Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

The lamps and torches provided light in abundance. Yet Linden could not distinguish the vicious blur of Galt’s punch from the details of Stave’s response. She saw only that Stave remained poised in front of Galt’s fist-and then he stood behind the Humbled with his hands on Galt’s shoulders. With delicate precision, he kicked away one of Galt’s feet and jerked the Humbled backward.

Galt fell: he could not prevent it. But as he fell, he twisted in the air; caught hold of Stave’s tunic; tried to wrench Stave down with him.

Stave countered by letting himself drop so that his knees landed heavily on Galt’s ribs. With his arms braced against Galt’s grasp, Stave kept his balance so that no part of him except his feet touched the floor.

A wince of shock or chagrin flashed over Galt’s features and vanished. For an instant, Linden feared that the Humbled would refuse to cede defeat; that he would attempt to roll Stave into a fall. Instead, however, Galt released Stave and relaxed. His Haruchai rectitude did not permit him to violate the conditions of the test.

Nodding, Stave rose smoothly to his feet and turned toward Branl and Clyme.

Handir and the observing Masters concealed whatever they may have felt. Linden found that Liand had placed his hand on her shoulder. He gripped her tightly to contain his suspense.

Clyme was the next to approach Stave. While they gazed at each other, motionless, the concentration-or perhaps the firelight-in the Humbled’s eyes conveyed the impression that he was probing Stave’s defences.

Linden knew that she would receive no forewarning; that even her health-sense could not anticipate the instant when either of the Haruchai would move. That in itself was a kind of presage. Nevertheless she was not ready. She flinched instinctively as Clyme attacked.

Smooth as oil, and swift as light, the Humbled lashed a kick at Stave’s abdomen.

Once again, Stave did not appear to react until he had already done so. Stepping aside, he swung an arm like a bar of iron across Clyme’s chest. Stave’s arm stopped Clyme’s momentum while Clyme’s kick carried him forward. Opposing forces swept the Humbled’s supporting leg out from under him.

Like Galt, Clyme clutched at Stave as he fell. Clasping Stave’s arm, the Humbled attempted to yank Stave from his feet. But Stave responded by crouching quickly, using Clyme’s hold to drive the Humbled downward.

Clyme landed hard. His shoulder blades could have been cracked. Certainly the breath should have been knocked from his lungs. But he was Haruchai : he did not react to the impact. Instead he let go of Stave’s arm, acknowledging defeat.

Again Stave stood upright. While Clyme rose and walked away to join his kinsmen, Stave waited for the last of the Humbled.

“My God,” Linden breathed to Liand and Mahrtiir. “They can’t hear his thoughts, but he still hears theirs. He knows exactly what they’re going to do.”

Even if he had lost both eyes, he might have been able to defend himself against his own people. Over the millennia, the Haruchai had become dependent on their mental communion. Linked to each other, they could not adjust their tactics to accommodate his unfamiliar blend of isolation and awareness.

But Branl appeared to understand the reasons for Stave’s success. The pace of his approach-or perhaps merely its tone-implied caution. And Handir studied the Humbled in a way that seemed to suggest inward counsel. All of the Masters may have been reminding Branl to fight as though Stave were not Haruchai .

Instead of striking, Branl circled Stave slowly. He may have wanted Stave to make the first move; to commit himself.

Yet even then Stave had the advantage. He had heard Handir’s advice-and Branl’s response. He understood Branl’s preparations. When Stave jabbed suddenly at Branl’s head, the blow was a feint.

The Humbled replied with a block which flowed seamlessly into a wheeling kick powerful enough to crumple Stave. But Stave had already stepped inside the kick and slapped down the block. While Branl snatched back his leg, Stave clipped him across the forehead with one elbow.

To Linden’s slower perceptions, the touch of Stave’s elbow looked harmless: a glancing blow, nothing more. The collision of bone with bone sounded too soft to have any force. Yet the Humbled sprawled backward.

In the fraction of a heartbeat remaining to him, Branl endeavoured to execute a flip which would land him on his feet. But he did not have enough time. His knees and then his hands hit the floor.

When he stood again, he gave Stave a small bow and withdrew to join the rest of the Masters.

For a moment or two, a silence as gravid as an aftershock held the forehall. Linden imagined that she could hear the preconceptions of Stave’s kinsmen crumbling. Then Liand crowed. “ Stave! ” and pumped jubilation into the air with both fists. “Heaven and Earth , Stave!”

Grinning fiercely, Mahrtiir growled, “Well done, Haruchai . Well done in all sooth. Here is a tale to gladden the hearts of the Ramen. At last blows have been struck which may humble the sleepless ones. And we have witnessed it, a Manethrall and his Cords. No longer may these Masters feign that their worth exceeds yours.”

Linden felt suddenly weak; drained by relief. She wanted to sit down. Stave had already suffered too many hurts in her name. Now he was safe-at least for the moment. But she clung to her resolve and hid her frailty. Holding herself upright, she gave thanks with her eyes.

Impassively Stave turned to Mahrtiir. “Manethrall, it was not done to demonstrate my worth. In their place, I would conduct myself as the Masters do. Rather it was done in the Chosen’s service-and to teach my people that they also may exceed themselves, if they elect to make the attempt.”

Mahrtiir replied with a deep Ramen bow as if he were accepting a reprimand; but his whetted grin remained.

“Worth is not at issue,” Handir said sternly. “One fall does not define merit or prowess. Yet we honour Stave’s wish to cause no harm, as we must. And we acknowledge the outcome of his trial.

“Behold.”

He nodded toward the gates; and as he did so, the massive stone began to open, turning soundlessly on its Giantish pivots or hinges. The savour of the air, chilled to crispness, and redolent with springtime, told Linden that the sun was rising. Its light was blocked by the bulk of the watchtower; but a grey illumination washed inward, softening the flames of the lamps and torches.

“Linden Avery,” the Voice of the Masters announced, “you may summon the Ranyhyn.”

His words seemed to dismiss some of the trepidation from the forehall.

She resisted an impulse to head immediately for the walled courtyard. The taste of the air, and the prospect of leaving Revelstone, restored her eagerness. She was confident now. She had shared a horserite with Hyn and Hynyn: she knew that they would answer.

But she had other concerns-

First she faced Handir and bowed, although he had never bowed to her. “Even when I believe that you’re wrong,” she said quietly, “I don’t question your integrity. If I’ve ever said anything to make you think otherwise, I regret it. I hope that someday we’ll be allies again,” as they had been in the time of the Sunbane. “But for now, I just hope that you’ll try to withhold judgment.”

She did not expect a reply, and Handir did not proffer one. She felt a tinge of sadness like an echo of his as she gestured for her friends to gather around her.

“The Ranyhyn won’t fail us,” she told them. “You all know that. And Handir is going to let us leave.” She had sensed it in his hidden sorrow. “He doesn’t like the fact that Roger and the croyel tricked him. None of the Masters do. And were a constant reminder that they can make mistakes. Once were gone, they can debate their definition of service in peace.”