The Illearth War

Korik signed for the Lords to precede him.

Lord Shetra sprang down to the raft, and at once set about wedging her staff between the centre logs so that she could use its power for a rudder. Lord Hyrim followed her, as did the other Bloodguard, until only the two who held the ropes remained on the bank. Lord Shetra began to sing quietly, calling up the Earthpower through her staff. When she was ready, she nodded to Korik.

At his command, the last two Bloodguard sprang for the raft as the current ripped it away.

The raft plunged, swirled; the boiling water spun it out into the middle of the river.

But then Lord Shetra caught her balance. The power of her staff took hold like a Gildenlode rudder in the hands of a Giant. The raft resisted her, but slowly it became steady. She piloted it down the torrent of the stream, and in moments the mission rushed out of the valley back into the grasp of Sarangrave Flat.

Free of the constriction of the valley, the Defiles Course gradually widened, slowed. Then it began to wind and spill out into the waterways of the Sarangrave, and the worst of the current was past.

For the rest of the afternoon, Lord Shetra remained in the stern of the raft, guided it along the black water. The riverbed bent and twisted as the Defiles Course became more and more woven into the fabric of Sarangrave Flat. Side currents ran into and away from the main stream, and rocky eyots topped with tufts of jungle began to dot the river. When the pace of the Course grew sluggish, she used her staff to propel the raft; she needed headway to navigate the channels. By evening she was greatly weary.

Then four of the Bloodguard took up the poles and began thrusting the raft through twilight into night, where only their dark-familiar eyes could see well enough to keep the raft moving safely. Lord Shetra ate the meal Hyrim prepared for her over a small lillianrill fire, then dropped into slumber despite the stink and spreading dampness of the river.

But at dawn she returned to work, plying the Defiles Course with her staff.

However, Lord Hyrim soon came to her aid. Alternately they propelled the raft throughout the day, and at night they rested while the Bloodguard used their poles. In this way, the mission travelled down the Defiles Course until the evening of the twelfth day. During the days, the sky was clear, and the sunlight was full of butterflies. The raft made good progress.

But that night dark clouds hid the moon, and rain soaked the Lords, damaging their sleep. When Korik called to them in the last blackness before dawn, they both threw off their blankets at once and came to their feet.

Korik pointed into the night. In the darkness of a jungled islet ahead of the raft, there was a faint light. It flickered and waned like a weak fire on wet wood, but revealed nothing.

As the raft approached the eyot, the Lords stared at it. Then Shetra whispered, “That is a made light. It is not natural to the Sarangrave.”

The Bloodguard agreed. None of the Flat's light-bearing animals or insects were abroad in the rain.

“Pull in to the islet,” Shetra breathed. “We must see the maker of this light.”

Korik gave the orders. The Bloodguard at the poles moved the raft so that it floated toward the head of the islet. When it was within ten yards of the edge, Doar and Pren slipped into the water. They swam to the eyot, then faded up into the underbrush. The steersmen swung the raft so that it floated downstream within jumping distance of the bank.

The islet was long and narrow. As the mission floated by almost within reach of the low-hanging branches, the light came into clearer view. It was a thin flame-a weak flickering like the burn of a torch. But it revealed nothing around it except the tree shadows which passed between it and the raft.

When the raft was some distance past it, the light went out. Both the Lords started, raised their staffs, but they said nothing. The steering Bloodguard leaned on their poles until one side of the raft nudged the bank. Almost at once, Doar and Pren leaped out onto the logs, bearing between them the battered form of a man.

Immediately, the steersmen sent the raft swinging out into the main channel. Lord Hyrim bent to light a lillianrill rod.

In the rain the torch shone dimly, but it revealed the man. His face and limbs were streaked with dirt and grime, clotted with the blood of numerous small wounds, cuts, and scratches. Surrounded by dirt and blood, the whites of his eyes glistened. His clothes, like the wounds and mud on him, spoke of a long struggle to survive the Flat. The remains of a uniform hung about him in shreds.

Only one piece of his apparel was intact. He wore a scarred metal breastplate, yellow under the filth, with one black diagonal insignia across it.

“By the Seven!” Lord Shetra said. “A Warhaft!”

She caught hold of the man's shoulders. But then she recoiled as if the man had burned her. “Melenkurion! Warhaft,” she cried, “what has been done to you? Your flesh is ice!”

The man gave no sign that he heard her. He stood where Doar and Pren had placed him, and his head hung to one side. His breathing was shallow. He did not move in any way, except to blink his eyes at long intervals.

But Shetra did not wait for answers. “Hyrim,” she said, “this man is freezing!” She snatched up her blanket, threw it over him. Lord Hyrim built his torch into a fire. There he boiled a stoneware pot of water until it was clean, while Shetra seated the man by the fire. She took hold of his head to force some springwine between his lips.

The cold of his flesh blistered her fingers.

She and Hyrim wrapped their hands in blankets for protection, then laid the man down by the fire and stripped him of his rags. They washed him with boiling water. When he was clean, Lord Shetra drew a stone vial of hurtloam from her robe, and spread some of the healing mud over the worst of his wounds.

Dawn came through the rain. In the light, the Bloodguard saw the result of the Lords' work. The man's skin looked like the flesh of a corpse: On his wounds, the hurtloam lay impotent. The cold in him was uneased.

Yet he breathed and blinked. When the Lords covered him and lifted him into a sitting posture, he squeezed his eyes, and water began to run from them like tears. It spread out over his cheeks and formed beads of ice in his beard.

“By the Seven. By the Seven!” Lord Shetra moaned. “He is dead, and yet he lives. What has been done to him?”

Lord Hyrim made no answer.

After a time, Korik spoke for the Bloodguard. “He is Hoerkin, a Warhaft of the Warward. He commanded the First Eoman of the Tenth Eoward. The High Lord sent his command to seek out the Giants in Seareach.”

“Yes,” Hyrim murmured. “I remember. When his Eoman did not return, the High Lord sent Callindrill and Amatin to attempt the Sarangrave. Twenty-one warriors-Warhaft Hoerkin and his command-all lost. Callindrill and Amatin found no trace.”

Lord Shetra addressed herself to the man. “Hoerkin. Warhaft Hoerkin. Do you hear me? Speak! I am Shetra Verement-mate, Lord of the Council of Revelstone. I adjure you to speak.”

At first, Hoerkin did not respond. Then his jaw moved, and a low noise came from his mouth.

“I am ahamkara, the Door. I am sent-”

His voice trailed off into the flow of his tears.

“Sent? Door?” Shetra said. “Hoerkin, speak!”

The Warhaft did not seem to hear. He sat in silence, while his tears formed clusters of ice in his beard.

Then Lord Hyrim commanded, “Ahamkara, answer!”

Hoerkin swallowed, and spoke.

“I am ahamkara, the Door. I am sent to bear witness to-to-”

He faltered, but resumed a moment later.

“I am sent to bear witness to the downfall of Giants.”

For all the Bloodguard, Korik said, “You lie!” And Lord Shetra sprang on Hoerkin. Regardless of the pain, she gripped his face between her hands, and shouted, “Despiser!”

He gave a cry and tore himself from her grasp. Huddling with his face against the logs of the raft, he sobbed like a child.

Appalled, Shetra backed away from him. At Lord Hyrim's side, she stopped and waited. Long moments passed before Hoerkin moved. Then he pushed himself up into his former posture. Still his tears ran down into his beard.

“-the downfall of Giants. There were three, brothers of one birth. Omen of the,end. They serve Satansheart Soulcrusher.”

He stopped again.