The Wounded Land by Stephen R. Donaldson Page B

arched in ire and pain.
    The next instant, the crisis broke. Palpable relief poured through him. The pain receded, leaving him limp and gasping on the stone. The mist swirled with malice, but did not touch him.
    â€œAh, you are stubborn yet,” the voice sneered, so personal in its contempt that it might have come from within his mind rather than from the attar-laden air. “Stubborn beyond my fondest desires. In one stroke you have ensured your own defeat. My will commands now, and you are lost. Groveler!”
    Covenant flinched at the virulence of the sound.
    Lord Foul.
    â€œDo you mislike the title I have given you?” The Despiser spoke softly, hardly above a whisper; but his quietness only emphasized his sharp hate. “You will merit it absolutely. Never have you been more truly mine. You believe that you have been near unto death. That is false, groveler! I would not permit you to die. I will obtain far better service from your life.”
    Covenant wanted to strike out at the mist, flail it away from him. But he was too weak. He lay on the stone as if his limbs had been bled dry. He needed all his will to dredge his voice back to life. “I don’t believe it,” he panted hoarsely. “You can’t be stupid enough to try this again.”
    â€œAh, you do not believe,” jeered Lord Foul. “Misdoubt it, then. Disbelieve, and I will rend your very soul from your bones!”
    No! Covenant rasped in silence. I’ve had ten years to understand what happened the last time. You can’t do that to me again.
    â€œYou will grovel before me,” the Despiser went on, “and call it joy. Your victory over me was nothing. It serves me well. Plans which I planted in my anguish have come to fruit. Time is altered. The world is not what it was. You are changed, Unbeliever.” The mist made that word,
Unbeliever
, into a name of sovereign scorn. “You are no longer free. You have sold yourself for that paltry woman who loathes you. When you accepted her life from me, you became my tool. A tool does not choose. Did not my Enemy expound to you the necessity of freedom? Your very presence here empowers me to master you.”
    Covenant flinched. Lord Foul spoke the truth; he was not free. In trading himself for Joan, he had committed himself to something he could neither measure nor recall. He wanted to cry out; but he was too angry to show that much weakness.
    â€œWe are foemen, you and I,” continued Lord Foul, “enemies to the end. But the end will be yours, Unbeliever, not mine. That you will learn to believe. For a score of centuries I lay entombed in the Land which I abhor, capable of naught but revulsion. But in time I was restored to myself. For nearly as many centuries more, I have beenpreparing retribution. When last comes to last, you will be the instrument of my victory.”
    Bloody hell! Covenant gagged on the thickness of the mist and Lord Foul’s vitriol. But his passion was clear. I won’t let you do this!
    â€œNow hear me, groveler. Hear my prophecy. It is for your ears alone—for behold! there are none left in the Land to whom you could deliver it.”
    That hurt him. None? What had happened to the Lords?
    But the Despiser went on remorselessly, mocking Covenant by his very softness. “No, to you alone I say it: tremble in your heart, for the ill that you deem most terrible is upon you! Your former victory accomplished naught but to prepare the way for this moment. I am Lord Foul the Despiser, and I speak the one word of truth. To you I say it: the wild magic is no longer potent against me! It cannot serve you now. No power will suffice.
    â€œUnbeliever, you cannot oppose me. At the last there will be but one choice for you, and you will make it in all despair. Of your own volition you will give the white gold into my hand.”
    No! Covenant shouted. No! But he could not penetrate Lord Foul’s certitude.
    â€œKnowing