The Illearth War t1cotc-2

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Troy nodded brusquely, and turned away as if he meant to watch the Warward's preparations.

  Together, they waited for Quaan's signal. Lord Callindrill remained with them long enough to say, “Mhoram, the High Lord had no doubt of your fitness for the burden of these times. She is no ordinary judge of persons. My brother, your faith will suffice.” His voice was gentle, but it implicitly expressed his belief that his own faith did not suffice. When he walked away from the Deep to take his stand with the warriors, he left Mhoram wrestling with insistent tears.

  A short time later, Quaan reported that the Warward was ready to hear Troy. The Warmark asked Quaan to guide him to a place from which he could speak, and they trotted away together. Lord Mhoram walked after them. He wished to hear the Warmark's speech.

  Troy stopped within the wide-seated arc of warriors. He did not need to ask for silence. Except for the noises of eating, the warriors were still, too exhausted to talk. They had marched and ached in blank silence for the last three days, and now they chewed their food with a kind of aghast lifelessness, ate as if compelled by an old habit unassoiled by any remaining endurance, desire. Moving their jaws, staring out of moistureless eyes, they looked like dusty skeletons, bare, dry bones animated by some obsession not their own.

  Mhoram could not hold back his tears. They ran down his jaw and spattered like warm pain on his hands where he held his staff.

  Yet he was glad that Troy could not see what his plans had done to the Warward.

  Warmark Hile Troy faced the warriors squarely, held up his head as if he were offering his burns for inspection. Sitting on Mehryl's back, he was stiff with discipline-a rigid refusal of his own abjection. As he began to speak, his voice was hoarse with conflicting impulses, but he grew steadier as he continued.

  “Warriors!” he said abruptly. "We are here. For victory or defeat, this is the end. Today the outcome of this war will be decided.

  "Our position is desperate-but you know that. Fleshharrower is only a league away by now. We're caught between his army and Garroting Deep. I want you to know that this is not an accident. We didn't panic and run here out of fear. We didn't come here because Fleshharrower forced us. You aren't victims. We came here on my order. I made the decision. When I was on Kevin's Watch, I saw how big Fleshharrower's army is. It's so big that we wouldn't have had a chance in Doom's Retreat. So I made the decision. I brought us here.

  “I believe we're going to win today. We are going to cause the destruction of that horde-I believe it. I brought you here because I believe it. Now let me tell you how we're going to do it.”

  He paused for a moment, and became even stiffer, more erect, as he braced himself for what he had to say. Then he went on, "We are going to fight that army here for one reason. Lord Mhoram needs time. He's going to make this plan of mine work-and we have to keep him safe until he's ready.

  “When he's ready”-Troy seemed to clench himself-“we're going to run like hell into Garroting Deep.”

  If he expected an outcry, he was surprised; the warriors were too weak to protest. But a rustle of anguish passed among them, and Mhoram could see horror on many faces.

  Troy went on promptly, "I know how bad that sounds. No one has ever survived the Deep-no one has ever returned. I know all that. But Foul is hard to beat. Our only chance is something that seems impossible. I believe we won't be killed.

  "While we fight, Lord Mhoram is going to summon Caerroil Wildwood, the Forestal. And Caerroil Wildwood is going to help us. He's going to give us free passage through Garroting Deep. He's going to defeat Fleshharrower's army.

  "I believe this. I want you to believe it. It will work. The Forestal has no reason to hate us-you know that. And he has every reason to hate Fleshharrower. That Giant is a Raver. But the only way Caerroil Wildwood can get at Fleshharrower is to give us free passage. If we run into Garroting Deep, and Fleshharrower sees that we aren't harmed-then he'll follow us. He hates us and he hates the Deep too much to pass up a chance like this. It will work. The only problem is to summon the Forestal. And that is up to Lord Mhoram."

  He paused again, weighing his words before he said, "Many of you have known Lord Mhoram longer than I have. You know what kind of man he is. He'll succeed. You know that.

  “Until he succeeds, the only thing we have to do is fight-keep him alive while he works. That's all. I know how tough it's going to be for you. I–I hear how tired you are. But you are warriors. You will find the strength. I believe it. Whatever happens, I'll be proud to fight with you. And I won't be afraid to lead you into Garroting Deep. You are the true preservers of the Land.”

  He stopped, waiting for some kind of answer.

  The warriors gave no cheers or shouts or cries; the extravagant grip of their exhaustion kept them silent. But together they heaved themselves to their feet. Twelve thousand men and women stood to salute the Warmark.

  He seemed to hear their movement and understand it. He saluted them once, rigidly. Then he turned his proud Ranyhyn, and went trotting back toward where he had left Lord Mhoram.

  He caught Mhoram by surprise, and the Lord failed to intercept him. He moved as if he were held erect by the stiffness of extreme need; his voice rocked as he said to the empty air where Mhoram had been, “I hope you understand what'll happen if you fail. We won't have any choice. We'll still have to go into the Deep. And pray the Forestal doesn't kill us until Fleshharrower follows. We'll all die that way, but maybe the Raver will, too.”

  Mhoram hastened toward Troy. But Terrel was closer to the Warmark, and he spoke before Mhoram could stop him. “That we will not permit,” he said dispassionately. “It is suicide. We do not speak of the Warward. But we are the Bloodguard. We will not permit the Lords to enact their own death. We failed to prevent High Lord Kevin's self-destruction. We will not fail again.”

  “I hear you,” Mhoram replied sharply. “But that moment has not yet come. First I must work.” Turning to Troy, he said, “My friend, will you remain with me while I make this attempt. I need-I have need of support.”

  Troy seemed to totter on Mehryl's back. But he caught hold of the Ranyhyn's mane, steadied himself. “Just tell me if there's anything I can do.” He reached out his hand, and when Mhoram clasped it, he slipped down from Mehryl's back.

  Mhoram gripped his hand for a moment, then released him. The Lord looked over at the Warward, saw that it was preparing to meet Fleshharrower's charge. He turned his attention to the Deep. Dread constricted his heart. He was afraid that Caerroil Wildwood would simply strike him where he stood for the affront of his call-strike all the army. But he was still his own master. He stepped forward, raised his staff high over his head, and began the ritual appeal to the woods.

  "Hail, Garroting Deep! Forest of the One Forest! Enemy of our enemies! Garroting Deep, hail! We are the Lords-foes to your enemies, and learners of the lillianrill lore. We must pass through!

  “Harken, Caerroil Wildwood! We hate the axe and flame which hurt you. Your enemies are our enemies. Never have we brought edge of axe or flame of fire to touch you-nor ever shall. Forestal, harken! Let us pass!”

  There was no answer. His voice fell echoless on the trees and grass; nothing moved or replied in the dark depths. He strained his senses to listen and look for any sign, but none came. When he was sure of the silence, he repeated the ritual. Again there was no reply. After a third appeal, the silent gloom of the Deep seemed to increase, to grow more profound and ominous, as he beseeched it.

  Through the Forest's unresponsiveness, he heard the first gleeful shout of Fleshharrower's army as it caught sight of the Warward. The hungry cry multiplied his dread; his knuckles whitened as he resisted it. Planting his staff firmly on the grass, he tried another approach.

  While the sun arced through the middle of the afternoon, Lord Mhoram strove to make himself heard in the heart of Garroting Deep. He used every Forestal name which had been preserved in the lore of the Land. He wove appeals and chants out of every invocation or summoning
known to the Loresraat. He bent familiar forms away from their accustomed usage, hoping that they would unlock the silence. He even took the Summoning Song which had called Covenant to the Land, altered it to fit his need, and sang it into the Deep. It had no effect. The Forest remained impenetrable, answerless.

  And behind him the last battle of the Warward began. As Fleshharrower's hordes rushed at them, the warriors raised one tattered cheer like a brief pennant of defiance. But then they fell silent, saved the vestiges of their strength for combat. With their weapons ready, they faced the ravening that charged toward them out of the Wastes.

  The Raver's army crashed murderously into them. Firing their arrows at close range, they attempted to crack the momentum of the charge. But the horde's sheer numbers swept over slain ur-viles and Cavewights and other creatures, trampled them underfoot, drove into the Warward.

  Its front lines crumbled at the onslaught; thousands of ill beasts broke into its core. But Hiltmark Quaan rallied one flank, and First Haft Amorine shored up the other. For the first time since she had left Doriendor Corishev, she seemed to remember herself. Throwing off her enervation of will, she brought her Eoward to the aid of the front lines. And Lord Callindrill held his ground in the army's centre. Whirling his staff about his head, he rained blue fiery force in all directions. The creatures gave way before him; scores of unorganized ur-viles fell under his fire.

  Then Quaan and Amorine reached him from either side.

  From a place deep within them, beyond their most bereft exhaustion, the men and women of the Land brought up the strength to fight back. Faced with the raw malevolence of Lord Foul's perverse creations, the warriors found that they could still resist. Bone-deep love and abhorrence exalted them. Passionately, they hurled themselves at the enemy. Hundreds of them fell in swaths across the ground, but they threw back the Raver's first assault.

  Fleshharrower roared his orders; the creatures drew back to regroup. Ur-viles horned to form a wedge against Lord Callindrill, and the rest of the army shifted, brought Cavewights forward to bear the brunt of the next charge.

  In an effort to disrupt these preparations, Quaan launched an attack of his own. Warriors leaped after the retreating beasts. Lord Callindrill and one Eoward ran to prevent the formation of the ur-vile wedge. For several furious moments, they threw the black Demondim-spawn into chaos.

  But then the Giant-Raver struck, used his Stone to support the ur-viles. Several blasts of emerald fire forced Callindrill to give ground. At once, the wedge pulled itself together. The Eoward had to retreat.

  It was a grim and silent struggle. After the first hungry yell of the attack, Fleshharrower's army fought with dumb, maniacal ferocity. And the warriors had no strength for shouts or cries. Only the tumult of feet, and the clash of weapons, and the moans of the maimed and dying, and the barking of orders, punctuated the mute engagement. Yet Lord Mhoram felt these clenched sounds like a deafening din; they seemed to echo off his dread. The effort to ignore the battle and concentrate on his work squeezed sweat out of his bones, made his pulse hammer like a prisoner against his temples.

  When traditional names and invocations failed to bring the Forestal, he began using signs and arcane symbols. He drew pentacles and circles on the grass with his staff, set fires burning within them, waved eldritch gestures over them. He murmured labyrinthian chants under his breath.

  All were useless. The silence of the Deep's gloom sounded like laughter in his ears.

  Yet the sounds of killing came steadily nearer. All the valiance of the warriors was not enough; they were driven back.

  Troy heard the retreat also. At last he could no longer contain himself. “Dear God, Mhoram!'' he whispered urgently. ”They are being butchered."

  Mhoram spun on Troy, raging, “Do you think I am unaware?” But when he beheld the Warmark, he stopped. He could see Troy's torment. The sting of sweat made the Warmark's burns flame garishly; they throbbed with pain. His hands groped aimlessly about him, as if he were lost. He was blind. For all his power to plan and conceive, he was helpless to execute even the simplest of his ideas.

  Lord Mhoram wrenched his anger into another channel. With its strength, he made his decision.

  “Very well, my friend,” he breathed heavily. “There are other attempts to be made, but perhaps only one is perilous enough to have some hope of success. Stand ready. You must take my place if I fall. Legends say that the song I mean to sing is fatal.”

  As he strode forward, he felt a new calm. Confronting his dread, he could see that it was only fear. He had met and mastered its kindred when a Raver had laid hands on him. And the knowledge he had gained then could save the Wayward now. With peril in his eyes, he went toward the Deep until he was among the first trees. There he ignited his staff and raised it over his head, carefully holding it away from any of the branches. Then he began to sing.

  The words came awkwardly to his lips, and the accents of the melody seemed to miss their beats. He was singing a song to which no former Lord had ever given utterance. It was one of the dark mysteries of the Land, forbidden because of the hazard it earned. Yet the words of the song were clear and simple. Their peril lay elsewhere. According to Kevin's Lore, they belonged like cherished treasure to the Forestall of the One Forest. The forestall slew all mortals who profaned those words.

  Nevertheless, Lord Mhoram lifted up his voice and sang them boldly.

  Branches spread and tree trunks grow

  Through rain and heat and snow and cold:

  Though wide world's winds untimely blow,

  And earthquakes rock and cliff unseal,

  My leaves grow green and seedlings bloom.

  Since days before the Earth was old

  And Time began its walk to doom,

  The Forests world's bare rock anneal,

  Forbidding dusty waste and death.

  I am the Land's Creator's hold:

  I inhale all expiring breath,

  And breathe out life to bind and heal.

  As his singing faded into the distance, he heard the reply. Its music far surpassed his own. It seemed to fall from the branches like leaves bedewed with rare melody-to fall and flutter around him, so that he stared as if he were dazzled. The voice had a light, high, clear sound, like a splashing brook, but the power it implied filled him with awe.

  But axe and fire leave me dead.

  I know the hate of hands grown bold.

  Depart to save your heart-sap's red:

  My hate knows neither rest nor weal.

  A shimmer of music rippled his sight. When it cleared, he saw Caerroil Wildwood walking toward him across the greensward.

  The Forestal was a tall man with a long white beard and flowing white hair. He wore a robe of purest samite, and carried a gnarled wooden rod like a sceptre in the crook of one arm. A garland of purple and white orchids about his neck only heightened his austere dignity. He appeared out of the gloaming of the Deep as if he had stepped from behind a veil, and he moved like a monarch between the trees. They nodded to him as he passed. With every step, he scattered droplets of melody about him as if his whole person were drenched in song. His sparkling voice softened the severity of his mien. But his eyes were not soft. From under his thick white brows, a silver light shone from orbs without pupil or iris, and his glances had the force of physical impact.

  Still humming the refrain of his song, he approached Lord Mhoram. His gaze held the Lord motionless until they were almost within arm's reach of each other. Mhoram felt himself being probed. The sound of music continued, and some time passed before he realized that the Forestal was speaking to him, asking him, “Who dares taint my song?”

  With an effort, Lord Mhoram set aside his awe to answer, “Caerroil Wildwood, Forestal and servant of the Tree-soul, please pardon my presumption. I intend no offense or taint. But my need is urgent, surpassing both fear and caution. I am Mhoram son of Variol, Lord of the Council of Revelstone, and a defender of the Land in tree and rock. I seek a boon, Caerr
oil Wildwood.”

  “A boon?” the Forestal mused musically. “You bring a fire among my trees, and then ask a boon? You are a fool, Mhoram son of Variol. I make no bargains with men. I grant no boons to any creature with knowledge of blade or flame. Begone.” He did not raise his voice or sharpen his song, but the might of his command made Mhoram stagger.

  “Forestal, hear me.” Mhoram strove to keep his voice calm. “I have used this fire only to gain your notice.” Extinguishing his staff, he lowered it to the ground and gripped it as a brace against the Forestal's refusal. "I am a Lord, a servant of the Earthpower. Since the Lords began, all have sworn all their might to the preservation of Land and Forest. We love and honour the wood of the world. I have done no harm to these trees-and never shall, though you refuse my boon and condemn the Land to fire and death."

  Humming as if to himself, Caerroil Wildwood said, “I know nothing of Lords. They are nothing to me. But I know men, mortals. The Ritual of Desecration is not forgotten in the Deep.”

  “Yet hear me, Caerroil Wildwood.” Mhoram could feel the sounds of battle beating against his back. But he remembered what he had learned of the history of the One Forest, and remained steady, serene. “I do not ask a boon for which I can make no return. Forestal, I offer you a Raver”

  At the word Raver, Caerroil Wildwood changed. The dewy, glistening aura of his music took on an inflection of anger. His eyes darkened; their silver light gave way to thunderheads. Mist spread from his orbs, and drifted upward through his eyebrows. But he said nothing, and Mhoram continued.

  “The people of the Land fight a war against the Despiser, the ancient tree ravager. His great army has driven us here, and the last battle now rages in Cravenhaw. Without your aid, we will surely be destroyed. But with our death, the Land becomes defenceless. Then the tree ravager will make war upon all the Forest-upon the trees in beautiful Andelain, upon slumbering Grimmerdhore and restless Morinmoss. In the end, he will attack the Deep and you. He must be defeated now.”