The Illearth War

by Stephen Donaldson

  strength to laugh.

  While the Lord did this, Troy met with his officers, the Hafts and Warhafts. After he had explained High Lord Elena's absence, he turned to the problem of the march. Painfully, he reviewed the circumstances which made this ordeal so imperative, so irretrievably

  necessary. Then he addressed himself to specific details. He organized a rotation schedule for the leather water jugs, so that they would be passed continuously through the ranks for the sake of the overheated warriors. He made arrangements for the packs of the men and women with bleeding shoulders to be carried by the horses. He ordered all the mounted officers except the drummers to ride double, so that the most exhausted warriors could rest on horseback; and he told these officers to gather aliantha for the marchers as they rode. He assigned all scouting and water duties to the Bloodguard, thus freeing more horses to help the warriors. Then he sent the Hafts and Warhafts back to their commands.

  When they were gone, First Haft Amorine came over to speak with him. Her blunt, dour face was charged with some grim statement, and he forestalled her quickly. "No, Amorine," he said, "I am not going to put someone else in your place."_ She tried to protest, and he hurried on more gently, "I know I've made it sound as if I blame you because we're behind schedule. But that's just because I really blame myself. You're the only one for this job. The Warward respects you-just as it respects Quaan. The warriors trust your experience and honesty." Glumly, he concluded, "After all this, I'm not so sure how they feel about me."

  At once, her self-doubt vanished. "You are the Warmark. Who has dared to question you?" Her tone implied that anyone who wanted to challenge him would have to deal with her first.

  Her loyalty touched him. He was not entirely sure that he deserved it. But he intended to deserve it. Swallowing down his emotion, he replied, "No one is going to question me as long as we keep up the pace. And we are going to keep it up." To himself, he added, I promised Quaan. "We're going to gain back the time we've lost-and we're going to do it here, in the Center Plains. The terrain gets worse south of the Black River."

  The First Haft nodded as if she believed him.

  After she had left him, he went to his blankets, and

  spent the night battering the private darkness of his brain in search of some alternative to his dilemma. But he could conceive nothing to eliminate the need for this forced march. When he slept, he dreamed of warriors shambling into the south as if it were an open grave.

  The next morning, when the ranks of the Warward stirred, tensed weakly, lumbered into motion like a long dark groan across the Plains, Warmark Hile Troy marched with them. Eschewing his Ranyhyn, he started the beat of the drums, verified it, and moved to it himself. As he marched, he worked his way up and down among the Eoward, visiting every Eoman, encouraging every Warhaft by name, surprising the warriors out of their numb fatigue with his presence and concern-striving in spite of his own untrained physical condition to set an example that would be of some help to his army. At the end of one day in the ranks, he was so weary that he barely reached the small camp he shared with Lord Mhoram and First Haft Amorine before he mumbled something about dying and pitched into sleep. But the next day he hauled himself up and repeated his performance, hiding his pain behind the commiseration which he carried in one way or another to the warriors of the Warward.

  He marched with his army for four days across the Center Plains. After each day at his cruel pace, he felt that he had passed his limit-that the whole forced march was impossible, and he must give it up. But each night Lord Mhoram helped cook the army's food, and then went among the warriors, sharing his courage with them. And twice during those four days the Warward came upon Bloodguard tending large caches of food-supplies prepared by the villagers of the Center Plains. Fresh and abundant food had a surprising efficacy; it restored the fortitude of warriors who no longer believed in their ability to drive themselves forward. At the end of his fourth day on foot-the thirteenth day of the march-Troy finally allowed himself to think that the condition of the Warward had stabilized.

  He had walked more than forty leagues.

  Fearing to do anything which might damage his army's fragile balance, he planned to continue his own march. Both Mhoram and Amorine urged him to stop-they were concerned about his exhaustion, about his bleeding feet and unsteady gait-but he shrugged their arguments aside. In his heart, he was ashamed to ride when his warriors were suffering afoot.

  But the next morning he tasted a worse shame. When the light of dawn woke him, he struggled out of his blankets to find Amorine standing before him. In a grim voice, she reported that the Warward had been attacked during the night.

  Sometime after midnight, the Bloodguard scouts had reported that the tethered horses were being stalked by a pack of kresh. At once, the alarm spread throughout the camp, but only the mounted Hafts and Warhafts had been able to answer it swiftly. With the Bloodguard, they rushed to the defense of the horses.

  They found themselves confronting a huge pack of the great yellow wolves-at least ten-score kresh. The Bloodguard on their Ranyhyn met the first brunt of the attack, but they were outnumbered ten to one. And the officers behind them were on foot. The scent of the kresh had panicked the horses, so that they could not be mounted, or herded out of danger. One Ranyhyn, five horses, and nearly a dozen Hafts and Warhafts were slain before Amorine and Lord Mhoram were able to mobilize their defense effectively enough to drive back the wolves.

  And before the kresh were repelled, a score or more of them broke past the officers and charged into a part of the camp where some of the warriors, stunned by exhaustion, were still asleep. Ten of those men and women lay dead or maimed in their blankets after the Bloodguard and Mhoram had destroyed the wolves.

  Hearing this, Troy became livid. Brandishing his fists in anger and frustration, he demanded, "Why didn't you wake me?"

  Without meeting his gaze, the First Haft said, "I

  spoke to you, shook you, shouted in your ear. But I could not rouse you. The need was urgent, so I went to meet it."

  After that, Troy did no more marching. He did not intend to be betrayed by his weakness again. Astride Mehryl, he rode with Ruel along the track of the kresh; and when he had assured himself that the wolves were not part of a concerted army, he returned to take his place at the head of the Warward. From time to time, he cantered around his army as if he were prepared to defend it single-handed.

  The kresh attacked again that night, and again the next night. But both times, Warmark Troy was ready for them. Though he was blind in the darkness, unable to fight, he studied the terrain and chose his campsites carefully before dusk. He made provision for the protection of the horses, planned his defenses. Then he set ambushes of Bloodguard, archers, fire. Many kresh were killed, but his Warward suffered no more losses.

  After that third assault, the wolves left him alone. But then he had other things to worry about. During the morning of the march's sixteenth day, a wall of black clouds moved out of the east toward the warriors. Before noon, gusts of wind reached them, ruffling their hair, riling the tall grass of the Plains. The wind stiffened as the outer edges of the storm drew nearer. Soon rain began to flick at them out of the darkening sky.

  The intense blackness of the clouds promised a murderous downpour. It effectively blinded Troy. All the Hirebrands and Gravelingases lit their fires, to provide light to hold the Warward together against the force of the torrents. But the main body of the storm did not come that far west; it seemed to focus its center on a point somewhere in the eastern distance, and when it had taken its position it remained stationary.

  The warriors marched through the outskirts of the grim weather. The ragged and tormented rain which lashed at them out of the infernal depths of the storm did not harm them much, but their spirits suffered nevertheless. They all felt the ill force which drove the blast. They did not need Troy to tell them that it was almost certainly directed at Hiltmark Quaan's command.

  By the time the sto
rm had dissipated itself late the next day, Troy had lost nearly one Eoman. Somewhere in the darkness and the fear of what assailed Quaan, almost a score of the least hardy warriors lost their courage; amid all the slipping and struggling of the Warward, they simply lay down in the mud and died.

  But they were only eighteen. Close to sixteen thousand men and women survived the storm and marched on. And for the sake of the living, Warmark Troy steeled his heart against the dead. Riding Mehryl as if there were no limit to his courage, he led his army southward, southward, and did not let his crippling pace waver.

  Then, three days later-the day after the full of the moon-the Warward had to swim the Black River.

  This river formed the boundary between the Center and South Plains. It flowed northeast out of the Westron Mountains, and joined the Mithil many scores of leagues in the direction of Andelain. Old legends said that when the Black River burst out from under the great cliff of Rivenrock, the eastward face of Melenkurion Skyweir, its water was as red as pure heart's-blood. But from Rivenrock the Black poured into the center of Garroting Deep. Before it passed through the Last Hills into the Plains, it crossed the foot of Gallows Howe, the ancient execution mound of the Forestals. The water which the Warward had to cross was reddish-black, as if it were thick with a strange silt. In all the history of the Land, the Black River between the Last Hills and the Mithil had never tolerated a bridge or ford; it simply washed away every effort to make a way across it. The warriors had no choice but to swim.

  As they climbed the south bank, they looked drained, as if some essential stamina or commitment had been sucked from their bones by the current's dark hunger.

  Still they marched. The Warmark commanded them forward, and they marched. But now they moved like battered empty hulks, driven by a meaningless wind over the trackless sargasso of the South Plains. At times, it seemed that only the solitary fire of Troy's will kept them stumbling, trudging ahead, striving.

  And in the South Plains yet another difficulty awaited them. Here the terrain became rougher. In the southwest corner of the Center Plains, only the thick curve of the Last Hills separated Garroting Deep from the Plains. But south of the Black River, these hills became mountains-a canted wedge of rugged peaks with its tip at the river, its eastern corner at the bottleneck of Doom's Retreat, and its western corner at Cravenhaw, where Garroting Deep opened into the Southron Wastes forty leagues southwest of Doom's Retreat. The line of the Warward's march took it deeper and deeper into the rough foothills skirting these mountains.

  After two days of struggling with these hills, the warriors looked like reanimated dead. They were not yet lagging very far behind the pace, but clearly it was only a matter of time before they began to drop in their tracks.

  As the sun began to set, covering Troy's sight with mist, the Warmark made his decision. The condition of the warriors wrung his heart; he felt his army had reached a kind of crisis. The Warward was still five days from Doom's Retreat, five terrible days. And he did not know where Quaan was. Without some knowledge of the Hiltmark's position and status, some knowledge of Lord Foul's army, Troy could not prepare for what lay ahead: And his army no longer appeared capable of any preparation.

  The time had come for him to act.

  Though the Warward was still a league away from

  the end of its scheduled march, he halted it for the night. And while the warriors shambled about the business of making camp, he called Lord Mhoram aside. In the dusk, he could hardly make out the Lord's features, but he concentrated on them with all his determination, strove to convey to Mhoram the

  intensity of his appeal. "Mhoram," he breathed, "there has got to be something you can do for them. Something anything to help pull them together. Something you can do with your staff, or sing, or put in the food, something. There has got to be!"

  Lord Mhoram studied the Warmark's face closely. "Perhaps," he said after a moment. "There is one aid which may have some effect against the touch of the Black River. But I have been loath to use it, for once it has been done it cannot be done again. We are yet long days from Doom's Retreat-and the need of the warriors for strength in battle will be severe. Should not this aid be kept until that time?"

  "No." Troy tried to make Mhoram hear the depth of his conviction. "The time is now. They need strength now-in case they have to fight before they get to the Retreat. Or in case they have to run to get there in time. We don't know what's happening to Quaan. And after tonight you won't get another chance until after the fighting's already started."

  "How so?" the Lord asked carefully.

  "Because I'm leaving in the morning. I'm going to Kevin's Watch-I want to get a look at Foul's army. I have to know exactly how much time Quaan is giving us. And you're coming with me. You're the one who knows how to use that High Wood communication rod.''

  Mhoram appeared surprised. "Leave the Warward?" he asked quickly, softly. "Now? Is that wise?"

  Troy was sure. "I've got to do it. I've been-ignorant too long. Now I've got to know. From here on we can't afford to let Foul surprise us. And I'm" -- he grimaced at the fog -- "I'm the only one who can see far enough to tell what Foul's doing." After a moment, he added, "That's why they call it Kevin's Watch. Even he needed to know what he was getting into."

  Abruptly, the Lord passed a hand over the strain in his face, and nodded. "Very well. It will be done. Here is the aid which can be given. Each of the Gravelingases bears with him a small quantity of hurtloam. And the Hirebrands have a rare wood dust

  which they name rillinlure. I had hoped to save such aids for use in healing battle wounds. But they will be placed in the food tonight. Pray that they will suffice." Without further question, he turned away to give his instructions to the Hirebrands and Gravelingases.

  Soon these men were moving throughout the camp, placing either hurtloam or rillinlure in each cooking pot. Each pot received only a pinch; each warrior ate only a minute quantity. But the Hirebrands and Gravelingases knew how to extract the most benefit from the wood dust and loam. With songs and invocations, they made their gift to the warriors strong and efficacious. Shortly after eating, the warriors began to fall asleep; many of them simply dropped to the ground and lost consciousness. For the first time in the long damage of the march, several of them smiled at their dreams.

  When Mhoram returned to Warmark Troy after the meal, he was almost smiling himself.

  Then Troy began to give First Haft Amorine her instructions for the battle of Doom's Retreat. After they had discussed food and the final stages of the march, they talked about the Retreat itself. In spite of his assurances, she viewed that place with dread. In all the wars of the Land, that was the place to which armies fled when all their hopes had been destroyed. Grim old legends spoke of the ravens which nested high in the sides of the narrow defile, above the piled scree and boulders of the edges -- cawing for the flesh of the defeated.

  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, t
hey 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 humor-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 Center 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.