He could not make the stone under him stop whirling. Helplessly he clung to the first Haruchai who came to him. The numbness of his hands and feet had spread to his other senses. His mind had gone deaf. He heard nothing but the rumble of distant thunder, as if the sun outside Revelstone had become a sun of rain.
His thoughts spun. Where was Nom? There were villagers in the hold—and Haruchai. Unless the Clave had killed them already? Gibbon had to be somewhere. What would he do next? The venom made Covenant vicious, and the sheer effort of containing so much ignited violence took his sanity away. He thought he was speaking aloud, but his teeth were clenched and immobile. Why doesn’t somebody tell that damn thunder to shut up so I can hear myself?
But the thunder did not stop; and the people around him fought their weariness and injuries to ready themselves. Dimly he heard the First’s battlecry as she swept out her sword.
Then the darkness at the end of the forehall came toward him, and he saw that the Riders had unleashed their Coursers at the company.
Need cleared his head a little. The Haruchai holding him pushed him away, and other hands took him. He found himself near Linden at the rear of the company, with only Mistweave between them and the entrance. All the Haruchai around them were injured. Those who were not had gone with the First and Honninscrave to meet the charge of the Coursers. Sunder and Hollian stood alone in the center of the hall. She supported him while he strove urgently to interfere with the Clave’s command over the beasts. But exhaustion weakened him, and the Banefire was too near. He could not blunt the assault.
At least a score of the fierce Coursers rushed forward, borne by the stone thunder of their hooves.
The Haruchai protecting Covenant and Linden were severely wounded. Fole stood with his left foot resting in a pool of his own blood. Harn had a deep burn on one hip. The other four Haruchai there were nearly maimed by various hurts. The air still reeked of Grim-flakes and pain.
The beasts struck with a scream of animal fury; and Covenant wanted to shriek with them because it was too much and he was no closer to his goal and the fingers of his will were slipping moment by moment from their hold on the world’s ruin.
One heartbeat later, the scream arose again behind him like an echo. Riding his vertigo, he turned in time to see Mistweave go down under the hooves of four more Coursers.
The Giant had remained at the entrance to guard the company’s rear. But he had been watching the battle, the plight of his companions. The return of the beasts which Sunder had scattered earlier took him by surprise. They reared behind him, pounded him to the stone. Then they thudded past him inward, their feral red eyes flaming like sparks of the Banefire.
Covenant could not resist as Harn and two more Haruchai thrust him toward one wall, interposed themselves between him and the Coursers. Fole and the rest bore Linden to the opposite wall so that the attack would be divided. Wounded and extravagant Haruchai faced the huge savagery of the Sunbane-shaped mounts.
You bastard! Covenant cried at Gibbon as if he were weeping. You bloody bastard! Because he had nothing else left, he braced himself on venom and readied his fire so that no more Haruchai would have to die for him.
But once again he had underestimated them. Two of the Coursers veered toward Linden; two came for him— And Harn hobbled out to meet them. He was between Covenant and the beasts. Covenant could not strike at them. He had to watch as Harn pitched headlong to the stone directly under the hooves of the leading Courser.
Pitched and rolled, and came up under the beast’s belly with its left fetlock gripped in both hands.
Unable to halt, the Courser plunged to the stone. The fall simultaneously crushed its knee and drove its poisonous spur up into its barrel.
Squealing, it thrashed away from him. Its fangs slashed the air. But it could not rise with its leg broken, and the poison was already at work.
Near the entrance, Mistweave struggled to lever himself to his feet. But one of his arms sprawled at an unconscionable angle, and the other seemed too weak to lift him.
As the first Courser fell, the second charged toward Covenant. Then it braked with all four legs to keep itself from crashing into the wall. It looked as immense as thunder as it reared to bring its hooves and spurs down on Covenant and his defenders.
The Ranyhyn also had reared to him, and he felt unable to move. Instinctively he submitted himself to his dizziness. It unbalanced him, so that he stumbled away to the right.
Each forehoof as it hammered down was caught by one of the Haruchai.
Covenant did not know their names; but they stood under the impact of the hooves as if their flesh were granite. One of them had been burned on the arm and could not keep his grip; he was forced to slip the hoof past his shoulder to avoid the spur. But his comrade held and twisted until the other spur snapped off in his hands.
Instantly he drove the spur like a spike into the base of the Courser’s neck.
Then the floor came up and kicked Covenant in the chest. At once, he was able to see everything. But there was no air in his lungs, and he had forgotten how to control his limbs. Even the fire within him was momentarily stunned.
The uninjured Haruchai were taking their toll on the beasts pounding in the far end of the hall. Honninscrave swung his fists like bludgeons, matching his bulk and extremity against the size and strength of the Coursers. Pitchwife struck and struck as if he had temporarily become a warrior like his wife. But the First surpassed them all. She had been trained for combat, and her longsword leaped from thrust to thrust as if it were weightless in her iron hands, slaying Coursers on all sides.
Only one of the beasts got past her and her companions to hurl itself at Sunder and Hollian.
The Graveler tried to step forward; but Hollian stopped him. She took the orcrest and krill from him, held them high as she faced the Courser. Red fire and white light blazed out of her hands, daunting the beast so that it turned aside.
There Cail caught up with it and dispatched it as if it were not many times larger than he.
But the Haruchai guarding Linden were not so successful. Hampered by their wounds, they could not match the feats of their people. Fole attempted what Harn had done; but his leg failed him, and the Courser pulled from his grasp. It plowed into another Haruchai, slammed the man against the wall with such force that Covenant seemed to see Hergrom being crushed by a Sandgorgon in the impact. The third Haruchai thrust Linden away an instant before a hoof clipped the side of his head. His knees folded, and he sagged to the floor. Covenant had never seen one of the Haruchai fall like that.
Fole started after Linden; but a kick caught him by the shoulder, knocked him aside.
Then both Coursers reared over Linden.
Her face was clear in the reflected light from the courtyard, Covenant expected to see panic, paralysis, horror; and he gulped for air, struggled to put out power fast enough to aid her. But her visage showed no fear. It was argute with concentration: her eyes stabbed up at the beasts. Every line of her features was as precise as a command.
And the Coursers faltered. For an instant, they did not plunge at her. Somehow with no power to support her she drove her percipience into their minds, confused them.
Their minds were brutish, and the Banefire was strong. She could not hold them for more than an instant. But that was enough.
Before they recovered, Mistweave crashed into them like a battering ram.
He had once left Linden in peril of her life because he had not been able to choose between her and Honninscrave; and that failure had haunted him ever since. But now he saw his chance to make restitution—and did not mean to let any mortal pain or weakness stop him. Ignoring his hurts, he threw himself to Linden’s rescue.
His right arm flopped at his side, but his left was still strong. His initial charge knocked both Coursers back. One of them fell onto its side; and he followed it at once, struck it a blow which made its head rebound with a sickening thud from the hard stone, its body quiver and lie
still.
Wheeling, he met the second Courser as it rose to pound down on him. His good hand caught it by the gullet; his fingers ground inward to strangle the beast.
Its fangs gaped for his face. Its eyes flared insanely. Its forehooves slashed at his shoulders, tearing him with its spurs; blood streamed down his sides. But Linden had saved his life when he had been more deeply injured than this—and he had failed her. He would not do so again.
He held the beast until Fole and the other Haruchai came to his aid. They grabbed its forelegs, turned its spurs against itself. In a moment, the Courser was dead. Mistweave dropped it heavily to the floor.
His muscles began to tremble as the poison worked its way into him.
Then the fighting was over. Gasps and silence echoed from the far end of the forehall. Grimly Covenant gained his feet to stumble desperately toward Linden and Mistweave.
She had not been harmed. Mistweave and the Haruchai had taken all the hurt onto themselves. Her eyes ran as if the wounds of her friends had been etched on her heart. Yet the shape of her mouth and the angles of her cheeks were sharp with wrath. She looked like a woman who would never be paralyzed again. If she had spoken, she might have said. Just let him try. Just let that butchering sonofabitch try.
Before Covenant could summon any words, the First reached his side.
She was panting with exultation. Her eyes were bright, and her blade dripped thick blood. But she did not talk of such things. When she addressed him, she took him by surprise.
“The Master is gone,” she said through her teeth. “He pursues his purpose inward. I know not what he seeks—but I fear that he will find it.”
Behind her, Pitchwife retched for air as if his exertions had torn the tissues of his cramped lungs. Mistweave shivered toward convulsions as Courser-poison spread into him. Sunder’s face was gray with exhaustion; Hollian had to hold him to keep him on his feet. Six of the Haruchai had been burned by the Grim and nearly crippled; one was in Mistweave’s plight, gouged by a spur during the battle. Findail had vanished. Linden looked as bitter as acid.
And Honninscrave was gone. Nom was gone. Seeking their individual conceptions of ruin in the heart of Revelstone.
Too many lives. Too much pain. And Covenant was no closer to his goal than the entrance-hall of the na-Mhoram’s Keep.
That tears it, he thought dumbly. That is absolutely enough. I will not take any more of this.
“Linden,” he said thickly. His voice was hoarse with fire. “Tell Pitchwife how to treat these people.”
For an instant, her eyes widened. He feared that she would demur. She was a physician: seven Haruchai and Mistweave needed her sorely. But then she seemed to understand him. The Land also required healing. And she had wounds of her own which demanded care.
Turning to Pitchwife, she said, “You’ve got some vitrim left.” In spite of the Banefire, her senses had become explicit, immune to bafflement. “Use it on the burns. Give diamondraught to everybody who’s hurt.” Then she gazed squarely back at Covenant. “Mistweave’s arm can wait. But voure is the only thing I know of that’ll help against the poison.”
He did not hesitate; he had no hesitation left. “Cail,” he said, “you know Revelstone. And you know voure.” The distilled sap which the Clave used to ward off the effects of the sun of pestilence had once saved Cail’s life. “Tell your people to find some.” There were only four Haruchai uninjured. “And tell them to take Sunder and Hollian with them.” Hollian was experienced with voure. “For God’s sake, keep them safe.”
Without waiting for a response, he swung toward the First.
“What you ought to do is secure our retreat.” His tone thickened like blood. He had told all his companions to stay out of Revelstone, and none of them obeyed. But they would obey him now. He would not accept refusal. “But it’s too late for that. I want you to go after Honninscrave. Find him somehow. Don’t let him do it—whatever it is.”
Then he faced Cail again. “I don’t need to be protected. Not anymore. But if there’s anybody left in the hold,” any villagers or Haruchai the Clave had not yet shed, “they need help.
Break in there somehow. Get them out. Before they’re fed to the Banefire.
“Linden and I are going after Gibbon.”
None of his companions protested. He was impossible to refuse. He held the world in his hands, and his skin seemed to be wearing thinner, so that the black power gnawing in him showed more and more clearly. His cut fingers dripped blood; but the wound gave him no pain. When Linden indicated the far end of the forehall, he went in that direction with her, leaving behind him all the needs and problems for which he lacked both strength and time. Leaving behind especially Sunder and Hollian, on whom the future depended; but also the First and Pitchwife, who were dear to him; Mistweave on the verge of convulsions; the proven Haruchai; leaving them behind, not as encumbrances, but as people who were too precious to be risked. Linden also he would have left behind, but he needed her to guide him—and to support him. He was hag-ridden by vertigo. The reports of (heir steps rustled like dry leaves as they moved; and he felt that he was going to the place where all things withered. But he did not look back or turn aside.
When they passed out of the cavern into the mazing, Giant-planned ways of the great Keep, they were suddenly attacked by a small band of Riders. But the proximity of rukh-fire triggered his ring. The Riders were swept away in a wash of midnight.
The dark was complete for a short distance. Ahead, however, the normal lights of the city burned, torches smoking in sconces along the walls. No fires of the Lords had ever smoked: their flames had not harmed the essential wood. The Clave kept its passage lit so that Gibbon could move his forces from place to place; but these halls were empty. They echoed like crypts. Much beauty had died here, been undone by time or malice.
Behind him, Covenant heard the sounds of renewed combat; and his shoulders flinched.
“They can take care of themselves,” Linden gritted, holding her fear for her friends between her teeth. “This way.”
Covenant stayed with her as she turned toward a side passage and started down a long sequence of stairs toward the roots of Revelstone.
Her perception of the Raver made no mistakes. Not uncertainty, but only her ignorance of the Keep, caused her to take occasional corridors or turnings which did not lead toward her goal. At intervals, Riders appeared from nowhere to attack and retreat again as if they raised their fire for no other reason than to mark Covenant’s progress through the Keep. They posed no danger in themselves; his defenses were instantaneous and thorough. But each onslaught accentuated his dizziness, weakened his control. His ability to suppress the black raving frayed. He had to lean on Linden as if she were one of the Haruchai.
Always the path she chose tended downward; and after a while he felt a sick conviction that he knew where she was going—where Gibbon had decided to hazard his fate. The place where any violence would do the most damage. His forearm throbbed as if it had been freshly bitten. Then Linden opened a small, heavy door in a chamber which had once been a meeting hall, with curtains on its walls; and a long twisting stairwell gaped below them. Now he was sure. Night gyred up out of the depths; he thought that he would fall. But he did not. She upheld him. Only his nightmares gathered around him as they made the long descent toward the place where Gibbon meant to break him.
Abruptly she stopped, wheeled to look upward. A man came down the stairs, as noiseless as wings. In a moment, the Haruchai reached them.
Cail.
He faced Covenant. Haste did not heighten his respiration; disobedience did not abash him. “Ur-Lord,” he said, “I bring word of what transpires above.”
Covenant blinked at the Haruchai; but the nauseous whirl of his vision blurred everything.
“It is fortunate that voure was readily found. The company, is now sorely beleaguered. That battle is one to wring the heart”—he spoke as if he had no heart—“for it is fought in large part by tho
se who should not give battle. Among the few Riders are many others who merely serve the Clave and Revelstone. They are cooks and herders, artisans and scullions, tenders of hearth and Courser. They have no skill for this work, and it is a shameful thing to slay them. Yet they will not be halted or daunted. A possession is upon them. They accept naught but their own slaughter. Felling them, Pitchwife weeps as no Haruchai has ever wept.” Cail spoke flatly; but Linden’s grasp on Covenant’s arm conveyed a visceral tremor of the emotion Cail projected.
“Voure and vitrim enable the company for defense,” he went on. “And the hold has been opened. There were found Stell and some few other Haruchai, though no villagers. They have gone to the support of the company. The Graveler and the eh-Brand are well. But of neither the First nor the Master have we seen sign.”
Then he stopped. He did not ask permission to remain with Covenant; his stance showed that he had no intention of leaving.
Because Covenant said nothing, Linden breathed for him,
“Thanks. Thanks for coming.” Her voice ached on behalf of the innocent men and women who were Gibbon’s victims—and of her companions, who had no choice.
But Covenant had passed beyond the details of pain and loss into a state of utter purpose, of unanodyned grief and quintessential fury. Felling them, Pitchwife weeps as no Haruchai has ever wept. That must be true; Cail would not lie. But it was only one more drop in an ocean eating away the very shores of Time. The ocean of Lord Foul’s cruelty. Such things could not be permitted to continue.
Lifting himself out of vertigo and Linden’s grasp, the Unbeliever started downward again.
She called his name, but he did not answer. With Cail at her side, she came hastening after him.
The way was not long now. Soon he reached the bottom of the stairwell, halted in front of a blank wall that he remembered—a wall with an invisible door which he had seen only once before and never been asked to open. He did not know how to open it. But that did not matter. What mattered was that Gibbon had chosen this place, this place, for his battleground. Simple dismay added a twist which nearly snapped the knot of Covenant’s self-command.