Lord Foul's Bane

DESPITE the battleground-despite the acrid smoke of flame and flesh and power-despite the nearby trenches, where the dead were graved like lumps of charred agony, piled wearily into the earth like accumulated pain for which only the ground could now find use or surcease-despite his own inner torn and trampled ground- Covenant slept. For what was left of the night, the other survivors of the battle laboured to bury or burn the various dead, but Covenant slept. Restless unconsciousness arose from within him like a perpetually enumerated VSE, and he spent his repose telling in dreams that rigid round: left arm shoulder to wrist, left hand palm and back, each finger, right arm, shirt, chest, left leg.

He awoke to meet a dawn which wore the aspect of an uncomfortable tomb. Shuddering himself to his feet, he found that all the work of burying was done; each of the trenches was filled, covered with dirt, and planted with a sapling which Birinair had found somewhere. Now most of the warriors lay awkwardly on the ground, in fatigue searching themselves for some kind of strength. But Prothall and Mhoram were busy cooking a meal, and the Bloodguard were examining and readying the horses.

A spate of disgust crossed Covenant's face-disgust that he had not done his share of the work. He looked at his robe; the samite was stiff and black with encrusted blood. Fit apparel for a leper, he thought, an outcast.

He knew that it was past time for him to make a decision. He had to determine where he stood in his impossible dilemma. Propped on his staff in the sepulchral dawn, he felt that he had reached the end of his evasions. He had lost track of his self-protective habits, lost the choice of hiding his ring, lost even his tough boots- and he had shed blood. He had brought down doom on Soaring Woodhelven. He had been so preoccupied with his flight from madness that he had not faced the madness toward which his fleeing took him.

He had to keep moving; he had learned that. But going on posed the same impenetrable problem. Participate, and go mad. Or refuse to participate, and go mad. He had to make a decision, — find bedrock somewhere and cling to it. He could not accept the Land-and could not deny it. He needed an answer. Without it, he would be trapped like Llaura-forced to the tune of Foul's glee to lose himself in order to avoid losing himself.

Then Mhoram looked up from his stirring and saw the disgust and dismay on Covenant's face. Gently, the Lord said, “What troubles you, my friend?”

For a moment, Covenant stared at Mhoram. The Lord looked as if he had become old overnight. The smoke and dirt of battle marked his face, accentuating the lines on his forehead and around his eyes like a sudden aggravation of wear and decay. His eyes seemed dulled by fatigue. But his lips retained their kindness, and his movements, though draped in such a rent and bloodied robe, were steady.

Covenant flinched instinctively away from the tone in which Mhoram said, my friend. He could not afford to be anyone's friend. And he flinched away, too, from his impulse to ask what had caused Tamarantha's staff to become so violent in his hands. He feared the answer to that question. To cover his wincing, he turned roughly away, and went in search of Foamfollower.

The Giant was sitting with his back to the last standing, extinguished fragment of Soaring Woodhelven. Grime and blood darkened his face; his skin had the colour of a flaw in the heart of a tree. But the wound on his forehead dominated his appearance. Ripped flesh hung over his brows like a foliage of pain, and through the wound; drops of new blood seeped as if red thoughts were making their way from a crack in his skull. He had his right arm wrapped around his great jug of diamondraught, and his eyes followed Llaura as she tended little Pietten.

Covenant approached the Giant; but before he could speak, Foamfollower said, “Have you considered them? Do you know what has been done to them?”

The question raised black echoes in Covenant's mind. “I know about her.”

“And Pietten? Tiny Pietten? A child?”

Covenant shrugged awkwardly.

“Think, Unbeliever!” His voice was full, of swirling mists. “I am lost. You can understand.”

With an effort, Covenant replied, “The same thing. Just exactly what's been done to us. And to Llaura.” A moment later he added mordantly, “And to the Cavewights.” Foamfollower's eyes shied, and Covenant went on, “We're all going to destroy-whatever we want to preserve. The essence of Foul's method. Pietten is a present to us-an example of what we're going to do to the Land when we try to save it. Foul is that confident. And prophecies like that are self fulfilling.”

At this, Foamfollower stared at Covenant as if the Unbeliever had just laid a curse on him. Covenant tried to hold the Giant's eyes, but an unexpected shame made him drop his head. He looked at the power scorched grass. The burning of the grass was curious. Some patches did not look as wrong as others-apparently Lords-fire did less essential damage than the might of the ur-viles.

After a moment, Foamfollower said, “You forget that there is a difference between a prophet and a seer. Seeing the future is not prophecy.”

Covenant did not want to think about it. To get away from the subject, he demanded, “Why didn't you get some of that hurtloam for your forehead?”

This time, Foamfollower's eyes turned away. Distantly, he said, “There was none left.” His hands opened and closed in a gesture of helplessness. “Others were dying. And others needed the hurtloam to save their arms or legs. And-” His voice stumbled momentarily. “And I thought tiny Pietten might be helped. He is only a child,” he insisted, looking up suddenly with an appeal that Covenant could not understand. “But one of the Cavewights was dying slowly-in such pain.” A new trickle of blood broke open in his forehead and began to drip from his brow. “Stone and Sea!” he moaned. “I could not endure it. Hearthrall Birinair kept aside a touch of hurtloam for me, from all the wounds to be treated. But I gave it to the Cavewight. Not to Pietten-to the Cavewight. Because of the pain.”

Abruptly, he put back his head and took a long pull of diamondraught. With the heel of his palm he wiped roughly at the blood on his brows.

Covenant gazed intently at the Giant's wracked visage. Because he could find no other words for his sympathy, he asked, “How're your hands?”

“My hands?” Foamfollower seemed momentarily confused, but then he remembered. “Ah, the caamora. My friend, I am a Giant,” he explained. “No ordinary fire can harm me. But the pain-the pain teaches many things.” A flinch of self disgust crossed his lips. “It is said that the Giants are made of granite,” he mumbled. “Do not be concerned for me.”

On an impulse, Covenant responded, “In parts of the world where I come from, there are little old ladies who sit by the side of the road pounding away all day on hunks of granite with little iron hammers. It takes a long time- but eventually they turn big pieces into little pieces.”

Foamfollower considered briefly before asking, “Is that prophecy, ur-Lord Covenant?”

“Don't ask me. I wouldn't know a prophecy if it fell on me.”

“Nor would I,” said Foamfollower. A dim smile tinged his mouth.

Shortly, Lord Mhoram called the company to the meal he and Prothall had prepared. Through a haze of suppressed groans, the warriors pried themselves to their feet and moved toward the fire. Foamfollower lurched upright. He and Covenant followed Llaura and Pietten to get something to eat.

The sight and smell of food suddenly brought Covenant's need for decision to a head. He was empty, hollow with hunger, but when he reached out to take some bread, he saw how his arm was befouled with blood and ashes. He had killed-The bread dropped from his fingers. This is all wrong, he murmured. Eating was a form of acquiescence-a submission to the physical actuality of the Land. He could not afford it.

I've got to think.

The emptiness in him ached with demands, but he refused them. He took a drink of springwine to clear his throat, then turned away from the fire with a gesture of rejection. The Lords and Foamfollower looked after him inquiringly, but made no comment.

He needed to put himself to the test, discover an answer that would restore his ability to survive. With a grimace, he resolved to go hungry until he found what he required. Perhaps in hunger he would become lucid enough to solve the fundamental contradiction of his dilemma.

All the abandoned weapons had been cleared from the glade, gathered into a pile. He went to it and searched until he found Atiaran's stone knife. Then, on an obscure impulse, he walked over to the horses to see if Dura had been injured. When he learned that she was unscathed, he felt a vague relief. He did not want under any circumstances to be forced to ride a Ranyhyn.

A short time later, the warriors finished their meal. Wearily, they moved to take up the Quest again.