The Wounded Land (66 page)

And because, in spite of everything, there were still Giants in the world.

He did not know that he had cried aloud until Hollian touched him. “Ur-Lord. What pains you?”

“Giant!” he cried. “Don’t you know me?” Stumbling he went past Linden to the towering figure. “I’m Thomas Covenant.”

“Thomas Covenant.” The Giant spoke like the murmuring of a mountain. With gentle courtesy, as if he were moved by the sight of Covenant’s tears, he bowed. “The giving of your name honors me. I take you as a friend, though it is strange to meet friends in this fell place. I am Grimmand Honninscrave.” His eyes searched Covenant. “But I am disturbed at your knowledge. It appears that you have known Giants, Giants who did not return to give their tale to their people.”

“No,” Covenant groaned, fighting his tears. Did not return? Could not. They lost their way, and were butchered. “I’ve got so much to tell you.”

“At another time,” rumbled Honninscrave, “I would welcome a long tale, be it however grievous. The Search has been scarce of story. But peril gathers about us. Surely you have beheld the
skest
? By mischance, we have placed our necks in a garrote. The time is one for battle or cunning rather than tales.”

“Skest
?” Sunder asked stiffly over the pain of his ribs. “Do you speak of the acid-creatures, which are like children of burning emerald?”

“Grimmand Honninscrave.” Brinn spoke as if Sunder were not present. “The tale of which the ur-Lord speaks is known among us also. I am Brinn of the
Haruchai
. Of my people, here also are Cail, Stell, Harn, Ceer, and Hergrom. I give you our names in the name of a proud memory.” He met Honninscrave’s gaze. “Giant,” he concluded softly, “you are not alone.”

Covenant ignored both Brinn and Sunder. Involuntarily only half conscious of what he was doing, he reached up to touch the Giant’s hand, verify that Honninscrave was not a figment of silver-shine and grief. But his hands were numb, dead forever. He had to clench himself to choke down his sorrow.

The Giant gazed at him sympathetically. “Surely,” he breathed, “the tale you desire to tell is one of great rue. I will hear it—when the time allows.” Abruptly he turned away. “Brinn of the
Haruchai
, your name and the names of your people honor me. Proper and formal sharing of names and tales is a joy for which we also lack time. In truth, I am not alone.

“Come!” he cried over his shoulder.

At his word, three more Giants detached themselves from the darkness of the trees and came striding forward.

The first to reach his side was a woman. She was starkly beautiful, with hair like fine-spun iron, and stern purpose on her visage. Though she was slimmer than he, and slightly shorter, she was fully caparisoned as a warrior. She wore a corselet and leggings of mail, with greaves on her arms; a helm hung from her belt, a round iron shield from her shoulders. In a scabbard at her side, she bore a broadsword nearly as tall as Covenant.

Honninscrave greeted her deferentially. He told her the names which the company had given him, then said to them, “She is the First of the Search. It is she whom I serve.”

The next Giant had no beard. An old scar like a sword cut lay under both his eyes across the bridge of his nose. But in countenance and apparel he resembled Honninscrave closely. His name was Cable Seadreamer. Like Honninscrave, he was unarmed and carried a large load of supplies.

The fourth figure stood no more than an arm’s reach taller than Covenant. He looked like a cripple. In the middle of his back, his torso folded forward on itself, as if his spine had crumbled, leaving him incapable of upright posture. His limbs were grotesquely muscled, like tree boughs being choked by heavy vines. And his mien, too, was grotesque—eyes and nose misshapen, mouth crookedly placed. The short hair atop his beardless head stood erect as if in shock. But he was grinning, and his gaze seemed quaintly gay and gentle; his ugliness formed a face of immense good cheer.

Honninscrave spoke the deformed Giant’s name: “Pitchwife.”

Pitchwife? Covenant’s old empathy for the destitute and the crippled made him wonder, Doesn’t he even rate two names?

“Pitchwife, in good sooth,” the short Giant replied as if he could read Covenant’s heart. His chuckle sounded like the running of a clear spring. “Other names have I been offered in plenty, but none pleased me half so well.” His eyes sparkled with secret mirth. “Think on it, and you will comprehend.”

“We comprehend.” The First of the Search spoke like annealed iron. “Our need now is for flight or defense.”

Covenant brimmed with questions. He wanted to know where these Giants had come from, why they were here. But the First’s tone brought him back to his peril. In the distance, he caught glimpses of green, a line forming like a noose,

“Flight is doubtful,” Brinn said dispassionately. “The creatures of this pursuit are a great many.”

“The
skest
, yes,” rumbled Honninscrave. “They seek to herd us like cattle.”

“Then,” the First said, “we must prepare to make defense.”

“Wait a minute.” Covenant grasped at his reeling thoughts. “These
skest
. You know them. What do you know about them?”

Honninscrave glanced at the First, then shrugged. “Knowledge is a tenuous matter. We know nothing of this place or of its life. We have heard the speech of these beings. They name themselves
skest
. It is their purpose to gather sacrifices for another being, which they worship. This being they do not name.”

“To us”—Brinn’s tone hinted at repugnance—“it is known as the lurker of the Sarangrave.”

“It is the Sarangrave.” Linden sounded raw, over-wrought. Days of intimate vulnerability had left her febrile and defenseless. “This whole place is alive somehow.”

“But how do you even know that much?” Covenant demanded of Honninscrave. “How can you understand their language?”

“That also,” the Giant responded, “is not knowledge. We possess a gift of tongues, for which we bargained most acutely with the
Elohim
. But what we have heard offers us no present aid.”

Elohim
. Covenant recognized that name. He had first heard it from Foamfollower. But such memories only exacerbated his sense of danger. He had hoped that Honninscrave’s knowledge would provide an escape; but that hope had failed. With a wrench, he pulled himself into focus.

“Defense isn’t going to do you any good either.” He tried to put force into his gaze. “You’ve got to escape.” Foamfollower died because of me. “If you break through the lines, they’ll ignore you. I’m the one they want.” His hands made urging gestures he could not restrain. “Take my friends with you.”

“Covenant!” Linden protested, as if he had announced an intention to commit suicide.

“It appears,” Pitchwife chuckled, “that Thomas Covenant’s knowledge of Giants is not so great as he believes.”

Brinn did not move; his voice held no inflection. “The ur-Lord knows that his life is in the care of the
Haruchai
. We will not leave him. The Giants of old also would not depart a companion in peril. But there is no bond upon you. It would sadden us to see harm come upon you. You must flee.”

“Yes!” Covenant insisted.

Frowning, Honninscrave asked Brinn, “Why does the ur-Lord believe that the
skest
gather against him?”

Briefly Brinn explained that the company knew about the lurker of the Sarangrave.

At once, the First said, “It is decided.” Deftly she unbound her helm from her belt, settled it on her head. “This the Search must witness. We will find a place to make defense.”

Brinn nodded toward the light in the northeast. The First glanced in that direction. “It is good.” At once, she turned on her heel and strode away.

The
Haruchai
promptly tugged Covenant, Linden, and the Stonedownors into motion. Flanked by Honninscrave and Seadreamer, with Pitchwife at their backs, the company followed the First.

Covenant could not resist. He was paralyzed with dread. The lurker knew of him, wanted him; he was doomed to fight or die. But his companions—the Giants—Foamfollower had walked into the agony of Hotash Slay for his sake. They must not—!

If he hurt any of his friends, he felt sure he would go quickly insane.

The
skest
came in pursuit. They thronged out of the depths of the Flat, forming an unbroken wall against escape. The lines on either side tightened steadily. Honninscrave had described it accurately: the questers were being herded toward the light.

Oh, hell!

It blazed up in front of them now, chasing the night with nacre, the color of his ring. He guessed that the water glowed as it did precisely because his ring was present. They were nearing the confluence of the streams. On the left, the jungle retreated up a long hillside, leaving the ground tilted and clear as far ahead as he could see; but the footing was complicated by tangled ground creepers and protruding roots. On the right, the waters formed a lake the length of the hillside. Silver hung like a preternatural vapor above the surface. Thus concentrated, the light gave the surrounding darkness a ghoul-begotten timbre, as if such glowing were the peculiar dirge and lamentation of the accursed. It was altogether lovely and heinous.

A short way along the hillside, the company was blocked by a barrier of
skest
. Viscid green fire ran in close-packed child forms from the water’s edge up the hillside to curve around behind the quest.

The First stopped and scanned the area. “We must cross this water.”

“No!” Linden yelped at once. “We’ll be killed.”

The First cocked a stern eyebrow. “Then it would appear,” she said after a moment of consideration, “that the place of our defense has been chosen for us.”

A deformed silence replied. Pitchwife’s breathing whistled faintly in and out of his cramped lungs. Sunder hugged Hollian against the pain in his chest. The faces of the
Haruchai
looked like death masks. Linden was unraveling visibly toward panic.

Softly, invidiously, the atmosphere began to sweat under the ululation of the lurker.

It mounted like water in Covenant’s throat, scaled slowly upward in volume and pitch. The
skest
poured interminably through the thick scream. Perspiration crawled his skin like formication. Venom beat in him like a fever.

Cable Seadreamer clamped his hands over his ears, then dropped them when he found he could not shut out the howl. A mute snarl bared his teeth.

Calmly as if they felt no need for haste, the
Haruchai
unpacked their few remaining bundles of firewood. They meted out several brands
apiece among themselves, offering the rest to the Giants. Seadreamer glared at the wood uncomprehendingly; but Pitchwife took several faggots and handed the rest to Honninscrave. The wood looked like mere twigs in the Giants’ hands.

Linden’s mouth moved as if she were whimpering; but the yammer and shriek of the lurker smothered every other cry.

The
skest
advanced, as green as corruption.

Defying the sheen of suffocation on his face, Brinn said, “Must we abide this? Let us attempt these
skest
.”

The First looked at him, then looked around her. Without warning, her broadsword leaped into her hands, seemed to ring against the howl as she whirled it about her head. “Stone and Sea!” she coughed—a strangled battle cry.

And Covenant, who had known Giants, responded:

He forced the words through his anoxia and vertigo as he had learned them from Foamfollower.

Though the effort threatened to burst his eyeballs, he spoke so that the First would hear him and understand.

Her eyes searched him narrowly. “You have known Giants indeed,” she rasped. The howling thickened in her throat. “I name you Giantfriend. We are comrades, for good or ill.”

Giantfriend. Covenant almost gagged on the name. The Seareach Giants had given that title to Damelon father of Loric. To Damelon, who had foretold their destruction. But he had no time to protest. The
skest
were coming. He broke into a fit of coughing. Emeralds dizzied him as he struggled for breath. The howl tore at the marrow of his bones. His mind spun. Giantfriend, Damelon, Kevin; names in gyres. Linden Marid venom.

Venomvenomvenom.

Holding brands ready, Brinn and Ceer went out along the edge of the lake to meet the
skest
.

The other
Haruchai
moved the company in that direction.

Sweat running into Pitchwife’s eyes made him wink and squint like a madman. The First gripped her sword in both fists.

Reft by vertigo, Covenant followed only because Hergrom impelled him.

Marid. Fangs.

Leper outcast unclean.

They were near the burning children now. Too near.

Suddenly Seadreamer leaped past Brinn like a berserker to charge the
skest
.

Brinn croaked, “Giant!” and followed.

With one massive foot, Seadreamer stamped down on a creature. It ruptured, squirting acid and flame.

Seadreamer staggered as agony screamed up his leg. His jaws stretched, but no sound came from his throat. In an inchoate flash of perception, Covenant realized that the Giant was mute. Hideously Seadreamer toppled toward the
skest
.

The lurker’s voice bubbled and frothed like the lust of quicksand.

Brinn dropped his brands, caught Seadreamer’s wrist. Planting his strength against the Giant’s weight, he pivoted Seadreamer away from the creatures.

The next instant, Pitchwife reached them. With prodigious ease, the cripple swept his injured comrade onto his shoulders. Pain glared across Seadreamer’s face; but he clung to Pitchwife’s shoulders and let Pitchwife carry him away from the
skest
.

At the same time, Ceer began to strike. He splattered one of the acid-children with a back-handed blow of a brand. Conflagration tore half the wood to splinters. He hurled the remains at the next creature. As this
skest
burst, he was already snatching up another faggot, already striking again.