Against All Things Ending

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Attempts must be made—

  The clamor of the Waynhim and ur-viles complicated the sound of drizzling water, the implied shrieks of chewed granite. But even the tension of the Demondim-spawn could not contradict the mounting labor of the bane’s advance.

  For a moment, Coldspray faltered as if her courage had failed. Then she clenched her teeth, squared her shoulders.

  “Swordmainnir, the Manethrall counsels wisely. I will continue to bear the boy and the croyel, but you must entrust Linden Giantfriend and Covenant Timewarden to the Haruchai. The Manethrall and his Cords will watch over the Stonedownor and the old man. You must be able to wield your swords.”

  Promptly her comrades obeyed. As Grueburn and the other Giants put down their charges, Coldspray turned to the Ardent. “Do you require—?”

  He shook his head. “I will not hamper you. If the powers of the Insequent do not suffice to preserve me, doubtless I will perish. Yet while I may, I will strive for life.” He attempted a wan smile. “Mayhap a surfeit of terror will amend my deficit of hardiness.”

  Stave grasped Linden’s right arm. Liand held her left. The Humbled accepted Covenant from Cirrus Kindwind. Pahni flung an imploring look at Liand, then took Anele’s hand and drew the old man to join Bhapa with Mahrtiir. The older Cord hooked elbows with the blinded Manethrall to guide him.

  Centipedes had crawled into Linden’s ears. She heard them gibbering. She clung to her Staff as if it might keep her sane. But Law and Earthpower had no will of their own. They could accomplish nothing that she did not ask of them; and the rain leeched away her ability to ask. In spite of Caerroil Wildwood’s runes, the wood’s bright flame began to gutter and die.

  “Go!” the Ironhand ordered harshly. “I will not lag.” She may have thought that Linden would understand her. “My comrades will follow as swiftly as our straits permit.”

  Lit by orcrest and the krill’s gem, and by unsteady gusts of Staff-fire, the company fled after the Demondim-spawn.

  Galt, Clyme, and Branl rushed Covenant into motion. Almost immediately, Bhapa and Mahrtiir caught up with them, as did Pahni and Anele. The old man was not loath to run. In spite of his imperfect comprehension, he was intimately familiar with flight. On any form of rock, he had no need for vision.

  Tugged along by Stave and Liand, Linden trotted so that she would not fall. But she could not turn her head away from the end of the cavern; the sick and rotting stone; the rising violence that disturbed the pool. The stink of disease accumulated around her until it filled her lungs with every breath.

  Suddenly putrefaction and magma exploded outward, shedding a spray of granite shards. In the eaten gaps, skurj appeared: first five or six, then ten; fifteen. Kraken-jaws gaping hellishly, they slithered into the cavern. Their many rows of teeth, their rending scimitars, blazed with the ferocity of lava. Implications of disease howled among the clutter of columns. Briefly the creatures paused, apparently searching for the scent of their prey. Then, fluid as serpents, they squirmed in pursuit.

  “Did I not forewarn you?” asked Esmer bitterly.

  They were fast: God, they were fast. Linden had forgotten—

  Ahead of the monsters, the crevice burst open in a blast of incandescent hunger. Some brute instinct caused the skurj to shy away as She Who Must Not Be Named tore Her way into the cavern.

  A mass of terrible energies with dozens or hundreds of faces surged forward. The bane’s savagery shattered stalactites and stalagmites, pelting the surface of the pool to chaos, bludgeoning the skurj with blows which they did not appear to feel. Dripping water hissed instantly into steam as it struck the hides of the beasts. But no rain could touch She Who Must Not Be Named.

  Through the confusion of her affliction and floundering, Linden received the impression that the bane and the skurj paid no heed to each other. In their dissimilar fashions, they were ruled by hungers that defied distraction. After their initial flinch, the skurj squirmed swiftly after their prey, twisting past plinths and fallen stone undeterred by the bane’s greater might and malice. And when the bane quickened Her advance, expanding as She moved, She did so simply to satisfy Her feral craving.

  Led upward by Waynhim and ur-viles, the companions ran as well as they could. The Giants managed a shambling plod that almost matched the strides of the Ramen and Anele, the best pace that the Haruchai and Liand could demand from Covenant and Linden. Jagged spires threw shadows that jumped and flared in the garish radiance of fangs and malevolence, the shining of the krill and the Sunstone, Linden’s guttering flames. Everywhere water dripped delicate streaks of reflection. Stalagmites loomed and were passed while evils yowled in Linden’s ears. She wanted to stop breathing the sickened air, yearned to smother her infested flesh in conflagration, and could not.

  Struggling, the company ran and ran, to no avail. The bane and the skurj gained ground slowly, a few appalling strides at a time; but the outcome was inevitable. The cavern and the ascent seemed endless—and the Swordmainnir were already exhausted. Linden herself was too weary to run without support. Liand had not had enough time to recover from his wounds. Eventually even the Haruchai would weaken.

  Maggots fed on Linden’s eyes. Spiders filled her ears. Centipedes crawled between her legs while beetles enjoyed her breasts. She did not—she could not—notice that the Demondim-spawn were pulling ahead; or that they led the company closer to the near wall of the cavern. She did not hear Mahrtiir’s ragged shout, or Rime Coldspray’s gasped answer. Her grasp on Earthpower was failing; and she was aware of nothing except agonies, real and unreal, until Liand shook her frantically, crying, “Linden! The Waynhim! The ur-viles!”

  Through a haze of distress and gangrene and hate, she made a dying effort to peer ahead.

  Somewhere beyond the Ramen, the creatures had found a ledge in the wall of the cavern. From high above and behind the company, a shelf angled down to meet the floor. The Waynhim and ur-viles had already begun to scamper upward. To Linden, the ledge looked dangerously narrow, but it must have been wider than it appeared. When the creatures had ascended to three or four times the height of a Giant, they stopped. There the Waynhim were able to gather in a tight cluster. The ur-viles had room to form a fighting wedge.

  They gestured like deranged things at the company. The tumult of their barking matched the bane’s fury, the ravening of the skurj.

  The Ramen did not hesitate. With Anele, they reached the ledge and climbed. A moment later, the Humbled impelled Covenant to follow. Limping heavily, the Ardent went after them.

  At the foot of the ledge, Esmer paused to wait for Linden, Stave, and Liand. The rampage of fires behind the company echoed like madness in his eyes.

  Linden understood nothing. The ledge ran back in the direction of the bane and the skurj. Its elevation would be a trivial obstacle to Kastenessen’s monsters—and no obstacle at all to She Who Must Not Be Named. Nevertheless Stave and Liand manhandled her grimly toward Esmer. When he moved to join the rest of the company, they hurried at his back.

  Now she could see the bane and the skurj. She could not look away. Trailing clouds of steam, the creatures flowed like molten stone among the pillars. Expanding, the bane had grown large enough to scatter stalagmites, break off stalactites. She seemed to roll as She advanced, a world of pain presenting new faces and teeth and screams at every moment.

  Her raw force made Her appear closer than She was; closer than the monsters. Clinging to mere shreds of sanity, Linden strained to gauge the true distance.

  The bane and the skurj were still at least a long stone’s throw away. But the bane approached more slowly, savoring the helplessness of Her prey.

  All of the Giants would have time to ascend the ledge, reach the place where the Demondim-spawn had halted. They would be able to anticipate and dread the moment when they would be torn apart.

  Linden thought that she would rather fling herself into the jaws of the skurj. Their blazing fangs would spare her every other hurt. She did not want to participate in t
he bane’s immortal pain.

  Coldspray would protect Jeremiah as long as she could. Soon, however, they would both be slain.

  Surely the croyel would die as well? Even if the bane had no taste for such food, the skurj were incapable of thought or scruples: they would eat anything.

  No. Linden gripped the Staff and her waning mind until her knuckles burned. No, she was wrong. Esmer was still here. Capable of more treachery. If Kastenessen commanded it, he could snatch the croyel and Jeremiah away whenever he chose.

  Then Jeremiah would at least survive. And perhaps one of the Earth’s other powers would take pity on him before the end.

  That bleak possibility was not enough. Linden needed more.

  Her frangible concentration was fixed on the bane and the skurj. She hardly noticed that she was no longer moving. Stave and Liand had brought her to the clustered Waynhim; but her friends and the creatures and her own immobility lay outside the bounds of her awareness. The remnants of her heart were full of Jeremiah, and she saw nothing except the bane and the skurj; felt nothing except imminent death and corruption.

  Her companions might have time to say goodbye to each other before they were slaughtered.

  Liand was shouting in her ear, but she did not hear him until Stave lifted vitrim to her lips and tilted her head for her so that she would drink.

  The dank liquid filled her mouth, forced her to swallow. Then it ran down her throat: a tonic sting insignificant in the face of She Who Must Not Be Named and Kastenessen’s monsters, but suffused with vitality nonetheless, and unaccountably numinous. Reflexively she gulped until she emptied the iron cup; and as she did so, carrion-eaters seemed to scurry out of her eyes and ears, skittering down her neck into the comparative sanctuary of her clothes. At the same time, better fire bloomed from the Staff. Jolted by given energy, she became suddenly conscious of the people and creatures around her.

  Rushing, the Waynhim distributed vitrim to her friends: to the Giants first, and to Liand; then to the Ramen and Anele and the Ardent. Grueburn held iron, tiny in her huge hands, to Coldspray’s lips. While Esmer muttered darkly as if he were reinforcing his power, the grey Demondim-spawn gave a cup to the Humbled and watched as Branl held Covenant’s head so that Galt could pour vitrim into his mouth.

  The Waynhim were exhausting themselves: Linden could see that now. Nonetheless they persisted in their service. Although the draughts were little, the Swordmainnir grew visibly stronger. Fresh energy lifted the Ardent’s head, straightened his sagging shoulders. A few of his ribbands flicked out, breaking off their charred ends. Even Covenant seemed to gain focus, as if the outlines of his presence were being etched more sharply. But he did not emerge from his memories.

  Together the ur-viles howled in consternation or rage. As one, they pointed at the ceiling of the cavern. Their loremaster used its jerrid or scepter to indicate a precise spot of dampness among the stalactites.

  Galvanized by vitrim, Linden was finally able to estimate her own condition. Percipience informed her that the strength which she had received was not enough. It restored only a small portion of her resources—and it would not last long. The proximity of the bane sucked at her ability to wield Earthpower. She might manage one final blast of fire. But her poor vehemence would not harm She Who Must Not Be Named—and would have no impact at all on the skurj.

  Soon those evils would be close enough to attack.

  Still the ur-viles chattered and yelled, demanding—

  —demanding something that Linden could not identify.

  “Linden!” Liand shouted at her. “You must act! No other power will suffice! I cannot comprehend the ur-viles!”

  His Sunstone had become meaningless. Mere swords and muscle had no value. The Ironhand might conceivably strike one effective blow with Loric’s krill. Then she would be lost—and the croyel would escape with Jeremiah.

  Now or never. Esmer had deprived the Giants of their ability to grasp what the ur-viles wanted.

  Already Linden felt vitrim turning to ash in her veins.

  “God damn it, Esmer.” She could not spare the strength to raise her voice. “You’ve done more than enough harm. The least you can do is translate.”

  Cail’s son studied her with shame like crimson spume in his eyes. Disdain and anguish buffeted each other across his visage. His wounds wept unassuaged blood.

  Renewed nausea twisted through Linden’s guts; but she did not look away. With her ruined gaze, she commanded Esmer to consider the cost of his betrayals.

  A spasm of revulsion knotted his features. In disgust, he announced harshly, “The ur-viles desire you to recognize that the waters falling here must have a source. Doubtless you”—his tone said, Even you—“are aware that the Soulsease pours the greater portion of the Upper Land’s streams and rivers into the depths of Gravin Threndor. Later those same torrents emerge, besmirched, as the Defiles Course. But have you never contemplated the path of that vast weight of water during its millennia within the bowels of the mountain? The ur-viles assure you that the Soulsease plunges deep among the Wightwarrens, and still deeper, until it has passed beyond the knowledge of all but the Viles and their makings. There it gathers in lakes and chasms, filling utter darkness until it rises at last to its egress on the Lower Land.”

  Esmer glanced upward. “The ur-viles proclaim that they have discerned a point of weakness in the high stone of this tomb.”

  Then he clamped his mouth shut, biting down hard on his own misery.

  The ur-viles gibbered and gesticulated like incarnations of mania. Below them, She Who Must Not Be Named reared higher, extending Her maleficence as if She dreamed of feeding until She filled the cavern. Some of the skurj approached directly. Others arced around the company’s position, perhaps to close off any possible retreat, perhaps to ascend the ledge themselves.

  “Linden!” cried Liand. “Water! Water!”

  She hardly heard him. Her gaze followed the line of the loremaster’s iron jerrid toward the ceiling. In the radiance of fangs and ferocity, she seemed to see the exact place that the jerrid indicated; see it as if the loremaster had marked it for her by sheer force of will.

  The last of the Demondim-spawn had sacrificed themselves for her repeatedly; extravagantly. Nevertheless they wanted to live.

  As she did. As long as Jeremiah needed help, and Covenant remained to redeem the Land.

  One blast: that was all she had left. Just one. Then she would be finished, for good or ill.

  Make it count.

  Her parents would not have approved. They had chosen death. But for a moment longer, she refused their legacy. Spiders and worms could not cause more torment than they had already inflicted.

  Saving her energies for flame, she whispered the Seven Words as she flung Earthpower toward the ceiling.

  “Melenkurion abatha.”

  Tenuously balanced on the brink of herself, she aimed fire at the damp patch of stone which the ur-viles indicated.

  “Duroc minas mill.”

  Every remaining shred of her love and need and fear, she committed to the written wood of the Staff until they formed a blaze of theurgy as brutal as a battering-ram.

  “Harad khabaal.”

  Centipedes and horror hampered her. The bane’s nearness drained her. The example of her parents promised futility; abject surrender. Defying them, she struck—

  —and the ceiling held.

  But she was not alone. A heartbeat behind her blast, a great gout of vitriol rose from the wedge and its loremaster. Strange magicks as corrosive as acid, and sour as self-loathing, smashed against the rock where her power burned.

  Smashed and detonated.

  Together the concussion of dire liquid and hot flame tore a cascade of stone from the ceiling.

  From the breach, water trickled as though Linden and the ur-viles had partially unclogged a rainspout.

  A rumble as throaty and unfathomable as the bane’s livid beat resounded among the spires. Tremors ran through the rock
, shook the ledge. Clots of damp debris fell, loosened by a subtle convulsion among the mountain’s roots. The entire cavern groaned like a wounded titan.

  Still some distance away, tortured faces wailed at Linden. Her father had killed himself in front of her. Her mother had begged to be slain. The excruciation of beetles and maggots intensified.

  “Ware and watch!” shouted the Ironhand. “This perch may fail!”

  She Who Must Not Be Named screamed from a dozen throats. The skurj paused as though they were capable of surprise.

  An instant later, the damaged ceiling ruptured.

  A tremendous fist of water flung great chunks of gutrock downward. From the breach, an immured sea began to fall in a staggering crash like all of the Land’s waterfalls joined into one. Thunder filled the air like the ravage of worlds. An avalanche of forgotten waters slammed down onto the skurj; pounded against the hideous bulk of the bane.

  The tumult drew weight from other caverns above it. Scalding steam erupted from the impact of waters on Kastenessen’s monsters; but instantly those bursts were swept away by the torrential plunge. The bane tried to lurch aside, and failed. The plummet of water bore Her down, dragged Her under.

  Groaning in granite agony, Gravin Threndor emptied its deep guts as though a firmament of water had been torn open.

  Coldspray roared warnings which no one could hear. Other Giants yelled soundlessly, as if they had been stricken dumb. Jeremiah appeared to howl, uttering the croyel’s inaudible dismay.

  Spray acrid with minerals drenched the company. It bit into Linden’s sight. She could not blink fast enough to clear her eyes. Dropping the Staff, she scrubbed at her face with both hands; slapped her neck and chest and legs.

  Before the mountain’s tremors shrugged the Staff out of reach, Liand stooped to catch it.

  Abruptly the ledge shook. It began to sheer away.

  Esmer stopped it. The force which he had used on other occasions to raise spouts like geysers from the ground, he exerted now to stabilize the stone. A shudder ran along the steep shelf; but the ledge held.