The Illearth War

Hafts and Warhafts had been able to answer it swiftly. With the Bloodguard, they rushed to the defence of the horses.

They found themselves confronting a huge pack of the great yellow wolves-at least ten-score kresh. The Bloodguard on their Ranyhyn met the first brunt of the attack, but they were outnumbered ten to one. And the officers behind them were on foot. The scent of the kresh had panicked the horses, so that they could not be mounted, or herded out of danger. One Ranyhyn, five horses, and nearly a dozen Hafts and Warhafts were slain before Amorine and Lord Mhoram were able to mobilize their defence effectively enough to drive back the wolves.

And before the kresh were repelled, a score or more of them broke past the officers and charged into a part of the camp where some of the warriors, stunned by exhaustion, were still asleep. Ten of those men and women lay dead or maimed in their blankets after the Bloodguard and Mhoram had destroyed the wolves.

Hearing this, Troy became livid. Brandishing his fists in anger and frustration, he demanded, “Why didn't you wake me?”

Without meeting his gaze, the First Haft said, 'I spoke to you, shook you, shouted in your ear. But I could not rouse you. The need was urgent, so I went to meet it.'

After that, Troy did no more marching. He did not intend to be betrayed by his weakness again. Astride Mehryl, he rode with Ruel along the track of the kresh; and when he had assured himself that the wolves were not part of a concerted army, he returned to take his place at the head of the Warward. From time to time, he cantered around his army as if he were prepared to defend it single-handed.

The kresh attacked again that night, and again the next night. But both times, Warmark Troy was ready for them. Though he was blind in the darkness, unable to fight, he studied the terrain and chose his campsites carefully before dusk. He made provision for the protection of the horses, planned his defences. Then he set ambushes of Bloodguard, archers, fire. Many kresh were killed, but his Warward suffered no more losses.

After that third assault, the wolves left him alone. But then he had other things to worry about. During the morning of the march's sixteenth day, a wall of black clouds moved out of the east toward the warriors. Before noon, gusts of wind reached them, ruffling their hair, riling the tall grass of the Plains. The wind stiffened as the outer edges of the storm drew nearer. Soon rain began to flick at them out of the darkening sky.

The intense blackness of the clouds promised a murderous downpour. It effectively blinded Troy. All the Hirebrands and Gravelingases lit their fires, to provide light to hold the Warward together against the force of the torrents. But the main body of the storm did not come that far west; it seemed to focus its centre on a point somewhere in the eastern distance, and when it had taken its position it remained stationary.

The warriors marched through the outskirts of the grim weather. The ragged and tormented rain which lashed at them out of the infernal depths of the storm did not harm them much, but their spirits suffered nevertheless. They all felt the ill force which drove the blast. They did not need Troy to tell them that it was almost certainly directed at Hiltmark Quaan's command.

By the time the storm had dissipated itself late the next day, Troy had lost nearly one Eoman. Somewhere in the darkness and the fear of what assailed Quaan, almost a score of the least hardy warriors lost their courage; amid all the slipping and struggling of the Warward, they simply lay down in the mud and died.

But they were only eighteen. Close to sixteen thousand men and women survived the storm and marched on. And for the sake of the living, Warmark Troy steeled his heart against the dead. Riding Mehryl as if there were no limit to his courage, he led his army southward, southward, and did not let his crippling pace waver.

Then, three days later-the day after the full of the moon-the Warward had to swim the Black River.

This river formed the boundary between the Centre and South Plains. It flowed northeast out of the Westron Mountains, and joined the Mithil many scores of leagues in the direction of Andelain. Old legends said that when the Black River burst out from under the great cliff of Rivenrock, the eastward face of Melenkurion Skyweir, its water was as red as pure heart's-blood. But from Rivenrock the Black poured into the centre of Garroting Deep. Before it passed through the Last Hills into the Plains, it crossed the foot of Gallows Howe, the ancient execution mound of the Forestals. The water which the Warward had to cross was reddish-black, as if it were thick with a strange silt. In all the history of the Land, the Black River between the Last Hills and the Mithil had never tolerated a bridge or ford; it simply washed away every effort to make a way across it. The warriors had no choice but to swim.

As they climbed the south bank, they looked drained, as if some essential stamina or commitment had been sucked from their bones by the current's dark hunger.

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 Centre 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