But then another explanation occurred to him. At one time, the Despiser had given each of his Ravers a piece of the Stone. One of these Ravers had marched to do battle against the Lords, and had been met here, at the southwest corner of Andelain-met and held for several days. Perhaps in that conflict a flake of the Raver's Stone had fallen undetected among the hills, and had remained there, exerting its spontaneous desecration, until some unhappy Woodhelvennin had stumbled across it.
But that did not matter now. A Rider had taken the Stonemight. To Revelstone. Suddenly, Covenant knew that he had to live, had to reach Revelstone. To complete the destruction of the Illearth Stone. So that his past pain and Foamfollower's death would not have been for nothing.
The Graveller was sobbing avidly, “May they rot!” She clenched the haft of her knife like a spike. “Be damned to interminable torment for bereaving me! I curse them from the depths of my heart and the abyss of my anguish!” She jerked the knife above her head. The blade glinted keen and evil in the desert sun. She had lost all awareness of Covenant; her gaze was bent inward on a savage vision of the Clave. “I will slay you all!”
Covenant's shout tore his throat. In horror and desperation, he yelled, “Nekhrimah, Vain! Save me.”
The Graveller paid no heed. With the whole force of her body, she drove her knife at his chest.
But Vain moved. While the blade arced through its swing, he shrugged his arms free of the bindings.
He was too far away, too late-
From a distance of twenty paces, he closed his fist.
Her arms froze in mid-plunge. The knife tip strained at the centre of Covenant's shirt; but she could not complete the blow.
He watched wildly as Vain approached the Graveller. With the back of his hand, Vain struck her. She crumpled. Blood burst from her mouth. As it ran, she twitched once, then lay still.
Vain ignored her. He gestured at the post, and the wood sprang into splinters. Covenant fell; but Vain caught him, set him on his feet.
Covenant allowed himself no time to think. Shedding splinters and vines, he picked up the knife, thrust it into his belt. His arms felt ferocious with the return of circulation. His heart laboured acutely. But he forced himself forward. He knew that if he did not keep moving he would collapse in an outrage of reaction. He strode among the paralyzed Woodhelvennin back into the village, and entered the first large house he reached.
His eyes took a moment to pierce the dimness. Then he made out the interior of the room. The things he sought hung on the walls: a woven-vine sack of bread, a leather pouch containing some kind of liquid. He had taken them before he noticed a woman sitting in one of the corners. She held herself small and still in an effort to protect the baby sucking at her breast. He unstopped the pouch and swallowed deeply. The liquid had a cloying taste, but it washed some of the gall from his throat. Roughly, he addressed the woman. “What is it?”
In a tiny voice, she answered, “Metheglin”
“Good.” He went to the door, then halted to rasp at her, “Listen to me. This world's going to change. Not just here-not just because you lost your bloody Stonemight. The whole Land is going to be different. You've got to learn to live like human beings. Without all this sick killing.”
As he left the house, the baby started crying.
Fourteen: Pursuit
HE moved brusquely among the stupefied Woodhelvennin. The baby's crying was like a spur in the air; the men and women began to shift, blink their eyes, glance around. In moments, they would recover enough to act. As he reached Vain, he muttered, “Come on. Let's get out of here,” and strode away toward the north end of the canyon.
Vain followed.
The sunrise lit Covenant's path. The canyon lay crookedly beyond him, and its rims began to draw together, narrowing until it was little more than a deep sheer ravine. He marched there without a backward look, clinched by the old intransigent stricture of his illness. His friends were already two days ahead of him, and travelling swiftly.
Shouts started to echo along the walls: anger, fear, loss. But he did not falter. Borne on the back of a Courser, Linden and the two Stonedownors might easily reach Revelstone ten days before him. He could conceive of no way to catch up with them in time to do them any good. But leprosy was also a form of despair for which there was no earthly cure; and he had learned to endure it, to make a life for himself in spite of it, by stationing himself in the eye of the paradox, affirming the acceptable humanity of all the contradictions-and by locking his soul in the most rigid possible discipline. The same resources enabled him to face the futile pursuit of his friends.
And he had one scant reason for hope. The Clave had decreed his death, not Linden's, Sunder's, Hollian's. Perhaps his companions would be spared, held hostage, so that they could be used against him. Like Joan. He clung to that thought, and strode down the narrowing canyon to the tight beat of his will.
The shouts rose to a crescendo, then stopped abruptly. In the frenzy of their loss, some of the Woodhelvennin set out after him. But he did not look back, did not alter his pace. The canyon was constricted enough now to prevent his pursuers from reaching him without first passing Vain. He trusted that the Demondim-spawn would prove too intimidating for the Woodhelvennin.
Moments later, he heard bare feet slapping stone, echoing. Apprehension knotted his shoulders. To ease himself, he attempted a bluff. “Vain!” he shouted without turning his head. “Kill the first one who tries to get past you!” His words danced between the walls like a threat of murder.
But the runners did not hesitate. They were like their Graveller, addicts of the Illearth Stone; violence was their only answer to loss. Their savage cries told Covenant that they were berserk.
The next instant, one of them screamed hideously. The others scrambled to a halt.
Covenant whirled.
Vain stood facing the Woodhelvennin-five of them, the nearest still ten paces away. That man knelt with his back arched and straining, black agony in his face. Vain clenched his fist toward the man. With a wrench, he burst the man's heart.
“Vain!” Covenant yelled. “Don't-! I didn't mean it!”
The next Woodhelvennin was fifteen paces away. Vain made a clawing gesture. The man's face, the whole front of his skull, tore open, spilling brains and gore across the stone.
“Vain!”
But Vain had not yet satisfied Covenant's command. Knees slightly bent, he confronted the three remaining men. Covenant howled at them to flee; but the berserkergang was on them, and they could not flee. Together, they hurled themselves at Vain.
He swept them into his embrace, and began to crush them with his arms.
Covenant leaped at Vain's back. “Stop!” He strove to pry Vain's head back, force him to ease his grip. “You don't have to do this!” But Vain was granite and unreachable. He squeezed until the men lost the power to scream, to breathe. Their ribs broke like wet twigs. Covenant pounded his fury at the Demondim-spawn; but Vain did not release the men until they were dead.
Then in panic Covenant saw a crowd of Woodhelvennin surging toward him. “No!” he cried, “get back!” and the echoes ran like terror down the canyon. But the people did not stop.
He could not think of anything else to do. He left Vain and fled. The only way he could prevent Vain from butchering more people was by saving himself, completing the command. Desperately, he dashed away, running like the virulence of his curses.