The Illearth War t1cotc-2

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Quaan went bluntly to the immediate problem. “Does Fleshharrower pursue us?”

  “Yes,” Troy Replied. “Lord Verement gained us about a day. But that Giant is coming after us now he's coming fast.”

  Quaan did not need to ask what had happened to Lord Verement. Instead, he said, “Fleshharrower will move swiftly. When will he overtake us?”

  “Sometime tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow evening at the latest.”

  “Then we are lost,” said Amorine, and her voice shook. “We can march no faster. The warriors are too weary to turn and fight. Warmark,” she implored, “take this matter from me. Give the First Haft's place to another. I cannot bear-I cannot give these commands.”

  He tried to comfort her with his confidence. “Don't worry. We're not beaten yet.” But to himself he sounded more hysterical than confident. He had a sudden desire to scream. “We won't have to march any faster than this. We're just going to turn south a fraction more, so that we'll reach that old ruined city — `Doriendor Corishev,' Mhoram calls it. We should get there before noon tomorrow.”

  He felt that he was speaking too quickly. He forced himself to slow down while he explained his intentions. Then he was relieved to see dour approval in the faces of his officers. First Haft Amorine took a deep, shuddering breath as she caught hold of her courage again, and Quaan's eyes glinted with bloody promises for the enemy. Shortly, he asked, “Who will command the Eoward which must remain?”

  “Permit me,” Amorine said. “I am at the end of my strength for this marching. I wish to fight.”

  The Hiltmark opened his mouth to answer her, but Troy stopped them both with a gesture. For a moment, he juggled burdens mentally, seeking a point of balance. Then he said to Quaan, “The Lords and I will stay behind with First Haft Amorine. We'll need eight Eoward of volunteers, and every horse that can still stand. The Bloodguard will probably stay with us. If we handle it right, most of us will survive.”

  Quaan frowned at the decision. But his acceptance was as candid as his dislike. To Amorine, he said, “We must find those who are willing, and prepare them today, so that tomorrow no time will be lost.”

  In answer, the First Haft saluted both Quaan and Troy, then rode away among the Warward. She carried herself straighter than she had for several days, and her alacrity demonstrated to Troy that he had made the correct choice. He nodded after her, sardonically congratulating himself for having done something right.

  But Quaan still had questions. Shortly, he said, “I ask your pardon, Warmark-but we have been friends, and I must speak of this. Will you not explain to me why we march now? If Doom's Retreat is not the battleground you desire, perhaps Doriendor Corishev will serve. Why must this terrible march continue?”

  “No, I'm not going to explain. Not yet.” Troy kept his final plan to himself as if by silence and secrecy he could contain its terrors. “And Doriendor Corishev won't serve. We could fight there for a day or two. But after that, Fleshharrower would surround us and just squeeze. We've got to do better than that.”

  The Hiltmark nodded morosely. Troy's refusal saddened him like an expression of distrust. But he managed a wry smile as he said, “Warmark, is there no end to your plans?”

  “Yes,” Troy sighed. “Yes, there is. And we're going to get there. After that, Mhoram is going to have to save us. He promised-”

  Because he could not bear to face Quaan with his inadequacies, he turned away. Clapping Mehryl with his heels, he went in search of the Lords. He wanted to explain his intentions for Doriendor Corishev, and to find out what additional help Mhoram or Callindrill could give the Warward.

  During the rest of that day and the next morning, he received regular reports from the Bloodguard on Fleshharrower's progress. The Giant-Raver's army was large and unwieldy; it had covered only nine leagues during the day after it traversed Doom's Retreat. But it did not halt during the dark night, and took only one short rest before dawn. Troy judged that the Giant would reach Doriendor Corishev by mid-afternoon.

  That knowledge made him ache to drive the Warward faster. But he could not. Too many warriors left the army or died that night and the next morning. To his dismay, the attrition tripled. A litany of numbers ran through his brain: eleven, thirty-three, ninety-nine- at that rate, the march itself would claim four thousand four victims by the end of six days. And lives would be lost in Doriendor Corishev. He needed complex equations to measure the plight of his army. He did not try to hurry it.

  As a result, the warriors were only a league ahead of Fleshharrower when they started up the long slope toward the ruins of Doriendor Corishev. The ancient city sat atop a high hill under the perpetual frown of the mountains, and the hill itself crested a south-running ridge. The ruins were elevated on a line that separated, hid from each other, the east and west sides of the Southron Wastes. In past ages, when the city lived and thrived, it had commanded perfectly the northern edge of that region, and now the low, massive remains of fortifications testified that the inhabitants of the city had known the value of their position. According to the legends which had been preserved in Kevin's Lore, these people had been warlike; they had needed their strategic location. Lord Callindrill translated the name as “masterplace” or “desolation of enemies.”

  The legends said that for centuries Doriendor Corishev had been the capital of the nation which gave birth to Berek Halfhand.

  That was the age of the One Forest's dominion in the Land. Then there were no Wastes south of the mountains; the region was green and populous. But in time it became too populous. Groups of people from this southern country slowly moved up into the Land, and began to attack the Forest. At first, they only wanted timber for the civilization of Doriendor Corishev. Then they wanted fields for crops. Then they wanted homes. With the unconscious aid of other immigrants from the north, they eventually accomplished the maiming of the One Forest.

  But that injury had many ramifications. On the one hand, the felling of the trees unbound the interdict which the Colossus of the Fall had held over the Lower Land. The Ravers were unleashed-a release which led with deft inevitability to the destruction of Doriendor Corishev's monarchy in the great war of Berek Halfhand. And on the other hand, the loss of perhaps a hundred thousand square leagues 'of Forest altered the natural balances of the Earth. Every falling tree hammered home an ineluctable doom for the masterplace. As the trees died, the southern lands lost the watershed which had preserved them from the Grey Desert. Centuries after the ravage of the One Forest became irreversible, these lands turned to dry ruin.

  But the city had been deserted since the time of Berek, the first Lord. Now, after millennia of wind and dust, nothing remained of the masterplace except the standing shards of its walls and buildings, a kind of ground map formed by the bloodless stumps of its grandeur. Warmark Troy could have hidden his whole army in its labyrinthian spaces and ways. Behind fragmentary walls that reached meaninglessly into the sky, the warriors could have fought guerrilla war for days against an army of comparable size.

  Troy trusted that Fleshharrower knew this. His plans relied heavily on his ability to convince the Giant that the Warward chose to make its last stand in Doriendor Corishev, rather than under the certain death of Garroting Deep. He marched his army straight up the long hillside, and into the toothless gate of the masterplace. Then he took the warriors through the city and out its western side, where they were hidden from Fleshharrower by the ridge on which the city stood.

  There he gave Quaan all the instructions and encouragement he could. Then he saluted the Hiltmark, and watched as the main body of the Warward marched away down the slope. When it was gone, he and his volunteers returned to the city with the two Lords, First Haft, Amorine, all the Bloodguard, and every horse still strong enough to bear a rider.

  Within the ruined walls, he addressed the eight Eoward that had offered to buy the Warward's escape from Doriendor Corishev. He had a taut, dry feeling in his throat as he began, “You're all volunteers, so I'm not going
to apologize for what we're doing. But I want to be sure you know why we're doing it. I have two main reasons. First, we're going to give the rest of the warriors a chance to put some distance between them and Fleshharrower. Second, we're going to help squeeze out a victory in this war. I'm preparing a little surprise for Foul's army, and we're going to help make it work. Parts of that army move faster than others but if they get too spread out, they won't all fall into my trap. So we're going to pull them together here.”

  He paused to look over the warriors. They stood squarely before him with expressions coloured by every hue of grimness and fatigue and determination, and their very bones seemed to radiate mortality. At the sight, he began to understand Mhoram's statement that they deserved to know the truth; they were serving his commands with their souls. Roughly, he went on, "But there's one more thing. Fleshharrower may be planning a surprise or two for us. Many of you were with Hiltmark Quaan during that storm-you know what I'm talking about. That Giant has power, and he intends to use it. We're going to give him a chance. We're going to be a target, so that whatever he does will hit us instead of the rest of the Warward. I think we can survive it-if we do things right. But it's not going to be easy."

  Abruptly, he turned to Amorine, and ordered her to deploy the Eoward in strategic positions throughout the east side of the masterplace. “Make sure of your lines of retreat. I don't want people getting lost in this maze when it's time for us to pull out.” Then he spoke to the Bloodguard, asked them to scout beyond the city along the ridge. “I've got to know right away if Fleshharrower tries to surround us.”

  Terrel nodded, and a few of the Bloodguard rode away.

  First Haft Amorine took her Eoward back across Doriendor Corishev. They left all their horses, including the Ranyhyn, at the west gate under the care of several Bloodguard.

  Accompanied by the rest of the Bloodguard, Troy and the two Lords made their way on foot to the east.: wall.

  While they passed through the ruins, Lord Mhoram n asked, "Warmark, do you believe that Fleshharrower — : will not attempt to surround us? Why would he do otherwise?"'

  “Instinct,” Troy replied curtly. “I think he'll be very careful to let us escape on the west side. You heard him laugh-back at Doom's Retreat-when he saw where we were going. I think that what he really wants is to trap us against Garroting Deep. He's a Raver. He probably thinks the idea of using that Forest against us is hilarious.”

  Then he was grateful that Mhoram refrained from asking him what his-own ideas about Garroting Deep were. He did not want to think about that. Instead, he tried to concentrate on the layout of the city, so that he could find his way through it at night if necessary. But his heart was not in the task. Too many other anxieties occupied him.

  When he reached the east wall, and climbed up on some rubble to peer over it, he saw Fleshharrower's army.

  It approached like a great discoloration, a dark bruise, on the pale ground of the Wastes. Its front stretched away both north and south of the ruins. It was less than a league away.

  And it was immense beyond comprehension. Troy could not imagine how Lord Foul had been able to create such an army.

  It came forward until it reached the foot of the hill upon which Doriendor Corishev stood.

  As he watched, Troy gripped the handle of his sword as if it were the only thing that kept him from panic. Several times, he reached up to adjust the sunglasses he no longer possessed. The movement was like an involuntary prayer or appeal. But neither of the Lords observed him. Their faces were set toward Fleshharrower.

  Troy almost shouted with elation when the Giant-Raver stopped his army at the foot of the hill. The halt ran through his hordes like a shock, as if the force which drove them had struck a wall. The wolves smelled prey; they sent up a howl of frustration at the halt. Ur-viles barked furiously. Warped humans groaned, and Cavewights hopped hungrily from foot to foot. But Fleshharrower's command mastered them all. They spread out until they formed a ready arc around the entire eastern side of the hill, then set themselves to wait.

  When he was satisfied with the position of his army, the Raver took a few steps up the hill, placed his fists on his hips, and shouted sardonically, “Lords! Warriors! I know you hear me! Listen to my words! Surrender! You cannot escape-you are ensnared between the Desert and the Deep. I can eradicate you from the Earth with only a tenth of my strength. Surrender! If you join me, I may be merciful.” At the word merciful, a yammer of protest and hunger went up from his army. He waited for the outcry to pass before he continued: "If not, I will destroy you! I will burn and blast your homes. I will make Revelwood a charnal, and use Revelstone for an offal ground. I will wreck and ravage the Land until Time itself breaks! Hear me and despair! Surrender or die!"

  At this, an irresistible impulse caught hold of the Warmark; frustration and rage boiled up in him. Without warning, he leaped onto the wall. He braced his feet to steady himself, and raised his fists defiantly. “Fleshharrower!” he shouted. “Vermin! I am Warmark Hile Troy! I command here! I spit in your face, Raver! You're only a slave! And your master is only a slave! He's a slave to hunger, and he gnaws his worthlessness like an old bone. Go back! Leave the Land! We're free people. Despair has no power over us. But I'll teach you despair if you dare to fight me!”

  Fleshharrower snapped an order. A dozen bowstrings thrummed; shafts flew past Troy's head as Ruel snatched him down from the wall. Troy stumbled as he landed, but Ruel upheld him. When the Warmark regained his balance, Mhoram said, “You took a grave risk. What have you gained?”

  “I've made him mad,” Troy replied unsteadily. “This has got to be done right, and I'm going to do it. The madder he gets, the better off we are.”

  “Are you so certain of what he will do?”

  “Yes.” Troy felt an odd confidence, a conviction that he would not be proved wrong until the end.

  "He's already doing it he's stopped. If he's mad enough, he'll attack us first himself. His army will stay stopped. That's what we want."

  “Then I believe that you have succeeded,” Lord Callindrill inserted quietly. He was gazing over the wall as he spoke. Mhoram and Troy joined him, and saw what he meant.

  Fleshharrower had retreated until there was a flat space of ground between himself and the hill. Around him, the army shifted. Several thousand ur-viles moved to form wedges with their loremasters poised on both sides of the space. There they waited while the Giant-Raver marked out a wide circle in the dirt, using the tip of one of the loremaster's staves. Then Fleshharrower ordered all but the ur-viles away from the circle.

  When the space was cleared, the loremasters began their work.

  Chanting in arhythmic unison like a mesmerized chorus of dogs, the ur-viles bent their might forward, into the hands of their loremasters. The loremasters thrust the points of their staves into the rim of Fleshharrower's circle, and began to rock the irons slowly back and forth.

  A low buzzing noise became audible. The ur-viles were singing in their own roynish tongue, and their song made the flat, hard ground vibrate. Slowly, the buzz scaled upward, as if a swarm of huge, mad bees were imprisoned in the dirt. And the earth in the circle began to pulse visibly. A change like an increase of heat came over the rock and soil; hot, red gleams played through the circle erratically, and its surface seethed. The buzz became fiercer, sharper.

  The process was slow, but its horrible fascination made it seem swift to the onlookers. As daylight started to fall out of the stricken sky, the buzz replaced it like a cry of pain from the ground itself. The Raver's circle throbbed and boiled as if the dirt within it were molten.

  The sound tormented Troy; it clawed at his ears, crawled like lice over his flesh. Sweat slicked his eyeless brows. For a time, he feared that he would be compelled to scream. But at last the cry scaled past the range of his senses. He was able to turn away, rest briefly.

  When he looked back toward the circle, he found that the ur-viles had withdrawn from it. Fleshharrower stood there alone
. A demonic look clenched his face as he stared into the hot, red, boiling soil.

  In his hands, he held one of the loremasters. It gibbered fearfully, clung to its stave, but it could not break his grip.

  Laughing, Fleshharrower lifted the loremaster over his head and hurled it into the circle. As it hit the ground, its scream died in a flash of fire. Only its stave remained, slowly melting on the surface.

  As the sun set, Fleshharrower began using his fragment of the Stone to reshape the molten iron, forge it into something new.

  Softly, as if he feared that the Giant-Raver might hear him, Troy asked the Lords, “What's this for? What's he doing?”

  “He makes a tool,” Mhoram whispered, “some means to increase or concentrate his power.”

  The implications of that gave Troy a feeling of grim gratification. His strategy was justified at least to the extent that the main body of the Warward would be spared this particular attack. But he knew that such justification was not enough. His final play lay like a dead weight in his stomach. He expected to lose command of the Warward as soon as he revealed it; it would appall the warriors so much that they would rebel. After all his promises of victory, he felt like a false prophet. Yet his plan was the Warward's only hope, the Land's only hope.

  He prayed that Lord Mhoram would be equal to it.

  With the sunset, his sight failed. He was forced to rely on Mhoram to report the Raver's progress. In the darkness, he felt trapped, bereft of command. All that he could see was the amorphous, dull glow of the liquid earth. Occasionally, he made out flares and flashes of lurid green across the red, but they meant nothing to him. His only consolation lay in the fact that Fleshharrower's preparations were consuming time.

  Along the wall on both sides of him, First Haft Amorine's Eoward kept watch over the Raver's labours. No one slept; the poised threat of Fleshharrower's army transfixed everyone. Moonrise did not ease the blackness; the dark of the moon was only three nights away. But the Raver's forge-work was bright enough to pale the stars.