To the side, Pylar and a couple of other Browns—all adept with weaves of Earth—caused the ground to erupt under the charging Trollocs. Spread out next to her, Myrelle and a large contingent of Greens wove fireballs that they lobbed over the water into bunched-up groups of Trollocs, many of whom continued to run a considerable distance before they collapsed, engulfed in flames.
The Trollocs howled and roared, but continued their relentless progress against the defenders at the river’s edge. At one point, several ranks of Seanchan cavalry moved out from the defensive lines and attacked the Trolloc onslaught head-on. It happened so quickly that many of the Trollocs were unable to raise their spears before contact was made; large swaths of the foe in the front ranks went down. The Seanchan swept to the side and returned to their lines at the river.
Egwene held to her channeling, forcing herself to work through sheer exhaustion. But the Trollocs didn’t break; they grew enraged, attacking the humans with a frenzy. Egwene could hear their yells distinctly over the sounds of wind and water.
The Trollocs grew angry, did they? Well, they would not know anger until they had felt that of the Amyrlin Seat. Egwene pulled in more and more of the Power until she was at the very edges of her ability. She put heat into her tempest so that the scalding water burned Trolloc eyes, hands, hearts. She felt herself yelling, Vora’s sa’angreal thrust before her like a spear.
What seemed like hours went by. Eventually, exhausted, she allowed Gawyn to talk her into pulling back for a time. Gawyn went to fetch her horse and as he was returning, Egwene looked across the river.
There was no doubt about it; her army’s left flank had already been pushed another thirty paces. Even with the Aes Sedai aid, they were losing this battle.
It was long past time for her to find Gareth Bryne.
When Egwene and Gawyn got back to camp, she climbed from her horse and gave it to Leilwin, telling her to use it to help carry the wounded. There were plenty of those who had been dragged across the ford to safety, bloodied soldiers slumping against the arms of friends.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t the strength for Healing, let alone a gateway to send wounded to Tar Valon or Mayene. Most of the Aes Sedai not busy at the riverbank didn’t look as if they were doing any better.
“Egwene,” Gawyn said softly. “Rider. Seanchan. Looks like a noblewoman.”
One of the Blood? Egwene thought, standing and looking through camp toward where Gawyn pointed. At least he had the strength left to keep a lookout. Why any woman would voluntarily go without a Warder was beyond her.
The woman approaching wore fine Seanchan silks, and Egwene’s stomach turned at the sight. That finery existed because of a foundation of enslaved channelers, forced into obedience to the Crystal Throne. The woman was certainly one of the Blood, as a contingent of Deathwatch Guards accompanied her. You had to be very important for . . .
“Light!” Gawyn exclaimed. “Is that Min?”
Egwene gaped. It was.
Min rode up, scowling. “Mother,” she said to Egwene, bowing her head amid her stone-faced guards in dark armor.
“Min . . . are you well?” Egwene asked. Careful, don’t give out too much information. Was Min a captive? Surely she couldn’t have joined the Seanchan, could she?
“Oh, I’m well,” Min said sourly. “I’ve been pampered, stuffed in this outfit, and offered all sorts of somewhat delicate foods. I might add that among the Seanchan, delicate does not necessarily mean tasty. You should see the things they drink, Egwene.”
I ve seen them,” Egwene said, unable to keep her tone from coldness. “Oh. Yes. I suppose you have. Mother, we have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Well, it depends on how much you trust Mat.”
“I trust him to find trouble,” Egwene said. “I trust him to find drinking and gambling, no matter where he goes.”
“Do you trust him to lead an army?” Min asked.
Egwene hesitated. Did she?
Min leaned forward, sparing a glance for the Deathwatch Guards, who didn’t seem about to let her draw any closer to Egwene. “Egwene,” she said softly, “Mat thinks that Bryne is leading your army to destruction. He says ... he says he thinks Bryne is a Darkfriend.”
Gawyn started laughing.
Egwene jumped. She would have expected anger from him, outrage. “Gareth Bryne?” Gawyn asked. “A Darkfriend? I’d believe my own mother to be a Darkfriend before him. Tell Cauthon to stay out of his wife’s royal brandy; hes obviously had too much.”
“I’m inclined to agree with Gawyn,” Egwene said slowly. Still, she could not ignore the irregularities in how the army was being led.
She would sort through that. “Mat is always looking out for people who don’t need to be looked out for,” she said. “He’s just trying to protect me. Tell him that we appreciate the . . . warning.”
“Mother,” Min said. “He seemed certain. This isn’t a joke. He wants you to turn your armies over to him.”
“My armies,” Egwene said flatly.
“Yes.”
“In the hands of Matrim Cauthon.”
“Um . . . yes. I should mention, the Empress has given him command of all the Seanchan forces. He’s now Marshal-General Cauthon.”
Taveren. Egwene shook her head. “Mat is a good tactician, but handing him the White Tower’s armies . . . No, that is beyond possibility. Besides, the armies are not mine to give him—the Hall of the Tower has authority for them. Now, how can we persuade these gentlemen surrounding you that you’ll be safe accompanying me?”
As little as Egwene wanted to admit it, she needed the Seanchan. She wouldn’t risk their alliance to save Min, particularly since it didn’t seem that she was in immediate danger. Of course, if the Seanchan realized that Min had sworn their oaths back in Falme, then fled . . .
“Don’t worry about me,” Min said with a grimace. “I suppose I’m better off with Fortuona. She . . . knows about a certain talent of mine, thanks to Mat, and it might let me help her. And you.”
The statement was laden with meaning. The Deathwatch Guards were too stoic to respond overtly to Min’s use of the Empress’s name, but they did seem to stiffen, their faces hardening. Take care, Min, Egwene thought. You’re surrounded by autumn thornweeds.
Min didn’t seem to care. “Will you at least consider what Mat is saying?
That Gareth Bryne is a Darkfriend?” Egwene said. It really was laughable. “Go back and tell Mat to submit his battle suggestions to us, if he must. For now, I need to find my commanders to plan our next steps.” Gareth Bryne, where are you?
A flight of black arrows rose almost invisibly into the air, then fell like a breaking wave. They hit Ituralde’s army at the mouth of the pass to the valley of Thakan’dar, some bouncing off shields, others finding flesh. One fell inches from where Ituralde stood atop a rocky outcropping.
Ituralde didn’t flinch. He stood, straight-backed, hands clasped behind him. He did, however, mutter, “Letting things draw a little close, aren’t we?” Binde, the Asha’man who stood beside him in the night, grimaced. “Sorry, Lord Ituralde.” He was supposed to keep the arrows away. He’d done well, so far. Sometimes, however, he got a distant look in his face and started muttering about “them” trying to “take his hands.”
“Stay sharp,” Ituralde said.
His head throbbed. More dreams earlier tonight, so real. He had seen Trollocs eating members of his family alive, and had been too weak to save them. He had struggled and wept as they ate Tamsin and his children, but at the same time had been lured by the scents of the boiling and burning flesh.
At the end of the dream, he had joined the monsters in their feast.
Put that from your mind, he thought. It was not easy to do so. The dreams had been so vivid. He had been glad to be awakened by a Trolloc attack.
He’d been ready for this. His men lit bonfires at the barricades. The Trollocs had finally pushed through his thorn fortifications, but their
butchers bill had been high. Now, Ituralde’s men fought at the mouth of the pass, holding the tides back from entering the valley.
They had applied their time well during the days the Trollocs had pushed their way through arduous barriers to the mouth of the pass. The entrance to the valley was now fortified with a series of chest-high earthen bulwarks. Those would be excellent for crossbowmen to use as cover, if Ituralde’s pike formations were ever pushed back too far.
For now, Ituralde had split his army into groups of around three thousand men each, then organized them into square formations of pikes, billhooks and crossbows. He used mounted crossbowmen as skirmishers in the front and on the flanks, and had formed up a vanguard—about six ranks deep— of pikemen. Big pikes, twenty feet long. He’d learned from Maradon that you wanted to keep your distance from the Trollocs.
Pikes worked wonderfully. Ituralde’s pike squares could pivot and fight in all directions in case they were surrounded. Trollocs could be forced to fight in ranks, but these squares—properly applied—could break up their lines. Once the Trolloc ranks were shattered, the Aiel could kill with abandon.
Behind ranks of pikemen he positioned foot soldiers carrying billhooks and halberds. Sometimes Trollocs fought their way through the pikes, pushing the weapons aside or pulling them down with the weight of corpses. The billhookmen then moved up—slipping between the pikemen—and hamstrung the leading Trollocs. This gave the leading foot soldiers time to pull back and regroup while the next wave of soldiers—more foot, with pikes moved up to engage the Trollocs.
It was working, so far. He had a dozen such squares of troops facing the Trollocs in the night. They fought defensively, doing whatever they could to break the surging tide. The Trollocs threw themselves at the pikemen, trying to crack them, but each square operated independently. Ituralde didn’t worry about the Trollocs that made it through the gauntlet, because they would be handled by the Aiel.
Ituralde had to keep his hands clasped behind his back to conceal their shaking. Nothing had been the same after Maradon. He’d learned, but he’d paid dearly for that education.
Burn these headaches, he thought. And burn those Trollocs.
Three times, he had nearly given the order to send his armies in with a direct assault, abandoning the square formations. He could imagine them slaughtering, killing. No more delaying. He wanted blood.
Each time, he’d stopped himself. They weren’t here for blood, they were here to hold. To give that man the time he needed in the cavern. That was what it was all about . . . wasn’t it? Why did he have so much trouble remembering that lately?
Another wave of Trolloc arrows dropped onto Ituralde’s men. The Fades had some of them stationed on the tops of the slopes above the pass, in places that Ituralde’s own archers had once held. Getting them up there must have been quite an undertaking; the walls of the pass were very steep. How many would have dropped to their deaths making the attempt? Regardless, Trollocs weren’t good shots with bows, but they didn’t need to be, when firing at armies.
The halberdiers raised shields. They couldn’t fight while holding those, but they kept them strapped to their backs for need. The falling arrows increased, plummeting through the lightly foggy night air. The storm rumbled overhead, but the Windfinders were at their task again, keeping it away. They claimed that at several moments, the army had been mere breaths away from an all-out storm of destruction. At one point, hail the size of a man’s fist had fallen for about a minute before they’d wrested control of the weather again.
If that was what awaited them if the Windfinders weren’t using their bowl, Ituralde was more than happy to leave them at their task. The Dark One wouldn’t care how many Trollocs he destroyed while sending a blizzard, twister or hurricane to kill the humans they fought.
“They’re gathering for another surge at the mouth of the pass!” someone yelled in the night air, followed by other calls confirming it. Ituralde peered through the mist, aided by light from the bonfires. The Trollocs were indeed regrouping.
“Withdraw the seventh and ninth infantry squads,” Ituralde said. “They’ve been at it too long. Pull the fourth and fifth out of reserve and have them take flanking positions. Prepare for more arrows. And ...” He trailed off, frowning. What were those Trollocs doing? They’d pulled back farther than he’d have expected, drawing into the darkness of the pass. They couldn’t be retreating, could they?
A dark wave slid out of the mouth of the pass. Myrddraal. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. Black cloaks that did not move, in defiance of the breeze. Faces with no eyes, lips that sneered, black swords. The creatures moved like eels, sinuous and sleek.
They gave no time for orders, no time for response. They flowed into the squares of defenders, sliding between pikes, whipping deadly swords.
“Aiel!” Ituralde bellowed. “Bring in the Aiel! All of them, and channelers! Everyone except for those who guard at the Pit of Doom itself! Move, move!
Messengers scrambled away. Ituralde watched in horror. An army of Myrddraal. Light, it was as bad as his nightmares!
The seventh infantry collapsed before the attack, square formation shattering. Ituralde opened his mouth to order the primary reserve—the one defending his position—to give support. He needed the cavalry to ride out and draw pressure off the infantry.
He didn’t have much cavalry; he’d agreed that most of the horsemen would be needed on other fronts. But he did have some. They’d be essential here.
Except . . .
He squeezed his eyes shut. Light, but he was exhausted. He had trouble thinking.
Pull back before the attack, a voice seemed to be saying to him. Pull back to the Aiel, then make a stand there.
“Pull back . . he whispered. “Pull . .
Something felt very, very wrong about doing that. Why was his mind insisting upon it?
Captain Tihera, Ituralde tried to whisper. You have command. It wouldn’t come out. Something physical seemed to be holding his mouth shut.
He could hear men screaming. What was happening? Dozens of men could die fighting a single Myrddraal. At Maradon, he’d lost an entire company of archers—one hundred men—to two Fades who had slipped into the city at night. His defensive squads were built to deal with Trollocs, to hamstring them, to drop them.
The Fades would crack those pike squares open like eggs. Nobody was doing what needed to be done.
“My Lord Ituralde?” Captain Tihera said. “My Lord, what was it you said?”
If they retreated, the Trollocs would surround them. They needed to stand firm.
Ituralde’s lips opened to give the order to retreat. “Pull the—”
Wolves.
Wolves appeared in the fog like shadows. They leaped at the Myrddraal, growling. Ituralde started, spinning, as a man in furs pulled himself up onto the top of the rocky outcrop.
Tihera stumbled back, calling for their guards. The newcomer in furs leaped for Ituralde and shoved him off the top of the rocks.
Ituralde did not fight back. Whoever this man was, Ituralde was grateful to him, feeling a moment of victory as he fell. He hadn’t given the order to retreat.
He hit the ground not far below, and it knocked the wind out of him. The wolves took his arms in gentle mouths and pulled him off into the darkness as he slowly drifted into unconsciousness.
Egwene sat in the camp as the battle for the border of Kandor continued.
Her army held back the Trollocs.
The Seanchan fought alongside her troops just across the river.
Egwene herself held a small cup of tea.
Light, it was galling. She was the Amyrlin. But she was drained of energy.
She still hadn’t found Gareth Bryne, but that wasn’t unexpected. He moved about. Silviana was hunting him, and should have word soon.
Aes Sedai had been sent to take the wounded to Mayene. The sun drooped low in the sky, like an eyelid that refused to stay open. Egwene’s hands shook as she held her cup. She could
still hear the battle. It seemed that the Trollocs would fight into the night, grinding the human armies against the river.
Distant shouts rose like the calls of an angry crowd, but the explosions from the channelers had slowed.
She turned to Gawyn. He didn’t seem tired at all, though he was strangely pale. Egwene sipped her tea and silently cursed him. It was unfair, but she wasn’t concerned with fairness right now. She could grumble at her Warder. That was what they were for, wasn’t it?
A breeze blew through camp. She was a few hundred paces east of the ford, but she smelled blood in the air. Nearby, a squad of archers drew their bows at their commander’s call, launching a volley of arrows. A pair of blackwinged Draghkar plummeted moments later, hitting the ground with dull thuds just beyond camp. More would come, as it grew dark and they had an easier time hiding against the sky.
Mat. She felt strangely sick thinking about him. He was such a blow-hard. A carouser, leering at every pretty woman he met. Treating her like a painting and not a person. He ... he ...
He was Mat. Once, when Egwene had been around thirteen, he’d jumped into the river to save Kiem Lewin from drowning. Of course, she hadn’t been drowning. She’d merely been dunked under the water by a friend, and Mat had come running, throwing himself into the water to help. The men of Emond’s Field had made sport of him for months about that.
The next spring, Mat had pulled Jer al’Hune from the same river, saving the boy’s life. People had stopped making fun of Mat for a while afterward.
That was how Mat was. He’d grumbled and muttered all winter about how people made sport of him, insisting that next time, he’d just let them drown. Then the moment he’d seen someone in danger, he’d gone splashing right back in. Egwene could remember gangly Mat stumbling from the river, little Jer clinging to him and gasping, a look of pure terror in his eyes.
Jer had gone down without making a sound. Egwene had never realized that could happen. People who started to drown didn’t yell, or sputter, or call for help. They just slipped under the water, when everything seemed fine and peaceful. Unless Mat was watching.
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