Thomas Covenant 03: Power That Preserves Read online

  But Mhoram deflected the blast with his staff, sent it into the air over his head, where his own fiery power attacked it and consumed it. Then he ducked behind the concealment of the parapet. Over his shoulder, he called Warmark Quaan, “Seal the gates! Order the archers to slay any creatures which gain the courtyard. We cannot deal gently with this foe.”

  Quaan was already on his way down the stairs into the complex passages of the tower, shouting orders as he ran to oversee the fray, Mhoram looked downward to assure himself that Satansfist had not passed through the gates. Then he hastened after Quaan.

  From the highest of the crosswalks above the courtyard, he surveyed the skirmish. Strong Woodhelvennin archers drove their shafts into the milling creatures from the battlements on both sides of the court, and the sound of weapons echoed out of the tunnel. In moments, the fighting would be done. Gritting his teeth over the shed blood, Mhoram left the conclusion the skirmish in Quaan’s competent hands, and crossed the wooden span to the main Keep, where his fellow Lords awaited him.

  As he met the somber eyes of Trevor, Loerya, and Amatin, a sudden weariness came over him. Satansfist’s threats came so close to the truth. He held his companions were inadequate for the task of using even those few powers and mysteries which they possessed. And he was no nearer to a resolution of his secret knowledge than he had been when he had summoned and lost Thomas Covenant. He sighed, allowed his shoulders to sag. To explain himself, he said, “I had not thought there were so many ur-viles in all the world.” But the words were only tangential to what he felt.

  Yet he could not afford such weariness. He was the High Lord. Trevor, Loerya, and Amatin had their own uncertainties, their own needs, which he could not refuse; he had already done them enough damage in the private dilemma of his heart. Drawing himself erect, he told them what he had seen and heard of the Raver and Lord Foul’s army.

  When he was done, Amatin smiled wryly. “You affronted samadhi Raver. That was boldly done, High Lord.”

  “I did not wish to comfort him with the thought that we believe him safe.”

  At this, Loerya’s gaze winced. “Is he so safe?” she asked painfully.

  Mhoram hardened. “He is not safe while there is heart or bone or Earthpower to oppose him. I only say that I know not how he may be fought. Let him discover my ignorance for himself.”

  As she had so often in the past, Loerya once again attempted to probe his secret. “Yet you have touched Loric’s krill and given it life. Your hand drew a gleam of blue from the gem. Is there no hope in this? The legends say that the krill of Loric Vilesilencer was potent against the peril of the Demondim.”

  “A gleam,” Mhoram replied. Even in the privacy of his own knowledge, he feared the strange power which had enabled him to spark the krill’s opaque jewel. He lacked the courage to explain the source of his strength. “What will that avail?”

  In response, Loerya’s face thronged with demands and protests, but before she could voice them, a shout from the courtyard drew the Lords’ attention downward. Warmark Quaan stood on the flagstones amid the corpses. When Mhoram answered him, he saluted mutely with his sword.

  Mhoram returned the salute, acknowledging Quaan’s victory. But he could not keep the hue of sadness from his voice as he said, “We have shed the first blood in this siege. Thus even those who oppose ill must wreak harm upon the victims of ill. Bear their bodies to the upland hills and burn them with purging fires, so that their flesh may recover its innocence in ashes. Then scatter their ashes over Furl Falls, as a sign to all the Land that we abhor the Despiser’s wrong, not the slaves which he has made to serve his wrong.”

  The Warmark scowled, loath to honor his enemies with such courtesy. But he promptly gave the orders to carry out Mhoram’s instructions, Sagging again, Mhoram turned back to his fellow Lords. To forestall any further probing, he said, “The Giant knows he cannot breach these walls with swords and spears. But he will not stand idle, waiting for hunger to do his work. He is too avid for blood. He will attempt us. We must be prepared. We must stand constant watch within the tower—to counter any force which he may bring against us.”

  Lord Trevor, eager for any responsibility which he believed to be within his ability, said, “I will watch.”

  With a nod, Mhoram accepted. “Summon one of us when you are weary. And summon us all when Satansfist chooses to act. We must see him at work, so that we may learn our defense.” Then he turned to a warrior standing nearby. “Warhaft, bear word to the Hearthralls Tohrm and Borillar. Ask the Hirebrands and Gravelingases of Lord’s Keep to share the watch of the Lords. They also must learn our defense.”

  The warrior saluted and walked briskly away. Mhoram placed a hand on Trevor’s shoulder, gripped it firmly for a moment. Then, with one backward look at the winter-stricken sky, he left the balcony and went to his chambers.

  He intended to rest, but the sight of Elena’s marrowmeld sculpture standing restlessly on his table disturbed him. It had the fanatic, vulnerable look of a man, chosen to be a prophet, who entirely mistakes his errand—who, instead of speaking to glad ears the words of hope with which he was entrusted, spends his time preaching woe and retribution to a wilderland. Looking at the bust, Mhoram had to force himself to remember that Covenant had rejected the Land to save a child in his own world. And the Unbeliever’s ability to refuse help to tens of thousands of lives—to the Land itself—for the sake of one life was a capacity which could not be easily judged. Mhoram believed that large balances might be tipped by the weight of one life. Yet the face of the sculpture seemed at this moment taut with misapprehended purpose—crowded with all the people who would die so that one young girl might live.

  As he gazed at this rendition of Covenant’s fate, High Lord Mhoram experienced again the sudden passion which had enabled him to draw a gleam from Loric’s krill. Danger filled his eyes, and he snatched up the sculpture as if he meant to shout at it. But then the hard lines of his mouth bent, and he sighed at himself. With conflicting intensities in his face, he ore the anundivian yajña work to the Hall of Gifts, where he placed it in a position of honor high on one of the rude, root-like pillars of the cavern. After that, he returned to his chambers and slept.

  He was awakened shortly after noon by Trevor’s summons. His dreamless slumber vanished instantly, and he was on his way out of his rooms before the young warrior who brought the message was able to knock a second time. He hastened up out of the recesses of Revelstone toward the battlements over the gates of the main Keep, where he chanced upon Hearthrall Tohrm. Together, they crossed to the tower and climbed the stairs to its top. There they found Trevor Loerya-mate with Warmark Quaan and Hirebrand Borillar.

  Quaan stood between the Lord and the Hearthrall like an anchor to their separate tensions. Trevor’s whole face was clenched white with apprehension, and Borillar’s hands trembled on his staff with mixed dread and determination; but Quaan held his arms folded across his chest and frowned stolidly downward as if he had lost the capacity to be surprised by anything any servant of the Gray Slayer did. As the High Lord joined them, the old Warmark pointed with one tanned, muscular arm, and his rigid finger guided Mhoram’s eyes like an accusation to a gathering of ur-viles before the gates of the tower.

  The ur-viles were within arrow reach, but a line of red-eyed Cavewights bearing wooden shields protected them by intercepting the occasional shafts which Quaan’s warriors loosed from the windows of the tower. Behind this cover, the ur-viles were building.

  They worked with deft speed, and their construction quickly took shape in their midst. Soon Mhoram saw that they were making a catapult.

  Despite the freezing ire of Foul’s wind, his hands began to sweat on his staff. As the ur-viles looped heavy ropes around the sprocketed winches at the back of the machine, lashed the ropes to the stiff throwing-arm, and sealed with flashes of black power a large, ominous iron cup to the end of the arm, he found himself tensing, calling all his lore and strength into readiness. He knew inst
inctively that the attackers did not intend to hurl rocks at Revelstone.

  The Demondim-spawn worked without instructions from Satansfist. He watched from a distance, but neither spoke nor moved. A score of them clambered over the catapult—adjusting, tightening, sealing it—and High Lord Mhoram marveled grimly that they could build so well without eyes. But they showed no need for eyes; noses were as discerning as vision. In a short time the finished catapult stood erect before Revelstone’s tower.

  Then barking shouts chorused through the encampment, and a hundred ur-viles ran forward to the machine. On either side, a score of them formed wedges to concentrate their power and placed themselves so that their loremasters stood at the winches. Using their iron staves, the two loremasters began turning the sprockets, thus tightening the ropes and slowly bending the catapult’s arm backward. The catapult dwarfed the creatures, but by focusing their strength in wedges, they were able to crank the winches and bend the arm. And while this was being done, the other ur-viles came together and made an immense wedge behind the catapult. Against the background of the frozen snow-scud, they looked like a spear point aimed at the heart of the Keep.

  With part of his mind, Mhoram observed that Lord Amatin now stood beside him. He glanced around for Loerya and saw her on a balcony of the main Keep. He waved his approval to her; if any holocaust struck the watchtower, all the Lords would not be lost. Then he cocked an eyebrow at Quaan, and when the Warmark nodded to indicate that the warriors were ready for any sudden orders, High Lord Mhoram returned his attention to the ur-viles.

  As the arm of the catapult was drawn back, Gravelingas Tohrm knelt at the parapet, spreading his arms and pressing his palms against the slow curve of the wall. In a dim, alien voice, he began to sing a song of granite endurance to the stone.

  Then the arm reached its fullest arc. Quivering as if it were about to splinter, it strained toward the tower. At once, it was locked into place with iron hooks. Its wide cup had been brought down to chest level directly in front of the loremaster who apexed the largest wedge.

  With a ringing clang, the loremaster struck its stave against the cup. Strength surged through scores of black shoulders; they emanated power as the loremaster labored over the cup. And thick, cruel fluid, as fiery as the vitriol which consumes flesh and obsidian and teak alike, splashed coruscating darkly from the stave into the waiting cup.

  The High Lord had seen human bodies fall into ash at the least touch of fluid like that. He turned to warn Quaan. But the old Warmark needed no warning; he also had watched warriors die in Demondim acid. Before Mhoram could speak, Quaan was shouting down the stairwell into the tower, ordering his warriors away from all the exposed windows and battlements.

  At Mhoram’s side, Lord Amatin’s slight form began to shiver in the wind. She held her staff braced before her as if she were trying to ward the cold away.

  Slowly the loremaster’s fluid filled the cup. It splashed and spouted like black lava, throwing midnight sparks into the air; but the lore of the ur-viles contained it, held its dark force together, prevented it from shattering the catapult.

  Then the cup was full.

  The ur-viles did not hesitate. With a hoarse, hungry cry, they knocked free the restraining hooks.

  The arm arced viciously forward, slapped with flat vehemence against the stop at the end of its throw.

  A black gout of vitriol as large as a Stonedownor home sprang through the air and crashed against the tower a few dozen feet below the topmost parapet.

  As the acid struck stone, it erupted. In lightless incandescence, it burned at the mountain rock like the flare of a dark sun. Tohrm cried out in pain, and the stone’s agony howled under Mhoram’s feet. He leaped forward. With Trevor and Amatin beside him, he called blue Lords-fire from his staff and flung it down against the vitriol.

  Together the three staffs flamed hotly to counter the acid. And because the ur-viles could not replenish it, it fell apart in moments—dropped like pieces of hate from the wall, and seared the ground before it was extinguished.

  It left behind a long scar of corrosion in the stone. But it had not broken through the wall.

  With a groan, Tohrm sagged away from the parapet. Sweat ran down his face, confusing his tears so that Mhoram could not tell whether the Gravelingas wept from pain or grief or rage. “Melenkurion abatha!” he cried thickly. “Ah, Revelstone!”

  The ur-viles were already cranking their catapult into position for another throw.

  For an instant, Mhoram felt stunned and helpless. With such catapults, so many thousands of ur-viles might be able to tear Lord’s Keep down piece by piece, reduce it to dead rubble. But then his instinct for resistance came to life within him. To Trevor and Amatin he snapped, “Those blasts must not touch the Keep. Join me. We will shape a Forbidding.”

  Even as they moved away from him on either side to prepare between them as wide a defense as possible, he knew that these tactics would not suffice. Three Lords might be able to deflect the greatest harm of a few attacks, but they could not repulse the assault of fifteen or twenty thousand ur-viles. “Tohrm!” he commanded sharply. “Borillar!”

  At once, Hearthrall Tohrm began calling for more Gravelingases. But Borillar hesitated, searching around him uncertainly as if the urgency of the Situation interfered with his thinking, hid his own lore from him.

  “Calmly Hirebrand,” Mhoram said to steady him. “The catapults are of wood.”

  Abruptly Borillar spun and dashed away. As he passed Warmark Quaan, he cried, “Archers!” Then he was yelling toward the main Keep, “Hirebrands! Bring lor-liarill! We will make arrows!

  In a dangerously short time, the ur-viles had cocked their machine and were filling its cup with their black vitriol. They fired their next throw scant moments after Tohrm’s rhadhamaerl reinforcements had positioned themselves to support the stone.

  At Mhoram’s command, the Lords struck against the arcing gout of acid before it reached the tower. Their staffs flashed as they threw up a wall of fire across the acid’s path.

  The fluid hit their fire with a force which shredded their Forbidding. The black acid shot through their power to slam against the tower wall. But the attack had spent much of its virulence. When it reached the stone, Tohrm and his fellow Gravelingases were able to withstand it.

  It shattered against the strength which they called up in the rock, and fell flaming viciously to the ground, leaving behind dark stains on the wall but no serious damage.

  Tohrm turned to meet High Lord Mhoram’s gaze. Hot anger and exertion flushed the Hearthrall’s face, but he bared his teeth in a grin which promised much for the defense of Revelstone.

  Then three of Quaan’s archers joined the Lords, followed closely by two Hirebrands. The archers were tall Woodhelvennin warriors, whose slimness of form belied the strength of their bows. Warmark Quaan acknowledged them, and asked Borillar what he wanted them to do. In response, Borillar accepted from the Hirebrands six long, thin arrows. These were delicately rune-carved, despite their slenderness; their tips were sharpened to keen points; and their ends were fletched with light brown feathers. The Hearthrall gave two of them to each archer, saying as he did so, “This is lor-liarill, the rare wood called by the Giants of Seareach ‘Gildenlode.’ They—”

  “We are Woodhelvennin,” the woman who led the archers said bluntly. “Lor-liarill is known to us.”

  “Loose them well,” returned Borillar. “There are no others prepared. Strike first at the Cavewights.”

  The woman looked at Quaan to see if he had any orders for her, but he waved her and her companions to the parapet. With smooth competence, the three archers nocked arrows, bent bows, and took aim at the catapult.

  Already the ur-viles had pulled back its arm, and were busy rabidly refilling its iron cup.

  Through his teeth, Quaan said, “Strike now.”

  Together three bowstrings thrummed.

  Immediately the defending Cavewights jerked up their shields, caught the ar
rows out of the air.

  The instant the arrows bit wood, they exploded into flame. The force of their impact spread fire over the shields, threw blazing shreds and splinters down onto the Cavewights. Yelping in surprise and pain, the dull-witted, gangling creatures dropped their shields and jumped away from the fire.

  At once, the archers struck again. Their shafts sped through the air and hit the catapult’s throwing arm, just below the cup. The lor-liarill detonated instantly, setting the black acid afire. In sudden conflagration, the fluid’s power smashed the catapult, scattered blazing wood in all directions. A score of ur-viles and several Cavewights fell, and the rest went scrambling beyond arrow range, leaving the pieces of the machine to burn themselves out.

  With a fierce grin, the Woodhelvennin woman turned to Borillar and said, “The lillianrill make dour shafts, Hearthrall.”

  Borillar strove to appear dispassionate, as if he were accustomed to such success, but he had to swallow twice before he could find his voice to say, “So it would appear.”

  High Lord Mhoram placed a hand of praise on the Hearthrall’s shoulder. “Hirebrand, is there more lor-liarill which may be formed into such arrows?”

  Borillar nodded like a veteran. “There is more. All the Gildenlode keels and rudders which were made for the Giants—before—That wood may be reshaped.”

  “Ask the Hirebrands to begin at once,” said Mhoram quietly.

  Smiling broadly, Tohrm moved to stand beside Borillar. “Hearthrall, you have outdone me,” he said in a teasing tone. “The rhadhamaerl will not rest until they have found a way to match this triumph of yours.”

  At this, Borillar’s dispassion broke into a look of wide pleasure. Arm in arm, he and Tohrm left the tower, followed by the other Hirebrands and Gravelingases.

  After bowing under a few curt words of praise from Quaan, the archers left also. He and the three Lords were left alone on the tower, gazing somberly into each other’s eyes.

  Finally Quaan spoke the thought that was in all their faces. “It is a small victory. Larger catapults may strike from beyond the reach of arrows. Larger wedges may make power enough to breach the walls. If several catapults are brought to the attack together, we will be sorely pressed to resist even the first throws.”