Lord Foul's Bane

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  As he finished, he heard fear and abhorrence flare in the Close as if ignited by his involuntary peroration. Hellfire hellfire! he moaned, trying to clear his gaze of the darkness from which Foul's contempt had sprung. Unclean!

  Prothall's head was bowed, and he clenched his staff as if he were trying to wring courage from it. Behind him, Tuvor and Warmark Garth stood in attitudes of martial readiness. Oddly, Variol and Tamarantha doddered in their seats as if dozing, unaware of what had been said. But Osondrea gaped at Covenant as if he had stabbed her in the heart. Opposite her, Mhoram stood erect, head high and eyes closed, with his staff braced hard against the floor; and where his metal met the stone, a hot blue flame burned. Foamfollower hunched in his seat; his huge hands clutched a stone chair. His shoulders quivered, and suddenly the chair snapped.

  At the noise, Osondrea covered her face with her hands, gave one stricken cry, "Melenkurion abatha!" The next instant, she dropped her hands and resumed her stony, amazed stare at Covenant. And he shouted, Unclean! as if he were agreeing with her.

  "Laugh, Covenant," Foamfollower whispered hoarsely. "You have told us the end of all things. Now help us. Laugh."

  Covenant replied dully, "You laugh. `Joy is in the ears that hear.' I can't do it."

  To his astonishment, Foamfollower did laugh. He lifted his head and made a strangled, garish noise in his throat that sounded like sobbing; but in a moment the sound loosened, clarified, slowly took on the tone of indomitable humor. The terrible exertion appalled Covenant.

  As Foamfollower laughed, the first shock of dismay passed from the Council. Gradually, Prothall raised his head. "The Unhomed are a blessing to the Land," he murmured. Mhoram sagged, and the fire between his staff and the floor went out. Osondrea shook her head, sighed, passed her hands through her hair. Again, Covenant sensed a kind of mental melding from the Lords; without words, they seemed to join hands, share strength with each other.

  Sitting alone and miserable, Covenant waited for them to question him. And as he waited, he struggled to recapture all the refusals on which his survival depended.

  Finally, the Lords returned their attention to him. The flesh of Prothall's face seemed to droop with weariness, but his eyes remained steady, resolute. stow, Unbeliever," he said softly. "You must tell us all that has happened to you. We must know how Lord Foul's threats are embodied."

  Now, Covenant echoed, twisting in his chair. He could hardly resist a desire to clutch at his ring. Dark memories beat at his ears, trying to break down his defenses. Shortly, everyone in the Close was looking at him. Tossing his words down as if he were discarding flawed bricks, he began.

  "I come from-someplace else. I was brought to Kevin's Watch-I don't know how. First I got a look at Drool-then Foul left me on the Watch. They seemed to know each other."

  "And the Staff of Law?" Prothall asked.

  "Drool had a staff-all carved up, with metal ends like yours. I don't know what it was."

  Prothall shrugged the doubt away; and grimly Covenant forced himself to describe without any personal mention of himself, any reference to Lena or Triock or Baradakas, the events of his journey. When he spoke of the murdered Waynhim, Osondrea's breath hissed between her teeth, but the Lords made no other response.

  Then, after he mentioned the visit to Soaring Woodhelven of a malicious stranger, possibly a Raver, Mhoram asked intently, "Did the stranger use a name?"

  "He said his name was Jehannum."

  "Ah. And what was his purpose?"

  "How should I know?" Covenant rasped, trying to conceal his falsehood with belligerence. "I don't know any Ravers."

  Mhoram nodded noncommittally, and Covenant went on to relate his and Atiaran's progress through Andelain. He avoided gruffly any reference to the wrong which had attacked him through his boots. But when he came to the Celebration of Spring, he faltered.

  The Wraiths-! he ached silently. The rage and horror of that night were still in him, still vivid to his raw heart. Covenant, help them! How could I? It's madness! I'm not-I am not Berek.

  With an effort that made his throat hurt as if his words were too sharp to pass through it, he said, "The Celebration was attacked by ur-viles. We escaped. Some of the Wraiths were saved by-by one of the Unfettered, Atiaran said. Then the moon turned red.

  Then we got to the river and met Foamfollower. Atiaran decided to go back home. How the hell much longer do I have to put up with this?"

  Unexpectedly, Lord Tamarantha raised her nodding head. "Who will go?" she asked toward the ceiling of the Close.

  "It has not yet been determined that anyone will go," Prothall replied in a gentle voice.

  "Nonsense," she sniffed. Tugging at a thin wisp of hair behind her ear, she coaxed her old bones erect. "This is too high a matter for caution. We must act. Of course I trust him. He has a Hirebrand's staff, does he not? What Hirebrand would give a staff without sure reason? And look at it-one end blackened. He has fought with it-at the Celebration, if I do not mistake. Ah, the poor Wraiths. That was ill, ill." Looking across at Variol, she said, "Come. We must prepare."

  Variol worked himself to his feet. Taking Tamarantha's arm, he left the Close through one of the doors behind the High Lord.

  After a respectful pause for the old Lords, Osondrea leveled her stare at Covenant and demanded, "How did you gain that staff?"

  "Baradakas-the Hirebrand-gave it to me."

  "Why?"

  Her tone sparked his anger. He said distinctly, "He wanted to apologize for distrusting me."

  "How did you teach him to trust you?"

  Damnation) "I passed his bloody test of truth."

  Carefully, Lord Mhoram asked, "Unbeliever-why did the Hirebrand of Soaring Woodhelven desire to nest you?"

  Again, Covenant felt compelled to lie. "Jehannum made him nervous. He tested everyone."

  "Did he also test Atiaran?"

  "What do you think?"

  "I think," Foamfollower interposed firmly, "that Atiaran Trell-mate of Mithil Stonedown would not require any test of truth to demonstrate her fidelity."

  This affirmation produced a pause, during which tie Lords looked at each other as if they had reached an impasse. Then High Lord Prothall said sternly,

  "Thomas Covenant, you are a stranger, and we have had no time to learn your ways. But we will not surrender our sense of what is right to you. It is clear that you have spoken falsehood. For the sake of the Land, you must answer our questions. Please tell us why the Hirebrand Baradakas gave to you the test of truth, but not to Atiaran your companion."

  "No."

  "Then tell us why Atiaran Trell-mate chose not to accompany you here. It is rare for a person born of the Land to stop short of Revelstone."

  "No."

  "Why do you refuse?"

  Covenant glared seething up at his interrogators. They sat above him like judges with the power of outcasting in their hands. He wanted to defend himself with shouts, curses; but the Lords' intent eyes stopped him. He could see no contempt in their faces. They regarded him with anger, fear, disquietude, with offended love for the Land, but no contempt. Very softly, he said, "Don't you understand? I'm trying to get out of telling you an even bigger lie. If you keep pushing me-we'll all suffer."

  The High Lord met his irate, supplicating gaze for a moment, then sighed catarrhally, "Very well. You make matters difficult for us. Now we must deliberate. Please leave the Close. We will call for you in a short time."

  Covenant stood, turned on his heel, started up the steps toward the big doors. Only the sound .of his boots against the stone marked the silence until he had almost reached the doors. Then he heard Foamfollower say as clearly as if his own heart uttered the words, "Atiaran Trell-mate blamed you for the slaughter of the Wraiths."

  He froze, waiting in blank dread for the Giant to continue. But Foamfollower said nothing more. Trembling, Covenant passed through the doors and moved awkwardly to sit in one of the chairs along the wall. His secret felt so fragile within him that he could
hardly believe it was still intact.

  I am not

  When he looked up, he found Bannor standing before him. The Bloodguard's face was devoid of expression, but it did not seem uncontemptuous. Its flat ambiguity appeared capable of any response, and now it implied a judgment of Covenant's weakness, his disease.

  Impelled by anger and frustration, Covenant muttered to himself, Keep moving. Survive. "Bannor," he growled, "Mhoram seems to think we should get to know each other. He told me to ask you about the Bloodguard."

  Bannor shrugged as if he were impervious to any question.

  "Your people-the Haruchai"-Bannor nodded "live up in the mountains. You came to the Land when Kevin was High Lord. How long ago was that?"

  "Centuries before the Desecration." The Bloodguard's alien tone seemed to suggest that units of time like years and decades had no significance. "Two thousand years."

  Two thousand years. Thinking of the Giants, Covenant said, "That's why there's only five hundred of you left Since you came to the Land you've been dying off."

  "The Bloodguard have always numbered five hundred. That is the Vow. The Haruchai-are more." He gave the name a tonal lilt that suited his voice.

  "More?"

  "They live in the mountains as before."

  "Then how do you-You say that as if you haven't been back there for a long time." Again Bannor nodded slightly. "How do you maintain your five hundred here? I haven't seen any-"

  Bannor interrupted dispassionately. "When one of the Bloodguard is slain, his body is sent into the mountains through Guards Gap, and another of the Haruchai comes to take his place in the Vow."

  Is slain? Covenant wondered. "Haven't you been come since? Don't you visit your- Do you have a

  "At one time."

  Bannor's tone did not vary, but something in his inflectionlessness made Covenant feel that the question was important. "At one time?" he pursued. "What happened to her?"

  "She has been dead."

  An instinct warned Covenant, but he went on, spurred by the fascination of Bannor's alien, inflexible solidity. "How how long ago did she die?"

  Without a flicker of hesitation, the Bloodguard replied, "Two thousand years."

  What! For a long moment, Covenant gaped in astonishment, whispering to himself as if he feared that Bannor could hear him, That's impossible. That's impossible. In an effort to control himself, he blinked dumbly. Two-? What is this?

  Yet in spite of his amazement, Bannor's claim carried conviction. That flat tone sounded incapable of dishonesty, of even misrepresentation. It filled Covenant with horror, with nauseated sympathy. In sudden vision he glimpsed the import of Mhoram's description, made by their pledged loyalty ascetic, womanless, and old. Barren-how could there be any limit to a barrenness which had already lasted for two thousand years? "How," he croaked, "how old are you?"

  "I came to the Land with the first Haruchai, when Kevin was young in High Lordship. Together we first uttered the Vow of service. Together we called upon the Earthpower to witness our commitment. Now we do not return home until we have been slain."

  Two thousand years, Covenant mumbled. Until we have been slain. That's impossible. None of this is happening. In his confusion, he tried to tell himself that what he heard was like the sensitivity of his nerves, further proof of the Land's impossibility. But it did not feel like proof. It moved him as if he had learned that Bannor suffered from a rare form of leprosy. With an effort, he breathed, "Why?"

  Flatly, Bannor said, "When we came to the Land, we saw wonders-Giants, Ranyhyn, RevelstoneLords of such power that they declined to wage war with us lest we be destroyed. In answer to our challenge, they gave to the Haruchai gifts so precious-" He paused, appeared to muse for a moment over private memories. "Therefore we swore the Vow. We could not equal that generosity in any other way."

  "Is that your answer to death?" Covenant struggled with his sympathy, tried to reduce what Bannor said to manageable proportions. "Is that how things are done in the Land? Whenever you're in trouble you just do the impossible? Like Berek?"

  "We have sworn the Vow. The Vow is life. Corruption is death."

  "But for two thousand years?" Covenant protested. "Damnation! It isn't even decent. Don't you think you've done enough?"

  Without expression, the Bloodguard replied, "You cannot corrupt us."

  "Corrupt you? I don't want to corrupt you. You can go on serving those Lords until you wither for all I care. I'm talking about your life, Bannor! How long do you go on serving without just once asking yourself if it's worth it? Pride or at least sanity requires that. Hellfire!" He could trot conceive how even a healthy man remained unsuicidal in the face of so much existence. "It isn't like salad dressing-you can't just spoon it around. You're human. You weren't born to be immortal."

  Bannor shrugged impassively. "What does immortality signify? We are the Bloodguard. We know only life or death the Vow or Corruption."

  An instant passed before Covenant remembered that Corruption was the Bloodguard name for Lord Foul. "Then he groaned, "Well of course I understand. You live forever because your pure, sinless service is utterly and indomitably unballasted by any weight or dross of mere human weakness. Ah, the advantages of clean Wig,

  "We do not know." Bannor's awkward tone echoed strangely "Kevin saved us. How could we guess what eras in his heart? He sent us all into the mountains into the mountains. We questioned, but he gave the order. He charged us by our Vow. We knew no mason to disobey. How could we know? We would have stood by him at the Desecration-stood by or prevented. But he saved us-the Bloodguard. We who swore to preserve his life at any cost."

  Saved, Covenant breathed painfully. He could feel the unintended cruelty of Kevin's act. "So now you don't know whether all these years of living are right or wrong," he said distantly. How do you stand it? "Maybe your Vow is mocking you."

  "There is no accusation which can raise its finger against us," Bannor averred. But for an instant his dispassion sounded a shade less immaculate.

  "No, you do all that yourself."

  In response, Bannor blinked slowly, as if neither blame nor exculpation carried meaning to the ancient perspective of his devotion.

  A moment later, one of the sentries beckoned Covenant toward the Close. Trepidation constricted his heart. His horrified sympathy for Bannor drained his courage; he did not feel able to face the Lords, answer their demands. He climbed to his feet as if he were tottering, then hesitated. When Bannor motioned him forward, he said in a rush, "Tell me one more thing. If your wife were still alive, would you go to visit her and then come back here? Could you-" He faltered. "Could you bear it?"

  The Bloodguard met his imploring gaze squarely, but thoughts seemed to pass like shadows behind his countenance before he said softly, "No."

  Breathing heavily as if he were nauseated, Covenant shambled through the door and down the steps toward the yellow immolation of the graveling pit.

  Prothall, Mhoram, and Osondrea, Foamfollower, the four Bloodguard, the four spectators-all remained as he had left them. Under the ominous expectancy of their eyes, he seated himself in the lone chair below the Lords' table. He was shivering as if the fire-stones radiated cold rather than heat.

  When the High Lord spoke, the age rattle in his voice seemed worse than before. "Thomas Covenant, if we have treated you wrongly we will beg your pardon at the proper time. But we must resolve our doubt of you. You have concealed much that we must know. However, on one matter we have been able to agree. We see your presence in the Land in this way.

  "While delving under Mount Thunder, Drool Rockworm found the lost Staff of Law. Without aid, he would require many years to master it. But Lord Foul the Despiser learned of Drool's discovery, and agreed for his own purposes to teach the Cavewight the uses of the Staff. Clearly he did not wrest the Staff from Drool. Perhaps he was too weak. Or perhaps he feared to use a tool not made for his hand. Or perhaps he has some terrible purpose which we do not grasp. But again it is clear that Lord Fou
l induced Drool to use the Staff to summon you to the Land-only the Staff of Law has such might. And Drool could not have conceived or executed that task without deep-lored aid. You were brought to the Land at Lord Foul's behest. We can only pray that there were other powers at work as well."

  "But that does not tell us why," said Mhoram intently. "If the carrying of messages were Lord Foul's only purpose, he had no need of someone from beyond the Land-and no need to protect you from Drool, as he did when he bore you to Kevin's Watch, and as I believe he attempted to do by sending his Raver to turn you from your path toward Andelain. No, you are our sole guide to the Despiser's true intent. Why did he call someone from beyond the Land? And why you? In what way do you serve his designs?"

  Panting, Covenant locked his jaws and said nothing.

  "Let me put the matter another way," Prothall urged. "The tale you have told us contains evidence of truth. Few living know that the Ravers were at one time named Herein, Sheol, and Jehannum. And we know that one of the Unfettered has been studying the Wraiths of Andelain for many years."

  Unwillingly, Covenant remembered the hopeless courage of the animals that had helped the Unfettered One to save him in Andelain. They had hurled themselves into their own slaughter with desperate and futile ferocity. He gritted his teeth, tried to close his ears to the memory of their dying.

  Prothall went on without a pause, "And we know that the lomillialor test of truth is sure-if the one tested does not surpass the tester."

  "But the Despiser also knows," snapped Osondrea. "He could know that an Unfettered One lived and studied in Andelain. He could have prepared this tale and taught it to you. If he did," she enunciated darkly, "then the matters on which you have refused to speak are precisely those on which your story would fail. Why did the Hirebrand of Soaring Woodhelven test you? How was the testing done? Who have you battled with that staff? What instinct turned Atiaran Trell-mate against you? You fear to reply because then we will see the Despiser's handiwork."