Read The 1st Chronicles of Thomas Covenant #2: The Illearth War for Free Online

lonely. I -I miss you.” He could hear the effort in her voice.
    His chest heaved fiercely, as if he were choking. Abruptly he broke through the block in his throat, and took a deep breath that sounded as if he were between sobs. But still he could not force up words.
    “Tom! Please! What’s happening to you?”
    His voice seemed to be caught in a death grip. Desperate to shatter the hold, to answer Joan, cling to her voice, keep her on the line, he picked up the phone and started back toward the sofa-hoping that movement would ease the spasm that clenched him, help him regain control of his muscles.
    But be turned the wrong way, wrapping the phone cord around his ankle. As he jerked forward, he tripped and pitched headlong toward the coffee table. His forehead struck the edge of the table squarely. When he hit the floor, he seemed to feel himself bounce.
    Instantly, his sight went blank. But he still had the receiver clutched to his ear.
    During a moment of white stillness, he heard Joan’s voice clearly. She was becoming upset, angry.
    “Tom, I’m serious. Don’t make this any harder for me than it already is. Don’t you understand? I want to talk to you. I need you. Say something. Tom. Tom! Damn you, say something!”
    Then a wide roaring in his ears washed out her voice. No! he cried. No! But he was helpless. The rush of sound came over him like a dark tide, and carried him away.

    THREE: The Summoning
    THE wide roar modulated slowly, changing the void of his sight. On the surge of the sound, a swath of gray-green spread upward until it covered him like a winding sheet.
    The hue of the green was noxious to him, and he felt himself smothering in its close, sweet, fetid reek-the smell of attar. But the note which filled his ears grew more focused, scaled up in pitch. Droplets of gold bled into view through the green. Then the sound turned softer and more plaintive, higher still in pitch, so that it became a low human wail.
    The gold forced back the green. Soon a warm, familiar glow filled his eyes.
    As the sound turned more and more into a woman’s song, the gold spread and deepened — cradled him as if it were carrying him gently along the flood of the voice.
    The melody wove the light, gave it texture and shape, solidity. Helpless to do otherwise, he clung to the sound, concentrated on it with his mouth stretched open in protest.
    Slowly, the singing throat opened. Its harmonic pattern became sterner, more demanding. Covenant felt himself pulled forward now, hurried down the tide of the song.
    Arching with supplication, it took on words.
    Be true, Unbeliever —
    Answer the call.
    Life is the Giver:
    Death ends all.
    The promise is truth,
    And banes disperse
    With promise kept:
    But soul’s deep curse
    On broken faith
    And faithless thrall,
    For doom of darkness
    Covers all.
    Be true, Unbeliever —
    Answer the call.
    Be true.
    The song seemed to reach back into him, stirring memories, calling up people he had once, in one fey mood, thought had the right to make demands of him. But he resisted it. He kept silent, held himself in.
    The melody drew him on into the warm gold.
    At last, the light took on definition. He could locate its shape before him now; it washed out his vision as if he were staring into the sun. But on the last words of the song, the light dimmed, lost its brilliance. As the voice sang, “Be true,” it was seconded by many throats: “Be true!” That adjuration stretched him like: the tightening of a string to its final pitch.
    Then the source of the light fell into scale, and he could see beyond it.
    He recognized the place. He was in the Close, the council chamber of the Lords in the heart of Revel-.: stone. Its tiers of seats reached above him on all sides toward the granite ceiling of the hall.
    He was surprised to find himself standing erect on . the bottom of the Close. The stance confused his sense of balance, and he stumbled forward toward the pit of graveling, the source of the gold