Durhisitar put its cut upon Covenant's. More might surged into him. He felt abruptly giddy with energy, capable of anything, everything. His incision absorbed durhisitar's blood. When the creature stepped back, he could hardly hold himself still for the next Waynhim.
Only after the third infusion did he realize that he was receiving something more than power. Dhraga he had recognized by its injuries-but how had he known durhisitar? He had never looked closely at that particular Waynhim. Yet he had known it by name, just as he knew the third Waynhim, dhubha, and the fourth, vraith. He felt ecstatic with knowledge.
Drhami was fifth; ghohritsar, sixth. He was dancing with uncontainable might. Hamako's knuckles whitened; but his grip had the weight of a feather. Covenant had to leash himself firmly to keep from exploding free and cavorting around the ruins like a wild man. The range of his hearing had become so wide that he could hardly distinguish words spoken nearby.
Hamako was saying, “-remember your companions. Waste not this power. While it remains, stop for neither night nor doom.”
Ghramin.
Covenant felt as colossal as Gravin Threndor, as mighty as Fire-Lions. He felt that he could crush boulders in his arms, destroy Ravers with his hands.
Dhurng: eighth and last.
Hamako snatched back his hand as if the power in Covenant burned him. “Go now!” he cried. “Go for Land and Law, and may no malison prevail against you!”
Covenant threw back his head, gave a shout that seemed to echo for leagues:
“Linden!”
Swinging around to the north-west, he released the flood-fire of his given strength and erupted, running toward Revelstone like a coruscation in the air.
Seventeen: Blood-speed
THE sun ascended, brown-mantled and potent, sucking the moisture of life from the Land. Heat pressed down like the weight of all the sky. Bare ground was baked as hard as travertine. Loose dirt became dust and dust became powder until brown clogged the air and every surface gave off clouds like dead steam. Chimeras roamed the horizons, avatars of the Sunbane. The Centre Plains lay featureless and unaneled under the bale of that sun.
But Waynhim strength was glee in Covenant's veins. Running easily, swiftly, he could not have stopped, even by choice; his muscles thronged with power; gaiety exalted his heart; his speed was delicious to him. Without exertion, he ran like the Ranyhyn.
His progress he measured on a map in his mind-names of regions so dimly remembered that he could no longer identify when he had first heard them.
Across the wide wilderland of Windscour: eleven leagues. Through the ragged hills of Kurash Festillin: three leagues.
By noon he had settled into a long, fast stride, devouring distance as if his appetite for it were insatiable. Fortified by vitrim and power, he was immune to heat, dust, hallucination.
Yet Vain followed as if the Demondim-Spawn had been made for such swiftness. He ran the leagues lightly, and the ground seemed to leap from under his feet.
Along the breadth of Victuallin Tayne, where in ancient centuries great crops had flourished: ten leagues. Up the long stone rise of Greshas Slant to higher ground: two leagues. Around the dry hollow of Lake Pelluce in the centre of Andelainscion, olden fruiterer to the Land: five leagues.
Covenant moved like a dream of strength. He had no sense of time, of strides measured by sweat and effort. The Waynhim had borne the cost of this power for him, and he was free to run and run. When evening came upon him, he feared he would have to slacken his pace; but he did not. Stars burnished the crisp desert night, and the moon rose half full, shedding silver over the waste. Without hesitation or hindrance, he told out the dark in names.
Across the Centerpith Barrens: fourteen leagues. Down the Fields of Richloam, Sunbane-ruined treasure of the Plains: six leagues. Up through the jagged ridges of Emacrimma's Maw: three leagues. Along Boulder Fash, strewn with confusion like the wreckage of a mountain: ten leagues.
The night unfurled like an oriflamme: it snapped open over the Plains, and snapped away; and he went on running through the dawn. Outdistancing moon and stars, he caught the sunrise in the dry watercourse of the Soulsease River, fivescore leagues and more from Stonemight Woodhelven. Speed was as precious to him as a heart-gift. With Vain always at his back, he sipped vitrim and left the Soulsease behind, left the Centre Plains behind to run and run, northwest toward Revelstone.
Over the open flat of Riversward: five leagues. Through the fens of Graywightswath, which the desert sun made traversable: nine leagues. Up the rocks of the Bandsoil Bounds: three leagues.
Now the sun was overhead, and at last he came to the end of his exaltation. His eldritch strength did not fail-not yet-but he began to see that it would fail. The knowledge gave him a pang of loss. Consciously, he increased his pace, trying to squeeze as many leagues as possible from the gift of Bamako's rhysh.
Across the rolling width of Riddenstretch: twelve leagues.
Gradually his mortality returned. He had to exert effort now to maintain his speed. His throat ached on the dust.
Among the gentle hills, smooth as a soft-rumpled mantle, of Consecear Redoin: seven leagues.
As the last rays of sunset spread from the Westron Mountains, he went running out of the hills, stumbled and gasped-and the power was gone. He was mortal again. The air rasped his lungs as he heaved for breath.
For a while, he rested on the ground, lay panting until his respiration eased. Mutely, he searched Vain for some sign of fatigue; but the Demondim-spawn's black flesh was vague in the gloaming, and nothing could touch him. After a time, Covenant took two swallows from his dwindling vitrim, and started walking.
He did not know how much time he had gained; but it was enough to renew his hope. Were his companions two days ahead of him? Three? He could believe that the Clave might not harm them for two or three days. If he met no more delays -
He went briskly on his way, intending to walk through the night. He needed sleep; but his body felt less tired than it usually did after a hike of five leagues. Even his feet did not hurt. The power and the vitrim of the Waynhim had sustained him wondrously. With the sharpness of the air to keep him alert, he expected to cover some distance before he had to rest.
But within a league he caught sight of a fire burning off to the left ahead of him.
He could have bypassed it; he was far enough from it for that. But after a moment he shrugged grimly and started toward the fire. His involuntary hope that he had caught up with his friends demanded an answer. And if this light represented a menace, he did not want to put it behind him until he knew what it was.
Creeping over the hard uneven ground, he crouched forward until he could make out details.
The light came from a simple campfire. A few pieces of wood burned brightly. A bundle of faggots lay near three large sacks.
Across the fire sat a lone figure in a vivid red robe. The hood of the robe had been pushed back, revealing the lined face and grey-raddled hair of a middle-aged woman. Something black was draped around her neck.
She triggered an obscure memory in Covenant. He felt he had seen someone like her before, but could not recollect where or when. Then she moved her hands, and he saw that she held a short iron sceptre with an open triangle affixed to its end. Curses crowded against his teeth. He identified her from Linden's description of the Rider at Crystal Stonedown.