“Very well,” Faile said.
Perrin rode at the head of an army that felt unified for the first time. The flag of Mayene, the flag of Ghealdan, the banners of noble Houses from among the refugees. Even a few banners the lads had made up representing the parts of the Two Rivers. Above them all flapped the wolfhead.
Lord Perrin. He would never get used to that, but maybe that was a good thing.
He trotted Stepper over to the side of the open gateway as the troops marched past, saluting. They were lit by torches for now. Hopefully the channelers would be able to light the battlefield later.
A man came up beside Stepper, and Perrin smelled animal pelts, loam and rabbit’s blood. Elyas had gone hunting while he waited for the army to gather. It took quite a keen hunter to catch rabbits at night. Elyas said it was a better challenge.
“You said something to me once, Elyas,” Perrin said. “You told me that if I ever grew to like the axe, I should throw it away.”
“That I did.”
“I think it applies to leadership, too. The men who don’t want titles should be the ones who get them, it seems. So long as I keep that in mind, I think I might do all right.”
Elyas chuckled. “The banner looks good, hanging up there.”
“It fits me. Always has. I just haven’t always fit it.”
“Deep thoughts, for a blacksmith.”
“Perhaps.” Perrin pulled the blacksmith’s puzzle from his pocket, the one he’d found in Malden. He still hadn’t managed to get the thing apart. “Has it ever struck you as odd that blacksmiths seem like such simple folk, yet they’re the ones who make all of these blasted puzzles that are so hard to figure out?”
“Never thought of it like that. So you’re one of us, finally?”
“No,” Perrin said, putting the puzzle away. “I am who I am. Finally.” He wasn’t certain what had changed within him. But perhaps trying to think it through too much had been the problem in the first place.
He knew that he’d found his balance. He would never become like Noam, the man who had lost himself to the wolf. And that was enough.
Perrin and Elyas waited for a time, watching the army pass. These larger gateways made it much easier to Travel; they’d have all of the fighting men and women through in under an hour. Men raised hands to Perrin, smelling proud. His connection to the wolves did not frighten them; in fact, they actually seemed less worried now that they knew the specifics of it. Before, there had been speculation. Questions. Now, they could begin to grow comfortable with the truth. And proud of it. Their lord was no ordinary man. He was something special.
“I need to leave, Perrin,” Elyas said. “Tonight, if I can.”
“I know. The Last Hunt has begun. Go with them, Elyas. We will meet in the north.”
The aging Warder laid a hand on Perrin’s shoulder. “If we don’t see one another there, perhaps we’ll meet in the dream, my friend.”
“This is the dream,” Perrin said, smiling. “And we will meet again. I will find you, if you are with the wolves. Hunt well, Long Tooth.”
“Hunt well, Young Bull.”
Elyas vanished into the darkness with barely a rustle.
Perrin reached down to the warm hammer at his side. He had thought that responsibility would be another weight upon him. And yet, now that he had accepted it, he actually felt lighter.
Perrin Aybara was just a man, but Perrin Goldeneyes was a symbol created by the people who followed him. Perrin didn’t have a choice about that; all he could do was lead the best he could. If he didn’t, the symbol wouldn’t vanish. The people would just lose faith in it. As poor Aram had.
I’m sorry, my friend, he thought. You I failed most of all. There was no point in looking backward at that. He would simply have to continue forward and do better. “I’m Perrin Goldeneyes,” he said, “the man who can speak to wolves. And I guess that’s a good person to be.”
He kicked Stepper through the gateway. Unfortunately, Perrin Goldeneyes had some killing to do tonight.
Galad awoke as soon as his tent flap rustled. He drove away the vestiges of his dream—a silly thing, of him dining with a dark-haired beauty with perfect lips and cunning eyes—and reached for his sword.
“Galad!” a voice hissed. It was Trom.
“What’s wrong?” Galad asked, hand still on his sword.
“You were right,” Trom said.
“About what?”
“Aybara’s army is back. Galad, they’re on the heights just above us! We only caught sight of them by accident; our men were watching along the road, as you told us.”
Galad cursed, sat up and reached for his smallclothes. “How did they get up there without us seeing?”
“Dark powers, Galad. Byar was right. You saw how fast their camp emptied.”
Their scouts had returned an hour before. They’d found Aybara’s campsite eerily empty, as if it had been populated by ghosts. Nobody had seen them leave along the road.
Now this. Galad dressed quickly. “Rouse the men. See if you can do it quietly. You were wise to bring no light; that might have alerted the enemy. Have the men put on their armor inside their tents.”
“Yes, my Lord Captain Commander,” Trom said. A rustling accompanied his departure.
Galad hurried to dress. What have I done? Every step of the way, he’d been confident in his choices, yet this was where they had led him. Aybara, positioned to attack, Galad’s men asleep. Ever since Morgase had returned, Galad had felt his world crumbling. What was right was no longer clear to him, not as it had once been. The way ahead seemed clouded.
We should surrender, he thought, affixing his cloak in place over his mail. But no. Children of the Light never give in to Darkfriends. How could I think that?
They had to die fighting. But what would that accomplish? The end of the Children, dead before the Last Battle began?
His tent flaps rustled again, and he had his sword out, ready to strike.
“Galad,” Byar said. “You’ve killed us.” All respect was gone from his voice.
The accusation set Galad on edge. “Those who walk in the Light must take no responsibility for the actions of those who follow the Shadow.” A quote from Lothair Mantelar. “I have acted with honor.”
“You should have attacked instead of going through that ridiculous ‘trial.’”
“We would have been slaughtered. He had Aes Sedai, Aiel, men who can channel, more soldiers than us, and powers we don’t understand.”
“The Light would have protected us!”
“And if that is true, it will protect us now,” Galad said, confidence strengthening.
“No,” Byar said, voice an angry whisper. “We have led ourselves to this. If we fall, it will be deserved.” He left with a rustle of the flaps.
Galad stood for a moment, then buckled on his sword. Recrimination and repentance would wait. He had to find a way to survive this day. If there was a way.
Counter their ambush, with one of our own, he thought. Have the men stay in their tents until the attack starts, then surprise Aybara by rushing out in force, and…
No. Aybara would start with arrows, raining death on the tents. It would be the best way to take advantage of his high ground and his longbowmen.
The best thing to do was get the men armored, then have them break from their tents together on a signal and run for their horses. The Amadicians could form a pikewall at the base of the heights. Aybara might risk running cavalry down the steep slope leading up to the rise, but pikemen could upset that maneuver.
Archers would still be a problem. Shields would help. A little. He took a deep breath, then strode into the night to give the orders.
“Once the battle begins,” Perrin said, “I want you three to retreat to safety. I won’t try to send you back to Andor; I know you wouldn’t go. But you’re not to participate in the battle. Stay behind the battle lines and with the rear guard.”
Faile glanced at him. He sat his mount, eyes forward. They stood atop the heights, the last of his army emerging from the gateways positioned behind. Jori Congar held a shielded lantern for Perrin. It gave the area a very faint light.
“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.