Lord Foul's Bane

“Go to hell,” Covenant mumbled. “Don't you ever sleep?”

“The Bloodguard do not sleep:”

“What?”

“No Bloodguard has slept since the Haruchai swore their Vow.”

With an effort, Covenant pulled himself into a sitting position. He peered blearily at Bannor for a moment, then muttered, “You're already in hell.”

The alien flatness of Bannor's voice did not waver as he replied, “You have no reason to mock us.”

“Of course not,” Covenant growled, climbing out of bed. “Naturally, I'm supposed to enjoy having my integrity judged by someone who doesn't even need sleep.”

“We do not judge. We are cautious. The Lords are in our care.”

“Like Kevin-who killed himself. And took just about everything else with him.” But as he made this retort, he felt suddenly ashamed of himself. In the firelight, he remembered the costliness of the Bloodguard's fidelity. Wincing at the coldness of the stone floor, he said, “Forget it. I talk like that in self defence. Ridicule seems to be-my only answer.” Then he hurried away to wash, shave, and get dressed. After a quick meal, he made sure of his knife and staff, and at last nodded his readiness to the Bloodguard.

Bannor led him down to the courtyard of the old Gilden tree. A haze of night still dimmed the air, but the stars were gone, and sunrise was clearly imminent. Unexpectedly, he felt that he was taking part in something larger than himself. The sensation was an odd one, and he tried to reason it away as he followed Bannor through the tunnel, between the huge, knuckled tower gates, and out into the dawn.

There, near the wall a short distance to the right of the gate, was gathered the company of the Quest. The warriors of the Third Eoman sat astride their horses in a semicircle behind Warhaft Quaan, and to their left stood nine Bloodguard led by First Mark Tuvor. Within the semicircle were Prothall, Mhoram, and Saltheart Foamfollower. The Giant carried in his belt a quarterstaff as tall as a man, and wore a blue neck-scarf that fluttered ebulliently in the morning breeze. Nearby were three men holding three horses saddled in clingor. Above them all, the face of Revelstone was crowded with people. The dwellers of the mountain city thronged every balcony and terrace, every window. And facing the gathered company was Lord Osondrea. She held her head high as if she defied her responsibility to make her stoop.

Then the sun crested the eastern horizon. It caught the upper rim of the plateau, where burned the blue Same of warning; it moved down the wall until it lifted High Lord's Furl out of the gloaming like the lighting of a torch. Next it revealed the red pennant, and then a new white flag.

Nodding up at the new flag, Bannor said, “That is for you, ur-Lord. The sign of white gold.” Then he west to take his place among the Bloodguard.

Silence rested on the company until the sunlight touched the ground, casting its gold glow over the Questers. As soon as the light reached her feet, Osondrea began speaking as if she had been waiting patiently for this moment, and she covered the ache in her heart with a scolding tone. 'I am in no mood tae the ceremony, Prothall. Call the Ranyhyn, and go.

The folly of this undertaking will not be made less by delay and brave words. There is nothing more for you to say. I am well suited for my task, and the defence of the Land will not falter while I live. Go-call the Ranyhyn.'

Prothall smiled gently, and Mhoram said with a grin, “We are fortunate in you, Osondrea. I could not entrust any other with Variol my father and Tamarantha my mother.”

“Taunt me at your peril!” she snapped. “I am in no mood-no mood, do you hear?”

“I hear. You know that I do not taunt you. Sister Osondrea, be careful.”

“I am always careful. Now go, before I lose patience altogether.”

Prothall nodded to Tuvor; the ten Bloodguard turned and spread out, so that each faced into the rising sun with no one to obscure his view. One at a time, each Bloodguard raised a hand to his mouth and gave a piercing whistle which echoed off the wall of the Keep into the dawn air.

They whistled again, and then a third time, and each call sounded as fierce and lonely as a heart cry. But the last whistle was answered by a distant whinny and a low thunder of mighty hooves. All eyes turned expectantly eastward, squinted into the morning glory. For a long moment, nothing appeared, and the rumble of the earth came disembodied to the company, a mystic manifestation. But then the horses could be seen within the sun's orb, as if they had materialized in skyfire.

Soon the Ranyhyn passed out of the direct line of the sun. There were ten of them-wild and challenging animals. They were great craggy beasts, deep-chested, proud-necked, with some of the delicacy of pure-blooded stock and some of the rough angularity of mustangs. They had long flying manes and tails, gaits as straight as plumb lines, eyes full of restless intelligence. Chestnuts, bays, roans, they galloped toward the Bloodguard.

Covenant knew enough about horses to see that the Ranyhyn were as individual as people, but they shared one trait: a white star marked the centre of each forehead. As they approached, with the dawn burning on their backs, they looked like the Land personified-the essence of health and power.

Nickering and tossing their heads, they halted before the Bloodguard. And the Bloodguard bowed deeply to them. The Ranyhyn stamped their feet and shook their manes as if they were laughing affectionately at a mere human show of respect. After a moment Tuvor spoke to them. “Hail, Ranyhyn! Land-riders and proud-bearers. Sun- flesh and sky-mane, we are glad that you have heard our call. We must go on a long journey of many days. Will you bear us?”

In response, a few of the horses nodded their heads, and several others pranced in circles like colts. Then they moved forward, each approaching a specific Bloodguard and nuzzling him as if urging him to mount. This the Bloodguard did, though the horses were without saddle or bridle. Riding bareback, the Bloodguard trotted the Ranyhyn in a circle around the company, and arrayed themselves beside the mounted warriors.

Covenant felt that the departure of the company was imminent, and he did not want to miss his chance. Stepping close to Osondrea, he asked, “What does it mean? Where did they come from?”

The Lord turned and answered almost eagerly, as if glad for any distraction, 'Of course-you are a stranger. Now, how can I explain such a deep matter briefly? Consider-the Ranyhyn are free, untamed, and their home is in the Plains of Ra. They are tended by the Ramen, but they are never ridden unless they choose a rider for themselves. It is a free choice. And once a Ranyhyn selects a rider, it is faithful to that one though fire and death interdict.

“Few are chosen. Tamarantha is the only living Lord to be blessed with a Ranyhyn mount-Hynaril bears her proudly-though neither Prothall nor Mhoram have yet made the trial. Prothall has been unwilling. But I suspect that one of his reasons for journeying south is to give Mhoram a chance to be chosen.

“No matter. Since the age of High Lord Kevin, a bond has grown up between the Ranyhyn and the Bloodguard. For many reasons, only some of which I can guess, no Bloodguard has remained unchosen.

“As to the coming here of the Ranyhyn today-that surpasses my explaining. They are creatures of Earthpower. In some way, each Ranyhyn knows when its rider will callyes, knows, and never fails to answer. Here are Huryn, Brabha, Marny, and others. Ten days ago they heard the call which only reached our ears this morning- and after more than four hundred leagues, they arrive as fresh as the dawn. If we could match them, the Land would not be in such peril.”

As she had been speaking, Prothall and Mhoram had mounted their horses, and she finished while walking Covenant toward his mustang. Under the influence of her voice, he went up to the animal without hesitation. But when he put his foot in the stirrup of the clingor saddle he felt a spasm of reluctance. He did not like horses, did not trust them; their strength was too dangerous. He backed away, and found that his hands were trembling.

Osondrea regarded him curiously; but before she could say anything a bustle of surprise ran through the company. When he looked up, Covenant saw three old figures riding forward-the Lords Variol and Tamarantha, and Hearthrall Birinair. Tamarantha sat astride a great roan Ranyhyn mare with laughing eyes.

Bowing toward them from the back of his horse, High Lord Prothall said, “I am glad that you have come. We need your blessing before we depart, just as Osondrea needs your help.”

Tamarantha bowed in return, but there was a sly half-smile on her wrinkled lips. She scanned the company briefly. “You have chosen well, Prothall.” Then she brought her old eyes back to the High Lord. “But you mistake us. We go with you.”

Prothall began to object, but Birinair put in stoutly,

“Of course. What else? A Quest without a Hirebrand, indeed!”