“Go with those archers to the towers,” Ituralde said. “Those Trollocs are going to try another push. I do not want another fist breaking through to the top, hear me? If they seize our position and use it against us, I’m going to have a rotten morning.”
Lidrin didn’t smile at the comment, as he once might have. He didn’t smile much at all anymore; usually only when he got to kill a Trolloc. He saluted, turning to jog after the archers.
Ituralde turned and looked down the back side of the hill. The lower camp was set up there, in the shadow of the steep hillside. This hill had been a natural formation, once, but the Saldaeans had built it up over the years, with one long slope extending toward the river and a steeper one on the opposite side. In the lower camp, his troops could sleep and eat, and their supplies could be protected, all sheltered from enemy arrows by the steep hillside upon which Ituralde now stood.
Both of his camps, upper and lower, were patchwork things. Some of the tents had been purchased from Saldaean villages, some were of Domani make, and dozens had been brought in by gateway from all over the land. A large number of them were enormous Cairhienin things with striped patterns. They kept the rain off his men, and that was enough.
The Saldaeans certainly knew how to build fortifications. If only Ituralde had been able to persuade them to leave their hiding place in the city of Maradon and come help.
“Now,” Ituralde said, “where in—”
He cut off as something darkened the sky. He barely had time to curse and duck away as a group of large objects rained down, arcing high to fall on the upper camp, eliciting howls of pain and confusion. Those weren’t boulders: they were corpses. The hulking bodies of dead Trollocs. The Shadowspawn army had finally set up their trebuchets.
A part of Ituralde was impressed that he’d driven them to it. The siege equipment had undoubtedly been brought to assault Maradon, which was a little to the south. Setting up the trebuchets across the ford to assault Ituralde’s lines instead not only would slow the Shadowspawn, but would expose their trebuchets to his counterfire.
He hadn’t expected them to hurl carcasses. He cursed as the sky darkened again, more bodies falling, knocking down tents, crushing soldiers.
“Healers!” Ituralde bellowed. “Where are those Asha’man?” He’d pushed the Asha’man hard, since this siege had begun. To the brink of exhaustion. Now he held them back, using them only when Trolloc assaults got too close to the upper camp.
“Sir!” A young messenger with dirt under his fingernails scrambled up from the front lines. His Domani face was ashen, and he was still too young to grow a proper mustache. “Captain Finsas reports the Shadowspawn army moving trebuchets into range. There are sixteen by his count.”
“Let Captain Finsas know that his bloody timing could be better,” Ituralde growled.
“I’m sorry, my Lord. They rolled them down through the pass before we figured out what was going on. The initial volley hit our watchpost. Lord Finsas himself was wounded.”
Ituralde nodded; Rajabi was arriving to take command of the upper camp and organize the wounded. Below, a lot of bodies had hit the lower camp, too. The trebuchets could get the height and range to launch over the hill and fall down on his men in their previously sheltered area. He’d have to pull the lower camp back, farther across the plain toward Maradon, which would delay response times. Bloody ashes.
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 always 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 those siege engines.
Another body hit the top of the command pavilion, but the roof held. From the stink—and, in some cases, splash—of those deceased Trollocs, they’d not chosen the newly dead for this assault. Confident that his officers were seeing to their duties—now was not the time to interfere—Ituralde clasped his hands behind him. Seeing him, soldiers both inside and 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 pot hanging above a cook fire, bits of steel shining through at the edges of the crusted soot. It was unnatural. Let his men see that he did not fear it, even when it hailed corpses upon them.
Wounded were carried away, and men in the lower camp began to break it down, preparing to move it farther back. He kept his archers and crossbowmen firing, pikemen ready along the bulwarks. He had a sizable cavalry, but couldn’t use them here.
Those trebuchets, if left alone, would wear his men down with boulders and sprayshot—but Ituralde intended to see them burned first, using an 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 let 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 Asha’man who are on duty. Tell Captain Creedin to watch that Trolloc assault across the ford. They’ll redouble their efforts following this barrage, as 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 dribbled down across milky white skin as Ituralde yanked his blade free, still 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 another of the monsters himself. In a blessed moment, he noticed balls of fire striking down Draghkar in the air—the Asha’man.
But at the same time, in the distance, he heard the war drums grow louder. As he’d predicted, the churning force of Trollocs would be striking across 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 fought 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 atop 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, feeling her anger rise. Berelain had gone too far. Perrin claimed that the rumors came from Berelain’s maids, not the woman herself, but Faile saw the 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 was the stronger party as Perrin’s wife.
A pair of Winged Guards stood at the entrance to the Mayener section, their breastplates painted crimson, winged helmets shaped like pots and extending down the backs of their necks. They stood up taller as Faile neared, holding lances that were mostly ornamental, pennons flapping with 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 two 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 Guards 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 Malden. 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 Malden.
The First rose. “Lady Faile,” she said calmly. Today, she wore the diadem of Mayene. The thin crown had a simple grandeur about it, unornamented 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 have not been overly taxing?”
“The rains have been dreadful, Berelain,” Faile said. “But I’m not here to talk about them.”
Berelain pursed perfect lips. Light, but the woman was beautiful! Faile felt downright dingy by comparison, her nose too large, her bosom too small. 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 me promise you that the rumors are absolutely false; nothing inappropriate happened 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, possessing a skill and subtlety that Faile envied. Despite her youth, Berelain had kept her tiny city-state free from the much larger and powerful Tear. Faile could only guess how much juggling, political double-dealing and sheer cleverness that must have required.
“So why have you come to me?” Berelain asked, sitting down. “If your heart is at ease, then there is no problem.”
“We both know that whether or not you slept with my husband is not an issue here,” Faile said, and Berelain’s eyes widened. “It isn’t what h
appened, but what is presumed, that angers me.”
“Rumors can be found in any place where people are gathered,” Berelain said. “Particularly where men gossip.”
“Such strong, persistent rumors are unlikely to have happened without encouragement,” Faile said. “Now everyone in the camp—including the refugees sworn to me—assumes that you bedded my husband while I was away. This not only makes me look like a fool, but casts a shadow upon Perrin’s honor. He cannot lead if people take him for the type of man 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 of them, the rumors weren’t unfounded. Monarchies survive infidelity.”
“Perhaps in Illian or Tear,” Faile said, “but Saldaea expects better of its monarchs. 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.”
The Wheel of Time Page 1138