Hiltmark Quaan spoke a word to the Hafts, and twelve of them jumped up to form ranks behind him as he hastened out of the Close. Borillar looked at the High Lord with an expression of indecision, but she nodded to him. Rubbing his hands nervously as if to warm them, he left the chamber, taking all the
“Second,” Troy said. “The rest of the Warward will march straight south from here to Doom's Retreat. That's something less than three hundred leagues.” He called the remaining Hafts to their feet, and addressed them directly. “I think you should explain this to your commands. We've got to get to Doom's Retreat in twenty-eight days. And that's only enough if the Hiltmark can do everything I've got in mind for him. Tell your Eoward-ten leagues a day. That's going to be the easy part of this war.”
In the back of his mind, he was thinking, Ten leagues a day for twenty-eight days. Good God! Half of them will be dead before we reach the South Plains.
For a moment, he studied the Hafts, trying to judge their mettle. Then he said, “First Haft Amorine.”
The First Haft stepped forward, and responded,
“Warmark.” She was a short, broad, dour woman with blunt features which appeared to have been moulded in a clay too hard and dry for detailed handiwork. But she was a seasoned veteran of the Warward-one of the few survivors of the Eoman which Quaan had commanded on the Quest for the Staff of Law.
“Ready the Warward. We march at dawn. Pay special attention to the packs. Make them as light as possible. Use all the rest of the horses for cartage if you have to. If we don't make it to Doom's Retreat in time, Revelstone won't have any use for the last few hundred horses. Get started.”
First Haft Amorine gave a stern command to the Hafts. Saluting the Lords together, they moved out of the Close behind her.
Troy watched until they were gone, and the doors were shut after them. Then he turned to the High Lord. With an effort, he forced himself to say, “You know I've never commanded a war before. In fact, I've never commanded anything. All I know is theory just mental exercises. You're putting a lot of faith in me.”
If she felt the importance of what he said, she gave no sign. “Do not fear, Warmark,” she replied firmly. “We see your value to the Land. You have given us no cause to doubt the rightness of your command.”
A rush of gratitude took Troy's voice away from him. He saluted her, then sat down and braced his arms on the table to keep himself from trembling.
A moment later, High Lord Elena said to the remaining assembly, 'Ah, my friends, there is much to be done, and the night will be all too short for our need. This is not the time for long talk or exhortation. Let us all go about our work at once. I will speak to the Keep, and to the Warward, at dawn.
“Hearthrall Tohrm.”
“High Lord,” Tohrm responded with alacrity.
'I think that there are ways in which you may make the rafts more stable, safer for horses. Please do so. And send any of your people who may be spared to assist Hearthrall Borillar in the building.
“My friends, this war is upon us. Give your best strength to the Land now. If mortal flesh may do it, we must prevail.” She drew herself erect, and flourished the Staff. “Be of good heart. I am Elena daughter of Lena, High Lord by the choice of the Council, and wielder of the Staff of Law. My will commands. I speak in the presence of Revelstone itself.” Bowing to the assembly, she swept from the Close through one of the private doors, followed variously by the other Lords.
The chamber emptied rapidly as the people hurried away to their tasks. Troy stood and started toward the stairs. But on the way, Covenant accosted him. “Actually,” Covenant said as if he were telling Troy a secret, “it isn't you they've got faith in at all. Just as they don't have faith in me. It's the student who summoned you. That's whom they've staked their faith on.”
“I'm busy,” Troy said stiffly. “I've got things to do. Let me go.”
“Listen!” Covenant demanded. 'I'm trying to warn you. If you could hear it. It's going to happen to you, too. One of these days, you're going to run out of people who'll march their hearts out to make your ideas work. And then you'll see that you put them through all that for nothing. Three-hundred-league marches blocked valleys-your ideas. Paid for and wasted. All your fine tactics won't be worth a rusty damn.
“Ah, Troy,” he sighed wearily. “All this responsibility is going to make another Kevin Landwaster out of you.” Instead of meeting Troy's taut stare, he turned away and wandered out of the Close as if he hardly knew or cared where he was going.
Twelve: Forth to War
JUST before dawn, Troy rode away from the gates of Revelstone in the direction of the lake at the foot of Furl Falls. The predawn dimness obscured his sight, blinded him like a mist in his mind. He could not see where he was going, could hardly discern the ears of his mount. But he was in no danger; he was riding Mehryl, the Ranyhyn that had chosen to bear him.
Yet as he trotted westward under the high south wall of the Keep, he had a precarious aspect, like a man trying to balance himself on a tree limb that was too small. He had spent a good part of the night reviewing the decisions he had made in the war council, and they scared him. He had committed the Lords and the Warward to a path as narrow and fatal as a swaying tightrope.
But he had no choice. He had either to go ahead or to abandon his command, leave the war in Quaan's worthy but unimaginative hands. So in spite of his anxiety he did not hesitate. He intended to show all the Land that he was the Warmark for good reason.
Time was urgent. The Warward had to begin its southward march as soon as possible. So he trusted Mehryl to carry him through his inward fog. Letting the Ranyhyn pick their way, he hastened toward the blue lake where the rafts were being built.
Before he rounded the last wide foothill, he moved among scattered ranks of warriors holding horses. Men and women saluted him as he passed, but he could recognize none of them. He held up his right hand in blank acknowledgment, and rode down the thronged road without speaking. If his strategy failed, these warriors-and the two hundred Bloodguard who had already followed Lord Callindrill toward the Mithil valley-would be the first to pay for his mistake.
He found the edge of the lake by the roar of the Falls and the working sounds of the raft builders, and slipped immediately off Mehryl's back. The first shadowy figure that came near him he sent in search of Hiltmark Quaan. Moments later, Quaan's solid form appeared out of the fog, accompanied by a lean man carrying a staff-Lord Verement. Troy spoke directly to the Hiltmark. He felt uneasy about giving orders to a Lord.
“How many rafts are ready?”
“Three and twenty are now in the water,” Quaan replied. “Five yet lack the
“And the rest?”
“Hearthrall Borillar and the raft builders promise that all one hundred twenty will be complete by dawn tomorrow.”
“Damn! Another day gone. Well, you can't wait for them. Lord Callindrill is going to need help faster than that.” He calculated swiftly, then went on: “Send the rafts downriver in groups of twenty-two Eoman at a time. If there's any trouble, I want them to be able to defend themselves. You go first. And-Lord Verement, will you go with Quaan?”
Verement answered with a sharp nod.
“Good. Now, Quaan. Get your group going right away. Put whomever you want in command of the other Eoward-tell them to follow you in turn just as soon as another twenty rafts are ready to go. Have the warriors who are going last try to help the raft builders-speed this job up.”
His private fog was clearing now as the sun started to rise. Quaan's age-lined bulwark of a face drifted into better focus, and Troy fell silent for a moment, half dismayed by what he was asking his friend to do. Then he shook his head roughly, forced himself to continue.
