Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

Turning Whrany to pace at Mahrtiir’s side, the Cord continued. “At first, it stood directly before us. But it moves, as do all caesures . For the present, it drifts southward as if borne by the wind, though the wind is from the west. If some caprice does not alter its course, it will not endanger us. Indeed, it may pass a league or more beyond our path.”

“How close did it get to First Woodhelven?” Linden asked. Can you tell?”

She had stood on Kevin’s Watch when it fell; she and Anele. She groaned as she imagined what a caesure might do to any substance less stubborn than granite.

Bhapa looked helplessly at Mahrtiir. “Alas, I know not. The auras of human habitations are little things on the scale of Falls. I was able to descry the caesure , and to be certain of it, because it is an immense ill. I felt nothing of the Woodhelven.”

“In that case,” said Linden grimly, “I think it’s time to ride hard. The Woodhelvennin might need us. And if they don’t, I want to get past that thing before it can change directions.”

Automatically she dismissed the idea of pursuing the caesure in order to quench it. Doing so would delay her. Each of Joan’s temporal violations was short-lived: she knew that. Otherwise the Arch would already have fallen. If no one-no other force-sustained the Fall, it would soon expend itself and vanish.

The Manethrall and Stave shared a nod. Then all of the Ranyhyn stretched their strides in unison, accelerating smoothly until they raced like coursers into the southeast.

Under other circumstances, Hyn’s vitality and swiftness might have exhilarated Linden. But now her attention was focused ahead. With the Staff, she sharpened her senses and cast her percipience farther, seeking the caesure .

Initially she felt it in small suggestions, innominate flickers of distortion. But soon she was sure of it. She had learned to distinguish between the queasiness that afflicted her in Esmer’s presence and the more visceral sick squirming caused by the proximity of Falls. Esmer made her ill by disturbing her connection with aspects of herself: the impact of caesures ran deeper. On an almost cellular level, they threatened her dependence upon tangible reality.

And a caesure was there , where Bhapa had indicated: ahead of her and to the right, slipping erratically southward. If its heading did not shift, it would not endanger her company. Rather it would carry Joan’s unreasoning violence into the distance until it dissipated itself. And while it lasted, its destructiveness would depend less on the amount of wild magic that Joan had unleashed than on what lay along its mindless road.

With an effort, Linden swallowed her fear of what the Fall might do. The silent acquiescence of Stave and the Humbled assured her that there were no villages or habitations near the caesure ’s present course. The Haruchai would certainly have warned her if lives were at stake.

Only one concern remained: First Woodhelven.

Gripping the Staff of Law until her knuckles ached, Linden leaned along Hyn’s neck, silently urging the mare and all of the Ranyhyn to run faster.

A long rising slope blocked the view ahead. It fell away to lower ground on the south: to the north, it mounted toward a rocky tor, rugged with old stone. But along the company’s path the ascent was too gradual to slow the pounding horses. They sped upward over earth that lost its scruff of grass to become an ungiving admixture of flint, crumbled shale, and bare dirt. The hooves of the Ranyhyn pelted debris behind them with every stride. The horses following Linden were forced to space themselves so that they did not run in the spray of jagged pebbles and grit kicked up by Hyn and Hynyn, Whrany and Narunal.

Along the lower terrain, she saw evidence of the caesure ’s passage. The ground there was as barren as the slope, but it had a churned look, as though it had been raked by thousands of claws. A stretch of disturbed soil nearly a stone’s throw across led like a crooked road into the south.

God, the Fall was big -

Now Linden spotted what appeared to be a storm around the caesure ’s seething column. The sky was free of clouds, uncluttered from horizon to horizon. Nevertheless lightning flared in the distance, crackling around the caesure like a nimbus. The air thickened as if it were crowded with thunderheads; full of theurgy rather than moisture and wind.

She stifled a gasp of chagrin. The Fall was not the only peril. Some power as lorewise and puissant as the Demondim was striving urgently to interrupt or influence the caesure .

Biting her lip, she turned her head away. Stave had said that First Woodhelven occupied a fertile lowland surrounded by bare hills. If it lay beyond this rise, it may have been directly in the path of the Fall.

The crest was near. Already she could see past it to more hills perhaps half a league distant; slopes as barren as the dirt over which the Ranyhyn galloped.

Oh, God, she groaned as Hyn bore her to the top of the rise. Please. No.

Then the Ranyhyn swept over the crest, poured like a torrent down the far side; and Linden saw that First Woodhelven had not been spared.

It occupied a wide, low valley which stretched beyond the tor in the northwest and curved away to the east; a slow crescent of soil made arable by a bright brook and seasonal flooding. As Stave had suggested, the lowland was contained by hills like mounds of shale, dirt, and marl. But centuries of water and overflow had made the bottom of the valley as hospitable as pasturage.

At one time-perhaps as long as half an hour ago-the tree-village must have been extraordinary: a magnificent banyan straddling the stream, sending down tendrils in thick clusters to become new roots and secondary trunks until the single tree formed an extensive grove. Massive boughs by the thousands must have offered their leaves to the heavens, growing between and among each other until they provided abundant opportunities for homes as well as for paths from trunk to trunk. And the homes themselves must have been extraordinary as well, for they would have been fashioned, not of planks and timbers, but of interwoven limbs and branches, and sheltered by a dense thatch-work of twigs and leaves. All along the brook, the crops of the Woodhelvennin would have flourished.

If Linden had seen First Woodhelven before the caesure hit, the sight might have gladdened her sore heart. She would have been so proud of Sunder and Hollian-But she and her companions had not reached the tree-village in time to save it.

Now it looked like a cyclone had torn through it. Ancient trunks as thick as five or six Giants standing together had been shattered; split apart and scattered like kindling. Their oozing stumps were jagged as fractured bones. Broken boughs made a trail of wreckage in the wake of the Fall: rent wood in jumbled clusters resembled the piles of pyres: leaves littered the ground like bloodshed.

After millennia of growth and health, generation following generation, a thriving community had become a catastrophe.

Yet for Linden that was not the worst of it, although the damage cried out to her senses. The tree was only wood. Precious beyond measure, its ruin nonetheless did not communicate the full cost of the caesure . More poignant to her was the condition of the fields-and of the Woodhelvennin themselves.

On either side of the Fall’s path, the fields remained untouched. They had been recently ploughed and tended, and wore the fresh vulnerable green of new crops. But where the caesure had passed, it had dragged carnage through the soil, maiming First Woodhelven’s hopes for food; for a future. Raw dirt ached in the sunlight like a weeping gall in the body of the Land.