The Runes of the Earth

She wished urgently that she could understand the ur-viles.

“Manethrall,” she called out softly, “I’m sorry. He doesn’t speak for me. I don’t even know what he’s talking about. But you don’t have to be enemies. The Haruchai I’ve known have always been faithful No matter what happened they stood by us.”

“Chosen,” Stave put in impassively. “The Ramen do not hear you.”

What-?

“Indeed,” Liand confirmed acidly. “They have gone ahead. The Master’s words have driven them away.”

Linden gaped into the black mass of ur-viles, trying to see past them. “Why?” She was blind in the shrouded rift. “What are they doing?”

She could not believe that the Ramen had forsaken her.

“I do not Know” Stave answered. “Their purposes are hidden.”

“Yet if they do not guide us,” Liand muttered, “we cannot escape this place. We do not know the way.”

Linden turned from the innominate threat of the ur-viles.

“Stave, I don’t understand you.” He was no more than a vague shape in the night: indistinct; beyond persuasion. “They saved our lives. You acted like you respect theta. You even compromised with them, which is more than you’ve been willing to do for me. And now you want to pick a fight?”

Darkness and cold made the aid of the Ramen essential.

If Stave felt endangered by the ur-viles, his tone did not show it. “Linden Avery, you do not accept us. For that reason, perhaps, you are quick to place faith in these Ramen, though you know nothing of them. Yet I mistrust them. You should understand that I have cause.”

He may have been asking her to take sides.

“What cause?” she countered.

“You have not known the Ranyhyn,” he replied. “And spoken words cannot contain their worth. They are”- he hesitated briefly- “or perhaps were among the most precious of the Land’s glories.

“The great horses of Ra were Earthpower made flesh. Their beauty and power played no small part in the wonder which bound our ancestors to the Vow, and the Bloodguard rode them in pride and service. Their absence diminishes us. Without them, the Land is incomplete, and our care can never suffice to make it whole.”

He paused, then continued more severely, “The Ramen were the tenders of the Ranyhyn. Perhaps they continue in that devotion. Yet where are the Ranyhyn? Why have the great horses not returned to the Plains of Ra? And why do the Ramen conceal themselves among these mountains, consorting with ur-viles and succouring madmen, when the Land is their home, and the Ranyhyn are needed?”

Strictly he finished, “I fear Corruption’s hand upon them.”

He had called the ur-viles a great evil. For that, also, he had cause.

“Are you sure?” Linden demanded. “Do you see it?” The Haruchai were proof against Kevin’s Dirt, and mere night could not blind the other dimensions of health-sense.

“I do not,” he admitted. “Yet we are the Masters of the Land, and must consider such perils.”

“Linden.” Liand’s voice shook in the cold. “We cannot remain here. This wind will undo us. And our cloaks and blankets are with Somo, behind us. We must continue to climb, and attempt to discover the way.”

Damn it. He was right. The Ramen had left her and her companions in untenable position.

For his sake, however, she said, “We’ll be all right. They haven’t abandoned us. They’ll help us when we need it.”

Grimly she determined to try the broken slope with her own hands had had enough of Stave. If the ur-viles did not stand in her way-

But they continued to block her path. As she started forward, several of them began to bark more loudly. From the clotted darkness of their formation, one of them confronted her, holding an object in its hands.

“Chosen,” Stave said: a warning.

If she were in danger, surely he would be able to sense it?

The ur-vile extended a blurred shape toward her. It may have been a small cup. Liand grabbed her arm. “Linden. No. They are ur-viles. Demondim-spawn “

Until this evening, he had never heard of such creatures. Like Ramen and Ranyhyn, the One Forest and Ravers, they had not existed for him even as legends.

Linden shook off his hand. “They saved us,” she breathed.

She had already accepted aid from Lord Foul himself.

“And they are descendants of evil,” Liand objected. “The Master has said so.”

Haruchai did not lie.

Yet the ur-viles barked at her insistently. The nearest creature prodded its cup at her hands.

Their rank, decayed odour repulsed her. It seemed to blow against her skin like the steam of a corrosive-

– bringing another scent with it, musty and potent: an aroma compounded of dust and age and vitality.

She knew that smell. For a moment, the memory troubled her; elusive, fraught with bloodshed and loss. Then it returned in a rush of clarity.

The Northron Climbs and bitter cold, accompanied by Cail and Giants. A preternatural winter brought down from the north by arghuleh. And a Waynhim rhyshyshim, a gathering.

To Linden and her companions, the Waynhim had given succour and safety; warmth and rest and food. And a dark, musty drink which had nourished them like distilled aliantha.

“Stave,” she murmured in wonder and surprise, “that’s vitrim. They’re offering us vitrim,”

“Vitrim?” asked Liand. “What is vitrim?”

Stave stood beside her opposite the Stonedownor. “Are you certain? The Haruchai have not forgotten Cail’s tales of the Search for the One Tree. He spoke of vitrim. But ur-viles are not Waynhim.”

She could have asked him to take the cup for her; sample its contents. She did not doubt that he would do so, trusting his senses and strength to protect him from any Subtle Poison. But she was fed up with suspicion, and already had too many enemies.

Abruptly she opened her hands for the proffered cup.

The ur-vile Placed cold iron in her palms and stepped back, still barking. Perhaps it meant to encourage her.

So that she would not falter, she raised the cup at once and sipped from it.

The liquid tasted like dust and neglect: she had difficulty swallowing it. Nonetheless it seemed to fill her flesh with excitement; eagerness transformed almost instantly to sustenance as soon as it touched her stomach. With every beat of her heart, the cold lost its grip on her. The edges of the wind still drew tears from her eyes; but now they were tears of relief and possibility.

A kind of giddiness came over her, and she nearly laughed aloud. “Here,” she said, handing the cup to Liand. “Try it. You’ll like it. If you can ignore the taste.”

He hesitated, hampered by confusion.

“Go on,” she told him. “Just a sip.” Rejuvenation in waves washed her weariness aside, riding the scend of her pulse. Light seemed to shine from her nerves, mapping its own life within her. Liand should have been able to discern the glow she emitted.

Stave certainly could.

The young man would not refuse: she knew that. He had already wandered too far beyond the boundaries of his experience, and had no one else to guide him. Cautiously he eased the iron cup to his lips and tasted its contents.

The Master did not move or speak. Instead he faced the ur-viles as though he were carved of darkness.

For a long moment, Liand remained motionless over the cup. Then, softly, he began to laugh: a quiet, clean