These trees had no such rightness. If he drew close to them, he felt he could hear something. A silence like screaming. It was not a sound, but a feeling.
Fighting raged ahead of them in the forest. Queen Elayne’s forces carefully withdrew eastward, out of the trees. They were nearly to the edge of Braem Wood now; once out, they would march for the bridges, cross them and burn them behind. Then the soldiers would launch volleys of destruction at the Trollocs trying to cross the river after them on their own bridges. Bashere hoped to reduce the enemy’s numbers considerably at the Erinin before they continued east.
Loial was certain this would all make fascinating information for his book, once he wrote it. If he was able to write it. He laid his ears flat as the Ogier began their war song. He lent his voice to theirs, glad for the terrible song—the call to blood, to death—as it filled the silence left by the trees.
He started running with the others, Erith at his side. Loial drew out in front, axe raised above his head. Thoughts left him as he found himself angry, furious, at the Trollocs. They didn’t just kill trees. They took the peace from the trees.
The call to blood, to death.
Bellowing his song, Loial laid into the Trollocs with his axe, Erith and the other Ogier joining him and stopping the brunt of this Trolloc flanking force. He had not intended to lead the Ogier charge. He did anyway.
He hacked at the shoulder of a ram-faced Trolloc, shearing its arm free. The thing yelled and fell to its knees, and Erith kicked it in the face, throwing it back into the legs of a Trolloc behind.
Loial did not stop his song, the call to blood, to death. Let them hear! Let them hear! Swing after swing. Chopping dead wood, that was all this was. Dead, rotting, horrible wood. He and Erith fell into place with Elder Haman, who—with ears laid back—looked utterly fierce. Placid Elder Haman. He felt the rage too.
A beleaguered line of Whitecloaks—whom the Ogier had relieved—stumbled back, making way for the Ogier.
He sang and fought and roared and killed, hacking at Trollocs with an axe meant for cutting wood, and never flesh. Working with wood was a reverent business. This . . . this was killing weeds. Poisonous weeds. Strangling weeds.
He continued to chop the Trollocs, losing himself in the call to blood, to death. The Trollocs began to fear. He saw terror in their beady eyes, and he loved it. They were used to fighting men, who were smaller than themselves.
Well, let the Trollocs fight someone their own size. They snarled as the Ogier line forced them back. Loial landed blow after blow, shearing through arms, hacking through torsos. He shoved his way between two bear Trollocs, laying about him with his axe, yelling in fury—fury now for what the Trollocs had done to the Ogier. They should be enjoying the peace of the stedding. They should be able to build, sing, and grow.
They could not. Because of these . . . these weeds, they could not! The Ogier were forced to kill. The Trollocs made builders into destroyers. They forced Ogier and humans to be like themselves. The call to blood, to death.
Well, the Shadow would see just how dangerous the Ogier could be. They would fight, and they would kill. And they would do it better than any human, Trolloc or Myrddraal could imagine.
By the fear Loial saw in the Trollocs—by their terrified eyes—they were beginning to understand.
"Light!" Galad exclaimed, falling back from the thick of the fight. "Light!"
The Ogier attack was terrible and glorious. The creatures fought with ears drawn back, eyes wide, broad faces flat as anvils. They seemed to transform, all placidity gone. They cut through ranks of Trollocs, hacking the beasts to the ground. The second row of Ogier, made up mostly of females, sliced up Trollocs with long knives, bringing down any who made it through the first line.
Galad had thought Trollocs fearsome with their twisted mix of human and animal features, but the Ogier disturbed him more. Trollocs were simply horrible . . . but Ogier were gentle, soft-spoken, kindly. Seeing them enraged, bellowing their terrible song and attacking with axes nearly as long as men were tall . . . Light!
Galad waved the Children back, then ducked as a Trolloc slammed into a tree nearby. Some of the Ogier were seizing wounded Trollocs by their arms and hurling them out of the way. Many of the other Ogier were blood-soaked to their waists, hacking and chopping like butchers preparing meat. Now and then, one of them fell, but unarmored though they were, their skin seemed tough.
"Light!" Trom said, moving up to Galad. "Have you ever seen anything like that?"
Galad shook his head. It was the most honest answer he could think of.
"If we had an army of those . . ". Trom said.
"They’re Darkfriends", Golever said, joining them. "Shadowspawn for certain".
"Ogier are no more Shadowspawn than I am", Galad said dryly. "Look, they’re slaughtering the Trollocs".
"Any moment now, they’ll all turn on us", Golever said. "Watch . . ". He trailed off, listening to the Ogier chant their war song. One large group of Trollocs broke, fleeing back around cursing Myrddraal. The Ogier didn’t let them go. Enraged, the giant Builders chased after the Trollocs, long-handled axes chopping their legs, dropping them in sprays of blood and cries of agony.
"Well?" Trom asked.
"Maybe . . ". Golever said. "Maybe it’s a scheme of some kind. To gain our trust".
"Don’t be a fool, Golever", Trom said.
"I’m not—"
Galad held up a hand. "Gather our wounded. Let’s head toward the bridge".
Rand let the swirling colors fade from his vision. "It is nearly time for me to go", he said.
"To battle?" Moiraine asked.
"No, to Mat. He is in Ebou Dar".
He had returned from Elayne’s camp to Merrilor. The conversation with Tam still bounced around in his head. Let go. It wasn’t nearly so easy. And yet, something had lifted from him in speaking with his father. Let go. There seemed a depth to Tam’s words, one far beyond the obvious.
Rand shook his head. He couldn’t afford to waste time on such thoughts. The Last Battle . . . it had to claim his attention.
I have been able to draw close without drawing attention, he thought, fingering the deerhorn-hilted dagger at his belt. It seems to be true. The Dark One can’t sense me when I carry this.
Before he could move against the Dark One, he had to do something about the Seanchan. If what Thom said was true, Mat might be the key. The Seanchan had to join the Dragon’s Peace. If they did not . . .
"That is an expression I remember", a soft voice said. "Consternation. You do it so well, Rand al’Thor".
He turned toward Moiraine. Beyond her, on the table in his tent, maps that Aviendha had sent by messenger showed positions where his army could gather in the Blight.
Moiraine stepped up beside Rand. "Did you know that I used to spend hours in thought, trying to discover what that mind of yours was conjuring? It is a wonder I did not pull every hair from my head in frustration".
"I was a fool for not trusting you", Rand said.
She laughed. A soft laugh, the laugh of an Aes Sedai who was in control. "You trusted me enough. That was what made it all the more frustrating that you would not share".
Rand breathed in deeply. The air here at Merrilor was sweeter than in other places. He had coaxed the land here back to life. Grass grew. Flowers budded. "Tree stumps and men", he said to Moiraine. "The Two Rivers has both, and one is about as likely to budge as the other".
"Perhaps that is too harsh", Moiraine said. "It was not merely stubbornness that drove you; it was a will to prove to yourself, and to everyone else, that you could do this on your own". She touched his arm. "But you cannot do this on your own, can you?"
Rand shook his head. He reached up to Callandor; strapped on his back, touching it. The sword’s final secret lay bare to him now. It was a trap, and a clever one, for this weapon was a sa’angreal not for just the One Power, but for the True Power as well.
He had thrown away the access key, but on his back he carried something so very tempting. The True Power, the Dark One’s essence, was the sweetest thing he had ever touched. With Callandor; he could draw it forth in strength such as no man had ever before felt. Because Callandor lacked the safety measures of most other angreal and sa’angreal, there was no telling how much of the Powers it could draw.
"There it is again", Moiraine murmured. "What are you planning, Rand al’Thor, Dragon Reborn? Can you finally let go enough to tell me?" He eyed her. "Did you set this entire conversation up to pull that secret from me?"
"You think very highly of my conversational abilities".
"An answer that says nothing", Rand said.
"Yes", Moiraine said. "But might I point out that you did it first in deflecting my question?"
Rand thought back a few steps in the conversation, and realized he’d done just that. "I’m going to kill the Dark One", Rand said. "I’m not just going to seal up the Dark One, I’m going to end him".
"I thought you had grown up while I was away", Moiraine said.
"Only Perrin grew up", Rand said. "Mat and I have simply learned to pretend to be grown up". He hesitated. "Mat did not learn it so well".
"The Dark One is beyond killing", Moiraine said.
"I think I can do it", Rand said. "I remember what Lews Therin did, and there was a moment . . . a brief moment . . . It can happen, Moiraine. I’m more confident that I can do that than I am that I could seal the Dark One away". That was true, though he had no real confidence that he could manage either.
Questions. So many questions. Shouldn’t he have some answers by now? "The Dark One is part of the Wheel", Moiraine said.
"No. The Dark One is outside the Pattern", Rand countered. "Not part of the Wheel at all".
"Of course the Dark One is part of the Wheel, Rand", Moiraine said. "We are the threads that make up the Pattern’s substance, and the Dark One affects us. You cannot kill him. That is a fool’s task".
"I have been a fool before", Rand said. "And I shall be one again. At times, Moiraine, my entire life—all that I’ve done—feels like a fool’s task. What is one more impossible challenge? I’ve met all the others. Perhaps I can accomplish this one too".
She tightened her grip on his arm. "You have grown so much, but you are still just a youth, are you not?"
Rand immediately seized control of his emotions, and did not lash back at her. The surest way to be thought of as a youth was to act like one. He stood straight-backed, and spoke softly. "I have lived for four centuries", he said. "Perhaps I am still a youth, in that all of us are, compared to the timeless age of the Wheel itself. That said, I am one of the oldest people in existence".
Moiraine smiled. "Very nice. Does that work on the others?"
He hesitated. Then, oddly, he found himself grinning. "It worked pretty well on Cadsuane".
Moiraine sniffed. "That one . . . Well, knowing her, I doubt you fooled her as well as you assume. You may have the memories of a man four centuries old, Rand al’Thor, but that does not make you ancient. Otherwise, Matrim Cauthon would be the patriarch of us all".