The Last Dark (28 page)

“But, Mom,” he added, hurrying. “The lurker—You’ve got to see this. If you can stand. If Stave didn’t break your neck.”

Percipience assured Linden that her neck was not broken. Raising her head would hurt; but it would only hurt.

“I,” she breathed through a rising pulse of pain. “Can. Try.”

In one smooth motion, Stave scooped her from the ground. Cradling her neck, he held her in his arms for a moment. Then he lowered her legs gently. When her boots were settled on the dirt, he offered the Staff of Law to her weak grasp.

“It is yours, Chosen. I have no virtue to wield its healing, but you are able to relieve the harm of my blow.”

Her hands were numb. She could not feel the warm wood. Stave had hit her too hard. Nevertheless her Staff was there. She seemed to hear it murmuring to her, urging her to call on its benign strength.

Instinctively she summoned black flames to lave her as if they were the waters of Glimmermere.

Her heart seemed to stagger in its beat. Then Earthpower and Law took hold. Her shock and hurt began to ease. She recognized her surroundings more clearly, identified Jeremiah and Stave as if their substance had been affirmed by fire. In the distance, she discerned the Ranyhyn. They appeared to be waiting, watching; perhaps praying. When she turned her head hesitantly in the opposite direction, she saw Sarangrave Flat crouching along the horizon, a starker and more telic dark within the enshrouding night.

“Look, Mom,” Jeremiah insisted. “You won’t believe it.”

No proffered or sealed alliance could soften her fear of the lurker. But when she looked—when she focused her health-sense as well as her inadequate sight—she saw a single tentacle rising from the disturbed muck of the wetland. It stood taller than any Giant, far taller, and as erect as a sentinel. All of its many fingers, hundreds of them, were curled and clenched as though they feared an attack. Yet the lurker’s arm did not flinch or waver.

Horrim Carabal. The Ardent had told Linden the monster’s name.

She gripped her Staff more tightly, absorbed more fire.

When it was certain of her attention, the tentacle dipped as if in acknowledgment or homage.

“See that?” Jeremiah breathed. “Did you see that?” He sounded proud. “It bowed to you, Mom. The lurker
bowed
to you.”

Before Linden could reply, the tentacle slipped back into its fouled waters. At first, it appeared to leave no ripples in its domain. But then she saw the massive arm squirm away, a crooked seethe through the stagnant pools and mud. As it retreated, the air became easier to breathe. In moments, Horrim Carabal had withdrawn beyond the reach of her perceptions.

“Amazing,” Jeremiah proclaimed more strongly. “I don’t know what Covenant did, but he sure got that thing’s attention.”

“Be wary, young Jeremiah,” Stave advised. “The lurker of the Sarangrave is malevolence incarnate. The actions of the Ranyhyn speak of this, if your own discernment does not.”

Then he turned to Linden. “By your earlier account, Chosen, the glamour of the Feroce inspires you to relive events and perils belonging to your former world. We cannot interpret the lurker’s intent until you speak of this new visitation.”

Carefully Linden leaned her head from side to side, tested the effects of Earthpower. Joints popped: stiffness lingered in her neck: pain still throbbed in her forehead. But she was essentially intact.

And dawn was near. There was an unmistakable paling in the east.

“Well, I know one thing, anyway.” Anele’s prophecy and Gallows Howe left her hoarse. “This is what the Ranyhyn were hoping for.

“The last time, they did it on purpose. They took us close enough to the Sarangrave for the Feroce to find us. They wanted us to meet the lurker and beat it so that it would know we were too strong for it. It already knew that it couldn’t fight Covenant. Not when he has the
krill
.” Clearly Horrim Carabal had not forgotten the agony of Covenant’s power millennia ago. “The Ranyhyn wanted it to understand that it can’t fight us, either.

“After that, I’m guessing. But I think that the Feroce must have approached Covenant. Infelice said something—”

Stave would remember. Jeremiah might not. He had been absorbed in his construct.

“The Feroce must have talked to him about an alliance. Whatever he said, it must have satisfied them.” And he had done more: that was obvious. She simply could not imagine what it might have been. “In any case, the Ranyhyn brought us here tonight because”—she shrugged awkwardly—“well, because they needed fodder, of course. But they also wanted to know where the lurker stands now. Or they wanted us to know.”

And they had trusted both her companions to take care of her however the lurker reacted.

With a subtle air of satisfaction, Stave asserted, “The Unbeliever has exceeded the terms, as is his wont. The alliance is sealed. It is my thought that the lurker fears the Worm. Therefore it craves power. And therefore it seeks allies.

“Yet, Chosen,” he continued, “you have said naught of your experience within this new glamour. Your interpretation of the Ranyhyn I accept. I have none better. Will you now speak of the visions imposed upon you?”

Linden did not want to reply. What she had learned or deduced was too great for her. She did not know where she would find the courage to bear it.

I will
. She had promised that she would seek out an answer for Caerroil Wildwood. An answer which she could not possibly possess. For that reason, and because her company did not suffice for its task, she would have to forsake her son.

“It wasn’t like the last time,” she said, striving for a steadiness that she could not feel. “It wasn’t terrifying. First I was down in the Lost Deep. Before we crossed the Hazard. I heard Anele reading that fan of obsidian and malachite. Then I was back on Gallows Howe with Caerroil Wildwood. The Feroce reminded me that I made a promise then. I told him that I would find out how the world could survive without Forestals.”

Now she felt certain that the world could not.

“But why?” Jeremiah asked quickly. “I mean, why did they want to remind you? It’s not like you were ever going to forget things like that.”

Linden believed that she understood the point of Covenant’s message. And she surmised that the Feroce had tried to ensure that she did not misinterpret it. But she did not say so. Instead she deflected Jeremiah’s query.

“Maybe the lurker doesn’t really understand alliances. It’s used to having worshippers. Alliances are new. Sure, I was never going to forget. But the lurker can’t know that. It’s just choosing between powers that can hurt it. The Worm is going to destroy everything. The lurker is bargaining for its life.”

After a moment, Jeremiah conceded, “That makes sense, I guess.”

Stave regarded her with his customary lack of expression. Briefly he lifted his head as if he were scenting the air. Then he said, “Dawn begins. It appears that the coming day will resemble the one past. And the Ranyhyn return. Doubtless they will feed again. Then we must hasten once more.”

Linden nodded to escape more inquiries. Unlike the horses, she was not hungry. The roots that she had eaten still lay in her stomach, a fibrous mass difficult to digest. At uncomfortable moments, its taste returned to the back of her throat. But water was a necessity.

“In that case,” she told the
Haruchai
, “we should get something to drink while we still can.”

He flicked a glance toward her, but did not demur. And Jeremiah agreed at once. Already he was eager again; impatient.

In the rising gloom of a new day—the second since the sun had failed—Linden and her son followed the former Master back to the eddy where they had risked the water the previous evening.

The possibility that they might not find the like again did not trouble her as much as the prospect of her own intentions. They were too much for her: one appalling risk piled on another until their sheer scale threatened to overwhelm her.

Taking the Risk

Soon Linden, Jeremiah, and Stave were mounted and running again, heading away from the Sarangrave directly into the northeast. Hyn’s straining betrayed that the mare had not recovered her full strength. Both Hynyn and Khelen labored over the barren terrain. Still they had reserves of stamina. Linden understood their physical prowess no better than she comprehended their ability to find their way within
caesures
, or their strange insight into the mind of Horrim Carabal. She knew only that Earthpower flowed richly in their veins. They seemed to draw their vitality from the Land itself, regardless of its blasted condition.

Kevin’s Dirt loomed overhead, but she banished its effects almost reflexively. The threat of the lurker was behind her, and she no longer feared to exert her Staff.

Gradually the darker gloom of night became a kind of twilight over the region. Ahead of her, the ground undulated in slow dips and gradual rises toward its dulled horizons. Then the terrain became rougher—the hollows deeper, the sides steeper—until the horses appeared to traverse a protracted series of impact craters: the ancient outcome of fallen meteors, or of terrible bolts of theurgy. But the Ranyhyn were not daunted. Instead they seemed to gain fresh resolve from the difficulties, as if they were nearing their obscure destination.

And eventually the terrain on Linden’s right began rising. Along a line parallel to the path of the mounts, southwest to northeast, the stricken ground piled higher until it formed a ridge with a front as sheer as a cliff and a more gradual slope at its back. To her left were only more hollows or craters; but opposite them, the ridge jutted with its gutrock exposed as if a range of higher hills had been cleft.

Approaching the highest point of the ridge, the Ranyhyn slowed. Rubble, boulders, and other detritus cluttered the base of the cliff, but did not extend far enough to obstruct the horses. Hyn, Hynyn, and Khelen had a different reason for easing their pace.

In the lead, Jeremiah rose on Khelen’s back as if he were standing in stirrups. He punched his fists at the sky, defying the reaving of the stars. “This is
it
!” he shouted. “Malachite! That cliff is
riddled
with it!”

While Hyn jolted to a trot, Linden tried to spot what Jeremiah had seen.

At first, the profile of the ridge held her. From her perspective, it cut off perhaps a third of the heavens. Irrationally she hoped that she would not see more stars dying. But the slow carnage continued overhead. She could only spare herself that vista by lowering her gaze.

Even then, she could not locate the source of Jeremiah’s exultation.

Fortunately the Feroce had renewed her recollection of black rock elucidated by green veins. When she concentrated inward, tuned her senses to the hue and pitch and timbre of memory, and then studied the cliff-face once more, she began to discern flakes and small seams of the mineral she sought. They were difficult to detect, in part because they felt miniscule, too trivial for her son’s needs, and in part because they were crowded among streaks of verdigris, knobs of blunt granite, porous patches of sandstone; masked by reflective facets of quartz, mica, feldspar, other crystalline stones. But there
was
malachite.

It did not look like enough.

Yet Jeremiah’s excitement was undaunted. As his mount halted, he vaulted to the ground; ran a few strides toward the ridge. “There!” he called as though he wanted the world to hear him. “It isn’t much. I mean, on the surface. But deeper—! If we dig into the cliff far enough”—his hands sketched dimensions in the air—“some of it is practically pure!”

Pointing, he indicated a section of the ridgefront a long stone’s throw above his head.

Oh, God. Linden would have asked, How can we get at it? But a different problem had already occurred to her. Assuming that the cliff could be excavated, surely the stone above it would collapse? Anyone digging there would be crushed and buried.

The Ranyhyn had found what Jeremiah needed.

It was effectively inaccessible.

Hyn had stopped. Her breathing wheezed faintly as she waited for Linden to dismount. But Linden was too shaken to move.

Like her, Stave remained mounted. His mien revealed nothing as he asked, “Will not these boulders suffice, young Jeremiah?” He nodded toward the debris at the foot of the cliff. “They also contain portions of malachite.”

Jeremiah turned to glare at the
Haruchai
. “Sure,” he snorted with the inadvertent disdain of a boy. “If I wanted to build a door for mice. One that didn’t go anywhere. But the
Elohim
are bigger.” He must have meant in personality and puissance. “And the door has to take them someplace safe.

“No,” he asserted. “We need to get into that cliff.”

“Then this is labor for Giants.” Smoothly Stave slid down from Hynyn’s back. “While we await them, however, I will commence. Inform me when I have climbed to the place where you wish me to begin. I will discover what the strength of the
Haruchai
can accomplish against such stone.”

In response, Jeremiah laughed: delight, not derision. Flourishing his arms, he cast arcs of yellow flame across the gloom. “I knew I could count on you. While you’re doing that, I’ll look at a few boulders. Maybe some of them have enough malachite. I’ll need as much as I can find.”

Stave nodded. Instead of approaching the ridge, however, he faced Linden. “Chosen, you also must dismount. The Ranyhyn require rest. Indeed, they must depart in search of water and forage. And I will be unable to ward your son while I ascend the rock. That task falls to you.” After a brief hesitation, he added, “I do not dream that our foes have forgotten their craving for your son’s gifts.”

Roger had an uncanny ability to appear out of nowhere. Distance was no obstacle to Kastenessen. And Lord Foul’s powers—even those of the Ravers—were beyond estimation.

Falls, Linden echoed; but she was not listening to Stave. Her mind followed other paths. The Masters called
caesures
Falls. She could not conceive of any other way to keep her promises. But there were many kinds of falling. She could too easily imagine Stave crawling spider-like up the cliff—until some hand- or toe-hold failed.

What choice did he have? What choice did anyone have? Jeremiah needed malachite.

She shook her head, resisted an impulse to slap herself. She could not afford to sit on Hyn’s back feeling stupid and defeated. Her son needed more than malachite. The whole Earth needed more.

When your deeds have come to doom
—

She had to think.

Staring vacantly at the ridge, she told herself that the question was one of power. Surely it was a question of power? Even if Stave lived, what could he hope to achieve? And when the Giants came—if they came—they would be in as much danger as he, with as little chance of success.

Therefore—

Well, obviously, the cliff would have to be broken open from a safe distance. What else? And that was a task for theurgy. Even if the stonewise Giants could devise an alternative, they were only eight—and they were already weary. The work would take time. Not hours: days.

Power was the only answer.

But what could she do? Fire she understood: black flame and burning. Yet merely scorching the face of the cliff would be a waste of effort. Heat alone would have no effect. In the Lost Deep as well as under
Melenkurion
Skyweir, she had shattered stone; shaped it instinctively. If she could summon that form of strength or desperation again, she might be able to tear apart the ridgefront. But the malachite would be torn apart as well. Tons of mineral-seamed rock blasted to gravel would not serve Jeremiah’s purposes.

Doubtless the Staff of Law had other uses—many of them—but she was not lorewise enough to know what they were, or how they were done. And anything that she attempted with Covenant’s ring would be worse. Wild magic resisted control. In that respect, it resembled the
caesures
it created.

How could she open that ridge without risking lives?

“Chosen,” said Stave more sharply. “We cannot delay.”

But then another possibility occurred to her. She had been given hints enough—

Men commonly find their fates graven within the rock, but yours is written in water.

The lady’s fate is writ in water.

“Wait.” Scrambling to catch up her ideas, she slipped down from Hyn’s back. “Before you do anything rash. Do you know if there are any streams on the far side of this ridge? Any water at all?”

“Mom,” Jeremiah protested. “We don’t need water. We need to get started.”

She and Stave ignored him. The
Haruchai
met her gaze squarely. “No, Chosen. This region is unknown to me. The Masters have found no cause to scout it. And I have discerned neither streams nor springs.” After a flicker of thought, he said, “Yet the Ranyhyn may discover what you desire. Doubtless their path lies toward water.”

“Mom,” Jeremiah objected again. “What’s so important about water?”

The three mounts were already trotting back the way they had come. Eventually they would come to the place where the declining slope of the ridge met lower ground.

“I’m not sure yet,” Linden answered. “Maybe there isn’t any. And if there is, I might not be able to use it.”

Impatiently Jeremiah came to join her and Stave. “I don’t get it. Sure, I’m thirsty, but it isn’t bad yet. If you aren’t going to drink it, what do you want it for?”

Life, Linden could have said. Hope. Fate. Doom. But she felt too uncertain to describe what she had in mind.

“Just wait,” she urged her son. “Watch the Ranyhyn. We’ll know soon enough.” To ease his frustration, she added, “I don’t want to risk Stave if we don’t have to.”

“But—” Jeremiah began, then clamped his mouth shut.

Dim as shadows, the Ranyhyn were only trotting. Nevertheless they appeared to cover distance rapidly. And as Linden watched, they began angling closer to the ridge.

She gripped the Staff hard; tried not to hold her breath.

Before long, the horses quickened their pace. Rushing at the slope, they ascended the dwindling silhouette of the ridge. For a moment, they labored upward. Then they gained the ridgeline and disappeared from sight.

Linden sighed. She could assume that the Ranyhyn were seeking water; but that did not necessarily imply that it arose from a source within the ridge. The horses might have to search to the south or east beyond the thrust of the cliff.

Still she could hope—

“All right,” she said finally. “So maybe there’s water. I won’t know for sure until I find it.”

Jeremiah had reached the end of his restraint. “But
why
?”

Impelled by the pressure of yet another burden which she might not be able to carry, Linden started toward the ridge. “The Lords,” she replied over her shoulder, “back when there were Lords—They must have known how to do lots of things with a Staff of Law. But I can only guess what those things were. I don’t know how to do any of them. I only know fire and healing.” And brute force.

While Jeremiah caught up with her, and Stave followed in silence, she continued, “I can’t heal anything here. But fire makes heat—and heat makes water expand.” Trapped water would be ideal, or water that could only rise to the surface in trickles. But buried springs and even pockets of moisture might conceivably suffice. “Heat water fast enough and hard enough, and it explodes into steam. Maybe I can break part of the cliff.”

For an instant, Jeremiah seemed stunned. Then he burst out, “That’s
brilliant
!”

“It is a tenuous prospect,” remarked Stave. “The obstacles are many. I name only the site and quantity of water required, if indeed water exists within such a formation. Nonetheless the deed cannot succeed if it is not attempted.”

Linden was not listening. As she walked, she summoned Earthpower to sharpen her percipience, bathed her nerves in fire like condensed midnight. Then she began to explore the ridgefront. Concentrating on the section that Jeremiah had indicated, she felt her way inward, searching into and through multitudes of rock as if she were probing for wounds hidden deep within living flesh.

At the nearest obstruction, a boulder the size of a hut, she halted momentarily. But then she realized that she needed to be closer: close enough to study the face of the cliff with her hands. Cursing under her breath, she passed around the boulder and mounted a stretch of lesser rubble, the fallen residue of the cliff’s severance. When she stumbled, she caught herself on the Staff and climbed higher.

Finally she reached the main wall. From far above her, it loomed as if it were glowering in suppressed wrath. But she ignored its impending bulk, its ire, its enduring intractability. She needed nothing from it except water.

In one approximate location.

In sufficient quantity.

After all, it was only a cliff. It was not the cunning subterfuge and malice of the Demondim, seething to mask the
caesure
which gave them access to the Illearth Stone. Nor was it the recursive wards of the Viles, coiling themselves into a mad tangle to prevent intruders from entering the Lost Deep. It was only pieces and shards and spills and plates and torsos and veins and thews of the world’s rock compressed by their own weight until they formed a front which had outlasted millennia. It had no defense against her health-sense.