The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  “No!” Perrin said, sitting up, holding his head. “I will not lose myself in you.”

  Hopper sat in the grass to his right. The large gray wolf regarded Perrin, golden eyes unblinking, reflecting flashes of lightning from above. The grass came up to Hopper’s neck.

  Perrin lowered a hand from his head. The air was heavy, full of humidity, and it smelled of rain. Above the scent of the weather and that of the dry field, he could smell Hopper’s patience.

  You are invited, Young Bull, Hopper sent.

  “I can’t hunt with you,” Perrin explained. “Hopper, we spoke of this. I’m losing myself. When I go into battle, I become enraged. Like a wolf.”

  Like a wolf? Hopper sent. Young Bull, you are a wolf. And a man. Come hunt.

  “I told you I can’t! I will not let this consume me.” He thought of a young man with golden eyes, locked in a cage, all humanity gone from him. His name had been Noam—Perrin had seen him in a village called Jarra.

  Light, Perrin thought. That’s not far from here. Or at least not far from where his body slumbered in the real world. Jarra was in Ghealdan. An odd coincidence.

  With a ta’veren nearby, there are no coincidences.

  He frowned, rising and scanning the landscape. Moiraine had told Perrin there was nothing human left inside of Noam. That was what awaited a wolfbrother if he let himself be completely consumed by the wolf.

  “I must learn to control this, or I must banish the wolf from me,” Perrin said. “There is no time left for compromise, Hopper.”

  Hopper smelled dissatisfied. He didn’t like what he’d called a human tendency to wish to control things.

  Come, Hopper sent, standing up in the grass. Hunt.

  “I—”

  Come learn, Hopper sent, frustrated. The Last Hunt comes.

  Hopper’s sendings included the image of a young pup making his first kill. That and a worry for the future—a normally unwolflike attribute. The Last Hunt brought change.

  Perrin hesitated. In a previous visit to the wolf dream, Perrin had demanded that Hopper train him to master the place. Very inappropriate for a young wolf—a kind of challenge to the elder’s seniority—but this was a response. Hopper had come to teach, but he would do it as a wolf taught.

  “I’m sorry,” Perrin said. “I will hunt with you—but I must not lose myself.”

  These things you think, Hopper sent, displeased. How can you think such images of nothing? The response was accompanied by images of blankness—an empty sky, a den with nobody in it, a barren field. You are Young Bull. You will always be Young Bull. How can you lose Young Bull? Look down, and you will see his paws beneath. Bite, and his teeth will kill. There is no losing this.

  “It is a thing of humans.”

  The same empty words over and over, Hopper sent.

  Perrin took a deep breath, sucking in and releasing the too-wet air. “Very well,” he said, hammer and knife appearing in his hands. “Let’s go.”

  You hunt game with your hooves? An image of a bull ignoring its horns and trying to leap onto the back of a deer and stomp it to the ground.

  “You’re right.” Perrin was suddenly holding a good Two Rivers longbow. He wasn’t as good a shot as Jondyn Barran or Rand, but he could hold his own.

  Hopper sent a bull spitting at a deer. Perrin growled, sending back a wolf’s claws shooting from its paws and striking a deer at a distance, but this only seemed to amuse Hopper further. Despite his annoyance, Perrin had to admit that it was a rather ridiculous image.

  The wolf sent the image to the others, causing them to howl in amusement, though most of them seemed to prefer the bull jumping up and down on the deer. Perrin growled, chasing after Hopper toward the distant woods, where the other wolves waited.

  As he ran, the grasses seemed to grow more dense. They held him back, like snarled forest undergrowth. Hopper soon outpaced him.

  Run, Young Bull!

  I’m trying, Perrin sent back.

  Not as you have before!

  Perrin continued to push his way through the grass. This strange place, this wonderful world where wolves ran, could be intoxicating. And dangerous. Hopper had warned Perrin of that more than once.

  Dangers for tomorrow. Ignore them for now, Hopper sent, growing more distant. Worry is for two-legs.

  I can’t ignore my problems! Perrin thought back.

  Yet you often do, Hopper sent.

  It struck true—more true, perhaps, than the wolf knew. Perrin burst into a clearing and pulled to a halt. There, lying on the ground, were the three chunks of metal he’d forged in his earlier dream. The large lump the size of two fists, the flattened rod, the thin rectangle. The rectangle glowed faintly yellow-red, singeing the short grass around it.

  The lumps vanished immediately, though the simmering rectangle left a burned spot. Perrin looked up, searching for the wolves. Ahead of him, in the sky above the trees ahead, a large hole of blackness opened up. He could not tell how far it was away, and it seemed to dominate all he could see while being distant at the same time.

  Mat stood there. He was fighting against himself, a dozen different men wearing his face, all dressed in different types of fine clothing. Mat spun his spear, and never saw the shadowy figure creeping behind him, bearing a bloody knife.

  “Mat!” Perrin cried, but he knew it was meaningless. This thing he was seeing, it was some kind of dream or vision of the future. It had been some time since he’d seen one of these. He’d almost begun to think they would stop coming.

  He turned away and another darkness opened in the sky. He saw sheep, suddenly, running in a flock toward the woods. Wolves chased them, and a terrible beast waited in the woods, unseen. He was there, in that dream, he sensed. But who was he chasing, and why? Something looked wrong with those wolves.

  A third darkness, to the side. Faile, Grady, Elyas, Gaul…all walked toward a cliff, followed by thousands of others.

  The vision closed. Hopper suddenly shot back through the air, landing beside Perrin, skidding to a stop. The wolf wouldn’t have seen the holes; they had never appeared to his eyes. Instead, he regarded the burned patch with disdain and sent the image of Perrin, unkempt and bleary-eyed, his beard and hair untrimmed and his clothing disheveled. Perrin remembered the time; it had been during the early days of Faile’s captivity.

  Had he really looked that bad? Light, but he seemed ragged. Almost like a beggar. Or…like Noam.

  “Stop trying to confuse me!” Perrin said. “I became that way because I was dedicated to finding Faile, not because I was giving in to the wolves!”

  The newest pups always blame the elders of the pack. Hopper bounded through the grasses again.

  What did that mean? The scents and images confused him. Growling, Perrin charged forward, leaving the clearing and reentering the grasses. Once again the stalks resisted him. It was like fighting against a current. Hopper shot on ahead.

  “Burn you, wait for me!” Perrin yelled.

  If we wait, we lose the prey. Run, Young Bull!

  Perrin gritted his teeth. Hopper was a speck in the distance now, almost to the trees. Perrin wanted to think on those visions, but there wasn’t time. If he lost Hopper, he knew that he would not see him again this night. Fine, he thought with resignation.

  The land lurched around him, grasses speeding by in a flash. It was as if Perrin had leaped a hundred paces in one step. He stepped again, shooting forward. He left a faint blur behind him.

  The grasses parted for him. The wind blew in his face with a comfortable roar. That primal wolf inside of him sparked to wakefulness. Perrin reached the woods and slowed. Each step now took him a jump of only about ten feet. The other wolves were there, and they formed up and ran with him, excited.

  Two feet, Young Bull? Oak Dancer asked. She was a youthful female, her pelt so light as to be almost white, with a streak of black running along her right side.

  He didn’t answer, though he did allow himself to run with them through the trees. W
hat had seemed like a small stand had become an expansive forest. Perrin moved past trunks and ferns, barely feeling the ground beneath his feet.

  This was the way to run. Powerful. Energetic. He loped over fallen logs, his jumps taking him so high that his hair brushed the bottoms of the branches. He landed smoothly. The forest was his. It belonged to him, and he understood it.

  His worries began to melt away. He allowed himself to accept things as they were, not as what he feared they might become. These wolves were his brothers and sisters. A running wolf in the real world was a masterwork of balance and control. Here—where the rules of nature bent to their will—they were far more. Wolves bounded to the sides and leaped off trees, nothing holding them to the ground. Some actually took to the branches, soaring from limb to limb.

  It was exhilarating. Had he ever felt so alive? So much a part of the world around him, yet master of it at the same time? The rough, regal leatherleafs were interspersed with yew and the occasional ornamented spicewood in full bloom. He threw himself into the air as he passed one of these, the wind of his passing pulling a storm of crimson blossoms from the branches. They surged around him in a swirling blur, caught in the currents, cradling him in their sweet scent.

  The wolves began to howl. To men, one howl was like another. To Perrin, each was distinct. These were the howls of pleasure, the initiation of a hunt.

  Wait. This is what I feared! I cannot let myself be trapped. I am a man, not a wolf.

  At that moment, however, he caught scent of a stag. A mighty animal, worthy prey. It had passed this way recently.

  Perrin tried to restrain himself, but anticipation proved too strong. He tore off down the game trail after the scent. The wolves, including Hopper, did not race ahead of him. They ran with him, their scents pleased as they let him take the lead.

  He was the herald, the point, the tip of the attack. The hunt roared behind him. It was as if he led the crashing waves of the ocean itself. But he was also holding them back.

  I cannot make them slow for me, Perrin thought.

  And then he was on all fours, his bow tossed aside and forgotten, his hands and legs becoming paws. Those behind him howled anew at the glory of it. Young Bull had truly joined them.

  The stag was ahead. Young Bull picked it out through the trees; it was a brilliant white, with a rack of at least twenty-six points, the winter felt worn away. And it was enormous, larger than a horse. The stag turned, looking sharply at the pack. It met Young Bull’s eyes, and he smelled its alarm. Then, with a powerful surge of its hind legs—flanks taut with muscles—the stag leaped off the trail.

  Young Bull howled his challenge, racing through the underbrush in pursuit. The great white stag bounded on, each leap taking it twenty paces. It never hit a branch or lost its footing, despite the treacherous forest floor coated with slick moss.

  Young Bull followed with precision, placing his paws where hooves had fallen just moments before, matching each stride exactly. He could hear the stag panting, could see the sweat foaming on its coat, could smell its fear.

  But no. Young Bull would not accept the inferior victory of running his prey to exhaustion. He would taste the blood of the throat, pumping full force from a healthy heart. He would best his prey in its prime.

  He began to vary his leaps, not following the stag’s exact path. He needed to be ahead, not follow! The stag’s scent grew more alarmed. That drove Young Bull to greater speed. The stag bolted to the right, and Young Bull leaped, hitting an upright tree trunk with all four paws and pushing himself sideways to change directions. His turn gained him a fraction of a heartbeat.

  Soon he was bounding a single breath behind the stag, each leap bringing him within inches of its hooves. He howled, and his brothers and sisters replied from just behind. This hunt was all of them. As one.

  But Young Bull led.

  His howl became a growl of triumph as the stag turned again. The chance had come! Young Bull leaped over a log and seized the stag’s neck in his jaws. He could taste the sweat, the fur, the warm blood beneath pooling around his fangs. His weight threw the stag to the ground. As they rolled, Young Bull kept his grip, forcing the stag to the forest floor, its skin laced scarlet with blood.

  The wolves howled in victory, and he let go for a moment, intending to bite at the front of the neck and kill. There was nothing else. The forest was gone. The howls faded. There was only the kill. The sweet kill.

  A form crashed into him, throwing him back into the brush. Young Bull shook his head, dazed, snarling. Another wolf had stopped him. Hopper! Why?

  The stag bounded to its feet, and then bounded off through the forest again. Young Bull howled in fury and rage, preparing to run after it. Again Hopper leaped, throwing his weight against Young Bull.

  If it dies here, it dies the last death, Hopper sent. This hunt is done, Young Bull. We will hunt another time.

  Young Bull nearly turned to attack Hopper. But no. He had tried that once, and it had been a mistake. He was not a wolf. He—

  Perrin lay on the ground, tasting blood that was not his own, exhaling deeply, his face dripping with sweat. He pushed himself to his knees, then sat down, panting, shaking from that beautiful, terrifying hunt.

  The other wolves sat down, but they did not speak. Hopper lay beside Perrin, setting his grizzled head on aged paws.

  “That,” Perrin finally said, “is what I fear.”

  No, you do not fear it, Hopper sent.

  “You’re telling me what I feel?”

  You do not smell afraid, Hopper sent.

  Perrin lay back, staring up at the branches above, twigs and leaves crumpling beneath him. His heart thumped from the chase. “I worry about it, then.”

  Worry is not the same as fear, Hopper sent. Why say one and feel the other? Worry, worry, worry. It is all that you do.

  “No. I also kill. If you’re going to teach me to master the wolf dream, it’s going to happen like this?”

  Yes.

  Perrin looked to the side. The stag’s blood had spilled on a dry log, darkness seeping into the wood. Learning this way would push him to the very edge of becoming a wolf.

  But he had been avoiding this issue for too long, making horseshoes in the forge while leaving the most difficult and demanding pieces alone, untouched. He relied on the powers of scent he’d been given, reaching out to wolves when he needed them—but otherwise he’d ignored them.

  You couldn’t make a thing until you understood its parts. He wouldn’t know how to deal with—or reject—the wolf inside him until he understood the wolf dream.

  “Very well,” Perrin said. “So be it.”

  Galad cantered Stout through the camp. On all sides, Children erected tents and dug firepits, preparing for the night. His men marched almost until nightfall each day, then arose early in the morning. The sooner they reached Andor, the better.

  Those Light-cursed swamps were behind them; now they traveled over open grasslands. Perhaps it would have been faster to cut east and catch one of the great highways to the north, but that wouldn’t be safe. Best to stay away from the movements of the Dragon Reborn’s armies and the Seanchan. The Light would shine upon the Children, but more than one valiant hero had died within that Light. If there was no danger of death, there could be no bravery, but Galad would rather have the Light shine on him while he continued to draw breath.

  They had camped near the Jehannah Road and would cross it on the morrow to continue north. He had sent a patrol to watch the road. He wanted to know what kind of traffic the highway was drawing, and he was in particular need of supplies.

  Galad continued on his rounds through camp, accompanied by a handful of mounted attendants, ignoring the aches of his various wounds. The camp was orderly and neat. The tents were grouped by legion, then set up forming concentric rings with no straight pathways. That was intended to confuse and slow attackers.

  A section of the camp lay empty near the middle. A hole in the formation where the Questioners h
ad once set up their tents. He had ordered the Questioners spread out, two assigned to each company. If the Questioners were not set apart from the others, perhaps they would feel more kinship with the other Children. Galad made a note to himself to draw up a new camp layout, eliminating that hole.

  Galad and his companions continued through the camp. He rode to be seen, and men saluted as he passed. He remembered well the words that Gareth Bryne had once said: Most of the time, a general’s most important function was not to make decisions, but to remind men that someone would make decisions.

  “My Lord Captain Commander,” said one of his companions. Brandel Vordarian. He was an older man, eldest of the Lords Captain who served under Galad. “I wish you would reconsider sending this missive.”

  Vordarian rode directly beside Galad, with Trom on his other side. Lords Captain Golever and Harnesh rode behind, within earshot, and Bornhald followed, acting as Galad’s bodyguard for the day.

  “The letter must be sent,” Galad said.

  “It seems foolhardy, my Lord Captain Commander,” Vordarian continued. Clean-shaven, with silver washing his golden hair, the Andoran was an enormous square of a man. Galad was vaguely familiar with Vordarian’s family, minor nobles who had been involved in his mother’s court.

  Only a fool refused to listen to advice from those older and wiser than himself. But only a fool took all of the advice given him.

  “Perhaps foolhardy,” Galad replied. “But it is the right thing to do.” The letter was addressed to the remaining Questioners and Children under the control of the Seanchan; there would be some who had not come with Asunawa. In the letter, Galad explained what had happened, and commanded them to report to him as soon as possible. It was unlikely any would come, but the others had a right to know what had happened.

  Lord Vordarian sighed, then made way as Harnesh rode up beside Galad. The bald man scratched absently at the scar tissue where his left ear had been. “Enough about this letter, Vordarian. The way you go on about it tries my patience.” From Galad’s observation, there were many things that tried the Murandian’s patience.