The High Lord sighed his relief. Mhoram turned away from the vault, threw a salute of congratulation toward the two archers, then hurried back to give explanations and orders to the rest of the company. From the Eoman came low murmured cheers, and the noises of a relaxation of battle tension.
“Do not lower your guard!” Prothall hissed. “The danger is not past. I feel it.”
Covenant stood where he was; staring into the rocklight, clenching his fist. Something that he did not understand was happening.
“Ur-Lord,” Prothall asked softly, “what do you see?”
“Power.” The interruption irritated him. His voice scraped roughly in his throat. “Drool's got enough to make you look silly.” He raised his left fist. “It's daylight outside.” His ring burned blood-red, throbbed to the pulse of the rocklight.
Prothall frowned at the ring, concentrating fiercely. His lips were taut over his teeth as he muttered, “This is not right. I must remember. Rocklight cannot do this.”
Mhoram approached; and said before he saw what was between Covenant and Prothall, “Terrel has rejoined us. We are ready to cross.” Prothall nodded inattentively. Then Mhoram noticed the ring. Covenant heard a sound as if Mhoram were grinding his teeth. The Lord reached out, clasped his hand over Covenant's fist.
A moment later, he turned and signalled to the company. Quaan led his Eoman forward with the Bloodguard. Prothall looked distracted, but he went with Birinair into the vault. Automatically, Covenant followed them toward Warrenbridge.
Tuvor and another Bloodguard went ahead of the High Lord. They neared the bridge, inspecting it to be sure that the span was truly safe before the Lords crossed.
Covenant wandered forward as if in a trance. The spell of the rocklight grew on him. His ring began to feel hot. He had to make an effort of consciousness to wonder why his ring was bloody rather than orange-red like the glowing pillars. But he had no answer. He felt a change coming over him that he could not resist or measure or even analyze. It was as if his ring were confusing his senses, turning them on their pivots to peer into unknown dimensions.
Tuvor and his comrade started up the bridge. Prothall held the company back, despite the inherent danger of remaining in the open light. He stared after Tuvor and yanked at his beard with a hand which trembled agedly.
Covenant felt the spell mastering him. The cavern began to change. In places, the rock walls seemed thinner, as if they were about to become transparent. Quaan and Lithe and the warriors grew transparent as well, approached the evanescence of wraiths. Prothall and Mhoram appeared solider, but Prothall flickered where Mhoram was steady. Only the Bloodguard showed no sign of dissipating, of losing their essence in mist-the Bloodguard and the ring. Covenant's own flesh now looked so vague that he feared his ring would fall through it to the stone. At his shoulder, Bannor stood-hard, implacable and dangerous, as if the Bloodguard's mere touch might scatter his beclouded being to the winds.
He was drifting into transience. He tried to clench himself; his fingers came back empty.
Tuvor neared the crest of the span. The bridge seemed about to crumble under him-he appeared so much solider than the stone.
Then Covenant saw it-a loop of shimmering air banded around the centre of the bridge, standing fiat across the roadway and around under the span and back. He did not know what it was, understood nothing about it, except that it was powerful.
Tuvor was about to step into it.
With an effort like a convulsion, Covenant started to fight, resist the spell. Some intuition told him that Tuvor would be killed. Even a leper! he adjured himself. This was not his bargain; he had not promised to stand silent and watch men die. Hellfire! Then, with recovered rage, he cried again, Hellfire!
“Stop!” he gasped. “Can't you see?”
At once, Prothall shouted, “Tuvor! Do not move!” Wheeling on Covenant, he demanded, “What is it? What do you see?”
The violence of his rage brought back some of the solidity to his vision. But Prothall still appeared dangerously evanescent. Covenant jerked up his ring, spat, “Get them down. Are you blind? It's not the rocklight. Something else up there.”
Mhoram recalled Tuvor and his companion. But for a moment Prothall only stared in blank fear at Covenant. Then, abruptly, he struck his staff on the stone and ejaculated, “Ur-viles! And rocklight just there as anchors! Ah, I am blind, blind! They tend the power!”
Incredulously, Mhoram whispered, “A Word of Warning?”
“Yes!”
“Is it possible? Has Drool entirely mastered the Staff? Can he speak such might?”
Prothall was already on his way toward the bridge. Over his shoulder, he replied, “He has Lord Foul to teach him. We have no such help.” A moment later, he strode up the span with Tuvor close behind him.
The spell reached for Covenant again. But he knew it better now, and held it at bay with curses. He could still see the shimmering loop of the Word as Prothall neared it.
The High Lord approached slowly, and at last halted a step before the Word. Gripping his staff in his left hand, he held his right arm up with the palm forward like a gesture of recognition. With a rattling cough, he began to sing. Constantly repeating the same motif, he sang cryptically in a language Covenant did not understand-a language so old that it sounded grizzled and hoary. Prothall sang it softly, intimately, as if he were entering into private communion with the Word of Warning.
Gradually, vaguely, like imminent mist, the Word became visible to the company. In the air opposite Prothall's palm, an indistinct shred of red appeared, coalesced, like a fragment of an unseen tapestry. The pale, hanging red expanded until a large, rough circle was centred opposite his palm. With extreme caution-singing all the while-he raised his hand to measure the height of the Word, moved sideways to judge its configuration. Thus in tatters the company saw the barrier which opposed them. And as Covenant brought more of himself to the pitch of his stiff rage, his own perception of the Word paled until he saw only as much of it as the others did.
At last, Prothall lowered his hand and ceased his song. The shreds vanished. He came tightly down the bridge as if he were only holding himself erect by the simple strength of his resolution. But his gaze was full of comprehension and the measure of risks.
“A Word of Warning,” he reported sternly, “set here by the power of the Staff of Law to inform Drool if his defences were breached-and to break Warrenbridge at the first touch.” His tone carried a glimpse of a plunge into the chasm. “It is a work of great power. No Lord since the Desecration has been capable of such a feat. And even if we had the might to undo it, we would gain nothing, for Drool would be warned. Still, there is one sign in our favour. Such a Word cannot be maintained without constant attention. It must be tended, else it decays-though not speedily enough for our purpose. That Drool set ur-viles here as sentries perhaps shows that his mind is elsewhere.”
Wonderful! Covenant growled corrosively. Terrific! His hands itched with an intense urge to throttle someone.
Prothall continued: “If Drool's eyes are turned away, it may be that we can bend the Word without breaking.” He took a deep breath, then asserted, “I believe it can be done. This Word is not as pure and dangerous as might be.” He turned to Covenant. “But I fear for you, ur-Lord.”
“For me?” Covenant reacted as if the High Lord had accused him of something. “Why?”
“I fear that the mere closeness of your ring to the Word may undo it. So you must come last. And even then we may be caught within the catacombs, with no bridge to bear us out again.”
Last? He had a sudden vision of being forsaken or trapped here, blocked by that deep cleft from the escape he needed. He wanted to protest, Let me go first. If I can make it, anybody can. But he saw the folly of that argument. Forbear, he urged himself. Keep the bargain. His fear made him sound bitter as he grated, “Get on with it. They're bound to send some new guards one of these days.”
Prothall nodded. With a last measuring look at Covenant,
he turned away. He and Mhoram went up onto the bridge to engage the Word.
Tuvor and Terrel followed carrying coils of clingor which they attached to the Lords' waists and anchored at the foot of the bridge. Thus secured against the collapse of the span, Prothall and Mhoram ascended cautiously until they were only an arm's length from the invisible Word. There they knelt together and started their song.
When the bottom of the Word became visible in crimson, they placed their staffs parallel to it on the stone before them. Then, with torturous care, they rolled their staffs directly under the iridescent power. For one bated moment, they remained still in an attitude of prayer as if beseeching their wood not to interrupt the current flowing past their faces. A heart-stopping flicker replied in the red shimmer. But the Lords went on singing-and shortly the Word steadied.
Bracing themselves, they started the most difficult part of their task. They began lifting the inner ends of their staffs.
With a quick intake of wonder and admiration, the company saw the lower edge of the Word bend, leaving a low, tented gap below it.
When the peak of the gap was more than a foot high, the Lords froze. Instantly, Bannor and two other Bloodguard dashed up the bridge, unrolling a rope as they ran. One by one, they crawled through the gap and took their end of the lifeline to safe ground beyond the span.
As soon as Bannor had attached his end of the rope, Mhoram took hold of Prothall's staff. The High Lord wormed through the gap, then held the staffs for Mhoram. By the time Mhoram had regained his position beside Prothall, old Birinair was there and ready to pass. Behind him in rapid single file went the Eoman, followed by Quaan and Lithe.
In turn, Tuvor and Terrel slipped under the Word and anchored their ropes to the two Lords beyond the chasm. Then, moving at a run, the last Bloodguard slapped the central lifeline around Covenant and made their way through the gap.
He was left alone.
In a cold sweat of anger and fear, he started up the bridge. He felt the two pillars of rocklight as if they were scrutinizing him. He went up the span fiercely, cursing Foul, and cursing himself for his fear. He did not give a glance to the chasm. Staring at the gap, he ground his rage into focus, and approached the shimmering tapestry of power. As he drew nearer, his ring ached on his hand. The bridge seemed to grow thinner as if it were dissolving under him. The Word became starker, dominating his vision more and more.
But he kept his hold on his rage. Even a leper! He reached the gap, knelt before it, looked momentarily through the shimmer at the Lords. Their faces ran with sweat, and their voices trembled in their song. He clenched his hands around the staff of Baradakas, and crawled into the gap.
As he passed under the Word, he heard an instant high keening like a whine of resistance. For that instant, a cold red flame burst from his ring.
Then he was through, and the bridge and the Word were still intact.
He stumbled down the span, flinging off the clingor lifeline. When he was safe, he turned long enough to see Prothall and Mhoram remove their staffs from under the Word. Then he stalked out of the vault of Warrenbridge into the dark tunnel of the roadway. He felt Bannor's presence at his shoulder almost at once, but he did not stop until the darkness against which he thrust himself was thick enough to seem impenetrable.
In frustration and congested fear, he groaned, “I want to be alone. Why don't you leave me alone?”
With the repressed lilt of his Haruchai inflection, Bannor responded, “You are ur-Lord Covenant. We are the Bloodguard. Your life is in our care.”
Covenant glared into the ineluctable dark around him, and thought about the unnatural solidity of the Bloodguard. What binding principle made their flesh seem less mortal than the gutrock of Mount Thunder? A glance at his ring showed him that its incarnadine gleam had almost entirely faded. He found that he was jealous of Bannor's dispassion; his own pervasive irrectitude offended him. On the impulse of a ferocious intuition, he returned, “That isn't enough.”
He could envision Bannor's slight, eloquent shrug without seeing it. In darkness he waited defiantly until the company caught up with him.
But when he was again marching in his place in the Quest-when Birinair's wan flame had passed by him, treading as if transfixed by leadership the invisible directions of the roadway-the night of the catacombs crowded toward him like myriad leering spectators, impatient for bloodshed, and he suffered a reaction against the strain. His shoulders began to tremble, as if he had been hanging by his arms too long, and cold petrifaction settled over his thoughts.
The Word of Warning revealed that Lord Foul was expecting them, knew they would not fall victim to Drool's army. Drool could not have formed the Word, much less made it so apposite to white gold. Therefore it served the Despiser's purposes rather than Drool's. Perhaps it was a test of some kind-a measure of the Lords' strength and resourcefulness, an indication of Covenant's vulnerability. But whatever it was, it was Lord Foul's doing. Covenant felt sure that the Despiser knew everything-planned, arranged, made inevitable all that happened to the Quest, every act and decision. Drool was ignorant, mad, manipulated; the Cavewight probably failed to understand half of what he achieved under Lord Foul's hand.
But in his bones Covenant had known such things from the beginning. They did not surprise him; rather, he saw them as symptoms of another, a more essential threat. This central peril-a peril which so froze his mind that only his flesh seemed able to react by trembling-had to do with his white gold ring. He perceived the danger clearly because he was too numb to hide from it. The whole function of the compromise, the bargain, he had made with the Ranyhyn, was to hold the impossibility and the actuality of the Land apart, in equipoise-Back off! Let me be! — to keep them from impacting into each other and blasting his precarious hold on life. But Lord Foul was using his ring to bring crushing together the opposite madnesses which he needed so desperately to escape.
He considered throwing the ring away. But he knew he could not do it. The band was too heavy with remembered lost love and honour and mutual respect to be tossed aside. And an old beggar
If his bargain failed, he would have nothing left with which to defend himself against the darkness-no power or fertility or coherence-nothing but his own capacity for darkness, his violence, his ability to kill. That capacity led-he was too numb to resist the conclusion-as inalterably as leprosy to the destruction of the Land.
There his numbness seemed to become complete. He could not measure his situation more than that. All he could do was trail behind Birinair's flame and tell over his refusals like some despairing acolyte, desperate for faith, trying to invoke his own autonomy.
He concentrated on his footing as if it were tenuous and the rock unsure-as if Birinair might lead him over the edge of an abyss.
Gradually the character of their benighted journey changed. First, the impression of the surrounding tunnel altered. Behind the darkness, the walls seemed to open from time to time into other tunnels, and at one point the night took on an enormous depth, as if the company were passing over the floor of an amphitheatre. In this blind openness, Birinair searched for his way. When the sense of vast empty space vanished, he led his companions into a stone corridor so low that his flame nearly touched the ceiling, so narrow that they had to pass in single file.
Then the old Hearthrall took them through a bewildering series of shifts in direction and terrain and depth. From the low tunnel, they turned sharply and went down a long, steep slope with no discernible walls. As they descended, turning left and right at landmarks only Birinair seemed able to see, the black air became colder and somehow loathsome, as if it carried an echo of ur-viles. The cold came in sudden drafts and pockets, blowing through chasms and tunnels that opened unseen on either side into dens and coverts and passages and great Cavewightish halls, all invisible but for the timbre, the abrupt impression of space, which they gave the darkness.
Lower down the sudden drafts began to stink. The buried air seemed to flow over centuries
of accumulated filth, vast hordes of unencrypted dead, long abandoned laboratories where banes were made. At moments, the putrescence became so thick that Covenant could see it in the sir. And out of the adjacent openings came cold, distant sounds the rattle of shale dropping into immeasurable faults; occasional low complaints of stress; soft, crystalline, chinking noises like the tap of iron hammers; muffled sepulchral detonations; and long tired sighs, exhalations of fatigue from the ancient foundations of the mountain. The darkness itself seemed to be muttering as the company passed.
But at the end of the descent they reached a wavering stair cut into a rock wall, with lightless, hungry chasms gaping below them. And after that, they went through winding tunnels, along the bottoms of crevices, over sharp rock ridges like aretes within the mountain, around pits with the moan of water and the reek of decay in their depths, under arches like entryways to grotesque festal halls-turned and climbed and navigated in the darkness as if it were a perilous limbo, trackless and fatal, varying only in the kind and extremity of its dangers. Needing proof of his own reality, Covenant moved with the fingers of his left hand knotted in his robe over his heart.
Three times in broad, fiat spaces which might have been halls or ledges or peak tops surrounded by plunges, the company stopped and ate cold food by the light of Birinair's staff. Each meal helped; the sight of other faces around the flame, the consumption of tangible provender, acted like an affirmation or a pooling of the company's capacity for endurance. Once, Quaan forced himself to attempt a jest, but his voice sounded so hollow in the perpetual midnight that no one had the heart to reply. After each rest, the Questers set out again bravely. And each time, their pooled fortitude evaporated more rapidly, as if the darkness inhaled it with increasing voracity.
Later old Birinair led them out of cold and ventilated ways into close, musty, hot tunnels far from the main Wightwarrens. To reduce the risk of discovery, he chose a path through a section of the caves deader than the rest-silent and abandoned, with little fresh air left. But the atmosphere only raised the pitch of the company's tension. They moved as if they were screaming voicelessly in anticipation of some blind disaster.
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