Against All Things Ending (82 page)

Yet the horses were sensitive to the condition of their drenched riders and companions. Without warning, Narunal veered aside into a breach between the nearest hills, a gap like Bargas Slit or the crooked cut of a plow. When Hyn followed the others, Linden soon found herself in a scallop on one side of the breach; a hollow of comparative shelter formed by the wearing away of softer soil from the hill’s underlying rock. It resembled a scaur in miniature, barely wide and deep enough to hold Linden, Jeremiah, Stave, Mahrtiir, and eight Giants. Still it offered a degree of protection from the blast’s flail.

The Manethrall dismounted; and at once, Narunal cantered away. Khelen did the same after Galesend lifted Jeremiah to the ground. Wearily Linden slipped off Hyn’s back. As her legs took her weight, neglected pain stabbed her shin. Unable to hide her reaction, she flinched.

There was still too much wind, too much cold. Nevertheless she was reluctant to call fire from her Staff. She did not want to be reminded of flames as black and lamentable as the wood. And she did not want to announce the company’s location to any being capable of spotting her power. But she and Mahrtiir needed heat, even if their companions—and Jeremiah, perhaps—did not.

Gritting her teeth so that they would not chatter, Linden summoned flames.

They were as dark as she had feared: an impenetrable ebony like obsidian which had never seen the light of day. Apparently the change in her was permanent. She could do nothing clean.

Nevertheless her fire was
warm
. Its effects remained benign: a tangible relief. Her chills receded in waves like a withdrawing tide. Around her, the Giants opened their arms to her blackness and smiled. After a moment, Mahrtiir’s manner rediscovered its familiar edge, its implied craving for struggle. Only Stave and Jeremiah seemed to derive no comfort from her gentle efforts.

Ignoring her private revulsion, Linden sustained her exertion of Earthpower until every outward sign that her companions had suffered in the storms was eased. When she quenched her flames at last, she found that she, too, felt somewhat eased. Their benevolence was balm to her sore heart. The blackness was in her as it was in the wood, not in the magicks her Staff wielded. In spite of her sins and her despair, she had not tarnished the fundamental vitality of Earthpower and Law.

Not yet—

In any case, the armor of the Giants had absorbed a surprising amount of warmth. It radiated in the hollow, as affectionate as grins and jests. Disregarding the truncated winds, the sodden ground, the promise of a chilled night, Cabledarm and Onyx Stonemage began unpacking food and waterskins. Stormpast Galesend took Jeremiah’s steaming blankets, squeezed out as much water as she could, then draped them around him again.

While Stave set out Linden’s ground-cloth so that she and a few others would have a dry place to sit, she asked him, “So where are we? How far have we come?”

He appeared to consult his store of memories. “These hills have urged us away from Landsdrop toward Sarangrave Flat. I gauge that we rest some three leagues north of the promontory of the Colossus.”

“How close are we to the Sarangrave? Are we in danger?”

Why had Narunal and Hynyn whinnied so urgently during the day, when there were no
caesures
?

Without hesitation, Stave answered, “I estimate the distance at less than a league. However, the Flat’s proximity poses scant peril. In this region, the wetland is extensive but shallow, little more than a marsh sporadically snared with quagmires. The lurker prefers the deeper mire within the heart of the Sarangrave, and in Lifeswallower. Its vast bulk and ferocity require more noisome waters.

“It is conceivable,” he admitted impassively, “that the monstrous wight which the Ardent has named Horrim Carabal is cognizant of our presence. To the certain knowledge of the
Haruchai
, the lurker is avid to devour all Earthpower”—he paused to glance at Mahrtiir—“including that which the Ranyhyn possess. It may crave any form of theurgy. But its hungers do not respond swiftly. The lurker is fearsome and fatal, but first it is slow, suggesting that its attention must be drawn to Earthpower from a considerable distance or depth.

“Perhaps the lurker has noted your son’s passage. Perhaps it is able to discern the Ranyhyn. Perhaps it has sensed your use of the Staff. Nevertheless its reach is not known to extend beyond the bounds of the Sarangrave.”

“I am content,” the Manethrall announced when Linden did not speak again. “The appetite of the lurker for the Ranyhyn is familiar to us. It elicits a distress among the great horses which other hazards do not. Plainly some alarm troubled them during the day. Yet no
caesure
appeared. Therefore I am inclined to believe that they were disturbed by the scent of the lurker.

“Here, however, their spirits are resigned. For that reason, I likewise deem that there is no present peril.”

“Then we will eat and rest while we may,” said the Ironhand. “Linden Giantfriend’s benisons have renewed our hearts. And no Giant born is fool enough to refuse viands and ease. Nor do we scorn slumber. Many are the storms through which we have slept, at sea and elsewhere. Indeed, Frostheart Grueburn did so in the toils of the Soulbiter”—she nudged her comrade while Latebirth, Halewhole Bluntfist, and Cirrus Kindwind chuckled—“though others aboard Dire’s Vessel remained watchful, chary of horrors. Guarded by the valor and vigilance of the Ranyhyn, we fear nothing.”

Sighing, Coldspray sank down to sit in her warmed cataphract against the wall of the small space. Other Swordmainnir did the same. But Linden fretted over concerns that did not involve the lurker. The insistence of the Ranyhyn on taking the company farther into this region of wars and slaughter and evil appeared to confirm Stave’s guess that the horses were intent on satisfying her
need for death
. Hers, or Jeremiah’s.

For her son’s sake, she prayed that the need was hers. Nevertheless she feared it. She was sick of killing, morally nauseated, and had no cure. Her leg did not hurt enough.

God, she wished that Hyn had not interrupted her cutting. Shame was the wrong kind of pain.

A
s twilight and then darkness thickened like murk over the Lower Land, Linden and her friends ate as much of their dwindling supplies as they could spare. Chewing on her lip, Linden drew more ebon fire from her Staff and used it to heat the stone of the scant shelter. Then the Giants stretched out as best they could. Gradually they drifted to sleep.

Mahrtiir sat on the ground-cloth with Linden, apparently determined to wait with her until she allowed herself to rest. But she kept herself awake by galling her cuts with the damp fabric of her jeans, pretending to massage them; and after a time, the Manethrall began to doze. Then only Stave remained to share her watchfulness and her fears.

Soon the night grew so deep that she could not see the far wall of the breach. Lulled by the warmed stone, she felt her attention fraying. She had not slept the previous night, and her cut shin did not hurt enough to sustain her. Before Stormpast Galesend went to sleep herself, she had wrapped Jeremiah in his blankets—again—and laid him carefully on the ground-cloth between Linden and Mahrtiir. If the boy’s eyes had closed, Linden’s might have done the same. But he stared upward, gazing at nothing as though he had outlived his need for rest or dreams.

Linden watched him like a mother with a sick child. More and more, the stained tint of his eyes seemed to resemble the milky hue of Anele’s blindness. Jeremiah’s new Earthpower had done nothing to relieve his dissociation. Instead it appeared to emphasize the silt that defined his sight, as if the ramifications of Anele’s gift had driven him deeper into his graves.

For a time, anxiety kept Linden alert in spite of her weariness.

Eventually, however, her concentration faded. She was helpless to stop it. By degrees, her thoughts became so vague that she did not recognize Hynyn’s stentorian call until she felt Stave slip silently out of the hollow.

Inchoately alarmed, she jerked up her head, slapped at her cheeks. After an instant’s hesitation, she took up the Staff and ground one iron heel against the cuts in her shin and calf until she broke them open; drew fresh blood.

After a few moments, Stave returned. Touching Mahrtiir’s shoulder, he said softly, “Manethrall.” Then he nudged the Ironhand’s armor with one foot, spoke her name more loudly.

Linden struggled to her feet. “What is it?”

At the same time, Mahrtiir came instantly awake; surged upright. Coldspray shook her head as if she were scattering dreams, rubbed her face vigorously to dispel them.

Without preamble or inflection, Stave announced quietly, “We are approached. The Ranyhyn have departed.”

Simultaneously Linden said, “Approached?” the Manethrall demanded, “Departed?” and Coldspray asked, “What comes?”

Before Linden could insist on an answer, Mahrtiir stated harshly, “The Ranyhyn do not flee any peril.”

“They flee no peril,” Stave countered, “except that of the lurker.”

The lurker? Linden thought, scrambling to understand. Here? But you said—

The Manethrall’s whole body seemed to blaze with anger, but he did not contradict Stave.

“Swordmainnir!” Coldspray barked to her comrades. “We are needed!” Then she confronted Stave. “I await your explanation, Stave of the
Haruchai
.”

As the other Giants lurched awake and began to rise, Stave shrugged. “Whether we are threatened is beyond my discernment. I do not sense the lurker’s presence. I am certain only that the Ranyhyn no longer watch over us, and that a small throng of wights approaches from the direction of the Sarangrave.

“However,” he added, “these creatures are not entirely unknown. Upon occasion in more recent centuries, such wights have been observed by Masters who chanced to be scouting the boundaries of Sarangrave Flat.

“They appear to roam freely among the fens and quags, singly or in sparse groups. They are man-shaped, short of stature, and hairless, with large eyes well formed for vision in darkness. Within sight of the Masters, they have not heretofore wandered beyond the waters of the Flat. Observed, they have betrayed no awareness of their observers.

“And there is this—” Stave paused; almost seemed to hesitate. “To the Masters, they have evinced no theurgy or other puissance. Indeed, they have appeared altogether harmless. Yet those that now draw nigh hold in their hands a green flame like unto the emerald hue of the
skest
. In some fashion, this fire sustains their emergence from their wonted habitation.”

Linden scrambled—and could not catch up. She felt stupid with sleeplessness. What was Stave saying? He had not seen any indication of the lurker. But the Ranyhyn feared it: Mahrtiir had not denied that. And the horses were gone.

“My God,” she breathed, hardly aware that she spoke aloud. “Are those things
minions
? Servants of the lurker?”

Millennia ago, the
skest
had served the ancient monster. Horrim Carabal? Those creatures of living acid had tried to herd Covenant and Linden, Sunder and Hollian, and a small party of
Haruchai
into the lurker’s snare. Their quest for the One Tree would have died there, if Covenant had not risked his life to wound the lurker with Loric’s
krill
and wild magic. And if he, Linden, and their companions had not encountered Giants: the Giants of the Search. And if the
skest
had not been opposed by creatures called the
sur-jheherrin
.

Now the
skest
cared for Joan. They had tended Jeremiah.

How many of them were there?

They did not match Stave’s description.

Again the former Master shrugged. “Chosen, I know not. I cannot discern their intent, for good or ill. I am confident only that our presence has been marked. Now we are sought.”

The Ranyhyn had abandoned their riders.

Oh, hell! Without Hyn—Given room to move, the Giants could survive any force that resembled the
skest
. But without Hyn and Hynyn, Narunal and Khelen—

God, please. Not more killing.

While the Ironhand’s comrades chafed wakefulness into their cheeks, and donned their cataphracts, Coldspray commanded, “At once, Swordmainnir. We are too easily contained where we stand. Come boon or bane, we must meet it upon open ground.”

“Aye,” Stormpast Galesend agreed. “We hear you.” Scooping up Jeremiah, she cradled him in one arm; kept the other free to wield her sword.

“Hear, indeed,” growled Frostheart Grueburn, grinning. “When the Ironhand speaks in such dulcet tones, she is heard by the Lower Land entire.”

As if Coldspray had slapped at her, Grueburn ducked. Then she drew her longsword and ran from the hollow, heading toward the place where the company had first entered among the hills.

Halewhole Bluntfist and Cabledarm followed immediately. The other Swordmainnir arrayed themselves like an escort around their smaller companions. With the Ironhand in the lead, Linden and her friends went after Cabledarm.

Sheltered by the breach, Linden had forgotten the full force of the wind. In the lowland between this line of hills and the next, however, icy air struck her like the rush of a flood. She felt pummeled and tossed as if she had fallen into a torrent. Even in darkness, she would have seen or felt her breath steaming, condensed to frost, if the wind had not torn it away.