“I will do it,” Mhoram murmured distantly.
“All right.” Troy felt acutely relieved to be free of that responsibility. “Now, what about this-what Tull told us? I don't like the idea of telling everyone that that the mission-” He could not bring himself to say the words, The Giants are dead. “I don't think the warriors will survive what's ahead if they know what happened to the mission. It's too much. Having three Giants taken over by Ravers is bad enough. And I'll have to tell them worse things than that myself.”
Softly, Mhoram breathed, “They deserve to know the truth.”
“Deserve?” Troy's deep feeling of culpability flooded into anger. “What they deserve is victory. By God, don't tell me what they deserve! It's a little late for you to start worrying about what they know or don't know. You've seen fit to keep secrets from me all along. God knows how many horrors you still haven't told me. Keep your mouth shut about this.”
“That choice was made by the Council. No one person has the right to withhold knowledge from another. No one is wise enough.” Mhoram spoke as if he were wrestling with himself.
"It's too late for that. If you want to talk about rights-you don't have the right to destroy my army."
“My friend, have you-have you suffered-has the withholding of knowledge harmed you?”
“How should I know? Maybe if you had told me the truth-about Atiaran-we wouldn't be here now. Maybe I would have been afraid of the risk. You tell me if that's good,or bad.” Then his anger softened. “Mhoram,” he pleaded, “they're right on the edge. I've already pushed them right to the edge. And we're not done. I just want to spare them something that will hurt so bad-”
“Very well,” Mhoram sighed in a tone of defeat. “I will not speak of the Giants.”
“Thank you,” Troy said intensely.
Mhoram gazed at him searchingly, but through his darkness he could not read the Lord's expression. For a moment, he feared that Mhoram was about to tell him something, reveal the last mysteries of Trell and Elena and Covenant. He did not want to hear such things-not now, when he was already so overburdened. But finally the Lord turned silently and started back toward Callindrill.
Troy followed him. But on the way he paused to speak with Terrel, who was the ranking Bloodguard. “Terrel, I want you to send scouts out to the South Plains. I don't expect Foul's army before midday tomorrow, but we shouldn't take any chances-and the warriors are too tired. But there's one thing. If Foul or Fleshharrower or whoever is in command sends any scouts this way, make sure they know we're here. I don't want them to have any doubt about where to find us.”
“Yes, Warmark,” Terrel said, and stepped away to make the arrangements. Troy and Mhoram went on to their campfire.
They found Lord Verement feeding Callindrill. As he spooned the broth to Callindrill's lips, the hawk-faced Lord talked steadily in a low, exasperated tone, as if his pride were offended; but his movements were gentle, and he did not abandon the task to Mhoram. He hovered over Callindrill until the warm broth had restored a touch of colour to his pale cheeks. Then
Verement stood up and rasped, “You would be less foolhardy were you not Ranyhyn-borne. A lesser mount would teach you the limits of your own strength.”
This inverted repetition of Verement's old accusation against himself momentarily overcame Lord Mhoram. A moan escaped through his teeth, and his eyes filled with tears. For that moment, his courage seemed to fail him, and he reached toward Verement as if he were groping through blind grief. But then he caught himself, smiled crookedly at the rough look of surprise and concern on Verement's face. “Come my brother,” he murmured. “I must speak with you.” Together, they walked away into the night, leaving Troy to watch over Callindrill.
In a wan voice, Callindrill asked, “What has happened? What disturbs Mhoram?”
Sighing heavily, Troy seated himself beside the Lord. He was full of all the evil he had caused. He had to swallow several times before he could find his voice to say, “Runnik came back from Korik's mission. Lord Shetra died in the Sarangrave.”
Then he was grateful that Callindrill did not speak. He did not think he could stand the reprimand of any more pain. They sat together in silence until Lord Mhoram returned alone.
Mhoram carried himself sorely, as if he had just been beaten with clubs. The flesh around his eyes was red and swollen, sorrowful. But his eyes themselves wielded a hot peril, and his glances were like spears. He said nothing about Lord Verement. Words were unnecessary; Mhoram's expression revealed how Verement took the news of his wife's death.
To steady himself, Mhoram set about preparing food for Troy and himself. Their meal passed under a shroud of gloom, but as he ate Lord Mhoram slowly mastered himself, relaxed the pain in his face. To match him, Warmark Troy grappled inwardly for the tone of confidence he would need when the council started. He did not want his doubt to show; he did not intend to make his army pay for his personal dilemmas and inadequacies. When Hiltmark Quaan approached the fire and announced that all the Hafts were ready, both Troy and Mhoram answered him resolutely, calmly.
The Lord threw a large pile of wood onto the fire while Quaan brought his officers into a wide circle around it. But despite the bright blaze of the fire, the Hafts looked hazy and insubstantial to Troy. For an irrational instant, he feared that they would break into illusions and disappear when he told them what they had to do. But he braced himself. Hiltmark Quaan 3 and First Haft Amorine stood near him like pillars on one side, and Lord Mhoram watched him from the other. Clearing his throat, he opened the council.
"Well, we're here. In spite of everything, we've accomplished something that any of us would have said was impossible. Before we get into what's ahead, I want to thank you all for what you've done. I'm proud of you-more than I'll ever be able to say."
As he spoke, he had to resist a temptation to duck his head, as if he were ashamed of his uncovered eyelessness. Painfully, he wondered what effect this view of him would have on the Hafts. But he forced himself to hold his head up as he continued. “But I have to tell you plainly-we haven't come near winning this war yet. We've made a good start, but it's only a start. Things are going to get worse- ” He lost his voice for a moment, and had to clench himself to recover it. "It's not going to work out the way I planned. Hiltmark Quaan-First Haft Amorine-you've done everything you could do-everything I asked. But it's not going to work out the way I told you it would.
“But-first things first. We've got reports to make. Hiltmark, will you go first?”
Quaan bowed, and stepped forward into the circle. His square, white-haired visage was streaked with grime and blood and fatigue, but his open gaze did not falter. In blunt, unaffected language, he described all that had happened to his command since he had left Revelstone-the raft ride and run to the Mithil valley, the blockade there, the progression of the battle as Fleshharrower, the corrupted Giant of whom
Manethrall Rue had spoken, organized successive efforts to break the hold of the defenders. For five days, the Bloodguard, the warriors, and the two Lords withstood Cavewights, kresh, warped manlike creations of the Illearth Stone, ur-viles.
“But on the sixth day,” Quaan continued, “Fleshharrower came against us himself.” Now his voice expressed the weariness of long fighting and lost warriors. "With a power that I do not name, he called a great storm against us. Abominable creatures like those of which Manethrall Rue spoke fell upon us from the sky. They cast fear among our mounts, and we were driven back. Then Fleshharrower broke the forbidding, and sent kresh and ur-viles to pursue us. Time and again; we turned to fight, so that the enemy might be delayed-and time and again we were overmastered. Often we sent riders ahead to bear warning, but every messenger was slain-flocks of savage cormorants assailed them from the sky, and destroyed them all, though some of them were Bloodguard.