“Hail, Mhoram son of Variol, Lord of the Council of Revelstone. Hail, Warmark Hile Troy. Be welcome in Mithil Stonedown. I am Triock son of Thuler, first among the Circle of elders of Mithil Stonedown. It is not our custom to question our guests before hospitality has cleansed the weariness of their way. But these are perilous times. A Bloodguard brought us tidings of war. What need calls you here?”
“Triock, your welcome honors us,” replied Lord Mhoram. “And we are honored that you know us. We have not met.”
“That is true, Lord. But I studied for a time in the Loresraat. The Lords, and the friends of the Lords”—he nodded to Troy—“were made known to me.”
“Then, Triock, elders and people of Mithil Stonedown, I must tell you that there is indeed war upon the Land. The army of the Gray Slayer marches in the South Plains, to do battle with the Warward of Revelstone at Doom’s Retreat. We have come so that Warmark Troy may climb Kevin’s Watch, and study the movements of the foe.”
“He must have brave sight, if he can see so far though it is said that High Lord Kevin viewed all the Land from his Watch. But that is not our concern. Please accept the welcome of Mithil Stonedown. How may we serve you?”
Smiling Mhoram answered, “A hot meal would be a rich welcome. We have eaten camp food for many days.”
At this, another of the elders stepped forward. “Lord Mhoram, I am Terass Slen-mate. Our home is large, and Slen my husband is proud of his cooking. Will you eat with us?”
“Gladly. Terass Slen-mate. You honor us.”
“Accepting a gift honors the giver,” she returned gravely. Accompanied by the other elders, she led Mhoram and Troy out of the center of the Stonedown. Her home was a wide, flat building which had been formed out of one prodigious boulder. Within, it was bright with graveling. After several ceremonious introductions, Troy and Lord Mhoram found themselves seated at a long stone table. The meal that Slen set before them did full justice to his pride.
When all the guests had eater, their fill, and the stoneware dishes and pots had been cleared away, Lord Mhoram offered to answer the questions of the elders. Terass began by asking generally about the war, but before she had gone far Triock interrupted her.
“Lord, what of High Lord Elena? Is she well? Does she fight in this war?”
Something abrupt in Triock’s tone irritated Troy, but he left the answers to Mhoram. The Lord replied, “The High Lord is well. She has uncovered knowledge of one of the hidden Wards of Kevin’s Lore, and has gone in quest of the Ward itself.” He sounded cautious, as if he had some reason to distrust Triock.
“And what of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever? The Bloodguard said that he has returned to the Land”
“He has returned.”
“Ah, yes,” said Triock. He seemed aware of Mhoram’s caution. “And what of Trell Atiaran-mate? For many years he was the Gravelingas of Mithil Stonedown. How does he meet the need of this war?”
“He is in Revelstone, where his skills serve the defense of the Keep.”
At once, Triock’s attitude changed. “Trell is not with the High Lord?” he demanded sharply.
“No.”
“Why not?”
For a moment, Lord Mhoram searched Triock’s face. Then he said as if he were taking a risk, “Ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and Ringthane, rides with the High Lord.”
“With her?” Triock cried, springing to his feet. “Trell permitted this?” He glared bitterly at Mhoram, then spun away and flung out of the house.
His vehemence left an awkward silence in the room, and Terass spoke quietly to ease it. “Please do not be offended, Lord. His life is full of trouble. It may be that you know part of his tale.”
Mhoram nodded, assured Terass that he was not offended. But Triock’s conduct disturbed Warmark Troy; it reminded him vividly of Trell. “I don’t know,” he said bluntly. “What business is the High Lord of his?”
“Ah, Warmark,” Terass said, sadly, “he would not thank me for speaking of it. I—”
A sharp glance from Mhoram silenced her. Troy turned toward Mhoram, but the Lord did not meet his gaze. “Before ur-Lord Covenant’s first summoning to the Land,” Mhoram said carefully, “Triock was in love with the daughter of Trell and Atiaran.”
Troy barely restrained an ejaculation. He wanted to curse Covenant; there seemed to be no end to the damage Covenant had done. But he held himself back for the sake of his hosts. He scarcely heard Mhoram ask, “Is Trell’s daughter well? Is there any way in which I may help her?”
“No, Lord,” sighed Terass. “The health of her body is strong, but her mind is unsteady. Always she has believed that the Unbeliever will come for her. She has asked the Circle of elders—asked permission to marry him. We can find no Healer able to touch this illness. I fear you would only turn her thoughts more toward him.”
Mhoram accepted her judgment morosely. “I am sorry. This failure grieves me. But the Lords know only of one Unfettered Healer with power for such needs—and she left her home, and passed out of knowledge forty years ago, before the battle of Soaring Woodhelven. It humbles us to be of so little use for such needs.”
His words left behind a pall of silence in their wake. For a time like a muffled sigh, he stared at his clasped hands. But then, rousing himself from his reverie, he said, “Elders, how will you meet the chance of war? Have you prepared?”
“Yes, Lord,” one of the other women replied. “We have little cause to fear the destruction of our homes, so we will hide in the mountains if war comes. We have prepared food stores against that need. From the mountains, we will harass any who assail Mithil Stonedown.”
Mhoram nodded, and after a moment Terass said, “Lord, Warmark, will you spend the night with us? We will be honored to provide beds for you. And perhaps you will be able to speak to the gathering of the people?”
“No,” said Troy abruptly. Then, hearing his discourtesy, he softened his tone. “Thank you, but no. I need to get up to the Watch—as soon as possible.”
“What will you see? The night is dark. You may sleep in comfort here, and still climb to Kevin’s Watch before morning.”
But Troy was adamant. His anger at Covenant only increased his impatience; he had a strong sense of pressure, of impending crisis. Lord Mhoram’s polite, firm support soon satisfied the Stonedownors that this decision was necessary, and in a short time he and Troy were on their way. They accepted a pot of graveling from the elders to light their path, left all the Bloodguard except Terrel and Ruel to care for the Ranyhyn and watch over the valley, then started walking briskly along the Mithil into the night.
Troy could see nothing outside the primary glow of the graveling, but when he was sure be was out of earshot of the Stonedown, he said to Mhoram, “You knew about Triock before tonight. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did not know the extent of his distress. Why should I burden you? Yet now it is in my heart that I have treated him wrongly. I should have dealt with him openly, and trusted him to bear my words. My caution has only increased his pain.”
Troy took a different view. “You wouldn’t need to be cautious at all if it weren’t for that damned Covenant.”
But Mhoram only walked on up the valley in silence.
Together they worked their way south into the foothills of the surrounding mountains, then doubled back northward, up the eastern slopes. On the mountainside, the trail was difficult. Terrel led Lord Mhoram, and Troy followed them with Ruel at his back. As he ascended the path, he could see nothing of his situation—for him, the glow of the graveling was encased in dark fog—but slowly he began to feel a change in the air. The warm autumn night of the South Plains turned cooler, rarer; it made his heart pound. By the time he had climbed a couple thousand feet, he knew that he was moving into mountains which had already received their first winter snows.
Soon after that, he and his companions left the open mountainside and began to work upward through rifts and crevices and hidden valleys. When they reached ope
n space again, they were on a ledge in a cliff face, moving eastward under the huge loom of a peak. This ledge took them to the base of the long, leaning, stone shaft of the Watch. Then, clambering through empty air like solitary dream figures, they went up the exposed stair of the shaft. After another five hundred feet, they found themselves on the parapeted platform of Kevin’s Watch.
Troy moved cautiously over the floor of the Watch and seated himself with his back against the surrounding parapet. He knew from descriptions that he was on the tip of the shaft, poised four thousand feet directly above the foothills of a promontory in the Range, and he did not want to give his blindness a chance to betray him. Even sitting with solid stone between his back and the fall, he had an intense impression of abysses. His sense of ambience felt poignantly the absence of any comforting confines or enclosures or limits. This was like being cast adrift in the trackless heavens, and he reacted to it like a blind man—with fear, and a conviction of irremediable isolation. He placed the pot of graveling on the stone before him, so that he could at least vaguely see his three companions. Then he braced both arms against the stone beside him as if to keep himself from falling.
A slight breeze drifted onto the Watch from the towering mountain face south of it, and the air carried a foretaste of winter that made Troy shiver. As midnight passed through the darkness, he began to talk desultorily, as if to warm the vigil by the sound of his voice. His present sense of suspension, of voids, reminded him of his last moments in that world which Covenant insisted, on calling “real”—moments during which his apartment had been flame-gutted, forcing him to hang by failing fingers from his windowsill, with the long fall and smash on concrete hovering below him.
He talked erratically about that world until the vividness of the memory eased. Then he said, “Friend Mhoram, remind me—remind me to tell you sometime how grateful I am—for everything.” He was embarrassed to say such things aloud, but these feelings were too important to be left unexpressed. “You and Elena and Quaan and Amorine—you’re all incredibly precious to me. And the Warward— I think I’d be willing to jump from here if the Warward needed it.”
He fell silent again, and time passed. Although he shivered in the chill breeze, his speech had steadied him. He tried to turn his thoughts to the fighting ahead, but the unknown sight crouched in the coming day dominated his brain, confusing all his anticipations and plans. And around him the blank night remained unchanged, as impenetrable as chaos. He needed to know where he stood. In the distance, he thought he heard dim hoof-beats. But none of his companions reacted to them; he could not be sure he had heard anything.
He needed to distract himself. Half to Mhoram, he growled, “I hate dawns. I can cope with nights. They keep me—they’re something I’ve had experience with, at least. But dawns! I can’t stand waiting for what I’m going to see.” Then, abruptly, he asked, “Is the sky clear?”
“It is clear,” Mhoram said softly.
Troy sighed his relief. For a moment, he was able to relax.
Silence encompassed the Watch again. The waiting went on. Gradually, Troy’s shivering became worse. The stone he leaned against remained cold, impervious to his body warmth. He wanted to stand up and pace, but did not dare. Around him, Mhoram, Ruel, and Terrel stood as still as statues. After a while, he could no longer refrain from asking the Lord if he had received any messages from Elena. “Has she tried to contact you? How is she doing?”
“No, Warmark,” Mhoram answered. “The High Lord does not bear with her any of the lomillialor rods.”
“No?” The news dismayed Troy. Until this moment, he had not realized how much trust he had put in Mhoram’s power to contact Elena. He wanted to know that she was safe. And as a last resort, he had counted on being able to summon her. But now she was as completely lost to him as if she were already dead. “No?” He felt suddenly so blind that he could not see Mhoram’s face, that he had never really seen Mhoram’s face. “Why?”
“The High Wood rods were only three. One went to Lord’s Keep, and one stayed in Revelwood, so that the Loresraat and Revelstone could act together to defend themselves. One rod remained. It was given into my hands for use in this war.”
Troy’s voice crackled with protest. “What good is that?”
“At need I will be able to speak to Revelwood and Lord’s Keep.”
“Oh, you fool.” Troy did not know whether he was referring to Mhoram or himself. So many things had been kept from him. And yet he had never thought to ask who had the rods. He had been saving that whole subject until he saw Lord Foul’s army, knew what help he would need. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
For answer, Mhoram only gazed at him. But through his haze, Troy could not read the Lord’s expression. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he repeated more bitterly. “How much else is there that you haven’t told me?”
Mhoram sighed. “As to the lomillialor—I did not speak because you did not ask. The rods are not a tool that you could use. They were made for the Lords, and we used them as we saw fit. It did not occur to us that your desires would be otherwise.”
He sounded withdrawn, weary. For the first time, Troy noticed how unresponsive the Lord had been all day. A fit of shivering shook him. That dream Mhoram had had last night—what did it mean? What did the Lord knew that made him so unlike his usual self? Troy felt a sudden foretaste of dread. “Mhoram,” he began, “Mhoram—”
“Peace, Warmark,” the Lord breathed. “Someone comes.”
At once, Troy heaved to his feet, and caught at Ruel’s shoulder to anchor himself. Though he strained his ears, he could hear nothing but the low breeze. “Who is it?”
For a moment, no one answered. When Ruel spoke, his voice sounded as distant and passionless as the darkness. “It is Tull, who shared the mission of Korik to the Giants of Seareach.”
SEVENTEEN: Tull’s Tale
Troy’s heart lurched, and began to labor heavily. Tull! He could feel his pulse beating in his temples. Korik’s mission! After the shock of Runnik’s news, he had repressed all thought of the Giants, refused to let himself think of them. He had concentrated on the war, concentrated on something he could do something about. But now his thoughts reeled. The Giants!
Almost instantly he began to calculate. He had been away from Revelstone for twenty-five days. The mission to Seareach had left eighteen days before that. That was almost enough time, almost enough. The Giants could not travel as fast as Bloodguard on Ranyhyn—but surely they would not be far behind. Surely—
Troy could understand how Tull had come here. It made sense. The other Bloodguard would be leading the Giants, and Tull had come ahead to tell the Warward that help was on the way. With war on the Land and Lord Foul marching, the Giants would not go to Revelstone, would not go north at all. They would go south, around Sarangrave Flat if not through it. The Bloodguard knew Troy’s battle plan; they would know what to do. They would pick up the trail of Lord Foul’s army above Landsdrop south of Mount Thunder, and would follow it—past Morinmoss, through the Mithil valley, then southwest toward Doom’s Retreat. They would be hoping to attack Lord Foul’s rear during the battle of the Retreat. And Tull, seeking to circumvent Lord Foul’s army in search of the Warward, would naturally come south to skirt the Southron Range toward Doom’s Retreat. That route would bring him almost to the doorstep of Mithil Stonedown. Surely—!
When Tull topped the stair and stepped onto the Watch, Troy was so eager that he jumped past all preliminary questions. “Where are they?” The words came so rapidly that he could hardly articulate them. “How far behind are they?”
In the dim light of the graveling, he was unable to make out Tull’s face. But he could tell that the Bloodguard was not looking at him. “Lord,” Tull said, “I was charged by Korik to give my tidings to the High Lord. With Shull and Vale I was charged—” For an instant, his fiat voice faltered. “But the Bloodguard in the Stonedown have told me that the High Lord has gone into the Westron Mountains with Amok. I must giv
e my tidings to you. Will you hear?”
Even through his excitement, Troy sensed something strange in Tull’s tone, something that sounded like pain. But he could not wait to hear it explained. Before Lord Mhoram could reply, Troy repeated, “Where are they?”
“They?” said the Bloodguard.
“The Giants! How far behind are they?”
Tull turned deliberately away from him to face Lord Mhoram.
“We will hear you,” Mhoram said. His voice was tense with dread, but he spoke steadily, without hesitation. “This war is in our hands. Speak, Bloodguard.”
“Lord, they—we could not—the Giants—” Suddenly the habitual flatness of Tull’s voice was gone. “Lord!” The word vibrated with a grief so keen that the Bloodguard could not master it.
The sound of it stunned Troy. He was accustomed to the characteristic alien lack of inflection of all the Bloodguard. He had long since stopped expecting them to express what they felt—had virtually forgotten that they even had emotions. And he was not braced for grief; his anticipation of good news was so great that he could already taste it.
Instantly before either he or Lord Mhoram could say anything, react at all, Terrel moved toward Tull. Swinging so swiftly that Troy hardly saw the blow, he struck Tull across the face. The hit resounded heavily in the empty air.
At once, Tull stiffened, came to attention. “Lord,” he began again, and now his voice was as expressionless as the night, “with Shull and Vale I was charged to bear tidings to the High Lord. Before the dawn of the twenty-fourth day of the mission—the dawn after the dark of the moon—we left Coercri and came south, as Korik charged us, seeking to find the High Lord in battle at Doom’s Retreat. But because of the evil which is awake, we were compelled to journey on foot around the Sarangrave, and so twelve days were gone. We came too near to the Shattered Hills, and so Vale and Shull fell to the scouts and defenders of Corruption. But I endured. Borne by the Ranyhyn, I fled to Landsdrop and the Upper Land, following Corruption’s army. Striving to pass around it, I rode through the hills to the Southron Range, and so came within hail of Mithil Stonedown—eight days in which the Ranyhyn has run without rest.