“Yes.”
“In the hands of Matrim Cauthon.”
“Um… yes. I should mention, the Empress has given him command of all the Seanchan forces. He’s now Marshal-General Cauthon.”
Ta’veren. Egwene shook her head. “Mat is a good tactician, but handing him the White Tower’s armies… No, that is beyond possibility. Besides, the armies are not mine to give him—the Hall of the Tower has authority for them. Now, how can we persuade these gentlemen surrounding you that you’ll be safe accompanying me?”
As little as Egwene wanted to admit it, she needed the Seanchan. She wouldn’t risk their alliance to save Min, particularly since it didn’t seem that she was in immediate danger. Of course, if the Seanchan realized that Min had sworn their oaths back in Falme, then fled…
“Don’t worry about me,” Min said with a grimace. “I suppose I’m better off with Fortuona. She… knows about a certain talent of mine, thanks to Mat, and it might let me help her. And you.”
The statement was laden with meaning. The Deathwatch Guards were too stoic to respond overtly to Min’s use of the Empress’s name, but they did seem to stiffen, their faces hardening. Take care, Min, Egwene thought. You’re surrounded by autumn thornweeds.
Min didn’t seem to care. “Will you at least consider what Mat is saying?”
“That Gareth Bryne is a Darkfriend?” Egwene said. It really was laughable. “Go back and tell Mat to submit his battle suggestions to us, if he must. For now, I need to find my commanders to plan our next steps.”
Gareth Bryne, where are you?
A flight of black arrows rose almost invisibly into the air, then fell like a breaking wave. They hit Ituralde’s army at the mouth of the pass to the valley of Thakan’dar, some bouncing off shields, others finding flesh. One fell inches from where Ituralde stood atop a rocky outcropping.
Ituralde didn’t flinch. He stood, straight-backed, hands clasped behind him. He did, however, mutter, “Letting things draw a little close, aren’t we?”
Binde, the Asha’man who stood beside him in the night, grimaced. “Sorry, Lord Ituralde.” He was supposed to keep the arrows away. He’d done well, so far. Sometimes, however, he got a distant look in his face and started muttering about “them” trying to “take his hands.”
“Stay sharp,” Ituralde said.
His head throbbed. More dreams earlier tonight, so real. He had seen Trollocs eating members of his family alive, and had been too weak to save them. He had struggled and wept as they ate Tamsin and his children, but at the same time had been lured by the scents of the boiling and burning flesh.
At the end of the dream, he had joined the monsters in their feast.
Put that from your mind, he thought. It was not easy to do so. The dreams had been so vivid. He had been glad to be awakened by a Trolloc attack.
He’d been ready for this. His men lit bonfires at the barricades. The Trollocs had finally pushed through his thorn fortifications, but their butcher’s bill had been high. Now, Ituralde’s men fought at the mouth of the pass, holding the tides back from entering the valley.
They had applied their time well during the days the Trollocs had pushed their way through arduous barriers to the mouth of the pass. The entrance to the valley was now fortified with a series of chest-high earthen bulwarks. Those would be excellent for crossbowmen to use as cover, if Ituralde’s pike formations were ever pushed back too far.
For now, Ituralde had split his army into groups of around three thousand men each, then organized them into square formations of pikes, billhooks and crossbows. He used mounted crossbowmen as skirmishers in the front and on the flanks, and had formed up a vanguard—about six ranks deep— of pikemen. Big pikes, twenty feet long. He’d learned from Maradon that you wanted to keep your distance from the Trollocs.
Pikes worked wonderfully. Ituralde’s pike squares could pivot and fight in all directions in case they were surrounded. Trollocs could be forced to fight in ranks, but these squares—properly applied—could break up their lines. Once the Trolloc ranks were shattered, the Aiel could kill with abandon.
Behind ranks of pikemen he positioned foot soldiers carrying billhooks and halberds. Sometimes Trollocs fought their way through the pikes, pushing the weapons aside or pulling them down with the weight of corpses. The billhookmen then moved up—slipping between the pikemen—and hamstrung the leading Trollocs. This gave the leading foot soldiers time to pull back and regroup while the next wave of soldiers—more foot, with pikes—moved up to engage the Trollocs.
It was working, so far. He had a dozen such squares of troops facing the Trollocs in the night. They fought defensively, doing whatever they could to break the surging tide. The Trollocs threw themselves at
the pikemen, trying to crack them, but each square operated independently. Ituralde didn’t worry about the Trollocs that made it through the gauntlet, because they would be handled by the Aiel.
Ituralde had to keep his hands clasped behind his back to conceal their shaking. Nothing had been the same after Maradon. He’d learned, but he’d paid dearly for that education.
Burn these headaches, he thought. And burn those Trollocs.
Three times, he had nearly given the order to send his armies in with a direct assault, abandoning the square formations. He could imagine them slaughtering, killing. No more delaying. He wanted blood.
Each time, he’d stopped himself. They weren’t here for blood, they were here to hold. To give that man the time he needed in the cavern. That was what it was all about… wasn’t it? Why did he have so much trouble remembering that lately?
Another wave of Trolloc arrows dropped onto Ituralde’s men. The Fades had some of them stationed on the tops of the slopes above the pass, in places that Ituralde’s own archers had once held. Getting them up there must have been quite an undertaking; the walls of the pass were very steep. How many would have dropped to their deaths making the attempt? Regardless, Trollocs weren’t good shots with bows, but they didn’t need to be, when firing at armies.
The halberdiers raised shields. They couldn’t fight while holding those, but they kept them strapped to their backs for need. The falling arrows increased, plummeting through the lightly foggy night air. The storm rumbled overhead, but the Windfinders were at their task again, keeping it away. They claimed that at several moments, the army had been mere breaths away from an all-out storm of destruction. At one point, hail the size of a man’s fist had fallen for about a minute before they’d wrested control of the weather again.