The Illearth War

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  By the time the storm had dissipated itself late the next day, Troy had lost nearly one Eoman. Somewhere in the darkness and the fear of what assailed Quaan, almost a score of the least hardy warriors lost their courage; amid all the slipping and struggling of the Warward, they simply lay down in the mud and died.

  But they were only eighteen. Close to sixteen thousand men and women survived the storm and marched on. And for the sake of the living, Warmark Troy steeled his heart against the dead. Riding Mehryl as if there were no limit to his courage, he led his army southward, southward, and did not let his crippling pace waver.

  Then three days later—the day after the full of the moon—the Warward had to swim the Black River.

  This river formed the boundary between the Center and South Plains. It flowed northeast out of the Westron Mountains, and joined the Mithil many scores of leagues in the direction of Andelain. Old legends said that when the Black River burst out from under the great cliff of Rivenrock, the eastward face of Melenkurion Skyweir, its water was as red as pure heart’s-blood. But from Rivenrock the Black poured into the center of Garroting Deep. Before it passed through the Last Hills into the Plains, it crossed the foot of Gallows Howe, the ancient execution mound of the Forestals. The water which the Warward had to cross was reddish-black, as if it were thick with a strange silt. In all the history of the Land, the Black River between the Last Hills and the Mithil had never tolerated a bridge or ford; it simply washed away every effort to make a way across it. The warriors had no choice but to swim.

  As they climbed the south bank, they looked drained, as if some essential stamina or commitment had been sucked from their bones by the current’s dark hunger.

  Still they marched. The Warmark commanded them forward, and they marched. But now they moved like battered empty hulks, driven by a meaningless wind over the trackless sargasso of the South Plains. At times, it seemed that only the solitary fire of Troy’s will kept them stumbling, trudging ahead, striving.

  And in the South Plains yet another difficulty awaited them. Here the terrain became rougher. In the southwest corner of the Center Plains, only the thick curve of the Last Hills separated Garroting Deep from the Plains. But south of the Black River, these hills became mountains—a canted wedge of rugged peaks with its tip at the river, its eastern corner at the bottleneck of Doom’s Retreat, and its western corner at Cravenhaw, where Garroting Deep opened into the Southron Wastes forty leagues southwest of Doom’s Retreat. The line of the Warward’s march took it deeper and deeper into the rough foothills skirting these mountains.

  After two days of struggling with these hills, the warriors looked like reanimated dead. They were not yet lagging very far behind the pace, but clearly it was only a matter of time before they began to drop in their tracks.

  As the sun began to set, covering Troy’s sight with mist, the Warmark made his decision. The condition of the warriors wrung his heart; he felt his army had reached a kind of crisis. The Warward was still five days from Doom’s Retreat, five terrible days. And he did not know where Quaan was. Without some knowledge of the Hiltmark’s position and status, some knowledge of Lord Foul’s army, Troy could not prepare for what lay ahead: And his army no longer appeared capable of any preparation.

  The time had come for him to act.

  Though the Warward was still a league away from the end of its scheduled march, he halted it for the night. And while the warriors shambled about the business of making camp, he called Lord Mhoram aside. In the dusk, he could hardly make out the Lord’s features, but he concentrated on them with all his determination, strove to convey to Mhoram the intensity of his appeal. “Mhoram,” he breathed, “there has got to be something you can do for them. Something—anything to help pull them together. Something you can do with your staff, or sing, or put in the food, something. There has got to be!”

  Lord Mhoram studied the Warmark’s face closely. “Perhaps,” he said after a moment. “There is one aid which may have some effect against the touch of the Black River. But I have been loath to use it, for once it has been done it cannot be done again. We are yet long days from Doom’s Retreat—and the need of the warriors for strength in battle will be severe. Should not this aid be kept until that time?”

  “No.” Troy tried to make Mhoram hear the depth of his conviction. “The time is now. They need strength now—in case they have to fight before they get to the Retreat. Or in case they have to run to get there in time. We don’t know what’s happening to Quaan. And after tonight you won’t get another chance until after the fighting’s already started.”

  “How so?” the Lord asked carefully.

  “Because I’m leaving in the morning. I’m going to Kevin’s Watch—I want to get a look at Foul’s army. I have to know exactly how much time Quaan is giving us. And you’re coming with me. You’re the one who knows how to use that High Wood communication rod.”

  Mhoram appeared surprised. “Leave the Warward?” he asked quickly, softly. “Now? Is that wise?”

  Troy was sure. “I’ve got to do it. I’ve been—ignorant too long. Now I’ve got to know. From here on we can’t afford to let Foul surprise us. And I’m”—he grimaced at the fog—“I’m the only one who can see far enough to tell what Foul’s doing.” After a moment, he added, “That’s why they call it Kevin’s Watch. Even he needed to know what he was getting into.”

  Abruptly the Lord passed a hand over the strain in his face, and nodded. “Very well. It will be done. Here is the aid which can be given. Each of the Gravelingases bears with him a small quantity of hurtloam. And the Hirebrands have a rare wood dust which they name rillinlure. I had hoped to save such aids for use in healing battle wounds. But they will be placed in the food tonight. Pray that they will suffice.” Without further question, he turned away to give his instructions to the Hirebrands and Gravelingases.

  Soon these men were moving throughout the camp, placing either hurtloam or rillinlure in each cooking pot. Each pot received only a pinch; each warrior ate only a minute quantity. But the Hirebrands and Gravelingases knew how to extract the most benefit from the wood dust and loam. With songs and invocations, they made their gift to the warriors strong and efficacious. Shortly after eating, the warriors began to fall asleep; many of them simply dropped to the ground and lost consciousness. For the first time in the long damage of the march, several of them smiled at their dreams.

  When Mhoram returned to Warmark Troy after the meal, he was almost smiling himself.

  Then Troy began to give First Haft Amorine her instructions for the battle of Doom’s Retreat. After they had discussed food and the final stages of the march, they talked about the Retreat itself. In spite of his assurances, she viewed that place with dread. In all the wars of the Land, that was the place to which armies fled when all their hopes had been destroyed. Grim old legends spoke of the ravens which nested high in the sides of the narrow defile, above the piled scree and boulders of the edges—cawing for the flesh of the defeated.

  But Troy had never doubted this part of his plan. Doom’s Retreat was an ideal place for a small army to fight a large one. The enemy could be lured into the canyon and beaten in segments. “That’s the beauty of it,” Troy said confidently. “This is one time when we’re going to turn Foul’s tables on him—we’re going to take a curse, and make it into a blessing. Once Quaan arrives, we’ll have the upper hand. Foul may not even know we’re there until it’s too late for him. But even if he does, he’ll still have to fight us. He can’t afford to turn his back on us. All you have to do,” he added, “is keep up the pace for five more days.”

  Amorine’s blunt scowl reminded him just how impossible those five days might be. But in the morning, he felt that he had been justified. Thanks to the roborant of the rillinlure and hurtloam, his warriors met the call of dawn with renewed resolution in their eyes and something like strength in their limbs. When he climbed a nearby hill to speak to them, they crowded around him, and gave a cheer that made his ches
t tight with pride. He wanted to embrace them all.

  He faced the Warward with his back to the sunrise, and when he could discern their faces through his mist, he began. “My friends,” he shouted, “hear me! I’m going to go to Kevin’s Watch to find out what Foul is doing, so this will probably be my last chance to talk to you before the fighting starts. And I want to give you fair warning. We’ve been taking it pretty easy for the past twenty-two days. But now the soft part is over. We’re going to have to start earning our pay.”

  He risked this bleak joke apprehensively. If the warriors understood him, they might relax a bit, shed some of their pain and care, draw closer to each other. But if they heard derogation in his words, if they were affronted by his grim humor—then they were lost to him.

  He felt an immense relief and gratitude when he saw that many of the warriors smiled. A few even laughed aloud. Their response made him feel suddenly and beautifully in harmony with them—in tune with his army, the instrument of his will. At once, he was confident again of his command.

  Briskly he went on, “As you know, we’re only five days from Doom’s Retreat. We have almost exactly forty-eight leagues left to go. After what you’ve already done, you should be able to do this in your sleep. But still there are a few things I want to say about it.

  “First, you should know that you’ve already accomplished more than any other army in the history of the Land. No other Warward has ever marched this far this fast. So every one of you is already a hero. I’m not bragging—facts are facts. You are already the best.

  “But heroes or not, our job isn’t done until we’ve won. That’s why we’re going to Doom’s Retreat. It’s a perfect place for a trap—once we get there, we can handle an army five times our size. And just getting there—just pulling Foul’s army south like this—we’ve already saved scores of Stonedowns and Woodhelvens in the Center Plains. For most of you, that means we’ve saved your homes.”

  He paused, hoping to let his own confidence reach into the hearts of the warriors. Then he said, “But we have got to get to the Retreat in time. That is where Hiltmark Quaan expects to find us. He and his Eoward are fighting like hell to give us these five more days. If we don’t reach the Retreat before they do; they will all die.

  “It’s going to be close. But I can tell you for a fact that the Hiltmark has already bought three of those five days for us. You all saw that storm six days ago. You know what it was—an attack on the Hiltmark’s Eoward. That means that six days ago he was still holding Foul’s army in the Mithil valley. And you know Hiltmark Quaan. You know he won’t let a mere two days get between us and victory.

  “It is going to be close. We’re not going to get much rest. But once we’re in the Retreat, I’m not afraid of the outcome.”

  At this, the Hafts raised a cheer to answer Troy’s bravado, and he stood silently in the ovation with his head bowed, accepting it only because the courage in the shout, the courage of his army, overwhelmed him. When the cheering subsided, and the Warward became silent again, he said thickly into the stillness, “My friends, I’m proud of you all.”

  Then he turned and almost ran from the hill.

  Lord Mhoram followed him as he sprang onto Mehryl’s back. Accompanied by Ruel, Terrel, and eight other Bloodguard, the two men galloped away from the Warward. Troy set a hard pace until his army was out of sight in the hills behind him. Then he eased Mehryl back to a gait which would cover the distance to Mithil Stonedown and the base of Kevin’s Watch in three days. With Mhoram at his side, he cantered eastward over the rumpled Plains.

  After a time, the Lord said quietly, “Warmark Troy, you have moved them.”

  “You’ve got it backward,” replied Troy in a voice gruff with emotion. “They did it to me.”

  “No, my friend. They have become very loyal to you.”

  “They’re loyal people. They—all right, yes, I know what you mean. They’re loyal to me. If I ever let them down—if I even make any normal human mistakes—they’re going to feel betrayed. I know. I’ve focused too much of their courage and hope on myself, on my plans. But if it gets them to Doom’s Retreat in time, the risk’ll be worth it.”

  Lord Mhoram assented with a nod. After a pause, he said, “But you have done your part. My friend, I must tell you this. When I first understood your intention to march toward Doom’s Retreat at such a pace, I felt the task to be impossible.”

  “Then why did you let me do it?” flared Troy. “Why wait until now to say anything?”

  “Ah, Warmark,” returned the Lord, “everything that passes unattempted is impossible.”

  At this, Troy turned on Mhoram. But when he met the Lord’s probing gaze, he realized that Mhoram would not have raised such a question gratuitously. Forcing himself to relax, he said, “You don’t actually expect me to be satisfied with an answer like that.”

  “No,” the Lord replied simply. “I speak only to express my appreciation for what you have done. I trust you. I will follow your lead in this war into any peril.”

  Abruptly a rush of gratitude filled Troy’s throat, and he had to clench his teeth to keep from grinning foolishly. To meet Mhoram’s trust, he whispered, “I won’t let you down.”

  But later, when his emotion had receded, he was disconcerted to remember how many such promises he had made. They seemed to expand with every new development in the march. His speech to the Warward was only one in a series of assertions. Now he felt that he had given his personal guarantee of success to practically the entire Land. He had maneuvered himself into a corner—a place where defeat and betrayal became the same thing.

  The simple thought of failure made his pulse labor vertiginously in his head.

  If this was the kind of thinking that inspired Covenant’s Unbelief, then Troy could see that it made a certain kind of sense. But he had a savage name for it; he called it cowardice. He forced the thought down, and turned his attention to the South Plains.

  Away from the mountains, the terrain leveled somewhat, and opened into broad stretches of sharp, hardy grass mottled with swaths of gray bracken and heather turning purple in the autumn. It was not a generous land—Troy had been told that there were only five Stonedowns in all the South Plains—but its unprofligate health was vital and strong, like the squat, muscular people who lived with it. Something in its austerity appealed to him, as if the ground itself were appropriate for war. He rode it steadily, keeping a brisk pace while conserving Mehryl’s strength for the hard run from Kevin’s Watch to Doom’s Retreat.

  But the second night, his confidence suffered a setback. Soon after moonrise, Lord Mhoram sprang suddenly awake, screaming so vehemently that Troy’s blood ran cold. Troy groped toward him through the darkness, but he struck the Warmark down with his staff, and started firing fierce blasts of power into the invulnerable heavens as if they were attacking him. A madness gripped him. He did not stop until Terrel caught his arms, shouted into his face, “Lord! Corruption will see you!”

  With an immense effort, Mhoram mastered himself, silenced his power.

  Then Troy could see nothing. He had to wait in blind suspense until at last he heard Mhoram breathe, “It is past. I thank you, Terrel.” The Lord sounded utterly weary.

  Troy thronged with questions, but Mhoram either would not or could not answer them. The force of his vision left him dumb and quivering. He could barely compel his lips to form the few words he spoke to reassure Troy.

  The Warmark was not convinced. He demanded a light. But when Ruel built up the campfire, Troy saw the garish heat of torment and danger in Mhoram’s eyes. It stilled him, denied his offer of support or consolation. He was forced to leave the Lord alone in his cruel, oracular pain.

  For the rest of the night, Troy lay awake, waiting anxiously. But when dawn came and his sight returned, he perceived that Mhoram had weathered the crisis. The fever in his gaze had been replaced by a hard gleam like a warning that it was perilous to challenge him—a gleam that reminded Troy of that picture in th
e Hall of Gifts entitled “Lord Mhoram’s Victory.”

  The Lord offered no explanation. In silence they rode away into the third day.

  On the horizon ahead, Troy could make out the thin, black finger of Kevin’s Watch, though the valley of Mithil Stonedown was still twenty-two leagues distant. After the strain of the night, he was under even more pressure than before to climb the Watch and see Lord Foul’s army. In that sight he would find the fate of his battle plan. But he did not drive the Ranyhyn beyond their best traveling gait. So the valley was already full of evening shadows when he and Mhoram reached the Mithil River, and followed it upstream into the Southron Range.

  Through his personal haze, he caught only one glimpse of Mithil Stonedown. From the top of a heavy stone bridge across the river, he looked southward along the east bank, and dimly made out a dark, round cluster of stone huts. Then the last penetration of his sight faded, and he had to ride into the village on trust.

  When Troy and his companions had dismounted within the round, open center of the Stonedown, Lord Mhoram spoke quietly to the people who came out to greet him. Soon the Stonedownors were joined by a group of five, bearing with them a wide bowl of graveling. They placed it on a dais in the center of the circle, where its warm glow and fresh loamy smell spread all around them. The light enabled Troy to see dimly.

  The group of five included three women and two men. Four of them were white-haired, aged, and dignified, but one man appeared just past middle age. His thick dark hair was streaked with gray, and over his short, powerful frame he wore a traditional brown Stonedownor tunic, with a curious pattern resembling crossed lightning on his shoulders. He had a permanently twisted bitter expression, as if something had broken in him early in life, turning all the tastes of his experience sour. But despite his bitterness and his relative youth, his companions deferred to him. He spoke first.