Lord Foul's Bane

Where was his escape? Was this the cost of his bargain, his forbearance? It was too great. He was a leper, not made for such ordeals. His voice shook uncontrollably full of useless outrage. “No wonder he-let us have the Staff. So it would hurt worse now. He knew we wouldn't get away with it.”

But Mhoram shouted orders in a tone that cut through the dismay. He ran a short way down the ravine and climbed onto a wide, flat rock higher than the others near it. “There is space for us! Come!” he commanded. “We will make our end here!”

Slowly, the warriors shambled to the rock as if they were overburdened with defeat. Mhoram and the Bloodguard helped them up. High Lord Prothall came last, propped between two Bloodguard. He was muttering, “No. No.” But he did not resist Mhoram's orders.

When everyone was on the rock, Quaan's Eoman and the Bloodguard placed themselves around its edge. Lithe joined them, her cord taut in her hands, leaving Prothall and Mhoram and Covenant in the ring of the company's last defence.

Now the ur-viles had covered half the distance to the rock where the company stood. Behind them came hundreds of Cavewights, gushing out of the crevice and pouring down the ravine. And as many more worked upward from the place where they had entered the cut.

Surveying Drool's forces, Mhoram said softly, “Take heart, my friends. You have done well. Now let us make our end so bravely that even our enemies will remember it. Do not despair. There are many chances between the onset of a war and victory. Let us teach Lord Foul that he will never taste victory until the last friend of the Land is dead.”

But Prothall whispered, “No. No.” Facing upward toward the crest of Mount Thunder, he planted his feet and closed his eyes. With slow resolution, he raised the Staff of Law level with his heart and gripped it in both fists. “It must be possible,” he breathed. “By the Seven! It must.” His knuckles whitened on the intricate runed and secret surface of the Staff. “Melenkurion Skyweir, help me. I do not accept this end.” His brows slowly knotted over his shut, sunken eyes, and his head bowed until his beard touched his heart. From between his pale lips came a whispered, wordless song. But his voice rattled so huskily in his chest that his song sounded more like a dirge than an invocation.

Drool's forces poured down and surged up at the company inexorably. Mhoram watched them with a rictus of helplessness on his humane lips.

Suddenly, a desperate chance blazed in his eyes. He spun, gripped Covenant with his gaze, whispered, “There is a way! Prothall strives to call the Fire-Lions. He cannot succeed-the power of the Staff is closed, and we have not the knowledge to unlock it. But white gold can release that power. It can be done!”

Covenant recoiled as if Mhoram had betrayed him. No! he panted. I made a bargain-!

Then, with a sickening, vertiginous twist of insight, he caught a glimpse of Lord Foul's plan for him, glimpsed what the Despiser was doing to him. Here was the killing blow which had lain concealed behind all the machinations, all the subterfuge.

Hell and blood!

Here was the point of impact between his opposing madnesses. If he attempted to use the wild magic if his ring had power-if it had no power-He flinched at the reel and strike of dark visions-the company slain-the Staff destroyed thousands of creatures dead, all that blood on his head, his head.

“No,” he gasped thickly. “Don't ask me. I promised I wouldn't do any more killing. You don't know what I've done-to Atiaran-to- I made a bargain so I wouldn't have to do any more killing.”

The ur-viles and Cavewights were almost within bowshot now. The Eoman had arrows nocked and ready. Drool's hordes slowed, began to poise for the last spring of attack.

But Mhoram's eyes did not release Covenant. “There will be still more killing if you do not. Do you believe that Lord Foul will be content with our deaths? Never! He will slay and slay again until all life without exception is his to corrupt or destroy. All life, do you hear? Even these creatures that now serve him will not be spared.”

“No!” Covenant groaned again. “Don't you see? This is just what he wants. The Staff will be destroyed or Drool will be destroyed-or we'll-No matter what happens, he'll win. He'll be free. You're doing just what he wants.”

“Nevertheless!” Mhoram returned fervidly. “The dead are dead-only the living may hope to resist Despite.”

Hellfire! Covenant groped for answers like a man incapable of his own distress. But he found none. No bargain or compromise met his need. In his pain, he cried out wildly, protested, appealed, “Mhoram! It's suicide! You're asking me to go crazy!”

The peril in Mhoram's eyes did not waver. “No, Unbeliever. You need not lose your mind. There are other answers other songs. You can find them. Why should the Land be destroyed for your pain? Save or damn! Grasp the Staff!”

“Damnation!” Fumbling furiously for his ring, Covenant shouted, “Do it yourself!” He wrenched the band from his finger and tried to throw it at Mhoram. But he was shaking madly; his fingers slipped. The ring dropped to the stone, rolled away.

He scrambled after it. He did not seem to have enough digits to catch it; it skidded past Prothall's feet. He lurched toward it again-then missed his footing, fell, and smacked his forehead on the stone.

Distantly, he heard the thrum of bowstrings; the battle had begun. But he paid no attention. He felt that he had cracked his skull. When he raised his head, he found that his vision was wrong; he was seeing double.

The moss-stain chart of his robe smeared illegibly in his sight. Now he had lost whatever chance he had to read it, decipher the cryptic message of Morinmoss. He saw two of Mhoram as the Lord held up the ring. He saw two Prothalls above him, clutching the Staff and trying with the last strength of his life-force to compel its power to his will. Two Bannors turned away from the fight toward the Lords.

Then Mhoram stooped to Covenant. The Lord lashed out, caught his right wrist. The grip was so fierce that he felt his bones grinding together. It forced his hand open, and when his two fingers were spread and vulnerable, Mhoram shoved the ring onto his index digit. It stuck after the first knuckle. “I cannot usurp your place,” the double Lord grated. He stood and roughly pulled Covenant erect. Thrusting his double face at the Unbeliever, he hissed, “By the Seven! You fear power more than weakness.”

Yes! Covenant moaned at the pain in his wrist and head. Yes! I want to survive!

The snap of bowstrings came now as fast as the warriors could ready their arrows. But their supply of shafts was limited. And the ur-viles and Cavewights hung back, risking themselves only enough to draw the warriors' fire. Drool's forces were in no hurry. The ur-viles particularly looked ready to relish the slow slaughter of the company.

But Covenant had no awareness to spare for such things. He stared in a kind of agony at Mhoram. The Lord seemed to-have two mouths-lips stretched over multiplied teeth-and four eyes, all aflame with compulsions. Because he could think of no other appeal, he reached his free hand to his belt, took out Atiaran's knife, and extended it toward Mhoram. Through his teeth, he pleaded, “It would be better if you killed me.”

Slowly, Mhoram's grip eased. His lips softened; the fire of his eyes faded. His gaze seemed to turn inward, and he winced at what he beheld. When he spoke, his voice sounded like dust. “Ah, Covenant-forgive me. I forget myself. Foamfollower-Foamfollower understood this. I should have heard him more clearly. It is wrong to ask for more than you give freely. In this way, we come to resemble what we hate.” He released Covenant's wrist and stepped back. “My friend, this is not on your head. The burden is ours, and we bear it to the end. Forgive me.”

Covenant could not answer. He stood with his face twisted as if he were about to howl. His eyes ached at the duplicity of his vision. Mhoram's mercy affected him more than any argument or demand. He turned miserably toward Prothall. Could he not find somewhere the strength for that risk? Perhaps the path of escape lay that way- perhaps the horror of wild magic was the price he would have to pay for his freedom.

He did not want to be killed by ur-viles. But when he raised his arm, he could not tell which of those hands was his, which of those two Staffs was the real one.

Then, with a flat thrum, the last arrow was gone. The Cavewights gave a vast shout of malice and glee. At the command of the ur-viles, they began to approach. The warriors drew their swords, braced themselves for their useless end. The Bloodguard balanced on the balls of their feet.

Trembling, Covenant tried to reach toward the staff. But his head was spinning, and a whirl of darkness jumped dizzily at him. He could not overcome his fear; he was appalled at the revenge his leprosy would wreak on him for such audacity. His hand crossed half the distance and stopped, clutched in unfingered impotence at the