The Illearth War t1cotc-2

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “Then we sent homeward the bodies of our fallen comrades,” Tull said softly. “There was no need for haste-we knew that their Ranyhyn could find a way in safety north of the Sarangrave. And when that task was done, we returned to the five who stood watch at the lighthouse. Two of them Korik charged to return to Lord's Keep with all possible speed, so that Revelstone might be warned. And because he judged that the war had already begun-that the High Lord would be marching in the South Plains with the Warward-I was charged, and Shull and Vale with me, to bear these tidings southward, the way I have come. With Sill and Doar, Korik undertook the burden of the Illearth Stone, so that it might be taken in safety to Revelstone for the Lords.”

  At last the Bloodguard fell silent. For a long time, Troy sat gazing sightlessly at the stone before him. He felt deaf and numb-too shocked to hear the low breeze blowing around Kevin's Watch, too stunned to feel the chill of the mountain air. Dead? he asked silently. All dead? But it seemed to him that he felt nothing. In him there was a pain so deep that he was not conscious of it.

  But in time he recollected himself enough to raise his head, look over at Lord Mhoram. He could see the Lord dimly. His forehead was tight with pain, and his eyes bled tears.

  With an effort, Troy found his voice. It was husky with emotion as he asked, “Is this what you saw last night? Is this it?”

  “No.” Mhoram's reply was abrupt. But it was not abrupt with anger; it was abrupt with the exertion of suppressing his sobs. “I saw Bloodguard fighting in the service of the Despiser.”

  There was a long and heartrending pause before Tull said through his teeth, “That is impossible.”

  “They should not have touched the Stone,” the Lord breathed weakly. “They should not-!”

  Troy wanted to question Mhoram, ask him what he meant. But then suddenly he realized that he was seeing more clearly. His fog was lifting.

  At once, he rose to his knees, turned, braced his chest on the edge of the parapet. Instinctively, he tightened his sunglasses on his face.

  Along the rim of the eastern horizon dawn had already begun.

  Eighteen: Doom's Retreat

  IMMEDIATELY, Troy jumped erect to face the sun.

  His companions stood with him in tense silence, as if they intended to share what he would see. But he knew that even the Bloodguard could not match his mental sight. He paid no attention to them. All his awareness was consumed by the gradual revelations of the dawn.

  At first, he could see only a fading grey and purple blankness. But then the direct rays of the sun caught the platform, and his surroundings began to lift their heads out of the mist. Above the long fall into shadow, he received his first visual sense of the wide open air in which Kevin's Watch stood as if on the tip of a dark finger accusing the heavens. In the west, across a distance too great for any sight but his, he saw sunlight touch the thin snowcaps of the mountain wedge which separated the South Plains from Garroting Deep. And as the sun climbed higher, he made out the long curve of peaks running south and then west from the valley of Mithil Stonedown to Doom's Retreat.

  Then the light reached down to the hills which formed the eastern border of the Plains between Kevin's Watch and Andelain. Now he could follow the whole course of the Mithil River northwest and then north until it joined the Black. He felt strangely elevated and mighty. His gaze had never comprehended so much before, and he understood how High Lord Kevin must have felt. Standing on the Watch was like being on the pinnacle of the Earth.

  But the sun kept rising. Like a tide of illumination, it flooded across the Plains, washing away the last of his blindness.

  What he saw staggered him where he stood. Horror filled his eyes like the rush of an avalanche. It was worse than anything he could have imagined.

  He made out the Warward first. His army had just begun to march; it crept south along the mountain wedge. He saw it as hardly more than a smudge in the foothills, but he could gauge its speed. It was still two days from Doom's Retreat.

  Hiltmark Quaan's force was closer to him, and farther from the Retreat. But the horsemen were moving faster. He estimated their numbers instinctively, instantly; he knew at once that they had been decimated. More than a third of the two hundred Bloodguard were gone, and of Quaan's twelve Eoward less than six remained. They hurried raggedly, almost at a dead rout.

  Raging at their heels came a vast horde of kresh- at least ten thousand of the savage yellow wolves. The mightiest of them, the most powerful two thousand, bore black riders-ur-viles. The ridden kresh ran in tight wedges, and the ur-vile loremasters at the wedge tips threw torrents of dark force at every rider who fell within their reach.

  In an effort to control the pace, restrain it from utter flight, Eoman turned at intervals. Twenty or forty warriors threw themselves together at the yellow wall to slow the charge of the kresh. Troy could see flashes of blue fire in these sorties; Callindrill and Verement were alive. But two Lords were not enough. The riders were hopelessly outnumbered. And they were already well beyond the Mithil River in their race toward Doom's Retreat. Even if they ran no faster, they would reach the Retreat before the marching Warward.

  Quaan had been unable to gain the last day that the marchers needed.

  Yet even that was not the most crushing sight. Behind the wolves came the main body of Lord Foul's army. This body was closer than the others to Kevin's Watch, and Troy could see it with appalling clarity.

  The Giant striding at its head was the least of its horrors. At the Giant's back marched immense ranks of Cavewights at least twenty thousand of the strong, ungainly rock delvers. Behind them hurried an equal number of ur-viles, loping on all fours for better speed. Through their ranks, hundreds of fearsome, lionlike griffins alternately trotted and flew. And after the Demondim-spawn came a seething, grim army so huge that Troy could not even guess its numbers: humans, wolves, Waynhim, forest animals, creatures of the Flat, all radiating the fathomless blood-hunger which coerced them-many myriad of warped, rabid creatures, the perverted handiwork of Lord Foul and the Illearth Stone.

  Most of this prodigious army had already crossed the Mithil in pursuit of Hiltmark Quaan and his command. It moved with such febrile speed that it was little more than three days from Doom's Retreat. And it was so mighty that no ambush, however well conceived, could hope to stand against it.

  But there would be no ambush. The Warward did not know its peril, and would not reach the Retreat in time.

  Like jagged hunks of rock, these facts beat Warmark Troy to his knees. “Dear God!” he breathed in anguish. “What have I done?” The avalanche of revelations battered him down. “Dear God. Dear God. What have I done?”

  Behind him, Lord Mhoram insisted with mounting urgency, “What is it? What do you see? Warmark, what do you see?” But Troy could not answer. His world was reeling around him. Through the vertigo of his perceptions, his clutching mind could grasp only one thought: this was his fault, all of it was his fault. The futility of Korik's mission, the end of the Giants, the inevitable slaughter of the Warward-everything was on his head. He had been in command. And when the debacle of his command was over, the Land would be defenceless. He had served the Despiser from the start without knowing it, and what Atiaran Trell-mate had given her life for was worse than nothing.

  “Worse,” he gasped. He had condemned his warriors to death. And they were only the beginning of the toll Lord Foul would exact for his misjudgment. “Dear God.” He wanted to howl, but his chest was too full of horror; it had no room for outcries.

  He did not understand how the Despiser's army could be so big. It surpassed his most terrible nightmares.

  Wildly, he surged to his feet. He tore at his breast, trying to wrest enough air from his unbreathable failure for just one cry. But he could not get it; his lungs were clogged with ruin. A sudden loud helplessness roared in his ears, and he pitched forward.

  He did not realize that he had tried to jump until Terrel and Ruel caught his legs and hauled him back over the para
pet.

  Then he felt a burning in his cheeks. Lord Mhoram was slapping him. When he flinched, the Lord pulled close to him, shouted into his eyeless face, “Warmark! Hile Troy! Hear me! I understand-the Despiser's army is great. And the Warward will not reach Doom's Retreat in time. I can help!”

  Dumbly, instinctively, Troy tried to straighten his sunglasses on his face, and found that they were gone. He had lost them over the edge of Kevin's Watch.

  “Hear me!” Mhoram cried. “I can send word. If either Callindrill or Verement lives, I can be heard. They can warn Amorine.” He grabbed Troy's shoulders, and his fingers dug in, trying to gain a hold on Troy's bones. “Hear! I am able. But I must have reason, hope. I cannot-if it is useless. Answer!” he demanded through clenched teeth. “You are the Warmark. Find hope! Do not leave your warriors to diet”

  “No,” Troy whispered. He tried to break away from Mhoram's grip, but the Lord's fingers were too strong. “There's no way. Foul's army is too big.”

  He wanted to weep, but Mhoram did not let him. “Discover a way!” the Lord raged. “They will be slain! You must save them!”

  “I can't!” Troy shouted in sudden anger. The stark impossibility of Mhoram's demand touched a hidden resource in him, and he yelled, “Foul's army is too goddamn big! Our forces are going to get there too late! The only way they can stay alive just a little longer is to run straight through the Retreat and keep going until they drop! There's nothing out there-just Wastes, and Desert, and a clump of ruins, and-!”

  Abruptly, his heart lurched. Kevin's Watch seemed to tilt under him, and he grabbed at Mhoram's wrists to steady himself. “Sweet Jesus!” he whispered. “There is one chance.”

  “Speak it!”

  “There's one chance,” Troy repeated in a tone of wonder. “Jesus.” With an effort, he forced his attention into focus on Mhoram. “But you'll have to do it.”

  “Then I will do it. Tell me what must be done.”

  For a moment longer, the sweet sense of reprieve amazed Troy, outweighing the need to act, almost dumbfounding him. “It's going to be rough,” he murmured to himself. “God! It's going to be rough.” But Mhoram's insistent grip held him. Speaking slowly to help himself collect his thoughts, he said, “You're going to have to do it. There's no other way. But first you've got to get through to Callindrill or Verement.”

  Lord Mhoram's piercing gaze probed Troy. Then Mhoram helped the Warmark to his feet. Quietly, the Lord asked, “Do Callindrill and Verement live?”

  “Yes. I saw their fire. Can you reach them? They don't have any of that High Wood.”

  Mhoram smiled grimly. “What message shall I give?”

  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 travelled 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 dishonour 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 w
ords 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.