The Illearth War t1cotc-2

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  For one moment, a hush fell over the battleground; even the ravens were silent. Then a hoarse cheer came echoing from the canyon. The Eoward sealing the end of the Retreat responded loudly. And the ravens began sailing down to the defile's floor, where they feasted on Demondim-spawn and kresh.

  Slowly, Troy became aware that First Haft Amorine was at his side. When he turned to her, he felt that he was grinning insanely, but even without his sunglasses he did not care. “Congratulations, Amorine,” he said. “You've done well.” The evening fog on his sight was already so bad that he had to ask her about casualties.

  “We have lost few warriors,” she replied with dour satisfaction. “Your battle plan is a good one.”

  But her praise only reminded him of the rest of Lord Foul's army, and of the ordeal still before the Warward. He shook his head. “Not good enough.” But then, rather than explain what he meant, he said to her, “First Haft, give my thanks to the warriors. Get them fed and settled for the night-there won't be any more fighting today. When they're taken care of, we'll have a council.”

  Amorine's gaze showed that she did not understand his attitude, but she saluted without question, and moved away to carry out his orders. His blank mist swallowed her at once. Darkness blew about him as if it rode on the wind of the Warward's shouting. He called for Ruel, and asked the Bloodguard to guide him to Lord Mhoram.

  They found Mhoram beside a small campfire under the lee of the westward mountains. He was tending Lord Callindrill. Callindrill had regained consciousness, but his skin was as pale as alabaster, and he looked weak. Mhoram cooked some broth over the campfire, and massaged Callindrill while the broth heated.

  Lord Callindrill greeted the Warmark faintly, and Troy replied with pleasure. He was glad to see that Callindrill was not mortally injured; he was going to need the Lord. He was going to need every help or power that he could find.

  But he had other things to consider before he began to think about his need for help. When he had assured himself that Lord Callindrill was on the way to recovery, he drew Mhoram away for a private talk.

  He waited until they were beyond earshot of the Warward's camp. Then he sighed wearily, “Mhoram, we're not finished. We can't stop here.” Without transition, as if he had not changed subjects, he went on, “What are we going to do about Lord Verement? One of us has got to tell him-about Shetra. I'll do it if you want. I probably deserve it.”

  “I will do it,” Mhoram murmured distantly.

  “All right.” Troy felt acutely relieved to be free of that responsibility. “Now, what about this-what Tull told us? I don't like the idea of telling everyone that that the mission-” He could not bring himself to say the words, The Giants are dead. “I don't think the warriors will survive what's ahead if they know what happened to the mission. It's too much. Having three Giants taken over by Ravers is bad enough. And I'll have to tell them worse things than that myself.”

  Softly, Mhoram breathed, “They deserve to know the truth.”

  “Deserve?” Troy's deep feeling of culpability flooded into anger. “What they deserve is victory. By God, don't tell me what they deserve! It's a little late for you to start worrying about what they know or don't know. You've seen fit to keep secrets from me all along. God knows how many horrors you still haven't told me. Keep your mouth shut about this.”

  “That choice was made by the Council. No one person has the right to withhold knowledge from another. No one is wise enough.” Mhoram spoke as if he were wrestling with himself.

  "It's too late for that. If you want to talk about rights-you don't have the right to destroy my army."

  “My friend, have you-have you suffered-has the withholding of knowledge harmed you?”

  “How should I know? Maybe if you had told me the truth-about Atiaran-we wouldn't be here now. Maybe I would have been afraid of the risk. You tell me if that's good,or bad.” Then his anger softened. “Mhoram,” he pleaded, “they're right on the edge. I've already pushed them right to the edge. And we're not done. I just want to spare them something that will hurt so bad-”

  “Very well,” Mhoram sighed in a tone of defeat. “I will not speak of the Giants.”

  “Thank you,” Troy said intensely.

  Mhoram gazed at him searchingly, but through his darkness he could not read the Lord's expression. For a moment, he feared that Mhoram was about to tell him something, reveal the last mysteries of Trell and Elena and Covenant. He did not want to hear such things-not now, when he was already so overburdened. But finally the Lord turned silently and started back toward Callindrill.

  Troy followed him. But on the way he paused to speak with Terrel, who was the ranking Bloodguard. “Terrel, I want you to send scouts out to the South Plains. I don't expect Foul's army before midday tomorrow, but we shouldn't take any chances-and the warriors are too tired. But there's one thing. If Foul or Fleshharrower or whoever is in command sends any scouts this way, make sure they know we're here. I don't want them to have any doubt about where to find us.”

  “Yes, Warmark,” Terrel said, and stepped away to make the arrangements. Troy and Mhoram went on to their campfire.

  They found Lord Verement feeding Callindrill. As he spooned the broth to Callindrill's lips, the hawk-faced Lord talked steadily in a low, exasperated tone, as if his pride were offended; but his movements were gentle, and he did not abandon the task to Mhoram. He hovered over Callindrill until the warm broth had restored a touch of colour to his pale cheeks. Then

  Verement stood up and rasped, “You would be less foolhardy were you not Ranyhyn-borne. A lesser mount would teach you the limits of your own strength.”

  This inverted repetition of Verement's old accusation against himself momentarily overcame Lord Mhoram. A moan escaped through his teeth, and his eyes filled with tears. For that moment, his courage seemed to fail him, and he reached toward Verement as if he were groping through blind grief. But then he caught himself, smiled crookedly at the rough look of surprise and concern on Verement's face. “Come my brother,” he murmured. “I must speak with you.” Together, they walked away into the night, leaving Troy to watch over Callindrill.

  In a wan voice, Callindrill asked, “What has happened? What disturbs Mhoram?”

  Sighing heavily, Troy seated himself beside the Lord. He was full of all the evil he had caused. He had to swallow several times before he could find his voice to say, “Runnik came back from Korik's mission. Lord Shetra died in the Sarangrave.”

  Then he was grateful that Callindrill did not speak. He did not think he could stand the reprimand of any more pain. They sat together in silence until Lord Mhoram returned alone.

  Mhoram carried himself sorely, as if he had just been beaten with clubs. The flesh around his eyes was red and swollen, sorrowful. But his eyes themselves wielded a hot peril, and his glances were like spears. He said nothing about Lord Verement. Words were unnecessary; Mhoram's expression revealed how Verement took the news of his wife's death.

  To steady himself, Mhoram set about preparing food for Troy and himself. Their meal passed under a shroud of gloom, but as he ate Lord Mhoram slowly mastered himself, relaxed the pain in his face. To match him, Warmark Troy grappled inwardly for the tone of confidence he would need when the council started. He did not want his doubt to show; he did not intend to make his army pay for his personal dilemmas and inadequacies. When Hiltmark Quaan approached the fire and announced that all the Hafts were ready, both Troy and Mhoram answered him resolutely, calmly.

  The Lord threw a large pile of wood onto the fire while Quaan brought his officers into a wide circle around it. But despite the bright blaze of the fire, the Hafts looked hazy and insubstantial to Troy. For an irrational instant, he feared that they would break into illusions and disappear when he told them what they had to do. But he braced himself. Hiltmark Quaan 3 and First Haft Amorine stood near him like pillars on one side, and Lord Mhoram watched him from the other. Clearing his throat, he opened the council.

 
"Well, we're here. In spite of everything, we've accomplished something that any of us would have said was impossible. Before we get into what's ahead, I want to thank you all for what you've done. I'm proud of you-more than I'll ever be able to say."

  As he spoke, he had to resist a temptation to duck his head, as if he were ashamed of his uncovered eyelessness. Painfully, he wondered what effect this view of him would have on the Hafts. But he forced himself to hold his head up as he continued. “But I have to tell you plainly-we haven't come near winning this war yet. We've made a good start, but it's only a start. Things are going to get worse- ” He lost his voice for a moment, and had to clench himself to recover it. "It's not going to work out the way I planned. Hiltmark Quaan-First Haft Amorine-you've done everything you could do-everything I asked. But it's not going to work out the way I told you it would.

  “But-first things first. We've got reports to make. Hiltmark, will you go first?”

  Quaan bowed, and stepped forward into the circle. His square, white-haired visage was streaked with grime and blood and fatigue, but his open gaze did not falter. In blunt, unaffected language, he described all that had happened to his command since he had left Revelstone-the raft ride and run to the Mithil valley, the blockade there, the progression of the battle as Fleshharrower, the corrupted Giant of whom

  Manethrall Rue had spoken, organized successive efforts to break the hold of the defenders. For five days, the Bloodguard, the warriors, and the two Lords withstood Cavewights, kresh, warped manlike creations of the Illearth Stone, ur-viles.

  “But on the sixth day,” Quaan continued, “Fleshharrower came against us himself.” Now his voice expressed the weariness of long fighting and lost warriors. "With a power that I do not name, he called a great storm against us. Abominable creatures like those of which Manethrall Rue spoke fell upon us from the sky. They cast fear among our mounts, and we were driven back. Then Fleshharrower broke the forbidding, and sent kresh and ur-viles to pursue us. Time and again; we turned to fight, so that the enemy might be delayed-and time and again we were overmastered. Often we sent riders ahead to bear warning, but every messenger was slain-flocks of savage cormorants assailed them from the sky, and destroyed them all, though some of them were Bloodguard.

  “Still we fought,” he concluded. “At last we are here. But half the Bloodguard and eight of the Eoward were slain. And the horses have passed the end of their strength. Many will never bear riders again, and all need long days of rest. The battle which remains must be met afoot.”

  When he finished, he returned to his place in the circle. His courage was evident, but as he moved, his square shoulders seemed already to be carrying all the weight they could bear. And because Troy could find no words for his respect and gratitude, he said nothing. Silently, he nodded to First Haft Amorine.

  She described briefly the last few days of the Warward's march, then she reported on the present condition of the army. "Water and aliantha are not plentiful here, beyond Doom's Retreat. The Warward carries food which may be stretched for five days or six-no more. The warriors themselves are sorely damaged by their march. Even the uninjured are crippled by exhaustion. Great numbers have wounds about their feet and shoulders—

  wounds which do not heal. Threescore of the weakest died during our last run to the Retreat. Many more will die if the Warward does not rest now."

  Her words made Troy groan inwardly; they were full of unintended reproaches. He was the Warmark. He had promised victory again and again to people who trusted him. And now-He felt a sharp desire to berate himself, tell the Hafts just how badly he had miscalculated. But before he could begin, Lord Callindrill spoke. The wounded Lord was supported by two Bloodguard, but he was able to make his weak voice heard.

  “I must speak of the power which Hiltmark Quaan did not name. I still do not comprehend how the Despiser gained mastery over a Giant-it surpasses my understanding. But Fleshharrower is in truth a Giant, and he is possessed of a great power. He bears with him a fragment of the Illearth Stone.”

  Lord Mhoram nodded painfully. “Alas, my friends,” he said, “this is a dark time for all the Land. Danger and death beset us on every hand, and ill defies all defence. Hear me. I know how this Giant-this Fleshharrower-has been turned against us. It is accomplished through the combined might of the Stone and the Ravers. Either alone would not suffice-the Giants are strong and sure. But together-! Who in the Land could hope to endure? Therefore the Giant carries a fragment of the Illearth Stone, so that the Despiser's power will remain upon him, and the Raver will possess an added weapon. Melenkurion abatha! This is a great evil.”

  For a moment, he stood silent as if in dismay, and m distress filled the Hafts as they tasted the magnitude of the ill he described. But then he drew himself up, and his eyes flashed around the circle. “Yet it is always thus with the Despiser. Let not the knowledge of this evil blind you or weaken you. Lord Foul seeks to turn all the good of the Land to harm and corruption. Our task is clear. We must find the strength to turn harm and corruption to good. For that reason we fight. If we falter now, we become like Fleshharrower unwilling enemies of the Land.”

  His stern words steadied the Hafts, helped them to recover their resolve. However, before he or Troy could continue, Lord Verement said harshly, “What of the Giants, Mhoram? What of the mission? How many other souls have already been lost to the Despiser?”

  Verement had entered the circle across from Troy while Lord Callindrill had been speaking. The clouds on Troy's sight prevented him from seeing Verement's expression, but when the Lord spoke his voice was raw with bitterness. “Answer, Mhoram. Seer and oracle! Is Hyrim dead also? Do any Giants yet live?”

  Troy felt Verement's bitterness as an attack on the Warward, and he used words like whips to strike back. “That isn't our concern. There's nothing we can do about it. We're stuck here-we're going to live or die here! It doesn't matter what's happening anywhere else.” In his heart, he felt that he was betraying the Giants, but he had no choice. “All we can do is fight! Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you.” Lord Verement fell silent as if he understood Troy's vehemence, and the Warmark seized his chance to change the subject.

  “All right,” he said to the whole circle. “At least now we know where we stand. Now I'll tell you what we're going to do about it. I have a plan, and with Lord Mhoram's help I'm going to make it work.”

  Bracing himself, he said bluntly, “We're going to leave here. Fleshharrower and his army probably won't arrive before midday tomorrow. By that time, we will be long gone.”

  The Hafts gaped and blinked momentarily as they realized that he was ordering another march. Then several of them groaned aloud, and others recoiled as if he had struck them. Even Quaan winced openly. Troy wanted to rush into explanations, but he contained himself until Amorine stepped forward and protested, “Warmark, why will your former plan not suffice? The warriors have given their utmost to gain Doom's Retreat as you commanded. Why must we leave?”

  “Because Foul's army is too goddamn big!” He did not want to shout, but for a while he could not stop himself. “We've killed ten thousand kresh and a couple thousand ur-viles. But the rest of that army is still out there! It's not three times bigger than we are--or even five times bigger! Fleshharrower has twenty times our numbers, twenty! I've seen them.” With an effort, he caught hold of his pointless fury, jerked it down. “My old plan was a good one while it lasted,” he went on. "But it just didn't take into account that Foul's army might be so big. Now there's only two things that can happen. If that Giant sends his army in here just ten or twenty thousand at a time, the fight is going to last for weeks. But we've only got food for six days-we'll starve to death in here. And if he cuts through in one big blast, he'll get control of both ends of the Retreat. Then we'll be trapped, and he can pick us off in his own good time.

  “Now listen to me!” he shouted again at the chagrined Hafts. “I'm not going to let us get slaughtered as long as there is anything
I can do to stop it-anything at all! And there is one thing, just one! I've got one more trick to play in this game, and I'm going to play it if I have to carry every one of you on my back!”

  He glared around the circle, trying to fill his eyeless stare with authority, command, some kind of power that would make the Warward obey him. “We will march at dawn tomorrow.”

  Darkness shrouded his sight, but in the firelight he could see Quaan's face. The old veteran was wrestling with himself, struggling to find the strength for this new demand. He closed his eyes briefly, and all the Hafts waited for him as if he had their courage in his hands, to uphold or deny as he saw fit. When he opened his eyes, his face seemed to sag with fatigue. But his voice was steady.

  “Warmark, where will we march?”

  “West for now,” Troy replied quickly, “toward those old ruins. It won't be too bad. If we handle things right, we can go slower than we have so far.”

  “Will you tell us your plan?”

  “No.” Troy was tempted to say, If I tell you, you'll be so horrified that you'll never follow me. But instead he added, “I want to keep it to myself for a while get it ready. You'll just have to trust me.” He sounded to himself like a man falling out of a tree, shouting to the people above him as he fell that he would catch them.

  “Warmark,” Quaan said stiffly, “you know that I will always trust you. We all trust you.”

  “Yes, I know,” Troy sighed. A sudden weariness flooded over him, and he could barely hear his own voice. He had already fallen a long way since he had left Revelstone. Miscalculations denuded his ideas of all their vitality, divested them of their power to save. He wondered how many other things he would have torn from him before this war was done. A long moment passed before he could find enough energy to say, “There's one more thing. It's got to be done we don't have any choice anymore. We've got to leave some people behind. To try to hold the Retreat make Fleshharrower think we're still here-slow him down. It'll be suicide, so we'll need volunteers. Two or three Eoward should be enough to make it work.”