The Runes of the Earth: The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant - Book One (29 page)

She expected rain, but there was none.

Out of the gloom, Anele stumbled against her back. He caught himself, staggered to her side. His lips worked feverishly, but she could not hear him.

If Liand's people and the
Haruchai
fought
kresh,
they did so without a sound: no snarling; no cries of effort or pain.

Not wolves, then; or any other form of attack that Linden knew. A running battle could not be waged in silence between shocks of thunder.

The whole Stonedown had lost its voice. She and Anele might have been the only ones left alive—

The next slam of thunder brought no lightning. She had seen none since the storm began. Instead the shrouded air ahead of her seemed to congeal into a knot of perfect and impenetrable blackness: distilled ebony or obsidian. Even her blunted senses felt its concentration and power like a shout of wreckage.

As she stared at it in dismay, it shattered downward.

Dirt and broken stone spouted from the ground where the power struck; too much stone. Stunned moments passed before she understood that a home had been blasted to scree and flinders.

No natural force drove this storm. It was the Despiser's handiwork. Nothing in Mithil Stonedown could hope to stand against it.

Except wild magic—

She started forward again.

A heartbeat later, she stopped once more.

If Lord Foul had caused this storm, what did he hope to gain? Gratuitous destruction? Homelessness and pain? He delighted in such things. But she remembered him vividly. Always he hid one purpose within another. He would not be content with tearing Mithil Stonedown apart. He wanted more—

What would happen if she allowed herself to be lured into a contest of powers, white fire against black havoc? She did not know how to use Covenant's ring. If she found the way, she might break the storm, save some of Liand's people. Or the seething clouds might prove too potent for her. She might be impelled to flee for her life. Or worse, might lose control completely—

Or she might find that she could not raise wild magic by any act of will. Unable to defend herself, she might be struck down by the storm. Jeremiah's last faint hope would be gone.

In either case, the Masters would imprison Anele again when the danger passed. Her chance to escape—perhaps the only chance she would get—would be gone.
That
would serve the Despiser beyond question.

No, she panted to herself. No. She would not. Not while she could still breathe and think—

Do something they don't expect.

—and run.

If this storm was aimed at her, it might follow. Some of the Stonedownors, at least, would be spared. And Stave's people might not be able to pursue her.

Wheeling, she reached out for Anele, grabbed him by the shoulder of his tattered tunic. Instead of trying to shout through the wind, she shoved him ahead of her, away from the boiling center of darkness.

He complied as though she had set a goad to his ribs; as though he were not hindered by blindness.

Together they ran with all their strength between the dwellings and out of the Stonedown: away from thunder and Masters and the Land she knew.

 South: Linden prayed that she and Anele ran south; deeper into the valley.

Surely that black storm arose from the north?—from the peril which had found its release in Mount Thunder? If so, she needed to flee southward, toward the place where the mountains rose like barricades.

Away from Masters and dark thunder and Jeremiah.

Something they don't expect.

Away from any hope that she would find people to help her.

Dreams are snares.

Running, hardly able to see, she and the old man made their way between the homes and out of Mithil Stonedown. Anele stayed near her without urging or explanation. In every phase of his madness, apparently, he understood flight and did not need vision. Indeed, when they gained open ground he began to pull ahead. Guided by some instinct which she could hardly imagine, his feet seemed to find and follow a path of their own accord, despite the dense cloud and trailing thunder.

She did not want that. The
Haruchai
would come in pursuit. They were too doughty, and too familiar with power, to die in the darkness that assailed the village. And they had access to horses. Any path would guide the Masters swiftly after her.

Hoping that she had chosen the right direction and knew where she was, Linden panted at Anele's back, “Not that way! Head for the river!”

Liand's village lay on the eastern bank of the Mithil. If she and Anele were going
south, they could reach the watercourse by veering to their right. Perhaps they would be able to confuse the
Haruchai
by crossing the river—or by traveling along it.

Or by floating down it, as she and Covenant had done with Sunder under a sun of rain.

Would Stave make that assumption? He might. Certainly he would have to consider it seriously. If she could slip past Mithil Stonedown on the river, aiming toward the open expanse of the South Plains, she would be difficult to track.

And if she rode the current of the Mithil long enough, it would carry her to the southern edge of Andelain. There she might discover the counsel and guidance of the Dead—

It was possible that those shades no longer occupied the Hills. The Masters would know. But they would also know that she did not. Surely they might believe that she would head in that direction?

Fearing that she might lose him in the heavy gloom, Linden ran hard after Anele as he angled away from the path. He must have understood her, in spite of his derangement. And must have believed, as she did, that they fled for the south.

She could hardly see her feet, but her boots found easy footing on the tough cushion of the grass. And in moments the turf seemed to lean gently downward, perhaps declining toward the watercourse. For a few strides, she ran more easily.

Nevertheless she soon knew that her attempt to escape would fail.

She did not have the strength to run far. Already she could scarcely breathe. The heavy cloud filled her sight like dusk, swirled like phosphenes before her: darkness seeped into her eyes as if her life and blood were oozing away. Again and again, she missed her balance and nearly fell; or the harsh wind knocked her off her stride.

She had been battered too severely; had found too little rest. Her flesh demanded days of healing, not hours. And she had not prepared herself—For ten years, she had done little to sustain the physical toughness that she had developed on her travels with Thomas Covenant.

If the Despiser had appeared before her here and now—and if she could have drawn one full breath—she would have flung everything she had against him without hesitation. But she could not, simply could not, evade the
Haruchai
by running.

Yet Anele sped ahead of her over the dim grass as though all fatigue, every vestige of his mortality, had been left behind in the gaol of the Masters. Galvanized by Earthpower or dread, and hardened by years of privation, he outdistanced her easily. Already he had begun to fade from sight, evanescent as a specter in the fog. In another moment, she would lose him altogether.

She thought she heard him cackle as he ran, overflowing with mad glee. She would have begged him to slow down if she could have made any sound except gasping.

Then without transition she saw him clearly for an instant, and a glimpse of sunlight flared ahead of her. The outer edge of the storm—? Goading herself forward, she struggled after him.

Another flash of sunlight: a sweep of hillside, sloping mildly downward. Abruptly the cerements of the strange storm unwound from her limbs, and she broke free into dazzling light and clean day.

Momentarily exhausted, she dropped to her hands and knees, panting while the grass seemed to sway under her and the low breeze tugged her sideways.

For a while, she heard nothing except her hoarse breathing and the unsteady labor of her heart. The hills around her seemed silent as a grave, deprived of birds and life by the passage of the storm. She meant to lift her head, look for Anele, but the muscles in her neck and shoulders refused to obey her. For all she knew, he had continued running; would continue until he had left her behind forever.

After a few moments, however, the sound of movement upon the grass reached her, and a pair of old feet, abused and bare, appeared at the edge of her vision. Anele had returned for her.

He chortled in tight bursts like a man who could not catch his breath for mirth.

Linden tried to say his name, but she had no breath. How far had she stretched her frail attempt at escape? A hundred yards? Two hundred? The Masters would recapture her swiftly when the attack on Mithil Stonedown ended.

“Pathetic,” Anele cackled in Lord Foul's voice. “Entirely abject. You disappoint me, Linden Avery. I would delight to see you grovel thus, but I have not yet earned your prostration.

“If you had not released this failing cripple, my servants the
Haruchai
would have aided you. They would have fostered your false hopes. Now they will hunt you down and imprison you.

“This displeases me.”

She had no stamina; but she could still feel outrage. At once, she surged to her feet, clutching for Covenant's ring with fury in her gaze.

Anele flinched involuntarily. His blind eyes wept dread and misery as his mouth articulated the Despiser's bitter laughter.

“Damn it, Foul!” she panted through her teeth. “Leave him alone. If you need a victim, try me. Take your chances.”

“And if I do not?” Lord Foul retorted. “If I elect rather to mock you with this cripple's torment? What then? Insipid woman! Will you scour the life from these displaced bones for my amusement?”

Linden yearned for strength; for the validation of white fire. Wild magic would have given force to her repudiation. If Covenant's ring had not lain inert in her grasp, she might have been able to daunt even the Despiser. But she was not Covenant. His power did not belong to her.

Nevertheless her anger was enough for her. With ire and determination, if not with fire, she confronted Anele's anguish.

“Are you having fun, asshole?” she lashed out. “Enjoy it while you can. Sooner or later, I'm going to recover my health-sense.” Somehow. “And when I do, you will
leave Anele alone. That
I guarantee.

“If you don't, I'll be able to get at you.” More than once, percipience had enabled her to take possession of Covenant. “I'll tear you out of him with my bare hands.”

For what he did to Jeremiah as much as for his cruelty to Anele.

The old man recoiled in fright. The spirit within him chortled harshly.

“Do you believe so?” he retorted. “That would please me. I would find satisfaction in such a contest. And this mad vessel, that clings so stubbornly to continuance when he should have perished ages ago”—Lord Foul laughed outright—“ah, he would be quite destroyed.”

Not necessarily, Linden assured him in silence. You have no idea what I can do.

As matters stood, however, she posed no true threat. She knew that. Though Anele's plight wrung her heart, she gained nothing by exhausting herself with anger.

Sagging, she released the ring. “Then what is all this for?” she countered bitterly. “Does mocking us please you so much that you just can't resist? Hell, you can't escape unless you destroy the whole Earth. Don't you have anything better to do?”

Come on, Foul. Reveal something I can use. Tell me what you've done.

“At this moment?” the Despiser asked merrily. “Indeed I do. You must be restored, lest you prove unable to serve me. I mean to assist you.”

Abruptly her companion turned away, beckoning her to follow. “Come, woman. Accept our guidance. We will show you hurtloam.”

For the first time since she had regained her feet, Linden looked past him and saw the Mithil River at the bottom of the slope, bright with sunshine hardly a stone's throw away. Beyond it, mountains reared upward, jagged as teeth, forbidding the sky. Off to her right, they declined toward the plains; but in the south they gathered into a rugged wall at the head of the valley.

Behind her, partially hidden by the shape of the terrain, the storm still boiled and frothed over Mithil Stonedown. Apart from the occasional thunderclap of violence, the only sounds she could hear were the damp rush of the river between its banks, murmuring of high cold and distant seas, and her own labored respiration.

Somewhere she had heard of “hurtloam,” but she could not remember what it was, or who had mentioned it.

In spite of the storm, the air held a crisp tang that hinted at snow and ice among the distant peaks. The breeze on her flushed cheeks felt like spring; and the Mithil's current was turbulent, heavy with melted winter.

The
Haruchai
would come in pursuit as soon as the attack on Mithil Stonedown ended.

Seeing that she had not moved, Anele beckoned more urgently. “You require healing,”
Lord Foul assured her. “Without it, these self-maimed Masters will ensnare you blithely, and this time you will not win free. They will hold you helpless until I am forced to foil them on your behalf.

“Without hurtloam, also,” he added as though he were explaining himself to a dotard, and weary of it, “you will not regain the discernment which renders you able to serve me.

“Come, I say. I find little sport in your wretchedness. Be assured that this abject old man does not wish harm upon you.”

The sweat had begun to dry on Linden's forehead. Hurtloam? She could not run farther: escape was no longer possible. But she could think, and probe, and stand her ground.

I mean to assist you.

She did not believe him for an instant; could hardly credit that Lord Foul had spoken such words. Nevertheless his bizarre offer gave her an opportunity which she did not intend to miss.

Feigning boldness, she retorted, “And you think I'll do what you tell me
why?
Because I've lost my mind? I'm suddenly stupid? Shit, Foul, you've had things your own way too long. You're getting complacent.”

“Blind fool!” the Despiser jeered. Anele's moonstone eyes rolled in desperation. “Do you doubt that the
Haruchai
will give chase? Do you conceive that they will now offer you friendship and aid?”

Linden replied with a laugh full of warning. “Of course not. But I
know
you, Foul. I know better than to believe anything you say.”

“Paugh!” he spat. “You have never known wisdom or discernment sufficient to comprehend my designs. Your defiance serves no purpose. It merely feeds my contempt. You disdain me at your peril.”

“So convince me,” she countered promptly. “Give me a reason to listen to you.”

Anele squirmed as though she had threatened him with fire. Tears formed a sheen on his seamed cheeks. His head flinched from side to side as if he feared to speak. But the Despiser ruled him, and he could not remain silent.

“I have said,” Lord Foul answered, “that the
Haruchai
serve me, albeit unwittingly. That is sooth. Also it is sooth that they will imprison you.

“Whether you partake in them or no, my designs will be fulfilled. Forces have been set in motion which will shatter the Arch of Time, putting an end to the Earth, and to all that I abhor. If you are imprisoned, however, certain aspects of what will ensue remain clouded to my sight. On that path, I cannot determine that my Enemy will not again find means to snare me.