The Illearth War

Still humming the refrain of his song, he approached Lord Mhoram. His gaze held the Lord motionless until they were almost within arm's reach of each other. Mhoram felt himself being probed. The sound of music continued, and some time passed before he realized that the Forestal was speaking to him, asking him, “Who dares taint my song?”

With an effort, Lord Mhoram set aside his awe to answer, “Caerroil Wildwood, Forestal and servant of the Tree-soul, please pardon my presumption. I intend no offense or taint. But my need is urgent, surpassing both fear and caution. I am Mhoram son of Variol, Lord of the Council of Revelstone, and a defender of the Land in tree and rock. I seek a boon, Caerroil Wildwood.”

“A boon?” the Forestal mused musically. “You bring a fire among my trees, and then ask a boon? You are a fool, Mhoram son of Variol. I make no bargains with men. I grant no boons to any creature with knowledge of blade or flame. Begone.” He did not raise his voice or sharpen his song, but the might of his command made Mhoram stagger.

“Forestal, hear me.” Mhoram strove to keep his voice calm. “I have used this fire only to gain your notice.” Extinguishing his staff, he lowered it to the ground and gripped it as a brace against the Forestal's refusal. 'I am a Lord, a servant of the Earthpower. Since the Lords began, all have sworn all their might to the preservation of Land and Forest. We love and honour the wood of the world. I have done no harm to these trees-and never shall, though you refuse my boon and condemn the Land to fire and death.'

Humming as if to himself, Caerroil Wildwood said, “I know nothing of Lords. They are nothing to me. But I know men, mortals. The Ritual of Desecration is not forgotten in the Deep.”

“Yet hear me, Caerroil Wildwood.” Mhoram could feel the sounds of battle beating against his back. But he remembered what he had learned of the history of the One Forest, and remained steady, serene. “I do not ask a boon for which I can make no return. Forestal, I offer you a Raver”

At the word Raver, Caerroil Wildwood changed. The dewy, glistening aura of his music took on an inflection of anger. His eyes darkened; their silver light gave way to thunderheads. Mist spread from his orbs, and drifted upward through his eyebrows. But he said nothing, and Mhoram continued.

“The people of the Land fight a war against the Despiser, the ancient tree ravager. His great army has driven us here, and the last battle now rages in Cravenhaw. Without your aid, we will surely be destroyed. But with our death, the Land becomes defenceless. Then the tree ravager will make war upon all the Forest-upon the trees in beautiful Andelain, upon slumbering Grimmerdhore and restless Morinmoss. In the end, he will attack the Deep and you. He must be defeated now.”

The Forestal appeared unmoved by this appeal. Instead of replying to it, he hummed darkly, “You spoke of a Raver”

“The army which destroys us even now is commanded by a Raver, one of the three decimators of the One Forest.”

“Give me a token that you speak the truth.”

Lord Mhoram did not dare hesitate. Though the ground he trod was completely trackless, unmapped by any lore but his own intuition, he answered promptly, 'He is moksha Raver, also named Jehannum and Fleshharrower. In ages long past, he and turiya his brother taught the despising of trees to the once friendly Demondim. Samadhi his brother guided the monarch of Doriendor Corishev when that mad king sought to master the life and death of the One Forest.'

“Moksha Raver” Caerroil Wildwood trilled lightly, dangerously. “I have a particular hunger for Ravers.”

“Their might is greatly increased now. They share the unnatural power of the Illearth Stone.”

“I care nothing for that,” the Forestal replied almost brusquely. “But you offered m Raver to me. How can that be done, when he defeats you even now?”

The sounds of battle came inexorably nearer as the Warward was driven back. Lord Mhoram heard less combat and more slaughter with every passing moment. And he could feel Warmark Troy panting behind him. With all his hard won serenity, he answered, “That is the boon I ask, Caerroil Wildwood. I ask safe passage for all my people through Garroting Deep. This boon will deliver moksha Raver into your hands. He and all his army, all his ur-viles and Cavewights and creatures, will be yours. When the Raver sees that we flee into the Deep and are not destroyed, he will follow. He will believe that you are weak-or that you have passed away. His hatred for us, and for the trees, will drive him and all his force into your demesne.”

A moment that throbbed urgently in Mhoram's ears passed while Caerroil Wildwood considered. The battle noise seemed to say that soon there would be nothing of the Wayward left to save. But Mhoram faced the Forestal, and waited

At last, the Forestal nodded. “It is a worthy bargain,” he sang slowly. “The trees are eager to fight again. I am prepared. But there is a small price to be paid for my help-and for the tainting of my song.”

The upsurge of Mhoram's hope suddenly gave way to fear, and he spun to try to stop Warmark Troy. But before he could shout a warning, Troy said fervidly, “Then I'll pay it! I'll pay anything. My army is being slaughtered.”

Mhoram winced at the irrevocable promise, tried to protest. But the Forestal sang keenly, 'Very well. I accept your payment. Bring your army cautiously among the trees.'

Troy reacted instantly; he whirled, leaped for Mehryl's back. Some instinct guided him; he landed astride the Ranyhyn as securely as if he could see. At once, he went galloping toward the battle, yelling with all his strength, “Quaan! Retreat! Retreat!”

The Warward was collapsing as he shouted. The ranks of the warriors were broken, and Fleshharrower's creatures ranged bloodily among them. More than two-thirds of the Eoward had already fallen. But something in Troy's command galvanized the warriors for a final exertion. Breaking away, they turned and ran.

Their sudden flight opened a brief gap between them and Fleshharrower's army. At once, Lord Callindrill set himself to widen the gap. Protected by a circle of Bloodguard, he unleashed a lightning fire that caught in the grass and crackled across the front of the foe. His blast did little damage, but it caused the Raver's forces to hesitate one instant in their pursuit. Using that instant, he followed the warriors. Together the survivors-hardly more than ten Eoward-ran straight toward Mhoram.

When he saw them coming, Lord Mhoram went out to meet Troy. He pulled the Warmark from Mehryl's back-it was not safe to ride under the branches of the Deep-took his arm, and guided him toward the trees. The fleeing warriors were almost on their heels when Mhoram and Troy strode into Garroting Deep.

Caerroil Wildwood had vanished, but his song remained. It seemed to resonate lightly off every leaf in the Forest. Mhoram could feel it piloting him, and he followed it implicitly. Behind him, he heard the warriors consummating their exhaustion in a last rush toward sanctuary or death. He heard Quaan shouting as if from a great distance that all survivors were now among the trees. But he did not look back. The Forestal's song exercised a fascination over him. Gripping Troy's arm and peering steadily ahead into the gloom, he moved at a brisk walk along the path of the melody.

With Callindrill, Troy, Quaan, Amorine, twoscore Bloodguard, all the Ranyhyn, and more than four thousand warriors, Lord Mhoram passed for a time out of the world of humankind.

Slowly, the music transmuted his conscious alertness, drew him into a kind of trance. He felt that he was still aware of everything, but that now nothing touched him. He could see the onset of evening in the altered dimness of the Deep, but he felt no passage of time. In openings between the trees, he could see the Westron Mountains. By the changing positions of the peaks, he could gauge his speed. He appeared to be moving faster than a galloping Ranyhyn. But he felt no exertion or strain of travel. The breath of the song wafted him ahead, as if he and his companions were being inhaled by the Deep. It was a weird, dreamy passage, a soul journey, full of speed he could not experience and events he could not feel.

Night came-the moon was completely dark-but he did not lose sight of his way. Some hint of light in the grass and leaves and song made his path clear to him, and he went on confidently, untouched by any need for rest. The Forestal's song released him from mortality, wrapped him in careless peace.

Sometime during the darkness, he heard the change of the song. The alteration had no effect on him, but he understood its meaning. Though the Forest swallowed every other sound, so that no howls or screams or cries reached his ears, he knew that Fleshharrower's army was being destroyed. The song described ages of waiting hate, of grief over vast tracts of kindred lost, ages of slow rage which climbed through the sap of the woods until every limb and leaf shared it, lived it, ached to act. And through that melodic narration came whispers of death as