The Last Quest of Lord Mhoram
Posted: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
Well, I have decide to rekindle that old story and old topic and post what is ready of the story again. Beware, it will be quite long for a post!
I am doing this for two reasons:
- maybe seeing it here I will be able to get the willforce and inspiration again to continue again...
- and I want to make this story open! so anybody who thinks she/he can contribute to the story, please do not hesitate! Let's make this into a huge KW-project!
Now for the actual text:
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LORD MHORAM’S LAST QUEST
Lord Mhoram had no intent to go on a quest at all. All he knew he was getting restless - he had no inkling why, though. Was he not happy? Revelstone was thriving around him. The Land was thriving around him. The barren, stricken soil of the Centre Plains was fertile again, the fruit gardens of Trothgard yielded more fruit than the people of the Land could stomach. How could he not be happy?
And yet he was a man ho had faced Desecration and refrained from it. He had confronted the fear of the Despiser and had won. He had killed samadhi Sheol as much as a Raver could be killed, severing the lines that had held his ugly soul together with his krill.
Moreover, he had lost his dreams. His precious, torturing, oraculous dreams. He was no longer a seer and oracle - was he a Lord still? When he awoke in the night smelling Lord-fire in the air of his cubicle, sweating, he could hardly tell. All he knew was that he missed his friends - Bannor the Bloodguard, Saltheart Foamfollower the Giant. And Thomas Covenant, who had brought ruin and hope together to the Land, ice and fire, despair and victory.
How could he be happy?
The weight of several thousand tons of stone of Revelstone seemed to loom over him day and night, putting so much weight on his chest he could barely breathe sometimes.
So when the invitation came to visit Druiden Stonedown down in the southern part of the Centre Plains and to attend the wedding of Molden, son of Grorm, the Gravelingas of the stonedown, his relief was so huge he had to go up to the Upper Plateau over Revelstone and immerse himself in the icy waters of Glimmermere to ease the burning inside him.
And then he was gone.
It was only when the silhouette of Revelstone's proud mass began to fade in the distance that Lord Mhoram started to feel a semblance of his earlier strength creeping back into the muscles of his legs, the remnants of the long, essentially idle weeks (months? years?) in that ancient fortification carved into the jutting promontory of the plateau above. It was too long, he mused to himself, too long. I am losing something, or have I lost it already? And it is not only strength - that is easily regainable -, it is something else. A feeling of connection.
He decided to walk all the way to Druiden Stonedown alone. Partly because he wanted to get as close to the Land again, as he had been in the old days; partly because he wanted to think, far from the burdens of the everyday life in Revelstone; and partly because... well, because he did not want to ride a horse. Drynny was no more. The Ranyhyn had gone. And since that day when the firm sound of the great horses' hooves finally faded away among the sounds of the nightfall ha has developed an ever-growing distrust of the ordinary horses that remained after the Great Siege of Revelstone. He found himself riding less and less, as if the saddles had become uncomfortable for him and the distance from the ground dangerous: he never felt such a thing on the back of Drynny. Maybe he was becoming to resemble Thomas Covenant - he remembered his friends' fear of heights and distrust of horses vividly. Am I becoming like him? he asked himself, leaning against the trunk of a Gilden on the second evening of his journey. Is disbelief creeping into my soul, too? Am I becoming an Unbeliever without the wild magic to support my unbelief? But then he thought of the Ritual of Desecration - in all the Land he was still the most capable person of evoking that cataclysm and the most capable of resisting despair leading to desecration. Maybe they were not so different after all, he, Lord Mhoram, High Lord by the decision of the Council, and Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and White Gold Wielder, Saviour of the Land against his own will. He did not know if it was praise or a curse.
The next morning he toyed with the idea of first going to Revelwood and stay there for a few days. But then, as he set his feet again on the ancient path and resumed his long stride he dismissed the idea. Revelwood was bliss for the heart, a gift for the mind, a warm welcome to the soul: but he needed solitude now. He needed an opportunity to think; to attune his whole being to the Land, to the Earthpower again, so that he could remember what it meant to be a Lord. So he crossed the Soulsease river many leagues to the east from Trothgard and tried to retain his more or less straight route toward the northern edge of Garroting Deep, where Druiden Stonedown lay. He avoided stonedowns, avoided woodhelvens, spent his nights in waymeets or simply among the gnarled roots of some old tree, and he went. In some moments he thought he would give up and turn back, go back to his cosy and essentially futile life in Revelstone; he thought that his bristle old bones could simply snap at any moment or his weary muscles would abandon themselves to fatigue and simply let his body slip to the ground and lie there until somebody came and found him dead or alive; but in the next moment that human, crooked smile returned to his lips and he resumed his walk almost as if he was happy of the prospect of walking another ten leagues that day. And in the nights he was staring long into the abyss between the stars and tried to find his dreams there, his torturing, oraculous dreams that had been gone and had left an ache in his soul without the reprieve of knowledge.
And so it was after about thirty days of walking and dreaming dreamless dreams that Lord Mhoram caught the first glimpse of the grey masses of Druiden Stonedown.
It was a dark, cloudy night, with only faint glimpses of the moon and an occasional star in the rifts between the rolling cumuli up there. Lord Mhoram stood there among the deep shadows for quite a while, his right hand clutching the familiar smoothness of his staff so strongly that his knuckles almost shone in their whiteness. Some foreboding made his forehead gleaming with sweat. Suddenly he did not want to enter that rough circle of houses. He did not like the prospect of being an honourable at that wedding, sitting in the centre of proceedings, smiling benevolent and somewhat stupid smiles at everybody passing. Am I Lord Mhoram, or the icon of him?
Then his grip on his staff eased. Suddenly he remembered Thomas Covenant again. Move on. Find out what happens. Nothing can be worse than ignorance.
He approached the stonedown then, a bit cautiously, as if he were entering a grove full with Cavewights. He reached the first house, ran his fingers along the cool surface of the stone, drawing energy from the underlying inner structure of the mineral. Then he stepped inside the village.
It was deep night, so he did not find the utter silence surprising, though he had expected at least some movement, some signs of the preparations for the wedding due only two days later. At such a time, usually women were busy at nights preparing food for the family and guests attending. Girls would be sitting up late into the night making garlands and lamps and the lads would jest with the groom endlessly until dawn to prepare him for his long marriage. None of these was happening here. Maybe they grew tired of the preparations, maybe they decided to keep it simple, with only one really important guest: Mhoram himself. He did not know. He stepped into the rough circle the houses formed and stood there for a few moments, waiting.
The silence seemed to be so profound at first that his heart lurched and a droplet of sweat started to trickle down the midline of his nape, then his spine. Then he heard the moaning, faintly, as if from a great distance. In itself, it was even worse than the silence. He considered starting searching the houses for the source of that sound, for he could not even identify the direction it came from. Then a hand fell on his shoulder and he turned sharply.
An old man was standing in front of him, his hair white in the faint light filtering through the veil of clouds in the sky. He could not identify the colour of his tunic, but he seemed too tall for a stonedownor. A Woodhelvennin, then. Mhoram was perplexed. "What-", he began, his words harsh in his throat.
"High Lord!” the old man exploded, apparently more aware of the situation than Mhoram was. "At last! Maybe my vigil can end now!" He started to turn, as if eager to flee even from that little of light, but Mhoram stopped him. "What happened?” he demanded. "Where are the people?”
The old man flinched. "Not here!" he whispered over his shoulder. "He... he could hear us." And vanished into the nearest house. Mhoram followed immediately.
He found himself in the main room of the house, a single llomillialor rod burning its smokeless fire in a corner, casting long, waving shadows of the scant furniture pieces scattered in the room onto the floor. Mhoram's eyes rested a bit on this odd phenomenon, a llomillialor torch in a Stonedownor house, then directed his gaze to his host. The old man was already sitting at the table in the centre of the room, his face hidden in his palms, his head cocked, as if listening to what sounds could possibly filter through the heavy stone walls. Mhoram decided he would not hasten him. He sat down wearily at the other side of the table and waited for the older man to say something.
Finally he took his hands off his face and stared at Mhoram for a while, speechless.
"I am not even sure why I am still alive" he began. His voice sounded forlorn, soft gleams hinted at despair in his gaze. "After what he has done, I should be with the Dead, along with the others."
"Done?" Mhoram asked, his eyes resting on the other man's hands, writhing on the table. "Done what? Who?"
"He... he raves."
"Who?" Mhoram demanded, his intent, his will bent on the old man.
"Molden"
"The groom? Is he your son? What has he done?"
"No." the old man denied this vehemently. "I am... Woodhelvennin. Starlight Woodhelven. My daughter-" he broke off, started to raise his hands towards his face again, then dropped them down on the table, raising his eyes to Mhoram's face instead. "She was the bride. Behryll Molden-mate, that would be her name the day after tomorrow would she still roam the face of this world."
Mhoram was lost is surprise. A Stonedownor man marries a Woodhelvennin woman, something unheard of before. He had not known this, it had not been revealed to him, when he received those invitations to the wedding some months before. But he decided not to pursue this question for the moment, unnerving though it was. He had more immediate concerns at the moment.
He pulled out his staff and placed it in front of him on the tabletop, its smooth surface reassuring, its blunt ends promising solutions and answers to questions he could not even form yet. He gripped it, as if bracing himself for the onslaught of the inevitable bad news that had to follow, and asked again:
"What happened?"
"Forgive me, High Lord,” said the other man. "No distress can justify my discourtesy. I am Drylok, Hirebrand of Starlight Woodhelven, twenty leagues from here to the Southeast. Be welcome to Druiden Stonedown, High Lord, although I am sad that the task of welcoming you should fall on my shoulders, the most unworthy of all."
"What happened?" Mhoram asked for the third time now. "Where are the people of the village? Where are the guests?"
Drylok abruptly stood, turned away from the table, from Mhoram, and started to rummage among the stoneware pots lying on the shelves along the longer wall of the room. He settled on two sizeable stone cups, grabbed them with both hands, as if he tried to strangle them with his bare hands. He whirled then, one of the cups flying in a majestic arch over the room, breaking into rubble on the opposite wall, his palms not used to handle stone, more familiar with rough surface of the bark of a tree, the springiness of a bough.
"They fled!" he cried, his eyes, shining with shame, rage and despair, fixed on the remnants of the cup scattered on the floor, his knuckles white on the other cup. He slammed the cup on the table, almost shattering it, too. His eyes bore now into Mhoram's, forcing him to measure his distress. "At least, what little remained of them. They fled, Stonedownors and Woodhelvennin together, hand in hand, to hide their faces from the hideous prospect of being dispersed in the air like dew in the morning sun."
"Drylok. Hirebrand." Mhoram whispered, the sweat of his palms covering his staff. "This will avail nothing, if you carry on like this, torturing yourself. You are here, alive. That is something the others could not achieve. Consider this. And tell me what happened. I can help." What a fool I am, he thought, uttering reassurances like that! You are getting old, Mhoram, son of Variol. The rheum of your eyes distorts your vision of yourself.
Drylok then rose again, reached for another cup and a flask, set the former on the table in front of the High Lord, and poured some springwine into it, his hands still shaking.
"We were proud of them both" he began slowly, casting his words in front of Mhoram as if they were shards of a stoneware cup, icons of his failure, his futility. "Yes, we took great joy in them, young girl and young man, Woodhelvennin and Stonedownor, would-be Hirebrand and would-be Gravelingas, pearls in the eyes of their mothers, saplings full of life and Earthpower in the eyes of their fathers. Einna...my daughter, young in her years though she was, understood the heart of the wood, the soul of the forest no less than I, Hirebrand of my people. If I am still one, indeed" his voice trailed. His left hand left the cup, fluttered to his white unkempt beard, dropped again.
"And Molden" he resumed "is a worthy young man, worthy of any daughter of any man in the Land. Skilled in rock, skilled in stone, he was... is an adventurous man. He made journeys as far as Doriendor Corishev to find stones suitable for his lore. He was searching constantly, refining his soul and his knowledge every day. One day he returned thoroughly exhausted but shining with pride, claiming that he had ventured far up in the Westron Mountains because he had wanted to taste the air the Haruchai breathed."
His voice dropped for a minute, his palms resting on the surface of the table now.
"And then one week ago he returned from a journey which he had undertook to collect stones suitable for the stoneware if their future household, but he was ill then. Changed. Something happened."
Mhoram stared at him as if he told him Lord Foul had stumbled into the village on that sad afternoon.
"He was changed" Drylok repeated. "Some ill we did not know and if we had known wouldn't have dared to name was inside his body. He seemed rippling with it. Sweat was drenching his face, his clothes, he was shaking badly, and he could hardly walk. My daughter and I rushed to him and asked what happened but he seemed too weary to utter a word. So we supported him to the house we had been given as a dwelling place during the wedding ceremonies at the very edge of the village and lay him on a bed. But we could not succour him in any way. An untameable fever gripped him so strongly that no hurtloam or cold water could soften it a bit. He was almost translucent as he lay there shaking, and he seemed to be wriggling with fear and nervousness. And he did not say a word, though we showered our questions on him, anxious to get to the core of his ill somehow. And soon people from the village started to gather around his bed, waiting for news, trying to help somehow. His father, his mother and all the Elders of Druiden Stonedown stood there, debating over his illness, bringing forth ideas they deemed would be fruitful. Nothing helped, if anything, his state seemed to get worse and worse, his back sometimes arched so badly that we thought his bones would snap like a dry bough."
He sipped at his springwine, his own hands shaking so badly he spilled some of the liquor on his garment, the stain marring it, like the memories of what had transpired marred his life. Mhoram watched him intently, but never said a word, he was determined to give the old man a chance to speak his heart out.
"We sat and stood there debating and thinking all night" Drylok resumed his tale. "It all availed nothing, of course. And there are no healers in this part of the Land." And no Unfettered Ones, Mhoram thought with some bitterness. No one has taken the rites of Unfettering since the Great Siege. Have we lost that, too?
"His fever seemed to take on unprecedented heights" Drylok's voice now was hoarse and he whispered so his words barely reached Mhoram over the table. "We all got very anxious then, he was on the verge of dying, we thought. We ran out of cold water so I went to fetch some to the well. I went and came with great haste, and it was my haste that saved my life, although during the last days I frequently wished I could have shared the fate of the others."
The llomillialor torch hung right behind Drylok so his features were dark, but his eyes shone at Mhoram now with a fever in them matching that of Molden's.
"So I ran back from the well with that heavy pot full of water, and maybe it was a hand of fate or just mere chance that I tripped as soon as I entered the antechamber of the house. I sprawled across the floor, and the stoneware pot broke with a loud sound, water splashed all over the place and scores and scores of small pieces of stone spattered in every direction, just like that cup a few minutes ago. I was stunned and I cursed my awkwardness vehemently. I raised my head and there I could see right into the room where Molden lay with all the anxious Elders standing around his bed, still exchanging theories about Molden's ill vividly. Einna was sitting there, clutching his hand, trying to still the tremor, which seemed stronger than ever. His father and mother stood behind the bedhead, facing me, unable to add anything to the debate, just laying their fear plain before everyone, their eyes incapable of tears now." Drylok's own eyes seemed to be on the verge of falling back into his skull now, leaving only dark holes behind, small abysses leading into the despair of his soul. "And then Molden sat up in his bed, abruptly, so that every head in the room turned to him, startled. Maybe it was the sudden noise of the pot breaking that pushed him over the edge, maybe he had had just enough of all the futile babbling that had been going on incessantly around him, I do not know." Drylok almost choked on his words now and Mhoram's throat was constricted as well, dry as the Great Desert beyond the Southern Plains.
"His back and his neck arched, he threw his head back and opened his mouth as if he was about to utter a howl. I did not dare to move, although I felt a great urgency to run into the room and warn the people, I did not know what about; but I had a foreboding, an almost palpable sensation that something terrible was happening." Drylok stopped now and swallowed hard.
"But it was all very simple. The words he uttered were just an expression of his despair and suffering. Sitting there, he opened his eyes, swept his gaze around the people scattered around him and cried bitterly: 'leave me alone! By the Unbeliever, I wish you all just vanished!' and then he dropped back on the bed and never said a word since then. But my daughter Einna, Grorm Alanna-mate, father of Molden, Alanna, mother of Molden and all the Elders of Druiden Stonedown, ripe in their age and ripe in their wisdom, men and women of lore and devotion towards their people, they just vanished. Dispersed in front of my gaping eyes into the air of he room as if they never had been there."
"I did not know how I had been spared and did not care then. Maybe it was the curtain between the two rooms blocking part of the doorway; maybe his malice had spread only to his immediate vicinity; I did not stop then to ponder on such questions. I shambled onto my feet and left the house and haven't entered it since then."
Mhoram was standing now, though he did not remember rising. Drylok, on the other hand, seemed to sink into his chair, as if the worst part of his tale was about to come only now.
"I could not stop the people from leaving then. Nobody would hear me and I myself was too stunned and frightened to do too much persuasion. But I was also too stunned to leave. The others fled. They had not even collected their belongings from their houses, just gathered in the centre of the village, had a hasty council and then they were gone. Left everything behind, left an empty village, save me and Molden lying in his misery in that damned house. Where they went, I do not know. Maybe they retained some of their wisdom and went to Starlight Woodhelven, where my folks would give them shelter and food, I do not know."
"And so I remained, alone, not able to leave, not able to enter that house which was the doom of my daughter. I heard the moaning of Molden all the time - I hear it even now, although thick stone walls separate us from where he lies, still alive somehow, although I have not given him even a drop of water for three days now. I am a coward, High Lord: I confess that at the thought of entering that house and dissolving in the air just like my daughter and all those others before me freezes my blood in my body."
Mhoram looked at the old man now, sitting there, muttering over his shame and fright.
"You need not enter that house, Drylok. Just give me a pot of fresh water and some food; then show me the way. I will go in myself.
Drylok stared back for a few moments, then dropped his gaze.
"You shame me even more, Lord,” he said. "Maybe I can overcome my weakness one day... but not now. Not today."
"There is no need to be ashamed" Mhoram replied with his eyes unrelenting on the old man. "Only twoscore years have passed since two of Lord Foul's servants ravaged this Land with all their hideous might, and the third of them extinguished our Rockbrothers from this side of the Earth. Only twoscore years since Ur-Lord Thomas Covenant stood with Saltheart Foamfollower in Foul's Crèche, confronted the Despiser, and finally brought him down. Only twoscore years since the Bloodguard decided that their wow had become corrupted and left the Land to pursue their own fate elsewhere. Twoscore years is not long time, and even less in the deep recesses of our souls where our fears dwell. How could you then be ashamed that you have been frightened by something inexplicable that was so much alike as the things that bother you in your nightmares? You are not a young man anymore, Hirebrand, just like me. We both remember the sound of Satansfist's laughter when he stood under Revelstone. So I, High Lord of the Council, say to you: raise your head and do what you have done so far: protect your people. This riddle is not for you to solve."
The Hirebrand slowly rose, his eyes still averted. He went out of the room and returned in a few minutes with a stone jug full of water and a bowl full of dried fruit and half a loaf of brown bread. "It is not much,” he said. "In fact, it is all that remained. But if you can help I will be able to go and get food tomorrow."
"It is enough" Mhoram assured. " Now will you show me the way?"
Drylok turned and went out of the house. Mhoram followed behind him. A slow rain drizzled now from the clouds above, not strong enough to soak their apparels, but enough to send faint shivers along their spines. They passed a few houses, desolate in the rain, silent and emitting coldness, and then came to a house somewhat bigger than the rest. Mhoram could now hear the moaning, although it seemed to be somewhat fainter. He braced himself on the doorpost for a few moments, then accepted the bowl and the jug from Drylok and entered the house.
He stepped into a small room with a few stone cases on one side and two doors with curtains in two opposite walls. He gathered that this was the antechamber from which Drylok had witnessed the unfortunate events that led to the devastation of the village. The moans came from behind the curtain to the left. Mhoram went there and peered inside.
He saw a room of a similar size than that of Drylok's. A huge occupied the centre of the room, made of a stone slab, covered with dried leaves and sheets for comfort. A man was lying on the bed; apart from the moaned Mhoram could not tell whether he was dead or alive.
The High Lord entered the room and walked up to the bed. He looked down on the young man lying there, searched his form with long strokes of his gaze, trying to asses his condition, probing his senses, prying into the deepest recesses of Molden's being. He was in great pain, that was clear: despite him having been without water for days then, his pale, ivory-coloured forehead was covered with pearls of sweat; deep lines drew a network on his face; his lips were crusted and torn, covered with dried blood in one corner. His emaciated limbs fluttered on the crumpled sheet. His chest seemed to live its own life: it rippled and bulged as if there was a presence in his body, a breathing creature occupying the space where once his heart had been. This perplexed the High Lord, as he could discern no ill in the room at all. But he put his question aside for the time being and set to the immediate task of relieving Molden of his sufferings.
He sat down heavily beside the bed and took Molden's left hand, cupped it between his palms. The young man was dying, he knew that. He could feel it in the faint tremor of his muscles, the faintness of his pulse. The long days of pain were nearing their end at last.
Mhoram tore a strip of cloth off his robe and soaked it in the water Drylok had given him. He carefully wiped the sweat off Molden's forehead, gently moistened his dry lips, and dripped a few drops of the liquid into his mouth. He considered for a while the idea of finding some hurtloam, but then decided there was no necessity and no time for such a task. Then he sat for what seemed a long time, just holding his hand and trying to ease the fluttering of his muscles and preparing himself for the next step. He could hear the rain hammering the stone roof, the occasional gust of wind now and then. The moaning eased somewhat, but the pallor of Molden's features deepened, and Mhoram knew he had not much time left. He let go of Molden's hand, took his staff from behind his belt, gripped it strongly with both hands on one end, and placed the other on the centre of the lying man's chest.
A silent concussion seemed to shatter the world around him. He felt a burst of power flowing through the fibres of his staff into his body, almost elevating him off the floor; he had to put all his weight on the staff not to be hurled from the bed. Everything turned red in his eyes: the deepest red of blood gushing from a fresh wound; he smelt acid, so strong that his eyes began to water profusely. The sensation of power seemed to rip his being into small pieces; his knees started to fold. He concentrated with all his might, with all his one hundred and ten years of discipline and lore to call up his inner resources. He poured himself into his staff, flowed into the cells of the wood, called up a faint blue streak of fire that licked along the length of the rod. His inner burning eased now; the power that occupied his body seemed to pour back into the thrashing body of Molden. Mhoram suddenly snatched his staff off the man's chest, hurled into a corner of the room and but both his palms over his heart. He felt another concussion, Molden let out a piercing cry that somehow passed his contracted throat and this time Mhoram felt being truly lifted off the floor a few inches the fell down about three feet from the bed, sprawled on his back, stunned.
He lay there for a few minutes, the burning sensation slowly leaving his body and his senses, his vision returning to normal. He did not have to hurry, he knew: Molden was dead now. But after a time, he had to move. He reluctantly climbed to his feet; his knees still trembling, and went to the bed. He rested his eyes for a long time on the now limp form of Molden, picked up his piece of cloth and wiped off the last droplets of sweat from the young man's skin. He walked to the corner to recover his staff and then walked out of the house into the rain.
It was falling with full strength now, and his robe got almost immediately soaked. He did not mind it at all. He knew he had to think now, draw conclusions, think of consequences, of solutions, actions. He did nothing of the sort: just stood in the centre of the village, in that circle of houses that had seen so many joy and so many grave decisions before, stood and let the cold water flow down his body.
The he saw Drylok's white robe appearing before him through the curtain of rain, the eyes of the Hirebrand searching him - for signs of madness, maybe, or for signs of evil.
"You live!" Drylok shouted through the roar of the rain at last. "That is good! Come!" He gripped the High Lord's arm and led him urgently to the house he occupied. Mhoram felt reluctant: he wanted to spend the rest of the night standing there, wanted the rain to wash away the remnants of the last forty days or so. But he knew he had to go; he owed an explanation to the Hirebrand. And they had things to do.
When he was in the room again, Lord Mhoram dropped himself heavily on the now familiar chair and buried his face in his palms. By some lore or the nature of itself the stone chair still carried the heat of his body after so many hours and it felt balmy to his weathered bones now. But he was also aware that it was very hot in the room and the light felt bright even through the flesh of his palms. He uncovered his eyes and saw that Drylok had lit several other torches along the walls beside the single one that hung in the opposite corner. Maybe he wanted to make the Lord comfortable in his own way or maybe he wanted to purge the room of some evil, Mhoram did not know. The damp air from the outside mingled with the glaring heat inside and made his breathing troubled.
Suddenly Drylok appeared at his elbow and put a flask and a stone cup in front of Mhoram. “Springwine” he said, almost in a tone as if he wanted to apologize. “I searched the entire stonedown for some while you were... occupied. It makes the mind heavy and blurred, but do we have to care about things like that now?” He spoke as if he had known everything that had transpired in that house on the outskirts of the stonedown. He poured a measure of the clear liquid into Mhoram’s cup, then reached for another on a shelf behind him and sat with it opposite of the High Lord. He cupped the cup in both hands as if he wanted to draw some energy from the stone, awkwardly, not being familiar with the stone-lore, or maybe he simply wanted to shatter the cup in frustration, Mhoram was not sure.
There was silence for several minutes. The llomillialor torches gave no sound and seemingly the rain and the wind also subsided in the meantime. Drylok held his grip on the cup as if in love with the granite. Mhoram slowly drew out his staff, blackened from the amount of power that had flown through it a few minutes (or was it hours?) before, and placed it between them on the table.
“My staff is still whole, Hirebrand. You know wood as you know your own heart. You know what that means. I was not defeated.” Was he not? That was a bold thing to say, Mhoram thought. And foolish. I could not save Molden. I let him die. Is that not defeat?
Drylok raised his eyes from his cup. “Molden...” he began.
“He is dead.” Mhoram answered. He felt sadness now flow throgh him at last, as if saying those words finally opened some levers, some doors in him. Nevertheless he looked into the eyes of the Hirebrand. He deserved explanation.
“And the evil that occupied him?” Drylok’s voice dropped, as if he expected somebody to be hearing them.
“There was no evil inside him.” Mhoram said simply.
“Was he himself the evil then?” The tint of his voice showed that this was the worst thing he could imagine.
“No.” Mhoram felt ashamed now. It was true – there was nothing evil in the power that had gripped the young apprentice Gravelingas in its deadly grip. He knew that now. But it meant that he should have been able to save him. Somehow.
He sighed.
“What happened, then?” The Hirebrand looked perplexed and gripped the cup even stronger, to hold himself onto the only sure thing in the world.
“Molden, son of Grorm somehow gained the Power of Command.” Mhoram said in a low voice. The words seemed to leave his lips reluctantly, as if saying such an incredible thing would have paralyzed his muscles somehow. Drylok looked at him incomprehensibly. Mhoram wrenched himself out of his paralysis and tried to explain.
“Hirebrand, you surely know about the fate and fall of High Lord Elena and how their quest to find the Seventh Ward of High Lord Kevin succeeded and failed at the same time. We know what has transpired well from the tale Bannor told us when he brought the heels of the Staff of Law back to Revelstone. They had found Earthroot and they had found the spring where Earthblood leaves the stone of Melenkurion Skyweir to flows freely for anybody to stoop and have a sip. You also remember that anybody who wanted access to Earthblood must have passed Damelon’s Door – and that was not possible without the aid of Amok.”
“Earthblood?” Drylok asked blinking. “Did Molden drink Earthblood? Then how...”
“I do not know. But we know that the fight between High Lord Elena and dead Kevin brought ruin and devastation to the Skyweir and the Earthroot. Maybe Damelon’s Door was destroyed. Or maybe the Earthblood now finds a way for itself through rifts and fissures of the stone and rock to gain the surface of the Mountain. In his wanderings Molden must have found it somehow. Maybe he did not know what it was, only sensed the power that emanated from the fluid. Maybe he was just outright bold. What I do not know is how he survived it for so long. Earthblood is not for ordinary human flesh, it transpires the sinews and bones that hold our body together. Yet he endured. He must have been in terrible pain. Then at a certain moment his torment overcame him and he said those words that wiped his bride and his parents and the Elders of Druiden Stonedown away.”
“Then this means that after that he was no more dangerous to us, to anybody.” Drylok concluded sadly. “We should have been able to save him if we had had the nerve to enter his room.”
“No. Even I could not contain that much of power that finally tore his heart apart.” Mhoram told him. “Somehow he was stronger than all of us. And now we are in great need for such powerful men. Sadly, he could only serve us in his death.”
Drylok looked at him inquiringly.
“We must find this source of Earthblood, Hirebrand.” Mhoram said gravely. Suddenly he felt very tired. But he forced a few words more out of his throat. “Imagine what happens if a Raver finds it first.”
Then he left the room with the staring Hirebrand at the table and went to find a corner in which he could drop to the floor and put his old bones to sleep.
His sleep seemed to be never-ending. He craved oblivion like fresh air. When finally morning came and he was forced to open his eyes in the end, he let out a long sigh of regret. He sat up in his corner and tried to wipe sleep out of his bleary old eyes. Drylok was nowhere to be seen. Rain has obviously stopped by then and a faint breeze blew among the houses: through the only window he could see the lush, lazy movement of the trees outside the stonedown.
With another sigh he heaved himself to his feet. A few steps away a stone bowl full of water was set on the floor with a towel intricately woven of thin leafy wickers, surprisingly pleasant and freshening to use. A Woodhelvennin work. The High Lord gratefully immersed his hands into the coolness of the water and washed himself.
He searched the house for some food for a while but did not find any. Obviously Drylok could not replenish their supplies since the previous day. Mhoram didn’t mind, though: fasting can help to keep one’s thoughts clean and clear, unperturbed by the lazy influence of fullness.
He stepped out of the house, looking for Drylok. The first few minutes of peace were gone; the events of the previous day returned to him. He half expected to hear the now familiar moaning from the house far across the village. He did not hear any, of course. With his long strides he crossed the stonedown towards Molden’s house.
He found Drylok behind the stone building. He was digging. Already up to his hips in the realtively soft ground he was in the process of making a tomb for Molden. He held a wooden shovel in his old hands that he must have carved himself. The exertion made him sweat heavily, but he gripped his tool hard and worked steadily. Without saying a word Mhoram went up to him, took the shovel out of his hands and continued the work. Drylok accepted this wordless offer gratefully, climbed out of the grave and dropped himself on the grass, panting.
They went on wordless for about half an hour more: Mhoram digging, Drylok lying in the grass on his back, trying to recompose himself. Then finally the High Lord announced the grave to be wide and deep enough, climbed out of it and sat beside the Hirebrand.
“I still do not understand” Drylok said abruptly, opening his eyes. His panting had subseded. “How he endured. For such a long time. He must have found that Earthblood-thing somewhere high up on Rivenrock or beneath it. That is at least one week’s walk from this stonedown, more maybe. I have never been up there, never have set my feet into Garroting Deep. Why did he not let his frustration, his imperative power out of his chest somewhere in the wastes, where he could’ve hurt nobody save some trees or insects perhaps?”
“I do not know” Mhoram said simply. He put his hands on Drylok’s shoulder and felt the mounting tension in the old sinews in there. “Probably he did not understand what was happening to him, wise though he was even in his young years. He felt a great power boiling in his body, a thought occupying his mind, a growing need, a must to say something.”
“He must have been scared. So scared that his terror gave him strength to endure long enough to get home. He thought he would find ease and explanation here. Instead he found out that he brought devastation and death to his own people, to his beloved. That must have scared him even more, must have scared him witless. What I do not know is how he could stand that for three more days.”
He tore up a stalk of grass and started to chew on it. Its harsh bitterness helped to fight down the salty taste of tears down there deep in his throat.
Drylok looked at him, then looked away, not wanting to embarrass the High Lord with his probing gaze.
“I guess we have to start right after we bury him” he murmured. “I’d better collect some food and springwine. Should’ve done it earlier, were I not an old fool.”
“We?” Mhoram asked, with a faint surprise in his voice. He had not expected this voluntary proposal from Drylok. “Hirebrand, this is not a task for you. You have your own demands, own purposes. You have to bring word to your people and to the ones that had fled this stonedown, tell them about the things we have learned here.”
“No.” Drylok said, firmly this time, with no trace of hesitation in his voice. “No. You are Lord Mhoram, High Lord of the Council, equal of any burden. Still, I want to share this burden with you. I do not want - this – to happen again.”
The High Lord looked at him for a long time. The wind was stronger now, tugging at his blue robe, quickly drying his sweat from his temples.
“Hirebrand, I thank you” he said simply in the end. “I am Mhoram, son of Variol, High Lord in the face of Revelstone, but I am also an old man. I do not relish the prospect of walking alone up to Rivenrock or into the guts of Melenkurion Skywier.”
“But you are also an old man, Drylok. And this will be no easy journey. And still we have to send word to your people somehow.”
“I know” Drylok sighed. “I will be an additional burden to you only. I know that. But still you cannot deny this task from me.”
“As for my people, there is one thing we can do. There is another village. A Woodhelven. It is in the very corner where Garroting Deep touches the stone of Rivenrock. About four days walk should take us there. Willow Woodhelven, it is called. They are strange people, living very much to themselves. Nobody knows how they manage to live in the shadows of Garroting Deep. They must live there on sufferance, the Forestal… endures them somehow. I do not know. But we may find help there, and a way to notify my people.”
“Very well, then” Mhoram said, rising. “Now we should bury Molden. Then we can prepare ourselves to leave. At least we have a direction now.”
I am doing this for two reasons:
- maybe seeing it here I will be able to get the willforce and inspiration again to continue again...
- and I want to make this story open! so anybody who thinks she/he can contribute to the story, please do not hesitate! Let's make this into a huge KW-project!
Now for the actual text:
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LORD MHORAM’S LAST QUEST
Lord Mhoram had no intent to go on a quest at all. All he knew he was getting restless - he had no inkling why, though. Was he not happy? Revelstone was thriving around him. The Land was thriving around him. The barren, stricken soil of the Centre Plains was fertile again, the fruit gardens of Trothgard yielded more fruit than the people of the Land could stomach. How could he not be happy?
And yet he was a man ho had faced Desecration and refrained from it. He had confronted the fear of the Despiser and had won. He had killed samadhi Sheol as much as a Raver could be killed, severing the lines that had held his ugly soul together with his krill.
Moreover, he had lost his dreams. His precious, torturing, oraculous dreams. He was no longer a seer and oracle - was he a Lord still? When he awoke in the night smelling Lord-fire in the air of his cubicle, sweating, he could hardly tell. All he knew was that he missed his friends - Bannor the Bloodguard, Saltheart Foamfollower the Giant. And Thomas Covenant, who had brought ruin and hope together to the Land, ice and fire, despair and victory.
How could he be happy?
The weight of several thousand tons of stone of Revelstone seemed to loom over him day and night, putting so much weight on his chest he could barely breathe sometimes.
So when the invitation came to visit Druiden Stonedown down in the southern part of the Centre Plains and to attend the wedding of Molden, son of Grorm, the Gravelingas of the stonedown, his relief was so huge he had to go up to the Upper Plateau over Revelstone and immerse himself in the icy waters of Glimmermere to ease the burning inside him.
And then he was gone.
It was only when the silhouette of Revelstone's proud mass began to fade in the distance that Lord Mhoram started to feel a semblance of his earlier strength creeping back into the muscles of his legs, the remnants of the long, essentially idle weeks (months? years?) in that ancient fortification carved into the jutting promontory of the plateau above. It was too long, he mused to himself, too long. I am losing something, or have I lost it already? And it is not only strength - that is easily regainable -, it is something else. A feeling of connection.
He decided to walk all the way to Druiden Stonedown alone. Partly because he wanted to get as close to the Land again, as he had been in the old days; partly because he wanted to think, far from the burdens of the everyday life in Revelstone; and partly because... well, because he did not want to ride a horse. Drynny was no more. The Ranyhyn had gone. And since that day when the firm sound of the great horses' hooves finally faded away among the sounds of the nightfall ha has developed an ever-growing distrust of the ordinary horses that remained after the Great Siege of Revelstone. He found himself riding less and less, as if the saddles had become uncomfortable for him and the distance from the ground dangerous: he never felt such a thing on the back of Drynny. Maybe he was becoming to resemble Thomas Covenant - he remembered his friends' fear of heights and distrust of horses vividly. Am I becoming like him? he asked himself, leaning against the trunk of a Gilden on the second evening of his journey. Is disbelief creeping into my soul, too? Am I becoming an Unbeliever without the wild magic to support my unbelief? But then he thought of the Ritual of Desecration - in all the Land he was still the most capable person of evoking that cataclysm and the most capable of resisting despair leading to desecration. Maybe they were not so different after all, he, Lord Mhoram, High Lord by the decision of the Council, and Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and White Gold Wielder, Saviour of the Land against his own will. He did not know if it was praise or a curse.
The next morning he toyed with the idea of first going to Revelwood and stay there for a few days. But then, as he set his feet again on the ancient path and resumed his long stride he dismissed the idea. Revelwood was bliss for the heart, a gift for the mind, a warm welcome to the soul: but he needed solitude now. He needed an opportunity to think; to attune his whole being to the Land, to the Earthpower again, so that he could remember what it meant to be a Lord. So he crossed the Soulsease river many leagues to the east from Trothgard and tried to retain his more or less straight route toward the northern edge of Garroting Deep, where Druiden Stonedown lay. He avoided stonedowns, avoided woodhelvens, spent his nights in waymeets or simply among the gnarled roots of some old tree, and he went. In some moments he thought he would give up and turn back, go back to his cosy and essentially futile life in Revelstone; he thought that his bristle old bones could simply snap at any moment or his weary muscles would abandon themselves to fatigue and simply let his body slip to the ground and lie there until somebody came and found him dead or alive; but in the next moment that human, crooked smile returned to his lips and he resumed his walk almost as if he was happy of the prospect of walking another ten leagues that day. And in the nights he was staring long into the abyss between the stars and tried to find his dreams there, his torturing, oraculous dreams that had been gone and had left an ache in his soul without the reprieve of knowledge.
And so it was after about thirty days of walking and dreaming dreamless dreams that Lord Mhoram caught the first glimpse of the grey masses of Druiden Stonedown.
It was a dark, cloudy night, with only faint glimpses of the moon and an occasional star in the rifts between the rolling cumuli up there. Lord Mhoram stood there among the deep shadows for quite a while, his right hand clutching the familiar smoothness of his staff so strongly that his knuckles almost shone in their whiteness. Some foreboding made his forehead gleaming with sweat. Suddenly he did not want to enter that rough circle of houses. He did not like the prospect of being an honourable at that wedding, sitting in the centre of proceedings, smiling benevolent and somewhat stupid smiles at everybody passing. Am I Lord Mhoram, or the icon of him?
Then his grip on his staff eased. Suddenly he remembered Thomas Covenant again. Move on. Find out what happens. Nothing can be worse than ignorance.
He approached the stonedown then, a bit cautiously, as if he were entering a grove full with Cavewights. He reached the first house, ran his fingers along the cool surface of the stone, drawing energy from the underlying inner structure of the mineral. Then he stepped inside the village.
It was deep night, so he did not find the utter silence surprising, though he had expected at least some movement, some signs of the preparations for the wedding due only two days later. At such a time, usually women were busy at nights preparing food for the family and guests attending. Girls would be sitting up late into the night making garlands and lamps and the lads would jest with the groom endlessly until dawn to prepare him for his long marriage. None of these was happening here. Maybe they grew tired of the preparations, maybe they decided to keep it simple, with only one really important guest: Mhoram himself. He did not know. He stepped into the rough circle the houses formed and stood there for a few moments, waiting.
The silence seemed to be so profound at first that his heart lurched and a droplet of sweat started to trickle down the midline of his nape, then his spine. Then he heard the moaning, faintly, as if from a great distance. In itself, it was even worse than the silence. He considered starting searching the houses for the source of that sound, for he could not even identify the direction it came from. Then a hand fell on his shoulder and he turned sharply.
An old man was standing in front of him, his hair white in the faint light filtering through the veil of clouds in the sky. He could not identify the colour of his tunic, but he seemed too tall for a stonedownor. A Woodhelvennin, then. Mhoram was perplexed. "What-", he began, his words harsh in his throat.
"High Lord!” the old man exploded, apparently more aware of the situation than Mhoram was. "At last! Maybe my vigil can end now!" He started to turn, as if eager to flee even from that little of light, but Mhoram stopped him. "What happened?” he demanded. "Where are the people?”
The old man flinched. "Not here!" he whispered over his shoulder. "He... he could hear us." And vanished into the nearest house. Mhoram followed immediately.
He found himself in the main room of the house, a single llomillialor rod burning its smokeless fire in a corner, casting long, waving shadows of the scant furniture pieces scattered in the room onto the floor. Mhoram's eyes rested a bit on this odd phenomenon, a llomillialor torch in a Stonedownor house, then directed his gaze to his host. The old man was already sitting at the table in the centre of the room, his face hidden in his palms, his head cocked, as if listening to what sounds could possibly filter through the heavy stone walls. Mhoram decided he would not hasten him. He sat down wearily at the other side of the table and waited for the older man to say something.
Finally he took his hands off his face and stared at Mhoram for a while, speechless.
"I am not even sure why I am still alive" he began. His voice sounded forlorn, soft gleams hinted at despair in his gaze. "After what he has done, I should be with the Dead, along with the others."
"Done?" Mhoram asked, his eyes resting on the other man's hands, writhing on the table. "Done what? Who?"
"He... he raves."
"Who?" Mhoram demanded, his intent, his will bent on the old man.
"Molden"
"The groom? Is he your son? What has he done?"
"No." the old man denied this vehemently. "I am... Woodhelvennin. Starlight Woodhelven. My daughter-" he broke off, started to raise his hands towards his face again, then dropped them down on the table, raising his eyes to Mhoram's face instead. "She was the bride. Behryll Molden-mate, that would be her name the day after tomorrow would she still roam the face of this world."
Mhoram was lost is surprise. A Stonedownor man marries a Woodhelvennin woman, something unheard of before. He had not known this, it had not been revealed to him, when he received those invitations to the wedding some months before. But he decided not to pursue this question for the moment, unnerving though it was. He had more immediate concerns at the moment.
He pulled out his staff and placed it in front of him on the tabletop, its smooth surface reassuring, its blunt ends promising solutions and answers to questions he could not even form yet. He gripped it, as if bracing himself for the onslaught of the inevitable bad news that had to follow, and asked again:
"What happened?"
"Forgive me, High Lord,” said the other man. "No distress can justify my discourtesy. I am Drylok, Hirebrand of Starlight Woodhelven, twenty leagues from here to the Southeast. Be welcome to Druiden Stonedown, High Lord, although I am sad that the task of welcoming you should fall on my shoulders, the most unworthy of all."
"What happened?" Mhoram asked for the third time now. "Where are the people of the village? Where are the guests?"
Drylok abruptly stood, turned away from the table, from Mhoram, and started to rummage among the stoneware pots lying on the shelves along the longer wall of the room. He settled on two sizeable stone cups, grabbed them with both hands, as if he tried to strangle them with his bare hands. He whirled then, one of the cups flying in a majestic arch over the room, breaking into rubble on the opposite wall, his palms not used to handle stone, more familiar with rough surface of the bark of a tree, the springiness of a bough.
"They fled!" he cried, his eyes, shining with shame, rage and despair, fixed on the remnants of the cup scattered on the floor, his knuckles white on the other cup. He slammed the cup on the table, almost shattering it, too. His eyes bore now into Mhoram's, forcing him to measure his distress. "At least, what little remained of them. They fled, Stonedownors and Woodhelvennin together, hand in hand, to hide their faces from the hideous prospect of being dispersed in the air like dew in the morning sun."
"Drylok. Hirebrand." Mhoram whispered, the sweat of his palms covering his staff. "This will avail nothing, if you carry on like this, torturing yourself. You are here, alive. That is something the others could not achieve. Consider this. And tell me what happened. I can help." What a fool I am, he thought, uttering reassurances like that! You are getting old, Mhoram, son of Variol. The rheum of your eyes distorts your vision of yourself.
Drylok then rose again, reached for another cup and a flask, set the former on the table in front of the High Lord, and poured some springwine into it, his hands still shaking.
"We were proud of them both" he began slowly, casting his words in front of Mhoram as if they were shards of a stoneware cup, icons of his failure, his futility. "Yes, we took great joy in them, young girl and young man, Woodhelvennin and Stonedownor, would-be Hirebrand and would-be Gravelingas, pearls in the eyes of their mothers, saplings full of life and Earthpower in the eyes of their fathers. Einna...my daughter, young in her years though she was, understood the heart of the wood, the soul of the forest no less than I, Hirebrand of my people. If I am still one, indeed" his voice trailed. His left hand left the cup, fluttered to his white unkempt beard, dropped again.
"And Molden" he resumed "is a worthy young man, worthy of any daughter of any man in the Land. Skilled in rock, skilled in stone, he was... is an adventurous man. He made journeys as far as Doriendor Corishev to find stones suitable for his lore. He was searching constantly, refining his soul and his knowledge every day. One day he returned thoroughly exhausted but shining with pride, claiming that he had ventured far up in the Westron Mountains because he had wanted to taste the air the Haruchai breathed."
His voice dropped for a minute, his palms resting on the surface of the table now.
"And then one week ago he returned from a journey which he had undertook to collect stones suitable for the stoneware if their future household, but he was ill then. Changed. Something happened."
Mhoram stared at him as if he told him Lord Foul had stumbled into the village on that sad afternoon.
"He was changed" Drylok repeated. "Some ill we did not know and if we had known wouldn't have dared to name was inside his body. He seemed rippling with it. Sweat was drenching his face, his clothes, he was shaking badly, and he could hardly walk. My daughter and I rushed to him and asked what happened but he seemed too weary to utter a word. So we supported him to the house we had been given as a dwelling place during the wedding ceremonies at the very edge of the village and lay him on a bed. But we could not succour him in any way. An untameable fever gripped him so strongly that no hurtloam or cold water could soften it a bit. He was almost translucent as he lay there shaking, and he seemed to be wriggling with fear and nervousness. And he did not say a word, though we showered our questions on him, anxious to get to the core of his ill somehow. And soon people from the village started to gather around his bed, waiting for news, trying to help somehow. His father, his mother and all the Elders of Druiden Stonedown stood there, debating over his illness, bringing forth ideas they deemed would be fruitful. Nothing helped, if anything, his state seemed to get worse and worse, his back sometimes arched so badly that we thought his bones would snap like a dry bough."
He sipped at his springwine, his own hands shaking so badly he spilled some of the liquor on his garment, the stain marring it, like the memories of what had transpired marred his life. Mhoram watched him intently, but never said a word, he was determined to give the old man a chance to speak his heart out.
"We sat and stood there debating and thinking all night" Drylok resumed his tale. "It all availed nothing, of course. And there are no healers in this part of the Land." And no Unfettered Ones, Mhoram thought with some bitterness. No one has taken the rites of Unfettering since the Great Siege. Have we lost that, too?
"His fever seemed to take on unprecedented heights" Drylok's voice now was hoarse and he whispered so his words barely reached Mhoram over the table. "We all got very anxious then, he was on the verge of dying, we thought. We ran out of cold water so I went to fetch some to the well. I went and came with great haste, and it was my haste that saved my life, although during the last days I frequently wished I could have shared the fate of the others."
The llomillialor torch hung right behind Drylok so his features were dark, but his eyes shone at Mhoram now with a fever in them matching that of Molden's.
"So I ran back from the well with that heavy pot full of water, and maybe it was a hand of fate or just mere chance that I tripped as soon as I entered the antechamber of the house. I sprawled across the floor, and the stoneware pot broke with a loud sound, water splashed all over the place and scores and scores of small pieces of stone spattered in every direction, just like that cup a few minutes ago. I was stunned and I cursed my awkwardness vehemently. I raised my head and there I could see right into the room where Molden lay with all the anxious Elders standing around his bed, still exchanging theories about Molden's ill vividly. Einna was sitting there, clutching his hand, trying to still the tremor, which seemed stronger than ever. His father and mother stood behind the bedhead, facing me, unable to add anything to the debate, just laying their fear plain before everyone, their eyes incapable of tears now." Drylok's own eyes seemed to be on the verge of falling back into his skull now, leaving only dark holes behind, small abysses leading into the despair of his soul. "And then Molden sat up in his bed, abruptly, so that every head in the room turned to him, startled. Maybe it was the sudden noise of the pot breaking that pushed him over the edge, maybe he had had just enough of all the futile babbling that had been going on incessantly around him, I do not know." Drylok almost choked on his words now and Mhoram's throat was constricted as well, dry as the Great Desert beyond the Southern Plains.
"His back and his neck arched, he threw his head back and opened his mouth as if he was about to utter a howl. I did not dare to move, although I felt a great urgency to run into the room and warn the people, I did not know what about; but I had a foreboding, an almost palpable sensation that something terrible was happening." Drylok stopped now and swallowed hard.
"But it was all very simple. The words he uttered were just an expression of his despair and suffering. Sitting there, he opened his eyes, swept his gaze around the people scattered around him and cried bitterly: 'leave me alone! By the Unbeliever, I wish you all just vanished!' and then he dropped back on the bed and never said a word since then. But my daughter Einna, Grorm Alanna-mate, father of Molden, Alanna, mother of Molden and all the Elders of Druiden Stonedown, ripe in their age and ripe in their wisdom, men and women of lore and devotion towards their people, they just vanished. Dispersed in front of my gaping eyes into the air of he room as if they never had been there."
"I did not know how I had been spared and did not care then. Maybe it was the curtain between the two rooms blocking part of the doorway; maybe his malice had spread only to his immediate vicinity; I did not stop then to ponder on such questions. I shambled onto my feet and left the house and haven't entered it since then."
Mhoram was standing now, though he did not remember rising. Drylok, on the other hand, seemed to sink into his chair, as if the worst part of his tale was about to come only now.
"I could not stop the people from leaving then. Nobody would hear me and I myself was too stunned and frightened to do too much persuasion. But I was also too stunned to leave. The others fled. They had not even collected their belongings from their houses, just gathered in the centre of the village, had a hasty council and then they were gone. Left everything behind, left an empty village, save me and Molden lying in his misery in that damned house. Where they went, I do not know. Maybe they retained some of their wisdom and went to Starlight Woodhelven, where my folks would give them shelter and food, I do not know."
"And so I remained, alone, not able to leave, not able to enter that house which was the doom of my daughter. I heard the moaning of Molden all the time - I hear it even now, although thick stone walls separate us from where he lies, still alive somehow, although I have not given him even a drop of water for three days now. I am a coward, High Lord: I confess that at the thought of entering that house and dissolving in the air just like my daughter and all those others before me freezes my blood in my body."
Mhoram looked at the old man now, sitting there, muttering over his shame and fright.
"You need not enter that house, Drylok. Just give me a pot of fresh water and some food; then show me the way. I will go in myself.
Drylok stared back for a few moments, then dropped his gaze.
"You shame me even more, Lord,” he said. "Maybe I can overcome my weakness one day... but not now. Not today."
"There is no need to be ashamed" Mhoram replied with his eyes unrelenting on the old man. "Only twoscore years have passed since two of Lord Foul's servants ravaged this Land with all their hideous might, and the third of them extinguished our Rockbrothers from this side of the Earth. Only twoscore years since Ur-Lord Thomas Covenant stood with Saltheart Foamfollower in Foul's Crèche, confronted the Despiser, and finally brought him down. Only twoscore years since the Bloodguard decided that their wow had become corrupted and left the Land to pursue their own fate elsewhere. Twoscore years is not long time, and even less in the deep recesses of our souls where our fears dwell. How could you then be ashamed that you have been frightened by something inexplicable that was so much alike as the things that bother you in your nightmares? You are not a young man anymore, Hirebrand, just like me. We both remember the sound of Satansfist's laughter when he stood under Revelstone. So I, High Lord of the Council, say to you: raise your head and do what you have done so far: protect your people. This riddle is not for you to solve."
The Hirebrand slowly rose, his eyes still averted. He went out of the room and returned in a few minutes with a stone jug full of water and a bowl full of dried fruit and half a loaf of brown bread. "It is not much,” he said. "In fact, it is all that remained. But if you can help I will be able to go and get food tomorrow."
"It is enough" Mhoram assured. " Now will you show me the way?"
Drylok turned and went out of the house. Mhoram followed behind him. A slow rain drizzled now from the clouds above, not strong enough to soak their apparels, but enough to send faint shivers along their spines. They passed a few houses, desolate in the rain, silent and emitting coldness, and then came to a house somewhat bigger than the rest. Mhoram could now hear the moaning, although it seemed to be somewhat fainter. He braced himself on the doorpost for a few moments, then accepted the bowl and the jug from Drylok and entered the house.
He stepped into a small room with a few stone cases on one side and two doors with curtains in two opposite walls. He gathered that this was the antechamber from which Drylok had witnessed the unfortunate events that led to the devastation of the village. The moans came from behind the curtain to the left. Mhoram went there and peered inside.
He saw a room of a similar size than that of Drylok's. A huge occupied the centre of the room, made of a stone slab, covered with dried leaves and sheets for comfort. A man was lying on the bed; apart from the moaned Mhoram could not tell whether he was dead or alive.
The High Lord entered the room and walked up to the bed. He looked down on the young man lying there, searched his form with long strokes of his gaze, trying to asses his condition, probing his senses, prying into the deepest recesses of Molden's being. He was in great pain, that was clear: despite him having been without water for days then, his pale, ivory-coloured forehead was covered with pearls of sweat; deep lines drew a network on his face; his lips were crusted and torn, covered with dried blood in one corner. His emaciated limbs fluttered on the crumpled sheet. His chest seemed to live its own life: it rippled and bulged as if there was a presence in his body, a breathing creature occupying the space where once his heart had been. This perplexed the High Lord, as he could discern no ill in the room at all. But he put his question aside for the time being and set to the immediate task of relieving Molden of his sufferings.
He sat down heavily beside the bed and took Molden's left hand, cupped it between his palms. The young man was dying, he knew that. He could feel it in the faint tremor of his muscles, the faintness of his pulse. The long days of pain were nearing their end at last.
Mhoram tore a strip of cloth off his robe and soaked it in the water Drylok had given him. He carefully wiped the sweat off Molden's forehead, gently moistened his dry lips, and dripped a few drops of the liquid into his mouth. He considered for a while the idea of finding some hurtloam, but then decided there was no necessity and no time for such a task. Then he sat for what seemed a long time, just holding his hand and trying to ease the fluttering of his muscles and preparing himself for the next step. He could hear the rain hammering the stone roof, the occasional gust of wind now and then. The moaning eased somewhat, but the pallor of Molden's features deepened, and Mhoram knew he had not much time left. He let go of Molden's hand, took his staff from behind his belt, gripped it strongly with both hands on one end, and placed the other on the centre of the lying man's chest.
A silent concussion seemed to shatter the world around him. He felt a burst of power flowing through the fibres of his staff into his body, almost elevating him off the floor; he had to put all his weight on the staff not to be hurled from the bed. Everything turned red in his eyes: the deepest red of blood gushing from a fresh wound; he smelt acid, so strong that his eyes began to water profusely. The sensation of power seemed to rip his being into small pieces; his knees started to fold. He concentrated with all his might, with all his one hundred and ten years of discipline and lore to call up his inner resources. He poured himself into his staff, flowed into the cells of the wood, called up a faint blue streak of fire that licked along the length of the rod. His inner burning eased now; the power that occupied his body seemed to pour back into the thrashing body of Molden. Mhoram suddenly snatched his staff off the man's chest, hurled into a corner of the room and but both his palms over his heart. He felt another concussion, Molden let out a piercing cry that somehow passed his contracted throat and this time Mhoram felt being truly lifted off the floor a few inches the fell down about three feet from the bed, sprawled on his back, stunned.
He lay there for a few minutes, the burning sensation slowly leaving his body and his senses, his vision returning to normal. He did not have to hurry, he knew: Molden was dead now. But after a time, he had to move. He reluctantly climbed to his feet; his knees still trembling, and went to the bed. He rested his eyes for a long time on the now limp form of Molden, picked up his piece of cloth and wiped off the last droplets of sweat from the young man's skin. He walked to the corner to recover his staff and then walked out of the house into the rain.
It was falling with full strength now, and his robe got almost immediately soaked. He did not mind it at all. He knew he had to think now, draw conclusions, think of consequences, of solutions, actions. He did nothing of the sort: just stood in the centre of the village, in that circle of houses that had seen so many joy and so many grave decisions before, stood and let the cold water flow down his body.
The he saw Drylok's white robe appearing before him through the curtain of rain, the eyes of the Hirebrand searching him - for signs of madness, maybe, or for signs of evil.
"You live!" Drylok shouted through the roar of the rain at last. "That is good! Come!" He gripped the High Lord's arm and led him urgently to the house he occupied. Mhoram felt reluctant: he wanted to spend the rest of the night standing there, wanted the rain to wash away the remnants of the last forty days or so. But he knew he had to go; he owed an explanation to the Hirebrand. And they had things to do.
When he was in the room again, Lord Mhoram dropped himself heavily on the now familiar chair and buried his face in his palms. By some lore or the nature of itself the stone chair still carried the heat of his body after so many hours and it felt balmy to his weathered bones now. But he was also aware that it was very hot in the room and the light felt bright even through the flesh of his palms. He uncovered his eyes and saw that Drylok had lit several other torches along the walls beside the single one that hung in the opposite corner. Maybe he wanted to make the Lord comfortable in his own way or maybe he wanted to purge the room of some evil, Mhoram did not know. The damp air from the outside mingled with the glaring heat inside and made his breathing troubled.
Suddenly Drylok appeared at his elbow and put a flask and a stone cup in front of Mhoram. “Springwine” he said, almost in a tone as if he wanted to apologize. “I searched the entire stonedown for some while you were... occupied. It makes the mind heavy and blurred, but do we have to care about things like that now?” He spoke as if he had known everything that had transpired in that house on the outskirts of the stonedown. He poured a measure of the clear liquid into Mhoram’s cup, then reached for another on a shelf behind him and sat with it opposite of the High Lord. He cupped the cup in both hands as if he wanted to draw some energy from the stone, awkwardly, not being familiar with the stone-lore, or maybe he simply wanted to shatter the cup in frustration, Mhoram was not sure.
There was silence for several minutes. The llomillialor torches gave no sound and seemingly the rain and the wind also subsided in the meantime. Drylok held his grip on the cup as if in love with the granite. Mhoram slowly drew out his staff, blackened from the amount of power that had flown through it a few minutes (or was it hours?) before, and placed it between them on the table.
“My staff is still whole, Hirebrand. You know wood as you know your own heart. You know what that means. I was not defeated.” Was he not? That was a bold thing to say, Mhoram thought. And foolish. I could not save Molden. I let him die. Is that not defeat?
Drylok raised his eyes from his cup. “Molden...” he began.
“He is dead.” Mhoram answered. He felt sadness now flow throgh him at last, as if saying those words finally opened some levers, some doors in him. Nevertheless he looked into the eyes of the Hirebrand. He deserved explanation.
“And the evil that occupied him?” Drylok’s voice dropped, as if he expected somebody to be hearing them.
“There was no evil inside him.” Mhoram said simply.
“Was he himself the evil then?” The tint of his voice showed that this was the worst thing he could imagine.
“No.” Mhoram felt ashamed now. It was true – there was nothing evil in the power that had gripped the young apprentice Gravelingas in its deadly grip. He knew that now. But it meant that he should have been able to save him. Somehow.
He sighed.
“What happened, then?” The Hirebrand looked perplexed and gripped the cup even stronger, to hold himself onto the only sure thing in the world.
“Molden, son of Grorm somehow gained the Power of Command.” Mhoram said in a low voice. The words seemed to leave his lips reluctantly, as if saying such an incredible thing would have paralyzed his muscles somehow. Drylok looked at him incomprehensibly. Mhoram wrenched himself out of his paralysis and tried to explain.
“Hirebrand, you surely know about the fate and fall of High Lord Elena and how their quest to find the Seventh Ward of High Lord Kevin succeeded and failed at the same time. We know what has transpired well from the tale Bannor told us when he brought the heels of the Staff of Law back to Revelstone. They had found Earthroot and they had found the spring where Earthblood leaves the stone of Melenkurion Skyweir to flows freely for anybody to stoop and have a sip. You also remember that anybody who wanted access to Earthblood must have passed Damelon’s Door – and that was not possible without the aid of Amok.”
“Earthblood?” Drylok asked blinking. “Did Molden drink Earthblood? Then how...”
“I do not know. But we know that the fight between High Lord Elena and dead Kevin brought ruin and devastation to the Skyweir and the Earthroot. Maybe Damelon’s Door was destroyed. Or maybe the Earthblood now finds a way for itself through rifts and fissures of the stone and rock to gain the surface of the Mountain. In his wanderings Molden must have found it somehow. Maybe he did not know what it was, only sensed the power that emanated from the fluid. Maybe he was just outright bold. What I do not know is how he survived it for so long. Earthblood is not for ordinary human flesh, it transpires the sinews and bones that hold our body together. Yet he endured. He must have been in terrible pain. Then at a certain moment his torment overcame him and he said those words that wiped his bride and his parents and the Elders of Druiden Stonedown away.”
“Then this means that after that he was no more dangerous to us, to anybody.” Drylok concluded sadly. “We should have been able to save him if we had had the nerve to enter his room.”
“No. Even I could not contain that much of power that finally tore his heart apart.” Mhoram told him. “Somehow he was stronger than all of us. And now we are in great need for such powerful men. Sadly, he could only serve us in his death.”
Drylok looked at him inquiringly.
“We must find this source of Earthblood, Hirebrand.” Mhoram said gravely. Suddenly he felt very tired. But he forced a few words more out of his throat. “Imagine what happens if a Raver finds it first.”
Then he left the room with the staring Hirebrand at the table and went to find a corner in which he could drop to the floor and put his old bones to sleep.
His sleep seemed to be never-ending. He craved oblivion like fresh air. When finally morning came and he was forced to open his eyes in the end, he let out a long sigh of regret. He sat up in his corner and tried to wipe sleep out of his bleary old eyes. Drylok was nowhere to be seen. Rain has obviously stopped by then and a faint breeze blew among the houses: through the only window he could see the lush, lazy movement of the trees outside the stonedown.
With another sigh he heaved himself to his feet. A few steps away a stone bowl full of water was set on the floor with a towel intricately woven of thin leafy wickers, surprisingly pleasant and freshening to use. A Woodhelvennin work. The High Lord gratefully immersed his hands into the coolness of the water and washed himself.
He searched the house for some food for a while but did not find any. Obviously Drylok could not replenish their supplies since the previous day. Mhoram didn’t mind, though: fasting can help to keep one’s thoughts clean and clear, unperturbed by the lazy influence of fullness.
He stepped out of the house, looking for Drylok. The first few minutes of peace were gone; the events of the previous day returned to him. He half expected to hear the now familiar moaning from the house far across the village. He did not hear any, of course. With his long strides he crossed the stonedown towards Molden’s house.
He found Drylok behind the stone building. He was digging. Already up to his hips in the realtively soft ground he was in the process of making a tomb for Molden. He held a wooden shovel in his old hands that he must have carved himself. The exertion made him sweat heavily, but he gripped his tool hard and worked steadily. Without saying a word Mhoram went up to him, took the shovel out of his hands and continued the work. Drylok accepted this wordless offer gratefully, climbed out of the grave and dropped himself on the grass, panting.
They went on wordless for about half an hour more: Mhoram digging, Drylok lying in the grass on his back, trying to recompose himself. Then finally the High Lord announced the grave to be wide and deep enough, climbed out of it and sat beside the Hirebrand.
“I still do not understand” Drylok said abruptly, opening his eyes. His panting had subseded. “How he endured. For such a long time. He must have found that Earthblood-thing somewhere high up on Rivenrock or beneath it. That is at least one week’s walk from this stonedown, more maybe. I have never been up there, never have set my feet into Garroting Deep. Why did he not let his frustration, his imperative power out of his chest somewhere in the wastes, where he could’ve hurt nobody save some trees or insects perhaps?”
“I do not know” Mhoram said simply. He put his hands on Drylok’s shoulder and felt the mounting tension in the old sinews in there. “Probably he did not understand what was happening to him, wise though he was even in his young years. He felt a great power boiling in his body, a thought occupying his mind, a growing need, a must to say something.”
“He must have been scared. So scared that his terror gave him strength to endure long enough to get home. He thought he would find ease and explanation here. Instead he found out that he brought devastation and death to his own people, to his beloved. That must have scared him even more, must have scared him witless. What I do not know is how he could stand that for three more days.”
He tore up a stalk of grass and started to chew on it. Its harsh bitterness helped to fight down the salty taste of tears down there deep in his throat.
Drylok looked at him, then looked away, not wanting to embarrass the High Lord with his probing gaze.
“I guess we have to start right after we bury him” he murmured. “I’d better collect some food and springwine. Should’ve done it earlier, were I not an old fool.”
“We?” Mhoram asked, with a faint surprise in his voice. He had not expected this voluntary proposal from Drylok. “Hirebrand, this is not a task for you. You have your own demands, own purposes. You have to bring word to your people and to the ones that had fled this stonedown, tell them about the things we have learned here.”
“No.” Drylok said, firmly this time, with no trace of hesitation in his voice. “No. You are Lord Mhoram, High Lord of the Council, equal of any burden. Still, I want to share this burden with you. I do not want - this – to happen again.”
The High Lord looked at him for a long time. The wind was stronger now, tugging at his blue robe, quickly drying his sweat from his temples.
“Hirebrand, I thank you” he said simply in the end. “I am Mhoram, son of Variol, High Lord in the face of Revelstone, but I am also an old man. I do not relish the prospect of walking alone up to Rivenrock or into the guts of Melenkurion Skywier.”
“But you are also an old man, Drylok. And this will be no easy journey. And still we have to send word to your people somehow.”
“I know” Drylok sighed. “I will be an additional burden to you only. I know that. But still you cannot deny this task from me.”
“As for my people, there is one thing we can do. There is another village. A Woodhelven. It is in the very corner where Garroting Deep touches the stone of Rivenrock. About four days walk should take us there. Willow Woodhelven, it is called. They are strange people, living very much to themselves. Nobody knows how they manage to live in the shadows of Garroting Deep. They must live there on sufferance, the Forestal… endures them somehow. I do not know. But we may find help there, and a way to notify my people.”
“Very well, then” Mhoram said, rising. “Now we should bury Molden. Then we can prepare ourselves to leave. At least we have a direction now.”
... cool!!! 
