Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

She could not cut the caesure away as she had intended. Therefore she would have to approach the problem in a less surgical-and far more hazardous-manner. She would have to risk a direct assault on the monsters, hoping that they would strike back with the force of the IIIearth Stone. Then, during the imponderable interval between the instant of their counterattack and the moment when she was incinerated, she would have to locate the horde’s now-unveiled Fall; locate and extinguish it. If she survived long enough-

She had no reason to believe that she could succeed. The challenge would be both swift and overwhelming. And if she effaced the caesure , she would be no closer to rescuing Jeremiah or relieving the Land’s other perils. If she failed, she might not live long enough to see Revelstone destroyed because of her.

In her son’s name, she had twice risked absolute ruin. But now the question of his survival had become far more complex. In spite of the fact that he remained Lord Foul’s prisoner, he was here. He had regained his mind. And Covenant, whose every word disturbed her, had averred that his own plans would free Jeremiah at last-

Covenant was concerned that an assault by the horde might prevent him from carrying out his designs. If she confronted the Demondim directly, she might do more than cause a catastrophe for the Land: she might cost her son his only real chance to live.

And yet-and yet-

The Demondim were here. The power of the IIIearth Stone was here. Kastenessen and the skurj were already at work, seeking the destruction of the Land. And somewhere the Worm of the World’s End awaited wakening. How could she turn her back on any immediate threat when she did not understand Covenant, and the Masters had no effective defence?

Trapped in her dilemma, she was conscious of nothing except the ravening powers of the horde and the extremity of her hesitation. She did not feel the rain falling on her back or the dampness of the grass. And she did not sense Stave’s approach. Until he said, “Attend, Chosen,” she had forgotten that she was not alone.

He had said those exact words twice before, both times in warning-and both because either Esmer or the ur-viles had taken her by surprise.

Dragging herself up from the grass, she braced her doubts on the Staff of Law and climbed to her feet.

As if without transition, Liand reached her side and took hold of her arm so that she would not stumble or fall as she turned to find herself peering dumbly into the black face of the ur-viles’ loremaster.

The creature’s nostrils gaped, scenting her through the rain. Behind the storm-clouds, dawn had reached the Upper Land, and the sun drove a dim illumination into the dark; just enough light to reveal the dire shape of the loremaster. Now that she was aware of the creature, she felt rain spatter against its obsidian flesh, run down its torso and limbs-and hiss into steam as droplets struck the blade of molten iron gripped in its fist.

Behind the larger creature stood a packed wedge of Demondim-spawn, as black as ebony and midnight, and as ominous. Even the Waynhim scattered among them seemed as dark as demons. As far as she could tell, those few creatures that had accompanied her here had joined the larger force which Esmer had delivered beside Glimmermere. And they all seemed to be muttering imprecations as they crowded close to each other and Linden, aiming their combined might through the loremaster and its hot blade.

When it smelled her attention, the loremaster lifted its free hand and held its ruddy knife over its palm, apparently offering to cut itself on her behalf.

This same creature had behaved in the same fashion when she was preparing herself for her first experience of a caesure ; when she had been sick with fear and the aftereffects of the horserite. At that time, a much smaller wedge of ur-viles had healed her, giving her the strength to find her way through Joan’s madness; to reach the Land’s past and the Staff of Law.

Now the loremaster appeared to be making a similar offer-

Yesterday Esmer had said to her, I have enabled their presence here, and they have accepted it, so that they may serve you. They will ward you, and this place - Revelstone- with more fidelity than the Haruchai, who have no hearts.

Covenant had jeered at Esmer’s assertion. He had warned her that the manacles of the ur-viles were intended for him. They’ve been Foul’s servants ever since they met him. And she had her own reasons for wondering what secret purpose lay behind the assistance of the ur-viles. Esmer’s involvement cast doubt in all directions.

“Linden”- the rain muffled Liand’s voice- “your distress is plain. You fear that you will fail. But here is aid. Few of these creatures are those that have served you with both lore and valour. Yet those ur-viles are here, and the Waynhim with them. It may be that they will strengthen you to succeed.”

He gave his faith too easily-Covenant would have mocked him for it.

Out of the dim dawn, Mahrtiir added, “The Ramen have long known some few of these ur-viles. They have acted for our benefit. And they have succoured Anele.”

Stave said nothing. He had felt Esmer’s fury and might therefore suspect the motives of the ur-viles.

When she did not respond, the Stonedownor turned to Handir. “You speak for the Masters,” he said more strongly. “What is your word now? I have learned that in their time your kind fought long and bitterly against such creatures. Also the Unbeliever desires the Chosen to desist. Will you permit her to be aided now?”

For a long moment, Linden heard nothing except the harsh invocations-or imprecations-of the Demondim-spawn. Then Handir replied dispassionately, “From Stave, we have received one account of these creatures, and from the ur-Lord, another. We cannot discern the sooth of such matters. Yet here we need make no determination. Waynhim now stand among the ur-viles. In the name of their ancient service to the Land, we honour the Waynhim as we do the Ranyhyn. While they participate in the actions of these ur-viles, we will not hinder them.”

Covenant had discounted the Waynhim as though their long devotion meant nothing.

Still the loremaster extended its open palm; poised its blade to shed its own blood.

Trust yourself.

Until now, she had accomplished almost nothing that had not been made possible by the ur-viles- and the Waynhim.

Holding her breath, Linden opened her hand and proffered it to the loremaster.

Swift as a striking snake, as if it feared that she might change her mind, the creature flicked at her with its eldritch dagger, slicing a quick line of blood across the base of her thumb. Then the loremaster cut itself and reached out to clasp her hand so that its acrid blood mingled with hers.

Involuntarily all of her muscles clenched, anticipating a rush of strength and exaltation that would lift her entirely out of herself; elevate her doubts to certainty and power.

In the Verge of Wandering, the loremaster’s ichor had changed her, transcending her sickness and dread; her sheer mortality. It transformed her again now-but in an entirely different way. The wedge in front of her, more than a hundred creatures all chanting together, had called a new lore to her aid; had given her a new power. Instead of strength like the charging of Ranyhyn, she felt an almost metaphysical alteration, at once keener and more subtle than simple health and force and possibility. The creatures had not made her stronger: they had augmented her health-sense, increasing its range and discernment almost beyond comprehension.

Now she could have pierced the closed hearts of the Masters, if she had wished to do so. Hell, she could have possessed any one of them-Or she could have searched out the mysteries locked within the Demondim-spawn themselves. They had given her the power to lay bare the complex implications of their Weird. Or she might have been able to discern the causes of Covenant’s strangeness, and Jeremiah’s. Certainly she could have identified the nature of her son’s unforeseen power-