Against All Things Ending

by Stephen R. Donaldson

The Swordmainnir ran as though they intended to fling themselves down the throat of a volcano. Linden should have been preparing herself for She Who Must Not Be Named, sharpening her percipience to the exact hue and timbre of the bane. How else could she fight? But she already knew that she was too small to combat such forces. And Esmer had assured her that Against Her ire, only white gold may hope for efficacy.

  Instead of bracing herself for battle, she tried to think of some way to sway Cail’s son.

  If Esmer departed, the Ardent would be able to convey the company to safety. Or Covenant might rediscover his connection to the present. With wild magic, he might be able to accomplish what Linden could not.

  Sensations of immanent malice confirmed that Coldspray was right.—we will not behold sunlight or open skies or hope again. The entire company would die if Linden could not think of an argument persuasive or insidious or hurtful enough to change Esmer’s mind.

  Harried by barking and desperation, the Giants ran, flashing through tunnels like hallucinations. They reached the cavern of the outlined castle and passed through it as though the elegant faery edifice were trivial. As they raced toward the portal of the Lost Deep, they did not slow their strides.

  The Ardent’s febrile haste blocked Linden’s view ahead. Nevertheless she knew that the portal was near. She felt the shape of the stone, the vast spaces and stalactites; the inexorable ascent of the bane. Dark hungers became a roar that swelled as though some innominate hand swung wide a huge door.

  Moments now: only moments. The hourglass of the company’s fate was almost empty.

  Then an impression of openness flared across Linden’s senses. Riding his raiment, the Ardent followed the Waynhim onto the broad shelf that footed the slender span of the Hazard.

  The Waynhim dashed up the bridge. Floating higher to distance himself from the depths, the Insequent pursued them. But Linden panted to Grueburn, “Stop. Stop.”

  As Grueburn cleared the entrance to the Lost Deep, she wrenched herself to a halt near the rim of the abyss to await Linden’s instructions and the rest of her comrades.

  Far below her, Linden saw the bane rising like an eruption of fire.

  At first, its force was so great that she could not discern it clearly. It resembled a shapeless maw of flame so wide that it filled the chasm from wall to wall. But as she forced herself to concentrate, she realized that She Who Must Not Be Named was neither a maw nor shapeless. The monstrous being was not even flame: She resembled fire only because Her power was so extreme. And She had faces—

  Oh, God, She had faces. Dozens of them: hundreds. Features articulated the rising puissance in lurid succession, all of them different; all so huge that only three or four of them were formed at a time; all stretched and frantic as if they were howling in torment. And all women. They modulated constantly, harshly, changing from one tortured visage to another without surcease. But they were all distinct, recognizable. If Linden had known them, she would have been able to say their names.

  Instinctively she understood that if the bane caught her and her companions, the men would be slaughtered; torn to scraps. But the women would be devoured, every one of them. She and the Swordmainnir and Pahni would become part of that—that—

  She Who Must Not Be Named was the source of Kevin’s Dirt. Manipulated and shaped by Kastenessen and Esmer, Her energies cast the pall that hampered percipience. She emitted the sorcery which disguised Law and obstructed Earthpower: to Her, the natural forces of life were mere detritus. Yet She was not drained or diminished. She had the power to uproot mountains. Apparently She lacked only the intention.

  So close to that evil, Linden’s efforts barely kept her Staff alight. After the battle of First Woodhelven, she had dreamed of being carrion. The bane made her feel that she was already dead; dead and rotting.

  One after another, Giants emerged from the portal, flanked by snarling clusters of ur-viles. The ur-viles beckoned raucously for the company to cross the Hazard; but Coldspray and Kindwind paused beside Grueburn and Linden. The Humbled kept watch over Covenant. As Stonemage followed Galesend onto the ledge, she asked why her comrades had stopped; but no one answered. Like Linden, the other Giants were transfixed by the bane’s virulence.

  Glancing downward, Stave remarked impassively, “Mayhap it was for this that the Unbeliever spoke of Diassomer Mininderain. Mayhap he wished that we might comprehend our peril.”

  The Ardent must have heard Stave in spite of the distance. From high above the crest of the span, the garish man called, “She is the Auriference as well! One of the Insequent suffers among those who will destroy us! It was to avoid her doom that so many of my people have eschewed the Land.”

  Sternly Esmer added, “Kastenessen’s mortal lover also participates in She Who Must Not Be Named. She was Emereau Vrai, daughter of kings, and she dared to draw upon this ancient need for the creation of the merewives. Therefore she was consumed.”

  Linden could believe that the bane was Diassomer Mininderain as Covenant had described her, The mate of might—If so, its powers—Hers—were beyond measure. She had gone mad and slumbered, instead of tearing Her way out of the depths to ravage the Earth, because She did not crave simple destruction. She hungered instead for mortal lives that could love and be loved.

  And She was too close. Surely She was too close? Linden and her company would never be able to cross the Hazard in time.

  She needed to persuade or banish Esmer. Now or never.

  Many of the ur-viles had run up onto the span. Those that remained gathered in a wedge to ward themselves from the Staff. They all gestured furiously, cawing or snarling for the company to ascend the bridge.

  “Linden!” Liand shouted, pleading with her. “We must run!”

  Grimly Linden turned to Esmer. Inspired by the distraught legacy of her parents, she asked the most cutting question that she could imagine.

  “Does it bother you that Cail would be ashamed of his son?”

  Esmer faced her like crashing surf. His eyes seemed to weep storms. “And does it trouble you, Wildwielder,” he countered, “that you have at hand the means to end my interference, and yet do not avail yourself of it?”

  Linden gaped at him, dumbfounded.

  Groaning, he explained, “The krill of the High Lord, Wildwielder. It is puissant to sever my life.”

  In spite of their peril, the Swordmainnir stared. Linden felt Liand’s distress. The shock of the Ramen slapped at her nerves.

  “If you do not crave the deed for yourself,” Esmer continued, “command some Haruchai to perform it. With my death, the effects of my presence will end. The Insequent will recover his efficacy. The Timewarden’s notice will emerge from its confusion. The gift of tongues will return to the Giants. White gold will become capable in your hands.

  “Slay me, Wildwielder. Grant an end to my suffering. If you find worth in your life, mine must cease.”

  “You’re—” Amid the distress of her companions, Linden floundered. “That’s—” But then she rallied. “Oh, sure. Kill you. With the krill. Perfect. Except that then the croyel gets away.” Freed, the creature might be strong enough to shove her and even the Giants over the precipice. “I’ll lose my son.”

  Esmer shrugged. “As you say.” His gaze did not relent. “No deed is without cost or peril. But you must act now. Have I not said that I yearn for an end? And the opportunity fades with every passing moment. My death will not turn She Who Must Not Be Named from Her prey.”

  For no apparent reason, he added, “The ur-viles and Waynhim still desire to serve you. They are not without cunning.”

  “Linden Giantfriend!” snapped the Ironhand. “I do not seek to sway you. But you must choose quickly! The bane draws near!”

  For a moment—no more than a heartbeat—the implications of Esmer’s appeal paralyzed Linden. She could recover Covenant. She could recover wild magic. The Ardent’s given powers would return. Then her heart beat again, echoing the life-pulse of dozens or hundreds of tortured w
omen; and she saw that her choice was no choice at all. All of her options were intolerable.

  Murder Esmer in cold blood. Lose Jeremiah again. Or face unanswerable carnage.

  The Demondim-spawn still urged her toward the Hazard.

  “Go!” she cried at Rime Coldspray. “Covenant first! Then Jeremiah! Get as many of us across as you can! I’ll go last. I’m no match for that thing, but maybe I can distract it.”

  Instantly the Ironhand wheeled away; rushed Kindwind and Covenant onto the span. As Kindwind and the Humbled sprinted ahead, Coldspray ordered Stonemage and Galesend to follow one at a time, with Cabledarm, Bluntfist, and then Latebirth behind them.

  Barking tumult, the rest of the ur-viles ran as well. In moments, only Stave and Esmer remained with Grueburn and Coldspray; Linden, Jeremiah, and the croyel.

  “Coldspray—!” Linden protested.

  “No, Giantfriend.” The light of battle shone in the Ironhand’s eyes. Her grin was ferocious. “You have chosen. I also choose. While the mere-son abides with you, I will do what your need requires of me.

  “Mayhap,” she added quickly, “your son is safer at your side than elsewhere.”

  Linden thought that she understood. If Coldspray struck Esmer while she, Jeremiah, and the croyel were exposed on the span, the creature would have no chance to harm anyone else. And with the Staff, Linden might be able to contain the croyel’s magicks long enough for Coldspray to regain control.

  A slim chance.

  Better than none.

  “Go,” Linden panted, choking on nausea. “Now. I’ll do what I can.”

  With a nod, Coldspray ran for the Hazard.

  Grueburn and Stave followed immediately. Esmer stayed near Linden.

  She had forgotten how narrow the span looked; how fragile—She had forgotten the mass of the stalactites, tremendous and threatening. As Grueburn carried her onto the bridge, the gulf seemed to leap open as if it sprang from her darkest nightmares. And the bane: God, the bane! Excoriated faces gaped upward in insane succession, straining to devour fresh life.

  She Who Must Not Be Named did not rise swiftly, but Her approach was as ineluctable as the forces which had riven Melenkurion Skyweir.

  With the Staff’s insignificant light in her hands, Linden ascended into an altogether different dimension of feeling and perception: a dimension of undiluted irrefragable terror.

  She understood now why her parents had preferred death. Any other end would be better than a fall into this unfathomable abysm; this corrupt distortion of love and lust.

  Somewhere the Ardent screamed for haste. From the fan of obsidian—the cavern’s only egress—Giants shouted encouragement. Struggling for courage, Linden tried to tally the members of her company who had reached momentary safety; tried and could not. The yowling of the ur-viles and Waynhim sounded like despair.

  At the crest of the Hazard, some signal passed between Coldspray and Grueburn. They were not Haruchai: they could not hear each other’s thoughts. Nevertheless they had trained together for centuries. They moved as if they shared one mind.

  Suddenly Coldspray spun. At the same instant, Grueburn jerked to a halt, jumped backward a step.

  Keeping her hold on Jeremiah, gripping the krill less than finger’s width from the croyel’s throat, the Ironhand flung a kick at Esmer.

  Apparently he also could not read minds, despite his many powers. Coldspray’s kick caught him squarely. And she was a Giant, twice his size, far heavier. In the Verge of Wandering, he had endured Stave’s blows with visible ease; but he could not withstand the Ironhand of the Swordmainnir.

  She knocked him off the span, sent him tumbling headlong toward the voracity of Diassomer Mininderain and Emereau Vrai and uncounted numbers of other betrayed women.

  In a different reality, one of them could have been Linden’s mother. Or Joan.

  Coldspray did not pause, not for the flicker of an instant. Finishing her spin, she sprang into a run. Behind her, Grueburn started forward again, pounding for speed.

  Linden heard shrill alarm in the baying of the Demondim-spawn. Involuntarily she watched Esmer’s plummet. She saw jaws stretch to bite him out of the air—

  —saw him vanish before the teeth could close.

  The Ironhand could not have believed that he would perish. He was descended from Elohim: she must have known that he would evade the bane. She was simply trying to create an absence that might allow Covenant or the Ardent to recover themselves.

  But before she and Grueburn or Stave had taken two strides, a hand of theurgy flashed upward to grasp the Hazard. Irrefusable might closed around the slim stone and pulled.

  For an instant, less than an instant, no time at all, Linden felt the span quiver and shriek. Then the whole crest of the bridge exploded into splinters.

  Substantial reality seemed to disappear as though it had ceased to exist. The recoil of the bane’s power pitched Coldspray, Grueburn, and Stave upward. When they came down, there was nothing under them.

  Nothing except a rain of shattered granite—and She Who Must Not Be Named.

  Coldspray, Jeremiah, and the croyel, Grueburn and Linden, Stave: together they fell like rubble.

  Esmer had already reappeared at the foot of the bridge between Covenant and the Ardent.

  Someone wailed. The croyel? Linden herself? The chasm was full of voices. She had looked into the heart of the bane: she knew that she was not going to die. Stave and Jeremiah would be slain instantly. The croyel would be torn apart. Linden’s end would be worse.

  In those screaming faces, all of them, she saw her fate, the outcome of her failed choices. The bane’s victims had fallen to evil, not because they sought evil—some had not—but because they had made mistakes. Now their legacy was endless agony for every woman who could love as they had once loved.

  They would eat Linden and Coldspray and Grueburn, and relish the taste.

  Linden’s soul was already carrion. She Who Must Not Be Named would savor her more than any Giant.

  But faster than she plunged, a torrent of vitriol shot past her. Somehow the ur-viles had formed a wedge to concentrate their lore. Their ebon fluid struck downward.

  When the acid hit, the bane released a roar that shook the cavern. The seethe of faces flinched. The hand of theurgy burst into ineffective mist.

  At the same time, a frenetic skein of ribbands snatched at Linden and Grueburn; wrenched them back. The jolt cracked through Linden like the snap of a whip: she nearly dropped the Staff. More cloth caught Coldspray, Jeremiah, and the croyel: a score of brightly colored strips. Other bands yanked Stave away.

  Taut as cables, the Ardent’s raiment reeled his fallen charges upward.

  Liquid power plunged into the tortured moil of faces. It erupted like thunder amid the screams.

  A few dozen ur-viles could not hope to hurt She Who Must Not Be Named: they must have known that. But they distracted her.

  And they were not alone.

  A smaller blast of power crashed and volleyed among the stalactites. The Waynhim—! They were too few to equal the harsh strength of the ur-viles. And they had modified their lore to match their Weird; had taken it along different paths than those followed by their black kin. Still they hit hard—and the stalactites were fragile, made brittle by weight and age.

  In an earsplitting crack and crash, titanic spires began falling like spikes into the faces of the bane.

  Any mistake would have rent the Ardent’s ribbands; crushed Linden and Jeremiah. But the Waynhim knew what they were doing. Their projectiles fell from the far side of the cavern.

  The Ardent’s efforts tested the limits of his strength. Linden rose with fatal slowness. Spots of darkness bloomed in her vision like detonations, echoing the yell of stone as stalactites broke. Grueburn hugged her tight: she could not breathe. But she did not notice the corded pressure of the Giant’s arms. She had lost the light of her Staff; lost her health-sense. The bane was imprinted on her nerves. Through blackness and bits of dist
ortion, she recognized nothing except shrieks. The lip of the precipice where the rest of her companions stood or crouched was still too far away. She would never reach it.

  Then the Insequent had help. Bluntfist and Cabledarm released Bhapa and Pahni. Braced by their comrades, the two Swordmainnir grabbed at the Ardent’s ribbands and hauled on them as if they were hawsers.

  Thrashing in fury, She Who Must Not Be Named surged upward. Bluntfist, Cabledarm, and the Ardent heaved harder.

  A moment later, other Giants were able to catch hold of Grueburn and Coldspray. Trusting Mahrtiir to hang on, Latebirth gripped the edges of Grueburn’s cataphract and tugged her past the edge of the chasm. Onyx Stonemage held Liand with one arm while she helped the Ironhand. When the weight of the Giants was taken from him, the Ardent pulled Stave to safety.

  In spite of his weakness, Liand summoned radiance from his orcrest. Its pure light pushed against the bane’s savagery. With Earthpower, he supported the Swordmainnir and the Ardent.

  The Insequent gasped as though he had borne Giants on his shoulders. A dangerous pallor sickened his face: his legs wobbled under him. Reflections of the bane’s power made the sweat streaming on his cheeks look like cuts.

  For a moment, Linden did not realize that she could breathe again. No doubt her ribs would hurt later: she could not feel them now. Black blossoms expanded across her sight. The roaring of She Who Must Not Be Named filled the world.

  Esmer stood among the Giants, regarding them with disdain.

  From somewhere nearby, Galt announced, “We need no gift of tongues to comprehend that the Demondim-spawn beseech flight. Already the Waynhim run to guide us. We must follow swiftly.”

  The Ironhand may have panted, “Aye.” Linden was not sure. Serpents of nausea and dread writhed in her guts. As Grueburn struggled upright, the blots on Linden’s vision grew until they covered everything, and the world was gone.

  For minutes or hours, Linden lived in a realm of death. She had seen too many agonized faces. They left her at the mercy of carrion-eaters. For her, the bane had become crawling things, venomous and noisome. They gnawed their way out of her flesh, reveling in rot: centipedes and spiders, long worms. She wanted to claw off her skin to be rid of them. But her nightmares had claimed her. She was dead: she was death. Responsible for slaughter—