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 chest 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 humour-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 Centre 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 manoeuvred himself into a corner-a place where defeat and betrayal became the same thing.
The simple thought of failure made his pulse labour 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 levelled somewhat, and opened into broad stretches of sharp, hardy grass mottled with swaths of grey 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 the 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 travelling 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 centre 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 centre 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 grey, 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.
“Hail, Mhoram son of Variol, Lord of the Council of Revelstone. Hail, Warmark Hile Troy. Be welcome in Mithil Stonedown. I am Triock son of Thuler, — first among the Circle of elders of Mithil Stonedown. It is not our custom to question our guests before hospitality has cleansed the weariness of their way. But these are perilous times. A Bloodguard brought us tidings of war. What need calls you here?”
“Triock, your welcome honours us,” replied Lord Mhoram. “And we are honoured that you know us. We have not met.”
“That is true, Lord. But I studied for a time in the Loresraat. The Lords, and the friends of the Lords” — he nodded to Troy-“were made known to me.”
“Then, Triock, elders and people of Mithil Stonedown, I must tell you that there is indeed war upon the Land. The army of the Grey Slayer marches in the South Plains, to do battle with the Warward of Revelstone at Doom's Retreat. We have come so that Warmark Troy may climb Kevin's Watch, and study the movements of the foe.”
“He must have brave sight, if he can see so far though it is said that High Lord Kevin viewed all the Land from his Watch. But that is not our concern. Please accept the welcome of Mithil Stonedown. How may we serve you?”
Smiling, Mhoram answered, "A hot meal would be a rich welcome. We have eaten camp food for many days."
At this, another of the elders stepped forward. “Lord Mhoram, I am Terass Slen-mate. Our home is large, and Slen my husband is proud of his cooking. Will you eat with us?”
“Gladly. Terass Slen-mate. You honour us.”
“Accepting a gift honours the giver,” she returned gravely. Accompanied by the other elders, she led Mhoram and Troy out of the centre of the Stonedown. Her home was a wide, flat building which had been formed out of one prodigious boulder. Within, it was bright with graveling. After several ceremonious introductions, Troy and Lord Mhoram found themselves seated at a long stone table. The meal that Slen set before them did full justice to his pride.
When all the guests had eater, their fill, and the stoneware dishes and pots had been cleared away, Lord Mhoram offered to answer the questions of the elders. Terass began by asking generally about the war, but before she had gone far Triock interrupted her.
“Lord, what of High Lord Elena? Is she well? Does she fight in this war?”
Something abrupt in Triock's tone irritated Troy, but he left the answers to Mhoram. The Lord replied, “The High Lord is well. She has uncovered knowledge of one of the hidden Wards of Kevin's Lore, and has gone in quest of the Ward itself ” He sounded cautious, as if he had some reason to distrust Triock.
“And what of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever? The Bloodguard said that he has returned to the Land”
“He has returned”
“Ah, yes,” said Triock. He seemed aware of Mhoram's caution. “And what of Trell Atiaran-mate? For many years he was the Gravelingas of Mithil Stonedown. How does he meet the need of this war?”
“He is in Revelstone, where his skills serve the defence of the Keep.”
At once, Triock's attitude changed. “Trell is not with the High Lord?” he demanded sharply.
“No.”
“Why not?”
For a moment, Lord Mhoram searched. Triock's face. Then he said as if he were taking a risk, “Ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and Ringthane, rides with the High Lord.”
“With her?” Triock cried, springing to his feet. “Trell permitted this?” He glared bitterly at Mhoram, then spun away and flung out of the house.
His vehemence left an awkward silence in the room, and Terass spoke quietly to ease it. “Please do not be offended, Lord. His life is full of trouble. It may be that you know part of his tale.”
Mhoram nodded, assured Terass that he was not offended. But Triock's conduct disturbed Warmark Troy; it reminded him vividly of Trell. “I don't know,” he said bluntly. “What business is the High Lord of his?”
“Ah, Warmark,” Terass said, sadly, “he would not thank me for speaking of it. I- ”
A sharp glance from Mhoram silenced her. Troy turned toward Mhoram, but the Lord did not meet his gaze. “Before ur-Lord Covenant's first summoning to the Land,” Mhoram said carefully, “Triock was in love with the daughter of Trell and Atiaran.”
Troy barely restrained an ejaculation. He wanted to curse Covenant; there seemed to be no end to the damage Covenant had done. But he held himself back for the sake of his hosts. He scarcely heard Mhoram ask, “Is Trell's daughter well? Is there any way in which I may help her?”
“No, Lord,” sighed Terass. “The health of her body is strong, but her mind is unsteady. Always she has believed that the Unbeliever will come for her. She has asked the Circle of elders-asked permission to marry him. We can find no Healer able to touch this illness. I fear you would only turn her thoughts more toward him.”
Mhoram accepted her judgment morosely. "I am sorry. This failure grieves me. But the Lords know only of one Unfettered Healer with power for such needs-and she left her home, and passed out of knowledge forty years ago, before the battle of Soaring Woodhelven. It humbles us to be of so little use for such needs."
His words left behind a pall of silence in their wake. For a time like a muffled sigh, he stared at his clasped hands. But the
n, rousing himself from his reverie, he said, “Elders, how will you meet the chance of war? Have you prepared?”
“Yes, Lord,” one of the other women replied. “We have little cause to fear the destruction of our homes, so we will hide in the mountains if war comes. We have prepared food stores against that need. From the mountains, we will harass any who assail Mithil Stonedown.”
Mhoram nodded, and after a moment Terass said, “Lord, Warmark, will you spend the night with us? We will be honoured to provide beds for you. And perhaps you will be able to speak to the gathering of the people?”
“No,” said Troy abruptly. Then, hearing his discourtesy, he softened his tone. “Thank you, but no. I need to get up to the Watch-as soon as possible.”
“What will you see? The night is dark. You may sleep in comfort here, and still climb to Kevin's Watch before morning.”
But Troy was adamant. His anger at Covenant only increased his impatience; he had a strong sense of pressure, of impending crisis. Lord Mhoram's polite, firm support soon satisfied the Stonedownors that this decision was necessary, and in a short time he and Troy were on their way. They accepted a pot of graveling from the elders to light their path, left all the Bloodguard except Terrel and Ruel to care for the Ranyhyn and watch over the valley, then started walking briskly along the Mithil into the night.
Troy could see nothing outside the primary glow of the graveling, but when he was sure be was out of earshot of the Stonedown, he said to Mhoram, “You knew about Triock before tonight. Why didn't you ”tell me?"
"I did not know the extent of his distress. Why should I burden you? Yet now it is in my heart that I have treated him wrongly. I should have dealt with him openly, and trusted him to bear my words. My caution has only increased his pain."
Troy took a different view. “You wouldn't need to be cautious at all if it weren't for that damned Covenant.”
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