“Is turiya Herem truly slain? Has Linden Avery indeed restored a Forestal to the Land? Has her fated boy provided for the preservation of the Elohim, and for an end to Kevin’s Dirt? Have you defeated Sandgorgons and skurj? Does the ur-Lord now seek to challenge Corruption in Kiril Threndor?”
Branl lifted an eyebrow. Then he shrugged like a man who did not deign to take offense. “I am Haruchai,” he said. “More, I am Humbled. I do not sully my mind with lies.
“Nor,” he added more sharply, “will I condone aspersion to the Ramen. As do you, Handir, Voice of the Masters, I require an account of their deeds. Yet they have been at all times steadfast and valiant companions. They have given of themselves utterly while the Masters remained effectless in Revelstone. I will endure no denunciation of them.”
Handir studied Branl. He appeared to search Branl’s mind.
“We are not effectless now,” the older man retorted. “Two hundred Masters have entered the Wightwarrens, seeking Linden Avery and Kastenessen as we were urged. Two hundred more strive toward Melenkurion Skyweir, where they, too, will give of themselves utterly against the Worm, if their arrival is not belated.”
At once, Pahni countered, fierce and proud, “Did the Ranyhyn consent to bear you?”
Handir glanced at her. “You know the truth of this, Cord Pahni. Do not aggravate your fault with insolence. You will be judged when you have justified your deeds.”
Then he said to Covenant as much as to Branl, “Ranyhyn bore us hither. Without their aid, we could not have come so swiftly. But the Masters who ride to Melenkurion Skyweir do so on lesser beasts. The great horses declined to be ridden there.”
The shining of Pahni’s eyes resembled exultation. “Thus the Ranyhyn approve Manethrall Bhapa’s purpose.”
The Voice of the Masters permitted himself a vexed frown. “I do not hear you,” he told the Cord. “It becomes evident, however, that I must heed the last of the Humbled. By him, as by the ur-Lord’s presence, the lies of the Ramen are exposed. Now Linden Avery’s query must be answered.
“Bhapa of the Ramen, it is not in the nature of your people to scheme and mislead. Why have you betrayed their legacy? Why have you concealed necessary truths?”
Covenant was holding his breath. He forced himself to let it out. The idea that two hundred Masters intended to oppose the Worm directly appalled him. He shook his head to dispel images of pointless slaughter.
Wary and unrelieved, Rime Coldspray and her Swordmainnir studied Bhapa, measuring the man in front of them against their memories of him. The Giants of Dire’s Vessel did not know the Cords, but they remained poised to support the Ironhand. Only Baf Scatterwit did not seem tense. She was chuckling to herself as if everyone in the cave amused her.
Jeremiah muttered something that Covenant could not hear. The boy scowled darkly, as if he were contemplating murder. The absence in his eyes suggested that he was watching the Worm burrow into Melenkurion Skyweir.
Bhapa rolled his head to loosen his bruised throat. He came closer to Linden and Covenant. In the open center of the gathering, he stopped: a man who needed room for the fire of his emotions. His eyes were white flames in the surrounding gloom.
“It was for this,” he told Handir in a tone of throttled fury. “That you might here encounter the truth of the Ringthane, the Chosen, Linden Avery—encounter it and know shame.”
Then he turned his back on the clenched repudiation of the Masters.
“Ringthane”—he addressed his appeal directly to Linden—“you are dear to me. My esteem you won by your care of Sahah, who is both Pahni’s cousin and half my sister. No succor known to the Ramen could have brought her back from death, yet you contrived to do so.
“My heart you won in the aftermath of First Woodhelven, when you redeemed Manethrall Mahrtiir’s life—aye, and preserved also his place as my Manethrall. At that time, I could not have met the peril of these times without his guidance. Sparing him, you spared me also.”
Linden listened with tears spilling from her eyes, but she made no sound.
The older Cord’s voice rose as he continued. Anger grated like thunder in the background of every word.
“And since those great deeds, I have been stunned to the soul by your devotion to your son, by your valor in the greatest extremity, and by your enduring love for the Timewarden. I know nothing of turiya Herem, or of Forestals, or of Elohim. Yet I know with a certainty which surpasses utterance that the awakening of the Worm was the outcome of Fangthane’s cunning, not of any desire for Desecration in you. You acted only upon your love for the Timewarden, and upon your love for your son.
“Linden Avery, Chosen, Ringthane, I am offended to the marrow of my bones that these sleepless ones have dared to think ill of you. They have named themselves the Masters of the Land, but they do not serve. True service submits itself to the cause which it serves, deeming that cause holy. This the Ramen comprehend. True service does not judge the deeds which are asked of it. It does not consent to this and refuse that, according to the dictates of its own pride. It gives of itself because the cause which it serves is worthy.
“The self-will of these Masters offends me. It is an offense to every good which they have sworn to preserve.”
As if he were unaware of the lifting of Covenant’s heart, unaware of the bright approval in the eyes of the Swordmainnir, unaware even of Linden’s weeping, Bhapa said more softly, “That is my justification. I did not mislead the Masters for the Land’s hurt, or for their own. I merely”—he spat the word—“encouraged them in their judgments and pride, praying that they would ride forth in wrath to confront Desecration. Thereby I hoped to impose upon them a confrontation with their own folly.
“If I must say more, I will add only that I did not invoke the Timewarden’s name because I feared that the Masters would not heed it. When have they ever stood with him in his last need? I feared that their notions of service would compel inaction.”
Then the Cord was finished. Briefly he slumped as if his passion had drained from him. But after a moment, he squared his shoulders and lifted his head, bracing himself to accept the consequences of what he had done.
Linden’s only answer was to say his name like a sob as she went to him. To his look of surprise, she replied by putting her arms around him and holding him tight.
Covenant wanted to weep himself. He wanted to laugh, and to shout out his joy in the Cords, and to rail at the Masters. But he contained his turmoil, set his own emotions aside in order to concentrate on Handir.
Fates of every description stood on the lip of a precipice. One misstep now might be fatal. Covenant should have felt dizzy; but he found that his faith was equal to this moment. Bhapa had brought the Masters to a crisis of rectitude, a challenge which would search their definition of themselves to its core. And here they had the power to save or damn Covenant’s intentions. Nevertheless he was content to await the outcome. He called himself the Unbeliever, but he believed in Bhapa, whose name meant “father.” In Pahni, whose name was “water.”
And he had always trusted the Haruchai.
The Voice of the Masters did not speak. His mien revealed nothing. No doubt he was engaged in a vehement discussion with his kinsmen; but they masked their thoughts.
When Linden had satisfied her gratitude, she released Bhapa. Blinking to clear her eyes, she gave him a crooked smile. Then she turned to Pahni.
Clearly she was unsure of herself with the young woman. Pahni had not spoken a word to her since Linden had refused to attempt Liand’s resurrection. Instead of offering to hug the Cord, Linden asked with an ache of yearning in her voice, “My God, Pahni. How did you do it?”
How had a woman who had been little more than a girl when she found her first love in Liand discovered the strength to face down the assembled Masters in Revelstone?
In spite of her slight stature, Pahni met Linden’s question with an imperious air. She looked whetted, as if she had spent days applying her heart to a grindstone. Wi
thout hesitation, she replied, “I made of my grief a form of rage. I spoke to excoriate, goading the Masters to bestir themselves. We are the life which remains. They could not stand idle while a mere Cord faulted them for permitting the world’s Desecration. They had no answer for the charge which I brought against them.”
They did not grieve. Therefore their bereavements ruled them.
Harsh as the call of a hawk, Pahni added, “I do not cry your pardon, Ringthane. I am a Cord of the Ramen. I will not regret that I have abided by the command of my Manethrall.” But then her manner softened somewhat. “And I also am offended in your name. I, too, crave the shaming of the Masters.”
At that, Linden covered her face with her hands.
Relieved and grateful, Covenant went to Bhapa. When the older Cord met his gaze, he said without rancor, “You took a hell of a risk. What were you going to do if it didn’t work?”
Bhapa’s mouth twisted. He almost smiled. With a hint of his former diffidence, he said, “Timewarden, I would have spoken of you. Your need outweighs my wrath. Had the Ringthane’s name failed, yours might have prevailed—though,” he admitted ruefully, “in that event the burden of shame would have become mine to bear.”
Covenant nodded. Under his breath, he murmured, “You’re a brave man. I’m glad you’re here. But maybe you should have trusted them with the truth. This”—a twitch of his head indicated the Masters—“isn’t settled.”
Still Handir and his people said nothing, revealed nothing. They guarded the cave and the company, motionless as graven images while they carried on their mental debate.
Impatient for a decision, the Giants fretted among themselves. While Grueburn and Stonemage spoke in low voices to Bluff Stoutgirth’s sailors, telling them more about Bhapa and Pahni, Rime Coldspray approached the Cords. She greeted them kindly in spite of her obvious exasperation, praised their courage, thanked them for their fidelity to Linden. Then, however, she reached the end of her endurance. Striding past the Ramen, she confronted Handir and Canrik, Samil and Vortin.
“Enough of this!” she called so that every Master could hear her. “While you query yourselves, our foes rally against us. Such uncertainty ill becomes you. If you will not stand with us, stand aside. We must attain Kiril Threndor.”
“Must we then countenance shame?” snapped Canrik. “Is that your counsel, Giant? You who know nothing of the strictures which form and inform the Haruchai?”
The Ironhand started to retort; but Handir gestured abruptly for silence. Ignoring Coldspray, he faced Covenant across the shining of the krill.
“Nonetheless this also is folly.” He spoke with his accustomed rigidity—and yet his tone conveyed a cry of protest. “Doubtless Linden Avery has become a rightful white gold wielder. And your endeavors against Corruption have twice exceeded every expectation. Yet when the Worm feeds, wild magic cannot counter it. Only Law can withstand the Earth’s destruction, but the Staff is held by a boy who has not mastered it. Why do you wish to expend our lives where no good outcome can be achieved?
“If we must be shamed, we will bear it. We are Haruchai. Yet it is cruel—is it not?—to insist upon our service in the name of folly. In the name of futility, ur-Lord. In the name of waste.”
Covenant grinned at him fiercely. “You tell me. Which would you rather do? Die here fighting Cavewights? Take the chance that something good might happen? Or be swept out of existence while you stand around complaining about waste?”
The Voice of the Masters paused for only a moment. Then he said without inflection, “We will fight.”
Covenant clenched his fists; stifled an impulse to punch the air. “Then get me to Kiril Threndor. Protect Linden as long as you can. Keep Jeremiah safe. And brace yourselves. We’ve already surprised the hell out of Lord Foul. Maybe we’ll surprise you, too.”
After that, he could no longer contain himself. Turning away from Handir, he shouted at the ceiling, “Did you hear that, you tormented bastard? The Haruchai are going to fight!”
The Ardent’s last service had accomplished its purpose.
9.
Parting Company
Covenant wanted to talk to Linden, remind her that he loved her, do what he could to reassure her. In addition, he meant to check on Jeremiah. The boy’s elsewhere gaze was changing: his whole face seemed to be changing. The silted hue of his eyes had acquired a crimson tinge, as if his irises were bleeding. And his visage looked leaner, deprived of its youthfulness by dismay and nascent horror. His hands no longer gripped the Staff tightly, no longer spilled the black flames of his transformed legacy. He may have forgotten that he held it.
As guerdon for his puerilevalor—
He was losing his ability to ward himself from visions of the Worm.
Covenant wanted to say something, ask questions, understand; give comfort if he could. But he had no time. While the echoes of his defiance lingered in the cave, the cordon of Masters surged into motion.
Responding to the mental shouts of the sentries, Haruchai sprinted toward the chamber’s openings. Around the company and the Cords, a few Masters formed a protective circle: Handir and Canrik, Samil and Vortin, Dast and Ulman. Stave held the krill high in one hand, hefted Cabledarm’s longsword in the other. Branl readied Longwrath’s flamberge.
“Cavewights,” the Voice of the Masters announced, passionless as stone. “They have massed their forces. Now they advance.”
Covenant spun, scanned the entrances. “Where?”
“On all sides, ur-Lord,” Branl replied.
Nodding to the Anchormaster, Rime Coldspray and her comrades joined Handir’s defensive formation. The sailors arranged themselves to support the Swordmainnir.
“Hellfire!” Covenant’s ring itched for use. He felt an irrational desire to fling wild magic at the knuckled ceiling. “Then pick one! Which one goes toward Kiril Threndor?”
Linden’s face was pallid with fright as she grasped Jeremiah’s arm, prepared herself to pull him into motion.
He threw her off. “Again?” he protested petulantly. Then his voice darkened. “Of course. We’re always attacked.” He sounded like a different person, someone older, inured to abuse. “Somebody should tell them they’re as doomed as we are.”
“Jeremiah!” cried Linden softly. “Honey? What’s happening to you?”
For an instant, the boy’s eyes rolled back in his head. Then he bared his teeth. His gaze came into focus.
“I’m getting it, Mom.” Again he sounded different, as if this time he had arisen from some other grave. “I don’t care what Stave says. I’ll show you.”
“We do not know the way,” Handir told Covenant. “None here have trod familiar passages. We must estimate our road. We are certain only that Kiril Threndor lies in that direction.” He pointed above and behind Covenant. “We will endeavor to clear a path there”—he indicated the tunnel closest to Kiril Threndor’s heading—“hoping to encounter other Masters. Their knowledge may extend farther.”
“Sure,” Jeremiah muttered. “Why not?”
Bhapa and Pahni stood with Stave beside Linden and Jeremiah. The Cords held their garrotes in their fists.
Covenant heard a noise like the sizzle of rain on hot stone: running feet. It swept closer. Before he could respond to Handir, Cavewights charged into the cave on all sides. In an instant, they filled the space with chaos and howling.
They came brandishing spears and truncheons, falchions heavy as spars, axes shaped to behead Giants. They burst into the cave from every entrance in such numbers that they could have inundated their foes, left no one standing.
But they did not come so far. Three strides into the chamber, they crashed like breakers against a seawall of Masters.
Hardly able to understand what he saw, Covenant watched the warriors meet the attack with a fanged front. At each entrance, tight wedges of three or four men bit like teeth into the brunt of the charge. Even as they fell in spurts and gushes of blood, the Haruchai drove confusion among the firs
t creatures; forced them to veer away on both sides. Some of the Cavewights tripped over bodies, did not rise again. Others spilled past the formations and scattered their lives against a bulwark of Masters.
The wedges did not hold. They could not. There were too many Cavewights. But the Haruchai were at their most devastating when they fought singly. As their front failed, they spun among their assailants, fighting as though carnage exalted them. They leapt and ducked, avoided and struck. Punches snapped arms, broke necks. Kicks dislocated knees, smashed feet. And many of the Masters snatched up weapons. They cut like scythes through the Cavewights, reaping entrails, brains, gore.
Nevertheless the creatures were many; and they had spent millennia nurturing their hatred and savagery, their resentment of peoples who had repeatedly foiled their singular dreams. They fought with the ferocity of beasts. Slaughtered themselves, they delivered slaughter in return. Covenant watched dozens of Masters go down amid scores of Cavewights. Wherever he looked, he seemed to see Haruchai killing or crippling creatures—and yet at every moment the Masters were driven back. Axes took heads, ripped torsos. Spears, bludgeons, brutal swords: all wrought havoc. Even the armed warriors died, cut down from behind while they slew the foes in front of them.
Covenant could have stopped this—but only by killing everyone in the cave, rendering every living thing to ash. His thwarted heart burned, accomplishing nothing.
Still more Cavewights surged inward, striding long-legged over the mounting rubble of corpses. Their weapons flung red ruin. Step by step, the fighting closed around the company. Handir prepared his defense. The Swordmainnir waited with their blades poised.
Behind them, Linden and Jeremiah faced each other, apparently arguing. Alarm stretched her features. He gnashed his teeth as if he were biting off hunks of desperation. She may have been shouting—they both may have been shouting—but Covenant could not hear them. Howls and screams deafened him, the sickening sounds of torn flesh, the hard smack of blows, the crack of breaking bones.