The Wounded Land by Stephen R. Donaldson Page A

knife—! Covenant was too stunned to move.
    Linden hurled herself at the man, grappled for his arms. He was slick with ashes, and strong. She lost her grip.
    Covenant struggled to roll over. Swiftly the man stooped to him, pinned him with one hand, raised the knife in the other.
    Linden attacked again, blocked the knife. Her fingernails gouged the man’s face.
    Yowling, he dealt her a blow which stretched her on the rock.
    Everything reeled. Darkness spun at her from all sides.
    She saw the knife flash.
    Then the eyes of the fire blazed at her, and she was lost in a yellow triumph that roared like the furnace of the sun.

PART I:  Need

FOUR: “You Are Mine”
    Red agony spiked the center of Thomas Covenant’s chest. He felt that he was screaming. But the fire was too bright; he could not hear himself. From the wound, flame writhed through him, mapping his nerves like a territory of pain. He could not fight it,
    He did not want to fight it. He had saved Joan. Saved Joan. That thought iterated through him, consoling him for the unanswerable violence of the wound. For the first time in eleven years, he was at peace with his ex-wife. He had repaid the old debt between them to the limit of his mortality; he had given everything he possessed to make restitution for the blameless crime of his leprosy. Nothing more could be asked of him.
    But the fire had a voice. At first, it was too loud to be understood. It retorted in his ears like the crushing of boulders. He inhaled it with every failing breath; it echoed along the conflagration in his chest. But gradually it became clear. It uttered words as heavy as stones.
    â€œYour will is mine—
    You have no hope of life without me,
    Have no life or hope without me.
    All is mine.
    â€œYour heart is mine—
    There is no love or peace within you,
    Is no peace or love within you.
    All is mine.
    â€œYour soul is mine—
    You cannot dream of your salvation,
    Cannot plead for your salvation.
    You are mine.”
    The arrogance of the words filled him with repudiation. He knew that voice. He had spent ten years strengthening himself against it, tightening his grip on the truth of love and rage which had enabled him to master it. And still it had the power to appall him. It thronged with relish for the misery of lepers. It claimed him and would not let him go.
    Now he wanted to fight. He wanted to live. He could not bear to let that voice have its way with him.
    But the knife had struck too deeply; the wound was complete. A numbness crept through him, and the red fire faded toward mist. He had no pulse, could not remember breathing. Could not—
    Out of the mist, he remembered Linden Avery.
    Hellfire!
    She had followed him, even though he had warned her—warned her in spite of the fact that she had obviously been chosen to fulfill some essential role. He had been so torn—She had given an excruciating twist to his dilemma, had dismayed and infuriated him with her determination to meddle in matters she could not comprehend. And yet she was the first woman he had met in ten years who was not afraid of him.
    And she had fallen beside him, trying to save his life. The man had struck her; the fire had covered her as it reached for him. If she were being taken to the Land—!
    Of course she was. Why else had the old man accosted her?
    But she had neither knowledge nor power with which to defend herself, had no way to understand what was happening to her.
    Blindly Covenant struggled against the numbness, resisted the voice. Linden had tried to save his life. He could not leave her to face such a doom alone. Wrath at the brutality of her plight crowded his heart. By hell! he raged. You can’t do this!
    Suddenly a resurgence of fire burned out of him—pure white flame, the fire of his need. It concentrated in the knife wound, screamed through his chest like an apotheosis or cautery. Heat hammered at his heart, his lungs, his half-hand. His body