Thomas Covenant 03: Power That Preserves (19 page)

Covenant struggled for breath in the bloody air of the Stonedown. The sight of Foamfollower triggered a reaction he could not control. “Get your people together,” he rasped at Triock. “I’ve decided what I’m going to do.”

The hardness of Triock’s mouth did not relent, but his eyes softened as he searched Covenant’s gaze. “Such choices can wait a little longer,” he replied stiffly. “We have other duties. We must cleanse Mithil Stonedown—rid our homes of this stain.” Then he turned and walked away.

Soon all the people who were whole or strong enough were at work. First they buried their fallen friends and kindred in honorable rocky cairns high in the eastern slopes of the valley. And when that grim task was done, they gathered together all the creature corpses and carted this hacked and broken rubble downriver across the bridge to the west bank of the Mithil. There they built a pyre like a huge warning blaze to any marauders in the South Plains and burned the dead creatures until even the bones were reduced to white ash. Then they returned to the Stonedown. With clean snow, they scrubbed it from rim to center until all the blood and gore had been washed from the houses and swept from the ground of the village.

Covenant did not help them. After his recent exertions, he was too weak for such labor. But he felt cold, upright, and passionate, ballasted by the new granite of his purpose. He went with Lena, Slen, and the Circle of elders to the banks of the river, and there helped treat the injuries of the Stonedownors. He cleaned and bound wounds, removed slivers of broken weapons, amputated mangled fingers and toes. When even the elders faltered, he took the blue-hot blade and used it to clean the sores which covered Foamfollower’s chest and back. His fingers trembled at the task, and his halfhand slipped on the knife’s handle, but he pressed fire into the Giant’s oaken muscles until all the sucker wounds had been seared.

Foamfollower took a deep breath that shuddered with pain, and said, “Thank you, my friend. That is a grateful fire. You have made it somewhat like the
caamora
.” But Covenant threw down the blade without answering, and went to plunge his shaking hands into the icy waters of the Mithil. All the while, a deep rage mounted within him, grew up his soul like slow vines reaching toward savagery.

Later when all the wounded had been given treatment, Slen and the elders cooked a meal for the whole village. Sitting in the new cleanliness of the open center, the people ate hot savory stew with unleavened bread, cheese, and dried fruit. Covenant joined them. Throughout the meal, Lena tended him like a servant. But he kept his eyes down, stared at the ground to avoid her face and all other faces; he did not wish to be distracted from the process taking place within him. With cold determination, he ate every scrap of food offered to him. He needed nourishment for his purpose.

After the meal, Triock made new arrangements for the protection of the Stonedown. He sent scouts back out to the Plains, designed tentative plans against another attack, asked for volunteers to carry word of the rock-destroying creatures to the Stonedown’s nearest neighbors, thirty leagues away. Then at last he turned to the matter of Covenant’s decision.

Yeurquin and Quirrel sat down on either side of Triock as he faced the village. Before he began, he glanced at Foamfollower, who stood nearby. Obliquely Covenant observed that in the place of his ruined jerkin Foamfollower now wore an armless sheepskin cloak. It did not close across his chest, but it covered his shoulders and back like a vest. He nodded in response to Triock’s mute question, and Triock said, “Well, then. Let us delay no longer.” In a rough, sardonic tone, he added, “We have had rest enough.

“My friends, here is ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder. For good or ill, the Giant and I have brought him to the Land. You know the lore which has been abroad in the Land since that day seven and forty years ago when the Unbeliever first came to Mithil Stonedown from Kevin’s Watch. You see that he comes in the semblance of Berek Halfhand, Heartthew and Lord-Fatherer, and bears with him the talisman of the wild magic which destroys peace. You have heard the ancient song:

And with the one word of truth or treachery,
he will save or damn the Earth
because he is mad and sane,
cold and passionate,
lost and found.

He is among us now so that he may fulfill all his prophecies.

“My friends, a blessing in the apparel of disease may still right wrongs. And treachers in any other garb remain accursed. I know not whether we have wrought life or death for the Land in this matter. But many brave hearts have held hope in the name of the Unbeliever. The Lorewardens of the Loresraat saw omens of good in the darkest deeds which cling to Covenant’s name. And it was said among them that High Lord Mhoram does not falter in his trust. Each of you must choose your own faith. I choose to support the High Lord’s trust.”

“I, also,” said Foamfollower quietly. “I have known both Mhoram son of Variol and Thomas Covenant.”

Omens, hell! Covenant muttered to himself. Rape and betrayal. He sensed that Lena was gathering herself to make some kind of avowal. To prevent her, he pushed glaring to his feet. “That’s not all,” he grated. “Tamarantha and Prothall and Mhoram and who knows how many others thought that I was chosen for this by the Creator or whoever’s responsible in the end. Take consolation in that if you can. Never mind that it’s just another way of saying I chose myself. The idea itself isn’t so crazy. Creators are the most helpless people alive. They have to work through insufferable—they have to work through tools as blunt and misbegotten and useless as myself. Believe me, it’s easier just to burn the world down, reduce it to innocent or clean or at least dead ash. Which may be what I’m doing. How else could I—?”

With an effort, he stopped himself. He had already iterated often enough the fundamental unbelief with which he viewed the Land; he had no reason to repeat that it was a delusion spawned by his abysmal incapacity for life. He had gone beyond the need for such assertions. Now he had to face their consequences. To begin, he broached a tangent of what was in his heart. “Did any of you see a break in the clouds—sometime—maybe a couple nights ago?”

Triock stiffened. “We saw,” he said gruffly.

“Did you see the moon?”

“It was full.”

“It was green!” Covenant spat. His vehemence cracked his swollen lip, and a trickle of blood started down his chin. He scrubbed the blood away with his numb fingers, steadied himself on the stone visage of his purpose. Ignoring the stares of the Stonedownors, he went on, “Never mind. Never mind that. Listen. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. I’ll tell you what you’re going to do.”

He met Triock’s gaze. Triock’s lips were white with tension, but his eyes crouched in their sockets as if they ached to flinch away from what they beheld. Covenant scowled into them. “You’re going to find some way to let Mhoram know I’m here.”

For an instant, Triock gaped involuntarily. Then he drew himself up as if he were about to start yelling at Covenant. Seeing this, Foamfollower interposed, “Ur-Lord, do you know what you ask? Revelstone is three hundred leagues distant. In the best of times, even a Giant could not gain the high halls of Lord’s Keep in less than fifteen days.”

“And the Plains are a swarm with marauders!” barked Triock. “From here to the joining of the Black and Mithil rivers, a strong band might fight and dodge its way in twenty days. But beyond—in the Center Plains—are the fell legions of the Gray Slayer. All the Land from Andelain to the Last Hills is under their dominion. With twenty thousand warriors, I could not battle my way even to the Soulsease River in twice or ten times fifty days.”

Covenant began, “I don’t give a bloody damn what—”

Flatly Quirrel interrupted him. “Further you must not call upon the Ranyhyn for aid. The creatures of the Gray Slayer prize Ranyhyn-flesh. The Ranyhyn would be taken and eaten.”

“I don’t care!” Covenant fumed. “It doesn’t matter what you think is possible or impossible. Everything here is impossible. If we don’t start doing the impossible now, it’ll be too late. And Mhoram has got to know.”

“Why?” Anger still crackled in Triock’s voice, but he was watching Covenant closely now, scrutinizing him as if he could see something malignant growing behind Covenant’s belligerence.

Under Triock’s gaze, Covenant felt too ashamed to admit that he had already refused a summons from Mhoram. He could taste the outrage with which all the Stonedownors would greet such a confession. Instead he replied, “Because it will make a difference to him. If he knows where I am—if he knows what I’m doing—it’ll make a difference. He’ll know what to do.”

“What can he do? Revelstone is besieged by an army as unanswerable as the Desert. High Lord Mhoram and all the Council are prisoners in Lord’s Keep. We are less helpless than they.”

“Triock, you’re making a big mistake if you ever assume that Mhoram is helpless.”

“The Unbeliever speaks truly,” Foamfollower said. “The son of Variol is a man of many resources. Much that may appear impossible is possible for him.”

At this Triock looked at his hands, then nodded sharply. “I hear you. The High Lord must be told. But still I know not how such a thing may be accomplished. Much which may appear possible to Giants and white gold wielders is impossible for me.”

“You’ve got one of those
lomillialor
rods,” rasped Covenant. “They were made for communication.”

Triock growled in exasperation. “I have told you that I lack the lore for such work. I did not study the speaking of messages in the Loresraat.”

“Then learn. By hell! Did you expect it to be easy? Learn!” Covenant knew how unfairly he was treating Triock, but the exigency of his purpose countenanced neither consideration nor failure.

For a long moment, Triock glared miserably at Covenant, and his hands twitched with anger and helplessness. But then Quirrel whispered to him, and his eyes widened hopefully. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “Perhaps it may be done.” He made an effort to steady himself, forced a measure of calmness into his face. “It is said”—he swallowed thickly—“it is said that an Unfettered One lives in the mountains which protect the South Plains from Garroting Deep. Uncertain word of such a One has been whispered among the southron villages for—many years. It is said that he studies the slow breathing of the mountains—or that he gazes constantly across Garroting Deep in contemplation of
Melenkurion
Skyweir—or that he lives in a high place to learn the language of the wind. If such a One lives—if he may be found—perhaps he can make use of the High Wood as I cannot.”

A rustle of excitement ran through the circle at this idea. Triock took a deep breath and nodded to his companions. “I will make this attempt.” Then a sardonic hue colored his voice. “If it also goes astray, I will at least know that I have striven to fulfill your choices.

“Unbeliever, what word shall I send to High Lord Mhoram and the Council of Revelstone?”

Covenant looked away, raised his face to the leaden sky. Snow had started to fall in the valley; a scattering of flakes drifted on the breeze like instants of mist, dimming the day even further. They had an early look about them, as if they presaged a heavy fall. For a moment, Covenant watched them tumble through the Stonedown. He was acutely conscious of Triock’s question. It confronted him starkly, challenged the untried mettle of his purpose. And he feared to answer it. He feared to hear himself say things which were so insane. When he returned his gaze to the waiting Stonedownors, he replied obliquely, seeking fuel for his courage.

“Foamfollower, what happened to your people?”

“My friend?”

“Tell me what happened to the Giants.”

Foamfollower squirmed at Covenant’s scowl. “Ah, ur-Lord, there is no need for such stories now. They are long in the telling, and would better suit another time. The present is full.”

“Tell me!” Covenant hissed. “Bloody hell, Foamfollower! I want to know it all! I need—everything, every damned despicable thing that Foul—”

Without warning, Triock interrupted him. “The Giants have returned to their Home beyond the Sunbirth Sea.”

Covenant whirled toward Triock. The lie in his words was so palpable that it left Covenant gasping, and around him the Stonedownors gaped at Triock. But Triock met Covenant’s aghast stare without flinching. The cut along his jaw emphasized his determination. In a hard, steady voice that cut through Covenant’s superficial ire to the rage growing within him, Triock said, “We have sworn the Oath of Peace. Do not ask us to feed your hate. The Land will not be served by such passions.”

“It’s all I’ve got!” Covenant answered thickly. “Don’t you understand? I don’t have anything else. Nothing! All by itself, it has got to be enough.”

Gravely almost sorrowfully, Triock said, “Such a foe cannot be fought with hate. I know. I have felt it in my heart.”

“Hellfire, Triock! Don’t preach at me. I’m sick to death of being victimized. I’m sick of walking meekly or at least quietly and just putting my head on the block. I am going to fight this.”

“Why?” Triock asked in a restrained voice. “What will you fight for?”

“Are you deaf as well as blind?” Covenant wrapped his arms around his chest to steady himself. “I hate Foul. I’ve had all I can stand of—”

“No. I am neither deaf nor blind. I see and hear that you intend to fight. What will you fight for? There is matter enough to occupy your hate in your own world. You are in the Land now. What will you fight for?”

Hell and blood! Covenant shouted silently. How much of me do you want? But Triock’s question threw him back upon himself. He could have replied: I hate Foul because of what he’s doing to the Land. But that sounded like a disclaimer of responsibility, and he was too angry to deny his own convictions. He was too angry, also, to give Triock any comforting answer. In a brittle voice, he said, “I’m going to do it for myself. So that I can at least believe in me before I lose my mind altogether.”

This response silenced Triock, and after a moment Foamfollower asked painfully, “My friend, what will you do with your passion?”