granite. He held the riders to a walk while he sent two more Bloodguard ahead.
These two returned before the company had covered a league. They reported that Soaring Woodhelven was dead. The area around it was deserted; signs indicated that the first two scouts had ridden away to the south.
Muttering, “
The destruction was a fiendish piece of work. Fire had reduced the original tree to smouldering spars less than a hundred feet tall, and the charred trunk had been split from top to bottom, leaving the two halves leaning slightly away from each other. Occasional flames still flickered near their tips. And all around the base of the tree, corpses littered the ground as if the earth were already too full of dead to contain the population of the village. Other Woodhelvennin bodies, unburned, were scattered generally in a line to the south across the glade.
Along this southward line, a few dead Cavewights sprawled in battle contortion. But near the tree there was only one body which was not human-one dead ur-vile. It lay on its long back on the south of the tree, facing the split trunk; and its soot-black frame was as twisted as the iron stave still clutched in its hands. Nearby lay a heavy iron plate nearly ten feet across.
The stench of dead, burned flesh appalled the surrounding glade. A memory of Woodhelvennin children writhed in Covenant's guts. He felt like vomiting.
The Lords seemed stupefied by the sight, stunned to realize that people under their care could be so murdered. After a moment, First Mark Tuvor reconstructed the battle for them.
The folk of Soaring Woodhelven had not had a chance.
Late the previous day, Tuvor judged, a large party of Cavewights and ur-viler- the trampling of the glade attested that the party was very large-had surrounded the tree. They had kept out of effective arrow range. Instead of assaulting the Woodhelvennin directly, they sent a few of their number-almost certainly ur-viles forward under cover of the iron plate. Thus protected, the ur-viles set flame to the tree.
“A poor fire,” Birinair inserted. Approaching the tree, he tapped it with his staff. A patch of charcoal fell away, showing white wood underneath. “Strong fire consumes everything,” he muttered. “Almost, they survived. This is good wood. Make the flame a little weaker-and the wood survives. Those who dared-only strong enough by a little. Numbers are nothing. Strength counts. Of course. A narrow chance. Or if the Hirebrand had known. Been ready. He could have prepared the tree-given it strength. They could have lived. Ah! I should have been here. They would not do this to wood in my care.”
Once the fire began, Tuvor explained, the attackers simply shot arrows to prevent the flames from being put out-and waited for the desperate Woodhelvennin to attempt escape. Hence the line of unburned bodies running southward; that was the direction taken by the sortie. Then, when the fire was too great for the Woodhelvennin to resist further, the ur-vile loremaster split the tree to destroy it utterly, and to shake any survivors from its limbs.
Again Birinair spoke. “He learned. Retribution. The fool-not master of his own power. The tree struck him down. Good wood. Even burning, it was not dead. The Hirebrand-a brave man. Struck back. And-and before the Desecration the
Covenant did not question Tuvor's analysis; he felt too sickened by the blood-thick reek around him. But Foamfollower did not seem affected in that way. Dully, he asserted, “This is not Drool's doing. No Cavewight is the master of such strategy. Winds and clouds to disguise the signs of attack, should any help be near. Iron protection carried here from who knows what distance. An attack with so little waste of resource. No, the hand of Soulcrusher is here from first to last. Stone and Sea!” Without warning, his voice caught, and he turned away, groaning his Giantish plainsong to steady himself.
Into the silence, Quaan asked, “But why here?” There was an edge like panic in his voice. “Why attack this place?”
Something in Quaan's tone, some hint of hysteria among brave but inexperienced, appalled young warriors, called Prothall back from the wilderland where his thoughts wandered. Responding to Quaan's emotion rather than to his question, the High Lord said sternly, “Warhaft Quaan, there is much work to be done. The horses will rest, but we must work. Burial must be dug for the dead. After their last ordeal, it would be unfitting to set them to the pyre. Put your Eoman to the task. Dig graves in the south glade-there.” He indicated a spread of grass about a hundred feet from the riven tree.
“We-” he referred to his fellow Lords. “We will carry the dead to their graves.”
Foamfollower interrupted his plainsong. “No. I will carry. Let me show my respect.”
“Very well,” Prothall replied. “We will prepare food and consider our situation.” With a nod, he sent Quaan to give orders to the Eoman. Then, turning to Tuvor, he asked that sentries be posted. Tuvor observed that eight Bloodguard were not enough to watch every possible approach to an open area as large as the glade, but if he sent the Ranyhyn roaming separately around the bordering hills, he might not need to call on the Eoman for assistance. After a momentary pause, the First Mark asked what should be done about the missing scouts.
“We will wait,” Prothall responded heavily.
Tuvor nodded, and moved away to communicate with the Ranyhyn. They stood in a group nearby, looking with hot eyes at the burned bodies around the tree. When Tuvor joined them, they clustered about him as if eager to do whatever he asked, and a moment later they charged out of the glade, scattering in all directions.
The Lords dismounted, unpacked the sacks of food, and set about preparing a meal on a small
Taking great care not to step on any of the dead, Foamfollower moved toward the tree, reached the iron plate. It was immensely heavy, but he lifted it and carried it beyond the ring of bodies. There he began gently placing corpses on the plate, using it as a sled to move the bodies to their graves. Knots of emotion jumped and bunched across his buttressed forehead, and his eyes flared with a dangerous enthusiasm.
For a while, Covenant was the only member of the company without an assigned task. The fact disturbed him. The stench of the dead-Baradakas included somewhere among them, he thought achingly, Baradakas and Llaura and children, children! — made him remember Soaring Woodhelven as he had left it days ago: tall and proud, lush with the life of a fair people.
He needed something to do to defend himself.
As he scanned the company, he noticed that the warriors lacked digging tools. They had brought few picks and shovels with them; most of them were trying to dig with their hands or their swords. He walked over to the tree. Scattered around the trunk were many burned branches, some of them still solid in the core. Though he had to pick his way among the dead-though the close sight of all that flesh smeared like mouldering wax over charred bones hurt his guts-he gathered branches that he could not break across his knee. These he carried away from the tree, then used his Stonedownor knife to scrape them clean and cut them into stakes. The work blackened his hands, his white robe, and the knife twisted awkwardly in his half-fingered grip, but he persisted.
The stakes he gave to the warriors, and with them they were able to dig faster. Instead of individual graves, they dug trenches, each deep and long enough to hold a dozen or more of the dead. Using Covenant's stakes, the warriors began to finish their graves faster than Foamfollower could fill them.
Late in the afternoon, Prothall called the company to eat. By that time, nearly half the bodies had been buried. No one felt like consuming food with their lungs full of acrid air and their eyes sore of tormented flesh, but the High Lord insisted. Covenant found this strange until he tasted the food. The Lords had prepared a stew unlike anything he had eaten in the Land. Its savour quickened his hunger, and when he swallowed it, it soothed his distress. It was the first meal he had had since the previous day, and he surprised himself by eating ravenously.
Most of the warriors were done eating, and the sun was about to set, when their attention was snatched erect by a distant hail. The southmost sentry answered, and a moment later the two missing Bloodguard came galloping into the glade. Their Ranyhyn were soaked with sweat.
They brought two people with them: a woman, and a boy-child the size of a four-year-old, both Woodhelvennin, both marked as if they had survived a battle.
The tale of the scouts was quickly told. They had reached the deserted glade, and had found the southward trail of the Woodhelvennin's attempted escape. And they had seen some evidence that all the people might not
