The Illearth War

arrive before midday tomorrow. By that time, we will be long gone.”

The Hafts gaped and blinked momentarily as they realized that he was ordering another march. Then several of them groaned aloud, and others recoiled as if he had struck them. Even Quaan winced openly. Troy wanted to rush into explanations, but he contained himself until Amorine stepped forward and protested, “Warmark, why will your former plan not suffice? The warriors have given their utmost to gain Doom's Retreat as you commanded. Why must we leave?”

“Because Foul's army is too goddamn big!” He did not want to shout, but for a while he could not stop himself. “We've killed ten thousand kresh and a couple thousand ur-viles. But the rest of that army is still out there! It's not three times bigger than we are--or even five times bigger! Fleshharrower has twenty times our numbers, twenty! I've seen them.” With an effort, he caught hold of his pointless fury, jerked it down. “My old plan was a good one while it lasted,” he went on. 'But it just didn't take into account that Foul's army might be so big. Now there's only two things that can happen. If that Giant sends his army in here just ten or twenty thousand at a time, the fight is going to last for weeks. But we've only got food for six days-we'll starve to death in here. And if he cuts through in one big blast, he'll get control of both ends of the Retreat. Then we'll be trapped, and he can pick us off in his own good time.

“Now listen to me!” he shouted again at the chagrined Hafts. “I'm not going to let us get slaughtered as long as there is anything I can do to stop it-anything at all! And there is one thing, just one! I've got one more trick to play in this game, and I'm going to play it if I have to carry every one of you on my back!”

He glared around the circle, trying to fill his eyeless stare with authority, command, some kind of power that would make the Warward obey him. “We will march at dawn tomorrow.”

Darkness shrouded his sight, but in the firelight he could see Quaan's face. The old veteran was wrestling with himself, struggling to find the strength for this new demand. He closed his eyes briefly, and all the Hafts waited for him as if he had their courage in his hands, to uphold or deny as he saw fit. When he opened his eyes, his face seemed to sag with fatigue. But his voice was steady.

“Warmark, where will we march?”

“West for now,” Troy replied quickly, “toward those old ruins. It won't be too bad. If we handle things right, we can go slower than we have so far.”

“Will you tell us your plan?”

“No.” Troy was tempted to say, If I tell you, you'll be so horrified that you'll never follow me. But instead he added, “I want to keep it to myself for a while get it ready. You'll just have to trust me.” He sounded to himself like a man falling out of a tree, shouting to the people above him as he fell that he would catch them.

“Warmark,” Quaan said stiffly, “you know that I will always trust you. We all trust you.”

“Yes, I know,” Troy sighed. A sudden weariness flooded over him, and he could barely hear his own voice. He had already fallen a long way since he had left Revelstone. Miscalculations denuded his ideas of all their vitality, divested them of their power to save. He wondered how many other things he would have torn from him before this war was done. A long moment passed before he could find enough energy to say, “There's one more thing. It's got to be done we don't have any choice anymore. We've got to leave some people behind. To try to hold the Retreat make Fleshharrower think we're still here-slow him down. It'll be suicide, so we'll need volunteers. Two or three Eoward should be enough to make it work.”

Quaan and Amorine took this stolidly; they were warriors, familiar with this kind of thinking. But before Troy could say anything else, Lord Verement sprang into the circle. “No!” he barked, striking the ground with his staff. “None will be left behind. I forbid it!”

Now Troy could see him clearly. His lean face looked as sharp as if it had been taken to a grindstone, and his eyes flamed keenly. Troy's throat felt abruptly bone-dry. With difficulty, he said, “Lord Verement, I'm sorry. I've got no choice. This march'll kill the warriors unless they can go more slowly. So somebody has got to gain them time.”

“Then I will do it!” Verement's tone was raw. “I will hold Doom's Retreat. It is a fit place for me.”

“You can't,” Troy objected, almost stammering. “I can't let you. I'll need you with me.” Unable to bear the force of Verement's gaze, he turned to Lord Mhoram for help.

“Warmark Troy speaks truly,” Mhoram said carefully. 'Death will not heal your grief. And you will be sorely needed in the days ahead. You must come with us.'

“By the Seven!” Verement cried. “Do you not hear me? I have said that I will remain! Shetra my wife is lost! She whom I loved with all my strength, and yet did not love enough. Melenkurion! Do not speak to me of cannot or must! I will remain. No warriors will be left behind.”

Mhoram cut in, “Lord Verement, do you believe that you are able to defeat Fleshharrower?”

But Verement did not reply to that question. “Heal Callindrill,” he said harshly. “I will require you both. And call the Bloodguard from the Plains. I start at dawn.” Then he swung away, and stalked out of the circle into the night.

His departure left Troy bewildered and exhausted. He felt that the burden of the Warward already clung to his shoulders, bent his back so that he moved as if he were decrepit. His confused fatigue made him unfit for speeches, and he dismissed the Hafts abruptly. As he did so, he felt that he was failing them-that they needed him to lead them, give them a strong figure around which they could rally. But he had no strength. He went to his blankets as if he hoped that some kind of fortitude would come to him in a dream.

He sank at once into exhaustion, and slept until sleep was no longer possible for him until the sunrise above the mountains filled his brain with shapes and colours. When he arose, he discovered that he had slept through all the noise of the Warward as it broke camp and began its march. Already the last Eoward were shambling away from Doom's Retreat. They trudged as if they were maimed into the dry, heat pale land of the Southron Wastes.

Cursing dully at his weakness, he grabbed a few bites of the food Ruel offered him, then hurried away toward the Retreat.

There he found Callindrill and Mhoram, with a small group of Bloodguard. On either side of the defile's southern end, the Lords had climbed as high as they could up the scree into the jumbled boulders piled against the canyon walls. From these positions, they plied their staffs in a way that cast a haze across the air between them.

Beyond them, in Doom's Retreat itself, Lord Verement clambered over the rocks and fallen shale. As he moved, he waved the fire of his staff like a torch against the darkness of the cliffs. Only Thomin accompanied him.

Troy looked closely at Callindrill. The wounded Lord looked wan and tired, and sweat glistened on his pale forehead, but he stood on his own, and wielded his staff firmly. Troy saluted him, then climbed the scree on the other side to join Lord Mhoram.

When he reached Mhoram, he sat and watched while the haze moved and took shape. It appeared to revolve slowly like a large wheel standing in the end of the Retreat. Its circumference fitted just within the scree and stone, so that it effectively blocked the canyon floor, and it turned as if it were hanging on a pivot between Mhoram and Callindrill. Beyond it, Troy could see only the empty Retreat-the raven-cleaned bones of the ur-viles and wolves-and the lone Lord struggling up and down the sides of the canyon with his flame bobbing like a will-o'-the-wisp.

Soon, however, both Mhoram and Callindrill ended their exertions. They planted their staffs like anchors in the edges of the haze, and leaned back to rest. Lord Mhoram greeted Troy tiredly.

After a moment's hesitation, Troy nodded toward Verement. “What's he doing?”

Mhoram closed his eyes, and said as if he were answering Troy, “We have made a Word of Warning.”

While he was thinking of ways to rephrase his question, Troy asked, “What does it do?”

“It seals Doom's Retreat.”

“How will it work? I can see it. It won't take Fleshharrower by surprise.”

“Your sight is keen in some ways. I cannot see the Word.”

Awkwardly, Troy asked, “Is there anyone still out there-besides Verement?”

'No. All the warriors have left. The scouts have been recalled. None may pass this way now without encountering the Word.'

“So he's committed himself-he's stuck out there.”

“Yes.” Mhoram bit at the word angrily.

Troy returned to his first question. “What does he hope to gain? It's suicide.”