desecration. It was swallowed almost immediately by a black concussion which shook the night, a thunderclap of vitriol flung by one or several of the ur-viles. Before the vicious green vanished, however, she recognised it. It had been etched into her memory by horror.
“God!” she panted. “Oh, God. It can’t be.”
Beyond mistake that flash of rank emerald was the power of the Illearth Stone.
Which should have been impossible. Stave was right: with wild magic, Covenant had extirpated that ancient bane from the Land. And he had won his expensive victory thousands of years before Linden had first been translated to the Land.
Yet she knew from cruel experience that at least one small corrupt flake of the original Stone had survived Covenant’s victory. In the years before that final contest, Lord Foul had given fragments of the Illearth Stone to each of his Giant-Ravers so that they could command his armies. One such fragment had been wielded against the defenders of the Land somewhat to the south and west of Andelain; and during the conflict, a shard had broken off from that piece of the Stone: had broken off and been lost.
The air seemed to grow warmer. It felt like a touch of steam. Nevertheless a chill slid along Linden’s spine as if her sweat had turned to ice.
Lost, the green flake had remained so for centuries, leaking slow ruin into the hills, until it was discovered by a village of Woodhelvennin. By then, the Clave had come to rule the Land, and the lore of the Lords, which might have warned or protected the Woodhelven, had been corrupted. So the village was itself corrupted, generation after generation, until at last the evil shard was used against Linden, Sunder, and Hollian while Covenant rambled in Andelain alone.
Later Covenant had destroyed that virulent flake as he had once shattered the Illearth Stone itself. But Linden remembered it still. She had felt its evil at a time when she did not know how to bear such knowledge.
Now, staring appalled at the lurid emerald after-flash on her retinas, she wondered: if one little piece of that terrible bane had survived, why not more than one? The Giant-Ravers had fought a number of battles against the Land’s defenders. They had channelled immense forces through their fragments of the Stone. Other pieces could have broken off and been lost.
She could imagine no other explanation. Somehow an enemy of the Land had found such a piece. Or Esmer had-
It was possible.
The thought that she would have to confront the old bane which had nearly undone both the Council of Lords and Thomas Covenant shrilled along her nerves, making her guts squirm with dread.
Another quick flare of green stained the night. Detonations of acid volleyed around it. The breeze falling from the mountainsides carried intimations of slaughter out into the moonlight.
Among the Ranyhyn, shadows seemed to melt and solidify. Then Bhapa stood at Mahrtiir’s knee, gazing urgently up at the Manethrall. Even in the dark, his left arm and shoulder blazed with damage: Linden’s dismayed nerves discerned a wound like a deep burn. Lingering emerald flickered among fine droplets of black fluid in the hurt. He had been caught at the fringe of a blast; lashed with power.
“Manethrall-” His throat clenched in pain. Forcing himself, he gasped softly, “I know not what they are. But they are many. And they hold-”
He could not find words for what he had beheld.
“We have seen it,” Mahrtiir replied through his teeth. “Mount at once. I cannot now tend to your wound.”
The Cord nodded. For a moment, he appeared to crouch, huddling over his injury; and his hurt burned at Linden as if she, too, had been splashed with acid. Then he flung himself onto Whrany’s back.
“Describe them, Cord.” Stave spoke quietly, but his tone cut through the restiveness of the horses. “What is their appearance? What did you discern of them?”
Green malignance slashed the night, momentarily limning the exposed shape of the foothills. It looked more savage now, and reached farther: its wielders were advancing up the slope, or the ur-viles opposing it had been decimated. Frantic barking rose against the breeze. Scattered blooms and geysers of obsidian tattered the flash of emerald, but could not tear it apart.
Linden clung to the warm wood of the Staff and the broad strength of Hyn’s back, and tried to believe that she was capable of combating a piece of the Illearth Stone.
Without wild magic-
“They are bitter,” Bhapa answered in a congested voice, “and ancient beyond estimation. So I have felt. They appear to rise from the ground as if they have been freed from graves. Some have the size and semblance of trees, though they walk like men.
Others resemble Cavewights and similar creatures. Still others wear monstrous shapes-I have never beheld the like, or heard them named.”
Through his teeth, he groaned, “They are too many. Far too many. The ur-viles cannot hold them.”
Linden’s heart quailed to hear him. Freed from graves-Oh, God. She seemed to hear Stave’s response before he spoke.
“It should not be so,” said the Master. “Yet it is. In this the recall of the
Earlier, days ago, he had spoken of
Again emerald beat in the air like the throbbing of a diseased heart. It had come a long way up the hillside. A spatter of blackness answered it, and fell still.
The Ranyhyn stamped and whickered anxiously.
“We have shared it mind to mind across the millennia,” Stave continued, “undiminished and unconfused.”
The vitriol which the ur-viles wield for destruction pulsed in their hearts.
“At first I was reluctant to name what I perceive. It offends Time and all Law. Yet now I am certain.”
Abruptly he stopped.
Clad in cerements and rot, their touch was fire.
Sitting Rhohm at Linden’s side, Liand was a dark ache in the moonlight, an outpouring of innominate alarm. Behind them, Pahni leaned from her mount to succour Bhapa as best she could, while Anele muttered execrations into his beard.
“Speak the name, Bloodguard,” Mahrtiir put in harshly. “Your knowledge is needed.”
Bursts of green evil echoed through the night, accumulating like summer lightning. Linden thought she heard the sound of running; desperate haste. Small swirls of blackness coalesced along the slope below her, still some distance from the Waynhim.
The ur-viles had been routed.
As did the Viles, they persisted outside or beyond life and death. As do the ur-viles, they had forms which could be touched and harmed.
“They are Demondim,” Stave answered. If he felt either fear or uncertainty, he did not show it. “Esmer has brought them to this time.”
Apparently Cail’s son had betrayed Linden and her companions with a vengeance.
If the legends of the Demondim were accurate, and their lore as vast and insidious as Stave had reported, the creatures might be able to destroy the Staff of Law. Given a little time, they could easily exterminate the last of the ur-viles and Waynhim. Even wild magic might not surpass their powers.
“Ringthane,” Mahrtiir asked avidly, “will we not give battle? The ur-viles cannot hold. In moments they will be swept aside, and the Waynhim with them. We must ride to their defence.”
“No!” Linden protested. “We can’t. Not here. Don’t you remember what Stave said? There haven’t been any battles,” any extravagant exertions of power, “in this part of the Land.” Not since she had unmade the Sunbane. “If we fight now,” or if she did, “we’ll violate history. We’ll damage the Arch of Time.”
The mere presence of the Demondim and a flake of the Illearth Stone might suffice to undermine the foundations of reality.
