The Illearth War t1cotc-2

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “Sister Amatin, these are great burdens. But I place them in your hands without fear. They do not surpass you. And the help of Corimini the Eldest, and of Asuraka and Drinishok the Elders, is beyond price. I do not believe that the Warward will fall in this war. But you must be prepared for all chances, even the worst. You will not fail. This trust becomes you.”

  Lord Amatin blinked back a moment of tears, and bowed silently to the High Lord. Then Elena lifted her head to Revelwood, and projected her voice so that she could be heard in the Tree.

  "Friends! Comrades! Proud people of the Land! There is war upon us. Together we confront the test of death. Now is the time of parting, when all the defenders of the Land must go to their separate tasks. Do not desire to change your lot for another's. All faith and service are equal, alike worthy and perilous, in this time of need. And do not grieve at parting. We go to the greatest glory of our age-we are honoured by the chance to give our utmost for the Land. This is the test of death, that at the last we may prove worthy of what we serve.

  "Be of good heart. If the needs of this war go beyond your strength, do not despair. Give all your strength, and hold Peace, and do not despair. Hold courage and faith high! It is better to fall and die in Peace than to re-Desecrate the Land.

  “My friends, I am honoured that I have shared life with you.”

  High in Revelwood, a strident voice cried, “Hail to the High Lord and the Staff of Law!” And all the people in the Tree and on the ground answered, “Hail! Hail to the High Lord!”

  Elena bowed deeply to Revelwood, spreading her arms wide in the traditional gesture of farewell. Then she turned Myrha toward the riders, and spoke to Lord Mhoram.

  “Now, Mhoram, my most trusted friend, you must depart. You and Warmark Hile Troy must rejoin the Warward, to guide it into war. I have decided. I will leave you now, and follow Amok to the Seventh Ward of Kevin's Lore.”

  In spite of himself, Troy groaned, and clutched at Mehryl's mane as if to keep himself from falling. But the High Lord took no notice of him. Instead, she said to Mhoram, “You know that I do not do this to evade the burden of war. But you also know that you are the more experienced and ready in battle. And you know that the outcome of the war may allow us no second opportunity to discover this Ward. Yet the Ward may enable a victory which would otherwise be taken from us. I cannot choose otherwise.”

  Lord Mhoram gazed at her intently for a time. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with suppressed appeals. “Beware, High Lord. Even the Seventh Ward is not enough.”

  Elena met him squarely, but her own gaze appeared unfocused. The other dimension of her sight was so pronounced that she did not seem to see him at all. “Perhaps it was not enough for Kevin Landwaster,” she replied softly, “but it will suffice for me.”

  “No!” Mhoram protested. “The danger is too great. Either this power did not meet Kevin's need in any way, or its peril was so great that he feared to use it. Do not take this risk.”

  “Have you seen it?” she asked. “Do you speak from vision?”

  With an effort, Mhoram forced himself to say, "I have not seen it. But I feel it in my heart. There will be death because of it. People will be slain."My friend, you are too careful of all risks but your own. If you held the Staff of Law in my place, you would follow Amok to the ends of the Earth. And people will still be slain. Mhoram, ask your heart-do you truly believe that the future of the Land can be won in war? It was not so for Kevin. I must not lose any chance which may teach me another way to resist the Despiser."

  Mhoram bowed his head, too moved to make any answer. In the silence, they melded their thoughts, and after a moment the strain in his face eased. When he looked up again, he directed his gaze explicitly toward Covenant and Troy. Softly, he said, “Then-if you must go-please do not go alone. Take someone with you-someone who may be of service.”

  For one wild instant, Troy thought that the High Lord was going to ask him to go with her. Despite his responsibilities to the Warward, his lips were already forming his answer-Yes- when she said, “That is my desire. Ur-Lord Covenant, will you accompany me? I wish to share this quest with you.”

  Awkwardly, as if her request embarrassed him, Covenant said, “Do you really think I'm going to be of service?”

  A gentle smile touched Elena's lips. “Nevertheless.”

  He stared into the expanse of her eyes for a moment. Then, abruptly, he looked away and shrugged. “Yes. I'll come.”

  Troy hardly heard the things that were said next the last formal speeches by Elena and Corimini, the Loresraat's brief song of encouragement, the exchange of farewells. When the High Lord said a final word to him, he could barely bring himself to bow in answer. With his Yes frozen on his lips, he watched the end of the ceremonies, and saw Elena and Covenant ride away together westward, accompanied only by Bannor and First Mark Morin. He felt paralyzed in the act of falling-crying, I'm going to lose you! Lord Mhoram came close to him, and spoke. But he did not move until he realized through his distress that Trell had not followed Covenant and the High Lord.

  Suddenly, his restraint broke. He spun urgently toward Trell, turned in time to see the Gravelingas yank his heavy fists out of his hair, snatch up the reins of his horse, and start away at a gallop toward the ford of the Llurallin north of Revelwood.

  Troy went after him. Mehryl flashed under the Tree, and caught up with Trell in the sunlight beyond the city. Troy ordered the Gravelingas to stop, but Trell ignored him. At once, the Warmark told Mehryl to halt Trell's mount. Mehryl gave one short, commanding whinny, and the horse stopped so sharply that Trell almost lost his seat.

  When the Gravelingas forced his head up to meet Troy, his eyes ran with tears, and he panted as if he were being slowly suffocated. But Troy had no more time to spare for considerateness. “What're you doing?” he rasped. “Where're you going?”

  “Revelstone,” croaked Trell. “There is nothing for me here.”

  “So? We're going south-don't you know that? You live in the South Plains, don't you? Don't you want to help defend your home?” This was not what Troy wanted to ask, but he had not found the words for his real question.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I cannot go back. She is there-I cannot bear it. After this!”

  As Trell panted his answer, Lord Mhoram rode up to them. At once, he started to speak, but Troy cut him off with a savage gesture. “She?” the Warmark demanded. “Who? Your daughter?” When Trell nodded dumbly, Troy said, “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” Things he did not know buffeted him; he had to find answers. “I don't understand. Why don't you go back home-to your daughter? She's going to need you.”

  “Melenkurion!” Trell gasped. "I cannot! How could

  I look into her face-answer questions-after this? Do not torment me!"

  “Warmark!” Mhoram's voice was hard and dangerous-a warning, almost a threat. “Let him be. Nothing that he can say will help you.”

  “No!” Troy retorted. “I've got to know. Trell, listen to me. I have got to know. Believe me, I understand how you feel about him.”

  Trell no longer seemed to hear Troy. “She chose!” he panted, “chose!” He heaved the words between his clenched teeth as if they were about to burst him. “She chose him-him!”

  “Trell, answer me. What were you doing out there yesterday? — at that grave? Trell!”

  The word grave penetrated Trell's passion. Abruptly, he wrapped his arms around his chest, hunched forward. Through his tears, he glared at Troy. “You are a fool!” he hissed. “Blind! She wasted her life.”

  “Wasted?” Troy gaped. “Wasted?” It's the student who summoned you. Was Covenant right?

  “Perhaps,” Lord Mhoram said grimly. This time his tone compelled Troy's attention. Troy stared at

  Mhoram with a gaze thick with dread. "He has abundant reason to visit that grave," the Lord went on. "Atiaran Trell-mate is buried there. She died in the act which summoned you to the Land. She gave her
life in an effort to regain ur-Lord Covenant but she failed of her purpose. Your presence here is the outcome of her Peace-less grief and her hunger for retribution."

  Mhoram's explanation exceeded the limit of Trell's endurance. Pain convulsed his features. He struck his horse a fierce blow with his heels, and it sprang at once into a frightened gallop toward the Llurallin ford. But Troy did not even see him go. The Warmark turned sharply, and found that he could still discern Elena, Covenant, and the two Bloodguard riding westward out of the Valley. Amok was already with them, walking jauntily at the High Lord's side.

  Atiaran Trell-mate? Trell-mate? She was his wife? He knew of Atiaran-he had heard too much talk about Covenant not to know that she was the woman who had guided the Unbeliever from Mithil Stonedown to Andelain and the Soulsease River. But he had not known that Trell was her husband. That had been kept from him.

  Then he went a step further. Covenant had raped Trell's daughter- Atiaran's daughter-the daughter of the woman who-!

  “Covenant! You bastard!” Troy howled. “What have you done?” But he knew that the travellers could not hear him across the distance; the noise of the two rivers obliterated distant shouts. A stiff gust of helplessness knocked down his protest, so that his voice cracked and stumbled into silence.

  It was no wonder that Trell could not return home, face his daughter. How could he tell her that the High Lord had chosen friendship rather than retribution for the man who had raped her? Troy did not understand how she could do such a thing to Trell.

  Another moment passed before he grasped the rest of what Mhoram had said. She died in the act- Atiaran was his summoner, not some young ignorant or inspired student. That, too, had been kept from him. He was the result and consequence of her unanswerable pain.

  It isn't you- Was Covenant right? Were all his plans only so much despair work, set in motion by the extravagance of Atiaran's death?

  “Warmark.” Lord Mhoram's tone was stern. “That was not well done. Trell's hurt is great enough.”

  “I know,” Troy gritted over the aching of his heart. “But why didn't you tell me? You knew about all this.”

  “The Council decided together to withhold this knowledge from you. We saw only harm in the sharing of it. We wished to spare you pain. And we hoped that you would learn to trust ur-Lord Covenant.”

  “You were dreaming,” Troy groaned. “That bastard thinks this whole thing is some kind of mental game. All that Unbelieving is just a bluff. He thinks he can get away with anything. You can't trust him.” Grimly, he pushed the argument to its conclusion. "And you can't trust me-or you would have told me all this before. She was trying to summon him. As far as you know, I'm just a surrogate." He tried to sound lucid, but his voice shook.

  “You misunderstand me,” Mhoram said carefully.

  “No, I don't misunderstand.” He could feel deadly forces at work around him-choosing, manipulating, determining. He had to clench himself to articulate, “Mhoram, something terrible is going to happen to her.”

  He looked at the Lord, then turned away; he could not bear the compassion in Mhoram's gaze. Patting Mehryl's neck, he sent the Ranyhyn trotting around the east side of Revelwood. He avoided the waiting Lorewardens, avoided having to bid them farewell. Gesturing roughly for the Bloodguard and Lord Mhoram to follow `him, he rode straight away from Revelwood toward the south ford.

  He was looking forward to this war. He wanted to get to it in a hurry.

  Sixteen: Forced March

  YET even in this mood, he could not cross the ford of the Rill out of Trothgard without regret. He loved the sun-bright beauty of Revelwood, the uncomplex friendship of the Lorewardens; he did not want to lose them. But he did not look back. He could not understand why Elena had repudiated Trell Atiaran-mate's just rage and grief. And he sensed now, in a way more fundamental than he had ever seen it before, that he would have to prove himself in this war. He would have to prove that he was the fruit of hope, not of despair.

  He would have to win.

  If he did not, then he was more than a failure; he was an active evil-a piece of treachery perpetrated against the Land in defiance of his own love or volition-worse than Covenant, for Covenant at least tried to avoid the lie of being trusted. But he, Hile Troy, had deliberately sought trust, responsibility, command

  No, that thought was intolerable. He had to win, had to win.

  When he had passed the crest of the south hill, he slowed Mehryl to a better travelling pace, and allowed Lord Mhoram and the remaining eighteen Bloodguard to catch up with him. Then he said through his teeth, biting down on his voice to avoid accusing Mhoram, “Why is she taking him? He raped Trell's daughter.”

  Mhoram responded gently, “Warmark Troy, my friend, you must understand that the High Lord has little choice. The way of her duty is narrow, and beset with perils. She must seek out the Seventh Ward. And she must take ur-Lord Covenant with her-because of the white gold. With the Staff of Law, she must ensure that his ring does not fall into Lord Foul's hands. And if he turns against the Land, she must be near him-to fight him.”

  Troy nodded to himself. That was reasoning he could comprehend. Abruptly, he shook himself, forced down his instinctive protest. With an effort, he unclenched his teeth, and sighed, “I'll tell you something, Mhoram. When I'm done with this war-when I can look back and tell myself that poor Atiaran is satisfied-I'm going to take a vacation for a few years. I'm going to sit down in Andelain and not move a muscle until I get to see the Celebration of Spring. Otherwise I'm never going to be able to forgive that damn Covenant for being luckier than I am.” But he meant luckier in another way. Though he realized now that no other choice was possible, he ached to think that Elena had chosen Covenant, not him.

  If Mhoram understood him, however, the Lord tactfully followed what he had said rather than what he meant. “Ah, if we are victorious”- Mhoram was smiling, but his tone was serious- " you will not be alone. Half the Land will be in Andelain when next the dark of the moon falls on the middle night of spring. Few who yet live have seen the Dance of the Wraiths of Andelain."

  “Well, I'm going to get there first,” Troy muttered, trying to sustain this conversation. But then he could not keep himself from reverting to the subject of the Unbeliever. “Mhoram, don't you resent him? After what he's done?”

  Evenly and openly, Lord Mhoram said, “I have no special virtue to make me resent him. One must have strength in order to judge the weakness of others. I am not so mighty.”

  This answer surprised Troy. For a moment, he stared at Mhoram, asking silently, Is that true? Do you believe that? But he could see that Mhoram did believe it. Baffled, Troy turned away.

  Surrounded by the Bloodguard, he and Lord Mhoram followed a curve through the hills that took them generally east southeast to intercept the Warward.

  As the day passed, Troy was able to turn his thoughts more and more toward his marching army. Questions began to crowd his mind. Were the villages along the march able to provide enough food for the warriors? Was First Haft Amorine able to keep up the pace? Such concerns enabled him to put aside his foreboding, his aching sense of loss. He became another man-less the blind uncertain stranger to the Land, and more the Warmark of the Warward of Lord's Keep.

  The change steadied him. He felt more comfortable with this aspect of himself.

  He wanted to hurry, but he resisted the temptation because he wanted to make this part of the journey as easy as possible for the Ranyhyn. Still, by the end of that day, the eighth since he had left Revelstone, he, Lord Mhoram, and the Bloodguard had left behind the reblooming health of Trothgard. Even at a pace which covered no more than seventeen leagues in a day, the land through which they rode changed rapidly. East and southeast of them was the more austere country of the Centre Plains. In this wide region the stern rock of the Earth seemed closer to the surface of the soil than in Trothgard. The Plains supported life without encouraging it, sustained people who were tough, hardy.

  Most of the m
en and women who made up the Warward came from the villages of the Centre Plains. This was traditionally true-and for good reason. In all the great wars of the Land, the Despiser's armies had struck through the Centre Plains to approach Revelstone. Thus these Plains bore much of the brunt of Lord Foul's malice. The people of the Plains remembered this, and sent their sons and daughters to the Loresraat to be trained in the skills of the Sword.

  As he made camp that night, Troy was intensely conscious of how personally his warriors depended on him. Their homes and families were at the mercy of his success or failure. At his command they were enduring the slow hell of this forced march.

  And he knew that the war would begin within the next day. By that time, the vanguard of Lord Foul's army would reach the western end of the Mithil valley, and would encounter Hiltmark Quaan and the Lords Callindrill and Verement. He was sure of it; no later than the evening of the ninth day. Then men and women would begin to die-his warriors. Bloodguard would begin to die. He wanted to be with them, wanted to keep them alive, but he could not. And the march to Doom's Retreat would go on and on and on, grinding down the Warward like the millstone of an unanswerable need. Soon Troy stretched himself out in his blankets and pressed his face against the earth as if that were the only way he could keep his balance.

  He spent most of the night reviewing every facet of his battle plan, trying to assure himself that he had not made any mistakes.

  The next morning, he felt full of urgency, and he found that whenever he forgot himself he began to hurry Mehryl's pace. So he turned to Mhoram and asked the Lord to talk to him, distract him.

  In response, the Lord slowly dropped into a musing, half-singing tone, and began to tell Troy about the various legended or potent parts of the Land which lay between them and Doom's Retreat. In particular, he narrated some of the old tales about the One Forest, the mighty wood which had covered the Land in an age that was ancient before Berek Halfhand's time, with its Forestals and its fierce foes, the Ravers. During the centuries when the trees were still awake, he said, the Forestals had cherished their consciousness and guided their defences against turiya, moksha, and samadhi. But now, if the old tales spoke truly, no active remnant or vestige of the One Forest and the Forestals remained in the Land, except the grim woods of Garroting Deep and Caerroil Wildwood. And none who entered Garroting Deep, for good or ill, ever returned.