That knowledge tightened Lord Mhoram's cold, weary dread. He had so little time in which to attempt Warmark Troy's plan. From this position, there were no escapes and no hopes except the one Troy had envisioned. If Mhoram were not successful-successful soon! — the Warward would be crushed between the Raver and Garroting Deep.
Yet he doubted that he could succeed at all, regardless of the time at his disposal. In a year or a score of years, he might still fail. The demand was so great-Even the vortex of trepidation had not made him feel so helpless.
Yet he shuddered when he thought of the vortex. Although Troy had saved virtually all the Warward, the men and women who had remained in the masterplace had paid heavily for their survival. Something in Lord Callindrill had been damaged by Fleshharrower's attack. The strain of combat against bitter ill had humiliated him in some way, taught him a deep distrust of himself. He had not been able to resist the fear. Now his clear soft eyes were clouded, pained. When he melded his thoughts with Lord Mhoram, he shared knowledge and concern, but not strength; he no longer believed in his strength.
In her own way, First Haft Amorine suffered similarly. During the Raver's onslaught, she had held the collapsing remains of her command together by the simple force of her courage. She had taken the terror of her warriors upon herself. Every time one of them fell under the power of the vortex, or died in the talons of the birds, she had tightened her grip on the survivors. And after that, when the sirocco had passed, she began a frantic search for Warmark Troy. The perverted, manlike creatures that rushed into the ruins — some with claws for fingers, others with cleft faces and limbs covered with suckers, still others with extra eyes or arms, all of them warped in some way by the power of the Stone-steadily brought more and more of the city under their control. But she fought her way through them as if they were mere shades to haunt her while she hunted. The idea of following Mehryl was hers.
But the Warmark's blindness was too much for her. The cause of it was clear. The slain bird's corrosive blood had ravaged his face, and that burning had undone the Land's gift of sight. Neither of the Lords had any hurtloam, rillinlure, or other arts of healing with which to counteract the hurt. When she understood Troy's plight, she appeared to lose herself; independent will deserted her. Until she rejoined the Warward, she followed Lord Mhoram's requests and instructions blankly, like a puppet from which all authority had evaporated. And when she saw Hiltmark Quaan again, she transferred herself to him. As she told him of Troy's plan, she was so numb that she did not even falter.
The Warmark himself had said nothing more after describing his final strategy. He wrapped himself in his blindness and allowed Mhoram to place him on Mehryl's back. He did not ask about Fleshharrower's army, though only the speed of the Ranyhyn saved him and his companions from being trapped in the city. Despite the scream of frustration which roared after the riders, he carried himself like an invalid who had turned his face to the wall.
And Lord Mhoram also suffered. After the battle of the masterplace, fatigue and dread had forced tenacious fingers into the crevices and crannies of his soul, so that he could not shake them off. Yet he helped the First Haft and Lord Callindrill as best he could. He knew that only time and victory could heal their wounds; but he absorbed those parts of their burdens which came within his reach, and gave back to them all the consolation he possessed.
There was nothing he could do to ease the shock which Amorine's report of the Warmark's final plan gave Quaan. As she spoke, the Hiltmark's concern for her gave way to a livid horror on behalf of the warriors. His expression flared, and he erupted, “Madness! Every man and woman will be slain! Troy, what has become of you? By the Seven! Troy Warmark!”-he hesitated awkwardly before uttering his thought “Do you rave? My friend,” he breathed gripping Troy's shoulders, “how can you meditate such folly?”
Troy spoke for the first time since he had left Doriendor Corishev. “I'm blind,” he said in a hollow voice, as if that explained everything. “I can't help it.” He pulled himself out of Quaan's grasp, sat down near the fire. Locating the flames by their heat, he hunched toward them like a man studying secrets in the coals.
Quaan turned to Mhoram. “Lord, do you accept this madness? It will mean death for us all-and destruction for the Land.”
Quaan's protest made the Lord's heart ache. But before he could find words for any answer, Troy spoke suddenly.
“No, he doesn't,” the Warmark said. “He doesn't actually think I'm a Raver.” Inner pain made his voice harsh. “He thinks Foul had a hand in summoning me-interfered with Atiaran somehow so that I showed up, instead of somebody else who might have looked less friendly.” He stressed the word looked, as if sight itself were inherently untrustworthy. "Foul wanted the Lords to trust me because he knew what kind of man I am. Dear God! It doesn't matter how much I hate him. He knew I'm the kind of man who backs into corners where just being fallible is the same thing as treachery.
“But you forget that it isn't up to me anymore. I've done my part-I've put you where you haven't got any choice. Now Mhoram has got to save you. It's on his head.”
Quaan appeared torn between dismay for the Warward and concern for Troy. “Even a Lord may be defeated,” he replied gruffly.
“I'm not talking about a Lord,” Troy rasped. “I'm talking about Mhoram.”
In his weariness, Lord Mhoram ached to deny this, to refuse the burden. He said, “Warmark, of course I will do all that lies within my strength. But if Lord Foul has chosen you for the work of our destruction-ah, then, my friend, all aid will not avail. The burden of this plan will return to you at the last.”
“No.” Troy kept his face toward the fire, as if here reliving the acid burn which had blinded him. “You've given your whole life to the Land, and you're going to give it now.”
“The Despiser knows me well,” Mhoram breathed. “He ridicules me in my dreams.” He could hear echoes of that belittling mirth, but he held them at a distance. “Do not mistake me, Warmark. I do not flinch this burden. I accept it. On Kevin's Watch I made my promise and you dared this plan because of that promise. You have not done ill. But I must speak what is in my heart. You are the Warmark. I believe that the command of this fate must finally return to you.”
“I'm blind. There's nothing more I can do. Even Foul can't ask any more of me.” The heat of the fire made the burn marks on his face lurid. He held his hands clasped together, and his knuckles were white.
In distress, Quaan gazed at Mhoram with eyes that asked if he had been wrong to trust Troy.
“No,” Lord Mhoram answered. “Do not pass judgment upon this mystery until it is complete. Until that time, we must keep faith.”
“Very well,” Quaan sighed heavily. “If we have been betrayed, we have no recourse now. To flee into the Desert will accomplish only death. And Cravenhaw is a place to fight and die like any other. The Warward must not turn against itself when the last battle is near. I will stand with Warmark Troy.” Then he went to his blankets to search for sleep among his fears. Amorine followed his example dumbly, leaving Callindrill and Mhoram with Troy.
Callindrill soon dropped into slumber. And Mhoram was too worn to remain awake. But Troy sat up by the embers of the campfire. As the Lord's eyes closed, Troy was still huddled toward the flames like a cold cipher seeking some kind of remission for its frigidity.
Apparently, the Warmark found an answer during the long watch. When Lord Mhoram awoke the next morning, he found Troy erect, standing with his arms folded across his breastplate. The Lord studied him closely, but could not discern what kind of answer Troy had discovered. Gently, he greeted the blind man.