Thomas Covenant 02: The Illearth War

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Yet it showed no sign of habitation. The back of The Grieve, the side facing inland, looked abandoned. Above it, an occasional gull screamed. And below, the Sea beat. But it revealed no life.

  However, Coercri had been built to face the Sea. Still the Bloodguard hoped to find Giants there.

  Then Vale came down out of the lighthouse. He spoke directly to Lord Hyrim. “One Giant is there.” He indicated the cupola of the spire with a jerk of his head. “She is dead.” After a moment, he said, “She was killed. Her face and the top of her head are gone. Her brain is gone. Consumed.”

  All the Bloodguard looked at Lord Hyrim.

  He was staring at Vale with red in his eyes. His lean face was twisted. In his throat, he made a confused noise like a snarl. His knuckles were white on his staff. Without a word, he turned and started down toward the main entrance of The Grieve.

  Then Korik gave his commands. Of the eleven Bloodguard, Vale, Doar, Shull, and two others he instructed to remain at the lighthouse, to watch, and to give warning if necessary, and to carry out the mission if the others fell. Three he sent northward to begin exploring Coercri from that end. And with Tull and Sill, he followed Lord Hyrim. These three took the Lord away from the main entrance toward the south of the city.

  Together the four crept into The Grieve on its southern side.

  The entrance they chose was a tunnel that led straight through the cliff, sloping slightly downward. They passed along it to its end, where it opened into a roofless rampart overhanging the Sea. From this vantage, they could see much of the city’s cliff front. Ramparts like the one on which they stood alternately projected and receded along the wall of rock for several levels below them, giving the face of the city a knuckled appearance. They could see into many of the projections until the whole city passed out, of sight north of them behind a bulge in the cliff. Don at sea level, just south of this bulge, was a wide levee between two long stone piers.

  The levee and the piers were deserted. Nothing moved on any of the ramparts. Except for the noise of the Sea, the city was still.

  But when Lord Hyrim opened a high stone door and entered the apartments beyond it, he found two Giants lying cold in a pool of dried blood. Both their skulls were broken asunder and empty, as if the bones had been blasted apart from within.

  In the next set of rooms were three more Giants, and in the next set three more, one of them a child—all dead. They lay among pools of their blood, and the blood was spattered around as if someone had stamped through the pools while they were still fresh. All including the child had been slain by having their heads rent open.

  But they were not decayed. They had not been long dead—not above three days.

  “Three days,” Korik said.

  And Lord Hyrim said bitterly, “Three days.”

  They went on with the search.

  They looked into every apartment along the rampart until they were directly above the levee. In each set of rooms, they found one or two or three Giants, all slaughtered in the same way. And none but the youngest children showed any sign of resistance, of struggle.

  The few youngest bodies were contorted and frantic; all the rest lay as if they had been simply struck dead where they stood or sat.

  When the searchers entered one round meeting hall, they discovered that it was empty. And the huge kitchen beyond it was also empty. The stove fires had fallen into ash, but the cooks had not been killed there.

  The sight dismayed Lord Hyrim. Groaning he said, “They went to their homes to die! They knew their danger—and went to their homes to await it. They did not fight—or flee—or send for help. Melenkurion abatha! Only the children— What horror came upon them?”

  The Bloodguard had no answer. They knew of no wrong potent enough to commit such a slaughter unresisted.

  As he left the hall, Lord Hyrim wept openly.

  From that rampart, he and the Bloodguard worked downward through the levels of Coercri. They took a crooked stairway which descended back into the cliff, then toward the Sea again. At the next level, they again went to look into the rooms. Here also all the Giants were dead.

  Everywhere it was the same. The Unhomed had gone to their private dwellings to die.

  Then an urgency came upon the Bloodguard and the Lord. They began to hasten. The Lord leaped down the high stairs, ran along the ramparts to inspect the apartments. In their black garb, the four flew downward like the ravens of midnight, taking the tale of shed blood and blasted skulls.

  When they were more than halfway down The Grieve, Korik stopped them. He had noticed a change in the air of the city. But the difference was subtle; for a moment, he could not identify it. Then he ran into the nearest apartment, hastened to the lone Giant dead in one of the back rooms, touched the pool of blood.

  This Giant had been slain more recently; a few spots of the pool were still damp.

  Perhaps the slayer was still in the city, stalking its last victims.

  At once, Lord Hyrim whispered, “We must reach the lowest level swiftly. If any Giants yet live, they will be there.”

  Korik nodded. Tull sprinted to scout ahead as the others ran to the stairs and started down them. On each level, they stopped long enough to find one dead Giant, test the condition of the blood. Then they raced on downward.

  The blood grew steadily damper. Two levels above the piers, they found a child whose flesh still retained a vestige of warmth.

  They explored the next level more carefully. And in one room they discovered a Giant with the last blood still dripping from her riven skull.

  With great caution, they crept down the final stairs.

  The stairway opened on a broad expanse of rock, the base of the two piers and the head of the levee between them. The tide was low and quiet—the waves broke far down the levee—but still the sound filled the air. Even here, the Bloodguard and the Lord could not see beyond the great cliff-bulge just north of the piers. This bulge, and the outward bend of Coercri’s southern tip, formed a shallow cove around the levee. The fiat base of the city lay in the afternoon shadow of the cliff, and the unwarmed rock was damp with spray.

  No one moved on the piers, or along the walkway which traversed the city from its southern end northward around the curve of the cliff.

  Cut into the base of the cliff behind the walkway and the headrock of the piers were many openings. All had heavy stone doors to keep out the Sea in storms. But most of the doors were open. They led into workshops—high chambers where the Giants formed the planks and hawsers of their ships. Like the meeting halls and kitchens, these places were deserted. But, unlike the western vineyards and fields, the workshops had not been abandoned suddenly. All the tools hung in their racks on the walls; the tables and benches were free of work; even the floors were clean. The Giants laboring there had taken the time to put their shops in order before they went home to die. But one smaller door near the south end of the headrock was tightly closed. Lord Hyrim tried to open it, but it had no handle, and he could not grip the smooth stone.

  Korik and Tull approached it together. Forcing their fingers into one crack of the door, they heaved at it. With a scraping noise like a gasp of pain, it swung outward, admitting shadow light to the chamber beyond.

  The single room was bare; it contained nothing but a low bed against one side wall. It was lightless, and the air in it smelled stale.

  On the floor against the back wall sat a Giant.

  Even crouched with his knees drawn up before him, he was as tall as the Bloodguard. His staring eyes caught the light and gleamed.

  He was alive. A shallow breath stirred his chest, and a thin trail of saliva ran from the corner of his mouth into his grizzled beard.

  But he made no move as the four entered the cell. No blink or flicker of his eyes acknowledged them.

  Lord Hyrim rushed toward him gladly, then stopped when he saw the look of horror on the Giant’s face.

  Korik approached the Giant, touched one of the bare arms which gripped his
knees. The Giant was not cold; he was not another Hoerkin.

  Korik shook the Giant’s arm, but the Giant did not respond. He sat gaping blindly out the doorway. Korik looked a question at the Lord. When Hyrim nodded, Korik struck the Giant across the face.

  His head lurched under the blow, but it did not penetrate him. Without blinking, he raised his head again, resumed his stare. Korik prepared to strike again with more force, but Lord Hyrim stopped him. “Do him no injury, Korik. He is closed to us.”

  “We must reach him,” Korik said.

  “Yes,” said Hyrim. “Yes, we must.” He moved close to the Giant, and called, “Rockbrother! Hear me! I am Hyrim son of Hoole, Lord of the Council of Revelstone. You must hear me. In the name of all the Unhomed—in the name of friendship and the Land—I adjure you! Open your ears to me!”

  The Giant made no reply. The slow rate of his breathing did not vary; his white gaze did not falter.

  Lord Hyrim stepped back, studied the Giant. Then he said to Korik, “Free one of his hands.” He rubbed one heel of his staff, and when he took his hand away a blue flame sprang up on the metal. “I will attempt the caamora—the fire of grief.”

  Korik understood. The caamora was a ritual by which the Giants purged themselves of grief and rage. They were impervious to any ordinary fire, but the flames hurt them, and they used that pain at need to help them master themselves. Swiftly Korik pried the Giant’s right hand loose from its grip, pulled the arm back so that its hand was extended toward Lord Hyrim.

  Moaning softly, “Stone and Sea, Rockbrother! Stone and Sea!” the Lord increased the strength of his Lordsfire. He placed the flame directly under the Giant’s hand, enveloped the fingers in fire.

  At first, nothing happened; the ritual had no effect. The Giant’s fingers hung motionless in the flame, and the flame did not consume them. But then they twitched, groped, clenched. The Giant pushed his hand farther into the fire, though his fingers were writhing in pain.

  Abruptly he drew a deep shuddering breath. His head snapped back, thudded against the wall, dropped forward onto his knees. Yet still he did not withdraw his hand. When he raised his head again, his eyes were full of tears.

  Trembling, panting, he pulled back his hand. It was undamaged.

  At once, Lord Hyrim extinguished his fire. “Rockbrother,” he cried softly. “Rockbrother. Forgive me.”

  The Giant stared at his hand. Time passed as he became slowly aware of his situation. At last he recognized the Lord and the Bloodguard. Suddenly he flinched, jerked both hands to the sides of his head, gasped, “Alive?” Before Lord Hyrim could answer, he went on, “What of the others? My people?”

  Lord Hyrim clutched his staff for support. “All dead.”

  “Ah!” the Giant groaned. His hands dropped to his knees, and he leaned his head back against the wall. “Oh, my people!” The tears streamed down his cheeks like blood.

  The Lord and the Bloodguard watched him in silence, waited for him. At last his grief eased, and his tears ceased. When he brought his head forward from the wall, he murmured as if in defeat, “He has left me to the last.”

  With a visible effort, Lord Hyrim forced himself to ask, “Who is he?”

  The Giant answered in misery, “He came soon—he came soon after we had learned the fate of the three brothers—the brothers of one birth—Damelon Rockbrother’s omen of the end. This spring—ah, was it so recent? It needs more time. There should be years given to it. There—ah, my people! This spring—this—we knew at last that the old slumbering ill of the Sarangrave was awake. We thought to send word to brave Lord’s Keep—” For a moment, he choked on the grief in his throat. “Then we lost the brothers. Lost them. We arose to one sunrise, and they were gone.

  “We did not send to the Lords. How could we bear to tell them that our hope was lost? No. Rather, we searched. From the Northron Climbs to the Spoiled Plains and beyond, we searched. We searched—through all the summer. Nothing. In despair, the searchers returned to The Grieve, Coercri, last home of the Unhomed.

  “Then the last searcher returned—Wavenhair Haleall, whose womb bore the three. Because she was their mother, she searched when all others had given up the search, and she was the last to return. She had journeyed to the Shattered Hills themselves. She called all the people together, and told us the fate of the three before she died. The wounds of the search—”

  He groaned again. “Now I am the last. Ah, my people!” As he cried out, he moved, shoved himself to his feet, stood erect against the wall. Towering over his hearers, he put back his head and began to sing the old song of the Unhomed.

  Now we are Unhomed,

  bereft of root and kith and kin.

  From other mysteries of delight,

  we set our sails to resail our track;

  but the winds of life blew not the way

  we chose,

  and the land beyond the Sea was lost.

  It was long, like all Giantish songs. But he sang only a fragment of it. Soon he fell silent, and his chin dropped to his breast.

  Again Lord Hyrim asked, “Who is he?”

  The Giant answered by resuming his tale. “Then he came. Omen of the end and Home turned to misery and gall. Then we knew the truth. We had seen it before—in lighter times, when the knowledge might have been of some use—but we had denied it. We had seen our evil, and had denied it, thinking that we might find our way Home and escape it. Fools! When we saw him, we knew the truth. Through folly and withering seed and passion and impatience for Home, we had become the thing we hate. We saw the truth in him. Our hearts were turned to ashes, and we went to our dwellings—these small rooms which we called homes in vain.”

  “Why did you not flee?”

  “Some did—some four or five who did not know the long name of despair– –or did not hear it. Or they were too much like him to judge. The ill of the Sarangrave took them—they are no more.”

  Compelled by the ancient passion of the Bloodguard, Korik asked, “Why did you not fight?”

  “We had become the thing we hate. We are better dead.”

  “Nevertheless!” Korik said. “Is this the fealty of the Giants? Does all promised faithfulness come to this? By the Vow, Giant! You destroy yourselves, and let the evil live! Even Kevin Landwaster was not so weak.”

  In his emotion, he forgot caution, and all the Bloodguard were taken unaware. The sudden voice behind them was cold with contempt; it cut through them like a gale of winter. Turning, they found that another Giant stood in the doorway. He was much younger than the Giant within, but he resembled the older Giant. The chief difference lay in the contempt that filled his face, raged in his eyes, twisted his mouth as if he were about to spit.

  In his right hand, he clenched a hot green stone. It blazed with an emerald strength that shone through his fingers. As he gripped it, it steamed thickly.

  He stank of fresh blood; he was spattered with it from head to foot. And within him, clinging to his bones, was a powerful presence that did not fit his form. It slavered from behind his eyes with a great force of malice and wrong.

  “Hmm,” he said in a despising tone, “a Lord and three Bloodguard. I am pleased. I had thought that my friend in the Sarangrave would take all like you—but I see I shall have that pleasure myself. Ah, but you are not entirely scatheless, are you? Black becomes you. Did you lose friends to my friend?” He laughed with a grating sound, like the noise of boulders being crushed together.

  Lord Hyrim stepped forward, planted his staff, said bravely, “Come no closer, turiya Raver. I am Hyrim, Lord of the Council of Revelstone. Melenkurion abatha! Duroc minas mill khabaal! I will not let you pass.”

  The Giant winced as Lord Hyrim uttered the Words of power. But then he laughed again. “Hah! Little Lord! Is that the limit of your lore? Can you come no closer than that to the Seven Words? You pronounce them badly. But I must admit, you have recognized me. I am turiya Herem. But we have new names now, my brothers and I. There is Fleshharrower, and Satansfis
t. And I am named Kinslaughterer.”

  At this, the older Giant groaned heavily. The Raver glanced into the back of the cell, and said in a tone of satisfaction, “Ah, there he is. Little Lord, I see that you have been speaking with Sparlimb Keelsetter. Did he tell you that he is my father? Father, why do you not welcome your son?”

  The Bloodguard did not look at the older Giant. But they heard Keelsetter’s pain, and understood it. Something within the Giant was breaking. Suddenly he gave a savage roar. Leaping past the four, he attacked Kinslaughterer.

  His fingers caught the Raver’s throat. He drove him back out of the doorway onto the headrock of the piers.

  Kinslaughterer made no attempt to break his father’s hold. He resisted the impetus until his feet were braced. Then he raised the green stone, moved it toward Keelsetter’s forehead.

  Both fist and stone passed through the older Giant’s skull into his brain.

  Keelsetter screamed. His hands dropped, his body went limp. He hung from the point of power which impaled his head.

  Grinning ravenously, the Raver held his father there for a long moment. Then he tightened his fist. Deep emerald flashed; the stone blasted the front of Keelsetter’s skull. He fell dead, pouring blood over the headrock.

  Kinslaughterer stamped his feet in the spreading pool.

  He appeared oblivious to the four, but he was not. As Korik and Tull started forward to attack him, he swung his arm, hurled a bolt of power at them. It would have slain them before they reached the doorway, but Lord Hyrim lunged, thrust up his staff between them. The end of his staff caught the bolt. It detonated with such force that it broke the staff in two, and flung the four humans against the back of the cell.

  The impact made them unconscious.

  Thus even the Vow could not preserve the Bloodguard from the extremity of their need.

  Korik was the first to reawaken. Hearing returned before sight or touch, and he began to listen. In his ears, the noise of the Sea grew, became violent. But the sound was not the sound of waves in storm; it was more erratic, more vicious. When his sight was restored, he was surprised to find that he could see. He had expected the darkness of clouds.