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The Warmark himself had said nothing more after describing his final strategy. He wrapped himself in his blindness and allowed Mhoram to place him on Mehryl's back. He did not ask about Fleshharrower's army, though only the speed of the Ranyhyn saved him and his companions from being trapped in the city. Despite the scream of frustration which roared after the riders, he carried himself like an invalid who had turned his face to the wall.
And Lord Mhoram also suffered. After the battle of the masterplace, fatigue and dread had forced tenacious fingers into the crevices and crannies of his soul, so that he could not shake them off. Yet he helped the First Haft and Lord Callindrill as best he could. He knew that only time and victory could heal their wounds; but he absorbed those parts of their burdens which came within his reach, and gave back to them all the consolation he possessed.
There was nothing he could do to ease the shock which Amorine's report of the Warmark's final plan gave Quaan. As she spoke, the Hiltmark's concern for her gave way to a livid horror on behalf of the warriors. His expression flared, and he erupted, “Madness! Every man and woman will be slain! Troy, what has become of you? By the Seven! Troy Warmark!”-he hesitated awkwardly before uttering his thought “Do you rave? My friend,” he breathed gripping Troy's shoulders, “how can you meditate such folly?”
Troy spoke for the first time since he had left Doriendor Corishev. “I'm blind,” he said in a hollow voice, as if that explained everything. “I can't help it.” He pulled himself out of Quaan's grasp, sat down near the fire. Locating the flames by their heat, he hunched toward them like a man studying secrets in the coals.
Quaan turned to Mhoram. “Lord, do you accept this madness? It will mean death for us all-and destruction for the Land.”
Quaan's protest made the Lord's heart ache. But before he could find words for any answer, Troy spoke suddenly.
“No, he doesn't,” the Warmark said. “He doesn't actually think I'm a Raver.” Inner pain made his voice harsh. “He thinks Foul had a hand in summoning me-interfered with Atiaran somehow so that I showed up, instead of somebody else who might have
“But you forget that it isn't up to me anymore. I've done my part-I've put you where you haven't got any choice. Now Mhoram has got to save you. It's on his head.”
Quaan appeared torn between dismay for the Warward and concern for Troy. “Even a Lord may be defeated,” he replied gruffly.
“I'm not talking about a Lord,” Troy rasped. “I'm talking about Mhoram.”
In his weariness, Lord Mhoram ached to deny this, to refuse the burden. He said, “Warmark, of course I will do all that lies within my strength. But if Lord Foul has chosen you for the work of our destruction-ah, then, my friend, all aid will not avail. The burden of this plan will return to you at the last.”
“No.” Troy kept his face toward the fire, as if here reliving the acid burn which had blinded him. “You've given your whole life to the Land, and you're going to give it now.”
“The Despiser knows me well,” Mhoram breathed. “He ridicules me in my dreams.” He could hear echoes of that belittling mirth, but he held them at a distance. “Do not mistake me, Warmark. I do not flinch this burden. I accept it. On Kevin's Watch I made my promise and you dared this plan because of that promise. You have not done ill. But I must speak what is in my heart. You are the Warmark. I believe that the command of this fate must finally return to you.”
“I'm blind. There's nothing more I can do. Even Foul can't ask any more of me.” The heat of the fire made the burn marks on his face lurid. He held his hands clasped together, and his knuckles were white.
In distress, Quaan gazed at Mhoram with eyes that asked if he had been wrong to trust Troy.
“No,” Lord Mhoram answered. “Do not pass judgment upon this mystery until it is complete. Until that time, we must keep faith.”
“Very well,” Quaan sighed heavily. “If we have been betrayed, we have no recourse now. To flee into the Desert will accomplish only death. And Cravenhaw is a place to fight and die like any other. The Warward must not turn against itself when the last battle is near. I will stand with Warmark Troy.” Then he went to his blankets to search for sleep among his fears. Amorine followed his example dumbly, leaving Callindrill and Mhoram with Troy.
Callindrill soon dropped into slumber. And Mhoram was too worn to remain awake. But Troy sat up by the embers of the campfire. As the Lord's eyes closed, Troy was still huddled toward the flames like a cold cipher seeking some kind of remission for its frigidity.
Apparently, the Warmark found an answer during the long watch. When Lord Mhoram awoke the next morning, he found Troy erect, standing with his arms folded across his breastplate. The Lord studied him closely, but could not discern what kind of answer Troy had discovered. Gently, he greeted the blind man.
At the sound of Mhoram's voice, Troy turned. He held his head with a slight sideward tilt, as if that position helped him focus his hearing. The old half-smile which he had habitually worn during his years in Revelstone was gone, effaced from his lips. “Call Quaan,” he said flatly. “I want to talk to him.”
Quaan was nearby; he heard Troy, and approached at once.
Fixing the Hiltmark with his hearing, Troy said, “Guide me. I'm going to review the Warward.”
“Troy, my friend,” Quaan murmured, “do not torment yourself.”
Troy stood stiffly, rigid with exigency. “I'm the Warmark. I want to show my warriors that blindness isn't going to stop me.”
Mhoram felt a hot premonition of tears, but he held them back. He smiled crookedly at Quaan, nodded his answer to the old veteran's question. Quaan saluted Troy, bravely ignoring the Warmark's inability to see him. Then he took Troy's arm, and led him away to the Eoward.
Lord Mhoram watched their progress among the warriors-watched Quaan's respectful pain guiding Troy's erect helplessness from Eoman to Eoman. He endured the sight as best he could, and blinked down his own heart hurt. Fortunately, the ordeal did not last long; Fleshharrower's pursuit did not allow Troy time for a full review of the Warward. Soon Mhoram was mounted on his Ranyhyn, Drinny son of Hynaril, and riding on toward Cravenhaw.
He spent most of that day watching over the Warmark. But the next morning, while the Warward made its final approach to Garroting Deep, he was forced to turn his attention to his task. He had to plan some way in which to keep his promise. He melded his thoughts with Lord Callindrill, and together they searched through their combined knowledges and intuitions for some key to Mhoram's dilemma. In his dread, he hoped to gain courage from the melding, but the ache of Callindrill's self-distrust denied him. Instead of receiving strength, Mhoram gave it.
With Callindrill's help, he prepared an approach to his task, arranged a series of possible answers according to their peril and likelihood of success. But by noon, he had found nothing definitive. Then he ran out of time. The Warward staggered to a halt at the very brink of Garroting Deep.
There, face-to-face with the One Forest's last remaining consciousness, Lord Mhoram began to taste the full gall of his inadequacy. The Deep's dark, atavistic rage left him effectless; he felt like a man with no fingers. The first trees were within a dozen yards of him. Like irregular columns, they appeared suddenly out of the ground, with no shrubs or bushes leading up to them, and no underbrush cluttering the greensward on which they stood. They were sparse at first. As far back as he could see, they did not grow thickly enough.to close out the sunlight. Yet a shadow deepened on them; mounting dimness spurned the sunlight. In the distance, the benighted will of the Forest became an almost tangible refusal of passage. He felt that he was peering into a chasm. The idea that any bargain could be made with such a place seemed to be madness, vanity woven of dream stuff. For a long time, he only stood before the Deep and stared, with a groan of cold dread on his soul.
But Troy showed no hesitation. When Quaan told him where he was, he swung Mehryl around and began issuing orders. “All right, Hiltmark,” he barked, “let's get ready for it. Food for everyone. Finish off the supplies, but make it fast. After that, move the warriors back beyond bowshot, and form an arc around Lord Mhoram. Make it as
