“Aye,” Honninscrave affirmed softly. “And I will grieve for the Sandhold itself. Kasreyn of the Gyre wrought ill in many things, but in stone he wrought well.”
Seadreamer remained locked in his muteness, hugged his arms like bonds over his heart. But his eyes reflected the feral argent emblazoning the heavens. And Vain stood as straight as a salute, facing the site of Covenant’s power with a grin like the ancient ferocity of the ur-viles.
Around them, the air shivered to the timbre of wreckage.
Then the Lady Alif spoke across the incessant squalling of the sirens. “We must go.” Her features were stretched taut by what she saw, by the ruin of the life she recognized—and yet elevated also, gifted with a new vision to replace the old. “Kasreyn is ended—and his Guards with him. Yet our peril remains. None now in the Sandhold can call back the commands he has given. And I fear as well that there will be war this night, to determine who will hold power in Bhrathairealm. You must flee if you wish to live.”
The First nodded. She bent quickly to look at Ceer. He was dead—had bled to death like Linden’s father, though the two men could not have been more dissimilar. The First touched his cheek in benediction, sent a dark glance at Linden. But she did not speak. Honninscrave was still urgent for his ship. Picking her way among the dead and dying hustin, she set off along the top of the Sandwall at a swinging stride.
Honninscrave joined her. Pitchwife scrambled to follow. Moaning inarticulately deep in his throat, Seadreamer left Ceer. And Cail, who had not eased one jot of his grip on Linden’s lifeless arm, impelled her roughly after the Giants.
She had no sensation from the shoulder to the hand of her right arm. It hung strengthless and empty in spite of the way her heart labored. Cail’s kick must have crushed a nerve. There was blood on her head, responsibility which she had never acknowledged to anyone. Her pants were thickly soaked with blood. They stuck to her legs like sin. The void was closing more rapidly now, afflicting her with pangs of self-awareness. How could she walk with Ceer’s life so intimately drenched about her? It was the same potent Haruchai blood with which the Clave had fed the Banefire for generations; and she was only one ineffectual woman, numbed of arm and soul. She would never escape the sweet cloying stain and adhesion of blame.
The sounds of breakage from the heights of the Sandhold went on, a granite counterpoint to the sirens; but the wild light of power began to fade. Darkness slowly regained its hold over Bhrathairealm. Moonlight covered the huge bulk of the Sandhold and the wide ridge of the Sandwall with a suggestion of evanescence, lay across the duned waste of the Great Desert like the caress of a lover. In that allusive light, the pulsing screech of the alarms sounded fanatic and belorn.
The company was drawing closer to their source. As the questers hastened out onto the arm which stretched toward the Harbor, crossed above the western courtyard, the screaming seemed to change pitch. It arose from the gargoyles which crouched like basilisks over the inner gates.
Instinctively the companions quickened pace. The gates themselves appeared deserted. The hustin had left their posts, and the gaddhi’s Horse was surely occupied elsewhere. But the sirens still compelled apprehension and flight. Kasreyn was dead; the peril he had set in motion was not. As swiftly as Linden and the Lady Alif could move, the company hurried northward.
From the juncture beyond the courtyard, the wall sloped downward as the terrain declined toward the sea. In moments, stone came between the questers and the sirens, blunting the wail. And the companions were able to see out over Bhrathairain.
Laid bare under the moon, the town swept toward the Harbor in a complex network of fixed and moving lights. The lamps of aroused homes and defended merchantries stood against roving brands held by looters, or soldiers, or fleeing sailors. Bhrathairain looked like a writhe of sparks, as if the whole town were gathering toward flame.
In the Harbor, the fire had already begun.
The Giants sprang to the parapet, stared fervidly toward the berth where they had left Starfare’s Gem. Honninscrave chewed curses as if he could hardly prevent himself from leaping over the wall.
Linden was not as far-eyed as either the Giants or the Haruchai. But she was nearly restored to herself. The void still muffled all her thoughts and movements as if her brain were swaddled in cotton; but it did not keep her from tasting the urgency of her companions. She followed them to the parapet, tried to see what they saw.
In the area where the dromond had been docked, all the ships were ablaze.
The shock brought her back into her body. The weight of her numb arm, and Call’s grip on it, became suddenly too heavy to be borne. She stumbled forward. At once, the Haruchai hauled her back. The force of his jerk swung her to face him.
She confronted his flat face, the fires reflecting in his eyes. “I can’t—” Her voice seemed as inutile as her arm. There were so many things she should say to him, would have to say to him. But not now. She swallowed thickly. “Can’t see. That far. What happened to the ship?”
Cail’s gaze narrowed as he gauged the change in her. Slowly he unclawed his fingers from her arm. His expression did not relent. But he lifted one hand to point toward the Harbor.
Pitchwife had heard her. He placed a hand on her shoulder as if he were accepting her from Cail—or perhaps interposing himself between them—and steered her to a view of the bay.
As he did so, he spoke carefully, like a man whose lungs had been damaged by his exertions.
“This is the Anchormaster’s doing. It was his intent to contrive a means that we might be warned, should the Bhrathair once again attempt harm to Starfare’s Gem. Now it appears that such an attempt was indeed made. Therefore he has set this fire, hoping that some word of it might tell us of his peril.”
“But where—?” Her thoughts limped after him. She saw nothing along the wharves but one huge blaze. “Where’s the ship?”
“There.” He directed her gaze some distance out from the piers. Still she could not see the dromond. “Sevinhand has done bravely.” Pitchwife’s voice was tight in his throat. “But now Starfare’s Gem must strive for its life.” Then she saw it.
Small in the distance, a fireball arced silently over the black face of the water, casting a lurid light and wide reflections. It came from an armored galleass with a catapult braced on its decks.
The fireball carried toward the unmistakable stone spars of Starfare’s Gem.
Sevinhand had raised every span of canvas which the Giantship’s two remaining masts could hold. Vivid in that moment of light, the gap between them gaped like a fatal wound; and the sails themselves seemed to reach out for the fireball.
Other ships were there as well: two penteconters nearly as large as Starfare’s Gem; two triremes, both massively iron-prowed for ramming; another catapult-armed galleass. They were hounding the dromond, seeking a way to bring it down. But it was already turning. The fireball carried over its stern, crashed into the oily heaving of the sea. At once, the ball detonated, spreading sheets of flame across the water. Gouts and blazes struck the Giantship’s sides; but they fell back from the moire-stone, did no damage.
Before the flames guttered out, Linden saw one of the triremes curving inward, racing to sink its prow athwart the dromond. Ranks of oars frothed the sea. Then the light was gone. In spite of the moon, the ships disappeared.
Through his teeth, Honninscrave snarled instructions Sevinhand could not hear. The Master was desperate for his vessel. Linden held her breath involuntarily. No sound reached them. The tumult in Bhrathairain, the battle in the Harbor, were inaudible through the sirens. But then a new fireball kicked upward from the second galleass. It had been hastily launched, poorly aimed. It accomplished nothing except illumination.
In the glare, Linden saw Starfare’s Gem veering through the wreckage of the trireme. The back of the attacker had been broken. Its remains went down under the dromond’s heel. For a moment, the flames were full of tiny writhing shapes. Then the darkness returned, e
ffacing Starfare’s Gem as it moved to engage the nearest penteconter.
Honninscrave and Seadreamer were unable to look away from the combat. But the Lady Alif pulled at the First’s arm. With an effort, the First wrenched her attention back from the Harbor.
“You must hasten to the Spikes,” the Lady was saying. “Be wary—they are warded. But only there may you hope to rejoin your vessel. And the way is long.”
“Do you not accompany us?” the First asked in quick concern.
“There is a stair nigh,” came the reply. “I will return to my people.”
“Lady.” The First’s voice was soft with protest. “What life do you hope here? After this night, Bhrathairealm will not be what it was. You have risked much for us. Let us in return bear you from this place. Our way will be neither easy nor unjeopardous, but it will spare you the whims of tyrants.”
But the Lady Alif had found strengths in herself which appeared to surprise her. “You speak truly,” she said as if in wonder at her own audacity. “Bhrathairealm will not be what it was. And I have forgotten the trick of taking joy in the whims of tyrants. But now there will be work for any who no longer love the gaddhi. And I possess some of the secrets of the Sandhold. That knowledge may be of service to those who do not wish to replace one Rant Absolain with another.” She stood erect in her tattered robes, a woman who had at last come into her heart’s estate. “I thank you for what you have offered—and for what you have wrought this night. But I will depart now. The Spikes are warded. Be wary.”
“Lady!” the First called after her; but she had already retreated into the dark, and the shadows along the parapets had swallowed her. Gently the First sighed, “Go well. There is hope and beauty for any folk who give birth to such as you.” But no one heard her except Linden and Pitchwife.
Shivering to herself, Linden turned back toward the Harbor in time to see Dawngreeter burning like a torch.
Faintly she descried Giants in the rigging. They cut loose the sail, sent it fluttering like a wounded bird into the sea. Before the light ended, they were busy clewing another sail to the yards.
The dromond had left more damage in its wake. One of the penteconters and a galleass had collided side-to-side. Many of the penteconter’s oars were shattered; and that wreckage made a shambles of the galleass’s decks, crippling the catapult. While the three remaining vessels scrambled to renew their attack, Starfare’s Gem rode the night breeze toward open water.
“Now!” the First snapped, breaking the fixed attention of her comrades. “We must make speed toward the Spikes. The Giantship will gain them with fire and pursuit at its back. It must not be asked to delay there for our coming.”
Shadows of fear and wrath obscured Honninscrave’s face; but he did not pause. Though he could not keep his gaze from the Harbor, he swung northward, broke into a trot.
Assuming that she would be obeyed, the First followed him.
But Linden hesitated. She was already exhausted. Ceer’s death was slowly encrusting her pants, and she did not know what had become of Covenant. The things she had done left a metallic taste of horror in her mouth. First Hergrom and now Ceer. Like her mother. The doctors had refused to accept responsibility for her mother’s death, and now she was a doctor, and she had tried to kill Ceer. Covenant was gone.
While the First fled, Linden turned back toward the Sandhold, hunting for any sign of power which would indicate that Covenant was still alive.
There was nothing. The donjon hunched against the night sky like a ruin. Behind its pale walls, it was full of a darkness which the moon could not assuage. The only discernible life was the life of the sirens. They squalled as if their rage would never be appeased.
Her right arm hung at her side as if she had taken Covenant’s leprosy upon herself. Stiffly she started toward the Sandhold.
Cail caught her by the arm, swung her around as if he meant to strike her. But Pitchwife and Seadreamer had not left her. Pitchwife’s eyes burned as he slapped Cail’s grasp away from her. A distant part of her wondered if she were going to lose her arm. With a gesture, Pitchwife summoned Seadreamer. At once, the mute Giant lifted her into his embrace. Carrying her as he had carried her through Sarangrave Flat, he went in pursuit of Honninscrave and the First.
Gradually the sirens faded into the distance. The company was moving faster than Covenant would ever be able to follow. If he were still able to follow at all. The rims of her right shoulder ached dimly, like the shock after an amputation. When she looked up, she saw nothing but the long scar like a slash of old moonlight under Seadreamer’s eyes. The position in which he held her blocked Starfare’s Gem’s progress from view. She had been reduced to this and lacked even the strength for protest.
She was taken by surprise when Seadreamer abruptly wheeled back to the south and halted. The other Giants had also stopped. Cail stood poised on the balls of his feet. They all peered into the vague light toward Vain—or something beyond Vain.
Then she heard it: hooves beating the stone of the Sandwall. Iron-shod hooves, many of them. Twisting in Seadreamer’s grasp, she saw a massed cluster of shadows pour forward. They appeared to surge and seethe as they galloped.
“Honninscrave,” the First said like iron, “you and Seadreamer must continue to the Spikes. Bear the Chosen and Cail Haruchai with you. Pitchwife and I will do what we may to ward you.”
Neither brother protested. No Giant of the Search could have refused her when she used that tone. Slowly Honninscrave and Seadreamer withdrew. After only a fraction of hesitation, Cail also retreated. Vain moved to stay with Linden. Together the First and Pitchwife stood to meet the gaddhi’s Horse.
But soon both Honninscrave and Seadreamer stopped. Linden felt Seadreamer’s muscles yearning toward the First. Honninscrave clenched himself as if he did not know how to abandon a comrade. Caught between conflicting needs, they watched the mounted soldiers pound forward.
The First held her falchion in her hands and waited. Pitchwife hunched forward with his hands braced on his knees, gathering breath and strength for battle. In the immanent silver of the light, they looked like colossal icons, numinously silent and puissant.
Then a command was barked in the Bhrathair tongue. The horses bunched to a halt. Sparks squealed between iron and stone.
While the others stopped, one of the mounts came dancing with froth on its lips to confront the Giants. A familiar voice said, “First of the Search, I salute you. Who would have believed you capable of so casting Bhrathairealm into chaos?”
The First made a warning sign with the tip of her sword. “Rire Grist,” she said in a voice of quiet danger. “Return whence you have come. I do not desire to shed more blood.”
The Caitiffin’s mount fought its bit; he controlled the frightened animal roughly. “You mistake me.” His urbane diplomacy was gone. He sounded now like a soldier, and his tone held a note of eagerness. “Had I possessed the wisdom to take your true measure, I would have aided you earlier.” A note of ambition. “Kasreyn is dead. The gaddhi is little better than a madman. I have come to escort you to the Spikes, that at least you may hope for your vessel in safety.”
The First’s blade did not waver. Softly she asked, “Will you rule Bhrathairealm, Caitiffin?”
“If I do not, another will.”
“Perhaps,” she pursued. “Yet why do you seek to aid us?”
He had his answer ready. “I wish the goodwill of the tale you will bear to other lands. And I wish also that you should be gone swiftly, that I may set about my work free of powers I can neither comprehend nor master.”
He paused, then added with palpable sincerity, “Moreover, I am grateful. Had you failed, I would not have endured long in Kasreyn’s favor. Perhaps I would have been given to the Sandgorgons.” A shudder tinged his voice. “Gratitude has meaning to me.”
The First considered him for a moment. Then she demanded, “If you speak sooth, call back the warships which harry our dromond.”
His horse fli
nched. He wrestled with it momentarily before he answered. “That I cannot do.” He was taut with strain. “They obey the sirens, which I know not how to silence. I have no means to make myself heard at such a distance.”
As if involuntarily, the First looked out into the Harbor. There, the swift trireme had forced Starfare’s Gem to turn. The Giantship sailed broadside to the galleass, exposed for attack. The penteconter was closing rapidly.
“Then I require evidence of your good faith.” For an instant, her voice quivered; but she quickly smothered her concern with sternness. “You must send your command back to the Sandhold in search of Thomas Covenant. Those who oppose him must be stopped. He must have a mount, that he may overtake us with all haste. And you must accompany us alone. You will provide for our safety at the Spikes. And from that vantage you will seek means to be heard by these warships.” Her threat was as plain as her blade.
For a moment, the Caitiffin hesitated. He let his horse curvet as if its prancing could help him to a decision. But he had come too far to turn back. Wheeling toward his soldiers, he dismounted. One of them took the reins of his destrier while he barked a string of commands. At once, his squad turned, sprang into a gallop back up the long slope of the Sandwall.
When they were gone, Rire Grist bowed to the First. She acknowledged his decision with a nod. In silence, she put out her hand to Pitchwife’s shoulder. Together they started again toward the Spikes. If she recognized the disobedience of her companions, she did not reprove it.
With Cail at his side like a warder, Rire Grist hurried to keep pace with the Giants as they strode northward.
Another fireball revealed that Sevinhand had somehow eluded the snare of the warships. The dromond was once again cutting straight for the Spikes.
In the glare as the fireball burst across the water, the Spikes themselves were clearly visible. They rose ominously against the horizon, and the gap between them seemed too small for any escape.
Every tack and turn the Giantship was forced to make delayed its progress. The company was well in advance of the dromond as they approached the western tower. There the Caitiffin ran ahead with Cail beside him, shouted commands up at the embrasures. In moments, he was answered. The particular timbre of Seadreamer’s muscles told Linden that he understood what the Bhrathair said—and that Rire Grist was not betraying the company.