Towers of Midnight (The Wheel of Time #13)

“Ah, but you do not see, my Lord,” Balwer said. “Money means nothing to me. The information—that is what is important. Facts and discoveries…they are like nuggets of gold. I could give that gold to a common banker to make coins, but I prefer to give it to the master craftsman to make something of beauty.

“Please, my Lord, let me remain a simple secretary. You see, one of the easiest ways to tell if someone is not what he seems is to check his wages.” He chuckled. “I’ve uncovered more than one assassin or spy that way, yes I have. No pay is needed. The opportunity to work with you is its own payment.”

Perrin shrugged, but nodded, and Balwer withdrew. Perrin stepped out of the pavilion, stowing the pictures in his pocket. They disturbed him. He’d bet these pictures were in Andor, too, placed by the Forsaken.

For the first time, he found himself wondering if he was going to need an army to keep himself safe. It was a disturbing thought.

The wave of bestial Trollocs surged over the top of the hill, overrunning the last of the fortifications. They grunted and howled, thick-fingered hands tearing at the dark Saldaean soil and clutching swords, hooked spears, hammers, clubs and other wicked weapons. Spittle dripped from tusked lips on some, while on others wide, too-human eyes stared out from behind wicked beaks. Their black armor was decorated with spikes.

Ituralde’s men stood strong with him at the bottom of the back slope of the hillside. He had ordered the lower camp to disband and retreat as far as they could to the south along the riverbank. Meanwhile, the army had retreated from the fortifications. He hated to surrender the high ground, but getting pushed down that steep hill during an assault would have been deadly. He had room to fall back, so he’d use it, now that the fortifications were lost.

He positioned his forces just at the base of the hill, near where the lower camp had once been. The Domani soldiers wore steel caps and had set their fourteen-foot pikes with butts in the dirt, holding them for more stability, steel points toward the towering wave of Trollocs. A classic defensive position: three ranks of pikemen and shieldmen, pikes slanted toward the top of the slope. When the first rank of pikes killed a Trolloc, they’d fall back and pull their weapons free, letting the second rank step forward to kill. A slow, careful retreat, rank by rank.

A double row of archers behind began loosing arrows, slamming wave after wave up into the Shadowspawn, dropping bodies down the slope. Those rolled, some still screaming, spraying dark blood. A larger number continued down, over their brothers, trying to get at the pikemen.

An eagle-headed Trolloc died on a pike in front of Ituralde. There were chips along the edges of the thing’s beak, and its head—set with predatory eyes—sat atop a bull-like neck, the edge of the feathers coated with some kind of dark, oily substance. The monster screeched as it died, voice low and only faintly avian, somehow forming guttural sounds in the Trolloc language.

“Hold!” Ituralde called, turning and trotting his horse down the line of pikemen. “Keep the formation, burn you!”

The Trollocs surged down the hillside, dying on those pikes. It would be a temporary reprieve. There were too many Trollocs, and even a rotating triple pike line would be overwhelmed. This was a delaying tactic. Behind them, the rest of his troops began their retreat. Once the lines had weakened, the Asha’man would assume the burden of defense, buying time for the pikemen to retreat.

If the Asha’man could manage the strength. He’d pushed them hard. Maybe too hard. He didn’t know their limits the way he did for ordinary troops. If they were able to break the Trolloc advance, his army would fall back southward. That retreat would take them past the safety of Maradon, but they would not be allowed in. Those inside had rebuffed all Ituralde’s attempts at communication. “We do not abet invaders” had been the reply each time. Bloody fools.

Well, the Trollocs would likely form up around Maradon for a sustained siege, giving Ituralde and his men time to fall back to a more defensible position.

“Hold!” Ituralde called again, riding past an area where the Trolloc press was beginning to show results. Atop one of the hilltop fortifications, a pack of wolf-headed Trollocs lurked, wary, while their companions charged down before them. “Archers!” Ituralde said, pointing.

A volley of arrows followed, spraying the wolf-headed Trollocs, or “Minds” as the Dragonsworn in Ituralde’s army had started calling them. Trollocs had their own bands and organization, but his men often referred to individuals by the features they displayed. “Horns” for goats, “Beaks” for hawks, “Arms” for bears. Those with the heads of wolves were often among the more intelligent; some Saldaeans claimed to have heard them speaking the human language to bargain with or trick their opponents.

Ituralde knew much about Trollocs now. You needed to know your enemy. Unfortunately, there was huge variety in Trolloc intelligence and personality. And there were many Trollocs who shared physical attributes from various groups. Ituralde swore he’d seen one twisted abomination with the feathers of a hawk but the horns of a goat.

The Trollocs atop the fortification tried to get out of the way of the arrows. A large pack of hulking beasts behind shoved them down the hill with a roar. Trollocs were cowardly things, normally, unless hungry, but if they were whipped into a frenzy, they fought well.

The Fades would follow this initial wave. Once the archers were out of arrows, and Trollocs had softened the men below. Ituralde didn’t look forward to that.

Light, Ituralde thought. I hope we can outrun them. The Asha’man waited in the distance for his order. He wished he had them closer. But he couldn’t risk it. They were too important an asset to lose to a stray arrow.

Hopefully, the front ranks of Trollocs would be severely battered by the pikemen, their carcasses twisted and banked against the pikes—and the Trollocs behind stumbling and falling against their own bloody remnants. Ituralde’s remaining Saldaeans would ride as a harrying force at any who got through the Asha’man blasts. Then the pikemen should be able to draw back and follow the rest of the army in retreat. Once past Maradon, they could use gateways to fall back to his next chosen position, a forested pass some ten leagues south.

His men should be able to escape. Should. Light, but he hated being forced to command a too-fast retreat like this.

Stay firm, he told himself, continuing to ride and call out the order to hold. It was important that they hear his voice. That boy is the Dragon Reborn. He&rs