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 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
