The Illearth War

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Now Troy studied Mhoram. He felt oddly vulnerable without his sunglasses, as if he were exposed to reproach, even to abhorrence, but he could see Mhoram acutely. What he saw reassured him. The Lord’s eyes gleamed with hazardous potentials, and the bones of his skull had an indomitable hue. The contrast to his own weakness humbled Troy. He turned away to look out over the Plains again. The ponderous movement of Lord Foul’s hordes continued as before, and at the sight he felt a resurgence of panic. But he held onto his power of command, gripped it to keep his shame at bay. Finally, he said, “All right. Let’s get going. Tull, you’d better go back to the Stonedown. Have the Ranyhyn brought as far up the trail as possible. We’ve got a long run ahead of us.”

  “Yes, Warmark,” Tull left the Watch soundlessly.

  “Now, Mhoram. You had the right idea. Amorine has got to be warned. She has got to get to the Retreat ahead of Quaan.” It occurred to him that Quaan might not be alive, but he forced that fear down. “I don’t care how she does it. She’s got to have that ambush ready when the riders arrive. If she doesn’t—” He had to lock his jaw to keep his voice from shaking. “Can you communicate that?” He shuddered to think of the warriors’ plight. After a twenty-five-day march, they would have to run the last fifty miles only to learn that their ordeal was not done. Pushing himself around to face Mhoram, he demanded, “Well?”

  Mhoram had already taken the lomillialor rod from his robe, and was lashing it across his staff with a clingor thong. As he secured the rod, he said, “My friend, you should leave the Watch. You will be safer below.”

  Troy acquiesced without question. He gazed at the armies once more to be sure that he had gauged their relative speeds accurately, then wished Lord Mhoram good luck, and started the descent. The stairs felt slippery under his hands and feet, but he was reassured by Ruel’s presence right below him. Soon he stood on the ledge at the base of the Watch, and stared up into the blue sky toward Lord Mhoram.

  After a pause that seemed unduly long to Troy’s quickening sense of urgency, he heard snatches of song from atop the shaft. The song mounted into the air, then abruptly fell silent. At once, flame erupted around Lord Mhoram. It engulfed the whole platform of the Watch, and it filled the air with an impression of reverberation, as if the cliff face echoed a protracted and inaudible shriek. The noiseless ululation made Troy’s ears burn, made him ache to cover them and hide his head, but he forced himself to withstand it. He did not take his gaze off the Watch.

  The echoing was mercifully brief. Moments after its last vibration had faded, Terrel came down the stair, half carrying Mhoram.

  Troy was afraid that the Lord had damaged himself. But Mhoram only suffered from a sudden exhaustion—the price of his exertion. All his movements were weak, unsteady, and his face dripped with sweat, but he managed a faint smile for Troy. “I would not care to be Callindrill’s foe,” he said wanly. “He is strong. He sends riders to Amorine.”

  “Good.” Troy’s voice was gruff with affection and relief. “But if we don’t get to Doom’s Retreat before midafternoon tomorrow, it’ll be wasted.”

  Mhoram nodded. He braced himself on Terrel’s shoulder, and stumbled away along the ledge with Troy and Ruel behind him.

  They made slow progress at first because of Mhoram’s fatigue, but before long they reached a small, pine-girdled valley plentifully grown with aliantha. A breakfast of treasure-berries rejuvenated Lord Mhoram, and after that he moved more swiftly.

  Behind Mhoram and Terrel, with Ruel at his back, Troy traveled on an urgent wind, a pressure for haste, that threatened to become a gale. He was eager to reach the Ranyhyn. When they met Tull and the other Bloodguard on their way up the trail, he mounted Mehryl at once, and hurried the Ranyhyn into a brisk trot back toward Mithil Stonedown.

  He intended to ride straight past the village to the Plains, where the Ranyhyn could run. However, as he and his companions approached the Stonedown, he saw the Circle of elders waiting beside the trail. Reluctantly he stopped and saluted them.

  “Hail, Warmark Troy,” Terass Slen-mate replied.

  “Hail, Lord Mhoram. We have heard some of the tidings of war, and know that you must make haste. But Triock son of Thuler would speak with you.”

  As Terass introduced him, Triock stepped forward.

  “Hail, elders of Mithil Stonedown,” Mhoram responded. “Our thanks again for your hospitality. Triock son of Thuler, we will hear you. But speak swiftly—time presses heavily upon us.”

  “It is no great matter,” said Triock stiffly. “I wish only to seek pardon for my earlier conduct. I have reason for distress, as you know. But I kept my Oath of Peace at Atiaran Trell-mate’s behest, at a time when I sorely wished to break it. I have no wish to dishonor her courage now.

  “It was my hope that Trell Gravelingas would stay with the High Lord—to protect her.” He said this defiantly, as if he expected Mhoram to reprimand him. “Now he is not with her—and I am not with her. My heart fears this. But if it were possible, I would take back my harshness to you.”

  “There is no need for pardon,” Mhoram answered. “My own weak faith provoked you. But I must tell you that I believe Thomas Covenant to be a friend of the Land. The burden of his crime hurts him. I believe he will seek atonement at the High Lord’s side.”

  He paused, and Triock bowed in a way that said he accepted the Lord’s words without being convinced. Then Mhoram went on, “Triock son of Thuler, please accept a gift from me—in the name of the High Lord, who is loved by all the Land.” Reaching into his robe, he brought out his lomillialor rod. “This is High Wood, Triock. You have been in the Loresraat, and will know some of its uses. I will not use it again.” He said this with a resolution that surprised Troy. “And you will have need of it. I am called seer and oracle—I speak from knowledge, though the need itself is closed to me. Please accept it—for the sake of the love we share—and as expiation for my doubt.”

  Triock’s eyes widened, and the twisting of his face relaxed briefly. Troy caught a glimpse of what Triock might have looked like if his life had not been blighted. In silence, he accepted the rod from Lord Mhoram’s hands. But when he held the High Wood, his old bitterness gripped his features again, and he said dourly, “I may find a use which will surprise you.” Then he bowed, and the other elders bowed with him, freeing Mhoram and Troy to be on their way.

  Troy threw them a salute, and took his opportunity. He had no time to spare for Mhoram’s strange gift, or for Triock’s brooding promises. Instead he clapped Mehryl with his heels and led his companions out of the valley of Mithil Stonedown at a gallop.

  In a short time, they rounded the western spur of the mountains, and swung out into the Plains. As Troy scanned his companions, he was surprised to see that Tull’s mount could keep up the pace. This Ranyhyn had been ridden through danger at cruel speeds for the past eight days, and the strain had wounded its gait. But it was a Ranyhyn; its head was up, its eyes were proud, and its matted mane jumped on its neck like a flag gallantly struggling to unfurl. For a moment, Troy understood why the Ramen did not ride. But he made no concessions to the Ranyhyn’s fatigue. Throughout the day, he kept his company running like rapid thunder into the west.

  He ached to join his warriors, to share the fight and the desperation with them, to show them the one way in which they might be able to steal a victory out of the teeth of Lord Foul’s army. Only an exigent need for sleep forced him to stop during part of the night.

  Ruel awakened him before dawn, and he rode on again along the base of the Southron Range. When daylight returned his vision to him, he could see the cliffs near Doom’s Retreat ahead. Now his direct route to the Retreat would take him angling rapidly closer to the vanguard of Lord Foul’s army. But he kept his heading. Near that horde of kresh and ur-viles, he would find whatever was left of the mounted Eoward.

  He caught sight of Quaan’s force sooner than he had expected. The Hiltmark must have taken his riders on a southward curve toward the Retreat to keep
their pursuers as far as possible from the march of the Warward. Shortly after noon, Troy and his companions crested a high foothill which enabled them to look some distance north into the Plains. And there, only a league away, they saw the tattered, fleeing remnant of Quaan’s command.

  At first, Troy felt a thrill of relief. He could see Hiltmark Quaan riding beside his standard-bearer among the warriors. At least six score Bloodguard galloped among the Eoward. And the blue robes of Callindrill and Verement were clearly visible through the dark surge of the retreat.

  But then Troy perceived how the riders were moving. They were almost completely routed. In a tight mass like a swath of panic on the Plains, they pushed and jostled against each other, threw frantic glances behind them in ways that unbalanced their mounts, bristled with angry and fearful cries. Some of them whipped their horses.

  Behind them, the kresh ran like a yellow gale scored with black.

  Nevertheless the distance between the warriors and the wolves remained constant. After a moment, Troy understood. Quaan’s Eoward were struggling to match exactly the hunting pace of the kresh. The wolves themselves could not maintain a dead run. They were forced by the weight of their riders, and by the long distance of the chase, to travel at the swift, loping gait of a hunting pack. And Quaan’s warriors fought to keep their flight almost directly under the noses of the wolves. In this way, they lured the kresh onward. With prey so near, the wolves could neither rest nor turn aside.

  Quaan’s strategy was cunning—cunning and fatal. The warriors also could not rest. They were vulnerable to every spurt of speed from the kresh. And any warrior who was unseated for any reason was instantly torn to pieces. Another Eoward had already been lost this way. But if Quaan could maintain these tactics, the marching Eoward would have until late afternoon to reach their positions in Doom’s Retreat.

  The Warmark did not bother to calculate the odds. He urged Mehryl ahead. At full stretch, the Ranyhyn raced to join Quaan.

  When they saw Troy and Lord Mhoram, the warriors gave a raw, dry cheer. Quaan, Callindrill, and Verement dashed out toward the Warmark. But there was little joy in their reunion. The plight of the Eoward was desperate. When he drew close to them, Troy saw that most of the horses were virtually prostrate on their feet; only their fear of the wolves kept them up and running. And the warriors were in no better condition. They had ridden for days without proper food or sleep. None of them lacked injuries. The dust of the Plains clung to their faces and clotted their wounds, making the cuts and rents look like premature scars. Troy had to tear his aching gaze from them to salute the Hiltmark.

  Through the thunder of the hooves, Quaan shouted, “Hail, Warmark! Well met!” As Troy swung Mehryl into place beside him, he added, “Not eight days, I fear!”

  “Did you send word to Amorine?” Troy yelled.

  “Yes!”

  “Then it’s all right! Seven will be enough!” He clapped the Hiltmark’s shoulder, then slowed Mehryl, and dropped back among the warriors.

  Immediately dust and fear and tension swirled around him like the hot breath of the kresh. Now he could hear the hunting snarl of the wolves, and the roynish barking of the ur-viles. He felt their presence as if they were his fault-as if they had been created by his folly. Yet he forced himself to smile at his warriors, shout encouragement through the din. He could not afford self-recrimination. The burden of saving the Warward was on his shoulders now.

  Moments later, a surge ran through the barking commands of the ur-viles. Troy guessed that the pursuers were about to attempt another spurt.

  He looked ahead quickly toward the sheer cliffs of Doom’s Retreat. They were no more than two leagues away. There the western tip of the Southron Range swung northward to meet the southeast corner of the mountain wedge which separated the South Plains from Garroting Deep, and between these two ranges was the defile of Doom’s Retreat. The narrow canyon lay like a gash through the rock, and its crooked length provided the Land’s only access to the Wastes and the Gray Desert.

  Troy’s gaze sprang to the mouth of the canyon.

  The last marching Eoward were still arriving at the Retreat.

  If they were not given more time, they would be caught outside the canyon by the kresh. Their ambush would fail.

  The Warmark was moving too swiftly for hesitation. When he was sure that the Warward had seen Quaan’s riders, he pushed Mehryl ahead, away from the kresh, and caught the Hiltmark’s attention with a wave of his arm. Then he gave Quaan a hand signal which ordered the Eoward to turn and attack.

  Quaan did not falter; he understood the need for the order. Despite the maimed condition of his command, he sent up a shrill, piercing whistle which drew the eyes of his officers toward him. With hand signals, he gave the Hafts and Warhafts their instructions.

  Almost at once, the riders responded. The outer Eoward peeled back, and the warriors in the center tried to turn where they were. Frantically they fought their horses around to face the wolves.

  Disaster struck the maneuver immediately. As soon as the riders stopped fleeing, kresh crashed in among them. The whole trailing edge of Quaan’s command went down under the onslaught; and the ur-vile loremasters whirled their iron staves, throwing acid power gleefully over the fallen humans and horses. The screaming of the horses shot through the tumult of snarls and cries. Instantly a wide swath of gray-green bracken turned blood-red.

  But the abrupt profusion of corpses broke the charge of the kresh. Their leaders stopped to kill and tear and eat, and this threw the following wolves into confusion. Only the ur-vile wedges drove straight ahead, into the milling heart of the Eoward.

  Bloodguard raced to the aid of the warriors. The three Lords threw themselves at the nearest ur-viles. Other warriors rallied and struck. And through the center of the fight Warmark Troy charged like a madman, hacking at every wolf within reach.

  For a time, the kresh were held. The warriors fought with a desperate fury, and the cool Bloodguard broke wolves in all directions. Working together, the Lords blasted one ur-vile wedge apart, then another. But that accounted for only a tenth of the mounted ur-viles. The others regrouped, began to restore order, coordination, to the kresh. Some of the horses lost their footing on the slick ground. Others went out of control with fear, threw their riders, and lost themselves in futile plunges among the wolves.

  Troy saw that if any of the warriors were to survive this fight they would have to flee soon.

  He battled his way toward the Lords. But suddenly a whole pack of kresh swirled about him. Mehryl spun, dodging the fangs and kicking. Troy fought as best he could, but Mehryl’s whirling unbalanced him. Twice he almost lost his seat. A wolf leaped up at him, and he barely saved himself by jabbing his sword into its belly.

  Then Ruel brought other Bloodguard to his aid. In a concerted charge, ten of them hammered into the pack, shattered it. Troy righted himself, tried uselessly to straighten his missing sunglasses, then cursed himself and sent Mehryl toward the Lords again.

  As he moved, he snapped a glance at the Retreat. The last of the marchers were just disappearing down the canyon.

  “Do something!” he howled when he neared Lord Mhoram. “We’re being slaughtered!”

  Mhoram spun and shouted to Callindrill and Verement, then returned to the Warmark. “On my signal!” he yelled over the din. “Flee on my signal!” Without waiting for a reply, he pushed his Ranyhyn into a gallop and dashed toward the Retreat with the other Lords.

  In a hundred yards, they separated. Verement stopped directly between the conflict and the Retreat, while Mhoram raced straight north and Callindrill ran south. When they were in position, they formed a long line across the approach to Doom’s Retreat.

  They dismounted. Lord Verement held his staff upright on the ground in the center as Mhoram and Callindrill whirled their staffs and shouted strange invocations through the noise of battle. While they prepared, Troy fought his way to Quaan’s side, told him what Mhoram had said. The Hiltmark accepted it
without pausing. They separated, battled away toward the flanks of the struggle, spreading the command.

  Troy feared that Mhoram’s call would come too late. The power of ninety score ur-viles rapidly organized the turbulent kresh. As the Eoward gathered themselves to flee, the ur-viles wrenched the kresh away from the tearing of carcasses, bunched them again into fighting wedges, and hurled them at the warriors.

  In that instant, Lord Mhoram signaled with his staff.

  The riders sent their horses running straight toward Doom’s Retreat. They seemed to rush out from under the piled spring of the wolves. Once again, the trailing warriors crashed to the ground under a massive breaker of kresh. But this time the remaining riders did not fight back. They gave free rein to the fear of their horses, and fled.

  The suddenness of their flight opened a gap between them and the wolves, and the gap widened slowly as the horses at last found release for all their accumulated dread. In moments, Troy and Quaan with the last three Eoward and little more than a hundred Bloodguard flashed by on either side of Lord Verement. As they passed him, he took his staff from where he had planted it in the line between Mhoram and Callindrill, caught it by one end with both hands, and cocked it behind his head.

  Then the last rider had crossed the line.

  Verement swung his staff and struck the ground of the line with all his might.

  Instantly a shimmering wall of force sprang up between Mhoram and Callindrill. When the first kresh charged it, it flared into brilliant blue flame, and hurled them back.

  Seeing that the wall held, Lord Mhoram leaped onto the Ranyhyn, and sprinted after the warriors. Lord Verement followed as swiftly as his sturdy mustang could carry him. When they neared Troy and Quaan, Mhoram shouted, “Make haste! The forbidding cannot hold! The ur-viles will break it! Flee!”

  The warriors needed no urging, and Quaan dashed after them, stridently herding them toward the Retreat. Troy went with him. For a moment, Mhoram and Verement were right behind them. But suddenly the Lords stopped. At the same time, all the Bloodguard wheeled their Ranyhyn, and pounded back toward the forbidding.