But its sheath was empty. His sword had been left behind among the rocks and desperation of the tor.
For a moment, he gaped at Linden, apparently torn between his hunger for her death and his need for his weapon. Then, howling, he wheeled and raced away, back toward the battle-mound.
In the scales of his madness, his flamberge outweighed Linden’s blood.
The Giant who had been carrying him started to give chase; but Coldspray called her back. “Permit him, Latebirth,” the Ironhand commanded sadly. “You are needed among us. And I deem that he is in no peril. While he covets Linden Giantfriend’s death, our foes will not harm him. He will return when he has retrieved his blade.”
Cursing, Latebirth acquiesced. “The fault of Scend Wavegift’s death is mine, Ironhand,” she proclaimed loudly, bitterly. “Halewhole Bluntfist and I held Longwrath’s arms to aid him against the constraint of his shackles. Wavegift followed at his back. But I allowed my concern for your fate to loosen my clasp. When his shackles dropped from him, Bluntfist held him, but my grip was broken. With the hand that I should have restrained, he struck down Bluntfist. I endeavored to grapple with him, but I stumbled, unable to avoid Bluntfist’s fall. While I floundered, he confronted Wavegift.
“She was armed. He did not draw his blade. Therefore she hesitated. Doubtless she believed that Bluntfist and I would regain our feet swiftly to join her. But we hindered each other. While we rose, he slapped Wavegift’s blade aside and contrived to snap her neck. Then he ran. Though Bluntfist and I gave chase, we could not catch him.
“With clumsiness and inattention, I have shamed the Swordmainnir as well as myself. Henceforth I will name myself Lax Blunderfoot. When our journey has come to its end, for good or ill, I will lay down my sword.”
Stop, Linden wanted to say. We don’t have time for this. It doesn’t do any good. But she bit her lip and did not intervene. She understood Latebirth too well.
“We will speak of your name in Andelain,” retorted Coldspray. “Our present straits forbid recrimination. We must have haste. Let your shame become anger, and aid me in shaping a path.”
“Aye,” Latebirth muttered. “I hear you.” Drawing her sword, she stamped past Grueburn, Stave, and Linden to join Coldspray at the head of the company.
With pity in his eyes, Liand watched the woman pass. Like Linden, he said nothing; but she could see that his emotions were kinder than hers.
Together Rime Coldspray and Latebirth attacked the worst of the jungle’s impediments. In a kind of shared outrage, they cut vines, ivy, and deadwood aside, driving themselves past their fatigue so that their comrades could move more rapidly.
Fortunately the knotted underbrush and trees soon thinned as the terrain became a declining slope littered with moss-furred rocks and fallen leaves. There clusters of elm and sycamore stood back from solitary Gilden, and few shrubs and creepers found enough soil for their roots. As the Giants trotted downward, their feet stirred up a haze of insects and the damp mould of fallen leaves.
And at the bottom of the slope, the company found a stream turbulent with new rain. The invoked torrents of Liand’s storm filled the rushing current with silt, torn leaves, snapped twigs. Nevertheless the Swordmainnir paused once more so that the company could drink.
When he had eased his thirst, Bhapa asked Mahrtiir’s permission to lead the Giants once more. But Coldspray shook her head before the Manethrall could respond.
“While this stream tends southward, we need no guidance. And we are Giants, agile on rock—aye, even on slick stones concealed by debris. I cast no doubt on your skill, Cord, when I say that your aid will not quicken us here.”
“Heed the Ironhand,” instructed Mahrtiir. His tone was unexpectedly gentle. “You and Cord Pahni have won my pride. I do not doubt your resolve. Yet some further rest will harm neither you nor this company. When your aid becomes needful, you will be better able to provide it.”
If Bhapa or Pahni replied, Linden did hear them. The Giants were already running again.
Now their long, heavy strides raised a loud clatter of water. They splashed forward with extraordinary speed, sending spray in all directions. Within moments, Linden’s clothes were soaked, so wet that she shivered against Frostheart Grueburn’s stone armor.
Here Stave could not keep pace: he sank too deeply into pools and holes that barely reached the Giants’ knees. Unwilling to fall behind, he left the stream and made his way among the trees, flickering through patches of sunlight as he dodged past trunks and tore through the undergrowth.
Surely, Linden thought, surely this stream would lead the Giants into Andelain? But she could not credit that she and her companions had outrun the skurj—or Kastenessen’s savagery. Her enemies could not afford to let her reach her goal. If they failed to thwart her themselves, moksha Jehannum would suggest other tactics; summon other foes.
The scraps of samadhi Sheol’s dark spirit wielded some form of influence among the Sandgorgons. And they had repaid their self-imposed debt. They are done with you. If the skurj could not catch her in time, and Roger’s resources proved useless in Salva Gildenbourne, moksha Raver might reach out to his rent brother—
Linden had made too many mistakes. Acknowledging that the Sandgorgons had honored their debt was only one of them.
Still Stave reported that the Humbled discerned no sign of pursuit. They saw no dangers ahead.
How far had Grueburn carried Linden from the tor? She could not gauge the distance. The rapid stutter of trees and brush, shade and sunlight, along the western side of the stream confused her. And the foliage occluded any landmarks which might have defined the company’s progress. She was sure only that the sun was falling past midafternoon—and that the Giants could not continue to run like this much longer.
The ragged labor of Grueburn’s respiration was painful to hear. Linden tried to close her mind to it, and failed. She was barely able to stop herself from counting the frantic beats of Grueburn’s heart.
By degrees, however, the current slowed as its flood dissipated. At the same time, the hills on either side gradually seemed to acquire a kind of gentleness. Flowing through softer terrain, the stream became more direct. Still it tended southward across bursts of afternoon sunshine.
Then Linden noticed that Salva Gildenbourne’s unkempt extravagance was changing. By degrees, the constricted throng of trees modulated into a more stately forest, and the undergrowth gave way to unexpected swaths of grass. Stands of twisted jacaranda and crowded mimosa were replaced by comfortable chestnuts, austere elms, nervous birches. The rich gold leaves of the Gilden caught more sunlight and shone like resplendence. At last, the Giants were able to leave the stream and travel unobstructed by water or unseen rocks and holes.
And ahead of the company—
In faint whiffs and suggestions, evanescent savors like caresses, Linden’s nerves found their first taste of Andelain.
She sat up straighter; leaned forward with instinctive eagerness. Was it possible? Had she and her companions come four leagues since their battle on the tor? Without being attacked? She did not know how to believe it: it surpassed all of her expectations. Instinctively she distrusted her senses—and strained to confirm them.
The Andelainian Hills. In some sense, consciously or unconsciously, she had been striving to reach them ever since she had first heard Thomas Covenant’s voice in her dreams; ever since she had begun to imagine that he walked among the Dead.
Linden, find me.
She could be wrong. Surely she was wrong?
Careless of the danger, she drew Earthpower from the Staff to sharpen her health-sense. Her heart swelled with supplications which she could not utter: anticipation, hope, doubt; desire as acute as exultation.
Allusive and enticing, scents came to her: greensward and munificent verdure, air as crisp and sapid as aliantha, wildflowers luxuriating in their abundance. No, she was not wrong. More and more, Salva Gildenbourne became a cathedral forest, solemn and sacral. With ever
y step, the trees verged closer to transubstantiation. Ahead of her, they implied a bedecked panoply clinquant with Gilden sunshine. Grueburn carried her through splashes of declining light toward a woodland vista so numinous and vital that every line was limned with health.
Long ago, during her first approach to the Hills of Andelain, she had feared them. They had appeared to nurture something cancerous, a disease which would destroy her if she walked among them. Later, however, she had learned the truth. Her initial perceptions had been distorted by the Sunbane. Immersed in relentless evil, and unable to control her sensitivity, she had seen sickness everywhere. As a result, she had failed to discern the real source of her dread.
Even then, the Hills were not ill. They could not be: the last Forestal protected them. Her trepidation had arisen, not from Andelain itself, but from the presence of the Dead. Because the Law of Death had been broken—and because Earthpower suffused the Hills—spectres walked in Andelain’s loveliness. Confused by the Sunbane, she had felt their nearness as if they were evil.
Now she knew better. High Lord Elena’s abuse of the Power of Command had made it possible for Covenant’s Dead to speak with him; counsel him. Without their aid, he would not have been able to save the Land. Linden herself had met the shade of Kevin Landwaster and quailed; but even in his unrelieved despair, he had not been evil.
There is hope in contradiction.
Since that time, the Law of Life had been damaged as well. The Land held new possibilities, for good or ill. If the breaking of Laws enabled Joan to spawn caesures, it might also free Linden to accomplish her unspoken purpose.
She approached Andelain with yearning because she had learned to love the Hills—and because she hoped to gain something more precious than reassurance or counsel.
Around her, her companions also beheld what lay ahead of them. Excitement shone in Liand’s eyes, and he gazed past the Swordmainnir eagerly. Near him, Pahni glowed as if her weariness had become a form of enchantment. Even Stave appeared to lift more lightly from stride to stride, strengthened by the prospect of Andelain’s distilled beauty.
As one, the Giants slowed their steps. As if in reverence, they set aside their haste, assumed a more condign gravitas. When they left the last fringes of Salva Gildenbourne and crossed into Andelain, they did so as if they were entering a place of worship. Here was the Land’s untrammeled bounty, as essential as blood, and as profound as orogeny. And they were Giants: instinctively they reveled in largesse.
Together they ascended partway up the first slope and surcease of Andelain’s welcome. There Clyme awaited them calmly, certain that they had passed beyond peril. And there the Giants set down Linden and her friends so that they could walk at last, and feel the air freely, and be eased.
—Loric’s krill was roused from its slumber. Its might wards the Hills. The skurj cannot enter—Kastenessen himself cannot.
Joyfully Bhapa and Pahni threw themselves prostrate on the lush grass, doing homage to Andelain and escape. Mahrtiir knelt with his head bowed to the earth as if he were praying. Liand flung his arms wide and spun in circles, crowing with delight. “Andelain?” he cried. “Oh, Linden! This is Andelain? I could not have believed—!”
Linden wanted to share their joy. She felt as they did, and would have celebrated. But her first concern was for Anele.
Amid the long verdure of the Verge of Wandering, the old man had spoken to her in Covenant’s voice. Among the rich grasses of Revelstone’s upland plateau, he had offered her friends rue and advice. And here every aspect of the tangible world was more—
The hillside glistened with grace, green and lavish. The air was a cleansing ache in her lungs, and the springtime daisies, forsythia, and columbine were as bright as laughter. Every tree spread its leaves in wealth and majesty. The late sunlight offered warmth to soothe the chill of Linden’s damp clothes.
She did not know how Anele would respond. The tonic atmosphere might comfort him. Or he might feel threatened by the inherent health on every side. Or he might be possessed—
Galesend had already lowered him to the ground. Now, however, the company had no blankets to protect him.
Suppressing her own reaction to escape and glory, Linden approached the old man. Softly she murmured his name.
For a moment, he seemed unaware of her. His moonstone gaze wandered the southward expanse of the Hills, and he stood stiffly erect as if he were awaiting the acknowledgment of an august host. But then a subtle alteration came over him. As he turned toward Linden, his posture loosened. Studying her, he seemed to peer outward through veils of madness.
“Ah, Linden,” he sighed. His voice was his own; but it was also Hollian’s, light and loving, and as poignant as lamentation. “You should not have come. The hazard is too great. Darkness consumes you. The Despiser has planned long and cunningly for your presence, and his snares are many.”
Anele paused, swallowing grief. He blinked at tears which were not his. Then he continued to speak words bestowed by his long-dead mother.
“Yet the sight of you gladdens me. I pray that you will be able to bear the burden of so many needs. There is more in Andelain—and among the Dead—and in your heart—than Lord Foul can conceive.”
The old man started to withdraw. But before Linden could cry out to him—or to Hollian—he faced her again. “Be kind to my beloved son,” he said, quietly imploring. “His vision of his parents is too lofty. He torments himself for faults which are not his. When your deeds have come to doom, as they must, remember that he is the hope of the Land.
“This, also, the Despiser and all who serve him cannot imagine.”
Abruptly Anele turned to the south. While Linden floundered in silence, shaken and unsure, he strode away from her. After a moment, he began to run deeper into Andelain as if he could hear Hollian and Sunder calling for him.
“Linden?” Liand asked. Apparently Anele’s voice and her distress had pierced his jubilant astonishment. “Linden? Shall I follow after him? Will he be lost?”
Liand’s concern seemed to rouse the Ramen. Mahrtiir rose to his feet: his wrapped head moved like a hawk’s as he scrutinized his companions. At once, Bhapa and Pahni stood. The young Cord’s mien promised that she would accompany Liand if he pursued Anele.
Linden’s eyes burned, but they were dry. “No.” The stone of her purpose was too hard for weeping. “Let him go. He’s safe here.” When your deeds have come to doom—“If we don’t catch up with him, he’ll wander back to us eventually.”—as they must—“In the meantime, maybe he’ll find a little peace.”
—remember that he is the hope of the Land.
After an instant of hesitation, Liand nodded. The angle of his raven eyebrows showed that he was more troubled on Linden’s behalf than Anele’s. But she had nothing more to say to him. She was not prepared to explain why she intended to ignore Hollian’s warning.
While Anele ran, Branl and Galt emerged from the trees near the boundary of Andelain. Like Clyme, they seemed confident that they had passed beyond danger. Without obvious hurry, they trotted lightly into crystalline cleanliness. Soon they joined Clyme amid the wildflowers and the casual hum of feeding bees.
Rime Coldspray had gathered her Swordmainnir around her. For a few moments, they spoke together in low voices. Then the Ironhand turned to address the Humbled.
“We are Giants,” she said formally. “and have not found pleasure in the unwelcome of the Masters. But the time has come to set aside such affronts. In the name of my comrades, I thank you for your many labors. You are the Humbled, Masters of the Land. But you are also Haruchai, and have done much to ensure our lives. I hope that you will honor us by accepting our gratitude.”
The Humbled faced her impassively. In a flat tone, Branl said. “There is no need for gratitude, Rime Coldspray, Ironhand of the Swordmainnir. The unwelcome of which you speak was not meant as unfriendship. We were concerned only that your open hearts and tales might undermine our service to the Land. Now you have accom
plished that which we deemed impossible. With the aid of this unlikely Stonedownor”—he indicated Liand—“you have wrested the lives of Linden Avery’s company from the jaws of the skurj. Together we acknowledge your deeds. When the time comes to speak of you before the Masters assembled in Revelstone, we will speak with one voice, and will be heeded.”
Sure, Linden thought dourly. Of course you will. The Humbled had as much authority among their people as Handir. But Branl had not revealed what he would say to the Masters.
She intended to pursue the question with Stave later, when she had a chance to talk to him alone.
Nonetheless Coldspray inclined her head as if Branl had satisfied her. Only her frown and an oblique timbre of anger in her voice suggested otherwise as she continued, “Yet our gratitude remains. Therefore we ask your counsel. We are Giants. We must grieve for those whom we have lost. For that reason, we require a caamora. We wish to gather wood from Salva Gildenbourne, that we may express our sorrow in fire. Will your Mastery gainsay us? Will our flames offend the spirit of Andelain?”
If the Humbled felt any reluctance, they did not reveal it. Instead Clyme replied, “Ironhand, we have no heart for sorrow. Yet here we would not oppose any need or desire of the Swordmainnir. And Andelain is the soul and essence of the Land. As the Land has known grief beyond description, so the Hills themselves are familiar with mourning and loss. Your flames cannot give offense where their meaning is shared and honored.”
“That is well,” said Coldspray gruffly. “Accept our thanks.”
With a gesture, she sent Cabledarm and Latebirth back down the slope toward the darkening forest.
Linden still did not know the name of the Giant who had died on the tor.
Doubtless Cabledarm and Latebirth were safe enough. If they sensed the skurj, or any other foes, they could return to Andelain quickly. While Mahrtiir instructed Bhapa and Pahni to forage for treasure-berries, Linden drew Earthpower from her Staff again; but she did not do so to protect the Giants. Rather she turned her attention and the Staff’s flame, as yellow and lively as buttercups, to healing.