The Illearth War

and the other elders bowed with him, freeing Mhoram and Troy to be on their way.

Troy threw them a salute, and took his opportunity. He had no time to spare for Mhoram's strange gift, or for Triock's brooding promises. Instead, he clapped Mehryl with his heels and led his companions out of the valley of Mithil Stonedown at a gallop.

In a short time, they rounded the western spur of the mountains, and swung out into the Plains. As Troy scanned his companions, he was surprised to see that Tull's mount could keep up the pace. This Ranyhyn had been ridden through danger at cruel speeds for the past eight days, and the strain had wounded its gait. But it was a Ranyhyn; its head was up, its eyes were proud, and its matted mane jumped on its neck like a flag gallantly struggling to unfurl. For a moment, Troy understood why the Ramen did not ride. But he made no concessions to the Ranyhyn's fatigue. Throughout the day, he kept his company running like rapid thunder into the west.

He ached to join his warriors, to share the fight and the desperation with them, to show them the one way in which they might be able to steal a victory out of the teeth of Lord Foul's army. Only an exigent need for sleep forced him to stop during part of the night.

Ruel awakened him before dawn, and he rode on again along the base of the Southron Range. When daylight returned his vision to him, he could see the cliffs near Doom's Retreat ahead. Now his direct route to the Retreat would take him angling rapidly closer to the vanguard of Lord Foul's army. But he kept his heading. Near that horde of kresh and ur-viles, he would find whatever was left of the mounted Eoward.

He caught sight of Quaan's force sooner than he had expected. The Hiltmark must have taken his riders on a southward curve toward the Retreat to keep their pursuers as far as possible from the march of the Warward. Shortly after noon, Troy and his companions crested a high foothill which enabled them to look some distance north into the Plains. And there, only a league away, they saw the tattered, fleeing remnant of Quaan's command.

At first, Troy felt a thrill of relief. He could see Hiltmark Quaan riding beside his standard-bearer among the warriors. At least sixscore Bloodguard galloped among the Eoward. And the blue robes of Callindrill and Verement were clearly visible through the dark surge of the retreat.

But then Troy perceived how the riders were moving. They were almost completely routed. In a tight mass like a swath of panic on the Plains, they pushed and jostled against each other, threw frantic glances behind them in ways that unbalanced their mounts, bristled with angry and fearful cries. Some of them whipped their horses.

Behind them, the kresh ran like a yellow gale scored with black.

Nevertheless, the distance between the warriors and the wolves remained constant. After a moment, Troy understood. Quaan's Eoward were struggling to match exactly the hunting pace of the kresh. The wolves themselves could not maintain a dead run. They were forced by the weight of their riders, and by the long distance of the chase, to travel at the swift, loping gait of a hunting pack. And Quaan's warriors fought to keep their flight almost directly under the noses of the wolves. In this way, they lured the kresh onward. With prey so near, the wolves could neither rest nor turn aside.

Quaan's strategy was cunning-cunning and fatal. The warriors also could not rest. They were vulnerable to every spurt of speed from the kresh. And any warrior who was unseated for any reason was instantly torn to pieces. Another Eoward had already been lost this way. But if Quaan could maintain these tactics, the marching Eoward would have until late afternoon to reach their positions in Doom's Retreat.

The Warmark did not bother to calculate the odds. He urged Mehryl ahead. At full stretch, the Ranyhyn raced to join Quaan.

When they saw Troy and Lord Mhoram, the warriors gave a raw, dry cheer. Quaan, Callindrill, and Verement dashed out toward the Warmark. But there was little joy in their reunion. The plight of the Eoward was desperate. When he drew close to them, Troy saw that most of the horses were virtually prostrate on their feet; only their fear of the wolves kept them up and running. And the warriors were in no better condition. They had ridden for days without proper food or sleep. None of them lacked injuries. The dust of the Plains clung to their faces and clotted their wounds, making the cuts and rents look like premature scars. Troy had to tear his aching gaze from them to salute the Hiltmark.

Through the thunder of the hooves, Quaan shouted, “Hail, Warmark! Well met!” As Troy swung Mehryl into place beside him, he added, “Not eight days, I fear!”

“Did you send word to Amorine?” Troy yelled.

“Yes!”

“Then it's all right! Seven will be enough!” He clapped the Hiltmark's shoulder, then slowed Mehryl, and dropped back among the warriors.

Immediately, dust and fear and tension swirled around him like the hot breath of the kresh. Now he could hear the hunting snarl of the wolves, and the roynish barking of the ur-viles. He felt their presence as if they were his fault-as if they had been created by his folly. Yet he forced himself to smile at his warriors, shout encouragement through the din. He could not afford self-recrimination. The burden of saving the Warward was on his shoulders now.

Moments later, a surge ran through the barking commands of the ur-viles. Troy guessed that the pursuers were about to attempt another spurt.

He looked ahead quickly toward the sheer cliffs of Doom's Retreat. They were no more than two leagues away. There the western tip of the Southron Range swung northward to meet the southeast corner of the mountain wedge which separated the South Plains from Garroting Deep, and between these two ranges was the defile of Doom's Retreat. The narrow canyon lay like a gash through the rock, and its crooked length provided the Land's only access to the Wastes and the Grey Desert.

Troy's gaze sprang to the mouth of the canyon.

The last marching Eoward were still arriving at the Retreat.

If they were not given more time, they would be caught outside the canyon by the kresh. Their ambush would fail.

The Warmark was moving too swiftly for hesitation. When he was sure that the Warward had been Quaan's riders, he pushed Mehryl ahead, away from the kresh, and caught the Hiltmark’s attention with a wave of his arm. Then he gave Quaan a hand signal which ordered the Eoward to turn and attack.

Quaan did not falter; he understood the need for the order. Despite the maimed condition of his command, he sent up a shrill, piercing whistle which drew the eyes of his officers toward him. With hand signals, he gave the Hafts and Warhafts their instructions.

Almost at once, the riders responded. The outer Eoward peeled back, and the warriors in the centre tried to turn where they were. Frantically, they fought their horses around to face the wolves.

Disaster struck the manoeuvre immediately. As soon as the riders stopped fleeing, kresh crashed in among them. The whole trailing edge of Quaan's command went down under the onslaught; and the ur-vile loremasters whirled their iron staves, throwing acid power gleefully over the fallen humans and horses. The screaming of the horses shot through the tumult of snarls and cries. Instantly, a wide swath of grey-green bracken turned blood-red.

But the abrupt profusion of corpses broke the charge of the kresh. Their leaders stopped to kill and tear and eat, and this threw the following wolves into confusion. Only the ur-vile wedges drove straight ahead, into the milling heart of the Eoward.

Bloodguard raced to the aid of the warriors. The three Lords threw themselves at the nearest ur-viles. Other warriors rallied and struck. And through the centre of the fight Warmark Troy charged like a madman, hacking at every wolf within reach.

For a time, the kresh were held. The warriors fought with a desperate fury, and the cool Bloodguard broke wolves in all directions. Working together, the Lords blasted one ur-vile wedge apart, then another. But that accounted for only a tenth of the mounted ur-viles. The others regrouped, began to restore order, coordination, to the kresh. Some of the horses lost their footing on the slick ground. Others went out of control with fear, threw their riders, and lost themselves in futile plunges among the wolves.

Troy saw that if any of the warriors were to survive this fight they would have to flee soon.

He battled his way toward the Lords. But suddenly a whole pack of kresh swirled about him. Mehryl spun, dodging the fangs and kicking. Troy fought as best he could, but Mehryl's whirling unbalanced him. Twice he almost lost his seat. A wolf leaped up at him, and he barely saved himself by jabbing his