Perrin took several of those lengths of steel and set them into coals. This Forge wasnt as nice as what he was accustomed to; though he had a bellows and three barrels for quenching, the wind cooled the metal, and the coals didn't get as hot as he'd like. He watched with dissatisfaction.
"I can help you with that, Lord Perrin," Neald said from the side.
"Heat the metal up, if you want."
Perrin eyed him, then nodded. He plucked out a length of steel, holding it up with his tongs. "I want it a nice yellow-red. Not so hot it goes white, mind you."
Neald nodded. Perrin set the bar on the anvil, took out his hammer and began to pound again. Neald stood at the side, concentrating.
Perrin lost himself in the work. Foige the steel. All else faded. The rhythmic pounding of hammer on metal, like the beating of his heart, That shimmering metal, warm and dangerous. In that focus, he found clarity. The world was cracking, breaking further each day. It needed help, right now. Once a thing shattered, you couldn't put it back together.
"Neald," Grady's voice said. It was urgent, but distant to Perrin. "Neald, what are you doing?"
"I don't know," Neald replied. "It feels right."
Perrin continued to pound, harder and harder. He folded the metal, flattening pieces against one another. It was wonderful the way the Asha'man kept it at exactly the right temperature. That freed Perrin from needing to rely on only a few moments of perfect temperature between heatings.
The metal seemed to flow, almost as if shaped by his will alone. What was he making? He took the other two lengths out of the flames, then began to switch between the three. The first—and largest—he folded upon itself, molding it, using a process known as shrinking where he increased its girth. He made it into a large ball, then added more steel to it until it was nearly as large as a man's head. The second he drew, making it long and thin, then folded it into a narrow rod. The final, smallest piece he flattened.
He breathed in and out, his lungs working like bellows. His sweat was like the quenching waters. His arms were like the anvil. He was the forge.
"Wise Ones, I need a circle," Neald said urgently. "Now. Don't argue! I need it!"
Sparks began to fly as Perrin pounded. Larger showers with each blow. He felt something leaking from him, as if each blow infused the metal with his own strength, and also his own feelings. Both worries and hopes. These flowed from him into the three unwrought pieces.
The world was dying. He couldn't save it. That was Rand's job. Perrin just wanted to go back to his simple life, didn't he?
No. No, he wanted Faile, he wanted complexity. He wanted life. He couldn't hide, any more than the people who followed him could hide.
He didn't want their allegiance. But he had it. How would he feel ii someone else took command, and then got them killed?
Blow after blow. Sprays of sparks. Too many, as if he were pounding against a bucket of molten liquid. Sparks splashed in the air, exploding from his hammer, flying as high as treetops and spreading tens of paces. The people watching withdrew, all save the Asha'man and Wise Ones, who stood gathered around Neald.
I don't want to lead them, Perrin thought. But if I don't, who will? If I abandon them, and they fall, then it will be my fault.
Perrin saw now what he was making, what he'd been trying to make all along. He worked the largest lump into a brick shape. The long piece beame a rod, thick as three fingers. The flat piece became a capping bracket, a piece of metal to wrap around the head and join it to the shaft.
A hammer. He was making a hammer. These were the parts.
He understood now.
He grew to his task. Blow after blow. Those beats were so loud. Each blow seemed to shake the ground around him, rattling tents. Perrin exulted. He knew what he was making. He finally knew what he was making.
He hadn't asked to become a leader, but did that absolve him of responsibility? People needed him. The world needed him. And, with an understanding that cooled in him like molten rock forming into a shape, he realized that he wanted to lead.
If someone had to be lord of these people, he wanted to do it himself. Because doing it yourself was the only way to see that it was done right.
He used his chisel and rod, shaping a hole through the center of the hammer's head, then grabbed the haft and—raising it far over his head— slammed it down into place. He took the bracket and laid the hammer on it, then shaped it. Mere moments ago, this process had fed off his anger. But now it seemed to draw forth his resolution, his determination.
Metal was something alive. Every blacksmith knew this. Once you heated it, while you worked it, it lived. He took his hammer and chisel and began to shape patterns, ridges, modifications. Waves of sparks flew from him, the ringing of his hammer ever stronger, ever louder, pealing like bells. He used his chisel on a small chunk of steel to form a shape, then placed it down on top of the hammer.
With a roar, he raised his old hammer one last time over his head and beat it down on the new one, imprinting the ornamentation upon the side of the hammer. A leaping wolf.
Perrin lowered his tools. On the anvil—still glowing with an inner heat—-was a beautiful hammer. A work beyond anything he'd ever created, or thought that he might create. It had a thick, powerful head, like a maul or sledge, but the back was formed cross-face and flattened. Like a blacksmith's tool. It was four feet from bottom to top, maybe longer, an enormous size for a hammer of this type.
The haft was all of steel, something he'd never seen on a hammer be-fore. Perrin picked it up; he was able to lift it with one hand, but barely. It was heavy. Solid.
The ornamentation was of a Crosshatch pattern with the leaping wolf stamped on one side. It looked like Hopper. Perrin touched it with a cal lused thumb, and the metal quieted. It still felt warm to the touch, but did not burn him.
He turned to look, and was amazed at the size of the crowd watching him. The Two Rivers men stood at the front, Jori Congar, Azi al'Thone, Wil al'Seen and hundreds more. Ghealdanin, Cairhienin, Andorans, May-eners. Watching, quiet. The ground around Perrin was blackened from the falling sparks; drops of silvery metal spread out from him like a sunburst.
Neald fell to his knees, panting, his face coated with sweat. Grady and the women of the circle sat down, looking exhausted. All six Wise Ones had joined in. What had they done?
Perrin felt exhausted, as if all of his strength and emotion had been forged into the metal. But he could not rest. "Wil. Weeks ago, I gave you an order. Burn the banners that bore the wolfhead. Did you obey? Did you burn every one?"
Wil al'Seen met his eyes, then looked down, ashamed. "Lord Perrin, I tried. But. . . Light, I couldn't do it. I kept one. The one I'd helped sew."
"Fetch it, Wil," Perrin said. His own voice sounded like steel.
Wil ran, smelling frightened. He returned shortly, bearing a folded cloth, white with a red border. Perrin took it, then held it in a reverent hand, hammer in the other. He looked at the crowd. Faile was there, hands clasped before her. She smelled hopeful. She could see into him. She knew.
"I have tried to send you away," Perrin announced to the crowd. "You would not go. I have failings. You must know this. If we march to war, I will not be able to protect you all. I will make mistakes."
He looked across the crowd, meeting the eyes of those who stood there. Each man or woman he looked at nodded silently. No regrets, no hesitations. They nodded.
Perrin took a deep breath. "If you wish this, I will accept your oaths. I will lead you."
They cheered him. An enormous roar of excitement. "Goldeneyes. Goldeneyes the wolf! To the Last Battle! Tai'shar Manetheren!"
"Wil!" Perrin bellowed, holding up the banner. "Raise this banner high. Don't take it down again until the Last Battle has been won. i march beneath the sign of the wolf. The rest of you, rouse the camp. Get every soldier ready to fight. We have another task tonight!"
The young man took the banner and unfurled it, Jori and Azi joining him and holding it so it
didn't touch the ground. They raised it high, run-
ning to get a pole. The group broke up, men running this way and that, shouting the summons.
Perrin took Faile by the hand as she walked up to him. She smelled satisfied. "That's it, then?"
"No more complaining," he promised. "I don't like it. But I don't like killing, either. I'll do what must be done." He looked down at the anvil, blackened from his work. His old hammer, now worn and dented, lay across it. He felt sad to leave it, but he had made his decision.
"What did you do, Neald?" he asked as the Asha'man—still looking
pale__- stumbled up to his feet. Perrin raised the new hammer, showing the
magnificent work.
"I don't know, my Lord," Neald said. "It just . . . well, it was like I said. It felt right. I saw what to do, how to put the weaves into the metal itself. It seemed to draw them in, like an ocean drinking in the water of a stream." He blushed, as if he thought it a foolish figure of speech.
"That sounds right," Perrin said. "It needs a name, this hammer. Do you know much of the Old Tongue?"
"No, my Lord."
Perrin looked at the wolf imprinted on the side. "Does anyone know how you say 'He who soars'?"
"I ... I don't . . ."
"Mah'alleinir" Berelain said, stepping up from where she'd been watching.
"Mah'alleinir" Perrin repeated. "It feels right. Sulin? What of the White-cloaks?"
"They have made camp, Perrin Aybara," the Maiden replied.
"Show me," he said, gesturing to Arganda's map.
She pointed out the location: a piece of land on the side of a hill, heights running to the north of it, roadway coming in from the northeast, wrapping around the south of the heights—following the ancient riverbed—and then bending southward when it hit the campsite by the hill. From there, the road headed toward Lugard, but the campsite was protected from wind on two sides. It was a perfect campsite, but also a perfect place for an ambush. The one Arganda and Gallenne had pointed out.
He looked at that passageway and campsite, thinking of what had happened the last few weeks. We met travelers. . . . said that the muds to the north were almost completely impassable with wagons or carts . . .
A flock of sheep, running before the pack into the jaws of a beast. Faile and the others, walking toward a cliff. Light!
"Grady, Neald," Perrin said. "I'm going to need another gateway, Can you manage?"
"I think so," Neald said. "Just give us a few minutes to catch our breath."
"Very well. Position it here." Perrin pointed to the heights above the Whitecloaks' camp. "Gaul!" As usual, the Aiel man waited nearby He loped up. "I want you to go speak with Dannil, Arganda, Gallenne. I want the entire army to cross through as quickly as possible, but they are to keep quiet. We move with as much stealth as an army this size can manage."
Gaul nodded, running off. Gallenne was still nearby; Gaul started by speaking with him.
Faile watched Perrin, smelling curious and a little anxious. "What are you planning, husband?"
"It's time for me to lead," Perrin said. He looked one last time at his old hammer, and laid fingers on its haft. Then he hefted Mah'alleinir to his shoulder and strode away, feet crackling on drops of hardened steel.
The tool he left behind was the hammer of a simple blacksmith. That person would always be part of Perrin, but he could no longer afford to let him lead.
From now on, he would carry the hammer of a king.
Faile ran her fingers across the anvil as Perrin strode away, calling further orders to prepare the army.
Did he realize how he'd looked, standing amid those showers of sparks, each blow of his hammer causing the steel before him to pulse and flare to life? His golden eyes had blazed as brightly as the steel; each peal of the hammer had been nearly deafening.
"It has been many centuries since this land has seen the creation of a Power-wrought weapon," Berelain said. Most others had left to follow Per-rin's orders, and the two were alone, save for Gallenne standing nearby and studying the map while rubbing his chin. "It is a strong Talent the young man just displayed. This will be of use. Perrin's army will have Power-wrought blades to strengthen them."
"The process seemed very draining," Faile said. "Even if Neald can repeat what he did, I doubt we will have time to make many weapons."
"Every small advantage helps," Berelain said. "This army your husband has forged, it will be something incredible. Ta'veren is at work here. He gathers men, and they learn with amazing speed and skill."
"Perhaps," Faile said, walking around the anvil slowly, keeping her eyes
on Berelain, who strolled around it opposite her. What was Berelain's
game, here?
"Then we must speak with him," Berelain said. "Turn him from this course of action."
"This course of action?" Faile asked, genuinely confused.
Berelain stopped, her eyes alight with something. She seemed tense. She's worried, Faile thought. Worried deeply about something.
"Lord Perrin must not attack the Whitecloaks," Berelain said. "Please, you must help me persuade him."
"He's not going to attack them," Faile said. She was reasonably certain
of that.
"He's setting up a perfect ambush," Berelain said. "Asha'man to use the One Power, Two Rivers bowmen to shoot from the heights down on the camp of the Children. Cavalry to ride down and sweep up after." She hesitated, seeming pained. "He's set them up perfectly. He told them that if he and Damodred both survived the Last Battle, he'd submit to punishment. But Perrin is going to make certain the Whitecloaks don't reach the Last Battle. He can keep his oath that way, but also avoid turning himself in."
Faile shook her head. "He'd never do that, Berelain."
"Can you be certain?" Berelain asked. "Absolutely certain?"
Faile hesitated. Perrin had been changing lately. Most of the changes were good ones, such as his decision to finally accept leadership. And the ambush Berelain spoke of would make a kind of perfect, ruthless sense.
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 toward one of his close attendants. Perhaps he did not 'promise' them to me. That was a poor choice of w
ords. 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 together for this mission. He could not be frank about what he desired, however, so as to not offend Perrin."
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 Perrin," 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.
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