The Runes of the Earth

Chapter Six: The Staff of Law

Convulsed with relief, Linden slumped from Hyn’s back, stumbled to her hands and knees, then sprawled face-down on the stiff grass as though she sought to embrace the Earth. At that moment, the ordinary solidity of the ground seemed infinitely precious; as healing as hurtloam.

She heard retching nearby. Without looking, she knew that Liand and both Cords had also collapsed from their mounts. She sensed them distinctly, in spite of the aftershocks, the residual excruciation, of the caesure. Sick with distress, Liand and one of the Cords-Bhapa- spewed bile and anguish onto the hardy grass.

The grass was tough because it needed to be. The soil in which it grew was thinly layered over old shale. It received comparatively little rain, and that moisture was soon leached away. Nevertheless its sharp-edged blades grew thickly enough to soften the ground. When Linden breathed, she did not inhale dust, but rather the clenched dampness of roots and the prolonged heat of late summer.

She had been so cold-Now the warmth of the day was bliss, soothing her abraded senses.

Mahrtiir was in no better condition than the other Ramen, but he did not vomit. Instead he lowered himself carefully from the back of his mount and walked away from his companions, tottering as breakably as an old man. His stiffness told Linden that he was ashamed of his weakness and wanted to distance himself while he recovered.

Stave also dismounted, although he displayed none of the battered nausea which afflicted Liand and the Ramen. Rather he seemed essentially whole; proof against pain and distortion. Only his involuntary limp showed that he could be hurt.

“Chosen,” he said near Linden’s head, “are you able to move? We have survived the Fall. That feat deserves acknowledgment.” His tone admitted that he had not expected so much from her. “I know not when we are, but where is plain. Arise and gaze about you.”

She did not lift her head: the sun’s comfort held her. Ignoring the Master, she continued to cast her percipience around her, verifying in the most tangible way possible that she was still alive-and intact.

Only Anele remained mounted, apparently studying his surroundings blindly. She could not tell whether he recognised what he saw.

As for the great horses, they gave no sign that they had just endured an extraordinary ordeal. Hrama seemed content to stand still, providing a safe seat for Anele. The other Ranyhyn had scattered slightly, giving each other room to crop the dry grass. Occasionally one or another of them tasted the air as if searching for the scent of water.

In the background of Linden’s awareness, the ur-viles barked quietly among themselves. They may have been discussing the situation, or debating what should be done now. Like Stave, they did not appear to have suffered in the Fall, although their weariness was obvious.

But the Fall was gone, leaving no evidence of its passage.

Linden and her companions had been marooned.

“Chosen?” Stave asked more insistently. “It is not well to delay. If we have indeed entered the past of the Land, then we must be wary that we do not alter it in some way, endangering the Arch of Time. We are neither seers nor oracles. Our actions may have consequences which we cannot foresee.”

Still she did not rise to answer him. As she tested her circumstances, she caught a hint-the merest whiff of wrongness.

It did not arise from the air, which held only the rising heat of a summer morning. The Ranyhyn certainly had no wrong in them. Nor did her companions, in spite of their lingering hurts. And the ur-viles, like Stave, exceeded her evaluation.

The suggestion of wrongness, of imposed and unnatural harm, seemed to arise from the earth under her.

And it was familiar-

Abruptly she surged up onto her hands and knees; pressed her fingers through the grass to touch the dirt. “Here,” she told Stave softly, almost whispering. “Put your hands here. Tell me what you feel.”

A slight frown knotted the Master’s brows as he knelt in front of her and eased his fingers into the grass.

“Linden?” croaked Liand. Hunching over his stomach as if it were full of broken glass, he crawled weakly toward her. “What is amiss?”

But she was concentrating too hard to speak; and Stave did not reply. Uncertainly Liand worked his hands into the grass as well, trying to feel what they felt.

Yes, Linden thought as she probed the ground. Familiar. And wrong. Its touch evoked a kind of visceral memory; a recall too deeply buried for consciousness, and too disturbing to be forgotten.

It breathed along her nerves, suggesting echoes of rain and pestilence; of fearsome deserts and terrible fecundity.

Then Liand gasped sharply and snatched back his hands. “Heaven and Earth!” he panted. “That is evil. A great wrong has been done here.” Wrapping his arms around his stomach, he struggled to contain his nausea.

Stave met Linden’s gaze and nodded in confirmation.

At last, she lifted her hands from the grass. “Not just here,” she said harshly. “Everywhere in the Land.” Everywhere west of Landsdrop and Mount Thunder. “That’s the Sunbane.”

Her senses had found traces of Lord Foul’s assault upon Law, persistent and vile.

“Indeed,” Stave agreed without inflection. “The Haruchai have not forgotten it. Yet already in this time it is long past.”

She knew that he was right. Any more recent atrocity would have left its effect closer to the surface. Nevertheless her dire recollections of the Sunbane hit her hard. At its height, it had transformed every living and lovely aspect of the Land into a victim of torture; an instance of unforgivable hurt.

“But it’s fresh enough to feel,” she muttered. Then she swallowed her past. More quietly, she asked, “How long ago do you think it was?”

Everything depended upon that. If the ur-viles had misread Anele’s memories-or if the Ranyhyn had erred-

Stave considered the question. “I cannot speak with certainty. Ten score years, perhaps more. Not more than fifteen.” Then he shrugged. “So I estimate.”

Between two and three hundred years? Surely that was long enough-? Surely Linden and her companions had not arrived before Anele lost the Staff?

She trusted Stave’s perceptions; but still her nerves needed reassurance. Even this distant reminder of the Sunbane afflicted her with dread. Raising her head, she flicked a quick glance toward the sun.

It arced across a blue sky already flattened, deprived by depth, by heat and haze. Around it, high clouds made noncommittal shapes against the azure. But it showed no sign of the disturbing corona which had defined the effects of the Banefire.

Nor did the sky betray any indication of Kevin’s Dirt. Here, at least, her health-sense would not be taken from her.

Her stomach still squirmed on the brink of rebellion, but at last she felt strong enough to ignore it. Gathering her courage, she rose to her feet to look around her.

Anele drew her gaze. He sat loosely on Hrama’s back, head bowed and arms dangling, as if he had fallen asleep. In that posture, the angle of the light across his shoulders caught at the raindrops which remained on his cloak, transforming them into a net of pearls; a web woven of reflections and prophecy.

And behind him mountains piled into the heavens, holding up their granite heads in defiance or refusal. The foothills of the range were no more than a league distant.

Percipience and the position of the sun told her that she was facing south. Therefore these mountains were part of the Southron Range. Off to her left, a spur of peaks jutted past her northward: to her right, the cliffs and peaks retreated into the southwest. However, she recognised none of the vistas.