by Unknown
I never used to swear this much, Ituralde thought. It was that boy, the Dragon Reborn. Rand al'Thor had given Ituralde promises, some spoken, some implied. Promises to protect Arad Doman from the Seanchan. Promises that Ituralde could live, rather than die trapped by the Seanchan. Promises to give him something to do, something important, something vital. Something impossible.
Hold back the Shadow. Fight until help arrived.
The sky darkened again, and Ituralde ducked into the command pavilion, which had a wooden roof as a precaution against siege weapons. He'd feared sprayshot of smaller rocks, not carcasses. The men scattered to help pull the wounded down to the relative safety of the lower camp, and from there across the plain toward Maradon. Rajabi led the effort. The lumbering man had a neck as thick as a ten-year-grown ash and arms nearly as wide. He now hobbled as he walked, his left leg hurt in the fighting and amputated beneath the knee. Aes Sedai had Healed him as best he could, and he walked on a peg. He'd refused to retire through gateways with the badly injured, and Ituralde hadn't forced him. You didn't throw away a good officer because of one wound.
A young officer winced as a bloated carcass thumped against the top of the pavilion. The officer Zhell didn't have the coppery skin of a Domani, though he wore a very Domani mustache and a beauty mark on his cheek in the shape of an arrow.
They could not hold against Trollocs here for much longer, not with
the numbers they were fielding. Ituralde would have to fall back, point by point, farther into Saldaea, farther toward Arad Doman. Odd, how he was ways retreating toward his homeland. First from the south, now from the northeast.
Arad Doman would be crushed between the Seanchan and the Trollocs. You'd better keep your word, boy.
He couldn't retreat into Maradon, unfortunately. The Saldaeans there had made it quite clear they considered Ituralde and the Dragon Reborn to be invaders. Bloody fools. At least he had a chance to destroy lose siege engines.
Another body hit the top of the command pavilion, but the roof held, om the stink and, in some cases, splash of those deceased Trollocs, ley'd not chosen the newly dead for this assault. Confident that his offi-rs were seeing to their duties now was not the time to interfere uralde clasped his hands behind him. Seeing him, soldiers both inside id out of the pavilion stood a little straighter. The best of plans lasted only until the first arrow hit, but a determined, unyielding commander could bring order to chaos by the way he held himself.
Overhead, the storm boiled, clouds of silver-and black like a blackened at hanging above a cook fire, bits of steel shining through at the edges of te crusted soot. It was unnatural. Let his men see that he did not fear it, 'en when it hailed corpses upon them.
Wounded were carried away, and men in the lower camp began to reak it down, preparing to move it farther back. He kept his archers and ossbowmen firing, pikemen ready along the bulwarks. He had a sizable ivalry, but couldn't use them here.
Those trebuchets, if left alone, would wear his men down with boulas and sprayshot but Ituralde intended to see them burned first, using i Asha'man or a strike force with flaming arrows through a gateway.
If only I could retreat into Maradon. But the Saldaean lord there wouldn't t him in; if Ituralde fell back to the city, he'd get smashed against those walls by the Trollocs.
Bloody, bloody fools. What kind of idiots denied men refuge when an army of Shadowspawn was knocking on their gates?
"I want damage assessments," Ituralde said to Lieutenant Nils. "Prepare the archers for an attack on those siege engines, and bring two of the sha'man who are on duty. Tell Captain Creedin to watch that Trolloc assault across the ford. They'll redouble their efforts following this barrage, ; they'll presume us disordered."
The young man nodded and hastened off as Rajabi limped into the
pavilion, rubbing his broad chin. "You guessed right again about those trebuchets. They did set them up to attack us."
"I try to always guess right," Ituralde said. "When I don't, we lose."
Rajabi grunted. Overhead, that storm boiled. In the distance, Ituralde could hear Trollocs calling. War drums beating. Men shouting.
"Something's wrong," Ituralde said.
"This whole bloody war is wrong," Rajabi said. "We shouldn't be here; it should be the Saldaeans. Their whole army, not only the few horsemen the Lord Dragon gave us."
"More than that," Ituralde said, scanning the sky. "Why carcasses, Rajabi?"
"To demoralize us."
It was a not-unheard-of tactic. But the first volleys? Why not use stones when they'd do the most damage, and then move to bodies once surprise had been expended? The Trollocs hadn't a mind for tactics, but the Fades . . . they could be crafty. He'd learned that firsthand.
As Ituralde stared at the sky, another massive volley fell, as if spawned by the dark clouds. Light, where had they gotten that many trebuchets? Enough to throw hundreds of dead bodies.
There are sixteen by his count, the boy had said. Not nearly enough. Were some of those carcasses falling too evenly?
It hit him like a burst of frozen rain. Those clever bloody monsters!
"Archers!" Ituralde screamed. "Archers, watch the skies! Those aren't bodies!"
It was too late. As he yelled, the Draghkar unfurled their wings; well over half of the "carcasses" in this volley were living Shadowspawn, hiding among the falling bodies. After the first Draghkar attack on his army a few days back, he'd left archers on permanent rotation watching the skies day and night.
But the archers didn't have orders to fire on falling bodies. Ituralde continued to bellow as he leaped out of the pavilion and whipped his sword from its scabbard. The upper camp became chaos as Draghkar dropped amid the soldiers. A large number of them fell around the command pavilion, their too-large black eyes shining, drawing men toward them with their sweet songs.
Ituralde screamed as loud as he could, filling his ears with the sound of his own voice. One of the beasts came for him, but his yell prevented him from hearing its croon. It looked surprised as surprised as something so inhuman could look as he stumbled toward it, pretending to be drawn, then struck an expert thrust through its neck. Dark blood
ribbled down across milky white skin as Ituralde yanked his blade free, till screaming.
He saw Rajabi stumble and fall to the ground as one of the Shadowspawn leaped on him. Ituralde couldn't go to him he was confronted by nother of the monsters himself. In a blessed moment, he noticed balls of re striking down Draghkar in the air the Asha'man.
But at the same time, in the distance, he heard the war drums grow auder. As he'd predicted, the churning force of Trollocs would be striking cross the ford with as much strength as they ever had. Light, but sometimes he hated being right.
You'd better keep your promise to send me help, boy, Ituralde thought as he caught the second Draghkar, his screaming growing hoarse. Light, but you'd better!
Faile strode through Perrin's camp, the air ringing with chattering voices, grunts of exertion and calls of men giving orders. Perrin had sent one last request to the Whitecloaks for parley, and there had been no reply yet.
Faile felt refreshed. She'd spent the entire night nuzzled against Perrin top their hill. She'd brought plenty of bedding and blankets. In some ways, the grassy hilltop had been more comfortable than their tent.
The scouts had returned from Cairhien this morning; their report would come soon. For now, Faile had bathed and eaten.
It was time to do something about Berelain.
She crossed the trampled grass toward the Mayener section of camp, seling her anger rise. Berelain had gone too far. Perrin claimed that the umors came from Berelain's maids, not the woman herself, but Faile saw he truth. The First was a master of manipulating and controlling rumor. That was one of the best ways to rule from a position of relative weakness. The First did so in Mayene, and she did the same here in camp, where Faile vas the stronger party as Perrin's wife.
A pair of Winged Guards stood at the en
trance to the Mayener section, heir breastplates painted crimson, winged helmets shaped like pots and xtending down the backs of their necks. They stood up taller as Faile teared, holding lances that were mostly ornamental, pennons flapping vith the golden hawk in flight stenciled on their blue lengths.
Faile had to crane to meet their eyes. "Escort me to your lady," she ordered.
The guards nodded, one holding up a gauntleted hand and waving for wo other men from inside the camp to take up the watch. "We were told to expect you," the guard told Faile in a deep voice.
Faile raised an eyebrow. "Today?"
"No. The First simply said that should you come, you were to be obeyed."
"Of course I'm to be obeyed. This is my husband's camp."
The guards did not argue with her, though they probably disagreed. Berelain had been sent to accompany Perrin, but he had not been given express command over her or her troops.
Faile followed the men. The ground was, by a miracle, actually starting to dry out. Faile had told Perrin that she wasn't bothered by the rumors, but she was frustrated by Berelain's boldness. That woman, Faile thought. How dare she
No. No, Faile couldn't continue down that path. A good shouting match would make her feel better, but it would reinforce the rumors. What else would people surmise if they saw her stalk to the First's tent, then scream at her? Faile had to be calm. That would be difficult.
The Mayener camp was arranged with lines of men radiating from a
central tent like spokes on a wheel. The Winged Guard didn't have tents those were with Master Gill but there was a very orderly arrangement to the groupings. They almost seemed too level, the folded blankets, the piles of lances, the horse poles and the periodic firepits. Berelain's central pavilion was lavender and maroon salvage from Maiden. Faile maintained her composure as the two towering guards led her up to the tent. One knocked on the post outside for permission to enter.
Berelain's tranquil voice responded, and the guard pushed back the entrance flap for Faile. As she moved to enter, rustling inside made her step back, and Annoura came out. The Aes Sedai nodded to Faile, the overlapping braids around her face swinging. She seemed displeased; she hadn't regained her mistress's favor yet.
Faile took a deep breath, then stepped into the pavilion. It was cool inside. The floor was covered with a maroon and green rug of a twisting ivy pattern. Though the pavilion looked empty without Berelain's usual travel furniture, she did have a pair of sturdy oak chairs and a light table from Maiden.
The First rose. "Lady Faile," she said calmly. Today, she wore the diadem of Mayene. The thin crown had a simple grandeur about it, unorna-mented save for the golden hawk taking flight as if leaping toward the sunlight streaming in patches through the tent ceiling. Flaps had been removed there to let in the light. The First's dress was gold and green, a very simple belt at her waist, the neckline plunging.
Faile sat in one of the chairs. This conversation was dangerous; it could lead to disaster. But it had to be done.
"I trust you are well?" Berelain said. "The rains of the last few days ve not been overly taxing?"
"The rains have been dreadful, Berelain," Faile said. "But I'm not here talk about them."
Berelain pursed perfect lips. Light, but the woman was beautiful! Faile t downright dingy by comparison, her nose too large, her bosom too îall. Her voice wasn't nearly as melodic as Berelain's. Why had the Creator made people as perfect as Berelain? Was it mockery of the rest of
them?
But Perrin didn't love Berelain. He loved Faile. Remember that.
"Very well," Berelain said. "I assumed this discussion would come. Let I promise you that the rumors are absolutely false; nothing inappropriate ppened between myself and your husband."
"He has told me that already," Faile said, "and I trust his word over yours."
This made Berelain frown. She was a master of political interactions, ssessing a skill and subtlety that Faile envied. Despite her youth, Berelain had kept her tiny city-state free from the much larger and powerful ar. Faile could only guess how much juggling, political double-dealing d sheer cleverness that must have required.
"So why have you come to me?" Berelain asked, sitting down. "If your art is at ease, then there is no problem."
"We both know that whether or not you slept with my husband is not issue here," Faile said, and Berelain's eyes widened. "It isn't what happened, but what is presumed, that angers me."
"Rumors can be found in any place where people are gathered," Bere-n said. "Particularly where men gossip."
"Such strong, persistent rumors are unlikely to have happened with-t encouragement," Faile said. "Now everyone in the camp including e refugees sworn to me assumes that you bedded my husband while I is away. This not only makes me look like a fool, but casts a shadow on Perrin's honor. He cannot lead if people take him for the type of in who will run to the arms of another woman the moment his wife is away."
"Other rulers have overcome such rumors," Berelain said, "and for many them, the rumors weren't unfounded. Monarchies survive infidelity."
"Perhaps in Illian or Tear," Faile said, "but Saldaea expects better of its anarchs. As do the people of the Two Rivers. Perrin is not like other rulers. The way his men look at him rips him apart inside."
"I think you underestimate him," Berelain said. "He will overcome and he will learn to use rumor for his gain. That will make him stronger as a man and a ruler."
Faile studied the woman. "You don't understand him at all, do you?"
Berelain reacted as if she'd been slapped, pulling back. She obviously didn't like the bluntness of this conversation. That might give Faile some slight advantage.
"I understand men, Lady Faile," Berelain said coldly. "And your husband is no exception. Since you have decided to be candid, I will return in kind. You were clever to take Aybara when you did, welding Saldaea to the Dragon Reborn, but do not think that he will remain yours without contest."
Faile took a deep breath. It was time to make her play. "Perrin's reputation has been severely damaged by what you have done, my Lady First. For my own dishonor, I might have been able to forgive you. But not for his."
"I don't see what can be done."
"I do," Faile said. "And I'm pretty certain one of us is going to have to die."
Berelain remained impassive. "Excuse me?"
"In the Borderlands, if a woman finds that another has been bedding her husband, she is given the option of knife combat." That was true, though the tradition was an old one, rarely observed any longer. "The only way to clear my name is for you and me to fight."
"What would that prove?"
"If nothing else, if you were dead, it would stop anyone from thinking that you are still sleeping with my husband behind my back."
"Are you actually threatening me in my own tent?"
"This is not a threat," Faile said, remaining firm. Light, she hoped this went the right way. "This is a challenge."
Berelain studied her, eyes calculating. "I will make a public statement. I will publicly chastise my maids for their rumors, and will tell the camp that nothing happened."
"Do you really think that would stop the rumors? You didn't object to them before my return; that is seen as proof. And, of course, now you would be expected to act as if nothing happened."
"You can't be serious about this . . . challenge."
"In regards to my husband's honor, Berelain, I am always serious." She met the woman's eyes, and saw concern there. Berelain didn't want to fight her. And, of course, Faile didn't want to fight Berelain, and not just because she wasn't certain if she could win or not. Though she had always wanted to get revenge on the First for that time when Berelain had taken her knife from her.
"I will make the challenge formally this evening, before the entire imp," Faile said, keeping her voice even. "You will have one day to respond : leave."
"I will not be a party to this foolishness."
"You already are," Faile
said, rising. "This is what you set in motion the moment you let those rumors begin."
Faile turned to walk from the tent. She had to work hard to hide her ervousness. Had Berelain seen how her brow prickled with sweat? Faile fet as if she walked on the very edge of a sword. Should word of this challenge get to Perrin, he would be furious. She had to hope that-
"Lady Faile," Berelain said from behind. The First's voice was edged with jncern. "Surely we can come to another accommodation. Do not force this."
Faile stopped, heart thumping. She turned back. The First looked genuinely worried. Yes, she believed that Faile was bloodthirsty enough to take this challenge.
"I want you out of Perrin's life, Berelain," Faile said. "I will have that, one way or another."
"You wish me to leave?" Berelain asked. "The tasks the Lord Dragon ave me are finished. I suppose I could take my men and march another irection."
No, Faile didn't want her to go. The disappearance of her troops would be a blow, in the face of that looming Whitecloak army. And Perrin would ave need of the Winged Guard again, Faile suspected.
"No," Faile said. "Leaving will do nothing for the rumors, Berelain."
"It will do as much as killing me would," the woman said dryly. "If we fought, and you somehow managed to kill me, all that would be said is that au discovered your husband's infidelity and became enraged. I fail to see ow that would help your position. It would only encourage the rumors."
"You see my problem, then," Faile said, letting her exasperation show irough. "There seems to be no way to be rid of these rumors."
Berelain studied her. The woman had once promised she would take errin. Had all but vowed it. She seemed to have backed off on that, in art, recently. And her eyes showed hints of worry.