Stephen Donaldson - The Power That Preserves

When Covenant pushed back his blankets, he saw for the first time the damage he had done to his feet. They were torn and bruised from toe to heel; dry, caked blood covered them in blotches; and the remains of his socks hung from his ankles like the ragged frills of a jester. But he felt no pain; the deadness of his nerves reached deeper than these injuries. “Don’t worry about it,” he rasped as he pulled the socks from his ankles, “it’s only leprosy.”

He snatched the sandals from Foamfollower, jammed them onto his feet, and tied their thongs behind his heels. “One of these days I’ll figure out why I bother to protect myself at all.” But he knew why; his inchoate purpose demanded it.

“You ought to visit my world,” he growled only half to the Giant. “It’s painless. You won’t feel a thing.”

Then Triock hailed them. Foamfollower got swiftly to his feet. When Covenant climbed from the blankets, Foamfollower picked them up and pushed them into his sack. With the sack in one hand and the graveling pot in the other, he went with Covenant toward the Stonedownor.

Triock stood with three companions near the narrow ravine which was the outlet of the valley. They spoke together in low, urgent tones until Foamfollower and Covenant joined them. Then Triock said rapidly, “Rockbrother, our scouts have returned from the Plains. Slen reports that-” Abruptly he stopped himself. His mouth bent into a sardonic smile, and he said, “Pardon me. I forget my courtesy. I must make introductions.”

He turned to one of his companions, a stocky old man breathing hoarsely in the cold. “Slen Terass-mate, here is ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder. Unbeliever, here is Slen, the rarest cook in all the South Plains. Terass his wife stands among the Circle of elders of Mithil Stonedown.”

Slen gave Covenant a salute which he returned awkwardly, as if the steaming of his breath and the numbness of his hands prevented him from grace. Then Triock turned to his other companions. They were a man and a woman who resembled each other like twins. They had an embattled look, as if they were familiar with bloodshed and killing at night, and their brown eyes blinked at Covenant like the orbs of people who had lost the capacity to be surprised. “Here are Yeurquin and Quirrel,” said Triock. “We have fought together from the first days of this attack upon the Land.

“Unbeliever, when the Giant and I heard the word of Revelstone’s siege, we were at work harrying a large band of the Slayer’s creatures in the centre of the South Plains. We fled from them at once, taking care to hide our trail so that they would not follow. And we left scouts to keep watch on the band. Now the scouts have returned to say that at first the band hunted us without success. But two days ago they turned suddenly and hastened straight toward the Mithil valley.”

Triock paused grimly, then said, “They have felt the power of our work upon Kevin’s Watch. Melenkurion ! Some creature among them has eyes.”

“Therefore we are not safe here,” Foamfollower said to Covenant. “If they have truly seen the power of the High Wood, they will not rest until they have captured it for Soulcrusher-and slain its wielder.”

Slen coughed a gout of steam. “We must go. We will be assailed at daybreak.”

With a sharp nod, Triock agreed. “We are ready.” He glanced toward Foamfollower and Covenant. “Unbeliever, we must travel afoot. The days of horseback sojourning are gone from the Land. Are you able?”

Covenant shrugged the question away. “It’s a little late for us to start worrying about what I can or can’t do. Foamfollower can carry me easily enough-if I slow you down.”

“Well, then.” Triock tightened his cloak, then picked up the graveling pot and held it over his head so that it lighted the ravine ahead of him. “Let us go.”

Quirrel strode briskly ahead of them into the darkness of the ravine, and Triock preceded Slen after her. At a gesture from the Giant, Covenant followed Slen. Foamfollower came behind him with the other graveling pot, and Yeurquin brought up the rear of the group.

Before he had worked his way twenty yards down the ravine, Covenant knew that he was not yet strong enough to travel. Lassitude clogged his muscles, and what little energy he had he needed to defend himself from the penetrating cold. At first he resolved to endure despite his weakness. But by the time he had hauled himself halfway up the rift which led to the mountainside overlooking Mithil Stonedown, he understood that he could not go on without help. If he were to accomplish the purpose which grew obscurely in the back of his mind, he would have to learn how to accept help.

He leaned panting against the stone. “Foamfollower.”

The Giant bent near him. “Yes, my friend.”

“Foamfollower-I can’t make it alone.”

Chuckling gently, Foamfollower said, “Nor can I. My friend, there is comfortin some companionships.” He lifted Covenant effortlessly into his arms, carried him in a half-sitting position so that Covenant could see ahead. Though he only needed one arm to bear Covenant’s weight, he put the graveling pot into Covenant’s hands. The warm light revealed that Foamfollower was grinning as he said, “This is hazardous for me. It is possible that being of use may become a dangerous habit.”

Gruffly, Covenant muttered, “That sounds like something I might say.”

Foamfollower’s grin broadened. But Triock threw back a warning scowl, and the Giant made no other response.

Moments later, Triock covered his graveling pot. At a nod from Foamfollower, Covenant did the same. The Giant placed the urn in his sack. Without any light to give them away, the group climbed out of the rift onto the exposed mountainside high above the Mithil valley.

Under the heavy darkness, they could see nothing below them but the distant watch fires smouldering like sparks in cold black tinder. Covenant could not gauge how far away the fires were, but Foamfollower said tightly, “It is a large band. They will gain the Stonedown by dawn-as Slen said.”

“Then we must make haste,” snapped Triock. He swung away to the left, moving swiftly along the unlit ledge.

The Giant followed at once, and his long strides easily matched Triock’s trotting pace. Soon they had left the ledge, crossed from it to more gradual slopes as their trail worked downward into the valley. Slowly, Covenant could feel the air thickening. With the warmth of the graveling pot resting against his chest, he began to feel stronger. He made an effort to remember what this trail had looked like in the spring, but no memories came; he could not escape the impression of bare bleakness which shone through the night at him. He sensed that if he could have seen the unrelieved rock faces of the mountains, or the imposed lifelessness of the foothills, or the blasted tree trunks, or the Mithil River writhing in ice, he would have been dismayed. He was not yet ready for dismay.

Ahead of him, Triock began to run.

Foamfollower’s jogging shook other thoughts out of Covenant’s mind, and he began to concentrate in earnest on the gloomy night. By squinting grotesquely, he found that he could adjust his sight somewhat to the dark; apparently his eyes were remembering their Land-born penetration. As Foamfollower hurried him down the trail, he made out the high loom of the mountains on his left and the depth of the valley on his right. After a while, he caught vague, pale glimpses of the ice-gnarled river. Then the trail neared the end of the valley, and swung down in a wide arc toward the Mithil. When Foamfollower had completed the turn, Covenant saw the first dim lightening of dawn behind the eastern peaks.

Their pace became more urgent. As dawn leaked into the air, Covenant could see shadowy clouts of snow jumping from under the beat of Triock’s feet. Foamfollower’s strong respiration filled his ears, and behind it at odd intervals he heard the river straining in sharp creaks and groans against the weight of its own freezing. He began to feel a need to get down from the Giant’s arms, either to separate himself from this urgency or to run toward it on his own.