If Roger struck at her now—
Liand might be able to defend himself with the orcrest, perhaps by blinding a few assailants. Pahni might find some way to keep Anele alive briefly. But they would not survive for long.
“Stave!” Linden panted. “Stave.” But it was Branl and Galt who answered her.
Leaving their Ranyhyn behind to aid in the last defense, the two Humbled sprinted on foot toward the chaos clustered around Mahrtiir and Bhapa. They seemed as mighty as Giants as they hammered into the fray. With heavy punches and iron kicks and slashing elbows, they attacked the knees of the Cavewights. And when the creatures fell, squealing in pain, Galt and Branl battered their throats.
Igniting creatures until they burned like torches, Linden tried to see what happened to the Humbled and the Ramen. But the rest of Roger’s army continued to surge toward her, and she could not afford to let her concentration slip.
Roger ignored the damage to his army. Now he seemed to counter the roaring blackness of the Demondim-spawn with dismissive ease. The power blazing from his right fist increased moment by moment as if Kastenessen fed it; as if the Elohim channeled more and more of his scoria and anguish through Roger. And as Roger drove back the assault of the ur-viles and Waynhim, he also sent shafts of rage at the Harrow.
A spear arched through the air, plummeting toward Linden. Stave knocked it aside without apparent effort. Frantically she struggled against her consternation to pour more and still more passion into the Staff’s yellow fire.
Embattled, the Harrow began to give ground. When she risked a glance behind her, however, Linden saw that the Insequent fought only Roger and Esmer. The acid of the ur-viles no longer reached him. He gestured furiously with one hand and shouted commands to ward off Roger’s blasts. With the other, he sketched arcane symbols in an attempt to quash earthen geysers. Frenzy filled the emptiness of his eyes. Yet the black theurgy of the ur-viles did not endanger him, although their loremaster still flung gouts of vitriol. Esmer’s efforts to hurt the Harrow disrupted the attack of the Demondim-spawn.
Esmer—?
He could have attacked the Harrow from any direction. At first, Linden thought that Cail’s son chose an angle of assault which blocked the magicks of the ur-viles because he did not wish to share the Harrow’s death with them: he craved it for himself—or for Kastenessen. But then she saw the truth. While he assailed the Harrow, Esmer continued to leave himself exposed to the shattering concussions of the third wedge; and they were weakening him. Blood hemorrhaged from his mouth with every breath. His arms and legs were livid with detonations and bruises. His cymar hung in tatters. As a result, his force was simply not great enough to overwhelm the Insequent. Yet he accepted his own hurts in order to concentrate his waning puissance on the Harrow.
In fact, he appeared to be protecting the Demondim-spawn. The Harrow needed too much of his mystic knowledge to survive Roger’s magma: the added threat of Esmer’s swirling bombardment prevented him from unmaking any more of the ur-viles.
Aid and betrayal. Even here, the son of Cail and the Dancers of the Sea could not pick a side.
In spite of Linden’s fire, the leading Cavewights drew nearer. Now Clyme charged to meet them, crashing into them with all of Mhornym’s mass and might. A barrage of spears seemed to plummet as one toward Linden. Impossibly swift, Stave used one to strike the others down. The incessant clash of eldritch powers shook the ground. Hyn’s hooves danced as she strove to provide Linden with a steady seat.
“No!” Linden howled, although she could hardly hear herself through the mad clangor and tumult of weapons, blows, screams. Nevertheless the ur-viles and Waynhim must have understood her; or understood what was happening better than she did. In unison, they stopped attacking Esmer. Turning their wedge, they began to hurl corrosion among the Cavewights.
The impact slowed the creatures’ onrush. And Linden set fires among them as if they were dried and brittle, primed for conflagration. Sickening herself, she wielded her flail of Earthpower. As long as Roger only defended himself from the Demondim-spawn while he tried to destroy the Harrow—as long as he did not strike at her and her mortal allies—she forced herself to fight his army instead of renewing the battle that had begun under Melenkurion Skyweir; instead of repaying him for his part in Jeremiah’s pain.
In glimpses, she saw Mahrtiir and Bhapa; Galt and Branl; Clyme. The Ramen had neither the strength nor the speed of Haruchai: they certainly could not stand against the size and muscle of the Cavewights. Nonetheless they were experienced fighters, trained to protect the Ranyhyn with quickness and cunning. And their mounts fought for them. Gradually Galt and Branl on foot and Clyme on Mhornym lunged and dodged their way through the melee toward Bhapa and Mahrtiir.
They were all covered in blood, their own as well as the Cavewights’. The carnage among the creatures was terrible. Yet the Cavewights surged closer to Linden and her remaining defenders with every step and heartbeat.
At a word from Stave, Bhanoryl and Naybahn joined the battle for the sake of their riders, leaving only the former Master to protect Linden while Liand and Pahni guarded Anele.
Roger appeared to laugh, exulting in power. If he had turned his vehemence against the Waynhim and ur-viles, he might have butchered them all. But he was content to ward off their black lore while he strove to burn down the Harrow.
Again and again, the Insequent was driven back. If he had the ability to step aside, he could not use it: he was too hard-pressed by Roger’s gleeful fury and Esmer’s wounded assault.
Linden had no idea what a being as dangerous and greedy as the Harrow had done—or could do—to earn such enmity from Lord Foul’s minions.
Still the wedge challenging the Harrow could not reach him through Esmer’s ragged eruptions. Abruptly those ur-viles changed their objectives. In small groups of five or six, they began to peel away. Scampering on all fours, they sped to join the formation which fought the Cavewights.
They were too late—and the Cavewights were too many. Even Linden’s desperation was not enough. In spite of the dark efforts of the Demondim-spawn, she and her last companions would soon be inundated. If Esmer and perhaps even the Harrow did not turn to aid her, she might not be able to keep herself alive. She would certainly not be able to preserve Stave and Liand, Pahni and Anele.
As far as she knew, the other Ramen and the Humbled were already dead.
While she transformed creatures into living, screaming firewood, a Cavewight hurled a bludgeon at her from a distance of no more than six or seven paces. She barely saw it before Hynyn sprang in front of Hyn, and Stave snatched the massive club out of the air. Using the weapon’s velocity, he swung his arm to fling the bludgeon back at the Cavewight.
This time when Liand shouted her name, Linden looked at him; saw him pointing toward the Woodhelvennin.
They had been standing at some distance, watching in comparative safety. Now they were running toward the battle. They appeared to be yelling, although she could not hear them through the din. For an instant, she thought that they meant to join the fight; that the destruction of First Woodhelven had inspired them to strike back.
But then she saw a huge pack of kresh sweeping down on the villagers from the north. Easily the great yellow wolves leapt over or splashed through the brook. Men, women, and children fled slaughter in the only direction open to them. The wolves would have run them down in moments if they had turned to either side.
Nevertheless they were caught between the battle and the kresh. Soon all of them would die.
The two Masters—the only defenders of the Woodhelvennin—had already thrown themselves at the pack. But they were only two. And their mounts were merely horses, not Ranyhyn. They would be engulfed almost immediately.
Despite the turmoil and frenzy around her, Linden felt the presence of a Raver among the kresh.
She knew that malign spirit well: it had once possessed her, seeking to desecrate her love for Covenant. It was moksha Jehannum, and it ru
led the wolves, goading them until they were rabid for bloodshed.
She did not pause for thought. She had no time. An Elohim had warned the Land of merewives and skurj and croyel. He had spoken of a shadow upon the hearts of his people. He had foretold the threat of the halfhand.
And he had mentioned Sandgorgons—
Linden had seen his other prophecies fulfilled. Why not this one?
Distance has no meaning to such power.
Hardly aware of her own actions, she cried. “Nom! We need you!” Then she sent Hyn hurtling into the collision of theurgies, pounding through cataclysm toward the panicked villagers.
Instantly Stave and Liand joined her, and Pahni and Anele followed at her back, as if they—or their mounts—had known what she would do.
When Thomas Covenant had summoned Nom against the Clave, the Sandgorgon had taken some time to respond. The creature had been compelled to cross nameless oceans and uncounted leagues from Bhrathairealm and the Great Desert. If the same delay occurred now—assuming that Nom answered Linden at all—every human and horse in the valley, and perhaps every Demondim-spawn as well, would be dead before the creature appeared. Nevertheless she did not turn aside or look back. The straits of the Woodhelvennin drove her. For their sake, and to confront moksha, she could resolve the contradictions within her. With Law and Earthpower, she opened a passage through the battle. At Hyn’s best speed, she raced northward.
She did not see the Harrow blanch as if he were appalled at what she had done. She only heard him call wildly. “I am able to convey you to your son!”
He may have intended to break her heart.
Still she did not falter. She could not: at that moment, the need of the villagers outweighed every other consideration. Even her friends—Concentrating on the kresh, she felt rather than saw the Insequent allow his defenses to collapse. Only her nerves recognized what was happening as he wrapped himself and his destrier in a different kind of knowledge and vanished.
Deprived of his immediate target, Roger gave a howl of rage. But he had other prey: he, too, did not pause. Whirling, he aimed lava and loathing at Linden’s back.
She did not care. He had become incidental to her; a mere annoyance. At that moment, Gallows Howe and Caerroil Wildwood were incarnate in her. Like the Forestal, she had precious lives to defend. She only needed the Woodhelvennin to make way for her. If they did not—if they impeded her charge—
The kresh and the Raver were almost upon them.
Roger’s first blast fell short, intercepted by roiling blackness: the ur-viles and Waynhim had adjusted swiftly to counter him. A heartbeat later, he was attacked by half or more of the surviving Demondim-spawn. The rest threw their lore against the Cavewights in an attempt to prevent Roger’s army from following Linden.
But he was ecstatic with Kastenessen’s power. In this time, his given hand could draw directly on its source: Kastenessen’s savagery exalted him. The concussions and vitriol of his attackers he slammed aside with scornful ease. And his efforts to strike at Linden coerced them to spend their force in her defense rather than against him.
Then the Demondim-spawn themselves were assailed. In spite of his injuries and weakness, Esmer sent shocks through the ground to disrupt the formations of the Waynhim and ur-viles. He slew none of them; but his interference exposed them to the cruder force of the Cavewights. While Roger aimed his viciousness at Linden, his creatures hacked brutally at her defenders.
Almost screaming, Linden shouted the Seven Words until her Staff shone like an avatar of the sun’s fire. Frantic men and women dashed out of her path, snatching their children after them. Pahni’s young voice in a Ramen war-cry echoed the brilliance of Liand’s orcrest. Stave’s implacable mien promised death. Anele had awakened; but with the caesure gone, he clung to Hrama’s neck and did not hinder the Ranyhyn or his friends.
The huge fierce wolves had already begun to tear down and rend the slowest of the villagers when Linden and her last companions crashed into the pack.
The Cavewights were thinking creatures: the kresh were not. The Raver was worse than any beast or creature. And the Woodhelvennin were as helpless as trees. They had children with them, children, and could not defend themselves. As if she had become mindless herself, she sent great waves and breakers of flame at the wolves, burning them by the score to misshapen lumps of flesh, charred and reeking.
But she barely saw individual kresh: she paid no attention to what became of them. She sought moksha Jehannum. If she could do it, she meant to light a conflagration that would end the Raver’s cruelty forever.
Roger might have killed her then. She had no desire to defend herself—and no power to spare. In addition, Esmer had broken apart the wedges of the Demondim-spawn. Most of the ur-viles and Waynhim were fighting for their lives in small clusters: only a few remained to oppose Roger’s scoria. While she rampaged among the kresh, she left herself as vulnerable as the villagers.
But Roger did not send his puissance against her. He could not. Before he could hurl another blast, half a dozen Sandgorgons smashed into the rear of his army.
Crushing Cavewights with ease, three of the Sandgorgons wrought havoc among Roger’s forces while the rest attacked him directly.
Their strength dwarfed that of the Cavewights. Alone, Nom had once shattered Revelstone’s inner gates; had gouged out a passage for Glimmermere’s waters to quench the last of the Banefire. With Grimmand Honninscrave’s help, Nom had shredded samadhi Sheol’s spirit. Given time, half a dozen Sandgorgons could have leveled Lord’s Keep entirely.
The weapons and desperation of the Cavewights could not wound them. The ur-viles and Waynhim scattered before them. And Esmer did not turn his power against them. Instead he quelled his spouts of dirt and stone, his tremors in the ground, as if he had acknowledged defeat—or achieved victory. Panting blood, he seemed to fold the air around him as he disappeared.
Roger would have been beaten to pulp if he had not turned all of his scoria and wrath against the Sandgorgons. Their blunt arms and pulverizing might would have left no recognizable remains of his ordinary flesh.
Moksha Jehannum lashed the kresh to frothing madness; but the Raver eluded Linden. It was here and there throughout the pack, mastering the wolves, transmuting their natural fear of fire into ferocity. She feared that moksha would attempt to escape her by possessing one of the Woodhelvennin, forcing her to slay an innocent victim if she wished to harm the Raver. Therefore she wielded her fire like devastation, taking care only that she did not harm any human or Haruchai or Ranyhyn.
On one side of her, the brightness of Liand’s Sunstone dazzled the kresh so that they gnashed and tore at each other blindly. On the other, Stave rode Hynyn and let the roan stallion fight for him while he watched over Linden. Behind them, Pahni clung to Anele with one hand, supporting him, keeping him close to her, while she used her garrote to whip away any wolf that sprang for Hrama or Naharahn.
Suddenly Stave reached down to snatch a Master out of a raging mass of wolves. Hynyn hammered with his hooves at the skulls and spines of kresh as Stave swung the Haruchai up behind him. The Master was badly rent, bleeding from many grim bites and gouges; but as soon as he settled himself against Stave’s back, he kicked at every wolf that came within reach.
Of the other Master, Linden saw no sign. She did not know if Mahrtiir, Bhapa, the Humbled, or any of their mounts remained alive. But the villagers were behind her now, and she did not permit any kind of fear to inhibit her scouring flame.
Nevertheless, on some subcutaneous level of perception, she recognized that the Cavewights were being decimated. She felt them break as they died, shattered by the tremendous force of the Sandgorgons. And she sensed the precise instant when Roger’s rage and frustration turned to terror. He burned the Sandgorgons until their hides bubbled and the bubbles burst, spilling viscid blood that stank of dire vitality; but he could not stop them.
He was about to meet the same doom which had fallen on his army: Linden
knew that. But she did not pause to watch him fight for his life. She was too busy killing. Too busy searching for the Raver so that she could at least try to unmake Lord Foul’s ancient servant.
And she was nearing the outermost limits of her own endurance.
Gradually she began to flicker and fail. Consumed by the struggle to keep going—to seek moksha Jehannum with percipience and fire—she did not see Roger call the few remaining Cavewights to him, leap onto one of their backs, and send them racing eastward away from the Sandgorgons.
With their long legs and their peculiar strength, the Cavewights ran as if they were as fleet as Ranyhyn. Perhaps the Sandgorgons could have caught them: the denizens of the Great Desert were also swift. But Roger had hurt all of the Sandgorgons to some extent. And he flung a terrible heat behind him as the Cavewights fled. The Sandgorgons did not give chase. Instead they began stamping to death any of their foes which they had merely crippled.
After Esmer’s disappearance, the ur-viles and Waynhim had slipped away, vanishing as imperceptibly as they had appeared.
When finally the last two or three dozen wolves turned to flee, moksha Raver escaped among them, untouched by her flagging vehemence. Within moments, they had crossed the brook northward.
She wanted to pursue them; to go on raining down fire until she reached the Raver itself. But she could not. As the kresh fled, something within her broke, and she lost her grasp on Earthpower. Her flames guttered and faded in the dust of battle; the dust and the tarnished sunlight.
She had already gone too far beyond herself. She did not know how to go farther.
7. An Aftertaste of Victory
In spite of her exhaustion and dismay, Linden tried to keep moving. But she was numb with killing; too profoundly weary to consider what she did. She did not go in search of her friends. She did not ask what had become of them. Instead, trembling, she fell back on years of training and experience: triage, trauma, emergency care. Her depleted spirit she focused on the needs directly in front of her.