Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

The huge fierce wolves had already begun to tear down and rend the slowest of the villagers when Linden and her last companions crashed into the pack.

The Cavewights were thinking creatures: the kresh were not. The Raver was worse than any beast or creature. And the Woodhelvennin were as helpless as trees. They had children with them, children , and could not defend themselves. As if she had become mindless herself, she sent great waves and breakers of flame at the wolves, burning them by the score to misshapen lumps of flesh, charred and reeking.

But she barely saw individual kresh : she paid no attention to what became of them. She sought moksha Jehannum. If she could do it, she meant to light a conflagration that would end the Raver’s cruelty forever.

Roger might have killed her then. She had no desire to defend herself-and no power to spare. In addition, Esmer had broken apart the wedges of the Demondim-spawn. Most of the ur-viles and Waynhim were fighting for their lives in small clusters: only a few remained to oppose Roger’s scoria. While she rampaged among the kresh , she left herself as vulnerable as the villagers.

But Roger did not send his puissance against her. He could not. Before he could hurl another blast, half a dozen Sandgorgons smashed into the rear of his army.

Crushing Cavewights with ease, three of the Sandgorgons wrought havoc among Roger’s forces while the rest attacked him directly.

Their strength dwarfed that of the Cavewights. Alone, Nom had once shattered Revelstone’s inner gates; had gouged out a passage for Glimmermere’s waters to quench the last of the Banefire. With Grimmand Honninscrave’s help, Nom had shredded samadhi Sheol’s spirit. Given time, half a dozen Sandgorgons could have levelled Lord’s Keep entirely.

The weapons and desperation of the Cavewights could not wound them. The ur-viles and Waynhim scattered before them. And Esmer did not turn his power against them. Instead he quelled his spouts of dirt and stone, his tremors in the ground, as if he had acknowledged defeat-or achieved victory. Panting blood, he seemed to fold the air around him as he disappeared.

Roger would have been beaten to pulp if he had not turned all of his scoria and wrath against the Sandgorgons. Their blunt arms and pulverising might would have left no recognisable remains of his ordinary flesh.

Moksha Jehannum lashed the kresh to frothing madness; but the Raver eluded Linden. It was here and there throughout the pack, mastering the wolves, transmuting their natural fear of fire into ferocity. She feared that moksha would attempt to escape her by possessing one of the Woodhelvennin, forcing her to slay an innocent victim if she wished to harm the Raver. Therefore she wielded her fire like devastation, taking care only that she did not harm any human or Haruchai or Ranyhyn.

On one side of her, the brightness of Liand’s Sunstone dazzled the kresh so that they gnashed and tore at each other blindly. On the other, Stave rode Hynyn and let the roan stallion fight for him while he watched over Linden. Behind them, Pahni clung to Anele with one hand, supporting him, keeping him close to her, while she used her garrote to whip away any wolf that sprang for Hrama or Naharahn.

Suddenly Stave reached down to snatch a Master out of a raging mass of wolves. Hynyn hammered with his hooves at the skulls and spines of kresh as Stave swung the Haruchai up behind him. The Master was badly rent, bleeding from many grim bites and gouges; but as soon as he settled himself against Stave’s back, he kicked at every wolf that came within reach.

Of the other Master, Linden saw no sign. She did not know if Mahrtiir, Bhapa, the Humbled, or any of their mounts remained alive. But the villagers were behind her now, and she did not permit any kind of fear to inhibit her scouring flame.

Nevertheless, on some subcutaneous level of perception, she recognised that the Cavewights were being decimated. She felt them break as they died, shattered by the tremendous force of the Sandgorgons. And she sensed the precise instant when Roger’s rage and frustration turned to terror. He burned the Sandgorgons until their hides bubbled and the bubbles burst, spilling viscid blood that stank of dire vitality; but he could not stop them.

He was about to meet the same doom which had fallen on his army: Linden knew that. But she did not pause to watch him fight for his life. She was too busy killing. Too busy searching for the Raver so that she could at least try to unmake Lord Foul’s ancient servant.

And she was nearing the outermost limits of her own endurance.

Gradually she began to flicker and fail. Consumed by the struggle to keep going-to seek moksha Jehannum with percipience and fire-she did not see Roger call the few remaining Cavewights to him, leap onto one of their backs, and send them racing eastward away from the Sandgorgons.

With their long legs and their peculiar strength, the Cavewights ran as if they were as fleet as Ranyhyn. Perhaps the Sandgorgons could have caught them: the denizens of the Great Desert were also swift. But Roger had hurt all of the Sandgorgons to some extent. And he flung a terrible heat behind him as the Cavewights fled. The Sandgorgons did not give chase. Instead they began stamping to death any of their foes which they had merely crippled.

After Esmer’s disappearance, the ur-viles and Waynhim had slipped away, vanishing as imperceptibly as they had appeared.

When finally the last two or three dozen wolves turned to flee, moksha Raver escaped among them, untouched by her flagging vehemence. Within moments, they had crossed the brook northward.

She wanted to pursue them; to go on raining down fire until she reached the Raver itself. But she could not. As the kresh fled, something within her broke, and she lost her grasp on Earthpower. Her flames guttered and faded in the dust of battle; the dust and the tarnished sunlight.

She had already gone too far beyond herself. She did not know how to go farther.

In spite of her exhaustion and dismay, Linden tried to keep moving. But she was numb with killing; too profoundly weary to consider what she did. She did not go in search of her friends. She did not ask what had become of them. Instead, trembling, she fell back on years of training and experience: triage, trauma, emergency care. Her depleted spirit she focused on the needs directly in front of her.

Mutely she asked Hyn to bear her among the nearest of the fallen Woodhelvennin.

Some were dead. She ignored them. And some were so close to death that no power of hers would save them. She ignored them as well. But when she found a toddler clutched in his mother’s arms, both savagely mauled, and both still clinging to life, she dropped down from Hyn’s back, knelt beside them, and reached far inside herself to uncover a few faint embers of resolve.

As much as she could, Linden gave herself to the woman and her child.

I am able to convey you to your son.

After a few moments of Earthpower, the woman opened her eyes, gazed about her with dumb incomprehension. The toddler recovered enough to wail.

Linden looked to Hyn again.

The mare stood over a man whose right leg had been nearly severed. Terrible chunks had been ripped from his sides. But he, too, clung to life. Staggering toward him, Linden blessed or cursed him with frail flames until he began to feel his own agony, and she believed that he might live. Then she let Hyn guide her to another breathing victim of the kresh .

As she moved, stumbling, she passed the body of a Master. His flesh was a killing field, torn and bitten almost beyond recognition. Dead wolves were piled around him, blood seeping from their corpses to mingle with his and stain the churned soil. They were his legacy of service to the Land.