Tamarantha!
Her peril overwhelmed Covenant's fear. Without thinking, he vaulted from the safety of his trench and started toward her. She was so old and frail that he could not restrain himself.
The Woodhelvennin yelled, "Down!" His sudden appearance aboveground distracted her, gave her opponents a target. As a result, she missed a parry, and a sword thrust opened her side. But Covenant did not see her. He was already running toward Tamarantha-and already too late.
The Cavewight drove his spear downward.
At the last instant, the Bloodguard saved Tamarantha by diving across her and catching the spear in his own back.
Covenant hurled himself at the Cavewight and tried to stab it with his stone knife. The blade twisted in his halfhand; he only managed to scratch the creature's shoulder blade.
The knife fell from his wrenched fingers.
The Cavewight whirled and struck him to the ground with a slap. The blow stunned him for a moment, but Bannor rescued him by attacking the creature. The Cavewight countered as if elevated, inspired, by his success against the dead Bloodguard. He shrugged off Bannor's blows, caught him in his long strong arms and began to squeeze. Bannor struck at the Cavewight's ears and eyes, but the maddened creature only tightened his grip.
Inchoate rage roared in Covenant's ears. Still half dazed, he stumbled toward Tamarantha's still form and snatched her staff from her side. She made no movement, and he asked no permission. Turning, he wheeled the staff wildly about his head and brought it down with all his strength on the back of the Cavewight's skull.
White and crimson power flashed in a silent explosion. The Cavewight fell instantly dead.
The ignition blinded Covenant for a moment. But he recognized the sick red hue of the flare. As his eyes cleared, he gaped at his hands, at his ring. He could not remember having removed it from the clingor on his chest. But it hung on his wedding finger and throbbed redly under the influence of the cloudlocked moon.
Another Cavewight loomed out of the battle at him. Instinctively, he hacked with the staff at the creature. It collapsed in a bright flash that was entirely crimson.
At the sight, his old fury erupted. His mind went blank with violence. Howling, "Foul!" as if the Despiser were there before him, he charged into the thick of the fray. Flailing about him like madness, he struck down another Cavewight, and another, and another. But he did not watch where he was going. After the third blow he fell into one of the trenches. Then for a long time he lay in the grave like a dead man. When he finally climbed to his feet, he was trembling with revulsion.
Above him, the battle burned feverishly. He could not judge how many of the attackers had been killed or disabled. But some turning point had been reached; the company had changed its tactics. Prothall fled from the griffin to Foamfollower's aid. And when the Giant regained his feet, he turned, dripping blood, to fight the griffin while Prothall joined Mhoram against the ur-viles. Bannor held himself over Covenant; but Quaan marshaled the survivors of his Eoman to make a stand around Variol and Tamarantha.
A moment later, the Ranyhyn gave a ringing call. Having freed the horses, they charged into the battle. And as their hooves and teeth crashed among the Cavewights, Prothall and Mhoram together swung their flaming staffs to block the loremaster's downstroke. Its hot scimitar shattered into fragments of lava, and the backlash of power felled the ur-vile itself. Instantly, the creatures shifted their wedge to present a new leader. But their strongest had fallen, and they began to give way.
On the other side of the battle, Foamfollower caught the griffin by surprise. The beast was harrying the warriors around Variol and Tamarantha. With a roar, Foamfollower sprang into the air and wrapped his arms in a death hug around the body of the griffin. His weight bore it to the ground; they rolled and struggled on the blood-slick grass. The riding ur-vile was thrown off, and Quaan beheaded it before it could raise its stave.
The griffin yowled hideously with rage and pain, tried to twist in Foamfollower's grip to reach him with its claws and fangs. But he squeezed it with all his might, silently braced himself against its thrashings and strove to kill it before it was able to turn and rend him.
For the most part, he succeeded. He exerted a furious jerk of pressure, and heard bones retort' loudly in the beast's back. The griffin spat a final scream, and died. For a moment, he rested beside its body, panting hoarsely. Then he lumbered to his feet. His forehead had been clawed open to the bone.
But he did not stop. Dashing blood from his eyes, he ran and threw himself full-length onto the tight wedge of the urviles. Their formation crumbled under the impact.
At once, the ur-viles chose to flee. Before Foamfollower could get to his feet, they were gone, vanished into the darkness.
Their defection seemed to drain the Cavewights' mad courage. The gangrel creatures were no longer able to brave the Lords-fire. Panic spread among them from the brandished staffs, flash-firing in the sudden tinder of their hearts.
A cry of failure broke through the attack. The Cavewights began to run.
Howling their dismay, they scattered away from the blazing tree. They ran with grotesque jerkings of their knuckled joints, but their strength and length of limb gave them speed. In moments, the last of them had fled the glade.
Foamfollower charged after them. Yelling Giantish curses, he chased the fleers as if he meant to crush them all underfoot. Swiftly, he disappeared into the darkness, and soon he could no longer be heard. But from time to time there came faint screams through the night, as he caught escaping Cavewights.
Tuvor asked Prothall if some of the Bloodguard should join Foamfollower, but the High Lord shook his head. "We have done enough," he panted. "Remember the Oath of Peace."
For a time of exhaustion and relief, the company stood in silence underscored by the gasp of their breathing and the groans of the disabled Cavewights. No one moved; to Covenant's ears, the silence sounded like a prayer. Unsteadily, he pulled himself out of the trench. Looking about him with glazed eyes, he took the toll of the battle.
Cavewights sprawled around the camp in twisted heaps-nearly a hundred of them, dead, dying, and unconscious-and their blood lay everywhere like a dew of death. There were ten ur-viles dead. Five warriors would not ride again with their Eoman, and none of Quaan's command had escaped injury. But of the Bloodguard only one had fallen.
With a groan that belied his words, High Lord Prothall said, "We are fortunate."
"Fortunate?" Covenant echoed in vague disbelief.
"We are fortunate." An accent of anger emphasized the old rheumy rattle of Prothall's voice. "Consider that we might all have died. Consider such an attack during the full of the moon. Consider that while Drool's thoughts are turned here, he is not multiplying defenses in Mount Thunder. We have paid his voice choked for a moment "paid but little for our lives and hope."
Covenant did not reply for a moment. Images of violence dizzied him. All the Woodhelvennin were dead-Cavewights-urviles-the warrior who had chosen to watch over him. He did not even know her name. Foamfollower had killed-he himself had killed five-five.
He was trembling, but he needed to speak, needed to defend himself. He was sick with horror.
"Foamfollower's right," he rasped hoarsely. "This is Foul's doing."
No one appeared to hear him. The Bloodguard went to the Ranyhyn and brought their - fallen comrade's mount close to the fire. Lifting the man gently, they set him on the Ranyhyn's back and bound him in place with clingor thongs. Then together they gave a silent salute, and the Ranyhyn galloped away, bearing its dead rider toward the Westron Mountains and Guards Gap-home.
"Foul planned the whole thing."
When the Ranyhyn had vanished into the night, some of the Bloodguard tended the injuries of their mounts, while others resumed their sentry duty.
Meanwhile, the warriors began moving among the Cavewights, finding the living among the dead. All that were not mortally wounded were dragged to their feet and chased away from the cam
p. The rest were piled on the north side of the tree for a pyre.
"It means two things." Covenant strove to master the quaver in his voice. "It's the same thing that he's doing to me. It's a lesson-like what happened to Llaura. Foul is telling us what he's doing to us because he's sure that knowing won't help. He wants to milk us for all the despair we're worth."
With the aid of two warriors, Prothall released Llaura and Pietten from their tomb. Llaura looked exhausted to the limit; she was practically prostrate on her feet. But little Pietten ran his hands over the blood-wet grass, then licked his fingers.
Covenant turned away with a groan. "The other thing is that Foul really wants us to get at Drool. To die or not. He tricked Drool into this attack so that he wouldn't be busy defending himself. So Foul must know what we're doing, even if Drool doesn't."
Prothall seemed troubled by the occasional distant screams, but Mhoram did not notice them. While the rest of the company set about their tasks, the Lord went and knelt beside Variol and Tamarantha. He bent over his parents, and under his red-stained robe his body was rigid.
"I tell you, this is all part of Foul's plan. Hellfire! Aren't you listening to me?"
Abruptly, Mhoram stood and faced Covenant. He moved as if he were about to hurl a curse at Covenant's head. But his eyes bled with tears, and his voice wept as he said, "They are dead. Variol and Tamarantha my parents-father and mother of me, body and soul."
Covenant could see the hue of death on their old skin.
"It cannot be!" one of the warriors cried. "I saw. No weapon touched them. They were kept by the Bloodguard."
Prothall hastened to examine the two Lords. He touched their hearts and heads, then sagged and sighed, "Nevertheless."
Both Variol and Tamarantha were smiling.
The warriors stopped what they were doing; in silence, the Eoman put aside its own fatigue and grief to stand bowed in respect before Mhoram and his dead. Stooping, Mhoram lifted both Variol and Tamarantha in his arms. Their thin bones were light
in his embrace, as if they had lost the weight of mortality. On his cheeks, tears gleamed orangely, but his shoulders were steady, un-sob-shaken, to uphold his parents.
Covenant's mind was beclouded. He wandered in mist, and his words were wind-torn from him. "Do you mean to tell me that we-that I-we-? For a couple of corpses?"
Mhoram showed no sign of having heard. But a scowl passed like a spasm across Prothall's face, and Quaan stepped to the Unbeliever's side at once, gripped his elbow, whispered into his ear, "If you speak again, I will break your arm."
"Don't touch me," Covenant returned. But his voice was forceless. He submitted, swirling in lost fog. , Around him, the company took on an attitude of ritual. Leaving his staff with one of the warriors, High Lord Prothall retrieved the staffs of the dead Lords and held them like an offering across his arms. And Mhoram turned toward the blaze of the tree with Variol and Tamarantha clasped erect in his embrace. The silence quivered painfully. After a long moment, he began to sing. His rough song sighed like a river, and he sang hardly louder than the flow of water between quiet banks.
Death reaps the beauty of the world-
bundles old crops to hasten new.
Be still, heart:
hold peace.
Growing is better than decay:
I hear the blade which severs life from life.
Be still, peace:
hold heart.
Death is passing on-
the making way of life and time for life.
Hate dying and killing, not death.
Be still, heart:
make no expostulation.
Hold peace and grief
and be still.
As he finished, his shoulders lurched as if unable to bear their burden without giving at least one sob to the dead. "Ah, Creator!" he cried in a voice full of bereavement. "How can I honor them? I am stricken at heart, and consumed with the work that I must do. You must honor them-for they have honored you."
At the edge of the firelight, the Ranyhyn Hynaril gave a whinny like a cry of grief. The great roan mare reared and pawed the air with her forelegs, then whirled and galloped away eastward.
Then Mhoram murmured again,
Be still, heart:
make no expostulation.
Hold peace and grief
and be still.
Gently, he laid Variol on the grass and lifted Tamarantha in both arms. Calling hoarsely, "Hail!" he placed her into the cleft of the burning tree. And before the flames could blacken her age-etched skin, he lifted Variol and set him beside her, calling again, "Hail!" Their shared smile could be seen for a moment before the blaze obscured it. So they lay together in consummation.
Already dead, Covenant groaned. That Bloodguard was killed. Oh, Mhoram! In his confusion, he could not distinguish between grief and anger.
His eyes now dry, Mhoram turned to the company, and his gaze seemed to focus on Covenant. "My friends, be still at heart," he said comfortingly. "Hold peace for all your grief. Variol and Tamarantha are ended. Who could deny them? They knew the time of their death. They read the close of their lives in the ashes of Soaring Woodhelven, and were glad to serve us with their last sleep. They chose to draw the attack upon themselves so that we might live. Who will say that the challenge which they met was not great? Remember the Oath, and hold Peace."
Together, the Eoman made the heart-opening salute of farewell, arms spread wide as if uncovering their hearts to the dead. Then Quaan cried, "Hail!" and led his warriors back to the work of piling Cavewights and burying Woodhelvennin.
After the Eoman had left, High Lord Prothall said to Mhoram, "Lord Variol's staff. From father to son. Take it. If we survive this Quest to reach a time of peace, master it. It has been the staff of a High Lord."
Mhoram accepted it with a bow.
Prothall paused for a moment, irresolute, then turned to Covenant. "You have used Lord Tamarantha's staff. Take it for use again. You will find it readier to aid your ring than your Hirebrand's staff. The lillianrill work in other ways than the Lords, and you are ur-Lord, Thomas Covenant."
Remembering the red blaze which had raged out of that wood to kill and kill, Covenant said, "Burn it."
A touch of danger tightened Mhoram's glance. But Prothall shrugged gently, took Lord Tamarantha's staff to the fire, and placed it into the cleft of the tree.
For an instant, the metal ends of the staff shone as if they were made of verdigris. Then Mhoram cried, "Ware the tree!" Quickly, the company moved away from the fiery spars.
The staff gave a sharp report like the bursting of bonds. Blue flame detonated in the cleft, and the riven tree dropped straight to the ground in fragments, collapsing as if its core had been finally killed. The heap of wood burned furiously.
From a distance, Covenant heard Birinair snort, "The Unbeliever's doing," as if that were a calumny.
Don't touch me, he muttered to himself.
He was afraid to think. Around him, darkness lurked like vulture wings made of midnight. Horrors threatened; he felt ghoul-begotten. He could not bear the bloodiness of his ring, could not bear what he had become. He searched about him as if he were looking for a fight.
Unexpectedly, Saltheart Foamfollower returned.
He shambled out of the night like a massacre metaphored in flesh-an icon of slaughter. He was everywhere smeared in blood, and much of it was his own. The wound on his forehead covered his face with a dark, wet sheen, and through the stain his deep eyes looked sated and miserable. Shreds of Cavewight flesh still clung to his fingers.
Pietten pointed at the Giant, and twisted his lips in a grin that showed his teeth. At once, Llaura grabbed his hand, pulled him away to a bed which the warriors had made for them.
Prothall and Mhoram moved solicitously toward the Giant, but he pushed past them to the fire. He knelt near the blaze as if his soul needed warming, and his groan as he sank to his knees sounded like a rock cracking.
Covenant saw his chan
ce, approached the Giant. Foamfollower's manifest pain brought his confused, angry grief to a pitch that demanded utterance. He himself had killed five Cavewights, five-! His ring was full of blood. "Well," he snarled, "that must've been fun. I hope you enjoyed it."
From the other side of the camp, Quaan hissed threateningly. Prothall moved to Covenant's side, said softly, "Do not torment him. Please. He is a Giant. This is the caamora, the fire of grief. Has there not been enough pain this night?"
I killed five Cavewights! Covenant cried in bereft fury.
But Foamfollower was speaking as if entranced by the fire and unable to hear them. His voice had a keening sound; he knelt before the fire in an attitude of lament.
"Ah, brothers and sisters, did you behold me? Did you see, my people? We have come to this. Giants, I am not alone. I feel you in me, your will in mine. You would not have done differently-not felt other than I felt, not grieved apart from my grief. This is the result. Stone and Sea! We are diminished. Lost Home and weak seed have made us less than we were. Do we remain faithful, even now? Ah, faithful? My people, my people, if steadfastness leads to this? Look upon me! Do you find me admirable? 1 stink of hate and unnecessary death." A chill blew
through his words. Tilting back his head, he began a low chant.
His threnody went on until Covenant felt driven to the brink of screaming. He wanted to hug or kick the Giant to make him cease. His fingers itched with mounting frenzy. Stop! he moaned. I can't stand it!
A moment later, Foamfollower bowed his head and fell silent. He remained still for a long time as if he were preparing himself. Then he asked flatly, "Who has been lost?"
"Very few," Prothall answered. "We were fortunate. Your valor served us well."
"Who?" Foamfollower ached.
With a sigh, Prothall named the five warriors, the Bloodguard, Variol and Tamarantha.
"Stone and Sea!" the Giant cried. With a convulsion of his shoulders, he thrust his hands into the fire.
The warriors gasped; Prothall stiffened at Covenant's side. But this was the Giantish caamora, and no one dared interfere.
Foamfollower's face stretched in agony, but he held himself still. His eyes seemed to bulge in their sockets; yet he kept his hands in the fire as if the blaze could heal, or at least sear, the blood on them, cauterize if it could not assuage the stain of shed life. But his pain showed in his forehead. The hard heart-pulse of hurt broke the crust on his wound; new blood dripped around his eyes and down his cheeks into his beard.