The Illearth War

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The High Lord reseated herself. Troy was eager to speak, but she did not give him permission. To Manethrall Rue she said, “One question is first in my heart. What of Andelain? Our scouts report no evil there, but they have not your eyes. Are the Hills free of wrong?”

  A surge of frustration bunched the muscles of Troy’s shoulders. He was eager, urgent, to begin probing the Manethrall. But he recognized the tact of Elena’s inquiry. The Andelainian Hills rode through Ramen legend like an image of paradise; it would ease Rue’s heart to speak of them.

  In response, her grim bitterness relaxed for a moment. Her eyes filled with tears that ran down over the slight smile on her lips. “The Hills are free,” she said simply.

  A glad murmur ran through the Close, and several of the Lords nodded in satisfaction. This was not something about which a Manethrall could be mistaken. The High Lord sighed her gratitude. When she freed the Warmark to begin his questions, she did so with a look that urged him to be gentle.

  “All right,” Troy said, rising to his feet. His heart labored with anxiety, but he ignored it. “I understand that you don’t know the size of Foul’s army. I accept that. But I’ve got to know how much head start he has. Exactly how many days ago did you see his army leave the Shattered Hills?”

  The Manethrall did not need to count back. She replied promptly, “Twenty days.”

  For an instant, the Warmark regarded her eyelessly from behind his sunglasses, stunned into silence. Then he whispered, “Twenty days?” His brain reeled. “Twenty?” With a violence that wrenched his heart, his image of the Despiser’s army surged forward thirty-five leagues—five days. He had counted on receiving word of Lord Foul’s movements in fifteen days. He had studied the Ramen; he knew to a league how far a Manethrall could travel in a day. “Oh, my God.” Rue should have been able to reach Revelstone in fifteen days.

  He was five days short. Five days less in which to march over three hundred leagues—! And Lord Foul’s army would be in the Center Plains ten days from now.

  Without knowing how he had reached that position, he found himself sitting with his face in his hands as if he could not bear to look at the ruin of all his fine strategy. Numbly, as if it were a matter of no consequence, he realized that he had been right about one thing: Covenant’s summons coincided with the start of Lord Foul’s army. That ploy had triggered the Despiser’s attack. Or did it work the other way around? Had Lord Foul somehow anticipated the call?

  “How—?” For a moment, he could not find what he wanted to ask, and he repeated stupidly, “How—?”

  “Ask!” Rue demanded softly.

  He heard the warning in her voice, the danger of offending her pride after an exhausting ordeal. It made him raise his head, look at her. She was glaring at him, and her hands twitched as if they yearned to snatch the fighting cord from her hair. But he had to ask the question, had to be sure—“What happened to you? Why did it take so long?” His voice sounded small and lorn to himself.

  “I was driven from my way,” she said through her teeth, “north into the marge of the Sarangrave.”

  “Dear God,” Troy breathed weakly. He felt the way Rue looked at him, felt all the eyes in the Close on him. But he could not think; his brain was inert. Lord Foul was only a three-day march from Morinmoss.

  The Manethrall snorted disdainfully, and turned away toward the High Lord. “Is this the man who leads your warriors?” she asked sourly.

  “Please pardon him,” Elena replied. “He is young in the Land, and in some matters does not see clearly. But he has been chosen by the Ranyhyn. In time he will show his true value.”

  Rue shrugged. “Do you have other questions?” she said wearily. “I would end this.”

  “You have told us much. We have no more doubt of Lord Foul’s movements, and can guess his speed. Only one question remains. It concerns the composition of Fangthane’s army. What manner of beings comprise it?”

  Bitterness stiffened Rue’s stance, and she said harshly, “I have spoken of the wind, and the evil in the air which felled my Cords. In the army I saw ur-viles, Cavewights, a mighty host of kresh, great lion-like beasts with wings which both ran and flew, and many other ill creatures. They wore shapes like dogs or horses or men, yet they were not what they seemed. They shone with great wrong. To my heart, they appeared as the people and beasts of the Land made evil by Fangthane.”

  “That is the work of the Illearth Stone,” the High Lord murmured.

  But Manethrall Rue was not done. “One other thing I saw. I could not be mistaken, for it marched near the forefront, commanding the movements of the horde. It controlled the creatures with a baleful green light, and called itself Fleshharrower. It was a Giant.”

  For an instant, a silence like a thunderclap broke over the Close. It snatched Troy’s attention erect, lit a fire of dread in his chest. The Giants! Had Lord Foul conquered them? Already?

  Then First Mark Morin came to his feet and said in a voice flat with certainty, “Impossible. Rockbrother is another name for fealty and faith. Do you rave?”

  At once, the chamber clamored in protest against the very idea that a Giant could join the Despiser. The thought was too shocking to be admitted; it cast fundamental beliefs into hysteria. The Hafts burst out lividly, and several of them shouted through the general uproar that Rue was lying. Two Lorewardens took up Morin’s question and made it an accusation: Rue was in the grip of a Raver. Confusion overcame even the Lords. Trevor and Loerya paled with fear; Verement barked at Mhoram; Elena and Callindrill were staggered; and Amatin burst into tears.

  The noise aggravated swiftly in the clear acoustics of the Close, exacerbated itself, forced each voice to become rawer and wilder. There was panic in the din. If the Giants could be made to serve Despite, then nothing was safe, sure; betrayal lurked everywhere. Even the Bloodguard had an aspect of dismay in their flat faces.

  Yet under the protesting and the abuse, Manethrall Rue stood firmly, holding up her head with a blaze of pride and fury in her eyes.

  The next moment, Covenant reached her side. Shaking his fists at the assembly, he howled, “Hellfire! Can’t you see that she’s telling the truth?”

  His voice had no effect. But something in his yell penetrated Hiltmark Quaan. The old veteran knew the Ramen well; he had known Rue during her youth. He jumped to his feet and shouted, “Order!!”

  Caught in their trained military reactions, the Hafts sprang to attention.

  Then High Lord Elena seemed to realize what was happening around her. She reasserted her control with a blast of blue fire from the Staff, and one hot cry:

  “I am ashamed!”

  A stung silence, writhing with fear and indignation, burned in answer to her shout. But she met it passionately, sternly, as if something precious were in danger. “Melenkurion abatha! Have we come to this? Does fear so belittle us? Look! Look at her. If you have not heard the truth in her voice, then look at her now. Remember your Oath of Peace, and look at her. By the Seven! What evil do you see? No—I will hear no protestations that ill can be disguised. We are in the Close of Revelstone. This is the Council of Lords. No Raver could utter falsehood and betrayal here. If there were any wrong in the Manethrall, you would have known it.”

  When she saw that she had mastered the assembly, she continued more quietly. “My friends, we are more than this. I do not know the meaning of Manethrall Rue’s tidings. Perhaps the Despiser has captured and broken a Giant through the power of the Illearth Stone. Perhaps he can create ill wights in any semblance he desires, and showed a false Giant to Rue, knowing how the tale of a betraying Rockbrother would harm us. We must gain answers to these questions. But here stands Manethrall Rue of the Ramen, exhausted in the accomplishment of a help which we can neither match nor repay. Cleanse your hearts of all thought against her. We must not do such injustice.”

  “Right.” Troy heaved himself to his feet. His brain was working again. He was ashamed of his weakness—and, by extension, ashamed of his Haft
s as well. Belatedly, he remembered that the Lords Callindrill and Amatin had been unable to breach Sarangrave Flat and yet Rue had survived it, so that she could come to warn Revelstone. And he did not like to think that Covenant had behaved better than he. “You’re right.” He faced the Ramen squarely. “Manethrall, my Hafts and I owe you an apology. You deserve better—especially from us.” He put acid in his tone for the ears of the Hafts. “War puts burdens on people without caring whether they’re ready for them or not.”

  He did not wait for any reply. Turning toward Quaan, he said, “Hiltmark—my thanks for keeping your head. Let’s make sure that nothing like this happens again.” Then he sat down and withdrew behind his sunglasses to try to think of some way to salvage his battle plans.

  Quaan commanded, “Rest!” The Hafts reseated themselves, looking abashed—and yet in some way more determined than before. That seemed to mark the end of an ugliness. Manethrall Rue and ur-Lord Covenant sagged, leaned tiredly toward each other as if for support. The High Lord started to speak, but Rue interrupted her in a low voice. “I want no more apologies. Release me. I must rest.”

  Elena nodded sadly. “Manethrall Rue, go in Peace. All the hospitality Revelstone can provide is yours for as long as you choose to stay. We do not take the service you have done us lightly. But please hear me. We have never taken the Ramen lightly. And the value of the Ranyhyn to all the Land is beyond any measure. We do not forget. Hail, Manethrall! May the bloom of amanibhavam never fail. Hail, Ramen! May the Plains of Ra be forever swift under your feet. Hail, Ranyhyn! Tail of the Sky, Mane of the World.” Once again, she bowed to Rue in the Ramen fashion.

  Manethrall Rue returned the gesture, and added the traditional salute of farewell; touching the heels of her hands to her forehead, she bent forward and spread her arms wide as if baring her heart. Together, the Lords answered her bow. Then she turned and started up toward the high doors. Covenant went with her, walking at her side awkwardly, as if he wanted and feared to take her arm.

  At the top of the stairs, they stopped and faced each other. Covenant looked at her with emotions that seemed to make the bone between his eyes bulge. He had to strain to speak. “What can I—is there anything I can do—to make you Gay again?”

  “You are young and I am old. This journey has taken much from me. I have few summers left. There is nothing.”

  “My time has a different speed. Don’t covet my life.”

  “You are Covenant Ringthane. You have power. How should I not covet?”

  He ducked away from her gaze; and after a short pause she added, “The Ranyhyn still await your command. Nothing is ended. They served you at Mount Thunder, and will serve you again—until you release them.” When she passed through the doors away from him, he was left staring down at his hands as if their emptiness pained him.

  But after a moment he pulled himself up, and came back down the stairs to take his seat again.

  For a time, there was silence in the Close. The gathered people watched the Lords, and the Lords sat still, bending their minds in toward each other to meld their purpose and strength. This had a calming effect on the assembly. It was part of the mystery of being a Lord, and all the people of the Land, Stonedownor and Woodhelvennin, trusted the Lords. As long as the Council was capable of melding and leadership, Revelstone would not be without hope. Even Warmark Troy gained a glimpse of encouragement from this communion he could not share.

  At last, the contact broke with an almost audible snap from Lord Verement, and the High Lord raised her head to the assembly. “My friends, warriors, servants of the Land,” she said, “now is the time of decision. Deliberation and preparation are at an end. War marches toward us, and we must meet it. In this matter, the chief choice of action is upon Warmark Hile Troy. He will command the Warward, and we will support it with our best strength, as the need of the Land demands.

  “But one matter compels us first—this Giant named Fleshharrower. The question of this must be answered.”

  Roughly Verement said, “The Stone does not explain. It is not enough. The Giants are strong—yes, strong and wise. They would resist the Stone or evade it.”

  “I agree,” said Loerya. “The Seareach Giants understand the peril of the Illearth Stone. It is easier to believe that they have left the Land in search of their lost Home.”

  “Without the Gildenlode?” Trevor countered uncomfortably. “That is unlikely. And it is not—it is not what Mhoram saw.”

  The other Lords turned to Mhoram, and after a moment he said, “No, it is not what I have seen. Let us pray that I have seen wrongly—or wrongly understood what I have seen. But for good or ill, this matter is beyond us at present. We know that Korik and the Lords Hyrim and Shetra will do their uttermost for the Giants. And we cannot send more of our strength to Seareach now, to ask how a Giant has been made to lead Lord Foul’s army. It is in my heart that we will learn that answer sooner than any of us would wish.”

  “Very well,” the High Lord sighed. “I hear you. Then let us now divide among ourselves the burdens of this war.” She looked around the Council, measuring each member against the responsibilities which lay ahead. Then she said, “Lord Trevor—Lord Loerya—to you I commit the keeping of Revelstone. It will be your task to care for the people made homeless by this war—to lay up stores and strengthen defenses against any siege that may come—to fight the last battle of the Land if we fail. My friends, hear me. It is a grim burden I give you. Those who remain here may in the end require more strength than all others—for if we fall, then you must fight to the last without surrender or despair. You will be in a strait place like that which drove High Lord Kevin to his Desecration. I trust you to resist. The Land must not be doomed in that way again.”

  Troy nodded to himself; her choice was a good one. Lord Loerya would fight extravagantly, and yet would never take any action that would imperil her daughters. And Lord Trevor would work far beyond his strength in the conviction that he did not do as much as others could. They accepted the High Lord’s charge quietly, and she went on to other matters.

  “After the defense of Revelstone, our concern must be for the Loresraat and Trothgard. The Loresraat must be preserved. And Trothgard must be held for as long as may be—as a sanctuary for the homeless, men or beasts—and as a sign that in no way do we bow to the Despiser. Within the Valley of Two Rivers, Trothgard is defensible, though it will not be easy. Lord Callindrill—Lord Amatin—this burden I place upon your shoulders. Preserve Trothgard, so that the ancient name of Kurash Plenethor, Stricken Stone, will not become the new name of our promise to the Land.”

  “Just a minute,” Warmark Troy interrupted hesitantly. “That leaves just you, Mhoram, and Verement to go with me. I think I’m going to need more than that.”

  Elena considered for a moment. Then she said, “Lord Amatin, will you accept the burden of Trothgard alone? Trevor and Loerya will give you all possible aid.”

  “We fight a war,” Amatin replied simply. “It is bootless to protest that I do not suffice. I must learn to suffice. The Lorewardens will support me.”

  “You will be enough,” responded the High Lord with a smile. “Very well. Those Lords who remain—Callindrill, Verement, Mhoram, and myself—will march with the Warward. Two other matters, and then the Warmark will speak. First Mark Morin.”

  “High Lord.” Morin stood to receive her requests.

  “Morin, you are the First Mark. You will command the Bloodguard as your Vow requires. Please assign to Warmark Troy every Bloodguard who can be spared from the defense of Revelstone.”

  “Yes, High Lord. Two hundred will join the Warmark’s command.”

  “That is well. Now I have another task for you. Riders must be sent to every Stonedown and Woodhelven in the Center and South Plains, and in the hills beyond. All the people who may live in the Despiser’s path must be warned, and offered sanctuary at Trothgard if they choose to leave their homes. And all who dwell along the southward march of the Warward must be as
ked for aid—food for the warriors, so that they may march more easily, carrying less. Aliantha alone will not suffice for so many.”

  “It will be done. The Bloodguard will depart before moonset.”

  Elena nodded her approval. “No thanks can repay the Bloodguard. You give a new name to unflawed service. While people endure in the Land; you will be remembered for faithfulness.”

  Bowing slightly, the First Mark sat down.

  The High Lord set the Staff of Law on the table before her, took her seat, and signed to Warmark Troy. He took a deep breath, then got stiffly to his feet. He was still groping, juggling. But he had regained a grip on his situation; he was thinking clearly again. Even as he started to speak, new ideas were coming into focus.

  “I’m not going to waste time apologizing for this mess I’ve gotten us into. I built my strategy on the idea that we would get word of where Foul was marching in fifteen days. Now we’re five days short. That’s all there is to it.

  “Most of you know generally what I had in mind. As far as I can learn, the Old Lords had two problems fighting Foul—the simple attrition of doing battle all the way from Landsdrop, and the terrain. The Center Plains favor whichever army is fresher and larger. My idea was to let Foul get halfway here on his own, and meet him at the west end of the Mithil valley, where the Mithil River forms the south border of Andelain. Then we would retreat southwest, luring Foul after us across to Doom’s Retreat. In all the legends, that’s the place armies run to when they’re routed. But in fact it’s a hell of a place to take on armies that are bigger and faster than you are. The terrain—that bottleneck between the mountains—gives a tremendous advantage to the side that gets there first—if it gets there in time to dig in before the enemy arrives.

  “Well, it was a nice idea. Now we’re in a different war. We’re five days short. Foul will be through the Mithil valley ten days from now. And he’ll turn north, forcing us to fight him wherever he wants in the Center Plains. If we have to retreat at all, we’ll end up in Trothgard.”