Stephen Donaldson - The Wounded Land

Cable Seadreamer's role needed no explanation; his Earth-Sight guided the Search. And his muteness, the extravagant horror which had bereft him of voice, as if the attempt to put what he saw into speech had sealed his throat, only made his claim on the Search more absolute.

But being Seadreamer's brother was not the reason for Grimmand Honninscrave's presence. The Giantclave had selected him primarily for his skill as pilot and captain; he was the Master of the dromond Starfare's Gem, and proud in the pride of his ship.

As for the First, she was a Swordmain, one of the few Swordmainnir among the current generation of the Giants, who had maintained for millennia a cadre of such fighters to aid their neighbours and friends at need. She had been chosen because she was known to be as resolute as Stone, as crafty as Sea-and because she had bested every other Swordmain to win a place at the head of the Search.

“But why?” asked Covenant. “Why did she want the job?”

“Why?” Pitchwife grinned. “In good sooth, why should she not? She is a Swordmain, trained for battle. She knows, as do we all, that this wound will grow to consume the Earth unless it is opposed. And she believes that its ill is already felt, even across the land of Home, giving birth to evil seas and blighted crops. And cripples.” His eyes glinted merrily, defying Covenant to pity his deformity.

“All right.” Covenant swallowed the indignation he usually felt whenever he encountered someone whose happiness seemed to be divorced from the hard fact of pain. “Tell me about yourself. Why were you chosen?”

“Ah, that is no great mystery. Every ship, however proud, must have a pitchwife, and I am an adept, cunning to mend both hawser and shipstone. Also, my lesser stature enables me for work in places where other Giants lack space. And for another reason, better than all others.” He lowered his voice and spoke privately to Covenant. “I am husband to the First of the Search.”

Involuntarily, Covenant gaped. For an instant, he believed that Pitchwife was jesting ironically. But the Giant's humour was personal. “To me,” he whispered, so that the First could not hear him, “she is named Gossamer Glowlimn. I could not bear that she should sail on such a Search without me.”

Covenant remained silent, unable to think of any adequate response. I am husband - Echoes of Joan ran through him; but when he tried to call up her face, he could find nothing except images of Linden.

During the evening of the quest's third day in Seareach, Linden borrowed Hollian's dirk to cut the splint away from her leg. Her companions watched as she tentatively flexed her knee, then her ankle. Light twinges of pain touched her face, but she ignored them, concentrating on the inner state of her bones and tissues. After a moment, her features relaxed. “It's just stiff. I'll try walking on it tomorrow.”

A sigh rustled through the company. “That is good,” the First said kindly. Sunder nodded gruff agreement. Hollian stooped to Linden, hugged her. Linden accepted their gladness; but her gaze reached toward Covenant, and her eyes were full of tears for which he had no answer. He could not teach her to distinguish between the good and ill of her health sense.

The next morning, she put weight on her foot, and the bones held. She was not ready to do much walking; so Seadreamer continued to carry her. But the following day she began working to redevelop the strength of her legs, and the day after that she was able to walk at intervals for nearly half the company's march.

By that time, Covenant knew they were nearing the Sea. The terrain had been sloping slowly for days, losing elevation along rumpled hills and wide, wild, hay leas, down fields like terraces cut for Giants. Throngs of grave old woods leaned slightly, as if they were listening to the Sea; and now the crispness of the air had been replaced by moisture and weight, so that every breeze felt like the sighing of the ocean. He could not smell salt yet; but he did not have much time left.

That night, his dreams were troubled by the hurling of breakers. The tumult turned his sleep into a nightmare of butchery, horror made all the more unbearable by vagueness, for he did not know who was being butchered or why, could not perceive any detail except blood, blood everywhere, the blood of innocence and self-judgment, permitting murder. He awoke on the verge of screams, and found that he was drenched by a thunderstorm. He was cold, and could not stop shivering.

After a time, the blue lash and clap of the storm passed, riding a stiff wind out of the east; but the rain continued. Dawn came, shrouded in torrents which soaked the quest until Covenant's bones felt sodden, and even the Giants moved as if they were carrying too much weight. Shouting over the noise, Pitchwife suggested that they find or make shelter to wait out the storm. But Covenant could not wait. Every day of his journey cost the lives of people whose only hope arose from their belief in the Clave; and the Clave was false. He drove his friends into movement with a rage which made the nerves of his right arm ache as if his fingers could feel the hot burden of his ring. The companions went forward like lonely derelicts, separated from each other by the downpour.

And when at last the storm broke, opening a rift of clear sky across the east, there against the horizon stood the lorn stump of Coercri 's lighthouse. Upraised like a stonework forearm from which the fist had been cut away, it defied weather and desuetude as if it were the last gravestone of the Unhomed.

Giants who had loved laughter and children and fidelity, and had been slaughtered in their dwellings because they had not chosen to defend themselves.

As the rain hissed away into the west, Covenant could hear waves pounding the base of The Grieve, A line of grey ocean lay beyond the rim of the cliff; and above it, a few hardy terns had already taken flight after the storm, crying like the damned.

He advanced until he could see the dead city.

Its back was toward him; Coercri faced the Sea. The Unhomed had honeycombed the sheer cliff above the breakers so that their city confronted the east and hope. Only three entrances marked the rear of The Grieve, three tunnels opening the rock like gullets, forever gaping in granite sorrow over the blow which had reft them of habitation and meaning.

“Thomas Covenant.” The First was at his side, with Pitchwife and Seadreamer behind her. “Giantfriend.” She held her voice like a broadsword at rest, unthreatening, but ready for combat. “You have spoken of Giants and jheherrin ; and in our haste, we did not question that which we did not understand. And we have waited in patience for the other tale of which you gave promise. But now we must ask. This place is clearly Giant-wrought- clearly the handiwork of our people. Such craft is the blood and bone of Home to us. About it we could not be mistaken.”

Her tone tightened. “But this place which you name The Grieve has been empty for many centuries. And the jheherrin of which you spoke are also a tale many centuries old. Yet you are human-more short-lived than any other people of the Earth. How is it possible that you have known Giants?”

Covenant grimaced; he had no room in his heart for that question. “Where I come from,” he muttered, “time moves differently. I've never been here before. But I knew Saltheart Foamfollower. Maybe better than I knew myself. Three and a half thousand years ago.” Then abruptly the wrench of pain in his chest made him gasp. Three and a half-! It was too much-a gulf so deep it might have no bottom. How could he hope to make restitution across so many years?

Clenching himself to keep from panting, he started down the slope toward the central tunnel, the main entrance to Coercri .