Towers of Midnight

40 A Making

Perrin sat alone on a tree stump, eyes closed and face to the dark sky. The camp was situated, the gateway closed, and reports taken. Perrin finally had time to rest.

That was dangerous. Resting let him think. Thinking brought him memories. Memories brought pain.

He could smell the world on the wind. Layers of scents, swirling together. The camp around him: sweaty people, spices for cooking, soaps for cleaning, horse dung, emotions. The hills around them: dried pine needles, mud from a stream, the carcass of a dead animal. The world beyond: hints of dust from the distant road, a stand of lavender that somehow survived in the dying world.

There was no pollen. There were no wolves. Both seemed terrible signs to him.

He felt sick. Physically ill, as if his stomach were filled with muddy swamp water, rotting moss and bits of dead beetles. He wanted to scream. He wanted to find Slayer and kill him, pound fists on the man’s face until the blood engulfed it.

Footsteps approached. Faile. “Perrin? Do you want to talk?”

He opened his eyes. He should be crying, screaming. But he felt so cold. Cold and furious. Those two didn’t go together for him.

His tent had been set up nearby; its flaps fluttered in the wind. Nearby, Gaul reclined against a leatherleaf sapling. In the distance, one of the farriers worked late. Soft peals in the night. “I failed, Faile,” Perrin whispered.

“You got the ter’angreal,” she said, kneeling beside him. “You saved the people.”

“And still Slayer beat us,” he said bitterly. “A pack of five of us together weren’t enough to fight him.”

Perrin had felt this way when he’d found his family dead, killed by Trollocs. How many was the Shadow going to take from him by the time this was done? Hopper should have been safe in the wolf dream.

Foolish cub, foolish cub.

Had there even really been a trap for Perrin’s army? Slayer’s dreamspike could have been meant for another purpose entirely. Just a coincidence.

There are no coincidences for ta’veren…

He needed to find something to do with his anger and his pain. He stood, turning, and was surprised to see how many lights still shone in camp. A group of people waited nearby, far enough away from him that he hadn’t made out their scents specifically. Alliandre in a golden gown. Berelain in blue. Both sat on chairs beside a small wooden travel table, set with a lantern. Elyas sat on a rock beside them, sharpening his knife. A dozen of the Two Rivers men—Wil al’Seen, Jon Ayellin and Grayor Frenn among them—huddled around a firepit, glancing at him. Even Arganda and Gallenne were there, speaking softly.

“They should be sleeping,” Perrin said.

“They’re worried about you,” Faile said. She smelled worried as well. “And they’re worried you will send them away, now that gateways work again.”

“Fools,” Perrin whispered. “Fools to follow me. Fools not to hide.”

“You’d really have them do that?” Faile said, angry. “Cower someplace while the Last Battle happens? Didn’t you say every man would be needed?”

She was right. Every man would be needed. He realized that part of his frustration was that he didn’t know what he’d escaped. He’d gotten away, but from what? For what had Hopper died? Not knowing the enemy’s plan made Perrin feel blind.

He walked away from the stump, over to where Arganda and Gallenne were talking. “Bring me our map,” he said. “Of the Jehannah Road.”

Arganda called over Hirshanin and told him where to find one. Hirshanin ran off, and Perrin began to walk through camp. Toward the sound of metal hitting metal, the farrier working. Perrin seemed drawn to it. The scents of camp swirled around him, the sky rumbling above him.

The others trailed after him. Faile, Berelain and Alliandre, the Two Rivers men, Elyas, Gaul. The group grew, other Two Rivers men joining it Nobody spoke, and Perrin ignored them, until he came to Aemin working at an anvil, one of the camp’s horse-pulled forges set up beside him and burning with a red light.

Hirshanin caught up to Perrin as he arrived, carrying the map. Perrin unrolled it, holding it before him as Aemin stopped his work, smelling curious. “Arganda, Gallenne,” Perrin said. “Tell me. If you were going to set up the best ambush for a large group moving along this road toward Lugard, where would you place it?”

“Here,” Arganda said without hesitation, pointing to a location several hours from where they’d been camping. “See here? The road turns to follow an old, dried-out streambed. An army passing through there would be totally exposed to an ambush; you’d be able to attack them from the heights here and here.”

Gallenne nodded. “Yes. This is marked as an excellent place for a large group to camp. At the base of that hill where the road bends. But if someone’s on the heights above with a mind to do you harm, you might not wake up in the morning.”

Arganda nodded.

The heights rose flat-topped to the north of the road; the old riverbed had cut a wide, level pathway that was washed out to the south and west. You could fit an army on those heights.

“What are these?” Perrin asked, pointing to some marks south of the road.

“Old ruins,” Arganda said. “Nothing of relevance; they’ve degraded too far to provide cover. They’re really just a few moss-covered boulders.”

Perrin nodded. Something was coming together for him. “Are Grady and Neald asleep?” he asked.

“No,” Berelain said. “They said they wanted to stay awake, just in case. I think your mood gave them a fright.”

“Send for them,” Perrin said to nobody in particular. “One of them needs to check on the Whitecloak army. I remember someone telling me they had broken camp.” He didn’t wait to see if the order was followed. He stepped up to the forge, laying a hand on Aemin’s shoulder. “Get some sleep, Aemin. I need something to work on. Horseshoes, is it?”

The man nodded, looking perplexed. Perrin took the man’s apron and gloves, and Aemin departed. Perrin got out his own hammer. The hammer he’d been given in Tear, a hammer that had been used to kill, but hadn’t been used to create in such a long time.

The hammer could be either a weapon or a tool. Perrin had a choice, just as everyone who followed him had a choice. Hopper had a choice. The wolf had made that choice, risking more in defense of the Light than any human—save Perrin—would ever understand.

Perrin used the tongs to pull a small length of metal from the coals, then placed it on the anvil. He raised his arm and began to pound.

It had been a long time since he’d found his way to a forge. In fact, the last he could remember doing any substantial work at one was back in Tear, on that peaceful day when he’d left his responsibilities for a short time and worked at that smithy.

You are like a wolf, husband. Faile had told him that, referring to how focused he became. That was a thing of wolves; they could know the past and the future, yet keep their attention on the hunt. Could he do the same? Allow himself to be consumed when needed, yet keep balance in other parts of his life?

The work began to absorb him. The rhythmic beating of hammer on metal. He flattened the length of iron, occasionally returning it to the coals and getting out another one, working on several shoes at once. He had the measurements nearby for the sizes of what was needed. He slowly bent the metal against the side of the anvil, shaping it. His arms began to sweat, his face warmed by the fire and the work.

Neald and Grady arrived, along with the Wise Ones and Masuri. As Perrin worked, he noticed them sending Sulin through a gateway to check on the Whitecloaks. She returned a short time later, but delayed her report, since Perrin was busy with his work.

Perrin held up a horseshoe, then frowned. This wasn’t difficult enough work. It was soothing, yes, but today he wanted something more challenging. He felt a need to create, as if to balance the destruction he’d seen in the world, the destruction he’d helped create. There were several lengths of unworked steel stacked beside the forge, finer material than what was used for shoes. They were probably waiting to be turned into swords for the former refugees.

Perrin took several of those lengths of steel and set them into coals. This Forge wasn’t as nice as what he was accustomed to; though he had a bellows and three barrels for quenching, the wind cooled the metal, and the coals didn’t get as hot as he’d like. He watched with dissatisfaction.

“I can help you with that, Lord Perrin,” Neald said from the side.

“Heat the metal up, if you want.”

Perrin eyed him, then nodded. He plucked out a length of steel, holding it up with his tongs. “I want it a nice yellow-red. Not so hot it goes white, mind you.”

Neald nodded. Perrin set the bar on the anvil, took out his hammer and began to pound again. Neald stood at the side, concentrating.

Perrin lost himself in the work. Forge the steel. All else faded. The rhythmic pounding of hammer on metal, like the beating of his heart, That shimmering metal, warm and dangerous. In that focus, he found clarity. The world was cracking, breaking further each day. It needed help, right now. Once a thing shattered, you couldn’t put it back together.

“Neald,” Grady’s voice said. It was urgent, but distant to Perrin. “Neald, what are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Neald replied. “It feels right.”

Perrin continued to pound, harder and harder. He folded the metal, flattening pieces against one another. It was wonderful the way the Asha’man kept it at exactly the right temperature. That freed Perrin from needing to rely on only a few moments of perfect temperature between heatings.

The metal seemed to flow, almost as if shaped by his will alone. What was he making? He took the other two lengths out of the flames, then began to switch between the three. The first—and largest—he folded upon itself, molding it, using a process known as shrinking where he increased its girth. He made it into a large ball, then added more steel to it until it was nearly as large as a man’s head. The second he drew, making it long and thin, then folded it into a narrow rod. The final, smallest piece he flattened.

He breathed in and out, his lungs working like bellows. His sweat was like the quenching waters. His arms were like the anvil. He was the forge.

“Wise Ones, I need a circle,” Neald said urgently. “Now. Don’t argue! I need it!”

Sparks began to fly as Perrin pounded. Larger showers with each blow. He felt something leaking from him, as if each blow infused the metal with his own strength, and also his own feelings. Both worries and hopes. These flowed from him into the three unwrought pieces.

The world was dying. He couldn’t save it. That was Rand’s job. Perrin just wanted to go back to his simple life, didn’t he?

No. No, he wanted Faile, he wanted complexity. He wanted life. He couldn’t hide, any more than the people who followed him could hide.

He didn’t want their allegiance. But he had it. How would he feel if someone else took command, and then got them killed?

Blow after blow. Sprays of sparks. Too many, as if he were pounding against a bucket of molten liquid. Sparks splashed in the air, exploding from his hammer, flying as high as treetops and spreading tens of paces. The people watching withdrew, all save the Asha’man and Wise Ones, who stood gathered around Neald.

I don’t want to lead them, Perrin thought. But if I don’t, who will? If I abandon them, and they fall, then it will be my fault.

Perrin saw now what he was making, what he’d been trying to make all along. He worked the largest lump into a brick shape. The long piece became a rod, thick as three fingers. The flat piece became a capping bracket, a piece of metal to wrap around the head and join it to the shaft.

A hammer. He was making a hammer. These were the parts.

He understood now.

He grew to his task. Blow after blow. Those beats were so loud. Each blow seemed to shake the ground around him, rattling tents. Perrin exulted. He knew what he was making. He finally knew what he was making.

He hadn’t asked to become a leader, but did that absolve him of responsibility? People needed him. The world needed him. And, with an understanding that cooled in him like molten rock forming into a shape, he realized that he wanted to lead.

If someone had to be lord of these people, he wanted to do it himself. Because doing it yourself was the only way to see that it was done right.

He used his chisel and rod, shaping a hole through the center of the hammer’s head, then grabbed the haft and—raising it far over his head—slammed it down into place. He took the bracket and laid the hammer on it, then shaped it. Mere moments ago, this process had fed off his anger. But now it seemed to draw forth his resolution, his determination.

Metal was something alive. Every blacksmith knew this. Once you heated it, while you worked it, it lived. He took his hammer and chisel and began to shape patterns, ridges, modifications. Waves of sparks flew from him, the ringing of his hammer ever stronger, ever louder, pealing like bells. He used his chisel on a small chunk of steel to form a shape, then placed it down on top of the hammer.

With a roar, he raised his old hammer one last time over his head and beat it down on the new one, imprinting the ornamentation upon the side of the hammer. A leaping wolf.

Perrin lowered his tools. On the anvil—still glowing with an inner heat—was a beautiful hammer. A work beyond anything he’d ever created, or thought that he might create. It had a thick, powerful head, like a maul or sledge, but the back was formed cross-face and flattened. Like a blacksmith’s tool. It was four feet from bottom to top, maybe longer, an enormous size for a hammer of this type.

The haft was all of steel, something he’d never seen on a hammer before. Perrin picked it up; he was able to lift it with one hand, but barely. It was heavy. Solid.

The ornamentation was of a Crosshatch pattern with the leaping wolf stamped on one side. It looked like Hopper. Perrin touched it with a callused thumb, and the metal quieted. It still felt warm to the touch, but did not burn him.

He turned to look, and was amazed at the size of the crowd watching him. The Two Rivers men stood at the front, Jori Congar, Azi al’Thone, Wil al’Seen and hundreds more. Ghealdanin, Cairhienin, Andorans, Mayeners. Watching, quiet. The ground around Perrin was blackened from the falling sparks; drops of silvery metal spread out from him like a sunburst.

Neald fell to his knees, panting, his face coated with sweat. Grady and the women of the circle sat down, looking exhausted. All six Wise Ones had joined in. What had they done?

Perrin felt exhausted, as if all of his strength and emotion had been forged into the metal. But he could not rest. “Wil. Weeks ago, I gave you an order. Burn the banners that bore the wolfhead. Did you obey? Did you burn every one?”

Wil al’Seen met his eyes, then looked down, ashamed. “Lord Perrin, I tried. But… Light, I couldn’t do it. I kept one. The one I’d helped sew.”

“Fetch it, Wil,” Perrin said. His own voice sounded like steel.

Wil ran, smelling frightened. He returned shortly, bearing a folded cloth, white with a red border. Perrin took it, then held it in a reverent hand, hammer in the other. He looked at the crowd. Faile was there, hands clasped before her. She smelled hopeful. She could see into him. She knew.

“I have tried to send you away,” Perrin announced to the crowd. “You would not go. I have failings. You must know this. If we march to war, I will not be able to protect you all. I will make mistakes.”

He looked across the crowd, meeting the eyes of those who stood there. Each man or woman he looked at nodded silently. No regrets, no hesitations. They nodded.

Perrin took a deep breath. “If you wish this, I will accept your oaths. I will lead you.”

They cheered him. An enormous roar of excitement. “Goldeneyes. Goldeneyes the wolf! To the Last Battle! Tai’shar Manetheren!”

“Wil!” Perrin bellowed, holding up the banner. “Raise this banner high. Don’t take it down again until the Last Battle has been won. I march beneath the sign of the wolf. The rest of you, rouse the camp. Get every soldier ready to fight. We have another task tonight!”

The young man took the banner and unfurled it, Jori and Azi joining him and holding it so it didn’t touch the ground. They raised it high, running to get a pole. The group broke up, men running this way and that, shouting the summons.

Perrin took Faile by the hand as she walked up to him. She smelled satisfied. “That’s it, then?”

“No more complaining,” he promised. “I don’t like it. But I don’t like killing, either. I’ll do what must be done.” He looked down at the anvil, blackened from his work. His old hammer, now worn and dented, lay across it. He felt sad to leave it, but he had made his decision.

“What did you do, Neald?” he asked as the Asha’man—still looking pale—stumbled up to his feet. Perrin raised the new hammer, showing the magnificent work.

“I don’t know, my Lord,” Neald said. “It just… well, it was like I said. It felt right. I saw what to do, how to put the weaves into the metal itself. It seemed to draw them in, like an ocean drinking in the water of a stream.” He blushed, as if he thought it a foolish figure of speech.

“That sounds right,” Perrin said. “It needs a name, this hammer. Do you know much of the Old Tongue?”

“No, my Lord.”

Perrin looked at the wolf imprinted on the side. “Does anyone know how you say ‘He who soars’?”

“I… I don’t…”

“Mah’alleinir,” Berelain said, stepping up from where she’d been watching.

“Mah’alleinir,” Perrin repeated. “It feels right. Sulin? What of the Whitecloaks?”

“They have made camp, Perrin Aybara,” the Maiden replied.

“Show me,” he said, gesturing to Arganda’s map.

She pointed out the location: a piece of land on the side of a hill, heights running to the north of it, roadway coming in from the northeast, wrapping around the south of the heights—following the ancient riverbed—and then bending southward when it hit the campsite by the hill. From there, the road headed toward Lugard, but the campsite was protected from wind on two sides. It was a perfect campsite, but also a perfect place for an ambush. The one Arganda and Gallenne had pointed out.

He looked at that passageway and campsite, thinking of what had happened the last few weeks. We met travelers… said that the muds to the north were almost completely impassable with wagons or carts…

A flock of sheep, running before the pack into the jaws of a beast. Faile and the others, walking toward a cliff. Light!

“Grady, Neald,” Perrin said. “I’m going to need another gateway, Can you manage?”

“I think so,” Neald said. “Just give us a few minutes to catch our breath.”

“Very well. Position it here.” Perrin pointed to the heights above the Whitecloaks’ camp. “Gaul!” As usual, the Aiel man waited nearby He loped up. “I want you to go speak with Dannil, Arganda, Gallenne. I want the entire army to cross through as quickly as possible, but they are to keep quiet. We move with as much stealth as an army this size can manage.”

Gaul nodded, running off. Gallenne was still nearby; Gaul started by speaking with him.

Faile watched Perrin, smelling curious and a little anxious. “What are you planning, husband?”

“It’s time for me to lead,” Perrin said. He looked one last time at his old hammer, and laid fingers on its haft. Then he hefted Mah’alleinir to his shoulder and strode away, feet crackling on drops of hardened steel.

The tool he left behind was the hammer of a simple blacksmith. That person would always be part of Perrin, but he could no longer afford to let him lead.

From now on, he would carry the hammer of a king.

Faile ran her fingers across the anvil as Perrin strode away, calling further orders to prepare the army.

Did he realize how he’d looked, standing amid those showers of sparks, each blow of his hammer causing the steel before him to pulse and flare to life? His golden eyes had blazed as brightly as the steel; each peal of the hammer had been nearly deafening.

“It has been many centuries since this land has seen the creation of a Power-wrought weapon,” Berelain said. Most others had left to follow Perrin’s orders, and the two were alone, save for Gallenne standing nearby and studying the map while rubbing his chin. “It is a strong Talent the young man just displayed. This will be of use. Perrin’s army will have Power-wrought blades to strengthen them.”

“The process seemed very draining,” Faile said. “Even if Neald can repeat what he did, I doubt we will have time to make many weapons.”

“Every small advantage helps,” Berelain said. “This army your husband has forged, it will be something incredible. Ta’veren is at work here. He gathers men, and they learn with amazing speed and skill.”

“Perhaps,” Faile said, walking around the anvil slowly, keeping her eyes on Berelain, who strolled around it opposite her. What was Berelain’s game, here?

“Then we must speak with him,” Berelain said. “Turn him from this course of action.”

“This course of action?” Faile asked, genuinely confused.

Berelain stopped, her eyes alight with something. She seemed tense. She’s worried, Faile thought. Worried deeply about something.

“Lord Perrin must not attack the Whitecloaks,” Berelain said. “Please, you must help me persuade him.”

“He’s not going to attack them,” Faile said. She was reasonably certain of that.

“He’s setting up a perfect ambush,” Berelain said. “Asha’man to use the One Power, Two Rivers bowmen to shoot from the heights down on the camp of the Children. Cavalry to ride down and sweep up after.” She hesitated, seeming pained. “He’s set them up perfectly. He told them that if he and Damodred both survived the Last Battle, he’d submit to punishment. But Perrin is going to make certain the Whitecloaks don’t reach the Last Battle. He can keep his oath that way, but also avoid turning himself in.”

Faile shook her head. “He’d never do that, Berelain.”

“Can you be certain?” Berelain asked. “Absolutely certain?”

Faile hesitated. Perrin had been changing lately. Most of the changes were good ones, such as his decision to finally accept leadership. And the ambush Berelain spoke of would make a kind of perfect, ruthless sense.

But it was also wrong. Terribly wrong. Perrin wouldn’t do that, no matter how much he’d changed. Of that, Faile could be certain.

“Yes,” she said. “Giving a promise to Galad, then slaughtering the Whitecloaks in this way, it would rip Perrin apart. He doesn’t think that way. It won’t happen.”

“I hope that you are right,” Berelain said. “I had hoped some sort of accommodation could be reached with their commander before we left…”

A Whitecloak. Light! Couldn’t she have picked one of the noblemen in camp to give her attentions to? One who wasn’t married? “You aren’t very good at picking men, are you, Berelain?” The words just slipped out.

Berelain turned back to Faile, eyes widening in either shock or anger. “And what of Perrin?”

“A terrible match for you,” Faile said with a sniff. “You’ve shown that tonight, by what you think he is capable of.”

“How good a match he was is irrelevant. I was promised him.”

“By whom?”

“The Lord Dragon,” Berelain said.

“What?”

“I came to the Dragon Reborn in the Stone of Tear,” she said. “But he would not have me—he even grew angry with my advances. I realized that he, the Dragon Reborn, intended to marry a much higher lady, probably Elayne Trakand. It makes sense—he cannot take every realm by the sword; some will have to come to him through alliances. Andor is very powerful is ruled by a woman, and would be advantageous to hold through marriage.”

“Perrin says Rand doesn’t think like that, Berelain,” Faile said. “Not so calculating. It’s my inclination, too, from what I know of him.”

“And you say the same thing about Perrin. You’d have me believe they’re all so simple. Without a wit in their heads.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“And yet you use the same old protests. Tiring. Well, I realized what the Lord Dragon was implying, so I turned my attentions toward one of his close attendants. Perhaps he did not ‘promise’ them to me. That was a poor choice of words. But I knew he would be pleased if I made a union with one of his close allies and friends. Indeed, I suspect that he wished me to do it—after all, the Lord Dragon did place me and Perrin together for this mission. He could not be frank about what he desired, however, so as to not offend Perrin.”

Faile hesitated. On one hand, what Berelain said was purely foolish… but on the other, she could see what the woman might have seen. Or, perhaps, what she wished to see. To her, breaking apart a husband and wife was nothing immoral. This was politics. And, logically, Rand probably should have wanted to tie nations to him through bonds of marriage to those closest to him.

That didn’t change the fact that neither he, nor Perrin, regarded matters of the heart in such a way.

“I have given up on Perrin,” Berelain said. “I hold to my promise there. But it leaves me in a difficult situation. I have long thought that a connection to the Dragon Reborn is Mayene’s only hope in maintaining independence in the coming years.”

“Marriage isn’t only about claiming political advantages,” Faile said.

“And yet the advantages are so obvious that they cannot be ignored.”

“And this Whitecloak?” Faile asked.

“Half-brother of the Queen of Andor,” Berelain said, blushing slightly. “If the Lord Dragon does intend to marry Elayne Trakand, this will give me a link to him.”

It was much more than that; Faile could see it in the way Berelain acted, in the way she looked when she spoke of Galad Damodred. But if she wanted to rationalize a political motivation for it, Faile had no reason to dissuade her, so long as it helped distract her from Perrin. “I have done as you asked,” Berelain said. “And so now, I ask your aid. If it appears that he is going to attack them, please join me in trying to dissuade him. Together, perhaps we can manage it.”

“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 rabbits 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 Maiden. 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 their 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 liege woman, 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.