The 1st Chronicles of Thomas Covenant #2: The Illearth War (45 page)

When he broke

out the end of the Retreat into the dim, late light of day, he was almost dazzled with relief.

As he passed, First Haft Amorine gave a piercing shout, and thousands of warriors dashed away from the cliffs on either side of the gap. Despite the long fatigue which radiated from them, they ran with precision, took positions, formed an arc over the end of the canyon, sealing the trap.

Moments later, the first kresh came howling out of the Retreat and sprang at them.

The whole arc of warriors staggered under the. shock of impact. But Amorine had eighteen Eoward and braced to meet the onslaught. The arc gave ground. but did not break.

With an effort, Troy brought himself under control. Over to one side, he could hear Lord Verement barking, “Release me! Am I a child, that I must be carried?” Troy grinned grimly, then drew Mehryl up behind the arc so that he would be ready to help his warriors if the wolves outweighed them. He ached to see the outcome of the trap, but the darkness of the Retreat foiled his sight.

Soon, however, he could hear the sounds of combat echoing out of the defile.

Over the noise of the embattled arc, he made out a sudden raw howl as the kresh in the Retreat found themselves attacked from above by twenty Eoward hidden in the canyon walls. At first, the howl contained surprise and ferocity, but no fear; the wolves did not understand their danger.

The ur-viles were wiser. Their commands cut stridently- through the rage of the wolves. And soon the howling changed. To their dismay, the kresh began to understand the glee of the ravens. And the yammering of the ur-vile-, became fiercer, more desperate. In the narrow defile, they could not make effective use of their fighting wedges, and without that focus of power, they were vulnerable to arrows and spears and rockfalls. Caught in a seething, confused mass of wolves, the wedges began to collapse.

As the wedges crumbled. fear and uncertainty penetrated the wolves’ fury for blood. In tattered bunches, the kresh broke away. tried to flee through the canyon. But the cramped panic of their numbers -only

hampered them, and made the ur-viles more vulnerable. And death rained down on them through the jeering of the ravens. In mad frenzy, wild to fight an enemy they could not reach, the kresh started to attack the ur-viles.

No wolves or ur-viles escaped. When the battle was done, the entire vanguard of Fleshharrower’s army lay dead in Doom’s Retreat.

For one moment, a hush fell over the battleground; even the ravens were silent.

Then a hoarse cheer came echoing from the canyon. The Eoward sealing the end of the Retreat responded loudly. And the ravens began sailing down to the defile’s floor, where they feasted on Demondim-spawn and kresh.

Slowly, Troy became aware that First Haft Amorine was at his side. When he turned to her, he felt that he was grinning insanely, but even without his sunglasses he did not care. “Congratulations, Amorine,” he said. “You’ve done well.” The evening fog on his sight was already so bad that he had to ask her about casualties.

“We have lost few warriors,” she replied with dour satisfaction. “Your battle plan is a good one.”

But her praise only reminded him of the rest of Lord Foul’s army, and of the ordeal still before the Warward. He shook his head. “Not good enough.” But then, rather than explain what he meant, he said to her, “First Haft, give my thanks to the warriors.

Get them fed and settled for the night-there won’t be any more fighting today. When they’re taken care of, we’ll have a council.”

Amorine’s gaze showed that she did not understand his attitude, but she saluted without question, and moved away to carry out his orders. His blank mist swallowed her at once. Darkness blew about him as if it rode on the wind of the Warward’s shouting. He called for Ruel, and asked the Bloodguard to guide him to Lord Mhoram.

They found Mhoram beside a small campfire under the lee of the westward mountains. He was tending Lord Callindrill. Callindrill had regained consciousness, but his skin was as pale as alabaster, and he looked weak. Mhoram cooked some broth over the

campfire, and massaged Callindrill while the broth heated.

Lord Callindrill greeted the Warmark faintly, and Troy replied with pleasure. He was glad to see that Callindrill was not mortally injured; he was going to need the Lord.

He was going to need every help or power that he could find.

But he had other things to consider before he began to think about his need for help. When he had assured himself that Lord Callindrill was on the way to recovery, he drew Mhoram away for a private talk.

He waited until they were beyond earshot of the Warward’s camp. Then he sighed wearily, “Mhoram, we’re not finished. We can’t stop here.” Without transition, as if he had not changed subjects, he went on, “What are we going to do about Lord Verement?

One of us has got to tell him-about Shetra. I’ll do it if you want. I probably deserve it.”

“I will do it,” Mhoram murmured distantly.

“All right.” Troy felt acutely relieved to be free of that responsibility. “Now, what about this-what Tull told us? I don’t like the idea of telling everyone that that the mission

— ” He could not bring himself to say the words, The Giants are dead. “I don’t think the warriors will survive what’s ahead if they know what happened to the mission. It’s too much. Having three Giants taken over by Ravers is bad enough. And I’ll have to tell them worse things than that myself.”

Softly, Mhoram breathed, “They deserve to know the truth.”

“Deserve?” Troy’s deep feeling of culpability flooded into anger. “What they deserve is victory. By God, don’t tell me what they deserve! It’s a little late for you to start worrying about what they know or don’t know. You’ve seen fit to keep secrets from me all along. God knows how many horrors you still haven’t told me. Keep your mouth shut about this.”

“That choice was made by the Council. No one person has the right to withhold knowledge from another. No one is wise enough.” Mhoram spoke as if he were wrestling with himself.

“It’s too late for that. If you want to talk about rights-you don’t have the right to destroy my army.”

“My friend, have you-have you suffered-has the withholding of knowledge harmed you?”

“How should I know? Maybe if you had told me the truth-about Atiaran-we wouldn’t be here now. Maybe I would have been afraid of the risk. You tell me if that’s good ,or bad.” Then his anger softened. “Mhoram,” he pleaded, “they’re right on the edge.

I’ve already pushed them right to the edge. And we’re not done. I just want to spare them something that will hurt so bad — ”

“Very well,” Mhoram sighed in a tone of defeat. “I will not speak of the Giants.”

“Thank you,” Troy said intensely.

Mhoram gazed at him searchingly, but through his darkness he could not read the Lord’s expression. For a moment, he feared that Mhoram was about to tell him something, reveal the last mysteries of Trell and Elena and Covenant. He did not want to hear such things-not now, when he was already so overburdened. But finally the Lord turned silently and started back toward Callindrill.

Troy followed him. But on the way he paused to speak with Terrel, who was the ranking Bloodguard. “Terrel, I want you to send scouts out to the South Plains. I don’t expect Foul’s army before midday tomorrow, but we shouldn’t take any chances-and the warriors are too tired. But there’s one thing. If Foul or Fleshharrower or whoever is in command sends any scouts this way, make sure they know we’re here. I don’t want them to have any doubt about where to find us.”

“Yes, Warmark,” Terrel said, and stepped away to make the arrangements. Troy and Mhoram went on to their campfire.

They found Lord Verement feeding Callindrill. As he spooned the broth to Callindrill’s lips, the hawkfaced Lord talked steadily in a low, exasperated tone, as if his pride were offended; but his movements were gentle, and he did not abandon the task to Mhoram. He hovered over Callindrill until the warm broth had restored a touch of color to his pale cheeks. Then

Verement stood up and rasped, “You would be less foolhardy were you not Ranyhyn-borne. A lesser mount would teach you the limits of your own strength.”

This inverted repetition of Verement’s old accusation against himself momentarily overcame Lord Mhoram. A moan escaped through his teeth, and his eyes filled with tears. For that moment, his courage seemed to fail him, and he reached toward Verement as if he were groping through blind grief. But then he caught himself, smiled crookedly at the rough look of surprise and concern on Verement’s face. “Come. my brother,” he murmured. “I must speak with you.” Together, they walked away into the night, leaving Troy to watch over Callindrill.

In a wan voice, Callindrill asked, “What has happened? What disturbs Mhoram?”

Sighing heavily, Troy seated himself beside the Lord. He was full of all the evil he had caused. He had to swallow several times before he could find his voice to say,

“Runnik came back from Korik’s mission. Lord Shetra died in the Sarangrave.”

Then he was grateful that Callindrill did not speak. He did not think he could stand the reprimand of any more pain. They sat together in silence until Lord Mhoram returned alone.

Mhoram carried. himself sorely, as if he had just been beaten with clubs. The flesh around his eyes was red and swollen, sorrowful. But his eyes themselves wielded a hot peril, and his glances were like spears. He said nothing about Lord Verement. Words were unnecessary; Mhoram’s expression revealed how Verement took the news of his wife’s death.

To steady himself, Mhoram set about preparing food for Troy and himself. Their meal passed under a shroud of gloom, but as he ate Lord Mhoram slowly mastered himself, relaxed the pain in his face. To match him, Warmark Troy grappled inwardly for the tone of confidence he would need when the council started. He did not want his doubt to show; he did not intend to make his army pay for his personal dilemmas and inadequacies. When Hiltmark Quaan approached the fire and announced that all the Hafts were ready, both Troy and Mhoram answered him . resolutely, calmly.

The Lord threw a large pile of wood onto the fire while Quaan brought his officers into a wide circle around it. But despite the bright blaze of the fire, the Hafts looked hazy and insubstantial to Troy. For an irrational instant, he feared that they would break into illusions and disappear when he told them what they a had to do. But he braced himself. Hiltmark Quaan 3 and First Haft Amorine stood near him like pillars on one side, and Lord Mhoram watched him from the other. Clearing his throat, he opened the council.

“Well, we’re here. In spite of everything, we’ve accomplished something that any of us would have said was impossible. Before we get into what’s ahead, _ I want to thank you all for what you’ve done. I’m

proud of you-more than I’ll ever be able to say.”

As he spoke, he had to resist a temptation to duck his head, as if he were ashamed of his uncovered eyelessness. Painfully, he wondered what effect this view of him would have on the Hafts. But he forced himself to hold his head up as he continued. “But I have to tell you plainly-we haven’t come near winning this war yet. We’ve made a good start, but it’s only a ; start. Things are going to get worse — ” He lost his voice for a moment, and had to clench himself to recover it. “It’s not going to work out the way I planned.

Hiltmark Quaan-First Haft Amorine-you’ve done everything you could do-everything I asked. But it’s not going to work out the way I told you it would.

“But-first things first. We’ve got reports to make. Hiltmark, will you go first?”

Quaan bowed, and stepped forward into the circle. His square, white-haired visage was streaked with grime and blood and fatigue, but his open gaze did not falter. In blunt, unaffected language, he described all that had happened to his command since he had left Revelstone-the raft ride and run to the Mithil valley, the blockade there, the progression of the battle as Fleshharrower, the corrupted Giant of whom Manethrall Rue had spoken, organized successive efforts to break the hold of the defenders. For five days, the Bloodguard, the warriors, and the two Lords withstood Cavewights, kresh, warped manlike creations of the Illearth Stone, ur-viles.

“But on the sixth day,” Quaan continued, “Fleshharrower came against us himself.” Now his voice expressed the weariness of long fighting and lost warriors. “With a power that I do not name, he called a great storm against us. Abominable creatures like those of which Manethrall Rue spoke fell upon us from the sky. They cast fear among our mounts, and we were driven back. Then Fleshharrower broke the forbidding, and sent kresh and ur-viles to pursue us. Time and again; we turned to fight, so that the enemy might be delayed-and time and again we were overmastered. Often we sent riders ahead to bear warning, but every messenger was slain-flocks of savage cormorants assailed them from the sky, and destroyed them all, though some of them were Bloodguard.

“Still we fought,” he concluded. “At last we are here. But half the Bloodguard and eight of the Eoward were slain. And the horses have passed the end of their strength.

Many will never bear riders again, and all need long days of rest. The battle which remains must be met afoot.”

When he finished, he returned to his place in the circle. His courage was evident, but as he moved, his square shoulders seemed already to be carrying all the weight they could bear. And because Troy could find no words for his respect and gratitude, he said nothing. Silently, he nodded to First Haft Amorine.

She described briefly the last few days of the Warward’s march, then she reported on the present condition of the army. “Water and aliantha are not plentiful here, beyond Doom’s Retreat. The Warward carries food which may be stretched for five days or six-no more. The warriors themselves are sorely damaged by their march. Even the uninjured are crippled by exhaustion. Great numbers have wounds about their feet and shoulders-wounds which do not heal. Threescore of the weakest died during our last ran to the Retreat. Many more will die if the Warward does not rest now.”