empty air.
“We are the Bloodguard.” Bannor's voice was almost inaudible through the loud lust of the Cavewights. “We cannot permit this end.”
Firmly, he took Covenant's hand and placed it on the Staff of Law, midway between Prothall's straining knuckles.
Power seemed to explode in Covenant's chest. A silent concussion, a shock beyond hearing, struck the ravine like a convulsion of the mountain. The blast knocked the Questers from their feet, sent all the ur-viles and Cavewights sprawling among the boulders. Only the High Lord kept his feet. His head jerked up, and the Staff bucked in his hands.
For a moment, there was stillness in the ravine a quiet so intense that the blast seemed to have deafened all the combatants. And in that moment, the entire sky over Gravin Threndor turned black with impenetrable thunder.
Then came noise-one deep bolt of sound as if the very rock of the mountain cried out-followed by long waves of hot, hissing sputters. The clouds dropped until they covered the crest of Mount Thunder.
Great yellow fires began to burn on the shrouded peak.
For a time, the company and their attackers lay in the ravine as if they were afraid to move. Everyone stared up at the fires and the thunderheads.
Suddenly, the flames erupted. With a roar as if the sir itself were burning, fires started charging like great, hungry beasts down every face and side of the mountain.
Shrieking in fear, the Cavewights sprang up and ran. A few hurled themselves madly against the walls of the ravine. But most of them swept around the company's rock and fled downward, trying to outrun the Fire-Lions.
The ur-viles went the other way. In furious haste, they scrambled up the ravine toward the entrance to the catacombs.
But before they could reach safety, Drool appeared out of the cleft above them. The Cavewight was crawling, too crippled to stand. But in his fist he clutched a green stone which radiated intense wrong through the blackness of the clouds. His scream carried over the roar of the Lions:
“Crush! Crush!”
The ur-viles stopped, caught between fears.
While the creatures hesitated, the company started down the ravine. Prothall and Covenant were too exhausted to support themselves, so the Bloodguard bore them, throwing them from man to man over the boulders, dragging them along the tumbled floor of the ravine.
Ahead, the Cavewights began to reach the end of the cut. Some of them ran so blindly that they plunged over the cliff; others scattered in either direction along the edge, wailing for escape.
But behind the company, the ur-viles formed a wedge and again started downward. The Questers were barely able to keep their distance from the wedge.
The roar of the flaming air grew sharper, fiercer. Set free by the power of the Peak, boulders tumbled from the cliffs. The Fire-Lions moved like molten stone, sprang down the slopes as if spewed out of the heart of an inferno. Still far above the ravine, the consuming howl of their might seemed to double and treble itself with each downward lunge. A blast of scorched air blew ahead of them like a herald, trumpeting the progress of fire and volcanic hunger. Gravin Threndor shuddered to its roots.
The difficulty of the ravine eased as the company neared the lower end, and Covenant began to move for himself. Impelled by broken vision, overborne hearing, gaining rampage, he shook free of the Bloodguard. Moving stiff-kneed like a puppet, he jerked in a dogged, stumbling line for the cliff.
The other Questers swung to the south along the edge. But he went directly to the precipice. When he reached it, his legs barely had the strength to stop him. Tottering weakly, he looked down the drop. It was sheer for two thousand feet, and the cliff was at least half a league wide.
There was no escape. The Lions would get the company before they reached any possible descent beyond the cliff long before.
People yelled at him, warning him futilely; he could hardly hear them through the roaring air. He gave no heed. That kind of escape was not what he wanted. And he was not afraid of the fall: he could not see it clearly enough to be afraid.
He had something to do.
He paused for a moment, summoning his courage. Then he realized that one of the Bloodguard would probably try to save him. He wanted to accomplish his purpose before that could happen.
He needed an answer to death.
Pulling off his ring, he held it firmly in his half-fingerless hand, cocked his arm to throw the band over the cliff.
His eyes followed the ring as he drew back his arm, and he stopped suddenly, struck by a blow of shame. The metal was clean. His vision still saw two rings, but both were flat argent; the stain was gone from within them.
He spun from the cliff, searched up the ravine for Drool.
He heard Mhoram shout, “Bannor! It is his choice!” The Bloodguard was sprinting toward him. At Mhoram's command, Bannor pulled to a halt ten yards away, despite his Vow. The next instant, he rejected the command, leaped toward Covenant again.
Covenant could not focus his vision. He caught a glimpse of fiery Lions pouncing toward the crevice high up the ravine. But his sight was dominated by the ur-vile wedge. It was only three strides away from him. The loremaster had already raised its stave to strike.
Instinctively, Covenant tried to move. But he was too slow. He was still leaning when Bannor crashed into him, knocked him out of the way.
With a mad, exulting bark as if they had suddenly seen a vision, the ur-viles sprang forward as one and plunged over the cliff. Their cries as they fell sounded ferociously triumphant.
Bannor lifted Covenant to his feet. The Bloodguard urged him toward the rest of the company, but he broke free and stumbled a few steps up the slope, straining his eyes toward the crevice. “Drool! What happened to Drool?” His eyes failed him. He stopped, wavered uncertainly, raged, “I can't see!”
Mhoram hastened to him, and Covenant repeated his question, shouting it into the Lord's face.
Mhoram replied gently, “Drool is there, in the crevice. Power that he could not master destroys him. He no longer knows what he does. In a moment, the Fire-Lions will consume him.”
Covenant strove to master his voice by biting down on it. “No!” he hissed. “He's just another victim. Foul planned this all along:” Despite his clamped teeth, his voice sounded broken.
Comfortingly, Mhoram touched his shoulder. “Be at peace, Unbeliever. We have done all we can. You need not condemn yourself.”
Abruptly, Covenant found that his rage was gone collapsed into dust. He felt blasted and wrecked, and he sank to the ground as if his bones could no longer hold him. His eyes had a tattered look, like the sails of a ghost ship. Without caring what he did, he pushed his wedding band back onto his ring finger.
The rest of the company was moving toward him. They had given up their attempt at flight; together, they watched the progress of the Lions. The midnight clouds cast a gloom over the whole mountain, and through the dimness the pouncing fires blazed and coruscated like beasts of sun flame. They sprang down the walls into the ravine, and some of them bounded upward toward the crevice.
Lord Mhoram finally shook himself free of his entrancement. “Call your Ranyhyn,” he commanded Bannor. “The Bloodguard can save themselves. Take the Staff and the Second Ward. Call the Ranyhyn and escape.”
Bannor met Mhoram's gaze for a long moment, measuring the Lord's order. Then he refused stolidly. “One of us will go. To carry the Staff and Ward to Lord's Keep. The rest remain.”
“Why? We cannot escape. You must live-to serve the Lords who must carry on this war.”
“Perhaps.” Bannor shrugged slightly. “Who can say? High Lord Kevin ordered us away, and we obeyed. We will not do such a thing again.”
“But this death is useless!” cried Mhoram.
“Nevertheless.” The Bloodguard's tone was as blank as iron. Then he added, “But you can call Hynaril. Do so, Lord.”
