Towers of midnight wot-13

by Robert Jordan

  The pavilion grew still.

  "Anyway," Seonid said, clearing her throat. "Once finished with Cairhien, we met up with those who had gone to Andor to check on rumors there."

  "Wait," Perrin said. "Andor?"

  "The Wise Ones decided to send Maidens there."

  "That wasn't the plan," Perrin growled, looking at the Wise Ones.

  "You don't control us, Perrin Aybara," Edarra said calmly. "We needed to know if there were still Aiel in the city or not, and if the Car'a'carn was there. Your Asha'man complied when we asked them for the gateway."

  The Maidens could have been seen," he grumbled. Well, he had told Grady to do the gateways as the Aiel asked him, though he'd been referring to the timing of the departure and the return. He should have been more precise.

  "Well, they weren't seen," Seonid sounded exasperated, like one talking with a foolish child. "At least not by anyone they didn't intend to speak with." Light! Was it him, or was she beginning to seem a lot like a Wise One? Was that what Seonid and the others were doing in the Aiel camp? Learning to become more stubborn? Light help them all.

  "Regardless," Seonid continued, "it was wise of us to visit Caemlyn. Rumor cannot be trusted, particularly not when one of the Forsaken was said to be operating in the area."

  "One of the Forsaken?" Gallenne asked. "In Andor?"

  Perrin nodded, waving for another cup of warmed tea. "Rand said it was Rahvin, though I was in the Two Rivers when the battle happened." The colors swirled in Perrin's head. "Rahvin was impersonating one of the local noblemen, a man named Gabral or Gabil or some such. He used the Queen—made her fall in love with him, or something—and then killed her."

  A serving tray hit the ground with a muted peal.

  Porcelain cups shattered, tea spraying into the air. Perrin spun, cursing, and several of the Maidens leaped to their feet, clutching belt knives.

  Maighdin stood, looking stunned, arms at her sides. The fallen tray lay on the ground before her.

  "Maighdin!" Faile said. "Are you all right?"

  The sun-haired serving woman turned to Perrin, looking dazed. "If you please, my Lord, will you repeat what you said?"

  "What?" Perrin asked. "Woman, what's wrong?"

  "You said one of the Forsaken had taken up residence in Andor," Maighdin said, voice calm. She gave him as sharp a look as he'd gotten from any Aes Sedai. "Are you certain of what you heard?"

  Perrin settled back on his cushion, scratching his chin. "Sure as I can be. It's been some time, now, but I know Rand was convinced. He fought someone with the One Power in the Andoran palace."

  "His name was Gaebril," Sulin said. "I was there. Lightning struck from an open sky, and there was no doubt it was the One Power. It was one of the Forsaken."

  "There were some in Andor who claimed the Car'a'carn spoke of this, Edarra added. "He said that this Gaebril had been using forbidden weaves on wetlanders in the palace, twisting their minds, making them think and do as he wished."

  "Maighdin, what's wrong?" Perrin asked. "Light, woman, he's dead now! You needn't fear."

  "I must be excused," Maighdin said. She walked from the pavilion, leaving the tray and broken porcelain, bone white, scattered on the ground.

  "I will see to her later," Faile said, embarrassed. "She is distraught to find that she'd lived so close to one of the Forsaken. She's from Caemlyn, you know."

  The others nodded, and other servants moved forward to clean up the mess. Perrin realized he wasn't going to be getting any more tea. Fool man, he thought. You lived most your life without being able to order tea on command. You won't die now that you can't get a refill by waving your hand.

  "Let's move on," he said, settling on his cushions. He could never quite get comfortable on the blasted things.

  "My report is finished," Seonid said, pointedly ignoring the servant who was cleaning up porcelain shards in front of her.

  "I stand by my earlier decision," Perrin said. "Dealing with the Whitecloaks is important. After that we'll go to Andor, and I'll talk to Elayne. Grady, how are you managing?"

  The weathered Asha'man looked up from where he sat in his black coat. "I'm fully recovered from my sickness, my Lord, and Neald almost is as well."

  "You still look tired," Perrin said.

  "I am," Grady said, "but burn me, I'm better than I was many a day in the field before I went to the Black Tower."

  "It's time to start sending some of these refugees where they belong," Perrin said. "With those circles, you can keep a gateway open longer?"

  "I'm not right sure. Being in a circle is still tiring. Maybe more so. But I can make much larger gateways with the help of the women, wide enough to drive two wagons through."

  "Good. We'll start by sending the ordinary folk home. Each person we see back where they belong will be a stone off my back."

  "And if they don't want to go?" Tam asked. "A lot of them have started the training, Perrin. They know what's coming, and they'd rather face it here—with you—than cower in their homes."

  Light! Were there no people in this camp who wanted to go back to their families? "Surely there are some of them who want to go back."

  "Some," Tam said.

  "Remember," Faile said, "the weak and the aged were sent away by the Aiel."

  Arganda nodded. "I've looked in on these troops. More and more of the gai'shain are coming out of their stupor, and when they do, they're hard. Hard as many soldiers I've known."

  "Some will want to check on family," Tam said, "but only if you'll let them back. They can see that sky. They know what's coming."

  "For now, we'll send back the ones that want to go and remain in their homes," Perrin said. "I can't deal with the others until after I'm done with the Whitecloaks."

  "Excellent," Gallenne said eagerly. "You have a plan of attack?"

  "Well," Perrin said, "I figure that if they're going to be companionable enough to line up, we'll have at them with my archers and channelers and destroy them."

  "I approve of this plan," Gallenne said, "so long as my men can charge to deal with the rabble left at the end."

  "Balwer," Perrin said. "Write the Whitecloaks. Tell them we'll fight and that they should pick a place."

  As he said the words, he felt a strange reluctance. It seemed such a waste to kill so many who could fight against the Shadow. But he didn't see a way around it.

  Balwer nodded, smelling fierce. What had the Whitecloaks done to Balwer? The dusty secretary was fascinated with them.

  The meeting began to break up. Perrin stepped to the tent's open side and watched the separate groups leave, Alliandre and Arganda moving toward their section of the camp. Faile walked beside Berelain; oddly, the two were chatting together. Their scents said they were angry, but their words sounded companionable. What were those two up to?

  Only a few wet stains on the ground inside the tent remained of the dropped tray. What was wrong with Maighdin? Erratic behavior like that was disturbing; all too often, it was followed by some manifestation of the Dark One's power.

  "My Lord?" a voice asked, preceded by a quiet cough. Perrin turned, realizing that Balwer was waiting behind him. The secretary stood with hands clasped before him, looking like a pile of sticks that children had dressed up in an old shirt and coat.

  "Yes?" Perrin asked.

  "I happened to overhear several items of, ah, some interest while visiting the scholars of Cairhien."

  "You found the supplies, right?"

  "Yes, yes. I am quite well stocked. Please, a moment. I do believe you'll be interested in what I overheard."

  "Go ahead, then," Perrin said, walking back into the pavilion. The last of the others had left.

  Balwer spoke in a soft voice. "First off, my Lord, it appears that the Children of the Light are in league with the Seanchan. It is common knowledge now, and I worry that the force ahead of us was planted to—"

  "Balwer," Perrin interrupted, "I know you hate the Whitecloaks, but you've already told me that news
a half-dozen times over."

  "Yes, but—"

  "Nothing more about the Whitecloaks," Perrin said, holding up a hand. "Unless it's specific news about this force ahead of us. Do you have any of that?"

  "No, my Lord."

  "All right, then. Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?"

  Balwer showed no signs of annoyance, but Perrin could smell dissatisfaction. Light knew that the Whitecloaks had plenty to answer for, and Perrin didn't blame Balwer for his hatred, but it did grow wearying.

  "Well, my Lord," Balwer continued, "I would hazard that the tales of the Dragon Reborn wanting a truce with the Seanchan are more than idle hearsay. Several sources indicate that he has sued their leader for peace."

  "But what did he do to his hand?" Perrin asked, dispelling yet another image of Rand from his vision.

  "What was that, my Lord?"

  "Nothing," Perrin said.

  "In addition," Balwer said, reaching into his sleeve, "there are an alarming number of these traveling among cutpurses, slipfingers and footpads in Cairhien." He pulled out a sheet of paper with a sketch of Perrin's face on it. The likeness was alarmingly good. Perrin took the paper, frowning. There were no words on it. Balwer handed him a second one, identical to the first. A third paper followed, this one with a picture of Mat.

  "Where did you get these?" Perrin asked.

  "As I said, my Lord," Balwer continued, "they are being passed around in certain circles. Apparently there are very large sums of money promised to anyone who can produce your corpse, though I could not determine who would be doing the paying."

  "And you discovered these while visiting the scholars at Rand's school?" Perrin asked.

  The pinch-faced scribe displayed no emotion.

  "Who are you really, Balwer?"

  "A secretary. With some measure of skill in finding secrets."

  "Some measure? Balwer, I haven't asked after your past. I figure a man deserves to be able to start fresh. But now the Whitecloaks are here, and you have some connection to them. I need to know what it is."

  Balwer stood silently for a time. The raised walls of the pavilion rustled.

  "My previous employer was a man I respected, my Lord," Balwer said. "He was killed by the Children of the Light. Some among them may recognize me."

  "You were a spy for this person?" Perrin asked.

  Balwer's lips turned down distinctly. He spoke more softly. "I merely have a mind for remembering facts, my Lord."

  "Yes, you've got a very good mind for it. Your service is useful to me, Balwer. I'm only trying to tell you that. I'm glad you're here."

  The man smelled pleased. "If I may say, my Lord, it is refreshing to work for someone who doesn't see my information as simply a means of betraying or compromising those around him."

  "Well, be that as it may, I should probably start paying you better," Perrin said.

  That gave Balwer a panicked scent. "That won't be necessary."

  "You could demand high wages from any number of lords or merchants!"

  "Petty men of no consequence," Balwer said with a twitch of his fingers.

  "Yes, but I still think you should be paid more. It's simple sense. If you hire an apprentice blacksmith for your forge and don't pay him well enough, he'll impress your regular customers, then open a new forge across the street the moment he can afford to."

  "Ah, but you do not see, my Lord," Balwer said. "Money means nothing to me. The information—that is what is important. Facts and discoveries… they are like nuggets of gold. I could give that gold to a common banker to make coins, but I prefer to give it to the master craftsman to make something of beauty.

  "Please, my Lord, let me remain a simple secretary. You see, one of the easiest ways to tell if someone is not what he seems is to check his wages." He chuckled. "I've uncovered more than one assassin or spy that way, yes I have. No pay is needed. The opportunity to work with you is its own payment."

  Perrin shrugged, but nodded, and Balwer withdrew. Perrin stepped out of the pavilion, stowing the pictures in his pocket. They disturbed him. He'd bet these pictures were in Andor, too, placed by the Forsaken.

  For the first time, he found himself wondering if he was going to need an army to keep himself safe. It was a disturbing thought.

  The wave of bestial Trollocs surged over the top of the hill, overrunning the last of the fortifications. They grunted and howled, thick-fingered hands tearing at the dark Saldaean soil and clutching swords, hooked spears, hammers, clubs and other wicked weapons. Spittle dripped from tusked lips on some, while on others wide, too-human eyes stared out from behind wicked beaks. Their black armor was decorated with spikes.

  Ituralde's men stood strong with him at the bottom of the back slope of the hillside. He had ordered the lower camp to disband and retreat as far as they could to the south along the riverbank. Meanwhile, the army had retreated from the fortifications. He hated to surrender the high ground, but getting pushed down that steep hill during an assault would have been deadly. He had room to fall back, so he'd use it, now that the fortifications were lost. He positioned his forces just at the base of the hill, near where the lower camp had once been. The Domani soldiers wore steel caps and had set their fourteen-foot pikes with butts in the dirt, holding them for more stability, steel points toward the towering wave of Trollocs. A classic defensive position: three ranks of pikemen and shieldmen, pikes slanted toward the top of the slope. When the first rank of pikes killed a Trolloc, they'd fall back and pull their weapons free, letting the second rank step forward to kill. A slow, careful retreat, rank by rank. A double row of archers behind began loosing arrows, slamming wave after wave up into the Shadowspawn, dropping bodies down the slope. Those rolled, some still screaming, spraying dark blood. A larger number continued down, over their brothers, trying to get at the pikemen.

  An eagle-headed Trolloc died on a pike in front of Ituralde. There were chips along the edges of the thing's beak, and its head—set with predatory eyes—sat atop a bull-like neck, the edge of the feathers coated with some kind of dark, oily substance. The monster screeched as it died, voice low and only faintly avian, somehow forming guttural sounds in the Trolloc language.

  "Hold!" Ituralde called, turning and trotting his horse down the line of pikemen. "Keep the formation, burn you!"

  The Trollocs surged down the hillside, dying on those pikes. It would be a temporary reprieve. There were too many Trollocs, and even a rotating triple pike line would be overwhelmed. This was a delaying tactic. Behind them, the rest of his troops began their retreat. Once the lines had weakened, the Asha'man would assume the burden of defense, buying time for the pikemen to retreat.

  If the Asha'man could manage the strength. He'd pushed them hard. Maybe too hard. He didn't know their limits the way he did for ordinary troops. If they were able to break the Trolloc advance, his army would fall back southward. That retreat would take them past the safety of Maradon, but they would not be allowed in. Those inside had rebuffed all Ituralde's attempts at communication. "We do not abet invaders" had been the reply each time. Bloody fools.

  Well, the Trollocs would likely form up around Maradon for a sustained siege, giving Ituralde and his men time to fall back to a more defensible position.

  "Hold!" Ituralde called again, riding past an area where the Trolloc press was beginning to show results. Atop one of the hilltop fortifications a pack of wolf-headed Trollocs lurked, wary, while their companions charged down before them. "Archers!" Ituralde said, pointing.

  A volley of arrows followed, spraying the wolf-headed Trollocs, or "Minds" as the Dragonsworn in Ituralde's army had started calling them. Trollocs had their own bands and organization, but his men often referred to individuals by the features they displayed. "Horns" for goats, "Beaks" for hawks, "Arms" for bears. Those with the heads of wolves were often among the more intelligent; some Saldaeans claimed to have heard them speaking the human language to bargain with or trick their opponents.

  Itur
alde knew much about Trollocs now. You needed to know your enemy. Unfortunately, there was huge variety in Trolloc intelligence and personality. And there were many Trollocs who shared physical attributes from various groups. Ituralde swore he'd seen one twisted abomination with the feathers of a hawk but the horns of a goat.

  The Trollocs atop the fortification tried to get out of the way of the arrows. A large pack of hulking beasts behind shoved them down the hill with a roar. Trollocs were cowardly things, normally, unless hungry, but if they were whipped into a frenzy, they fought well.

  The Fades would follow this initial wave. Once the archers were out of arrows, and Trollocs had softened the men below. Ituralde didn't look forward to that.

  Light, Ituralde thought. I hope I've can outrun them. The Asha'man waited in the distance for his order. He wished he had them closer. But he couldn't risk it. They were too important an asset to lose to a stray arrow.

  Hopefully, the front ranks of Trollocs would be severely battered by the pikemen, their carcasses twisted and banked against the pikes—and the Trollocs behind stumbling and falling against their own bloody remnants. Ituralde's remaining Saldaeans would ride as a harrying force at any who got through the Asha'man blasts. Then the pikemen should be able to draw back and follow the rest of the army in retreat. Once past Maradon, they could use gateways to fall back to his next chosen position, a forested pass some ten leagues south.

  His men should be able to escape. Should. Light, but he hated being forced to command a too-fast retreat like this.

  Stay firm, he told himself, continuing to ride and call out the order to hold. It was important that they hear his voice. That boy is the Dragon Reborn, He'll keep his promises.

  "My Lord!" a voice called. Ituralde's guard split to let a young boy ride up, panting. "My Lord, it's Lieutenant Lidrin!"

  "He's fallen?" Ituralde demanded.