Despite himself, Galad lowered his shield at the sight. Aybara almost seemed aflame from the tongues of fire that surrounded him. Galad could see those wide, golden eyes. Like fires themselves.
The horsemen crashed into the Trollocs that had surrounded Galad’s force. Aybara let out a roar over the din, then began to lay about him with the hammer. The attack forced the Trollocs back.
“Assault!” Galad yelled. “Press the attack! Force them into the cavalry!” He charged northward, toward the face of the heights, Bornhald at his side. Nearby, Trom rallied what was left of his legion and brought it around to attack the Trollocs opposite Aybara.
The fray grew increasingly chaotic. Galad fought furiously. Above, incredibly, Aybara’s entire army poured down the incline, giving up the high ground. They fell upon the Trollocs, tens of thousands of men yelling, “Goldeneyes! Goldeneyes!”
The attack put Galad and Bornhald into the Trollocs’ ranks. The creatures tried to pull back from Aybara, surging in all directions. The men near Galad and Bornhald were soon fighting desperately to stay alive. Galad finished off a Trolloc with Ribbon in the Air, but spun and immediately found himself facing a ram-faced behemoth ten feet tall. Horns curled around the sides of its enormous square face, but the eyes were human, and the lower jaw as well.
Galad ducked when it swung its catchpole, then rammed his sword up into its gut. The creature screamed, and Bornhald hamstrung it from the side.
Galad yelled and leaped backward, but his twisted ankle finally failed him. It got caught in a cleft in the ground, and Galad heard a terrible snap as he fell.
The dying monster crashed down on him, pinning him to the ground. Pain shot up his leg, but he ignored it. He dropped his sword, trying to shove the carcass free. Bornhald, swearing, fended off a Trolloc that had the snout of a boar. It made a horrid grunting sound.
Galad heaved off the stinking carcass. To the side, he could see men in white—Trom, with Byar at his side, fighting desperately to reach Galad. There were so many Trollocs, and those Children immediately nearby had mostly fallen.
Galad reached for his sword just as a mounted figure burst through the shadows and Trollocs just to the north. Aybara. He rode up and pounded that massive hammer of his into a boar Trolloc, sending it crashing to the ground. Aybara leaped off his horse as Bornhald scrambled over to help Galad to his feet.
“You are wounded?” Aybara asked.
“My ankle,” Galad said.
“On my horse,” Aybara said.
Galad didn’t protest; it made sense. He did, however, feel embarrassed as Bornhald helped him up. Aybara’s men filled in around them, pushing the Trollocs back. Now that Aybara’s army had joined the fray, Galad’s men were rallying.
Rushing down the slope had been a dangerous gamble, but as soon as Galad was astride Aybara’s horse, he could see that the gamble had worked. The massive charge had broken the Trollocs apart, and some groups started fleeing. Tongues of flame fell from above, burning Myrddraal and dropping entire fists of Trollocs linked to them.
There was still a great deal of fighting to do, but the tide was turning. Aybara’s forces carved out a section around their leader, giving him—and by extension Galad—some breathing room to consider the next stage of the attack.
Galad turned to Aybara, who was studying the Trollocs with keen eyes. “I assume you think that saving me will influence my decision about your judgment,” Galad said.
“It had better,” Aybara muttered.
Galad raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t the response he’d been expecting. “My men find it suspicious that you appeared so soon before the Trollocs.”
“Well, they can think that if they want,” Aybara said. “I doubt anything I say will change their minds. In a way, this is my fault. The Trollocs were here to kill me; I just got away before they could spring their trap. Be glad I didn’t leave you to them. You Whitecloaks have caused me nearly as much grief as they have.”
Oddly, Galad found himself smiling. There was a straightforward air about this Perrin Aybara. A man could ask for little more in an ally.
Are we allies, then? Galad thought, nodding to Trom and Byar as they approached. Perhaps for now. He did trust Aybara. Yes, perhaps there were men in the world who would put together an intricate plot like this one, all to trick his way into Galad’s favor. Valda had been like that.
Aybara wasn’t. He really was straightforward. If he’d wanted the Children out of his way, he’d have killed them and moved on.
“Then so be it, Perrin Aybara,” Galad said. “I name your punishment here, this night, at this moment.”
Perrin frowned, turning away from his contemplation of the battle lines. “What? Now?”
“I deem, as punishment, that you pay blood price to the families of the dead Children in the amount of five hundred crowns. I also order you to fight in the Last Battle with all the strength you can muster. Do these things, and I pronounce you cleansed of guilt.”
It was an odd time for him to give this proclamation, but he had made his decision. They would still fight, and perhaps one would fall. Galad wanted Aybara to know the judgment, in case.
Aybara studied him, then nodded. “I name that fair, Galad Damodred.” He held up his hand.
“Creature of darkness!” Someone moved behind Aybara. A figure, pulling free his sword. A hiss, a flash of metal. Byar’s eyes, alight with anger. He’d positioned himself right where he could strike Aybara in the back.
Aybara spun; Galad raised his sword. Both were too slow.
But Jaret Byar’s blow did not fall. He stood with his weapon upraised, frozen, blood dribbling from his lips. He fell to his knees, then flopped onto the ground right at Aybara’s feet.
Bornhald stood behind him, eyes wide with horror. He looked down at his sword. “I…It wasn’t right, to strike a man in the back after he saved us. It…” He dropped his sword, stumbling back from Byar’s corpse.
“You did the right thing, Child Bornhald,” Galad said with regret. He shook his head. “He was a fine officer. Unpleasant at times, perhaps, but also brave. I am sorry to lose him.”
Aybara glanced to the sides, as if looking for other Children who might strike him. “From the beginning, that one was looking for an excuse to see me dead.”
Bornhald looked at Aybara, eyes still hateful, then cleaned his sword and rammed it into its sheath. He walked away, toward the area where the wounded had been taken. The area around Galad and Aybara was increasingly safe, the Trollocs pushed back, more solid battle lines forming, made of Aybara’s men an
