So he and his men walked, surrounded by those gray trees, sweating in the miserable heat. He longed for a good bath.
Eventually, Trom jogged up the line to him. “All men are across safely.” He checked the sky. “Burn those clouds. I can never tell what time it is.”
“Four hours past midday,” Galad said.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Weren’t we to stop at midday to discuss our next step?” That meeting was to have taken place once they got through the swamp.
“For now, we have few choices,” Galad said. “I will lead the men northward to Andor.”
“The Children have met…hostility there.”
“I have some secluded land up in the northwest. I will not be turned away there, regardless of who controls the throne.”
Light send that Elayne held the Lion Throne. Light send that she had escaped the tangles of the Aes Sedai, though he feared the worst. There were many who would use her as a pawn, al’Thor not the least of them. She was headstrong, and that could make her easy to manipulate.
“We’ll need supplies,” Trom said. “Forage is difficult, and more and more villages are empty.”
Galad nodded. A legitimate concern.
“It’s a good plan, though,” Trom said, then lowered his voice. “I’ll admit, Damodred, I worried that you’d refuse leadership.”
“I could not. To abandon the Children now, after killing their leader, would be wrong.”
Trom smiled. “It’s as simple as that to you, isn’t it?”
“It should be as simple as that to anyone.” Galad had to rise to the station he had been given. He had no other option. “The Last Battle comes and the Children of the Light will fight. Even if we have to make alliances with the Dragon Reborn himself, we will fight.”
For some time, Galad hadn’t been certain about al’Thor. Certainly the Dragon Reborn would have to fight at the Last Battle. But was that man al’Thor, or was he a puppet of the Tower, and not the true Dragon Reborn? That sky was too dark, the land too broken. Al’Thor must be the Dragon Reborn. That didn’t mean, of course, that he wasn’t also a puppet of the Aes Sedai.
Soon they passed beyond the skeletal gray trees, reaching ones that were more ordinary. These still had yellowed leaves, too many dead branches. But that was better than the fuzz.
About an hour later, Galad noted Child Barlett returning. The scout was a lean man, scarred on one cheek. Galad held up a hand as the man approached. “What word?”
Barlett saluted with arm to chest. “The swamp dries out and the trees thin in about one mile, my Lord Captain Commander. The field beyond is open and empty, the way clear to the north.”
Light be thanked! Galad thought. He nodded to Barlett, and the man hurried back through the trees.
Galad glanced back at the line of men. They were muddied, sweaty, and fatigued. But still, they were a grand sight, their armor replaced, their faces determined. They had followed him through this pit of a swamp. They were good men.
“Pass the word to the other Lords Captain, Trom,” Galad said. “Have them send word to their legions. We’ll be out of this in under an hour.”
The older man smiled, looking as relieved as Galad felt. Galad continued onward, jaw set against the pain of his leg. The cut was well bound, and there was little danger of further damage. It was painful, but pain could be dealt with.
Finally free of this bog! He would need to plot their next course carefully, staying away from any towns, major roads, or estates held by influential lords. He ran through the maps in his head—maps memorized before his tenth nameday.
He was thus engaged when the yellow canopy thinned, clouded sunlight peeking between branches. Soon he caught sight of Barlett waiting at the edge of the line of trees. The forest ended abruptly, almost as neat as a line on a map.
Galad sighed in relief, relishing the thought of being out in the open again. He stepped from the trees. Only then did an enormous force of troops begin to appear, climbing over a rise directly to his right.
Armor clanged, horses whinnying, as thousands of soldiers lined up atop the rise. Some were Children in their plate and mail, with conical helms shined to perfection. Their pristine tabards and cloaks shone, sunbursts glittering at the br**sts, lances raised in ranks. The larger number were foot soldiers, not wearing the white of the Children, but instead simple brown leathers. Amadicians, likely provided by the Seanchan. Many had bows.
Galad stumbled back, hand going to his sword. But he knew, immediately, that he had been trapped. Not a few of the Children wore clothing adorned with the crook of the Hand of the Light—the Questioners. If ordinary Children were a flame to burn away evil, the Questioners were a raging bonfire.
Galad did a quick count. Three to four thousand Children and at least another six to eight thousand foot, half of those with bows. Ten thousand fresh troops. His heart sank.
Trom, Bornhald and Byar hastened out of the forest behind Galad along with a group of other Children. Trom cursed softly.
“So,” Galad said, turning to the scout, Barlett, “you are a traitor?”
“You are the traitor, Child Damodred,” the scout replied, face hard.
“Yes,” Galad said, “I suppose it could be perceived that way.” This march through the swamp had been suggested by his scouts. Galad could see now; it had been a delaying tactic, a way for Asunawa to get ahead of Galad. The march had also left Galad’s men tired while Asunawa’s force was fresh and ready for battle.
A sword scraped in its sheath.
Galad immediately raised a hand without turning. “Peace, Child Byar.” Byar would have been the one to reach for his weapon, probably to strike down Barlett.
Perhaps something of this could be salvaged. Galad made his decision swiftly. “Child Byar and Child Bornhald, you are with me. Trom, you and the other Lords Captain bring our men out in ranks onto the field.”
A large cluster of men near the front of Asunawa’s force was riding forward, down the hillside. Many wore the crook of the Questioners. They could have sprung their ambush and killed Galad’s group quickly. Instead, they sent down a group to parley. That was a good sign.
Galad mounted, suppressing a wince for his wounded leg. Byar and Bornhald mounted as well, and they followed him onto the field, hoofbeats muffled by the thick, yellowed grass. Asunawa himself was among the group approaching. He had thick, graying eyebrows and was so thin as to appear a doll made of sticks, with fabric stretched acr