warn Amorine.” He grabbed Troy's shoulders, and his fingers dug in, trying to gain a hold on Troy's bones. “Hear! I am able. But I must have reason, hope. I cannot-if it is useless. Answer!” he demanded through clenched teeth. “You are the Warmark. Find hope! Do not leave your warriors to diet”
“No,” Troy whispered. He tried to break away from Mhoram's grip, but the Lord's fingers were too strong. “There's no way. Foul's army is too big.”
He wanted to weep, but Mhoram did not let him. “Discover a way!” the Lord raged. “They will be slain! You must save them!”
“I can't!” Troy shouted in sudden anger. The stark impossibility of Mhoram's demand touched a hidden resource in him, and he yelled, “Foul's army is too goddamn big! Our forces are going to get there too late! The only way they can stay alive just a little longer is to run straight through the Retreat and keep going until they drop! There's nothing out there-just Wastes, and Desert, and a clump of ruins, and-!”
Abruptly, his heart lurched. Kevin's Watch seemed to tilt under him, and he grabbed at Mhoram's wrists to steady himself. “Sweet Jesus!” he whispered. “There is one chance.”
“Speak it!”
“There's one chance,” Troy repeated in a tone of wonder. “Jesus.” With an effort, he forced his attention into focus on Mhoram. “But you'll have to do it.”
“Then I will do it. Tell me what must be done.”
For a moment longer, the sweet sense of reprieve amazed Troy, outweighing the need to act, almost dumbfounding him. “It's going to be rough,” he murmured to himself. “God! It's going to be rough.” But Mhoram's insistent grip held him. Speaking slowly to help himself collect his thoughts, he said, “You're going to have to do it. There's no other way. But first you've got to get through to Callindrill or Verement.”
Lord Mhoram's piercing gaze probed Troy. Then Mhoram helped the Warmark to his feet. Quietly, the Lord asked, “Do Callindrill and Verement live?”
“Yes. I saw their fire. Can you reach them? They don't have any of that High Wood.”
Mhoram smiled grimly. “What message shall I give?”
Now Troy studied Mhoram. He felt oddly vulnerable without his sunglasses, as if he were exposed to reproach, even to abhorrence, but he could see Mhoram acutely. What he saw reassured him. The
Lord's eyes gleamed with hazardous potentials, and the bones of his skull had an indomitable hue. The contrast to his own weakness humbled Troy. He turned away to look out over the Plains again. The ponderous movement of Lord Foul's hordes continued as before, and at the sight he felt a resurgence of panic. But he held onto his power of command, gripped it to keep his shame at bay. Finally, he said, “All right. Let's get going. Tull, you'd better go back to the Stonedown. Have the Ranyhyn brought as far up the trail as possible. We've got a long run ahead of us.”
“Yes, Warmark,” Tull left the Watch soundlessly.
“Now, Mhoram. You had the right idea. Amorine has got to be warned. She has got to get to the Retreat ahead of Quaan.” It occurred to him that Quaan might not be alive, but he forced that fear down. “I don't care how she does it. She's got to have that ambush ready when the riders arrive. If she doesn't-” He had to lock his jaw to keep his voice from shaking. “Can you communicate that?” He shuddered to think of the warriors' plight. After a twenty-five-day march, they would have to run the last fifty miles only to learn that their ordeal was not done. Pushing himself around to face Mhoram, he demanded, “Well?”
Mhoram had already taken the
Troy acquiesced without question. He gazed at the armies once more to be sure that he had gauged their relative speeds accurately, then wished Lord Mhoram good luck, and started the descent. The stairs felt slippery under his hands and feet, but he was reassured by Ruel's presence right below him. Soon he stood on the ledge at the base of the Watch, and stared up into the blue sky toward Lord Mhoram.
After a pause that seemed unduly long to Troy's quickening sense of urgency, he heard snatches of song from atop the shaft. The song mounted into the air, then abruptly fell silent. At once, flame erupted around Lord Mhoram. It engulfed the whole platform of the Watch, and it filled the air with an impression of reverberation, as if the cliff face echoed a protracted and inaudible shriek. The noiseless ululation made Troy's ears burn, made him ache to cover them and hide his head, but he forced himself to withstand it. He did not take his gaze off the Watch.
The echoing was mercifully brief. Moments after its last vibration had faded, Terrel came down the stair, half carrying Mhoram.
Troy was afraid that the Lord had damaged himself. But Mhoram only suffered from a sudden exhaustion-the price of his exertion. All his movements were weak, unsteady, and his face dripped with sweat, but he managed a faint smile for Troy. “I would not care to be Callindrill's foe,” he said wanly. “He is strong. He sends riders to Amorine.”
“Good.” Troy's voice was gruff with affection and relief. “But if we don't get to Doom's Retreat before midafternoon tomorrow, it'll be wasted.”
Mhoram nodded. He braced himself on Terrel's shoulder, and stumbled away along the ledge with Troy and Ruel behind him.
They made slow progress at first because of Mhoram's fatigue, but before long they reached a small, pine- girdled valley plentifully grown with
Behind Mhoram and Terrel, with Ruel at his back, Troy travelled on an urgent wind, a pressure for haste, that threatened to become a gale. He was eager to reach the Ranyhyn. When they met Tull and the other Bloodguard on their way up the trail, he mounted Mehryl at once, and hurried the Ranyhyn into a brisk trot back toward Mithil Stonedown.
He intended to ride straight past the village to the Plains, where the Ranyhyn could run. However, as he and his companions approached the Stonedown, he saw the Circle of elders waiting beside the trail. Reluctantly, he stopped and saluted them.
“Hail, Warmark Troy,” Terass Slen-mate replied.
“Hail, Lord Mhoram. We have heard some of the tidings of war, and know that you must make haste. But Triock son of Thuler would speak with you.”
As Terass introduced him, Triock stepped forward.
“Hail, elders of Mithil Stonedown,” Mhoram responded. “Our thanks again for your hospitality. Triock son of Thuler, we will hear you. But speak swiftly-time presses heavily upon us.”
“It is no great matter,” said Triock stiffly. 'I wish only to seek pardon for my earlier conduct. I have reason for distress, as you know. But I kept my Oath of Peace at Atiaran Trell-mate's behest, at a time when I sorely wished to break it. I have no wish to dishonour her courage now.
“It was my hope that Trell Gravelingas would stay with the High Lord-to protect her.” He said this defiantly, as if he expected Mhoram to reprimand him. “Now he is not with her-and I am not with her. My heart fears this. But if it were possible, I would take back my harshness to you.”
“There is no need for pardon,” Mhoram answered. “My own weak faith provoked you. But I must tell you that I believe Thomas Covenant to be a friend of the Land. The burden of his crime hurts him. I believe he will seek atonement at the High Lord's side.”
He paused, and Triock bowed in a way that said he accepted the Lord's words without being convinced. Then Mhoram went on, “Triock son of Thuler, please accept a gift from me-in the name of the High Lord, who is loved by all the Land.” Reaching into his robe, he brought out his
Triock's eyes widened, and the twisting of his face relaxed briefly. Troy caught a glimpse of what Triock might have looked like if his life had not been blighted.
In silence, he accepted the rod from Lord Mhoram's hands. But when he held the High Wood, his old bitterness gripped his features again, and he said dourly, “I may find a use which will surprise you.” Then he bowed,
