Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

At the same instant, Mahrtiir sprang from Narunal’s back. Flipping his garrote around Clyme’s neck, he wrenched the Master off balance.

Even sight would not have made the Manethrall a match for Clyme. But Bhapa and Pahni followed less than a heartbeat behind Mahrtiir. Pahni grappled for Clyme’s legs: Bhapa snagged one of Clyme’s hands with his fighting cord and heaved. Together the three Ramen pulled Clyme from his feet.

Simultaneously both Rhohm and the Ranyhyn Naybahn surged between Branl and Linden. Naybahn’s chest struck his rider’s: Rhohm collided with Branl from the side.

The great horses had declared themselves utterly to the service of the Chosen.

As Rhohm opposed Branl, Liand snatched out his orcrest ; held it shining in his hand. “Do you dare, Master?” he shouted. “Will you accept the test of truth? If you refuse, you declare yourself unworthy to oppose the Chosen!”

The Masters ignored Liand. But Rhohm and Naybahn countered Branl’s speed as if they were herding him. Bhanoryl stood ready to intervene if Galt broke free of Stave. Mhornym and Hynyn circled Clyme’s struggle with the Ramen. Hyn guarded Linden.

Infelice turned away as if she scorned the indignity of physical combat. The Harrow remained apart, laughing bitterly. From near the rim of the vale, Elena and Caer-Caveral watched with anguish and ire. The High Lords contained their reactions, although Kevin’s jaws clenched and strained.

Covenant regarded them all with yearning and pity in every limned line of his form; but he did not move or speak.

The actions of Linden’s friends were like Caerroil Wildwood’s runes: they articulated her resolve. Grateful and ready, sure of her allies, she closed her eyes. In darkness, she began to tune her percipience to the precise splendour of the krill . When she opened her hidden door and found wild magic, she intended to release it in only one direction, using Loric’s gem to manage its possible devastation.

There. She could not imagine how Loric had forged his blade, but she saw its nature; its unconstrained potential. With her Staff warm in her hand, she felt every eldritch quality and significance of the gem, and of its position in the dagger. She descried how the edges and guards and hilt contributed to the complex purity of the stone. She sensed the meaning of its many facets. Immense lore and ineffable skill had provided for the shaping of the gem, designed the form and function of the dagger. There were no defined boundaries to the forces which could be wielded with Loric’s weapon.

Nothing intruded on Linden’s attention now. Perhaps the will of the Ranyhyn had thwarted the Humbled. In every age, the Haruchai had treasured the horses of Ra: no Master would strike at a Ranyhyn. And Stave and the Ramen and even Liand would fight without compunction.

The Harrow’s laughter had fallen silent. Infelice did not speak. The Dead remained still.

When Linden was confident of the krill , she turned her health-sense inward.

Proximity to the gem’s incandescence aided her; guided her. Brilliance led her through her human concealments, the secret implications of old doubts. And when she found the door, white fire responded eagerly to her desires. At her call, wild magic grew and branched within her like an image of the One Tree in purest argent, its boughs emblazoned with stars. During the space of two heartbeats, or three, flame accumulated until she held enough power to rive the night; alter the heraldry of the heavens.

When she released it, it became a ceaseless blast of lightning, a bolt which struck and flared and crackled between her right fist and Loric’s gem.

She had been assured-repeatedly- that she could not damage the Arch of Time. Not alone. She was not the ring’s rightful wielder: therefore her ability to use white gold was limited. But she did not feel limited. Her conflagration stopped the night: it seemed to stop the movement of one moment to the next. While her lightning rent the air, she possessed unfathomable might. Her choices and desires could shape reality.

Jeremiah, she thought: an uninterrupted blare of wild magic. I’m coming. The only way I know how.

Her fire became so extreme that she saw everything with her eyes closed: the Humbled and their opponents frozen in shock or chagrin or astonishment; the terror on Infelice’s face, the frightened calculation in the Harrow’s gaze; the scrutiny of the High Lords, solemn and alarmed. She saw Covenant consider her as if he were praying.

She had gone beyond fear-beyond the very concept of fear-as she reached out for the blessed yellow flame of her Staff.

At once, Earthpower and Law responded as though they had come to efface every darkness from the Hills of Andelain. Strength as blissful as sunshine, as natural as Gilden, and as capable as a furnace erupted from the Staff, pouring like the incarnation of her will into the heart of Loric’s krill .

Briefly she seemed to feel herself battling in the depths of Melenkurion Skyweir, wielding the Power of Command and the Seven Words while Roger Covenant and the croyel strove to extinguish her. But wild lightning exceeded the frenzy of her earlier struggles. It lit the vale as if it could illuminate the Earth. Together argence and cornflower flame and the dagger’s incandescence swallowed any possibility of opposition or malice, drowning mere inadequacy in a vast sea of power.

Now instinctively she understood the runes with which Caerroil Wildwood had elaborated her Staff. They were for this. The Forestal of Garroting Deep had engraved the ebony wood with his knowledge of Life and Death. Indirectly he had given her a supernal relationship with Law. For a moment, at least, his gift enabled her to commingle wild magic and Earthpower without losing control of one or falsifying the other.

She could have raised or levelled mountains, divided oceans, carved glaciers. She had become greater than her most flagrant expectations: as efficacious as a god, and as complete.

It should have been too much. Either alone will transcend your strength- Human flesh had not been formed to survive such forces. Yet Linden felt no danger. She was hardly conscious of strain. Perhaps her mind had already shattered. If so, she did not recognise the loss, or choose to regret it. Loric’s gem drew immeasurable might away from her mortal blood and nerves and bones. Caerroil Wildwood’s runes imposed a kind of structure on potential chaos. Her beloved stood before her, radiant in the admixture of theurgies and his own innominate transcendence. And she did not doubt herself at all.

She could imagine that the Swordmainnir knew the location of Covenant’s human bones. The First and Pitchwife had carried his body out of the Wightwarrens for burial. And they had told the tale. Rime Coldspray and her comrades might know where to find the last time-gnawed residue of his life. Linden could have summoned them to her with a thought.

But she did not need any lingering particle of his ordinary flesh. His spirit stood before her, as necessary as love, and as compulsory as a commandment. She had wild magic and Earthpower, Loric’s krill and Caer-Caveral’s runes. She had her health-sense. And the Laws of Death and Life had already been broken once. They were weaker now.

She knew of no power with which she could cause the immediate release of her son. Jeremiah was hidden from her; beyond her reach. Covenant’s ring and her Staff did not enable her to scry, or to search out secrets, or to foretell the effects of malevolence.

But that which she could do, she did without hesitation.

Now, she said in fire and passion. Now. Covenant, I need you. I need your help. I need to get you back.