“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 age-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.
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 Landlike 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 grey, 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 K
eep. He held Mehryl back, and f 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 colour, 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.”
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