The Power That Preserves

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The wind hummed softly between the houses, carrying the snow like haze into Covenant's eyes. The flakes flicked cold at his sore lip, but still he nodded his approval of the gathering flurries. A good snowfall would cover his trail. The snow muffled the sounds of the village, and he seemed to be speaking to himself as he said, "Let's get going. I've got debts to pay."

  [SEVEN] Message to Revelstone

  Though his jaws ached with protests, Triock gave the orders which sent several of his comrades hurrying to collect supplies for Covenant, Foamfollower, and Lena. In that moment, the giving of those orders seemed to be the hardest thing he had ever done. The restraint which had allowed Covenant to live seven and forty years ago paled by comparison. The exertions which had brought Covenant to the Land now lost their meaning. Lena Atiaran-daughter's desire to accompany the Unbeliever turned all Triock's long years of devotion to dust and loss, and all his lavish love had been wasted.

  Yet he could not refuse her-could not, though he had the authority to do so. He was one of Mithil Stonedown's Circle of elders, and by old Stonedown tradition, even marriages and long journeys were subject to the approval of the Circle. Furthermore, he was the acknowledged leader of Mithil Stonedown's defense. He could have commanded Lena to stay at home, and if his reasons were valid, all the Stonedown would have fought to keep her.

  His reasons were valid. Lena was old, half confused. She might hamper Covenant's movements; she might even risk his life again, as she had so recently. She would be in danger from all the enemies between Mithil Stonedown and Foul's Creche. Covenant was the one man responsible for her condition, the man who had permanently warped the channel of her life. And he, Triock son of Thuler-he loved her.

  Yet he gave the orders. He had never loved Lena in a way which would have enabled him to control her. At one time, he had been ready to break his Oath of Peace for her, but throughout most of his life now he had kept it for her. He had done his utmost to raise her daughter free of shame and outrage. He could not begin now to refuse the cost of a love to which he had so entirely given himself.

  Once that ordeal was over, he grew somewhat calmer. In the back of his heart, he believed that if there were any hope for the Land in Thomas Covenant, it depended upon Covenant's responses to Lena. Then his chief bitterness lay in the fact that he himself could not accompany Covenant could not go along to watch over Lena. He had his own work to do, work which he acknowledged and approved. Through the yearning clench of his jaws, he told himself that he would have to rely on Saltheart Foamfollower.

  With a brusque movement, he pushed the gray snow out of his eyes and looked toward the Giant. Foamfollower met his gaze, came over to him, and said, "Be easy at heart, my friend. You know that I am not an inconsiderable ally. I will do all I can for both."

  "Take great care," Triock breathed through his teeth. "The eyes which saw our work upon Kevin's Watch are yet open. We did not close them in this battle."

  Foamfollower studied this thought for a moment, then said, "If that is true, then it is you who must take the greatest care. You bear your High Wood into the hazard of the South Plains."

  Triock shrugged. "High Wood or white gold-we must all tread cunningly. I can send none of my people with you."

  With a nod of approval, the Giant said, "I would refuse if they were offered. You will need every sword. The mountains where you will seek this Unfettered One are many leagues distant, and you will be required to fight much of your way."

  The clench of Triock's teeth made his voice rasp harshly. "I take none but Quirrel and Yeurquin with me."

  Foamfollower started to protest, but Triock cut him off. "I need the speed of few companions. And Mithil Stonedown stands now in its gravest peril. For the first time, we have given open battle to the marauders. With the power we revealed on Kevin's Watch, and the strength of our victory here, we have declared beyond question that we are not mere vagabond warriors, seeking refuge in lifeless homes. We have defended our Stonedown-we are an unbeaten people. Therefore the enemy will return against us with a host to dwarf this last band. No, Rockbrother," he concluded grimly, "every war-ready hand must remain to hold what we have won-lest our foes break upon the Stonedown like a wave and leave not one home standing."

  After a moment, Foamfollower sighed. "I hear you. Ah, Triock- these are grave times indeed. I will rest easier when my friend Mhoram son Of Variol has received word of what we do."

  "You believe I will succeed?"

  "Who can if you cannot? You are hardy and knowledgeable, familiar with plains and mountains-and marauders. You have accepted the need, though your feet yearn to follow other paths. Those who pursue their heart's desire risk more subtle failures and treacheries. In some ways, it is well to leave your soul wish in other hands." He spoke musingly, as if in his thoughts he were comparing Triock's position with his own. "You can accomplish this message purely."

  "I reap one other blessing also," Triock returned through a mouthful of involuntary gall. "The burden of mercy falls on your shoulders. Perhaps you will bear it more easily."

  Foamfollower sighed again, then smiled gently. "Ah, my friend, I know nothing of mercy. My own need for it is too great."

  The sight of Foamfollower's smiling regret made Triock wish that he could protest against what the Giant said. But he understood only too well the complex loss and rue which weighed on Foamfollower. Instead, he returned the best smile he could manage and saluted Foamfollower from the bottom of his heart. Then he turned away to make his own preparations for travel.

  In a short time, he packed blankets, an extra cloak, a small stoneware pot of graveling, supplies of dried meat, cheese, and fruit, and a knife to replace the one he had given Covenant, in a knapsack. He took only a few moments to whet his sword, and to secure his lomillialor rod in the tunic belt under his cloak. Yet when he returned to the open center of the Stonedown, he found Covenant, Foamfollower, and Lena ready to depart. Lena carried her own few belongings in a pack like his; Foamfollower had all the supplies for the three of them in his leather sack, which he slung easily over his shoulder; and Covenant's wounded face held a look of intentness or frustration, as if only the hurt on his mouth kept him from complaining impatiently. In that look, Triock caught a glimpse of how fragile Covenant's avowed hatred was. It did not appear to be a sustaining Passion. Triock shivered. A foreboding distrust told him that Thomas Covenant's resolve or passion would not suffice.

  But he clenched the thought to himself as he returned Foamfollower's final salute. There was nothing he could say. And a moment later, the Giant arid his two companions had disappeared northward between the houses.

  Their footmarks filled with snow and faded from sight until Mithil Stonedown seemed to retain no record of their passing.

  Gruffly, Triock said to Yeurquin and Quirrel, "We also must depart We must leave this valley while the snow holds."

  His two friends nodded without question. Their faces were empty of expression; they looked like people from whom combat had drained all other considerations-carried their short javelins as if the killing of enemies were their sole interest. From them, Triock drew a kind of serenity. He was no High Wood wielder to them, no bearer of burdens which would have bent the back of a Lord. He was only a man, fighting as best he could for the Land, without pretensions to wisdom or prophecy. This was a proper role for a Cattleherd in times of war, and he welcomed it.

  Girded by the readiness of his companions, he went to the other elders and spent a short time discussing with them Mithil Stonedown's precautions against future attacks. Then he left his home to them and went out into the snow again as if it were the duty of his life.

  Flanked by Quirrel and Yeurquin, he left the village by the northward road, and crossed without stealth the stone bridge to the western side of the valley. He wanted to make good time while the snow cover lasted, so he stayed on the easiest route until he neared the end of the horn of mountains which formed the Mithil valley's western wall. At that point, he moved off the r
oad and started up into the foothills that clung around the tip of the horn.

  He intended to skirt the peaks west and south almost as far as Doom's Retreat, then swing northwest toward the isolated wedge of mountains which defended the South Plains from Garroting Deep. He could not take the straight march westward. In the open Plains, he would certainly encounter marauders, and when he did, he would have to flee wherever they chased him. So he chose the rugged terrain of the foothills. The higher ground would give him both a vantage from which to watch for enemies and a cover in which to hide from them.

  Yet, as he plodded upward through the snow, he feared the choice he had made. In the foothills, he would need twenty days to reach those mountains beyond Doom's Retreat; twenty days would be lost before he could begin to search for the Unfettered One. In that time, Covenant and his companions might travel all the way to Landsdrop or beyond. Then any message which the High Lord might receive would be too late; Covenant would be beyond any hand but the Gray Slayer's.

  With that dread in his heart, he began the arduous work of rounding the promontory.

  He and his comrades had reached the first lee beyond the horn when the snowfall ended, late that afternoon. There he ordered a halt. Instead of running the risk of being seen-brown against the gray slush of the snow he made camp and let the long weariness which had been his constant companion since he first began fighting lull him to sleep.

  Sometime after nightfall, Yeurquin awakened him. They moved on again, chewing strips of dried meat to keep some warmth in their bones, and washing the salt from their throats with mouthfuls of the unsavory snow. In the cloud-locked darkness, they made slow progress. And every league took them farther from the hills they knew most intimately. After a tortuous and unsuccessful effort to scale one bluff slope, Triock cursed the dreary clasp of the sky and turned to descend toward easier ground nearer the Plains.

  For most of the night, they traveled the lower hillsides, but when they felt dawn crouching near, they climbed again to regain their vantage. They pushed upward until they gained a high ridge from which they could see a long stretch of the way they had come. There they stopped. During the gray seepage of day into the air, they opened their smokeless graveling pots and cooked one hot meal. When they were done, they waited until the wind had obliterated all their tracks. Then they set watches, slept.

  They followed this pattern for two more days-down out of the foothills at dusk, long, dark night-trek, back toward higher ground at dawn for one hot meal and sleep-and during these three days, they saw no sign of any life, human or animal, friend or foe, anywhere; they were alone in the cold gray world and the forlorn wind. Trudging as if they were half crippled by the snow, they pressed themselves through the chapped solitude toward Doom's Retreat. Aside from the unpredictably crisp or muffled noises of their own movement, they heard nothing but the over-stressed cracklings of the ice and the scrapings of the wind, fractured in their ears by the rumpled hills.

  But in the dawn of the fourth day, while they watched the wind slowly filling the footmarks of their train, they saw a dull, ugly, yellow movement cross one rib of the hills below them and come hunting upward in their direction. Triock counted ten in the pack.

  "Kresh!" Yeurquin spat under his breath.

  Quirrel nodded. "And hunting us. It must be that they passed downwind of us during the night."

  Triock shivered. The fearsome yellow wolves were not familiar to the people of the South Plains; until the last few years, the kresh had lived primarily in the regions north of Ra, foraging into the North Plains when they could not get Ranyhyn-flesh. And many thousands of them had been slain in the great battle of Doom's Retreat. Yet they soon replenished their numbers, and now scavenged in every part of the Land where the hand of the Lords no longer held sway. Triock had never had to fight kresh, but he had seen what they could do. A year ago, one huge pack had annihilated the whole population of Gleam Stonedown, in the crystal hills near the joining of the Black and Mithil rivers; and when Triock had walked through the deserted village, he had found nothing but rent clothes and splinters of bone.

  "Melenkurion!" he breathed as he gauged the speed of the yellow wolves. "We must climb swiftly."

  As his companions slung their packs, he searched the terrain ahead for an escape or refuge. But despite their roughness, the hills and slopes showed nothing which the wolves might find impassable; and Triock knew of no defensible caves or valleys this far from Mithil Stonedown.

  He turned upward. With Quirrel and Yeurquin behind him, he started along a ridge of foothills toward the mountains.

  In the lee of the ridge, the snow was not thick. They made good speed as they climbed and scrambled toward the nearest mountain flank. But it rose sheerly out of the hillslope ahead, preventing escape in that direction. When the western valley beside the ridge rose up toward the mountain, Triock swung to the right and ran downward, traversed the valley, lunged through the piled snow toward the higher ground on the far side.

  Before he and his companions reached the top, the leading kresh crested the ridge behind them and gave out a ferocious howl. The sound hit Triock between his shoulder blades like the flick of a flail. He stopped, whirled to see the wolves rushing like yellow death along the ridge hardly five hundred yards from him.

  The sight made the skin of his scalp crawl, and his cold-stiff cheeks twitched as if he were trying to bare his teeth in fear. Without a word, he turned and attacked the climb again, threw himself through the snow until his pulse pounded and he seemed to be surrounded by his own gasping.

  When he gained the ridge top, he paused long enough to steady his gaze, then scanned the terrain ahead. Beyond this rib of the foothills, all the ground in a wide half-circle reaching to the very edge of the mountains fell steeply away into a deep valley. The valley was roughly conical in shape, open to the plains only through a sheer ravine on its north side. It offered no hope to Triock's searching eyes. But clinging to the mountain edge beyond a narrow ledge along the lip of the valley was a broken pile of boulders, the remains of an old rockfall. Triock's attention leaped to see if the boulders could be reached along the ledge.

  "Go!" Quirrel muttered urgently. "I will hold them here."

  "Two javelins and one sword," Triock panted in response. "Then they will outweigh us seven to two. I prefer you alive.'' Pointing, he said, "We must cross that ledge to the rocks. There we can strike at the kresh from above. Come."

  He started forward again, driving his tired legs as fast as he could, and Quirrel and Yeurquin followed on his heels. When they reached the rough ground where the ridge blended into the cliff, they clambered through it toward the ledge.

  At the ledge, Triock hesitated. The lip of the valley was packed in snow, and he could not tell how much solid rock was hidden under it. But the kresh were howling up the hill behind him; he had no time to scrape the snow clear. Gritting his teeth, he pressed himself against the cliff and started outward.

  His feet felt the slickness of the ledge. Ice covered the rock under the snow. But he had become accustomed to ice in the course of this preternatural winter. He moved with small, unabrupt steps, did not let himself slip. In moments, Quirrel and Yeurquin were on the ledge as well, and he was halfway to his destination.

  Suddenly, a muffled boom like the snapping of old bones echoed off the cliff. The ledge jerked. Triock scrambled for handholds in the rock, and found none. He and his comrades were too far from safety at either end of the ledge.

  An instant later, it fell under their weight. Plunging like stones in an avalanche, they tumbled helplessly down the steep side of the valley.

  Triock tucked his head and knees together and rolled as best he could. The snow protected him from the impacts of the fall, but it also gave way under him, prevented him from stopping or slowing himself. He could do nothing but hug himself and fall. Dislodged by the collapse of the ledge, more snow slid into the valley with him, adding its weight to his momentum as if it were hurling him at the bottom. In w
ild vertigo, he lost all sense of how far he had fallen or how far he was from the bottom. When he hit level ground, the force of the jolt slammed his breath away, left him stunned while snow piled over him.

  For a time, he lay smothered under the snow, but as the dizziness relaxed in his head, he began to recover. He thrust himself to his hands and knees. Gasping, he fought the darkness which swarmed his sight like clouds of bats rushing at his face. "Quirrel!" he croaked. "Yeurquin!"

  With an effort, he made out Quirrel's legs protruding from the snow a short distance away. Beyond her, Yeurquin lay on his back. A bloody gash on his temple marred the blank pallor of his face. Neither of them moved.

  Abruptly, Triock heard the scrabbling of claws. A savage howl like an anthem of victory snatched his gaze away from Quirrel and Yeurquin, made him look up toward the slope of the valley.

  The kresh were charging furiously down toward him. They had chosen a shallower and less snowbound part of the ridge side, and were racing with rapacious abandon toward their fallen prey. Their leader was hardly a dozen yards from Triock.

  He moved instantly. His fighting experience took over, and he reacted without thought or hesitation. Snatching at his sword, he heaved erect, presented himself as a standing target to the first wolf. Fangs bared, red eyes blazing, it leaped for his throat. He ducked under it, twisted, and wrenched his sword into its belly.

  It sailed past him and crashed into the snow, lay still as if it were impaled on the red trail of its blood. But its momentum had torn his sword from his cold hand.

  He had no chance to retrieve his weapon. Already the next wolf was gathering to spring at him.

  He dove out from under its leap, rolled heels over head, snapped to his feet holding his lomillialor rod in his hands.