The Illearth War

heels of the mustang. Then he pulled the Lord onto his own Ranyhyn, and carried him away toward the Retreat.

Almost at once, the mustang fell screaming under an avalanche of wolves.

For an instant, the haze of the cliff shadow turned sickly red in Troy's sight. But then Mehryls' taut run bore him beyond the scream, took him straight toward the gap in the cliffs. He flashed into the deeper gloom of the defile. Except for the slit of light ahead, he could see nothing. The sharp change made him feel that he was foundering. The rumble of hooves pounded back at him from the cliffs, and behind the echo came the shrill croaking derision of the ravens. He felt waters of darkness closing over his head. When he broke out the end of the Retreat into the dim, late light of day, he was almost dazzled with relief.

As he passed, First Haft Amorine gave a piercing shout, and thousands of warriors dashed away from the cliffs on either side of the gap. Despite the long fatigue which radiated from them, they ran with precision, took positions, formed an arc over the end of the canyon, sealing the trap.

Moments later, the first kresh came howling out of the Retreat and sprang at them. The whole arc of warriors staggered under the shock of impact. But Amorine had eighteen Eoward and braced to meet the onslaught. The arc gave ground but did not break.

With an effort, Troy brought himself under control. Over to one side, he could hear Lord Verement barking, “Release me! Am I a child, that I must be carried?” Troy grinned grimly, then drew Mehryl up behind the arc so that he would be ready to help his warriors if the wolves outweighed them. He ached to see the outcome of the trap, but the darkness of the Retreat foiled his sight.

Soon, however, he could hear the sounds of combat echoing out of the defile. Over the noise of the embattled arc, he made out a sudden raw howl as the kresh in the Retreat found themselves attacked from above by twenty Eoward hidden in the canyon walls. At first, the howl contained surprise and ferocity, but no fear; the wolves did not understand their danger.

The ur-viles were wiser. Their commands cut stridently-through the rage of the wolves. And soon the howling changed. To their dismay, the kresh began to understand the glee of the ravens. And the yammering of the ur-viles became fiercer, more desperate. In the narrow defile, they could not make effective use of their fighting wedges, and without that focus of power, they were vulnerable to arrows and spears and rockfalls. Caught in a seething, confused mass of wolves, the wedges began to collapse.

As the wedges crumbled fear and uncertainty penetrated the wolves' fury for blood. In tattered bunches, the kresh broke away tried to flee through the canyon. But the cramped panic of their numbers only hampered them, and made the ur-viles more vulnerable. And death rained down on them through the jeering of the ravens. In mad frenzy, wild to fight an enemy they could not reach, the kresh started to attack the ur-viles.

No wolves or ur-viles escaped. When the battle was done, the entire vanguard of Fleshharrower's army lay dead in Doom's Retreat.

For one moment, a hush fell over the battleground; even the ravens were silent. Then a hoarse cheer came echoing from the canyon. The Eoward sealing the end of the Retreat responded loudly. And the ravens began sailing down to the defile's floor, where they feasted on Demondim-spawn and kresh.

Slowly, Troy became aware that First Haft Amorine was at his side. When he turned to her, he felt that he was grinning insanely, but even without his sunglasses he did not care. “Congratulations, Amorine,” he said. “You've done well.” The evening fog on his sight was already so bad that he had to ask her about casualties.

“We have lost few warriors,” she replied with dour satisfaction. “Your battle plan is a good one.”

But her praise only reminded him of the rest of Lord Foul's army, and of the ordeal still before the Warward. He shook his head. “Not good enough.” But then, rather than explain what he meant, he said to her, “First Haft, give my thanks to the warriors. Get them fed and settled for the night-there won't be any more fighting today. When they're taken care of, we'll have a council.”

Amorine's gaze showed that she did not understand his attitude, but she saluted without question, and moved away to carry out his orders. His blank mist swallowed her at once. Darkness blew about him as if it rode on the wind of the Warward's shouting. He called for Ruel, and asked the Bloodguard to guide him to Lord Mhoram.

They found Mhoram beside a small campfire under the lee of the westward mountains. He was tending Lord Callindrill. Callindrill had regained consciousness, but his skin was as pale as alabaster, and he looked weak. Mhoram cooked some broth over the campfire, and massaged Callindrill while the broth heated.

Lord Callindrill greeted the Warmark faintly, and Troy replied with pleasure. He was glad to see that Callindrill was not mortally injured; he was going to need the Lord. He was going to need every help or power that he could find.

But he had other things to consider before he began to think about his need for help. When he had assured himself that Lord Callindrill was on the way to recovery, he drew Mhoram away for a private talk.

He waited until they were beyond earshot of the Warward's camp. Then he sighed wearily, “Mhoram, we're not finished. We can't stop here.” Without transition, as if he had not changed subjects, he went on, “What are we going to do about Lord Verement? One of us has got to tell him-about Shetra. I'll do it if you want. I probably deserve it.”

“I will do it,” Mhoram murmured distantly.

“All right.” Troy felt acutely relieved to be free of that responsibility. “Now, what about this-what Tull told us? I don't like the idea of telling everyone that that the mission-” He could not bring himself to say the words, The Giants are dead. “I don't think the warriors will survive what's ahead if they know what happened to the mission. It's too much. Having three Giants taken over by Ravers is bad enough. And I'll have to tell them worse things than that myself.”

Softly, Mhoram breathed, “They deserve to know the truth.”

“Deserve?” Troy's deep feeling of culpability flooded into anger. “What they deserve is victory. By God, don't tell me what they deserve! It's a little late for you to start worrying about what they know or don't know. You've seen fit to keep secrets from me all along. God knows how many horrors you still haven't told me. Keep your mouth shut about this.”

“That choice was made by the Council. No one person has the right to withhold knowledge from another. No one is wise enough.” Mhoram spoke as if he were wrestling with himself.

'It's too late for that. If you want to talk about rights-you don't have the right to destroy my army.'

“My friend, have you-have you suffered-has the withholding of knowledge harmed you?”

“How should I know? Maybe if you had told me the truth-about Atiaran-we wouldn't be here now. Maybe I would have been afraid of the risk. You tell me if that's good,or bad.” Then his anger softened. “Mhoram,” he pleaded, “they're right on the edge. I've already pushed them right to the edge. And we're not done. I just want to spare them something that will hurt so bad-”

“Very well,” Mhoram sighed in a tone of defeat. “I will not speak of the Giants.”

“Thank you,” Troy said intensely.

Mhoram gazed at him searchingly, but through his darkness he could not read the Lord's expression. For a moment, he feared that Mhoram was about to tell him something, reveal the last mysteries of Trell and Elena and Covenant. He did not want to hear such things-not now, when he was already so overburdened. But finally the Lord turned silently and started back toward Callindrill.

Troy followed him. But on the way he paused to speak with Terrel, who was the ranking Bloodguard. “Terrel, I want you to send scouts out to the South Plains. I don't expect Foul's army before midday tomorrow, but we shouldn't take any chances-and the warriors are too tired. But there's one thing. If Foul or Fleshharrower or whoever is in command sends any scouts this way, make sure they know we're here. I don't want them to have any doubt about where to find us.”

“Yes, Warmark,” Terrel said, and stepped away to make the arrangements. Troy and Mhoram went on to their campfire.

They found Lord Verement feeding Callindrill. As he spooned the broth to Callindrill's lips, the hawk-faced Lord talked steadily in a low, exasperated tone, as if his pride were offended; but his movements were gentle, and he did not abandon the task to Mhoram. He hovered over Callindrill until the warm broth had restored a touch of colour to his pale cheeks. Then

Verement stood up and rasped, “You would be less foolhardy were you not Ranyhyn-borne. A lesser mount