srdonaldson.theillearthwar-第57部分

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　must　give　it　up。　But　each　night　Lord　Mhoram　helped　cook　the　army's　food；　and　then　went　among　the　warriors；　sharing　his　courage　with　them。　And　twice　during　those　four　days　the　Warward　came　upon　Bloodguard　tending　large　caches　of　food…supplies　prepared　by　the　villagers　of　the　Center　Plains。　Fresh　and　abundant　food　had　a　surprising　efficacy；　it　restored　the　fortitude　of　warriors　who　no　longer　believed　in　their　ability　to　drive　themselves　forward。　At　the　end　of　his　fourth　day　on　foot…the　thirteenth　day　of　the　march…Troy　finally　allowed　himself　to　think　that　the　condition　of　the　Warward　had　stabilized。
　He　had　walked　more　than　forty　leagues。
　Fearing　to　do　anything　which　might　damage　his　army's　fragile　balance；　he　planned　to　continue　his　own　march。　Both　Mhoram　and　Amorine　urged　him　to　stop…they　were　concerned　about　his　exhaustion；　about　his　bleeding　feet　and　unsteady　gait…but　he　shrugged　their　arguments　aside。　In　his　heart；　he　was　ashamed　to　ride　when　his　warriors　were　suffering　afoot。
　But　the　next　morning　he　tasted　a　worse　shame。　When　the　light　of　dawn　woke　him；　he　struggled　out　of　his　blankets　to　find　Amorine　standing　before　him。　In　a　grim　voice；　she　reported　that　the　Warward　had　been　attacked　during　the　night。
　Sometime　after　midnight；　the　Bloodguard　scouts　had　reported　that　the　tethered　horses　were　being　stalked　by　a　pack　of　kresh。　At　once；　the　alarm　spread　throughout　the　camp；　but　only　the　mounted　Hafts　and　Warhafts　had　been　able　to　answer　it　swiftly。　With　the　Bloodguard；　they　rushed　to　the　defense　of　the　horses。
　They　found　themselves　confronting　a　huge　pack　of　the　great　yellow　wolves…at　least　ten…score　kresh。　The　Bloodguard　on　their　Ranyhyn　met　the　first　brunt　of　the　attack；　but　they　were　outnumbered　ten　to　one。　And　the　officers　behind　them　were　on　foot。　The　scent　of　the　kresh　had　panicked　the　horses；　so　that　they　could　not　be　mounted；　or　herded　out　of　danger。　One　Ranyhyn；　five　horses；　and　nearly　a　dozen　Hafts　and　Warhafts　were　slain　before　Amorine　and　Lord　Mhoram　were　able　to　mobilize　their　defense　effectively　enough　to　drive　back　the　wolves。
　And　before　the　kresh　were　repelled；　a　score　or　more　of　them　broke　past　the　officers　and　charged　into　a　part　of　the　camp　where　some　of　the　warriors；　stunned　by　exhaustion；　were　still　asleep。　Ten　of　those　men　and　women　lay　dead　or　maimed　in　their　blankets　after　the　Bloodguard　and　Mhoram　had　destroyed　the　wolves。
　Hearing　this；　Troy　became　livid。　Brandishing　his　fists　in　anger　and　frustration；　he　demanded；　〃Why　didn't　you　wake　me？〃
　Without　meeting　his　gaze；　the　First　Haft　said；　〃I
　spoke　to　you；　shook　you；　shouted　in　your　ear。　But　I　could　not　rouse　you。　The　need　was　urgent；　so　I　went　to　meet　it。〃
　After　that；　Troy　did　no　more　marching。　He　did　not　intend　to　be　betrayed　by　his　weakness　again。　Astride　Mehryl；　he　rode　with　Ruel　along　the　track　of　the　kresh；　and　when　he　had　assured　himself　that　the　wolves　were　not　part　of　a　concerted　army；　he　returned　to　take　his　place　at　the　head　of　the　Warward。　From　time　to　time；　he　cantered　around　his　army　as　if　he　were　prepared　to　defend　it　single…handed。
　The　kresh　attacked　again　that　night；　and　again　the　next　night。　But　both　times；　Warmark　Troy　was　ready　for　them。　Though　he　was　blind　in　the　darkness；　unable　to　fight；　he　studied　the　terrain　and　chose　his　campsites　carefully　before　dusk。　He　made　provision　for　the　protection　of　the　horses；　planned　his　defenses。　Then　he　set　ambushes　of　Bloodguard；　archers；　fire。　Many　kresh　were　killed；　but　his　Warward　suffered　no　more　losses。
　After　that　third　assault；　the　wolves　left　him　alone。　But　then　he　had　other　things　to　worry　about。　During　the　morning　of　the　march's　sixteenth　day；　a　wall　of　black　clouds　moved　out　of　the　east　toward　the　warriors。　Before　noon；　gusts　of　wind　reached　them；　ruffling　their　hair；　riling　the　tall　grass　of　the　Plains。　The　wind　stiffened　as　the　outer　edges　of　the　storm　drew　nearer。　Soon　rain　began　to　flick　at　them　out　of　the　darkening　sky。
　The　intense　blackness　of　the　clouds　promised　a　murderous　downpour。　It　effectively　blinded　Troy。　All　the　Hirebrands　and　Gravelingases　lit　their　fires；　to　provide　light　to　hold　the　Warward　together　against　the　force　of　the　torrents。　But　the　main　body　of　the　storm　did　not　e　that　far　west；　it　seemed　to　focus　its　center　on　a　point　somewhere　in　the　eastern　distance；　and　when　it　had　taken　its　position　it　remained　stationary。
　The　warriors　marched　through　the　outskirts　of　the　grim　weather。　The　ragged　and　tormented　rain　which　lashed　at　them　out　of　the　infernal　depths　of　the　storm　did　not　harm　them　much；　but　their　spirits　suffered　nevertheless。　They　all　felt　the　ill　force　which　drove　the　blast。　They　did　not　need　Troy　to　tell　them　that　it　was　almost　certainly　directed　at　Hiltmark　Quaan's　mand。
　By　the　time　the　storm　had　dissipated　itself　late　the　next　day；　Troy　had　lost　nearly　one　Eoman。　Somewhere　in　the　darkness　and　the　fear　of　what　assailed　Quaan；　almost　a　score　of　the　least　hardy　warriors　lost　their　courage；　amid　all　the　slipping　and　struggling　of　the　Warward；　they　simply　lay　down　in　the　mud　and　died。
　But　they　were　only　eighteen。　Close　to　sixteen　thousand　men　and　women　survived　the　storm　and　marched　on。　And　for　the　sake　of　the　living；　Warmark　Troy　steeled　his　heart　against　the　dead。　Riding　Mehryl　as　if　there　were　no　limit　to　his　courage；　he　led　his　army　southward；　southward；　and　did　not　let　his　crippling　pace　waver。
　Then；　three　days　later…the　day　after　the　full　of　the　moon…the　Warward　had　to　swim　the　Black　River。
　This　river　formed　the　boundary　between　the　Center　and　South　Plains。　It　flowed　northeast　out　of　the　Westron　Mountains；　and　joined　the　Mithil　many　scores　of　leagues　in　the　direction　of　Andelain。　Old　legends　said　that　when　the　Black　River　burst　out　from　under　the　great　cliff　of　Rivenrock；　the　eastward　face　of　Melenkurion　Skyweir；　its　water　was　as　red　as　pure　heart's…blood。　But　from　Rivenrock　the　Black　poured　into　the　center　of　Garroting　Deep。　Before　it　passed　through　the　Last　Hills　into　the　Plains；　it　crossed　the　foot　of　Gallows　Howe；　the　ancient　execution　mound　of　the　Forestals。　The　water　which　the　Warward　had　to　cross　was　reddish…black；　as　if　it　were　thick　with　a　strange　silt。　In　all　the　history　of　the　Land；　the　Black　River　between　the　Last　Hills　and　the　Mithil　had　never　tolerated　a　bridge　or　ford；　it　simply　washed　away　every　effort　to　make　a　way　across　it。　The　warriors　had　no　choice　but　to　swim。
　As　they　climbed　the　south　bank；　they　looked　drained；　as　if　some　essential　stamina　or　mitment　had　been　sucked　from　their　bones　by　the　current's　dark　hunger。
　Still　they　marched。　The　Warmark　manded　them　forward；　and　they　marched。　But　now　they　moved　like　battered　empty　hulks；　driven　by　a　meaningless　wind　over　the　trackless　sargasso　of　the　South　Plains。　At　times；　it　seemed　that　only　the　solitary　fire　of　Troy's　will　kept　them　stumbling；　trudging　ahead；　striving。
　And　in　the　South　Plains　yet　another　difficulty　awaited　them。　Here　the　terrain　became　rougher。　In　the　southwest　corner　of　the　Center　Plains；　only　the　thick　curve　of　the　Last　Hills　separated　Garroting　Deep　from　the　Plains。　But　south　of　the　Black　River；　these　hills　became　mountains…a　canted　wedge　of　rugged　peaks　with　its　tip　at　the　river；　its　eastern　corner　at　the　bottleneck　of　Doom's　Retreat；　and　its　western　corner　at　Cravenhaw；　where　Garroting　Deep　opened　into　the　Southron　Wastes　forty　leagues　southwest　of　Doom's　Retreat。　The　line　of　the　Warward's　march　took　it　deeper　and　deeper　into　the　rough　foothills　skirting　these　mountains。
　After　two　days　of　struggling　with　these　hills；　the　warriors　looked　like　reanimated　dead。　They　were　not　yet　lagging　very　far　behind　the　pace；　but　clearly　it　was　only　a　matter　of　time　before　they　began　to　drop　in　their　tracks。
　As　the　sun　began　to　set；　covering　Troy's　sight　with　mist；　the　Warmark　made　his　decision。　The　condition　of　the　warriors　wrung　his　heart；　he　felt　his　army　had　reached　a　kind　of　crisis。　The　Warward　was　still　five　days　from　Doom's　Retreat；　five　terrible　days。　And　he　did　not　know　where　Quaan　was。　Without　some　knowledge　of　the　Hiltmark's　position　and　status；　some　knowledge　of　Lord　Foul's　army；　Troy　could　not　prepare　for　what　lay　ahead：　And　his　army　no　longer　appeared　capable　of　any　preparation。
　The　time　had　e　for　him　to　act。
　Though　the　Warward　was　still　a　league　away　from
　the　end　of　its　scheduled　march；　he　halted　it　for　the　night。　And　while　the　warriors　shambled　about　the　business　of　making　camp；　he　called　Lord　Mhoram　aside。　In　the　dusk；　he　could　hardly　make　out　the　Lord's　features；　but　he　concentrated　on　them　with　all　his　determination；　strove　to　convey　to　Mhoram　the
　intensity　of　his　appeal。　〃Mhoram；〃　he　breathed；　〃there　has　got　to　be　something　you　can　do　for　them。　Something　anything　to　help　pull　them　together。　Something　you　can　do　with　your　staff；　or　sing；　or　put　in　the　food；　something。　There　has　got　to　be！〃
　Lord　Mhoram　studied　the　Warmark's　face　closely。　〃Perhaps；〃　he　said　after　a　moment。　〃There　is　one　aid　which　may　have　some　effect　against　the　touch　of　the　Black　River。　But　I　have　been　loath　to　use　it；　for　once　it　has　been　done　it　cannot　be　done　again。　We　are　yet　long　days　from　Doom's　Retreat…and　the　need　of　the　warriors　for　strength　in　battle　will　be　severe。　Should　not　this　aid　be　kept　until　that　time？〃
　〃No。〃