before dawn. Troy judged that the Giant would reach Doriendor Corishev by mid-afternoon.
That knowledge made him ache to drive the Warward faster. But he could not. Too many warriors left the army or died that night and the next morning. To his dismay, the attrition tripled. A litany of numbers ran through his brain: eleven, thirty-three, ninety-nine- at that rate, the march itself would claim four thousand four victims by the end of six days. And lives would be lost in Doriendor Corishev. He needed complex equations to measure the plight of his army. He did not try to hurry it.
As a result, the warriors were only a league ahead of Fleshharrower when they started up the long slope toward the ruins of Doriendor Corishev. The ancient city sat atop a high hill under the perpetual frown of the mountains, and the hill itself crested a south-running ridge. The ruins were elevated on a line that separated, hid from each other, the east and west sides of the Southron Wastes. In past ages, when the city lived and thrived, it had commanded perfectly the northern edge of that region, and now the low, massive remains of fortifications testified that the inhabitants of the city had known the value of their position. According to the legends which had been preserved in Kevin's Lore, these people had been warlike; they had needed their strategic location. Lord Callindrill translated the name as “masterplace” or “desolation of enemies.”
The legends said that for centuries Doriendor Corishev had been the capital of the nation which gave birth to Berek Halfhand.
That was the age of the One Forest's dominion in the Land. Then there were no Wastes south of the mountains; the region was green and populous. But in time it became too populous. Groups of people from this southern country slowly moved up into the Land, and began to attack the Forest. At first, they only wanted timber for the civilization of Doriendor Corishev. Then they wanted fields for crops. Then they wanted homes. With the unconscious aid of other immigrants from the north, they eventually accomplished the maiming of the One Forest.
But that injury had many ramifications. On the one hand, the felling of the trees unbound the interdict which the Colossus of the Fall had held over the Lower Land. The Ravers were unleashed-a release which led with deft inevitability to the destruction of Doriendor Corishev's monarchy in the great war of Berek Halfhand. And on the other hand, the loss of perhaps a hundred thousand square leagues 'of Forest altered the natural balances of the Earth. Every falling tree hammered home an ineluctable doom for the masterplace. As the trees died, the southern lands lost the watershed which had preserved them from the Grey Desert. Centuries after the ravage of the One Forest became irreversible, these lands turned to dry ruin.
But the city had been deserted since the time of Berek, the first Lord. Now, after millennia of wind and dust, nothing remained of the masterplace except the standing shards of its walls and buildings, a kind of ground map formed by the bloodless stumps of its grandeur. Warmark Troy could have hidden his whole army in its labyrinthian spaces and ways. Behind fragmentary walls that reached meaninglessly into the sky, the warriors could have fought guerrilla war for days against an army of comparable size.
Troy trusted that Fleshharrower knew this. His plans relied heavily on his ability to convince the Giant that the Warward chose to make its last stand in Doriendor Corishev, rather than under the certain death of Garroting Deep. He marched his army straight up the long hillside, and into the toothless gate of the masterplace. Then he took the warriors through the city and out its western side, where they were hidden from Fleshharrower by the ridge on which the city stood.
There he gave Quaan all the instructions and encouragement he could. Then he saluted the Hiltmark, and watched as the main body of the Warward marched away down the slope. When it was gone, he and his volunteers returned to the city with the two Lords, First Haft, Amorine, all the Bloodguard, and every horse still strong enough to bear a rider.
Within the ruined walls, he addressed the eight Eoward that had offered to buy the Warward's escape from Doriendor Corishev. He had a taut, dry feeling in his throat as he began, “You're all volunteers, so I'm not going to apologize for what we're doing. But I want to be sure you know why we're doing it. I have two main reasons. First, we're going to give the rest of the warriors a chance to put some distance between them and Fleshharrower. Second, we're going to help squeeze out a victory in this war. I'm preparing a little surprise for Foul's army, and we're going to help make it work. Parts of that army move faster than others but if they get too spread out, they won't all fall into my trap. So we're going to pull them together here.”
He paused to look over the warriors. They stood squarely before him with expressions coloured by every hue of grimness and fatigue and determination, and their very bones seemed to radiate mortality. At the sight, he began to understand Mhoram's statement that they deserved to know the truth; they were serving his commands with their souls. Roughly, he went on, 'But there's one more thing. Fleshharrower may be planning a surprise or two for us. Many of you were with Hiltmark Quaan during that storm-you know what I'm talking about. That Giant has power, and he intends to use it. We're going to give him a chance. We're going to be a target, so that whatever he does will hit us instead of the rest of the Warward. I think we can survive it-if we do things right. But it's not going to be easy.'
Abruptly, he turned to Amorine, and ordered her to deploy the Eoward in strategic positions throughout the east side of the masterplace. “Make sure of your lines of retreat. I don't want people getting lost in this maze when it's time for us to pull out.” Then he spoke to the Bloodguard, asked them to scout beyond the city along the ridge. “I've got to know right away if Fleshharrower tries to surround us.”
Terrel nodded, and a few of the Bloodguard rode away.
First Haft Amorine took her Eoward back across Doriendor Corishev. They left all their horses, including the Ranyhyn, at the west gate under the care of several Bloodguard.
Accompanied by the rest of the Bloodguard, Troy and the two Lords made their way on foot to the east.: wall.
While they passed through the ruins, Lord Mhoram n asked, 'Warmark, do you believe that Fleshharrower — : will not attempt to surround us? Why would he do otherwise?''
“Instinct,” Troy replied curtly. “I think he'll be very careful to let us escape on the west side. You heard him laugh-back at Doom's Retreat-when he saw where we were going. I think that what he really wants is to trap us against Garroting Deep. He's a Raver. He probably thinks the idea of using that Forest against us is hilarious.”
Then he was grateful that Mhoram refrained from asking him what his-own ideas about Garroting Deep were. He did not want to think about that. Instead, he tried to concentrate on the layout of the city, so that he could find his way through it at night if necessary. But his heart was not in the task. Too many other anxieties occupied him.
When he reached the east wall, and climbed up on some rubble to peer over it, he saw Fleshharrower's army.
It approached like a great discoloration, a dark bruise, on the pale ground of the Wastes. Its front stretched away both north and south of the ruins. It was less than a league away.
And it was immense beyond comprehension. Troy could not imagine how Lord Foul had been able to create such an army.
It came forward until it reached the foot of the hill upon which Doriendor Corishev stood.
As he watched, Troy gripped the handle of his sword as if it were the only thing that kept him from panic. Several times, he reached up to adjust the sunglasses he no longer possessed. The movement was like an involuntary prayer or appeal. But neither of the Lords observed him. Their faces were set toward Fleshharrower.
Troy almost shouted with elation when the Giant-Raver stopped his army at the foot of the hill. The halt ran through his hordes like a shock, as if the force which drove them had struck a wall. The wolves smelled prey; they sent up a howl of frustration at the halt. Ur-viles barked furiously. Warped humans groaned, and Cavewights hopped hungrily from foot to foot. But Fleshharrower's command mastered them all. They spread out until they formed a ready arc around the entire eastern side of the hill, then set themselves to wait.
When he was satisfied with the position of his army, the Raver took a few steps up the hill, placed his fists on his hips, and shouted sardonically, “Lords! Warriors! I know you hear me! Listen to my words! Surrender! You cannot escape-you are ensnared between the Desert and the Deep. I can eradicate you from the Earth with only a tenth of my strength. Surrender! If you join me, I may be merciful.” At the word
