But Mhoram only walked on up the valley in silence.
Together they worked their way south into the foothills of the surrounding mountains, then doubled back northward, up the eastern slopes. On the mountainside, the trail was difficult. Terrel led Lord Mhoram, and Troy followed them with Ruel at his back. As he ascended the path, he could see nothing of his situation-for him, the glow of the graveling was encased in dark fog-but slowly he began to feel a change in the air. The warm autumn night of the South Plains turned cooler, rarer; it made his heart pound. By the time he had climbed a couple thousand feet, he knew that he was moving into mountains which had already received their first winter snows.
Soon after that, he and his companions left the open mountainside and began to work upward through rifts and crevices and hidden valleys. When they reached open space again, they were on a ledge in a cliff face, moving eastward under the huge loom of a peak. This ledge took them to the base of the long, leaning, stone shaft of the Watch. Then, clambering through empty air like solitary,dream figures, they went up the exposed stair of the shaft. After another five hundred feet, they found themselves on the parapeted platform of Kevin's Watch.
Troy moved cautiously over the floor of the Watch and seated himself with his back against the surrounding parapet. He knew from descriptions that he was on the tip of the shaft, poised four thousand feet directly above the foothills of a promontory in the Range, and he did not want to give his blindness a chance to betray him. Even sitting with solid stone between his back and the fall, he had an intense impression of abysses. His sense of ambience felt poignantly the absence of any comforting confines or enclosures or limits. This was like being cast adrift in the trackless heavens, and he reacted to it like a blind man-with fear, and a conviction of irremediable isolation. He placed the pot of graveling on the stone before him, so that he could at least vaguely see his three companions. Then he braced both arms against the stone beside him as if to keep himself from falling.
A slight breeze drifted onto the Watch from the towering mountain face south of it, and the air carried a foretaste of winter that made Troy shiver. As midnight passed through the darkness, he began to talk desultorily, as if to warm the vigil by the sound of his voice. His present sense of suspension, of voids, reminded him of his last moments in that world which Covenant insisted, on calling “real”-moments during which his apartment had been flame-gutted, forcing him to hang by failing fingers from his windowsill, with the long fall and smash on concrete hovering below him.
He talked erratically about that world until the vividness of the memory eased. Then he said, “Friend Mhoram, remind me-remind me to tell you sometime how grateful I am-for everything.” He was embarrassed to say such things aloud, but these feelings were too important to be left unexpressed. “You and Elena and Quaan and Amorine-you're all incredibly precious to me. And the Warward-I think I'd be willing to jump from here if the Warward needed it.”
He fell silent again, and time passed. Although he shivered in the chill breeze, his speech had steadied him. He tried to turn his thought to the fighting ahead, but the unknown sight crouched in the coming day dominated his brain, confusing all his anticipations and plans. And around him the blank night remained unchanged, as impenetrable as chaos. He needed to know where he stood. In the distance, he thought he heard dim hoof-beats. But none of his companions reacted to them; he could not be sure he had heard anything.
He needed to distract himself. Half to Mhoram, he growled, "I hate dawns. I can cope with nights. They keep me they're something I've had experience with, at least. But' dawns! I can't stand waiting for what I'm going to see.“ Then, abruptly, he asked, ”Is the sky clear?"
“It is clear,” Mhoram said softly.
Troy sighed his relief. For a moment, he was able to relax.
Silence encompassed the Watch again. The waiting went on. Gradually, Troy's shivering became worse. The stone he leaned against remained cold, impervious to his body warmth. He wanted to stand up and pace, but did not dare. Around him, Mhoram, Ruel, and Terrel stood as still as statues. After a while, he could no longer refrain from asking the Lord if he had received any messages from Elena. “Has she tried to contact you? How is she doing?”
“No, Warmark,” Mhoram answered. “The High Lord does not bear with her any of the lomillialor rods.”
“No?” The news dismayed Troy. Until this moment, he had not realized how much trust he had put in Mhoram's power to contact Elena. He wanted to know that she was safe. And as a last resort, he had counted on being able to summon her. But now she was as completely lost to him as if she were already dead. “No?” He felt suddenly so blind that he could not see Mhoram's face, that he had never really seen Mhoram's face. “Why?”
“The High Wood rods were only three. One went to Lord's Keep, and one stayed in Revelwood, so that the Loresraat and Revelstone could act together to defend themselves. One rod remained. It was given into my hands for use in this war.”
Troy's voice crackled with protest. “What good is that?”
“At need I will be able to speak to Revelwood and Lord's Keep.”
“Oh, you fool.” Troy did not know whether he was referring to Mhoram or himself. So many things had been kept from him. And yet he had never thought to ask who had the rods. He had been saving that whole subject until he saw Lord Foul's army, knew what help he would need. “Why didn't you tell me?”
For answer, Mhoram only gazed at him. But through his haze, Troy could not read the Lord's expression. “Why didn't you tell me?” he repeated more bitterly. “How much else is there that you haven't told me?”
Mhoram sighed. “As to the lomillialor- I did not speak because you did not ask. The rods are not a tool that you could use. They were made for the Lords, and we used them as we saw fit. It did not occur to us that your desires would be otherwise.”
He sounded withdrawn, weary. For the first time, Troy noticed how unresponsive the Lord had been all day. A fit of shivering shook him. That dream Mhoram had had last night-what did it mean? What did the Lord knew that made him so unlike his usual self? Troy felt a sudden foretaste of dread. “Mhoram,” he began, “Mhoram-”
“Peace, Warmark,” the Lord breathed. “Someone comes.”
At once, Troy heaved to his feet, and caught at Ruel's shoulder to anchor himself. Though he strained his ears, he could hear nothing but the low breeze. “Who is it?”
For a moment, no one answered. When Ruel spoke, his voice sounded as distant and passionless as the darkness. “It is Tull, who shared the mission of Korik to the Giants of Seareach.”
Seventeen: Tull's Tale
TROY'S heart lurched, and began to labour heavily. Tull! He could feel his pulse beating in his temples. Korik's mission! After the shock of Runnik's news, he had repressed all thought of the Giants, refused to let himself think of them. He had concentrated on the war, concentrated on something he could do something about. But now his thoughts reeled. The Giants!
Almost instantly he began to calculate. He 'gad been away from Revelstone for twenty-five days. The mission to Seareach had left eighteen days before that. That was almost enough time, almost enough. The Giants could not travel as fast as Bloodguard on Ranyhyn-but surely they would not be far behind. Surely
Troy could understand how Tull had come here. It made sense. The other Bloodguard would be leading the Giants, and Tull had come ahead to tell the Warward that help was on the way. With war on the Land and Lord Foul marching, the Giants would not go to Revelstone, would not go north at all. They would go south, around Sarangrave Flat if not through it. The Bloodguard knew Troy's battle plan; they would know what to do. They would pick up the trail of Lord Foul's army above Landsdrop south of Mount Thunder, and would follow it-past Morinmoss, through the Mithil valley, then southwest toward Doom's Retreat. They would be hoping to attack Lord Foul's rear during the battle of the Retreat. And Tull, seeking to circumvent Lord Foul's army in search of the Warward, would naturally come south t
o skirt the Southron Range toward Doom's Retreat. That route would bring him almost to the doorstep of Mithil Stonedown. Surely-!
When Tull topped the stair and stepped onto the Watch, Troy was so eager that he jumped past all preliminary questions. “Where are they?” The words came so rapidly that he could hardly articulate them. “How far behind are they?”
In the dim light of the graveling, he was unable to make out Tull's face. But he could tell that the Bloodguard was not looking at him. “Lord,” Tull said, “I was charged by Korik to give my tidings to the High Lord. With Shull and Vale I was charged-” For an instant, his fiat voice faltered. “But the Bloodguard in the Stonedown have told me that the High Lord has gone into the Westron Mountains with Amok. I must give my tidings to you. Will you hear?”
Even through his excitement, Troy sensed something strange in Tull's tone, something that sounded like pain. But he could not wait to hear it explained. Before Lord Mhoram could reply, Troy repeated, “Where are they?”
“They?” said the Bloodguard.
“The Giants! How far behind are they?”
Tull turned deliberately away from him to face Lord Mhoram.
“We will hear you,” Mhoram said. His voice was tense with dread, but he spoke steadily, without hesitation. “This war is in our hands. Speak, Bloodguard.”
“Lord, they-we could not-the Giants-” Suddenly the habitual flatness of Tull's voice was gone. “Lord!” The word vibrated with a grief so keen that the Bloodguard could not master it.
The sound of it stunned Troy. He was accustomed to the characteristic alien lack of inflection of all the Bloodguard. He had long since stopped expecting them to express what they felt-had virtually forgotten that they even had emotions. And he was not braced for grief; his anticipation of good news was so great that he could already taste it.
Instantly, before either he or Lord Mhoram could say anything, react at all, Terrel moved toward Tull. Swinging so swiftly that Troy hardly saw the blow, he struck Tull across the face. The hit resounded heavily in the empty air.
At once, Tull stiffened, came to attention. “Lord,” he began again, and now his voice was as expressionless as the night, "with Shull and Vale I was charged to bear tidings to the High Lord. Before the dawn of the twenty-fourth day of the mission-the dawn after the dark of the moon-we left Coercri and came south, as Korik charged us, seeking to find the High Lord in battle at Doom's Retreat. But because of the evil which is awake, we were compelled to journey on foot around the Sarangrave, and so twelve days were gone. We came too near to the Shattered Hills, and so Vale and Shull fell to the scouts and defenders of Corruption. But I endured. Borne by the Ranyhyn, I fled to Landsdrop and the Upper Land, following
Corruption's army. Striving to pass around it, I rode through the hills to the Southron Range, and so came within hail of Mithil Stonedown-eight days in which the Ranyhyn has run without rest.
“Lord-” Again he faltered, but at once he controlled himself. “I must tell you of the mission to Seareach, and of the ill doom which has befallen The Grieve.”
“I hear you,” Mhoram said painfully. “But forgive me-I must sit.” Like an old man, he lowered himself down his staff to rest with his back against the wall of the parapet. “I lack the strength to stand for such tidings.”
Tull seated himself opposite the Lord across the graveling pot, and Troy sat down also, as if Tull's movement compelled him. The vestiges of his sight were locked on the Bloodguard.
After a moment, Mhoram said, “Runnik came to us in Trothgard. He spoke of Hoerkin and Lord Shetra, and of the lurker of the Sarangrave. There is no need to speak of such things again.”
“Very well.” Tull faced the Lord, but his visage was shrouded in darkness. Troy could not see his eyes; he appeared to have no eyes, no mouth, no features. When he began his tale, his voice seemed to be the voice of the blind night.
But he told his tale clearly and coherently, as if he had rehearsed it many times during his journey from Seareach. And as he spoke, Troy was reminded that he was the youngest of the Bloodguard-a Haruchai no older than Troy himself. Tull had come to Revelstone to replace one of the Bloodguard who had been slain during Lord Mhoram's attempt to scout the Shattered Hills. So he was still new to the Vow. Perhaps that explained his unexpected emotion, and his ability to tell a tale in a way that his hearers could understand.
After the deaths of Lord Shetra and the Bloodguard Cerrin, there was rain in Sarangrave Flat all that day. It was cold and merciless, and it harmed the mission, for Lord Hyrim was sickened by the river water he had swallowed, and the rain made his sickness worse. And the Bloodguard could give him no ease-neither warmth nor shelter. In the capsizing of the raft, all the blankets had been lost. And the rank water of the Defiles Course did other damage: it spoiled all the food except that which had been kept in tight containers; it ruined the lillianrill rods, so that they had no more potency to burn against the rain; it even stained the clothing, so that Lord Hyrim's robe and the raiment of the Bloodguard became black.
Before the end of the day, the Lord was no longer strong enough to propel or steer the raft. Fever filled his eyes, and his lips were blue and trembling with cold. Sitting in the centre of the raft, he hugged his staff as if for warmth.
During the night, he began to rant.
In a voice that bubbled through the water running down his face, he spoke to himself as to an adversary and tormentor, alternately cursing and pleading. At times he wept like a child. His delirium was cruel to him, demeaning him as if he were without use or worth. And the Bloodguard could do nothing to succour him.
But at last before dawn the rain broke, and the sky became clear. Then Korik ordered the raft over to one bank. Though it was perilous to stop thus in darkness, he sent half the Bloodguard foraging into the jungle for firewood and aliantha.
After Sill fed him a handful of treasure-berries, the Lord rallied enough to call up a flame from his staff. With this, Korik started a fire, built it into a steady blaze near the centre of the raft. Then the steersmen pushed the raft out into the night, and the mission continued on its way.
In the course of that day, they slowly passed out of the Sarangrave. Across the leagues, the Defiles Course was now growing constantly wider and shallower, dividing into more channels as islets and mudbanks increased. These channels were treacherous-shallow, barred with mudbanks, full of rotten logs and stumps — and the effort of navigating them slowed the raft still more. And around it, the jungle gradually changed.
The vegetation of the Sarangrave gave way to different kinds of growths: tall, dark trees with limbs that spread out widely above bare trunks, hanging mosses, ferns of all kinds, bushes that clung to naked rock with thin root-fingers and seemed to drink from the river through leaves and branches. Water snakes swam out of the path of the raft. And the stench of the Course slowly faded into a smell of accumulated wet decay and stagnation.
Thus the mission entered Lifeswallower, the Great Swamp.
As they moved, Korik kept the raft in the northern passages. In this way, he was able to begin travelling northeastward-toward Seareach-and to avoid the heart of Lifeswallower.
When night came, they were fortunate that the sky was clear; in that tortuous channel, starless darkness would have halted the mission altogether.
Yet they were still in one of the less difficult regions of Lifeswallower; water still flowed over the deep mud and silt. Eastward, in the heart of the Great Swamp, the water slowly sank into the ground, creating one continuous quagmire for scores of leagues in all directions, where the mud flowed and seethed almost imperceptibly.
But in other things they were not so fortunate. The fever now raged in Lord Hyrim. Though Sill had fed him with aliantha, and on water boiled clean, he was failing. Already he looked thinner, and he shook as if there were a palsy in his bones.
And without him-without the power of his staff the mission could not escape Lifeswallower. The steersmen were forced to keep the raft where th
e water was deepest because the mud of the Swamp sucked at their poles. If the logs touched that clinging mud, the Bloodguard would be unable to pull the raft free.
Even in the centre of the channel, their progress was threatened by the peculiar trees of Lifeswallower. These trees the Giants called marshwaders. Despite their height, and the wide stretch of their limbs, their roots were not anchored in solid ground. Rather they held themselves,erect in the mud, and they seemed to move with the submerged, subtle currents of the Swamp. Passages that looked open from a distance were closed when the raft reached them; channels appeared which had been invisible earlier. More than once trees moved toward each other as the raft passed between them, as if they sought to capture it.
All these things grew worse as the days passed. The level of the water in the channel was declining. As the mission moved north and east, more and more of the river was swallowed into the mire, and the raft sank toward the mud.
The Bloodguard could find no escape. Lifeswallower allowed them no opportunity to work their way northward to solid ground. Although they were always within half a league of the simple marsh which bordered the Swamp, they could not reach it. They thrust the raft along, laboured tirelessly day and night, paused only to collect aliantha and firewood. But they could not escape. They needed Lord Hyrim's power-and he was lost in delirium. His eyes were crusted as if with dried foam, and only the treasure-berries and boiled water which Sill forced into him kept him alive.
During the afternoon of the eighteenth day of the mission, the logs of the raft touched mud. Though thin water still gleamed among the trees, the raft no longer floated. The bog held it despite the best efforts of the steersmen, and drew it eastward deeper into the Swamp, moving with the slow current of the mire.
Korik could not see any hope. But Sill disagreed. He insisted that within Lord Hyrim's ill flesh an unquenched spirit survived. He felt it with his hand on the Lord's brow; something in Hyrim still resisted the fever. Through the long watch of the day, he nourished that spirit with treasure-berries and boiled, brackish water. And in the evening the Lord rallied. Some of the dry flush left his face; he began to sweat. As his chills faded, his breathing became easier. By nightfall he was sleeping quietly.
The Illearth War t1cotc-2 Page 30