Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

But his eyes were a startling black, so stark and lustreless that they might have been holes or caves leading into subterranean depths.

Disturbed in spite of her efforts to prepare herself, Linden instinctively avoided meeting his gaze. Instead of looking directly into his face, she let her eyes wander over his broad shoulders, down the fluid folds of the chlamys. As far as she could discern with her health-sense, he was simply a man, devoid of magic or force. But at one time, she had mistaken the Mahdoubt for an ordinary woman. Even the Masters had done so. And Linden had failed to detect the Theomach’s secret puissance-

She held her runed Staff and Covenant’s ring. Alone, she had beaten Roger and the croyel back from the brink of the Land’s doom-and she had done it without drawing on wild magic. Yet she felt oddly abashed in the stranger’s presence; unsure of herself; exposed and frail.

His voice was familiar. Where had she heard it before?

She wanted to speak confidently, but her voice was an unsteady whisper. “You ate them? You ate the Demondim? ”

The stranger laughed briefly, a comfortable sound with a slight trace of ridicule. “Alas, lady, that is imprecise. Were I able to consume them, I would have taken their power into myself and become stronger. Belike I would then have no need of you.

“No, the truth is merely that I have made a considerable study of such beings. Their lore is both potent and unnatural. It holds a great fascination for me. For many and many a long year, I have devoted myself to the comprehension of their theurgy. And I have learned the trick of unbinding them.”

Linden’s eyes flicked close to his. “Unbinding?”

He inclined his head. “Indeed, lady. Having no tangible forms, they would be lost to will and deed without some containing ensorcellment to preserve them from dissolution. Imagine,” he explained. “that they are bound to themselves by threads of lore and purpose. The threads are many, but if one alone is plucked and severed, all unravel.

“Thus I disposed of the Demondim, for their presence in this time endangered my desires.”

Again she felt her gaze drawn toward his. With an effort, she forced herself to concentrate on the centre of his forehead. At her side, Stave stood without movement or speech, as if he saw no threat in the stranger, and had lost interest.

Yet he, too, had heard that voice before. It had addressed Linden through Anele after she had quenched the horde’s caesure . She remembered it clearly now.

Such power becomes you. But it will not suffice.

Abruptly she stood straighter, holding her Staff like an asseveration. This stranger had imposed himself on Anele; had taken advantage of the old man’s vulnerability. As far as she knew, he had only done so once. But once was enough to win her animosity. He was not Thomas Covenant, striving to help her in spite of the boundaries of life and death. He was simply careless of Anele’s suffering.

In the end, you must succumb. If you do not, you will nonetheless be compelled to accept my aid, for which I will demand recompense.

Ignoring the seduction of the stranger’s eyes, Linden said like the first soft touch of a flail, before it began to swing in earnest. “You’re one of the Insequent.”

Stave must have guessed that the stranger belonged to the same race as the Mahdoubt and the Theomach

Now the stranger’s laugh was ripe with pleasure. “Lady, I am. You are known to me, together with all of your acts and powers, and your great peril. Permit me the honour of presenting myself. I am the Harrow.”

He bowed with courtesy as elaborate as his apparel; but Linden did not. Already she was starting to loathe the sound of his voice. He was not the first to foretell failure for her. But he had hurt Anele-

Before she could retort, however, a rush of movement behind the Harrow caught her attention. She looked past him in time to see the Humbled emerge from the darkness, flinging themselves as one at his undefended back.

Instinctively she cried out, “ No! ” but the Masters ignored her. Galt leaped high to punch at the Harrow’s head. Clyme drove a kick at the centre of his spine while Branl dove for his knees.

Even a Giant might have been felled by their assault. But the Harrow was not. All three of the Humbled struck him-and all three rebounded to the dirt as if they had been slapped away. The Harrow remained standing, apparently untouched. Neither his posture nor his amiable smile suggested that he had noticed his attackers.

“Lady,” he observed with easy nonchalance. “you have not inquired into the nature of my desires.”

Shocked, Linden realised too late that she was looking directly into the black caves of his eyes. They caught her and held as if they were sucking at her mind.

None of the Humbled hesitated. The force which had repulsed them must have hurt; yet they sprang up instantly to attack again. This time, however, they did not leave their feet. Planting themselves around the Harrow, they hammered him with blows too swift and heavy to be distinguished from each other. A plinth of sandstone might have been pulverised by their onslaught.

Still he ignored them. Instead he gazed at Linden, drawing her deeper and deeper into the fathomless abysm of his eyes. She could not think or move; could not look away. The frenzy of the Humbled and the cheerful dance of the campfire became imprecise, meaningless: they had slipped sideways somehow, into a slightly different dimension of existence. The Harrow himself had slipped. Only his eyes remained fully real, his eyes and the rich loam of his voice; only the darkness

Vaguely she tried to summon the power of her Staff. But she was already lost. The hands of her volition hung, useless, at her sides. She could not lift them.

“First,” he said pleasantly, “I desire this curious stick to which you cling as though it possessed the virtue to ward you. Second, I crave the circle of white gold which lies hidden by your raiment. And last, I covet the unfettered wrath at the centre of your heart. It will nourish me as the Demondim did not. Though the husk of yourself is comely, I will discard it, for it does not interest me.”

He laughed as he added. “Did I not forewarn you that you must succumb’?”

Stave may have shouted Linden’s name. She was almost sure that he had joined Galt, Branl, and Clyme, assailing the Harrow with all of his prodigious strength. But she knew that none of them would prevail. Knowledge is power, she thought absently. The Harrow had destroyed the entire horde of the Demondim. He could certainly withstand the Haruchai while he consumed her soul.

Long ago, she had succumbed. More than once. She was familiar with self-abandonment. Now she resisted. Desperately she tried to say the Seven Words. Any of them. She remembered them all: she could form them in her mind. But they required utterance. They had no efficacy without breath and effort. The Harrow cocked an eyebrow as if he were aware of her attempt, and mildly surprised by it. Nevertheless he went on laughing with the ease of complete certitude.

There was no pain; no falling; no sensation at all. She was not possessed and tortured as she had once been by a Raver. Nor did she feel the illimitable excruciation of a caesure . Her own capacity for evil held no horror. The voids of the Harrow’s eyes had simply grown as infinite as the heavens. But no stars sanctified them. No glimmering articulated their emptiness. Absolute loss unredeemed by choice or possibility claimed her. She could do nothing except observe her ruin until every particle of her being was devoured.

She wanted to plead with him somehow; beseech him to let her go. He did not care about Jeremiah. Her son would never be freed if she could not convince the Harrow to release her.