srdonaldson.thepowerthatpreserves-第72部分

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　　　　He　hoped　that　the　Raver　would　react　with　anger；　do　something　which　would　bring　him　within　reach　of　the　archers。　But　Satansfist　only　laughed。　Barking　with　savage　glee；　he　turned　away　and　gave　a　shout　that　sent　his　forces　forward　to　renew　their　assault。
　　　　Mhoram　turned　also；　pulled　himself　painfully　around　to　face　his　fellow　Lords。　But　they　were　not　looking　at　him。　They　were　intent　on　a　messenger　who　stood　trembling　before　them。　Fear…sweat　slicked　his　face　despite　the　cold；　and　the　muscles　of　his　throat　locked；　clenched　him　silent。　Mutely；　he　reached　into　his　tunic；　brought　out　a　cloth　bundle。　His　hands　shook　as　he　unwrapped　it。
　　　　After　a　febrile　moment；　he　exposed　the　krill。
　　　　Its　gem　was　as　dull　as　death。
　　　　Mhoram　thought　he　heard　gasps；　groans；　cries；　but　he　could　not　be　sure。　Dread　roared　in　his　ears；　made　other　sounds　indistinguishable。　He　snatched　up　the　krill。　Staring　aghast　at　it；　he　fell　to　his　knees；　plunged　as　if　his　legs　had　broken。　With　all　the　force　of　his　need；　he　thrust　his　gaze　into　the　gem；　tried　to　find　some　gleam　of　life　in　it。　But　the　metal　was　cold　to　his　touch；　and　the　edges　of　the　blade　were　dull。　Blind；　lusterless　winter　filled　the　furthest　depths　of　the　jewel。
　　　　The　hope　of　the　wild　magic　was　lost。　Covenant　was　gone。
　　　　Now　Mhoram　understood　why　the　Raver　had　laughed。
　　　　〃Mhoram？〃
　　　　〃High　Lord。〃
　　　　〃Mhoram！〃
　　　　Supplications　reached　toward　him；　asking　him　for　strength；　begging　him；　requiring。　He　ignored　them。　He　shrugged　off　the　hands　of　melding　which　plucked　at　his　mind。　The　prophecy　of　his　dread　had　e　to　pass。　He　had　nothing　left　with　which　to　answer　supplications。
　　　　〃Ah；　High　Lord！〃
　　　　There　were　tears　and　despair　in　the　appeals；　but　he　had　nothing　left　with　which　to　answer。
　　　　He　was　only　dimly　aware　that　he　rose　to　his　feet；　returned　the　krill　to　the　messenger。　He　wanted　it　removed　from　his　sight　as　if　it　were　a　treacher；　yet　that　feeling　occupied　only　a　distant　portion　of　him。　With　the　rest；　he　tightened　his　frail　blue　robe　as　if　he　were　still　fool　enough　to　believe　it　could　protect　him　from　the　cold；　and　walked　numbly　away　from　the　battlement。　The　short；　stiff　shock　of　his　hair；　newly　grown　after　the　fire　in　the　Close；　gave　him　a　demented　aspect。　People　came　after　him；　beseeching；　requiring；　but　he　kept　up　his　wooden　pace；　kept　ahead　of　them　so　that　he　would　not　have　to　see　their　needy　faces。
　　　　He　gave　no　thought　to　where　he　was　going　until　he　reached　a　fork　in　the　passage。　There；　the　weight　of　decision　almost　crushed　him　to　his　knees　again…left　and　down　into　the　Keep；　or　right　and　out　toward　the　upland　plateau。　He　turned　to　the　right　because　he　could　not　bear　the　unintended　recrimination　of　Revelstone…and　because　he　was　a　man　who　already　knew　that　he　had　no　choice。
　　　　When　he　started　up　the　long　ascending　road；　the　people　behind　him　slowed；　let　him　go。　He　heard　them　whispering：
　　　　〃He　goes　to　the　Unfettered　One…to　the　interpreter　of　dreams。〃
　　　　But　that　was　not　where　he　was　going；　he　had　no　questions　to　ask　an　oracle。　Oracles　were　for　people　to　whom　ambiguous　visions　could　make　a　difference；　but　now　the　only　things　which　could　make　a　difference　to　High　Lord　Mhoram　son　of　Variol　were　things　which　would　give　him　courage。
　　　　In　a　stupor　of　dread；　he　climbed　out　into　the　wind　which　scythed　across　the　open　plateau。　Above　its　chill　ululations；　he　could　hear　battle　crashing　against　the　walls　of　the　Keep；　waves　of　assailants　hurling　themselves　like　breakers　against　a　defiant　and　ultimately　frangible　cliff。　But　he　put　the　sound　behind　him；　it　was　only　a　symbol；　a　concentration；　of　the　whole　Land's　abominable　doom。　Without　Thomas　Covenant…！　Mhoram　could　not　plete　the　thought。　He　walked　up　through　the　barren　hills　away　from　Revelstone；　up　toward　the　river　and　northward　along　it；　with　an　abyss　in　his　heart　where　the　survival　of　the　Land　should　have　been。　This；　he　told　himself；　was　what　Kevin　Landwaster　must　have　felt　when　Lord　Foul　overwhelmed　Kurash　Plenethor；　making　all　responses　short　of　Desecration　futile。　He　did　not　know　how　the　pain　of　it　could　be　endured。

　　　　After　a　time；　he　found　himself　standing　cold　in　the　wind　on　a　hill　above　Glimmermere。　Below　him；　the　rare；　potent　waters　of　the　lake　lay　unruffled　despite　the　buffeting　of　the　wind。　Though　the　skies　above　it　were　as　gray　as　the　ashes　of　the　world's　end；　it　seemed　to　shine　with　remembered　sunlight。　It　reflected　cleanly　the　hills　and　the　distant　mountains；　and　through　its　purity　he　could　see　its　fathomless；　rocky　bottom。
　　　　He　knew　what　he　would　have　to　do；　he　lacked　courage；　not　prehension。　The　last　exactions　of　faith　lay　unrolled　before　him　in　his　dread　like　the　map　of　a　country　which　no　longer　existed。　When　he　stumbled　frozenly　down　toward　the　lake；　he　did　so　because　he　had　nowhere　else　to　turn。　There　was　Earthpower　in　Glimmermere。　He　placed　his　staff　on　the　bank；　stripped　off　his　robe；　and　dropped　into　the　lake；　praying　that　its　icy　waters　would　do　for　him　what　he　could　not　do　for　himself。
　　　　Though　he　was　already　numb　with　cold；　the　water　seemed　to　burn　instantly　over　all　his　flesh；　snatch　him　out　of　his　numbness　like　a　conflagration　in　his　nerves。　He　had　had　no　thought　of　swimming　when　he　had　slipped　into　the　depths；　but　the　force　of　Glimmermere　triggered　reactions　in　him；　sent　him　clawing　up　toward　the　surface。　With　a　whooping　gasp；　he　broke　water；　sculled　for　a　moment　to　catch　his　breath　against　the　fiery　chill；　then　struck　out　for　the　bank　where　he　had　left　his　robe。
　　　　Climbing　out　onto　the　hillside；　he　felt　aflame　with　cold；　but　he　pelled　himself　to　remain　naked　while　the　wind　made　ice　of　the　water　on　his　limbs　and　dried　him。　Then　he　pulled　his　robe　urgently　over　his　shoulders；　hugged　his　staff　to　his　chest　so　that　its　heat　warmed　him　where　he　most　needed　warming。　His　feverish　chill　took　some　time　to　pass；　and　while　he　waited；　he　braced　himself；　strove　to　shore　up　his　heart　against　the　obstacles　and　the　dismay　which　awaited　him。
　　　　He　had　to　do　something　which　was　obviously　impossible。　He　had　to　slay　samadhi　Satansfist。
　　　　He　would　need　help。
　　　　Putting　grimly　aside　all　his　former　scruples；　he　turned　to　the　only　possible　source　of　help…the　only　aid　whose　faithfulness　matched　his　need。　He　raised　one　cold　hand　to　his　lips　and　whistled　shrilly　three　times。
　　　　The　turbulent　wind　seemed　to　snatch　the　sound　to　pieces；　tatter　it　instantly。　In　a　place　where　echoes　were　mon；　his　call　disappeared　without　resonance　or　answer；　the　wind　tore　it　away　as　if　to　undo　his　purpose；　make　him　unheard。　Nevertheless　he　summoned　his　trust；　pried　himself　up　the　hillside　to　stand　waiting　on　the　vantage　of　the　crest。　A　suspense　like　the　ether　of　despair　filled　him；　but　he　faced　the　western　mountains　as　if　his　heart　knew　neither　doubt　nor　fear。
　　　　Long　moments　which　sharpened　his　suspense　to　the　screaming　point　passed　before　he　saw　a　dull　brown　movement　making　its　way　toward　him　out　of　the　mountains。　Then　his　soul　leaped　up　in　spite　of　its　burdens；　and　he　stood　erect　with　the　wind　snapping　in　his　ears　so　that　his　stance　would　be　being　to　the　Ranyhyn　that　was　answering　his　call。
　　　　The　wait　nearly　froze　the　blood　in　his　veins；　but　at　last　the　Ranyhyn　reached　the　hills　around　Glimmermere；　and　nickered　in　salutation。
　　　　Mhoram　groaned　at　the　sight。　In　order　to　answer　his　call；　the　Ranyhyn　must　have　left　the　Plains　of　Ra　scores　of　days　ago…must　have　fled　Satansfist's　army　to　run　straight　across　the　Center　Plains　into　the　Westron　Mountains；　then　found　its　pathless　way　among　the　high　winter　of　the　peaks　northward　to　the　spur　of　the　range　which　jutted　east　and　ended　in　the　plateau　of　Revelstone。　The　long　ordeal　of　the　mountain　trek　had　exacted　a　severe　price　from　the　great　stallion。　His　flesh　hung　slack　over　gaunt　ribs；　he　stumbled　painfully　on　swollen　joints；　and　his　coat　had　a　look　of　ragged　misery。　Still　Mhoram　recognized　the　Ranyhyn；　and　greeted　him　with　all　the　respect　his　voice　could　carry：
　　　　〃Hail；　Drinny；　proud　Ranyhyn！　Oh；　bravely　done！　Worthy　son　of　a　worthy　mother。　Tail　of　the　Sky；　Mane　of　the　World；　I　am〃…a　clench　of　emotion　caught　his　throat；　and　he　could　only　whisper…〃I　am　honored。''
　　　　Drinny　made　a　valiant　effort　to　trot　up　to　Mhoram；　but　when　he　reached　the　High　Lord　he　rested　his　head　trembling　on　Mhoram's　shoulder　as　if　he　needed　the　support　in　order　to　keep　his　feet。　Mhoram　hugged　his　neck；　whispered　words　of　praise　and　encouragement　in　his　ear；　stroked　his　ice…clogged　coat。　They　stood　together　as　if　in　their　differing　weaknesses　they　were　making　promises　to　each　other。　Then　Mhoram　answered　the　nudging　of　Drinny's　unquenchable　pride　by　springing　onto　the　Ranyhyn's　back。　Warming　the　great　horse　with　his　staff；　he　rode　slowly；　resolutely；　back　toward　Revelstone。
　　　　The　ride　took　time…time　made　arduous　and　agonizing　by　the　frailty　of　Drinny's　muscles；　his　painful；　exhausted　stumbling。　While　they　passed　down　through　the　hills；　Mhoram's　own　weariness　returned；　and　he　remembered　his　inadequacy；　his　stupefying　dread。　But　he　had　placed　his　feet　on　the　strait　path　of　his　faith；　now　he　held　the　Ranyhyn　between　his　knees　and　bound　himself　in　his　determination　not　to　turn　aside。　Drinny　had　answered　his　call。　While　his　thoughts　retained　some　vestige　of　Glimmermere's