The Wounded Land

Suddenly, Covenant's eyes were full of tears. They blinded him; he could not blink away visions of Saltheart Foamfollower-Foamfollower, whose laughter and pure heart had done more to defeat Lord Foul and heal the Land than any other power, despite the fact that his people had been butchered to the last child by a Giant-Raver wielding a fragment of the Illearth Stone, thus fulfilling the unconscious prophecy of their home in Seareach, which they had named Coercri, The Grieve.

All killed, all the Unhomed. They sprang from a sea-faring race, and in their wandering they had lost their way back to their people. Therefore they had made a new place for themselves in Seareach where they had lived for centuries, until three of their proud sons had been made into Giant-Ravers, servants of the Despiser. Then they had let themselves be slain, rather than perpetuate a people who could become the thing they hated.

Covenant wept for them, for the loss of so much love and fealty. He wept for Foamfollower, whose death had been gallant beyond any hope of emulation. He wept because the Giant standing before him now could not be one of the Unhomed, not one of the people he had learned to treasure.

And because, in spite of everything, there were still Giants in the world.

He did not know that he had cried aloud until Hollian touched him. “Ur-Lord. What pains you?”

“Giant!” he cried. “Don't you know me?” Stumbling, he went past Linden to the towering figure. “I'm Thomas Covenant.”

“Thomas Covenant.” The Giant spoke like the murmuring of a mountain. With gentle courtesy, as if he were moved by the sight of Covenant's tears, he bowed. “The giving of your name honours me. I take you as a friend, though it is strange to meet friends in this fell place. I am Grimmand Honninscrave.” His eyes searched Covenant. “But I am disturbed at your knowledge. It appears that you have known Giants, Giants who did not return to give their tale to their people.”

“No,” Covenant groaned, fighting his tears. Did not return? Could not. They lost their way, and were butchered. “I've got so much to tell you.”

“At another time,” rumbled Honninscrave, “I would welcome a long tale, be it however grievous. The Search has been scarce of story. But peril gathers about us. Surely you have beheld the skest? By mischance, we have placed our necks in a garrotte. The time is one for battle or cunning rather than tales.”

“Skest?” Sunder asked stiffly over the pain of his ribs. “Do you speak of the acid- creatures, which are like children of burning emerald?”

“Grimmand Honninscrave.” Brinn spoke as if Sunder were not present. “The tale of which the ur-Lord speaks is known among us also. I am Brinn of the Haruchai. Of my people, here also are Cail, Stell, Harn, Ceer, and Hergrom. I give you our names in the name of a proud memory.” He met Honninscrave's gaze. “Giant,” he concluded softly, “you are not alone.”

Covenant ignored both Brinn and Sunder. Involuntarily, only half conscious of what he was doing, he reached up to touch the Giant's hand, verify that Honninscrave was not a figment of silvershine and grief. But his hands were numb, dead forever. He had to clench himself to choke down his sorrow.

The Giant gazed at him sympathetically. “Surely,” he breathed, “the tale you desire to tell is one of great rue. I will hear it-when the time allows.” Abruptly, he turned away. 'Brinn of the Haruchai, your name and the names of your people honour me. Proper and formal sharing of names and tales is a joy for which we also lack time. In truth, I am not alone.

“Come!” he cried over his shoulder.

At his word, three more Giants detached themselves from the darkness of the trees and came striding forward.

The first to reach his side was a woman. She was starkly beautiful, with hair like fine-spun iron, and stern purpose on her visage. Though she was slimmer than he, and slightly shorter, she was fully caparisoned as a warrior. She wore a corselet and leggings of mail, with greaves on her arms; a helm hung from her belt, a round iron shield from her shoulders. In a scabbard at her side, she bore a broadsword nearly as tall as Covenant.

Honninscrave greeted her deferentially. He told her the names which the company had given him, then said to them, “She is the First of the Search. It is she whom I serve.”

The next Giant had no beard. An old scar like a sword cut lay under both his eyes across the bridge of his nose. But in countenance and apparel he resembled Honninscrave closely. His name was Cable Seadreamer. Like Honninscrave, he was unarmed and carried a large load of supplies.

The fourth figure stood no more than an arm's reach taller than Covenant. He looked like a cripple. In the middle of his back, his torso folded forward on itself, as if his spine had crumbled, leaving him incapable of upright posture. His limbs were grotesquely muscled, like tree boughs being choked by heavy vines. And his mien, too, was grotesque-eyes and nose misshapen, mouth crookedly placed. The short hair atop his beardless head stood erect as if in shock. But he was grinning, and his gaze seemed quaintly gay and gentle; his ugliness formed a face of immense good cheer.

Honninscrave spoke the deformed Giant's name: “Pitchwife.”

Pitchwife? Covenant's old empathy for the destitute and the crippled made him wonder, Doesn't he even rate two names?

“Pitchwife, in good sooth,” the short Giant replied as if he could read Covenant's heart. His chuckle sounded like the running of a clear spring. “Other names have I been offered in plenty, but none pleased me half so well.” His eyes sparkled with secret mirth. “Think on it, and you will comprehend.”

“We comprehend.” The First of the Search spoke like annealed iron. “Our need now is for flight or defence.”

Covenant brimmed with questions. He wanted to know where these Giants had come from, why they were here. But the First's tone brought him back to his peril. In the distance, he caught glimpses of green, a line forming like a noose,

“Flight is doubtful,” Brinn said dispassionately. “The creatures of this pursuit are a great many.”

“The skest, yes,” rumbled Honninscrave. “They seek to herd us like cattle.”

“Then,” the First said, “we must prepare to make defence.”

“Wait a minute.” Covenant grasped at his reeling thoughts. “These skest. You know them. What do you know about them?”

Honninscrave glanced at the First, then shrugged. “Knowledge is a tenuous matter. We know nothing of this place or of its life. We have heard the speech of these beings. They name themselves skest. It is their purpose to gather sacrifices for another being, which they worship. This being they do not name.”

“To us”- Brinn's tone hinted at repugnance — “it is known as the lurker of the Sarangrave.”

“It is the Sarangrave.” Linden sounded raw, over-wrought. Days of intimate vulnerability had left her febrile and defenceless. “This whole place is alive somehow.”

“But how do you even know that much?” Covenant demanded of Honninscrave. “How can you understand their language?”

“That also,” the Giant responded, “is not knowledge. We possess a gift of tongues, for which we bargained most acutely with the Elohim. But what we have heard offers us no present aid.”

Elohim. Covenant recognized that name. He had first heard it from Foamfollower. But such memories only exacerbated his sense of danger. He had hoped that Honninscrave's knowledge would provide an escape; but that hope had failed. With a wrench, he pulled himself into focus.

“Defence isn't going to do you any good either.” He tried to put force into his gaze. “You've got to escape.” Foamfollower died because of me. “If you break through the lines, they'll ignore you. I'm the one they want.” His hands made urging gestures he could not restrain. “Take my friends with you.”

“Covenant!” Linden protested, as if he had announced an intention to commit suicide.

“It appears,” Pitchwife chuckled, “that Thomas Covenant's knowledge of Giants is not so great as he believes.”

Brinn did not move; his voice held no inflection. “The ur-Lord knows that his life is in the care of the Haruchai. We will not leave him. The Giants of old also would not depart a companion in peril. But there is no bond upon you. It would sadden us to see harm come upon you. You must flee.”

“Yes!” Covenant insisted.

Frowning, Honninscrave asked Brinn, “Why does the ur-Lord believe that the skest gather against him?”