Towers of Midnight by Robert Jordan and Robert Sanderson

by Unknown

  "Stop right there!" a voice called. "We don't "

  Rand lifted his hand, then waved it casually. The barricade formed of furniture and planks rumbled, then slid to the side with a grinding of wood. Men cried out from behind, scrambling away.

  Rand left the barricade slumped at the side of the road. He stepped forward, and Min could sense peace inside of him. A ragged-looking group of men with cudgels stood in the road, eyes wide. Rand picked one at the front. "Who is it that blocks my people from these docks and seeks to hoard food for himself? I would . . . speak with this person."

  "My Lord Dragon?" a surprised voice asked.

  Min glanced to the side. A tall, lean man in a red Domani coat hustled toward them from the docks. His shirt had once been fine and ruffled, but was now wrinkled and unkempt. He looked exhausted.

  What was his name? Min thought. Iralin. That's it. Master of the docks.

  "Iralin?" Rand asked. "What is going on here? What have you done?"

  "What have Idone?" the man demanded. "I've been trying to keep everyone from rushing those ships for the spoiled food! Anyone who eats it gets sick and dies. The people won't listen. Several groups tried to storm the docks for the food, so I decided not to let them kill themselves eating it."

  The man's voice had never been that angry before. Min remembered him as peaceable.

  "Lady Chadmar fled an hour after you left," Iralin continued. "The other members of the Council of Merchants ran within the day. Those burning Sea Folk claim they won't sail away until they've unloaded their wares or until I give them payment to do something else. So I've been waiting for the city to starve itself, eat that food and die, or go up in another riot of flame and death. That's what I've been doing here. What have you been doing, Lord Dragon?"

  Rand closed his eyes and sighed. He did not apologize to Iralin as he had the others; perhaps he saw that it would not have meant anything.

  Min glared at Iralin. "He has weights upon his shoulders, merchant. He cannot watch over each and every "

  "It is all right, Min," Rand said, laying his hand on her arm and opening his eyes. "It is no more than I deserve. Iralin. Before I left the city, you told me that the food on those ships had spoiled. Did you check every barrel and sack?"

  "I checked enough," Iralin said, still hostile. "If you open a hundred sacks and you find the same thing in every one, you figure out the pattern. My wife has been trying to figure out a safe method of sifting the rotted grain from the safe grain. If there's any safe grain to be had."

  Rand began walking toward the ships. Iralin followed, looking confused, perhaps because Rand hadn't yelled at him. Min joined them. Rand approached a Sea Folk vessel sitting low in the water, moored by ropes. A group of Sea Folk lounged atop it.

  "I would speak with your Sailmistress," Rand called.

  "I am she," said one of the Sea Folk, a woman with white in her straight black hair and a pattern of tattoos across her right hand. "Milis din Shalada Three Stars."

  "I made a deal," Rand called up, "for food to be delivered here."

  "That one doesn't want it delivered," Milis said, nodding to Iralin. "He won't let us unload; says that if we do, he'll have his archers loose on us."

  "I wouldn't be able to hold the people back," Iralin said. "I've had to spread rumors in town that the Sea Folk are holding the food hostage."

  "You see what we suffer for you?" Milis said to Rand. "I begin to wonder about our Bargain with you, Rand al'Thor."

  "Do you deny that I am the Coramoor?" Rand asked, meeting her eyes. She seemed to have trouble looking away from him.

  "No," Milis said. "No, guess that I do not. You will want to board the Whitecap, I suppose."

  "If I may."

  "Up with you, then," she said.

  Once the gangplank was in place, Rand strode up it, followed by Min with Naeff and the two Maidens. After a moment, Iralin came, too, followed by the captain and some of his soldiers.

  Milis led them to the center of the deck, where a hatch and ladder led down to the ship's hold. Rand climbed down first, moving awkwardly, being one-handed. Min followed.

  Beneath, light peeked through slots in the deck, illuminating sack upon sack of grain. The air smelled dusty and thick.

  "We'll be glad to have this cargo gone," Milis said softly, coming down next. "It's been killing the rats."

  "I would think you'd appreciate that," Min said.

  "A ship without rats is like an ocean without storms," Milis said. "We complain about both, but my crew mutters every time they find one of the vermin dead."

  There were several open sacks of grain nearby, turned on their sides, spilling dark contents across the floor. Iralin had spoken of trying to sift the bad from the good, but Min didn't see any good. Just shriveled, discolored grains.

  Rand stared at the open sacks as Iralin came down into the hold. Captain Durnham shuffled down the ladder last with his men.

  "Nothing stays good any longer," Iralin said. "It's not just this grain. People brought winter stores from the farms with them. They're all gone.

  We're going to die, and that's that. We won't reach the bloody Last Battle. We- "

  "Peace, Iralin," Rand said softly. "It is not so bad as you think." He stepped forward and yanked free the tie on the top of a sack. It fell to the side, and golden barley spilled from it across the floor of the hold, not a single speck of darkness on it. The barley looked as if it had just been harvested, each grain plump and full.

  Milis gasped. "What did you do to it?"

  "Nothing," Rand said. "You merely opened the wrong sacks. The rest are all good."

  "Merely . . ." Iralin said. "We happened to open the exact number of bad sacks without reaching one of the good ones? That's ridiculous."

  "Not ridiculous," Rand said, laying his hand Iralin's shoulder. "Simply implausible. You did well here, Iralin. I'm sorry to have left you in such a predicament. I'm naming you to the Merchant Council."

  Irilin gaped.

  To the side, Captain Durnham pulled open another sack. "This one's good."

  "So's this one," said one of his men.

  "Potatoes here," another soldier said from beside a barrel. "Look as good as any I've had. Better than most, actually. Not dried up, like you'd expect from winter leftovers."

  "Spread the word," Rand said to the soldiers. "Gather your men to set up distribution in one of the warehouses. I want this grain well guarded; Iralin was wise to worry that the people would rush the docks. Don't give out uncooked grain that will turn people to hoarding and bartering with it. We'll need cauldrons and fires to cook some of it. Move the rest to stores. Hurry, now."

  "Yes, sir!" Captain Durnham said.

  "The people I've gathered so far will help," Rand said. "They won't steal the grain; we can trust them. Have them unload the ships and burn the bad grain. There should be thousands of sacks that are still good."

  Rand looked to Min. "Come. I need to organize the Aes Sedai for Healing." He hesitated, looking at the stunned Iralin. "Lord Iralin, you are steward of the city for now, and Durnham is your commander. You will soon have sufficient troops to restore order."

  "Steward of the city . . ." Iralin said. "Can you do that?"

  Rand smiled. "Somebody must. Hurry about your work; there is much to do. I can only remain here long enough for you to make things stable. A day or so."

  Rand turned to climb up the ladder.

  A day?" Irahn said, Still standing in the hold with him. "To get thin stable? We can't possibly do it in that time. Can we?

  I think you’ll be surprised by him, Lord Iralm," Min said, gripping the ladder and starting to climb. "I am, each day.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Parley

  Perrin rode Stepper out of camp, leading a large army. They didn't fly the wolfhead banner. So far as he knew, his order to burn the things had been followed. He was less certain of that decision now. There was an odd scent in the air. A staleness. Like the inside of a room that had been left
locked up for years. Stepper trotted onto the Jehannah Road. Grady and Neald flanked Perrin directly, and they smelled eager.

  "Neald, you sure you're ready?" Perrin asked as he turned the atmy to the southeast.

  "I feel as strong as I ever have, my Lord," Neald answered. "Strong enough to kill some Whitecloaks. I've always wanted a chance to do that."

  "Only a fool looks for a chance to kill," Perrin said. "Er, yes, my Lord," Neald said. "Though, maybe I should mention- "

  "No need to speak of that," Grady interrupted.

  "What?" Perrin asked.

  Grady looked embarrassed. "It's nothing, I'm sure."

  "Say it, Grady," Perrin said.

  The older man took a deep breath. "We tried to make a gateway this morning to send refugees back, and it didn't work. One time earlier, it happened, too. Weaves fell apart and unraveled on us."

  Perrin frowned. "Other weaves work fine?"

  "They do," Neald said quickly.

  "Like I said, my Lord," Grady said. "I'm sure it will work when we try again. Just not enough practice."

  It wasn't likely that they'd need Traveling to retreat from this battle not with only two Asha'man and so large a force. But it was still disconcerting to lose the chance. It had better not happen with other weaves. He was depending on Grady and Neald to confuse and disrupt the initial

  Whitecloak charge.

  Maybe we should turn back, Perrin thought, but squelched the thought immediately. He didn't like having to make this decision. It made him sick to think of fighting, man against man, when their real enemy was the Dark One. But his hand had been forced.

  They continued on, his hammer in its strap at his side. Hopper had implied it was no different from the axe. To the wolf, one weapon was like another.

  Mayener Winged Guards rode beside him, red-painted breastplates gleaming, looking like graceful hawks ready to swoop. Alliandre's soldiers, straightforward and determined, rode behind, like boulders poised to crush. Two Rivers longbowmen, like sapling oaks, were nimble yet sturdy. Aiel, like adders with razor teeth. Wise Ones, reluctantly drawn along, uncertain thunderheads boiling with unpredictable energy. He didn't know if they would fight for him.

  The rest of his army was less impressive. Thousands of men with a range of experience and age some mercenaries, some refugees from Maiden, some women who had seen the Maidens and Cha Faile and insisted on being trained alongside the men. Perrin hadn't stopped them. The Last Battle was coming. Who was he to forbid those who wanted to fight?

  He had considered forbidding Faile to come today, but he'd known how that would turn out. Instead, he placed her at the back, surrounded by Wise Ones and Cha Faile, accompanied by Aes Sedai.

  Perrin gripped his reins tighter, listening to the marching feet. Few of the refugees had armor. Arganda had called them light infantry. Perrin had another term for them: "innocents with blades." Why did they follow him? Couldn't they see that they would fall first?

  They trusted him. Light burn them, they all trusted him! He rested his hand on his hammer, smelling the damp air mixed with fear and excitement. The thunder of hooves and footsteps, reminding him of the dark sky. Thunder with no lightning. Lightning with no thunder.

  The battlefield was ahead, a broad green grassland lined on the far end by troops in white. That Whitecloak army wore silver breastplates shined to perfection, their tabards and cloaks a pure white. This grassy

  plain was a good place to have a battle. It would also be a good place to plant crops.

  To understand a thing, you must understand its parts and its purpose. What had been the purpose of his war axe? To kill. That was why it had been made. That was all it had been good for. But the hammer was different.

  Perrin pulled Stepper up sharply. Beside him, the Asha'man stopped, and the entire column of troops started to pull to a halt. Groups bunched up as they slowed; yelled orders replaced the sounds of marching.

  The air was still, the sky overhead dreary. He couldn't smell the grass or the distant trees for the dust in the air and the men sweating in their armor. Horses snorted, a number of them nibbling at the grass. Others shuffled, catching the tension of their riders.

  "My Lord?" Grady asked. "What is it?"

  The Whitecloak army was already in position with a V formation of riders at the front. They waited, lances upright, ready to be lowered to spill blood.

  "The axe only kills," Perrin said. "But the hammer can either create or kill. That is the difference."

  It made sense to him, suddenly. That was why he'd needed to throw the axe away. He could choose not to kill. He would not be pushed into this.

  He turned to Gaul, who stood with several Maidens a short distance away. "I want the Aes Sedai and Wise Ones up here now." Perrin hesitated. "Order the Aes Sedai, but ask the Wise Ones. Order the Two Rivers men up as well."

  Gaul nodded and ran to do as asked. Perrin turned back to the Whitecloaks. For all their faults, the Whitecloaks considered themselves honorable. They wouldn't attack until Perrin was in position.

  The cluster of Wise Ones and Aes Sedai joined him at the front. Faile, he noticed, rode with them. Well, he had told her to stay with them. He held out a hand to her, inviting her next to him. The Two Rivers men came up on the flank of his force.

  "Gaul said you were very polite," Edarra noted to Perrin. "That means you want something from us that we will not want to do."

  Perrin smiled. "I want you to help me prevent this battle."

  "You do not wish to dance the spears?" Edarra asked. "I have heard some of what these men in white have done in the wetlands. I think they wear white to hide what is dark inside of them."

  "They're confused," Perrin said. "Well, they're more than confused. They're Light-cursed frustrating. But we shouldn't be fighting them, not with the Last Battle coming. If we squabble among ourselves, we will lose to the Dark One."

  Edarra laughed. "I would like to see someone tell that to the Shaido, Perrin Aybara. Or, rather, I would like to have seen someone suggest that to you when they still held your wife!"

  "Well, the Shaido needed killing," he said. "But I don't know if these Whitecloaks do. Maybe they only need a good fright. I want you and the Aes Sedai to blast the ground in front of their army."

  "You ask something you should not, Aybara," Seonid said sternly. "We will not take part in your battle." The diminutive Green met his eyes, voice crisp and curt.

  "You're not taking part in battle," Perrin said. "You're preventing one." Seonid frowned. "I'm afraid it would be the same, in this case. If we attack the earth, it would be using the One Power as a weapon. We could hurt those men. I'm sorry."

  Perrin ground his teeth, but did not force them. The Wise Ones and Asha'man would probably be enough. He turned to the Two Rivers men. "Tam, tell the men to nock arrows and be ready to launch a volley."

  Tam nodded, sending a runner with the order. The Two Rivers men lined up. This was beyond the range of most bows, but a good pull on a Two Rivers longbow could manage it.

  Perrin nodded to the Wise Ones, then motioned toward the Asha'man. Before anything else could be said, the ground in front of the Whitecloaks erupted. A rumble shook the meadow, dirt exploding into the air. Grady and Neald moved their horses forward.

  The Whitecloaks' horses reared and men shouted in terror. A small group of men at the very front didn't seem disturbed by the explosions, and they kept their horses under control. Those would be the leaders. Indeed, Perrin's eyes could make out the Lord Captain Commander himself sitting there.

  Dirt sprayed into the air again, falling to pelt the trench beneath. The Wise Ones wore that look of concentration that came with channeling.

  "Can one of you enhance my voice?" Perrin asked.

  "I can do it," Grady said. "I saw the M'Hael do it once."

  "Good," Perrin said, turning to Tam. "Once the channelers stop, tell the men to give me a couple of long volleys. Try and hit that trench."

  A few moments later, the explosions ended.
The Two Rivers men drew a volley and loosed it. Thick shafts rose in an arc, and soon the rift bristled with arrows. Perrin watched the Whitecloak army. They had broken ranks, standing in disorder.

  A clank of armor matched by hoofbeats announced Arganda's arrival. The First Captain of Ghealdan wore his plumed helm, his eyes hard beneath it. "What was the point of that, if I may ask, Lord Aybara?" He smelled hostile. "You just gave away our advantage! An ambush could have killed thousands and broken their initial charge."

  "Yes," Perrin said. Faile still rode at his other side. "And they know it. Look at their lines, Arganda. They're worried. The Whitecloaks are realizing what they'd have to go through to charge us. If I was willing to give them this as a warning burst, what was I holding back?"

  "But that was the extent of what we can do," Faile said.

  "They don't know that." Perrin grinned. "It would be stupid of us to commit everything we have in a warning blast like that."

  Arganda held his tongue, though he obviously was thinking that very thing. He was a soldier to the bone. An axe. There was nothing wrong with that, but Perrin had to be the hammer. When he pointed, men like Arganda killed.

  "Grady," Perrin said. "My voice, please? I wouldn't mind if our army could hear what I say, too."

  "I can manage that," Grady said.

  Perrin took a deep breath, then spoke. "I am Perrin Aybara!" his voice boomed across the plain. "I am friend to the Dragon Reborn, and I serve here at his command. I am marching to the Last Battle. Lord Captain Commander, you demanded I meet with you on your terms before, and I came. I ask you to return the honor here, and meet as I request. If you are determined to kill me before I ride against the Shadow, at least do me the service of giving me one last chance to prevent spilling blood this day!"

  He nodded to Grady, and the man released his weave. "Do we have a pavilion we could set up for parley?"

  "Back at the camp," Faile said.

  "I can try a gateway," Neald said, knuckling his mustache or, at least, the thin bit of fur on his face that he called a mustache, waxed to points.