we are united against Fangthane, though you have betrayed us.”
Lord Verement stiffened angrily, but Elena controlled him with a glance, and said, still softly and carefully, to Rue, “In what way betrayed?”
'Ah, the Ramen do not forget. In tales preserved in Manhome from the age of mighty
“But you-! Fangthane marches, and your army is here. The Plains of Ra are left without defence or help.”
“That was my idea.” His impatience made Troy sound sharper than he intended.
“For what reason?” A dangerous challenge pulsed in her quiet tone.
“I think they were good reasons,” he responded. Impelled by an inner need to reassure himself that he had not been wrong, he spoke swiftly. 'Think about it. You're right-every time in the past that Foul has built up an army, the Lords have gone to fight him at Landsdrop. And every time, they've lost. They've been pushed back. There are too many different ways up from the Lower Land. And the Lords have been too far from their supplies and support. Sure, they put up a good fight-and that takes some of the pressure off the Plains of Ra because Foul is occupied elsewhere. But the Lords lose. Whole Eoward get hacked to pieces, and the Warward has to retreat on the run just to stay alive long enough to regroup and fight the same fight all over again, farther west-closer to Revelstone.
“And that's not all. This time, Foul might be building his army farther north-in Sarangrave Flat north of the Defiles Course. He's never done that before. But back then the Giants always kept the north Sarangrave clear. This time”-he winced at the thought of the Giants-'this time it's different. If we marched an army down to you while Foul was on his way north of Mount Thunder toward Revelstone, we'd be helpless to stop him from attacking the Keep. Revelstone might fall. So I made the decision. We wait here.
“Don't get me wrong-we're not abandoning you. The fact is, I don't think you're in that much danger. Look, suppose Foul has an army of fifty thousand or even a hundred thousand. How long is it going to take him to conquer the Plains of Ra?”
“He will not,” Rue breathed between her teeth.
The Warmark nodded. “And even if he does, it'll take him years. You're too good at hunting-he can't beat you on your own ground. You and the Ranyhyn will run circles around his troops, and every time they turn their backs, you'll throttle a few score of them. Even if he outnumbers you fifty to one, you'll just send the Ranyhyn into the mountains, and keep chipping away at him for God knows how long. He'll need years to do it. Even assuming we are not attacking his rear. No, until he's got the Lords beaten, he can't afford to tackle you. That's why I've been thinking all along that he would come north.”
He stopped, and faced Rue squarely with his argument. The recital of his reasoning calmed him; he knew that his logic was sound. And the Manethrall was forced to acknowledge it. After considering his explanation for a time, she sighed, “Ah, very well. I see your reasons. But I do not like such ideas. You juggle risk for the Ranyhyn too freely.”
Tiredly, she turned back toward Elena. “Hear me, High Lord,” she said in a grey, empty voice. 'I will speak my message, for I am weary and must rest, come what may.
“I have journeyed here from the Shattered Hills which surround and defend Foul's Creche. I left that maimed place when I saw a great army issuing from the Hills. It marched as straight as the eye sees toward Landsdrop and the Fall of the River Landrider. It was an army dire and numberless-I could not guess its size, and did not wait to count. With the four Cords in my watch, I fled so that I might keep my word to the Lords.”
The south way, Troy breathed to himself. At once, his brain took hold of the information; concrete images of the Spoiled Plains and Landsdrop filled his mind. He began to calculate Lord Foul's progress.
'But some enemy knew my purpose. We were pursued. A black wind came upon us, and from it fearsome, abominable creatures fell like birds of prey. My Cords were lost so that I might escape-yet I was driven far from my way, north into the mange of the Sarangrave.
'I knew that the peril was great. Yet I knew that there was no waiting army of friends or Lords on the Upper Land to help the Ranyhyn. A shadow came over my heart. Almost I turned aside from my purpose, and left the Lords to a fate of their own devising. But I contended with the Sarangrave, so that the lives of my Cords would not have been lost in vain.
“Over the ancient battleground, through the rich joy of Andelain, then across a stern plain south of a great forest like unto Morinmoss, but darker and more slumberous-thus I made my way, so that your idea might have its chance. That is my message. Ask what questions you will, and then release me, for I must rest.”
With quiet dignity, the High Lord arose, holding the Staff of Law before her. “Manethrall Rue, the Land is measureless in your debt. You have paid a grim price to bring your word to us, and we will do our uttermost to honour that cost. Please hear me. We could not turn away from the Ranyhyn and their Ramen. To do so, we would cease to be what we are. Only one belief has kept us from your side. It is in our hearts that this is the final war against Fangthane. If we fall, there will be none left to fight again. And we have not the strength of the Old Lords. What force we have we must use cunningly. Please do not harden your heart against us. We will pay many prices to match your own.” Holding the Staff at the level of her eyes, she bent forward in a Ramen bow.
A faint smile flickered across Rue's lips-amusement at Elena's approximation of the fluid Ramen salute-and she returned it to show how it should be done. “It is also said among the Ramen that the Lords are courteous. Now I know it. Ask your questions. I will answer as I can.”
The High Lord reseated herself. Troy was eager to speak, but she did not give him permission. To Manethrall Rue she said, “One question is first in my heart. What of Andelain? Our scouts report no evil there, but they have not your eyes. Are the Hills free of wrong?”
A surge of frustration bunched the muscles of Troy's shoulders. He was eager, urgent, to begin probing the Manethrall. But he recognized the tact of Elena's inquiry. The Andelainian Hills rode through Ramen legend like an image of paradise; it would ease Rue's heart to speak of them.
In response, her grim bitterness relaxed for a moment. Her eyes filled with tears that ran down over the slight smile on her lips. “The Hills are free,” she said simply.
A glad murmur ran through the Close, and several of the Lords nodded in satisfaction. This was not something about which a Manethrall could be mistaken. The High Lord sighed her gratitude. When she freed the Warmark to begin his questions, she did so with a look that urged him to be gentle.
“All right,” Troy said, rising to his feet. His heart laboured with anxiety, but he ignored it. “I understand that you don't know the size of Foul's army. I accept that. But I've got to know how much head start he has. Exactly how many days ago did you see his army leave the Shattered Hills?”
The Manethrall did not need to count back. She replied promptly, “Twenty days”
For an instant, the Warmark regarded her eyelessly from behind his sunglasses, stunned into silence. Then he whispered, “Twenty days?” His brain reeled. “Twenty?” With a violence that wrenched his heart, his image of the Despiser's army surged forward thirty-five leagues-five days. He had counted on receiving word of Lord Foul's movements in fifteen days. He had studied the Ramen; he knew to a league how far a Manethrall could travel in a day. “Oh, my God.” Rue should have been able to reach Revelstone in fifteen days.
He was five days short. Five days less in which to march over three hundred leagues-! And Lord Foul's army would be in the Centre Plains ten days from now.
Without knowing how he had reached that position, he found himself sitting with his face in his hands as if he could not bear to look at the ruin of all his fine strategy. Numbly, as if it were a matter of no consequence, he realized that he had been right about one thing: Covenant's summons coincided with the start of Lord Foul's army. That ploy had triggered the Despiser's attack. Or did it work the other 'way around? Had Lord Foul somehow anticipated the call?
“How-?” For a moment, he could not find what he wanted to ask, and he repeated stupidly, “How-?”
“Ask!” Rue demanded softly.
He heard the warning in her voice, the danger of offending her pride after an exhausting ordeal. It made him raise his head, look at her. She was glaring at him, and her hands twitched as if they yearned to snatch the fighting cord from her hair. But he had to ask the question, had to be sure-“What happened to you? Why did it take so
