"Then my Asha'man could stay and help."
"You have your orders, son. You follow them. Understand?"
Deep snapped his jaw shut, then nodded curtly. "I will take—"
Ituralde didn't hear the rest. An explosion hit.
He didn't feel it arrive. He was standing with Deepe one moment, then
round himself on the floor of the wall walk, the world strangely silent
around him. His head screamed with pain and he coughed, raising a trem-
bling hand to find his face bleeding. There was something in his right eye;
it seared with pain when he blinked. Why was everything so quiet?
He rolled over, coughing again, right eye squeezed shut, the other watering. The wall ended a few inches away from him.
He gasped. An enormous chunk of the northern wall was simply gone.
He groaned, looking back in the other direction. Deepe had been standing beside him . . .
He found the Ashaman lying on the wall walk nearby, head bleeding. His right leg ended in a ragged rip of flesh and broken bone above where the knee should have been. Ituralde cursed and stumbled forward, drorp-ping to his knees beside the man. Blood was pooling beneath Deepe but he was still twitching. Alive.
I need to sound the alarm . . .
Alarm? That explosion would have been alarm enough. Inside the wall, buildings were demolished, crushed by stones flying in a spray away from the hole. Outside, Trollocs were loping forward, carrying rafts to cross the moat.
Ituralde pulled the Asha'man's belt off and used it to bind his thigh. It was all he could think to do. His head was still throbbing from the explosion.
The city is lost. . . Light! It's lost, just like that.
Hands were helping him up. Dazedly he glanced about. Connel; he'd survived the blast, though his coat was torn to shreds. He pulled Ituralde away while a pair of soldiers took Deepe.
The next minutes were a blur. Ituralde stumbled down the stairs from the wall, nearly pitching headfirst fifteen feet onto the cobbles. Only Con-nel's hands kept him from falling. And then ... a tent? A large open-sided tent? Ituralde blinked. A battlefield should not be so quiet.
Icy coldness washed over him. He screamed. Sounds assaulted his ears and mind. Screams, rock breaking, trumpets sounding, drums throbbing. Men dying. It all hit him at once, as if plugs had been yanked from his ears.
He shook himself, gasping. He was in the sick tent. Antail—the quiet, thin-haired Ashaman—stood above him. Light, but Ituralde felt exhausted! Too little sleep mixed with the strain of being Healed. As the sounds of battle consumed him, he found his eyelids treacherously heavy.
"Lord Ituralde," Antail said, "I have a weave that will not make you well, but it will make you think you are well. It could be harmful to you. Do you want me to proceed?"
"I . . ." Ituralde said. The word came out as a mumble. "It . . ."
"Blood and bloody ashes," Antail muttered. He reached forward. Another wave of Power washed through Ituralde. It was like a broom sweeping through him, pushing away all of the fatigue and confusion, restoring his senses and making him feel as if he'd had a perfect night's rest. His right eye didn't hurt anymore.
There was something lingering, deep down, an exhaustion in his bones.
He could ignore that. He sat up, breathed in and out, then looked to An-
tail. "Nowthat is a useful weave, son. You should have told me you could
do this!"
"It's dangerous," Antail repeated. "More dangerous than the women s
version I'm told. In some ways more effective. You're trading alertness now
for more profound exhaustion later on."
"Later on, we won't be in the middle of a city that is falling to the Trol-locs. Light willing, at least. Deepe?"
"I saw to him first," Antail said, gesturing to the Asha'man lying on a nearby cot, his clothing singed and his face bloodied. His right leg ended in a healed stump, and he appeared to be breathing, though unconscious.
"Connel!" Ituralde said.
"My Lord," the soldier said, stepping up. He'd found a squad of soldiers to act as a personal guard.
"Let's investigate this mess," Ituralde said. He ran out of the sick tent, toward Cordamora Palace. The city was in chaos, groups of Saldaeans and Domani rushing this way and that. Connel, showing foresight, sent a messenger to find Yoeli.
The palace stood nearby, just before the front gate. Its wall had been damaged in the blast, but the building still looked hale. Ituralde had been using it as a command post. Men would expect to find him here. They ran inside, Connel carrying Ituralde's sword—the belt had been cut free at some point. They climbed to the third floor, then ran out onto a balcony that surveyed the area broken by the blast.
As he'd originally feared, the city was lost. The swath of broken wall was being defended by a hastily assembled jumble of defenders. A mounting tide of Trollocs were throwing down rafts on the moat, some beginning to surge forward, followed by Fades. Men ran through the streets, disoriented.
If he'd had more time to prepare, he could have held, as he'd told Deepe. Not now. Light, but this defense has been one disaster after another.
Gather the Asha'man," Ituralde ordered. "And any of my officers you can find. We will organize the men into a retreat through gateways."
Yes, my Lord," Connel said.
"Ituralde, no!" Yoeli burst out onto the balcony, uniform dirtied and ripped.
"You survived," Ituralde said, relieved. "Excellent. Man, your city is lost. I'm sorry. Bring your men with us and we can—"
"Look!" Yoeli said, pulling Ituralde to the side of the balcony, pointing
to the east. A thick column of smoke rose in the distance. A village the Trollocs had burned?
"The watchfire," Yoeli continued. "My sister has seen aid coming! We must stand until they arrive."
Ituralde hesitated. "Yoeli," he said softly, "if a force has come, it can't be large enough to stop this horde of Trollocs. And that's assuming it's not a ruse. The Shadowspawn have proven clever in the past."
"Give us a few hours," Yoeli said. "Hold the city with me and send scouts through those gateways of yours to see if a force really is coming."
"A few hours?" Ituralde said. "With a hole in your wall? We're overwhelmed, Yoeli."
"Please," Yoeli pled. "Are you not one of those they name Great Captain? Show me what that title means, Lord Rodel Ituralde."
Ituralde turned, back at the broken wall. Behind him, in the palace's top room, he could hear his officers gathering. The line at the wall was fragmenting. It wouldn't be long now.
Show me what that means.
Perhaps . . .
"Tymoth, are you here?" Ituralde bellowed.
A red-haired man in a black coat stepped onto the balcony. He'd be in command of the Asha'man now that Deepe had fallen. "Here, Lord Ituralde."
"Gather your men," Ituralde said urgently. "Take command of that gap and have the soldiers there retreat. I want the Asha'man to hold the breach. I need a half-hour. I want all of your energy—everything you've got—to hit those Trollocs. You hear me? Everything you've got. If you can channel enough to light a candle when this is done, I'll have your hides."
"Sir," the Asha'man said. "Our retreat?"
"Leave Antail in the Healing tent," Ituralde said. "He can make a large enough gateway for the Asha'man to run. But everyone else, hold that breach!"
Tymoth dashed away. "Yoeli," Ituralde said, "your job is to gather your forces and stop them from running through the city like . . ." He paused. He'd been about to say, "like it's Tarmon bloody Gai'don." Burn me. ". . . like there is nobody in command. If we are going to hold, we will need to be organized and disciplined. I need four cavalry companies formed up in the courtyard in ten minutes. Give the orders."
"Yes, my Lord," Yoeli said, snapping to it.
"Oh," Ituralde said, turning. "I'm going to need a couple of cartloads or firewood, as many barrels of oil as you can come
up with, and all of the
wounded in either army who can still run but who have face or arm wounds. Also, get me anyone in the city who's ever held a bow. Go!"
Nearly an hour later, Ituralde stood, hands clasped behind his back, wait-ing. He'd moved in from the balcony to look out a window, as to not ex-pose himself. But he still had a good view of the fighting.
Outside the palace, the Asha'man line was finally weakening. They'd given him the better part of an hour, blasting back wave after wave of Trollocs in an awesome display of Power. Blessedly, the enemy channelers had not appeared. After that show of power, hopefully they were drained and exhausted.
It felt like dusk, with those oppressive clouds overhead and the masses of figures darkening the hillsides beyond the city. The Trollocs, fortunately, didn't bring ladders or siege towers. Only wave after wave at that breach, whipped into attack by the Myrddraal.
Already, some of the black-coated men were limping away from the breach, looking exhausted. The last few threw a final blast of Fire and erupting Earth, then followed their companions. They left the gap completely open and undefended, as ordered.
Come on, Ituralde thought as the smoke cleared.
The Trollocs peered through the smoke, climbing over the carcasses of those the Asha'man had killed. The Shadowspawn loped on hooves or thick paws. Some sniffed the air.
The streets inside the gap were filled with carefully placed men who were bloodied and wounded. They began to scream as the Trollocs entered, running as commanded. Likely none of their fear was feigned. The scene looked more terrible now that many of the nearby buildings were smoldering, as if from the blast, roofs on fire, smoke pouring from windows. The Trollocs wouldn't know that the slate roofs had been designed not to burn, and laws kept buildings from containing too much wood.
Ituralde held his breath. The Trollocs broke, running into the city, howling and roaring, groups breaking apart as they saw the opportunity to pillage and slaughter.
The door behind Ituralde slammed open, and Yoeli hastened in. "The last ranks are placed. Is it working?"
Ituralde didn't answer; the proof was below. The Trollocs assumed their
battle won—the blasting Power of the Asha'man had the air of one final
stand, and the city appeared to be in chaos. The Trollocs all ran down the
streets with obvious glee. Even the Myrddraal who entered appeared at ease.
The Trollocs avoided the burning buildings and the palace, which was walled. They moved deeper into the city, pursuing the fleeing soldiers down a wide avenue on the eastern side of the city. Carefully piled rubble encouraged the bulk of them down this avenue.
"Do you have aspirations of being a general, Captain Yoeli?" Ituralde asked softly.
"My aspirations are not important," Yoeli said. "But a man would be a fool not to hope to learn."
"Then pay attention to this lesson, son." Below, shutters on windows were flung open on buildings along the avenue the Trollocs had taken Bowmen surged out onto balconies. "If you ever have so much as an impression that you're doing what your enemy expects you to do, then do something else."
The arrows fell, and Trollocs died. Large crossbows that shot quarrels almost the size of spears targeted the Fades, and many could be seen lurching across the pavement, not knowing that they were already dead, as scores of Trollocs linked to them fell. Confused, enraged, the still-living creatures began to bellow and pound in the doors of the buildings filled with archers. But as they did so, the thunder began. Hoofbeats. Yoeli s best cavalry charged down the streets, lances forward. They trampled the Trollocs, slaughtering them.
The city became an enormous ambush. A man couldn't ask for better vantages than those buildings, and the streets were wide enough to allow a charge by those who knew the layout. The Trollocs went from bellowing in joy to screaming in pain, and scrambled over one another in their haste to get away. They entered the courtyard by the broken wall.
The Saldaean horsemen followed, their hooves and flanks wet with the noxious blood of the fallen. Men appeared at windows of "burning" buildings—the fires carefully created in sectioned-off rooms—and began loosing arrows down into the large courtyard. Others tossed new lances to the horsemen, who, reequipped, lined up and rode into the Trollocs. The arrows stopped falling, and the cavalry made a sweeping charge crossed the courtyard.
Hundreds of Trollocs died. Perhaps thousands. Those that didn't die scrambled out of the gap. Most of the Myrddraal fled. Those that did not were targets for the archers. Killing one of them could kill dozens of Trollocs linked to them. The Fades went down—many sprouting dozens of arrows.
"I'll give the order to unite and hold the breach again," Yoeli said eagerly.
"No.." Ituralde said.
"But—"
"Fighting at the breach will gain us nothing," Ituralde said. "Give the orders for the men to move to different buildings, and have the archers take different positions. Are there warehouses or other large buildings that can hide the horsemen? Move them there, quickly. And then we wait."
"They won't be caught again."
"No," Ituralde said. "But they'll be slow and cautious. If we fight them head on, we lose. If we hold, buy time, we win. That's the only way out of this Yoeli. To survive until help comes. If it's coming."
Yoeli nodded.
"Our next trap won't kill as many," Ituralde said, "but Trollocs are cowards at heart. The knowledge that any roadway could suddenly turn into a death trap will make them hesitate, and will earn us more time than would losing half of our men holding that wall."
"All right," Yoeli said. He hesitated. "But . . . doesn't this mean that they're anticipating us? This phase of the plan will work only because they expect our ambushes."
"I suppose that's true."
"So shouldn't we do something different? You said that if we've got a hint that the enemy knows what we're going to do, we should change plans."
"You're thinking about it too much, son. Go do as I commanded."
"Er, yes, my Lord." He hurried away.
This, Ituralde thought, is why I should never teach tactics. It was hard to explain to students that there was a rule that trumped all of the others: Always trust your instincts. The Trollocs would be afraid. He could use that. He'd use anything they gave him.
He didn't like to think too long about that rule, lest he dwell on the fact that he'd violated it already. Because his every instinct screamed that he should have abandoned this city hours ago.
CHAPTER
29
A Terrible Feeling
What is Perrin plotting, do you think?" Berelain asked as she strolled beside Faile and Alliandre. Faile didn't answer. The late afternoon was softly lit by a distant sun shrouded in clouds. Soon it would make the horizon burn as it sank down for the night. In two days, Perrin would go on trial. He'd delayed specifically, she knew, to gain more time for the Ashaman to work out the strange problem with gateways.
Their army was growing, still more people flooding to them. Scout reports indicated that the Whitecloak force was growing as well. More slowly, but still growing. In days like these, an army was a symbol of strength and—at the very least—food.
A stand of fingeroot trees glutted themselves on the water of the stream near Perrin's war camp. Such strange plants they were, with those roots that dipped into the water. Trunks like flowing glass that had pooled while hardening. There was nothing like them up in Saldaea. It seemed that two wrong steps here could lead you into a swamp.
"No answer for me?" Berelain asked. She seemed distracted these days. "I've been thinking. Perhaps it would be good to send an envoy to the Whitecloak army. Do you think Perrin would allow me to go and speak with them? Perhaps I could make a personal appeal on his behalf."
She kept bringing up that topic. "No," Faile said. "You know his mind is made up on this trial, Berelain."
The First pursed her lips, but did not press further. The three continued heir walk, accompanied by ten M
aidens. Once, Faile might have combined about the attention. That was before she'd been taken so unexpectedly, and so easily.
In the distance, she saw a small group of refugees leaving the camp, walking away to the southeast, cross-country. Before things had gone wrong with the gateways, about ten thousand had been sent to rural areas in Cairhien. All had instructions to remain quiet. Perrin didn't want his location known yet. Women would be still, but of course the men would gossip; they always did.
Few knew that gateways failed; Perrin had told the people that he needed the Asha'man strong, in case there was righting with the White-cloaks. It was true enough. Still, some refugees had asked to leave, going on foot. To these, Faile gave bits of gold or a jewel from Sevanna's store and wished them the best. She was surprised at how many wanted to return to homes that were in Seanchan-controlled lands.
Despite the departures, the size of Perrin's force was swelling day by day. Faile and the others passed a large group practicing with swords. The refugees who had decided to train were now some twenty-five thousand strong. They practiced late into the day, and Faile could still hear barked orders from Tarn.
"Well." Berelain continued her musings. "What will Perrin do? Why set up this trial? He wants something from those Whitecloaks." She stepped around a gnarled fingeroot. The First, like so many others, read much more into Perrin's actions than there was to find. He'd be amused if he knew the plots they ascribed to him.
And she claims to understand men, Faile thought. Perrin was by no means stupid, nor was he the simple man he sometimes claimed to be. He planned, he thought, and he was careful. But he was also direct. Deliberate. When he said something, he meant it.
"I agree with Berelain," Alliandre said. "We should just leave, march away. Or attack those Whitecloaks."
Faile shook her head. "It bothers Perrin when people think he did something wrong. As long as the Whitecloaks continue to insist he is a murderer, his name will not be clear." He was being bullheaded and fool-ish, but there was a nobility about it.
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