Against All Things Ending (38 page)

In those screaming faces, all of them, she saw her fate, the outcome of her failed choices. The bane’s victims had fallen to evil, not because they sought evil—some had not—but because they had made mistakes. Now their legacy was endless agony for every woman who could love as they had once loved.

They would
eat
Linden and Coldspray and Grueburn, and relish the taste.

Linden’s soul was already carrion. She Who Must Not Be Named would savor her more than any Giant.

But faster than she plunged, a torrent of vitriol shot past her. Somehow the ur-viles had formed a wedge to concentrate their lore. Their ebon fluid struck downward.

When the acid hit, the bane released a roar that shook the cavern. The seethe of faces flinched. The hand of theurgy burst into ineffective mist.

At the same time, a frenetic skein of ribbands snatched at Linden and Grueburn; wrenched them back. The jolt cracked through Linden like the snap of a whip: she nearly dropped the Staff. More cloth caught Coldspray, Jeremiah, and the
croyel
: a score of brightly colored strips. Other bands yanked Stave away.

Taut as cables, the Ardent’s raiment reeled his fallen charges upward.

Liquid power plunged into the tortured moil of faces. It erupted like thunder amid the screams.

A few dozen ur-viles could not hope to hurt She Who Must Not Be Named: they must have known that. But they distracted her.

And they were not alone.

A smaller blast of power crashed and volleyed among the stalactites. The Waynhim—! They were too few to equal the harsh strength of the ur-viles. And they had modified their lore to match their Weird; had taken it along different paths than those followed by their black kin. Still they hit hard—and the stalactites were fragile, made brittle by weight and age.

In an earsplitting crack and crash, titanic spires began falling like spikes into the faces of the bane.

Any mistake would have rent the Ardent’s ribbands; crushed Linden and Jeremiah. But the Waynhim knew what they were doing. Their projectiles fell from the far side of the cavern.

The Ardent’s efforts tested the limits of his strength. Linden rose with fatal slowness. Spots of darkness bloomed in her vision like detonations, echoing the yell of stone as stalactites broke. Grueburn hugged her tight: she could not breathe. But she did not notice the corded pressure of the Giant’s arms. She had lost the light of her Staff; lost her health-sense. The bane was imprinted on her nerves. Through blackness and bits of distortion, she recognized nothing except shrieks. The lip of the precipice where the rest of her companions stood or crouched was still too far away. She would never reach it.

Then the Insequent had help. Bluntfist and Cabledarm released Bhapa and Pahni. Braced by their comrades, the two Swordmainnir grabbed at the Ardent’s ribbands and hauled on them as if they were hawsers.

Thrashing in fury, She Who Must Not Be Named surged upward. Bluntfist, Cabledarm, and the Ardent heaved harder.

A moment later, other Giants were able to catch hold of Grueburn and Coldspray. Trusting Mahrtiir to hang on, Latebirth gripped the edges of Grueburn’s cataphract and tugged her past the edge of the chasm. Onyx Stonemage held Liand with one arm while she helped the Ironhand. When the weight of the Giants was taken from him, the Ardent pulled Stave to safety.

In spite of his weakness, Liand summoned radiance from his
orcrest
. Its pure light pushed against the bane’s savagery. With Earthpower, he supported the Swordmainnir and the Ardent.

The Insequent gasped as though he had borne Giants on his shoulders. A dangerous pallor sickened his face: his legs wobbled under him. Reflections of the bane’s power made the sweat streaming on his cheeks look like cuts.

For a moment, Linden did not realize that she could breathe again. No doubt her ribs would hurt later: she could not feel them now. Black blossoms expanded across her sight. The roaring of She Who Must Not Be Named filled the world.

Esmer stood among the Giants, regarding them with disdain.

From somewhere nearby, Galt announced, “We need no gift of tongues to comprehend that the Demondim-spawn beseech flight. Already the Waynhim run to guide us. We must follow swiftly.”

The Ironhand may have panted, “Aye.” Linden was not sure. Serpents of nausea and dread writhed in her guts. As Grueburn struggled upright, the blots on Linden’s vision grew until they covered everything, and the world was gone.

F
or minutes or hours, Linden lived in a realm of death. She had seen too many agonized faces. They left her at the mercy of carrion-eaters. For her, the bane had become crawling things, venomous and noisome. They gnawed their way out of her flesh, reveling in rot: centipedes and spiders, long worms. She wanted to claw off her skin to be rid of them. But her nightmares had claimed her. She was dead: she was death. Responsible for slaughter—

Then she was roused by the jolting of Grueburn’s strides, the stentorian rasp of the Swordmain’s breathing. In terror, she returned to herself. Sensations of crawling and poison clung to her like muck sweat. Pincers and fangs bit into her under her clothes. She wanted fire; ached to scour herself with flame. But there were no spiders, no centipedes, no vile insects. She only felt them. Grueburn’s stubborn struggle did not redeem what Linden had become.

Past Coldspray’s bulk, and Cirrus Kindwind’s, white flickers of Liand’s Sunstone reached Linden. He and Stonemage were leading the company after the Waynhim. But they no longer ran. The tunnel leading away from the chasm and the Lost Deep had become a narrow split with a floor like strewn wreckage. The Giants still carried all of their human companions except the
Haruchai
; but they had to move with care. At intervals, protrusions of rock constricted the passage, forcing them to squeeze through sideways.

Linden had no health-sense and no power. Stave still carried Covenant’s ring. She was being eaten alive: everyone she cared about was going to die. Devoured faces and centipedes were promises that would not be broken. And Esmer stayed close to her, ensuring her futility. His many wounds looked as septic as plague-spots.

She expected to sight the Ardent ahead, with Liand. But the Insequent was not there. Only the Humbled escorted Liand and Stonemage, Covenant and Kindwind, Jeremiah and the
croyel
and Coldspray.

Without percipience, Linden could not gauge Covenant’s condition. She could not cleanse herself of corruption. But she had no reason to think that he had escaped the chaos of his memories: not while Esmer remained nearby.

Grueburn’s broad chest and thick shoulders blocked Linden’s view to the rear. But when the Swordmain turned to push past an obstruction, Linden scanned the figures behind her.

She saw them limned in fire and apprehension, dark shapes lurching ahead of the bane’s rage. Apparently the constraints and twisting of the split did not hinder She Who Must Not Be Named. Despite Her terrible size and Her throng of identities, She seemed able to alter Her form as She wished. She was like spiders, roaches, beetles: there was no crack too small for Her to enter, no cave too immense for Her to fill. No mere physical barrier could restrict Her. The things that fed on carrion were venomous in every crevice and cranny. The width of the passage might compel Her to pick off Linden’s companions one at a time; but it would not hamper the bane’s seething energies.

In silhouette, Linden saw Stormpast Galesend carrying Anele, Cabledarm with Pahni, other Giants—presumably Bluntfist and Latebirth bearing Bhapa and Mahrtiir. As far as she could tell, none of the Swordmainnir had fallen. But her impressions were too indistinct for certainty. The jagged path of the crevice cast too many shadows. The Giants fleeing behind her resembled stilted menhirs, distorted and ungainly.

Of the Ardent—or the ur-viles—she saw no sign.

Then Grueburn turned ahead to move more quickly, picking her path over the refuse of ages, and Linden could not look back.

“The Ardent?” Hysteria scraped her voice raw. Uselessly she slapped at the crawling inside her shirt, her jeans. “Where is he? Have we lost him?”

Esmer would know, if Grueburn and Stave did not.

Without the Ardent’s powers—

Cail’s son did not answer. “The Insequent,” panted Grueburn, “vowed to aid the ur-viles. How he thought to do so, I cannot conceive.” He could not resist She Who Must Not Be Named with ribbands. “Nevertheless he remains behind us.”

“Can you tell what he’s doing?” Linden asked.

“I cannot. The bane fills my senses.”

“He exceeds all expectation,” stated Stave.
Orcrest
or his inborn wards against Kevin’s Dirt preserved the former Master’s percipience. “His fright is plain. Nonetheless he joins his knowledge to the efforts of the ur-viles. His apparel does not harm the bane. The ur-viles do not. Yet when it extends its force, their lore and his garment turn the theurgy aside. Together they slow the bane’s advance.”

Linden understood fright. She could not have done what the Ardent was doing. She was covered with gnawing and toxins; hungry ruin. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw horror below her; watched hideous strength destroy the Hazard; felt her fall—

She had killed her own mother. She deserved whatever happened to her.

Staring wildly, she tried to focus her attention on the rough walls of the crevice. She wanted to believe that it would hold. That the world would hold. But she could not. Soon a monster that relished anguish and despair would consume the roots of the mountain. She slapped at her chewed skin and achieved nothing.

Beyond the fragments of Liand’s light, the entombed darkness was absolute. Immeasurable leagues of granite and schist were veined with obsidian and quartz and strange ores like the slow blood of Gravin Threndor. Long ago, she had believed that the Wightwarrens ran deep; that the cave of the EarthBlood was deep. But until now she had failed to grasp the true meaning of depth. Breathing should have been impossible. The air here must have been trapped for eons, too stagnant to sustain life. It was no wonder that Grueburn had to fight for breath.

Presumably Liand was refreshing the atmosphere with Earthpower. But he could not do enough. Moment by moment, suffocation crowded around Linden. The stone itself was reified asphyxia. Her lungs labored in her chest as if they were being crushed by panic and granite.

In Revelstone long days ago, Liand had taught her that she could draw Earthpower and Law from her Staff even when Kevin’s Dirt had blinded her completely. At that time, however, Kastenessen’s bitter brume had hung high above her; and she had been perhaps two hundred leagues from its source, protected by enduring barricades of gutrock. Now She Who Must Not Be Named was
close
—Frayed and terrified, Linden did not believe that she would ever be able to overcome the bane’s dire magicks.

And without the benign fire of her Staff, she could not drive the sensations of insects from her nerves and skin. Before long, she would go mad.

She needed help, but no one could help her: not now. The progress of the Giants was too arduous to permit succor. And her fragmented glimpses of the way ahead suggested that the crevice was about to become impassable. It was beginning to cant to the side, narrowing and twisting as it followed a line of weakness through limestone and brittle shale. Beyond Liand’s Sunstone, the split tilted at an angle that became sharper by sudden increments.

Linden trusted the Waynhim. She tried to trust them. But they appeared to be leading the company along a path which only they could follow. Perhaps she, the
Haruchai
, and the Ramen might contrive to creep after the smaller creatures when the crack leaned close to the horizontal. But the Swordmainnir would be trapped. And if Coldspray released the
croyel
—

“Ha!” Liand’s call echoed down the split: a shout of relief. “The Waynhim have not misled us! Here is the way!”

As the crevice tilted farther, Rime Coldspray squatted abruptly, set her back against the lower wall. Clutching Jeremiah and the
croyel
with one arm, and holding the
krill
with the other, she used her legs to thrust herself headfirst along the split. The stone looked too rough to permit skidding in that fashion, but her cataphract served as a sled. She was able to keep moving.

Ahead of the Ironhand, Kindwind used one shoulder and her maimed arm to shove herself forward, still clasping Covenant. At a word from Grueburn, Linden turned so that she could grip the Swordmain’s breastplate with both hands, hook her heels around Grueburn’s waist. The Staff she carried pressed between her chest and Grueburn’s as the Giant braced her hands on the lower wall and scuttled along on all fours.

Every point at which Linden’s body touched Grueburn was a torment of maggots.

Behind them, Galesend followed Grueburn’s example. Anele’s eyes glared in brief glints from the
orcrest
and the
krill
, but he appeared to understand Galesend’s intent. The constriction of the split did not allow Linden to see past the old man’s protector.