of Jeremiah’s head. Now he poured his birthright into the boy, using orcrest to channel his long-preserved inheritance into Jeremiah’s vacancy.
As he did so, the orcrest fell to powder in his grasp. It could not endure the forces streaming from it and through it.
Nevertheless it served its purpose.
Immediate Earthpower became a kind of fire in Jeremiah’s veins. It entered him utterly, blossomed in his chest, raced along his limbs, shone out of his skin.
And from the graveyard of his mind and the enduring throb of his heart, the rich essence of health and Law was sucked into the croyel’s mouth.
Belated realization filled the creature’s eyes with horror as its own malign ichor caught flame and burned—
In unison, the croyel and Roger squalled as if they were answering each other; suffering together. Then a conflagration for which the monster was entirely unprepared tore through it like a wildfire through brittle deadwood. On Jeremiah’s back, the succubus burst apart, consumed from within by energies that it could neither contain nor suppress. Gore and viscera sprayed out over the slope, and steamed in the hot sunshine, and did no hurt.
Jeremiah still stood slack-mouthed and dull, as unreactive as a husk. Nevertheless he rather than the croyel was free. The creature which had used and excruciated him had been destroyed.
By Anele, who lay at his feet gasping for breath. In the old man there remained no flicker or pulse of Earthpower to stitch together the rent remnants of his spirit. Yet he was sane at last, and smiling.
Linden wanted to sob like Esmer; wrap Jeremiah in her arms; wail over Anele’s dying body. But she had no time.