srdonaldson.thepowerthatpreserves-第105章

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　of　life。　From　the　vantage　of　the　hill…the　last　elevation　between　him　and　Foul's　Creche…he　could　see　that　he　was　at　the　base　of　Ridjeck　Thome's　promontory。　Several　hundred　yards　away　from　him　on　either　side；　the　ground　fell　off　in　sheer　cliffs　which　drew　closer　to　each　other　as　they　jutted　outward　until　they　met　at　the　tip　of　the　promontory。　In　the　distance；　he　heard　waves　thundering　against　the　cliffs；　and　far　beyond　the　lips　of　the　wedge　he　could　see　the　dark；　gray…green　waters　of　the　Sea。
　　　　But　he　gave　little　attention　to　the　landscape。　His　eyes　were　drawn　by　the　magnet　of　the　Creche　itself。　He　had　guessed　from　what　he　had　heard　that　most　of　Lord　Foul's　home　lay　underground；　and　now　he　saw　that　this　must　be　true。　The　promontory　rose　to　a　high　pile　of　rock　at　its　tip；　and　there　the　Creche　stood。　Two　matched　towers；　as　tall　and　slender　as　minarets；　rose　several　hundred　feet　into　the　air；　and　between　them　at　ground　level　was　the　dark　open　hole　of　the　single　entrance。　Nothing　else　of　the　Despiser's　abode　was　visible。　From　windows　atop　the　towers；　Lord　Foul　or　his　guards　could　look　outward　beyond　the　promontory；　beyond　Hotash　Slay；　beyond　even　the　Shattered　Hills；　but　the　rest　of　his　demesne…his　breeding　dens；　storehouses；　power　works；　barracks；　thronehall…had　to　be　underground；　delved　into　the　rock；　accessible　only　through　that　one　mouth　and　the　tunnels　hidden　among　Kurash　Qwellinir。
　　　　Covenant　stared　across　the　promontory；　and　the　dark　windows　of　the　towers　gaped　blindly　back　at　him　like　soulless　eyes；　hollow　and　abhorred。　At　first；　he　was　simply　transfixed　by　the　sight；　stunned　to　find　himself　so　close　to　such　a　destination。　But　when　that　emotion　faded；　he　began　to　wonder　how　he　could　reach　the　Creche　without　being　spotted　by　sentries。　He　did　not　believe　that　the　towers　would　be　as　empty　as　they　appeared。　Surely　the　Despiser　would　not　leave　any　approach　unwatched。　And　if　he　waited　for　dark　to　conceal　him；　he　might　fall　off　a　cliff　or　into　one　of　the　cracks。
　　　　He　considered　the　problem　for　some　time　without　finding　any　answer。　But　at　last　he　decided　that　he　would　have　to　take　his　chances。　They　were　no　more　impossible　than　they　had　ever　been。　And　the　ground　he　had　to　cross　was　blasted　and　rough；　scarred　with　slag　pits；　ash　heaps；　crevices；　he　would　be　able　to　find　cover　for　much　of　the　distance。
　　　　He　began　by　returning　to　the　gully　and　following　it　south　until　it　began　to　veer　down　toward　the　cliff。　He　could　hear　and　see　the　ocean　clearly　now；　though　the　lava's　brimstone　still　overwhelmed　any　smell　of　salt　in　the　air；　but　he　took　notice　of　it　only　to　avoid　the　danger　of　the　cliff。　From　there　he　climbed　the　hill　again；　and　peered　over　it　to　study　the　nearby　terrain。
　　　　To　his　relief；　he　saw　more　gullies。　From　the　base　of　the　hill；　they　ran　like　a　web　of　erosion　scars　over　that　part　of　the　lowland。　If　he　could　get　into　them　without　being　seen；　he　would　be　safe　for　some　distance。
　　　　He　congratulated　himself　grimly　on　the　filthiness　of　his　robe；　which　blended　well　into　the　ruined　colors　of　the　ground。　For　a　moment；　he　gathered　his　courage；　steadied　himself。　Then　he　sprinted；　tumbled　down　the　last　slope；　rolled　into　the　nearest　gully。
　　　　It　was　too　shallow　to　allow　him　to　move　erect；　but　by　alternately　crawling　and　crouching；　he　was　able　to　work　his　way　into　the　web。　After　that；　he　made　better　progress。
　　　　But　beyond　the　heat　of　Hotash　Slay；　the　air　turned　cold　and　wet　like　an　exhalation　from　a　dank　crypt；　it　soaked　into　him　despite　his　robe；　made　his　sweat　hurt　like　ice　on　his　skin；　drained　his　scant　energies。　The　ground　was　hard；　and　when　he　crawled；　his　knees　felt　muffled　ill　beating　up　through　the　rock。　Hunger　ached　precipitously　within　him。　But　he　drove　himself　onward。
　　　　Beyond　the　gullies；　he　moved　more　swiftly　for　a　time　by　limping　between　slag　pits　and　ash　heaps。　But　after　that　he　came　to　a　flat；　shelterless　stretch　riddled　with　cracks　and　crevices。　Through　some　he　could　hear　the　crashing　of　the　Sea；　from　others　came　rank　blasts　of　air；　ventilation　for　the　Creche。　He　had　to　scuttle　unprotected　across　the　flat；　now　running　between　wide　gaps　in　the　ground；　now　throwing　himself　in　dizzy　fear　over　cracks　across　his　path。　When　at　last　he　reached　the　foot　of　the　rugged；　upraised　rock　which　led　to　the　towers；　he　dropped　into　the　shelter　of　a　boulder　and　lay　there；　gasping；　shivering　in　the　damp　cold；　dreading　the　sound　of　guards。
　　　　But　he　heard　no　alarms；　no　shout　or　rush　of　pursuit…nothing　but　his　own　hoarse　respiration；　the　febrile　pulse　of　his　blood；　the　pounding　of　the　waves。　Either　he　had　not　been　seen　or　the　guards　were　preparing　to　ambush　him。　He　mustered　the　vestiges　of　his　strength　and　began　to　clamber　up　through　the　rocks。
　　　　As　he　climbed；　he　grew　faint。　Weakness　like　vertigo　filled　his　head　made　his　numb　hands　powerless　to　grasp；　his　legs　powerless　to　thrust。　Yet　he　went　on。　Time　and　again；　he　stopped　with　his　heart　lurching　because　he　had　heard…or　thought　he　had　heard…some　clink　of　rock　or　rustle　of　apparel　which　said　that　he　was　being　stalked。　Still　he　forced　himself　to　continue。　Dizzy；　weak；　alone；　trembling；　vulnerable…he　was　engaged　in　a　struggle　that　he　could　understand。　He　had　e　too　far　for　any　kind　of　surrender。
　　　　Now　he　was　so　high　that　he　could　seldom　hide　pletely　from　the　towers。　But　the　angle　was　an　awkward　one　for　any　guards　that　might　have　been　at　the　windows。　So　as　he　gasped　and　scraped　up　the　last　ascents；　he　worried　less　about　concealment。　He　needed　all　his　attention；　energy；　just　to　move　his　hands　and　feet；　lift　his　body　upward；　upward。
　　　　At　last　he　neared　the　top。　Peering　through　a　gap　between　two　boulders；　he　caught　his　first　close　look　at　the　mouth　of　Foul's　Creche。
　　　　It　was　smooth　and　symmetrical；　unadorned；　perfectly　made。　The　round　opening　stood　in　a　massive　abutment　of　wrought　stone…a　honed　and　polished　fortification　which　cupped　the　entrance　as　if　it　led　to　a　sacred　crypt。　Its　sheen　echoed　the　clouded　sky　exactly；　reflected　the　immaculate　gray　image　of　the　parapets。
　　　　One　figure　as　tall　as　a　Giant　stood　before　the　cave。　It　had　three　heads；　three　sets　of　eyes　so　that　it　could　watch　in　all　directions；　three　brawny　legs　forming　a　tripod　to　give　it　stability。　Its　three　arms　were　poised　in　constant　readiness。　Each　held　a　gleaming　broadsword；　each　was　protected　with　heavy　leather　bands。　A　long　leather　buckler　girded　its　torso。　At　first；　Covenant　saw　no　movement　to　indicate　that　the　figure　was　alive。　But　then　it　blinked；　drew　his　attention　to　its　fetid　yellow　eyes。　They　roamed　the　hilltop　constantly；　searching　for　foes。　When　they　flicked　across　the　gap　through　which　he　peered；　he　recoiled　as　if　he　had　been　discovered。
　　　　But　if　the　figure　saw　him；　it　gave　no　sign。　After　a　moment；　he　calmed　his　apprehension。　The　warder　was　not　placed　to　watch　any　part　of　the　promontory　except　the　last　approaches　to　the　cave；　virtually　all　his　trek　from　Hotash　Slay　had　been　out　of　the　figure's　line　of　sight。　So　he　was　safe　where　he　crouched。　But　if　he　wanted　to　enter　Foul's　Creche；　he　would　have　to　pass　that　warder。
　　　　He　had　no　idea　how　to　do　so。　He　could　not　fight　the　creature。　He　could　not　think　of　any　way　to　trick　it。　And　the　longer　he　waited　for　some　kind　of　inspiration；　the　larger　his　fear　and　weakness　became。
　　　　Rather　than　remain　where　he　was　until　he　paralyzed　himself；　he　squirmed　on　his　belly　up　through　the　boulders　to　the　fortification　on　one　side　of　the　entrance。　Hiding　behind　the　parapet　almost　directly　below　and　between　the　twin　towers；　he　clenched　himself　to　quiet　his　breathing；　and　tried　to　muster　his　courage　for　the　only　approach　he　could　conceive…drop　over　the　parapet　into　the　entry　way　and　try　to　outrun　the　warder。　He　was　so　close　to　the　figure　now　that　he　felt　sure　it　could　smell　his　sweat；　hear　the　reel　of　his　dizziness　and　the　labor　of　his　heart。
　　　　Yet　he　could　not　move。　He　felt　utterly　exposed　to　the　towers；　though　he　was　out　of　sight　of　the　windows；　yet　he　could　not　make　himself　move。　He　was　afraid。　Once　he　showed　himself…once　the　warder　saw　him…　Foul's　Creche　would　be　warned。　All　Foamfollower's　effort　and　sacrifice；　all　the　aid　of　the　jheherrin；　would　be　undone　in　an　instant。　He　would　be　alone　against　the　full　defenses　of　Ridjeck　Thome。