The 1st Chronicles of Thomas Covenant #2: The Illearth War by Stephen R. Donaldson Page B

his skin tingle, and the sensation soon covered his face and neck. He scrutinized it as if it were a poison he had taken to end his life.
    When the touch of the loam reached past the base of his throat into his chest, he stumbled, and could not recover. Bannor took his other arm. The Lord and the Bloodguard carried him on through the stone city, working generally upward through the interlocking levels of Lord’s Keep. At last, they brought him to a spacious suite of living quarters. Gently, they bore him into the bedroom, laid him on the bed, and undressed him enough to make him comfortable.
    Then Mhoram bent close to him and said reassuringly, “,This is the power of the hurtloam. When it works upon a dire wound, it brings a deep sleep to speed healing. You will rest well now. You have done without rest too long.” He and Bannor turned to go.
    But Covenant could feel the cool, tingling touch near his heart. Weakly, he called Mhoram back. He was full of dread; he could not bear to be alone. Without caring what he said-seeking only to keep Mhoram near him-he asked, “Why did that-dukkha attack me?”
    Again, Lord Mhoram appeared to understand. He brought a wooden stool near the head of the bed, and seated himself there. In a quiet, steady voice, he said,
    “That is a searching question, my friend. Dukkha has been tormented out of all recognition, and I can only guess at the sore impulses which drive it. But you must remember that it is a Waynhim. For many generations after the Desecration, when the new Lords began their work at Revelstone, the Waynhim served the Land-not out of allegiance to the Lords, but rather out of their desire to expiate to the Land for the dangerous works and dark lore of the ur-viles. Such a creature still lives, somewhere far within dukkha. Despite what has been done to it-even if its soul has been enslaved by the power of the Stone, so that now it serves the Despiser-it still remembers what it was, and hates what it is. That is Lord Foul’s way in all things-to force his foes to become that which they most hate, and to destroy that which they, most love.
    “My friend, this is not pleasant to say. But it is in my heart that dukkha attacked you because you refuse to aid the Land. The Waynhim knows the might you possess-it is of the Demondim, and in all likelihood comprehends more of the uses and power of white gold than any Lord. Now it is in pain too great to allow it to understand you. The last remnant of itself saw dimly that you-that you refuse. For a moment, it became its former self enough to act.
    “Ah, ur-Lord. You have said that the Land is a dream for you-and that you fear to be made mad But madness is not the only danger in dreams. There is also the danger that something may be lost which can never be regained.”
    Covenant sighed. The Lord had given him an explanation he could grasp. But when Mhoram’s steady voice stopped, he felt how much he needed it-how close he was to the brink of some precipice which appalled him. He reached a hand outward, into the void around him, and felt his fingers clasped firmly in Mhoram’s. He tried once more to make himself understood.
    “She was my wife,” he breathed. “She needed me She-she’ll never forgive me for doing this to her.”
    He was so exhausted that he could no longer see Mhoram’s face. But as he ran out of consciousness, he felt the Lord’s unfaltering hold on his hand. Mhoram’s care comforted him, and he slept.
    Then he hung under a broad sky of dreams, measurable only by the strides of stars. Out of the dim heavens, a succession of dark shapes seemed to hover and strike.
    Like carrion, he was helpless to fend them off. But always a hand gripped his and consoled him. It anchored him until he returned to consciousness.
    Without opening his eyes, he lay still and probed himself tentatively, as if he were testing buboes. He was enfolded from his chest down in soft clean sheets. And he could feel the fabric with his toes. The