The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  “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.

  Ituralde 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 we 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 r
emnants. 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.

  “No, my Lord. He’s…” The boy looked over his shoulder. In the pike line nearby, the soldiers were bulging forward toward the Trolloc wave, rather than falling back.

  “What in the Light?” Ituralde said, heeling Dawnweave into motion. The white gelding galloped forward, Ituralde’s guard and the young messenger joining him in a thunder of hooves.

  He could hear Lidrin’s yells despite the roar of the battlefield. The young Domani officer was out in front of the pike lines, attacking the Trollocs with sword and shield, bellowing. Lidrin’s men had pushed through to defend him, leaving the pikemen confused and disoriented.

  “Lidrin, you fool.” Ituralde reined his horse to a halt.

  “Come!” Lidrin bellowed, raising his sword up before the Trollocs. He laughed loudly, voice half-mad, face splattered with blood. “Come! I will face you all! My sword thirsts!”

  “Lidrin!” Ituralde screamed. “Lidrin!”

  The man glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were wide with a crazed kind of glee. Ituralde had seen it before, in the eyes of soldiers who fought too long, too hard. “We’re going to die, Rodel,” Lidrin called. “This way, I get to take them with me! One or two at least! Join me!”

  “Lidrin, get back here and—”

  The man ignored him, turning back and pressing forward.

  “Get his men back here,” Ituralde yelled, gesturing. “Close the pike ranks! Quickly. We can’t…”

  The Trollocs surged forward. Lidrin fell in a spray of blood, laughing. His men were too strongly pressed, and they split down the middle. The pikemen reset themselves, but a fist of Trollocs crashed into them. Some Trollocs fell.

  Most didn’t.

  The nearby creatures screeched and howled at seeing the hole in the defenses. They came, scrambling over bodies at the base of the hill, throwing themselves at the pikemen.

  Ituralde cursed, then pushed Dawnweave forward. In war, as in farming, you sometimes had to step in and get knee-deep in the muck. He bellowed as he crashed into the Trollocs. His guard rode in around him, closing the gap. The air became a crashing tempest of metal on metal and grunts of pain.

  Dawnweave snorted and danced as Ituralde lashed out with his sword. The warhorse disliked being so close to the Shadowspawn, but he was well trained, a gift from one of Bashere’s men. He had claimed that a general on the Borderlands needed an animal who had fought Trollocs before. Ituralde blessed that soldier now.

  The fighting was brutal. The leading rank of pikemen, and those behind, began buckling. Ituralde briefly heard Ankaer’s voice taking command, screaming at the men to get back into line. He sounded frantic. That was bad.

  Ituralde swung, doing Heron on the Stump—a horseback sword form—and taking a bull-headed Trolloc across the throat. A spray of fetid brownish blood spurted forth, and the creature fell back against a boar-headed monster. A large red standard—depicting a goat’s skull with a fire burning behind it—rose atop the hill. The symbol of the Ghob’hlin Band.

  Ituralde turned his horse, dancing out of the way of a wicked axe blow, then urged his mount forward, driving his sword into the Trolloc’s side. Around him, Whelborn and Lehynen—two of his best—died as they defended his flank. Light burn the Trollocs!

  The entire line was breaking apart. He and his men were too few, but most of his forces had already pulled back. No, no, no! Ituralde thought, trying to extricate himself from the battle and take over the command. But if he pulled back, the Trollocs would break through.

  He’d have to risk it. He was ready for problems like this.

  A trumpet sounded retreat.

  Ituralde froze, listening with horror to the haunted sound rolling across the battlefield. The horns weren’t supposed to blow unless he, or a member of his guard, gave the order personally! It was too soon, far too soon.

  Some of the other trumpeters heard the call and took it up, though others did not. They could see that it was far too soon. Unfortunately, that was worse. It meant that half of the pikemen began to pull back while the other half held their position.

  The lines around Ituralde burst, men scattering as the Trollocs swarmed over them. It was a disaster, as bad a disaster as Ituralde had ever been part of. His fingers felt limp.

  If we fall, Shadowspawn destroy Arad Doman.

  Ituralde roared, yanking on the reins of his horse and galloping back away from the surging Trollocs. The remaining members of his guard followed.

  “Helmke and Cutaris,” Ituralde yelled to two of his men, sturdy, long-limbed Domani. “Get to Durhem’s cavalry and tell them to attack the center as soon as an opening appears! Kappre, head to Alin’s cavalry. Order him to assault the Trollocs on the eastern flank. Sorrentin, go to those Asha’man! I want the Trollocs to go up in flame!”

  The horsemen galloped off. Ituralde rode westward, to the place where the pikemen were still holding. He started to rally one of the back ranks and bring it to the bulging section. He almost had it working. But then the Myrddraal came, sliding through the Trolloc ranks like snakes, striking with oily speed, and a flight of Draghkar descended.

  Ituralde found himself fighting for his life.

  Around him, the battlefield was a terrible mess: ranks destroyed, Trollocs roaming freely for easy kills, Myrddraal trying to whip them into attacking the few remaining pike formations instead.

  Fires flew in the air as the Asha’man aimed for the Trollocs, but their fires were smaller, weaker than they had been days ago. Men screamed, weapons clanged, and beasts roared in the smoke beneath a sky of too-black clouds.

  Ituralde was breathing hard. His guards had fallen. At least he had seen Staven and Rett die. What of the others? He didn’t see them. So many dying. So many. There was sweat in his eyes.

  Light, he thought. At least we gave them a fight. Held out longer than I thought possible.

  There were columns of smoke to the north. Well, one thing had gone well—that Asha’man Tymoth had done his job. The second set of siege equipment was burning. Some of his officers had called it madness to send away one of his Asha’man, but one more channeler wouldn’t have mattered in this disaster. And when the Trollocs attacked Maradon, the lack of those catapults would make a big difference.

  Dawnweave fell. A Trolloc javelin that had been meant for Ituralde had fallen low. The horse screamed with the weapon lodged in its neck, blood pulsing down its sweat-frothed skin. Ituralde had lost mounts before, and he knew to roll to the side, but was too off-balance this time. He heard his leg snap as he hit.

  He gritted his teeth, determined not to die on his back, and forced himself up into a sitting position. He dropped his sword—heron-mark though it was—and lifted up a broken, discarded pike in a fluid motion and rammed it through the chest of an approaching Trolloc. Dark, stinking blood coated the shaft, spurting down onto Ituralde’s hands as the Trolloc screamed and died.

  There was thunder in the air. That wasn’t odd—there was often thunder from those clouds, often eerily disjointed from the bursts of lightning.

  Ituralde heaved, pushing the Trolloc to the side by levering the pike. Then a Myrddraal saw him.

  Ituralde reached for his sword, gritting his teeth, but knew he had just seen his killer. One
of those things could fell a dozen men. Facing it with a broken leg…

  He tried to stumble to his feet anyway. He failed, falling backward, cursing. He raised his sword, prepared to die as the thing slunk forward, movements like liquid.

  A dozen arrows slammed into the Fade.

  Ituralde blinked as the creature stumbled. The thunder was getting louder. Ituralde propped himself up, and was amazed to see thousands of unfamiliar horsemen charging in formation through the Trolloc ranks, sweeping the creatures before them.

  The Dragon Reborn! He came!

  But no. These men flew the Saldaean flag. He looked back. The gates of Maradon were open, and Ituralde’s tired survivors were being allowed to limp inside. Fire was flying from the battlements—his Asha’man had been allowed up top to get a vantage on the battlefield.

  A force of twenty horsemen broke off and ran down the Myrddraal, trampling it. The last man in the group leaped free of his saddle and hacked at the creature with a hand axe. All across the battlefield, the Trollocs were run down, shot or lanced.

  It wouldn’t last. More and more Trollocs were rolling through Ituralde’s former fortifications and loping down the slope. But the Saldaean relief would be enough, with those gates open, and with the Asha’man blasting wreaking destruction. The remnants of Ituralde’s force were fleeing to safety. He was proud to see Barettal and Connel—the last of his guard—stumbling across the field toward him on foot, their mounts no doubt dead, their uniforms bloodied.

  He slid his sword into its scabbard and pulled the javelin from Dawnweave’s neck. Supporting himself on it, he managed to stand. A rider from the Saldaean force trotted up to him, a man with a lean face, a hooked nose, and a set of bushy black eyebrows. He wore a short, trimmed beard, and he raised a bloodied sword to Ituralde. “You live.”