The Last Dark (11 page)

The
ak-Haru
leaned closer. “Then whose flesh will he assume? Not yours, that is certain. He is not such a fool. Nor will he attempt the Humbled. Their intransigence has not waned. He cannot rule them. Among the
skest
, he may perchance strive to attain your death. But they are little, and by nature timorous, readily cowed. Also I deem that
turiya
Herem is too prideful to be contented by them.”

Covenant peered past the actinic brightness of the
krill
as if he were going blind. “So—?” His former companion faded in and out of focus. Give me a hint. I can’t keep doing this.

The Raver had a long head start.

Brinn watched as though his gaze could penetrate Covenant’s soul. “I ask again. Whose flesh will he assume? Of those that fear the Worm’s coming, which is comparatively near? Which is driven by hungers apt for possession?”

Covenant flinched at an intuitive leap. “What, the
lurker
?” He stared through a blur of argent and failing consciousness. “You want me to go after
turiya
before he can possess the
lurker
?”

So far, the monster had kept its word. True to the alliance, Horrim Carabal had sent the Feroce to rescue Covenant and the Humbled from the
skest
. But still—The lurker of the Sarangrave had been a tale of horror for millennia. In some sense, it was the Despiser’s creation. Directly or indirectly, Lord Foul had invoked an immense and sentient atrocity from the poisons leaking out of Mount Thunder.

Now Brinn wanted Covenant to defend that—that thing—from
turiya
Herem?

The Guardian replied with a grin as poignant as the deaths of stars. “Name a better purpose, my friend, and I will honor it.”

Covenant meant to say, No. That’s insane. But then he thought, So what? The Worm was coming. He had killed Joan. Everything was insane. The idea of trying to track down and stop a Raver—in his condition—was probably no crazier than his desire to see Linden again.

Over the course of his life in the Land, he had caused or allowed terrible bloodshed. The Riders of the Clave whom he had killed personally were minor casualties compared to the uncounted villagers and
Haruchai
that he had forsaken to slaughter while he searched for the One Tree. Saltheart Foamfollower had died helping him. Inadvertently he had killed Elena, his own daughter. Then he had brought about the sacrifice of her spirit to She Who Must Not Be Named.

But he had never struck a blow against the Despiser’s most fatal servants. And the lurker possessed by a Raver would be an appalling foe. More insidiously dangerous than Roger and a whole host of Cavewights. Conceivably more powerful than
skurj
and Sandgorgons. If that monster challenged Linden, she would have to face it without Covenant or love.

Thinking about her made his wounds burn. His damaged ribs were acid and remorse in his chest. He wanted—Oh, he
wanted
. Nevertheless he understood Brinn.

He rubbed at the crust around his eyes, touched the fresh accusation on his forehead. Eventually he managed to mutter, “Damnation, Brinn. I’m going to need a horse.”

The
ak-Haru
beamed at him like Loric’s gem. “And you will not ride the Ranyhyn. For this also I esteem you, ur-Lord. Yet a steed has been offered to you. You need only speak the beast’s name.”

Brinn’s voice invoked memories. As if from a great distance, Covenant heard the dying croak of the Ardent’s last gift.

“Ah.” In spite of his satisfaction, Brinn’s sigh conveyed a tinge of regret. “I see the recall in your gaze. My friend, you are indeed as I have remembered you. I am now content to provide those gifts which lie within my power.”

His vigor seemed undimmed as he rose to his feet.

“Remain only a short while,” he urged Covenant. “Your healing will be my second gift. Here is my first.”

While Covenant watched, stupefied by too many hurts, Brinn raised a hand to his mouth and gave one sharp whistle as clear as a commandment.

Covenant was losing his grip on consciousness. The only
Haruchai
who had ever called him
friend
had asked too much of him. He was no longer sure of what he saw or heard. The Guardian’s call may have echoed through the maze of the Shattered Hills. The stars appeared to draw closer. They seemed to cry out. Perhaps their wailing was underscored by a clatter of hooves, irregular and indefinite.

When the Ranyhyn arrived with their star-blazed foreheads shining like the emblems of
Elohim
, Covenant thought that he saw four of them.

Two must have been Mhornym and Naybahn. They looked worse than Covenant felt. Ripped flesh hung in strips from their sides, exposing the damaged gleam of bones, especially along their ribs and on their knees. Blood oozed everywhere as if they were coated in ruin. They limped on legs that should not have supported them, and their eyes were dull with mute agony.

But they were still alive. They had heard Brinn’s call. Somehow they had found the resolve to answer.

Proudly the
ak-Haru
announced, “Here are heroes. They have participated bravely and well in the defense of the Earth. Such battles are not won at a single stroke. They must be fought incrementally, by one selfless act of valor following another in its necessary sequence. Now Naybahn and Mhornym have completed their task. Their part is done. Though my strength wanes, I will preserve them. Then I will release them. While the Earth endures, no further service will be asked of them.”

Then he turned to the other horses, a palomino stallion and a black. “And here are Rallyn and Hooryl. They have come to bear the Humbled on a quest which will require much of them, and of their riders. That they do so fearfully is no fault in them. They are Ranyhyn. Fear will not hinder their service.”

Briefly Covenant looked at Clyme and Branl. The sight of them made him wince. His senses were too blunt to discern anything except rigid indignation.

But Brinn ignored the Masters. Facing Covenant again, he said as if he were bidding farewell, “Now, Unbeliever, Illender, Prover of Life, you must speak the name. Only its name will summon the steed and obtain its compliance.”

The stars were too close. Covenant had never seen them look so near. Yet their proximity only accentuated the voids between them, the immeasurable gulfs of their isolation. Vaguely he wondered whether the
Elohim
felt the same loneliness. Perhaps that explained their prideful self-absorption, their insistence that they were complete in themselves,
equal to all things
. Perhaps their surquedry was nothing more than compensation for prolonged sterility and sorrow.

But then the lamentation overhead and Brinn’s kindness compelled him. Swallowing the taste of blood and woe, he did as the Guardian of the dying One Tree asked or commanded.

“Mishio Massima.”

Brinn’s smile was a confluence of hope and regret as he stepped past the
krill
to touch Covenant’s blamed forehead lightly with one finger.

At the same time, he urged quietly, “Recall that the
krill
is capable of much. With use, it has become more than it was.”

His touch seemed to light a star in Covenant’s brain. Suddenly the dusk in all direction became a swirl of lights: the same swirl which had filled the Isle’s cavern long ago when Covenant had tried to claim a branch of the One Tree. If Linden had not stopped him then, he might have brought about the world’s end without realizing what he did.

He needed to make things right with her. He needed to tell her that he loved her—and that he had killed Joan.

Brinn had spoken of a service—a boon—but he had not revealed what it might be.

Then the stars took Covenant, and he went to sleep as if he were falling into the heavens.

“Try to Believe”

Soreness and jostling finally roused Covenant. He had no idea where he was; but for a while, he did not care. If the flexing sensations of movement had not insisted on his attention, he would have tried to go back to sleep.

His whole body ached as though he had suffered a beating. A dull throb in his forehead matched the rhythm that carried him. But when he braced himself to draw a deeper breath, he found that the piercing hurt of broken ribs was gone. Bruises like groans had replaced the effects of sharp rocks and rending coral. His weakness felt more like convalescence than blood-loss.

A week, he thought to the cadence of hooves, the flow of stubborn muscles. Just let me rest for a week. Then I’ll open my eyes. I promise.

He did not have a week. He doubted that he could afford hours.

Vaguely he deduced that he was mounted. But not bareback: not on a Ranyhyn. The saddle under him reminded him of the Harrow’s fallen destrier. And he was not held upright. No, he was sprawled resting along a long neck. The saddle horn dug into his abdomen. His legs dangled free of stirrups. The jolts were the beat of a hard canter.

He remembered Mishio Massima, the Ardent’s mangy, shovel-headed horse. Clyme and Branl must have boosted him onto the steed while he slept. And they must have secured his arms—perhaps with the reins—so that he would not fall.

Mishio Massima’s jarring gait punished his recent wounds. Nonetheless he was grateful. At Brinn’s insistence, no doubt, the Humbled had honored Covenant’s promise to the Ranyhyn.

For a time, he was content to rest as he was in spite of the prod of the saddle horn. The mystery of Brinn’s aid remained with him; the miracle of Brinn’s friendship. Covenant was less alone in the world than he had believed himself to be. Less alone than he felt with the rigid companionship of the Humbled. The dying Guardian of the One Tree had given him a profound gift—

But it was not an unalloyed blessing. True, Brinn had mended the worst of his injuries. But the Guardian had also given him a task which he feared to contemplate.

Remembering
turiya
Raver, Covenant flinched. He needed to open his eyes. Hell, he needed to sit up. He had to know where he was. And where the Humbled were taking him. And how they had resolved their contention with their
ak-Haru
—if they had resolved it at all. And what the service or boon that Brinn had mentioned might be.

The possibility that
turiya
Herem might take possession of the lurker of the Sarangrave frightened Covenant as much as the idea that he might never see Linden again.

With an effort, he lifted his head; lowered it again. Blinking, he tried to clear his sight. Then he made an attempt to free his arms.

“A moment, ur-Lord,” Clyme said over the steady rumble of hooves. “We will unbind you.”

Now Covenant realized that the hoof-beats of the horses were muffled. The ground where they ran was too yielding to be stone; too soft for bare dirt.

Peering sideways through the gloom, he saw a shape veer toward him: a horse and rider. When Hooryl came near enough to brush his leg, Clyme bent down to undo the reins.

Briefly Covenant fought the blur that marred his vision. It seemed worse than it should have been. He could still see stars overhead, but his companion’s features were a twilit smear. He had to squint in order to discern that the horses were cantering on thick turf.

Hell and blood. He should have been able to see better than this. Brinn had healed him, and leprosy did not progress so swiftly.

Unless—

Stung by an intuitive apprehension, he pulled his awkward arms under him; pushed himself off his mount’s neck. Then he clutched at the saddle horn to keep his balance.

He could not feel the horn at all, except with the nerves of his elbows and shoulders. His hands were numb.

“What—?” he panted. He seemed to need all of his strength to keep his seat. Insensate in their boots, his feet floundered for the stirrups and did not find them. “What’s going on?” His voice was as vague as his vision. He had slept too long. “What’s happening to me? My eyes are going.”

Around him, the aegis of the gloaming was complete. It ruled everything. It was leaking into his head; into his mind. Only the stars as they died were vivid to him.

Clyme draped the untied reins over Covenant’s forearms. Hooryl moved away from Mishio Massima, perhaps so that Covenant could move his leg freely while he groped for the stirrup.

“Kevin’s Dirt has overtaken us.” Clyme sounded angry. No, it was more than that. He sounded like a man who had given up pretending that he was not angry. “It came upon us at midday. Clearly Kastenessen now directs his malice over the Lower Land, doubtless seeking to harm you, and also to hinder the Staff of Law. In this, he succeeds. To our sight, it is plain that Kevin’s Dirt deepens your illness.”

Covenant had guessed as much. But he had not expected the effects of Kastenessen’s brume to be so swift. Came upon us at midday? How much time had he lost?

He turned his head to confirm that Branl also rode beside him. The motion and his mount’s strides made his head pound and his ribs throb. But those pains were more bearable than his earlier hurts; somehow more human. He could imagine that they would fade.

Branl’s visage wore a frown like a knot between his brows. It looked permanent, as if it had always been there; as if it had merely been masked by a learned and unnatural impassivity.

Slowly the vagueness faded from Covenant’s thoughts. After a moment, he was able to ask Branl, “Where are we?”

“Ur-Lord,” the Humbled answered, “the Ranyhyn are cunning. They eluded the snares of the
skest
and escaped the maze of the Shattered Hills well before the onset of Kevin’s Dirt. Now we return along the path of our approach to Kurash Qwellinir. The cliff above the Sunbirth Sea lies there.” He gestured eastward. “If your mount is able to sustain its pace, we will soon gain the region where we last found
aliantha
.”

Covenant sighed his relief. This was not the most direct route to the Sarangrave, but it was the shortest path to food. If Branl and Clyme had over-ruled their
ak-Haru
’s counsel—if they had decided to seek Linden and the Giants instead of pursuing
turiya
—they would have headed northwest from the Shattered Hills.

Covenant looked around at the caliginous vista of the grass, the slope rising incrementally toward the east, the greying of the world. When he was ready, he announced, “I want to stop for a while. I ache everywhere. I need to walk around some. I’m sure this nag”—he indicated Mishio Massima with his chin—“can use a break.” In fact, the Ardent’s beast seemed preternaturally hardy. Unlike the Harrow’s charger, apparently, this horse had been bred for endurance. “If nothing else, it probably wants grass. And we should talk.”

He felt sure that the Humbled had much to tell him—if they chose to do so.

Clyme and Branl consented promptly: a bad sign. Had they trusted Brinn’s advice, they would have argued that Covenant required haste. But they slowed their mounts without a word. Mishio Massima eased to a bone-rattling trot, then jerked to a walk like a thing formed of tree-limbs rather than flesh and bone.

Before the beast halted, Covenant slid out of the saddle. At first, his legs refused to hold him, and he dropped to his knees. Fortunately the turf cushioned the impact. Then he forced himself to his feet. Stifling a groan, he began to stamp in a circle, trying vainly to drive some sensation back into his ankles and feet. Their numbness affected him like imminent vertigo: he needed to rediscover balance. As he moved, he twisted his trunk from side to side, testing the condition of his ribs. Briefly he rolled his head and swung his arms. When he had assured himself that he was substantially intact, he took a few deep breaths and braced himself to confront the Humbled.

They had dismounted. Now they stood facing him, Branl with his clenched frown, Clyme with his hands curled into fists. But the mounts were moving away, trotting westward. Covenant guessed that they had caught the scent of water.

Alone with his companions, he rubbed at the crusted blood around his eyes; probed the new scar on his forehead with the nub-ends of his fingers. His fingers felt nothing, but the tenderness of the cut assured him that it needed more time to heal.

The Humbled had not endured their
ak-Haru
’s reproach gently: that was obvious. Groping for a tone of respect, Covenant said, “I’m not sure, of course. I was asleep. But I get the impression there are things you should tell me. Something happened while I was out—and I’m not talking about Kevin’s Dirt. Did Brinn say anything else? Did he—?”

Clyme interrupted him curtly. “He did not. We were not heeded. No further speech was exchanged.”

Covenant stared. “Are you sure? He said something about a boon. A service. He didn’t tell you what it was?”

Brinn was
Haruchai
: he could have spoken to the Humbled mind to mind more fluently and thoroughly than aloud.

“He did not,” Clyme repeated, rigid as metal. “He refused our mental communion, as only Stave has done heretofore. In his thoughts we found only silence.”

Frowning like Branl, Covenant wavered on his feet. Keeping his balance was as difficult as he had feared. Too much had happened. He needed the feedback of nerves which no longer communicated with the rest of his body.

To that extent, at least, he knew how the Humbled felt. The Guardian had undermined their foundations.

“What does that mean to you?” he asked carefully. “Has he given up on us?”

After a moment, Clyme appeared to relent. His shoulders released some of their tension. Less stiffly, he replied, “When the
ak-Haru
had extended his strength for your healing, he was much reduced. Indeed, he resembled a man drawing the last breaths of extreme age. We deem that he did not speak again of a boon because he had come to the end of himself. He could not do more.”

Ah, hell, Covenant sighed. He hated to think that Brinn had simply passed away. After so much time and devotion—He wanted to believe that his former companion would find some form of resolution or contentment; but Clyme gave him scant reason for hope.

However, he could not afford to dwell on grief. Other issues were more compulsory.

“Then tell me what’s changed for you.” He strained his eyes to study the faces of the Humbled. When neither of them spoke, he made an attempt to sound gentle. “Was being criticized by your
ak-Haru
that bad?”

Both men stiffened. Their anger made them vivid in the gloom. Branl’s glower looked fierce enough to split his skull. Clyme knocked the knuckles of his fists together as if he were stifling an impulse to hit someone.

Like the cut of a blade, Clyme stated, “His words were hurtful to no purpose. He did not reproach what we have done. His reproach was that we are who we are. Is the wind to be faulted because it blows? Are the stones to be accused because they are not trees? We are
Haruchai
. We cannot be other than ourselves.”

“Mayhap it was his right to speak as he did,” Branl conceded. He was not less indignant than Clyme: he had merely assumed their shared burden of truthfulness. “He is the
ak-Haru
, Guardian of the One Tree. No other
Haruchai
has equaled his attainments.”

“Nevertheless,” Clyme snapped. “We care naught for his right to speak. Our true grievance, ur-Lord, is that he sought to counsel you, and his counsel was
false
.”

He spat that word as if it were a curse.

“False?” Covenant nearly choked. “Hellfire! How do you get to a conclusion like that? You said it yourself. He’s the
ak-Haru
, for God’s sake! How can you even
think
a word like ‘false,’ never mind say it out loud?”

Now Clyme did not relent. His tone held an outrage so deep that it seemed to arise from the marrow of his bones.

“We do not charge him with malign intent, but rather with mistaken comprehension. As he has misesteemed us, so he has misjudged the Land’s peril.

“The lurker’s plight is of no consequence. That monstrous wight is an avatar of Corruption. A Raver’s possession cannot increase its misbegotten appetites. It requires no urging to seek our ruin.

“Recall,” he insisted as though Covenant had tried to interrupt him, “that the Soulsease has found new depths among the roots of Gravin Threndor. The Defiles Course will not resume its accustomed flow until the immeasurable abyss of the Lost Deep has been filled. Thus the poisons which supply the lurker’s most necessary sustenance have been much reduced. Already its hungers swell. They must. Having grown so vast, they must be vastly fed. Such a creature will not long remember that it fears your magicks, or Linden Avery’s. Your alliance was a thing of the moment. It cannot endure.

“To abandon all other needs in the lurker’s name is madness.”

Madness? Covenant wanted to protest. Is that what you think of Brinn? Is that what you think of
me
? But the Humbled were not done.

“That is reason enough to set aside the
ak-Haru
’s counsel,” put in Branl. “Yet there are other reasons as well.