The Runes of the Earth: The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant - Book One

by Stephen R. Donaldson

Linden tried to say his name, but she had no breath. How far had she stretched her frail attempt at escape? A hundred yards? Two hundred? The Masters would recapture her swiftly when the attack on Mithil Stonedown ended.

  “Pathetic,” Anele cackled in Lord Foul’s voice. “Entirely abject. You disappoint me, Linden Avery. I would delight to see you grovel thus, but I have not yet earned your prostration.

  “If you had not released this failing cripple, my servants the Haruchai would have aided you. They would have fostered your false hopes. Now they will hunt you down and imprison you.

  “This displeases me.”

  She had no stamina; but she could still feel outrage. At once, she surged to her feet, clutching for Covenant’s ring with fury in her gaze.

  Anele flinched involuntarily. His blind eyes wept dread and misery as his mouth articulated the Despiser’s bitter laughter.

  “Damn it, Foul!” she panted through her teeth. “Leave him alone. If you need a victim, try me. Take your chances.”

  “And if I do not?” Lord Foul retorted. “If I elect rather to mock you with this cripple’s torment? What then? Insipid woman! Will you scour the life from these displaced bones for my amusement?”

  Linden yearned for strength; for the validation of white fire. Wild magic would have given force to her repudiation. If Covenant’s ring had not lain inert in her grasp, she might have been able to daunt even the Despiser. But she was not Covenant. His power did not belong to her.

  Nevertheless her anger was enough for her. With ire and determination, if not with fire, she confronted Anele’s anguish.

  “Are you having fun, asshole?” she lashed out. “Enjoy it while you can. Sooner or later, I’m going to recover my health-sense.” Somehow. “And when I do, you will leave Anele alone. That I guarantee.

  “If you don’t, I’ll be able to get at you.” More than once, percipience had enabled her to take possession of Covenant. “I’ll tear you out of him with my bare hands.”

  For what he did to Jeremiah as much as for his cruelty to Anele.

  The old man recoiled in fright. The spirit within him chortled harshly.

  “Do you believe so?” he retorted. “That would please me. I would find satisfaction in such a contest. And this mad vessel, that clings so stubbornly to continuance when he should have perished ages ago”—Lord Foul laughed outright—“ah, he would be quite destroyed.”

  Not necessarily, Linden assured him in silence. You have no idea what I can do.

  As matters stood, however, she posed no true threat. She knew that. Though Anele’s plight wrung her heart, she gained nothing by exhausting herself with anger.

  Sagging, she released the ring. “Then what is all this for?” she countered bitterly. “Does mocking us please you so much that you just can’t resist? Hell, you can’t escape unless you destroy the whole Earth. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  Come on, Foul. Reveal something I can use. Tell me what you’ve done.

  “At this moment?” the Despiser asked merrily. “Indeed I do. You must be restored, lest you prove unable to serve me. I mean to assist you.”

  Abruptly her companion turned away, beckoning her to follow. “Come, woman. Accept our guidance. We will show you hurtloam.”

  For the first time since she had regained her feet, Linden looked past him and saw the Mithil River at the bottom of the slope, bright with sunshine hardly a stone’s throw away. Beyond it, mountains reared upward, jagged as teeth, forbidding the sky. Off to her right, they declined toward the plains; but in the south they gathered into a rugged wall at the head of the valley.

  Behind her, partially hidden by the shape of the terrain, the storm still boiled and frothed over Mithil Stonedown. Apart from the occasional thunderclap of violence, the only sounds she could hear were the damp rush of the river between its banks, murmuring of high cold and distant seas, and her own labored respiration.

  Somewhere she had heard of “hurtloam,” but she could not remember what it was, or who had mentioned it.

  In spite of the storm, the air held a crisp tang that hinted at snow and ice among the distant peaks. The breeze on her flushed cheeks felt like spring; and the Mithil’s current was turbulent, heavy with melted winter.

  The Haruchai would come in pursuit as soon as the attack on Mithil Stonedown ended.

  Seeing that she had not moved, Anele beckoned more urgently. “You require healing,” Lord Foul assured her. “Without it, these self-maimed Masters will ensnare you blithely, and this time you will not win free. They will hold you helpless until I am forced to foil them on your behalf.

  “Without hurtloam, also,” he added as though he were explaining himself to a dotard, and weary of it, “you will not regain the discernment which renders you able to serve me.

  “Come, I say. I find little sport in your wretchedness. Be assured that this abject old man does not wish harm upon you.”

  The sweat had begun to dry on Linden’s forehead. Hurtloam? She could not run farther: escape was no longer possible. But she could think, and probe, and stand her ground.

  I mean to assist you.

  She did not believe him for an instant; could hardly credit that Lord Foul had spoken such words. Nevertheless his bizarre offer gave her an opportunity which she did not intend to miss.

  Feigning boldness, she retorted, “And you think I’ll do what you tell me why? Because I’ve lost my mind? I’m suddenly stupid? Shit, Foul, you’ve had things your own way too long. You’re getting complacent.”

  “Blind fool!” the Despiser jeered. Anele’s moonstone eyes rolled in desperation. “Do you doubt that the Haruchai will give chase? Do you conceive that they will now offer you friendship and aid?”

  Linden replied with a laugh full of warning. “Of course not. But I know you, Foul. I know better than to believe anything you say.”

  “Paugh!” he spat. “You have never known wisdom or discernment sufficient to comprehend my designs. Your defiance serves no purpose. It merely feeds my contempt. You disdain me at your peril.”

  “So convince me,” she countered promptly. “Give me a reason to listen to you.”

  Anele squirmed as though she had threatened him with fire. Tears formed a sheen on his seamed cheeks. His head flinched from side to side as if he feared to speak. But the Despiser ruled him, and he could not remain silent.

  “I have said,” Lord Foul answered, “that the Haruchai serve me, albeit unwittingly. That is sooth. Also it is sooth that they will imprison you.

  “Whether you partake in them or no, my designs will be fulfilled. Forces have been set in motion which will shatter the Arch of Time, putting an end to the Earth, and to all that I abhor. If you are imprisoned, however, certain aspects of what will ensue remain clouded to my sight. On that path, I cannot determine that my Enemy will not again find means to snare me.

  “But if you remain free, apt and able to satisfy me, my release is assured. Your attempts to oppose me will secure it. The Arch will be torn asunder, and I will reclaim my rightful place among the eternal Heavens. My Enemy will be unable to thwart me.”

  Cunningly the rank voice added, “There is more, but of my deeper purpose I will not speak.”

  Then the Despiser stated brusquely, “It must therefore be plain that I do not desire your capture. And it must surely be plain as well that you will fail to evade the Haruchai if you are not restored to your fullest strength. You require hurtloam. The Haruchai have ensured that no lore remains which might aid you. Only Earthpower will suffice.”

  Linden stared at him, momentarily horrified and transfixed. Forces have been set in motion—But then she fought down her dismay. Gritting her teeth, she demanded, “Stop it. Don’t be so damn cryptic. It’s petty. And you’re wasting time.

  “Just tell me what you’ve done.”

  Anele’s mouth twisted, although his trapped soul made no sound. “Done?” the Despiser chortled. “I?” His delight wrung Anele’s scrawny frame. “Naught. Apart from the
claiming of your vacant son, I have merely whispered a word of counsel here and there, and awaited events.

  “The caesures are none of mine. Also I had no hand in your blindness, for I did not utter the fine riposte of Kevin’s Dirt. If you fear what has been done, think on the Elohim and feel despair. They serve me as do the Haruchai, unwittingly, and in arrogance.”

  Linden muttered a curse. “And you expect me to believe you? You didn’t send that storm?”

  Anele’s hands jerked to his head, pulled at his scraps of hair. “Shame upon you, woman. Shame and excruciation! You undervalue my enmity. That pitiable assault serves me well enough, but it is too crude, far too crude. I would not deign to raise my hand for such an unsubtle ploy.”

  Not? Shaken by uncertainty, Linden fell silent. In this, at least, she did believe her foe. Lord Foul was not one to refuse credit for his actions. He enjoyed his own malice too much.

  Yet if he did not send the storm—

  She was weak; too weak. She could not summon strength which she did not possess.

  —who did?

  How many enemies did Mithil Stonedown have?

  For a moment longer, Anele squirmed as though his guts were being torn. Then he whirled away, sprinting for the Mithil.

  As he ran, Lord Foul called back at her, “Refuse me and be damned! That you will be captured is certain! Then you will be helpless while your son remains in my hands!”

  She had been holding her fears at bay: now they broke past her restraint. She had so little power, and had lost so much time. The river might be her only chance to avoid the Masters.

  Stiffly she let the slope carry her downward after Anele.

  Ahead of her, the old man sprawled on his belly at the edge of the watercourse. His head stretched past the rim of the grass: he might have been searching for his lost mind among the ripples and eddies of the river. From her angle, the current appeared to twist past within reach of his face.

  One step at a time, she closed the gap; jerked to a stop at his side. “What now, Foul?” she panted heavily. “Do you tell fortunes by staring into riverbeds?”

  “More than you know, fool,” retorted the Despiser. “Men commonly find their fates graven within the rock, but yours is written in water.”

  Then his arm flapped, pointing downward. “There,” he announced, “as I promised.” An undercurrent of distress or loathing marred his glee. “Hurtloam.”

  Ah, shit. The last of Linden’s resistance leaked away, and she folded to her knees. Hurtloam, is it? She felt herself falling into a defeated weariness. Now what was she supposed to do? Trust the Despiser?

  Yet Anele’s distress was terrible to behold. He needed to be healed of his vulnerability, freed from madness, more than he needed anything else in life; perhaps more than he needed to live.

  That would never happen while the Haruchai kept him, and she remained blind.

  She had promised to protect him. And he was her only link to her son. The old man was possessed by Lord Foul, who also held Jeremiah. Whenever the Despiser taunted her through Anele, he connected her, however tenuously, to her son. If she could see, she might be able to reach Jeremiah—

  In fact, Anele might be the only link she would ever have.

  Below her, the Mithil complicated the air with whispers of escape. Her panting silence seemed to make her companion frantic. Grimaces and revulsion clenched his features as he pointed downward again. “There!” His eyes glistened with white terror. “Are you mad as well? It is hurtloam, I tell you.”

  You require healing.

  Half hypnotized by his intensity, Linden looked over the riverbank; but she saw nothing to account for his insistence. Absorbed by its own concerns, the river moiled past little more than an arm’s length below the grassy rim of its bank. Where Anele pointed, in a notch between slick stones at the lapping edge of the water, lay a roughly triangular patch of fine sand. She could not distinguish it from other patches of sand nearby, among similar stones.

  The murmuring of the water filled her head.

  “There!” Lord Foul repeated; but it might have been Anele who pleaded with her. “This doddering cripple is rife with Earthpower, which I loathe. In this he cannot be mistaken.”

  He had told her that hurtloam would renew her health-sense. Without it, she might never learn how to use Covenant’s ring. Only percipience offered her any hope—

  The Despiser sought harm and freedom. If hurtloam could truly restore her, then her foe had something to gain by offering it to her: something virulent and dangerous.

  But she also might gain something. She might be able to turn his designs against him.

  Do something they don’t expect.

  Holding her breath to contain the clamor of her heart, Linden stretched her arm over the rim of the bank as if she had at last become sure of herself.

  With her palm, she touched the damp triangle of sand—and felt nothing.

  Anele had squeezed his eyes shut. His head bobbed furiously, signaling lunatic assent.

  Carefully she pushed her fingers into the sand; scooped up a handful.

  For a moment, she felt only cool moisture against her skin.

  Her companion rolled over onto his back; covered his face with his gnarled hands. He made whimpering sounds that she could not hear.

  Then Linden saw a faint gleam like a spark in the sand. She nearly winced in surprise as spangles of light began to tingle over her palm. Glints of gold seemed to catch the sunlight, swirling like cast embers or the tiny reflections of Wraiths.

  As they swirled, they spread a sparkling sensation into her hand. Bits and motes of vitality soaked her fingers and palm, then swept along her forearm to her elbow and shoulder. Involuntarily, hardly aware of what she did, she raised the sand closer to her face so that she could peer into it; and gleaming like a taste of renewal expanded into her chest, wiping away weariness and exertion as though they had never touched her.

  Soon the exuberant tang of Earthpower, numinous and ineffable, thronged throughout her senses, lifting her into a realm of perception as keen as crystal, as vibrant as the language of the sun.

  From her hand to her arm, from her shoulder to her ribs and thighs, one by one her bruises evaporated as though they had been blessed away. Her abrasions faded. Palpably caressed, her torn muscles and strained ligaments regained their elasticity and vigor; their eagerness. The harsh effort of flight slipped from her as though she had forgotten it. In a wave of transformation, she felt herself exalted to health.

  That was hurtloam, there in her palm. That tincture of pure health had been stirred like wealth by the washing of the river into the plainer substance of the sand: a subtle and transcendent instance of the Land’s essential mystery. It was not common, oh, no, not common at all: most of the sand and soil on either side of the Mithil gave no hint of it. But now she could discern it without difficulty here and there, in small whorls and traces between the stones, as though it called out gladly to her nerves.

  The River itself called out to her as it curled and chuckled in its course. Its waters sang to her of nourished growth and protracted journeys; of life renewed after sleep. In its bright running, she heard the music of winter storms among the peaks, the yearning chords of the current’s long hunger for the sea.

  Wherever it found her, the grass on which she lay pressed its green and burgeoning richness to her skin. It spoke of health won by fine, cunning roots from the thin fertility of the sand and loam which cloaked the underlying stone: soil too recently worn from granite, obsidian, and schist to provide the abundant sustenance that enriched the Center Plains and the Andelainian Hills.

  And beneath the grass and the soil and the first rocks, she felt the living skeleton of the slopes and crests: obdurate stone that hugged to its heart secrets at once enduring and elusive, tangible enough to be tasted, yet too vast and slow to hear.

  Gradually the hurtloam in her hand lost its gleaming as it expended its potency. Nevertheless it had lifted her to her feet:
it had lifted up her heart. Tears of gladness blurred her sight as she faced the crisp morning, the burnished sunshine. All around her, the savor of the new season filled the air with possibilities. From its place near the height of noon, the sun warmed away the last of her bruises and fatigue.

  In that way, one small handful of sand and hurtloam and Earthpower restored to her the glory of the Land. She felt positively reborn. For reasons which she could not begin to comprehend, Lord Foul had guided her here so that she might set aside her blindness and futility.

  At last, she turned her renewed percipience toward her companion.

  He still lay on his back with his hands covering his face. Now, however, she did not need to see his features or hear his voice in order to discern his insanity. His posture and his skin, his breathing and the angle of his bones, proclaimed it to her. She knew beyond question that his mind had been broken by more loss than it could endure.

  And she knew as well, though the knowledge surprised her, that the Despiser had played no part in Anele’s derangement. The incoherence of Anele’s mind allowed Lord Foul entrance; permitted the Despiser to speak. Yet the Land’s foe had not caused that madness.

  Anele’s straits brought an ache to her heart. He required healing; absolutely required it. He had already suffered far too long.

  Now, suddenly, she had the means to help him.

  “Anele,” she asked softly, “can you hear me?”

  He did not respond. His hands covered his eyes urgently. Lord Foul still held him: she could see that. However, the Despiser had withdrawn from the surface, from mastery, leaving the old man at the mercy of his fears.

  Linden did not hesitate. Her health-sense seemed to set her free. Two quick steps along the riverbank carried her toward another swirl of fine gleams in the sand. Crouching, she reached down to wash the expended hurtloam from her hand and scoop up more.

  Glad fire sang in her fingers as she moved to Anele’s side, knelt near his head. “Anele,” she said again, “if you can hear me,” if Lord Foul permitted him hearing, “I have more hurtloam. I’m going to put it on your forehead. It should heal you.”