If she did not flail Earthpower from place to place fast enough, the monster would have time to muster a lethal blast—or one of the skest would touch her companions—or—
It was altogether too much. When Covenant stumbled and fell, she could do nothing to save him.
Galt caught Covenant before his knees struck the floor again. A flicker of an instant later, Clyme also reached the Unbeliever. At the same time, Branl committed his whole body to a blow at Jeremiah’s head.
Flinching, the croyel punched Branl with a fist of theurgy. The Humbled was knocked backward: he collided with the far wall hard enough to shatter bones. Only his preternatural Haruchai toughness spared him from injuries worse than Stave’s.
Before the croyel could attack again, Rime Coldspray charged into the chamber with Grueburn and Cabledarm roaring at her back. From the passage leading to the palace, ribbands like lurid snakes squirmed outward. They coiled around Stave and Liand, snatched the Haruchai and the Stonedownor back from the skest. Another strip of cloth retrieved Liand’s orcrest.
As soon as their path was clear, more Giants rushed to join the fray.
They used their swords, iron and stone, instead of their feet. Their native immunity to fire did not shield them from living acid, although it gave them a measure of protection from the spilth and spray of slain skest. They were not burned as badly as Stave had been. The croyel tried to blast them from their feet, but the Swordmainnir were too many and too strong. And when Jeremiah’s possessor strove to concentrate its force on any single foe, ribbands slapped at its face, flicked at its eyes.
Bluntfist and then Stonemage unclosed their cataphracts, shrugged the stone from their shoulders. Using their armor like spades or bludgeons, they crushed skest; deflected the spatter of green corrosion. In moments, they cleared a space around Covenant, Galt, and Clyme. The whole floor steamed as acid consumed itself on rock. Together, the Giants guarded Linden.
Feverishly the croyel struggled to fling its powers everywhere; but its blows had less and less effect. Galvanized by the arrival of her friends, Linden lashed the creature with Earthpower. While fumes bit into her lungs, she intercepted the creature’s magicks, deflected them, turned them against the skest. From the comparative safety of the corridor, the Ardent extended his raiment to harass the croyel. Bands of color harried the creature as if they were alive.
Dying, the skest filled the chamber with their liquid wails. Chunks of the broken floor boiled and melted, but the lore-hardened stone and iron of the Giants withstood the acid.
Abruptly the croyel stopped striking out. In a chorus of frayed screams, the surviving skest turned and ran, abandoning their master. The Giants seemed to freeze in place. Twisting around each other, bands of viridian and garnet and azure withdrew into the passage.
Instinctively Linden quenched her fire.
Covenant stood behind Jeremiah. At Covenant’s back, Galt supported the Unbeliever. Clyme gripped Jeremiah’s shoulders so that the boy could not pull away.
With both marred fists, Covenant had slipped the krill between Jeremiah’s neck and the croyel’s throat. The lore-forged keenness of the dagger had already drawn a thin line of rank blood across the creature’s skin.
“Listen!” Covenant panted in the croyel’s ear. “Pay attention.” Every word was a rasp of pain. “You know I can’t kill you without killing Jeremiah. I don’t have the right kind of power to keep him alive while I cut your throat. You know that. I know that. But you don’t know me. You don’t know how far I’m willing to go. If you had this knife, you would kill me in a heartbeat. So don’t try me.” Through his teeth, he repeated, “Don’t try me.”
Linden saw terror bubbling like a witch’s brew in the background of the creature’s stare.
As Covenant spoke, the gem of the krill began to shine more brightly. Soon its blaze seemed to efface the creature’s terrified eyes, its ready fangs, its malice. Exposed by incandescence, Jeremiah’s bones became visible through his vulnerable flesh. The heat flooding into Covenant stretched his face in a scream which he refused to utter.
Scowling as if they, too, were in agony, Galt and Clyme kept Covenant from falling; kept the croyel from pulling away.
Finally Linden’s cracked knee failed. If Bhapa and Pahni had not caught her arms, she would have prostrated herself on the wreckage of the floor.
She only knew that Esmer had returned amid a swarm of ur-viles and Waynhim because she felt like vomiting.
10.
By Evil Means
Kept upright only by the Cords, Linden stood like a ruin of herself; a crumbling edifice overgrown with consequences. The possibilities that she had surrendered to the Harrow had been restored. The warmth of the Staff lingered in her hands. While he lived, Stave would return Covenant’s ring to no one but her. But she had no idea what to do with such powers now. The cost—
The cost was of her own making, and it was too high.
She had exposed all of her friends to the source of Kevin’s Dirt. She had allowed Liand to be broken, perhaps killed. She had seen Stave nearly crippled by acid; had witnessed the Harrow’s murder. Helpless to stop either of them, she had watched Esmer transport Roger to safety or destruction. She had fought and fought, battling forces which surpassed her.
Because of her, Covenant’s hands—
This was the result. The Harrow’s remains lay, acid-bitten and melting, among the cracks and rubble of the floor. And Esmer had returned. She had no defense against him. The fact that the last ur-viles and Waynhim had arrived in his wake did not comfort her at all.
She had not slept since her first night in Andelain; had eaten nothing since her last meal of treasure-berries. Her emotional condition resembled her shirt: ripped along one hem to patch the Mahdoubt’s gown; plucked and snagged in headlong flight through Salva Gildenbourne; pierced by lead and death. The stains on her jeans mapped her fate:—written in water, the green sap of grass. Unexpressed tears filled her heart.
Leaning on one leg to spare her damaged knee, she could still feel the tremors of Esmer’s power in the marred stone.
On either side, Bhapa and Pahni supported her. Unlike Mahrtiir, the older Cord did not appear to feel diminished by crushing leagues of gutrock, beyond any prospect of open skies and plains and Ranyhyn. Accustomed to self-doubt, his concern was for his Manethrall and his companions, not himself. But Pahni was not merely daunted by powers and perils which other Ramen had never experienced. She was also terrified for Liand.
“Ringthane,” she breathed urgently. “Ringthane, heed me. Liand is grievously hurt. He nears death. Ringthane—Linden Avery—I love him. I implore your healing.”
Linden understood. Liand needed her. As did Stave. And perhaps Branl as well, although the Master would refuse her aid. The burns of the Giants tugged at her attention. But her heart wept for Jeremiah, who stood like a limp manikin in the croyel’s grasp. His bones shone as if they were on fire. She regarded the keen edge of the krill at the creature’s throat, and the killing brilliance of the gem, and Covenant’s unbearable courage, and could not move.
Covenant alone gave her any hope. With Loric’s blade, he had found a way to control the croyel. But he was failing. Joan’s power had done him irremediable harm, and it burned brighter with every passing moment—
God, Joan must hate him! Or perhaps he represented everything that she loathed in herself. Even turiya Herem’s possession hardly sufficed to account for her focused vehemence now. The Raver could only keep her alive, and fan the fires of her rage, and blaze with delight. He had not caused her long years of self-inflicted anguish.
Linden did not know why Covenant had not already screamed and fallen. To some extent, his leprosy shielded him. His proximity to the source of Kevin’s Dirt accentuated his affliction. The essential pathways of agony had been killed or cauterized. But still—
Was that his secret? The keystone of his impossible valor? Had alienation and numbness somehow made him more than human?
Around Linden, the rest of her companions gathered. Galesend bore Anele, who had fallen asleep again. Latebirth still carried Mahrtiir, while Onyx Stonemage cradled Liand’s unconscious form. Limping on gnawed legs, in feral pain which he refused to acknowledge, Stave preceded the Ardent. Wreathed in ribbands, the Insequent approached unsteadily. Stifling his confessed fears, he forced himself to join Linden’s friends. In a knot of cloth, he gripped Liand’s orcrest.
Among the Giants, ur-viles and Waynhim stood upright, or braced themselves on all fours, barking quietly: a low clamor of objurgation or alarm. The Ironhand gripped her stone glaive, poised to cut, against Esmer’s neck. But Esmer ignored her as if her great size and strength were trivial; meaningless. Distress seethed in his gaze: he seemed to weep like Linden’s heart.
He did not move—and Rime Coldspray did not. Her eyes were fixed on Jeremiah and Covenant and the krill.
Hoarsely Mahrtiir asked, “Do we confront the croyel?” Apparently the Staff in Linden’s hands had restored a portion of his health-sense. “Does this malice possess the Ringthane’s son?”
No one answered him. Like Pahni, Esmer studied Linden. The Ardent watched Cail’s son fearfully. Everyone else seemed transfixed by Covenant’s struggle to withstand Joan.
His hands would never be healed.
His scar reflected argent like a scream cut into the flesh of his forehead. His silver hair resembled flames of wild magic: his mind may have been on fire. In spite of his illness, he was wracked by so much pain—
As if he did not expect anyone to hear him, he gasped, “Joan knows what I’m doing.” His voice implied a wailing defeat. “Or turiya does. She’s stronger now. I’m not protecting the Arch. I can’t hold on.”
Linden would have been willing to maim herself for his sake; but she did not know how to block Joan’s madness. She had never known.
Covenant held the croyel. Clyme held Jeremiah.
Clarion and commanding, Stave demanded, “Branl! Galt!”
The Humbled must have heard Stave’s thoughts, understood his instructions. Striding forward quickly, Branl wrenched a wide band of ochre cloth from the hem of his tunic. Then he took Galt’s place supporting Covenant, gave the fabric to Galt.
At once, Galt folded the cloth over his right hand and reached to remove the krill from Covenant’s grasp; to assume Covenant’s threat against the croyel.
Linden caught her breath, bit her lip. She feared that Covenant’s hands were too badly burned to open. She expected his flesh to peel off the bones when he tried to unclose his fingers—or when Galt pried them loose. Unaware that she had moved, she stood at Covenant’s shoulder with the kind fire of Earthpower flowering from the Staff. While Galt extended his hand to replace Covenant’s, she sent rich flames to curl around Covenant’s forearms, fill his veins, save his fingers.
For the moment, she ignored the horror of her son’s straits. Instead she concentrated utterly and solely on the challenge of preserving Covenant’s hands so that he would be able to let go.
The effort tore a cry past Covenant’s restraint: a shocking howl. But Galt nudged gently at his fingers while Linden laved his suffering with Earthpower. One joint at a time, he released his grasp.
Immediately Branl pulled Covenant aside while Galt claimed High Lord Loric’s krill; accepted the task of restraining the croyel. With his left hand, Galt gripped Jeremiah’s shoulder so that Clyme could step away.
As soon as Covenant’s touch was withdrawn, Joan’s savagery faltered. She or turiya Raver must have sensed his absence: her efforts were useless now. Flickering, the gem faded to its more ordinary radiance. The krill’s heat remained, but it did not wound Galt’s wrapped hand.
Through the silence of the company, and the raw residue of acid in the air, Stave said flatly, “Well done.”
The Humbled appeared to ignore his approval.
Branl kept Covenant on his feet; but Linden closed her arms around him nonetheless, enfolding him in Earthpower and gratitude. How had he known that she needed him? That his own son had come to preserve Jeremiah’s victimization? She could not imagine how or why Covenant had responded. Yet somehow he had found his way through the maze of his memories as well as the bewildering wonders of the arcane palace for her sake, or for Jeremiah’s.
“Linden.” Covenant’s voice was a mere husk of sound. His pain ached in her arms. “Help Liand. We need him.” He was too weak and damaged to move. Nevertheless he seemed to push her away from him. “We need him.”
I wish I could spare you. But I can’t see any way around it.
Pahni tugged as firmly as she dared at Linden. “Ringthane, I beseech you.” She may have been weeping. “If you will not heed me, harken to the Timewarden. Liand must have healing.”
Mahrtiir said something to Pahni—a reprimand? an admonition?—but Linden could not hear him. He was too far away; or her senses were deafened by Covenant’s extremity and the croyel’s thwarted ferocity and Jeremiah’s helplessness.
Abruptly Esmer blared, “Wildwielder, this is madness! Is it nothing to you that I have come, or that these Demondim-spawn have pursued me to their doom in your name? Will you waste the remnants of your life thus, accepting the ruin which my betrayals prepare for you? Is this death your heart’s true desire?”
The Ironhand pressed her sword against the side of Esmer’s neck. “Be still, mere-son,” she rasped through her teeth. “Some respite Linden Giantfriend must have. Many of us who name ourselves her friends have failed her. We will grant her this brief pause.
“I do not doubt that you are proof against my blade. But if I cannot have your life, I will have your silence.”
Esmer did not grant Coldspray the courtesy of a glance. “By my hand and your own folly,” he told Linden, “the slaughter of all whom you hold dear is imminent. Soon none of this company will remain to lament the ravage of the Earth. Will you condone this outcome merely because I propagate futility? Are you now content that all love and life must perish?”
Cursing, the Ironhand lowered her sword and raised her fist. With all of her bulk and muscle, she punched Esmer in the face.
She was a warrior: she had a warrior’s instincts.
Linden heard the sodden smack of knuckles on bone. Esmer’s head jerked back; snapped forward again. Blood oozed from a deep contusion on his cheek. The muscles at the corners of his jaw bunched and released, bunched and released, as if he were withholding a thunderstorm. But he did not acknowledge Rime Coldspray with so much as a flick of his eyes.
Nevertheless he fell silent.
Linden sagged as if she had suffered a new defeat.—see any way around it. The thought of leaving Covenant’s wounds without further care rent her. She had only begun—Still she compelled herself to step away.
Now she did not look at Jeremiah and Galt, the croyel and the krill. Help Liand. We need him. She wanted to hold Jeremiah in her arms before the world ended. She had come for that when she had failed or sacrificed every other purpose. But she could not touch him: not while the croyel ruled him. In this one respect, her health-sense was a weakness. The creature’s evil was too intimate: it would sicken her. And the croyel might extend its mastery into her if she embraced her son.
He may be freed only by one who is compelled by rage, and contemptuous of consequence . Berek’s pronouncement seemed to refer to Jeremiah as much as to Lord Foul.
Will you condone this outcome—
Flagellating herself with dread and woe, she passed among the muttering ur-viles and Waynhim toward Onyx Stonemage. The Harrow’s corpse she ignored. Accompanied by Pahni’s anxiety, she approached Liand.
—merely because I propagate futility?
She would never forgive the old man in the ochre robe, the prophetic figure who should have warned her that she and Jeremiah were in danger. By his abandonment, he had betrayed her. If he had warned her, she would have fled, taking Jeremiah to a place where Roger could not find him. Every atrocity that had occurred since then—every abomination that Jeremi
ah and the Land had suffered, every crime that she herself had committed—would have been forestalled.
With each step, the pain in her knee increased. Her burned cheek seeped fluids. The nausea of Esmer’s presence galled her. She had to be stronger than this. Because she was needed, she used her Staff to soothe her stomach, relieve the burn on her cheek, seal her cracked kneecap. Then she forgot her own condition in order to focus on Liand.
He hung limp in Stonemage’s arms. Blood still pulsed from the corner of his mouth: a dwindling stream. His impact with Jeremiah’s construct may have broken his back. Certainly he had shattered ribs, ruptured his pleural membrane—and perhaps his lungs. And his head had hit the wall hard. Linden imagined cerebral hemorrhage and edema in addition to his other traumas. Brain damage. Coma.
“Liand.” Pahni murmured his name over and over again, beseeching him to live. “Liand.”
Stonemage offered to set him down. Linden shook her head. If any residue of the slain skest touched him—
I wish I could spare you.
Her anger at herself she misdirected at the Ardent. “Give him his Sunstone. It doesn’t belong to you.”
With orcrest, Liand had become the first true Stonedownor in uncounted centuries. The Sunstone was his birthright.
“In all sooth,” the fat Insequent murmured, “it does not.” He sounded chastened; shamed. “Gladly I restore it.”
Strips of his apparel stretched out. Deft as fingers, they slipped the Sunstone into the pouch at Liand’s waist.
As the ribbands withdrew, Linden dismissed the Ardent from her mind. Studying her stricken friend, she felt beaten before she began. He was too badly hurt—and she was utterly drained. Even the Staff could not fill the dry reservoirs of her spirit.
She needed to weep. If she did not, she would go mad with fury. The former granite of her heart had broken in Andelain, when she had seen and understood the outcome of Covenant’s reincarnation. The clenched igneous amalgam of extravagance and restraint which had carried her from the Land’s past to her meeting with the Dead was changed. It had become something uncontainable and careless. If it claimed her now, she would indeed be compelled by rage, and contemptuous of consequence.
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