The Runes of the Earth

She stood in the narrow passage between her gaol and the nearest home. It was deserted: every passage in sight was deserted. The Masters had abandoned their watch on Anele. The force of the wind had swept them away.

Clouds frothed like spume overhead, black and grey tangled together, and racing for the horizons. The dwellings around her appeared in shades of darkness, as comfortless as sepulchres. Dust stung at her eyes and flared away.

She expected rain, but there was none.

Out of the gloom, Anele stumbled against her back. He caught himself, staggered to her side. His lips worked feverishly, but she could not hear him.

If Liand’s people and the Haruchai fought kresh, they did so without a sound no snarling; no cries of effort or pain.

Not wolves, then; or any other form of attack that Linden knew. A running battle could not be waged in silence between shocks of thunder.

The whole Stonedown had lost its voice. She and Anele might have been the only ones left alive-

The next slam of thunder brought no lightning. She had seen none since the storm began. Instead the shrouded air ahead of her seemed to congeal into a knot of perfect and impenetrable blackness: distilled ebony or obsidian. Even her blunted senses felt its concentration and power like a shout of wreckage.

As she stared at it in dismay, it shattered downward.

Dirt and broken stone spouted from the ground where the power struck; too much stone. Stunned moments passed before she understood that a home had been blasted to scree and flinders.

No natural force drove this storm. It was the Despiser’s handiwork. Nothing in Mithil Stonedown could hope to stand against it.

Except wild magic-

She started forward again.

A heartbeat later, she stopped once more.

If Lord Foul had caused this storm, what did he hope to gain? Gratuitous destruction? Homelessness and pain? He delighted in such things. But she remembered him vividly. Always he hid one purpose within another. He would not be content with tearing Mithil Stonedown apart. He wanted more-

What would happen if she allowed herself to be lured into a contest of powers, white fire against black havoc? She did not know how to use Covenant’s ring. If she found the way, she might break the storm, save some of Liand’s people. Or the seething clouds might prove too potent for her. She might be impelled to flee for her life. Or worse, might lose control completely-

Or she might find that she could not raise wild magic by any act of will. Unable to defend herself, she might be struck down by the storm. Jeremiah’s last faint hope would be gone.

In either case, the Masters would imprison Anele again when the danger passed. Her chance to escape- perhaps the only chance she would get-would be gone. That would serve the Despiser beyond question.

No, she panted to herself. No. She would not. Not while she could still breathe and think-

Do something they don’t expect.

– and run.

If this storm was aimed at her, it might follow. Some of the Stonedownors, at least, would be spared. And Stave’s people might not be able to pursue her.

Wheeling, she reached out for Anele, grabbed him by the shoulder of his tattered tunic. Instead of trying to shout through the wind, she shoved him ahead of her, away from the boiling centre of darkness.

He complied as though she had set a goad to his ribs; as though he were not hindered by blindness.

Together they ran with all their strength between the dwellings and out of the Stonedown: away from thunder and Masters and the Land she knew.

Chapter Six: The Despiser? Guidance

South: Linden prayed that she and Anele ran south; deeper into the valley. Surely that black storm arose from the north? – from the peril which had found its release in Mount Thunder? If so, she needed to flee southward, toward the place where the mountains rose like barricades.

Away from Masters and dark thunder and Jeremiah.

Something they don’t expect.

Away from any hope that she would find people to help her.

Dreams are snares.

Running, hardly able to see, she and the old man made their way between the homes and out of Mithil Stonedown. Anele stayed near her without urging or explanation. In every phase of his madness, apparently, he understood flight and did not need vision. Indeed, when they gained open ground he began to pull ahead. Guided by some instinct which she could hardly imagine, his feet seemed to find and follow a path of their own accord, despite the dense cloud and trailing thunder.

She did not want that. The Haruchai would come in pursuit. They were too doughty, and too familiar with power, to die in the darkness which assailed the village. And they had access to horses. Any path would guide the Masters swiftly after her.

Hoping that she had chosen the right direction and knew where she was, Linden panted at Anele’s back, “Not that way! Head for the river!” Anele were going

Liand’s village lay on the eastern bank of the Mithil. If she and Anele were going south they could reach the watercourse by veering to their right. Perhaps they would be able to confuse the Haruchai by crossing the river-or by travelling along it.

Or by floating down it, as she and Covenant had done with Sunder under a sun of rain.

Would Stave make that assumption? He might. Certainly he would have to consider it seriously. If she could slip past Mithil Stonedown on the river, aiming toward the open expanse of the South Plains, she would be difficult to track.

And if she rode the current of the Mithil long enough, it would carry her to the southern edge of Andelain. There she might discover the counsel and guidance of the Dead-

It was possible that those shades no longer occupied the Hills. The Masters would know. But they would also know that she did not. Surely they might believe that she would head in that direction?

Fearing that she might lose him in the heavy gloom, Linden ran hard after Anele as he angled away from the path. He must have understood her, in spite of his derangement. And must have believed, as she did, that they fled for the south.

She could hardly see her feet, but her boots found easy footing on the tough cushion of the grass. And in moments the turf seemed to lean gently downward, perhaps declining toward the watercourse. For a few strides, she ran more easily.

Nevertheless she soon knew that her attempt to escape would fail.

She did not have the strength to run far. Already she could scarcely breathe. The heavy cloud filled her sight like dusk, swirled like phosphenes before her: darkness seeped into her eyes as if her life and blood were oozing away. Again and again, she missed her balance and nearly fell; or the harsh wind knocked her off her stride.

She had been battered too severely; had found too little rest. Her flesh demanded days of healing, not hours. And she had not prepared herself-For ten years, she had done little to sustain the physical toughness that she had developed on her travels with Thomas Covenant.

If the Despiser had appeared before her here and now-and if she could have drawn one full breath-she would have flung everything she had against him without hesitation. But she could not, simply could not, evade the Haruchai by running.

Yet Anele sped ahead of her over the dim grass as though all fatigue, every vestige of his mortality, had been left behind in the gaol of the Masters. Galvanized by Earthpower or dread, and hardened by years of