The 1st Chronicles of Thomas Covenant #2: The Illearth War (37 page)

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, they 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.

“It’s going to be close. But I can tell you for a fact that the Hiltmark has already bought three of those five days for us. You all saw that storm six days ago. You know what it was-an attack on the Hiltmark’s Eoward. That means that six days ago he was still holding Foul’s army in the Mithil valley. And you know Hiltmark Quaan. You know he won’t let a mere two days get between us and victory.

“It is going to be close. We’re not going to get much rest. But once we’re in the Retreat, I’m not afraid of the outcome.”

At this, the Hafts raised a cheer to answer Troy’s bravado, and he stood silently in the ovation with his head bowed, accepting it only because the courage in the shout, the courage of his army, overwhelmed him. When the cheering subsided, and the Warward became silent again, he said thickly into the stillness, “My friends, I’m proud of you all.”

Then he turned and almost ran from the hill.

Lord Mhoram followed him as he sprang onto Mehryl’s back. Accompanied by Ruel, Terrel, and eight other Bloodguard, the two men galloped away from the Warward.

Troy set a hard pace until his army was out of sight in the hills behind him. Then he eased Mehryl back to a gait which would cover the distance to Mithil Stonedown and the base of Kevin’s Watch in three days. With Mhoram at his side, he cantered eastward over the rumpled Plains.

After a time, the Lord said quietly, “Warmark Troy, you have moved them.”

“You’ve got it backward,” replied Troy in a voice gruff with emotion. “They did it to me.”

“No, my friend. They have become very loyal to you.”

“They’re loyal people. They-all right, yes, I know what you mean. They’re loyal to me. If I ever let them down-if I even make any normal human mistakes they’re going to feel betrayed. I know. I’ve focused too much of their courage and hope on myself, on my plans. But if it gets them to Doom’s Retreat in time, the risk’ll be worth it.”

Lord Mhoram assented with a nod. After a pause, he said, “But you have done your part. My friend, I must tell you this. When I first understood your intention to march toward Doom’s Retreat at such a pace, I felt the task to be impossible.”

“Then why did you let me do it?” flared Troy. “Why wait until now to say anything?”

“Ah, Warmark,” returned the Lord, “everything that passes unattempted is impossible.”

At this, Troy turned on Mhoram. But when he met the Lord’s probing gaze, he realized that Mhoram would not have raised such a question gratuitously. Forcing himself to relax, he said, “You don’t actually expect me to be satisfied with an answer like that.”

“No,” the Lord replied simply. “I speak only to express my appreciation for what you have done. I trust you. I will follow your lead in this war into any peril.”

Abruptly, a rush of gratitude filled Troy’s throat, and he had to clench his teeth to keep from grinning foolishly. To meet Mhoram’s trust, he whispered, “I won’t let you down.”

But later, when his emotion had receded, he was disconcerted to remember how many such promises he had made. They seemed to expand with every new development in the march. His speech to the Warward was only one in a series of assertions. Now he felt that he had given his personal guarantee of success to practically the entire Land. He had maneuvered him

self into a corner-a place where defeat and betrayal became the same thing.

The simple thought of failure made his pulse labor vertiginously in his head.

If this was the kind of thinking that inspired Covenant’s Unbelief, then Troy could see that it made a certain kind of sense. But he had a savage name for it; he called it cowardice. He forced the thought down, and turned his attention to the South Plains.

Away from the mountains, the terrain leveled somewhat, and opened into broad stretches of sharp, hardy grass mottled with swaths of gray bracken and heather turning purple in the autumn. It was not a generous land-Troy had been told that there were only five Stonedowns in all the South Plains-but its unprofligate health was vital and strong, like the squat, muscular people who lived with it. Something in its austerity appealed to him, as if the ground itself were appropriate for war. He rode it steadily, keeping a brisk pace while conserving Mehryl’s strength for the hard run from Kevin’s Watch to Doom’s Retreat.

But the second night, his confidence suffered a setback. Soon after moonrise, Lord Mhoram sprang suddenly awake, screaming so vehemently that Troy’s blood ran cold. Troy groped toward him through the darkness, but he struck the Warmark down with his staff, and started firing fierce blasts of power into the invulnerable heavens as if they were attacking him. A madness gripped him. He did not stop until Terrel caught his arms, shouted into his face, “Lord! Corruption will see you!”

With an immense effort, Mhoram mastered himself, silenced his power.

Then Troy could see nothing. He had to wait in blind suspense until at last he heard Mhoram breathe, “It is past. I thank you, Terrel.” The Lord sounded utterly weary.

Troy thronged with questions, but Mhoram either would not or could not answer them. The force of his vision left him dumb and quivering. He could barely compel his lips to form the few words he spoke to reassure Troy.

The Warmark was not convinced. He demanded a light. But when Ruel built up the campfire, Troy saw the garish heat of torment and danger in Mhoram’s eyes. It stilled him, denied his offer of support or consolation. He was forced to leave the Lord alone in his cruel, oracular pain.