Lord Foul's Bane by Stephen R. Donaldson
As the Wraith appeared, Atiaran's breath hissed intently between her teeth, and Covenant sat up straighter to concentrate more keenly.
With a lucid, cycling movement, the flame moved down into the bowl. It was not halfway to the bottom when a second fire arrived on the northern rim. Then two more Wraiths entered from the south-and then, too suddenly to be counted, a host of flames began tracing their private ways into the bowl from all directions. Some passed within ten feet of Atiaran and Covenant on either side, but they seemed unconscious of the observers; they followed their slow cycles as if each were alone in the Hills, independent of every gleam but its own. Yet their lights poured together, casting a dome of gold through which the stars could barely be seen; and at moments particular Wraiths seemed to bow and revolve around each other, as if sharing a welcome on their way toward the center.
Covenant watched the great movement that brought thousands of the flames, bobbing at shoulder height, into the bowl, and he hardly dared to breathe. In the excess of his wonder, he felt like an unpermitted spectator beholding some occult enactment which was not meant for human eyes. He clutched his chest as if his chance to see the Celebration to its end rode on the utter silence of his respiration, as if he feared that any sound might violate the fiery conclave, scare the Wraiths away.
Then a change came over the gathered flames. Up into the sky rose a high, scintillating, wordless song, an arching melody. From the center of the bowl, the private rotations of the Wraiths resolved themselves into a radiating, circling Dance. Each Wraith seemed finally to have found its place in a large, wheel-like pattern which filled half the bowl, and the wheel began to turn on its center. But there were no lights in the center; the wheel turned on a hub of stark blackness which refused the glow of the Wraiths.
As the song spread through the night, the great circle revolved-each flame dancing a secret, independent dance, various in moves and sways-each flame keeping its place in the whole pattern as it turned. And in the space between the inner hub and the outer rim, more circles rolled, so that the whole wheel was filled with many wheels, all turning. And no Wraith kept one position long. The flames flowed continuously through their moving pattern, so that as the wheel turned, the individual Wraiths danced from place to place, now swinging along the outer rim, now gyring through the middle circles, now circling the hub. Every Wraith moved and changed places constantly, but the pattern was never broken-no hiatus of misstep gapped the wheel, even for an instant-and every flame seemed both perfectly alone, wandering mysteriously after some personal destiny through the Dance, and perfectly a part of the whole. While they danced, their light grew stronger, until the stars were paled out of the sky, and the night was withdrawn, like a distant spectator of the Celebration.
And the beauty and wonder of the Dance made of Covenant's suspense a yearning ache.
Then a new change entered the festival. Covenant did not realize it until Atiaran touched his arm; her signal sent a thrill of awareness through him, and he saw that the wheel of the Wraiths was slowly bending. The rest of the wheel retained its shape, and the black core did not move. Gradually, the turning circle became lopsided as the outer Wraiths moved closer to the onlookers. Soon the growing bulge pointed unmistakably at Covenant.
In response, he seemed to feel their song more intensely-a keening, ecstatic lament, a threnody as throbbingly passionate as a dirge and as dispassionate as a sublime, impersonal affirmation. Their nearing flames filled him with awe and fascination, so that he shrank within himself but could not move. Cycle after cycle, the Wraiths reached out toward him, and he clasped his hands over his knees and held himself still, taut-hearted and utterless before the fiery Dancers.
In moments, the tip of this long extension from the circle stood above him, and he could see each flame bowing to him as it danced by. Then the rim of the extension dipped, and the pace of the Dance slowed, as though to give each Wraith a chance to linger in his company. Soon the fires were passing within reach of his hand. Then the long arm of the Dance flared, as if a decision had run through the Dancers. The nearest Wraith moved forward to settle on his wedding band.
He flinched, expecting the fire to burn him, but there was no pain. The flame attached itself to the ring as to a wick, and he felt faintly the harmonies of the Celebration song through his finger. As the Wraith held to his ring, it danced and jumped as if it were feeding excitedly there. And slowly its color turned from flaming yellow-orange to silver-white.
When the transformation was complete, that Wraith flashed away, and the next took its place. A succession of fires followed, each dancing on his ring until it became argent; and as his anxiety relaxed, the succession grew faster. In a short time, the line of glistening white Wraiths had almost reached back to the rest of the Dance. Each new flame presented itself swiftly, as if eager for some apotheosis, some culmination of its being, in the white gold of Covenant's ring.
Before long, his emotion became too strong to let him remain seated. He surged to his feet, holding out his ring so that the Wraiths could light on it without lowering themselves.
Atiaran stood beside him. He had eyes only for the transformation which his ring somehow made possible, but she looked away across the Dance.
What she saw made her dig her fingers like claws of despair into his arm. "No! By the Seven! This must not be!"
Her cry snatched at his attention; his gaze jumped across the bowl.
"There! That is the meaning of the ill your feet have felt!"
What he saw staggered him like a blow to the heart.
Coming over the northeast rim of the bowl into the golden light was an intruding wedge of blackness, as pitch-dark and un-illuminable as the spawning ground of night. The wedge cut its narrow way down toward the Dance, and through the song of the flames, it carried a sound like a host of bloody feet rushing over clean grass. Deliberately, agonizingly, it reached inward without breaking its formation. In moments, the tip of the darkness sliced into the Dance and began plunging toward its center.
In horror, Covenant saw that the Dance did not halt or pause. At the wedge's first touch, the song of the Wraiths dropped from the air as if it had been ripped away by sacrilege, leaving no sound behind it but a noise like running murder. But the Dance did not stop. The flames went on revolving as if they were unconscious of what was happening to them, helpless. They followed their cycles into the wedge's path and vanished as if they had fallen into an abyss. No Wraith emerged from that darkness.
Swallowing every light that touched it, the black wedge gouged its way into the Celebration.
"They will all die!" Atiaran groaned. "They cannot stop-cannot escape. They must dance until the Dance is done. All dead-every Wraith, every bright light of the Land! This must not be. Help them! Covenant, help them!"
But Covenant did not know how to help. He was paralyzed. The sight of the black wedge made him feel as nauseated as if he were observing across a gulf of numbness his fingers being eaten by a madman nauseated and enraged and impotent, as if he had waited too long to defend himself, and now had no hands with which to fight back. The knife of Triock slipped from his numb fingers and disappeared in darkness.
How-?
For an instant, Atiaran dragged furiously at him. "Covenant! Help them!" she shrieked into his face. Then she turned and raced down into the valley to meet the wedge.
The Wraiths-!
Her movement broke the freeze of his horror. Snatching up the staff of Baradakas, he ducked under the flames and sped after her, holding himself bent over to stay below the path of the Wraiths. A madness seemed to hasten his feet; he caught Atiaran before she was halfway to the hub. Thrusting her behind him, he dashed on toward the penetrating wedge, spurred by a blind conviction that he had to reach the center before the blackness did.
Atiaran followed, shouting after him, "Ware and ward! They are ur-viles! Demondim corruption!"
He scarcely heard her. He was focused on the furious need to gain the center of the Dance. F
With a last burst, he broke into the empty core of the wheel.
He halted. Now he was close enough to see that the wedge was composed of tall, crowded figures, so blackfleshed that no light could gleam or glisten on their skin. As the helpless Wraiths swung into the wedge, the attackers ate them.
The ur-viles drew nearer. The tip of their wedge was a single figure, larger than the rest. Covenant could see it clearly. It looked like one of the Waynhim grown tall and evil-long torso, short limbs of equal length, pointed ears high on its head, eyeless face almost filled by gaping nostrils. Its slit mouth snapped like a trap whenever a Wraith came near. Mucus
trailed from its nostrils back along either side of its head. When Covenant faced it, its nose twitched as if it smelled new game, and it snarled out a cadenced bark like an exhortation to the other creatures. The whole wedge thrust eagerly forward.
Atiaran caught up with Covenant and shouted in his ear, "Your hand! Look at your hand!"
He jerked up his left hand. A Wraith still clung to his ring-burning whitely-obliviously dancing.
The next instant, the leading ur-vile breached the core of the Dance and stopped. The attackers stood packed against each other's shoulders behind their leader. Dark, roynish, and cruel, they slavered together and bit at the helpless Wraiths.
Covenant quailed as if his heart had turned to sand. But Atiaran raged, "Now! Strike them now!"
Trembling, he stepped forward. He had no idea what to do.
At once, the first ur-vile brandished a long knife with a seething, blood-red blade. Fell power radiated from the blade; in spite of themselves, Covenant and Atiaran recoiled.
The ur-vile raised its hand to strike.
Impulsively, Covenant shoved the white, burning Wraith at the ur-vile's face. With a snarl of pain, the creature jumped back.
A sudden intuition gripped Covenant. Instantly, he touched the end of his staff to the burning Wraith. With a flash, bold white flame bloomed from the staff, shading the gold of the Dance and challenging the force of the ur-viles. Their leader retreated again.
But at once it regained its determination. Springing forward, it stabbed into the heart of the white fire with its blood-red blade.
Power clashed in the core of the Dance. The ur-vile's blade seethed like hot hate, and the staff blazed wildly. Their conflict threw sparks as if the air were aflame in blood and lightning.
But the ur-vile was a master. Its might filled the bowl with a deep, crumbling sound, like the crushing of a boulder under huge pressure. In one abrupt exertion, Covenant's fire was stamped out.
The force of the extinguishing threw him and Atiaran to their backs on the grass. With a growl of triumph, the ur-viles poised to leap for the kill.
Covenant saw the red knife coming, and cowered with a pall of death over his mind.
But Atiaran scrambled back to her feet, crying, "Melenkurion! Melenkurion abatha!" Her voice sounded frail against the victory of the ur-viles, but she met them squarely, grappled with the leader's knife-hand. Momentarily, she withheld its stroke.
Then, from behind her to the west, her cry was answered. An iron voice full of fury shouted, "Melenkurion abatha! Binas mill Banas Nimoram khabaal! Melenkurion abatha! Abatha Nimoram!" The sound broke through Covenant's panic, and he lurched up to Atiaran's aid. But together they could not hold back the ur-vile; it flung them to the ground again. At once, it pounced at them.
It was stopped halfway by a hulking form that leaped over them to tackle it. For a moment, the two wrestled savagely. Then the newcomer took the bloodred blade and drove it into the heart of the creature.
A burst of snarls broke from the ur-viles. Covenant heard a sweeping noise like the sound of many children running. Looking up, he saw a stream of small animals pour into the bowl-rabbits, badgers, weasels, moles, foxes, a few dogs. With silent determination, they hurled themselves at the ur-viles.
The Wraiths were scattering. While Covenant and Atiaran stumbled to their feet, the last flame passed from the bowl.
But the ur-viles remained, and their size made the animals' attack look like a mere annoyance. In the sudden darkness, the creatures seemed to expand, as if the light had hindered them, forced them to keep their close ranks. Now they broke away from each other. Dozens of blades that boiled like lava leaped out as one, and in horrible unison began to slaughter the animals.
Before Covenant could take in all that was happening, the hulking figure who had saved them turned and hissed, "Go! North to the river. I have released the Wraiths. Now we will make time for your escape. Go!"
"No!" Atiaran panted. "You are the only man. The animals are not enough. We must help you fight."
"Together we are not enough!" he cried. "Do you forget your task? You must reach the Lords-must! Drool must pay for this Desecration! Go! I cannot give you much time!" Shouting, "Melenkurion abatha!" he whirled and jumped into the thick of the fray, felling ur-viles with his mighty fists.
Pausing only to pick up the staff of Baradakas, Atiaran fled northward. And Covenant followed her, running as if the ur-vile blades were striking at his back. The stars gave them enough light. They drove themselves up the slope, not looking to see if they were pursued, not caring about the packs they left behind afraid to think of anything except their need for distance. As they passed over the rim of the bowl, the sounds of slaughter were abruptly dimmed. They heard no pursuit. But they ran on-ran, and still ran, and did not stop until they were caught in midstride by a short scream, full of agony and failed strength.
At the sound, Atiaran fell to her knees and dropped her forehead to the earth, weeping openly. "He is dead!" she wailed. "The Unfettered One, dead! Alas for the Land! All my paths are ill, and destruction fills all my choices. From the first, I have brought wrong upon us. Now there will be no more Celebrations, and the blame is mine." Raising her face to Covenant, she sobbed, "Take your staff and strike me, Unbeliever!"
Blankly, Covenant stared into the pooled hurt of her eyes. He felt benumbed with pain and grief and wasted rage, and did not understand why she castigated herself. He stooped for the staff, then took her arm and lifted her to her feet. Stunned and empty, he led her onward into the night until she had cried out her anguish and could stand on her own again. He wanted to weep himself, but in his long struggle with the misery of being a leper he had forgotten how, and now he could only keep on walking. He was
aware as Atiaran regained control of herself and pulled away from him that she accused him of something. Throughout the sleepless night of their northward trek, he could do nothing about it.
ELEVEN: The Unhomed
GRADUALLY, night stumbled as if stunned and wandering aimlessly into an overcast day-limped through the wilderland of transition as though there were no knowing where the waste of darkness ended and the ashes of light began. The low clouds seemed full of grief-tense and uneasy with accumulated woe -and yet affectless, unable to rain, as if the air clenched itself too hard for tears. And through the dawn, Atiaran and Covenant moved heavily, unevenly, like pieces of a broken lament.
The coming of one day made no difference to them, did not alter the way they fled-terrorless because their capacity for fear was exhausted-into the north. Day and night were nothing but disguises, motley raiment, for the constant shadow on the Land's heart. To that heart they could not guess how much damage had been done. They could only judge by their own hurt-and so throughout the long, dismal night and day which followed the defilement of the Celebration, they walked on haunted by what they had witnessed and numb to everything else, as though even hunger and thirst and fatigue were extinguished in them.
That night, their flesh reached the end of its endurance, and they pitched blindly into sleep, no longer able to care what pursuit was on their trail. While they slept, the sky found some release for its tension. Blue lightning flailed the Hills; thunder groaned in long suppresse
Yet time and aliantha and Andelainian air slowly worked their resuscitations. Slowly, Covenant's weary thoughts shifted; the trudging horror of slaughter receded, allowed a more familiar pain to ache in him. He could hear Atiaran crying, Covenant, help them! and the sound made his blood ran cold with impotence.
The Wraiths, the Wraiths! he moaned dimly, distantly, to himself. They had been so beautiful-and he had been so unable to save them.
Yet Atiaran had believed him capable of saving them; she had expected some putting forth of power - Like Lena and Baradakas and everyone else he met, she saw him as Berek Halfhand reborn, the master of wild magic. You have might, the Despiser had said. You will never know what it is. He did not know; how could he? What did magic, or even dreams, have to do with him?
And yet the Wraiths had paid homage to his ring as if they recognized his lost humanity. They had been changed by it.
After a time, he said without meaning to speak aloud, "I would have saved them if I could."
"You have the power." Atiaran's voice was dull, inert, as if she were no longer capable of grief or anger.
"What power?" he asked painfully.
"Do you wear the white gold for nothing?"
"It's just a ring. I wear it-I wear it because I'm a leper. I don't know anything about power."
She did not look at him. "I cannot see. You are closed to me."
At that, he wanted to protest, cry out, grab her by