“Of course, my Lord,” Berelain said smoothly.
“I’ll have your oaths on it, then,” Perrin said, eyes still forward. “You and Alliandre, Berelain. Faile, I’ll simply ask and hope.”
“You have my oath, my Lord,” Alliandre said.
Perrin’s voice was so firm, and that worried Faile. Could Berelain be right? Was he going to attack the Whitecloaks? They were an unpredictable element, for all their professions of wanting to fight in the Last Battle. They could cause more harm than help. Beyond that, Alliandre was Perrin’s liegewoman, and the Whitecloaks were in her realm. Who knew what damage they would cause before they left? Beyond that, there was the future sword of Galad’s judgment.
“My Lord,” Berelain said, sounding worried. “Please don’t do this.”
“I’m only doing what I must,” Perrin said, looking along the roadway that ran toward Jehannah. That wasn’t the direction of the Whitecloaks. They were just south of Perrin’s position.
“Perrin,” Faile said, glancing at Berelain. “What are you—”
A man suddenly emerged from the shadows, making no sound, despite the dried underbrush. “Perrin Aybara,” Gaul said. “The Whitecloaks know we’re here.”
“Are you certain?” Perrin asked. He didn’t seem alarmed.
“They are trying not to let us know,” Gaul said, “but I can see it. The Maidens agree. They are preparing for battle, the grooms unhobbling the horses, guards moving from tent to tent.”
Perrin nodded. He nudged Stepper forward through the brush, riding right up to the edge of the heights. Faile moved Daylight up behind him, Berelain staying close to her.
The land sloped steeply down to the ancient riverbed that flanked the roadway below. The road ran from the direction of Jehannah, until it passed the base of these heights and took a turn in the direction of Lugard. Right at the bend was the hollow, sheltered against the hill, where the Whitecloaks had arranged their circles of tents.
The clouds were thin, allowing pale moonlight to coat the land in silvery white. A low fog was rolling in, staying mainly in the riverbed, deep and thick. Perrin scanned the scene; he had a clear view of the road in both directions. Suddenly, shouts rang out below, men bursting from the Whitecloak tents and sprinting toward horselines. Torches flared to life.
“Archers forward!” Perrin bellowed.
The Two Rivers men scrambled to the edge of their elevated position.
“Infantry, ready behind the archers!” Perrin yelled. “Arganda, on the left flank. Gallenne, on the right! I’ll call if I need you to sweep for us.” He turned to the foot soldiers—mainly former refugees. “Keep in a tight formation, boys. Keep your shields up and your spear arms flexed. Archers, arrows to bow!”
Faile felt herself start to sweat. This was wrong. Surely Perrin wasn’t going to…
He still wasn’t looking at the Whitecloaks below them. He was staring at the riverbed on the other side, perhaps a hundred yards or so beyond the heights, which ended in a steep drop-off because of the ancient river’s washing. Perrin looked as if seeing something the rest of them weren’t. And with those golden eyes of his, perhaps he was doing just that.
“My Lord,” Berelain said, moving her horse up beside him, sounding desperate. “If you must attack, could you spare the commander of the Whitecloaks? He might be useful for political reasons.”
“What are you talking about?” Perrin said. “The whole reason I’m here is to keep Damodred alive.”
“You…what?” Berelain asked.
“My Lord!” Grady suddenly exclaimed, riding nearby. “I sense channeling!”
“What’s that, there!” Jori Congar yelled, pointing. “Something in the fog. It’s…”
Faile squinted. There, just below the army in the former riverbed, figures began to rise as if from the ground. Misshapen creatures with animal heads and bodies, half again as tall as Perrin, bearing brutish weapons. Moving among them were sleek, eyeless figures in black.
Fog streamed around them as they strode forward, trailing wisps. The creatures continued to appear. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Thousands.
An entire army of Trollocs and Myrddraal.
“Grady, Neald!” Perrin bellowed. “Light!”
Brilliant white globes appeared in the air and hung there. More and more Trollocs were rising from the fog, as if it were spawning them, but they seemed bewildered by the lights. They looked up, squinting and shielding their eyes.
Perrin grunted. “How about that? They weren’t ready for us; they thought they’d have an easy shot at the Whitecloaks.” He turned, looking down the lines of surprised soldiers. “Well, men, you wanted to follow me to the Last Battle? We’re going to get a taste of it right here! Archers, loose! Let’s send those Shadowspawn back to the pit that birthed them!”
He raised his newly forged hammer, and the battle began.
Chapter 41
An Unexpected Ally
Galad ran with his shield raised high. Bornhald joined him, also holding a shield and tossing aside his lantern as those unnatural lights flared in the air. Neither spoke. The hail of arrows would begin momentarily.
They reached the horse pickets, where a pair of nervous grooms handed over their horses. Galad lowered his shield, feeling terribly exposed as he swung onto Stout’s back. He turned the horse and got the shield back up. He could hear the familiar twang of bows, distant, arrows snapping as they rained down.
None fell near him.
He hesitated. The lights hanging in the air made it bright as a night with a full moon, maybe brighter.
“What’s going on?” Bornhald said, horse dancing nervously beneath him. “They missed? Those arrows are falling well outside of camp.”
“Trollocs!” A shout from camp. “There are thousands of them coming down the roadway!”
“Monsters!” a terrified Amadician yelled. “Monsters of the Shadow! Light, they’re real?”
Galad glanced at Bornhald. They galloped their horses to the edge of camp, white cloaks streaming behind them, and looked up the road.
At a slaughter.
Waves of arrows fell from the heights, crashing into the mob of Shadowspawn. The creatures howled and screeched, some trying to run for Galad’s camp, others to climb toward the archers. Trollocs exploded suddenly into the air, the ground heaving beneath them, and fire fell from above. Aybara’s channelers had joined the fight.
Galad took it in. “Foot, form a shieldwall on this side of the camp,” he bellowed. “Crossbowmen, to those ruins there. Split the legions into eight cavalry companies, and prepare to sally! Bowmen, get ready!” The Children were primarily a cavalry force. His men would ride out, hit the Trollocs in waves, one company at a time, then retreat back behind the foot’s defensive shieldwall. Crossbowmen to weaken the Trolloc lines before the heavy cavalry hit them with lances, archers to cover them as they returned behind their defenses.
The orders were passed quickly, the Children moving more efficiently than the Amadicians. Bornhald nodded. This was a mostly defensive posture, but that made the most sense, at least until Galad could sort through what was happening.
Hoofbeats announced Byar galloping up. He reared his horse, then turned, eyes wide. “Trollocs? How…It’s Aybara. He’s brought an army of Shadowspawn!”
“If he did,” Galad said, “he’s treating them to a slaughter.”
Byar edged closer. “It’s exactly like the Two Rivers. Dain, you remember what he did? Trollocs attack. Aybara rallies a defense, and therefore earns support.”
“What would be the point?” Bornhald said.
“To trick us.”
“By killing as many Trollocs as it gains him in followers?” Bornhald frowned. “It…it makes no sense. If Aybara can command thousands of Trollocs, why would he need us?”
“His mind is sick, twisted,” Byar said. “If he didn’t have something to do with the appearance of the Trollocs, then how did both show up right now, at the same time?”
Well,
there was a grain a truth in that, Galad had to admit. “For now,” he said, “it gains us the time we need to form up. Bornhald, Byar, help pass my orders. I want the riders ready to sally as soon as the crossbowmen finish.” He hesitated. “But let the men know that we are not to expose our flanks to Aybara. Keep some foot with pikes at the base of those heights. Just in case.”
Trollocs fell screaming under the arrows. Still more continued to appear, and many of the beasts didn’t fall until they had multiple arrows in them. The Shadowspawn were preparing for a rush up the incline toward Perrin’s forces. If they did, he’d have his foot hold for a time—then pull them back and run the cavalry sweep along in front of them.
“How did you know?” Faile asked softly.
He glanced at her. “It’s time for you three to retreat behind to the rear guard.” He glanced at Berelain, white-faced on her horse, as if seeing the Trollocs had unhinged her. He knew her to be of stronger steel than that, however. Why did she smell so worried?
“I will go,” Faile said. “But I have to know.”
“It made sense,” Perrin said. “That dome was meant to keep us from fleeing by gateway. But it was also to encourage us along the road, to keep us from Traveling directly to Andor. It seemed odd to us that Master Gill would turn along the road, disobeying orders—but it happened because he was convinced by people coming from the north that the way was impassible. Plants by our enemies, I suspect, to lure us this direction.
“We were being herded all along. They weren’t waiting for us to engage the Whitecloaks, they were waiting for us to make for Lugard as fast as we could. If we’d tried to go cross-country, I’ll bet something would have happened to turn us back. They desperately wanted us to walk into their ambush. Galad’s force probably wasn’t part of it—he was a burr that got under their saddle.”
“But the Trollocs. Where—”
“I think it must be a Portal Stone,” Perrin said. “I knew some kind of attack was going to come here. Didn’t know how. I half thought it would be Draghkar from the sky or a Waygate we’d missed. But those ruins Arganda pointed out seem like they might be a good place for a Portal Stone. It must be buried, having fallen under the river when it changed its course. The Trollocs aren’t coming out of the ground; I think they’re appearing from the stone.
“This was the trap. They probably would have attacked us much earlier, but the Whitecloaks were in the way. They had to wait for us to deal with them. And then we left. So…”
“So they attacked Damodred and his men,” Faile said. “After setting up the trap, they at least wanted to do some damage to those who might fight later on.”
“I suspect one of the Forsaken is behind this,” Perrin said, turning toward Grady.
“One of the Forsaken?” Alliandre said, voice rising. “We can’t fight one of the Forsaken!”
Perrin glanced at her. “What did you think you were signing up to do, Alliandre, when you joined me? You fight for the Dragon Reborn in Tarmon Gai’don itself. We’ll have to face the Forsaken sooner or later.”
She paled, but to her credit, she nodded.
“Grady!” Perrin called to the Asha’man, who was firing blasts down at the Trollocs. “You still sense channeling?”
“Only off and on, my Lord,” Grady called back. “Whoever it is, they’re strong, but not terribly so. And they’re not joining the battle. I think they must be doing something to bring the Trollocs, jumping in with fists of them, then jumping away immediately to fetch more.”
“Watch for him,” Perrin said. “See if you can take him down.”
“Yes, my Lord,” Grady said, saluting.
So it wasn’t one of the Forsaken bringing the Trollocs directly. That didn’t mean this wasn’t the work of one of them, just that they hadn’t decided to commit themselves directly. “Back with you three,” Perrin said to Faile, Berelain and Alliandre, hefting his hammer. The Trollocs had begun charging up the rise, many dropping to arrows, but there were enough that some would reach the top soon. It was time to fight.
“You don’t know how many of them there are, my husband,” Faile said softly. “They keep coming. What if they overwhelm us?”
“We’ll retreat through a gateway if things turn poor for us. But I’m not letting them have the Whitecloaks without a fight—I won’t leave any man to the Trollocs, not even their lot. They ignored the Two Rivers when we were attacked. Well, I won’t do the same. And that’s that.”
Faile, suddenly, leaned over to kiss him. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being the man that you are,” she said, turning her mount and leading the other two away.
Perrin shook his head. He had been worrying that he’d need to have Grady wrap her up in Air and tow her away. He turned back to the approaching Trollocs. The Two Rivers men weren’t making it easy for them to get up the incline. The men were running out of arrows, though.
Perrin hefted Mah’alleinir. A part of him felt sorry to bathe the weapon in blood so soon after its birth, but the greater part of him was pleased. These Trollocs, and those who led them, had caused Hopper’s death.
A fist of Trollocs crested the hilltop, a Fade moving in behind them, led by another Fade with a black sword. Perrin let out a roar and charged forward, hammer held high.
Galad cursed, turning Stout and chopping his sword down into the neck of a Trolloc with the head of a bear. Dark, thick blood spurted out in a noisome gush, but the beasts were terribly difficult to kill. Galad had heard the stories, had trained with men who had fought Shadowspawn. Still, their resilience surprised him.
He had to hack at the creature three more times before it dropped. Already, Galad’s arm was aching. There was no finesse to fighting monsters like this. He used horseback sword forms, but often the most direct and brutal of them. Woodsman Strips the Branch. Arc of the Moon. Striking the Spark.
His men weren’t faring well. They were boxed in, and there was no longer room for lances. The sallying attacks had worked for a time, but the heavy cavalry had been forced to retreat back to the foot lines, and his whole force was being pushed east. The Amadicians were being overwhelmed, and the force of the attack was too great to allow further cavalry charges. All the Children on horseback could do was swing their weapons wildly in an attempt to stay alive.
Galad turned Stout, but two snarling Trollocs leaped for him. He quickly took one across the neck with Heron Snatches the Silverfish, but the creature fell forward onto Stout, causing the horse to lurch away. Another brute slashed a catchpole at the horse’s neck. The horse fell.
Galad barely managed to throw himself free, hitting the ground in a heap as Stout collapsed, legs jerking, neck spurting blood across his white shoulder. Galad rolled, sword twisted to the side, but he had landed wrong. His ankle wrenched in pain.
Ignoring the pain, he brought his sword up in time to deflect the hook of a brown-furred monster, nine feet tall, that stank of death. Galad’s parry sent him off balance again.
“Galad!”
Figures in white crashed into the Trollocs. Reeking blood sprayed in the air. White figures tumbled to the ground, but the Trollocs were driven back. Bornhald stood panting, sword out, shield dented and sprayed with dark blood. He had four men with him. Two others had fallen.
“Thank you,” Galad said. “Your mounts?”
“Cut down,” Bornhald said. “They must have orders to go after the horses.”
“Don’t want us escaping,” Galad said. “Or rallying a charge.” He glanced down the line of beleaguered soldiers. Twenty thousand had seemed a grand army, but the battle lines were a mess. And the Trollocs continued to come, wave after wave. The northern section of the Children’s line was breaking, and the Trollocs were pushing forward there with a pincer movement to surround Galad’s force. They’d cut them off on the north and south, then ram them against the hill. Light!
“Rally to the northern foot line!” Galad yelled. He ran in that direction as quickly as he coul
d, his ankle protesting, but still functioning. Men joined with him. Their clothing was no longer white.
Galad knew that most generals, like Gareth Bryne, didn’t fight on the front lines. They were too important for that, and their minds were needed for organizing the fight. Perhaps that was what Galad should have done. It was falling apart.
His men were good. Solid. But they were inexperienced with Trollocs. Only now—charging across muddy ground on a dark night, lit by globes hanging in the air—did he see how inexperienced many of them were. He had some veterans, but the larger group had fought mostly against unruly bandits or city militias.
The Trollocs were different. The howling, grunting, snarling monsters were in a frenzy. What they lacked in military discipline they made up for in strength and ferocity. And hunger. The Myrddraal amid them were terrible enough to break a formation all on their own. Galad’s soldiers were buckling.
“Hold!” Galad bellowed, reaching the breaking section of the line. He had Bornhald and about fifty men. Not nearly enough. “We are the Children of the Light! We do not give before the Shadow!”
It didn’t work. Watching the disaster play out, his entire framework of understanding started to crack. The Children of the Light were not protected by their goodness; they were falling in swaths, like grain before the scythe. Worse than that, some did not fight valiantly or hold with resolve. Too many yelled in terror, running. The Amadicians he could understand, but a lot of the Children themselves were little better.
They weren’t cowards. They weren’t poor fighters. They were just men. Average. That wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
Thunder sounded as Gallenne brought his horsemen around in another charge. They hammered into the Trolloc line and forced many of them off the edge, tumbling them back down the incline.
Perrin slammed Mah’alleinir into a Trolloc’s head. The force of the blow tossed the creature to the side, and—oddly—its skin sizzled and smoked where the hammer had hit. This happened with each blow, as if the touch of Mah’alleinir burned them, though Perrin felt only a comfortable warmth from the hammer.
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