The door behind Ituralde slammed open, and Yoeli hastened in. “The last ranks are placed. Is it working?”
Ituralde didn’t answer; the proof was below. The Trollocs assumed their battle won—the blasting Power of the Asha’man had the air of one final stand, and the city appeared to be in chaos. The Trollocs all ran down the streets with obvious glee. Even the Myrddraal who entered appeared at ease.
The Trollocs avoided the burning buildings and the palace, which was walled. They moved deeper into the city, pursuing the fleeing soldiers down a wide avenue on the eastern side of the city. Carefully piled rubble encouraged the bulk of them down this avenue.
“Do you have aspirations of being a general, Captain Yoeli?” Ituralde asked softly.
“My aspirations are not important,” Yoeli said. “But a man would be a fool not to hope to learn.”
“Then pay attention to this lesson, son.” Below, shutters on windows were flung open on buildings along the avenue the Trollocs had taken. Bowmen surged out onto balconies. “If you ever have so much as an impression that you’re doing what your enemy expects you to do, then do something else.”
The arrows fell, and Trollocs died. Large crossbows that shot quarrels almost the size of spears targeted the Fades, and many could be seen lurching across the pavement, not knowing that they were already dead, as scores of Trollocs linked to them fell. Confused, enraged, the still-living creatures began to bellow and pound in the doors of the buildings filled with archers. But as they did so, the thunder began. Hoofbeats. Yoeli’s best cavalry charged down the streets, lances forward. They trampled the Trollocs, slaughtering them.
The city became an enormous ambush. A man couldn’t ask for better vantages than those buildings, and the streets were wide enough to allow a charge by those who knew the layout. The Trollocs went from bellowing in joy to screaming in pain, and scrambled over one another in their haste to get away. They entered the courtyard by the broken wall.
The Saldaean horsemen followed, their hooves and flanks wet with the noxious blood of the fallen. Men appeared at windows of “burning” buildings—the fires carefully created in sectioned-off rooms—and began loosing arrows down into the large courtyard. Others tossed new lances to the horsemen, who, reequipped, lined up and rode into the Trollocs. The arrows stopped falling, and the cavalry made a sweeping charge across the courtyard.
Hundreds of Trollocs died. Perhaps thousands. Those that didn’t die scrambled out of the gap. Most of the Myrddraal fled. Those that did not were targets for the archers. Killing one of them could kill dozens of Trollocs linked to them. The Fades went down—many sprouting dozens of arrows.
“I’ll give the order to unite and hold the breach again,” Yoeli said eagerly.
“No.” Ituralde said.
“But—”
“Fighting at the breach will gain us nothing,” Ituralde said. “Give the orders for the men to move to different buildings, and have the archers take different positions. Are there warehouses or other large buildings that can hide the horsemen? Move them there, quickly. And then we wait.”
“They won’t be caught again.”
“No,” Ituralde said. “But they’ll be slow and cautious. If we fight them head on, we lose. If we hold, buy time, we win. That’s the only way out of this, Yoeli. To survive until help comes. If it’s coming.”
Yoeli nodded.
“Our next trap won’t kill as many,” Ituralde said, “but Trollocs are cowards at heart. The knowledge that any roadway could suddenly turn into a death trap will make them hesitate, and will earn us more time than would losing half of our men holding that wall.”
“All right,” Yoeli said. He hesitated. “But…doesn’t this mean that they’re anticipating us? This phase of the plan will work only because they expect our ambushes.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“So shouldn’t we do something different? You said that if we’ve got a hint that the enemy knows what we’re going to do, we should change plans.”
“You’re thinking about it too much, son. Go do as I commanded.”
“Er, yes, my Lord.” He hurried away.
This, Ituralde thought, is why I should never teach tactics. It was hard to explain to students that there was a rule that trumped all of the others: Always trust your instincts. The Trollocs would be afraid. He could use that. He’d use anything they gave him.
He didn’t like to think too long about that rule, lest he dwell on the fact that he’d violated it already. Because his every instinct screamed that he should have abandoned this city hours ago.
Chapter 29
A Terrible Feeling
“What is Perrin plotting, do you think?” Berelain asked as she strolled beside Faile and Alliandre.
Faile didn’t answer. The late afternoon was softly lit by a distant sun shrouded in clouds. Soon it would make the horizon burn as it sank down for the night. In two days, Perrin would go on trial. He’d delayed specifically, she knew, to gain more time for the Asha’man to work out the strange problem with gateways.
Their army was growing, still more people flooding to them. Scout reports indicated that the Whitecloak force was growing as well. More slowly, but still growing. In days like these, an army was a symbol of strength and—at the very least—food.
A stand of fingeroot trees glutted themselves on the water of the stream near Perrin’s war camp. Such strange plants they were, with those roots that dipped into the water. Trunks like flowing glass that had pooled while hardening. There was nothing like them up in Saldaea. It seemed that two wrong steps here could lead you into a swamp.
“No answer for me?” Berelain asked. She seemed distracted these days. “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps it would be good to send an envoy to the Whitecloak army. Do you think Perrin would allow me to go and speak with them? Perhaps I could make a personal appeal on his behalf.”
She kept bringing up that topic. “No,” Faile said. “You know his mind is made up on this trial, Berelain.”
The First pursed her lips, but did not press further. The three continued their walk, accompanied by ten Maidens. Once, Faile might have complained about the attention. That was before she’d been taken so unexpectedly, and so easily.
In the distance, she saw a small group of refugees leaving the camp, walking away to the southeast, cross-country. Before things had gone wrong with the gateways, about ten thousand had been sent to rural areas in Cairhien. All had instructions to remain quiet. Perrin didn’t want his location known yet. Women would be still, but of course the men would gossip; they always did.
Few knew that gateways failed; Perrin had told the people that he needed the Asha’man strong, in case there was fighting with the Whitecloaks. It was true enough. Still, some refugees had asked to leave, going on foot. To these, Faile gave bits of gold or a jewel from Sevanna’s store and wished them the best. She was surprised at how many wanted to return to homes that were in Seanchan-controlled lands.
Despite the departures, the size of Perrin’s force was swelling day by day. Faile and the others passed a large group practicing with swords. The refugees who had decided to train were now some twenty-five thousand strong. They practiced late into the day, and Faile could still hear barked orders from Tam.
“Well.” Berelain continued her musings. “What will Perrin do? Why set up this trial? He wants something from those Whitecloaks.” She stepped around a gnarled fingeroot. The First, like so many others, read much more into Perrin’s actions than there was to find. He’d be amused if he knew the plots they ascribed to him.
And she claims to understand men, Faile thought. Perrin was by no means stupid, nor was he the simple man he sometimes claimed to be. He planned, he thought, and he was careful. But he was also direct. Deliberate. When he said something, he meant it.
“I agree with Berelain,” Alliandre said. “We should just leave, march away. Or attack those Whitecloaks.”
Faile shook her head. “It bothers Perrin when people think he did something wrong. As long as the Whitecloaks continue to insist he is a murderer, his name will not be clear.” He was being bullheaded and foolish, but there was a nobility about it.
So long as it didn’t get him killed. However, she loved him for that very sense of honor. Changing him would be ill-advised, so she had to make certain others didn’t take advantage of him.
As she always did when they discussed the Whitecloaks, Berelain got a strange look in her eyes, and she glanced—perhaps unconsciously—in the direction their army camped. Light. She wasn’t going to ask again if she could go speak to them? She had come up with a dozen different reasons why she wanted to.
Faile noticed a large group of soldiers trying to look inconspicuous as they rounded the inside of the camp, keeping pace with Faile and their guards on their promenade. Perrin wanted her well protected.
“This young Lord Captain Commander,” Alliandre said idly. “He looks quite striking in that white uniform, wouldn’t you say? If you can get past that sunburst on his cloak. Such a beautiful man.”
“Oh?” Berelain said. Surprisingly, warm color rose in her cheeks.
“I’d always heard that Morgase’s stepson was a handsome man,” Alliandre continued. “But I hadn’t anticipated him being so…pristine.”
“Like a statue carved from marble,” Berelain whispered, “a relic from the Age of Legends. A perfect thing left behind. For us to worship.”
“He’s passable,” Faile said with a sniff. “I prefer a bearded face, myself.”
It wasn’t a lie—she loved a bearded face, and Perrin was handsome. He had a burly power to him that was quite appealing. But this Galad Damodred was…well, it wasn’t fair to compare him to Perrin. That would be like comparing a stained glass window to a cabinet made by a master carpenter. Both were excellent examples of their craft, and it was hard to weigh them against one another. But the window certainly did shine.
Berelain’s expression seemed distant. She was definitely taken with Damodred. Such a short time for it to have happened. Faile told Berelain that finding another man for her attentions would help with the rumors, but the Whitecloak commander? Had the woman lost all sense?
“So what do we do?” Alliandre asked as they rounded the south side of the camp, halfway to the point from which they’d started.
“About the Whitecloaks?” Faile asked.
“About Maighdin,” Alliandre said. “Morgase.”
“I can’t help feeling that she took advantage of my kindness,” Faile said. “After all we went through together, she didn’t tell me who she was?”
“You seem to be determined to give her very little credit,” Berelain said.
Faile didn’t reply. She’d been thinking about what Perrin said, and he was probably right. Faile should not be so angry with her. If Morgase really had been fleeing one of the Forsaken, it was a miracle that she was still alive. Besides, she herself had lied about who she was, when first meeting Perrin.