Текст книги "Towers of midnight"

Автор книги: Robert Jordan

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CHAPTER 28

Oddities

"What are you planning, husband?" Faile asked. They were back in their tent, following the parley with the Whitecloaks. Perrin's actions had surprised her—which was invigorating, yet also disturbing. He took off his coat. "I smell a strangeness on the wind, Faile. Something I've never smelled before." He hesitated, glancing at her. "There are no wolves."

"No wolves?"

"I can't sense any nearby," Perrin said, eyes distant. "There were some before. Now they're gone."

"You said that they don't like being close to people."

He pulled off his shirt, exposing a muscled chest covered in curling brown hair. "There were too few birds today, too few creatures in the underbrush. Light burn that sky. Is that causing this, or is it something else?" He sighed, sitting down on their sleeping pallet.

"You're going to go… there?" Faile asked.

"Something's wrong," he repeated. "I need to learn what I can before the trial. There might be answers in the wolf dream."

The trial. "Perrin, I don't like this idea."

"You're angry about Maighdin."

"Of course I'm angry about Maighdin," she said. They'd been through Malden together, and she hadn't told Faile that she was the Queen of bloody Andor? It made Faile look like a fool—like a small-town braggart, extolling her skill with the sword in front of a passing blademaster.

"She didn't know if she could trust us," Perrin said. "She was fleeing one of the Forsaken, it seems. I'd have hidden myself, too."

Faile glared at him.

"Don't look at me like that," he said. "She didn't do it to make you look bad, Faile. She had her reasons. Let it go."

That made her feel a little better; it was so nice that he would stand up for himself now. "Well, it makes me wonder who Lini will turn out to be. Some Seanchan queen? Master Gill, the King of Arad Doman in hiding?"

Perrin smiled. "I suspect they're her attendants. Gill is who he says he is, at least. Balwer is probably having a fit for not having figured this out."

"I bet he did figure it out," Faile said, kneeling beside him. "Perrin, I meant what I said about this trial. I'm worried."

"I won't let myself be taken," he said. "I only said I'd sit through a trial and give them a chance to present evidence."

"Then what's the point?" Faile said.

"It gives me more time to think," he said, "and it might stop me from having to kill them. Their captain, Damodred—something about him smells better than many of the rest. Not rabid with anger or hate. This will get our people back and let me plead my side. It feels good for a man to be able to have his say. Maybe that's what I've needed, all this time."

"Well, all right," Faile said. "But in the future, please consider warning me of your plans."

"I will," he said, yawning and lying back. "In truth, it didn't occur to me until the last moment."

Faile kept her tongue with some difficulty. At least something good had come from that parley. She'd watched Berelain when she'd met Damodred, and she'd rarely seen a woman's eyes light up so brightly. Faile might be able to make use of that.

She looked down. Perrin was already snoring softly.

Perrin found himself sitting with his back against something hard and smooth. The too-dark, almost evil sky of the wolf dream boiled above the forest, which was a mixture of fir, oak and leatherleaf.

He stood up, then turned and looked at what he had been leaning against. A massive steel tower stretched toward the turbulent sky. Too straight, with walls that looked like a single piece of seamless metal, the tower exuded a completely unnatural feel.

I told you this place was evil, Hopper sent, suddenly sitting next to Perrin. Foolish cub.

"I didn't come here by choice," Perrin protested. "I woke here."

Your mind is focused on it, Hopper said. Or the mind of one to whom you are connected.

"Mat," Perrin said, without understanding how he knew. The colors didn't appear. They never did in the wolf dream.

As foolish a cub as yourself?

"Maybe more foolish."

Hopper smelled incredulous, as if unwilling to believe that was possible. Come, the wolf sent. It has returned.

"What has—"

Hopper vanished. Perrin followed with a frown. He now could easily catch the scent of where Hopper had gone. They appeared on the Jehannah Road, and that strange violet glass wall was there again, slicing the roadway in half, extending high in the air and into the distance in either direction. Perrin walked up to a tree. Its bare branches seemed trapped in the glass, immobile.

Hopper paced nearby. We have seen this thing before, he sent. Long, long ago. So many lives ago.

"What is it?"

A thing of men.

Hopper's sending included confused images. Flying, glowing discs. Impossibly tall structures of steel. Things from the Age of Legends? Hopper didn't understand their use any more than he understood the use of a horse cart or a candle.

Perrin looked down the roadway. He didn't recognize this section of Ghealdan; it must be farther toward Lugard. The wall had appeared in a different place than it had last time.

A thought occurring to him, Perrin moved down the roadway in a few jumping bursts. A hundred of paces away, he looked back and confirmed his suspicions. That glass didn't make a wall, but an enormous dome. Translucent, with a violet tint, it seemed to extend for leagues.

Hopper moved at a blur, coming to stand beside him. We must go.

"He's in there, isn't he?" Perrin asked. He reached out. Oak Dancer, Sparks and Boundless were near. Ahead, inside the dome. They responded with quick, frantic sendings, at hunt and being hunted.

"Why don't they flee?" Perrin asked.

Hopper sent confusion.

"I'm going to them," Perrin said, willing himself forward.

Nothing happened.

Perrin felt a stab of panic in his gut. What was wrong? He tried again, this time trying to send himself to the base of the dome.

It worked. He arrived in an eyeblink, that glasslike surface rising in a cliff face before him. It's this dome, he thought. It's blocking me. Suddenly, he understood the trapped feeling the wolves had sent. They couldn't get away.

Was that the purpose of this dome, then? To trap wolves so that Slayer could kill them? Perrin growled, stepping up to the surface of the dome. He couldn't pass in by imagining himself there, but perhaps he could he get through by more mundane means. He raised a hand, then hesitated. He didn't know what touching the surface would do.

The wolves sent images of a man in black and leather, with a harsh lined face and a smile curling on his lips as he launched arrows. He smelled wrong, so wrong. He also smelled of dead wolves.

Perrin couldn't leave them in there. No more than he could leave Master Gill and the others to the Whitecloaks. Furious at Slayer, he touched the surface of the dome.

His muscles suddenly lost strength. They felt like water, his legs unable to hold him up. He fell to the ground, hard. His foot was still touching the dome—passing through it. The dome appeared to have no substance.

His lungs no longer worked; inflating his chest was too difficult. Panicked, he imagined himself elsewhere, but it didn't work. He was trapped, as surely as the wolves!

A gray-silver blur appeared next to him. Jaws grabbed his shoulder. As Hopper pulled him free of the violet dome, Perrin immediately felt his strength return. He gasped for breath.

Foolish cub, Hopper sent.

"You'd leave them?" Perrin said, voice ragged.

Not foolish to dig in the hole. Foolish for not waiting for me in case hornets came out. Hopper turned toward the dome. Help me if I fall. He padded forward, then touched his nose to the dome. Hopper stumbled, but righted himself and continued on slowly. On the other side, he collapsed, but his chest continued to move.

"How did you do it?" Perrin asked, rising.

I am me. Hopper as he saw himself—which was identical to who he was. Also scents of strength and stability.

The trick, it seemed, was to be in complete control of who you were. Like many things in the wolf dream, the strength of one's mental image was more powerful than the substance of the world itself.

Come, Hopper sent. Be strong, pass through.

"I have a better idea," Perrin said, standing up. He charged forward at full speed. He hit the violet dome and immediately went limp, but his momentum carried him to the other side, where he rolled to a stop. He groaned, shoulder hurt, arm scraped. Foolish cub, Hopper sent. You must learn. "Now isn't the time," Perrin said, climbing to his feet. "We have to help the others."

Arrows in the wind, thick, black, deadly. The hunter's laughter. The scent of a man who was stale. The killer was here. Hopper and Perrin ran down the road, and Perrin found that he could increase his speed within the dome. Tentatively, he tried jumping forward with a thought, and it worked. But when he tried to send himself outside, nothing happened.

So the dome was a barrier. Within it, he could move freely, but he could not move to a place outside it by imagining himself elsewhere. He had to pass the dome's wall physically if he wanted out.

Oak Dancer, Boundless and Sparks were ahead. And Slayer, too. Perrin growled—frantic sendings flooded him. Dark woods. Slayer. He seemed so tall to the wolves, a dark monster with a face chiseled as if from rock.

Blood on the grass. Pain, anger, terror, confusion. Sparks was wounded. The other two jumped back and forth, taunting and distracting Slayer while Sparks crawled toward the border of the dome.

Care, Young Bull, Hopper sent. This man hunts well. He moves almost like a wolf, though he is something wrong.

"I'll distract him. You get Sparks."

You have arms. You carry. There was more to the sending than that, of course: Hopper's age and experience, Perrin still a pup.

Perrin gritted his teeth, but didn't argue. Hopper was more experienced than he was. They parted, Perrin reaching out for Sparks, finding where he was—hidden within a patch of trees—and taking himself directly there.

The dark brown wolf had an arrow in his thigh, and he was whimpering softly, trailing blood as he crawled. Perrin knelt quickly and pulled the arrow out. The wolf continued to whimper, smelling frightened. Perrin held the arrow up. It smelled evil. Disgusted, he tossed it aside and picked up the wolf.

Something crackled nearby, and Perrin spun. Boundless leaped between two trees, smelling anxious. The other two wolves were leading Slayer away.

Perrin turned and ran toward the dome's nearest edge, carrying Sparks. He couldn't leap directly to the edge of the dome because he didn't know where it was.

He burst from the trees, heart thumping. The wolf in his arms seemed to grow stronger as they left the arrow behind. Perrin ran more quickly, using a speed that felt reckless, moving hundreds of paces with blurring speed. The dome wall approached, and he pulled to a stop.

Slayer was suddenly there, standing before him, bow drawn. He wore a black cloak that billowed around him; he was no longer smiling, and his eyes were thunderous.

He released. Perrin shifted and never saw where the arrow landed. He appeared in the place where he'd first entered the dome; he should have gone there first. He hurled himself through the violet dome, collapsing on the other side, sending Sparks tumbling.

The wolf yelped. Perrin hit hard.

Young Bull! Sparks sent an image of Slayer, dark like a thunderhead, standing right inside the barrier with bow drawn.

Perrin didn't look. He shifted, sending himself to the slopes of Dragonmount. Once there, he leaped to his feet, anxious, hammer appearing in his hand. Groups of nearby wolves sent greeting. Perrin ignored them for the moment.

Slayer did not follow. After a few tense moments, Hopper appeared. "Did the others get away?" Perrin asked.

They are free, he sent. Whisperer is dead. The sending showed the wolf—from the viewpoint of the others in the pack—being killed moments after the dome appeared. Sparks had taken an arrow as he nuzzled at her side in panic.

Perrin growled. He nearly jumped away to confront Slayer again, but a caution from Hopper stopped him. Too soon! You must learn!

"It's not only him," Perrin said. "I need to look at the area around my camp and that of the Whitecloaks. Something smells wrong there in the waking world. I need to see if something is odd there."

Odd? Hopper sent the image of the dome.

"It is probably related." The two oddities seemed likely to be more than mere coincidence.

Search another time. Slayer is too strong for you.

Perrin took a deep breath. "I have to face him eventually, Hopper."

Not now.

"No," Perrin agreed. "Not now. Now we practice." He turned to the wolf. "As we will do every night until I am ready."

Rodel Ituralde rolled over in his cot, neck slick with sweat. Had Saldaea always been this hot and muggy? He wished for home, the cool ocean breezes of Bandar Eban.

Things felt wrong. Why hadn't the Shadowspawn attacked? A hundred possibilities rattled in his mind. Were they waiting for new siege engines?

Were they scouting out forests in order to build them? Or were their commanders content with a siege? The entire city was surrounded, but there had to be enough Trollocs out there to overwhelm it now.

They had taken to beating drums. All hours. Thump, thump, thump. Steady, like the heartbeat of an enormous animal, the Great Serpent itself, coiling around the city.

Dawn was beginning to shine outside. He hadn't turned in until well after midnight. Durhem—who commanded the morning watch—had ordered that Ituralde not be disturbed until noon. His tent was in a shadowed alcove of the courtyard. He had wanted to be close to the wall, and had refused a bed. That had been foolish. Though a cot had been fine for him in previous years, he wasn't as young as he'd once been. Tomorrow, he'd move.

Now, he told himself, sleep.

It wasn't that easy. The accusation that he was Dragonsworn left him unsettled. In Arad Doman, he'd been fighting for his king, someone he'd believed in. Now he was fighting in a foreign land for a man he'd met only once. All because of a gut feeling.

Light, but it was hot. Sweat ran down his cheeks, making his neck itch. It shouldn't be this hot so early in the morning. It wasn't natural. Those burning drums, still pounding.

He sighed, climbing off his sweat-dampened cot. His leg ached. It had for days now.

You're an old man, Rodel, he thought, stripping off his sweaty smallclothes and getting out some freshly washed ones. He stuffed his trousers into knee-high riding boots. A simple white shirt with black buttons went on next, and then his gray coat, buttoning straight up to the collar.

He was strapping on his sword when he heard hurried footsteps outside, followed by whispers. That conversation grew heated, and he stepped outside just as someone said, "Lord Ituralde will wish to know!"

"Know what?" Ituralde asked. A messenger boy was arguing with his guards. All three turned toward him sheepishly.

"I'm sorry, my Lord," Connel said. "We were instructed to let you sleep."

"A man who can sleep in this heat must be half-lizard, Connel," Ituralde said. "Lad, what's the word?"

"Captain Yoeli is on the wall, sir," the youth said. Ituralde recognized the young man—he'd been with him from near the beginning of this campaign. "He said you should come."

Ituralde nodded. He laid a hand on Connel's arm. "Thank you for watching me, old friend, but these bones aren't so frail as you think."

Connel nodded, blushing. The guard fell into place behind as Ituralde crossed the courtyard. The sun had risen. Many of his troops were up. Too many. He wasn't the only one having difficulty sleeping.

Atop the wall, he was greeted by a disheartening sight. On the dying land, thousand upon thousands of Trollocs camped, burning fires. Ituralde didn't like to think about where the wood for those fires came from. Hopefully all of the nearby homesteaders and villagers had heeded the call to evacuate.

Yoeli stood gripping the crenelated stone of the wall, next to a man in a black coat. Deepe Bhadar was senior among the Asha'man whom al'Thor had given him, one of only three who wore both the Dragon and the sword pins on his collar. The Andoran man had a flat face and black hair that he wore long. Ituralde had sometimes heard some of the black-coated men mumbling to themselves, but not Deepe. He seemed fully in control.

Yoeli kept glancing at the Asha'man; Ituralde didn't feel comfortable with men who could channel either. But they were an excellent tool, and they hadn't failed him. He preferred to let experience, instead of rumor, rule him.

"Lord Ituralde," Deepe said. The Asha'man never saluted Ituralde, just al'Thor.

"What is it?" Ituralde asked, scanning the hordes of Trollocs. They didn't seem to have changed since he'd bedded down.

"Your man claims to be able to feel something," Yoeli said. "Out there."

"They have channelers, Lord Ituralde," Deepe said. "I suspect at least six, perhaps more. Men, since I can feel the Power they're wielding, doing something powerful. If I squint at the far camps, I think I can sometimes see weaves, but it may be my imagination."

Ituralde cursed. "That's what they've been waiting for."

"What?" Yoeli asked.

"With Asha'man of their own—"

"They are not Asha'man," Deepe said fervently.

"All right, then. With channelers of their own, they can tear this wall down easily as knocking over a pile of blocks, Yoeli. That sea of Trollocs will surge in and fill your streets."

"Not so long as I stand," Deepe said.

"I like determination in a soldier, Deepe," Ituralde said, "but you look as exhausted as I feel."

Deepe shot him a glare. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, and he clenched his teeth, the muscles in his neck and face tense. He met Ituralde's eyes, then took a long, forced breath.

"You are correct," Deepe said. "But neither of us can do anything about that." He raised his hand, doing something that Ituralde couldn't see. A flash of red light appeared over his hand—the signal he used to draw the others to him. "Prepare your men, General, Captain. It will not be long. They cannot continue to hold that kind of Power without… consequences."

Yoeli nodded, then hurried away. Ituralde took Deepe's arm, drawing his attention.

"You Asha'man are too important a resource to lose," Ituralde said. "The Dragon sent us here to help, not to die. If this city falls, I want you to take the others and whatever wounded you can and get out. Do you understand, soldier?"

"Many of my men will not like this."

"But you know it is for the best," Ituralde said. "Don't you?"

Deepe hesitated. "Yes. You are correct, as you so often are. I will get them out." He spoke in a lower voice. "This is a hopeless resistance, my Lord. Whatever is happening out there, it will be deadly. It galls me to suggest it… but what you have said about my Asha'man applies to your soldiers as well. Let us flee." He said the word "flee" with bitterness.

"The Saldaeans wouldn't leave with us."

"I know."

Ituralde considered it. Finally, he shook his head. "Every day we delay up here keeps these monsters away from my homeland a day longer. No, I cannot go, Deepe. This is still the best place to fight. You've seen how fortified those buildings are; we can hold inside for a few days, split apart, keep the army busy."

"Then my Asha'man could stay and help."

"You have your orders, son. You follow them. Understand?"

Deep snapped his jaw shut, then nodded curtly. "I will take—"

Ituralde didn't hear the rest. An explosion hit.

He didn't feel it arrive. He was standing with Deepe one moment, then round himself on the floor of the wall walk, the world strangely silent around him. His head screamed with pain and he coughed, raising a trembling hand to find his face bleeding. There was something in his right eye; it seared with pain when he blinked. Why was everything so quiet?

He rolled over, coughing again, right eye squeezed shut, the other watering. The wall ended a few inches away from him.

He gasped. An enormous chunk of the northern wall was simply gone.

He groaned, looking back in the other direction. Deepe had been standing beside him…

He found the Asha'man lying on the wall walk nearby, head bleeding. His right leg ended in a ragged rip of flesh and broken bone above where the knee should have been. Ituralde cursed and stumbled forward, dropping to his knees beside the man. Blood was pooling beneath Deepe but he was still twitching. Alive.

I need to sound the alarm…

Alarm? That explosion would have been alarm enough. Inside the wall, buildings were demolished, crushed by stones flying in a spray away from the hole. Outside, Trollocs were loping forward, carrying rafts to cross the moat.

Ituralde pulled the Asha'man's belt off and used it to bind his thigh. It was all he could think to do. His head was still throbbing from the explosion.

The city is lost… Light! It's lost, just like that.

Hands were helping him up. Dazedly he glanced about. Connel; he'd survived the blast, though his coat was torn to shreds. He pulled Ituralde away while a pair of soldiers took Deepe.

The next minutes were a blur. Ituralde stumbled down the stairs from the wall, nearly pitching headfirst fifteen feet onto the cobbles. Only Connel's hands kept him from falling. And then… a tent? A large open-sided tent? Ituralde blinked. A battlefield should not be so quiet.

Icy coldness washed over him. He screamed. Sounds assaulted his ears and mind. Screams, rock breaking, trumpets sounding, drums throbbing. Men dying. It all hit him at once, as if plugs had been yanked from his ears.

He shook himself, gasping. He was in the sick tent. Antail—the quiet, thin-haired Asha'man—stood above him. Light, but Ituralde felt exhausted! Too little sleep mixed with the strain of being Healed. As the sounds of battle consumed him, he found his eyelids treacherously heavy.

"Lord Ituralde," Antail said, "I have a weave that will not make you well, but it will make you think you are well. It could be harmful to you. Do you want me to proceed?"

"I…" Ituralde said. The word came out as a mumble. "It…"

"Blood and bloody ashes," Antail muttered. He reached forward. Another wave of Power washed through Ituralde. It was like a broom sweeping through him, pushing away all of the fatigue and confusion, restoring his senses and making him feel as if he'd had a perfect night's rest. His right eye didn't hurt anymore.

There was something lingering, deep down, an exhaustion in his bones.

He could ignore that. He sat up, breathed in and out, then looked to Antail. "Now that is a useful weave, son. You should have told me you could do this!"

"It's dangerous," Antail repeated. "More dangerous than the women's version I'm told. In some ways more effective. You're trading alertness now for more profound exhaustion later on."

"Later on, we won't be in the middle of a city that is falling to the Trollocs. Light willing, at least. Deepe?"

"I saw to him first," Antail said, gesturing to the Asha'man lying on a nearby cot, his clothing singed and his face bloodied. His right leg ended in a healed stump, and he appeared to be breathing, though unconscious.

"Connel!" Ituralde said.

"My Lord," the soldier said, stepping up. He'd found a squad of soldiers to act as a personal guard.

"Let's investigate this mess," Ituralde said. He ran out of the sick tent, toward Cordamora Palace. The city was in chaos, groups of Saldaeans and Domani rushing this way and that. Connel, showing foresight, sent a messenger to find Yoeli.

The palace stood nearby, just before the front gate. Its wall had been damaged in the blast, but the building still looked hale. Ituralde had been using it as a command post. Men would expect to find him here. They ran inside, Connel carrying Ituralde's sword—the belt had been cut free at some point. They climbed to the third floor, then ran out onto a balcony that surveyed the area broken by the blast.

As he'd originally feared, the city was lost. The swath of broken wall was being defended by a hastily assembled jumble of defenders. A mounting tide of Trollocs were throwing down rafts on the moat, some beginning to surge forward, followed by Fades. Men ran through the streets, disoriented.

If he'd had more time to prepare, he could have held, as he'd told Deepe. Not now. Light, but this defense has been one disaster after another.

"Gather the Asha'man," Ituralde ordered. "And any of my officers you can find. We will organize the men into a retreat through gateways."

"Yes, my Lord," Connel said.

"Ituralde, no!" Yoeli burst out onto the balcony, uniform dirtied and ripped.

"You survived," Ituralde said, relieved. "Excellent. Man, your city is lost. I'm sorry. Bring your men with us and we can—"

"Look!" Yoeli said, pulling Ituralde to the side of the balcony, pointing to the east. A thick column of smoke rose in the distance. A village the Trollocs had burned?

"The watchfire," Yoeli continued. "My sister has seen aid coming! We must stand until they arrive."

Ituralde hesitated. "Yoeli," he said softly, "if a force has come, it can't be large enough to stop this horde of Trollocs. And that's assuming it's not a ruse. The Shadowspawn have proven clever in the past."

"Give us a few hours," Yoeli said. "Hold the city with me and send scouts through those gateways of yours to see if a force really is coming."

"A few hours?" Ituralde said. "With a hole in your wall? We're overwhelmed, Yoeli."

"Please," Yoeli pled. "Are you not one of those they name Great Captain? Show me what that title means, Lord Rodel Ituralde."

Ituralde turned, back at the broken wall. Behind him, in the palace's top room, he could hear his officers gathering. The line at the wall was fragmenting. It wouldn't be long now.

Show me what that means.

Perhaps…

"Tymoth, are you here?" Ituralde bellowed.

A red-haired man in a black coat stepped onto the balcony. He'd be in command of the Asha'man now that Deepe had fallen. "Here, Lord Ituralde."

"Gather your men," Ituralde said urgently. "Take command of that gap and have the soldiers there retreat. I want the Asha'man to hold the breach. I need a half-hour. I want all of your energy—everything you've got—to hit those Trollocs. You hear me? Everything you've got. If you can channel enough to light a candle when this is done, I'll have your hides."

"Sir," the Asha'man said. "Our retreat?"

"Leave Antail in the Healing tent," Ituralde said. "He can make a large enough gateway for the Asha'man to run. But everyone else, hold that breach!"

Tymoth dashed away. "Yoeli," Ituralde said, "your job is to gather your forces and stop them from running through the city like…" He paused. He'd been about to say, "like it's Tarmon bloody Gai'don." Burn me. "… like there is nobody in command. If we are going to hold, we will need to be organized and disciplined. I need four cavalry companies formed up in the courtyard in ten minutes. Give the orders."

"Yes, my Lord," Yoeli said, snapping to it.

"Oh," Ituralde said, turning. "I'm going to need a couple of cartloads of firewood, as many barrels of oil as you can come up with, and all of the wounded in either army who can still run but who have face or arm wounds. Also, get me anyone in the city who's ever held a bow. Go!"

Nearly an hour later, Ituralde stood, hands clasped behind his back, waiting. He'd moved in from the balcony to look out a window, as to not expose himself. But he still had a good view of the fighting.

Outside the palace, the Asha'man line was finally weakening. They'd given him the better part of an hour, blasting back wave after wave of Trollocs in an awesome display of Power. Blessedly, the enemy channelers had not appeared. After that show of power, hopefully they were drained and exhausted.

It felt like dusk, with those oppressive clouds overhead and the masses of figures darkening the hillsides beyond the city. The Trollocs, fortunately, didn't bring ladders or siege towers. Only wave after wave at that breach, whipped into attack by the Myrddraal.

Already, some of the black-coated men were limping away from the breach, looking exhausted. The last few threw a final blast of Fire and erupting Earth, then followed their companions. They left the gap completely open and undefended, as ordered.

Come on, Ituralde thought as the smoke cleared.

The Trollocs peered through the smoke, climbing over the carcasses of those the Asha'man had killed. The Shadowspawn loped on hooves or thick paws. Some sniffed the air.

The streets inside the gap were filled with carefully placed men who were bloodied and wounded. They began to scream as the Trollocs entered, running as commanded. Likely none of their fear was feigned. The scene looked more terrible now that many of the nearby buildings were smoldering, as if from the blast, roofs on fire, smoke pouring from windows. The Trollocs wouldn't know that the slate roofs had been designed not to burn, and laws kept buildings from containing too much wood.

Ituralde held his breath. The Trollocs broke, running into the city, howling and roaring, groups breaking apart as they saw the opportunity to pillage and slaughter.

The door behind Ituralde slammed open, and Yoeli hastened in. "The last ranks are placed. Is it working?"

Ituralde didn't answer; the proof was below. The Trollocs assumed their battle won—the blasting Power of the Asha'man had the air of one final stand, and the city appeared to be in chaos. The Trollocs all ran down the streets with obvious glee. Even the Myrddraal who entered appeared at ease.

The Trollocs avoided the burning buildings and the palace, which was walled. They moved deeper into the city, pursuing the fleeing soldiers down a wide avenue on the eastern side of the city. Carefully piled rubble encouraged the bulk of them down this avenue.

"Do you have aspirations of being a general, Captain Yoeli?" Ituralde asked softly.

"My aspirations are not important," Yoeli said. "But a man would be a fool not to hope to learn."

"Then pay attention to this lesson, son." Below, shutters on windows were flung open on buildings along the avenue the Trollocs had taken. Bowmen surged out onto balconies. "If you ever have so much as an impression that you're doing what your enemy expects you to do, then do something else."