Chapter Nine: 

The Long Journey of the Lost

Stunned by her impact with the bank of the watercourse, Linden could not breathe. She had no capacity for power. Every Giant whom she had ever known had been her friend: bluff, kindly, humorous, extravagant of heart. Some of them she had loved. She would have felt a rush of joy if she had heard that those sea—and stone-loving people had returned to the Land.

The figure looming over her with butchery in his hands was unmistakably a Giant. He was at least twice her height, twice as broad, and muscled like an oak. His weathered features looked like they had been chiselled from brown marble. Even the cropped cut of his beard might have been shaped stone.

Yet he could not have belonged to the race that had called the people of the Land “Rockbrother” and “Rocksister” in friendship and mirth. She had seen Giants in every extreme of desperation and agony, outrage and sorrow, yearning and fear, as well as in affection and laughter and comradeship; but she had never seen one raving with madness, or frantic for bloodshed.

She could not save herself. The wave-lined blade of his longsword plunged toward her: it would hit with the force of a guillotine. Her shocked heart would not have time to beat again.

When Mahrtiir had knocked her aside, he had fallen with her. But he had rebounded to his feet in the same motion. More swift than she would ever be, he confronted the Giant, gripping his garrote between his fists. Eyeless and human, he may nonetheless have hoped to loop his cord over the flamberge, alter its arc.

The sword was sharp iron: it would sever the garrote as though the Manethrall and his weapon did not exist.

But Stave was faster than the Manethrall—and far stronger. Cartwheeling past Mahrtiir, he intercepted the Giant’s blow with his feet; slammed his heels against the vicious plummet of the Giant’s hands.

Deflected, the longsword hammered into the earth a hand span from Linden’s shoulder.

The Giant’s might buried his blade halfway to its hilt. Raging, he snatched it back to strike again.

Stave landed on his feet. At once, he leapt at the Giant’s arms, trying to pin them together; hamper the Giant’s next blow.

The Giant jerked him into the air as if he were a trivial encumbrance.

In that instant, the skurj surged forward. It sank its fangs into the Giant’s shoulder.

All light vanished as the terrible jaws closed. Linden sensed rather than saw the beast heave the Giant upward and shake him, driving its bite deeper.

She felt Stave spring clear; felt Mahrtiir search eyelessly for an opening in which he could use his garrote.

She heard the Giant howl—

—in fury: not in pain.

Now she discerned that he was armoured in stone. He wore a cataphract of granite slabs which had been fused together by some Giantish lore. Briefly the stone protected him.

But the skurj fed on earth and rock: it chewed through the armour. Cruel curved fiery teeth searched for flesh and muscle and bone. In spite of the Giant’s tremendous strength, his entire arm would be torn away.

Still his screams were rage rather than excruciation.

He had just tried to kill Linden. But he was a Giant, a Giant. Instinctively she scrambled upright to defend him. Wielding the Staff with both hands, she hurled a frantic yell of flame at the creature.

In the sudden blaze of Earthpower, its multiplied fire reflecting from the stream’s turmoil, she saw the jungle along the eastern edge of the watercourse erupt with Giants.

They arrived too abruptly to be counted. Linden recognised only that they were all women; that they, too, wore stone armour and brandished longswords; and that Galt was among them.

They attacked like an explosion.

One of them hacked with a massive stone glaive at the monster’s jaws. Some act of cunning or magic had hardened the sword. A single blow cut the mad Giant free. Ruddy horror splashed from the exposed fangs.

Another woman slashed iron through the thick hide of the skurj, spilling viscid blood that reeked of rot and disease. Then she plunged her fist into the wound—into the living magma—as if she sought to rip out the creature’s heart. The monster’s heat tore a shout of pain from her throat; but she did not withdraw.

A third Giant chopped at the beast’s body where it emerged from the ground as if she were trying to fell a tree.

Dumbfounded, Linden remembered that Giants could endure fire, even lava—at least for a short time. In their caamora, their ritual of grief, they purged sorrow by immersing their flesh in flames and anguish.

By that means, Covenant had released the Dead of The Grieve. Saltheart Foamfollower had enabled him to cross over Hotash Slay.

Nevertheless she snatched back her own blaze so that it would not interfere with the creature’s assailants.

When the skurj dropped the raving Giant, he rolled to his feet. Swinging his flamberge, he charged at Linden again.

Only Mahrtiir stood between her and the shaped blade.

By the light of the Staff, she saw the Giant clearly. Flagrant lunacy gripped his features like a rictus: his desire for her death burned in his eyes. And some time ago—a year or more—his face had suffered an edged wound. A deep, scarred dent crossed his visage from above his left eye and over the bridge of his nose into his right cheek. It gave him a crumpled look, as though the bones of his skull had tried to fold in on themselves.

He was no more than two quick strides from her, near enough to have slain Mahrtiir if he had noticed the Manethrall, when one of the women clubbed at his temple with the pommel of her longsword. At the same time, Stave kicked a leg out from under him. He fell so heavily that the ground lurched.

He tried to rise, still gripping his flamberge. But the Giant who had struck him stamped her foot down on his blade; and another woman pounced at him, landing with her knees on his back.

A heartbeat later, the Giant who had freed him from the skurj joined her companions. Like him—like all of the Giants—she wore armour of stone. Dropping her glaive, she reached under her cataphract and drew out two sets of iron shackles. With the help of the other women, she forced his arms behind him and secured his wrists together. Then she fettered his ankles.

As soon as he was bound, his captors jumped back. He hauled his knees under him, heaved himself upright, surged to his feet. Without hesitation, he charged at Linden again as if he meant to kill her with his teeth; bite open her throat.

Grimly the Giant who had shackled him punched him in the centre of his forehead.

Her blow stopped him; may have stunned him: it seemed to alter his rage. His roar became urgent gasping. “Slay her!” he pleaded hugely. “Are you blind? Are you fools? Slay her!”

He did not appear to be aware of his damaged shoulder.

Muttering bitterly, one of the other women jammed a rock into his mouth to gag him. Then she pulled back his head and pushed down on his shoulders, forcing him to his knees.

The Giant hacking at the creature’s trunk had nearly cut through it; but still the skurj fought, flinging fetid gouts of blood in all directions. Its fangs flared murderously despite its maimed jaw. Where its blood struck armour, the sick fluid frothed and fumed, but did not corrode the stone.

Other Giants slashed at the monster. However, they did not press their attacks. Instead they distracted the beast so that it did not turn its teeth against the woman who had thrust her arm into its viscera. Her shout had thickened to a strangled snarl of pain, but she continued to grope inside the skurj, trying to grasp some unimaginable vital organ.

Then she pulled away. For an instant, Linden thought that the Giant had suffered more fire and hurt than she could endure. But in her fist, she clutched a rancid pulsing mass.

With a hideous shriek that nearly split Linden’s eardrums, the skurj collapsed. At first, the conflagration of its fangs continued to throb and flicker. Slowly, however, darkness filled the creature’s maw, and she knew that it was dead.

Growling Giantish obscenities, the woman flung the monster’s organ far out over the trees.

The woman who had produced the shackles retrieved her stone longsword. When she had wiped it on the bank of the watercourse, she slipped it into a sheath at her back.

Fumbling as if he were disoriented, Mahrtiir felt his way to Linden; touched her face and arms to assure himself that she was unharmed. “Mane and Tail, Ringthane,” he murmured. “Are they Giants? Truly?”

She seemed to hear weeping in the background of his voice. But he was too proud to surrender to his astonishment and relief.

When she tried to answer, her throat closed on the words.

How many Giants were there? She counted ten women and the madman. Two stood guard over him, ensuring that he did not regain his feet. Seven quickly formed a protective perimeter around Linden, Stave, Mahrtiir, and Galt. And one—the Giant with the shackles and the stone glaive—turned toward Linden.

She was a bit shorter and less muscular than her prisoner, but she emanated great strength. Streaks of grey marked her short hair, which appeared to sweep back from her forehead of its own accord. The lined toughness of her skin suggested age—whatever that word might mean among people who lived as long as Giants—but there was no hint of diminished vigour in her demeanour or her movements. Combat and hardship smouldered in her eyes. The precise symmetry of her features was marred by a deep bruise on her right cheekbone. Rerebraces of hardened leather protected her upper arms: old scars latticed her forearms and hands.

Her manner announced that she was the leader of the Giants.

Both Stave and Galt bowed deeply, honoring the ancient respect of the Haruchai for the Giants; and Stave said. “We are timely met, Giant. Unexpected aid is twice welcome. And we”—he flicked a glance at Galt—“I did not anticipate your return to the Land.”

The woman ignored Stave and the Humbled. To Linden, she said brusquely, “You would do well to extinguish your flame. In this dire wood, darkness is less perilous than power.”

Linden swallowed heavily, struggling to clear her throat of relief and dismay and memory. The Giant’s air of command and obvious prowess reminded her poignantly of the First of the Search. This woman’s countenance did not resemble the First’s. Nor did her armour. Nonetheless she seemed to have emerged from Linden’s distant past, bringing with her Linden’s love for the First and Pitchwife, for lost Honninscrave and doomed Seadreamer.

And Linden had failed against the skurj. She was adrift in recollection, bereavement, inadequacy. Because she could not find any other words, she said dully, “You killed it.”

She had done little more than slow the monster. Soon it would have consumed her—

The Staffs light was all that kept the Giants from vanishing.

“For a short time,” the Giant replied. “Its death and your magicks will soon draw others of its kind. They will devour its remains and multiply. When they have feasted, two or three will become four or six. With each death, their numbers increase.

“Again I ask you to quench your flame. Then we must depart with as much haste as we may. These creatures—knowing nothing of them, we name them were-menhirs—are not laggardly. Ere long they will assail us in numbers too great for our strength.”

Linden stared in chagrin. With each death—? The skurj reproduced by eating their own dead? Trembling, she clung to Earthpower and Law; to herself. Without fire, she would be at the night’s mercy.

What in God’s name were the Giants doing here? And why did one of them want to kill her?

“You’re a Swordmain,” she murmured as if she were stupefied. All of the Giants were Swordmainnir. Even the madman—“Like the First of the Search.”

They could have been a war party—

Grimly the Giant answered, “And you are Linden Avery, called Chosen and Sun-Sage”—she grinned like a threat—“if the tales of our people have not been excessively embellished. As the Master has said, we are timely met. But if you do not—”

Sudden relief shook Linden. With a convulsive effort, she stifled her fire; let herself fall into darkness. She was known: these Giants knew her. She did not need to fear facing them without light.

The survivors of the Search had carried stories of their adventures back to their people. The Giants loved such tales; told and retold them in eager detail. And their lives were measured by centuries rather than years or decades. They would not have forgotten her. Or Covenant. Or the love for the Land which the First and Pitchwife had learned in Andelain.

For a moment, she was lost; blinded. The intense mephitic stench and sickness of the monster’s corpse overwhelmed her senses. She required other dimensions of perception in order to distinguish the figures around her, Stave, Galt, and Mahrtiir as well as the Giants.

Unsteadily she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. I couldn’t stop that thing.” It was only one of the skurj—“Kevin’s Dirt is worse than I thought. We would all be dead if you hadn’t found us.”

“Linden Avery”—the Giant’s tone was iron—“our cause for gratitude is no less than yours. We must exchange tales. Yet our foremost need is for distance from this beast’s remains.”

“Chosen,” Stave said at once. “the Swordmain speaks sooth. We have now no guard to the east, and the skurj surely draw nigh. We must gather our companions and make haste.”

“Companions’?” asked the woman sharply. You are not alone’?”

“Only some of us are here.” Linden’s voice still shook. “We have—” She was about to say, —a madman of our own to worry about. But the injustice of comparing Anele to the Giant who had tried to hack her down stopped her. “We have an old man with us. The others are protecting him.”

“They approach,” stated Galt flatly. “Though you do not acknowledge our presence, Giant, you hear us. Watch to the west.”

“The unwelcome of the Masters is not forgotten,” the woman rasped. “We—” Then she halted: Linden felt her stiffen. “Stone and Sea! Your companions are a beacon, Linden Avery. Surely every were-menhir—do you name them skurj? —within a score of leagues speeds hither.”

At once, the leader of the Giants shouted, “Quell your power, stranger! You summon a peril too swift to be outrun!”

Glimmering among the benighted trees, Liand’s Sunstone shone like a star.

“Linden?” he called in the distance; and Bhapa added, “Ringthane?” Then they fell silent. A moment later, the radiance of the orcrest winked out.

Linden felt them now, all of them: Liand and Anele, Bhapa and Pahni, Clyme and Branl. They were less than a stone’s throw away. She might have descried them sooner if the dead skurj had not occluded her health-sense.

Presumably Branl or Clyme had commanded Liand to obey the Giant. If so, Linden was sure that the Humbled had not deigned to explain why.

To reassure her friends, she shouted, “Hurry! The skurj is dead. We’ve met some people who might help us. But we have to get away from here!”

“You presume much, Linden Avery,” growled the Giant; but she did not sound vexed. Rather she conveyed the impression that she was grinning fiercely. “How do you conclude that we may be inclined to aid you?”

Thinking of Giants who grinned and laughed, Linden grew calmer. “Because you know who I am. The Giants of the Search were my friends. Grimmand Honninscrave and Cable Seadreamer died protecting Thomas Covenant and me. The First and Pitchwife went into the Wightwarrens of Mount Thunder with us. Remembering them gives me hope.

“You saved my life. And if that isn’t enough, one of you just tried to kill me.” She had mentioned Seadreamer. After a severe blow to the head, he had gained what his people called “Earth-Sight,” a vision of a terrible danger abroad in the world. The mad Giant had also been hit hard. Now he wanted her dead. If he, too, were guided by Earth-Sight—Weakly she finished, “The way I see it, that makes you responsible for me.”

The Giant barked a harsh laugh. “We are too well known to you. All doubt that you are in good sooth Linden Avery, Chosen and Sun-Sage, is thus dispelled. Accept my name in token that Longwrath’s sufferings do not define our goodwill. I am Rime Coldspray, the Ironhand of the Swordmainnir. Though I am far from the mightiest among us, I am so honored”—again her tone suggested a grin—“for my many years as for my low cunning.”

The Giants guarding the madman chuckled as if Rime Coldspray had made a familiar jest. Apparently his name was Longwrath.

In response, Mahrtiir proclaimed, “The giving of your name honors us. I am Mahrtiir, a Manethrall of the Ramen. Two of those who draw nigh are my Cords. Though we are unknown to you, we have some knowledge of you. In the distant past of our race, we were acquainted with your lost kindred, the Giants of Seareach. They were much loved, for they were mirthful and kind, leal and compassionate, in spite of their bereavement.

“I have no eyes, yet I behold you well, Rime Coldspray, Ironhand. I do not hesitate to avow that you will find naught but friendship among the Ramen.”

His stern courtesy dignified the darkness. Hearing him, Linden felt obliquely reproached. He may have been trying to compensate for her comparative impolitesse.

We are likewise honored by the gift of your name,” replied the Giant. “Having known Giants, you are doubtless aware that we find much pleasure in courtesies. Nor do we turn aside from fulsomeness in praise or thanksgiving.” The lronhand’s companions chuckled again; but she continued darkly. For the present, however, we must delay further joy. Your followers arrive, and our circumstances require haste.”

As Coldspray spoke, Linden heard her friends. The Cords and the Humbled did not make a sound in the dense undergrowth; but Liand stumbled occasionally, and Anele shuffled his feet as if he were feeling his way, reluctant to come near the dead skurj.

As the group emerged from the trees above the watercourse, Linden tasted Liand’s astonishment, Anele’s confused apprehension and relief. The wonder of the Cords was vivid as they saw ancient tales come to life before them. But Mahrtiir did not allow them an opportunity for questions or explanations.

“Cords, guide us,” he commanded. “We require a path suitable for Giants. We must proceed toward Andelain, but more urgent is our need to elude the coming skurj.” With an edge of asperity in his voice, he added, “Doubtless the Humbled will guard our passage. Their caution will suffice.”

Without hesitation, Bhapa swallowed his amazement and disappeared back into the forest, heading south and west from the stream. Pahni was younger; too young to contain her emotions so promptly. After a moment, however, she turned to follow Bhapa.

To Rime Coldspray, the Manethrall said gruffly, The Ramen are skilled in this. Their guidance will speed us. And the arrogance of the Masters is matched by their discernment and prowess. They will do much to ensure our safety.”

Galt, Branl, and Clyme appeared to consult with each other. Then they withdrew into the night on both sides of Bhapa’s heading. If they took offense at the attitude of the Ironhand, or at Mahrtiir’s assumption of command, they did not show it.

At a gesture from Coldspray, the Swordmainnir guarding Longwrath pulled him to his feet. Others retrieved the bundles and bedrolls dropped by Linden’s companions. Two matters remain,” the Ironhand told Linden and Mahrtiir roughly. “Shackled, Longwrath cannot hasten. Yet I dare not unbind his legs with the target of his madness so near at hand. Five of us will accompany him at his pace, both to ward him and to preserve you, Linden Avery. The rest will follow the Manethrall’s Cords more swiftly.

“However—” She surveyed Linden and Mahrtiir, Liand and Anele. “Giants are not formed for stealth. Yet we pass with ease over or through obstacles which would deter you. And the clamour of our movements does not attract the were-menhirs, the skurj. They appear deaf to ordinary sound.

“Linden Avery, Manethrall Mahrtiir, will you permit us to bear you and your companions?”

Perhaps out of courtesy, she did not mention Mahrtiir’s blindness, or Anele’s.

“Linden—?” asked Liand in a congested voice.

Linden had nearly exhausted herself against the skurj. On foot, she would not have been able to keep pace with Liand and Anele and Stave. The Giants would leave her far behind.

She looked at Stave. When he nodded, she said to the Ironhand. If you don’t mind. That’s probably a good idea.”

Rime Coldspray gestured again; and four Giants strode forward. As one, effortlessly, they swept Linden, Mahrtiir, Liand, and Anele into their arms, holding her and her companions upright so that they sat on the forearms of the women. In that position, they could lean against the Giants’ chests and watch where they were going.

Anele may or may not have understood what was happening. But he appeared comfortable in his seat. Perhaps the well-meaning strength of the Giants reassured him.

Skirting the ground polluted by the skurj, Coldspray led her Swordmainnir out of the watercourse and into the jungle while the remaining Giants gathered to herd Longwrath along more slowly. Stave joined the Ironhand, trotting smoothly through the brush.

At first, Linden felt helpless; vaguely vulnerable. She did not know how to hold the Staff so that it would not catch on branches or vines. But gradually the oaken steadiness of the Giant calmed her. Coldspray was right: the Swordmainnir were not stealthy. They crashed through brush and boughs, leaving a tumult of frightened birds and animals in their wake. However, they were protected from thorns and jutting branches by armour and tough skin. In addition, they seemed to need as little illumination as the Haruchai or the Cords. And Bhapa and Pahni guided them well. In relays, so that one led the way while the other searched ahead, the Cords found a relatively clear route. The Giants were able to move with surprising speed.

—deaf to ordinary sound. Linden considered the idea. The skurj were creatures of the Earth’s deep lava. What need did they have for organs of hearing? They had other senses.

Certainly Kastenessen did. So why had he sent just one of his monsters against her? To be sure of her location? Probe her power? Measure the effectiveness of Kevin’s Dirt? In every case, the outcome of his gambit would please him. And his next attack would be more vicious—

Aiding Linden, the Giants had accepted a greater hazard than they knew.

At present, however, she caught no hint of Kastenessen or the skurj, or of any malevolence. And the solidity of the woman who carried her inspired a familiar trust. The mere presence of the Swordmainnir comforted her. By degrees, the pressure in her chest loosened.

While Giants and Ramen and Haruchai cared for her and her friends, Linden sank into herself. Resting, she tried to think about the challenge of finding the elusive mental or spiritual door which opened on wild magic.

She knew now that she could not confront the skurj with her Staff and live: not unless she first freed the Land from Kevin’s Dirt. As matters stood, she needed Covenant’s ring.

Time passed, undefined except by the long strides of the Giants, the sharp breakage of branches and undergrowth. Pahni and Bhapa guided the company with unflagging stamina and woodcraft. No one spoke until Rime Coldspray asked abruptly, “Why do you accompany me, Master? Your comrades ward our way. Why do you not join their vigilance?”

Breathing easily in spite of the pace, Stave replied. “You have honored us with your name, Ironhand. Intending honor, I offer mine. I am Stave of the Haruchai, outcast by the Masters of the Land for my service to Linden Avery the Chosen.

“The others are the Humbled, maimed to resemble the ur-Lord, Covenant Giantfriend. It is the task of the Humbled to affirm and preserve the commitments of the Masters. They ward us because they mistrust the Chosen. They consider that her powers and needs may compel her to commit Desecration. I do not. For that reason, I have been spurned by my kindred.

“I accompany you because I have claimed a place at her side, as have the Ramen and the Stonedownor—and also the old man, after his fashion.” The Giants of the Search had known Sunder and Hollian. Presumably these Swordmainnir would recognise Stave’s term for Liand. “I have learned to fear many things, but I no longer oppose any deed or desire of the Chosen’s.”

Coldspray strode forward sternly for a moment. Then she said. “Permit me to comprehend you, Stave of the Haruchai. Have I heard you aright? Were the choice yours, would you welcome the return of Giants to the Land’?”

In response, Stave made a sound that was as close as Linden had ever heard him come to laughter. “Rime Coldspray,” he answered, “Ironhand of the Swordmainnir, since the Chosen’s coming I have been humbled both profoundly and often. I no longer deem myself wise enough to discourage the friendship of Giants.”

To Linden’s ears, Stave seemed to be indulging in a peculiarly Haruchai form of humour.

“Then, Stave of the Haruchai,” replied the Ironhand gravely. “I am indeed honored by the gift of your name. Among us, the tales of the Haruchai are many and admirable. We have long been grieved by the dissuasion of the Masters, for we love friendship wherever it may be found. Take no offense when I ask if these Humbled are trustworthy to watch over us.”

Stave did not hesitate. “While they encounter no discrepancy among their commitments, they remain Haruchai. They will preserve any life with theirs, if doing so does not betray their opposition to Corruption, or to the corrupting use of Earthpower.”

Coldspray considered his answer. “And is this force which the Chosen wields not a ‘corrupting use of Earthpower?”

“The Masters are uncertain. Therefore the Humbled guard against her, but do not demand the surrender of her powers. In our present straits, they will grant to her—and to you—their utmost service.”

“Powers”, Coldspray mused. But she did not question Stave further.

The Giants of the Search must have taken back to their people stories of Covenant’s victory over Lord Foul, of Linden and her Staff—and of white gold. The First and Pitchwife had seen Covenant exert wild magic. They had seen Linden claim his ring when he was gone. Rime Coldspray and the other Swordmainnir would know everything that their ancestors had done and witnessed.

Longwrath must have learned that history as well. It may have shaped his insanity—

Linden sighed to herself. At least she would not have to explain how she intended to fight the skurj.

Belatedly she realised that she did not know the name of the woman who carried her. Weary and fearful, and troubled by her unpredictable relationship with Covenant’s ring, she had paid scant attention to the people around her.

One way or another, their lives were in her hands.

But she could not think of a way to address the woman without sounding brusque and graceless; too stilted to be polite. Like the courtesies of the Ramen, those of the Giants exceeded her.

While she groped for an approach, the dense canopy of Salva Gildenbourne opened unexpectedly. By starlight and percipience, she saw that Bhapa and Pahni had guided the Giants into a small glade. For some reason, the quality of the soil here discouraged trees. Instead wild grasses and brush flourished, interspersed with the piquant promise of aliantha.

The Cords awaited the Giants in the centre of the glade. There Clyme had joined them. When Coldspray and her comrades stopped to consider their surroundings—unrelieved jungle on all sides, dark as midnight—the Master said, “Even Giants rest betimes, though their hardiness is beyond question. Ranging widely, we have found no sign of peril. If you will accept our counsel, you will abide here until the dawn. And if you will not sleep, mayhap you will find succour in your tales.”

The lronhand’s posture stiffened. “The Masters mislike our tales,” she said coldly: an old grievance.

“For the present,” replied Clyme impassively, “we find no harm in them.” His lack of inflection seemed to suggest that he did not expect Linden or her companions to live long enough to speak of what they heard.

Coldspray glared at him for a moment. Then she turned to Stave. “What is your word, Stave of the Haruchai?”

His manner conveyed a shrug. In this the Humbled counsel wisely. The Chosen and the Stonedownor require rest—aye, and the Ramen as well, though it would be foolish to doubt their fortitude or resolve. And we would be well served by an exchange of tales.”

Rime Coldspray looked at Linden. “Linden Avery?”

Linden nodded. “Please.” She was tired of being a burden. “I need time to think. And we really have to talk. I want to know what you’re doing here,” at this precise point in Lord Foul’s machinations, with a deranged man who craved her death. “You may not realise how much trouble you’re in.

“If we rest for a while,” she added. “the others can catch up with us.”

Then she said quickly, “But be careful with Anele.” She pointed at the old man. “Strange things happen to him when he stands on grass. This glade isn’t like any place that we’ve been before.” The grasses were wilder, tasseled like wheat, with thin, sawing blades. “Blankets seem to protect him, but stone would be better.”

“There is no stone, Ringthane,” Bhapa observed. “Here the loam lies deep.”

Coldspray studied Anele: his blind, staring eyes, his tangled hair and beard, his emaciated limbs; his air of madness and secret power. “Will any manner of stone suffice?”

Before Linden could answer, Anele announced, “He has no friend but stone. The stone of the Land is unkindly. It remembers. Yet it preserves him.”

The Swordmain chuckled humourlessly. “Then I will offer you stone which is not of the Land. Perchance it also will preserve you, and hold no remembrance.”

First she unslung her sheathed glaive from her shoulders. Then she undid the hidden clasps which secured her armour. When she set the heavy curved plates on the ground, they formed a kind of cradle. If the stone had not been moulded to fit her, Anele could have stretched out on it.

The Giant bearing Anele lowered him to the armour. At the same time, Linden, Liand, and Mahrtiir were placed on their feet. Immediately Liand moved toward Linden, brimming with questions. But the Manethrall told Bhapa and Pahni to gather deadwood from the forest. “Fire will comfort the darkness of our straits. In this, I do not fear the skurj. Their hungers are too vast to regard such small fare.”

Both Coldspray and Clyme indicated their agreement. When the Cords headed obediently for the trees, Liand shook himself, shrugged, and joined them. Holding Pahni’s hand, he let her lead him into the darker night of Salva Gildenbourne.

The Ironhand faced Linden again. “As I have said, Longwrath’s shackles hinder him. Some time will pass before my comrades join us. Yet I hold little fear for them. Of necessity, we have grown adept at discerning the evils which you name skurj. I have caught no fresh scent of them. And it appears that the Masters who ward us concur.”

“It is the word of the Humbled,” Clyme insisted. “that there is no imminent peril.”

Coldspray seemed to ignore him. “Therefore, Linden Avery, I deem that the time is apt for tales. By the light of the stars, and with a fire for warmth, let us each account for the strange fortune of our encounter.”

Now that she was no longer held by the heat of the Giant’s arms, or shrouded by the warm vitality of the forest, Linden found that the night had turned cold. A breeze seemed to flow down into the glade from the heavens, sharp and chill.

Hugging the Staff to her chest, she said, “I agree.” Then she asked, “But don’t you have any supplies? I haven’t seen your people carrying anything.”

The Ironhand chuckled again, still without humour. “You approach the conclusion of our tale. We are Giants, and love the journey from a tale’s birth to its ending. You observe truly that we bear neither sustenance nor unworn apparel. If our weapons fail us, we have no others. However, at need we are able to endure some measure of privation.” A brief spatter of laughter arose from the other Giants; but Coldspray did not pause. “And in this glade, none need fear hunger. Informed by tales, we know the virtue of aliantha. Neither our pleasure nor our solemnity will be hindered by inanition while we hold our Giantclave, seeking the import of our encounter. We must clarify our path toward a future which appears as tangled and trackless as this wood.”

“Solemnity, ha!” muttered one of the other Giants. “In her lifetime, Rime Coldspray has never drawn a solemn breath.”

The woman’s companions laughed softly again.

“You forget, Frostheart Grueburn,” retorted Coldspray, “you who laugh at all jests and comprehend none, that I am not merely immeasurably aged and wise. I am also ripe with cunning. And while I retain my sight, I have not grown deaf. I hear you when you scoff at me.”

Now the Ironhand’s comrades laughed outright, and one of them punched affectionately at the shoulder of the Swordmain called Frostheart Grueburn. With a shiver, Linden realised that Grueburn was the woman who had just carried her for several leagues through Salva Gildenbourne.

These Giants had rescued her from both Longwrath and Kastenessen’s monster; and she had barely thanked them—

While she searched herself for graciousness, Liand returned laden with firewood. As he crossed to the centre of the glade, an unnamed Swordmain produced a pair of rocks and a pouch of tinder from a pocket covered by her cataphract. When he had dropped his burden, she built a small mound of twigs, leaves, and bark, sprinkled them with flakes of tinder, and began striking sparks with her stones.

Brushing debris from his jerkin and leggings, Liand came to stand beside Linden. “Giants, Linden?” he asked in a whisper. “Are these indeed Giants? You have made no more than passing mention of such folk, and I did not think to query Pahni concerning them. Yet it is plain that you know them well.” His tone did not reproach her. When I beheld Sandgorgons, I conceived that the wide Earth held no greater wonder—aye, and no greater terror—for they were mighty and fearsome beyond my imagining. Now, however, I have felt the terrible puissance of the skurj. And I have been borne kindly by a Giant, when I had not grasped that such folk walked the world.

“Linden, I—” Liand’s eyes echoed sparks. “Perhaps my wits are sluggish. Only now does it occur to me that I do not comprehend how you are able to bear such knowledge. I am filled to bursting, and I have neither spoken with ancient Lords nor given battle in the depths of the Earth. We have witnessed powers which surpass me utterly, yet they revolve about you as moths do about a lamp—and with as little effect.

“I do not ask why you have not spoken more of Giants. They will soon speak of themselves. I ask how you contrive to endure all that you have known and done. You exceed forces and beings whose sheer magnitude turns my heart and mind to dust.”

The Ironhand drew closer as he spoke. “Do not be dismayed, Stonedownor,” she advised him. “There is no mystery here. She is Linden Avery, Chosen and Sun-Sage. Our tales say that she is merely magnificent.”

At the fringe of the jungle, Pahni’s slim form stepped out of deeper blackness. She, too, carried a load of dead branches.

“No,” Linden protested uncomfortably. “You’re thinking of Covenant. I’m just me.” Then she faced Liand. “And I’m not the only one who exceeds.” If she had ever done so. “I’m not the one who gave those Woodhelvennin their health-sense.”

Flames had begun to bloom from the mound of twigs and tinder. The Giant put away her pouch and stones, feeding larger bits of wood to the fire as it took hold. Aching for warmth and reassurance, Linden moved closer to the small blaze.

“It’s Jeremiah, Liand,” she murmured. “He’s how I do it. I would have fallen apart days ago, but I can’t afford to. I can’t let anything stop me. Lord Foul has my son.”

He’s belonged to Foul for years.

But if she found the krill—If she could evoke Thomas Covenant—

“And you do not forgive,” Stave remarked. “There is strength in ire, Chosen. But it may also become a snare.”

With the Staff in the crook of her arm, Linden held out her hands to the flames. Tell that to Kastenessen, she thought bitterly. Tell the Despiser. But she kept her retort to herself.

Pahni added her wood to Liand’s pile, then went to stand beside him. A moment later, Bhapa approached with his arms full. When Mahrtiir had studied the supply of firewood as though he could see it, he nodded. “You are weary,” he told the Cords. “Gather aliantha and rest. As more wood is needed, perhaps Stave will guide me to obtain it.”

Pahni and Bhapa started to obey; but Coldspray stopped them. “You have labored much, and are indeed worn, Ramen. Permit us to perform this service.” She motioned for two of her comrades. “Stormpast Galesend and Onyx Stonemage have ears to hear. They will not be denied our tales while they gather treasure-berries.”

In response, Mahrtiir bowed. “Centuries have passed into millennia,” he pronounced. “but the Giants remain considerate and compassionate. Gladly we accept the honor of your courtesy.”

Rime Coldspray smiled. “In appearance, the Ramen are a nomadic and brusque people. Yet their politeness would grace a courtly kingdom. Were the Masters as gracious, much that now lies fallow would flourish.”

Both Stave and Clyme gazed at her without expression, and said nothing.

When the Manethrall had seated himself near the fire, Bhapa sank to the ground beside him. Pahni linked her arm with Liand’s. In a more formal tone, the Ironhand continued. “Linden Avery, it is unmistakable that you are the intersection of our tales. Yet mayhap this truth is not evident to you. Therefore I will speak first, though we are far from Home, and beset by perils which we cannot comprehend. When you have heard of our ventures, you will be better able to determine how you may account for our needs as well as your own.”

Linden edged a bit closer to the crackling fire. Its dancing illumination cast light and shadows across the faces of the Swordmainnir. At one moment, their strong faces seemed grotesque and suspicious, and at another, fraught with mirth.

“Thank you,” she said as clearly as she could. “We just met a few hours ago, and already I haven’t thanked you enough. The Giants of the Search were my friends. I loved them. I hope that when we’ve talked, we’ll be able to face our problems together.”

She wanted the help of these women.

Coldspray nodded soberly. “A worthy desire. Thus I begin.”

She remained standing, tall against the heavens, while Frostheart Grueburn and the Giant who tended the fire sat cross-legged nearby, and Galesend and Stonemage wandered the glade, picking aliantha. Anele had curled himself into Coldspray’s armour as if he had lost interest in everything except the touch of her stone. But Linden, Liand, and Pahni rested on one side of the fire, and Mahrtiir and Bhapa squatted opposite them. Stave remained near Linden. After a moment, Clyme drifted into the night, presumably to join Galt and Branl as they watched over the glade. He must have trusted Stave to relay the story of the Swordmainnir.

“Giants live long, as you know,” began the Ironhand. “This is well, for we are not a fecund race, and our children, whom we treasure, are too few to content us. Thus we account for our restless roving of the Earth. Our hearts seldom find fullness among our families.

“It was with wonder, joy, and astonishment that we greeted the return of the Search, led by the First and her mate, Pitchwife. It was with mingled delight and weeping that we heard their tales, narratives of bitter loss and brave triumph, cruel suffering and dear friendship. But in the succeeding years, our happiness and amazement were multiplied when the First of the Search, Gossamer Glowlimn, gave birth to a son, and then to a second, and then in her later years to a third. This we deemed nigh miraculous, and our celebrations—which I will not describe, for one night is too brief—endured for decades.

“Yet wonder was compounded upon wonder, and joy upon joy, for as the centuries turned, the youngest son of Pitchwife and Gossamer Glowlimn, who was named Soar Gladbirth, found love and a mate in Sablehair Foamheart, called by all who knew her Filigree for her delicacy and loveliness. And in the fullness of time, Filigree also gave birth to sons, first one and then another. That alone would have made Glowlimn and Pitchwife a treasury of tales and pride, for across the millennia it has been rare and precious that two Giants were so blessed with descendants. Yet Filigree and Gladbirth were not done. When some decades had passed, they received the gift of a third son.

“Now our exultation knew no bounds. The Giants have ever lived their lives on the verge of diminishment. Our seafaring ways are in themselves hazardous, the loss of the Giants who became the Unhomed of the Land was rue and gall to us, and our children are not numerous, as I have said. In the sons of Filigree and Gladbirth, we felt that we had been granted an augury of hope, a promise that the seed of the Giants had regained its lost vitality.”

Firelight shed fraught shadows across Coldspray’s features. “Linden Avery, the third son of the third son of Glowlimn and Pitchwife was Exalt Widenedworld. But now the Giants of Home name him Lostson, and among the Swordmainnir he is called Longwrath.”

To herself, Linden groaned for Pitchwife’s sake, and for the First’s. But she did not interrupt the lronhand’s tale.

“The fault is mine,” continued Rime Coldspray, “if indeed the notion of “fault” retains its meaning in such matters. Rare among our men, Widenedworld was drawn to the Swordmain craft. In jest, we say that our men are too soft of heart for battle. However, the truth is merely that their passions flow differently. All Giants love stone and sea, “permanence at rest and permanence in motion”, but the adoration of our men is more direct. They are drawn to the fashioning of ships and dwellings intended to endure. Perhaps because the joy of birth and children is both uncommon and fleeting, our women seek skills and purposes which are likewise fleeting. So it occurs that we are women, as you have seen.”

While the Ironhand spoke, Galesend and Stonemage returned to the fire with their huge hands full of aliantha. In silence, they shared treasure-berries liberally among Linden and her companions. Linden accepted her portion and ate, although she scarcely noticed her own hunger, or the piquant nourishment of the fruit. All of her attention was focused on Rime Coldspray.

“Yet Exalt Widenedworld wished to join the Swordmainnir,” Coldspray said without pausing, “and so he was made welcome. Thereafter his training revealed that he was prodigious in both might and aptitude, born to the sword and all weapons. Were our present plight a Search, and he whole in mind, I do not doubt that he would be the First.”

Briefly she bowed her head. Then she raised her countenance and her courage to the disconsolate stars. “However, this is no Search. It is not guided by Earth-Sight. It is a journey of sorrow, and after our fashion we are as truly lost as Lostson Longwrath.

When Widenedworld had mastered our more familiar skills, it fell to me to teach him cunning. Often we speak of cunning mirthfully, but the refinement of which I speak is no jest. It is the quality by which skill is transformed to art. I am the Ironhand, not because I am the mightiest of the Swordmainnir—”

“It is certain that she is not,” put in Grueburn affectionately.

“—but because,” Coldspray explained, “I am able to best those who are mightier. Therefore the teaching of Exalt Widenedworld became my particular task.

“Gifted as he was, and exuberant of heart, within brief decades I found myself hard pressed to master him. And one day, by doom or ill chance, I misjudged his growth in our craft. With cunning rather than strength, I caused what I believed to be a breach in his self-defense, and into that breach I struck, intending to slap his forehead with the flat of my blade, blunt stone which the Swordmainnir wield in training. However, he had in some measure foiled me. By his own cunning, he had drawn me beyond my balance, and there he strove to turn my blade. Sadly either too little cunning or too much betrayed him. Because he had unbalanced me, I struck with too much force. And because he turned but did not deflect my blade, I struck with its edge.”

Liand winced, and Pahni stifled a sigh. But they said nothing. Like Linden, they were held by the Giant’s tale.

“You have beheld the extent of his wound.” An undercurrent of self-recrimination troubled Coldspray’s tone. “At that time, we did not. We saw only that the bone of his visage had been broken. Therefore we tended him. Of necessity, the Swordmainnir study healing as well as warcraft. And Giants are hardy. We were grieved by the severity of his wound, but we did not fear for his life. Nor did Filigree and Gladbirth dread that he would perish, though they were likewise grieved.

Now we have learned that death would have been a gentler fate.”

The Ironhand accepted a few aliantha from Galesend; ate them without haste; discarded the seeds. Then she resumed.

“His recovery was slow and arduous, and even in delirancy he did not speak. Remembering Cable Seadreamer, whose gift or affliction of Earth-Sight resulted from a similar wound, and who was rendered mute by visions, we considered that perhaps Exalt Widenedworld would also display signs of Earth-Sight. But he did not. Rather he arose one day from his bed, seemingly without cause or alteration, and announced his intention to “slay” some nameless “her”. Then he struck down or forced aside the Giants tending him and hastened toward our harbourage, apparently seeking a vessel to bear him.

“The Swordmainnir captured him. What else might we have done? And when we discovered that we could not relieve his purpose—that no strength or kindness, no speech or expression of love, no medicament or diamondraught, calmed his violent resolve—we bound him. We had no recourse. Unrestrained, he harmed all who warded him. Again and again, he sought the harbour, and his mad wrath was terrible to those who opposed him.

“At first, his only words were, “Slay her”. Later he inquired if we were fools. And no binding held him. Mere rope he parted as though it were twine. So great was his strength that he sundered hawsers. Fetters of wood became kindling on his limbs. Finally we were compelled to fashion shackles of heavy granite. Unwilling to end his life or cripple him, we knew no other means to contain his fury.

“Thereafter we gathered in Giantclave to choose what we must do. And while we debated together, he whom none now called Exalt Widenedworld shattered his bonds. With his fists, he battered senseless Soar Gladbirth his father and caused the death of Filigree his mother. When his escape was discovered, he had already taken to the sea in a small craft, a tyrscull, apparently intending to sail alone to the ends of the Earth in search of the “her” whom he desired to “slay”.

Mahrtiir’s hands clenched each other as though he gripped his emotions in a garrote. Stave listened without expression.

“We recaptured him. Again we bound him in stone, he raving, “Slay her!” all the while, and, “Are you fools?” Only Swordmainnir stood guard over him, risking no other Giants.

“Now the disputes of the Giantclave had ceased to be, “How may we relieve his madness?” They had become simply, “How may we prevent further harm?” And our dilemma was this. We are lovers of stone. We are not cunning in ironwork. We disdain none of the metals of the Earth. Much we have acquired in trade and seafaring. But our hearts are turned elsewhere. Yet it had been made plain that we required iron to bind Lostson Longwrath. We could conceive of no other means to constrain his wildness.

“Therefore we resolved to convey Longwrath to the land of the Bhrathair, where iron is artfully forged—and commonly traded, for the Bhrathair meet the many needs of their inhospitable home with commerce. We ten of the Swordmainnir were given a compact dromond which we christened Dire’s Vessel. A crew was chosen so that we need not be distracted from Longwrath’s care. Grieving and baffled, we set our sails for Bhrathairealm.”

Linden held her breath without realising it. She felt neither the chill of the night nor the warmth of the fire. Long ago, she had visited Bhrathairealm with Covenant and the Giants of the Search. Kasreyn of the Gyre had tried to destroy them. Both Hergrom and Ceer had been slain.

“I will not consume the night with tales of our voyage,” Rime Coldspray promised, “though it was much beleaguered, and for a time we wandered, helpless, in the toils of the Soulbiter. I am content to say that at last we found our course to known seas. Among the fading storms of summer, we gained shelter in Bhrathairain Harbour.

“Our sojourn there was protracted for several causes. The shackles which we required could not be quickly fashioned. And the Bhrathair bargained stringently, perceiving the scale of our need. Their need also was great, for a fearsome calamity—or perchance an extraordinary redemption—had befallen them.

“Some centuries past, the eldritch prison of Sandgorgons Doom had frayed and failed. By unguessed means, the Sandgorgons of the Great Desert had achieved their freedom. Yet their bestial savagery was but rarely turned toward Bhrathairealm. Against all likelihood, the Bhrathair were left in peace for decades together. When they were struck, the damage was slight.

“But no more than a moon or two before our arrival, the Sandgorgons appeared to conceive an unprecedented assault. United by some unknown force, a considerable number attacked the Sandwall of Bhrathairealm in a bayamo of immeasurable strength.”

Remembering how Sandgorgons had slaughtered Roger’s Cavewights, Linden bit her lip until she tasted blood.

“The Bhrathair feared extermination. However, it transpired that the Sandgorgons had another purpose. They did not wage warfare. Rather they merely bludgeoned a path through an obstacle. When they had breached the Sandwall, maimed the Sandhold, and torn passage across the heart of Bhrathairain Town, they disappeared into the sea. To the wonder of the Bhrathair, an uncounted host of Sandgorgons had departed.

“Therefore the ironworkers of Bhrathairealm bartered greedily. They craved the service of Giants to restore the Sandwall, to secure the remnants of the Sandhold, and to clear the debris from Bhrathairain Town.

“Even discounting our need to bind Longwrath,” Coldspray admitted, “we would have aided the Bhrathair willingly, loving as we do both stone and friendship. But our stay among them was prolonged by another cause also. While we labored, awaiting the preparation of shackles, we found that we were unable to imprison Longwrath. His madness appeared daily to increase his might. Or mayhap he gained aid by some unknown theurgy. Time and again, he escaped the donjons of the Bhrathair and our own vigilance. Time and again, we recaptured him in Bhrathairain Harbour while he strove to claim a vessel.

“Still he would say only, “Slay her”, and, “Are you fools?”

“Aye,” muttered the Giant who tended the fire. “and we came to abhor the sound of those words in his mouth. We were not inured by repetition. Rather each utterance appeared to augment the meaning of his derangement. As by accretion, he acquired the authority of Earth-Sight.”

Coldspray nodded. “Soon the Bhrathair grew fearful of his violence. They hastened the making of his shackles. And when he was bound in iron, we thought him helpless at last. His bonds he could not break. While we watched over him, he remained passive. Therefore we attempted to complete our promised service. By increments, the Swordmainnir became complacent. I became complacent. Trusting iron, we joined the Giants of Dire’s Vessel in our agreed labors.

“However, we were indeed fools, as he had named us. During our absence from his donjon, he escaped his bonds, leaving them unopened and undamaged.”

Joan, Linden thought. Oh, God. For weeks, Covenant’s ex-wife had slipped repeatedly, impossibly, out of her restraints.

“And now he eluded us,” Coldspray stated grimly. “We found no sign of him, neither at the harbour nor aboard any ship, nor along the length of the Sandwall. We discovered only that he had breached the armoury of the Sandhold, beating aside its sentries to claim a sword. Thereafter it appeared to us that he had disappeared into the sea, as the Sandgorgons had done.

“When all our searching had proven fruitless, we elected to depart, thinking Longwrath lost and our purpose unmade. Approval was granted without demur, for the Bhrathair had learned to consider our presence costly. As the Harbour Captain escorted us aboard Dire’s Vessel, however, we found Longwrath there before us, though earlier we had sought him assiduously. He stood like a heading near the prow of the dromond with his new blade sheathed at his back. And he did not resist when we affixed his shackles. Yet he struggled frantically when we strove to move him from his place. When we attempted merely to withdraw his sword, he fell into frothing frenzy. Therefore we left him as he was, bound and armed and calmed, with his gaze fixed before him.

“Ere we set sail, the Harbour Captain informed us that Longwrath faced in the direction taken by the Sandgorgons.”

Of course, Linden sighed, bleak in the darkness. Of course. Hugging her Staff, she faced Rime Coldspray and tried to contain her apprehension. Lord Foul was calling in his allies.

Joan had become calmer, if not more reactive or accessible, when Linden had “armed” her by returning her ring.

“Linden Avery,” the Ironhand said with regret, “we were entirely mystified—and felt entirely witless. Though Earth-Sight occurs seldom among us, it has never taken the form of murderous rage. Yet we had failed to manage our charge. We had failed dramatically. Indeed, we could not in good sooth name him our prisoner, for his madness or his theurgy had exceeded us.

“Therefore we took counsel together, the Swordmainnir and the Giants of Dire’s Vessel. After much debate, we determined to put aside our opposition for a time. While we could, we would set our sails to the heading of Longwrath’s desire. Thereby we hoped to learn the meaning of his madness.

“Thus Lostson Longwrath became our lodestone.

“The season was now winter,” Coldspray explained as if she spoke for the gravid dark. “In those seas, the gales of winter possess a legendary virulence. Yet we were neither beset nor becalmed. Guided by Longwrath’s gaze, we encountered naught but favourable winds and kind passage. The shackles did not fall from his limbs. While he retained his sword, he accepted food and care, and offered no harm. And soon it became clear to even our crudest reckonings that his face was turned toward the Land.”

Liand and Pahni held each other with growing comprehension in their faces. Bhapa sat with his head lowered and his eyes covered as if he endeavoured to emulate Mahrtiir’s blindness. The Manethrall gripped himself fiercely. Only Stave remained unmoved.

Acknowledging the reactions of her audience, Coldspray said, “Then did we truly question the wisdom of our course. That we were unwelcome in the Land we knew, but the attitude of the Masters did not alarm us. For centuries, they have proffered only discouragement, not resistance. No, our concern was this. If indeed we traced the path of the Sandgorgons, as the Harbour Captain had suggested, we feared that a grave peril gripped the Land, and that we fared toward havoc which we were too few to oppose.

“Thus among us the words “slay” and her and “fools” gained new import.”

She sighed. “And as winter became spring, we found new cause to debate our course, for it grew evident that Longwrath directed Dire’s Vessel toward the noisome banes of Lifeswallower, the Great Swamp. There we were unwilling to follow his rapt gaze. The foulness of Lifeswallower dismayed our senses. Also we remembered the tales of the Search, which warned of the lurker of the Sarangrave, and of the lurker’s servants, the corrosive skest.

“Therefore we turned aside from Longwrath’s hunger. Sailing northward along the littoral of the Land, we sought a safer harbourage in The Grieve of the Unhomed.

“We did not doubt our choice,” Coldspray stated in sadness and defiance. “We do not question it now. Yet we learned at once that the ease of our voyage was ended. Contrary and unseasonable winds opposed our course, compelling us to beat ceaselessly against them. And Longwrath emerged from his quiescence to rave and struggle. Had we permitted it, he would have hurled himself, iron-bound, into the sea. No less than three Swordmainnir were needed to restrain him—and five if we touched his blade. Yet we were also required among the sheets and canvas, for Dire’s Vessel was sorely tried, and every element conspired to thwart us.

“Still we are Giants, not readily daunted. Our race has striven with sea and wind for millennia. We ourselves had endured the travail of the Soulbiter. We persisted, exerting our skill and strength to their utmost. At last, we gained anchorage in Coercri, ancient and ruined, The Grieve of the Unhomed.”

The Ironhand paused as if to acknowledge what she and her comrades had accomplished. When Coldspray fell silent, however, Linden’s attention drifted. She remembered too much. In Coercri, Covenant had given a caamora to the Dead of the Unhomed. She needed him. And she did not have to hear the rest of the Swordmain’s story to know where it was going.

She had been warned often enough—

After a moment, Coldspray resumed, “There we deemed that we might rest. We wished to mourn for our lost kindred. And some of their dwellings remained habitable, defying long centuries of storm and disuse. But as we slumbered, believing Longwrath secure, he slipped again from his unopened shackles and fled.

“When his escape was discovered, we held a last, foreshortened Giantclave. We elected to separate, the Swordmainnir pursuing Longwrath while our friends and kin preserved Dire’s Vessel for our future need.

“At another time”—Rime Coldspray looked in turn at each of her smaller companions—“tales will be made of our urgent, maddened, and maddening chase. Few Giants have crossed so many leagues so swiftly, for we ran and ran, and still we ran. Traversing Seareach southwestward, we skirted the foothills of the Northron Climbs to pass through Giant Woods and enter the perils of Sarangrave Flat. There, however, we scented faintly the ancient evil of the lurker. While we were compelled to caution, Longwrath continued to elude us. Yet he made no secret of his path. When every hint of the lurker had fallen behind us, we were able to gain ground in spite of our weariness.

“Finally we caught him, for we are more fleet than he.” Again she sighed. “At the foot of Landsdrop, we shackled him once more. And for a handful of days thereafter, he ceased his escapes. Perhaps because we followed the path of his madness, or mayhap because the ascent of Landsdrop and the obstructions of this woodland hindered him, he permitted us to remain his captors. Thus we were granted a measure of rest.

“Yet our fear increased, for now when he spoke of “slay” and “her” and “fools”, we heard eagerness as well as fury. By this sign, he revealed that he drew ever nearer to the object of his wish for murder.”

“Indeed,” murmured Onyx Stonemage. “I am a Swordmain and deem myself valorous. Yet I knew such dread at his pronouncements that I am shamed by it.”

At Stonemage’s side, Stormpast Galesend nodded. “Though he uttered only, “Slay her”, and “Are you fools?” his enflamed and avid vehemence prophesied ruin as much as death.”

Touched by an ire of her own, Coldspray said in a voice of metal, “It was then that we first encountered the were-menhirs, which you name skurj. They were two, and they did not threaten us. Indeed, they appeared ignorant of our presence. We might have passed by in safety, as Longwrath clearly wished.

“Yet when we had witnessed their devouring of this great wood, their carnage and savagery, we could not refrain from combat. We are Giants and Swordmainnir, and our love for the living world is not limited to stone and sea. Though Longwrath howled in protest, we gave battle to the skurj.

“Tales will one day be made of that struggle, as they will of our pursuit of Longwrath, for we were unacquainted with our foes, and their monstrous fire and ferocity hindered our efforts to learn how they might be slain. Nevertheless at last they lay dead. And still Longwrath suffered himself to remain among us, bound and armed.

“In our ignorance, we sought to ascertain that the skurj were indeed lifeless by severing them into less ominous portions.” She snorted a bitter laugh. “However, our error was soon made plain to us. Two were dead—but in a short time, five more came to consume the fallen, and by that means their number became ten.”

Linden shivered in spite of the campfire’s warmth.

“Then in dismay we fled, though we are Giants and Swordmainnir. We had met a foe which we could not defeat. Still guided by Longwrath’s greed for bloodshed, we ran.

“Since that day, we have once more fought the skurj, though not by our own choosing. In some fashion which we do not comprehend, they have become aware of us. After our first battle, they did not appear to seek us out. When we chanced to draw near them, they paid no heed. Yestereve, however, we found ourselves hunted deliberately, with cunning as well as hunger. By some means, three skurj contrived to pass unsensed through the earth, emerging beneath our feet to catch us unprepared.

“It was there, Linden Avery, that we lost our supplies. While we gave battle, Longwrath slipped his shackles once more. Having stricken me to the ground”—she indicated the bruise on her cheek—“he escaped. What food, raiment, and weapons were not devoured by our foes, we of necessity abandoned. And it is well that we did so. Had we delayed to gather our burdens, we could not have pursued Longwrath swiftly enough to forestall the fulfilment of his madness.”

Again the Ironhand paused to regard Linden and her companions. Then Coldspray concluded, “Thus our tale ends, though I have refrained from telling it as Giants do, fully, exploring each inference. The time is strait, and hazards await every heading. Therefore I ask. Do you now grasp how it is that we have come to be in this place at this time, and how we may be certain that happenstance has played no part in our meeting? Do you recognise that your own tale has become as necessary to us as breath and blood?

“Linden Avery, you have attained the stature of legends among the Giants. Had the Search not informed us that time flows otherwise in your world, your presence—aye, and your comparative youth—would surpass belief. You have been a redeemer of the Land, and mayhap of the wide Earth also. Yet now Lostson Longwrath craves the sacrifice of your life upon the altar of his derangement. Across a year of the world and thousands of leagues, he has pursued your death. If you do not grant us comprehension, we will remain as lost as he, and as bereft.”

Linden swallowed heavily, trying to clear her throat of implications and dread. She understood too much as well as too little, and her heart trembled. Instead of answering the Ironhand directly, she murmured, “I don’t think that they’re aware of you. I think that they’re being commanded.”

The skurj had attacked the Giants because Kastenessen wished it. So that Longwrath could elude his guardians. Now the creatures held back so that the mad Swordmain could get close to Linden again. Kastenessen meant to help him carry out his geas.

Liand shook himself as though he were rousing from a trance. “Aye,” he whispered. “It must be so. The skurj would not otherwise act as they have done. They are appetite incarnate. Hunger rules them, as Longwrath also is ruled.”

Like Joan, Linden thought. Joan’s despair was a kind of hunger. And turiya Raver tormented her, urging destruction.

Kastenessen and Longwrath, Joan and Roger and Lord Foul: they all sought the same thing.

Apart from the claiming of your vacant son, I have merely whispered a word of counsel here and there, and awaited events.

Understanding too much, Linden knew that her need for the aid of the Swordmainnir was absolute, if only so that she might reach Andelain and Loric’s krill alive.

And she could not tell them the truth. Not all of it: not the one thing which she had never revealed to anyone. If she did, they might turn their backs on her. Even Stave, Liand, and Mahrtiir might prefer a doom of their own making. The Humbled would oppose her with all of their great strength.

He did not know of your intent.

While Linden attempted to sort her conflicting priorities, Stave said, “A question, Rime Coldspray, if you will permit it?”

Unsteady flames made Coldspray’s grin look crooked; broken. “I would ‘permit’ questions to any Master, Stave of the Haruchai, regardless of their unwelcome. But you stand with Linden Avery as Brinn, Cail, and others of your kind did with Thomas Covenant. You require no permission of mine.”

“Then I ask if you have encountered Masters in your pursuit of Longwrath.”

The Ironhand shook her head. “We have sighted none. But I cannot say that we have not been sighted. Our haste”—she scowled up at the stars—“has precluded care. Apart from forests, and the skurj, and Longwrath, we have observed little. If any Master discerned us at a distance, he did so without our notice.

“Indeed,” she added, “we pray that we have been observed—that even now some Master bears word of us, and of the skurj, to mighty Revelstone. The folk of the Land must be forewarned.

“Yet even a mounted Master will require many days to convey his tidings westward. For good or ill, your kinsmen will know naught of what transpires here until events have moved beyond their power to thwart or succour.”

Stave bowed gravely. His flat mien concealed his reactions. But Mahrtiir said gruffly, “It is well. I doubt neither the valour of the Masters nor their dedication to the Land. Yet it is evident that no human flesh can withstand the skurj. Only Giants will serve here. The Masters would merely perish.” He turned his bandaged face toward Stave. “As will the Ramen, and indeed the Ringthane herself, if these Swordmainnir do not accompany us—and if the Ringthane does not call upon powers other than Law to preserve her.”

Linden took a deep breath. “Mahrtiir is right,” she told Coldspray. “We need you. When were attacked again, I’m going to try using Covenant’s ring.” These Giants had heard the tales of the Search: they knew that she had claimed his wedding band. “But I haven’t exactly mastered it. And I don’t know how many skurj I can face at once.”

Still hugging her Staff for reassurance, she began.

“Here’s the short version. I want to reach Andelain. I hope to talk to the Dead.” She yearned to find Thomas Covenant among the Land’s attending ghosts—“And I need to locate Loric’s krill.” The Giants of the Search would not have neglected to mention High Lord Loric’s eldritch weapon. “I’m too weak the way I am. We’ve all seen that. The krill might let me use my Staff and Covenant’s ring at the same time.”

Coldspray stared at her. In that event,” the Ironhand said cautiously, “your strength will exceed comprehension.”

“I hope so,” Linden responded. “I need to be that strong.”

Then she told her story as well as her secret intentions permitted. She glossed over those details which the Giants might already know. For Stave’s sake, she said nothing of the ancient meeting of the Haruchai with the Insequent. And she did not dwell on the frightening similarities between Joan and Longwrath. But for herself, she omitted only the personal ramifications of her trials in the Land’s past, and of her experiences with the Mahdoubt. Everyone that she had encountered, everything that she had learned or done, since Roger had first taken Jeremiah from her, she endeavoured to explain.

While she spoke, the night grew deeper. Darkness gathered close around her, relieved only by firelight and the faint silver gilding of the stars. During her tale, the rest of the Giants arrived with Longwrath still shackled in their midst. When he saw Linden, he tried to roar around his gag; began to struggle feverishly. But the Swordmainnir quelled him with as much gentleness as possible. And she did not pause for him. She had to finish her story.

Her friends listened uncomfortably. Until now, events had prevented her from telling them how Kevin’s Dirt inhibited the power of her Staff. And doubtless they knew her well enough to recognise—or guess at—some of her elisions. But they did not protest. Perhaps they had grown accustomed to the ways in which she did not allow herself to be fully understood. Although that possibility grieved her, she valued their silence. She had her own reasons for truncating her story, and some of her intentions were honest.

After she was done, the Giants murmured together for a time, clearly troubled. Their fire-lit bulk seemed to fill the glade with apprehension. Then Rime Coldspray met Linden’s gaze across the erratic dance of the flames.

“It is an extraordinary tale, Linden Avery. Your gift for brevity discomfits us. There is much that you have set aside. At another time, perhaps, we will ask more of you concerning the Insequent, Esmer, Kastenessen, and halfhands. Certainly we wish to grasp how it is that you remain among the living when you have been slain.”

She glanced around at the rest of the Swordmainnir. When Stonemage, Grueburn, Galesend, and the others nodded, she faced Linden again.

“However, the night grows short, and we cannot foretell how Kastenessen will direct his skurj. Therefore we must give precedence to a different concern.”

Linden tightened her embrace on the Staff. She knew what was coming.

The Ironhand appeared to select her words with care as she said, We cannot do otherwise than surmise that Longwrath’s craving for your death bears upon your purpose in some fashion. Do you dispute this?”

Linden shook her head. “Lord Foul seems to be everywhere these days. He told me that he hasn’t done anything himself. He just gives advice and waits to see what happens. But even if he’s telling the truth, he has a whole list of surrogates who could have twisted Longwrath’s mind.” Or his madness might be a distorted form of Earth-Sight—“One way or another, the Despiser wants to stop me.”

“Then, Linden Avery,” Coldspray pronounced distinctly, “Chosen and Sun-Sage, it behooves me to observe that you have not named your purpose.”

Linden feigned incomprehension. “What do you mean? I told you—”

“You wish to speak to the Dead,” countered the Swordmain. “You desire their knowledge and counsel. This we acknowledge. But you also seek the krill of Loric—and you have not justified your need for its immeasurable magicks.” Her voice had a whetted edge. “What use will you make of such vast puissance?”

“I thought that I was clear,” Linden insisted. “I want to find my son. I want to free him from the croyel. I might have to fight my way through the Despiser to do that. I’ll certainly have to deal with Kastenessen and Roger—and the skurj. And I want to do as much as I can for the Land.”

In that, she meant what she said.

“Does your intent end there, Chosen?” asked Stave quietly. “Do you not also seek retribution?”

I do not forgive.

Linden rounded on him. “So what?” He did not deserve her anger, but she made no effort to restrain it. “That comes last.” She had too much to conceal. “If I want to pay back some of my son’s pain after I’ve rescued him, what do you carer

Coldspray folded her arms across her chest. “Linden Avery, you are not forthright.” Her eyes caught a combative glint from the firelight. “Your words have another meaning which you do not name. It is audible.

“Will you not reveal how you propose to accomplish your ends? The power which you seek will not in itself uncover your son’s hiding place. It may defeat Kastenessen and his skurj, but it will not halt the ruptures which you name caesures, or silence the madness of Thomas Covenant’s lost mate. Nor will it reveal the machinations of the Despiser—or of the Elohim. It will merely enable the riving of the world.

“Why do you wish to wield illimitable might? What will you accomplish with Loric’s krill that does not serve the Despiser’?”

Linden resisted an impulse to duck her head, hide her eyes. Coldspray searched her, and she did not mean to be exposed. The Waynhim believed that Good cannot be accomplished by evil means. Instinctively she agreed with them. Therefore she had to trust that her intended means were not evil. Nonetheless her desire to protect her secret was inherently dishonest: it compelled her to tell lies of omission.

Yet some of her intentions were honest. She clung to that, and held the Ironhand’s probing gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she said carefully. “I know this is hard. But I’m not going to tell you. I won’t say it out loud.” If she did, the granite of her heart might crack open, spilling more rage and terror and shame than she could bear. “I need your help. I want your friendship. But I’m not going to answer you.”

Within her she holds the devastation of the Earth—

Long ago, she had learned the cost of escape. If she told the truth, someone here would try to stop her. Even her friends might oppose her. The Humbled would attack her without hesitation. Then she would be spared the burdens that she had chosen to bear—and Jeremiah would be lost to her—and she would not be able to endure it.

Liand, Pahni, and Bhapa stared at her openly. Mahrtiir’s stiffness suggested surprise. Apparently they had not thought so far ahead: they had focused their attention on the hazards of Linden’s journey rather than on its outcome. Only Stave betrayed no reaction. He may have recognised her need to avoid the enmity of the Humbled.

Surely Galt, Branl, and Clyme would not have left the glade if Stave had not agreed to let them hear what he heard?

“You prick my curiosity,” remarked Coldspray, poised and casual, like a woman ready to strike. “Do you seek to encourage our doubts? Is that your intention here?”

In spite of his gag, Longwrath fought to make himself heard. Linden was sure that he wanted to howl, Slay her!

How quickly, she wondered, could the Ironhand reach her glaive? Coldspray would not need it. None of the Swordmainnir would need their weapons. Linden was too small; too human. Any blow of their heavy fists would kill her.

Trust yourself. The Giants of the Search had become her friends long before the Haruchai had learned to respect her.

“Yes,” she answered as firmly as she could. “I need you to doubt me. If you don’t decide to help me for your own reasons instead of for mine, I’m doomed anyway. I don’t know how else to explain it. This is as close as I can come to the truth,” as close as she could afford to come. “I’ve told you what I want to accomplish. If you aren’t satisfied, you should walk away.”

Coldspray considered Linden for a long moment while Longwrath writhed in protest and stars thronged the cold sky. One by one, the Ironhand looked into the eyes of each of her comrades. In the moving shadows spread by the fire, some of them appeared to glower. Others grimaced.

Then she cocked her fists on her hips, threw back her head, and began to laugh.

Her laughter was as rich and open-throated as an act of defiance. At first, Linden heard strain in it, effort and constriction: a difficult choice rather than humour. Almost at once, however, two or three and then more of the other Giants joined her; and her laughing loosened until it became untroubled mirth, full of gladness and freedom. Soon all of the Swordmainnir laughed with her, and their voices reached the heavens.

Liand laughed as well, as if he had been released from his cares. Pahni and Bhapa smiled broadly, and Mahrtiir grinned below his bandage. Anele stroked the smooth stone of Coldspray armour and crooned as though he were being cradled. For a time, Longwrath ceased his struggles: his gagged rage fell silent. Stave surveyed them all impassively; but the firelight in his eye hinted at relief.

Linden, too, would have laughed, if she could. The unfettered pleasure of the Giants reassured her. But she did not know what it meant.

Gradually Rime Coldspray subsided. Still chuckling, she said, “Stone and Sea! We are Giants indeed. Though we live and die, we change as little as the permanence that we adore. In spite of our many centuries, we have not yet learned to be other than we are.

“After our children,” she continued, speaking more directly to Linden. “tales are our greatest treasures. But there can be no story without hazard and daring, fortitude and uncertainty. Events and deeds which lack peril seldom enthrall. And joy is in the ears that hear, not in the mouth that speaks. Already you have supplied our most exigent need. You have allowed us to see that our seemingly lost and aimless voyages in Longwrath’s name are but the prelude to a far larger tale.

“Linden Avery,” she proclaimed while her comrades went on laughing, “it is enough. Seeking the import of our many labors, we will accompany you. If Stave of the Haruchai stands at your side, joined by the courteous and considerate Ramen—and likewise this wide-eyed Stonedownor and the anguished son of Sunder and Hollian—the Swordmainnir can do no less. Indeed, I name you Giantfriend, both for your known love toward the Giants of the Search, and in token of our own esteem.

“I have spoken.” Chuckling again, she asked, “Does our doubt content you? Will you now accept our comradeship, come good or ill, joy or woe?”

At Coldspray’s words, some of the fear lifted from Linden’s heart. Although she could not laugh, she smiled warmly. “Thank you. The First and Pitchwife would be so proud—” The Giants may have had few children—too few—but they bred true. That was their birthright. “Meeting you is the best thing that’s happened to us since we left Revelstone.”

Her voice broke as she finished. “God, I’ve missed you.”

She believed now that none of her many enemies would be able to prevent her from reaching the Hills of Andelain.