When the army stoopped for the night, Mhoram, Elena, and Amatin moved among the bright campfires, singing songs and telling gleeful Giantish stories to buttress the hearts of the warriors. As he watched them, Troy felt a keen regret that long days would pass before the Lords could again help Amorine maintain the Warward's spirit.
But the separation was necessary. High Lord Elena had several reasons for visiting the Loresraat. But Revelwood was out of the way; the added distance was prohibitive for the marching warriors. So the Lords and the Warward parted company the next afternoon. The three Lords, accompanied by Covenant and Troy, the twenty Bloodguard, and the Lorewardens, turned with the road southwest toward Trothgard and Revelwood. And First Haft Amorine led the Warward, with its mounted Hirebrands and Gravelingases, almost due south in a direct line toward Doom's Retreat.
Troy had business of his own at the Loresraat, and he was forced to leave Amorine alone in command of his army. That afternoon, the autumn sky turned dim as rainclouds moved heavily eastward. When he gave the First Haft his final instruction, his vision was blurred; he had to peer through an ominous haze. "Keep the pace," he said curtly. "Push it even faster when you reach easier ground past the Gray River. If you can gain a little time, we won't have to drive so hard around the Last Hills. We'll catch up to you in the Center Plains." His voice was stiff with awareness of the difficulties she faced.
Amorine responded with a nod that expressed her seasoned resolve. A light rain started to fall. Troy's vision became so clouded that he could no longer make out individual figures in the massed Warward. He gave the First Haft a tight salute, and she turned to lead the warriors angling away from the road.
The Lords and Lorewardens gave a shout of encouragement, but Troy did not join it. He took Mehryl to the top of a bare knoll, and stood there with his ebony sword raised against the drizzle while the whole length of his army passed by like a shadow in the fog below him. He told himself that the Warward was not going into battle without him--that his warriors would only march until he rejoined them. But the thought did not ease him. The Warward was his tool, his means of serving the Land; and when he returned to the other riders he felt awkward, disjointed, almost dismembered, as if only the skill of the Ranyhyn kept him on balance. He rode on through the rest of the day wrapped in the familiar loneliness of the blind.
Troy can certainly be an inspiring figure when he focuses on that. But all this separation of forces strikes me as a weakening of the Warward, though I realize the Lords and Troy are trying to prepare for every possible eventuality of the war. There were only so many rafts to send Callindrill, Verement, Quann and his warriors, and the accompanying Bloodguard to block Foul's army, I realize. But all this division of the Land's defenders seems to be weakening them. Oh well, it makes for better wartime drama.
