The Illearth War t1cotc-2

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The next instant, he grabbed the front of Mhoram's sky-blue robe in his fists, hissed, “Send me back! There's still time! If I can get back fast enough!”

  Above them, the woman spoke carefully. “Ur-Lord Covenant, it grieves me to hear that our summoning has done you harm. Lord Mhoram has told us all he could of your pain, and we do not willingly increase it. But it is our doom that we must. Unbeliever, our need is great. The devastation of the Land is nearly upon us.”

  Pushing away from Mhoram to confront her, Covenant fumed, “I don't give a bloody damn about the Land!” His words came in such a panting rush that he could not shout them. “I don't care what you need. You can drop dead for all I care. You're a delusion! A sickness in my mind. You don't exist! Send me back! You've got to send me back. While there's still time!”

  “Thomas Covenant.” Mhoram spoke in a tone of authority that pulled Covenant around. “Unbeliever. Listen to me.”

  Then Covenant saw that Mhoram had changed. His face was still the same-the gentleness of his mouth still balanced the promise of peril in his gold concentrated irises-but he was older, old enough now to be Covenant's father. There were lines of use around his eyes and mouth, and his hair was salted with white. When he spoke, his lips twisted with self-deprecation, and the depths of his eyes stirred uneasily. But he met the fire of Covenant's glare without flinching.

  “My friend, if the choice were mine, I would return you at once to your world. The decision to summon you was painfully made, and I would willingly undo it. The Land has no need of service which is not glad and free. But, ur-Lord he gripped Covenant's arm again to steady him- ”my friend, we cannot return you."

  “Cannot?” Covenant groaned on a rising, half hysterical note.

  “We have no lore for the releasing of burdens. I know not how it is in your world-you appear unchanged to my eyes but forty years have passed since we stood together on the slopes of Mount Thunder, and you freed the Staff of Law for our hands. For long years we have striven-”

  “Cannot?” Covenant repeated more fiercely.

  “We have striven with power which we fail to master, and Lore which we have been unable to penetrate. It has taken forty years to bring us here, so that we may ask for your aid. We have reached the limit of what we can do.”

  “No!” He turned away because he could not bear the honesty he saw in Mhoram's face, and yelled up at the woman with the Staff, “Send me back!”

  For a moment, she looked at him squarely, measuring the extremity of his demand. Then she said, “I entreat you to understand. Hear the truth of our words. Lord Mhoram has spoken openly. I hear the hurt we have done you. I am not unmoved.” She was twenty or thirty feet away from him, beyond the pit of graveling and behind the stone table, but her voice carried to him clearly through the crystal acoustics of the Close. “But I cannot undo your summoning. Had I the power, still the Land's need would deny me. Lord Foul the Despiser-”

  Head back, arms thrown wide, Covenant howled, "I don't came!'

  Stung into sharpness, the High Lord said, “Then return yourself. You have the power. You wield the white gold.”

  With a cry, Covenant tried to charge at her. But before he could take a step, he was caught from behind. Wrestling around, he found himself in the grasp of Bannor, the unsleeping Bloodguard who had warded him during his previous delusion.

  “We are the Bloodguard,” Bannor said in his toneless alien inflection. “The care of the Lords is in our hands. We do not permit any offer of harm to the High Lord.”

  “Bannor,” Covenant pleaded, “she was my wife.”

  But Bannor only gazed at him with unblinking dispassion.

  Throwing his weight wildly, he managed to turn in the Bloodguard's powerful grip until he was facing Elena again. Blood scattered from his forehead as he jerked around. “She was my wife!”

  “Enough,” Elena commanded.

  “Send me back!”

  “Enough!” She stamped the iron heel of the Staff of Law on the floor, and at once blue fire burst from its length. The flame roared vividly, like a rent in the fabric of the gold light, letting concealed power shine through; and the force of the flame drove Covenant back into Bannor's arms. But her hand where she held the Staff was untouched. “I am the High Lord,” she said sternly. “This is Revelstone Lord's Keep, not Foul's Creche. We have sworn the Oath of Peace.”

  At a nod from her, Bannor released Covenant, and he stumbled backward, falling in a heap beside the graveling. He lay on the stone for a moment, gasping harshly. Then he pried himself into a sitting position His head seemed to droop with defeat. “You'll get Peace,” he groaned. “He's going to destroy you all.: Did you say forty years? You've only got nine left. Or have you forgotten his prophecy?”

  “We know;” Mhoram said quietly. “We do not forget.” With a crooked smile, he bent to examine Covenant's wound.

  While Mhoram did this, High Lord Elena quenched the blaze of the Staff, and said to a person Covenant could not see, “We must deal with this matter now, if we are to have any hope of the white gold. Have the captive brought here.”

  Lord Mhoram mopped Covenant's forehead gently, peered at the cut, then stood and moved away to consult with someone. Left alone, with most of the blood out of his eyes, Covenant brought his throbbing gaze into focus to take stock of where he was. Some still-uncowed instinct for self-preservation made him try to measure the hazards around him. He was on the lowest level of the tiered chamber, and its high vaulted and groined ceiling arched over him, lit by the gold glow of the graveling, and by four large smokeless lillianrill torches set into the walls. Around the centre of the Close, on the next level, was the three-quarters-round stone council table of the Lords, and above and behind the table were the ranked seats of the gallery. Two Bloodguard stood at the high massive doors, made by Giants to be large enough for Giants, of the main entryway, above and opposite the High Lord's seat.

  The gallery was diversely filled with warriors of the Wayward of Lord's Keep, Lorewardens from the Loresraat, several Hirebrands and Gravelingases dressed respectively in their traditional cloaks and tunics, and a few more Bloodguard. High up behind the High Lord sat two people Covenant thought he recognized-the Gravelingas Tohrm, a Hearthrall of Lord's Keep; and Quaan, the Warhaft who had accompanied the Quest for the Staff of Law. With them were two others-one a Hirebrand, judging by his Woodhelvennin cloak and the circlet of leaves about his head, probably the other Hearthrall; and one the First Mark of the Bloodguard. Vaguely, Covenant wondered who had taken that position after the loss of Tuvor in the catacombs under Mount Thunder.

  His gaze roamed on around the Close. Standing at the table were seven Lords, not counting the High Lord and Mhoram. Covenant recognized none of them. They must all have passed the tests and joined the Council in the last forty, years. Forty years? he asked dimly. Mhoram had aged, but he did not look forty years older. And Tohrm, who had been hardly more than a laughing boy when Covenant had known him, now seemed far too young for middle age. The Bloodguard were not changed at all. Of course, Covenant groaned to himself, remembering how old they were said to be. Only Quaan showed a believable age: white thinning hair gave the former Warhaft the look of sixty or sixty-five summers. But his square commanding shoulders did not stoop. And the openness of his countenance had not changed; he frowned down on the Unbeliever with exactly the frank disapproval that Covenant remembered.

  He did not see Prothall anywhere. Prothall had been the High Lord during the Quest, and Covenant knew that he had survived the final battle on the slopes of Mount Thunder. But he also knew that Prothall had been old enough to die naturally in forty years. In spite of his pain, he found himself hoping that the former High Lord had died as he deserved, in peace and honour.

  With a sour mental shrug, he moved his survey to the one man at the Lords' table who was not standing. This individual was dressed like a warrior, with high, soft-soled boots over black leggings, a black sleeveless shirt under a breastplate moulded of a yel
low metal, and a yellow headband; but on his breastplate were the double black diagonal marks which distinguished him as the Warmark, the commander of the Wayward, the Lords' army. He was not looking at anyone. He sat back in his stone chair, with his head down and his eyes covered with one hand, as if he were asleep.

  Covenant turned away, let his gaze trudge at random around the Close. High Lord Elena was conferring in low tones with the Lords nearest her. Mhoram stood waiting near the broad stairs leading up to the main doors. The acoustics of the chamber carried the commingled voices of the gallery to Covenant, so that the air was murmurous about his head. He wiped the gathering blood from his brows, and thought about dying.

  It would be worth it, he mused. After all it would be worth it to escape. He was not tough enough to persevere when even his dreams turned against him. He should leave living to the people who were potent for it.

  Ah, hellfire, he sighed. Hellfire.

  Distantly, he heard the great doors of the Close swing open. The murmuring in the air stopped at once; everyone turned and looked toward the doors. Forcing himself to spend some of his waning strength, Covenant twisted around to see who was coming.

  The sight struck him cruelly, seemed to take the last rigor out of his bones.

  He watched with bloodied eyes as two Bloodguard came down the stairs, holding upright between them a green-grey creature that oozed with fear. Though they were not handling it roughly, the creature trembled in terror and revulsion. Its hairless skin was slick with sweat. It had a generally human outline, but its torso was unusually long, and its limbs were short, all equal in length, as if it naturally ran on four legs through low caves. But its limbs were bent and useless-contorted as if they had been broken many times and not reset. And the rest of its body showed signs of worse damage.

  Its head was its least human feature. Its bald skull had no eyes. Above the ragged slit of its mouth, in the centre of its face, were two wide, wet nostrils that quivered fearfully around the edges as the creature smelled its situation. Its small pointed ears perched high on its skull. And the whole back of its head was gone. Over the gap was a green membrane like a scar, pulsing against the remaining fragment of a brain.

  Covenant knew immediately what it was. He had seen a creature like it once before-whole in body, but dead, lying on the floor of its Waymeet with an iron spike through its heart.

  It was a Waynhim. A Demondim-spawn, like the ur-viles. But unlike their black roynish kindred, the Waynhim had devoted their lore to the services of the Land.

  This Waynhim had been lavishly tortured.

  The Bloodguard brought the creature down to the bottom of the Close, and held it opposite Covenant. Despite his deep weakness, he forced himself to his feet, and kept himself up by leaning against the wall of the next level. Already, he seemed to be regaining some of the added dimension of sight which characterized the Land. He could see into the Waynhim could feel with his eyes what had been done to it. He saw torment and extravagant pain-saw the healthy body of the Waynhim caught in a fist of malice, and crushed gleefully into this crippled shape. The sight made his eyes hurt. He had to lock his knees to brace himself up. A cold mist of hebetude and despair filled his head, and he was, glad for the blood which clogged his eyes; it preserved him from seeing the Waynhim.

  Through his fog, he heard Elena say, "Ur-Lord Covenant, it is necessary to burden you with this sight. We must convince you of our need. Please forgive such a welcome to the Land. The duress of our plight leaves us little choice.

  "Ur-Lord, this poor creature brought us to the decision of your summoning. For years we have known that the Despiser prepares his strength to march against the Land-that the time appointed in his prophecy grows short for us. You delivered that prophecy unto us, and the Lords of Revelstone have not been idle. From the day in which Lord Mhoram brought to Lord's Keep the Staff of Law and the Second Ward of Kevin's Lore, we have striven to meet this doom. We have multiplied the Warward, studied our defences, trained ourselves in all our skills and strengths. We have learned some of the uses of the Staff. The Loresraat has explored with all its wisdom and devotion the Second Ward. But in forty years, we have gained no clear knowledge of Lord Foul's intent. After the wresting of the Staff from Drool Rockworm, the Despiser's presence left Kiril Threndor in Mount Thunder, and soon reseated itself in the great thronehall of Ridjeck Thome, Foul's Creche, the Grey Slayer's ancient home. And since that time, our scouts have been unable to penetrate Lord Foul's demesne. Power has been at work there-power and ill-but we could learn nothing of it, though Lord Mhoram himself assayed the task. He could not breach the Despiser's forbidding might.

  “But there have been dim and dark foreboding movements throughout the Land. Kresh from the east and ur-viles from Mount Thunder, griffins and other dire creatures from Sarangrave Flat, Cavewights, little-known denizens of Lifeswallower, the Great Swamp-we have heard them all wending toward the Spoiled Plains and Foul's Creche. They disappear beyond the Shattered Hills, and do not return. We need no great wisdom to teach us that the Despiser prepares his army. But still we have lacked clear knowledge. Then at last knowledge came to us. During the summer, our scouts captured this creature, this broken remnant of a Waynhim, on the western edges of Grimmerdhore Forest. It was brought here so that we might try to gain tidings from it.”

  “So you tortured it to find out what it knows.” Covenant's eyes were sticky with blood, and he kept them shut, giving himself up to useless rage and mist.

  “Do you believe that of us?” The High Lord sounded hurt. “No. We are not Despisers. We would not so betray the Land. We have treated the Waynhim as gently as we could without releasing it. It has told us willingly all that we would know. Now it begs us to kill it. Unbeliever, hear me. This is Lord Foul's handiwork. He possesses the Illearth Stone. This is the work of that bane.”

  Through the greyness in his mind, Covenant heard the doors open again. Someone came down the stairs and whispered with Lord Mhoram. Then Mhoram said, “High Lord, hurtloam has been brought for the Unbeliever. I fear that his wound extends far beyond this simple cut. There is other ill at work in him. He must be tended without delay.”

  “Yes, at once,” High Lord Elena responded promptly. “We must do all that we can to heal him.”

  With a steady stride, Mhoram came toward Covenant.

  At the thought of hurtloam, Covenant pushed himself away from the wall, rubbed the caked blood out of his eyes. He saw Mhoram holding a small stoneware bowl containing a light mud spangled with gold gleams that seemed to throb in the glow of the Close.

  “Keep that stuff away from me,” he whispered.

  Mhoram was taken aback. “This is hurtloam, ur-Lord. It is the healing soil of the Earth. You will be renewed by it.”

  “I know what it does!” Covenant's voice was raw from all the shouting he had done, and it sounded spectral and empty, like the creaking of a derelict. “I've had it before. You put that stuff on my head, and before you know it the feeling comes back into my fingers and toes, and I go around ra- ” He barely caught himself. “Hurting people.”

  He heard Elena. say softly, “I know,” but he disregarded her.

  “That's the real lie,” he snarled at the bowl, “that stuff there. That's what makes me feel so healthy I can't stand it.” He took a long breath, then said fervidly, “I don't want it.”

  Mhoram held Covenant in a gaze intense with questions. And when Covenant did not waver, the Lord asked in a low voice, a tone of amazement, “My friend, do you wish to die?”

  “Use it on that poor devil over there,” Covenant replied dully. “It's got a right to it.”

  Without bending the straitness of his look, Mhoram said, “We have made the attempt. You have known us, Unbeliever. You know that we could not refuse the plea of such distress. But the Waynhim is beyond all our succour. Our Healers cannot approach its inner wound. And it nearly died at the touch of hurtloam,”

  Still Covenant did not relent.

  Behind him
, High Lord Elena continued what Mhoram had been saying. "Even the Staff of Law cannot match the power which has warped this Waynhim. Such is our plight, ur-Lord. The Illearth Stone surpasses us.

  "This Waynhim has told us much. Much that was obscure is now clear. Its name was dharmakshetra, which in the Waynhim tongue means, `to brave the enemy.' Now it calls itself dukkha- 'victim.' Because its people desired knowledge of the Despiser's plotting, it went to Foul's Creche. There it was captured, and-and wronged-and then set free-as a warning to its people, I think. It has told us much.

  "Unbeliever, we know that when you first delivered the Despiser's prophecy to High Lord Prothall son of Dwillian and the Council of Lords forty years ago, many things were not understood concerning the Grey Slayer's intent. Why did he warn the Lords that Drool Rockworm had found the Staff of Law under-Mount Thunder? Why did he seek to prepare us for our fate? Why did he aid Drool's quest for dark might, and then betray the Cavewight? These questions are now answered. Drool possessed the Stag, and with it unearthed the buried bane, the Illearth Stone. By reason of these powers, the Despiser was at Drool's mercy while the Cavewight lived.

  "But with Lord Mhoram and High Lord Prothall, you retrieved the Staff and brought the threat of Drool Rockworm to an end. Thus the Stone fell into Lord Foul's hands. He knew that the Stone, joined with his own lore and power, is a greater strength than the Staff of Law. And he knew that we are no masters for even that little might which we possess.

  "In forty years, we have not rested. We have spoken to all the people of the Land. The Loresraat has grown greatly, giving us warriors and Lorewardens and Lords to meet our need. The rhadhamaerl and lillianrill have laboured to the utmost. And all have given themselves to the study of the Two Wards, and of the Staff. Gains have been made. Trothgard, where the Lords swore their promise of healing to the Land, has flowered, and we have made there works undreamed by our forefathers. The Staff meets many needs. But the heart of our failure remains.