Lord Foul's Bane

Seventeen: End in Fire

THAT night, the company camped in a narrow valley between two rocky hillsides half a league from the thick grasses of Andelain. The warriors were cheery, recovering their natural spirits after the tensions of the past few days, and they told stories and sang songs to the quiet audience of the Lords and Bloodguard. Though the Lords did not participate, they seemed glad to listen, and several times Mhoram and Quaan could be heard chuckling together.

But Covenant did not share the ebullience of the Eoman. A heavy hand of blankness held shut the lid his emotions, and he felt separate, untouchable. Finally he went to his bed before the warriors were done with their last song.

He was awakened some time later by a hand on his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he found Foamfollower stooping beside him. The moon had nearly set. “Arise,” the Giant whispered. “The Ranyhyn have brought word. Wolves are hunting us. Ur-viles may not be far behind. We must go.”

Covenant blinked sleepily at the Giant's benighted face for a moment. “Why? Won't they follow?”

“Make haste, ur-Lord. Terrel, Korik, and perhaps a, third of Quaan's Eoman will remain here in ambush. They will scatter the pack. Come.”

But Covenant persisted. “So what? They'll just fall back and follow again. Let me sleep.”

“My friend, you try my patience. Arise, and I will explain.”

With a sigh, Covenant rolled from his blankets. While he tightened the sash of his robe, settled his sandals on his feet, and assured himself of his staff and knife, his Woodhelvennin helper snatched up his bedding and packed it away. Then she led Dura toward him.

Amid the silent urgency of the company, he mounted, then went with Foamfollower toward the centre of the camp, where the Lords and Bloodguard were already mounted. When the warriors were ready, Birinair extinguished the last embers of the fire, and climbed stiffly onto his horse. A moment later, the riders turned and fled the narrow valley, picking their way across the rough terrain by the last red light of the moon.

The ground under Dura's hooves looked like blood slowly clotting, and Covenant clutched his ring to preserve it from the crimson light. Around him, the company moved in a tight suspense of silence; every low, metal clatter of sword was instantly muffled, every breath covered. The Ranyhyn were as noiseless as shadows, and on their broad backs the Bloodguard sat like statues, eternally alert and insentient.

Then the moon set. Darkness was a relief, though it seemed to increase the hazard of their escape. But the whole company was surrounded, guided, by the Ranyhyn, and the mighty horses chose a path which kept the other mounts safe between them.

After two or three leagues had passed, the mood of the Quest relaxed somewhat. They heard no pursuit, sensed no danger. Finally Foamfollower gave Covenant the explanation he had promised.

“It is simple,” the Giant whispered. “After scattering the wolves, Korik and Terrel will lead a trail away from ours. They will go straight into Andelain, east toward Mount Thunder, until pursuit has been confused. Then they will turn and rejoin us.”

“Why?” Covenant asked softly.

Lord Mhoram took up the explanation. “We doubt that Drool can understand our purpose.” Covenant could not feel the Lord's presence as strongly as Foamfollower's, so Mhoram's voice sounded disembodied in the darkness, as if the night were speaking. That impression seemed to belie his words, as if without the verification of physical presence what the Lord said was vain. “Much of our Quest may seem foolhardy or foolish to him. Since he holds the Staff, we are mad to approach him. But if we mean to approach nonetheless, then our southward path is folly, for it is long, and his power grows-daily. He will expect us to turn east toward him, or south toward Doom's Retreat and escape. Korik and Terrel will give Drool's scouts reason to believe that we have turned to attack. If he becomes unsure of where we are, he will not guess our true aim. He will search for us in Andelain, and will seek to strengthen his defences in Mount Thunder. Believing that we have turned to attack him, he will also believe that we have mastered the power of your white gold.”

Covenant considered momentarily before asking, “What's Foul going to be doing during all this?”

“Ah,” Mhoram sighed, “that is a question. There hangs the fate of our Quest-and of the Land.” He was silent for a long time. “In my dreams, I see him laughing.”

Covenant winced at the memory of Foul's crushing laughter, and fell silent. So the riders crept on through the dark, trusting themselves to the instincts of the Ranyhyn. When dawn came, they had left their ambush for the wolves far behind.

It took the company four more days of hard riding, fifteen leagues a day, to reach the Mithil River, the southern boundary of Andelain. For sixty leagues, the Quest drove to the southeast without a hint of what had befallen Korik's group. In all, only eight people had left the company. But somehow without them the Quest seemed shrunken and puny. The concern of the High Lord and his companions rumbled in the hoofbeats of their mounts, and echoed in the silence that lay between them like an empty bier.

Gone now was the gladness of eye with which the warriors had beheld Andelain never more than a league to their left. From dawn to dusk every glance studied the eastern horizons; they saw nothing but a void in which Korik's riders had not appeared. Time and again, Foamfollower broke away from the company to trot up the nearest hill and peer into the distance; time and again, he returned panting and comfortless, and the company was left to conceive nightmares to explain Korik's absence.

The unspoken consensus was that no number of wolves was large enough to conquer two Bloodguard, mounted as they were on Huryn and Brabha of the Ranyhyn. No, Korik's group must have fallen into the hands of a small army of ur-viles so the company reasoned, though Prothall argued that Korik might have had to ride many leagues to find a river or other means to throw the wolves off his trail. The High Lord's words were sound, but somehow under the incarnadine moon they seemed hollow. In spite of them, Warhaft Quaan went 'about his duties with the deaths of six warriors in his face.

All the riders were shrouded in gloom when, near twilight on the fourth day, they reached the banks of the Mithil.

Immediately on their left as they neared the river stood a steep hill like a boundary of Andelain. It guarded the north bank; the company could only cross its base into Andelain by riding single file along the river edge. But Prothall chose that path in preference to swimming the stiff current of the Mithil. With only Tuvor before him, he led the way east along the scant bank. The Questers followed one by one. Soon the entire company was traversing the boundary of the hill.

Spread out as they were, they were vulnerable. As the hill rose beside them, its slope became almost sheer, and its rocky crown commanded the path along the river like a fortification. The riders moved with their heads craned upward; they were keenly conscious of the hazard of their position.

They were still in the traverse when they heard a hail from the hilltop. Among the rocks, a figure rose into view. It was Terrel.

The riders returned his hail joyfully. Hurrying, they crossed the base of the hill, and found themselves in a broad, grassy valley where horses-two Ranyhyn and five mustangs-grazed up away from the river.

The mustangs were exhausted. Their legs quivered weakly, and their necks drooped; they barely had strength enough to eat.

Five, Covenant repeated. He felt numbly sure that he had miscounted.

Korik was on his way down from the hilltop. He was accompanied by five warriors.

With an angry shout, Quaan leaped from his horse and ran toward the Bloodguard. “Irin!” he demanded. “Where is Irin? By the Seven! What has happened to her?”

Korik did not answer until he stood with his group before High Lord Prothall. They struck Covenant as a strange combination: five warriors full of conflicting excitement, courage, grief; and one Bloodguard as impassive as a patriarch. If Korik felt any satisfaction or pain, he did not show it.

He held a bulging pack in one hand, but did not refer to it immediately. Instead, he saluted Prothall, and said, High Lord. You are well. Have you been pursued?"

“We have seen no pursuit,” Prothall replied gravely.

“That is good. It appeared to us that we were successful.”

Prothall nodded, and Korik began his tale. “We met the wolves and sought to scatter them. But they were kresh”-he made a splitting sound" not easily turned aside. So we led them eastward. They would not enter Andelain. They howled on our track, but would not enter. We watched from a distance until they turned away to the north. Then we rode east.

“After a day and a night, we broke trail and turned south. But we came upon marauders. They were mightier than we knew. There were ur-viles and Cavewights together, and with them a griffin.”

Korik's audience murmured with surprise and chagrin, and the Bloodguard paused to utter what sounded like a long curse in the tonal native tongue of-the Haruchai. Then he continued: “Irin purchased our escape. But we were driven far from our way. We reached this place only a short time before you.”

With a revolted flaring of his nostrils, he lifted the pack. “This morning we saw a hawk over us. It flew strangely. We shot it.” Reaching into the pack, he drew out the body of the bird. Above its vicious beak, it had only one eye, a large mad orb centred in its forehead.

It struck the company with radiated malice. The hawk was ill, incondign, a thing created by wrong for purposes of wrong-bent away from its birth by a power that dared to warp nature. The sight stuck in Covenant's throat, made him want to retch. He could hardly hear Prothall say, “This is the work of the Illearth Stone. How could the Staff of Law perform such a crime, such an outrage? Ah, my friends, this is the outcome of our enemy. Look closely. It is a mercy to take such creatures out of life.” Abruptly, the High Lord turned away, burdened by his new knowledge.

Quaan and Birinair cremated the ill-formed hawk. Soon the warriors who had gone with Korik began to talk, and a fuller picture of their past four days emerged. Attention naturally centred on the fight which had killed Irin of the Eoman.

The Ranyhyn Brabha had first smelled danger, and had given the warning to Korik. At once, he had hidden his group in a thick copse to await the coming of the marauders. Listening with his ear to the ground, he had judged that they were a mixed force of unmounted ur-viles and Cavewights-Cavewights had not the ur-viles' ability to step softly totalling no more than fifteen. So Korik had asked himself which way his service lay: to preserve his companions as defenders of the Lords, or to damage the Lords' enemies. The Bloodguard were sworn to the protection of the Lords, not of the Land. He had elected to fight because he judged that his force was strong enough, considering the element of surprise, to meet both duties without loss of life.

His decision had saved them. They learned later that if they had not attacked they would have been trapped in the copse; the panic of the horses would have given away their hiding.

It was a dark night after moonset, the second night after Korik's group had left the company, and the marauders were moving without lights. Even the Bloodguard's keen eyes discerned nothing more than the shadowy outlines of the enemy. And the wind blew between the two forces, so that the Ranyhyn were prevented from smelling the extent of their peril.

When the marauders reached open ground, Korik signalled to his group; the warriors swept out of the copse behind him and Terrel. The Ranyhyn outdistanced the others at once, so Korik and Terrel had just engaged the enemy when they heard the terror screams of the horses. Wheeling around, the Bloodguard saw all six warriors struggling with their panicked steeds-and the griffin hovering over them. The griffin was a lionlike creature with sturdy wings that enabled it to fly for short distances. It terrified the horses, swooped at the riders. Korik and Terrel raced toward their comrades. And behind them came the marauders.

The Bloodguard hurled themselves at the griffin, but aloft, with its clawed feet downward, it had no vulnerable spots that they could reach without weapons. Then the marauders fell on the group. The warriors rallied to defend their horses. In the melee, Korik poised himself on Brabha's back to spring up at the grin at the first opportunity. But when his chance came, Irin cut in front of him. Somehow, she had captured a long Cavewightish broadsword. The griffin snatched her up in its claws, and as it ripped her apart she beheaded it.

The next moment, another party of marauders charged forward. The warriors' horses were too terrified to do anything but run. So Korik's group fled, dashed east and north with the enemy on their heels. By the time they lost the pursuit, they had been driven so far into Andelain that they had not been able to rejoin Prothall until the fourth day.

Early in the evening, the reunited company set up camp. While they prepared supper, a cool wind slowly mounted out of the north. At first it felt refreshing, full of Andelainian scents. But as moonrise neared, it stiffened with a palpable wrench until it was scything straight through the valley. Covenant could taste its unnaturalness; he had felt something like it before. Like a whip, it drove dark cloudbanks southward.

As the evening wore on, no one seemed inclined toward sleep. Depression deepened in the company as if the wind were taut with dismay. On opposite sides of the camp, Foamfollower and Quaan paced out their uneasiness. Most of the warriors squatted around in dejected attitudes, fiddling aimlessly with their weapons. Birinair poked in unrelieved dissatisfaction at the fire. Prothall and Mhoram stood squarely in the wind as if they were trying to read it with the nerves of their faces. And Covenant sat with his head bowed under a flurry of memories.

Only Variol and Tamarantha remained ungloomed. Arm in arm, the two ancient Lords sat and stared with a dreaming, drowsy look into the fire, and the firelight flickered like writing on their foreheads.

Around the camp, the Bloodguard stood as stolid as stone.

Finally, Mhoram voiced the feeling of the company. “Something happens-something dire. This is no natural wind.”

Under the clouds, the eastern horizon glowed red with moonlight. From time to time, Covenant thought be saw an orange flicker in the crimson, but he could not be sure. Covertly, he studied his ring, and found the same occasional orange cast under the dominating blood. But he said nothing. He was too ashamed of Drool's hold on him.

Still no storm came. The wind blew on, rife with red mutterings and old ice, but it brought nothing but clouds and discouragement to the company. At last, most of the warriors dozed fitfully, shivering against the cut of the wind as it bore its harvest of distress toward Doom's Retreat and the Southron Wastes.

There was no dawn; clouds choked the rising sun. But the company was roused by a change in the wind. It dropped and warmed, swung-slowly toward the west. But it did not feel, healthier-only more subtle. Several of the warriors rolled out of their blankets, clutching their swords.

The company ate in haste, impelled by the indefinite apprehension of the breeze. The old Hirebrand, Birinair, was the first to understand. While chewing a mouthful of bread, he suddenly jerked erect as if he had been slapped. Quivering with concentration, he glowered at the eastern horizon, then spat the bread to the ground. “Burning!” he hissed. “The wind. I smell it. Burning. What? I can smell-Burning- a tree!

“A tree!” he wailed. “Ah, they dare!”

For an instant, the company stared at him in silence. Then Mhoram ejaculated, “Soaring Woodhelven is in flames!”

His companions sprang into action. Shrilly, the Bloodguard whistled for the Ranyhyn. Prothall snapped orders which Quaan echoed in a raw shout. Some of the warriors sprinted to saddle the horses, while others broke camp. By the time Covenant was dressed and mounted on Dura, the Quest was ready to ride. At once, it galloped away eastward along the Mithil.

Before long, the horses began to give trouble. Even the freshest ones could not keep pace with the Ranyhyn, and the mustangs which had been with Korik in Andelain had not recovered their strength. The terrain did not allow for speed; it was too uneven. Prothall sent two Bloodguard ahead as scouts. But after that he was forced to move more slowly; he could not afford to leave part of his force behind. Still, he kept the pace as fast as possible. It was a frustrating ride-Covenant seemed to hear Quaan grinding his teeth-but it could not be helped. Grimly, Prothall held the fresher horses back.

By noon, they reached the ford of the Mithil. Now they could see smoke due south of them; and the smell of burning was powerful in the air. Prothall commanded a halt to water the horses. Then the riders pushed on, urging their weakest mounts to find somewhere new resources of strength and speed.

Within a few leagues, the High Lord had to slow his pace still more; the scouts had not returned. The possibility that they had been ambushed clenched his brow, and his eyes glittered as if the orbs had facets of granite. He held the riders to a walk while he sent two more Bloodguard ahead.

These two returned before the company had covered a league. They reported that Soaring Woodhelven was dead. The area around it was deserted; signs indicated that the first two scouts had ridden away to the south.

Muttering, “Melenkurion!” under his breath, Prothall led the riders forward at a canter until they reached the remains of the tree village.

The destruction was a fiendish piece of work. Fire had reduced the original tree to smouldering spars less than a hundred feet tall, and the charred trunk had been split from top to bottom, leaving the two halves leaning slightly away from each other. Occasional flames still flickered near their tips. And all around the base of the tree, corpses littered the ground as if the earth were already too full of dead to contain the population of the village. Other Woodhelvennin bodies, unburned, were scattered generally in a line to the south across the glade.

Along this southward line, a few dead Cavewights sprawled in battle contortion. But near the tree there was only one body which was not human-one dead ur-vile. It lay on its long back on the south of the tree, facing the split trunk; and its soot-black frame was as twisted as the iron stave still clutched in its hands. Nearby lay a heavy iron plate nearly ten feet across.

The stench of dead, burned flesh appalled the surrounding glade. A memory of Woodhelvennin children writhed in Covenant's guts. He felt like vomiting.

The Lords seemed stupefied by the sight, stunned to realize that people under their care could be so murdered. After a moment, First Mark Tuvor reconstructed the battle for them.

The folk of Soaring Woodhelven had not had a chance.

Late the previous day, Tuvor judged, a large party of Cavewights and ur-viler- the trampling of the glade attested that the party was very large-had surrounded the tree. They had kept out of effective arrow range. Instead of assaulting the Woodhelvennin directly, they sent a few of their number-almost certainly ur-viles forward under cover of the iron plate. Thus protected, the ur-viles set flame to the tree.

“A poor fire,” Birinair inserted. Approaching the tree, he tapped it with his staff. A patch of charcoal fell away, showing white wood underneath. “Strong fire consumes everything,” he muttered. “Almost, they survived. This is good wood. Make the flame a little weaker-and the wood survives. Those who dared-only strong enough by a little. Numbers are nothing. Strength counts. Of course. A narrow chance. Or if the Hirebrand had known. Been ready. He could have prepared the tree-given it strength. They could have lived. Ah! I should have been here. They would not do this to wood in my care.”

Once the fire began, Tuvor explained, the attackers simply shot arrows to prevent the flames from being put out-and waited for the desperate Woodhelvennin to attempt escape. Hence the line of unburned bodies running southward; that was the direction taken by the sortie. Then, when the fire was too great for the Woodhelvennin to resist further, the ur-vile loremaster split the tree to destroy it utterly, and to shake any survivors from its limbs.

Again Birinair spoke. “He learned. Retribution. The fool-not master of his own power. The tree struck him down. Good wood. Even burning, it was not dead. The Hirebrand-a brave man. Struck back. And-and before the Desecration the lillianrill could have saved what life is left.” He scowled as if he dared anyone to criticize him. “No more. This I cannot.” But a moment later his imperiousness faded, and he turned sadly back to gaze on the ruined tree as if silently asking it to forgive him.

Covenant did not question Tuvor's analysis; he felt too sickened by the blood-thick reek around him. But Foamfollower did not seem affected in that way. Dully, he asserted, “This is not Drool's doing. No Cavewight is the master of such strategy. Winds and clouds to disguise the signs of attack, should any help be near. Iron protection carried here from who knows what distance. An attack with so little waste of resource. No, the hand of Soulcrusher is here from first to last. Stone and Sea!” Without warning, his voice caught, and he turned away, groaning his Giantish plainsong to steady himself.

Into the silence, Quaan asked, “But why here?” There was an edge like panic in his voice. “Why attack this place?”

Something in Quaan's tone, some hint of hysteria among brave but inexperienced, appalled young warriors, called Prothall back from the wilderland where his thoughts wandered. Responding to Quaan's emotion rather than to his question, the High Lord said sternly, “Warhaft Quaan, there is much work to be done. The horses will rest, but we must work. Burial must be dug for the dead. After their last ordeal, it would be unfitting to set them to the pyre. Put your Eoman to the task. Dig graves in the south glade-there.” He indicated a spread of grass about a hundred feet from the riven tree.

“We-” he referred to his fellow Lords. “We will carry the dead to their graves.”

Foamfollower interrupted his plainsong. “No. I will carry. Let me show my respect.”

“Very well,” Prothall replied. “We will prepare food and consider our situation.” With a nod, he sent Quaan to give orders to the Eoman. Then, turning to Tuvor, he asked that sentries be posted. Tuvor observed that eight Bloodguard were not enough to watch every possible approach to an open area as large as the glade, but if he sent the Ranyhyn roaming separately around the bordering hills, he might not need to call on the Eoman for assistance. After a momentary pause, the First Mark asked what should be done about the missing scouts.

“We will wait,” Prothall responded heavily.

Tuvor nodded, and moved away to communicate with the Ranyhyn. They stood in a group nearby, looking with hot eyes at the burned bodies around the tree. When Tuvor joined them, they clustered about him as if eager to do whatever he asked, and a moment later they charged out of the glade, scattering in all directions.

The Lords dismounted, unpacked the sacks of food, and set about preparing a meal on a small lillianrill fire Birinair built for them. Warriors took all the horses upwind from the tree, unsaddled and tethered them. Then the Eoman went to begin digging.

Taking great care not to step on any of the dead, Foamfollower moved toward the tree, reached the iron plate. It was immensely heavy, but he lifted it and carried it beyond the ring of bodies. There he began gently placing corpses on the plate, using it as a sled to move the bodies to their graves. Knots of emotion jumped and bunched across his buttressed forehead, and his eyes flared with a dangerous enthusiasm.

For a while, Covenant was the only member of the company without an assigned task. The fact disturbed him. The stench of the dead-Baradakas included somewhere among them, he thought achingly, Baradakas and Llaura and children, children! — made him remember Soaring Woodhelven as he had left it days ago: tall and proud, lush with the life of a fair people.

He needed something to do to defend himself.

As he scanned the company, he noticed that the warriors lacked digging tools. They had brought few picks and shovels with them; most of them were trying to dig with their hands or their swords. He walked over to the tree. Scattered around the trunk were many burned branches, some of them still solid in the core. Though he had to pick his way among the dead-though the close sight of all that flesh smeared like mouldering wax over charred bones hurt his guts-he gathered branches that he could not break across his knee. These he carried away from the tree, then used his Stonedownor knife to scrape them clean and cut them into stakes. The work blackened his hands, his white robe, and the knife twisted awkwardly in his half-fingered grip, but he persisted.

The stakes he gave to the warriors, and with them they were able to dig faster. Instead of individual graves, they dug trenches, each deep and long enough to hold a dozen or more of the dead. Using Covenant's stakes, the warriors began to finish their graves faster than Foamfollower could fill them.

Late in the afternoon, Prothall called the company to eat. By that time, nearly half the bodies had been buried. No one felt like consuming food with their lungs full of acrid air and their eyes sore of tormented flesh, but the High Lord insisted. Covenant found this strange until he tasted the food. The Lords had prepared a stew unlike anything he had eaten in the Land. Its savour quickened his hunger, and when he swallowed it, it soothed his distress. It was the first meal he had had since the previous day, and he surprised himself by eating ravenously.

Most of the warriors were done eating, and the sun was about to set, when their attention was snatched erect by a distant hail. The southmost sentry answered, and a moment later the two missing Bloodguard came galloping into the glade. Their Ranyhyn were soaked with sweat.

They brought two people with them: a woman, and a boy-child the size of a four-year-old, both Woodhelvennin, both marked as if they had survived a battle.

The tale of the scouts was quickly told. They had reached the deserted glade, and had found the southward trail of the Woodhelvennin's attempted escape. And they had seen some evidence that all the people might not have been killed. Since the enemy had gone-so there was no compelling need to ride back to warn the Lords-they had decided to search for survivors. They had erased the signs, so that any returning marauders might not find them, and had ridden south.

Early in the afternoon, they found the woman and child fleeing madly without thought or caution. Both appeared injured; the child gave no sign of awareness at all, and the woman vacillated between lucidity and incoherence. She accepted the Bloodguard as friends, but was unable to tell them anything. However, in a lucid moment, she insisted that an Unfettered Healer lived a league or two away. Hoping to gain knowledge from the woman, the scouts took her to the cave of the Healer. But the cave was empty-and appeared to have been empty, for many days. So the scouts brought the two survivors back to Soaring Woodhelven.

The two stood before the Lords, the woman clutching the child's unresponsive hand. The boy gazed incuriously about him, but did not notice faces or react to voices. When his hand slipped from the woman's, his arm fell limply to his side; he neither resisted nor complied when she snatched it up again. His unfocused eyes seemed preternaturally dark, as if they were full of black blood.

The sight of him jabbed Covenant. The boy could have been the future of his own son, Roger-the son of whom he had been dispossessed, reft as if even his fatherhood had been abrogated by leprosy. Children! Foul? he panted. Children?

As if in oblique answer to his thoughts, the woman suddenly said, “He is Pietten son of Soranal. He likes the horses.”

“It is true,” one of the scouts responded. “He rode before me and stroked the Ranyhyn's neck.”

But Covenant was not listening. He was looking at the woman. Confusedly, he sorted through the battle wreckage of her face, the cuts and burns and grime and bruises. Then he said hesitantly, “Llaura?”

The sun was setting, but there was no sunset. Clouds blanked the horizon, and a short twilight was turning rapidly into night. But as the sun fell, the air became thicker and more sultry, as if the darkness were sweating in apprehension.

“Yes, I know you,” the woman said in a flagellated voice. “You are Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder. In the semblance of Berek Halfhand. Jehannum spoke truth. Great evil has come.” She articulated with extreme care, as if she were trying to balance her words on the edge of a sword. “I am Llaura daughter of Annamar, of the Heers of Soaring Woodhelven. Our scouts must have been slain. We had no warning. Be-”

But as she tried to say the words, her balance failed, and she collapsed into a hoarse, repeating moan- “Uhn, uhn, uhn, uhn-” as if the connection between her brain and her throat broke, leaving her struggling frantically with her inability to speak. Her eyes burned with furious concentration, and her head shook as she tried to form words. But nothing came between her juddering lips except, “Uhn, uhn, uhn.”

The Bloodguard scout said, “So she was when we found her. At one moment, she can speak. A moment later, she cannot.”

Hearing this, Llaura clenched herself violently and pushed down her hysteria, rejecting what the scout said. “I am Llaura,” she repeated, “Llaura-of the Heers of Soaring Woodhelven. Our scouts must have been slain. I am Llaura, I am Llaura,” she insisted. “Beware-” Again her voice broke into moaning, “Uhn, uhn.”

Her panic mounted. “Be-uhn, uhn, uhn. Be-uhn, uhn. I am Llaura. You are the Lords. You must I-uhn, uhn. Amb-uhn, uhn, uhn.” As she fought, Covenant glanced around the company. Everyone was staring intently at Llaura, and Variol and Tamarantha had tears in their eyes. “Somebody do something,” he muttered painfully. “Somebody.”

Abruptly, Llaura seemed to collapse. Clutching her throat with her free hand, she shrieked, “You must hear me!” and started to fall.

As. her knees gave way, Prothall stepped forward and caught her. With fierce strength, he gripped her upper arms and held her erect before him. “Stop,” he commanded. “Stop. Do not speak anymore. Listen, and use your head to answer me.”

A look of hope flared across Llaura's eyes, and she relaxed until Prothall set her on her feet. Then she regained the child's hand.

“Now,” the High Lord said levelly, staring deep into her ravaged eyes. “You are not mad. Your mind is clear. Something has been done to you.”

Llaura nodded eagerly, Yes.

“When your people attempted to escape, you were captured.”

She nodded, Yes.

“You and the child.”

Yes.

“And something was done to him as well?”

Yes.

“Do you know what it was?”

She shook her head, No.

“Was the same done to you both?”

No.

“Well,” Prothall sighed. “Both were captured instead of slain. And the ur-vile loremaster afflicted you.”

Llaura nodded, Yes, shuddering.

“Damaged you.”

Yes.

“Caused the difficulty that you now have when you speak.”

Yes!

“Now your ability to speak comes and goes.”

No!

“No?”

Prothall paused to consider for a moment, and Covenant interjected, “Hellfire! Get her to write it down.”

Llaura shook her head, raised her free hand. It trembled uncontrollably.

Abruptly, Prothall said, “Then there are certain things that you cannot say.”

Yes!

“There is something that the attackers do not wish you to speak.”

Yes!

“Then-” The High Lord hesitated as if he could hardly believe his thoughts. “Then the attackers knew that you would be found-by us or others who came too late to the aid of Soaring Woodhelven.”

Yes!

“Therefore you fled south, toward Banyan Woodhelven and the Southron Stonedowns.”

She nodded, but her manner seemed to indicate that he had missed the point.

Observing her, he muttered, “By the Seven! This cannot do. Such questioning requires time, and my heart tells me we have little. What has been done to the boy? How could the attackers know that we-or anyone-would come this way? What knowledge could she have? Knowledge that an ur-vile loremaster would fear to have told? No, we must find other means.”

At the edge of his sight, Covenant saw Variol and Tamarantha setting out their blankets near the campfire. Their action startled him away from Llaura for a moment. Their eyes held a sad and curiously secret look. He could not fathom it, but for some reason it reminded him that they had known what Prothall's decision for the Quest would lie before that decision was made.

“High Lord,” said Birinair stiffly.

Concentrating on Llaura, Prothall replied, “Yes?”

“That young whelp of a Gravelingas, Tohrm, gave me a rhadhamaerl gift. I almost thought he mocked me. Laughed because I am not a puppy like himself. It was hurtloam.”

“Hurtloam?” Prothall echoed in surprise. “You have some?”

“Have it? Of course. No fool, you know. I keep it moist. Tohrm tried to teach me. As if I knew nothing.”

Mastering his impatience, Prothall said, “Please bring it.”

A moment later, Birinair handed to the High Lord a small stoneware pot full of the damp, glittering clay-hurtloam. “Watch out,” Covenant murmured with complex memories in his voice, “it'll put her to sleep.” But Prothall did not hesitate. In darkness lit only by Birinair's lillianrill fire and the last coals of the riven tree, he scooped out some of the hurtloam. Its golden flecks caught the firelight and gleamed. Tenderly, he spread the mud across Llaura's forehead, cheeks, and throat.

Covenant was marginally aware that Lord Mhoram no longer attended Prothall and Llaura. He had joined Variol and Tamarantha, and appeared to be arguing with them. They lay side by side on their backs, holding hands, and he stood over them as if he were trying to ward off a shadow. But they were unmoved. Through his protests, Tamarantha said softly, “It is better thus, my son.” And Variol murmured, “Poor Llaura. This is all we can do.”

Covenant snapped a look around the company. The warriors seemed entranced by the questioning of the Heer, but Foamfollower's cavernous eyes flicked without specific focus over the glade as if they were weaving dangerous visions. Covenant turned back toward Llaura with an ominous chill scrabbling along his spine.

The first touch of the hurtloam only multiplied her distress. Her face tightened in torment, and a rictus like a foretaste of death stretched her lips into a soundless scream. But then a harsh convulsion shook her, and the crisis passed. She fell to her knees and wept with relief as if a knife had been removed from her mind.

Prothall knelt beside her and clasped her in the solace of his arms, waiting without a word for her self-control to return. She needed a moment to put aside her weeping. Then she snatched herself up, crying, “Flee! You must flee! This is an ambush! You are trapped!”

But her warning came too late. At the same moment, Tuvor returned from his lookout at a run, followed almost at once by the other Bloodguard. “Prepare for attack,” the First Mark said flatly. “We are surrounded. The Ranyhyn were cut off, and could not warn us. There will be battle. We have only time to prepare.”

Covenant could not grasp the immediacy of what he heard. Prothall barked orders; the camp began to clear. Warriors and Bloodguard dove into the still empty trenches, hid themselves in the hollow base of the tree. “Leave the horses,” Tuvor commanded. “The Ranyhyn will break through to protect them if it is possible.” Prothall consigned Llaura and the child to Foamfollower, who placed them alone in a grave and covered them with the iron plate. Then Prothall and Mhoram jumped together into the southmost trench. But Covenant stood where he was. Vaguely, he watched Birinair reduce the campfire to its barest embers, then position himself against the burned trunk of the tree. Covenant needed time to comprehend what had been done to Llaura. Her plight numbed him.

First she had been given knowledge which might have saved the Lords-and then she had been made unable to communicate that knowledge. And her struggles to give the warning only ensured her failure by guaranteeing that the Lords would attempt to understand her rather than ride away. Yet what had been done to her was unnecessary, gratuitous; the trap would have succeeded without it. In every facet of her misery, Covenant could hear Lord Foul laughing.

Bannor's touch on his shoulder jarred him. The Bloodguard said as evenly as if he were announcing the time of day, “Come, ur-Lord. You must conceal yourself. It is necessary.”

Necessary? Silently, Covenant began to shout, Do you know what he did to her?

But when he turned, he saw Variol and Tamarantha still lying by the last embers of the fire, protected by only two Bloodguard. What-? he gaped. They'll be killed!

At the same time, another part of his brain insisted, He's doing the same thing to me. Exactly the same thing. To Bannor he groaned, “Don't touch me. Hellfire and bloody damnation. Aren't you ever going to learn?”

Without hesitation, Bannor lifted Covenant, swung him around, and dropped him into one of the trenches. There was hardly room for him; Foamfollower filled the rest of the grave, squatting to keep his head down. But Bannor squeezed into the trench after Covenant, positioned himself with his arms free over the Unbeliever.

Then a silence full of the aches and quavers of fear fell over the camp. At last, the apprehension of the attack caught up with Covenant. His heart lurched; sweat bled from his forehead; his nerves shrilled as if they had been laid bare. A grey nausea that filled his throat like dirt almost made him gag. He tried to swallow it away, and could not. No! he panted. Not like this. I will not!

Exactly the same, exactly what happened to Llaura.

A hungry shriek ripped the air. After it came the tramp of approach. Covenant risked a glance over the rim of the grave, and saw the glade surrounded by black forms and hot laval eyes. They moved slowly, giving the encamped figures a chance to taste their own end. And flapping heavily overhead just behind the advancing line was the dark shape of a beast.

Covenant recoiled. In fear, he watched the attack like an outcast, from a distance.

As the Cavewights and ur-viles contracted their ring around the glad centred their attack on the helpless campsite the wall of them thickened, reducing at every step the chance that the company might be able to break through their ranks. Slowly their approach became louder; they stamped the ground as if they were trying to crush the grass. And a low wind of mutterings became audible-soft snarls, hissings through clenched teeth, gurgling, gleeful salivations-blew over the graves like an exhalation littered with the wreckage of mangled lives. The Cavewights gasped like lunatics tortured into a love of killing; the nasal sensing of the ur-viles sibilated wetly. And behind the other sounds, terrible in their quietness, came the wings of a grin, drumming a dirge.

The tethered horses began to scream. The stark terror of the sound pulled Covenant up, and he looked long enough to see that the mustangs were not harmed. The tightening ring parted to bypass them, and a few Cavewights dropped from the attack to unfetter them, lead them away. The horses fought hysterically, but the strength of the Cavewights mastered them.

Then the attackers were less than a hundred feet from the graves. Covenant cowered down as far as he could. He hardly dared to breathe. The whole company was helpless in the trenches.

The next, moment, a howl went up among the attackers. Several Cavewights cried, “Only five?”

“All those horses?”

“Cheated!”

In rage at the puny number of their prey, nearly a third of them broke ranks and charged the campfire.

Instantly, the company seized its chance.

The Ranyhyn whinnied. Their combined call throbbed in the air like the shout of trumpets. Together they thundered out of the east toward the captured horses.

Birinair stepped away from the riven tree. With a full swing of his staff and a cry, he struck the burned wood. The tree erupted in flames, threw dazzling light at the attackers.

Prothall and Mhoram sprang together from the southmost trench. Their staffs flared with blue Lords-fire. Crying, “Melenkurion!” they drove their power against the creatures. The nearest Cavewights and ur-viles retreated in fear from the flames.

Warriors and Bloodguard leaped out of the graves, sprinted from the hollow of the tree.

And behind them came the towering form of Saltheart Foamfollower, shouting a rare Giantish war call.

With cries of fear and rage, fire, swift blows and clashing weapons, the battle began.

The company was outnumbered ten to one.

Jerking his gaze from scene to scene, Covenant saw how the fighting commenced. The Bloodguard deployed themselves instantly, two to defend each Lord, with one standing by Birinair and another, Bannor, warding the trench where Covenant stood. The warriors rapidly formed groups of five. Guarding each other's backs, they strove to cut their way in and out of the line of the attackers. Mhoram charged around the fight, trying to find the commanders or loremasters of the enemy. Prothall stood in the centre of the battle to give the company a rallying point. He shouted warnings and orders about him.

But Foamfollower fought alone. He rampaged through the attack like a berserker, pounding with his fists, kicking, throwing anything within reach. His war call turned into one long, piercing snarl of fury; his huge strides kept him in the thick of the fighting. At first, he looked powerful enough to handle the entire host alone. But soon the great strength of the Cavewights made itself felt. They jumped at him in bunches; four of them were able to bring him down. He was up again in an instant, flinging bodies about him like dolls. But it was clear that, if enough Cavewights attacked him together, he would be lost.

Variol and Tamarantha were in no less danger. They lay motionless under the onslaught, and their four Bloodguard strove extravagantly to preserve them. Some of the attackers risked arrows; the Bloodguard knocked the shafts aside with the backs of their hands. Spears followed, and then the Cavewights charged with swords and staves. Weaponless and unaided, the Bloodguard fought back with speed, balance, skill, with perfectly placed kicks and blows. They seemed impossibly successful. Soon a small ring of dead and unconscious Cavewights encircled the two Lords. But like Foamfollower they were vulnerable, would have to be vulnerable, to a concerted assault.

At Prothall's order, one group of warriors moved to help the four Bloodguard.

Covenant looked away.

He found Mhoram waging a weird contest with thirty or forty ur-viles. All the ur-viles in the attack they were few in proportion to the Cavewights-had formed a fighting wedge behind their tallest member, their loremaster-a wedge which allowed them to focus their whole power in the leader. The loremaster wielded a scimitar with a flaming blade, and against it Mhoram opposed his fiery staff. The clashing of power showered hot sparks that dazzled and singed the air.

Then a swirl of battle swept toward Covenant's trench. Figures leaped over him; Bannor fought like a dervish to ward off spears. A moment later, a warrior came to his aid. She was the Woodhelvennin who had assigned herself to Covenant. She and Bannor struggled to keep him alive.

He clutched his hands to his chest as if to protect his ring. His fingers unconsciously took hold of the metal.

Through the dark flash of legs, he caught a glimpse of Prothall, saw that the High Lord was under attack. Using his blazing staff like a lance, he strove with the griffin. The beast's wings almost buffeted him from his feet, but he kept his position and jabbed his blue fire upward. But astride the griffin sat another ur-vile loremaster. The creature used a black stave to block the High Lord's thrusts.

As Covenant watched, the desperation of the conflict mounted. Figures fell and rose and fell again. Blood spattered down on him. Across the glade, Foamfollower heaved to his feet from under a horde of Cavewights, and was instantly, deluged. Prothall fell to one knee under the combined force of his assailants. The ur-vile wedge drove Mhoram steadily backward; the two Bloodguard with him were hard pressed to protect his back.

Covenant's throat felt choked with sand.

Already, two warriors had fallen among the Cavewights around Variol and Tamarantha. At one instant, a Bloodguard found himself, and Tamarantha behind him, attacked simultaneously by three Cavewights with spears. The Bloodguard broke the first spear with a chop of his hand, and leaped high over the second to kick its wielder in the face. But even his great speed was not swift enough. The third Cavewight caught him by the arm. Grappling at once, the first latched his long fingers onto the Bloodguard's ankle. The two stretched their captive between them, and their companion jabbed his spear at the Bloodguard's belly.

Covenant watched, transfixed with helplessness, as the Bloodguard strained against the Cavewights, pulled them close enough together to wrench himself out of the path of the spear. Its tip scored his back. The next instant, he groined both his captors. They dropped him, staggered back. He hit the ground and rolled. But the middle Cavewight caught him with a kick so hard that it flung him away from Tamarantha.

Yelling his triumph, the Cavewight lunged forward with his spear raised high in both hands to impale the recumbent Lord.

Tamarantha!

Her peril overwhelmed Covenant's fear. Without thinking, he vaulted from the safety of his trench and started toward her. She was so old and frail that he could not restrain himself.

The Woodhelvennin yelled, “Down!” His sudden appearance aboveground distracted her, gave her opponents a target. As a result, she missed a parry, and a sword thrust opened her side. But Covenant did not see her. He was already running toward Tamarantha-and already too late.

The Cavewight drove his spear downward.

At the last instant, the Bloodguard saved Tamarantha by diving across her and catching the spear in his own back.

Covenant hurled himself at the Cavewight and tried to stab it with his stone knife. The blade twisted in his halfhand; he only managed to scratch the creature's shoulder blade.

The knife fell from his wrenched fingers.

The Cavewight whirled and struck him to the ground with a slap. The blow stunned him for a moment, but Bannor rescued him by attacking the creature. The Cavewight countered as if elevated, inspired, by his success against the dead Bloodguard. He shrugged off Bannor's blows, caught him in his long strong arms and began to squeeze. Bannor struck at the Cavewight's ears and eyes, but the maddened creature only tightened his grip.

Inchoate rage roared in Covenant's ears. Still half dazed, he stumbled toward Tamarantha's still form and snatched her staff from her side. She made no movement, and he asked no permission. Turning, he wheeled the staff wildly about his head and brought it down with all his strength on the back of the Cavewight's skull.

White and crimson power flashed in a silent explosion. The Cavewight fell instantly dead.

The ignition blinded Covenant for a moment. But he recognized the sick red hue of the flare. As his eyes cleared, he gaped at his hands, at his ring. He could not remember having removed it from the clingor on his chest. But it hung on his wedding finger and throbbed redly under the influence of the cloud-locked moon.

Another Cavewight loomed out of the battle at him. Instinctively, he hacked with the staff at the creature. It collapsed in a bright flash that was entirely crimson.

At the sight, his old fury erupted. His mind went blank with violence. Howling, “Foul!” as if the Despiser were there before him, he charged into the thick of the fray. Flailing about him like madness, he struck down another Cavewight, and another, and another. But he did not watch where he was going. After the third blow he fell into one of the trenches. Then for a long time he lay in the grave like a dead man. When he finally climbed to his feet, he was trembling with revulsion.

Above him, the battle burned feverishly. He could not judge how many of the attackers had been killed or disabled. But some turning point had been reached; the company had changed its tactics.Prothall fled from the griffin to Foamfollower's aid. And when the Giant regained his feet, he turned, dripping blood, to fight the griffin while Prothall joined Mhoram against the ur-viles. Bannor held himself over Covenant; but Quaan marshalled the survivors of his Eoman to make a stand around Variol and Tamarantha.

A moment later, the Ranyhyn gave a ringing call. Having freed the horses, they charged into the battle. And as their hooves and teeth crashed among the Cavewights, Prothall and Mhoram together swung their flaming staffs to block the loremaster's downstroke. Its hot scimitar shattered into fragments of lava, and the backlash of power felled the ur-vile itself. Instantly, the creatures shifted their wedge to present a new leader. But their strongest had fallen, and they began to give way.

On the other side of the battle, Foamfollower caught the griffin by surprise. The beast was harrying the warriors around Variol and Tamarantha. With a roar, Foamfollower sprang into the air and wrapped his arms in a death hug around the body of the griffin. His weight bore it to the ground; they rolled and struggled on the blood-slick grass. The riding ur-vile was thrown off, and Quaan beheaded it before it could raise its stave.

The griffin yowled hideously with rage and pain, tried to twist in Foamfollower's grip to reach him with its claws and fangs. But he squeezed it with all his might, silently braced himself against its thrashings and strove to kill it before it was able to turn and rend him.

For the most part, he succeeded. He exerted a furious jerk of pressure, and heard bones retort loudly in the beast's back. The griffin spat a final scream, and died. For a moment, he rested beside its body, panting hoarsely. Then he lumbered to his feet. His forehead had been clawed open to the bone.

But he did not stop. Dashing blood from his eyes, he ran and threw himself full-length onto the tight wedge of the ur-viles. Their formation crumbled under the impact.

At once, the ur-viles chose to flee. Before Foamfollower could get to his feet, they were gone, vanished into the darkness.

Their defection seemed to drain the Cavewights' mad courage. The gangrel creatures were no longer able to brave the Lords-fire. Panic spread among them from the brandished staffs, flash-firing in the sudden tinder of their hearts.

A cry of failure broke through the attack. The Cavewights began to run.

Howling their dismay, they scattered away from the blazing tree. They ran with grotesque jerkings of their knuckled joints, but their strength and length of limb gave them speed. In moments, the last of them had fled the glade.

Foamfollower charged after them. Yelling Giantish curses, he chased the fleers as if he meant to crush them all underfoot. Swiftly, he disappeared into the darkness, and soon he could no longer be heard. But from time to time there came faint screams through the night, as he caught escaping Cavewights.

Tuvor asked Prothall if some of the Bloodguard should join Foamfollower, but the High Lord shook his head. “We have done enough,” he panted. “Remember the Oath of Peace.”

For a time of exhaustion and relief, the company stood in silence underscored by the gasp of their breathing and the groans of the disabled Cavewights. No one moved; to Covenant's ears, the silence sounded like a prayer. Unsteadily, he pulled himself out of the trench. Looking about him with glazed eyes, he took the toll of the battle.

Cavewights sprawled around the camp in twisted heaps-nearly a hundred of them, dead, dying, and unconscious-and their blood lay everywhere like a dew of death. There were ten ur-viles dead. Five warriors would not ride again with their Eoman, and none of Quaan's command had escaped injury. But of the Bloodguard only one had fallen.

With a groan that belied his words, High Lord Prothall said, “We are fortunate.”

“Fortunate?” Covenant echoed in vague disbelief.

“We are fortunate.” An accent of anger emphasized the old rheumy rattle of Prothall's voice. “Consider that we might all have died. Consider such an attack during the full of the moon. Consider that while Drool's thoughts are turned here, he is not multiplying defences in Mount Thunder. We have paid”- his voice choked for a moment “paid but little for our lives and hope.”

Covenant did not reply for a moment. Images of violence dizzied him. All the Woodhelvennin were dead-Cavewights- ur-viles- the warrior who had chosen to watch over him. He did not even know her name. Foamfollower had killed-he himself had killed five-five.

He was trembling, but he needed to speak, needed to defend himself. He was sick with horror.

“Foamfollower's right,” he rasped hoarsely. “This is Foul's doing.”

No one appeared to hear him. The Bloodguard went to the Ranyhyn and brought their fallen comrade's mount close to the fire. Lifting the man gently, they set him on the Ranyhyn's back and bound him in place with clingor thongs. Then together they gave a silent salute, and the Ranyhyn galloped away, bearing its dead rider toward the Westron Mountains and Guards Gap-home.

“Foul planned the whole thing.”

When the Ranyhyn had vanished into the night, some of the Bloodguard tended the injuries of their mounts, while others resumed their sentry duty.

Meanwhile, the warriors began moving among the Cavewights, finding the living among the dead. All that were not mortally wounded were dragged to their feet and chased away from the camp. The rest were piled on the north side of the tree for a pyre.

“It means two things.” Covenant strove to master the quaver in his voice. “It's the same thing that he's doing to me. It's a lesson-like what happened to Llaura. Foul is telling us what he's doing to us because he's sure that knowing won't help. He wants to milk us for all the despair we're worth.”

With the aid of two warriors, Prothall released Llaura and Pietten from their tomb. Llaura looked exhausted to the limit; she was practically prostrate on her feet. But little Pietten ran his hands over the blood-wet grass, then licked his fingers.

Covenant turned away with a groan. “The other thing is that Foul really wants us to get at Drool. To die or not. He tricked Drool into this attack so that he wouldn't be busy defending himself. So Foul must know what we're doing, even if Drool doesn't.”

Prothall seemed troubled by the occasional distant screams, but Mhoram did not notice them. While the rest of the company set about their tasks, the Lord went and knelt beside Variol and Tamarantha. He bent over his parents, and under his red-stained robe his body was rigid.

“I tell you, this is all part of Foul's plan. Hellfire! Aren't you listening to me?”

Abruptly, Mhoram stood and faced Covenant. He moved as if he were about to hurl a curse at Covenant's head. But his eyes bled with tears, and his voice wept as he said, “They are dead. Variol and Tamarantha my parents-father and mother of me, body and soul.”

Covenant could see the hue of death on their old skin.

“It cannot be!” one of the warriors cried. “I saw. No weapon touched them. They were kept by the Bloodguard.”

Prothall hastened to examine the two Lords. He touched their hearts and heads, then sagged and sighed, “Nevertheless.”

Both Variol and Tamarantha were smiling.

The warriors stopped what they were doing; in silence, the Eoman put aside its own fatigue and grief to stand bowed in respect before Mhoram and his dead. Stooping, Mhoram lifted both Variol and Tamarantha in his arms. Their thin bones were light in his embrace, as if they had lost the weight of mortality. On his cheeks, tears gleamed orangely, but his shoulders were steady, un-sob-shaken, to uphold his parents.

Covenant's mind was beclouded. He wandered in mist, and his words were wind-torn from him. “Do you mean to tell me that we-that I-we-? For a couple of corpses?”

Mhoram showed no sign of having heard. But a scowl passed like a spasm across Prothall's face, and Quaan stepped to the Unbeliever's side at once, gripped his elbow, whispered into his ear, “If you speak again, I will break your arm.”

“Don't touch me,” Covenant returned. But his voice was forceless. He submitted, swirling in lost fog., Around him, the company took on an attitude of ritual. Leaving his staff with one of the warriors, High Lord Prothall retrieved the staffs of the dead Lords and held them like an offering across his arms. And Mhoram turned toward the blaze of the tree with Variol and Tamarantha clasped erect in his embrace. The silence quivered painfully. After a long moment, he began to sing. His rough song sighed like a river, and he sang hardly louder than the flow of water between quiet banks.

Death reaps the beauty of the world—

bundles old crops to hasten new.

Be still, heart:

hold peace.

Growing is better than decay:

I hear the blade which severs life from life.

Be still, peace:

hold heart.

Death is passing on—

the making way of life and time for life.

Hate dying and killing, not death.

Be still, heart:

make no expostulation.

Hold peace and grief

and be still.

As he finished, his shoulders lurched as if unable to bear their burden without giving at least one sob to the dead. “Ah, Creator!” he cried in a voice full of bereavement. “How can I honour them? I am stricken at heart, and consumed with the work that I must do. You must honour them-for they have honoured you.”

At the edge of the firelight, the Ranyhyn Hynaril gave a whinny like a cry of grief. The great roan mare reared and pawed the air with her forelegs, then whirled and galloped away eastward.

Then Mhoram murmured again,

Be still, heart:

make no expostulation.

Hold peace and grief

and be still.

Gently, he laid Variol on the grass and lifted Tamarantha in both arms. Calling hoarsely, “Hail!” he placed her into the cleft of the burning tree. And before the flames could blacken her age-etched skin, he lifted Variol and set him beside her, calling again, “Hail!” Their shared smile could be seen for a moment before the blaze obscured it. So they lay together in consummation.

Already dead, Covenant groaned. That Bloodguard was killed. Oh, Mhoram! In his confusion, he could not distinguish between grief and anger.

His eyes now dry, Mhoram turned to the company, and his gaze seemed to focus on Covenant. “My friends, be still at heart,” he said comfortingly. “Hold peace for all your grief. Variol and Tamarantha are ended. Who could deny them? They knew the time of their death. They read the close of their lives in the ashes of Soaring Woodhelven, and were glad to serve us with their last sleep. They chose to draw the attack upon themselves so that we might live. Who will say that the challenge which they met was not great? Remember the Oath, and hold Peace.”

Together, the Eoman made the heart-opening salute of farewell, arms spread wide as if uncovering their hearts to the dead. Then Quaan cried, “Hail!” and led his warriors back to the work of piling Cavewights and burying Woodhelvennin.

After the Eoman had left, High Lord Prothall said to Mhoram, “Lord Variol's staff. From father to son. Take it. If we survive this Quest to reach a time of peace, master it. It has been the staff of a High Lord.”

Mhoram accepted it with a bow.

Prothall paused for a moment, irresolute, then turned to Covenant. “You have used Lord Tamarantha's staff. Take it for use again. You will find it readier to aid your ring than your Hirebrand's staff. The lillianrill work in other ways than the Lords, and you are ur-Lord, Thomas Covenant.”

Remembering the red blaze which had raged out of that wood to kill and kill, Covenant said, “Burn it.”

A touch of danger tightened Mhoram's glance. But Prothall shrugged gently, took Lord Tamarantha's staff to the fire, and placed it into the cleft of the tree.

For an instant, the metal ends of the staff shone as if they were made of verdigris. Then Mhoram cried, “Ware the tree!” Quickly, the company moved away from the fiery spars.

The staff gave a sharp report like the bursting of bonds. Blue flame detonated in the cleft, and the riven tree dropped straight to the ground in fragments, collapsing as if its core had been finally killed. The heap of wood burned furiously.

From a distance, Covenant heard Birinair snort, “The Unbeliever's doing,” as if that were a calumny.

Don't touch me, he muttered to himself.

He was afraid to think. Around him, darkness lurked like vulture wings made of midnight. Horrors threatened; he felt ghoul-begotten. He could not bear the bloodiness of his ring, could not bear what he had become. He searched about him as if he were looking for a fight.

Unexpectedly, Saltheart Foamfollower returned.

He shambled out of the night like a massacre metaphored in flesh-an icon of slaughter. He was everywhere smeared in blood, and much of it was his own. The wound on his forehead covered his face with a dark, wet sheen, and through the stain his deep eyes looked sated and miserable. Shreds of Cavewight flesh still clung to his fingers.

Pietten pointed at the Giant, and twisted his lips in a grin that showed his teeth. At once, Llaura grabbed his hand, pulled him away to a bed which the warriors had made for them.

Prothall and Mhoram moved solicitously toward the Giant, but he pushed past them to the fire. He knelt near the blaze as if his soul needed warming, and his groan as he sank to his knees sounded like a rock cracking.

Covenant saw his chance, approached the Giant. Foamfollower's manifest pain brought his confused, angry grief to a pitch that demanded utterance. He himself had killed five Cavewights, five-! His ring was full of blood. “Well,” he snarled, “that must've been fun. I hope you enjoyed it.”

From the other side of the camp, Quaan hissed threateningly. Prothall moved to Covenant's side, said softly, “Do not torment him. Please. He is a Giant. This is the caamora, the fire of grief. Has there not been enough pain this night?”

I killed five Cavewights! Covenant cried in bereft fury.

But Foamfollower was speaking as if entranced by the fire and unable to hear them. His voice had a keening sound; he knelt before the fire in an attitude of lament.

“Ah, brothers and sisters, did you behold me? Did you see, my people? We have come to this. Giants, I am not alone. I feel you in me, your will in mine. You would not have done differently-not felt other than I felt, not grieved apart from my grief. This is the result. Stone and Sea! We are diminished. Lost Home and weak seed have made us less than we were. Do we remain faithful, even now? Ah, faithful? My people, my people, if steadfastness leads to this? Look upon me! Do you find me admirable? I stink of hate and unnecessary death.” A chill blew through his words. Tilting back his head, he began a low chant.

His threnody went on until Covenant felt driven to the brink of screaming. He wanted to hug or kick the Giant to make him cease. His fingers itched with mounting frenzy. Stop! he moaned. I can't stand it!

A moment later, Foamfollower bowed his head and fell silent. He remained still for a long time as if he were preparing himself. Then he asked flatly, “Who has been lost?”

“Very few,” Prothall answered. “We were fortunate. Your valour served us well.”

“Who?” Foamfollower ached.

With a sigh, Prothall named the five warriors, the Bloodguard, Variol and Tamarantha.

“Stone and Sea!” the Giant cried. With a convulsion of his shoulders, he thrust his hands into the fire.

The warriors gasped; Prothall stiffened at Covenant's side. But this was the Giantish caamora, and no one dared interfere.

Foamfollower's face stretched in agony, but he held himself still. His eyes seemed to bulge in their sockets; yet he kept his hands in the fire as if the blaze could heal, or at least sear, the blood on them, cauterize if it could not assuage the stain of shed life. But his pain showed in his forehead. The hard heart-pulse of hurt broke the crust on his wound; new blood dripped around his eyes and down his cheeks into his beard.

Panting, Hellfire hellfire! Covenant pushed away from Prothall. Stiffly, he went close to the kneeling Giant. With a fierce effort that made him sound caustic in spite of his intent, he said, “Now somebody really ought to laugh at you.” His jutting head was barely as high as the Giant's shoulder.

For a moment, Foamfollower gave no sign of having heard. But then his shoulders slumped. With a slow exertion almost as though he were reluctant to stop torturing himself, he withdrew his hands. They were unharmed-for some reason, his flesh was impervious to flame-but the blood was gone from them; they looked as clean as if they had been scrubbed by exoneration.

His fingers were still stiff with hurt, and he flexed them painfully before he turned his bloody face toward Covenant. As if he were appealing a condemnation, he met the Unbeliever's impacted gaze and asked, “Do you feel nothing?”

“Feel?” Covenant groaned. “I'm a leper.”

“Not even for tiny Pietten? A child?”

His appeal made Covenant want to throw his arms around the Giant, accept this terrible sympathy as some kind of answer to his dilemma. But he knew it was not enough, knew in the deepest marrow of his leprosy that it did not suffice. “We killed them too,” he croaked. “I killed-I'm no different than they are.”

Abruptly he turned, walked away into the darkness to hide his shame. The battleground was a fit and proper place for him; his nostrils were numb to the stink of death. After a time, he stumbled, then lay down among the dead, on blood surrounded by graves and pyres.

Children! He was the cause of their screams and their agony. Foul had attacked the Woodhelven because of his white gold ring. Not again-I won't. His voice was empty of weeping.

I will not do any more killing.