The Runes of the Earth: The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant - Book One (38 page)

Now,
Linden thought,
now,
and as she came to readiness her last doubts slipped away. Anele might be a demented old man, but he had known Sunder and Hollian, whom she had loved. If this were madness, she preferred it to sanity.

In some sense, the last remnant of the One Forest had restored to Sunder his wife and unborn son.

Holding Anele's blind gaze as the stone held his mind, she reached into herself for argence—

—and could not find it.

Covenant's ring hung inert against her sternum; uninvoked. Though her entire being cried out in mute and sudden anguish, she felt no power anywhere within her. Three times before, Covenant's vast fire had answered her needs. Yet now, with Anele's life, and Stave's, and Liand's in her hands, her desperation called up no response from the hard metal.

The exertion of wild magic had never been a conscious choice for her. Without the guidance of her health-sense, she did not know how to transcend the constraints of her thinking mind.

Before her dismay could find its voice, however, a concussion like the shattering of tremendous bones shook the rift, and a blackness more fathomless than ebony and midnight blossomed between the cliffs. It had the force of a great conflagration: in spite of its blackness, it shed illumination like flame, silent and blazing, and as ruddy as magma.

At the first touch of the blast, she feared that the storm which had threatened Mithil Stonedown had found her; that ruin had begun to thunder down. For an instant, all of the cleft around her shone, etched out of shadows until every bulge and edge and
cranny seemed to blaze with fire. Stave and Liand and even Somo stood erect in the blare of heat and flame as if they had been transformed.

At once, the advance of the
kresh
collapsed onto itself in bestial panic. Taken unprepared, momentarily blinded, they flinched and shied away, stumbled under each other's paws, wedged themselves between rocks. Terrified, they lashed out with fangs and claws, trying to drive back the strange violence which had fallen upon them.

Then the red light was quenched, and darkness swept back down the rift, redoubled by the sudden cessation of fire. The wolves might have vanished: only a tumult of snarls, yelping, and fear remained to define their presence.

Holding her breath, Linden braced herself on Anele's voice and waited to regain her sight.

“They loved me dearly,” he insisted as if he were deaf to the
kresh,
blind to fear, “Sunder and Hollian. They shared with me the glory and loveliness of the Land, which they made new from the devastations of the Sunbane.”

Gradually the sky's afternoon glow macerated the darkness.

“When I came to manhood, they taught me all that they had learned of the Law and the Staff.”

First one and then another, the
kresh
took form from the shadows.

“It was always their purpose that I should inherit their task when they had grown old and weary, and they taught me with all their hearts.”

Then a shudder seemed to run through the pack. Between one heartbeat and the next, the wolves reclaimed the scent of their prey.

“Also they had learned much from the
Haruchai,
and from the far-sojourning Giants, and this as well they granted to me as my birthright.”

Hurtling up from the rocks, the leading
kresh
launched themselves in pursuit again.

Now Linden knew that she was powerless. Her hope of wild magic had failed her: she had no time to learn its use. But she also knew that she and her companions were no longer alone. She had recognized the force of that concussion. Earlier a similar force had enabled her to escape from the Masters, and had damaged only empty homes.

Some lore-wise being or beings had fired this blackness to delay the hunt. So that help could reach her—?

Without warning, men and women appeared among the stones as if they had reshaped themselves like
Elohim
from within the granite itself.

“Alas for the Land!” groaned Anele softly. His past gripped him, and he regarded nothing else. “Loving me as they did, my parents did not understand that I had learned to be astonished.”

Ten of them, or more: as many as twenty? Men and women, short, slim, with swift lines to their limbs and dark hair sweeping like wings about their heads. Some of them stood between Linden's companions and the pack: others rose up among the wolves.

Knotted in their hands they held lengths of thin rope like garrotes.

Tears streamed from Anele's eyes. “Returned to life in Andelain, I was born of flesh and Earthpower.”

They were too small. None of them stood more than three hand spans taller than the
kresh;
and the wolves carried more weight. Bits of rope could not master fangs and claws: fewer than twenty men and women could not oppose so many of the great beasts. Yet the newcomers attacked without hesitation.

“I knew my nature, for my own strength answered to the strength of the Staff, and all the Land sang to me of its vitality and grandeur.”

Liquid with swiftness and precision, each man and woman flipped rope around the neck of a wolf, then leaped past it. Linden expected to see the
kresh
shrug off their assailants. But the newcomers used the wolves' bulk and momentum to augment their own. Some of the beasts went down, writhing against strangulation. Others heard their own necks snap as they died.

“Nevertheless I had been astonished beyond bearing, amazed to the core of my spirit.”

Again the rush of the pack collapsed in turmoil. Wolves collided with each other in their frenzy to rend their assailants. They sprang to attack, and their jaws closed on fur rather than human flesh. All of the men and women disappeared under a thrashing chaos of wolves—

“I knew beyond doubt or appeal that I could not equal the example of my parents.”

—and reemerged riding the backs of
kresh,
their garrotes cutting into the necks of their ravening mounts.

“Though I labored at emulation eternally, I would never rise to the greatness of their deeds.”

Linden wanted to shout Stave's name. Neither he nor Liand had moved. Liand's inexperience might have done more harm than good; but Stave, at least, should have joined the newcomers. He was
Haruchai:
surely he could have slain wolves with his bare hands?

“And in time I grew to understand that I required a different path.”

Instead, however, the Master turned away. Striding up the exposed gutrock, he approached Linden. “Beware, Chosen!” he called through the struggle of fangs and ropes. “The evil has been roused. We are assailed!”

With one hand, he pointed up the rift behind her.

Behind
her?

“The wolves—!” she protested. In moments, her unexpected defenders would all be dead.
Kresh
would surge past the fallen to leap on Liand and Somo.

Nevertheless Stave's manner compelled her. Releasing Anele, she looked back over her shoulder.

At once, the old man fell silent. Perhaps he had recognized this new threat, in spite of his blindness. Or perhaps he could not speak without Linden's attention to anchor him.

Down the broken slope like a wave of dark chrism flowed a compact wedge of black forms, barking to each other in guttural voices.

They resembled creatures she had once known, the Waynhim that had defended Covenant's quest amid the ice and cold of the Northron Climbs. Like the Waynhim, these beings had long, hairless torsos and short limbs, better formed for running on all fours than for walking upright. Pointed ears perched atop their bald heads. And they had no eyes. Instead moist gaping nostrils filled their faces above the cruel slits of their mouths.

But these creatures were much larger than the Waynhim. Their skin was an unilluminable black, the color of obsidian and murder. And they carried knives of bitter iron: knives like fangs, with bloodred blades which seethed like vitriol.

Their wedge seemed to concentrate their power. The creature at its tip held a short iron staff, almost a scepter, pointed like a spike at one end. With this instrument the leading creature could wield the force of the whole formation.

The scepter seemed to splash acid over the rocks as the wedge swept downward. Its power hit hard against Linden's last percipience; struck sparks into the sudden tinder of her fear.

“Urviles!” Stave told her firmly. “The old evil. Against their might we cannot stand. Only wild magic may ward us.

“You must strike down the loremaster. There”—he pointed again—“at the focus of the wedge. Otherwise we perish, and the Ramen with us.”

Ramen—? she wondered dumbly. Had she heard that name before?

She had seen ur-viles: she recognized them now. Long ago, they had turned against Lord Foul and been punished by the Sunbane. With Sunder and Hollian, she and Covenant had been attacked by a horde of them made monstrous and insane. They had caused Hollian's death. Indirectly, they were responsible for her resurrection—and Anele's.

Yet these creatures were not monstrous. Dire though they seemed, they remained themselves: nothing had twisted their given nature.

“I thought they were dead,” she panted. Surely Lord Foul had destroyed them all? They had betrayed him by creating Vain.

“As we did,” Stave replied. “We cannot account for them. We know only that they are Demondim-spawn, servants of Corruption.

“Chosen, you must strike at them while you may.”

Like Anele—if the old man spoke the truth—they did not belong here. Somehow they had appeared out of time.

“I can't!” she countered urgently. “I don't know how.”

Who else could have produced the black concussion which had cast the
kresh
into confusion?

Before Stave could protest, a woman came swiftly toward them over the rock. Like the human fighters—the Ramen?—she seemed to emerge from within the stones. She, too, was slim and lithe, ready for quickness, with long black hair and dark skin, and clad in leggings of leather and a snug leather jerkin. But she wore her hair tied back with a length of rope: her garrote. About her neck hung a small band of yellow flowers.

“The Ringthane's power is not needed, sleepless one.” Her voice sounded like nickering. “The ur-viles will not harm you.”

Stave stared at her for an instant, then bowed as if she had appeared out of legends to greet him. “Manethrall.” He sounded stiff, like a man deliberately withholding wonder. “This cannot be. Ur-viles are evil, and the Ramen do not serve Corruption.”

The woman did not return his bow. “Nevertheless,” she retorted. “They will harm none of you.”

“Stave!” Liand shouted frantically. “They come!”

Below the Stonedownor, the Ramen fought fiercely, fluidly. And they seemed improbably successful. Some of them must have fallen by now, bitten and torn. Yet they continued to disrupt the pack's course, ten or more of them: rearing up from the struggle, leaping past teeth and claws; wielding their ropes to dislocate limbs, break necks, crush windpipes.

But they could only hamper the
kresh,
not halt them. Already wolves had broken from the melee to pelt upward.

Toward Liand and Somo.

The first of them sprang for Liand's chest. At the last instant, he stepped aside. As the wolf passed him, he ripped both of his knives underhand through its belly. It crashed to the stone, screaming at its wounds.

Before he could recover, another beast charged. Two more went for the mustang's throat.

Liand fell, overborne by the wolf's impact. Together they rolled and thrashed on the stone.

Bounding downward, the woman whom Stave had called Manethrall flipped the rope from her hair and in the same motion looped it around the neck of Liand's attacker. Her momentum carried her over the
kresh
; wrenched the beast aside.

At the same time, another Raman sped to Somo's aid. Jumping onto one wolf's back, the man bunched himself and leaped to plunge down onto the spine of another. Bones broke with a sickening crunch. The man rolled free while the
kresh
collapsed, groveling helplessly.

Wheeling, Somo lashed out with its hooves to crush the other wolf's skull.

Still the wedge of ur-viles poured downward, barking in cadence like an incantation. Power flared and spat from their glowing blades. In another heartbeat, they would reach the plane of native stone which had snared Anele in his memories.

Linden stared at them. They will harm none of you. She believed the Manethrall. Yet the force which she felt from the ur-viles was harm incarnate: it had been devised for death.

Covenant had told her of such creatures—and of butchery in Andelain—

Grimly she held herself back, though her knuckles were white with fear, and the raw din of fighting
kresh
filled her head. She could see now that the wedge was not aimed at her.

The woman who had spoken to her trusted ur-viles.

And Stave must have trusted the Ramen. Instead of urging Linden to power, he followed the Manethrall into battle; met the brunt of the attack with his imponderable strength and skill.