Roger would have been beaten to pulp if he had not turned all of his scoria and wrath against the Sandgorgons. Their blunt arms and pulverising might would have left no recognisable remains of his ordinary flesh.
Moksha Jehannum lashed the kresh to frothing madness; but the Raver eluded Linden. It was here and there throughout the pack, mastering the wolves, transmuting their natural fear of fire into ferocity. She feared that moksha would attempt to escape her by possessing one of the Woodhelvennin, forcing her to slay an innocent victim if she wished to harm the Raver. Therefore she wielded her fire like devastation, taking care only that she did not harm any human or Haruchai or Ranyhyn.
On one side of her, the brightness of Liand’s Sunstone dazzled the kresh so that they gnashed and tore at each other blindly. On the other, Stave rode Hynyn and let the roan stallion fight for him while he watched over Linden. Behind them, Pahni clung to Anele with one hand, supporting him, keeping him close to her, while she used her garrote to whip away any wolf that sprang for Hrama or Naharahn.
Suddenly Stave reached down to snatch a Master out of a raging mass of wolves. Hynyn hammered with his hooves at the skulls and spines of kresh as Stave swung the Haruchai up behind him. The Master was badly rent, bleeding from many grim bites and gouges; but as soon as he settled himself against Stave’s back, he kicked at every wolf that came within reach.
Of the other Master, Linden saw no sign. She did not know if Mahrtiir, Bhapa, the Humbled, or any of their mounts remained alive. But the villagers were behind her now, and she did not permit any kind of fear to inhibit her scouring flame.
Nevertheless, on some subcutaneous level of perception, she recognised that the Cavewights were being decimated. She felt them break as they died, shattered by the tremendous force of the Sandgorgons. And she sensed the precise instant when Roger’s rage and frustration turned to terror. He burned the Sandgorgons until their hides bubbled and the bubbles burst, spilling viscid blood that stank of dire vitality; but he could not stop them.
He was about to meet the same doom which had fallen on his army: Linden knew that. But she did not pause to watch him fight for his life. She was too busy killing. Too busy searching for the Raver so that she could at least try to unmake Lord Foul’s ancient servant.
And she was nearing the outermost limits of her own endurance.
Gradually she began to flicker and fail. Consumed by the struggle to keep going-to seek moksha Jehannum with percipience and fire-she did not see Roger call the few remaining Cavewights to him, leap onto one of their backs, and send them racing eastward away from the Sandgorgons.
With their long legs and their peculiar strength, the Cavewights ran as if they were as fleet as Ranyhyn. Perhaps the Sandgorgons could have caught them: the denizens of the Great Desert were also swift. But Roger had hurt all of the Sandgorgons to some extent. And he flung a terrible heat behind him as the Cavewights fled. The Sandgorgons did not give chase. Instead they began stamping to death any of their foes which they had merely crippled.
After Esmer’s disappearance, the ur-viles and Waynhim had slipped away, vanishing as imperceptibly as they had appeared.
When finally the last two or three dozen wolves turned to flee, moksha Raver escaped among them, untouched by her flagging vehemence. Within moments, they had crossed the brook northward.
She wanted to pursue them; to go on raining down fire until she reached the Raver itself. But she could not. As the kresh fled, something within her broke, and she lost her grasp on Earthpower. Her flames guttered and faded in the dust of battle; the dust and the tarnished sunlight.
She had already gone too far beyond herself. She did not know how to go farther.
Chapter Seven: An Aftertaste of Victory
In spite of her exhaustion and dismay, Linden tried to keep moving. But she was numb with killing; too profoundly weary to consider what she did. She did not go in search of her friends. She did not ask what had become of them. Instead, trembling, she fell back on years of training and experience: triage, trauma, emergency care. Her depleted spirit she focused on the needs directly in front of her.
Mutely she asked Hyn to bear her among the nearest of the fallen Woodhelvennin.
Some were dead. She ignored them. And some were so close to death that no power of hers would save them. She ignored them as well. But when she found a toddler clutched in his mother’s arms, both savagely mauled, and both still clinging to life, she dropped down from Hyn’s back, knelt beside them, and reached far inside herself to uncover a few faint embers of resolve.
As much as she could, Linden gave herself to the woman and her child.
I am able to convey you to your son.
After a few moments of Earthpower, the woman opened her eyes, gazed about her with dumb incomprehension. The toddler recovered enough to wail.
Linden looked to Hyn again.
The mare stood over a man whose right leg had been nearly severed. Terrible chunks had been ripped from his sides. But he, too, clung to life. Staggering toward him, Linden blessed or cursed him with frail flames until he began to feel his own agony, and she believed that he might live. Then she let Hyn guide her to another breathing victim of the kresh.
As she moved, stumbling, she passed the body of a Master. His flesh was a killing field, torn and bitten almost beyond recognition. Dead wolves were piled around him, blood seeping from their corpses to mingle with his and stain the churned soil. They were his legacy of service to the Land.
Hyn indicated an old couple who had fled holding hands. After they had fallen, they had continued to clasp each other as though that touch might keep them alive. Linden heard blood in their breathing, saw long gashes in their limbs and torsos. She would have passed them by, convinced that they could not be saved; but Hyn seemed to insist. Obediently Linden braced the Staff between them and dripped fire into them like a transfusion. The world tilted around her while she waited for some sign that she had not failed.
She was not the woman she had once been, the healer who had rushed headlong into Berek Halfhand’s camp. Her battle under Melenkurion Skyweir had changed her. And here she had expended herself in bloodshed; drenched herself in it. She no longer knew what she meant when she called herself a physician.
Nevertheless the old man eventually lifted his head, coughing blood as he looked toward his companion. His wife? Linden did not know. But the woman stirred; tightened her grip on the old man’s hand. Seeing her move, feeling her grasp, he smiled as if he no longer feared the consequences of his wounds.
— to convey you-
Weakly Linden reached into her pocket for the twisted remains of Jeremiah’s red racecar. She closed her fingers on it, drew it out to look at it. Then she let the tilting earth lower her to the ground. Hardly conscious that she sat on a dying wolf, she peered at Jeremiah’s ruined toy. It was all that she had left of him; and her heart had become stone.
— to your son.
The Harrow had destroyed ur-viles and Waynhim. More had been killed by the Cavewights. The Sandgorgons may have slain still more as they rampaged among Roger’s army. She had made a promise to the Demondim-spawn. Now many of them were dead.