The One Tree

gaddhi denies your departure.”

Fired by the mad peril of her promises, Linden retorted, “He'd let us go if he dared!”

The company did not stop.

Kasreyn barked an order. The Guards levelled their spears. In a sharp hiss of metal, the soldiers drew their swords.

Stride by stride, the forces converged. The company looked as insignificant as a handful of sand thrown against the sea. Without Covenant's power, they had no chance. Unless they could do what Brinn had wanted to do earlier-unless they could get to Kasreyn and kill him.

Then the First called like a tantara, “Stone and Sea!” and Honninscrave attacked. Heaving his timber broadside against the hustin, he broke their ranks halfway to Kasreyn's position. At once, he sprang into the confusion, began felling Guards on every side with his great fists.

The First and Pitchwife went with him, passed him. Pitchwife had neither the First's grace nor the Master's strength; but his arms were as sturdy as oaks, and with his cudgel he bashed assailants away from the First's back while she slashed her way forward.

She went for Kasreyn as if she meant to reap blood right to the wellspring of his heart. She was the First; and he had manipulated and slain her comrades while she had been weaponless. Her sword flashed like lightning among the sunshafts, first iron and then red as she flailed bloodshed about her.

The spears of the Guards were awkward for such in-fighting. No soldier could reach the Giants with an ordinary sword. The three seafarers fought through the throng toward Kasreyn and were impossibly successful.

Seadreamer, carrying Ceer, herded Covenant and Linden forward. On either side, Brinn and Cail seemed to blur as they fought. Whirling and striking in all directions, they dealt out blows and swift death. For long moments of inchoate attack and precise rebuff, the company moved down the length of the forecourt.

But the task remained impossible. The questers were grievously outnumbered; and more hustin arrived constantly. Dodging the thrust of a spear, Seadreamer stumbled against Linden. She slipped in a swath of blood and fell. Warm fluid smeared her clothes, her arms. Covenant stopped moving. His empty eyes witnessed the movements around him; but he did not react to the clangour of combat, the cries of the wounded.

Scrambling to her feet, Linden looked back at Vain and Findail for help. Soldiers hacked wildly at the Elohim, but their blades passed through him without effect. Before their astonished eyes, he melted away into the floor.

Vain stood motionless, offering his aimless smile to his attackers. Spear-tips and swords shredded his raiment, but left his flesh unmarked. Blows rang against him and broke into splinters of pain for those who struck. He appeared capable of mastering all the hustin alone, if he but chose to act.

An assault rushed at Covenant, was barely beaten back. “Vain!” Linden raged. “Do something!” He had saved her life more than once. They all needed his help now.

But the Demondim-spawn remained deaf to her.

Then she saw the wide golden hoop which came shimmering through the air. Honninscrave roared a warning. Too late. The hoop settled toward Covenant's head before anyone could save him.

Desperately, Seadreamer released one arm from Ceer, tried to slap the lambent circle away. But it was formed of mist and light, and his hand passed through it, leaving no mark.

As the hoop dropped around Covenant, his knees folded.

Another was already in the air. It came from Kasreyn.

Toward Seadreamer.

Suddenly, Linden realised that the Guards and soldiers had fallen back, forming a thick cordon around the company.

In a fury of frustration, the First gave up her attack. With Pitchwife and Honninscrave, she retreated to defend her comrades.

Linden rushed to Covenant's side, swept his head into her arms, thrust her vision into him. Her stained hands smudged red into his shirt.

He was asleep. A slight frown marred his forehead like the implications of nightmare.

Seadreamer sprang away from the shimmering gold. But the hustin were ready, holding their spears to impale him if he fled. Brinn and the First charged the cordon. Spears splintered and broke; hustin fell. But there was not enough time.

Though the mute Giant struggled to evade it, the hoop encircled his head, wafted downward to cover Ceer. Seadreamer fell. The unconscious Haruchai sprawled across the floor.

Kasreyn waved his ocular, barking incantations. A third circle of gold light lifted from the metal, expanding as it floated forward. Pitchwife beat at it with his club; but his blows meant nothing to such theurgy.

With Covenant in her arms, Linden could not move. Gently, the hoop settled over her and carried her down into darkness.

Eighteen: Surrender

SHE awoke in dank dark, tugged step after step toward consciousness by the dull rhythmic repetition of a grunt of strain, a clash of metal.

Her upper arms ached like the folly of all promises.

She could see nothing. She was in a place as benighted as a sepulchre. But as her mind limped into wakefulness, her senses slowly began to function, giving names to what they perceived.

She did not want to be roused. She had failed at everything. Even her deliberate efforts to make Kasreyn unsure of himself-to aggravate the implicit distrust between the gaddhi and his Kemper-had come to ruin. It was enough. Within her lay death and peace, and she yearned for them because her life was as futile as everything she had ever striven to deny.

But the stubborn grunt and clash would not let her go. That even iteration rose from somewhere beyond her, repudiating her desire for sleep, demanding that she take it into account. Gradually, she began to listen to the messages of her nerves.

She was hanging upright: all her weight was suspended from her upper arms. Her biceps were clasped in tight iron circlets. When she found her footing, straightened her legs, the pressure of the fetters eased; and spears of renewed circulation thrust pain down her arms to her swollen hands.

The movement made her aware of her ankles. They, too. were locked in iron. But those bonds were attached to chains and could be shifted slightly,

The fetters held her against a wall of stone. She was in a lightless rectangular chamber. Finished rock surrounded her, then faded into an immense impending weight. She was underground somewhere beneath the Sandhold. The walls and the air were chill. She had never expected anything in Bhrathairealm to be so chill.

The faint sick smell of dead blood touched her nostrils-the blood of hustin and soldiers, soaked into her clothes.

The sounds went on: grunt of effort, clash of resistance.

Within the dark, another darkness stood before her. The nerves of her cheeks recognized Vain. The Demondim-spawn was perhaps ten feet from her. He was harder than any granite, more rigid than any annealed metal. The purpose he obeyed seemed more sure of itself than the very bones of the Earth. But he had proven himself inaccessible to appeal. If she cried out, the walls would be more likely to answer her than he.

After all, he was no more to be trusted than Findail, who had fled rather than give the company aid.

The sounds of effort went on, articulating themselves across the blackness. Every exertion produced a dull ringing like the noise of a chain leaping taut.

With an inchoate throb of ire or anguish, Linden turned away from Vain and identified Honninscrave.