Lord Foul's Bane cotc-1

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Covenant sensed that the trees knew nothing of Lords or friendship; the Lords were too recent in the Land to be remembered.

  No, it was weakness, the failure of spirit, that let the riders pass-weakness, sorrow, helpless sleep. Here and there, he could hear trees that were still awake and aching for blood. But they were too few, too few. Morinmoss could only brood, bereft of force by its own ancient mortality.

  A hand of moss struck him, and left moisture on his face. He wiped the wet away as if it were acid.

  Then the sun set beyond Morinmoss, and even that low light was gone. Covenant leaned forward in his saddle, alert now, and afraid that Birinair would lose his way, or stumble into a curtain of moss and be smothered. But as darkness seeped into the sir as if it were dripping from the enshrouding branches, a change came over the wood. Gradually, a silver glow grew on the trunks-grew and strengthened as night filled the Forest, until each tree stood shimmering like a lost soul in the gloom. The silver light was bright enough to show the riders their way. Across the shifting patterns of the glow, the moss sheets hung like shadows of an abyss-black holes into emptiness-giving the wood a blotched, leprous look. But the company huddled together, and rode on through a night illumined only by the gleam of the trees, and by the red burn of Covenant's ring.

  He felt that he could hear the trees muttering in horror at the offense of his wedding band. And its pulsing red glow appalled him. Moss fingers flicked his face with a wet, probing touch. He clenched his hands over his heart, trying to pull himself inward, reduce himself and pass unnoticed-rode as if he carried an axe under his robe, and was terrified lest the trees discover it.

  That long ride passed like the hurt of a wound. Acute throbs finally blurred together, and at last the company was again riding through the dimness of day. Covenant shivered, looked about within himself. What he saw left him mute. He felt that the cistern of his rage was full of darkness.

  But he was caught in toils of insoluble circumstance. The darkness was a cup which he could neither drink nor dash aside.

  And he was trembling with hunger.

  He could hardly restrain himself from striking back at the damp clutch of the moss.

  Still the company travelled the perpetual twilight of Morinmoss. They were silent, stifled by the enshrouding branches; and in the cloying quiet, Covenant felt as lost as if he had missed his way in the old Forest which had covered all the Land. With vague fury, he ducked and dodged the grasping of the moss. Time passed, and he had a mounting desire to scream.

  Then, finally, Birinair waved his staff over his head and gave a weak shout. The horses understood; they stumbled into a tired run beside the strong step of the Ranyhyn. For a moment, the trees seemed to stand back, as if drawing away from the company's madness. Then the riders broke out into sunshine. They found themselves under a noon sky on a slope which bent gradually down to a river lying squarely across their way. Birinair and Marry had brought them unerringly to Roamsedge Ford.

  Hoarsely shouting their relief, the warriors set heels to their mounts, and the company swept down the slope at a brave gallop. Shortly, the horses splashed into the stream, showering themselves and their glad riders with the cool spray of the Roamsedge. On the southern bank, Prothall called a halt. The passage of Morinmoss was over.

  Once halted, the company tasted the toll of the passage. Their foodless vigil had weakened the riders. But the horses were in worse condition. They quivered with exhaustion. Once their last run was over, their necks and backs sagged; they scarcely had the strength to eat or drink. Despite the nickering encouragement of the Ranyhyn, two of the Eoman mustangs collapsed on their sides on the grass, and the others stood around with unsteady knees like foals. “Rest-rest,” Prothall said in rheumy anxiety. “We go no farther this day.” He walked among the horses, touching them with his old hands and humming a strengthening song.

  Only the Ranyhyn and the Bloodguard were unmarred by fatigue. Foamfollower lowered the child Pietten into Llaura's arms, then dropped himself wearily on his back on the stiff grass. Since the company had left Soaring Woodhelven, he had been unnaturally silent; he had avoided speaking as if he feared his voice would betray him. Now he appeared to feel the strain of travelling without the support of stories and laughter.

  Covenant wondered if he would ever hear the Giant laugh again.

  Sourly, he reached a hand up to get his staff from Dura's saddle, and noticed for the first time what Morinmoss had done to his white robe. It was spattered and latticed with dark green stains-the markings of the moss.

  The stains offended him. With a scowl, he looked around the company. The other riders must have been more adept at dodging; they showed none of the green signature of the moss. Lord Mhoram was the only exception; each shoulder of his robe bore a dark stripe like an insignia.

  Roughly, Covenant rubbed at the green. But it was dry and set. Darkness murmured in his ears like the distant rumour of an avalanche. His shoulders hunched like a strangler's. He turned away from the Questers, stamped back into the river. Knotting his fingers in his robe, he tried to scrub out the stains of the Forest.

  But the marks had become part of the fabric, immitigable; they clung to his robe, signing it like a chart, a map to unknown regions. In a fit of frustration, he pounded the river with his fists. But its current erased his ripples as if they had never existed.

  He stood erect and dripping in the stream. His heart laboured in his chest. For a moment, he felt that his rage must either overflow or crack him to the bottom.

  None of this is happening-His jaw quivered. I can't stand it.

  Then he heard a low cry of surprise from the company. An instant later, Mhoram commanded quietly, “Covenant. Come.”

  Spitting protests against so many things that he could not name them all, he turned around. The Questers were all facing away from him, their attention bent on something which he could not see because of the water in his eyes.

  Mhoram repeated, “Come.”

  Covenant wiped his eyes, waded to the bank, and climbed out of the river. He made his dripping way through the Eoman until he reached Mhoram and Prothall.

  Before them stood a strange woman.

  She was slim and slight-no taller than Covenant's shoulder-and dressed in a deep brown shift which left her legs and arms free. Her skin was sun darkened to the colour of earth. Her long black hair she wore tied into one strand by a heavy cord. The effect was severe, but this was relieved by a small necklace of yellow flowers. Despite her size, she stood proudly, with her arms folded and her legs slightly apart, as if she could deny the company entrance to the Plains of Ra if she chose. She watched Covenant's approach as if she had been waiting for him.

  When he stopped, joining Mhoram and Prothall, she raised her hand and gave him the salute of welcome awkwardly, as if it were not a natural gesture for her. “Hail, Ringthane,” she said in a clear, nickering voice. “White gold is known. We homage and serve. Be welcome.”

  He shook the water from his forehead and stared at her.

  After greeting him, she turned with a ritual precision toward each of the others. “Hail, High Lord Prothall. Hail, Lord Mhoram. Hail, Saltheart Foamfollower. Hail, First Mark Tuvor. Hail, Warhaft Quaan.” In turn, they saluted her gravely, as if they recognized her as a potentate.

  Then she said, “I am Manethrall Lithe. We see you. Speak. The Plains of Ra are not open to all.”

  Prothall stepped forward. Raising his staff, he held it in both hands level with his forehead and bowed deeply. At this, the woman smiled faintly. Holding her own palms beside her head, she matched his bow. This time, her movement was smooth, natural. “You know us,” she said. “You come from afar, but you ate not unknowing.”

  Prothall replied, “We know that the Manethralls are the first tenders of the Ranyhyn. Among the Ramen, you are most honoured. And you know us.”

  He stood close to her now, and the slight stoop of his agedness inclined him over her. Her brown skin and his blue robe accentuat
ed each other like earth and sky. But still she withheld her welcome. “No,” she returned. “Not know. You come from afar. Unknown.”

  “Yet you speak our names.”

  She shrugged. “We are cautious. We have watched since you left Morinmoss. We heard your talk.”

  We? Covenant wondered blankly.

  Slowly, her eyes moved over the company. “We know the sleepless ones-the Bloodguard.” She did not appear pleased to see them. “They take the Ranyhyn into peril. But we serve. They are welcome.” Then her gaze settled on the two collapsed horses, and her nostrils flared. “You have urgency?” she demanded, but her tone said that she would accept few justifications for the condition of the mustangs. At that, Covenant understood why she hesitated to welcome the Lords, though they must have been known to her, at least by legend or reputation; she wanted no one who mistreated horses to enter the Plains of Ra.

  The High Lord answered with authority, “Yes. Fangthane lives.”

  Lithe faltered momentarily. When her eyes returned to Covenant, they swarmed with hints of distant fear. “Fangthane,” she breathed. “Enemy of Earth and Ranyhyn. Yes. White gold knows. The Ringthane is here.” Abruptly, her tone became hard. “To save the Ranyhyn from rending.” She looked at Covenant as if demanding promises from him.

  He had none to give her. He stood angrily dripping, too soaked with hunger to respond in repudiation or acquiescence or shame. Soon she retreated in bafflement. To Prothall, she said, “Who is he? What manner of man?”

  With an ambivalent smile, Prothall said, “He is ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder. He is a stranger to the Land. Do not doubt him. He turned the battle for us when we were beset by the servants of Fangthane Cavewights and ur-viles, and a griffin spawned in some unknown pit of malice.”

  Lithe nodded noncommittally, as if she did not understand all his words. But then she said, “There is urgency. No action against Fangthane must be hindered or delayed. There have been other signs. Rending beasts have sought to cross into the Plains. High Lord Prothall, be welcome in the Plains of Ra. Come with all speed to Manhome. We must take counsel.”

  “Your welcome honours us,” the High Lord responded. “We return honour in accepting. We will reach Manhome the second day from today-if the horses five.”

  His cautious speech made Lithe laugh lightly. “You will rest in the hospitality of the Ramen before the sun sets a second time from this moment. We have not served the Ranyhyn knowledgeless from the beginning. Cords! Up! Here is a test for your Maneing.”

  At once, four figures appeared; they suddenly stood up from the grass in a loose semicircle around the company as if they had risen out of the ground. The four, three men and a woman, were as slight as Manethrall Lithe, and dressed like her in brown over their tanned skin; but they wore no flowers, and had short lengths of rope wrapped around their waists.

  “Come, Cords,” said Lithe. “Stalk these riders no longer. You have heard me welcome them. Now tend their horses and their safety. They must reach Manhome before nightfall of the next day.” The four Ramen stepped forward, and Lithe said to Prothall, “Here are my Cords-Thew, Hum, Grace, and Rustah. They are hunters. While they learn the ways of the Ranyhyn and the knowing of the Manethralls, they protect the Plains from dangerous beasts. I have spent much time with them-they can care for your mounts.”

  With courteous nods to the company, the Cords went straight to the horses and began examining them.

  “Now,” Lithe continued, “I must depart. The word of your coming must cross the Plains. The Winhomes must prepare for you. Follow Rustah. He is nearest to his Maneing. Hail, Lords! We will eat together at nightfall of the new day.”

  Without waiting for a reply, the Manethrall turned southward and sprinted away. She ran with surprising speed; in a few moments, she had crested a hill and vanished from sight.

  Watching her go, Mhoram said to Covenant, “It is said that a Manethrall can ran with the Ranyhyn-for a short time.”

  Behind them, Cord Hum muttered, “It is said and it is true.”

  Mhoram faced the Cord. He stood as if waiting to speak. His appearance was much like Lithe's, though his hair had not been permitted to grow as long as hers, and his features had a dour cast. When he had Mhoram's attention, he said, “There is a grass which will heal your horses. I must leave you to bring it.”

  Gently, the Lord responded, “The knowing is yours. Do what is best.”

  Hum's eyes widened, as if he had not expected soft words from people who mistreated horses. Then, uncertain of his movements, he saluted Mhoram in Lords' fashion. Mhoram returned a Ramen bow. Hum grinned, and was about to gallop away when Covenant abruptly asked, “Why don't you ride? You've got all those Ranyhyn.”

  Mhoram moved swiftly to restrain Covenant. But the damage was already done. Hum stared as if he had heard blasphemy, and his strong fingers twitched the rope from about his waist, holding it between his fists like a garrote. “We do not ride.”

  “Have a care, Hurn,” said Cord Rustah softly. “The Manethrall welcomed him.”

  Hurn glared at his companion, then roughly reknotted his rope around his waist. He spun away from the company, and soon vanished as if he had disappeared into the earth.

  Gripping Covenant's arm, Mhoram said sternly, “The Ramen serve the Ranyhyn. That is their reason for life. Do not affront them, Unbeliever. They are quick to anger-and the deadliest hunters in the Land. There might be a hundred of them within the range of my voice, and you would never know. If they chose to slay you, you would die ignorant.”

  Covenant felt the force of the warning. It seemed to invest the surrounding grass with eyes that peered balefully. He felt conspicuous, as if his green-mapped robe were a guide for deadly intentions hidden in the ground. He was trembling again.

  While Hum was away, the rest of the Cords worked on the horses-caressing, cajoling them into taking water and food. Under their hands, most of the mustangs grew steadier. Satisfied that their mounts were in good hands, the Lords went to talk with Quaan and Tuvor; and around them, the warriors began preparing food.

  Covenant cursed the aroma. He lay on the stiff grass and tried to still his gnawing emptiness by staring at the sky. Fatigue caught up with him, and he dozed for a while. But soon he was roused by a new smell which made his hunger sting in his guts. It came from clumps of rich, ferny flowers that the horses were munching-the healing herbs which Cord Hum had brought for them. All the horses were on their feet now, and they seemed to gain strength visibly as they ate. The piquant odour of the flowers gave Covenant a momentary vision of himself on his hands and knees, chewing like the horses, and he muttered in suppressed savagery, “Damn horses eat better than we do.”

  Cord Rustah smiled oddly, and said, “This grass is poison to humans. It is amanibhavam, the flower of health and madness. Horses it heals, but men and women-ah, they are not enough for it.”

  Covenant answered with a glare, and tried to stifle the groan of his hunger. He felt a perverse desire to taste the grass; it sang to his senses delectably. Yet the thought that he had been brought so low was bitter to him, and he savoured its sourness instead of food.

  Certainly, the plants worked wonders for the horses. Soon they were feeding and drinking normally-and looked sturdy enough to bear riders again. The Questers finished their meal, then packed away their supplies. The Cords pronounced the horses ready to travel. Shortly, the riders were on their way south over the swift hills of Ra, with the Ramen trotting easily beside them.

  Under the hooves of the horses, the grasslands rolled and passed like mild billows, giving the company an impression of speed. They rode over the hardy grass up and down short low slopes, along shallow valleys between copses and small woods beside thin streams, across broad flats. It was a rough land. Except for the faithful aliantha, the terrain was unrefined by fruit trees or cultivation or any flowers other than amanibhavam. But still the Plains seemed full of elemental life, as if the low, quick hills were formed by
the pulse of the soil, and the stiff grass were rich enough to feed anything strong enough to bear its nourishment. When the sun began to set, the bracken on the hillsides glowed purple. Herds of nilgai came out of the woods to drink at the streams, and ravens flocked glamorously to the broad chintz trees which dotted the flats.

  But the riders gave most of their attention to the roaming Ranyhyn. Whether galloping by like triumphal banners or capering together in evening play, the great horses wore an aura of majesty, as if the very ground they thundered on were proud of their creation. They called in fierce joy to the bearers of the Bloodguard, and these chargers did little dances with their hooves, as if they could not restrain the exhilaration of their return home. Then the unmounted Ranyhyn dashed away, full of gay blood and unfetterable energy, whinnying as they ran. Their calls made the air tingle with vitality.

  Soon the sun set in the west, bidding farewell to the Plains with a flare of orange. Covenant watched it go with dour satisfaction. He was tired of horses-tired of Ranyhyn and Ramen and Bloodguard and Lords and quests, tired of the unrest of life. He wanted darkness and sleep, despite the blood burn of his ring, the new-coming crescent of the moon, and the vulture wings of horror.