Thomas Covenant 8 - The Fatal Revenant (83 page)

and Branl on foot and Clyme on Mhornym lunged and dodged their way through the melee toward Bhapa and Mahrtiir.

They were all covered in blood, their own as well as the Cavewights’. The carnage among the creatures was terrible. Yet the Cavewights surged closer to Linden and her remaining defenders with every step and heartbeat.

At a word from Stave, Bhanoryl and Naybahn joined the battle for the sake of their riders, leaving only the former Master to protect Linden while Liand and Pahni guarded Anele.

Roger appeared to laugh, exulting in power. If he had turned his vehemence against the Waynhim and ur-viles, he might have butchered them all. But he was content to ward off their black lore while he strove to burn down the Harrow.

Again and again, the Insequent was driven back. If he had the ability to step aside, he could not use it: he was too hard-pressed by Roger’s gleeful fury and Esmer’s wounded assault.

Linden had no idea what a being as dangerous and greedy as the Harrow had done-or could do-to earn such enmity from Lord Foul’s minions.

Still the wedge challenging the Harrow could not reach him through Esmer’s

ragged eruptions. Abruptly those ur-viles changed their objectives. In small groups of five or six, they began to peel away. Scampering on all fours, they sped to join the formation which fought the Cavewights.

They were too late-and the Cavewights were too many. Even Linden’s desperation was not enough. In spite of the dark efforts of the Demondim-spawn, she and her last companions would soon be inundated.

If Esmer and perhaps even the Harrow did not turn to aid her, she might not be able to keep herself alive. She would certainly not be able to preserve Stave and Liand, Pahni and Anele.

As far as she knew, the other Ramen and the Humbled were already dead.

While she transformed creatures into living, screaming firewood, a Cavewight hurled a bludgeon at her from a distance of no more than six or

seven paces. She barely saw it before Hynyn sprang in front of Hyn, and Stave snatched the massive club out of the air. Using the weapon’s velocity, he swung his arm to fling the bludgeon back at the Cavewight.

This time when Liand shouted her name, Linden looked at him; saw him pointing toward the Woodhelvennin.

They had been standing at some distance, watching in comparative

safety. Now they were running toward the battle. They appeared to be yelling, although she could not hear them through the din. For an instant, she thought that they meant to join the fight; that the destruction of First Woodhelven had inspired them to strike back.

But then she saw a huge pack of kresh sweeping down on the villagers from the north. Easily the great yellow wolves leapt over or splashed through

the brook. Men, women, and children fled slaughter in the only direction open to them. The wolves would have run them down in moments if they had turned to either side.

Nevertheless they were caught between the battle and the kresh. Soon all of them would die.

The two Masters-the only defenders of the Woodhelvennin-had already thrown themselves at the pack. But

they were only two. And their mounts were merely horses, not Ranyhyn. They would be engulfed almost immediately.

Despite the turmoil and frenzy around her, Linden felt the presence of a Raver among the kresh.

She knew that malign spirit well: it had once possessed her, seeking to desecrate her love for Covenant. It was moksha Jehannum, and it ruled the

wolves, goading them until they were rabid for bloodshed.

She did not pause for thought. She had no time. An Elohim had warned the Land of merewives and skurj and croyel. He had spoken of a shadow upon the hearts of his people. He had foretold the threat of the halfhand.

And he had mentioned Sandgorgons

Linden had seen his other prophecies

fulfilled. Why not this one?

Distance has no meaning to such power.

Hardly aware of her own actions, she cried. “Nom! We need your’ Then she sent Hyn hurtling into the collision of theurgies, pounding through cataclysm toward the panicked villagers.

Instantly Stave and Liand joined her, and Pahni and Anele followed at her

back, as if they-or their mounts-had known what she would do.

When Thomas Covenant had summoned Nom against the Clave, the Sandgorgon had taken some time to respond. The creature had been compelled to cross nameless oceans and uncounted leagues from Bhrathairealm and the Great Desert. If the same delay occurred now-assuming that Nom answered Linden at all-every human and horse in the

valley, and perhaps every DemondimŹspawn as well, would be dead before the creature appeared. Nevertheless she did not turn aside or look back. The straits of the Woodhelvennin drove her. For their sake, and to confront moksha, she could resolve the contradictions within her. With Law and Earthpower, she opened a passage through the battle. At Hyn’s best speed, she raced northward.

She did not see the Harrow blanch as if he were appalled at what she had done. She only heard him call wildly. “I am able to convey you to your son!”

He may have intended to break her heart.

Still she did not falter. She could not: at that moment, the need of the villagers outweighed every other consideration. Even her friends-Concentrating on the kresh, she felt rather than saw the Insequent allow his defenses to

collapse. Only her nerves recognized what was happening as he wrapped himself and his destrier in a different kind of knowledge and vanished.

Deprived of his immediate target, Roger gave a howl of rage. But he had other prey: he, too, did not pause. Whirling, he aimed lava and loathing at Linden’s back.

She did not care. He had become incidental to her; a mere annoyance. At

that moment, Gallows Howe and Caerroil Wildwood were incarnate in her. Like the Forestal, she had precious lives to defend. She only needed the Woodhelvennin to make way for her. If they did not-if they impeded her charge—

The kresh and the Raver were almost upon them.

Roger’s first blast fell short, intercepted by roiling blackness: the ur-viles and

Waynhim had adjusted swiftly to counter him. A heartbeat later, he was attacked by half or more of the surviving Demondim-spawn. The rest threw their lore against the Cavewights in an attempt to prevent Roger’s army from following Linden.

But he was ecstatic with Kastenessen’s power. In this time, his given hand could draw directly on its source: Kastenessen’s savagery exalted him. The concussions and vitriol of his

attackers he slammed aside with scornful ease. And his efforts to strike at Linden coerced them to spend their force in her defense rather than against him.

Then the Demondim-spawn

themselves were assailed. In spite of his injuries and weakness, Esmer sent shocks through the ground to disrupt the formations of the Waynhim and ur-viles. He slew none of them; but his interference exposed them to the

cruder force of the Cavewights. While Roger aimed his viciousness at Linden, his creatures hacked brutally at her defenders.

Almost screaming, Linden shouted the Seven Words until her Staff shone like an avatar of the sun’s fire. Frantic men and women dashed out of her path, snatching their children after them. Pahni’s young voice in a Ramen war-cry echoed the brilliance of Liand’s orcrest. Stave’s implacable mien

promised death. Anele had awakened; but with the caesure gone, he clung to Hrama’s neck and did not hinder the Ranyhyn or his friends.

The huge fierce wolves had already begun to tear down and rend the slowest of the villagers when Linden and her last companions crashed into the pack.

The Cavewights were thinking

creatures: the kresh were not. The

Raver was worse than any beast or creature. And the Woodhelvennin were as helpless as trees. They had children with them, children, and could not defend themselves. As if she had become mindless herself, she sent great waves and breakers of flame at the wolves, burning them by the score to misshapen lumps of flesh, charred and reeking.

But she barely saw individual kresh: she paid no attention to what became

of them. She sought moksha Jehannum. If she could do it, she meant to light a conflagration that would end the Raver’s cruelty forever.

Roger might have killed her then. She had no desire to defend herself-and no power to spare. In addition, Esmer had broken apart the wedges of the Demondim-spawn. Most of the ur-viles and Waynhim were fighting for their lives in small clusters: only a few remained to oppose Roger’s scoria.

While she rampaged among the kresh, she left herself as vulnerable as the villagers.

But Roger did not send his puissance against her. He could not. Before he could hurl another blast, half a dozen Sandgorgons smashed into the rear of his army.

Crushing Cavewights with ease, three of the Sandgorgons wrought havoc among Roger’s forces while the rest

attacked him directly.

Their strength dwarfed that of the Cavewights. Alone, Nom had once shattered Revelstone’s inner gates; had gouged out a passage for Glimmermere’s waters to quench the last of the Banefire. With Grimmand Honninscrave’s help, Nom had shredded samadhi Sheol’s spirit. Given time, half a dozen Sandgorgons could have leveled Lord’s Keep entirely.

The weapons and desperation of the Cavewights could not wound them. The ur-viles and Waynhim scattered before them. And Esmer did not turn his power against them. Instead he quelled his spouts of dirt and stone, his tremors in the ground, as if he had acknowledged defeat-or achieved victory. Panting blood, he seemed to fold the air around him as he disappeared.

Roger would have been beaten to pulp

if he had not turned all of his scoria and wrath against the Sandgorgons. Their blunt arms and pulverizing might would have left no recognizable remains of his ordinary flesh.

Moksha Jehannum lashed the kresh to frothing madness; but the Raver eluded Linden. It was here and there throughout the pack, mastering the wolves, transmuting their natural fear of fire into ferocity. She feared that moksha would attempt to escape her

by possessing one of the

Woodhelvennin, forcing her to slay an innocent victim if she wished to harm the Raver. Therefore she wielded her fire like devastation, taking care only that she did not harm any human or Haruchai or Ranyhyn.

On one side of her, the brightness of Liand’s Sunstone dazzled the kresh so that they gnashed and tore at each other blindly. On the other, Stave rode Hynyn and let the roan stallion fight for

him while he watched over Linden. Behind them, Pahni clung to Anele with one hand, supporting him, keeping him close to her, while she used her garrote to whip away any wolf that sprang for Hrama or Naharahn.

Suddenly Stave reached down to snatch a Master out of a raging mass of wolves. Hynyn hammered with his hooves at the skulls and spines of kresh as Stave swung the Haruchai up behind him. The Master was badly

rent, bleeding from many grim bites and gouges; but as soon as he settled himself against Stave’s back, he kicked at every wolf that came within reach.

Of the other Master, Linden saw no sign. She did not know if Mahrtiir, Bhapa, the Humbled, or any of their mounts remained alive. But the villagers were behind her now, and she did not permit any kind of fear to inhibit her scouring flame.

Nevertheless, on some subcutaneous level of perception, she recognized that the Cavewights were being decimated. She felt them break as they died, shattered by the tremendous force of the Sandgorgons. And she sensed the precise instant when Roger’s rage and frustration turned to terror. He burned the Sandgorgons until their hides bubbled and the bubbles burst, spilling viscid blood that stank of dire vitality; but he could not stop them.

He was about to meet the same doom which had fallen on his army: Linden knew that. But she did not pause to watch him fight for his life. She was too busy killing. Too busy searching for the Raver so that she could at least try to unmake Lord Foul’s ancient servant.

And she was nearing the outermost limits of her own endurance.

Gradually she began to flicker and fail. Consumed by the struggle to keep

going-to seek moksha Jehannum with percipience and fire-she did not see Roger call the few remaining Cavewights to him, leap onto one of their backs, and send them racing eastward away from the Sandgorgons.

With their long legs and their peculiar strength, the Cavewights ran as if they were as fleet as Ranyhyn. Perhaps the Sandgorgons could have caught them: the denizens of the Great Desert were also swift. But Roger had hurt all of the

Sandgorgons to some extent. And he flung a terrible heat behind him as the Cavewights fled. The Sandgorgons did not give chase. Instead they began stamping to death any of their foes which they had merely crippled.

After Esmer’s disappearance, the ur-viles and Waynhim had slipped away, vanishing as imperceptibly as they had appeared.

When finally the last two or three

dozen wolves turned to flee, moksha Raver escaped among them, untouched by her flagging vehemence. Within moments, they had crossed the brook northward.

She wanted to pursue them; to go on raining down fire until she reached the Raver itself. But she could not. As the kresh fled, something within her broke, and she lost her grasp on Earthpower. Her flames guttered and faded in the dust of battle; the dust and the

tarnished sunlight.

She had already gone too far beyond herself. She did not know how to go farther.

7.

An Aftertaste of Victory

In spite of her exhaustion and dismay, Linden tried to keep moving. But she was numb with killing; too profoundly weary to consider what she did. She

did not go in search of her friends. She did not ask what had become of them. Instead, trembling, she fell back on years of training and experience: triage, trauma, emergency care. Her depleted spirit she focused on the needs directly in front of her.

Mutely she asked Hyn to bear her among the nearest of the fallen Woodhelvennin.