Lord Foul's Bane

Prothall nodded, and Korik began his tale. “We met the wolves and sought to scatter them. But they were kresh”-he made a splitting sound' not easily turned aside. So we led them eastward. They would not enter Andelain. They howled on our track, but would not enter. We watched from a distance until they turned away to the north. Then we rode east.

“After a day and a night, we broke trail and turned south. But we came upon marauders. They were mightier than we knew. There were ur-viles and Cavewights together, and with them a griffin.”

Korik's audience murmured with surprise and chagrin, and the Bloodguard paused to utter what sounded like a long curse in the tonal native tongue of-the Haruchai. Then he continued: “Irin purchased our escape. But we were driven far from our way. We reached this place only a short time before you.”

With a revolted flaring of his nostrils, he lifted the pack. “This morning we saw a hawk over us. It flew strangely. We shot it.” Reaching into the pack, he drew out the body of the bird. Above its vicious beak, it had only one eye, a large mad orb centred in its forehead.

It struck the company with radiated malice. The hawk was ill, incondign, a thing created by wrong for purposes of wrong-bent away from its birth by a power that dared to warp nature. The sight stuck in Covenant's throat, made him want to retch. He could hardly hear Prothall say, “This is the work of the Illearth Stone. How could the Staff of Law perform such a crime, such an outrage? Ah, my friends, this is the outcome of our enemy. Look closely. It is a mercy to take such creatures out of life.” Abruptly, the High Lord turned away, burdened by his new knowledge.

Quaan and Birinair cremated the ill-formed hawk. Soon the warriors who had gone with Korik began to talk, and a fuller picture of their past four days emerged. Attention naturally centred on the fight which had killed Irin of the Eoman.

The Ranyhyn Brabha had first smelled danger, and had given the warning to Korik. At once, he had hidden his group in a thick copse to await the coming of the marauders. Listening with his ear to the ground, he had judged that they were a mixed force of unmounted ur-viles and Cavewights-Cavewights had not the ur-viles' ability to step softly totalling no more than fifteen. So Korik had asked himself which way his service lay: to preserve his companions as defenders of the Lords, or to damage the Lords' enemies. The Bloodguard were sworn to the protection of the Lords, not of the Land. He had elected to fight because he judged that his force was strong enough, considering the element of surprise, to meet both duties without loss of life.

His decision had saved them. They learned later that if they had not attacked they would have been trapped in the copse; the panic of the horses would have given away their hiding.

It was a dark night after moonset, the second night after Korik's group had left the company, and the marauders were moving without lights. Even the Bloodguard's keen eyes discerned nothing more than the shadowy outlines of the enemy. And the wind blew between the two forces, so that the Ranyhyn were prevented from smelling the extent of their peril.

When the marauders reached open ground, Korik signalled to his group; the warriors swept out of the copse behind him and Terrel. The Ranyhyn outdistanced the others at once, so Korik and Terrel had just engaged the enemy when they heard the terror screams of the horses. Wheeling around, the Bloodguard saw all six warriors struggling with their panicked steeds-and the griffin hovering over them. The griffin was a lionlike creature with sturdy wings that enabled it to fly for short distances. It terrified the horses, swooped at the riders. Korik and Terrel raced toward their comrades. And behind them came the marauders.

The Bloodguard hurled themselves at the griffin, but aloft, with its clawed feet downward, it had no vulnerable spots that they could reach without weapons. Then the marauders fell on the group. The warriors rallied to defend their horses. In the melee, Korik poised himself on Brabha's back to spring up at the grin at the first opportunity. But when his chance came, Irin cut in front of him. Somehow, she had captured a long Cavewightish broadsword. The griffin snatched her up in its claws, and as it ripped her apart she beheaded it.

The next moment, another party of marauders charged forward. The warriors' horses were too terrified to do anything but run. So Korik's group fled, dashed east and north with the enemy on their heels. By the time they lost the pursuit, they had been driven so far into Andelain that they had not been able to rejoin Prothall until the fourth day.

Early in the evening, the reunited company set up camp. While they prepared supper, a cool wind slowly mounted out of the north. At first it felt refreshing, full of Andelainian scents. But as moonrise neared, it stiffened with a palpable wrench until it was scything straight through the valley. Covenant could taste its unnaturalness; he had felt something like it before. Like a whip, it drove dark cloudbanks southward.

As the evening wore on, no one seemed inclined toward sleep. Depression deepened in the company as if the wind were taut with dismay. On opposite sides of the camp, Foamfollower and Quaan paced out their uneasiness. Most of the warriors squatted around in dejected attitudes, fiddling aimlessly with their weapons. Birinair poked in unrelieved dissatisfaction at the fire. Prothall and Mhoram stood squarely in the wind as if they were trying to read it with the nerves of their faces. And Covenant sat with his head bowed under a flurry of memories.

Only Variol and Tamarantha remained ungloomed. Arm in arm, the two ancient Lords sat and stared with a dreaming, drowsy look into the fire, and the firelight flickered like writing on their foreheads.

Around the camp, the Bloodguard stood as stolid as stone.

Finally, Mhoram voiced the feeling of the company. “Something happens-something dire. This is no natural wind.”

Under the clouds, the eastern horizon glowed red with moonlight. From time to time, Covenant thought be saw an orange flicker in the crimson, but he could not be sure. Covertly, he studied his ring, and found the same occasional orange cast under the dominating blood. But he said nothing. He was too ashamed of Drool's hold on him.

Still no storm came. The wind blew on, rife with red mutterings and old ice, but it brought nothing but clouds and discouragement to the company. At last, most of the warriors dozed fitfully, shivering against the cut of the wind as it bore its harvest of distress toward Doom's Retreat and the Southron Wastes.

There was no dawn; clouds choked the rising sun. But the company was roused by a change in the wind. It dropped and warmed, swung-slowly toward the west. But it did not feel, healthier-only more subtle. Several of the warriors rolled out of their blankets, clutching their swords.

The company ate in haste, impelled by the indefinite apprehension of the breeze. The old Hirebrand, Birinair, was the first to understand. While chewing a mouthful of bread, he suddenly jerked erect as if he had been slapped. Quivering with concentration, he glowered at the eastern horizon, then spat the bread to the ground. “Burning!” he hissed. “The wind. I smell it. Burning. What? I can smell-Burning- a tree!

“A tree!” he wailed. “Ah, they dare!”

For an instant, the company stared at him in silence. Then Mhoram ejaculated, “Soaring Woodhelven is in flames!”

His companions sprang into action. Shrilly, the Bloodguard whistled for the Ranyhyn. Prothall snapped orders which Quaan echoed in a raw shout. Some of the warriors sprinted to saddle the horses, while others broke camp. By the time Covenant was dressed and mounted on Dura, the Quest was ready to ride. At once, it galloped away eastward along the Mithil.

Before long, the horses began to give trouble. Even the freshest ones could not keep pace with the Ranyhyn, and the mustangs which had been with Korik in Andelain had not recovered their strength. The terrain did not allow for speed; it was too uneven. Prothall sent two Bloodguard ahead as scouts. But after that he was forced to move more slowly; he could not afford to leave part of his force behind. Still, he kept the pace as fast as possible. It was a frustrating ride-Covenant seemed to hear Quaan grinding his teeth-but it could not be helped. Grimly, Prothall held the fresher horses back.

By noon, they reached the ford of the Mithil. Now they could see smoke due south of them; and the smell of burning was powerful in the air. Prothall commanded a halt to water the horses. Then the riders pushed on, urging their weakest mounts to find somewhere new resources of strength and speed.

Within a few leagues, the High Lord had to slow his pace still more; the scouts had not returned. The possibility that they had been ambushed clenched his brow, and his eyes glittered as if the orbs had facets of