The knotted mass of people stretched all the way beyond the last houses to the hedge of sharpened stakes. The edge of the forest, nearly six hundred paces off across a field of stumps nearly level with the ground, was quiet and empty of men with axes. Those men made a sweaty, barechested ring in the crowd surrounding Alanna and Verin and two men. Jon Thane, the miller, was wiping a smear of blood from his ribs, lantern jaw on his chest so he could stare at what his hands were doing. Alanna straightened from the other man, a grizzlehaired fellow Perrin did not know, who leaped to his feet and danced a step as if not quite believing he could. He and the miller both looked at the Aes Sedai with awe.
The tangle around the Aes Sedai was too tight for anyone to shift aside for Stepper and Swallow, but there were smaller clear pockets around Ihvon and Tomas, off to either side on their warhorses. Folk did not want to come too near those fierceeyed animals, both looking as though they only wanted an opportunity to bite or trample.
Perrin managed to reach Tomas without too much trouble. “What happened?”
“A Trolloc. Only one.” Despite the graying Warder's conversational tone, his dark eyes did not rest on Perrin and Faile, but kept an almost equal watch on Verin and on the treeline. “They usually are not very smart, alone. Sly, but not smart. The timbering party drove it away before it did more than draw some blood.”
From out of the trees the two Aiel women appeared, running, heads shoufawrapped and veiled so he could not tell which was which. They slowed to snake between the sharppointed stakes, then slipped deftly through the crowd, people moving out of their way as much as possible in that press. By the time they reached Faile, they had unveiled, and she leaned down to listen.
“Perhaps five hundred Trollocs,” Bain told her, “probably no more than a mile or two behind us.” Her voice was level, but her dark blue eyes sparkled with eagerness. So did Chiad's gray.
“As I expected,” Tomas said calmly. “That one likely wandered off from the larger body hoping to find a meal. The rest will be coming soon, I think.” The Maidens nodded.
Perrin gestured in consternation at the jam of people. “They shouldn't be out here, then. Why haven't you cleared them away?”
It was Ihvon, bringing his gray into the gathering, who answered. “Your people do not seem to want to listen to outsiders, not when they can watch Aes Sedai. I would suggest you see what you can do.”
Perrin was sure they could have imposed some sort of order had they really tried. Verin and Alanna surely could have. So why did they wait and leave it to me, if they expected Trollocs? It would have been easy to put it down to ta'veren — easy, and foolish. Ihvon and Tomas were not going to let Trollocs kill them — or Verin, or Alanna — while waiting for a ta'veren to tell them what to do. The Aes Sedai were maneuvering him, risking everyone, maybe even themselves. But to what possible end? He met Faile's eyes, and she nodded slightly, as if she knew what he was thinking.
He had no time to try figuring it out now. Scanning the crowd, he spotted Bran al'Vere, putting his head together with Tam al'Thor and Abell Cauthon. The Mayor had a long spear on his shoulder and a dented old round steel cap on his head. A leather jerkin sewn all over with steel discs strained around his bulk.
All three men looked up when Perrin pushed Stepper through the crowd to them. “Bain says Trollocs are heading this way, and the Warders think we may be attacked soon.” He had to shout because of the incessant drone of voices. Some of the nearer folk heard and fell silent; quiet spread on ripples of “Trolloc” and “attack.”
Bran blinked. “Yes. It had to come, didn't it? Yes, well, we know what to do.” He should have looked comic, with his jerkin ready to pop its seams and his steel cap wobbling when he nodded, but he only looked determined. Raising his voice, he announced, “Perrin says the Trollocs will be here soon. You all know your places. Hurry, now. Hurry.”
The crowd stirred and flowed, women herding children back toward the houses, men milling every which way. Confusion seemed to grow more rather than less.
“I'll see to getting the shepherds in,” Abell told Perrin, and dove into the throng.
Cenn Buie pushed past in the moil, using a halberd to herd sourfaced Hari Coplin and Hari's brother Darl and old Bili Congar, who staggered as if already full of ale this morning, which he probably was. Of the three, Bili carried his spear most as if he meant to use it. Cenn touched his forehead to Perrin in a sort of salute. A number of the men did. It made him uncomfortable. Dannil and the other lads were one thing, but these men were half again his age and more.
“You are doing fine,” Faile said.
“I wish I knew what Verin and Alanna were up to,” he muttered. “And I don't mean right now.” Two of the catapults the Warders had had built stood at this end of the village, squarish things taller than a man, all heavy timbers and thick, twisted ropes. From their horses, Ihvon and Tomas were overseeing the stout wooden beams being winched down. The two Aes Sedai were more interested in the big fieldstones, fifteen or twenty pounds each, being loaded in cups on the end of those arms.
“They mean you to be a leader,” Faile replied quietly. “It is what you were born for, I think.”
Perrin snorted. He had been born to be a blacksmith. “I'd be a lot more comfortable if I knew why they wanted it.” The Aes Sedai were looking at him, Verin with head tilted, birdlike, Alanna with a franker stare and a small smile. Did they both want the same thing, and for the same reason? That was one of the troubles with Aes Sedai. There were always more questions than answers.
Order asserted itself with surprising quickness. Along this west end of the village a hundred men knelt on one knee right behind the bristle of stakes, uneasily fingering spears or halberds or some polearm made from a bush hook or scythe. Here and there one wore a helmet or some bit of armor. To their rear, twice as many formed two lines holding good Two Rivers longbows, each with a pair of quivers at his belt. Young boys came running from the houses with bundles of more arrows that the men drove pointdown in the ground in front of their feet. Tam seemed to be in charge, dressing the ranks and speaking a few words to each man, but Bran marched along with him, offering his own encouragement. Perrin could not see that they needed him at all.
To his surprise, Dannil and Ban and all the other lads who had ridden with him came trotting out of the village to surround him and Faile, all with their bows. They looked odd, in a way. The Aes Sedai had apparently Healed the more seriously injured, leaving those less hurt for Daise's poultices and ointments, so fellows who had been barely clinging to a saddle yesterday walked along sprightly now, while Dannil and Tell and others still limped or wore bandages. If he was surprised to see them, he was disgusted by what they brought. Leof Torfinn, the dressing wrapped around his head making a pale cap above his deepset eyes, had his bow slung on his back and carried a tall staff with a smaller version of the redbordered banner with its wolfhead.
“I think one of the Aes Sedai had it made,” Leof said when Perrin asked where it came from. “Milli Ayellin brought it to Will's da, but Wil didn't want to carry it.” Wil al'Seen hunched his shoulders a bit.
“I wouldn't want to carry it, either,” Perrin said dryly. They all laughed as if he had made a joke, even Wil, after a minute.
The hedge of stakes looked fierce enough, but on the other hand, it seemed a pitiful thing to keep Trollocs out. Maybe it would, but he did not want Faile there if they made it through. When he looked at her, though, she had that look in her eyes again as if she knew what he was thinking. And did not like it. If he tried to send her back, she would argue and balk, refusing to see sense. Weak as he felt right then, she probably had a better chance of leading him back to the inn than he her. The way she was sitting her saddle so ferociously, she likely intended to defend him, if the Trollocs broke through. He would just have to keep a close eye on her; that was all there was to it.
Suddenly she smiled, and he scratched his beard. Maybe she could read his mind.
Time passed, the sun inching up, the day's warmth building. Now and then a woman called from the houses to ask what was happening. Here and there men sat down, but Tam or Bran was on them before they had their legs folded, chivying them back into line. No more than a mile or two, Bain had said. She and Chiad were sitting near the stakes, playing some game that apparently involved flipping a knife into the foot of ground between them. Surely if the Trollocs were coming, they would have come by now. He was beginning to find it hard to sit up straight. Conscious of Faile's watchful eyes, he kept his back stiff.
A horn blared, brazen and shrill.
“Trollocs!” half a dozen voices shouted, and bestial, blackmailed shapes flooded out of the Westwood, howling as they ran across the stumpy ground, waving scythecurved swords and spiked axes, spears and tridents. Three Myrddraal rode behind them on black horses, darting back and forth as though driving the Trolloc charge before them. Their dead black cloaks hung motionless no matter how their mounts dashed or whirled. The horn sounded continuously in sharp, urging cries.
Twenty arrows leaped out as soon as the first Trolloc appeared, the strongest shot falling nearly a hundred paces short.
“Hold, you lackwitted sheepbrains!” Tam shouted. Bran jumped and gave him a startled look, no less incredulous than those coming from Tam's friends and neighbors; some muttered about not standing still for that kind of talk, Trollocs or no Trollocs. Tam rode right over their protests, though. “You hold till I give the word, the way I showed you!” Then, as if hundreds of shrieking Trollocs were not galloping toward him, Tam turned calmly to Perrin. “At three hundred paces?”
Perrin nodded quickly. The man was asking him? Three hundred paces. How quickly could a Trolloc cover three hundred paces? He eased his axe in its loop. That horn wailed and wailed. The spearmen crouched behind the stakes as if forcing themselves not to edge back. The Aiel had veiled their faces.
Onward the screaming tide came, all horned heads and faces with snouts or beaks, each half again as tall as a man, each shrieking for blood. Five hundred paces. Four hundred. Some were stretching out in front. They ran as fast as horses. Had the Aiel been right? Could there be only five hundred? It looked like thousands.
“Ready!” Tam called, and two hundred bows were raised. The young men with Perrin hurriedly formed up in front of him in imitation of their elders, ranking themselves with that fool banner.
Three hundred paces. Perrin could see those misshapen faces, contorted with rage and frenzy, as clearly as if they were right on top of him.
“Loose!” Tam shouted. Bowstrings slapped like one huge whipcrack. With twin crashes of beam against leatherpadded beam, the catapults fired.
Broadhead arrows rained down into the Trollocs. Monstrous shapes fell, but some rose and staggered on, harried by the Fades. That horn wove into their guttural bellowing, sounding forward for the kill. The catapults' stones fell among them — and exploded in fire and shards, ripping open holes in the mass. Perrin was not the only one to jump; so that was what the Aes Sedai had been doing with the catapults. He wondered wildly what would happen if they dropped one of those stone
