Lord Foul's Bane

back was to the Lords; he stared into the bleak, blood-hued writhing of the river. His huge form was dark against the vermilion sky.

When the Lords came near him, he said as if he were speaking back to them from the Gorge, “I remain here. My watch. I will guard you. Drool's army will not trap you in Mount Thunder while I live.” A moment later, he added as if he had recognized the bottom of himself, “From here I will not smell the Wightwarrens.” But his next words carried an echo of old Giantish humour. “The catacombs were not made to accommodate creatures the size of Giants.”

“You choose well,” murmured Prothall. “We need your protection. But do not remain here after the full moon. If we do not return by that time, we are lost, and you must go to warn your people.”

Foamfollower answered as if in reply to some other voice. “Remember the Oath of Peace. In the maze where you go, it is your lifeline. It preserves you against Soulcrusher's purposes, hidden and savage. Remember the Oath. It may be that hope misleads. But hate-hate corrupts. I have been too quick to hate. I become like what I abhor.”

“Have some respect for the truth,” Mhoram snapped. The sudden harshness of his tone startled Covenant. “You are Saltheart Foamfollower of the Seareach Giants, Rockbrother to the men of the Land. That name cannot be taken from you.”

But Covenant had heard no self-pity in the Giant's words-only recognition and sorrow. Foamfollower did not speak again. He stood as still as the walls against which he braced himself-stood like a statue carved to occupy the Look.

The Lords spent no more time with him. Already the night was waning, and they wanted to enter the mountain before daylight.

The Questers took positions. Prothall, Birinair, and two Bloodguard followed First Mark Tuvor. Then came Mhoram, Lithe, Bannor, Covenant, and Korik. Then came Warhaft Quaan, his fourteen warriors, and the last four Bloodguard.

They were only twenty-nine against all of Drool Rockworm's unknown might.

They strung a line of clingor from Tuvor to the last Bloodguard. In single file, they started down the slick stair into Treacher's Gorge.

Twenty Two: The Catacombs of Mount Thunder

DROOL'S moon embittered the night like a consummation of gall. Under it, the river thrashed and roared in Treacher's Gorge as if it were being crushed. Spray and slick-wet moss made the stair down from the Look as treacherous as a quagmire.

Covenant bristled with trepidations. At first, when his turn to begin the descent had come, his dread had paralyzed him. But when Bannor had offered to carry him, he had found the pride to make himself move. In addition to the clingor line, Bannor and Korik held his staff like a railing for him. He went tortuously down into the Gorge as if he were striving to lock his feet on the stone of each step.

The stair dropped irregularly from the cliff into the wall of the Gorge. Soon the company was creeping into the loud chasm, led only by the light of Birinair's torch. The crimson froth of the river seemed to leap up at them like a hungry plague as they neared the roadway. Each step was slicker than the one before. Behind him, Covenant heard a gasp as one of the warriors slipped. The low cry carried terror like the quarrel of a crossbow. But the Bloodguard anchoring the line were secure; the warrior quickly regained his footing.

The descent dragged on. Covenant's ankles began to ache with the increasing uncertainty of his feet. He tried to think his soles into the rock, make them part of the stone through sheer concentration. And he gripped his staff until his palms were so slick with sweat that the wood seemed to be pulling away from him. His knees started to quiver.

But Bannor and Korik upheld him. The distance to the roadway shrank. After several long, bad moments, the threat of panic receded.

Then he reached the comparative safety of the ledge. He stood in the midst of the company between the Gorge wall and the channel of the river. Above them, the slash of sky had begun to turn grey, but that lightening only emphasized the darkness of the Gorge. Birinair's lone torch flickered as if it were lost in a wilderland.

The Questers had to yell to make themselves understood over the tumult of the current. Briskly, Quaan gave marching orders to his Eoman. The warriors checked over their weapons. With a few gestures and a slight nod or two, Tuvor made his last arrangements with the Bloodguard. Covenant gripped his staff, and assured himself of his Stonedownor knife-Atiaran's knife. He had a vague impression that he had forgotten something. But before he could try to think what it was, he was distracted by shouts.

Old Birinair was yelling at High Lord Prothall. For once, the Hearthrall seemed careless of his gruff dignity. Against the roar of the river, he thrust his seamed and quivering face at Prothall, and barked, “You cannot! The risk!”

Prothall shook his head negatively.

“You cannot lead! Allow me!”

Again, Prothall silently refused.

“Of course!” shouted Birinair, struggling to make his determination carry over the howl of water. “You must not! I can! I know the ways! Of course. Are you alone old enough to study? I know the old maps. No fool, you know-if I look old, and”- he faltered momentarily- “and useless. You must allow me!”

Prothall strove to shout without sounding angry. “Time is short! We must not delay. Birinair, old friend, I cannot put the first risk of this Quest onto another. It is my place.”

“Fool!” spat Birinair, daring any insolence to gain his point. “How will you see?”

“See?”

“Of course!” The Hearthrall quivered with sarcasm.

“You will go before! Risk all! Light the way with Lords-fire! Fool! Drool will see you before you reach Warrenbridge!”

Prothall at last understood. “Ah, that is true.” He sagged as if the realization hurt him. “Your light is quieter than mine. Drool will surely sense our coming if I make use of my staff.” Abruptly, he turned to one side, angry now. “Tuvor!” he commanded. “Hearthrall Birinair leads! He will light our way in my place. Ward him well, Tuvor! Do not let this old friend suffer my perils.”

Birinair drew himself up; rediscovering dignity in his responsibility. He extinguished the rod he carried, and gave it to a warrior to pack away with the rest of his brands. Then he stroked the end of his staff, and a flame sprang up there. With a brusque beckon, he raised his fire and started stiffly down the roadway toward the maw of Mount Thunder.

At once, Terrel and Korik passed the Hirebrand and took scouting positions twenty feet ahead of him. Two other Bloodguard placed themselves just behind him; and after them went Prothall and Mhoram together, then two more Bloodguard followed singly by Manethrall Lithe, Covenant, and Bannor. Next marched Quaan with his Eoman in files of three, leaving the last two Bloodguard to bring up the rear. In that formation, the company moved toward the entrance to the catacombs.

Covenant looked upward briefly to try to catch a last glimpse of Foamfollower in the Look. But he did not see the Giant; the Gorge was too full of darkness. And the roadway demanded his attention. He went into the rock under Foamfollower without any wave or sign of farewell.

Thus the company strode away from daylight-from sun and sky and open air and grass and possibility of retreat-and took their Quest into the gullet of Mount Thunder.

Covenant went into that demesne of night as if into a nightmare. He was.not braced for the entrance to the catacombs. He had approached it without fear; the relief of having survived the descent from the Look had rendered him temporarily immune to panic. He had not said farewell to Foamfollower; he had forgotten something; but these pangs were diffused by a sense of anticipation, a sense that his bargain would bring him out of the dream with his