Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

When she had imposed a degree of Earthpower on her depleted nerves, her worn heart, she murmured hoarsely. “You’ll have to lead me. I can’t see very well.”

There was too much smoke in the air. And the outcome of sword-cuts and disease was more vivid to her than mere rows of rancid pallets or insignificant tent poles.

Jevin and Palla continued to support her. While she moved-slowly, slowly, feeble as an old woman-she sent some of the Staff’s sovereign healing, as much as she could muster, through herself into the physicians. Faintly she gave them a little Earthpower, a small portion of health. Like Vertorn, they were essential: they would have to care for the fallen when she was gone.

In spite of the smoke, she saw her task clearly. It was too much for her. Somehow she would have to win Berek’s aid.

She must have been closer to the opening of the tent than she realised. When Vertorn stepped aside, bowing his deference, she beheld Berek Halfhand for the first time.

Involuntarily she stopped; stared. She had not expected to encounter a man who seemed more compelling, more crucial, than the injuries and deaths of his warriors.

There was Earthpower in him, that was obvious: as potent as Anele’s inheritance, but closer to the surface, more readily accessible. However, his numinous energy was not what caused him to stand out from his escort of warriors as if he were somehow more real than they, more significant and substantial.

Nor did his vividness, his particular intensity, arise from his physical presence. He was little more than half a head taller than Linden: a stocky man, broad of shoulder and girth; prematurely bald, with deep eyes, a short-cropped beard the colour of old iron, and a nose that had been dented by a blow. His hands looked as heavy as truncheons, and they had seen hard use in spite of the loss of two of his fingers; the same two which had been amputated from Covenant. The slashed and battered condition of his cuirass and vambraces proclaimed that he did not remain aloof from battle. He was a powerful man, familiar with fighting for his life. Yet that also did not account for his obvious dominance, his air of unmistakable authority. Most of the men and women in his escort were muscular and injured, marked by an interminable series of fierce engagements.

No, it was his emotional aura that made him seem more distinct, more necessary , than the people with him. Covenant had said, He’s charismatic as all hell , but Linden saw more. With her full senses, she discerned that he was haunted by death; that loss and despair had been carved into the bedrock of his nature. And the sheer depth of his bereavements had taught him a desperate compassion. She loathed war, but her abhorrence lacked the intimacy of his, the hideously prolonged exposure to that which rent his heart. Now he grieved for his foes as much as for his own forces. When he slew them, he did so as if he were weeping; as if his strokes were sobs. He fought-and fought endlessly, season after season, battle upon battle-only because the darkness which drove his enemies left him no choice. And because he had given his oath to the Land.

He would have questions for her. He would demand answers. And Linden could not imagine arguing with such a man, or attempting to persuade him. When Vertorn announced with a bow. “My lord Berek, here is my lady Linden,” she did not respond. Nothing that she could say would raise her to the stature of the man who had created the first Staff of Law and founded the Council of Lords.

Yet Berek bowed to her as though her muteness were eloquence, and his gratitude enfolded her like an embrace. “My lady,” he said in a voice made gruff by incessant shouting. “your coming is a great benison, a boon beyond our conception. Already you have wrought miracles among us. Yet even a sightless man may behold your weariness. Will you not rest? With your consent, I will provide food and safety, and such small comforts as we possess, and will count myself glad to do so.”

Without warning, tears which were not caused by smoke and fatigue filled Linden’s eyes. She had not expected gentle courtesy from a man fighting for survival. Nevertheless she stiffened slightly; drew back as if she had taken offense. Surely, she would have said if she had not forgotten her voice, surely your wounded are more important? There are two more tents.

Berek studied her, apparently gauging her silence. Then he offered in the same tone, “If you will not rest, name any aid that you require. If it exists, and if it is possible for us, it will be granted to you.”

He seemed to understand that she could not turn away from his injured, his dying. In her place, he would have felt as she did.

Roughly Linden squeezed the tears from her eyes. Like wild magic, her voice was hidden from her; but she searched until she found it.

“Lord Berek,” she said in a thin croak. “My lord.” That was as close as she could come to matching his courtesy. “You’ve changed. You see different things now. New things.”

He nodded, frowning. “It is strange to me, glorious but unclear.” Her question may have perplexed or disturbed him: he had reason to wonder how she knew such things. Yet he answered without hesitation. “I cannot identify the significance of that which I now behold.”

You will, Linden would have told him. Just give it time. But too many people were dying. She could not afford to waste words. Instead she asked. “Have you seen any mud-or fine sand-that sparkles? Gleams? Like it has bits of gold in it? Or flecks of sunlight?”

Berek’s frown deepened. “I have, my lady.” Plainly he wanted to inquire, What do you know of this? How is it that you comprehend my transformation? But he did not. “It lies along the flow of water in streams and rivers. Sadly, I have no lore to name it.”

Her heart lifted a little. “Is there any of it nearby?”

“There is, my lady.” Again he did not question her. “We endeavour to place our encampments near water, as armies must. A creek lies a stone’s throw distant. When we broke the ice to draw water, I glimpsed a sand such as you describe.”

To herself, Linden breathed, Thank God. “It’s called hurtloam.” Unexpected hope filled her with trembling. “It’s full of the same power that’s changing you, the same power that you saw in the FireLions. It heals.”

Hearing herself, she wanted to wince. Heals was too small a word for the mystery of hurtloam. But she continued in spite of her inadequacy. “We need it. As much as you can find. Bring it here. And carry it in stone.” Stone would preserve its efficacy. “I’ll show your people how to use it.”

Surely now he would question her, and expect to be answered? Surely he would not comply merely because she had spoken?

But Berek turned at once to his escort. “Hand Damelon.”

A young man stepped forward promptly. Linden would have guessed that he was no older than Liand, although he had seen as much hard combat as anyone around him. He saluted by tapping his right fist twice against his twisted and mended cuirass, then asked. “My lord?”

Linden was too tired and numb to feel surprise. Damelon-Through the grime and blood of battle, the young man’s resemblance to his father was unmistakable, although he was somewhat taller and not as broad. Also he lacked Berek’s damaged nose as well as Berek’s emanation of Earthpower.

She was looking at the future High Lord Damelon Giantfriend, the man who would one day discover the Blood of the Earth.

Humbled by the presence of legends, she hardly heard Berek say, “Hand, you have gathered the names of those who report alterations to their sight and senses.”

“I have, my lord.” Presumably a Hand was an aide of some kind. “Some two score remain able to wield their weapons.”