Authors: Stephen R. Donaldson
Unmistakably, Bluff Stoutgirth announced, the man was one of the
Haruchai
. Indeed, he was unmistakably Brinn, the companion of the ur-Lord Thomas Covenant and the Sun-Sage Linden Avery aboard Starfare’s Gem: the
Haruchai
who had become the Guardian of the One Tree.
The Guardian’s tidings were dire in all sooth, Stoutgirth confessed. “The Worm of the World’s End is roused, seeking the ruin of all things. Therefore the One Tree withers. The life of the Earth nears its close.” Yet when the Giants bewailed their lot, moaning the loss of love and wind and stone, of seas and joy and children, Brinn answered their lament.
“Yet good may come from loss as it does from gain. The decline of the One Tree has concluded my devoir. I am freed to remember the promises of an earlier age. And the Worm is not instant in its feeding. Life lingers yet in the world’s heartwood. This gift is granted to me, that I may expend my waning strength in the Land’s service.
“While I endure, I will guide you, for your aid will be sorely needed.”
None aboard Dire’s Vessel, the Anchormaster continued, could comprehend that need. Yet their hearts were lifted by the thought that they might yet be of use in the Earth’s last peril. In a foreshortened Giantclave, the Master of Dire’s Vessel, Vigilall Scudweather, determined that she and a half portion of the crew would remain to tend the Giantship, praying that events would allow them to serve some worthy purpose in their turn. Bluff Stoutgirth and the others prepared such supplies and weapons as they were able to carry swiftly. Then they followed the Guardian of the One Tree from The Grieve into Seareach, tending always to the southwest toward the toils of Sarangrave Flat and the renowned perils of the lurker.
For a wonder, they passed into and through the Sarangrave unthreatened. Indeed, their course was eased at every obstacle, though they had no understanding of the magicks which relieved their efforts. In another matter, however, fortune gazed less kindly upon them. The Guardian’s diminishment was unremitting, and no succor of companionship or repast eased it. During the evening of the day now past, he frayed at last and faded, drifting away along the world’s winds. Then the Giants feared that naught remained to thwart the Worm. Yet they persevered, for the Guardian had led them far enough to descry Mount Thunder. They knew their destination. Therefore they hastened onward, denying themselves all sorrow for Brinn
Haruchai
, until they beheld turmoil upon the mountain. And at the last, fortune smiled once more. The Giants of Dire’s Vessel did not come too late.
So Bluff Stoutgirth ended his tale.
“Joy is in the ears that hear,” Rime Coldspray replied formally, “not in the mouth that speaks. Upon occasion, however, both ears and mouth may know joy, for its causes are plain to all. When we foundered in strife and loss, your coming lifted our hearts. We are Giants and must grieve. Yet we are filled with gladness also. You are a brightness amid the world’s dusk.”
The other Swordmainnir offered their thanks and pleasure as well. But they fell silent when Covenant began to speak. Holding Linden tightly, he addressed the sailors with a familiar ache in his voice.
“Brinn talked about a service or boon. Even after he saved my life, he wasn’t done. But he didn’t tell me what he had in mind. Now I know. You’re his last service. His boon. We weren’t enough. We needed help. No matter what happens, we’re going to need more.”
Linden nodded. Manethrall Mahrtiir had spoken truly.
And betimes some wonder is wrought to redeem us
. The Giants of Dire’s Vessel had given Covenant time to summon the Fire-Lions.
But the Swordmainnir did not linger over their gratitude. Their weariness ran deep; and there was much that Stoutgirth and his crew needed to know.
“As you have surmised,” the Ironhand began, sighing, “our tale is both lengthy and unforeseen. It has cost us lives and blood and sorrow. The worth of our deeds is not ours to proclaim. Yet I will trust that worth resembles joy. It will be found in the ears that hear if the mouth that speaks cannot name it.”
Then Rime Coldspray gave the Giants of Dire’s Vessel her story.
At first, Linden listened uncomfortably. The Ironhand described events and purposes in more forgiving terms than Linden could have managed, especially where Linden herself was concerned. She had to stifle an impulse to add her own stringent counterpoint to the arching cadences of Coldspray’s narration. But gradually the Ironhand’s tone filled her thoughts, lulling her until she drifted on the currents of Coldspray’s voice.
Beyond the reach of the
krill
’s gem, darkness waited as though the whole truth of the world had become night. Overhead the watching stars seemed too disconsolate to value their hard-earned reprieve. Behind the episodes of Rime Coldspray’s tale, the Sarangrave’s lapping waters muttered reminders of venom and putrescence. Jeremiah’s study of the Staff sent small flames skirling upward, but shed no light.
Yet within the ambit of the
krill
’s argent, Bluff Stoutgirth and his comrades were transfixed. Where the Anchormaster and Hurl appeared to suppress jests at every turn of the tale, Keenreef and Squallish Blustergale looked dismayed to the heart. Etch Furledsail, Wiver Setrock, and one of the women—had Stoutgirth called her Baf Scatterwit?—stared at the Ironhand as if nothing made sense. Together Dire’s Vessel’s crew evinced every reaction except joy.
Nevertheless no one interrupted Rime Coldspray. Even Covenant did not, although he could no doubt have added his own interpretations. Instead he seemed distracted, as if he were thinking about something else.
Then Coldspray was done. A long silence greeted her, until Stoutgirth announced brightly, “A toothsome tale, Ironhand—a veritable feast of clear peril and ambiguous vindication, strange beings and extravagant exertions. Doubtless we will gnaw upon it, seeking its marrow, while the world endures.
“Yet you have spoken of worth. For my part, Ironhand, I do not acknowledge it.” He laughed happily. “As matters stand, we resemble sailors snared in the ensorcelments of the Soulbiter. There can be no worth in the tale of those who fail and fall unwitnessed, for their doom is not redeemed by the telling of it. We must have boasting, Rime Coldspray! I will not name the deeds of this company worthy until the World’s End has been forestalled. Only then may the tale be shared with those able to esteem it.”
Linden frowned, thinking that the Anchormaster had insulted her friends. But the Giants heard something different in Stoutgirth’s assertion; or they heard it with different ears. Several of his sailors laughed, and both Grueburn and Kindwind chuckled.
“Then,” Rime Coldspray replied, bemused and rueful, “we must endeavor to win free of this Soulbiter, that we may thereafter brag of our survival.”
The Anchormaster nodded. “And toward that end, Ironhand, there is a matter which you have not addressed. How do you propose to sail these fatal seas? You have overcome the unwelcome of the
Haruchai
. And your companions are figures of legend, revered among us. Your purpose must be mighty indeed, to gather such a congeries of valor and puissance.
“Ironhand, what is your intent?”
Coldspray opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. With a bow, she stepped aside, referring the question to Covenant; or perhaps to Covenant and Linden.
Covenant’s arms tightened momentarily. In Linden’s ear, he whispered, “This is the hard part of being a leper. I’m going to need your help.”
Startled, she turned to him with questions in her eyes; but his only response was a twisted smile as he stepped away from her. The sailors and the Swordmainnir towered over him, yet he faced them as though his stature equaled theirs.
“I hope you aren’t expecting me to be sure of anything. We have too many enemies, and they have too much power. And all I really know about the Worm is that we can’t stop it. But I don’t want to just sit on my hands waiting to die. The Despiser started all this.
Him
I think we might be able to stop. I want to put an end to his evil.”
He pointed at the mouth of the Defiles Course. “I want to get into Mount Thunder. Up into the Wightwarrens, if that’s even possible. That’s where Lord Foul is. I want to go find him.”
Briefly his shoulders hunched as if he were strangling his fears. “But there’s something else I want to do first.”
While the Giants studied him, he gestured Branl to his side. Taking the
krill
, he held it up in his halfhand by its wrapped blade. Within its silver, he continued.
“The Ironhand told her story. The Swordmainnir have been through hell and blood ever since they left you. Fighting Longwrath, fighting for Longwrath, they lost Scend Wavegift. Against the
skurj
, they lost Moire Squareset. And eventually Kastenessen killed Longwrath. All of that was bad enough. But now the toll is even higher.” Although Coldspray and Stoutgirth had already acknowledged their dead, Covenant insisted on the names. “Latebirth, Stormpast Galesend, and Cabledarm died for us, and Dire’s Vessel lost a man I never even met. You called him Slumberhead, God knows why. He sure as hell wasn’t dozing when he gave his life.
“It’s too much. You’re Giants, all of you. You can’t ask yourselves to carry around that much grief indefinitely. You need a
caamora
. How else are you going to face what’s ahead of us?”
The Ironhand glanced at her surroundings. “We have no fire,” she said harshly, “if we do not sacrifice yet another tree.”
All of the ironwoods set ablaze by the
skurj
had burned down to ash, or had been extinguished by rain. There was no flame in the valley apart from Jeremiah’s experiments.
“And I won’t ask you to do that,” Covenant assured her. “I promised you a
caamora
. I intend to keep that promise.
“When I made it, I thought I could use Longwrath’s body. That seemed like a kind of acknowledgment. A way to make something good out of what he went through. But the Giants we’ve lost here have been mangled by the
skurj
. They already look desecrated. It seems disrespectful to use them.
“So I’m going to burn myself.”
To the sudden alarm of his companions, he added quickly, “I mean with wild magic. I’m going to light myself and hope that I can burn hot enough to console you.
“It’s wild magic. It drains me. Hell, it even terrifies me. But it won’t hurt me. The only danger is that I’ll lose control. Too much might do more harm than too little.”
Then he turned back to Linden. “That’s why I need your help. Your health-sense. I want you to watch out for me. If I start to go too far, I want you to stop me.”
Seeing the raw need in his scowl, she felt a hammer pound in her chest. How could she stop him? Oh, she believed that he would not be harmed physically. His power was
him
. But the cost to his spirit might be extreme. His reluctance was necessary to him. It counterbalanced his extravagance: it was his way of managing his fear that he might commit havoc. If he damaged his friends—if he damaged
anything
—he would not be able to forgive himself.
How could she stop him, except by possessing him?
But he did not give her a chance to protest, or to ready herself. He ignored the apprehension of the Giants, the doubts. Before they could say that they did not want him to take this risk, he touched his wedding band to Loric’s cut gem.
In the space between instants, he became fire.
She could still see him. He stood incandescent in the core of a silver conflagration, a blaze like a bonfire barely contained, bound by force of will in the shape of a whirling pillar as tall as any Giant. As he burned, the
krill
fell from his fingers: he no longer needed it. Flames seemed to burst from every inch of him. They looked pure enough to render his flesh from his bones. Yet he was not consumed. Instead his magicks appeared to exalt him. With wild magic, he could have brought life and time to an end without the aid of the Worm.
Nevertheless his power was also a howl. It tormented him. It was the contradiction which lay at the center of his plight in the Land,
the one word of truth or treachery
. Without wild magic, nothing could be redeemed. With it, everything might be damned.
In spite of her dismay, Linden understood. With wild magic, destruction came easily.
That
she knew to be true. She had seen it in
caesures
; in the reaving of Cavewights. With fire, Covenant looked capable of ripping the stars out of the heavens. She did not know how to watch without weeping.
For a moment while Covenant blazed, Rime Coldspray and the other Giants hesitated. They did not know him as Linden did, but they could see how his attempt to both exert and restrain himself wracked him. At the same time, however, they recognized what he was offering. Even if they had not heard about the gift which he had once given to the Dead of The Grieve, they would have yearned to seize this opportunity.
He had chosen to risk himself. How could they refuse him?
Abruptly the Ironhand reached into the whirl of fire, caught Covenant in her huge hands, and lifted him high. There she held him while his flames attacked her flesh as if they threatened to char her bones, reaching for her heart.
Her grasp threatened his concentration; but he did not withdraw his power.
Her pain was severe, as she needed it to be. She required such anguish to cauterize her bereavements. Without the cleansing of fire, her sorrow would have become bitterness. Eventually she would have lost her ability to hear joy.
While Coldspray gripped him, Covenant fought to keep his balance between too much and not enough. But when she passed him to Frostheart Grueburn, his self-control faltered. Wild magic mounted higher.
Linden watched him with her own agony. Cries that she could not utter closed her throat. Stave had come to stand at her back. He clasped her shoulders to steady her. Jeremiah had dropped the Staff of Law. He gaped at Covenant with consternation in his silted gaze. But she was aware of nothing except silver fire and Thomas Covenant.