wide as possible, but keep it thick-I don't want Fleshharrower to break through. Lord Callindrill, I think you should fight with the Warward. And Quaan-I'll speak to the warriors while they're eating. I'll explain it all.”
“Very well, Warmark.” Quaan sounded distant, withdrawn into the recessed stronghold of his courage; and the lines of his face were taut with resolution. He returned Troy's blind salute, then turned and gave his own orders to Amorine. Together, they went to make the Warward's final preparations.
Troy pulled Mehryl around again. He tried to face Mhoram, but missed by several feet. “Maybe you'd better get started,” he said. “You haven't got much time.”
“I will wait until you have spoken to the Warward.” Sadly, Mhoram saw Troy grimace with vexation at the discovery that he had misjudged the Lord's position. “I need strength. I must seek it awhile.”
Troy nodded brusquely, and turned away as if he meant to watch the Warward's preparations.
Together, they waited for Quaan's signal. Lord Callindrill remained with them long enough to say, “Mhoram, the High Lord had no doubt of your fitness for the burden of these times. She is no ordinary judge of persons. My brother, your faith will suffice.” His voice was gentle, but it implicitly expressed his belief that his own faith did not suffice. When he walked away from the Deep to take his stand with the warriors, he left Mhoram wrestling with insistent tears.
A short time later, Quaan reported that the Warward was ready to hear Troy. The Warmark asked Quaan to guide him to a place from which he could speak, and they trotted away together. Lord Mhoram walked after them. He wished to hear the Warmark's speech.
Troy stopped within the wide-seated arc of warriors. He did not need to ask for silence. Except for the noises of eating, the warriors were still, too exhausted to talk. They had marched and ached in blank silence for the last three days, and now they chewed their food with a kind of aghast lifelessness, ate as if compelled by an old habit unassoiled by any remaining endurance, desire. Moving their jaws, staring out of moistureless eyes, they looked like dusty skeletons, bare, dry bones animated by some obsession not their own.
Mhoram could not hold back his tears. They ran down his jaw and spattered like warm pain on his hands where he held his staff.
Yet he was glad that Troy could not see what his plans had done to the Warward.
Warmark Hile Troy faced the warriors squarely, held up his head as if he were offering his burns for inspection. Sitting on Mehryl's back, he was stiff with discipline-a rigid refusal of his own abjection. As he began to speak, his voice was hoarse with conflicting impulses, but he grew steadier as he continued.
“Warriors!” he said abruptly. 'We are here. For victory or defeat, this is the end. Today the outcome of this war will be decided.
'Our position is desperate-but you know that. Fleshharrower is only a league away by now. We're caught between his army and Garroting Deep. I want you to know that this is not an accident. We didn't panic and run here out of fear. We didn't come here because Fleshharrower forced us. You aren't victims. We came here on my order. I made the decision. When I was on Kevin's Watch, I saw how big Fleshharrower's army is. It's so big that we wouldn't have had a chance in Doom's Retreat. So I made the decision. I brought us here.
“I believe we're going to win today. We are going to cause the destruction of that horde-I believe it. I brought you here because I believe it. Now let me tell you how we're going to do it.”
He paused for a moment, and became even stiffer, more erect, as he braced himself for what he had to say. Then he went on, 'We are going to fight that army here for one reason. Lord Mhoram needs time. He's going to make this plan of mine work-and we have to keep him safe until he's ready.
“When he's ready”-Troy seemed to clench himself-“we're going to run like hell into Garroting Deep.”
If he expected an outcry, he was surprised; the warriors were too weak to protest. But a rustle of anguish passed among them, and Mhoram could see horror on many faces.
Troy went on promptly, 'I know how bad that sounds. No one has ever survived the Deep-no one has ever returned. I know all that. But Foul is hard to beat. Our only chance is something that seems impossible. I believe we won't be killed.
'While we fight, Lord Mhoram is going to summon Caerroil Wildwood, the Forestal. And Caerroil Wildwood is going to help us. He's going to give us free passage through Garroting Deep. He's going to defeat Fleshharrower's army.
'I believe this. I want you to believe it. It will work. The Forestal has no reason to hate us-you know that. And he has every reason to hate Fleshharrower. That Giant is a Raver. But the only way Caerroil Wildwood can get at Fleshharrower is to give us free passage. If we run into Garroting Deep, and Fleshharrower sees that we aren't harmed-then he'll follow us. He hates us and he hates the Deep too much to pass up a chance like this. It will work. The only problem is to summon the Forestal. And that is up to Lord Mhoram.'
He paused again, weighing his words before he said, 'Many of you have known Lord Mhoram longer than I have. You know what kind of man he is. He'll succeed. You know that.
“Until he succeeds, the only thing we have to do is fight-keep him alive while he works. That's all. I know how tough it's going to be for you. I–I hear how tired you are. But you are warriors. You will find the strength. I believe it. Whatever happens, I'll be proud to fight with you. And I won't be afraid to lead you into Garroting Deep. You are the true preservers of the Land.”
He stopped, waiting for some kind of answer.
The warriors gave no cheers or shouts or cries; the extravagant grip of their exhaustion kept them silent. But together they heaved themselves to their feet. Twelve thousand men and women stood to salute the Warmark.
He seemed to hear their movement and understand it. He saluted them once, rigidly. Then he turned his proud Ranyhyn, and went trotting back toward where he had left Lord Mhoram.
He caught Mhoram by surprise, and the Lord failed to intercept him. He moved as if he were held erect by the stiffness of extreme need; his voice rocked as he said to the empty air where Mhoram had been, “I hope you understand what'll happen if you fail. We won't have any choice. We'll still have to go into the Deep. And pray the Forestal doesn't kill us until Fleshharrower follows. We'll all die that way, but maybe the Raver will, too.”
Mhoram hastened toward Troy. But Terrel was closer to the Warmark, and he spoke before Mhoram could stop him. “That we will not permit,” he said dispassionately. “It is suicide. We do not speak of the Warward. But we are the Bloodguard. We will not permit the Lords to enact their own death. We failed to prevent High Lord Kevin's self-destruction. We will not fail again.”
“I hear you,” Mhoram replied sharply. “But that moment has not yet come. First I must work.” Turning to Troy, he said, “My friend, will you remain with me while I make this attempt. I need-I have need of support.”
Troy seemed to totter on Mehryl's back. But he caught hold of the Ranyhyn's mane, steadied himself. “Just tell me if there's anything I can do.” He reached out his hand, and when Mhoram clasped it, he slipped down from Mehryl's back.
Mhoram gripped his hand for a moment, then released him. The Lord looked over at the Warward, saw that it was preparing to meet Fleshharrower's charge. He turned his attention to the Deep. Dread constricted his heart. He was afraid that Caerroil Wildwood would simply strike him where he stood for the affront of his call-strike all the army. But he was still his own master. He stepped forward, raised his staff high over his head, and began the ritual appeal to the woods.
'Hail, Garroting Deep! Forest of the One Forest! Enemy of our enemies! Garroting Deep, hail! We are the Lords-foes to your enemies, and learners of the
“Harken, Caerroil Wildwood! We hate the axe and flame which hurt you. Your enemies are our enemies. Never have we brought edge of axe or flame of fire to touch you-nor ever shall. Forestal, harken! Let us pass!”
There was no answer. His voice fell echoless on the trees and grass; nothing moved or replied in the dark depths. He strained his senses to listen and look for any sign, but none came. When he was sure of the silence, he repeated the ritual. Again there was no reply. After a third appeal, the silent gloom of the Deep seemed to increase, to grow more profound and ominous, as he beseeched it.
Through the Forest's unresponsiveness, he heard the first gleeful shout of Fleshharrower's army as it caught sight of the Warward. The hungry cry multiplied his dread; his knuckles whitened as he resisted it. Planting his staff firmly on the grass, he tried another approach.
While the sun arced through the middle of the afternoon, Lord Mhoram strove to make himself heard in the heart of Garroting Deep. He used every Forestal name which had been preserved in the lore of the Land. He wove
