He paused for a moment, half expecting groans of dismay. But most of the people simply watched him closely, and several of the Lords had confidence in their eyes. Their trust touched him. He had to swallow down a sudden lump in his throat before he could continue.
“There’s one way we can still do it. It’s going to be hell—but it’s just about possible.”
Then for an instant he faltered. Hell was a mild word for what his warriors would have to endure. How could he ask them to do it, when he was to blame for the miscalculation which made it necessary? How—?
But Elena was watching him steadily. From the beginning, she had supported his desire to command the Warward. And now he was the Warmark. He, Hile Troy. In a tone of anger at the extremity of what he was asking, he said, “Here it is. First. We have nine days. I absolutely guarantee that Foul will hit the western end of the Mithil valley by the end of the ninth day from now. That’s one of the things not having any eyes is good for. I can measure things like this. All right? Nine days. We’ve got to get there before that and block the valley.
“Morin, your two hundred Bloodguard have got to leave tonight. Callindrill, you go with them. On Ranyhyn you can get there in seven days. You’ve got to stop Foul right there.
“Borillar, how many of those big rafts have you got in the lake?”
Surprised, Hearthrall Borillar answered, ‘Three, Warmark.”
“How many warriors and horses can they carry?”
Borillar glanced helplessly over at Quaan. The Hiltmark replied, “Each raft will carry two Eoman and their Warhafts—forty-two warriors and horses. But the crowding will be dangerous.”
“If you ride a raft as far as Andelain, how fast can you get those Eoman to the Mithil valley?”
“If there is no mishap—in ten days. Four days may be saved through the use of rafts.”
“All right. We have twelve horse-mounted Eoward—two hundred forty Eoman. Borillar, I need one hundred twenty of those rafts. Quaan, you’re in command of this. You’ve got to get all twelve mounted Eoward—and Verement—down to the Mithil valley as fast as possible—to help Callindrill and the Bloodguard keep Foul from coming through. You’ve got to buy us the time we need. Get on it.”
Hiltmark Quaan spoke a word to the Hafts, and twelve of them jumped up to form ranks behind him as he hastened out of the Close. Borillar looked at the High Lord with an expression of indecision, but she nodded to him. Rubbing his hands nervously as if to warm them, he left the chamber, taking all the lillianrill with him.
“Second,” Troy said. “The rest of the Warward will march straight south from here to Doom’s Retreat. That’s something less than three hundred leagues.” He called the remaining Hafts to their feet, and addressed them directly. “I think you should explain this to your commands. We’ve got to get to Doom’s Retreat in twenty-eight days. And that’s only enough if the Hiltmark can do everything I’ve got in mind for him. Tell your Eoward—ten leagues a day. That’s going to be the easy part of this war.”
In the back of his mind, he was thinking, Ten leagues a day for twenty-eight days. Good God! Half of them will be dead before we reach the South Plains.
For a moment, he studied the Hafts, trying to judge their mettle. Then he said, “First Haft Amorine.”
The First Haft stepped forward, and responded,
“Warmark.” She was a short, broad, dour woman with blunt features which appeared to have been molded in a clay too hard and dry for detailed handiwork. But she was a seasoned veteran of the Warward—one of the few survivors of the Eoman which Quaan had commanded on the Quest for the Staff of Law.
“Ready the Warward. We march at dawn. Pay special attention to the packs. Make them as light as possible. Use all the rest of the horses for cartage if you have to. If we don’t make it to Doom’s Retreat in time, Revelstone won’t have any use for the last few hundred horses. Get started.”
First Haft Amorine gave a stern command to the Hafts. Saluting the Lords together, they moved out of the Close behind her.
Troy watched until they were gone, and the doors were shut after them. Then he turned to the High Lord. With an effort, he forced himself to say, “You know I’ve never commanded a war before. In fact, I’ve never commanded anything. All I know is theory—just mental exercises. You’re putting a lot of faith in me.”
If she felt the importance of what he said, she gave no sign. “Do not fear, Warmark,” she replied firmly. “We see your value to the Land. You have given us no cause to doubt the rightness of your command.”
A rush of gratitude took Troy’s voice away from him. He saluted her, then sat down and braced his arms on the table to keep himself from trembling.
A moment later, High Lord Elena said to the remaining assembly, “Ah, my friends, there is much to be done, and the night will be all too short for our need. This is not the time for long talk or exhortation. Let us all go about our work at once. I will speak to the Keep, and to the Warward, at dawn.
“Hearthrall Tohrm.”
“High Lord,” Tohrm responded with alacrity.
“I think that there are ways in which you may make the rafts more stable, safer for horses. Please do so. And send any of your people who may be spared to assist Hearthrall Borillar in the building.
“My friends, this war is upon us. Give your best strength to the Land now. If mortal flesh may do it, we must prevail.” She drew herself erect, and flourished the Staff. “Be of good heart. I am Elena daughter of Lena, High Lord by the choice of the Council, and wielder of the Staff of Law. My will commands. I speak in the presence of Revelstone itself.” Bowing to the assembly, she swept from the Close through one of the private doors, followed variously by the other Lords.
The chamber emptied rapidly as the people hurried away to their tasks. Troy stood and started toward the stairs. But on the way, Covenant accosted him. “Actually,” Covenant said as if he were telling Troy a secret, “it isn’t you they’ve got faith in at all. Just as they don’t have faith in me. It’s the student who summoned you. That’s whom they’ve staked their faith on.”
“I’m busy,” Troy said stiffly. “I’ve got things to do. Let me go.”
“Listen!” Covenant demanded. “I’m trying to warn you. If you could hear it. It’s going to happen to you, too. One of these days, you’re going to run out of people who’ll march their hearts out to make your ideas work. And then you’ll see that you put them through all that for nothing. Three-hundred-league marches blocked valleys-your ideas. Paid for and wasted. All your fine tactics won’t be worth a rusty damn.
“Ah, Troy,” he sighed wearily. “All this responsibility is going to make another Kevin Landwaster out of you.” Instead of meeting Troy’s taut stare, he turned away and wandered out of the Close as if he hardly knew or cared where he was going.
TWELVE: Forth to War
Just before dawn, Troy rode away from the gates of Revelstone in the direction of the lake at the foot of Furl Falls. The predawn dimness obscured his sight, blinded him like a mist in his mind. He could not see where he was going, could hardly discern the ears of his mount. But he was in no danger; he was riding Mehryl, the Ranyhyn that had chosen to bear him.
Yet as he trotted westward under the high south wall of the Keep, he had a precarious aspect, like a man trying to balance himself on a tree limb that was too small. He had spent a good part of the night reviewing the decisions he had made in the war council, and they scared him. He had committed the Lords and the Warward to a path as narrow and fatal as a swaying tightrope.
But he had no choice. He had either to go ahead or to abandon his command, leave the war in Quaan’s worthy but unimaginative hands. So in spite of his anxiety he did not hesitate. He intended to show all the Land that he was the Warmark for good reason.
Time was urgent. The Warward had to begin its southward march as soon as possible. So he trusted Mehryl to carry him through his inward fog. Letting the Ranyhyn pick their way, he hastened toward the blue lake
where the rafts were being built.
Before he rounded the last wide foothill, he moved among scattered ranks of warriors holding horses. Men and women saluted him as he passed, but he could recognize none of them. He held up his right hand in blank acknowledgment, and rode down the thronged road without speaking. If his strategy failed, these warriors—and the two hundred Bloodguard who had already followed Lord Callindrill toward the Mithil valley—would be the first to pay for his mistake.
He found the edge of the lake by the roar of the Falls and the working sounds of the raft builders, and slipped immediately off Mehryl’s back. The first shadowy figure that came near him he sent in search of Hiltmark Quaan. Moments later, Quaan’s solid form appeared out of the fog, accompanied by a lean man carrying a staff—Lord Verement. Troy spoke directly to the Hiltmark. He felt uneasy about giving orders to a Lord.
“How many rafts are ready?”
“Three and twenty are now in the water,” Quaan replied. “Five yet lack the rhadhamaerl rudders, but that task will be accomplished by sunrise.”
“And the rest?”
“Hearthrall Borillar and the raft builders promise that all one hundred twenty will be complete by dawn tomorrow.”
“Damn! Another day gone. Well, you can’t wait for them. Lord Callindrill is going to need help faster than that.” He calculated swiftly, then went on: “Send the rafts downriver in groups of twenty—two Eoman at a time. If there’s any trouble, I want them to be able to defend themselves. You go first. And—Lord Verement, will you go with Quaan?”
Verement answered with a sharp nod.
“Good. Now, Quaan. Get your group going right away. Put whomever you want in command of the other Eoward—tell them to follow you in turn just as soon as another twenty rafts are ready to go. Have the warriors who are going last try to help the raft builders—speed this job up.”
His private fog was clearing now as the sun started to rise. Quaan’s ago-lined bulwark of a face drifted into better focus, and Troy fell silent for a moment, half dismayed by what he was asking his friend to do. Then he shook his head roughly, forced himself to continue.
“Quaan, you’ve got the worst job in this whole damn business. You and those Bloodguard with Callindrill. You have got to make this plan of mine work.”
“If it can be done, we will do it.” Quaan spoke steadily, almost easily, but his experience with grim, desperate undertakings gave his statement conviction.
Troy went on hurriedly, “You’ve got to hold Foul’s army in that valley. Even after you get your whole force there, you’re going to be outnumbered ten to one. You’ve got to hold Foul back, and still keep enough of your force alive to lead him down to Doom’s Retreat.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. I haven’t told you the worst of it yet. You have got to hold Foul back for eight days.”
“Eight?” Verement snapped. “You jest!”
Controlling himself sternly, Troy said, “Figure it out for yourself. We’ve got to march all the way to Doom’s Retreat. We need that much time just to get there. Eight days will hardly give us time to get in position.”
“You ask much,” Quaan said slowly.
“You’re the man who can do it,” Troy replied. “And the truth is, the warriors’ll follow you better in a situation like that than they would ’ me. You’ll have two Lords working with you, plus all the Bloodguard Callindrill has left. There’s nobody who can take your place.”
Quaan met this in silence. Despite the square set of his shoulders, he appeared to be hesitating. Troy leaned close to him, whispered intently through the noise of Furl Falls, “Hiltmark, if you accomplish what I ask, I swear that I will win this war.”
“Swear?” Verement cut in again. “Does the Despiser know that you bind him with your oaths?”
Troy ignored the Lord. “I mean it. If you get that chance for me, I won’t waste it.”
A low, war-ready grin touched Quaan’s lips. “I hear you,” he said. “I felt the dour hand of your skill when you won the command of the Warward from me. Warmark, you will be given your eight days if they lie within the reach of human thew and will.”
“Good!” Quaan’s promise gave Troy an obscure feeling of relief, as if he were no longer alone on his narrow limb. “Now. When you engage Foul in the Mithil valley, what you’ve got to do is force him southward. Push him down into the southern hills—the farther the better. Hold the valley closed until he has enough of his army in the hills to attack you from that side. Then run like hell straight toward Doom’s Retreat.”
“That will be costly.”
“Not as costly as letting that army go north when we’re in the south.” Quaan nodded grimly, and Troy went on, “And not as costly as letting Foul get to the Retreat ahead of us. Whatever else happens, we’ve got to avoid that. If you can’t hold him back eight days’ worth, you’ll have to figure out where we are, and lead him to us instead of to the Retreat. We’ll try to pull him the last way south ourselves.”
Quaan nodded again, and the lines of his face clenched. To relax him, Troy said dryly, “Of course, it would be better if you just defeated him yourself, and saved us the trouble.”
The Hiltmark started to reply, but Lord Verement interrupted him. “If that is your desire, you should choose someone other than an old warrior and a Ranyhyn-less Lord to do your bidding.”
Troy was about to respond when he heard hooves coming toward him from the direction of Revelstone. Now the sun had started to rise—light danced on the blue water pouring over the top of the Falls—and the fog over his vision had begun to fade. When he turned, he made out the Bloodguard Ruel riding toward him.
Ruel stopped his Ranyhyn with a touch of his hand, and said without dismounting, “Warmark, the Warward is ready. High Lord Elena awaits you.”
“On my way,” Troy answered, and swung back to Quaan. For a moment, the Hiltmark’s gaze replied firmly to his. Torn between affection and resolve, he muttered, “By God, I will earn what you do for me.” Springing onto Mehryl’s back, he started away.
He moved so suddenly that he almost ran into Manethrall Rue. She had been standing a short distance away, regarding Mehryl as if she expected to find that Troy had injured the Ranyhyn. Unintentionally he urged his mount straight toward her. But she stepped aside just as he halted the Ranyhyn.
Her presence surprised him. He acknowledged her, then waited for her to speak. He felt that she deserved any courtesy he could give her.
While she stroked Mehryl’s nose with loving hands, she said as if she were explaining something, “I have done my part in your war. I will do no more. I am old, and need rest. I will ride your rafts to Andelain, and from there make my own way homeward.”
“Very well.” He could not deny her permission to ride a raft, but he sensed that this was only a preparation for what she meant to say.
After a heavy pause, she went on: “I will have no further use for this.” With a brusque movement, she twitched the fighting cord from her hair, hesitated, then handed it to Troy. Softly, she said, “Let there be peace between us.”
Because he could think of no fit response, he accepted the cord. But it gave him a pang, as if he were not worthy of it. He tucked it into his belt, and with his hands free, he gave the Manethrall his best approximation of a Ramen bow.
She bowed in turn, gestured for him to move on. But as he started away, she called after him, “Tell Covenant Ringthane that he must defeat Fangthane. The Ranyhyn have reared to him. They require him. He must not let them fall.” Then she was gone, out of sight in the mist.
The thought of Covenant gave him a bitter taste in his mouth, but he forced it down. With Ruel at his side, he left Quaan shouting orders, and urged Mehryl into a brisk trot up the road toward the gate of Revelstone. As he moved, the sunrise began to burn away the last dimness of his vision. The great wrought wall of the Keep became visible; it shone in the new light with a vivid glory that made him feel at once both small and resolute.
In it, he caught a glimpse of the true depth of his willingness to sacrifice himself for the Land. Now he could only hope that what he had to offer would be enough.
There was only one thing for which he could not forgive Covenant. That was the Unbeliever’s refusal to fight.
Then he topped the last rise, and found the Lords assembled before the gates, above the long, ranked massing of the Warward.
The sight of the Warward gave him a surge of pride. This army was his—a tool of his own shaping, a weapon which he had sharpened himself and knew how to wield. Each warrior stood in place in an Eoman; each Eoman held its position around the fluttering standard of its Eoward; and the thirty-eight Eoward spread out around the foot of Lord’s Keep like a human mantle. More than fifteen thousand metal breastplates caught the rising fire of the sun.
All the warriors were on foot except the Hafts and a third of the Warhafts. These officers were mounted to bear the standards and the marching drums, and to carry messages and commands through the Warward. Troy was acutely aware that the one thing his army lacked was some instantaneous means of communication. Without such a resource, he felt more vulnerable than he liked to admit. To make up for it, he had developed a network of riders who could shuttle from place to place in battle. And he had trained his officers in complex codes of signals and flares and banners, so that under at least some circumstances messages could be communicated by sight. But he was not satisfied. Thousands upon thousands of lives were in his hands. As he gazed out over his command, his tree limb seemed to be shaking in the wind.
He swung away from the Warward, and scanned the mounted gathering before the gates. Only Trevor and Loerya were absent. The Lords Amatin and Mhoram were there, with twenty Bloodguard, a handful of Hirebrands and Gravelingases, all the visiting Lorewardens, and First Haft Amorine. Covenant sat on a clingor saddle astride one of the Revelstone mustangs. And at his side was the High Lord. Myrha, her golden Ranyhyn mare, made her look more than ever like a concentrated heroine, a noble figure like that legended Queen for whom Berek had fought his great war.
The Illearth War Page 20
