Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson - [Wheel of Time 13]

by Towers of Midnight (v1. 2) (epub)

  But it was also wrong. Terribly wrong. Perrin wouldn't do that, no matter how much he'd changed. Of that, Faile could be certain.

  "Yes," she said. "Giving a promise to Galad, then slaughtering the Whitecloaks in this way, it would rip Perrin apart. He doesn't think that way. It won't happen."

  "I hope that you are right," Berelain said. "I had hoped some sort of accommodation could be reached with their commander before we left . . ."

  A Whitecloak. Light! Couldn't she have picked one of the noblemen in camp to give her attentions to? One who wasn't married? "You aren't very good at picking men, are you, Berelain?" The words just slipped out.

  Berelain turned back to Faile, eyes widening in either shock or anger. "And what of Perrin?"

  "A terrible match for you," Faile said with a sniff. "You've shown that tonight, by what you think he is capable of."

  "How good a match he was is irrelevant. I was promised him."

  "By whom?"

  "The Lord Dragon," Berelain said.

  "What?"

  "I came to the Dragon Reborn in the Stone of Tear," she said. "But he would not have me he even grew angry with my advances. I realized that he, the Dragon Reborn, intended to marry a much higher lady, probably Elayne Trakand. It makes sense he cannot take every realm by the sword; some will have to come to him through alliances. Andor is very powerful, is ruled by a woman, and would be advantageous to hold through marriage."

  "Perrin says Rand doesn't think like that, Berelain," Faile said. "Not so calculating. It's my inclination, too, from what I know of him."

  "And you say the same thing about Perrin. You'd have me believe they're all so simple. Without a wit in their heads."

  "I didn't say that."

  "And yet you use the same old protests. Tiring. Well, I realized what the Lord Dragon was implying, so I turned my attentions towatd one of his close attendants. Perhaps he did not 'promise' them to me. That was a poor choice of words. But I knew he would be pleased if I made a union with one of his close allies and friends. Indeed, I suspect that he wished me to do it after all, the Lord Dragon did place me and Perrin togethet for this mission. He could not be frank about what he desired, however, so as to not offend Pettin."

  Faile hesitated. On one hand, what Berelain said was purely foolish . . . but on the other, she could see what the woman might have seen. Or, perhaps, what she wished to see. To her, breaking apart a husband and wife was nothing immoral. This was politics. And, logically, Rand probably should have wanted to tie nations to him through bonds of marriage to those closest to him.

  That didn't change the fact that neither he, nor Perrin, regarded matters of the heart in such a way.

  "I have given up on Petrin," Berelain said. "I hold to my promise there. But it leaves me in a difficult situation. I have long thought that a connection to the Dragon Reborn is Mayene's only hope in maintaining independence in the coming years."

  "Marriage isn't only about claiming political advantages," Faile said.

  "And yet the advantages are so obvious that they cannot be ignored."

  "And this Whitecloak?" Faile asked.

  "Half-brother of the Queen of Andor," Berelain said, blushing slightly. "If the Lord Dragon does intend to marry Elayne Trakand, this will give me a link to him."

  It was much more than that; Faile could see it in the way Berelain acted, in the way she looked when she spoke of Galad Damodred. But if she wanted to rationalize a political motivation for it, Faile had no reason to dissuade her, so long as it helped distract her from Perrin.

  "I have done as you asked," Berelain said. "And so now, I ask your aid. If it appears that he is going to attack them, please join me in trying to dissuade him. Together, perhaps we can manage it."

  "Very well," Faile said.

  Perrin rode at the head of an army that felt unified for the first time. The flag of Mayene, the flag of Ghealdan, the banners of noble Houses from among the refugees. Even a few banners the lads had made up representing the parts of the Two Rivers. Above them all flapped the wolfhead.

  Lord Perrin. He would never get used to that, but maybe that was a good thing.

  He trotted Stepper over to the side of the open gateway as the troops marched past, saluting. They were lit by torches for now. Hopefully the channelers would be able to light the battlefield later.

  A man came up beside Stepper, and Perrin smelled animal pelts, loam and rabbit's blood. Elyas had gone hunting while he waited for the army to gather. It took quite a keen hunter to catch rabbits at night. Elyas said it was a better challenge.

  "You said something to me once, Elyas," Perrin said. "You told me that if I ever grew to like the axe, I should throw it away."

  "That I did."

  "I think it applies to leadership, too. The men who don't want titles should be the ones who get them, it seems. So long as I keep that in mind, I think I might do all right."

  Elyas chuckled. "The banner looks good, hanging up there."

  "It fits me. Always has. I just haven't always fit it."

  "Deep thoughts, for a blacksmith."

  "Perhaps." Perrin pulled the blacksmith's puzzle from his pocket, the one he'd found in Maiden. He still hadn't managed to get the thing apart. "Has it ever struck you as odd that blacksmiths seem like such simple folk, yet they're the ones who make all of these blasted puzzles that are so hard to figure out?"

  "Never thought of it like that. So you're one of us, finally?"

  "No," Perrin said, putting the puzzle away. "I am who I am. Finally." He wasn't certain what had changed within him. But perhaps trying to think it through too much had been the problem in the first place.

  He knew that he'd found his balance. He would never become like Noam, the man who had lost himself to the wolf. And that was enough.

  Perrin and Elyas waited for a time, watching the army pass. These larger gateways made it much easier to Travel; they'd have all of the fighting men and women through in under an hour. Men raised hands to Perrin, smelling proud. His connection to the wolves did not frighten them; in fact, they actually seemed less worried now that they knew the specifics of it. Before, there had been speculation. Questions. Now, they could begin to grow comfortable with the truth. And proud of it. Their lord was no ordinary man. He was something special.

  "I need to leave, Perrin," Elyas said. "Tonight, if I can."

  "I know. The Last Hunt has begun. Go with them, Elyas. We will meet in the north."

  The aging Warder laid a hand on Perrin's shoulder. "If we don't see one anothet thete, perhaps we'll meet in the dream, my friend."

  "This is the dream," Perrin said, smiling. "And we will meet again. I will find you, if you are with the wolves. Hunt well, Long Tooth."

  "Hunt well, Young Bull."

  Elyas vanished into the darkness with barely a rustle.

  Perrin reached down to the warm hammer at his side. He had thought that responsibility would be another weight upon him. And yet, now that he had accepted it, he actually felt lighter.

  Perrin Aybara was just a man, but Perrin Goldeneyes was a symbol created by the people who followed him. Perrin didn't have a choice about that; all he could do was lead the best he could. If he didn't, the symbol wouldn't vanish. The people would just lose faith in it. As poor Aram had.

  I'm sorry, my friend, he thought. You I failed most of all. There was no point in looking backward at that. He would simply have to continue forward and do better. "I'm Perrin Goldeneyes," he said, "the man who can speak to wolves. And I guess that's a good petson to be."

  He kicked Stepper through the gateway. Unfortunately, Perrin Goldeneyes had some killing to do tonight.

  Galad awoke as soon as his tent flap rustled. He drove away the vestiges of his dream a silly thing, of him dining with a dark-haired beauty with perfect lips and cunning eyes and reached for his sword.

  "Galad!" a voice hissed. It was Trom.

  "What's wrong?" Galad asked, hand still on his sword.

  "You were right,"
Trom said.

  "About what?"

  "Aybara's army is back. Galad, they're on the heights just above us! We only caught sight of them by accident; our men were watching along the road, as you told us."

  Galad cursed, sat up and reached for his smallclothes. "How did they get up there without us seeing?"

  "Dark powers, Galad. Byar was right. You saw how fast their camp emptied."

  Their scouts had returned an hour before. They'd found Aybara's campsite eerily empty, as if it had been populated by ghosts. Nobody had seen them leave along the road.

  Now this. Galad dressed quickly. "Rouse the men. See if you can do it quietly. You were wise to bring no light; that might have alerted the enemy. Have the men put on their armor inside their tents."

  "Yes, my Lord Captain Commander," Trom said. A rustling accompanied his departure.

  Galad hurried to dress. What have I done? Every step of the way, he'd been confident in his choices, yet this was where they had led him. Aybara, positioned to attack, Galad's men asleep. Ever since Morgase had returned, Galad had felt his world crumbling. What was right was no longer clear to him, not as it had once been. The way ahead seemed clouded.

  We should surrender, he thought, affixing his cloak in place over his mail. But no. Children of the Light never give in to Darkfriends. How could I think that?

  They had to die fighting. But what would that accomplish? The end of the Children, dead before the Last Battle began?

  His tent flaps rustled again, and he had his sword out, ready to strike.

  "Galad," Byar said. "You've killed us." All respect was gone from his voice.

  The accusation set Galad on edge. "Those who walk in the Light must take no responsibility for the actions of those who follow the Shadow." A quote from Lothair Mantelar. "I have acted with honor."

  "You should have attacked instead of going through that ridiculous 'trial' "

  "We would have been slaughtered. He had Aes Sedai, Aiel, men who can channel, more soldiers than us, and powers we don't understand." "The Light would have protected us!"

  "And if that is true, it will protect us now," Galad said, confidence strengthening.

  "No," Byar said, voice an angry whisper. "We have led ourselves to this. If we fall, it will be deserved." He left with a rustle of the flaps.

  Galad stood for a moment, then buckled on his sword. Recrimination and repentance would wait. He had to find a way to survive this day. If there was a way.

  Counter their ambush, with one of their own, he thought. Have the men stay in their tents until the attack starts, then surprise Aybara by rushing out in force, and...

  No. Aybara would start with arrows, raining death on the tents. It would be the best way to take advantage of his high ground and his long-bowmen.

  The best thing to do was get the men armored, then have them break from their tents together on a signal and run for their horses. The Amadi-cians could form a pikewall at the base of the heights. Aybara might risk running cavalry down the steep slope leading up to the rise, but pikemen could upset that maneuver.

  Archers would still be a problem. Shields would help. A little. He took a deep breath, then strode into the night to give the orders.

  "Once the battle begins," Perrin said, "I want you three to retreat to safety. I won't try to send you back to Andor; I know you wouldn't go. But you're not to participate in the battle. Stay behind the battle lines and with the rear guard."

  Faile glanced at him. He sat his mount, eyes forward. They stood atop the heights, the last of his army emerging from the gateways positioned behind. Jori Congar held a shielded lantern for Perrin. It gave the area a very faint light.

  "Of course, my Lord," Berelain said smoothly.

  "I'll have your oaths on it, then," Perrin said, eyes still forward. "You and Alliandre, Berelain. Faile, I'll simply ask and hope." "You have my oath, my Lord," Alliandre said.

  Perrin's voice was so firm, and that worried Faile. Could Berelain be right? Was he going to attack the Whitecloaks? They were an unpredictable element, for all their professions of wanting to fight in the Last Battle. They could cause more harm than help. Beyond that, Alliandre was Perrin's liege woman, and the Whitecloaks were in her realm. Who knew what damage they would cause before they left? Beyond that, there was the future sword of Galad's judgment.

  "My Lord," Berelain said, sounding worried. "Please don't do this."

  "I'm only doing what I must," Perrin said, looking along the roadway

  that tan toward Jehannah. That wasn't the direction of the Whitecloaks.

  They were just south of Perrin's position.

  "Perrin," Faile said, glancing at Betelain. "What are you "

  A man suddenly emerged from the shadows, making no sound, despite

  the dried underbrush. "Perrin Aybara," Gaul said. "The Whitecloaks know we're here."

  "Are you certain?" Perrin asked. He didn't seem alarmed.

  "They are ttying not to let us know," Gaul said, "but I can see it. The Maidens agree. They are preparing for battle, the grooms unhobbling the hotses, guatds moving from tent to tent."

  Perrin nodded. He nudged Stepper forward through the brush, riding right up to the edge of the heights. Faile moved Daylight up behind him, Berelain staying close to her.

  The land sloped steeply down to the ancient riverbed that flanked the roadway below. The road ran from the direction of Jehannah, until it passed the base of these heights and took a tum in the direction of Lugard. Right at the bend was the hollow, sheltered against the hill, where the Whitecloaks had arranged their circles of tents.

  The clouds were thin, allowing pale moonlight to coat the land in silvery white. A low fog was rolling in, staying mainly in the riverbed, deep and thick. Perrin scanned the scene; he had a clear view of the road in both directions. Suddenly, shouts rang out below, men bursting from the White-cloak tents and sprinting toward horselines. Torches flared to life.

  "Archers forward!" Perrin bellowed.

  The Two Rivers men scrambled to the edge of their elevated position.

  "Infantry, ready behind the archers!" Perrin yelled. "Arganda, on the left flank. Gallenne, on the right! I'll call if I need you to sweep for us." He turned to the foot soldiets mainly former refugees. "Keep in a tight formation, boys. Keep your shields up and your spear arms flexed. Archers, arrows to bow!"

  Faile felt herself start to sweat. This was wrong. Surely Perrin wasn't going to . . .

  He still wasn't looking at the Whitecloaks below them. He was staring at the riverbed on the othet side, perhaps a hundred yards or so beyond the heights, which ended in a steep drop-off because of the ancient river's washing. Perrin looked as if seeing something the rest of them weren't. And with those golden eyes of his, perhaps he was doing just that.

  "My Lord," Berelain said, moving her horse up beside him, sounding desperate. "If you must attack, could you spare the commander of the Whitecloaks? He might be useful for political reasons."

  "What are you talking about?" Perrin said. "The whole reason I'm here is to keep Damodred alive."

  "You . . . what?" Berelain asked.

  "My Lord!" Grady suddenly exclaimed, riding nearby. "I sense channeling? "What's that, there!" Jori Congar yelled, pointing. "Something in the fog. It's . . ."

  Faile squinted. There, just below the army in the former riverbed, figures began to rise as if from the ground. Misshapen creatures with animal heads and bodies, half again as tall as Perrin, bearing brutish weapons. Moving among them were sleek, eyeless figures in black.

  Fog streamed around them as they strode forward, trailing wisps. The creatures continued to appear. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Thousands.

  An entire army of Trollocs and Myrddraal.

  "Grady, Neald!" Perrin bellowed. "Light!"

  Brilliant white globes appeared in the air and hung there. More and more Trollocs were rising from the fog, as if it were spawning them, but they seemed bewildered by the lights. They looked up, squinting and shielding
their eyes.

  Perrin grunted. "How about that? They weren't ready for us; they thought they'd have an easy shot at the Whitecloaks." He turned, looking down the lines of surprised soldiers. "Well, men, you wanted to follow me to the Last Battle? We're going to get a taste of it right here! Archers, loose! Let's send those Shadowspawn back to the pit that birthed them!"

  He raised his newly forged hammer, and the battle began.

  CHAPTER 41

  An Unexpected Ally

  Galad ran with his shield raised high. Bornhald joined him, also holding a shield and tossing aside his lantern as those unnatural lights flared in the air. Neither spoke. The hail of arrows would begin momentarily.

  They teached the horse pickets, where a pair of nervous grooms handed over their horses. Galad lowered his shield, feeling tetribly exposed as he swung onto Stout's back. He turned the hotse and got the shield back up. He could hear the familiar twang of bows, distant, arrows snapping as they rained down.

  None fell near him.

  He hesitated. The lights hanging in the air made it bright as a night with a full moon, maybe brighter.

  "What's going on?" Bornhald said, horse dancing nervously beneath him. "They missed? Those arrows are falling well outside of camp."

  "Trollocs!" A shout from camp. "There are thousands of them coming down the roadway!"

  "Monsters!" a terrified Amadician yelled. "Monsters of the Shadow! Light, they're real?"

  Galad glanced at Bornhald. They galloped their horses to the of camp, white cloaks streaming behind them, and looked up the road.

  At a slaughter.

  Waves of arrows fell from the heights, crashing into the mob of Shadowspawn. The creatures howled and screeched, some trying to run for Galad's camp, others to climb toward the archers. Trollocs exploded suddenly into the air, the ground heaving beneath them, and fire fell from above. Aybara's channelers had joined the fight.

  Galad took it in. "Foot, form a shieldwall on this side of the camp," he bellowed. "Crossbowmen, to those ruins there. Split the legions into eight cavalry companies, and prepare to sally! Bowmen, get ready!" The Children were primarily a cavalry force. His men would ride out, hit the Trollocs in waves, one company at a time, then retreat back behind the foot's defensive shieldwall. Crossbowmen to weaken the Trolloc lines before the heavy cavalry hit them with lances, archers to cover them as they returned behind their defenses.