Lord Foul's Bane

  Garth bowed and sat down.

  "Now." She nodded her head as if to clear it of other considerations. "I have given my time to the study of ur-Lord Covenant's tale of his journey. The presence of white gold explains much. But still many things require thought-southrunning storms, a threewinged bird, an abominable attack on the Wraiths of Andelain, the bloodying of the moon. To my mind, the meaning of these signs is clear."

  Abruptly, she slapped the table with her palm as if she needed the sound and the pain to help her I speak. "Drool Rockworm has already found his bane -the Illearth Stone or some other deadly evil. With the Staff of Law, he has might enough to blast the seasons in their course!"

  A low groan arose from the gallery, but Prothall and Mhoram did not appear surprised. Still, a dangerous glitter intensified in Mhoram's eyes as he said softly, "Please explain."

  "The evidence of power is unmistakable. We know that Drool has the Staff of Law. But the Staff is not a neutral tool. It was carved from the One Tree as a servant of the Earth and the Earth's Law. Yet all that has occurred is unnatural, wrong. Can you conceive the strength of will which could corrupt the Staff even enough to warp one bird? Well, perhaps madness gives Drool that will. Or perhaps the Despiser now controls the Staff. But consider-birthing a three-winged bird is the smallest of these ill feats. At his peak in the former age, Lord Foul did not dare attack the Wraiths. And as for the desecrated noon-only the darkest and most terrible of ancient prophecies bespeak such matters.

  "Do you call this proof conclusive that Lord Foul indeed possesses the Staff? But consider-for less exertion than corrupting the moon requires, he could surely stamp us into death. We could not fight such night. And yet he spends himself so-so vainly. Would he employ his strength to so little purpose- attainst the Wraiths first when he could easily destroy us? And if he would, could he corrupt the moon using the Staff of Law-a tool not made for his hand, resisting his mastery at every touch?

  "I judge that if Lord Foul controlled the Staff, he would not and perhaps could not do what has been done-not until we were destroyed. But if Drool still holds the Staff, then it alone does not suffice. No Cavewight is large enough to perform such crimes without the power of both Staff and Stone. The Cavewights are weak-willed creatures, as you know. They are easily swayed, easily enslaved. And they have no heaven-challenging lore. Therefore they have always been the fodder of Lord Foul's armies.

  "If I judge truly, then the Despiser himself is as much at Drool's mercy as we are. The doom of this time rides on the mad whim of a Cavewight.

  "This I conclude because we have not been attacked."

  Prothall nodded glumly to Osondrea, and Mhoram took up the line of her reasoning. "So Lord Foul relies upon us to save him and damn ourselves. In some way, he intends that our response to ur-Lord Covenant's message will spring upon ourselves a trap which holds both us and him. He has pretended friendship to Drool to preserve himself until his plans are ripe. And he has taught Drool to use this newfound power in ways which will satisfy the Cavewight's lust for mastery without threatening us directly. Thus he attempts to ensure that we will make trial to wrest the Staff of Law from Drool."

  "And therefore," Osondrea barked, "it would be the utterest folly for us to make trial."

  "How so?" Mhoram objected. "The message said, `Without it, they will not be able to resist me for seven years.' He foretells a sooner end for us if we do not make the attempt, or if we attempt and fail, than if we succeed."

  "What does he gain by such foretellings? What but our immediate deaths? His message is only a lure of false hope to lead us into folly."

  But Mhoram replied by quoting, " `Drool Rockworm has the Staff, and that is a cause for terror. He will be enthroned at Lord's Keep in two years if the message fails.' "

  "The message has not failed!" Osondrea insisted. "We are forewarned. We can prepare. Drool is mad, and his attacks will be flawed by madness. It may be that we will find his weakness and prevail. By the Seven! Revelstone will never fall while the Bloodguard remain. And the Giants and Ranyhyn will come to our aid." Turning toward the High Lord, she urged, "Prothall, do not follow the lure of this quest. It is chimera. We will fall under the shadow, and the Land will surely die."

  "But if we succeed," Mhoram countered, "if we gain the Staff, then our chance is prolonged. Lord Foul's prophecy notwithstanding, we may find enough Earthpower in the Staff to prevail in war. And if we do not, still we will have that much more time to search for other salvations."

  "How can we succeed? Drool has both the Staff of Law and the Illearth Stone."

  "And is master of neither."

  "Master enough! Ask the Wraiths the extent of his might. Ask the moon."

  "Ask me," growled Covenant, climbing slowly to his feet. For a moment he hesitated, torn between a fear of Drool and a dread of what would happen to him if the Lords did not go in search of the Staff. He had a vivid apprehension of the malice behind Drool's Laval eyes. But the thought of the Staff decided him. He felt that he had gained an insight into the logic of his dream. The Staff had brought him to the Land; he would need the Staff to escape. "Ask me," he said again. "Don't you think I have a stake in this?"

  The Lords did not respond, and Covenant was forced to carry the argument forward himself. In his brooding, he had been able to find only one frail hope. With an effort, he broached the subject. "According to you, Foul chose me. But he talked about me on Kevin's Watch as if I had been chosen by someone else-`my Enemy,' he said. Who was he talking about?"

  Thoughtfully, the High Lord .replied, "I do not know. We said earlier that we hoped there were other forces at work in your selection. Perhaps there were. A few of our oldest legends speak of a Creator -the Creator of the Earth-but we know nothing of such a being. We only know that we are mortal, but Lord Foul is not-in some way, he surpasses flesh."

  "The Creator," Covenant muttered. "All right." A disturbing memory of the old beggar who had accosted him outside the courthouse flared momentarily. "Why did he choose me?"

  Prothall's abnegate eyes did not waver. "Who can say? Perhaps for the very reasons that Lord Foul chooses you."

  That paradox angered Covenant, but he went on as if inspired by the contradiction, "Then this Creator-also wanted you to hear Foul's message. Take that into account."

  "There!" Osondrea pounced. "There is the lie I sought-the final bait. By raising the hope of unknown help, Lord Foul seeks to ensure that we will accept this mad quest."

  Covenant did not look away from the High Lord. He held Prothall's eyes, tried to see beyond the wear of long asceticisms into his mind. But Prothall returned the gaze unflinchingly. The lines at the corners of his eyes seemed etched there by self-abrogation. "Lord Osondrea," he said evenly, "does your study reveal any signs of hope?"

  "Signs? Omens?" Her voice sounded reluctant in the Close. "I am not Mhoram. If I were, I would ask Covenant what dreams he has had in the Land. But I prefer practical hopes. I see but one: so little time has been lost. It is in my heart that no other combination of chance and choice could have brought Covenant here so swiftly."

  "Very well," Prothall replied. His look, locked with Covenant's, sharpened momentarily, and in it Covenant at last saw that the High Lord had already made his decision. He only listened to the debate to give himself one last chance to find an alternative. Awkwardly, Covenant dropped his eyes, slumped in his chair. How does he do it? he murmured point lessly to himself. Where does all this courage come from?

  Am I the only coward-?

  A moment later, the High Lord pulled his blue robe about him and rose to his feet. "My friends," he said, his voice thick with rheum, "the time has come for decision. I must choose a course to meet our need. 1f any have thoughts which must be uttered, speak now." No one spoke, and Prothall seemed to draw dignity and stature from the silence. "Hear then the will of Prothall son of Dwillian, High Lord by the choice of the Council-and may the Land forgive me if I mistake or fail. In this moment, I commit the future of the Eart
h.

  "Lord Osondrea, to you and to the Lords Variol and Tamarantha I entrust the defenses of the Land. I charge you-do all which wisdom or vision suggest to preserve the life in our sworn care. Remember that there is always hope while Revelstone stands. But if Revelstone falls, then all the ages and works of the Lords, from Berek Heartthew to our generation, shall come to an end, and the Land will never know the like again.

  "Lord Mhoram and I will go in search of Drool Rockworm and the Staff of Law. With us will go the Giant Saltheart Foamfollower, ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, as many of the Bloodguard as First Mark Tuvor deems proper to spare from the defense of Revelstone, and one Eoman of the Warward. Thus we will not go blithe or unguarded into doom-but the main might of Lord's Keep will be left for the defense of the Land if we fail.

  "Hear and be ready. The Quest departs at first fight.

  "High Lord!" protested Garth, leaping to his feet. 'Will you not wait for some word from my scouts? You must brave Grimmerdhore to pass toward Mount Thunder If the Forest is infested by the servants of Drool or the Gray Slayer, you will have little safety until my scouts have found out the movements of the enemy."

  "That is true, Warmark," said Prothall. "But how long will we be delayed?"

  "Six days, High Lord. Then we will know how much force the crossing of Grimmerdhore requires."

  For some time, Mhoram had been sitting with his chin in his hands, staring absently into the graveling pit. But now he roused himself and said, "One hundred Bloodguard. Or every warrior that Revelstone can provide. I have seen it. There are ur-viles in Grimmerdhore-and wolves by the thousands. They hunt in my dreams." His voice seemed to chill the air in the Close like a wind of loss.

  But Prothall spoke at once, resisting the spell of Mhoram's words. "No, Garth. We cannot delay. And the peril of Grimmerdhore is too great. Even Drool Rockworm must understand that our best road to Mount Thunder leads through the Forest and along the north of Andelain. No, we will go south-around Andelain, then east through Morinmoss to the Plains of Ra, before moving north to Gravin Threndor. I know-that seems a long way, full of needless leagues, for a Quest which must rue the loss of each day. But this southward way will enable us to gain the help of the Ramen. Thus all the Despiser's olden foes will share in our Quest. And perhaps we will throw Drool out of his reckoning.

  "No, my choice is clear. The Quest will depart tomorrow, riding south. That is my word. Let any who doubt speak now."

  And- Thomas Covenant, who doubted everything, felt Prothall's resolution and dignity so strongly that he said nothing.

  Then Mhoram and Osondrea stood, followed immediately by Foamfollower; and behind them the assembly rushed to its feet. All turned toward High Lord Prothall, and Osondrea lifted up her voice to say, "Melenkurion Skyweir watch over you, High Lord. Melenkurion abatha! Preserve and prevail! Seed and rock, may your purpose flourish. Let no evil blind or ill assail-no fear or faint, no rest or joy or pain, assuage the grief of wrong. Cowardice is inexculpate, corruption unassoiled. Skyweir watch and Earthroot anneal. Melenkurion abatha! Minas mill khabaal!"

  Prothall bowed his head, and the gallery and the Lords responded with one unanimous salute, one extending of arms in mute benediction.

  Then in slow order the people began to leave the Close. At the same time, Prothall, Mhoram, and Osondrea departed through their private doors.

  Once the Lords were gone, Foamfollower joined Covenant, and they moved together up the steps, followed by Bannor and Korik. Outside the Close, Foamfollower hesitated, considering something, then said, "My friend, will you answer a question for me?"

  "You think I've got something left to hide?"

  "As to that, who knows? The faery Elohim had a saying-`The heart cherishes secrets not worth the telling.' Ah, they were a laughing people. But --'

  "No," Covenant cut in. "I've been scrutinized enough." He started away toward his rooms.

  "But you have not heard my question."

  He turned. "Why should I? You were going to ask what Atiaran had against me."

  "No, my friend," replied Foamfollower, laughing softly. "Let your heart cherish that secret to the end of time. My question is this. What dreams have you had since you came to the Land? What did you dream that night in my boat?"

  Impulsively, Covenant answered, "A crowd of my people-real people-were spitting blood at me. And one of them said, `There is only one good answer to death.' "

  "Only one? What answer is that?"

  "Turn your back on it," Covenant snapped as he strode away down the corridor. "Outcast it." FoamFollower's good natured humor echoed in his ears, but he marched on until he could no longer hear the Giant. Then he tried to remember the way to his rooms. With some help from Bannor, he found his suite and shut himself in, only bothering to light me torch before closing the door on the Bloodguard.

  He found that in his absence someone had shuttered his windows against the fell light of the moon. Perversely, he yanked one of them open. But the bloodscape hurt his eyes like the stink of a corpse, and he slammed the shutter closed again. Then for a long time before he went to bed he paced the floor, arguing with himself until fatigue overcame him.

  When morning neared, and Bannor began shaking him awake, he resisted. He wanted to go on sleeping as if in slumber he could find absolution. Dimly, he remembered that he was about to start on a journey far more dangerous than the one he had just completed, and his tired consciousness moaned in protest.

  "Come," said Bannor. "If we delay, we will miss the call of the Ranyhyn."

  "Go to hell," Covenant mumbled. "Don't you ever sleep?"

  "The Bloodguard do not sleep:"

  "What?"

  "No Bloodguard has slept since the Haruchai swore their Vow."

  With an effort, Covenant pulled himself into a sitting position. He peered blearily at Bannor for a moment, then muttered, "You're already in hell."

  The alien flatness of Bannor's voice did not waver as he replied, "You have no reason to mock us."

  "Of course not," Covenant growled, climbing out of bed. "Naturally, I'm supposed to enjoy having my integrity judged by someone who doesn't even need sleep."

  "We do not judge. We are cautious. The Lords are in our care."

  "Like Kevin-who killed himself. And took just about everything else with him." But as he made this retort, he felt suddenly ashamed of himself. In the firelight, he remembered the costliness of the Bloodguard's fidelity. Wincing at the coldness of the stone floor, he said, "Forget it. I talk like that in self defense. Ridicule seems to be-my only answer." Then he hurried away to wash, shave, and get dressed. After a quick meal, he made sure of his knife and staff, and at last nodded his readiness to the Bloodguard.

  Bannor led him down to the courtyard of the old Gilden tree. A haze of night still dimmed the air, but the stars were gone, and sunrise was clearly imminent. Unexpectedly, he felt that he was taking part in something larger than himself. The sensation was an odd one, and he tried to reason it away as he followed Bannor through the tunnel, between the huge, knuckled tower gates, and out into the dawn.

  There, near the wall a short distance to the right of the gate, was gathered the company of the Quest. The warriors of the Third Eoman sat astride their horses in a semicircle behind Warhaft Quaan, and to their left stood nine Bloodguard led by First Mark Tuvor. Within the semicircle were Prothall, Mhoram, and Saltheart Foamfollower. The Giant carried in his belt a quarterstaff as tall as a man, and wore a blue neckscarf that fluttered ebulliently in the morning breeze. Nearby were three men holding three horses saddled in clingor. Above them all, the face of Revelstone was crowded with people. The dwellers of the mountain city thronged every balcony and terrace, every window. And facing the gathered company was Lord Osondrea. She held her head high as if she defied her responsibility to make her stoop.

  Then the sun crested the eastern horizon. It caught the upper rim of the plateau, where burned the blue Same of warning; it moved down the wall until it lifted High Lord's Furl out of t
he gloaming like the lighting of a torch. Next it revealed the red pennant, and then a new white flag.

  Nodding up at the new flag, Bannor said, "That is for you, ur-Lord. The sign of white gold." Then he west to take his place among the Bloodguard.

  Silence rested on the company until the sunlight touched the ground, casting its gold glow over the Questers. As soon as the light reached her feet, Osondrea began speaking as if she had been waiting patiently for this moment, and she covered the ache in her heart with a scolding tone. "I am in no mood tae the ceremony, Prothall. Call the Ranyhyn, and go.

  The folly of this undertaking will not be made less by delay and brave words. There is nothing more for you to say. I am well suited for my task, and the defense of the Land will not falter while I live. Go-call the Ranyhyn."

  Prothall smiled gently, and Mhoram said with a grin, "We are fortunate in you, Osondrea. I could not entrust any other with Variol my father and Tamarantha my mother."

  "Taunt me at your peril!" she snapped. "I am in no mood-no mood, do you hear?"

  "I hear. You know that I do not taunt you. Sister Osondrea, be careful."

  "I am always careful. Now go, before I lose patience altogether."

  Prothall nodded to Tuvor; the ten Bloodguard turned and spread out, so that each faced into the rising sun with no one to obscure his view. One at a time, each Bloodguard raised a hand to his mouth and gave a piercing whistle which echoed off the wall of the Keep into the dawn air.

  They whistled again, and then a third time, and each call sounded as fierce and lonely as a heart cry. But the last whistle was answered by a distant whinny and a low thunder of mighty hooves. All eyes turned expectantly eastward, squinted into the morning glory. For a long moment, nothing appeared, and the rumble of the earth came disembodied to the company, a mystic manifestation. But then the horses could be seen within the sun's orb, as if they had materialized in skyfire.