Against All Things Ending

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Deliberately he shifted so that he sat cross-legged with the krill directly between him and the cave’s entrance. For a few moments, he massaged the sore muscles of his lower back. Then he forced himself to sit straight as a sovereign. Let the Feroce be fearful. Let them approach humbly. Trapped in this chamber, he needed every possible advantage of posture or certainty.

  He needed to conceal that he feared touching Loric’s dagger.

  “Ur-Lord,” Branl warned quietly. “Three Feroce have gained the outer ledge. Soon they will enter here.”

  Covenant took a deep breath; held it. The krill cast a slash of brilliance through the break that gave admittance to the chamber. Silver light shone like a kind of purity on the far wall of the outer fissure. He fixed his gaze there, counting the thud-beats of his heart; watching for hints of emerald malevolence.

  It came first as a slight taint at the edge of the argent, a tinge that might have seemed vernal from some other source. Then the sick green of acid and hunger grew stronger. That hue did not outshine the krill. Perhaps it could not. Nonetheless it stained the silver until the darkness beyond it seemed rife with menace.

  One at a time, three creatures breached the light and stepped into the chamber.

  They were as Branl had described them: no taller than his shoulders, hairless and naked, with large eyes like pools of reflected silver and emerald. Each of them flinched at its first sight of the krill: each shied as far as it could from the gem’s blaze without touching Branl. When they looked past the light at Covenant, they conveyed the impression that they were cowering.

  In the cups of their hands, they carried flames like promises of disease. Despite their alarm, they had an air of malice suppressed or denied. Perhaps they would have flung themselves at Covenant, if they had dared to do so. Instinctively he believed that they had been spawned by Mount Thunder’s ancient poisons.

  They avoided the krill with their eyes and remained silent. They may have been waiting for Covenant to speak.

  Scowling as though he had the right to sit in judgment, he said nothing.

  Finally one of them of them raised its voice. “We are the Feroce.” But he could not tell which one spoke: the words seemed to come from all or none of them. And the voice had a peculiar sound, damp and undefined, like wet mud being forced past an obstruction. Their mouths and throats may not have been formed for language. Their speech may have been an effect of theurgy rather than of physical utterance.

  Masking his own anxiety with feigned hauteur, Covenant replied, “I’ve heard you. You want an audience. You want an alliance for your High God. We’ll get to that. Tell me something first. Convince me to trust you.

  “You say you’ve attempted harm. That was your first purpose. What did you do?”

  With their flames, the three Feroce made timid gestures like attempts at placation. “Our High God sustains us,” they responded in their single voice. “In his agony, he speaks to us. He speaks through us. We obey his commands. Without him, we are dust. We cannot part from the waters of the Sarangrave.

  “Havoc draws ever closer.” More and more, they appeared to cower. “The havoc of all life. You are aware of this. You cannot be unaware. Our High God has felt it.

  “He desires life. He desires power. He must have might, and greater might, and still greater might, lest he perish. All other enmity must be set aside.

  “A female of your kind wields a stick of immense potency. Of this you are also aware. You cannot be unaware. Our High God yearned for it. At his command, we strove to lure it from her. We failed. He was wounded. He cannot obtain life by that means.”

  Covenant swore behind his scowl. Linden—! Fiercely he demanded, “Did you hurt her? Did you hurt her?”

  The Feroce flinched like threatened children. Emerald flames guttered and spat in their hands. “We made the attempt. We failed. Now we are here.”

  “What, you?” he countered to conceal his relief. We failed. “I mean, you personally?” He did not know where Linden and her friends were, but he trusted that she was many leagues behind him. How had the Feroce covered so much ground so quickly?

  He could not afford to wonder how the creatures had tried to snare Linden, or what her resistance had cost her.

  “We do not comprehend.” Silver and green flared in the wide eyes of the creatures. Behind them, Branl stood like a statue, unmoved and unmoving. “We are the Feroce. We obey our High God. What is ‘personally’? We are not one. We are many.

  “Do you speak of the Feroce standing before you? We have no answer. At our High God’s command, we pursued you from the most seaward extent of the Sarangrave. The female of your kind we approached far to the west. There is no ‘personally.’ We are only the Feroce. We serve our High God in many places.”

  “All right.” Covenant made no effort to muffle his vexation. He needed to keep his back straight; needed to appear wrathful and dangerous. “I’m going to assume you aren’t the same creatures that attacked the woman.” If they were, he wanted a better explanation; but he did not know how to obtain it. “Go on. Your High God is right. He can’t save himself by making enemies.”

  The Feroce seemed to hesitate. Perhaps they had lost the thread of their instructions. But then their flames burned brighter, strict with coercion. Timorous as sycophants, they resumed in their single voice.

  “You are the Pure One, redeemer of the jheherrin, ally of the sur-jheherrin. But you are also the wielder of abhorrent metal. The deliverer of agony. Such agony as our High God has never known. We dare not oppose you. We must not. We are dust.

  “Havoc awaits our High God. He must have aid. In his name, we now seek alliance.”

  There the creatures fell silent as if they feared an immediate refusal.

  Covenant paused for a moment, thinking furiously. As far as he could tell, the Feroce were sincere. And they had invoked the name of the Pure One: he could not ignore that. But he did not know enough about them.

  He wanted to thump himself on the head, jar loose the memories he needed; but he resisted the temptation. “We’ll get to that,” he repeated. “I still have questions.

  “Who or what is your High God? I’ve never heard of him.”

  The Feroce gaped as though they were utterly baffled; as though his question made no sense in any language known to them.

  “He is the High God,” they offered tentatively. “He is our High God. Others do not worship him. We—”

  Abruptly they froze as if their minds had been seized by an alien thought. For an instant, their consternation was so plain that Covenant almost took pity on them. But the sickening hue of emerald writhed in their hands; and the moment passed.

  “Others,” they said more strongly. “You ask of others. We do not comprehend. But they speak of him by false names and affronts. One we are commanded to utter.” They rolled their eyes in strange terror. “It is Horrim Carabal.”

  At once, they ducked their heads as though they expected to be struck down for blasphemy.

  Ah, hell! Covenant thought. The lurker—The idea staggered him, even though the Feroce had already implied it clearly enough. The lurker had become a deity to these creatures? That was something he should have been able to remember—

  “How—?” he began in confusion. “You worship that—?” Then he took hold of himself; crossed his arms on his chest to contain his chagrin. “Never mind. I don’t need to know. What I need to know is, who are you? Where do you come from? And why do you live in the Sarangrave? Were you made there? Did you end up there from someplace else?”

  Why did they know enough about the Land’s history to speak of the jheherrin, the sur-jheherrin, and the Pure One?

  “We are the Feroce,” the creatures insisted anxiously. “You are aware of this. You cannot be unaware. You are the Pure One. You bore tokens of power foretold to the jheherrin. You brought about the downfall of the Maker and the Maker-place. You redeemed our far ancestors from enslavement and terror.”

  They nodded together,
indicating compliance to some form of command. “You are the Pure One,” they said again. “You have spoken with the jheherrin. You have been aided by them. We do not comprehend your question. Were you unaware that the numbers of our ancestors were too vast to be counted? Were you unaware that they had no wish to remain in their perilous tunnels when the Maker-place had fallen? They were the soft ones. For an age, they feared to depart. But as the region of their former horror declined increasingly to dust and death, and the Maker’s lingering evil waned, they resolved to seek the water and mud of a kinder home.”

  As they spoke, their voice took on more complex rhythms. In their minds, apparently, their tale required a different cadence. “Many and many of them, aussat Befylam, fael Befylam, roge Befylam, others too fearful to endure your sight, all who sought to repay the gift of life with life—all endured the long labor northward, bitter and loathsome, questing always from water and mud to water and mud in search of a new habitation. Were you unaware of this?”

  “The sur-jheherrin told me a few things,” Covenant admitted reluctantly. “I guessed a few. But that doesn’t answer my question.”

  How had the jheherrin in their many forms become creatures like the skest and the Feroce?

  Why did the Feroce consider the lurker a god?

  The idea that he needed allies like the lurker of the Sarangrave filled him with curses.

  “You are the Pure One,” the creatures repeated as if that name had the force of liturgy, “wielder of metal and agony. You cannot be unaware of the majesty that thrives in the Sarangrave. You cannot be unaware of its glory over marsh and fen and swamp, its grandeur among all that swims and slithers and crawls and burrows and scurries. We do not comprehend how you can be unaware that majesty transforms. Its powers are wondrous. It wrought wonders upon the soft ones. It wrought variously upon the several Befylam of the jheherrin, but all were transformed.

  “From among the Befylam arose the skest, mindless and servile, too easily swayed to grant our High God his due homage. For an age of the Sarangrave, they followed his command, hearing no other. Then they were called to new service. The Feroce despise them.

  “Others of the jheherrin begat the sur-jheherrin, too fearful to honor their true lord, and too cunning to attract his notice. The Feroce despise them also.

  “Wiser, others from each Befylam sought oneness with our High God. The Pure One was gone. In his absence, they yearned to repay salvation with surrender. Their wish was granted. Our High God devoured them. They nourished his increase of majesty. The Feroce revere them.

  “But among the jheherrin, some desired purpose in another form. Humble, they did not aspire to oneness. Grateful for redemption, they craved abasement rather than surrender. Their wish our High God granted as well. From several forms of the soft ones, he brought forth the Feroce to do his bidding. Generation unto generation, we multiply in homage. Thus we complete the redemption of the jheherrin.”

  Inwardly Covenant squirmed. He wanted to protest; wanted to deliver denials as unanswerable as the krill. Directly or indirectly, the Feroce held him responsible for their devotion to the lurker. The logic of their gratitude toward the Pure One had led them to adore and serve one of the Land’s most enduring evils.

  But Covenant was not the Pure One. He was not. From the first, the jheherrin and their descendants had mistaken him for Saltheart Foamfollower. Yet that was irrelevant here. The Feroce believed. Their misapprehension both damned and blessed him.

  It was damnable that he had played any inadvertent part in inspiring their service. But it was also a blessing. Because of their confusion, they feared him too much to oppose him. And the lurker feared him enough to offer an alliance.

  Horrim Carabal feared the Worm of the World’s End more.

  He suspected that this was Linden’s doing. Somehow her defeat of the Feroce had forced the lurker to recognize that its malevolence was ultimately suicidal.

  Pain and mortality could have that effect.

  Struggling to contain his shame and ire and repudiation, Covenant clung to the idea that Linden had saved him. It was fitting. As fitting as his certainty that Joan stood among the ruins of Foul’s Creche. There are always evil means. Even a horror like the lurker of the Sarangrave might accomplish something good in the end.

  Rigid with internal conflict, Covenant said through his teeth, “I understand. I think you’re telling the truth. Now I’m ready to talk about an alliance.”

  “Ur-Lord,” Branl put in, warning him. “You speak of the lurker of the Sarangrave. Even the Ranyhyn fear such evil.”

  Covenant ignored the Humbled. “What are you offering?”

  The Feroce also ignored Branl. Cringing before Covenant or Loric’s krill, they answered, “Our High God offers safe passage throughout the great Sarangrave for all who resist the end of life. Already he suffers the presence of one who wanders lost within his realm, bearing a token of power which has no worth against havoc. He will suffer more. All who aid you will be permitted freedom and sanctuary in Sarangrave Flat.”

  One who wanders—? Covenant could not guess who that might be, and did not try. “Go on.”

  “Also,” said the Feroce, malleable as mud, “we will combat the skest in your name. The Feroce despise them. Our High God feels the approach of havoc. He feels a lesser power as well. From cruel metal, it brings forth lesser hurts. It has wrought other agonies. And it is served by the skest. Our High God commands that lesser havocs must cease. They deflect might from the preservation of his life.

  “The Pure One is wise in the ways of salvation. You will end the lesser hurts. If you do not fail, you will do more. Our High God offers the aid of the Feroce. We will clear your path of skest.”

  Reflexively Covenant rubbed the scar on his forehead. Clear your path—That was a gift worth accepting. He did not want to lose either the Humbled or their Ranyhyn to the skest.

  Probing, he asked, “Is there more?”

  Abruptly the flames of the Feroce grew brighter. They seemed to double in size and vehemence, fraught with intentions which Covenant could not identify.

  “There is the matter of your defeated beast,” the creatures answered. “Witness a transformation wrought by our High God’s majesty.”

  They did not move. None of them waved their arms, or brandished the lamps of their hands, or glanced away from Covenant. Nevertheless their magicks seemed to accumulate puissance within the argent of Loric’s dagger.

  Branl took a step forward. He clenched his fists. But he had no one to strike. Like Covenant, apparently, he could not sense a threat.

  The destrier raised its head. For a moment, it looked around with an air of puzzlement, as though it wondered what had become of it. Then rage and recalcitrance began to smolder in its eyes.

  Snorting angrily, the beast surged to its feet. At once, it wheeled away. Like an animal reborn, it headed toward the chamber’s egress. Without regard for the Feroce, it lunged out of sight in the direction of the ledge and the towering cliff.

  Gradually dangerous green receded as the flames of the Feroce shrank. “We have not given it strength,” the creatures said as if admitting their limitations frightened them. “We cannot. But we have caused it to remember what it is. While it lives, it will not forget.”

  “That’s enough,” Covenant breathed. “It’ll get me there.” He could not ask for anything more: not from the descendants of the jheherrin, whose lives had been distorted by mistaken belief. If he were honest, he would have told the truth. The Pure One had died in the destruction of Foul’s Creche. But Covenant needed this alliance. He was convinced that he needed it.

  Still wrestling with himself, he asked unsteadily, “What do you want from me? What does your High God expect in exchange?”

  The Feroce hesitated briefly, then countered, “What does the Pure One offer?”

  Stop calling me that. “Let me think. I need to be clear.”

  In fact, Covenant had nothing to offer the lurker; nothing that he could b
argain away; no aid that he might provide. Only the krill and his air of authority had brought the Feroce this far: those things, and perhaps the manner in which Linden had saved her Staff. What else did he have that the lurker might want? A promise that he would rush to the monster’s defense? No. He had already condoned too much misapprehension. He was not willing to compound his faults with lies.

  Sitting as if he were as obdurate as the Masters, he answered the Feroce.

  “Understand me. I don’t promise life. I can’t swear to you I’ll keep your High God alive. I may not have enough power. There may not be enough power.” The Worm was coming, the Earth’s final apotheosis. He could not imagine stopping it. “That ‘lesser power’ I’m going to face isn’t my only problem. There’s Kastenessen. Kevin’s Dirt. Sandgorgons and Cavewights and skurj.” He did not care whether the creatures or the lurker recognized those names. He listed his enemies and obstacles for his own sake. “She Who Must Not Be Named. Ravers. My own son. And the Despiser, who took the skest. They all have to be dealt with before I can face the ‘havoc’ you actually fear.

  “I can only promise two things. I’ll respect the alliance. Everybody who stands with me will respect it. None of us will turn against your High God. And we’ll do our best to save the Land. All of it. If that can be done with the krill and wild magic and the Staff of Law,” by Giants and Haruchai and Ranyhyn; by anything as simple and enduring as mortal stubbornness, “we’ll do it.

  “If your High God dies,” he finished as though he had taken an oath, “I probably won’t be far behind. Unless I get myself killed first.”

  Hearing him, the Feroce did more than cower and flinch. They retreated, trembling, until they stood at the cave’s entrance. Their voice or voices became a gibbering noise like a host of whimpers. In a small circle, they faced each other and joined hands; clasped their fires together until argent was banished from the air between them, leaving only emerald fire that stank and throbbed like an old bane resurrected from the abysm of lost Time. Even to the failing nerves of Covenant’s cheeks, the bitterness of the creatures’ theurgy stung like a slap.