Towers of Midnight (90 page)

Gallenne's charge punched through the Trolloc ranks, separating them into two cohorts, but there were so many carcasses it was getting difficult for his lancers to charge. Gallenne withdrew and a contingent of Two Rivers men moved in and shot arrows at the Trollocs, cutting them down in a wave of screaming, howling, reeking death.

Perrin pulled Stepper back, foot soldiers forming around him. Very few of his men had fallen among the Trollocs. Of course, even one was too many.

Arganda trotted up on his horse. He'd lost his helmet's plumes somewhere, but was smiling broadly. "I've rarely had such a pleasing battle, Aybara," he said. "Enemies to fell that you need not feel a sting of pity for, a perfect staging area and defensible position. Archers to dream of and Asha'man to stop the gaps! I've laid down over two dozen of the beasts myself. For this day alone, I'm glad we followed you!"

Perrin nodded. He didn't point out that one of the reasons they were having an easy time of it was that most of the Trollocs were focused on the Whitecloaks. Trollocs were nasty, monstrous things, and they had a fiercely selfish streak. Charge up the hillside at balls of fire and longbowmen, only to try and seize ground from two full contingents of cavalry? Better to seek the easier foe, and it made tactical sense, too. Focus on the easier battle first, when you had two fronts to fight on.

They were trying to crush the Whitecloaks back against the hillside as quickly as possible, and had swarmed them, not leaving them room to ride their cavalry in charges, separating groups of them. The person leading this understood tactics; this wasn't the work of Trolloc minds.

"Lord Perrin!" Jori Congar's voice rose above the din of howling Trollocs. He scrambled up to Stepper's side. "You asked me to watch and tell you how they were doing. Well, you'll want to look, maybe."

Perrin nodded, raising his fist, then making a chopping motion. Grady and Neald stood behind him, on a rock formation that could look down toward the roadway. Their main orders were to take down any Myrddraal they spotted. Perrin wanted to keep as many of those things as possible off the heights; it could cost dozens of lives to kill a single Myrddraal with the sword or axe. Best to kill with Fire, from a distance. Besides, sometimes killing one of the Fades would mean killing a complement of Trollocs linked to it.

The Asha'man, Aes Sedai and Wise Ones saw Perrin's signal. They began a full assault on the Trollocs, fire flying from hands, lightning blasting

from the sky, pushing the Trollocs back down the incline. Perrin's foot soldiers pulled back for a few moments' rest.

Perrin nudged Stepper to the edge, looking down the slope to the south, holding Mah'alleinir down by his leg. Below, Damodred's force was doing even worse than Perrin had worried. The Trollocs had drilled forward, nearly dividing the Whitecloaks into two sections. The monsters were surging around the sides, entrapping Galad, making the Whitecloaks fight on three fronts. Their backs were to the hillside, and many groups of cavalry had been cut off from the main body of fighting.

Gallenne trotted up beside Perrin. "The Trollocs are still appearing. I'd guess fifty thousand of the beasts so far. The Asha'man say they've only sensed the one channeler, and he isn't engaging."

"The one leading the Shadowspawn won't want to commit their channelers," Perrin guessed. "Not with us having the high ground. They'll leave the Trollocs to do what damage they can, and see if they gain the upper hand. If they do, we will see channelers come out."

Gallenne nodded.

"Damodred's force is in trouble."

"Yes," Gallenne said. "You positioned us well to help them, but it appears we weren't enough."

"I'm going down for them," Perrin decided. He pointed. "The Trollocs are surrounding him, boxing him in against the hillside. We could sweep down and surprise the beasts with a broadside, breaking through and freeing Damodred's men to get themselves up on the plateau here."

Gallenne frowned. "Pardon, Lord Perrin, but I must ask. What is it that you feel you owe them? I would have sorrowed if, indeed, we'd come here to attack them
 
though I would have seen its logic. But I see no reason to help them."

Perrin grunted. "It's just the right thing to do."

"That is a subject of debate," Gallenne said, shaking his helmeted head. "Fighting the Trollocs and Fades is excellent, for every one that falls is one fewer to face at the Last Battle. Our men get practice fighting them, and can learn to control their fears. But that slope is steep and treacherous; if you try to ride down to Damodred, you could destroy our advantage."

"I'm going anyway," Perrin said. "Jori, go get the Two Rivers men and the Asha'man. I'll need them to soften the Trollocs for my charge." He looked down again. Memories of the Two Rivers flooded his mind. Blood. Death. Mah'alleinir grew warmer in his fist. "I won't leave them to it, Gallenne. Not even them. Will you join me?"

"You are a strange man, Aybara." Gallenne hesitated. "And one of true honor. Yes, I will."

"Good. Jori, get moving. We must reach Damodred before his lines break."

A shock rippled through the mass of Trollocs. Galad hesitated, sword gripped in sweaty fingets. His entire body ached. Moans came from all around him, some guttural and snatling
 
Trollocs dying
 
some piteous from fallen men. The Children near him were holding. Barely.

The night was dim, even with those lights. It felt like fighting nightmares. But if the Children of the Light could not stand against darkness, who could?

The Trollocs began howling more loudly. Those in front of him turned, speaking to one another in a crude, snarling tongue that caused him to pull back in revulsion. Trollocs could speak? He hadn't known that. What had drawn their attention?

And then he saw it. A hail of arrows, falling from above, ripped into ranks of the nearby Trollocs. The Two Rivers bowmen lived up to theit reputation. Galad wouldn't have trusted most archers to shoot like that, not without stray arrows falling on the Whitecloaks. These archers were precise, however.

The Trollocs screamed and howled. Then, from the top of the rise, a thousand horsemen charged. Lights flashed around them; fires fell from above, arcing down like red-golden lances. They illuminated the horsemen in silver.

It was an incredible maneuver. The incline was steep enough that horses could have tripped, fallen, tumbled the entire force into a useless mass of bodies. But they didn't fall. They galloped sure-footed, lances gleaming. And at theit front rode a bearded monster of a man with a large hammer held high. Perrin Aybara himself, above his head a banner flapping, carried by a man riding just behind. The crimson wolfhead.

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 boat. 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 ctashing 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 and the remaining Children.