Against All Things Ending

by Donaldson, Stephen R.

  “So it is with you.”

  Linden listened as if she were in shock; as if the impact of his words were so great that her nerves refused to absorb it. No, she thought, shaking her head. No. Damnit, I learned that lesson.

  I thought I learned it—

  Leading the company, Narunal and then Khelen rounded the base of the first plinth; altered the thrust of their strides to pass above the next column. In spite of the sun’s shrouded light, the day was growing warmer. Already the spires of porous rock appeared to shimmer in the heat as if they were about to shatter.

  Hell and blood! Echoing one of Covenant’s epithets, Linden reminded herself that she had asked the question. She should at least try to understand the answer.

  “Chosen,” Stave said again when he had given her a chance to protest, “I do not name the Unbeliever’s resurrection a Desecration. The Humbled do so. I do not. Yet there you were yourself arrogant. Fearing that your companions would oppose you, you kept your full purpose secret from them. By that means, you denied them the freedom of their own paths. Yet you were honest enough to acknowledge that you do not forgive. And you insisted upon doubt. So doing, you allowed your companions to estimate the extremity of your intent. Also, as you have said, your heart was filled with rage and love rather than with blame. Therefore your deeds in Andelain differ in their essence from High Lord Kevin’s.

  “Now, however”—the former Master shrugged—“matters stand otherwise. Now you do not consider that Liand acted according to his own desires, or that Anele did not plainly or loudly or vigorously demand the orcrest, or that you had companions who might have been better able to heed the old man at that moment. Nor do you consider that the deed of Liand’s death was Kastenessen’s. Rather you demean all who stand with you by believing that there can be no other fault than yours, and that no fault of yours can be condoned. Doing so, ‘You tread paths prepared for you by Fangthane’s malice,’ as Manethrall Mahrtiir has said. Thus you emulate High Lord Kevin.

  “In your present state, Chosen, Desecration lies ahead of you. It does not crowd at your back.”

  Linden reeled in her seat. Had her mount been anything less than a Ranyhyn, she might have fallen to the ground. Stave said, Desecration lies ahead of you, as if he meant, I perceive only that her need for death is great.

  God in Heaven! How bad was it? How fatal had her personal failures become? Had she gleaned nothing from Liand’s death, or Anele’s, or Galt’s; or from She Who Must Not Be Named? From the rousing of the Worm of the World’s End?

  Did you sojourn under the Sunbane with Sunder and Hollian, and learn nothing of ruin?

  Yet the world did not reel. The Ranyhyn did not falter, or feel faint. Those weaknesses were hers alone. Narunal and Khelen were moving along the foot of a high wall like a fortification, knuckled and obdurate; visibly impenetrable. After a score of paces, however, they turned upward and disappeared as if the stone had swallowed them. Behind them, Rime Coldspray beckoned to the rest of the company. Then she, too, was gone.

  When Hynyn and Hyn reached that spot, Linden found that her companions had entered a narrow defile like a cleft in the gutrock. There the stone was cut as if it had been smitten by a titanic axe. The crevice was too strait to allow either Stave or Grueburn to remain beside her: the company was forced to file upward singly. But the steep clutter of the surface did not impede the Ranyhyn; and the Giants knew stone as if it were the substance of their bones.

  Hynyn and Stave must have discovered this route during the night.

  Desecration lies ahead of you.

  Enclosed by uncompromising walls, she could not have turned aside to save herself from falling rocks or flung spears or theurgy. Jeremiah was beyond her reach in the gloom. Crude rock brushed against her knees. At intervals, she had to lean left or right to avoid an outcropping. Grueburn’s tense breathing carried up the crevice, magnified by echoes.

  This symbolized Linden’s life, this defile. She had never lacked for help and support: not really. In the end, even Sheriff Lytton had tried to save her. Nevertheless she had never been able to turn aside. Ever since Roger had come to claim his mother, Linden had been caught between impossible choices.

  And every compelled step took her closer to Lord Foul’s ultimate triumph.

  Yet the defile was only a cleft in the granite: a passage, comparatively brief. It had an end. Already Linden could see it growing wider. Ahead of her, she sensed that Narunal and Khelen and now the Ironhand had emerged onto a more open hillside.

  When Hyn finally surged out of the split, Linden was breathing hard, not from exertion, but from the constriction of her plight.

  Desecration lies ahead of you.

  She could not contest Stave’s reasoning.

  Overhead a soiled sky covered the Lower Land like a foretaste of calamity. To her health-sense, the air did not smell of smoke or destruction. Rather it seemed to be the natural atmosphere of the region, characteristically arid, and reminiscent of ancient warfare. Yet no more than two days ago, the firmament had been blue, untainted by Kevin’s Dirt or omens. Like the previous day’s storms, this ashen sky was a consequence of powers or movements too distant for her to discern.

  Linden wanted a few moments alone with Stave and Frostheart Grueburn. At her request, Hyn waited for Grueburn to rejoin her. Then the mare walked away from Mahrtiir, Jeremiah, Coldspray, and the arriving Giants. Without being asked, Hynyn and Stave accompanied her.

  When she was confident that she would not be overheard, Linden asked Grueburn awkwardly, “What are you going to tell the others?”

  She had revealed and heard truths that filled her with dismay. She was not ready to share them.

  Grueburn cocked her head to one side. She appeared to be stifling a grin. “I have no wish to shock you, Linden Giantfriend. Yet I must assure you that Giants are acquainted with discretion. Your words were intended for Stave’s ears, not for mine. I cannot say that I did not attend to them, or that I will forget. But Giants tell no tales that have not been freely offered.”

  For a moment, relief closed Linden’s throat. Saving her strength for Stave, she mouthed to the Swordmain, Thank you. Then she turned to the former Master.

  He faced her stolidly, as if nothing had passed between them.

  He was not merely her friend: he had been her best counselor. She had confided in him when she had felt unable to name her fears to anyone else. And in the Hall of Gifts, he had given her reason to hope for Jeremiah.

  Swallowing dust and dread, she said, “You’re a harsh judge.”

  He had named her doom.

  His eye held hers. “Indeed. I am Haruchai.” Then he shrugged. “Yet grief is now known to me. Therefore compassion also is known. And in your company I have learned that I must aspire to humility.”

  Just for an instant, the lines of his mouth hinted at a smile.

  Desecration lies ahead of you. But Giants tell no tales—Obliquely both Stave and Grueburn triggered memories of Anele’s excoriated lucidity in Revelstone. She had promised to protect him from the consequences of her desires—and he had refused her.

  All who live share the Land’s plight. Its cost will be borne by all who live. This you cannot alter. In the attempt, you may achieve only ruin.

  Now she understood the old man. When your deeds have come to doom, as they must—She understood Stave. She had spent so many years taking care of Jeremiah, so many years tending patients too damaged to provide for their own survival, that she had forgotten how to count on other kinds of relationships. She had allowed herself to believe only in Covenant—and now she doubted even him. Blind to the implications of her actions, she had in some sense treated all of her friends like children or invalids.

  Even Liand. Even Stave.

  Why else had she felt diminished whenever they had risen to challenges which had defeated her?

  She still did not comprehend why the Ranyhyn had risked taking her close to the lurker of the Sarangrave; but she knew what the experience
meant. It had forced her to cast aside her Staff: the emblem of her arrogance. Perhaps inadvertently, the horses had shown her that she could rely on her friends to save her and Jeremiah and the Land when she could not.

  Hyn and the others were still trying to show her how to find her way. How to forgive her weaknesses by having faith in the strength of her companions.

  The company’s path upward remained tortuous until the ridgecrest. From that height, however, Linden could see that the southward descent was more gradual. And she caught sight of Landsdrop. Grey in the depthless sunlight, it loomed two thousand feet and more above her own elevation: a blunt rampart smoothed by the ages until it appeared almost blank; too sheer to scale. But she knew from old experience as well as from tales that Landsdrop was more accessible than it looked. There were trails of all kinds up and down the precipice, although she could not descry them at this distance.

  Ignoring the impatience of the Ranyhyn, Linden studied the vista. Almost directly to the west, a thin string of water fell as though it had been tossed over the rim by a negligent hand. Dull against the dim stone, like a strand of tarnished silver, it dropped in stages, shifting from side to side as its plunge encountered obstacles, and casting fine hints of spray into the etiolated sunshine.

  Was that the River Landrider, tumbling to become the Ruinwash? No, she decided. The stream was too small. It had to be the tributary that Stave had mentioned. At its base, it disappeared among the cliff’s crumpled foothills. When its twisted length brought it back into view, it was less than a league away, still tending generally eastward. There it gathered into a pool, little more than an islet in the barren landscape, before it turned southward, following the contours of the terrain.

  In that pool, Stave must have bathed during the night.

  The company reached it before a third of the morning had passed. Some of the slopes sweeping down from the ridge were treacherous, on the verge of slippage; but for long stretches, the footing was secure. Palpably eager, the Ranyhyn quickened their pace; and the Giants began to trot, cheered by the prospect of fresh water in abundance. Along the way, Linden watched Jeremiah for signs that he might fall from Khelen’s back. But the young roan was careful to ensure that nothing unbalanced his rider. Jeremiah sat the Ranyhyn as if Khelen were motionless.

  Linden had a plethora of questions that she could not ask the horses. Why had they risked proximity to the Sarangrave? Where were they taking her? And why were they in a hurry now, when they had insisted on plodding for two days? Nevertheless she had reasons for gratitude. Khelen’s attentiveness to Jeremiah’s passivity was only one of them.

  Urged by Mahrtiir, she and the Giants bathed quickly, drank their fill, washed some of the stains from their apparel. While the Giants gulped a swift meal of cured mutton, stale bread, and aliantha, Linden took Jeremiah into the stream and scrubbed briefly at his blood-and gore-streaked pajamas. But she did not linger over the task.

  When she was done, the Manethrall announced, “Narunal makes plain to me that the Ranyhyn require greater speed.” His tone was raw frustration. “Time grows urgent. Events or perils have acquired suddenness. Why or how this is so, they cannot convey to my human mind. Nonetheless they must run.

  “Their pace will be too swift for weary Giants. Yet they do not wish to forsake the Swordmainnir. Therefore I must remain with Narunal to guide the Ironhand and her comrades. With Stave, the Ringthane, and her son, Hynyn, Hyn, and Khelen will strive to accomplish the nameless intent of this quest. We will follow with such alacrity as the Giants are able to sustain.”

  Before Linden or the others could object, Mahrtiir added fiercely, “Ringthane, I do not part from you by my own choice. More, I am shamed to be apart from you in this exigency. I do not willingly surrender my place in your tale. Yet my service to the Ranyhyn compels me. I cannot flout their will and remain Ramen.”

  In their own fashion, the Ramen were as severe as the Haruchai.

  “Hell, Mahrtiir,” Linden muttered. “I don’t want to lose you either. We’ve been walking for two damn days—and now we’re in a hurry? But—”

  “But,” Rime Coldspray interrupted sharply, “we have agreed to entrust our fate to the Ranyhyn. We were not coerced to this heading. Nor were we able to select a clearer course. And the Manethrall belabors a manifest truth when he observes that we are weary.

  “Linden Avery, we are Giants, loath to fail the aid of any and all whom we name friends. Yet we are also sailors. We do not choose the world’s winds. We do what we may to seek our own desires, but we do not pretend to rule that which is offered to our sails. Come calm or gale, we gain our sought harborage—when we gain it—by endurance rather than by mastery.

  “For our part, we will accept the will of these horses. If they are worthy of the honor which Manethrall Mahrtiir and the Ramen have accorded them, they will not mislead us.”

  “But,” Linden repeated, “I was about to say that I’ve been making too many decisions for other people. And I don’t know that the Ranyhyn have ever been wrong.” They may have erred when they had exposed her to the Feroce and the lurker; but she no longer cared. Like Hyn, Hynyn, and Khelen, she yearned for speed. Desecration lies ahead of you. She wanted to meet it before fear or despair paralyzed her; while she could still choose. “Something has changed. I can’t guess what it is, but I believe that they know.

  “So maybe they’re right. Maybe you should eat more. Rest more. Try to build up your strength. Narunal won’t hold you back when you’re needed.”

  Then she faced the Manethrall. “Mahrtiir, I’m sorry. I can imagine how you feel.” She had watched Covenant ride away without her. “But as far as I’m concerned, nothing makes sense anymore. And we’ve come this far. Without the Ranyhyn, we’re all lost now. I’m just glad that they still know what they want.”

  Mahrtiir appeared to flinch. But his emotions were too complex for Linden to read clearly. He radiated chagrin, anger, pride, umbrage, all in turmoil.

  Stave’s reply was to vault astride Hynyn. Sitting the stallion, he bowed gravely, first to Manethrall Mahrtiir, then to Rime Coldspray.

  For perhaps the last time, Grueburn boosted Linden onto her mount’s back. While Stormpast Galesend did the same for Jeremiah, the boy seemed to gaze at the cemetery of his thoughts as though every grave had been emptied of meaning.

  At once, Hynyn, Hyn, and Khelen started away from the pool. For Jeremiah’s sake, apparently, they moved slowly at first. But with every heartbeat, they lengthened their strides. Soon they were running at a full gallop.

  The Giants let the riders go without a word. Linden suspected that they did not wish to acknowledge that they might never see their companions again. But Narunal whinnied a farewell. As it carried across the uneven ground under the ashen sky, his cry sounded as formal as a fanfare: a call to battle, or a proclamation of homage.

  Leaning low over Hyn’s neck, and clutching the Staff of Law across her thighs, Linden prayed that she was not making a fatal mistake.

  9.

  Great Need

  From the rumpled terrain south of the pool, the Ranyhyn pounded onto a baked flatland as hard as the surface of an anvil. In spite of the previous day’s rain, their hooves raised bleached dust as fine as ash. When Linden glanced behind her, she saw a pale plume trailing after her like a pennon.

  The speed of the horses was wind in her face, growing warmer as the morning advanced. The air parched her throat, dried her eyes. She thought that she tasted death on her tongue; but if she did, the scent was ancient beyond reckoning. Uncounted centuries ago, living things by the scores or hundreds of thousands had perished in bloodshed: human and inhuman, sentient and bestial, monsters whose forms were no longer remembered even by the Haruchai. Like every shape and kind of vegetation that had once flourished here, they were the forgotten detritus of Lord Foul’s wars. Ghosts so long dead that they had lost all substance lingered, mourning mutely. Nothing remained to bespeak their desires and wounds, their fears and furies, except a vagu
e tang pounded up from the iron dirt by the strides of the Ranyhyn.

  Without her health-sense, Linden might have thought that the Ranyhyn were giving their utmost. But the smooth flow of Hyn’s muscles under her legs assured her that the mare had strength and stamina in reserve. At need, the horses could do more.

  Stave looked fluid and relaxed, more like an expression of Hynyn’s swiftness than a burden. In contrast, Jeremiah rode characteristically slack, slumped, as unmoved as a sack of grain by Khelen’s fleet pace. Linden had not seen him blink since his rescue. Yet his eyes were unharmed, preserved by some implication of the Earthpower that he had received from Anele.

  For a portion of the morning, the Ranyhyn headed somewhat east of south across the beaten plain. Before noon, however, Stave pointed out the promontory of the Colossus in the distant west. Over the drumming of hooves, he informed Linden that beyond the promontory Landsdrop curved southward. There the River Landrider fell in a heavy cascade to become the Ruinwash.

  Thinking,—written in water, Linden wondered whether the Ranyhyn intended to intercept the Ruinwash. But according to Stave, the Ruinwash skirted the Spoiled Plains as well as the Shattered Hills to reach the sea many leagues beyond Foul’s Creche. Although the horses turned south when they had passed the promontory, their goal apparently lay somewhere between the Ruinwash and the Shattered Hills.

  As heat mounted from the flat, the sky began to resemble a lid closing over the Lower Land: as grey as a sheet of molded lead, and impossible to lift. How much longer could the Ranyhyn gallop like this? They were mortal. Surely they had limits? To Linden’s nerves, Hyn’s endurance seemed as certain as the sun. Yet there was froth on the mare’s nostrils. Sweat darkened her dappled sides, soaking slowly into Linden’s jeans; chafing Linden’s legs. At intervals, she thought that she heard an irregular catch and falter in Hyn’s respiration.

  If the Ranyhyn still had far to go, they would need help. Their destination might be a dozen leagues distant, or a score. Blinking rapidly, Linden tightened her grip on the Staff; readied herself to summon black fire.