srdonaldson.theillearthwar-第56节

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　through　the　Center　Plains　to　approach　Revelstone。　Thus　these　Plains　bore　much　of　the　brunt　of　Lord　Foul's　malice。　The　people　of　the　Plains　remembered　this；　and　sent　their　sons　and　daughters　to　the　Loresraat　to　be　trained　in　the　skills　of　the　Sword。
　As　he　made　camp　that　night；　Troy　was　intensely　conscious　of　how　personally　his　warriors　depended　on　him。　Their　homes　and　families　were　at　the　mercy　of　his　success　or　failure。　At　his　mand　they　were　enduring　the　slow　hell　of　this　forced　march。
　And　he　knew　that　the　war　would　begin　within　the　next　day。　By　that　time；　the　vanguard　of　Lord　Foul's　army　would　reach　the　western　end　of　the　Mithil　valley；　and　would　encounter　Hiltmark　Quaan　and　the　Lords　Callindrill　and　Verement。　He　was　sure　of　it；　no　later　than　the　evening　of　the　ninth　day。　Then　men　and　women　would　begin　to　die…his　warriors。　Bloodguard　would　begin　to　die。　He　wanted　to　be　with　them；　wanted　to　keep　them　alive；　but　he　could　not。　And　the　march　to　Doom's　Retreat　would　go　on　and　on　and　on；　grinding　down　the　Warward　like　the　millstone　of　an　unanswerable　need。　Soon　Troy　stretched　himself　out　in　his　blankets　and　pressed　his　face　against　the　earth　as　if　that　were　the　only　way　he　could　keep　his　balance。
　He　spent　most　of　the　night　reviewing　every　facet　of　his　battle　plan；　trying　to　assure　himself　that　he　had　not　made　any　mistakes。
　The　next　morning；　he　felt　full　of　urgency；　and　he　found　that　whenever　he　forgot　himself　he　began　to　hurry　Mehryl's　pace。　So　he　turned　to　Mhoram　and　asked　the　Lord　to　talk　to　him；　distract　him。
　In　response；　the　Lord　slowly　dropped　into　a　musing；　half…singing　tone；　and　began　to　tell　Troy　about　the
　various　legended　or　potent　parts　of　the　Land　which　lay　between　them　and　Doom's　Retreat。　In　particular；　he　narrated　some　of　the　old　tales　about　the　One　Forest；　the　mighty　wood　which　had　covered　the　Land　in　an　age　that　…was　ancient　before　Berek　Halfhand's　time；　with　its　Forestals　and　its　fierce　foes；　the　Ravers。　During　the　centuries　when　the　trees　were　still　awake；　he　said；　the　Forestals　had　cherished　their　consciousness　and　guided　their　defenses　against　turiya；　moksha；　and　samadhi。　But　now；　if　the　old　tales　spoke　truly；　no　active　remnant　or　vestige　of　the　One　Forest　and　the　Forestals　remained　in　the　Land；　except　the　grim　woods　of　Garroting　Deep　and　Caerroil　Wildwood。　And　none　who　entered　Garroting　Deep；　for　good　or　ill；　ever　returned。
　This　dark　forest　lay　near　the　line　of　the　Warward's　march；　beyond　the　Last　Hills。
　Then　Troy　talked　for　a　while　about　himself　and　his　reactions　to　the　Land。　He　felt　close　to　Mhoram；　and　this　enabled　him　to　discuss　the　way　High　Lord　Elena　personified　his　sense　of　the　Land。　Gradually；　he　relaxed；　regained　his　ability　to　say　to　himself；　It　doesn't　matter　who　summoned　me。　I　am　who　I　am。　I'm　going　to　do　it。
　So　he　was　not　just　surprised　when　he　and　Mhoram　caught　up　with　the　struggling　march　of　the　warriors　by　midafternoon。　He　was　shocked。
　The　Warward　was　almost　half　a　day's　march　behind　schedule。
　The　warriors　met　him　with　a　halting　cheer　that　stumbled　into　silence　as　they　realized　that　the　High　Lord　was　not　with　him。　But　Troy　ignored　them。　Riding　straight　up　to　First　Haft　Amorine；　he　barked；　〃You're　slow！　Speed　up　the　beat！　At　this　rate；　we're　going　to　be　exactly　one　and　a　half　days　too　late！〃
　The　wele　on　Amorine's　face　fell　into　chagrin；　and　she　whirled　away　at　once　toward　the　drummers。　With　a　wide；　sighing　groan　of　pain；　the　warriors　stepped　up　their　pace；　hurried　to　the　demand　of　the　drums　until　they　were　half　running。　Then　Warmark　Troy　rode　up　and　down　beside　their　ranks　like　a　flail；　enforcing　the　new　rhythm　with　his　angry　presence。
　When　he　found　one　Eoward　lagging　slightly；　he　shouted　into　the　young　drummer's　face；　〃By　God！　I'm　not　going　to　lose　this　war　because　of　you！〃　He　clapped　his　beat　by　the　shamed　Warhaft's　ear　until　the　drummer　copied　it　exactly。
　Only　after　his　dismay　had　subsided　did　he　observe　what　nine　days　of　hard　marching　had　done　to　the　Warward。　Then　he　wished　that　he　could　recant　his　harshness。　The　warriors　were　suffering　severely。　Almost　all　of　them　limped　in　some　way；　pushed　themselves　unevenly　against　the　nagging　pain　of　cuts　and　torn　muscles　and　bone　bruises。　Many　were　so　tired　that　they　had　stopped　sweating；　and　the　overheated　flush　of　their　faces　was　caked　with　dust；　giving　them　a　yellow　and　demented　look。　More　than　a　few　bled　at　the　shoulders　from　sores　worn　by　the　friction　of　their　pack　straps。　Despite　their　doggedness；　they　marched　raggedly；　as　if　they　could　hardly　remember　the　ranked　order　which　had　been　trained　into　them　ninety　leagues　ago　at　Revelstone。
　And　they　were　behind　schedule。　They　were　still　one　hundred　eighty　leagues　away　from　Doom's　Retreat。
　By　the　time　they　lurched　and　gasped　their　way　into　camp　for　the　night；　Troy　was　almost　frantic　for　some　way　to　save　them。　He　sensed　that　bare　determination　would　not　be　enough。
　As　soon　as　the　acpanying　Hirebrands　and　Gravelingases　had　started　their　campfires；　Lord　Mhoram　went　to　do　what　he　could　for　the　Warward。　He　moved　from　Eoward　to　Eoward；　helping　the　cooks。　In　each　stewpot；　his　blue　fire　worked　some　effect　on　4　the　food；　enhanced　it；　increased　its　health　and　vitality。　And　when　the　meal　was　done；　he　walked　through　all　the　Warward；　spreading　the　balm　of　his　presence　talking　to　the　warriors；　helping　them　with　their　bruises　'　and　bandages；　jesting　with　any　who　could　。muster　the
　strength　to　laugh。
　While　the　Lord　did　this；　Troy　met　with　his　officers；　the　Hafts　and　Warhafts。　After　he　had　explained　High　Lord　Elena's　absence；　he　turned　to　the　problem　of　the　march。　Painfully；　he　reviewed　the　circumstances　which　made　this　ordeal　so　imperative；　so　irretrievably
　necessary。　Then　he　addressed　himself　to　specific　details。　He　organized　a　rotation　schedule　for　the　leather　water　jugs；　so　that　they　would　be　passed　continuously　through　the　ranks　for　the　sake　of　the　overheated　warriors。　He　made　arrangements　for　the　packs　of　the　men　and　women　with　bleeding　shoulders　to　be　carried　by　the　horses。　He　ordered　all　the　mounted　officers　except　the　drummers　to　ride　double；　so　that　the　most　exhausted　warriors　could　rest　on　horseback；　and　he　told　these　officers　to　gather　aliantha　for　the　marchers　as　they　rode。　He　assigned　all　scouting　and　water　duties　to　the　Bloodguard；　thus　freeing　more　horses　to　help　the　warriors。　Then　he　sent　the　Hafts　and　Warhafts　back　to　their　mands。
　When　they　were　gone；　First　Haft　Amorine　came　over　to　speak　with　him。　Her　blunt；　dour　face　was　charged　with　some　grim　statement；　and　he　forestalled　her　quickly。　〃No；　Amorine；〃　he　said；　〃I　am　not　going　to　put　someone　else　in　your　place。〃_　She　tried　to　protest；　and　he　hurried　on　more　gently；　〃I　know　I've　made　it　sound　as　if　I　blame　you　because　we're　behind　schedule。　But　that's　just　because　I　really　blame　myself。　You're　the　only　one　for　this　job。　The　Warward　respects　you…just　as　it　respects　Quaan。　The　warriors　trust　your　experience　and　honesty。〃　Glumly；　he　concluded；　〃After　all　this；　I'm　not　so　sure　how　they　feel　about　me。〃
　At　once；　her　self…doubt　vanished。　〃You　are　the　Warmark。　Who　has　dared　to　question　you？〃　Her　tone　implied　that　anyone　who　wanted　to　challenge　him　would　have　to　deal　with　her　first。
　Her　loyalty　touched　him。　He　was　not　entirely　sure　that　he　deserved　it。　But　he　intended　to　deserve　it。　Swallowing　down　his　emotion；　he　replied；　〃No　one　is　going　to　question　me　as　long　as　we　keep　up　the　pace。　And　we　are　going　to　keep　it　up。〃　To　himself；　he　added；　I　promised　Quaan。　〃We're　going　to　gain　back　the　time　we've　lost…and　we're　going　to　do　it　here；　in　the　Center　Plains。　The　terrain　gets　worse　south　of　the　Black　River。〃
　The　First　Haft　nodded　as　if　she　believed　him。
　After　she　had　left　him；　he　went　to　his　blankets；　and
　spent　the　night　battering　the　private　darkness　of　his　brain　in　search　of　some　alternative　to　his　dilemma。　But　he　could　conceive　nothing　to　eliminate　the　need　for　this　forced　march。　When　he　slept；　he　dreamed　of　warriors　shambling　into　the　south　as　if　it　were　an　open　grave。
　The　next　morning；　when　the　ranks　of　the　Warward　stirred；　tensed　weakly；　lumbered　into　motion　like　a　long　dark　groan　across　the　Plains；　Warmark　Hile　Troy　marched　with　them。　Eschewing　his　Ranyhyn；　he　started　the　beat　of　the　drums；　verified　it；　and　moved　to　it　himself。　As　he　marched；　he　worked　his　way　up　and　down　among　the　Eoward；　visiting　every　Eoman；　encouraging　every　Warhaft　by　name；　surprising　the　warriors　out　of　their　numb　fatigue　with　his　presence　and　concern…striving　in　spite　of　his　own　untrained　physical　condition　to　set　an　example　that　would　be　of　some　help　to　his　army。　At　the　end　of　one　day　in　the　ranks；　he　was　so　weary　that　he　barely　reached　the　small　camp　he　shared　with　Lord　Mhoram　and　First　Haft　Amorine　before　he　mumbled　something　about　dying　and　pitched　into　sleep。　But　the　next　day　he　hauled　himself　up　and　repeated　his　performance；　hiding　his　pain　behind　the　miseration　which　he　carried　in　one　way　or　another　to　the　warriors　of　the　Warward。
　He　marched　with　his　army　for　four　days　across　the　Center　Plains。　After　each　day　at　his　cruel　pace；　he　felt　that　he　had　passed　his　limit…that　the　whole　forced　march　was　impossible；　and　he　must　give　it　up。　But　each　night　Lord　Mhoram　helped　cook　the　army's　food；　and　then　went　among　the　wa