Thomas Covenant 8 - The Fatal Revenant (106 page)

the company fervidly without his eyes. Alert for threats, Stave sped a few paces ahead of Grueburn.

Later the sound of Grueburn’s stertorous breathing began to trouble Linden. The Giants had been under too much strain for too long. Their reserves of stamina were wearing thin. And they had lost two of their comrades. They needed to grieve.

But ahead of her, Salva Gildenbourne

relapsed to thick jungle. Once again, it became a tangle of thickets, vines, draped ivy, crowding trees, and deadwood monoliths like fallen kings. Without the guidance of the Cords, the Giants could not run unhindered; and they had no time to seek an easy route. They had to brunt their way by plain strength.

The skurj could move faster than this; much faster. The fact that the Humbled detected nothing did not reassure

Linden. It may have meant only that Kastenessen had received new counsel, and had begun to devise a surer assault. She did not believe that the furious Elohim would cease his efforts to prevent her from reaching Andelain.

The company needed speed, but the Giants were too tired.

Apparently Coldspray shared Linden’s concerns. Muttering Giantish

obscenities, the Ironhand left her comrade to bear the burden of Longwrath alone. The woman draped his arms over her shoulders so that she could drag him on her back. Meanwhile Coldspray moved ahead of her people and began to hack a passage with her glaive. Arduously the Giants improved their pace.

Linden’s percipience was focused behind her, northward toward the skurj. Too late to give warning, she felt

Longwrath plant his feet and heave against the Giant supporting him. He moved so suddenly that Linden feared he would break the woman’s neck.

But the Swordmain must have sensed his intent. She caught his wrists before his hands struck her throat. Holding him, she ducked under his arms and spun in an attempt to wrench him off balance, flip him to the ground.

He countered by kicking her hard

enough to loosen her grasp.

The Giants heard that instant of struggle. Bracing themselves to protect their burdens, they turned quickly to face their comrade and Longwrath. Stave sprang to Grueburn’s side as Longwrath reached for his flamberge.

But its sheath was empty. His sword had been left behind among the rocks and desperation of the tor.

For a moment, he gaped at Linden, apparently torn between his hunger for her death and his need for his weapon. Then, howling, he wheeled and raced away, back toward the battle-mound.

In the scales of his madness, his flamberge outweighed Linden’s blood.

The Giant who had been carrying him started to give chase; but Coldspray called her back. “Permit him, Latebirth,” the Ironhand commanded

sadly. “You are needed among us. And I deem that he is in no peril. While he covets Linden Giantfriend’s death, our foes will not harm him. He will return when he has retrieved his blade.”

Cursing, Latebirth acquiesced. “The fault of Scend Wavegift’s death is mine, Ironhand,” she proclaimed loudly, bitterly. “Halewhole Bluntfist and I held Longwrath’s arms to aid him against the constraint of his shackles. Wavegift followed at his back. But I

allowed my concern for your fate to loosen my clasp. When his shackles dropped from him, Bluntfist held him, but my grip was broken. With the hand that I should have restrained, he struck down Bluntfist. I endeavored to grapple with him, but I stumbled, unable to avoid Bluntfist’s fall. While I floundered, he confronted Wavegift.

“She was armed. He did not draw his blade. Therefore she hesitated. Doubtless she believed that Bluntfist

and I would regain our feet swiftly to join her. But we hindered each other. While we rose, he slapped Wavegift’s blade aside and contrived to snap her neck. Then he ran. Though Bluntfist and I gave chase, we could not catch him.

“With clumsiness and inattention, I have shamed the Swordmainnir as well as myself. Henceforth I will name myself Lax Blunderfoot. When our journey has come to its end, for good

or ill, I will lay down my sword.”

Stop, Linden wanted to say. We don’t have time for this. It doesn’t do any good. But she bit her lip and did not intervene. She understood Latebirth too well.

“We will speak of your name in Andelain,” retorted Coldspray. “Our present straits forbid recrimination. We must have haste. Let your shame become anger, and aid me in shaping a

path.”

“Aye,” Latebirth muttered. “I hear you.” Drawing her sword, she stamped past Grueburn, Stave, and Linden to join Coldspray at the head of the company.

With pity in his eyes, Liand watched the woman pass. Like Linden, he said nothing; but she could see that his emotions were kinder than hers.

Together Rime Coldspray and Latebirth

attacked the worst of the jungle’s impediments. In a kind of shared outrage, they cut vines, ivy, and deadwood aside, driving themselves past their fatigue so that their comrades could move more rapidly.

Fortunately the knotted underbrush and trees soon thinned as the terrain became a declining slope littered with moss-furred rocks and fallen leaves. There clusters of elm and sycamore stood back from solitary Gilden, and

few shrubs and creepers found enough soil for their roots. As the Giants trotted downward, their feet stirred up a haze of insects and the damp mould of fallen leaves.

And at the bottom of the slope, the company found a stream turbulent with new rain. The invoked torrents of Liand’s storm filled the rushing current with silt, torn leaves, snapped twigs. Nevertheless the Swordmainnir paused once more so that the company could

drink.

When he had eased his thirst, Bhapa asked Mahrtiir’s permission to lead the Giants once more. But Coldspray shook her head before the Manethrall could respond.

“While this stream tends southward, we need no guidance. And we are Giants, agile on rock-aye, even on slick stones concealed by debris. I cast no doubt on your skill, Cord, when I

say that your aid will not quicken us here.”

“Heed the Ironhand,” instructed

Mahrtiir. His tone was unexpectedly gentle. You and Cord Pahni have won my pride. I do not doubt your resolve. Yet some further rest will harm neither you nor this company. When your aid becomes needful, you will be better able to provide it.”

If Bhapa or Pahni replied, Linden did

hear them. The Giants were already running again.

Now their long, heavy strides raised a loud clatter of water. They splashed forward with extraordinary speed, sending spray in all directions. Within moments, Linden’s clothes were soaked, so wet that she shivered against Frostheart Grueburn’s stone armor.

Here Stave could not keep pace: he

sank too deeply into pools and holes that barely reached the Giants’ knees. Unwilling to fall behind, he left the stream and made his way among the trees, flickering through patches of sunlight as he dodged past trunks and tore through the undergrowth.

Surely, Linden thought, surely this stream would lead the Giants into Andelain? But she could not credit that she and her companions had outrun the skurj-or Kastenessen’s savagery.

Her enemies could not afford to let her reach her goal. If they failed to thwart her themselves, moksha Jehannum would suggest other tactics; summon other foes.

The scraps of samadhi Sheol’s dark spirit wielded some form of influence among the Sandgorgons. And they had repaid their self-imposed debt. They are done with you. If the skurj could not catch her in time, and Roger’s resources proved useless in Salva

Gildenbourne, moksha Raver might reach out to his rent brother—

Linden had made too many mistakes. Acknowledging that the Sandgorgons had honored their debt was only one of them.

Still Stave reported that the Humbled discerned no sign of pursuit. They saw no dangers ahead.

How far had Grueburn carried Linden

from the tor? She could not gauge the distance. The rapid stutter of trees and brush, shade and sunlight, along the western side of the stream confused her. And the foliage occluded any landmarks which might have defined the company’s progress. She was sure only that the sun was falling past midafternoon-and that the Giants could not continue to run like this much longer.

The ragged labor of Grueburn’s

respiration was painful to hear. Linden tried to close her mind to it, and failed. She was barely able to stop herself from counting the frantic beats of Grueburn’s heart.

By degrees, however, the current slowed as its flood dissipated. At the same time, the hills on either side gradually seemed to acquire a kind of gentleness. Flowing through softer terrain, the stream became more direct. Still it tended southward across

bursts of afternoon sunshine.

Then Linden noticed that Salva Gildenbourne’s unkempt extravagance was changing. By degrees, the constricted throng of trees modulated into a more stately forest, and the undergrowth gave way to unexpected swaths of grass. Stands of twisted jacaranda and crowded mimosa were replaced by comfortable chestnuts, austere elms, nervous birches. The rich gold leaves of the Gilden caught

more sunlight and shone like

resplendence. At last, the Giants were able to leave the stream and travel unobstructed by water or unseen rocks and holes.

And ahead of the companyIn faint whiffs and suggestions, evanescent savors like caresses, Linden’s nerves found their first taste of Andelain.

She sat up straighter; leaned forward with instinctive eagerness. Was it possible? Had she and her companions come four leagues since their battle on the tor? Without being attacked? She did not know how to believe it: it surpassed all of her expectations. Instinctively she distrusted her senses-and strained to confirm them.

The Andelainian Hills. In some sense, consciously or unconsciously, she had

been striving to reach them ever since she had first heard Thomas Covenant’s voice in her dreams; ever since she had begun to imagine that he walked among the Dead.

Linden, find me.

She could be wrong. Surely she was wrong?

Careless of the danger, she drew Earthpower from the Staff to sharpen

her health-sense. Her heart swelled with supplications which she could not utter: anticipation, hope, doubt; desire as acute as exultation.

Allusive and enticing, scents came to her: greensward and munificent verdure, air as crisp and sapid as aliantha, wildflowers luxuriating in their abundance. No, she was not wrong. More and more, Salva Gildenbourne became a cathedral forest, solemn and sacral. With every step, the trees

verged closer to transubstantiation. Ahead of her, they implied a bedecked

panoply clinquant with Gilden

sunshine. Grueburn carried her

through splashes of declining light toward a woodland vista so numinous and vital that every line was limned with health.

Long ago, during her first approach to the Hills of Andelain, she had feared them. They had appeared to nurture something cancerous, a disease which

would destroy her if she walked among them. Later, however, she had learned the truth. Her initial perceptions had been distorted by the Sunbane. Immersed in relentless evil, and unable to control her sensitivity, she had seen sickness everywhere. As a result, she had failed to discern the real source of her dread.

Even then, the Hills were not ill. They could not be: the last Forestal protected them. Her trepidation had

arisen, not from Andelain itself, but from the presence of the Dead. Because the Law of Death had been broken-and because Earthpower suffused the Hills-spectres walked in Andelain’s loveliness. Confused by the Sunbane, she had felt their nearness as if they were evil.

Now she knew better. High Lord Elena’s abuse of the Power of Command had made it possible for Covenant’s Dead to speak with him;

counsel him. Without their aid, he would not have been able to save the Land. Linden herself had met the shade of Kevin Landwaster and quailed; but even in his unrelieved despair, he had not been evil.

There is hope in contradiction.

Since that time, the Law of Life had been damaged as well. The Land held new possibilities, for good or ill. If the breaking of Laws enabled Joan to

spawn caesures, it might also free Linden to accomplish her unspoken purpose.

She approached Andelain with

yearning because she had learned to love the Hills-and because she hoped to gain something more precious than reassurance or counsel.

Around her, her companions also beheld what lay ahead of them. Excitement shone in Liand’s eyes, and

he gazed past the Swordmainnir eagerly. Near him, Pahni glowed as if her weariness had become a form of enchantment. Even Stave appeared to lift more lightly from stride to stride, strengthened by the prospect of Andelain’s distilled beauty.

As one, the Giants slowed their steps. As if in reverence, they set aside their haste, assumed a more condign gravitas. When they left the last fringes of Salva Gildenbourne and crossed into

Andelain, they did so as if they were entering a place of worship. Here was the Land’s untrammeled bounty, as essential as blood, and as profound as orogeny. And they were Giants: instinctively they reveled in largesse.

Together they ascended partway up the first slope and surcease of Andelain’s welcome. There Clyme awaited them calmly, certain that they had passed beyond peril. And there the Giants set down Linden and her friends so that

they could walk at last, and feel the air freely, and be eased.

-Loric’s krill was roused from its slumber. Its might wards the Hills. The skurj cannot enter-Kastenessen himself cannot.

Joyfully Bhapa and Pahni threw themselves prostrate on the lush grass, doing homage to Andelain and escape. Mahrtiir knelt with his head bowed to the earth as if he were praying. Liand

flung his arms wide and spun in circles, crowing with delight. “Andelain?” he cried. “Oh, Linden! This is Andelain? I could not have believed-!”

Linden wanted to share their joy. She felt as they did, and would have celebrated. But her first concern was for Anele.

Amid the long verdure of the Verge of Wandering, the old man had spoken to