Holding the Stone high, Fleshharrower led his army through the canyon. At the south end of the Retreat, he found the Warward gone. The last of his enemies-a small band of riders including two Lords-were galloping away out of reach. He howled imprecations after them, vowing that he would pursue them to the death.
But then his farseeing Giantish eyes made out the Warward, seven or eight leagues beyond the riders. He marked the direction of their march-saw where they were headed. And he began to laugh again. Peals of sarcasm and triumph echoed off the blank cliffs of Doom's Retreat.
The Warward marched toward Garroting Deep.
Nineteen: The Ruins of the Southron Wastes
BY the time Warmark Troy rode away from Doom's Retreat with the Lords Mhoram and Callindrill and a group of Bloodguard, he had put aside his enervation, his half-conscious yearning to hide his head. Gone, too, was the sense of horror which had paralyzed him when Lord Verement died. He had pushed these things down during the dark night, while Mhoram and Callindrill fought to maintain the Word of Warning. Now he felt strangely cauterized. He was the Warmark, and he had returned to his work. He was thinking-measuring distances, gauging relative speeds, forecasting the Warward's attrition rate. He was in command.
He could see his army's need for leadership as clearly as if it were in some way atrocious. Ahead of him, the Warward had swung slightly south to avoid the immediate foothills of the mountains, and across this easier ground it moved at a pace which would cover no more than seven leagues a day. But still the conditions of the march were horrendous. His army was travelling into the dry half-desert of the Southron Wastes.
No vestige or hint of autumn ameliorated the arid breeze which blew northward off the parched, lifeless Grey Desert. Most of the grass had already failed, and the few rills and rivulets which ran down out of the mountains evaporated before they reached five leagues into the Wastes. And even south of the foothills the terrain was difficult-eroded and rasped and cut by long ages of sterile wind into jagged hills, gullies, arroyos. The result was a stark, heat-pale land possessed by a weird and unfriendly beauty. The Warward had to march over packed ground that felt as hard and hostile as rock underfoot, and yet sent up thick dust as if the soil were nothing but powder.
Within three leagues of the Retreat, Troy and his companions found the first dead warrior. The Woodhelvennin corpse lay contorted on the ground like a torture victim. Exhaustion blackened its lips and tongue, and its staring eyes were full of dust. Troy had a mad impulse to stop and bury the warrior. But he was sure of his calculations; in this acrid heat, the losses of the Warward would probably double every day. None of the living could afford the time or strength to care for the dead.
By the time the Warmark caught up with his army, he had counted ten more fallen warriors. Numbers thronged in his brain: eleven dead the first day, twenty-two the second, forty-four the third-six hundred and ninety- three human beings killed by the cruel demands of the march before he reached his destination. And God alone knew how many more He found himself wondering if he would ever be able to sleep again.
But he forced himself to pay attention as Quaan and Amorine reported on their efforts to keep the warriors alive. Food was rationed; all water jugs were refilled at every stream, however small; every Haft and Warhaft moved on foot, so that their horses could carry the weakest men and women; Quaan's remaining riders also walked, and their damaged mounts bore packs and collapsed warriors; all scouting and water gathering were done by the Bloodguard. And every warrior who could go no farther was supplied with food, and ordered to seek safety in the mountains.
There was nothing else the commanders could do.
All this filled Troy with pain. But then Quaan described to him how very few warriors chose to leave the march and hide in the hills. That news steadied Troy; he felt it was both terrible and wonderful that so many men and women were willing to follow him to the utter end of his ideas. He mustered his confidence to answer Quaan's and Amorine's inevitable questions.
Quaan went bluntly to the immediate problem. “Does Fleshharrower pursue us?”
“Yes,” Troy Replied. “Lord Verement gained us about a day. But that Giant is coming after us now he's coming fast.”
Quaan did not need to ask what had happened to Lord Verement. Instead, he said, “Fleshharrower will move swiftly. When will he overtake us?”
“Sometime tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow evening at the latest.”
“Then we are lost,” said Amorine, and her voice shook. “We can march no faster. The warriors are too weary to turn and fight. Warmark,” she implored, “take this matter from me. Give the First Haft's place to another. I cannot bear-I cannot give these commands.”
He tried to comfort her with his confidence. “Don't worry. We're not beaten yet.” But to himself he sounded more hysterical than confident. He had a sudden desire to scream. “We won't have to march any faster than this. We're just going to turn south a fraction more, so that we'll reach that old ruined city — `Doriendor Corishev,' Mhoram calls it. We should get there before noon tomorrow.”
He felt that he was speaking too quickly. He forced himself to slow down while he explained his intentions. Then he was relieved to see dour approval in the faces of his officers. First Haft Amorine took a deep, shuddering breath as she caught hold of her courage again, and Quaan's eyes glinted with bloody promises for the enemy. Shortly, he asked, “Who will command the Eoward which must remain?”
“Permit me,” Amorine said. “I am at the end of my strength for this marching. I wish to fight.”
The Hiltmark opened his mouth to answer her, but Troy stopped them both with a gesture. For a moment, he juggled burdens mentally, seeking a point of balance. Then he said to Quaan, “The Lords and I will stay behind with First Haft Amorine. We'll need eight Eoward of volunteers, and every horse that can still stand. The Bloodguard will probably stay with us. If we handle it right, most of us will survive.”
Quaan frowned at the decision. But his acceptance was as candid as his dislike. To Amorine, he said, “We must find those who are willing, and prepare them today, so that tomorrow no time will be lost.”
In answer, the First Haft saluted both Quaan and Troy, then rode away among the Warward. She carried herself straighter than she had for several days, and her alacrity demonstrated to Troy that he had made the correct choice. He nodded after her, sardonically congratulating himself for having done something right.
But Quaan still had questions. Shortly, he said, “I ask your pardon, Warmark-but we have been friends, and I must speak of this. Will you not explain to me why we march now? If Doom's Retreat is not the battleground you desire, perhaps Doriendor Corishev will serve. Why must this terrible march continue?”
“No, I'm not going to explain. Not yet.” Troy kept his final plan to himself as if by silence and secrecy he could contain its terrors. “And Doriendor Corishev won't serve. We could fight there for a day or two. But after that, Fleshharrower would surround us and just squeeze. We've got to do better than that.”
The Hiltmark nodded morosely. Troy's refusal saddened him like an expression of distrust. But he managed a wry smile as he said, “Warmark, is there no end to your plans?”
“Yes,” Troy sighed. “Yes, there is. And we're going to get there. After that, Mhoram is going to have to save us. He promised-”
Because he could not bear to face Quaan with his inadequacies, he turned away. Clapping Mehryl with his heels, he went in search of the Lords. He wanted to explain his intentions for Doriendor Corishev, and to find out what additional help Mhoram or Callindrill could give the Warward.
During the rest of that day and the next morning, he received regular reports from the Bloodguard on Fleshharrower's progress. The Giant-Raver's army was large and unwieldy; it had covered only nine leagues during the day after it traversed Doom's Retreat. But it did not halt during the dark night, and took only one short rest
