The two stood before the Lords, the woman clutching the child's unresponsive hand. The boy gazed incuriously about him, but did not notice faces or react to voices. When his hand slipped from the woman's, his arm fell limply to his side; he neither resisted nor complied when she snatched it up again. His unfocused eyes seemed preternaturally dark, as if they were full of black blood.
The sight of him jabbed Covenant. The boy could have been the future of his own son, Roger- the son of whom he had been dispossessed, reft as if even his fatherhood had been abrogated by leprosy. Children! Foul? he panted. Children?
As if in oblique answer to his thoughts, the woman suddenly said, “He is Pietten son of Soranal. He likes the horses.”
“It is true,” one of the scouts responded. “He rode before me and stroked the Ranyhyn's neck.”
But Covenant was not listening. He was looking at the woman. Confusedly, he sorted through the battle wreckage of her face, the cuts and burns and grime and bruises. Then he said hesitantly, “Llaura?”
The sun was setting, but there was no sunset. Clouds blanked the horizon, and a short twilight was turning rapidly into night. But as the sun fell, the air became thicker and more sultry, as if the darkness were sweating in apprehension.
“Yes, I know you,” the woman said in a flagellated voice. “You are Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder. In the semblance of Berek Halfhand. Jehannum spoke truth. Great evil has come.” She articulated with extreme care, as if she were trying to balance her words on the edge of a sword. “I am Llaura daughter of Annamar, of the Heers of Soaring Woodhelven. Our scouts must have been slain. We had no warning. Be-”
But as she tried to say the words, her balance failed, and she collapsed into a hoarse, repeating moan- “Uhn, uhn, uhn, uhn-” as if the connection between her brain and her throat broke, leaving her struggling frantically with her inability to speak. Her eyes burned with furious concentration, and her head shook as she tried to form words. But nothing came between her juddering lips except, “Uhn, uhn, uhn.”
The Bloodguard scout said, “So she was when we found her. At one moment, she can speak. A moment later, she cannot.”
Hearing this, Llaura clenched herself violently and pushed down her hysteria, rejecting what the scout said. “I am Llaura,” she repeated, “Llaura- of the Heers of Soaring Woodhelven. Our scouts must have been slain. I am Llaura, I am Llaura,” she insisted. “Beware-” Again her voice broke into moaning, “Uhn, uhn.”
Her panic mounted. “Be- uhn, uhn, uhn. Be- uhn, uhn. I am Llaura. You are the Lords. You must I- uhn, uhn. Amb- uhn, uhn, uhn.” As she fought, Covenant glanced around the company. Everyone was staring intently at Llaura, and Variol and Tamarantha had tears in their eyes. “Somebody do something,” he muttered painfully. “Somebody.”
Abruptly, Llaura seemed to collapse. Clutching her throat with her free hand, she shrieked, “You must hear me!” and started to fall.
As. her knees gave way, Prothall stepped forward and caught her. With fierce strength, he gripped her upper arms and held her erect before him. “Stop,” he commanded. “Stop. Do not speak anymore. Listen, and use your head to answer me.”
A look of hope flared across Llaura's eyes, and she relaxed until Prothall set her on her feet. Then she regained the child's hand.
“Now,” the High Lord said levelly, staring deep into her ravaged eyes. “You are not mad. Your mind is clear. Something has been done to you.”
Llaura nodded eagerly,
Yes
.
“When your people attempted to escape, you were captured.”
She nodded,
Yes
.
“You and the child.”
Yes
.
“And something was done to him as well?”
Yes
.
“Do you know what it was?”
She shook her head,
No
.
“Was the same done to you both?”
No
.
“Well,” Prothall sighed. “Both were captured instead of slain. And the ur-vile loremaster afflicted you.”
Llaura nodded,
Yes
, shuddering.
“Damaged you.”
Yes
.
“Caused the difficulty that you now have when you speak.”
Yes!
“Now your ability to speak comes and goes.”
No!
“No?”
Prothall paused to consider for a moment, and Covenant interjected, “Hellfire! Get her to write it down.”
Llaura shook her head, raised her free hand. It trembled uncontrollably.
Abruptly, Prothall said, “Then there are certain things that you cannot say.”
Yes!
“There is something that the attackers do not wish you to speak.”
Yes!
“Then-” The High Lord hesitated as if he could hardly believe his thoughts. “Then the attackers knew that you would be found- by us or others who came too late to the aid of Soaring Woodhelven.”
Yes!
“Therefore you fled south, toward Banyan Woodhelven and the Southron Stonedowns.”
She nodded, but her manner seemed to indicate that he had missed the point.
Observing her, he muttered, “By the Seven! This cannot do. Such questioning requires time, and my heart tells me we have little. What has been done to the boy? How could the attackers know that we- or anyone- would come this way? What knowledge could she have? Knowledge that an ur-vile loremaster would fear to have told? No, we must find other means.”
At the edge of his sight, Covenant saw Variol and Tamarantha setting out their blankets near the campfire. Their action startled him away from Llaura for a moment. Their eyes held a sad and curiously secret look. He could not fathom it, but for some reason it reminded him that they had known what Prothall's decision for the Quest would lie before that decision was made.
“High Lord,” said Birinair stiffly.
Concentrating on Llaura, Prothall replied, “Yes?”
“That young whelp of a Gravelingas, Tohrm, gave me a
rhadhamaerl
gift. I almost thought he mocked me. Laughed because I am not a puppy like himself. It was hurtloam.”
“Hurtloam?” Prothall echoed in surprise. “You have some?”
“Have it? Of course. No fool, you know. I keep it moist. Tohrm tried to teach me. As if I knew nothing.”
Mastering his impatience, Prothall said, “Please bring it.”
A moment later, Birinair handed to the High Lord a small stoneware pot full of the damp, glittering clay- hurtloam. “Watch out,” Covenant murmured with complex memories in his voice, “it'll put her to sleep.” But Prothall did not hesitate. In darkness lit only by Birinair's
lillianrill
fire and the last coals of the riven tree, he scooped out some of the hurtloam. Its golden flecks caught the firelight and gleamed. Tenderly, he spread the mud across Llaura's forehead, cheeks, and throat.
Covenant was marginally aware that Lord Mhoram no longer attended Prothall and Llaura. He had joined Variol and Tamarantha, and appeared to be arguing with them. They lay side by side on their backs, holding hands, and he stood over them as if he were trying to ward off a shadow. But they were unmoved. Through his protests, Tamarantha said softly, “It is better thus, my son.” And Variol murmured, “Poor Llaura. This is all we can do.”
Covenant snapped a look around the company. The warriors seemed entranced by the questioning of the Heer, but Foamfollower's cavernous eyes flicked without specific focus over the glade as if they were weaving dangerous visions. Covenant turned back toward Llaura with an ominous chill scrabbling along his spine.
The first touch of the hurtloam only multiplied her distress. Her face tightened in torment, and a rictus like a foretaste of death stretched her lips into a soundless scream. But then a harsh convulsion shook her, and the crisis passed. She fell to her knees and wept with relief as if a knife had been removed from her mind.
Prothall knelt beside her and clasped her in the solace of his arms, waiting without a word for her self-control to return. She needed a moment to put aside her weeping. Then she snatched herself up, crying, “Flee! You must flee! This is an ambush! You are trapped!”
But her warning came too late. At the same moment, Tuvor returned from his lookout at a run, followed almost at once by the other Bloodguard. “Prepare for attack,” the First Mark said flatly. “We are surrounded. The Ranyhyn were cut off, and could not warn us. There will be battle. We have only time to prepare.”
Covenant could not grasp the immediacy of what he heard. Prothall barked orders; the camp began to clear. Warriors and Bloodguard dove into the still empty trenches, hid themselves in the hollow base of the tree. “Leave the horses,” Tuvor commanded. “The Ranyhyn will break through to protect them if it is possible.” Prothall consigned Llaura and the child to Foamfollower, who placed them alone in a grave and covered them with the iron plate. Then Prothall and Mhoram jumped together into the southmost trench. But Covenant stood where he was. Vaguely, he watched Birinair reduce the campfire to its barest embers, then position himself against the burned trunk of the tree. Covenant needed time to comprehend what had been done to Llaura. Her plight numbed him.
First she had been given knowledge which might have saved the Lords- and then she had been made unable to communicate that knowledge. And her struggles to give the warning only ensured her failure by guaranteeing that the Lords would attempt to understand her rather than ride away. Yet what had been done to her was unnecessary, gratuitous; the trap would have succeeded without it. In every facet of her misery, Covenant could hear Lord Foul laughing.
Bannor's touch on his shoulder jarred him. The Bloodguard said as evenly as if he were announcing the time of day, “Come, ur-Lord. You must conceal yourself. It is necessary.”
Necessary? Silently, Covenant began to shout,
Do you know what he did to her?
But when he turned, he saw Variol and Tamarantha still lying by the last embers of the fire, protected by only two Bloodguard. What-? he gaped. They'll be killed!
At the same time, another part of his brain insisted, He's doing the same thing to me. Exactly the same thing. To Bannor he groaned, “Don't touch me. Hellfire and bloody damnation. Aren't you ever going to learn?”
Without hesitation, Bannor lifted Covenant, swung him around, and dropped him into one of the trenches. There was hardly room for him; Foamfollower filled the rest of the grave, squatting to keep his head down. But Bannor squeezed into the trench after Covenant, positioned himself with his arms free over the Unbeliever.
Then a silence full of the aches and quavers of fear fell over the camp. At last, the apprehension of the attack caught up with Covenant. His heart lurched; sweat bled from his forehead; his nerves shrilled as if they had been laid bare. A grey nausea that filled his throat like dirt almost made him gag. He tried to swallow it away, and could not. No! he panted. Not like this. I will not!
Exactly the same, exactly what happened to Llaura.
A hungry shriek ripped the air. After it came the tramp of approach. Covenant risked a glance over the rim of the grave, and saw the glade surrounded by black forms and hot laval eyes. They moved slowly, giving the encamped figures a chance to taste their own end. And flapping heavily overhead just behind the advancing line was the dark shape of a beast.
Covenant recoiled. In fear, he watched the attack like an outcast, from a distance.
As the Cavewights and ur-viles contracted their ring around the glad centred their attack on the helpless campsite the wall of them thickened, reducing at every step the chance that the company might be able to break through their ranks. Slowly their approach became louder; they stamped the ground as if they were trying to crush the grass. And a low wind of mutterings became audible- soft snarls, hissings through clenched teeth, gurgling, gleeful salivations- blew over the graves like an exhalation littered with the wreckage of mangled lives. The Cavewights gasped like lunatics tortured into a love of killing; the nasal sensing of the ur-viles sibilated wetly. And behind the other sounds, terrible in their quietness, came the wings of a grin, drumming a dirge.
The tethered horses began to scream. The stark terror of the sound pulled Covenant up, and he looked long enough to see that the mustangs were not harmed. The tightening ring parted to bypass them, and a few Cavewights dropped from the attack to unfetter them, lead them away. The horses fought hysterically, but the strength of the Cavewights mastered them.
Then the attackers were less than a hundred feet from the graves. Covenant cowered down as far as he could. He hardly dared to breathe. The whole company was helpless in the trenches.
The next, moment, a howl went up among the attackers. Several Cavewights cried, “Only five?”
“All those horses?”