She shook her head to dispel the image. She could not help Branl and the struggling Swordmainnir. She had promised herself—
But she could meet other needs. Snatching Earthpower from the Staff, from Jeremiah, she aimed fire at Blustergale’s shoulder and Furledsail’s side.
She worked fiercely. She had no time for kindness. The battle was coming closer. Like an act of violence, she stopped Blustergale’s bleeding, mended the bones, closed the wound; poured energy into his veins: healing as brutal as abuse. When she was sure that he would live, she treated Furledsail in the same fashion.
All of the Giants had cared for her. Some had given their lives. This was how she rewarded the living.
Then Stave called her name. She jerked up her head, flung her gaze at the fighting.
He still stood near her. Nevertheless another Haruchai had joined Branl. The newcomer had acquired a falchion from a fallen creature. Together he and Branl struggled to slow the Cavewights so that the Swordmainnir would not be overrun.
Another—?
Linden did not recognize him.
A heartbeat later, a second unfamiliar Haruchai landed lightly on the ledge. He must have been working his way down the wall. Even one of his people could not plummet onto stone with such ease from any great height.
He had the grizzled hair of a veteran: his face was a lattice of old scars. He paused to glance around at Stave and the sailors. Grueburn and Kindwind. Linden and Jeremiah. Then he stared at Covenant.
For the first time, Linden saw open astonishment on the impassive face of a Haruchai.
8.
Shamed Choices
Wild magic swelled in Covenant. It yearned for release. His wedding band ached on his ring finger. The ambush had already killed three of the Giants. Hurl’s body lay against the wall, transformed by a stone spear into fresh feasting for rats. Two of the men from Dire’s Vessel had plunged into the crevice; into the distant embrace of the Defiles Course. Still an uncountable number of Cavewights pressed forward: a storm of red eyes and ferocity squalling like ghouls. Covenant did not know how much longer the company’s defenders could withstand the attack.
Stonemage and Bluntfist. Coldspray and Stoutgirth. Branl with Longwrath’s flamberge. The eldritch blade’s magicks were meaningless here: its edges were not. Together the Humbled and the Giants were more effective than Covenant could comprehend.
The Anchormaster’s remaining sailors had armed themselves with spears. Even Blustergale and Furledsail had regained their feet after Linden’s violent healing; had claimed weapons. But they could not enter the fray. The ledge was too narrow.
Covenant loathed killing, but his abhorrence for the suffering and loss of those who stood with him was greater. To save them, he would have incinerated every Cavewight on the ledge. And he would have borne the cost; added those deaths to the stains on his soul. His ring seemed to plead for use.
Yet he suppressed its fire, swallowed his ambiguous power. He did not have enough control to strike at the Cavewights without harming the people whom he longed to save. He could not protect Linden and Jeremiah. He had never been able to spare anyone who chose to fight for the Land.
And he did not understand why the unfamiliar Master stared at him in such amazement.
Surely the Haruchai had come for this? Summoned by Bhapa and Pahni, they must have rushed to Mount Thunder to join the Land’s last defense. Why else were they here? How else had they arrived when they were needed?
“Thomas,” Linden panted. “Thomas.”
Covenant barely heard her. He gripped Loric’s krill as if he had forgotten it.
Why was this Master surprised?
Fortunately he had not come alone. Armed with a Cavewight’s falchion, the other warrior now supported Branl. In perfect harmony, they appeared to flow and eddy among the creatures, delivering bloodshed and death with the grace of dancers: a cut here, a thrust there, a spinning feint, on and on, all too swift for Covenant to grasp. Maimed and dying Cavewights were flung like sleet into the fissure. And those that fought past the two Masters were met by the hard iron of the Swordmainnir, or by Stoutgirth’s spear.
The strength and skill of the defenders slowed the charge. They halted it.
“Ur-Lord.” Stave pitched his voice to pierce the clamor and rage, the screams of pain, the raw gasping. “Here is Canrik of the Masters. His comrade is Dast. Above us, Ulman and Ard await the outcome here.” Stave’s tone had a sardonic tinge, trenchant and vindicated. “They were unaware of your return to life.”
Unaware—? The idea staggered Covenant. Realities shifted. The ledge tilted to one side. It began to turn. He stood on impossible stone, could not keep his balance. The crevice called his name, a chiaroscuro of alternating seductions and commands. The krill fell from his numb fingers.
What had Bhapa and Pahni told the Masters? Had the Cords even reached Revelstone? Had the Ardent failed in his dying gift? Then why were the Masters here?
Covenant wanted to howl silver until the ledge stopped; until everything stopped.
Through the whirl, Linden’s arms found him. “Thomas!” He thought that he saw Stave holding the krill nearby; but he heard only his wife. “The Masters came. Stave says that two hundred of them came!” With every word, she tried to summon him back. “But they didn’t know where to look for us. There are too many tunnels. They had to spread out. Four of them found a place where the Wightwarrens open on this crevice. Somewhere up there.” She seemed to be pointing. “Two hundred, Thomas! We’ll have more help as soon as the others learn where we are.
“Hang on, Thomas! You have to hang on.”
Reeling, he struggled to focus on her. His hands fumbled their way to the sides of her face. He held her directly in front of him, almost nose to nose, so that she would wheel with him—or so that the truth of her would remain stationary. She was not spinning. The ledge was not. Even the world was not. It was all in his mind.
He should have been accustomed to such things. He had been dizzy often enough—
“Mom?” Jeremiah asked. He seemed to be pleading. “Are they going to save us?”
Canrik spoke. “Ur-Lord.” His voice was hard. His amazement had become anger. “There are questions which must be answered.” Then he seemed to relent. “They cannot be answered here.
“Giants!” he called. “Do you possess rope? We would do well to gain the ledge above. Ulman and Ard will aid us. We have no other path.”
A cudgel caught the side of Stonemage’s leg. She went down. Lunging, Stoutgirth spitted her assailant. Blood gushed from the Cavewight’s mouth, splashed the Anchormaster’s face. But Stoutgirth was not done. In spite of his leanness, he was strong enough to heave the Cavewight into the air on the end of his spear. Furiously he pitched the creature over the edge.
Stonemage’s pain made Linden flinch. She pulled away from Covenant. “Help them!” she yelled at Canrik. “Stonemage can’t stand!”
The Master faced her, glaring. “There is no need. The attack fails. A rout begins.”
Harried by fears like furies, Covenant forced his inward whirl aside. The whole crevice continued turning, but he ignored it. Standing with his legs wide, he looked along the ledge.
Through a blur of failing sight and vertigo, he saw that Canrik was right. Only seven or eight Cavewights still fought. The other Master, Dast, pursued creatures trying to retreat. Branl spun to help Bluntfist and Coldspray with their opponents. His blade spilled entrails, flung red spray. With every slash, Coldspray drew bright gore. Bluff Stoutgirth threw his spear: a final strike that gouged chips from a plate of armor. Then he stooped to Stonemage, pulled her arm over his shoulder, hauled her upright. Together they staggered toward the rest of the company.
Blustergale did not wait for instructions. From one of the company’s sacks, he produced a heavy coil of rope. Baf Scatterwit tried to take it from him: his healed shoulder was still weak. He refused her; gave the rope to Wiver Setrock. To console her, he said, “Stand ready. You will
have other tasks.”
She hooted a laugh. “I am ready. Am I not ready always?”
“Anchormaster!” shouted Setrock. “The Master counsels an ascent! Other Masters wait to assist us.”
Manic in his mask of blood, Stoutgirth grinned, rolled his eyes. “Sluggard! Why do you delay? If we do not accept aid when it is offered, we are not merely fools. We are witless as well.”
At once, Setrock moved to the rim of the ledge, peered upward. For a moment, he gauged the distance, hefted his coil of rope. Then he nodded. Crouching to gain force, he threw his coil at the ledge high above the company.
It disappeared in the darkness for a moment. Then one end of the rope came snaking down.
Covenant drew a steadier breath, watched his surroundings settle back into their necessary positions.
Stoutgirth lowered Stonemage to the ledge, settled her leaning against the wall. “Another line,” he commanded Scatterwit cheerfully; too cheerfully. Anguish in his gaze belied his tone. “Rig three cradles. I will not entrust the Timewarden or Linden Giantfriend or Jeremiah Chosen-son to the strength of their arms.”
He did not add that Cirrus Kindwind had only one hand, or that Blustergale and Furledsail were still recovering, or that Onyx Stonemage was hurt, or that Scatterwit herself had lost a foot.
Covenant approved. He did not believe that he would be able to hold on when fresh vertigo urged him to fall.
Questions which must be answered?
Canrik was glaring at Linden again as if she were a viper. As if he felt betrayed—
Under the force of his gaze, she seemed to shrink inside her clothes. She had endured too much distrust from the Masters; too many judgments. Her history with them hung on her shoulders like a millstone. But she did not reply to Canrik’s plain ire. Instead she turned to Jeremiah. Like a woman who wished to demonstrate something, she said distinctly, “I need Earthpower, Jeremiah. For Stonemage. Do you mind?”
Apparently she wanted Canrik to understand that the Staff of Law now belonged to the boy.
Jeremiah frowned. “She’s hurt.” He looked baffled. “You don’t have to ask. She needs you.”
He seemed to mean, I don’t know how to help her.
The idea that the Masters still saw harm in Linden made Covenant want to hit Canrik in the face. Trembling at the intensity of his own wrath, he watched her walk toward Onyx Stonemage.
The injured Swordmain sat on the far side of the place where a boulder had broken the ledge. She kept her hands clamped around her thigh to block the sensations from her knee, prevent the pain from breaking through her self-command. Linden did not try to cross the gap unaided—and did not wait for help from the Giants. Instead she halted near the breach and bowed her head, concentrating her senses on Stonemage’s injured leg. As if of its own accord, fire unfurled from the Staff of Law, an ebon tracery stark in the krill’s shining. It spun whorls like intaglio as it reached toward Stonemage.
Beyond them, Rime Coldspray kicked a Cavewight off the ledge: apparently the last of the creatures. Breathing hard, she and Halewhole Bluntfist studied the distance for a moment, where Dast harried the remnants of the attack. Then they raised their swords to salute Branl.
He replied with a Haruchai bow. His expression acknowledged neither pride nor satisfaction. If he had gleaned anything from Dast’s thoughts, he did not reveal it.
Briefly Covenant faced Canrik. He wanted to demand, How dare you? How dare you? After everything she’s been through while you were sitting on your damn hands? But he restrained himself. There was too much here that he did not understand. Too much that the Master did not.
Deliberately he shifted his attention to Jeremiah. Harsh as a rasp, he asked, “Where is the Worm now?”
Like Linden, he intended a demonstration.
Jeremiah winced. He studied his hands twisting on the Staff. “It’s still in the river.” His voice shook with bitterness. “Still above ground. But it’s getting close. I can’t see Melenkurion Skyweir anymore. There’s just a huge cliff with a crack where the river comes out.”
Over his shoulder, Covenant looked at Canrik again. Did you hear that, you self-righteous bastard? You think you’ve got questions? You have no idea.
Everything that Linden had done for her son’s sake since Covenant’s return to life was justified.
Then he told Jeremiah unsteadily, “Don’t worry about it.” The boy was ignorant of Linden’s fraught history with Canrik’s people. When would she have explained it? Why would she? Galt had saved Jeremiah’s life. “I know what’s happening to you is cruel. I can only imagine how much it hurts. But you’ll get your chance to do something about it. And the Masters will help us.”
At least until their questions were answered.
As if in response, Canrik said, “The Masters have been given lies. Stave conceals his thoughts. Branl of the Humbled must reveal truth.”
The openness of Branl’s mind did not trouble Covenant. Of course Branl would tell the truth. He had promised to instruct his people. Covenant trusted that he would tell the whole truth.
But lies? Who had lied to the Haruchai? Who had taken that risk? And how had the discernment of the Masters been foiled?
Stave regarded Canrik with a flatness that seemed to imply disapproval; but he did not reproach the Master.
Around Covenant, the Giants hurried through their preparations to leave the ledge. A sailor called Spume Frothbreeze braced his feet on the wall. With a second coil of rope over his shoulder, he pulled himself upward hand over hand. Scatterwit’s line had been knotted around his waist so that he could drag it behind him.
To Covenant’s blurred sight, the height of the next ledge seemed unattainable. If Ard and Ulman were there, he could not distinguish them. Within moments, Frothbreeze faded into obscurity.
But the Giants did not hesitate. At once, a woman followed with the company’s last rope: Far Horizoneyes. Like Frothbreeze, she climbed with the ease of long experience.
Keenreef and Setrock took the remaining supplies, hastened upward. Covenant scowled at the cradles knotted into Scatterwit’s line: three of them tied in sequence so that he, Linden, and Jeremiah could sit in them and simply hold on while Giants and Haruchai raised them. He did not want to do this. He would lose his balance again. And all three of them would be vulnerable. If the Cavewights renewed their attack, threw more spears—
“No.” The Ironhand’s voice snatched him out of his fretting. Although she spoke quietly, her vehemence shocked him.
Turning, he saw Bluff Stoutgirth rise to his feet with Hurl’s body across his shoulders.
“No,” repeated Coldspray, furious or grieving. “Anchormaster, no.”
“One I lost to the skurj,” Stoutgirth replied like a lament. “For him, I have been granted a caamora. But three were slain here, and two fell beyond the reach of sorrow.” He bared his teeth through his veil of blood. “All were in my command, and their guerdon was death. I will not forsake Hurl to the feeding of rats.”
“You will,” countered the Ironhand. “I do not gainsay your bereavement. Nonetheless you are the Anchormaster of Dire’s Vessel, and you have not been relieved of command. Storms do not abate when a Giant falls from the rigging. Nor is our peril eased by the loss of comrades precious among us.
“The world’s ending will be caamora enough for any woe. You will not hazard your life for a corpse.”
“Will I not?” Stoutgirth did not meet her gaze. “Is this your word, Rime Coldspray? Do you speak thus, you who have lost five of your Swordmainnir, and have seen the purpose of your striving across the seas fail? Ironhand, your heart is stone. Mine is water.”
Coldspray clenched her fists: anger glared in her eyes. Before she could retort, however, he jerked up his head, laughed like a loon. Two strides took him to the edge of the chasm. There he crouched, braced his arms under Hurl’s body, and heaved it into the depths.
Laughing or crying, he said, “Hurl I give to the river. May it bear my heart to the s
urcease of seas, as it does him.”
His wracked mirth rose until it seemed to fill the crevice: a broken man’s threnody for the world’s fallen. But he did not permit his rue to hold the company back from the ropes.
hen Covenant reached the higher ledge, he had to sit down. Freed from his knotted cradle, he collapsed against one wall of the crude tunnel leading away from the crevice; drew his knees to his chest and hugged them urgently; hid his face. He felt unmanned by vertigo, by impossible demands and contradictions. He had barely known Hurl. He could not even remember the names of the other slain sailors, Giants who had lost their lives without striking a blow in their own defense. And his decisions had led them to ruin. It was his responsibility to make their deaths worthwhile.
It could not be done. Nothing that he ever did would assuage Lord Foul’s countless victims. Nothing would suffice to honor the valor of those who still struggled for the Earth.
Still Covenant had to try. He had to close his ears to the siren song of dizziness and futility. He had to believe—
There is no doom so black or deep that courage and clear sight may not find another truth beyond it.
He was a leper. Surely he could believe whatever he chose? As long as he was willing to pay the price?
Fortunately he was not alone. In the Land, he had seldom been alone; but this time he had been given more than companionship and aid. Linden was coming toward him. He did not need health-sense to recognize the love in her eyes, the raw concern. Jeremiah followed behind her, clutching the Staff of Law as if his sanity depended on it. Stave brought the light of Loric’s krill into the tunnel. Branl had gone to extremes that still appalled Covenant. Two Masters—Ard and Ulman?—stood on the ledge, helping with the ropes. And there were still Giants.
God, Giants—Five of Rime Coldspray’s comrades: four of the Anchormaster’s sailors: all gone, as lost to the world as Lostson Longwrath. Nevertheless those who remained outnumbered the dead.