The Illearth War

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Fleshharrower roared his orders; the creatures drew back to regroup. Ur-viles horned to form a wedge against Lord Callindrill, and the rest of the army shifted, brought Cavewights forward to bear the brunt of the next charge.

  In an effort to disrupt these preparations, Quaan launched an attack of his own. Warriors leaped after the retreating beasts. Lord Callindrill and one Eoward ran to prevent the formation of the ur-vile wedge. For several furious moments, they threw the black Demondim-spawn into chaos.

  But then the Giant-Raver struck, used his Stone to support the ur-viles. Several blasts of emerald fire forced Callindrill to give ground. At once, the wedge pulled itself together. The Eoward had to retreat.

  It was a grim and silent struggle. After the first hungry yell of the attack, Fleshharrower’s army fought with dumb, maniacal ferocity. And the warriors had no strength for shouts or cries. Only the tumult of feet, and the clash of weapons, and the moans of the maimed and dying, and the barking of orders, punctuated the mute engagement. Yet Lord Mhoram felt these clenched sounds like a deafening din; they seemed to echo off his dread. The effort to ignore the battle and concentrate on his work squeezed sweat out of his bones, made his pulse hammer like a prisoner against his temples.

  When traditional names and invocations failed to bring the Forestal, he began using signs and arcane symbols. He drew pentacles and circles on the grass with his staff, set fires burning within them, waved eldritch gestures over them. He murmured labyrinthine chants under his breath.

  All were useless. The silence of the Deep’s gloom sounded like laughter in his ears.

  Yet the sounds of killing came steadily nearer. All the valiance of the warriors was not enough; they were driven back.

  Troy heard the retreat also. At last he could no longer contain himself. “Dear God, Mhoram!‘’ he whispered urgently. “They are being butchered.”

  Mhoram spun on Troy, raging, “Do you think I am unaware?” But when he beheld the Warmark, he stopped. He could see Troy’s torment. The sting of sweat made the Warmark’s burns flame garishly; they throbbed with pain. His hands groped aimlessly about him, as if he were lost. He was blind. For all his power to plan and conceive, he was helpless to execute even the simplest of his ideas.

  Lord Mhoram wrenched his anger into another channel. With its strength, he made his decision.

  “Very well, my friend,” he breathed heavily. “There are other attempts to be made, but perhaps only one is perilous enough to have some hope of success. Stand ready. You must take my place if I fall. Legends say that the song I mean to sing is fatal.”

  As he strode forward, he felt a new calm. Confronting his dread, he could see that it was only fear. He had met and mastered its kindred when a Raver had laid hands on him. And the knowledge he had gained then could save the Wayward now. With peril in his eyes, he went toward the Deep until he was among the first trees. There he ignited his staff and raised it over his head, carefully holding it away from any of the branches. Then he began to sing.

  The words came awkwardly to his lips, and the accents of the melody seemed to miss their beats. He was singing a song to which no former Lord had ever given utterance. It was one of the dark mysteries of the Land, forbidden because of the hazard it earned. Yet the words of the song were clear and simple. Their peril lay elsewhere. According to Kevin’s Lore, they belonged like cherished treasure to the Forestall of the One Forest. The forestall slew all mortals who profaned those words.

  Nevertheless, Lord Mhoram lifted up his voice and sang them boldly.

  Branches spread and tree trunks grow

  Through rain and heat and snow and cold:

  Though wide world’s winds untimely blow,

  And earthquakes rock and cliff unseal,

  My leaves grow green and seedlings bloom.

  Since days before the Earth was old

  And Time began its walk to doom,

  The Forests world’s bare rock anneal,

  Forbidding dusty waste and death.

  I am the Land’s Creator’s hold:

  I inhale all expiring breath,

  And breathe out life to bind and heal.

  As his singing faded into the distance, he heard the reply. Its music far surpassed his own. It seemed to fall from the branches like leaves bedewed with rare melody—to fall and flutter around him, so that he stared as if he were dazzled. The voice had a light, high, clear sound, like a splashing brook, but the power it implied filled him with awe.

  But ax and fire leave me dead.

  I know the hate of hands grown bold.

  Depart to save your heart-sap’s red:

  My hate knows neither rest nor weal.

  A shimmer of music rippled his sight. When it cleared, he saw Caerroil Wildwood walking toward him across the greensward.

  The Forestal was a tall man with a long white beard and flowing white hair. He wore a robe of purest samite, and carried a gnarled wooden rod like a scepter in the crook of one arm. A garland of purple and white orchids about his neck only heightened his austere dignity. He appeared out of the gloaming of the Deep as if he had stepped from behind a veil, and he moved like a monarch between the trees. They nodded to him as he passed. With every step, he scattered droplets of melody about him as if his whole person were drenched in song. His sparkling voice softened the severity of his mien. But his eyes were not soft. From under his thick white brows, a silver light shone from orbs without pupil or iris, and his glances had the force of physical impact.

  Still humming the refrain of his song, he approached Lord Mhoram. His gaze held the Lord motionless until they were almost within arm’s reach of each other. Mhoram felt himself being probed. The sound of music continued, and some time passed before he realized that the Forestal was speaking to him, asking him, “Who dares taint my song?”

  With an effort, Lord Mhoram set aside his awe to answer, “Caerroil Wildwood, Forestal and servant of the Tree-soul, please pardon my presumption. I intend no offense or taint. But my need is urgent, surpassing both fear and caution. I am Mhoram son of Variol, Lord of the Council of Revelstone, and a defender of the Land in tree and rock. I seek a boon, Caerroil Wildwood.”

  “A boon?” the Forestal mused musically. “You bring a fire among my trees, and then ask a boon? You are a fool, Mhoram son of Variol. I make no bargains with men. I grant no boons to any creature with knowledge of blade or flame. Begone.” He did not raise his voice or sharpen his song, but the might of his command made Mhoram stagger.

  “Forestal, hear me.” Mhoram strove to keep his voice calm. “I have used this fire only to gain your notice.” Extinguishing his staff, he lowered it to the ground and gripped it as a brace against the Forestal’s refusal. “I am a Lord, a servant of the Earthpower. Since the Lords began, all have sworn all their might to the preservation of Land and Forest. We love and honor the wood of the world. I have done no harm to these trees—and never shall, though you refuse my boon and condemn the Land to fire and death.”

  Humming as if to himself, Caerroil Wildwood said, “I know nothing of Lords. They are nothing to me. But I know men, mortals. The Ritual of Desecration is not forgotten in the Deep.”

  “Yet hear me, Caerroil Wildwood.” Mhoram could feel the sounds of battle beating against his back. But he remembered what he had learned of the history of the One Forest, and remained steady, serene. “I do not ask a boon for which I can make no return. Forestal, I offer you a Raver.”

  At the word Raver Caerroil Wildwood changed. The dewy, glistening aura of his music took on an inflection of anger. His eyes darkened; their silver light gave way to thunderheads. Mist spread from his orbs, and drifted upward through his eyebrows. But he said nothing, and Mhoram continued.

  “The people of the Land fight a war against the Despiser, the ancient tree ravager. His great army has driven us here, and the last battle now rages in Cravenhaw. Without your aid, we will surely be destroyed. But with our death, the Land becomes defenseless. Then the tree ravager will make
war upon all the Forest—upon the trees in beautiful Andelain, upon slumbering Grimmerdhore and restless Morinmoss. In the end, he will attack the Deep and you. He must be defeated now.”

  The Forestal appeared unmoved by this appeal. Instead of replying to it, he hummed darkly, “You spoke of a Raver.”

  “The army which destroys us even now is commanded by a Raver, one of the three decimators of the One Forest.”

  “Give me a token that you speak the truth.”

  Lord Mhoram did not dare hesitate. Though the ground he trod was completely trackless, unmapped by any lore but his own intuition, he answered promptly, “He is moksha Raver, also named Jehannum and Fleshharrower. In ages long past, he and turiya his brother taught the despising of trees to the once friendly Demondim. Samadhi his brother guided the monarch of Doriendor Corishev when that mad king sought to master the life and death of the One Forest.”

  “Moksha Raven” Caerroil Wildwood trilled lightly, dangerously. “I have a particular hunger for Ravers.”

  “Their might is greatly increased now. They share the unnatural power of the Illearth Stone.”

  “I care nothing for that,” the Forestal replied almost brusquely. “But you offered a Raver to me. How can that be done, when he defeats you even now?”

  The sounds of battle came inexorably nearer as the Warward was driven back. Lord Mhoram heard less combat and more slaughter with every passing moment. And he could feel Warmark Troy panting behind him. With all his hard won serenity, he answered, “That is the boon I ask, Caerroil Wildwood. I ask safe passage for all my people through Garroting Deep. This boon will deliver moksha Raver into your hands. He and all his army, all his ur-viles and Cavewights and creatures, will be yours. When the Raver sees that we flee into the Deep and are not destroyed, he will follow. He will believe that you are weak—or that you have passed away. His hatred for us, and for the trees, will drive him and all his force into your demesne.”

  A moment that throbbed urgently in Mhoram’s ears passed while Caerroil Wildwood considered. The battle noise seemed to say that soon there would be nothing of the Wayward left to save. But Mhoram faced the Forestal, and waited.

  At last, the Forestal nodded. “It is a worthy bargain,” he sang slowly. “The trees are eager to fight again. I am prepared. But there is a small price to be paid for my help—and for the tainting of my song.”

  The upsurge of Mhoram’s hope suddenly gave way to fear, and he spun to try to stop Warmark Troy. But before he could shout a warning, Troy said fervidly, “Then I’ll pay it! I’ll pay anything. My army is being slaughtered.”

  Mhoram winced at the irrevocable promise, tried to protest. But the Forestal sang keenly, “Very well. I accept your payment. Bring your army cautiously among the trees.”

  Troy reacted instantly; he whirled, leaped for Mehryl’s back. Some instinct guided him; he landed astride the Ranyhyn as securely as if he could see. At once, he went galloping toward the battle, yelling with all his strength, “Quaan! Retreat! Retreat!”

  The Warward was collapsing as he shouted. The ranks of the warriors were broken, and Fleshharrower’s creatures ranged bloodily among them. More than two-thirds of the Eoward had already fallen. But something in Troy’s command galvanized the warriors for a final exertion. Breaking away, they turned and ran.

  Their sudden flight opened a brief gap between them and Fleshharrower’s army. At once, Lord Callindrill set himself to widen the gap. Protected by a circle of Bloodguard, he unleashed a lightning fire that caught in the grass and crackled across the front of the foe. His blast did little damage, but it caused the Raver’s forces to hesitate one instant in their pursuit. Using that instant, he followed the warriors. Together the survivors—hardly more than ten Eoward—ran straight toward Mhoram.

  When he saw them coming, Lord Mhoram went out to meet Troy. He pulled the Warmark from Mehryl’s back—it was not safe to ride under the branches of the Deep—took his arm, and guided him toward the trees. The fleeing warriors were almost on their heels when Mhoram and Troy strode into Garroting Deep.

  Caerroil Wildwood had vanished, but his song remained. It seemed to resonate lightly off every leaf in the Forest. Mhoram could feel it piloting him, and he followed it implicitly. Behind him, he heard the warriors consummating their exhaustion in a last rush toward sanctuary or death. He heard Quaan shouting as if from a great distance that all survivors were now among the trees. But he did not look back. The Forestal’s song exercised a fascination over him. Gripping Troy’s arm and peering steadily ahead into the gloom, he moved at a brisk walk along the path of the melody.

  With Callindrill, Troy, Quaan, Amorine, two score Bloodguard, all the Ranyhyn, and more than four thousand warriors, Lord Mhoram passed for a time out of the world of humankind.

  Slowly the music transmuted his conscious alertness, drew him into a kind of trance. He felt that he was still aware of everything, but that now nothing touched him. He could see the onset of evening in the altered dimness of the Deep, but he felt no passage of time. In openings between the trees, he could see the Westron Mountains. By the changing positions of the peaks, he could gauge his speed. He appeared to be moving faster than a galloping Ranyhyn. But he felt no exertion or strain of travel. The breath of the song wafted him ahead, as if he and his companions were being inhaled by the Deep. It was a weird, dreamy passage, a soul journey, full of speed he could not experience and events he could not feel.

  Night came—the moon was completely dark—but he did not lose sight of his way. Some hint of light in the grass and leaves and song made his path clear to him, and he went on confidently, untouched by any need for rest. The Forestal’s song released him from mortality, wrapped him in careless peace.

  Sometime during the darkness, he heard the change of the song. The alteration had no effect on him, but he understood its meaning. Though the Forest swallowed every other sound, so that no howls or screams or cries reached his ears, he knew that Fleshharrower’s army was being destroyed. The song described ages of waiting hate, of grief over vast tracts of kindred lost, ages of slow rage which climbed through the sap of the woods until every limb and leaf shared it, lived it, ached to act. And through that melodic narration came whispers of death as roots and boughs and trunks moved together to crush and rend.

  Against the immense Deep, even Fleshharrower’s army was small and defenseless—a paltry insult hurled against an ocean. The trees brushed aside the power of the ur-viles and the strength of the Cavewights and the mad, cornered, desperate fear of all the other creatures. Led by Caerroil Wildwood’s song, they simply throttled the invaders. Flames were stamped out, blade wielders were slain, lore and force were overwhelmed. Then the trees drank the blood and ate the bodies—eradicated every trace of the enemy in an apotheosis of ancient and exquisite fury.

  When the song resumed its former placid wafting, it seemed to breathe grim satisfaction and victory.

  Soon after that—Mhoram thought it was soon—a rumble like thunder passed over the woods. At first, he thought that he was hearing Fleshharrower’s death struggle. But then he saw that the sound had an entirely different source. Far ahead and to the west, some terrible violence occurred in the mountains. Red fires spouted from one part of the range. After every eruption, a concussion rolled over the Deep, and a coruscating exhaust paled the night sky. But Mhoram was immune to it. He watched it with interest, but the song wrapped him in its enchantments and preserved him from all care.

  And he felt no concern when he realized that the Warward was no longer behind him. Except for Lord Callindrill, Troy, Amorine, Hiltmark Quaan, and two Bloodguard, Terrel and Morril, he was alone. But he was not anxious; the song assuaged him with peace and trust. It led him onward and still onward through a measureless night into the dawn of a new day.

  With the return of light, he found that he was moving through a woodland profuse with purple and white orchids. Their soft, pure colors fell in with the music as if they were the notes Caerroil Wildwood sang
. They folded Mhoram closely in the consolation of the melody. With a wide, unconscious smile he let himself go as if the current which carried him were an anodyne for all his hurts.

  His strange speed was more apparent now. Already through gaps in the overhanging foliage, he could see the paired spires of Melenkurion Skyweir, the tallest peaks in the Westron Mountains. He could see the high, sheer plateau of Rivenrock as the struggle it concealed continued. Eruptions and muffled booms came echoing from the depths of the mountain, and red bursts of force struck the sky at irregular intervals. But still he was untouched. His speed, his exhilarating, easy swiftness, filled his heart with gay glee. He had covered thirty or forty leagues since entering the Deep. He felt ready to walk that way forever.

  But the day passed with the same timeless evanescence that had borne him through the night. Soon the sun was close to setting, yet he had no sense of duration, no weary or hungry physical impression that he had traveled all day.

  Then the song changed again. Gradually it no longer floated him forward. The end of his wafting filled him with quiet sadness, but he accepted it. The thunders and eruptions of Rivenrock were now almost due southwest of him. He judged that he and his companions were nearing the Black River.

  The song led him straight through the Forest to a high bald hill that stood up out of the woodland like a wen of barrenness. Beyond it, he could hear a rush of water—the Black River—but the hill itself caught his attention, restored some measure of his self-awareness. The soil of the hill was completely lifeless, as if in past ages it had been drenched with too much death ever to bloom again. And just below its crown on the near side stood two rigid trees like sentinels, witnesses, ten yards or more apart. They were as dead as the hill: blackened, bereft of limbs and leaves, sapless. Each dead trunk had only one bough left. Fifty feet above the ground, the trees reached toward each other, and their limbs interwove to form a crossbar between them.