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 liegewoman, 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.
Chapter 41
An Unexpected Ally
Galad ran with his shield raised high. Bornhald joined him, also holding a shield and tossing aside his lantern as those unnatural lights flared in the air. Neither spoke. The hail of arrows would begin momentarily.
They reached the horse pickets, where a pair of nervous grooms handed over their horses. Galad lowered his shield, feeling terribly exposed as he swung onto Stout’s back. He turned the horse and got the shield back up. He could hear the familiar twang of bows, distant, arrows snapping as they rained down.
None fell near him.
He hesitated. The lights hanging in the air made it bright as a night with a full moon, maybe brighter.
“What’s going on?” Bornhald said, horse dancing nervously beneath him. “They missed? Those arrows are falling wel