At the impact, his staff broke into slivers as if Drool's flesh were vehement iron.
But Drool gave a coughing roar of rage, and stamped the heel of the Staff of Law on the floor. The stone jumped under Covenant's feet; he pitched backward, landed with a jolt that seemed to stop his heart.
He lay stunned and helpless. Through a throbbing noise in his ears, he heard Drool cry, “Slay him! Give the ring!” He rolled over. Sweat blurred his vision; blearily, he saw the Cavewights converging toward him. His heart felt paralyzed in his chest, and he F could not get his feet under him. Retching for air, he tried to crawl out of reach.
The first Cavewight caught hold of his neck, then abruptly groaned and fell away to the side. Another Cavewight fell; the rest drew back in confusion. One of them cried fearfully, “Bloodguard! Lord Drool, help us!”
“Fool!” retorted Drool, coughing as if his lungs were in shreds. “Coward! I am power! Slay them!”
Covenant climbed to his feet, wiped the sweat from his eyes, and found Bannor standing beside him. The Bloodguard's robe hung tattered from his shoulders, and a large bruise on his brow closed one eye. But his hands were poised, alert. He carried himself on the balls of his feet, ready to leap in any direction. His flat eyes held a dull gleam of battle.
Covenant felt such a surge of relief that he wanted to hug Bannor. After his long, lightless ordeal, he felt suddenly rescued, almost redeemed. But his gruff voice belied his emotion. “What the hell took you so long?”
The Cavewights came forward slowly, timorously, and surrounded Covenant and Bannor. Drool raged at them in hoarse gasps.
Overhead, the chiaroscuro of the stalactites danced gaily.
With startling casualness, Bannor replied that he had landed badly after killing the ur-vile, and had lost consciousness. Then he had been unable to locate Covenant in the darkness. Lashed by Drool's strident commands, a Cavewight charged Covenant from behind. But Bannor spun easily, felled the creature with a kick. “The flame of your staff revealed you,” he continued. “I chose to follow.” He paused to spring at two of the nearest attackers. They retreated hastily. When he spoke again, his foreign
Something in the selfless and casual face that Bannor turned toward death communicated itself to Covenant. He answered without rancour, “You picked a fine time to test me.”
“The Bloodguard know doubt. We require to be sure.”
Drool mustered his strength to shriek furiously, “Fools! Worms! Afraid of only two!” He spat. “Go! Watch! Lord Drool kills.”
The Cavewights gave way, and Drool came wincing forward. He held the Staff of Law before him like an axe.
Bannor leaped, launched a kick at Drool's face.
But for all his crippled condition, Drool Rockworm was full of power. He did not appear to feel Bannor's attack. In ponderous fury, he raised the Staff to deal a blast which would incinerate Bannor and Covenant where they stood. Against the kind of might he wielded, they were helpless.
Still Bannor braced himself in front of Covenant to meet the blow. Flinching, Covenant waited for the pain that would set him free.
But Drool was already too late. He had missed his chance, neglected other dangers. Even as he raised the Staff, the company of the Quest, led by First Mark Tuvor and High Lord Prothall, broke into Kiril Threndor.
They looked battered, as if they had just finished a skirmish with Drool's outer defences, but they were whole and dour-handed, and they entered the chamber like a decisive wave. Prothall stopped Drool's blast with a shout full of authority. Before the Cavewights could gather themselves together, the Eoman fell on them, drove them from the cave. In a moment, Drool was surrounded by a wide ring of warriors and Bloodguard.
Slowly, with an appearance of confusion, he retreated until he was half-crouching on his dais. He looked around the circle as if unable to realize what had happened. But his spatulate hands held the Staff in a grip as grim as death.
Then, grotesquely, his laval eyes took on an angle of cunning. Twitching nods over his shoulder, he hissed in a raw voice, “Here-this is fair. Fair. Better than promises. All of them-here. All little Lords and puny Bloodguard- humans. Ready for crushing.” He started to laugh, broke into a fit of coughing. “Crush!” he spat when he regained control of himself. “Crush with power.” He made a noise like a cracking of bones in his throat. “Power! Little Lords. Mighty Drool. Better than promises.”
Prothall faced the Cavewight squarely. Giving his staff to Mhoram, he stepped forward to the dais with Tuvor at his side. He stood erect; his countenance was calm and clear. Supported by their years of abnegation, his eyes neither wavered nor burned. In contrast, Drool's red orbs were consumed with the experience of innumerable satiations-an addictive gluttony of power. When the High Lord spoke, even the rattle of his old voice sounded like authority and decision. Softly, he said, “Give it up. Drool Rockworm, hear me. The Staff of Law is not yours. It is not meant for you. Its strength must only be used for the health of the Land. Give it to me.”
Covenant moved to stand near the High Lord. He felt that he had to be near the Staff.
But Drool only muttered, “Power? Give it up? Never.” His lips went on moving, as if he were communing over secret plans.
Again, Prothall urged, “Surrender it. For your own sake. Are you blind to yourself? Do you not see what has happened to you? This power is not meant for you. It destroys you. You have used the Staff wrongly. You have used the Illearth Stone. Such powers are deadly. Lord Foul has betrayed you. Give the Staff to me. I will strive to help you.”
But that idea offended Drool. “Help?” he coughed. “Fool! I am Lord Drool. Master! The moon is mine. Power is mine. You are mine. I can crush! Old man-little Lord. I let you live to make me laugh. Help? No, dance. Dance for Lord Drool.” He waved the Staff threateningly. “Make me laugh. I let you live.”
Prothall drew himself up, and said in a tone of command, “Drool Rockworm, release the Staff.” He advanced a step.
With a jerk like a convulsion of hysteria, Drool raised the Staff to strike.
Prothall rushed forward, tried to stop him. But Tuvor reached the Cavewight first. He caught the end of the Staff.
Shivering with rage, Drool jabbed the iron heel of the Staff against Tuvor's body. Bloody light flashed. In that instant the First Mark's flesh became transparent; the company could see his bones burning like dry sticks. Then he fell, reeling backward to collapse in Covenant's arms.
His weight was too great for the Unbeliever to hold; Covenant sank to the stone under it. Cradling Tuvor, he watched the High Lord.
Prothall grappled with Drool. He grasped the Staff with both hands to prevent Drool from striking him. They wrestled together for possession of it.
The struggle looked impossible for Prothall. Despite his decrepitude, Drool retained some of his Cavewightish strength. And he was full of power. And Prothall was old.
With Tuvor in his arms, Covenant could do nothing. “Help him!” he cried to Mhoram. “He'll be killed!”
But Lord Mhoram turned his back on Prothall. He knelt beside Covenant to see if he could aid Tuvor. As he examined the First Mark, he said roughly, “Drool seeks to master the Staff with malice. The High Lord can sing a stronger song than that.”
Appalled, Covenant shouted, “He'll be killed! You've got to help him!”
“Help him?” Mhoram's eyes glinted dangerously. Pain and raw restraint sharpened his voice as he said, “He would not welcome my help. He is the High Lord. Despite my Oath”-he choked momentarily on a throat full of passion-“I would crush Drool.” He invested Drool's word,
Panting, Covenant watched the High Lord's fight. He was horrified by the danger, by the price both Lords were willing to pay.
Then battle erupted around him. Cavewights charged into Kiril Threndor from several directions. Apparently, Drool had been able to send out a silent call; his guards were answering. The first forces to reach the chamber were not large, but they sufficed to engage the whole company. Only Mhoram did not join the fight. He knelt beside Covenant and stroked the First Mark's face, as if he were transfixed by Tuvor's dying.
Shouting stertorously over the clash of weapons, Quaan ordered his warriors into a defensive ring around the dais and the Lords. Loss and fatigue had taken their toll on the Eoman, but stalwart Quaan led his command as if
