The Wounded Land t2cotc-1

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “Halfhand?”

  “It hasn't been here forever. Other people used to live in Revelstone. What happened to them? How did the Clave get started? Who started it?”

  “Ah.” She nodded. “That is a matter of legend. It is said that many and many generations ago, when the Sunbane first appeared in the sky, the Land was governed by a Council. This Council was decadent, and made no effort to meet the peril. Therefore precious time was lost before the coming of the Mhoram.”

  Covenant began to recognize where she was taking him; this was the way to the sacred enclosure. He was faintly surprised by the general emptiness of the halls and passages. But he reflected that Revelstone was huge. Several thousand people could live in it without crowding each other.

  “It is his vision which guides us now,” the na-Mhoram-cro was saying. "Seeing that the Council had fallen to the guile of a-Jeroth, he arose with those few who retained zeal and foresight, and drove out the treachers. Then began the long struggle of our lives to preserve the Land. From the Mhoram and his few has the Clave descended, generation after generation, na-Mhoram to na-Mhoram, seeking ever to consummate his opposition to the Sunbane.

  “It is a slow work. We have been slow to master the skill and gain the numbers which we need-and slow as well to muster blood.” She said the word blood with perfect impersonality, as if it cost nothing. “But now we approach the fruition of our long dream. The Sunbane has reached a rhythm of three days-and we hold. We hold, Halfhand!” She claimed pride; but she spoke blandly, as if pride, too, were impersonal. As if she had been carefully groomed to answer Covenant's questions.

  But he held his suspicion in abeyance. They walked one of the main hallways along the spine of the Keep; and ahead he could see the passage branching to circle left and right around the outer wall of the sacred enclosure, where the long-dead Lords had held their Vespers of self-consecration to the Land and to Peace.

  As he drew closer, he observed that all the many doors, which were regularly spaced around the wall and large enough for Giants, were kept shut. The brief opening as a Rider came out of the enclosure revealed a glimpse of lurid red heat and muffled roaring inside.

  The na-Mhoram-cro stopped before one of the doors, addressing Covenant. “Speech is difficult within this place.” He wanted to behold her face; she sounded as if she had evasive eyes. But her hood concealed her visage. If he had not seen Memla and Gibbon, he might have suspected that all the Clave were hiding some kind of deformity. “It is the hall of the Banefire and the master-rukh. When you have seen it, we will withdraw, and I will tell you concerning it.”

  He nodded in spite of a sudden reluctance to see what the Clave had done to the sacred enclosure. When Akkasri opened the nearest door, he followed her into a flood of heat and noise.

  The place blazed with garish fire. The enclosure was an immense cavity in the gut-rock of Revelstone, a cylinder on end, rising from below the level of the foothills more than halfway up the height of the Keep. From a dais on the floor, the Lords had spoken to the city. And in the walls were seven balconies circling the space, one directly above the next. There the people of Revelstone had stood to hear the Lords.

  No more. Akkasri had brought Covenant to the fourth balcony; but even here, at least two hundred feet above the floor, he was painfully close to the fire.

  It roared upward from a hollow where the dais had been, sprang yowling and raging almost as high as the place where he stood. Red flame clawed the air as if the very roots of the Keep were afire. The blast of heat half-blinded him; the fire seemed to scorch his cheeks, crisp his hair. He had to blink away a blur of tears before he could make out any details.

  The first thing he saw was the master-rukh. It rested at three points on the rail of this balcony, a prodigious iron triangle. The centre of each arm glowed dull vermeil.

  Two members of the Clave stood at each corner of the master-rukh. They seemed impervious to the heat. Their hands gripped the iron, concentrated on it as if the Banefire were a script which they could read by touch. Their faces shone ruddy and fanatical above the flames.

  Clearly, this was the place from which the red shaft of Sunbane power leaped to the sun.

  The doors at the base of the cavity and around the highest balcony were open, providing ventilation. In the lurid brilliance, Covenant saw the domed ceiling for the first time. Somehow, the Giants had contrived to carve it ornately. Bold figures strode the stone, depicting scenes from the early history of the Giants in the Land: welcome, gratitude, trust. But the fire made the images appear strangely distorted and malefic.

  Grinding his teeth, he cast his gaze downward. A movement at the base of the fire caught his attention. He saw now that several troughs had been cut into the floor, feeding the hollow. A figure apparelled like the na-Mhoram-cro approached one of the troughs, carrying two heavy pails which were emptied into the trough. Dark fluid ran like the ichor of Revelstone into the hollow. Almost at once, the Banefire took on a richer texture, deepened toward the ruby hue of blood.

  Covenant was suffocating on heat and inchoate passion. His heart struggled in his chest. Brushing past Akkasri and Vain, he hastened toward the nearest corner of the master-rukh.

  The people there did not notice him; the deep roar of the flame covered the sound of his boots, and their concentration was intent. He jerked one of them by the shoulder, pulled the individual away from the iron. The person was taller than he-a figure of power and indignation.

  Covenant yelled up at the hooded face, “Where's Santonin?”

  A man's voice answered, barely audible through the howl of the Banefire. “I am a Reader, not a soothreader!”

  Covenant gripped the man's robe. “What happened to him?”

  “He has lost his rukh!” the Reader shouted back. “At the command of the na-Mhoram, we have searched for him diligently! If his rukh were destroyed-if he were slain with his rukh still in his hands-we would know of it. Every rukh answers to the master-rukh, unless it falls into ignorant hands. He would not choose to release his rukh. Therefore he has been overcome and bereft. Perhaps then he was slain. We cannot know!”

  “Halfhand!” Akkasri clutched at Covenant's arm, urging Mm toward the door.

  He let her draw him out of the sacred enclosure. He was dizzy with heat and blind wild hope. Maybe the Reader spoke the truth; maybe his friends had overpowered their captor; maybe they were safe! While the na-Mhoram-cro closed the door, he leaned against the outer wall and panted at the blessedly cool air.

  Vain stood near him, as blank and attentive as ever.

  Studying Covenant, Akkasri asked, “Shall we return to your chamber? Do you wish to rest?”

  He shook his head. He did not want to expose that much of his hope. With an effort, he righted his reeling thoughts. “I'm fine.” His pulse contradicted him; but he trusted she could not perceive such things. “Just explain it. I've seen the master-rukh. Now tell me how it works. How you fight the Sunbane.”

  “By drawing its power from it,” she answered simply. "If more water is taken from a lake than its springs provide, the lake will be emptied. Thus we resist the Sunbane.

  “When the Mhoram first created the Banefire, it was a small thing, and accomplished little. But the Clave has increased it generation after generation, striving for the day when sufficient power would be consumed to halt the advance of the Sunbane.”

  Covenant fumbled mentally, then asked, “What do you do with all this power? It's got to go somewhere.”

  “Indeed. We have much use for power, to strengthen the Clave and continue our work. As you have learned, much is drawn by the Riders, so that they may ride and labour in ways no lone man or woman could achieve without a ruinous expenditure of blood. With other power are the Coursers wrought, so that the Sunbane will have no mastery over them. And more is consumed by the living of Revelstone. Crops are grown on the upland plateau — kine and goals nourished-looms and forges driven. In earlier generations, the Clave was hampered by need and paucity
. But now we flourish, Halfhand. Unless some grave disaster falls upon us,” Akkasri said in a pointed tone, “we will not fail,”

  “And you do it all by killing people,” he rasped. “Where do you get that much blood?”

  She turned her head away in distaste for his question. “Doubtless you possess that knowledge,” she said stiffly. “If you desire further enlightenment, consult the na-Mhoram.”

  “I will,” he promised. The state of the sacred enclosure reminded him that the Clave saw as evil a whole host of things which he knew to be good; and actions which they called good made his guts heave. “In the meantime, tell me what the na-Mhoram”- to irritate her, he used the title sardonically — “has in mind for me. He wants my help. What does he want me to do?”

  This was obviously a question for which she had come prepared. Without hesitation, she said, “He desires to make of you a Reader.”

  A Reader, he muttered to himself. Terrific.

  “For several reasons,” she went on evenly. "The distinction between Reading and soothreading is narrow, but severe. Perhaps with your white ring the gap may be bridged, giving the Clave knowledge to guide its future. Also with your power, perhaps still more of the Sunbane may be consumed. Perhaps you may exert a mastery over the region around Revelstone, freeing it from the Sunbane. This is our hope. As you wielded more power, the Sunbane would grow weaker, permitting the expansion of your mastery, spreading safety farther out into the Land. Thus the work of generations might be compressed into one lifetime.

  “It is a brave vision, Halfhand, worthy of any man or woman. A great saving of life and Land. For that reason Gibbon na-Mhoram rescinded the command of your death.”

  But he was not persuaded. He only listened to her with half his mind. While she spoke, he became aware of an alteration in Vain. The Demondim-spawn no longer stood completely still. His head shifted from side to side, as if he heard a distant sound and sought to locate its source. His black orbs were focused. When Akkasri said, “Will you answer, Halfhand?” Covenant ignored her. He felt suddenly sure that Vain was about to do something. An obscure excitement pulled him away from the wall, poised him for whatever might happen.

  Abruptly, Vain started away along the curving hall.

  “Your companion!” the na-Mhoram-cro barked in surprise and agitation. “Where does he go?”

  “Let's find out.” At once, Covenant strode after Vain.

  The Demondim-spawn moved like a man with an impeccable knowledge of Revelstone. Paying no heed to Covenant and Akkasri, or to the people he passed, he traversed corridors and stairways, disused meeting halls and refectories; and at every opportunity he descended, working his way toward the roots of the Keep.

  Akkasri's agitation increased at every descent. But, like Vain, Covenant had no attention to spare for her. Searching his memory, he tried to guess Vain's goal. He could not. Before long, Vain led him into passages he had never seen before. Torches became infrequent. At times, he could barely distinguish the black Demondim-spawn from the dimness.

  Then, without warning, Vain arrived in a cul-de-sac lit only by light reflecting from some distance behind him. As Covenant and Akkasri caught up with him, he was staring at the end of the corridor as if the thing he desired were hidden beyond it.

  “What is it?” Covenant did not expect Vain to reply; he spoke only to relieve his own tension. “What are you after?”

  “Halfhand,” snapped the na-Mhoram-cro, “he is your companion.” She seemed afraid, unprepared for Vain's action. “You must control him. He must stop here.”

  “Why?” Covenant drawled, trying to vex her into a lapse of caution, a revelation. “What's so special about this place?”

  Her voice jumped. “It is forbidden!”

  Vain faced the blind stone as if he were thinking. Then he stepped forward and touched the wall. For a long moment, his hands probed the surface.

  His movements struck a chord in Covenant's memory. There was something familiar about what Vain was doing.

  Familiar?

  The next instant, Vain reached up to a spot on the wall above his head. Immediately, lines of red tracery appeared in the stone. They spread as if he had ignited an intaglio: in moments, red limned a wide doorway.

  The door swung open, revealing a torch-lit passage.

  Yes! Covenant shouted to himself. When he and Foamfollower had tried to enter Foul's Creche, the Giant had found and opened a similar door just as Vain had found and opened this one.

  But what was that kind of door doing in Revelstone? Neither the Giants nor the Lords had ever used such entrances.

  In a sudden rush of trepidation, he saw Akkasri's movement a moment too late to stop her. Swift with urgency, she snatched a rukh from under her robe and decanted blood onto her hands. Now fire sprang from the triangle; she began shouting words he could not understand.

  Vain had already disappeared into the passage. Before the door could close itself again, Covenant sprinted after the Demondim-spawn.

  This hall doubled back parallel to the one he had just left. It was well-lit. He could see that this place had not been part of the original Giant-work. Walls, floor, ceiling, all were too roughly formed. The Giants had never delved stone so carelessly. Leaping intuitively ahead of himself, he guessed that this tunnel had not been cut until after the passing of the Council, It had been made by the Clave for their own secret purposes.

  Beyond him, a side corridor branched off to the left. Vain took this turning. Covenant followed rapidly.

  In ten strides, the Demondim-spawn reached a massive iron door. It had been sealed with heavy bolts sunk deep into the stone, as if the Clave intended it to remain shut forever.

  A faint pearly light marked the cracks around the metal.

  Vain did not hesitate. He went to the door, found a place to wedge his fingers into the cracks. His back and shoulders tensed. Pressure squeezed new fluid from his bums.

  Covenant heard running behind him, but did not turn away. His amazement tied him to Vain.

  With a prodigious burst of strength, Vain tore the door from its moorings. Ringing like an anvil, it fell to the floor. In a wash of nacreous illumination, he stepped past the threshold.

  Covenant followed like a man in a trance.

  They entered a large chamber crammed with tables, walled to the ceiling with shelves. Hundreds of scrolls, caskets, pouches, periapts filled the shelves. The tables were piled high with staffs, swords, scores of talismans. The light came from three of the richest caskets, set high on the back wall, and from several objects on the tables. Dumb with astonishment, Covenant recognized the small chest which had once held the krill of Loric Vilesilencer. The chest was open and empty.

  He gaped about him, unable to think, realize, understand.

  A moment later, Akkasri and two people dressed like Riders raced into the chamber and leaped to a halt. They brandished flaming rukhs. “Touch nothing!” one of them barked.

  Vain ignored them as if he had already forgotten they had the power to harm him. He moved to one of the far tables. There he found what he sought: two wide bands of dull grey iron.

  Covenant identified them more by instinct than any distinctive feature.

  The heels of the Staff of Law.

  The Staff of Law, greatest tool of the Council of Lords, formed by Berek Halfhand from a branch of the One Tree. It was destroyed by wild magic when Lord Foul had forced dead Elena to wield it against the Land. Bannor had borne the heels back to Revelstone after the Despiser's defeat.

  Before anyone could react, Vain donned the bands.

  One he slipped over his right hand. It should have been too small; but it went past his knuckles without effort, and fitted snugly to his wrist.

  The other he pulled onto his left foot. The iron seemed elastic. He drew it over his arch and heel easily, settled it tight about his ankle.

  A Rider gasped. Akkasri and another woman faced Covenant. “Halfhand,” Akkasri's companion snapped, “this is upon your head. The
Aumbrie of the Clave is forbidden to all. We will not tolerate such violation.”

  Her tone brought Covenant back to himself. Dangers bristled in the air. Thinking rapidly, he said, “All the lore of the Lords-everything that used to belong to the Council. It's all here. It's all intact.”

  “Much is intact,” Akkasri said rigidly. “The Council was decadent. Some was lost.”

  Covenant hardly heard her. “The First and Second Wards.” He gestured toward the shining caskets. “The Third Ward? Did they find the Third Ward?” Foreseeing the Ritual of Desecration, Kevin Landwaster had hidden all his knowledge in Seven Wards to preserve it for future Councils; but during High Lord Mhoram's time, only the first two and the last had been found.

  “Evidently,” a Rider retorted. “Little good it did them.”

  “Then why”- Covenant put all his appalled amazement into his voice — “don't you use it?”

  “It is lore for that which no longer exists.” The reply had the force of an indictment. “It has no value under the Sunbane.”

  Oh, hell. Covenant could find no other words for his dismay. Hell and blood.

  “Come!” The Rider's command cut like a lash. But it was not directed at Covenant. She and her companions had turned toward Vain. Then1 rukhs burned redly, summoning power.

  Vain obeyed, moving as if he had remembered the source of his injury. Akkasri grabbed his arm, tried to pull the band from his wrist; but the metal was Iron and inflexible.

  Gesturing with their rukhs, she and the Riders escorted Vain from the Aumbrie as if Covenant were not present.

  He followed them. To his surprise, they herded Vain away from the hidden doorway.

  They went some distance down the rough corridor. Then the passage turned sharply, and debouched into a huge hall lit by many torches. The air was grey with smoke.

  With a stab of shock, Covenant realized that the hall was a dungeon.

  Scores of bolted iron doors seriated both walls. In each, heavy bars guarded a small window. Half a thousand people could have been imprisoned here, and no one who lacked Vain's instincts or knowledge could ever have found them.