The Wounded Land (44 page)

Hamako was saying, “—remember your companions. Waste not this power. While it remains, stop for neither night nor doom.”

Ghramin
.

Covenant felt as colossal as Gravin Threndor, as mighty as Fire-Lions. He felt that he could crush boulders in his arms, destroy Ravers with his hands.

Dhurng
: eighth and last.

Hamako snatched back his hand as if the power in Covenant burned him. “Go now!” he cried. “Go for Land and Law, and may no malison prevail against you!”

Covenant threw back his head, gave a shout that seemed to echo for leagues:

“
Linden
!”

Swinging around to the northwest, he released the flood-fire of his given strength and erupted, running toward Revelstone like a coruscation in the air.

The sun ascended, brown-mantled and potent, sucking the moisture of life from the Land. Heat pressed down like the weight of all the sky. Bare ground was baked as hard as travertine. Loose dirt became dust and dust became powder until brown clogged the air and every surface gave off clouds like dead steam. Chimeras roamed the horizons, avatars of the Sunbane. The Center Plains lay featureless and unaneled under the bale of that sun.

But Waynhim strength was glee in Covenant’s veins. Running easily, swiftly, he could not have stopped, even by choice; his muscles thronged with power; gaiety exalted his heart; his speed was delicious to him. Without exertion, he ran like the Ranyhyn.

His progress he measured on a map in his mind—names of regions so dimly remembered that he could no longer identify when he had first heard them.

Across the wide wilderland of Windscour: eleven leagues. Through the ragged hills of Kurash Festillin: three leagues.

By noon he had settled into a long, fast stride, devouring distance as if his appetite for it were insatiable. Fortified by
vitrim
and power, he was immune to heat, dust, hallucination.

Yet Vain followed as if the Demondim-spawn had been made for such swiftness. He ran the leagues lightly, and the ground seemed to leap from under his feet.

Along the breadth of Victuallin Tayne, where in ancient centuries great crops had flourished: ten leagues. Up the long stone rise of Greshas Slant to higher ground: two leagues. Around the dry hollow of Lake Pelluce in the center of Andelainscion, olden fruiterer to the Land: five leagues.

Covenant moved like a dream of strength. He had no sense of time, of strides measured by sweat and effort. The Waynhim had borne the cost of this power for him, and he was free to run and run. When evening came upon him, he feared he would have to slacken his pace; but he did not. Stars burnished the crisp desert night, and the moon rose half full, shedding silver over the waste. Without hesitation or hindrance, he told out the dark in names.

Across the Centerpith Barrens: fourteen leagues. Down the Fields of Richloam, Sunbane-ruined treasure of the Plains: six leagues. Up through the jagged ridges of Emacrimma’s Maw: three leagues. Along Boulder Fash, strewn with confusion like the wreckage of a mountain: ten leagues.

The night unfurled like an oriflamme: it snapped open over the Plains, and snapped away; and he went on running through the dawn. Outdistancing moon and stars, he caught the sunrise in the dry watercourse of the Soulsease River, five score leagues and more from Stonemight Woodhelven. Speed was as precious to him as a heart-gift. With Vain always at his back, he sipped
vitrim
and left the Soulsease behind, left the Center Plains behind to run and run, northwest toward Revelstone.

Over the open flat of Riversward: five leagues. Through the fens of Graywightswath, which the desert sun made traversable: nine leagues. Up the rocks of the Bandsoil Bounds: three leagues.

Now the sun was overhead, and at last he came to the end of his exaltation. His eldritch strength did not fail—not yet—but he began to see that it would fail. The knowledge gave him a pang of loss.
Consciously he increased his pace, trying to squeeze as many leagues as possible from the gift of Bamako’s
rhysh
.

Across the rolling width of Riddenstretch: twelve leagues.

Gradually his mortality returned. He had to exert effort now to maintain his speed. His throat ached on the dust.

Among the gentle hills, smooth as a soft-rumpled mantle, of Consecear Redoin: seven leagues.

As the last rays of sunset spread from the Westron Mountains, he went running out of the hills, stumbled and gasped—and the power was gone. He was mortal again. The air rasped his lungs as he heaved for breath.

For a while, he rested on the ground, lay panting until his respiration eased. Mutely he searched Vain for some sign of fatigue; but the Demondim-spawn’s black flesh was vague in the gloaming, and nothing could touch him. After a time, Covenant took two swallows from his dwindling
vitrim
, and started walking.

He did not know how much time he had gained; but it was enough to renew his hope. Were his companions two days ahead of him? Three? He could believe that the Clave might not harm them for two or three days. If he met no more delays—

He went briskly on his way, intending to walk through the night. He needed sleep; but his body felt less tired than it usually did after a hike of five leagues. Even his feet did not hurt. The power and the
vitrim
of the Waynhim had sustained him wondrously. With the sharpness of the air to keep him alert, he expected to cover some distance before he had to rest.

But within a league he caught sight of a fire burning off to the left ahead of him.

He could have bypassed it; he was far enough from it for that. But after a moment he shrugged grimly and started toward the fire. His involuntary hope that he had caught up with his friends demanded an answer. And if this light represented a menace, he did not want to put it behind him until he knew what it was.

Creeping over the hard uneven ground, he crouched forward until he could make out details.

The light came from a simple campfire. A few pieces of wood burned brightly. A bundle of faggots lay near three large sacks.

Across the fire sat a lone figure in a vivid red robe. The hood of the robe had been pushed back, revealing the lined face and gray-raddled hair of a middle-aged woman. Something black was draped around her neck.

She triggered an obscure memory in Covenant. He felt he had seen someone like her before, but could not recollect where or when. Then she moved her hands, and he saw that she held a short iron scepter with an open triangle affixed to its end. Curses crowded against his teeth. He identified her from Linden’s description of the Rider at Crystal Stonedown.

Gritting to himself, he began to withdraw. This Rider was not the one he wanted. The Graveler of Stonemight Woodhelven had indicated that Linden’s abductor, Santonin na-Mhoram-in, was a man. And Covenant had no intention of risking himself against any Rider until no other choice remained. With all the stealth he could muster, he edged away from the light.

Suddenly he heard a low snarl. A huge shape loomed out of the darkness, catching him between it and the fire. Growling threats, the shape advanced like the wall of a house.

Then a voice cut the night,

“Din!”

The Rider, She stood facing Covenant and Vain and the snarl. “Din!” she commanded. “Bring them to me!”

The shape continued to approach, forcing Covenant toward the campfire. As he entered the range of the light, he became gradually able to see the immense beast.

It had the face and fangs of a saber-tooth, but its long body resembled that of a horse—a horse with shoulders as high as the top of his head, a back big enough to carry five or six people, and hair so shaggy that it hung to the creature’s thighs. Its feet were hooved. From the back of each ankle grew a barbed spur as long as a swordthorn.

Its eyes were red with malice, and its snarl vibrated angrily. Covenant hastened to retreat as much as he could without moving too close to the Rider.

Vain followed calmly with his back to the beast.

“Halfhand!” the Rider barked in surprise. “I was sent to await you, but had no thought to meet with you so soon.” A moment later, she added, “Have no fear of Din. It is true—the Coursers are creatures of the Sunbane. But therefore they have no need of meat. And they are whelped in obedience. Din will lift neither fang nor spur against you without my command.”

Covenant put the fire between him and the woman. She was a short, square individual, with a blunt nose and a determined chin. Her hair was bound carelessly at the back of her neck as if she had no interest in the details of her appearance. But her gaze had the directness of long commitment. The black cloth hanging around her neck ritualized the front of her robe like a chasuble.

He distrusted her completely. But he preferred to take his chances with her rather than with her Courser. “Show me.” He cast a silent curse at the unsteadiness of his voice. “Send it away.”

She regarded him over the flames. “As you wish.” Without shifting her gaze, she said, “Begone, Din! Watch and ward.”

The beast gave a growl of disappointment. But it turned away and trotted out into the night

In an even tone, the Rider asked, “Does this content you?”

Covenant answered with a jerk of his knotted shoulders. “It takes orders from you.” He did not relax a jot of his wariness. “How content do you expect me to get?”

She considered him as if she had reason to fear him, and did not intend to show it. “You misdoubt me, Halfhand. Yet it appears to me that the right of misdoubt is mine.”

Harshly he rasped, “How do you figure that?”

“In Crystal Stonedown you reft Sivit na-Mhoram-wist of his rightful claim, and nigh slew him. But I give you warning.” Her tone involuntarily betrayed her apprehension. “I am Memla na-Mhoram-in. If you seek my harm, I will not be so blithely dispatched.” Her hands gripped her
rukh
, though she did not raise it

He suppressed an angry denial. “Crystal Stonedown is just about a hundred and fifty leagues from here. How do you know what happened there?”

She hesitated momentarily, then decided to speak. “With the destruction of his
rukh
, Sivit was made helpless. But the fate of every
rukh
is known in Revelstone. Another Rider who chanced to be in that region was sent at once to his aid. Then that Rider spoke with his
rukh
to Revelstone, and the story was told. I knew of it before I was sent to await you.”

“Sent?” Covenant demanded, thinking, Be careful. One thing at a time. “Why? How did you know I was coming?”

“Where else but Revelstone would the Halfhand go with his white ring?” she replied steadily. “You fled Mithil Stonedown in the south, and appeared again at Crystal Stonedown. Your aim was clear. As for why I was sent—I am not alone. Seven of the Clave are scattered throughout this region, so that you would not find the Keep unforewarned. We were sent to escort you if you come as friend. And to give warning if you come as foe.”

Deliberately Covenant let his anger show. “Don’t lie to me. You were sent to kill me. Every village in the Land was told to kill me on sight. You people think I’m some kind of threat.”

She studied him over the jumping flames. “Are you not?”

“That depends. Whose side are you on? The Land’s—or Lord Foul’s?”

“Lord Foul? That name is unknown to me.”

“Then call him a-Jeroth. A-Jeroth of the Seven Hells.”

She stiffened. “Do you ask if I serve a-Jeroth? Have you come such a distance in the Land, and not learned that the Clave is dedicated entirely to the amelioration of the Sunbane? To accuse—”

He interrupted her like a blade. “Prove it.” He made a stabbing gesture at her
rukh
. “Put that thing down. Don’t tell them I’m coming.”

She stood still, trapped by indecision.

“If you really serve the Land,” he went on, “you don’t need to be afraid of me. But I’ve got no reason to trust you. Goddamn it, you’ve been trying to kill me! I don’t care how much tougher you are than Sivit.” He brandished his ring, hoping she had no way of recognizing his incapacity. “I’ll take you apart. Unless you give me some reason not to.”

Slowly the Rider’s shoulders sagged. In a tight voice, she said, “Very well.” Taking her scepter by the triangle, she handed it past the fire to him.

He accepted it with his left hand to keep it away from his ring. A touch of relief eased some of his tension. He slipped the iron into his belt, then tugged at his beard to keep himself from becoming careless, and began to marshal his questions.

Before he could speak, Memla said, “Now I am helpless before you. I have placed myself in your hands. But I desire you to understand the Clave before you choose my doom. For generations, the soothreaders have foretold the coming of the Halfhand and the white ring. They saw it as an omen of destruction for the Clave—a destruction which only your death could prevent.

“Halfhand, we are the last bastion of power in the Land. All else has been undone by the Sunbane. Only our might, constant and vigilant, preserves any life from Landsdrop to the Westron Mountains. How can our destruction be anything other than heinous to the Land? Therefore we sought your death.

“But Sivit’s tale held great meaning for Gibbon na-Mhoram. Your power was revealed to the Clave for the first time. The na-Mhoram took counsel for several days, and at last elected to dare his doom. Power such as yours, he declared, is rare and precious, and must be used rather than resisted. Better, he said, to strive for your aid, risking fulfillment of the soothreaders’ word, than to lose the hope of your puissance. Therefore I do not seek your hurt, though Sivit did, to his cost.”

Covenant listened intently, yearning for the ability to hear whether or not she spoke the truth. Sunder and Hollian had taught him to fear the Clave. But he needed to reach Revelstone—and reach it in a
way which would not increase the danger to his friends. He decided to attempt a truce with Memla.

“All right,” he said, moderating the harshness of his tone. “I’ll accept that—for now. But there’s something I want you to understand. I didn’t lift a finger against Sivit until he attacked me.” He had no memory of the situation; but he felt no need to be scrupulously candid. Bluffing for his safety, he added, “He forced me. All I wanted was the eh-Brand.”