Thomas Covenant 02: The Illearth War

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  She was leaning toward Covenant, listening to him with interest—almost with deference—in every line of her form.

  The sight galled Troy.

  His own feelings for the High Lord were confused: he could not fit them into any easy categories. She was the Lord who had taught him the meaning of sight. And as he had learned to see, she had taught him the Land, introduced him to it with such gentle delight that he always thought of her and the Land together, as if she herself summarized it. When he came to understand the peril of the Land—when he began to search for a way to serve what he saw—she was the one who breathed life into his ideas. She recognized the potential value of his tactical skill, put faith in it; she gave his voice the power of command. Because of her, he was now giving orders of great risk, and leading the Warward in a cause for which he would not be ashamed to die.

  Yet Covenant appeared insensitive to her, immune to her. He wore an aura of weary bitterness. His beard darkened his whole face, as if to assert that he had not one jot or tittle of belief to his name. He looked like an Unbeliever, an infidel. And his presence seemed to demean the High Lord, sully her Land-like beauty.

  Various sour thoughts crossed Troy’s mind, but one was uppermost. There was still something he had to say to Covenant—not because Covenant would or could profit from it, but because he, Troy, wanted to leave no doubt in Covenant’s mind.

  The Warmark waited until Elena had turned away to speak with Mhoram. Then he pulled Mehryl up to Covenant’s side. Without preamble, he said bluntly, “There’s something I’ve got to tell you before we leave. I want you to know that I spoke against you to the Council. I told them what you did to Trell’s daughter.”

  Covenant cocked an eyebrow. After a pause, he said, “And then you found out that they already knew all about it.”

  “Yes.” For an instant, he wondered how Covenant had known this. Then he went on: “So I demanded to know why they put up with you. I told them they can’t afford to waste their time and strength rehabilitating people like you when they’ve got Foul to worry about.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They made excuses for you. They told me that not all crimes are committed by evil people. They told me that sometimes a good man does ill because of the pain in his soul. Like Trell. And Mhoram told me that the blade of your Unbelief cuts both ways.”

  “And that surprises you?”

  “Yes! I told them—”

  “You should have expected it. Or what did you think this Oath of Peace is about? It’s a commitment to the forgiving of lepers—of Kevin and Trell. As if forgiveness weren’t the one thing no leper or criminal either could ever have any use for.”

  Troy stared into Covenant’s gray, gaunt face. Covenant’s tone confused him. The words seemed to be bitter, even cynical, but behind them was a timbre of pain, a hint of self-judgment, which he had not expected to hear. Once again, he was torn between anger at the folly of the Unbeliever’s stubbornness and amazement at the extent of Covenant’s injury. An obscure shame made him feel that he should apologize. But he could not force himself to go that far. Instead, he gave a relenting sigh, and said, “Mhoram also suggested that I should be patient with you. Patience. I wish I had some. But the fact is—”

  “I know,” Covenant murmured. “The fact is that you’re starting to find out just how terrible all this responsibility is. Let me know when you start to feel like a failure. We’ll commiserate together.”

  That stung Troy. “I’m not going to fail!” he snapped.

  Covenant grimaced ambiguously. “Then let me know when you succeed, and I’ll congratulate you.”

  With an effort, Troy swallowed his anger. He was in no mood to be tolerant of Covenant, but for his own sake—and Elena’s—rather than for the Unbeliever’s, he said, “Covenant, I really don’t understand what your trouble is. But if there’s ever anything I can do for you, I’ll do it.”

  Covenant did not meet his gaze. Self-sarcastically, the Unbeliever muttered, “I’ll probably need it.”

  Troy shrugged. He leaned his weight to send Mehryl toward First Haft Amorine. But then he saw Hearthrall Tohrm striding briskly toward them from the gate of the Keep. He held Mehryl back, and waited for the Gravelingas.

  When Tohrm stepped between their mounts, he saluted them both, then turned to Covenant. The usual playfulness of his expression was cloaked in sobriety as he said, “Ur-Lord, may I speak?”

  Covenant glowered at him from under his eyebrows, but did not refuse.

  After a brief pause, Tohrm said, “You will soon depart from Revelstone, and it may be that yet another forty years will pass before you return again. Perhaps I will live forty years more—but the chance is uncertain. And I am still in your debt. Ur-Lord Covenant, may I give you a gift?”

  Reaching into his robe, he pulled out and held up a smooth, lopsided stone no larger than his palm. Its appearance struck the Warmark. It gave the impression of being transparent, but he could not see through it; it seemed to open into unglimpsed depths like a hole in the visible fabric of Tohrm’s hand and the air and the ground.

  Startled Covenant asked, “What is it?”

  “It is orcrest, a rare piece of the One Rock which is the heart of the Earth. The Earthpower is abundant in it, and it may serve you in many ways. Will you accept it?”

  Covenant stared at the orcrest as if there were something cruel in Tohrm’s offer. “I don’t want it.”

  “I do not offer it for any want,” said Tohrm. “You have the white gold, and need no gifts of mine. No, I offer it out of respect for my old friend Birinair, whom you released from the fire which consumed him. I offer it in gratitude for a brave deed.”

  “Brave?” Covenant muttered thickly. “I didn’t do it for him. Don’t you know that?”

  “The deed was done by your hand. No one in the Land could do such a thing. Will you accept it?”

  Slowly Covenant reached out and took the stone. As his left hand closed around it, it changed color, took on an argent gleam from his wedding ring. Seeing this, he quickly shoved it into the pocket of his pants. Then he cleared his throat, and said, “If I ever—if I ever get a chance—I’ll give it back to you.”

  Tohrm grinned. “Courtesy is like a drink at a mountain stream. Ur-Lord, it is in my heart that behind the thunder of your brow you are a strangely courteous man.”

  “Now you’re making fun of me,” Covenant replied glumly.

  The Hearthrall laughed at this as if it were a high jest. With a sprightly step, he moved away to reenter the Keep.

  Warmark Troy frowned. Everyone in Revelstone seemed to see something in Covenant that he himself could not perceive. To escape that thought, he sent Mehryl trotting from Covenant’s side toward his army.

  First Haft Amorine joined him a short way down the hill, and together they spent a brief time speaking with the mounted Warhafts who carried the drums. Troy counted out the pace he wanted them to set, and made sure that they knew it by heart. It was faster than the beat he had trained into them, and he did not want the army to lag. In the back of his mind, he chafed at the delay which kept the march from starting. The sun was well up now; the Warward had already lost the dawn.

  He was discussing the terrain ahead with his First Haft when a murmur ran through the army. All the warriors turned toward the great Keep. The Lords Trevor and Loerya had finally arrived.

  They stood atop the tower which guarded Revelstone’s gates. Between them they held a bundle of blue cloth.

  As the Lords took their places, the inhabitants of the Keep began to appear at the south wall. In a rush, they thronged the balconies and ramparts, filled the windows, crowded out onto the edge of the plateau. Their voices rolled expectantly.

  Leaving Amorine with the army, Warmark Hile Troy rode back up the hill to take his place with the Lords while Trevor and Loerya busied themselves around the tall flagpole atop the tower. His blood suddenly stirred with eagerness, and he wanted to shout some kind of war cry, hurl some fi
erce defiance at the Despiser.

  When Trevor and Loerya were ready, they waved to High Lord Elena. At their signal, she clapped Myrha with her heels, and galloped away from her mounted companions. A short distance away, between the wall of the Keep and the main body of the Warward, she halted. Swinging Myrha in a tight circle with the Staff of Law raised high over her head, she shouted to the warriors and the inhabitants of Revelstone, “Hail!” Her clear cry echoed off the cliff like a tantara, and was answered at once by one thrilling shout from a myriad of voices:

  “Hail!!”

  “My friends, people of the Land!” she called out to them, “the time has come. War is upon us, and we march to meet it. Hear me, all! I am the High Lord, holder of the Staff of Law—sworn and dedicate to the services of the Land. At my will, we march to do battle with the Gray Slayer—to pit our strength against him for the sake of the Earth. Hear me! It is I, Elena daughter of Lena, who say it: do not fear! Be of strong heart and bold hand. If it lies within our power, we will prevail!”

  As she held high the Staff, she caught the early sunlight. Her hair shone about her like an anadem, and the golden Ranyhyn bore her up like an offering to the wide day. For a moment, she had a look of immolation, and Troy almost choked on the fear of losing her. But there was nothing sacrificial in the upright peal of her voice as she addressed the people of Revelstone.

  “Do not mistake. This peril is severe—the gravest danger of our age. It may be that all we have ever seen or heard or felt will be lost. If we are to live—if the Land is to live—we must wrest life from the Despiser. It is a task that surpassed the Old Lords who came before us.

  “But I say to you, do not fear! The coming battle is our great test, our soul measure. It is our opportunity to repudiate utterly the Desecration which destroys what it loves. It is our opportunity to shape courage and service and faith out of the very rock of doom. Even if we fall, we will not despair.

  “Yet I do not believe that we shall fall.” Taking the Staff in one hand, she thrust it straight toward the heavens, and a bright flame burst from its end. “Hear me, all!” she cried. “Hear the Dedication in Time of War!” Then she opened her throat and began to sing a song that pulsed like the stalking of drums.

  Friends! comrades!

  Proud people of the Land!

  There is war upon us;

  blood and pain and killing are at hand.

  Together we confront the test of death.

  Friends and comrades,

  remember Peace!

  Repeat the Oath with every breath.

  Until the end and Time’s release,

  we bring no fury or despair,

  no passion of hatred, spite, or slaughter,

  no Desecration to the service of the Land.

  We fight to mend, anneal, repair—

  to free the Earth of detestation;

  for health and home and wood and stone,

  for beauty’s fragrant bloom and gleam,

  and rivers clear and fair

  we strike;

  nor will we cease,

  let fall our heads to ash and dust,

  lose faith and heart and hope and bone.

  We strike

  until the Land is clean of wrong and pain,

  and we have kept our trust.

  Let no great whelm of evil wreak despair!

  Remember Peace:

  brave death!

  We are the proud preservers of the Land!

  As she finished, she turned Myrha, faced the watchtower. From the Staff of Law, she sent crackling into the sky a great, branched lightning tree. At this sign, Lord Loerya threw her bundle into the air, and Lord Trevor pulled strongly on the lines of the flagpole. The defiant war-flag of Revelstone sprang open and snapped in the mountain wind. It was a huge oriflamme, twice as tall as the Lords who raised it, and it was clear blue, the color of High Lord’s Furl, with one stark black streak across it. As it flapped and fluttered, a mighty cheer rose up from the Warward, and was repeated on the thronged wall of Revelstone.

  For a moment, High Lord Elena kept the Staff blazing. Then she silenced her display of power. As the shouting subsided, she looked at the group of riders, and called firmly, “Warmark Hile Troy! Let us begin!”

  At once, Troy sent Mehryl prancing toward the Warward. When he was alone in front of the riders, he saluted his second-in-command, and said quietly, to control his excitement, “First Haft Amorine, you may begin.”

  She returned his salute, swung her mount toward the army.

  “Warward!” she shouted. “Order!”

  With a wide surge, the warriors came to attention.

  “Drummers ready!”

  The pace-beaters raised their sticks. When she thrust her right fist into the air, they began their beat, pounding out together the rhythm Troy had taught them.

  “Warriors, march!”

  As she gave the command, she pulled down her fist. Nearly sixteen thousand warriors started forward to the cadence of the drums.

  Troy watched their precision with a lump of pride in his throat. At Amorine’s side, he moved with his army down the road toward the river.

  The rest of the riders followed close behind him. Together they kept pace with the Warward as it marched westward under the high south wall of Revelstone.

  THIRTEEN: The Rock Gardens of the Maerl

  Together the riders and the marching Warward passed down the road to the wide stone bridge which crossed the White River a short distance south of the lake. As they mounted the bridge, they received a chorus of encouraging shouts from the horsemen and raft builders at the lake; but Warmark Troy did not look that way. From the top of the span, he gazed downriver: there he could see the last rafts of Hiltmark Quaan’s first two Eoward moving around a curve and out of sight. They were only a small portion of Troy’s army, but they were crucial. They were risking their lives in accordance with his commands, and the fate of the Land went with them. In pride and trepidation, he watched until they were gone, on their way to receive the measure of bloodshed he had assigned to them. Then he rode on precariously across the bridge.

  Beyond it, the road turned southward, and began winding down away from the Keep’s plateau toward the rough grasslands which lay between Revelstone and Trothgard. As he moved through the foothills, Troy counted the accompanying Hirebrands and Gravelingases, to be sure that the Warward had its full complement of support from the lillianrill and rhadhamaerl. In the process, he caught a glimpse of an extra Gravelingas mounted and traveling behind the group of riders.

  Trell.

  The powerful Gravelingas kept to the back of the group, but he made no attempt to hide his face or his presence. The sight of him gave Troy a twinge of anxiety. He stopped and waited for the High Lord. Motioning the other riders past him, he said to Elena in a low voice, “Did you know that he’s coming with us. Is it all right with you?” High Lord Elena met him with a questioning look which he answered by nodding toward Trell.

  Covenant had stopped with Elena, and at Troy’s nod he turned to look behind him. When he saw the Gravelingas, he groaned.

  Most of the riders were past Elena, Troy, and Covenant now, and Trell could clearly see the three watching him. He halted where he was—still twenty-five yards away—and returned Covenant’s gaze with a raw, bruised stare.

  For a moment, they all held their positions, regarded each other intently. Then Covenant cursed under his breath, gripped the reins of his horse, and moved up the road toward Trell.

  Bannor started after the Unbeliever, but High Lord Elena stopped him with a quick gesture. “He needs no protection,” she said quietly. “Do not affront Trell with your doubt.”

  Covenant faced Trell, and the two men glared at each other. Then Covenant said something. Troy could not hear what he said, but the Gravelingas answered it with a red-rimmed stare. Under his tunic, his broad chest heaved as if he were panting. His reply was inaudible also.

  There was violence in Trell’s limbs, struggling for
action; Troy could see it. He did not understand Elena’s assertion that Covenant was safe. As he watched, he whispered to her, “What did Covenant say?”

  Elena responded as if she could not be wrong, “The ur-Lord promises that he will not harm me.”

  This surprised Troy. He wanted to know why Covenant would try to reassure Trell in that way, but he could not think of a way to ask Elena what the connection was between her and Trell. Instead he asked, “What’s Trell’s answer?”

  “Trell does not believe the promise.”

  Silently Troy congratulated Trell’s common sense.

  A moment later, Covenant jerked his horse into motion, and came trotting back down the road. His free hand pulled insistently at his beard. Without looking at Elena, he shrugged his shoulders defensively as he said, “Well, he has a good point.” Then he urged his mount into a canter to catch up with the rest of the riders.

  Troy wanted to wait for Trell, but the High Lord firmly took him with her as she followed Covenant. Out of respect for the Gravelingas, Troy did not look back.

  But when the Warward broke march at midday for food and rest, Troy saw Trell eating with the other rhadhamaerl.

  By that time, the army had wound out of the foothills into the more relaxed grasslands west of the White River. Troy gauged the distance they had covered, and used it as a preliminary measure of the pace he had set for the march. So far, the pace seemed right. But many factors influenced a day’s march. The Warmark spent part of the afternoon with First Haft Amorine, discussing how to match the frequency and duration of rest halts with such variables as the terrain, the distance already traversed, and the state of the supplies. He wanted to prepare her for his absences.

  He was glad to talk about his battle plan; he felt proud of it, as if it were a work of objective beauty. Traditionally beaten people fled to Doom’s Retreat, but he meant to remake it into a place of victory. His plan was the kind of daring strategic stroke that only a blind man could create. But after a time Amorine responded by gesturing over the Warward and saying dourly, “One day of such a pace is no great matter. Even five days may give no distress to a good warrior. But twenty days, or thirty—In that time, this pace may kill.”