“All right,” Troy said, rising to his feet. His heart laboured with anxiety, but he ignored it. “I understand that you don't know the size of Foul's army. I accept that. But I've got to know how much head start he has. Exactly how many days ago did you see his army leave the Shattered Hills?”
The Manethrall did not need to count back. She replied promptly, “Twenty days”
For an instant, the Warmark regarded her eyelessly from behind his sunglasses, stunned into silence. Then he whispered, “Twenty days?” His brain reeled. “Twenty?” With a violence that wrenched his heart, his image of the Despiser's army surged forward thirty-five leagues-five days. He had counted on receiving word of Lord Foul's movements in fifteen days. He had studied the Ramen; he knew to a league how far a Manethrall could travel in a day. “Oh, my God.” Rue should have been able to reach Revelstone in fifteen days.
He was five days short. Five days less in which to march over three hundred leagues-! And Lord Foul's army would be in the Centre Plains ten days from now.
Without knowing how he had reached that position, he found himself sitting with his face in his hands as if he could not bear to look at the ruin of all his fine strategy. Numbly, as if it were a matter of no consequence, he realized that he had been right about one thing: Covenant's summons coincided with the start of Lord Foul's army. That ploy had triggered the Despiser's attack. Or did it work the other 'way around? Had Lord Foul somehow anticipated the call?
“How-?” For a moment, he could not find what he wanted to ask, and he repeated stupidly, “How-?”
“Ask!” Rue demanded softly.
He heard the warning in her voice, the danger of offending her pride after an exhausting ordeal. It made him raise his head, look at her. She was glaring at him, and her hands twitched as if they yearned to snatch the fighting cord from her hair. But he had to ask the question, had to be sure-“What happened to you? Why did it take so long?” His voice sounded small and lorn to himself.
“I was driven from my way,” she said through her teeth, “north into the marge of the Sarangrave.”
“Dear God,” Troy breathed weakly. He felt the way Rue looked at him, felt all the eyes in the Close on him. But he could not think; his brain was inert. Lord Foul was only a three-day march from Morinmoss.
The Manethrall snorted disdainfully, and turned away toward the High Lord. “Is this the man who leads your warriors?” she asked sourly.
“Please pardon him,” Elena replied. “He is young in the Land, and in some matters does not see clearly. But he has been chosen by the Ranyhyn. In time he will show his true value.”
Rue shrugged. “Do you have other questions?” she said wearily. “I would end this.”
“You have told us much. We have no more doubt of Lord Foul's movements, and can guess his speed. Only one question remains. It concerns the composition of Fangthane's army. What manner of beings comprise it?”
Bitterness stiffened Rue's stance, and she said harshly, “I have spoken of the wind, and the evil in the air which felled my Cords. In the army I saw ur-viles, Cavewights, a mighty host of kresh, great lion-like beasts with wings which both ran and flew, and many other ill creatures. They wore shapes like dogs or horses or men, yet they were not what they seemed. They shone with great wrong. To my heart, they appeared as the people and beasts of the Land made evil by Fangthane.”
“That is the work of the Illearth Stone,” the High Lord murmured.
But Manethrall Rue was not done. “One other thing I saw. I could not be mistaken, for it marched near the forefront, commanding the movements of the horde. It controlled the creatures with a baleful green light, and called itself Fleshharrower. It was a Giant.”
For an instant, a silence like a thunderclap broke over the Close. It snatched Troy's attention erect, lit a fire of dread in his chest. The Giants! Had Lord Foul conquered them? Already?
Then First Mark Morin came to his feet and said in a voice flat with certainty, “Impossible. Rockbrother is another name for fealty and faith. Do you rave?”
At once, the chamber clamoured in protest against the very idea that a Giant could join the Despiser. The thought was too shocking to be admitted; it cast fundamental beliefs into hysteria. The Hafts burst out lividly, and several of them shouted through the general uproar that Rue was lying. Two Lorewardens took up Morin's question and made it an accusation: Rue was in the grip of a Raver. Confusion overcame even the Lords. Trevor and Loerya paled with fear; Verement barked at Mhoram; Elena and Callindrill were staggered; and Amatin burst into tears.
The noise aggravated swiftly in the clear acoustics of the Close, exacerbated itself, forced each voice to become rawer and wilder. There was panic in the din. If the Giants could be made to serve Despite, then nothing was safe, sure; betrayal lurked everywhere. Even the Bloodguard had an aspect of dismay in their flat faces.
Yet under the protesting and the abuse, Manethrall Rue stood firmly, holding up her head with a blaze of pride and fury in her eyes.
The next moment, Covenant reached her side. Shaking his fists at the assembly, he howled, “Hellfire! Can't you see that she's telling the truth?”
His voice had no effect. But something in his yell penetrated Hiltmark Quaan. The old veteran knew the Ramen well; he had known Rue during her youth. He jumped to his feet and shouted, “Order!!”
Caught in their trained military reactions, the Hafts sprang to attention.
Then High Lord Elena seemed to realize what was happening around her. She reasserted her control with a blast of blue fire from the Staff, and one hot cry:
“I am ashamed!”
A stung silence, writhing with fear and indignation, burned in answer to her shout. But she met it passionately, sternly, as if something precious were in danger. “Melenkurion abatha! Have we come to this? Does fear so belittle us? Look! Look at her. If you have not heard the truth in her voice, then look at her now. Remember your Oath of Peace, and look at her. By the Seven! What evil do you see? No-I will hear no protestations that ill can be disguised. We are in the Close of Revelstone. This is the Council of Lords. No Raver could utter falsehood and betrayal here. If there were any wrong in the Manethrall, you would have known it.”
When she saw that she had mastered the assembly, she continued more quietly. “My friends, we are more than this. I do not know the meaning of Manethrall Rue's tidings. Perhaps the Despiser has captured and broken a Giant through the power of the Illearth Stone. Perhaps he can create ill wights in any semblance he desires, and showed a false Giant to Rue, knowing how the tale of a betraying Rockbrother would harm us. We must gain answers to these questions. But here stands Manethrall Rue of the Ramen, exhausted in the accomplishment of a help which we can neither match nor repay. Cleanse your hearts of all thought against her. We must not do such injustice.”
“Right.” Troy heaved himself to his feet. His brain was working again. He was ashamed of his weakness and, by extension, ashamed of his Hafts as well. Belatedly, he remembered that the Lords Callindrill and Amatin had been unable to breach Sarangrave Flat and yet Rue had survived it, so that she could come to warn Revelstone. And he did not like to think that Covenant had behaved better than he. “You're right.” He faced the Ramen squarely. “Manethrall, my Hafts and I owe you an apology. You deserve better-especially from us.” He put acid in his tone for the ears of the Hafts. “War puts burdens on people without caring whether they're ready for them or not.”