The Wounded Land (70 page)

The two halted on the bank and faced the company. From somewhere within themselves, they produced modulated squishing noises which sounded eerily like language. Mud talking.

The First and Pitchwife stared, she sternly, he with a light like hilarity in his eyes. But Honninscrave stepped forward and bowed formally. With his lips, he made sounds which approximated those of the clay forms.

In a whisper, Pitchwife informed his companions, “They name themselves the
sur-jheherrin
. They ask if we desire aid against the
skest
. Honninscrave replies that our need is absolute.” The clay creatures spoke again. A look of puzzlement crossed Pitchwife’s face. “The
sur-jheherrin
say that we will be redeemed. ‘In the name of the Pure One,’ ” he added, then shrugged. “I do not comprehend it.”

The
jheherrin
. Covenant staggered inwardly as memories struck him like blows. Oh dear God.

The soft ones. They had lived in the caves and mud pits skirting Foul’s Creche. They had been the Despiser’s failures, the rejected mischances of his breeding dens. He had let them live because the torment of their craven lives amused him.

But he had misjudged them. In spite of their ingrown terror, they had rescued Covenant and Foamfollower from Lord Foul’s minions, had taught Covenant and Foamfollower the secrets of Foul’s Creche, enabling them to reach the thronehall and confront the Despiser. In the name of the Pure One—

The
sur-jheherrin
were clearly descendants of the soft ones. They had been freed from thrall, as their old legend had foretold. But not by Covenant, though he had wielded the power. His mind burned with remembrance; he could hear himself saying, because he had had no choice,
Look at me. I’m not pure. I’m corrupt
. The word
jheherrin
meant “the corrupt.” His reply had stricken the clay creatures with despair. And still they had aided him.

But Foamfollower—The Pure One. Burned clean by the
caamora
of Hotash Slay, he had cast down the Despiser, broken the doom of the
jheherrin
.

And now their inheritors lived in the mud and mire of Sarangrave Flat. Covenant clung to the
sur-jheherrin
with his eyes as if they were an act of grace, the fruit of Foamfollower’s great clean heart, which they still treasured across centuries that had corroded all human memories of the Land.

The acid-creatures continued to advance, oblivious to Vain and the
sur-jheherrin
. The first
skest
were no more than five paces away, radiating dire emerald. Hergrom, Ceer, and Harn stood poised to sacrifice themselves as expensively as possible, though they must have known that even
Haruchai
were futile against so much green vitriol. Their expressionlessness appeared demonic in that light.

The two
sur-jheherrin
speaking with Honninscrave did not move. Yet they fulfilled their offer of aid. Without warning, the muck edging the peninsula began to seethe. Mud rose like a wave leaping shoreward, then resolved into separate forms.
Sur-jheherrin
like stunted apes, misrecollected reptiles, inept dogs. Scores of them came wetly forward, trailing fires which quickly died on their backs. They surged with surprising speed past the
Haruchai
. And more of them followed. Out of mud lit garishly by the lurker’s fire, they arose to defend the company.

The forces met, vitriol and clay pouring bluntly into contact. There was no fighting, no impact of strength or skill.
Skest
and
sur-jheherrin
pitted their essential natures against each other. The
skest
were created to spill green flame over whatever opposed them. But the clay forms absorbed acid and fire. Each
sur-jheherrin
embraced one of the
skest
, drew the acid-creature into itself. For an instant, emerald glazed the mud. Then the green was quenched, and the
sur-jheherrin
moved to another
skest
.

Covenant watched the contest distantly. To his conflicted passions, the battle seemed to have no meaning apart from the
sur-jheherrin
themselves. While his eyes followed the struggle, his ears clinched every word of the dialogue between Honninscrave and the first mud-forms. Honninscrave went on questioning them as if he feared that the outcome of the combat was uncertain, and the survival of the Search might come to depend on what he could learn.

“Honninscrave asks”—Pitchwife continued to translate across the mute conflict—“if so many
skest
may be defeated. The
sur-jheherrin
reply that they are greatly outnumbered. But in the name of the Pure One, they undertake to clear our way from this trap and to aid our flight from the Sarangrave.”

More clay forms climbed from the mud to join the struggle. They were needed. The
sur-jheherrin
were not able to absorb
skest
without
cost. As each creature took in more acid, the green burning within it became stronger, and its clay began to lose shape. Already the leaders were melting like heated wax. With the last of their solidity, they oozed out of the combat and ran down the sides of the peninsula back into the mud.

“Honninscrave asks if the
sur-jheherrin
who depart are mortally harmed. They reply that their suffering is not fatal. As the acid dissipates, their people will be restored.”

Each of the clay forms consumed several of the
skest
before being forced to retreat. Slowly the assault was eaten back, clearing the ground. And more
sur-jheherrin
continued to rise from the mud, replacing those which fled.

Another part of Covenant knew that his arms were clamped over his stomach, that he was rocking himself from side to side, like a sore child. Everything was too vivid. Past and present collided in him: Foamfollower’s agony in Hotash Slay; the despair of the soft ones; innocent men and women slaughtered; Linden helpless in Seadreamer’s arms; fragments of insanity.

Yet he could hear Pitchwife’s murmur as distinctly as a bare nerve. “Honninscrave asks how the
sur-jheherrin
are able to survive so intimately with the lurker. They reply that they are creatures of mire, at home in quicksand and bog and clay bank, and the lurker cannot see them.”

Absorbing their way forward, the
sur-jheherrin
reached Vain, shoved past his thighs. The Demondim-spawn did not glance at them. He remained still, as if time meant nothing to him. The clay forms were halfway to the head of the peninsula.

“Honninscrave asks if the
sur-jheherrin
know this man whom you name Vain. He asks if they were brought to our aid by Vain. They reply that they do not know him. He entered their clay pits to the west, and began journeying at once in this direction, traversing their demesne as if he knew all its ways. Therefore they followed him, seeking an answer to his mystery.” Again Pitchwife seemed puzzled. “Thus he brought them by apparent chance to an awareness that the people of the Pure One were present in Sarangrave Flat—and imperiled. At once, they discarded the question of this Vain and set themselves to answer their ancient debt.”

Back-lit by emeralds, orange mudfire in his face, Vain gazed enigmatically through the company revealing nothing.

Behind him, the
skest
began to falter. Some sense of peril seemed to penetrate their dim minds; instead of oozing continuously toward absorption, they started to retreat. The
sur-jheherrin
advanced more quickly.

Honninscrave made noises with his lips. Pitchwife murmured, “Honninscrave asks the
sur-jheherrin
to speak to him of this Pure One, whom he does not know.”

“No,” the First commanded over her shoulder. “Inquire into such matters at another time. Our way clears before us. The
sur-jheherrin
have offered to aid us from this place. We must choose our path.” She faced Covenant dourly, as if he had given her a dilemma she did not like. “It is my word that the duty of the Search lies westward. What is your reply?”

Seadreamer stood at her side, bearing Linden lightly. His countenance wore a suspense more personal than any mere question of west or east.

Covenant hugged his chest, unable to stop rocking. “No.” His mind was a jumble of shards like a broken stoneware pot, each as sharp-edged and vivid as blame, “You’re wrong.” The Stonedownors stared at him; but
he could not read their faces. He hardly knew who he was. “You need to know about the Pure One.”

The First’s eyes sharpened. “Thomas Covenant,” she rasped, “do not taunt me. The survival and purpose of the Search are in my hands. I must choose swiftly.”

“Then choose.” Suddenly Covenant’s hands became fists, jerking blows at the invulnerable air. “Choose and be ignorant.” His weakness hurt his throat. “I’m talking about a Giant.”

The First winced, as if he had unexpectedly struck her to the heart, She hesitated, glancing past the company to gauge the progress of the
sur-jheherrin
. The head of the peninsula would be clear in moments. To Covenant, she said sternly, “Very well, Giantfriend. Speak to me of this Pure One.”

Giantfriend! Covenant ached. He wanted to hide his face in grief; but the passion of his memories could not be silenced.

“Saltheart Foamfollower. A Giant. The last of the Giants who lived in the Land. They’d lost their way Home.” Foamfollower’s visage shone in front of him. It was Honninscrave’s face. All his Dead were coming back to him. “Every other hope was gone. Foul had the Land in his hands, to crush it. There was nothing left. Except me. And Foamfollower.

“He helped me. He took me to Foul’s Creche, so that I could at least fight, at least make that much restitution, die if I had to. He was burned—” Shuddering he fought to keep his tale in order. “Before we got there, Foul trapped us. We would have been killed. But the
jheherrin—
his ancestors— They rescued us. In the name of the Pure One.

“That was their legend—the hope that kept them sane. They believed that someday somebody pure—somebody who didn’t have Foul’s hands clenched in his soul—would come and free them. If they were worthy. Worthy! They were so tormented. There wasn’t enough weeping in all the world to describe their worth. And I couldn’t—” He choked on his old rage for victims, the preterite and the dispossessed. “I had power, but I wasn’t pure. I was so full of disease and violence—” His hands groped the air, came back empty. “And they still helped us. They thought they had nothing to live for, and they helped—”

His vision of their courage held him silent for a moment. But his friends were waiting; the First was waiting. The
sur-jheherrin
had begun to move off the peninsula, absorbing
skest
. He drove himself to continue.

“But they couldn’t tell us how to get across Hotash Slay. It was lava. We didn’t have any way to get across. Foamfollower—” The Giant had shouted,
‘I am the last of the Giants. I will give my life as I choose
.’ Covenant’s memory of that cry would never be healed. “Foamfollower carried me. He just walked the lava until it sucked him down. Then he threw me to the other side.” His grief resounded in him like a threat of wild magic, unaneled power. “I thought he was dead.”

His eyes burned with recollections of magma. “But he wasn’t dead. He came back. I couldn’t do it alone, couldn’t even get into Foul’s Creche, never mind find the thronehall, save the Land. He came back to help me. Purified. All his hurts seared, all his hate and lust for killing and contempt for himself gone. He gave me what I needed when I didn’t have anything left, gave me joy and laughter and courage. So that I could finish what I had to do without committing another Desecration. Even though it killed him.”

Oh, Foamfollower!

“He was the Pure One. The one who freed the
jheherrin
. Freed the Land. By laughing. A Giant.”

He glared at the company. In the isolation of what he remembered, he was prepared to fight them all for the respect Foamfollower deserved. But his unquenched passion had nowhere to go. Tears reflected orange and green from Honninscrave’s cheeks. Pitchwife’s mien was a clench of sorrow. The First swallowed thickly, fighting for sternness. When she spoke, her words were stiff with the strain of self-mastery,

“I must hear more of the Giants you have known. Thomas Covenant, we will accompany you from this place.”

A spasm of personal misery knotted Seadreamer’s face. The scar under his eyes ached like a protest; but he had no voice.

In silence, Brinn took Covenant’s arm and drew him away toward the end of the peninsula. The company followed. Ahead the
sur-jheherrin
had consumed a passage through the
skest
. Brinn moved swiftly, pulling Covenant at a half-run toward the free night.

When they had passed the
skest
, the
Haruchai
turned eastward.

As the company fled, a screech of rage shivered the darkness, rang savagely across the Sarangrave. But in front of Covenant and Brinn,
sur-jheherrin
appeared, glowing orange and red.

Guided by clay forms, the company began to run.

Five days later, they reached the verge of Sarangrave Flat and broke out of jungle and wetland into the late afternoon of a cloudless sky. The
sur-jheherrin
were unexpectedly swift, and their knowledge of the Flat was intimate; they set a pace Covenant could not have matched. And Sunder and Hollian were in little better condition. Left to their own strength, they would have moved more slowly. Perhaps they would have died.

So for a large portion of each day, the Giants carried them. Seadreamer still bore Linden supine in his arms to protect her leg; but Sunder sat against the First’s back, using her shield as a sling; Hollian straddled Pitchwife’s hunched shoulders; and Covenant rode in the crook of Honninscrave’s elbow. No one protested this arrangement. Covenant was too weary to feel any shame at his need for help. And peril prevented every other form of pride.

At intervals throughout those five days, the air became turgid screams, afflicting the company with an atavistic dread for which there was no anodyne except flight. Four times, they were threatened. Twice, hordes of
skest
appeared out of dark streams and tar-pits; twice, the lurker itself attacked. But, aided by the
sur-jheherrin
and by plentiful supplies of green wood, the
Haruchai
and the Giants were able to repulse the
skest
. And Covenant opposed the lurker with the light of the
krill
, lashing white fire from the unveiled gem until the lurker quailed and fled, yowling insanely.