Unfettered III

by Shawn Speakman (ed)

  “Do we trust it?” Galad asked.

  “We crossed it,” Gaul said. “It is sturdy enough.”

  Perrin nodded. “It also presumably carried Trollocs across, so we should be safe. Still, let’s go three or four at a time.”

  Perrin worried when it was Bornhald’s turn, but the man merely pulled his cloak tight and started across. Perrin followed just behind him, lost in thought until the Whitecloak stopped in the center of the bridge and turned, looking out into the darkness.

  “Did you hear that, Aybara?” he asked.

  “What?” Perrin asked, a shiver running through him.

  “Screams.”

  Perrin turned to the next man in line, a bearded Whitecloak named Golever. The man shook his head, indicating he didn’t hear anything.

  Perrin strained, listening, trying to pick out even the faintest hint of rushing wind. It was the sound he most dreaded, the one he’d spent most of their short rest earlier thinking he could almost pick out.

  It was just nerves, he knew, because he didn’t hear anything. Except . . . what was that? Not wind. Not something to chill his spine at all. But . . . it sounded . . . sounded like light . . .

  What was this foolishness? A man could not hear light. It was just silence, he was sure of it.

  “There’s nothing, Bornhald,” Perrin said.

  “No. I hear screaming.” Bornhald’s red eyes glazed over. “That poor soul. It sounds like he’s falling through that blackness. Ever falling. Screaming for nobody to hear . . .”

  “Bornhald,” Perrin said. “You didn’t fall. You’re safe.”

  “You should have let me drop, Aybara,” Bornhald snapped, and he turned and continued across.

  They reached the foot of the bridge, where Sulin and Gaul waited for them. “A Guiding is there,” Sulin whispered, “but it is not needed. Nor is that book the Aes Sedai carries.”

  “What?” Perrin asked.

  Sulin pointed. “Come closer. You can’t see it from here, though one should be able to. This place . . .”

  Despite her words, Perrin squinted into the darkness—and then was struck, as he did see something. A pinprick of light. He’d grown so accustomed to this place swallowing both light and sound that he was almost unnerved by it.

  How large must that light be, he thought, for me to see it from here?

  He put Gallenne in charge of seeing to the main troop, and told them to wait. Then—gritting his teeth—he struck out with Gaul and Sulin into the darkness. It was a fire—actually, more than one—burning in the distance, on the next Island over. They could see them better as they neared the Guiding.

  Together, he and the two Aiel knelt near the stone slab, not daring to go too much beyond it lest they reach the edge of the Island and drop off into the darkness.

  “The way shadows move in front of the fires,” Sulin whispered. “Those are figures.”

  “Trollocs,” Perrin said. He could smell their scents powerfully. “They’re guarding the Waygate.”

  They slipped back to the main group, where he gathered his leaders and—huddled around Saerin’s little book—confirmed it, as best they could. One bridge remained to cross to reach the location of the Waygate. That was where the fires were, and the waiting enemy.

  “Now what?” Arganda asked, squinting into the darkness, though Perrin doubted he could make out the distant light. “We could just blast the bridge between here and there. Would that do the job?”

  “No,” Saerin said. “I cannot navigate here on my own, but it’s evident from what I’ve seen that there are multiple paths to any given Waygate. If we break one bridge, it will delay the Shadowspawn, but not to a meaningful extent.”

  “We can’t continue to let them supply and reinforce behind our lines,” Gallenne said. “We have to seize that Island and hold it long enough for the channelers to do their job.”

  “That sounds an awful lot like it would strand us here,” Tam said, “even if it worked.”

  “No,” Perrin said, scratching at his beard. “It’s not ideal, but this doesn’t have to be a suicide mission. If we can wipe out this group of Shadowspawn, then it’s easy. We destroy the bridges, then walk back the way we came. If we can push them off, we can destroy bridges between us and them first—then do a careful retreat where we destroy each bridge we cross.”

  He hated the idea of doing further damage to the Ways, but this was what they had come to do. And the farther he’d traveled here, the more certain he’d become that it was the right thing. Failure here risked the fate of the entire world. Better to cut off the gangrenous hand than to let it kill the body.

  “This is a rational battle plan,” Gallenne said. “Assuming we can hold the bridge we first cross, we should be able to proceed with it.”

  “It depends on the enemy numbers, I suppose,” Arganda said. “I still worry about being surrounded.”

  “Our final path of retreat is the Waygate itself,” Perrin said. “We can escape through it, if we must.”

  “Into a conquered city,” Arganda said.

  “We will need only a brief moment after leaving the Waygate to open a gateway to escape,” Seonid said. “I’d rather not have to try it, but I agree with Lord Aybara. It could be a last resort.”

  “Numbers,” Arganda insisted. “We need to know what we’re facing before we make plans.”

  Perrin nodded. He walked over to confer with the Aiel. Apparently it was Aviellin and Feralin’s turn, and so they slipped off into the dark to do what might be the most dangerous job of the entire expedition—get close enough to those fires to count the enemy.

  He ordered his soldiers up and into formation, organized to hold one of the bridges, just in case. Each clink of armor made Perrin wince, but he suffered it, waiting with pounding heart until the two Maidens finally returned. They stepped out of the darkness, having borne no lights at all, and passed the raised spears of their sisters without comment.

  “We drew close enough to watch them by the fires,” Aviellin whispered. “A hundred and twenty Trollocs. Unless they are hiding more in the darkness, I am confident in this count. Two Nightrunners.”

  Feralin nodded, concurring with those numbers.

  Over a hundred Trollocs, with two Myrddraal. A daunting force for his fifty, though he did have the channelers. “How entrenched did they seem?”

  “They weren’t moving through the Waygate,” Aviellin said. “I think they’re guards, set to watch on this side for something like we’re attempting. They have cook fires set up. There are people, in pens, Perrin Aybara. Wetlanders in what was once nice clothing.”

  “Captives from Caemlyn,” Perrin said, feeling sick. “For food.”

  He had the two Aiel sketch out the locations of the fires, the pens, and the Waygate itself for reference. He presented this to his officers and advisers, careful—deliberate—in his methodical preparations. Something about this place made him want to jump into action, to get to the fight—for the sooner that happened, the sooner he could escape this darkness. Did it seem like their lights were smaller than they’d been the day before?

  He forced himself to hold back the wolf, to think this through, as the group considered the situation.

  “Lord Goldeneyes,” Gallenne said, “I suggest that we attack fast and decisively. If the channelers creep up and unleash the Power in an overwhelming strike, it will cause confusion and chaos among the Trolloc ranks. The soldiers will easily control the battlefield from there, sweeping the Trollocs away.”

  “Arganda?” Perrin asked.

  “It’s a good strategy,” the shorter man agreed. “In another situation, I’d agree with that plan, no hesitation. But it will be noisy and require a lot of power from the channelers. You’ve warned us against both things in here.”

  Perrin rubbed at his beard, considering the map.

  “We’re not going to be able to do this without making noise, Perrin,” Tam said. “You don’t just make a hundred Trollocs vanish. If you don’t want to
rely on the channelers, we could try to lure them into attacking us near the bridge, then hit them with arrows. Draw them out into an extended fight and retreat.”

  That plan worried him even more. He thought of stringing his forces out through the Ways, of trying to successfully employ an attrition strategy against an enemy that could constantly bring new troops in through the Waygate.

  “No,” he said. “We have to pull this off as a bash and grab—hit them hard, sweep them off, and prevent reinforcements from coming in by seizing the portal itself. That’s the only reasonable plan.”

  He looked up, and the soldiers nodded in turn—including Galad. They saw it too.

  “We have to keep the noise down,” Perrin said. “That means minimal channeling—but I think we can do that with Gallenne’s plan. We’ll sneak the channelers up with the Aiel and have them hit the enemy with a barrage to weaken and confuse their line. Then the rest of us will charge across. We do it carefully, mind you—I don’t want men shouldering each other off the bridge by accident.”

  He waved over Grady and Neald, gesturing toward the map. “I want your initial strike to specifically try and split the Trolloc force in half here. We’ll pour through the gap you make and shove the Trollocs to the sides, hopefully sweeping them off the edges.” He pointed at Edarra, Seonid, and Saerin. “Your first task is to kill those Fades. Focus on them; I don’t want to lose a dozen men taking those things out. When the Fades are down, channel only in small bursts. Understood?”

  Seonid nodded immediately, and Edarra said, “Very well.” Both responses seemed to surprise Saerin. Perhaps she wasn’t accustomed to women who could channel readily obeying . . . well, anyone.

  The Maidens and Gaul nodded at their part when he explained it—sneaking up with the channelers. Next he’d have Arganda’s troops charge, with Gallenne and Galad coming in behind. The Two Rivers men were to stay on the bridge last, then try to get into position at the flanks. This would probably be too tight-quartered a battle for archery, but he’d want them for reserves and—if things went poorly—to cover a retreat.

  Perrin positioned himself with Gallenne’s men. As much as he wanted to sneak forward with the Aiel, he would just be underfoot. Gaul and the other Aiel slipped one last time into the darkness, leading the five channelers and Seonid’s Warders by hand. Perrin counted the seconds, his men shuffling nervously around him. He loosed Mah’alleinir in its sheath, the hammer’s warmth comforting under his fingertips. Some of the Winged Guards stirred, and one accidentally tapped his pommel against his breastplate with a loud clink.

  “Steady,” Perrin said in the too-empty darkness. “Wait for the sign.” Perrin forced himself to stand still and not prowl back and forth in front of his troops. They stood arranged in ranks of three right at the head of the bridge, close enough that Perrin could make out shadows moving in front of the fires on the Island.

  The Last Hunt had come; all before this had been skirmishes, but this was the war. He found himself eager. What did that say about him? For years, he’d wished only to be back home, peaceful in the Two Rivers. Not any longer. Now he wanted to fight.

  He carefully, deliberately, allowed the wolf to run. He had not started this war. He had not raised his hammer to strike the first blow. But he could see it ended—and with as much brutality as was required.

  A flash of light soared into the air above the Island.

  “Go!” Perrin bellowed, charging across the narrow bridge, pulling his hammer free.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Wolf in Him

  Perrin reached the Waygate’s Island before any of the men behind him.

  On the Island, Trollocs lay scattered, smoke rising from their charred carcasses. As he’d ordered, the channelers had blasted the Trollocs down the center. Perrin joined the Aiel, and together the eleven of them smashed into this weakened core. They worked like a wedge intended to split a heavy stone in two along a fault, separating the Trollocs to the left and right and leaving the center—with the prisoners and the Waygate itself—exposed.

  It was a strangely hushed force that joined him—Ghealdanin, Mayeners, and Whitecloaks alike holding in their battle cries. No trumps of war heralded this conflict, and he’d warned the men to keep quiet as they fought. One couldn’t expect utter silence in battle, of course, but the resulting conflict bore a frantic sense of silent desperation. Men grunting and muttering, Trollocs growling. Weapons clanged or rang, but even those noises were muted—the pervasive darkness of the Ways seeming to sweep in, thirsty, and drink up both sound and light.

  Perrin gritted his teeth as, with Gaul at his side, he threw himself at a Trolloc with the beak of some bird of prey. He laid about himself with Mah’alleinir, and each blow caused Trolloc skin to smoke and hiss.

  Perrin was the wolf, and the wolf was in him. There were times when he would control the wolf and let the man rule.

  This wasn’t one of those times.

  He planted himself near the captives, dropping a ram Trolloc as a dead Fade squirmed and writhed nearby. Bursts of Fire fell through the air, immolating Trollocs, throwing up waves of heat. Perrin held his ground as the Trollocs tried to push back in. His plan was a dangerous one, for if the enemy recovered, they could theoretically pen his forces in the center and surround them.

  Perrin continued to swing, feeling the rhythm of the hammer’s beats, almost like he was pounding metal. Gaul and he made a good team, as Perrin’s dramatic moves and sweeping blows drew Trolloc attention—and while they focused on him, Gaul could glide in with his spear, attacking Trollocs who slipped inside Perrin’s reach or tried to flank him.

  Time was meaningless to Perrin when he fought. There was only the swinging of Mah’alleinir, the howls of Trollocs, his labored breathing as he broke his enemies. The battle took on a horrific cast. The hulking Trolloc forms, lit by the bonfire, fighting among men who held in their screams—even when they were dropped, bloody, to the featureless stone ground.

  It was difficult not to feel small when fighting Trollocs. You couldn’t count on the weight of your hammer to make them stumble. He fought one that had been pierced with four separate arrows from a Two Rivers bow, and which didn’t drop even after Perrin had connected his hammer with its skull. A follow-up stab from Gaul finally dropped it.

  Each time one of the terrible creatures fell, another loomed from the dark to take its place. It seemed, for a moment, that they’d be forced back into a crushed knot of men, pressed too close to fight.

  But he’d asked each captain to bring their finest, and the men didn’t waver. Whether they wore polished breastplate, plumed helm, or stark white clothing, they stood shoulder to shoulder and fought. The channelers—following his orders—struck with small, precise attacks, burning down a Trolloc here or there to break any momentum they might gain.

  Finally, step by step, Perrin’s forces began to sweep the enemy back. They expanded their lines, letting the Aes Sedai move in to help the wounded. Perrin stepped back from the fighting to approach the wooden pens that held the captives. He slammed Mah’alleinir down on the first lock. “If any in here know how to use a sword, take one from the wounded. Otherwise, stick near the center of our force and stay out of the way.”

  The people inside were hollow-eyed. They’d seen terrible horrors during their captivity. They flooded out, heads low as they ran for freedom.

  “Don’t go out into the darkness!” Perrin warned them, smashing open the next cage. “Stay with us, or you might end up lost in that blackness forever.”

  He didn’t have time to see if they obeyed. He loped back over to the left battle line, where the Trollocs were starting to get routed—they stumbled back, tripping over fallen bodies, as his forces shoved them farther and farther. Nearby, the Maidens forced back a snarling pack of six, who lost their footing and tumbled off the side of the Island.

  “Perrin!” someone shouted. The loud voice seemed to pierce the darkness. He spun around, trying to orient himself. He had been about to join th
e Whitecloaks and some of Gallenne’s men. In the near distance, the bonfires still burned near the open cages and the stoic shape of the Waygate itself.

  It was open on the other side; through it he could see figures moving, as if in slow motion, gathering around and preparing to enter. Grady had been the one to call for him, gesturing toward the figures.

  “Be ready,” Perrin said, running over. “We can’t let them reinforce from that side. They’ll only be able to come through two at a time. We should be able to . . .”

  He trailed off as he noticed something odd about the way the figures moved. Those lithe steps, the way they ducked and strode right into the Waygate, without concern or hesitation. That reminded him of . . .

  Aiel. The figures that emerged into the Ways wore cadin’sor and carried spears, though they bore red veils. Perrin lowered his hammer in shock. Those couldn’t be Aiel, could they? The first two that emerged started straight toward the Aes Sedai, spears held out. Light! They must be Shaido who had gone to the Shadow.

  “Bring them down!” Perrin said to Grady. “Now.”

  Grady nodded, his face adopting a look of concentration. “Light! They can channel, Perrin!”

  “They’re bloody strong!” Neald said, stumbling up. “They’re striking down my weaves as I create them.”

  Two more of the red-veiled Aiel followed, then another two. Grady got off a burst of flames, but one of the red-veiled Aiel blocked it with a bright flash of light, doing something that Perrin couldn’t quite follow.

  “Are those really Aiel?” Saerin demanded, rushing up to them. She, Seonid, and Edarra—guarded by the Warders—had been doing as he’d told them: seeing to the wounded, corralling the prisoners, and channeling to help the soldiers only when absolutely necessary.

  As Perrin started to explain, one of the red-veiled men raised a hand overhead and shot a beam of pure white fire into the air. It didn’t seem to be aimed at anything specific, but it was so bright, Perrin had to shade his eyes.