Seventeen: End in Fire
THAT night, the company camped in a narrow valley between two rocky hillsides half a league from the thick grasses of Andelain. The warriors were cheery, recovering their natural spirits after the tensions of the past few days, and they told stories and sang songs to the quiet audience of the Lords and Bloodguard. Though the Lords did not participate, they seemed glad to listen, and several times Mhoram and Quaan could be heard chuckling together.
But Covenant did not share the ebullience of the Eoman. A heavy hand of blankness held shut the lid his emotions, and he felt separate, untouchable. Finally he went to his bed before the warriors were done with their last song.
He was awakened some time later by a hand on his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he found Foamfollower stooping beside him. The moon had nearly set. “Arise,” the Giant whispered. “The Ranyhyn have brought word. Wolves are hunting us. Ur-viles may not be far behind. We must go.”
Covenant blinked sleepily at the Giant's benighted face for a moment. “Why? Won't they follow?”
“Make haste, ur-Lord. Terrel, Korik, and perhaps a, third of Quaan's Eoman will remain here in ambush. They will scatter the pack. Come.”
But Covenant persisted. “So what? They'll just fall back and follow again. Let me sleep.”
“My friend, you try my patience. Arise, and I will explain.”
With a sigh, Covenant rolled from his blankets. While he tightened the sash of his robe, settled his sandals on his feet, and assured himself of his staff and knife, his Woodhelvennin helper snatched up his bedding and packed it away. Then she led Dura toward him.
Amid the silent urgency of the company, he mounted, then went with Foamfollower toward the centre of the camp, where the Lords and Bloodguard were already mounted. When the warriors were ready, Birinair extinguished the last embers of the fire, and climbed stiffly onto his horse. A moment later, the riders turned and fled the narrow valley, picking their way across the rough terrain by the last red light of the moon.
The ground under Dura's hooves looked like blood slowly clotting, and Covenant clutched his ring to preserve it from the crimson light. Around him, the company moved in a tight suspense of silence; every low, metal clatter of sword was instantly muffled, every breath covered. The Ranyhyn were as noiseless as shadows, and on their broad backs the Bloodguard sat like statues, eternally alert and insentient.
Then the moon set. Darkness was a relief, though it seemed to increase the hazard of their escape. But the whole company was surrounded, guided, by the Ranyhyn, and the mighty horses chose a path which kept the other mounts safe between them.
After two or three leagues had passed, the mood of the Quest relaxed somewhat. They heard no pursuit, sensed no danger. Finally Foamfollower gave Covenant the explanation he had promised.
“It is simple,” the Giant whispered. “After scattering the wolves, Korik and Terrel will lead a trail away from ours. They will go straight into Andelain, east toward Mount Thunder, until pursuit has been confused. Then they will turn and rejoin us.”
“Why?” Covenant asked softly.
Lord Mhoram took up the explanation. “We doubt that Drool can understand our purpose.” Covenant could not feel the Lord's presence as strongly as Foamfollower's, so Mhoram's voice sounded disembodied in the darkness, as if the night were speaking. That impression seemed to belie his words, as if without the verification of physical presence what the Lord said was vain. “Much of our Quest may seem foolhardy or foolish to him. Since he holds the Staff, we are mad to approach him. But if we mean to approach nonetheless, then our southward path is folly, for it is long, and his power grows-daily. He will expect us to turn east toward him, or south toward Doom's Retreat and escape. Korik and Terrel will give Drool's scouts reason to believe that we have turned to attack. If he becomes unsure of where we are, he will not guess our true aim. He will search for us in Andelain, and will seek to strengthen his defences in Mount Thunder. Believing that we have turned to attack him, he will also believe that we have mastered the power of your white gold.”
Covenant considered momentarily before asking, “What's Foul going to be doing during all this?”
“Ah,” Mhoram sighed, “that is a question. There hangs the fate of our Quest-and of the Land.” He was silent for a long time. “In my dreams, I see him laughing.”
Covenant winced at the memory of Foul's crushing laughter, and fell silent. So the riders crept on through the dark, trusting themselves to the instincts of the Ranyhyn. When dawn came, they had left their ambush for the wolves far behind.
It took the company four more days of hard riding, fifteen leagues a day, to reach the Mithil River, the southern boundary of Andelain. For sixty leagues, the Quest drove to the southeast without a hint of what had befallen Korik's group. In all, only eight people had left the company. But somehow without them the Quest seemed shrunken and puny. The concern of the High Lord and his companions rumbled in the hoofbeats of their mounts, and echoed in the silence that lay between them like an empty bier.
Gone now was the gladness of eye with which the warriors had beheld Andelain never more than a league to their left. From dawn to dusk every glance studied the eastern horizons; they saw nothing but a void in which Korik's riders had not appeared. Time and again, Foamfollower broke away from the company to trot up the nearest hill and peer into the distance; time and again, he returned panting and comfortless, and the company was left to conceive nightmares to explain Korik's absence.
The unspoken consensus was that no number of wolves was large enough to conquer two Bloodguard, mounted as they were on Huryn and Brabha of the Ranyhyn. No, Korik's group must have fallen into the hands of a small army of ur-viles so the company reasoned, though Prothall argued that Korik might have had to ride many leagues to find a river or other means to throw the wolves off his trail. The High Lord's words were sound, but somehow under the incarnadine moon they seemed hollow. In spite of them, Warhaft Quaan went 'about his duties with the deaths of six warriors in his face.
All the riders were shrouded in gloom when, near twilight on the fourth day, they reached the banks of the Mithil.
Immediately on their left as they neared the river stood a steep hill like a boundary of Andelain. It guarded the north bank; the company could only cross its base into Andelain by riding single file along the river edge. But Prothall chose that path in preference to swimming the stiff current of the Mithil. With only Tuvor before him, he led the way east along the scant bank. The Questers followed one by one. Soon the entire company was traversing the boundary of the hill.
Spread out as they were, they were vulnerable. As the hill rose beside them, its slope became almost sheer, and its rocky crown commanded the path along the river like a fortification. The riders moved with their heads craned upward; they were keenly conscious of the hazard of their position.
They were still in the traverse when they heard a hail from the hilltop. Among the rocks, a figure rose into view. It was Terrel.
The riders returned his hail joyfully. Hurrying, they crossed the base of the hill, and found themselves in a broad, grassy valley where horses-two Ranyhyn and five mustangs-grazed up away from the river.
The mustangs were exhausted. Their legs quivered weakly, and their necks drooped; they barely had strength enough to eat.
Five, Covenant repeated. He felt numbly sure that he had miscounted.
Korik was on his way down from the hilltop. He was accompanied by five warriors.
With an angry shout, Quaan leaped from his horse and ran toward the Bloodguard. “Irin!” he demanded. “Where is Irin? By the Seven! What has happened to her?”
Korik did not answer until he stood with his group before High Lord Prothall. They struck Covenant as a strange combination: five warriors full of conflicting excitement, courage, grief; and one Bloodguard as impassive as a patriarch. If Korik felt any satisfaction or pain, he did not show it.
He held a bulging pack in one hand, but did not refer to it immediately. Instead, he saluted Prothall, and said, High Lord. You are well. Have you been pursued?'
“We have seen no pursuit,” Prothall replied gravely.
“That is good. It appeared to us that we were successful.”
