The Wounded Land

him alive.

The hands drew him upward.

He broke the surface and exploded into gasping. The arms upheld him while he sobbed for air. Time blurred as he was pounded in and out of consciousness by his intransigent heart.

In the distance, a voice-Hollian's? — called out fearfully, “Brinn? Brinn?”

Brinn answered behind Covenant's head. “The ur-Lord lives.”

Another voice said, “Praise to the Haruchai” It sounded like the First of the Search. “Surely that name was one of great honour among the Giants your people have known.”

Then Covenant heard Linden say as if she were speaking from the bottom of a well of pain, “That's why the water looked so deadly.” She spoke in ragged bursts through her teeth, fighting to master her hurt with words. “The lurker was there. Now it's gone.” In the silence behind her voice, she was screaming.

Gone. Slowly, the burn of air starvation cleared from Covenant's mind. The lurker was gone, withdrawn though certainly not dead; no, that was impossible; he could not have slain a creature as vast as the Sarangrave. The lake was lightless. The fires started by the spilling of skest acid had gone out for lack of fuel. Night covered the Flat. But somehow he had retained his grip on the krill. Its shining enabled him to see.

Beyond question, the lurker was still alive. When Brinn swam him to the shore and helped him out onto dry ground, he found that the atmosphere was too thick for comfort. Far away, he heard the creature keening over its pain; faint sobs seemed to bubble in the air like the self-pity of demons.

On either hand, skest gleamed dimly. They had retreated; but they had not abandoned the lurker's prey.

He had only injured the creature. Now it would not be satisfied with mere food. Now it would want retribution.

A torch was lit. In the unexpected flame, he saw Hergrom and Ceer standing near Honninscrave with loads of wood which they had apparently foraged from the trees along the hill crest. Honninscrave held a large stone firepot, from which Ceer lit torches, one after another. As Hergrom passed brands to the other Haruchai, light slowly spread over the company.

Dazedly, Covenant looked at the krill.

Its gem shone purely, as if it were inviolable. But its light brought back to him the burst of fury with which he had first awakened the blade, when Elena was High Lord. Whatever else Loric had made the krill to be, Covenant had made it a thing of savagery and fire. Its cleanliness hurt his eyes.

In silent consideration, Brinn reached out with the cloth Covenant had discarded. He took the krill and wrapped its heat into a neat bundle, as if thereby he could make the truth bearable for Covenant. But Covenant went on staring at his hands.

They were unharmed; free even of heat-damage. He had been protected by his own power; even his flesh had become so accustomed to wild magic that he guarded himself instinctively, without expense to any part of himself except his soul. And if that were true-He groaned.

If that were true, then he was already damned.

For what did damnation mean, if it did not mean freedom from the mortal price of power? Was that not what made Lord Foul what he was? The damned purchased might with their souls; the innocent paid for it with their lives. Therein lay Sunder's true innocence, though he had slain his own wife and son-and Covenant's true guilt. Even in Foul's Creche, he had avoided paying the whole price. At that time, only his restraint had saved him, his refusal to attempt Lord Foul's total extirpation. Without restraint, he would have been another Kevin Landwaster.

But where was his restraint now? His hands were undamaged. Numb with leprosy, blunt and awkward, incapable, yes; yet they had held power without scathe.

And Brinn offered the bundle of the krill to him as if it were his future and his doom.

He accepted it. What else could he do? He was a leper; he could not deny who he was. Why else had he been chosen to carry the burden of the Land's need? He took the bundle and tucked it back under his belt, as if in that way he could at least spare his friends from sharing his damnation. Then, with an effort like an acknowledgment of fatality, he forced himself to look at the company.

In spite of his bruises, Honninscrave appeared essentially whole. Seadreamer was able to stand on his acid- burned foot; and Pitchwife moved as if his own fire walk were already forgotten. They reminded Covenant of the caamora, the ancient Giantish ritual fire of grief. He remembered Foamfollower burying his bloody hands among the coals of a bonfire to castigate and cleanse them. Foamfollower had been horrified by the lust with which he had slaughtered Cavewights and he had treated his dismay with fire. The flames had hurt him, but not damaged him; when he had withdrawn his hands, they had been hale and clean.

Clean, Covenant murmured. He ached for the purification of fire. But he compelled his eyes to focus beyond the Giants.

Gazing directly at Brinn, he almost cried out. Both Brinn and Hergrom had been scorched by the lash of wild magic; eyebrows and hair were singed, apparel darkened in patches. He had come so close to doing them real harm-Like Honninscrave, Cail and Ceer were battered but intact. They held torches over Linden.

She lay on the ground with her head in Hollian's lap. Sunder knelt beside her, holding her leg still. His knuckles were white with strain; and he glowered as if he feared that he would have to sacrifice her for her blood.

The First stood nearby with her arms folded over her mail like an angry monolith, glaring at the distant skest.

Linden had not stopped talking: the pieces of her voice formed a ragged counterpoint to the moaning of the lurker. She kept insisting that the water was safe now, the lurker had withdrawn, it could be anywhere, it was the Sarangrave, but it was primarily a creature of water, the greatest danger came from water. She kept talking so that she would not sob.

Her left foot rested at an impossible angle. Bone splinters pierced the skin of her ankle, and blood oozed from the wounds in spite of the pressure of Sunder's grip.

Covenant's guts turned at the sight. Without conscious transition, he was kneeling at her side. His kneecaps hurt as if he had fallen. Her hands closed and unclosed at her sides, urgent to find something that would enable her to bear the pain.

Abruptly, the First left her study of the skest. “Giantfriend,” she said, “her hurt is sore. We have diamondraught. For one who is not of Giantish stature, it will bring swift surcease.” Covenant did not lift his eyes from Linden's embattled visage. He was familiar with diamondraught; it was a liquor fit for Giants. “Also, it is greatly healing,” the First continued, “distilled for our restitution.” Covenant heard glints of compassion along her iron tone. “But no healing known to us will repair the harm. Her bones will knit as they now lie. She-”

She will be crippled.

No. Anger mounted in him, resentment of his helplessness, rage for her pain. The exhaustion of his spirit became irrelevant. “Linden.” He hunched forward to make her meet his gaze. Her eyes were disfocused. “We've got to do something about your ankle.” Her fingers dug into the ground. “You're the doctor. Tell me what to do.” Her countenance looked like a mask, waxen and aggrieved. “Linden”

Her lips were as white as bone. Her muscles strained against Sunder's weight. Surely she could not bear any more.

But she breathed hoarsely, “Immobilize the leg.” Wails rose in her throat; she forced them down. “Above the knee.”

At once, Sunder shifted to obey. But the First gestured him aside. “The strength of a Giant is needed.” She wrapped Linden's leg in her huge hands, holding it like a vice of stone.

“Don't let me move.”

The company answered her commands. Her pain was irrefusable. Ceer grasped her shoulders. Harn anchored one of her arms; Sunder pinned the other. Brinn leaned along her uninjured leg.

“Give me something to bite.”

Hollian tore a strip from the fringe of her robe, folded it several times, and offered it to Linden's mouth.