"One of the Forsaken?" Alliandre said, voice rising. "We can't fight one of the Forsaken?
Perrin glanced at her. "What did you think you were signing up to do,
Alliandre, when you joined me? You fight for the Dragon Reborn in Tar-mon Gai'don itself. We'll have to face the Forsaken sooner or later."
She paled, but to her credit, she nodded.
"Grady.'" Perrin called to the Asha'man, who was firing blasts down at the Trollocs. "You still sense channeling?"
"Only off and on, my Lord," Grady called back. "Whoever it is, they're not terribly strong. And they're not joining the battle. I think they must be doing something to bring the Trollocs, jumping in with fists of them, then jumping away immediately to fetch more."
"Watch for him," Perrin said. "See if you can take him down."
"Yes, my Lord," Grady said, saluting.
So it wasn't one of the Forsaken bringing the Trollocs directly. That didn't mean this wasn't the work of one of them, just that they hadn't decided to commit themselves directly. "Back with you three," Perrin said to Faile, Berelain and Alliandre, hefting his hammer. The Trollocs had begun charging up the rise, many dropping to arrows, but there were enough that some would reach the top soon. It was time to fight.
"You don't know how many of them there are, my husband," Faile said softly. "They keep coming. What if they overwhelm us?"
"We'll retreat through a gateway if things turn poor for us. But I'm not letting them have the Whitecloaks without a fight—I won't leave any man to the Trollocs, not even their lot. They ignored the Two Rivers when we were attacked. Well, I won't do the same. And that's that."
Faile, suddenly, leaned over to kiss him. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being the man that you are," she said, turning her mount and leading the other two away.
Perrin shook his head. He had been worrying that he'd need to have Grady wrap her up in Air and tow her away. He turned back to the approaching Trollocs. The Two Rivers men weren't making it easy for them to get up the incline. The men were running out of arrows, though.
Perrin hefted Mah'alleinir. A part of him felt sorry to bathe the weapon in blood so soon after its birth, but the greater part of him was pleased. These Trollocs, and those who led them, had caused Hopper's death.
A fist of Trollocs crested the hilltop, a Fade moving in behind them, led by another Fade with a black sword. Perrin let out a roar and charged forward, hammer held high.
* * *
Galad cursed, turning Stout and chopping his sword down into the neck of Trolloc with the head of a bear, Dark, thick blood spurted out in a noisome gush, but the beasts were terribly difficult to kill. Galad had heard the stories, had trained with men who had fought Shadowspawn. Still, their resilience surprised him. He had to hack at the creature three more times before it dropped. Already, Galad s arm was aching. There was no finesse to fighting monsters like this. He used horseback sword forms, but often the most direct and brutal of them. Woodsman Strips the Branch. Arc of the Moon. Striking the Spark.
His men weren't faring well. They were boxed in, and there was no longer room for lances. The sallying attacks had worked for a time, but the heavy cavalry had been forced to retreat back to the foot lines, and his whole force was being pushed east. The Amadicians were being overwhelmed, and the force of the attack was too great to allow further cavalry charges. All the Children on horseback could do was swing their weapons wildly in an attempt to stay alive.
Galad turned Stout, but two snarling Trollocs leaped for him. He quickly took one across the neck with Heron Snatches the Silvernsh, but the creature fell forward onto Stout, causing the horse to lurch away. Another brute slashed a catchpole at the horse's neck. The horse fell.
Galad barely managed to throw himself free, hitting the ground in a heap as Stout collapsed, legs jerking, neck spurting blood across his white shoulder. Galad rolled, sword twisted to the side, but he had landed wrong. His ankle wrenched in pain.
Ignoring the pain, he brought his sword up in time to deflect the hook of a brown-furred monster, nine feet tall, that stank of death. Galad's parry sent him off balance again.
"Galad!"
Figures in white crashed into the Trollocs. Reeking blood sprayed in the air. White figures tumbled to the ground, but the Trollocs were driven back. Bornhald stood panting, sword out, shield dented and sprayed with dark blood. He had four men with him. Two others had fallen.
Thank you," Galad said. "Your mounts?"
Cut down," Bornhald said. "They must have orders to go after the horses."
"Don't want us escaping," Galad said. "Or rallying a charge." He glanced
down the line of beleaguered soldiers. Twenty thousand had seemed a grand
army, but the battle lines were a mess. And the Trollocs continued to come,
wave after wave. The northern section of the Children's line was breaking,
and the Trollocs were pushing forward there with a pincer movement surround Galad's force. They'd cut them off on the north and south to ram them against the hill. Light!
"Rally to the northern foot line!" Galad yelled. He ran in that direc-tion as quickly as he could, his ankle protesting, but still functioning. Men joined with him. Their clothing was no longer white.
Galad knew that most generals, like Gareth Bryne, didn't fight on the front lines. They were too important for that, and their minds were needed for organizing the fight. Perhaps that was what Galad should have done It was falling apart.
His men were good. Solid. But they were inexperienced with Trollocs Only now—charging across muddy ground on a dark night, lit by globes hanging in the air—did he see how inexperienced many of them were. He had some veterans, but the larger group had fought mostly against unruly bandits or city militias.
The Trollocs were different. The howling, grunting, snarling monsters were in a frenzy. What they lacked in military discipline they made up for in strength and ferocity. And hunger. The Myrddraal amid them were terrible enough to break a formation all on their own. Galad's soldiers were buckling.
"Hold!" Galad bellowed, reaching the breaking section of the line. He had Bornhafd and about fifty men. Not nearly enough. "We are the Children of the Light! We do not give before the Shadow!"
It didn't work. Watching the disaster play out, his entire framework of understanding started to crack. The Children of the Light were not protected by their goodness; they were falling in swaths, like grain before the scythe. Worse than that, some did not fight valiantly or hold with resolve. Too many yelled in terror, running. The Amadicians he could understand, but a lot of the Children themselves were little better.
They weren't cowards. They weren't poor fighters. They were just men. Average. That wasn't how it was supposed to be.
Thunder sounded as Gallenne brought his horsemen around in another charge. They hammered into the Trolloc line and forced many of them off the edge, tumbling them back down the incline.
Perrin slammed Mab'alleinir into a Trollocs head. The force of the blow tossed the creature to the side, and—oddly—its skin sizzled and smoked where the hammer had hit. This happened with each blow, as if
the touch of Mah'alleinir burned them, though Perrin felt only a comfort-able warmth from the hammer.
Gallenne's charge punched through the Trolloc ranks, separating them
into two cohorts, but there were so many carcasses it was getting difficult
for his lancers to charge. Gallenne withdrew and a contingent of Two Riv-
ers men moved in and shot arrows at the Trollocs, cutting them down in a wave of screaming, howling, reeking death.
Perrin pulled Stepper back, foot soldiers forming around him. Very few of his men had fallen among the Trollocs. Of course, even one was too many.
Arganda trotted up on his horse. He'd lost his helmet's plumes somewhere, but was smiling broadly. "I've rarely had such a pleasing battle, Ay-bara," he said. "Enemies to fell that you need not feel a stin
g of pity for, a perfect staging area and defensible position. Archers to dream of and Asha'man to stop the gaps! I've laid down over two dozen of the beasts myself. For this day alone, I'm glad we followed you!"
Perrin nodded. He didn't point out that one of the reasons they were having an easy time of it was that most of the Trollocs were focused on the Whitecloaks. Trollocs were nasty, monstrous things, and they had a fiercely selfish streak. Charge up the hillside at balls of fire and longbowmen, only to try and seize ground from two full contingents of cavalry? Better to seek the easier foe, and it made tactical sense, too. Focus on the easier battle first, when you had two fronts to fight on.
They were trying to crush the Whitecloaks back against the hillside as quickly as possible, and had swarmed them, not leaving them room to ride their cavalry in charges, separating groups of them. The person leading this understood tactics; this wasn't the work of Trolloc minds.
"Lord Perrin!" Jori Congar's voice rose above the din of howling Trollocs. He scrambled up to Stepper's side. "You asked me to watch and tell you how they were doing. Well, you'll want to look, maybe."
Perrin nodded, raising his fist, then making a chopping motion. Grady and Neald stood behind him, on a rock formation that could look down toward the roadway. Their main orders were to take down any Myrddraal they spotted. Perrin wanted to keep as many of those things as possible off the heights; it could cost dozens of lives to kill a single Myrddraal with the sword or axe. Best to kill with Fire, from a distance. Besides, sometimes killing one of the Fades would mean killing a complement of Trollocs linked to it.
The Asha'man, Aes Sedai and Wise Ones saw Perrin's signal. They began a full assault on the Trollocs, fire flying from hands, lightning blasting
from the sky, pushing the Trollocs back down the incline. Perrin's for soldiers pulled back for a few moments' rest.
Perrin nudged Stepper to the edge, looking down the slope to the south, holding Mah'alleinir down by his leg. Below, Damodred's force was doing even worse than Perrin had worried. The Trollocs had drilled for-ward, nearly dividing the Whitecloaks into two sections. The monsters were surging around the sides, entrapping Galad, making the Whitecloaks fight on three fronts. Their backs were to the hillside, and many groups of cavalry had been cut off from the main body of fighting.
Gallenne trotted up beside Perrin. "The Trollocs are still appearing. I'd guess fifty thousand of the beasts so far. The Asha'man say they've only sensed the one channeler, and he isn't engaging."
"The one leading the Shadowspawn won't want to commit their chan-nelers," Perrin guessed. "Not with us having the high ground. They'll leave the Trollocs to do what damage they can, and see if they gain the upper hand. If they do, we will see channelers come out."
Gallenne nodded.
"Damodred's force is in trouble."
"Yes," Gallenne said. "You positioned us well to help them, but it appears we weren't enough."
"I'm going down for them," Perrin decided. He pointed. "The Trollocs are surrounding him, boxing him in against the hillside. We could sweep down and surprise the beasts with a broadside, breaking through and freeing Damodred's men to get themselves up on the plateau here."
Gallenne frowned. "Pardon, Lord Perrin, but I must ask. What is it that you feel you owe them? I would have sorrowed if, indeed, we'd come here to attack them—though I would have seen its logic. But I see no reason to help them."
Perrin grunted. "It's just the right thing to do."
"That is a subject of debate," Gallenne said, shaking his helmeted head. "Fighting the Trollocs and Fades is excellent, for every one that falls is one fewer to face at the Last Battle. Our men get practice fighting them, and can learn to control their fears. But that slope is steep and treacherous; if you try to ride down to Damodred, you could destroy our advantage.
"I'm going anyway," Perrin said. "Jori, go get the Two Rivers men and the Asha'man. I'll need them to soften the Trollocs for my charge." He looked down again. Memories of the Two Rivers flooded his mind. Blood. Death. Mah'alleinir grew warmer in his fist. "I won't leave them to it, Gal-lenne. Not even them. Will you join me?"
"You are a strange man, Aybara." Gallenne hesitated. "And one of true honor. Yes, I will."
"Good. Jori, get moving. We must reach Damodred before his lines
break."
a shock rippled through the mass of Trollocs. Galad hesitated, sword ripped in sweaty fingers. His entire body ached. Moans came from all round him, some guttural and snarling—Trollocs dying—some piteous from fallen men. The Children near him were holding. Barely.
The night was dim, even with those lights. It felt like fighting nightmares. But if the Children of the Light could not stand against darkness, who could?
The Trollocs began howling more loudly. Those in front of him turned, speaking to one another in a crude, snarling tongue that caused him to pull back in revulsion. Trollocs could speak? He hadn't known that. What had drawn their attention?
And then he saw it. A hail of arrows, falling from above, ripped into ranks of the nearby Trollocs. The Two Rivers bowmen lived up to their reputation. Galad wouldn't have trusted most archers to shoot like that, not without stray arrows falling on the Whitecloaks. These archers were precise, however.
The Trollocs screamed and howled. Then, from the top of the rise, a thousand horsemen charged. Lights flashed around them; fires fell from above, arcing down like red-golden lances. They illuminated the horsemen in silver.
It was an incredible maneuver. The incline was steep enough that horses could have tripped, fallen, tumbled the entire force into a useless mass of bodies. But they didn't fall. They galloped sure-footed, lances gleaming. And at their front rode a bearded monster of a man with a large hammer held high. Perrin Aybara himself, above his head a banner flapping, carried by a man riding just behind. The crimson wolfhead.
Despite himself, Galad lowered his shield at the sight. Aybara almost seemed aflame from the tongues of fire that surrounded him. Galad could see those wide, golden eyes. Like fires themselves.
The horsemen crashed into the Trollocs that had surrounded Galad's force. Aybara let out a roar over the din, then began to lay about him with the hammer. The attack forced the Trollocs back.
Assault!" Galad yelled. "Press the attack! Force them into the cavalry!" He charged northward, toward the face of the heights, Bornhald at his side.
Nearby, Trom rallied what was left of his legion and brought it around to attack the Trollocs opposite Aybara.
The fray grew increasingly chaotic. Galad fought furiously. Above, in-credibly, Aybara's entire army poured down the incline, giving up the high ground. They fell upon the Trollocs, tens of thousands of men yelling. "Goldeneyes! Goldeneyes!"
The attack put Galad and Bornhald into the Trollocs' ranks. The crea-tures tried to pull back from Aybara, surging in all directions. The men near Galad and Bornhald were soon fighting desperately to stay alive. Galad finished off a Trolloc with Ribbon in the Air, but spun and imme-diately found himself facing a ram-faced behemoth ten feet tall. Horns curled around the sides of its enormous square face, but the eyes were human, and the lower jaw as well.
Galad ducked when it swung its catchpole, then rammed his sword up into its gut. The creature screamed, and Bornhald hamstrung it from the side.
Galad yelled and leaped backward, but his twisted ankle finally failed him. It got caught in a cleft in the ground, and Galad heard a terrible snap as he fell.
The dying monster crashed down on him, pinning him to the ground. Pain shot up his leg, but he ignored it. He dropped his sword, trying to shove the carcass free. Bornhald, swearing, fended off a Trolloc that had the snout of a boar. It made a horrid grunting sound.
Galad heaved off the stinking carcass. To the side, he could see men in white—Trom, with Byar at his side, fighting desperately to reach Galad. There were so many Trollocs, and those Children immediately nearby had mostly fallen.
Galad reached for his sword just as a mounted fi
gure burst through the shadows and Trollocs just to the north. Aybara. He rode up and pounded that massive hammer of his into a boar Trolloc, sending it crashing to the ground. Aybara leaped off his horse as Bornhald scrambled over to help Galad to his feet.
"You are wounded?" Aybara asked.
"My ankle," Galad said.
"On my horse," Aybara said.
Galad didn't protest; it made sense. He did, however, feel embarrassed as Bornhald helped him up. Aybara's men filled in around them, pushing the Trollocs back. Now that Aybara's army had joined the fray, Galad's men were rallying.
Rushing down the slope had been a dangerous gamble, but as soon as Galad was astride Aybara's horse, he could see that the gamble had worked, The massive charge had broken the Trollocs apart, and some groups started
fleeting. Tongues of flame fell from above, burning Myrddraal and dropping
entire fists of Trollocs linked to them.
There was still a great deal of fighting to do, but the tide was turning. Aybara's forces carved out a section around their leader, giving him—and by extension Galad—some breathing room to consider the next stage of the attack.
Galad turned to Aybara, who was studying the Trollocs with keen eves. "I assume you think that saving me will influence my decision about your judgment," Galad said.
"It had better," Aybara muttered.
Galad raised an eyebrow. It wasn't the response he'd been expecting. "My men find it suspicious that you appeared so soon before the Trollocs."
"Well, they can think that if they want," Aybara said. "I doubt anything I say will change their minds. In a way, this is my fault. The Trollocs were here to kill me; I just got away before they could spring their trap. Be glad I didn't leave you to them. You Whitecloaks have caused me nearly as much grief as they have."
Oddly, Galad found himself smiling. There was a straightforward air about this Perrin Aybara. A man could ask for little more in an ally.
Are we allies, then? Galad thought, nodding to Trom and Byar as they approached. Perhaps for now. He did trust Aybara. Yes, perhaps there were men in the world who would put together an intricate plot like this one, all to trick his way into Galad's favor. Valda had been like that.
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