Thomas Covenant 03: Power That Preserves

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The next instant, another creature grabbed her by the hair and flung her back. She lost her knife, fell out of Covenant’s sight in front of one of the houses. The marauders moved after her, swords upraised.

  Covenant leaped for the next roof. He kept his balance as he landed this time, ran across the stone, and leaped again. Then he fell skidding on the roof of the house which blocked the woman from his sight. He had too much momentum now; he could not stop. In a cloud of snow, he toppled over the edge and slammed heavily to the ground beside the woman.

  The impact stunned him. But his sudden appearance had surprised the attackers, and the nearest creature recoiled several steps, waving its sword defensively as if Covenant were a group of warriors. In the interval, he shook red mist from his eyes, and got gasping to his feet.

  The marauders whirled their weapons, dropped into fighting crouches. But when they saw that they were threatened by only one half-stunned man, some of them spat hoarse curses at him and others began to laugh malevolently. Sheathing their weapons, several of them moved forward with an exaggerated display of caution to capture Covenant and the old woman. At this, other creatures jeered harshly, and more came into the circle to see what was happening.

  Covenant’s gaze dashed in all directions, hunting for a way of escape. But he could find nothing; he and the woman were alone against more than a score of the misborn creatures.

  The marauders’ breathing did not steam in the cold air. Though they wore nothing to protect their flesh from the cold, they seemed horribly comfortable in the preternatural winter.

  They approached as if they meant to eat Covenant and the woman alive.

  The woman hissed at them in revulsion, but he paid no attention to her. All of him was concentrated on escape. An odd memory tugged at the back of his mind. He remembered a time when Mhoram had made even powerless white gold useful. As the creatures crept hooting toward him, he suddenly brandished his ring and sprang forward a step, shouting, “Get back, you bloody bastards, or I’ll blast you where you stand!”

  Either his shout or the sight of his ring startled them; they jumped back a few paces, grabbing at their weapons.

  In that instant, Covenant snatched up the woman’s hand and fled. Pulling her after him, he raced to the corner of the house, swung sharply around it, and sped as fast as he could away from the open ground. He lost his hold on the woman almost at once; he could not grip her securely with his half-fingerless hand. But she was running on her own now. In a moment, she caught up with him and took hold of his arm, helped him make the next turn.

  Roaring with fury, the marauders started in pursuit. But when they entered the lane between the houses, Foamfollower dove from a rooftop and crashed headlong into them like a battering ram. Constricted by the houses on either side, they could not evade him; he hit them squarely, breaking the ones nearest him and bowling the others back into the center of the Stonedown.

  Then Triock, Quirrel, and Yeurquin led a dozen Stonedownors into the village across the roofs. Amid the confusion caused by the Giant’s attack, the defenders fell onto the marauders like a rain of swords and javelins. Other people ran forward to engage the creatures that were still hunting among the houses. In moments, fighting raged throughout the Stonedown.

  But Covenant did not stop; drawing the woman with him, he fled until he was past the last buildings. There he lengthened his stride, intending to run as far as he could up the valley. But Slen intercepted him. Panting hoarsely, Slen snapped at the woman, “Fool! You have lost sense altogether.” Then he tugged at Covenant. “Come. Come.”

  Covenant and the woman followed him away from the river along an unmarked path into the foothills. A few hundred yards above the village, they came to a jumble of boulders—the ancient remains of a rockfall from the mountains. Slen took a cunning way in among the boulders and soon reached a large, hidden cave. Several Stonedownors stood on guard at the cave mouth, and within it the children and the ill or infirm huddled around graveling bowls.

  Covenant was tempted to enter the cave and share its sanctuary. But near its mouth was a high, sloped heap of rock with a broad crown. He turned and climbed the rocks to find out if he could see the Stonedown from its top. The white-haired woman ascended lightly behind him; soon they stood together, looking down at the battle of Mithil Stonedown.

  The altitude of his position surprised him. He had not realized that he had climbed so high. Vertigo made his feet feel suddenly slippery, and he recoiled from the sight. For a moment, the valley reeled around him. He could not believe that a short time ago he had been leaping across rooftops; the mere thought of such audacity seemed to sweep his balance away, leaving him at the mercy of the height. But the woman caught hold of him, supported him. And his urgent need to watch the fighting helped him to resist his dizziness. Clinging half unconsciously to the woman’s shoulder, he forced himself to peer downward.

  At first, the cloud-locked dimness of the day obscured the battle, prevented him from being able to distinguish what was happening. But as he concentrated, he made out the Giant.

  Foamfollower dominated the melee in the Stonedown’s center. He waded hugely through the marauders, heaved himself from place to place. Swinging his mighty fists like cudgels, he chopped creatures down, pounded them out of his way with blows which appeared powerful enough to tear their heads off. But he was sorely outnumbered. Though his movement prevented the marauders from hitting him with a concerted attack, they were armed and he was not. As Covenant watched, several of the creatures succeeded in knocking Foamfollower toward one of the rock destroyers.

  The soft, glad tone of the woman’s voice jarred painfully against his anxiety. “Thomas Covenant, I thank you,” she said. “My life is yours.”

  Foamfollower! Covenant cried silently. “What?” He doubted that the woman had actually spoken. “I don’t want your life. What in hell possessed you to run out there, anyway?”

  “That is unkind,” she replied quietly. “I have waited for you. I have ridden your Ranyhyn.”

  The meaning of what she said did not penetrate him. “Foamfollower is getting himself killed down there because of you.”

  “I have borne your child.”

  What?

  Without warning, her words hit him in the face like ice water. He snatched his hand from her shoulder, jerked backward a step or two across the rock. A shift in the wind brought the clamor of battle up to him in tatters, but he did not hear it. For the first time, he looked at the woman.

  She appeared to be in her mid-sixties—easily old enough to be his mother. Lines of groundless hope marked her pale skin around the blue veins in her temples, and the hair which plumed her head was no longer thick. He saw nothing to recognize in the open expectancy of her mouth, or in the bone-leanness of her body, or in her wrinkled hands. Her eyes had a curious, round, misfocused look, like the confusion of madness.

  But for all their inaccuracy, they were spacious eyes, like the eyes of the women she claimed for her mother and daughter. And woven into the shoulders of her long blue robe was a pattern of white leaves.

  “Do you not know me, Thomas Covenant?” she said gently. “I have not changed. They all wish me to change—Triock and Trell my father and the Circle of elders, all wish me to change. But I do not. Do I appear changed?”

  “No,” Covenant panted. With sour nausea in his mouth, he understood that he was looking at Lena, the woman he had violated with his lust—mother of the woman he had violated with his love—recipient of the Ranyhyn-boon he had instigated when he had violated the great horses with his false bargains. Despite her earlier fury, she looked too old, too fragile, to be touched. He forced out the words as if they appalled him. “No—change.”

  She smiled with relief. “I am glad. I have striven to hold true. The Unbeliever deserves no less.”

  “Deserves,” Covenant croaked helplessly. The battle noises from Mithil Stonedown taunted him again. “Hellfire.”

  He coerced himself to meet her gaze,
and slowly her smile turned to a look of concern. She moved forward, reached out to him. He wanted to back away, but he held still as her fingertips lightly touched his lip, then stroked a cool line around the wound on his forehead. “You have been harmed,” she said. “Does the Despiser dare to assault you in your own world?”

  He felt that he had to warn her away from him; the misfocus of her gaze showed that she was endangered by him. Rapidly he whispered, “Atiaran’s judgment is coming true. The Land is being destroyed, and it’s my fault.”

  Her fingers caressed him as if they were trying to smooth a frown from his brow. “You will save the Land. You are the Unbeliever—the new Berek Halfhand of our age.”

  “I can’t save anything—I can’t even help those people down there. Foamfollower is my friend, and I can’t help him. Triock—Triock has earned anything I can do, and I can’t—”

  “Were I a Giant,” she interrupted with sudden vehemence, “I would require no aid in such a battle. And Triock—” She faltered unexpectedly, as if she had stumbled over an unwonted perception of what Triock meant to her. “He is a Cattleherd—content. He wishes— But I am unchanged. He—”

  Covenant stared at the distress which strained her face. For an instant, her eyes seemed to be on the verge of seeing clearly, and her forehead tightened under the imminence of cruel facts. “Covenant?” she whispered painfully. “Unbeliever?”

  “Yes, I know,” Covenant mumbled in spite of himself. “He would consider himself lucky if he got killed.” As tenderly as he could, he reached out and drew her into his arms.

  At once she embraced him, clung convulsively to him while a crisis within her crested, receded. But even as he gave her what comfort he could with his arms, he was looking back toward the Stonedown. The shouts and cries and clatter of the fighting outweighed his own torn emotions, his conflicting sympathy for and horror of Lena. When she stepped back from him, he had to force himself to meet the happiness which sparkled in her mistaken eyes.

  “I am so glad—my eyes rejoice to behold you. I have held—I have desired to be worthy. Ah, you must meet our daughter. She will make you proud.”

  Elena! Covenant groaned thickly. They haven’t told her—she doesn’t understand— Hellfire.

  For a moment, he ached under his helplessness, his inability to speak. But then a hoarse shout from the Stonedown rescued him. Looking down, he saw people standing in the center of the village with their swords and spears upraised. Beyond them, the surviving marauders fled for their lives toward the open plains. A handful of the defenders gave savage pursuit, harried the creatures to prevent as many as possible from escaping.

  Immediately Covenant started down the rocks. He heard Lena shout word of the victory to Slen and the other people at the mouth of the cave, but he did not wait for her or them. He ran down out of the foothills as if he too were fleeing—fleeing from Lena, or from his fear for Foamfollower, he did not know which. As swiftly as he could without slipping in the snow, he hurried toward Mithil Stonedown.

  But when he dashed between the houses and stumbled in among the hacked corpses, he lurched to a halt. All around him the snow and stone were spattered with blood—livid incarnadine patches, heavy swaths of red-gray serum diseased by streaks of green. Stonedownors—some of them torn limb from limb—lay confused amid the litter of Lord Foul’s creatures. But the perverse faces and forms of the creatures were what drew Covenant’s attention. Even in death, they stank of the abomination which had been practiced upon them by their maker, and they appalled him more than ur-viles or kresh or discolored moons. They were so entirely the victims of Foul’s contempt. The sight and smell of them made his guts heave. He dropped to his knees in the disfigured snow and vomited as if he were desperate to purge himself of his kinship with these creatures.

  Lena caught up with him there. When she saw him, she gave a low cry and flung her arms around him. “What is wrong?” she moaned. “Oh, beloved, you are ill.”

  Her use of the word beloved stung him like acid flung from the far side of Elena’s lost grave. It drove him reeling to his feet. Lena tried to help him, but he pushed her hands away. Into the concern of her face, he cried, “Don’t touch me. Don’t.” Jerking brokenly, his hands gestured at the bodies around him. “They’re lepers. Lepers like me. This is what Foul wants to do to everything.” His mouth twisted around the words as if they shared the gall of his nausea.

  Several Stonedownors had gathered near him. Triock was among them. His hands were red, and blood ran from a cut along the line of his jaw, but when he spoke, he only sounded bitterer, harder. “It boots nothing to say that they have been made to be what they are. Still they shed blood—they ravage—they destroy. They must be prevented.”

  “They’re like me.” Covenant turned panting toward Triock as if he meant to hurl himself at the Stonedownor’s throat. But when he looked up he saw Foamfollower standing behind Triock. The Giant had survived a fearsome struggle. The muscles of his arms quivered with exhaustion. His leather jerkin hung from his shoulders in shreds, and all across his chest were garish red sores—wounds inflicted by the suckers of the rock destroyer. But a sated look glazed his deep-set eyes, and the vestiges of a fierce grin clung to his lips.

  Covenant struggled for breath in the bloody air of the Stonedown. The sight of Foamfollower triggered a reaction he could not control. “Get your people together,” he rasped at Triock. “I’ve decided what I’m going to do.”

  The hardness of Triock’s mouth did not relent, but his eyes softened as he searched Covenant’s gaze. “Such choices can wait a little longer,” he replied stiffly. “We have other duties. We must cleanse Mithil Stonedown—rid our homes of this stain.” Then he turned and walked away.

  Soon all the people who were whole or strong enough were at work. First they buried their fallen friends and kindred in honorable rocky cairns high in the eastern slopes of the valley. And when that grim task was done, they gathered together all the creature corpses and carted this hacked and broken rubble downriver across the bridge to the west bank of the Mithil. There they built a pyre like a huge warning blaze to any marauders in the South Plains and burned the dead creatures until even the bones were reduced to white ash. Then they returned to the Stonedown. With clean snow, they scrubbed it from rim to center until all the blood and gore had been washed from the houses and swept from the ground of the village.

  Covenant did not help them. After his recent exertions, he was too weak for such labor. But he felt cold, upright, and passionate, ballasted by the new granite of his purpose. He went with Lena, Slen, and the Circle of elders to the banks of the river, and there helped treat the injuries of the Stonedownors. He cleaned and bound wounds, removed slivers of broken weapons, amputated mangled fingers and toes. When even the elders faltered, he took the blue-hot blade and used it to clean the sores which covered Foamfollower’s chest and back. His fingers trembled at the task, and his halfhand slipped on the knife’s handle, but he pressed fire into the Giant’s oaken muscles until all the sucker wounds had been seared.

  Foamfollower took a deep breath that shuddered with pain, and said, “Thank you, my friend. That is a grateful fire. You have made it somewhat like the caamora.” But Covenant threw down the blade without answering, and went to plunge his shaking hands into the icy waters of the Mithil. All the while, a deep rage mounted within him, grew up his soul like slow vines reaching toward savagery.

  Later when all the wounded had been given treatment, Slen and the elders cooked a meal for the whole village. Sitting in the new cleanliness of the open center, the people ate hot savory stew with unleavened bread, cheese, and dried fruit. Covenant joined them. Throughout the meal, Lena tended him like a servant. But he kept his eyes down, stared at the ground to avoid her face and all other faces; he did not wish to be distracted from the process taking place within him. With cold determination, he ate every scrap of food offered to him. He needed nourishment for his purpose.

  After the meal, Triock made ne
w arrangements for the protection of the Stonedown. He sent scouts back out to the Plains, designed tentative plans against another attack, asked for volunteers to carry word of the rock-destroying creatures to the Stonedown’s nearest neighbors, thirty leagues away. Then at last he turned to the matter of Covenant’s decision.

  Yeurquin and Quirrel sat down on either side of Triock as he faced the village. Before he began, he glanced at Foamfollower, who stood nearby. Obliquely Covenant observed that in the place of his ruined jerkin Foamfollower now wore an armless sheepskin cloak. It did not close across his chest, but it covered his shoulders and back like a vest. He nodded in response to Triock’s mute question, and Triock said, “Well, then. Let us delay no longer.” In a rough, sardonic tone, he added, “We have had rest enough.

  “My friends, here is ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder. For good or ill, the Giant and I have brought him to the Land. You know the lore which has been abroad in the Land since that day seven and forty years ago when the Unbeliever first came to Mithil Stonedown from Kevin’s Watch. You see that he comes in the semblance of Berek Halfhand, Heartthew and Lord-Fatherer, and bears with him the talisman of the wild magic which destroys peace. You have heard the ancient song:

  And with the one word of truth or treachery,

  he will save or damn the Earth

  because he is mad and sane,

  cold and passionate,

  lost and found.

  He is among us now so that he may fulfill all his prophecies.

  “My friends, a blessing in the apparel of disease may still right wrongs. And treachers in any other garb remain accursed. I know not whether we have wrought life or death for the Land in this matter. But many brave hearts have held hope in the name of the Unbeliever. The Lorewardens of the Loresraat saw omens of good in the darkest deeds which cling to Covenant’s name. And it was said among them that High Lord Mhoram does not falter in his trust. Each of you must choose your own faith. I choose to support the High Lord’s trust.”