Authors: Stephen R. Donaldson
Even from lower ground, she could see that the exposed gutrock of the cliff was little wider than the valley between the mountain’s calves. Slopes spread up at awkward angles from Mount Thunder’s thighs into its back. There the mountainsides were rugged and threatening, riddling with clefts and flaws as if they had been hacked by gargantuan blades: they looked impassable. Nevertheless she suspected that Rime Coldspray and her comrades might be able to climb there, given time—and perhaps rope. Stave and Branl could certainly do so. But Linden herself could not. For her, the higher sides of Mount Thunder were unattainable.
Here she had no choice except to follow Covenant, unless she turned Hyn and fled, taking Jeremiah with her.
In the valley bottom near the trunk of an ironwood, Covenant finally halted. He handed the
krill
to Branl; but he did not dismount. Instead he waited, peering into the gullet of the mountain, for the rest of the company to close around him. The tension in his shoulders, and the clutch of his hands on the saddle horn, told Linden that he was holding himself in his seat by force of will. His eyes bled tears as if the stink of the Defiles Course burned them; as if the fetor were remorse.
While their respiration eased, the Swordmainnir scanned their surroundings anxiously, considering possible attacks or escapes. In contrast, the
Haruchai
gauged the terrain with their characteristic dispassion. Alone among their companions, they remembered this place. No doubt their communal memories included recollections of the Defiles Course at its torrential height, when the flood in the lower end of the valley would have reached at least partway up the trunks of the cypresses. But Jeremiah did not lift his head or look around. Muttering to himself, he studied his hands and scowled as if their emptiness angered him.
When he had regained his balance, Covenant announced, “This is it. I guess that’s obvious. We should rest while we can. I’m not sure we’ll get another chance.” Coming here had been his decision. Nevertheless his tone was thick with doubt. “And we should send the horses away. They can’t help us now.
“When we’re ready, I’ll try to get the attention of the Feroce. I’m hoping they can guide us at least part of the way.”
Forestalling an objection which no one expressed, he added, “Not that I think they’ve ever been
in
Mount Thunder. But they’re creatures of water. And not just any water.” He gestured at the river. “They thrive in this stuff. Plus they don’t need light. Maybe they can lead us far enough to find the Wightwarrens.
“After that,” he finished trenchantly, “we won’t need to know where we’re going. We’ll just have to fight. Eventually the way Foul defends himself will show us where he is.”
He may have meant, Show us or herd us.
While Linden tried to gather herself, Jeremiah glared at Covenant under his eyebrows. “It’s a waste of time,” the boy rasped. “I’m starting to recognize some of the landscape. The Worm is on the Upper Land. Beside a river. We’ll still be groping around like we’re lost when it reaches
Melenkurion
Skyweir.
“And what makes you think you can trust the Feroce?” He clenched his fists, apparently trying to muster flames. But his access to Earthpower eluded him. Perhaps visions of the Worm blocked it. “You had an alliance while the lurker was scared. Now the Worm is moving away. Maybe the lurker thinks it doesn’t need you anymore.”
Covenant shrugged. He faced Jeremiah squarely, but did not respond.
Feeling helpless and dismal, Linden asked, “Thomas, are you sure you want to do this?”
“What else are we going to do?” Leprosy blurred Covenant’s eyes like pain or empathy. “We’re here now. If that’s a mistake, it won’t be my first. Most of what I do in life is just trying to make amends for things I’ve done wrong.
“Anyway you heard Jeremiah. We don’t have time to try anything different.”
Linden did not respond. She had already lost this argument.
But Jeremiah was not done. “But why bother? I thought I understood. I mean, before I could see the Worm. Now I don’t. What’s the point? We’re all going to die anyway.”
I have given him a gift,
oh, Jeremiah,
which will make him wise in the subtleties of despair.
Linden might have tried to reassure him. Covenant might have. But the Giants silenced them by the simple expedient of bursting into laughter.
Their loud mirth filled the valley. It seemed to startle the insects. Midges fled for the safety of the wetland’s mire. Horseflies and mosquitoes skirled away, whining. Just for a moment, even the stinks of the Defiles Course and the Sarangrave became less daunting.
“Bravely said, young Jeremiah,” Grueburn guffawed. “A fine riposte.”
Latebirth and Halewhole Bluntfist doubled over, gasping for breath.
“‘But why bother?’” echoed Cirrus Kindwind. “Why, indeed? You make sport of our fears, Chosen-son.”
Stormpast Galesend slapped Cabledarm’s back. Cabledarm aimed an elbow at Galesend’s ribs.
Expecting Jeremiah to take offense, Linden flinched. At the same time, however, she felt a rush of gratitude. Too much had happened since she had last heard laughter.
While Jeremiah fumed, the Ironhand struggled for gravity. She scrubbed at her eyes until her humor receded to chuckling bursts. “All paths lead to death,” she said when she found her voice. “This the Worm merely hastens. Nonetheless we must strive. How otherwise will we hold up our heads at the end of our days?”
Linden watched Jeremiah wrestle with himself. He must have felt mocked. Surely he felt that? But he also loved the Giants. And their mirth was too open-hearted to sound like ridicule. Briefly his mouth twisted: he almost smiled in spite of himself. Then he mustered a conflicted glower.
“Never mind. I wasn’t serious. Have it your way.”
That may have been as much grace as he could muster. If so, it was enough for Linden.
“Well, hell,” Covenant drawled as the Giants subsided. “Hellfire.” Then he fell silent as if he had run out of words.
As if by mute agreement, Stave and Branl slipped down from their Ranyhyn. If the
Haruchai
were capable of laughter, Linden had never heard it. Here, however, she caught a glint that looked like amusement from Stave’s eye. Branl’s manner as he leaned Longwrath’s blade against the trunk of the ironwood hinted at the easing of subtle tensions.
When Jeremiah dropped, dour and distant, to the ground, and Covenant dismounted, Linden joined them. The unfamiliarity of her wedding band or the aftereffects of wild magic made her finger itch. Holding the Staff in the crook of her elbow, she rubbed absently at the itch while she tried to think of a way to thank Rime Coldspray and her comrades.
Twisting the kinks out of his back, Covenant made his way toward the nearest stream. The Ardent’s steed cantered past him to thrust its muzzle into the water, blowing bubbles as it drank. The four Ranyhyn followed more sedately. Hynyn’s wonted imperial air was subdued, and Hyn’s head drooped as if she were weighted down with farewells. Khelen cast anxious looks at Jeremiah, but did not hang back.
After the Swordmainnir had loosened their armor, Onyx Stonemage passed around the remaining waterskins of
aliantha
: the last meal that Linden expected to eat. Covenant accepted treasure-berries. Even the
Haruchai
did so. Then Kindwind and Grueburn carried the emptied sacks to another stream.
The valley’s insects had forgotten their fright. A few flying things with stingers found Linden. One raised a welt on the back of her hand: another, on the side of her neck. Irritated by those pangs, and by the region’s renewed fetor, she found herself remembering carrion. She remembered
being
carrion; remembered the howling anguish and condemnation of She Who Must Not Be Named. Remembered Elena—
Entering the maw at the base of the cliff would resemble falling from the Hazard.
Swearing to herself, she called Earthpower from her Staff to heal her little hurts, chase away the insects and the worst of the stenches; cleanse the recall of maggots and lice from her nerves. Then she extended the same small benison to her companions.
Jeremiah ignored her gift. Trapped in his own thoughts, he did not appear to feel any physical discomfort. Perhaps the same inheritance which protected him from cold and preserved his bare feet also warded him from stings. Whenever Linden thought that she should talk to him, she discovered that she was not ready. What could she have said? His ability to watch the Worm’s progress was a wound for which she had no salve.
Like her companions, she refreshed herself at the stream, ate her portion of the treasure-berries. Then she shared a hug with Covenant; leaned against the stubborn bones of his chest while his stubbed fingers ran awkward reassurance through her hair.
As the tenuous afternoon dwindled toward evening, vapors began to rise from the waters of the Sarangrave. At first, they were vague, visible only when they caught the light of the
krill
. But gradually they thickened into blots and tendrils of fog. By degrees, opaque arms and sheets found their way into the valley, traced the Defiles Course toward the sides of the mountain. Before long, the fog was a softly roiling wall that veiled the Flat. If it continued to expand, it would soon fill the valley.
As strands of fog coiled among the sparse ironwoods, the horses took their departure. Mishio Massima simply trotted away, tossing its head as if it had exhausted its patience for riders. The Ranyhyn were more formal. First they gathered around Covenant. As one, they reared, pawing the air as if he had won their approval. Then they separated, Hynyn toward Stave, Rallyn to Branl, Hyn and Khelen to Linden and Jeremiah. Hynyn nuzzled Stave while Stave stroked the stallion’s nose. Khelen offered the same gesture of affection to Jeremiah. For a moment, Jeremiah appeared to rebuff the Ranyhyn. Abruptly, however, he flung his arms around Khelen’s neck: a boy who did not want to be forsaken.
Branl answered Rallyn’s whinny with a salutation as old as the Lords. To Linden, Hyn lowered her head to the ground, bending one foreleg like a curtsey. “No,” Linden breathed as she hugged the mare, “please. We’re past that. I should be bowing to you.”
Hyn replied with a soft nicker. The look in her gentle eyes implied sadness, pride, affection, regret, even an atavistic alarm. Nonetheless it seemed to aver that she had not lost faith.
In homage, the Giants drew their swords. Holding their blades high, they saluted the fidelity and service of the great horses.
As one, the Ranyhyn turned away. Together they followed Mishio Massima into the fog. If they neighed any last farewells, their calls were swallowed by the brume.
The stars were gone; masked. Damp vapors blurred the shape of the watercourse. The cliff lost its definition, its implacable rigidity. Around the companions, the
krill
’s argent reflected back from the fog until they seemed to stand within a cynosure. A beacon. Beyond the light, the rest of the world was reduced to a slow seethe of blankness, moist and clinging.
Linden regarded the fog with fresh apprehension. It seemed to imply perils which would strike without warning.
“What does it mean?” demanded Jeremiah hoarsely.
“It means,” Covenant replied, a low growl from the back of his throat, “we’ve waited long enough.”
Suddenly brusque, he claimed the
krill
. With Branl at his side, he headed down the valley toward the Sarangrave. Loric’s dagger thrust illumination ahead of him. At his back, fog crowded in to enclose the company. Where he stopped, the outermost twigs and boughs of cypresses were visible; but Linden could barely distinguish her companions.
“I’m here.” Covenant appeared to shout, but the fog muffled some sounds while it accentuated others. The distant plash of water carried more distinctly than his voice. “You called me the Pure One. We made an alliance. I’ve been keeping my part. Now we need to talk. I want the Feroce.”
Wrapped in that fug, Linden found it impossible to believe that any of the Sarangrave’s ears would hear him.
Droplets beaded on her skin. The damp seeped through the flaws in her shirt. With her nerves rather than her eyes, she located her son’s aura. His emanations conveyed the impression that he was crouching down inside himself; that he feared the touch of the vapors; that he wanted to flee.
“I discern no cause for alarm,” Grueburn stated. “Do our foes deem that mere fog will affright us? We have endured the toils of the Soulbiter, and have emerged scatheless. We are not so blithely overcome.”
She may have been trying to comfort Jeremiah.
“Aye,” answered the Ironhand. “Yet fog occludes here as it does in the Soulbiter. Ready yourselves, Swordmainnir. Mayhap this brume is a natural exudation of the wetland. Or mayhap—”
Around her, Giants tightened their cataphracts, loosened their arms and shoulders.
“Jeremiah?” Linden felt an instinctive impulse to whisper. “Listen to me. Are you listening?”
Stave stood at her back, impassive and silent.
Covenant may have been yelling at the Flat, but his words were lost. The
krill
’s light did not penetrate the shroud over the Sarangrave.
“There’s no stopping it, Mom,” Jeremiah replied like a groan. “You should see what it’s doing to the plains.”
Linden grasped his arm. When he tried to pull away, she tightened her hold. “I said,
listen
. Maybe there’s a way out of what you’re feeling. Maybe Foul gave you those visions to distract you. Maybe he doesn’t want you thinking about other possibilities. Maybe your real problem is that you don’t know how to defend yourself.”
Jeremiah’s tone changed. “Mom?”
“You have Earthpower,” she explained, “but it isn’t a weapon. It’s like
orcrest
.” Or like Anele himself. “It doesn’t protect you. Maybe you wouldn’t feel so hopeless if you had a way to fight.”
“But I don’t.” In spite of her grip on his arm, he sounded as remote as Covenant. “I’m useless.” He may have meant broken. He had learned that his desire to repay the Despiser’s malice was a foolish fantasy. “All I can do is watch.”