The Wheel of Time, page 102
Strangely, the fear stilled her trembling. With hands as steady as if she were grinding herbs in her own house she slit the picket-rope as she had the others. Thrusting the dagger back into its sheath, she untied Bela’s lead-rein. The shaggy mare woke with a start, tossing her head, but Nynaeve stroked her nose and spoke comforting words softly in her ear. Bela gave a low snort and seemed content.
Other horses along that line were awake, too, and looking at her. Remembering Mandarb, she reached hesitantly to the next lead-rein, but that horse gave no objection to a strange hand. Indeed, it seemed to want some of the muzzle-stroking that Bela had received. She gripped Bela’s rein tightly and wrapped the other around her other wrist, all the while watching the camp nervously. The pale tents were only thirty yards off, and she could see men moving among them. If they noticed the horses stirring and came to see what caused it. . . .
Desperately she wished for Moiraine not to wait on her return. Whatever the Aes Sedai was going to do, let her do it now. Light, make her do it now, before. . . .
Abruptly lightning shattered the night overhead, for a moment obliterating darkness. Thunder smote her ears, so hard she thought her knees would buckle, as a jagged trident stabbed the ground just beyond the horses, splashing dirt and rocks like a fountain. The crash of riven earth fought the thunderstroke. The horses went mad, screaming and rearing; the picket-ropes snapped like thread where she had cut them. Another lightning bolt sliced down before the image of the first faded.
Nynaeve was too busy to exult. At the first clash Bela jerked one way while the other horse reared away in the opposite direction. She thought her arms were being pulled out of their sockets. For an endless minute she hung suspended between the horses, her feet off the ground, her scream flattened by the second crash. Again the lightning struck, and again, and again, in one continuous, raging roar from the heavens. Balked in the way they wanted to go, the horses surged back, letting her drop. She wanted to crouch on the ground and soothe her tortured shoulders, but there was no time. Bela and the other horse buffeted her, eyes rolling wildly till only whites showed, threatening to knock her down and trample her. Somehow she made her arms lift, clutched her hands in Bela’s mane, pulled herself onto the heaving mare’s back. The other rein was still around her wrist, pulled tight into the flesh.
Her jaw dropped as a long, gray shadow snarled past, seeming to ignore her and the horses with her, but teeth snapping at the crazed animals now darting in every direction. A second shadow of death followed close behind. Nynaeve wanted to scream again, but nothing came out. Wolves! Light help us! What is Moiraine doing?
The heels she dug into Bela’s sides were not needed. The mare ran, and the other was more than happy to follow. Anywhere, so long as they could run, so long as they could escape the fire from the sky that killed the night.
CHAPTER
38
Rescue
Perrin shifted as best he could with his wrists bound behind him and finally gave up with a sigh. Every rock he avoided brought him two more. Awkwardly he tried to work his cloak back over him. The night was cold, and the ground seemed to draw all the heat out of him, as it had every night since the Whitecloaks took them. The Children did not think prisoners needed blankets, or shelter. Especially not dangerous Darkfriends.
Egwene lay huddled against his back for warmth, sleeping the deep sleep of exhaustion. She never even murmured at his shifting. The sun was long hours below the horizon, and he ached from head to foot after a day walking behind a horse with a halter around his neck, but sleep would not come for him.
The column did not move that fast. With most of their remounts lost to the wolves in the stedding, the Whitecloaks could not push on as hard as they wanted; the delay was another thing they held against the Emond’s Fielders. The sinuous double line did move steadily, though—Lord Bornhald meant to reach Caemlyn in time for Whatever it was—and always in the back of Perrin’s mind was the fear that if he fell the Whitecloak holding his leash would not stop, no matter Lord Captain Bornhald’s orders to keep them alive for the Questioners in Amador. He knew he could not save himself if that happened; the only times they freed his hands were when he was fed and for visits to the latrine pit. The halter made every step momentous, every rock underfoot potentially fatal. He walked with muscles tense, scanning the ground with anxious eyes. Whenever he glanced at Egwene, she was doing the same. When she met his eyes, her face was tight and frightened. Neither of them dared take their eyes off the ground long enough for more than a glance.
Usually he collapsed like a wrung-out rag as soon as the Whitecloaks let him stop, but tonight his mind was racing. His skin crawled with dread that had been building for days. If he closed his eyes, he would see only the things Byar promised for them once they reached Amador.
He was sure Egwene still did not believe what Byar told them in that flat voice. If she did, she would not be able to sleep no matter how tired she was. In the beginning he had not believed Byar either. He still did not want to; people just did not do things like that to other people. But Byar did not really threaten; as if he were talking about getting a drink of water he talked about hot irons and pincers, about knives slicing away skin and needles piercing. He did not appear to be trying to frighten them. There was never even a touch of gloating in his eyes. He just did not care if they were frightened or not, if they were tortured or not, if they were alive or not. That was what brought cold sweat to Perrin’s face once it got through to him. That was what finally convinced him Byar was telling the simple truth.
The two guards’ cloaks gleamed grayly in the faint moonlight. He could not make out their faces, but he knew they were watching. As if they could try something, tied hand and foot the way they were. From when there had still been light enough to see, he remembered the disgust in their eyes and the pinched looks on their faces, as though they had been set to guard filth-soaked monsters, stinking and repellent to look at. All the Whitecloaks looked at them that way. It never changed. Light, how do I make them believe we aren’t Darkfriends when they’re already convinced we are? His stomach twisted sickeningly. In the end, he would probably confess to anything just to make the Questioners stop.
Someone was coming, a Whitecloak carrying a lantern. The man stopped to speak with the guards, who answered respectfully. Perrin could not hear what was said, but he recognized the tall, gaunt shape.
He squinted as the lantern was held close to his face. Byar had Perrin’s axe in his other hand; he had appropriated the weapon as his own. At least, Perrin never saw him without it.
“Wake up,” Byar said emotionlessly, as if he thought Perrin slept with his head raised. He accompanied the words with a heavy kick in the ribs.
Perrin gave a grunt through gritted teeth. His sides were a mass of bruises already from Byar’s boots.
“I said, wake up.” The foot went back again, and Perrin spoke quickly.
“I’m awake.” You had to acknowledge what Byar said, or he found ways to get your attention.
Byar set the lantern on the ground and bent to check his bonds. The man jerked roughly at his wrist, twisting his arms in their sockets. Finding those knots still as tight as he had left them, Byar pulled at his ankle rope, scraping him across the rocky ground. The man looked too skeletal to have any strength, but Perrin might as well have been a child. It was a nightly routine.
As Byar straightened, Perrin saw that Egwene was still asleep. “Wake up!” he shouted. “Egwene! Wake up!”
“Wha . . . ? What?” Egwene’s voice was frightened and still thick with sleep. She lifted her head, blinking in the lantern light.
Byar gave no sign of disappointment at not being able to kick her awake; he never did. He just jerked at her ropes the same way he had Perrin’s, ignoring her groans. Causing pain was another of those things that seemed not to affect him one way or another; Perrin was the only one he really went out of his way to hurt. Even if Perrin could not remember it, Byar remembered that he had killed two of the Children.
“Why should Darkfriends sleep,” Byar said dispassionately, “when decent men must stay awake to guard them?”
“For the hundredth time,” Egwene said wearily, “we aren’t Darkfriends.”
Perrin tensed. Sometimes such a denial brought a lecture delivered in a grating near monotone, on confession and repentance, leading into a description of the Questioners’ methods of obtaining them. Sometimes it brought the lecture and a kick. To his surprise, this time Byar ignored it.
Instead the man squatted in front of him, all angles and sunken hollows, with the axe across his knees. The golden sun on his cloak’s left breast, and the two golden stars beneath it, glittered in the lantern light. Taking off his helmet, he set it beside the lantern. For a change there was something besides disdain or hatred on his face, something intent and unreadable. He rested his arms on the axehandle and studied Perrin silently. Perrin tried not to shift under that hollow-eyed stare.
“You are slowing us down, Darkfriend, you and your wolves. The Council of the Anointed has heard reports of such things, and they want to know more, so you must be taken to Amador and given to the Questioners, but you are slowing us down. I had hoped we could move fast enough, even without the remounts, but I was wrong.” He fell silent, frowning at them.
Perrin waited; Byar would tell him when he was ready.
“The Lord Captain is caught in the cleft of a dilemma,” Byar said finally. “Because of the wolves he must take you to the Council, but he must reach Caemlyn, too. We have no spare horses to carry you, but if we continue to let you walk, we will not reach Caemlyn by the appointed time. The Lord Captain sees his duties with a single-minded vision, and he intends to see you before the Council.”
Egwene made a sound. Byar was staring at Perrin, and he stared back, almost afraid to blink. “I don’t understand,” he said slowly.
“There is nothing to understand,” Byar replied. “Nothing but idle speculation. If you escaped, we would not have time to track you down. We don’t have an hour to spare if we are to reach Caemlyn in time. If you frayed your ropes on a sharp rock, say, and vanished into the night, the Lord Captain’s problem would be solved.” Never taking his gaze from Perrin, he reached under his cloak and tossed something on the ground.
Automatically Perrin’s eyes followed it. When he realized what it was, he gasped. A rock. A split rock with a sharp edge.
“Just idle speculation,” Byar said. “Your guards tonight also speculate.”
Perrin’s mouth was suddenly dry. Think it through! Light help me, think it through and don’t make any mistakes!
Could it be true? Could the Whitecloaks’ need to get to Caemlyn quickly be important enough for this? Letting suspected Darkfriends escape? There was no use trying that way; he did not know enough. Byar was the only Whitecloak who would talk to them, aside from Lord Captain Bornhald, and neither was exactly free with information. Another way. If Byar wanted them to escape, why not simply cut their bonds? If Byar wanted them to escape? Byar, who was convinced to his marrow that they were Darkfriends. Byar, who hated Darkfriends worse than he did the Dark One himself. Byar, who looked for any excuse to cause him pain because he had killed two Whitecloaks. Byar wanted them to escape?
If he had thought his mind was racing before, now it sped like an avalanche. Despite the cold, sweat ran down his face in rivulets. He glanced at the guards. They were only shadows of pale gray, but it seemed to him that they were poised, waiting. If he and Egwene were killed trying to escape, and their ropes had been cut on a rock that could have been lying there by chance. . . . The Lord Captain’s dilemma would be solved, all right. And Byar would have them dead, the way he wanted them.
The gaunt man picked up his helmet from beside the lantern and started to stand.
“Wait,” Perrin said hoarsely. His thoughts tumbled over and over as he searched in vain for some way out. “Wait, I want to talk. I—”
Help comes!
The thought blossomed in his mind, a clear burst of light in the midst of chaos, so startling that for a moment he forgot everything else, even where he was. Dapple was alive. Elyas, he thought at the wolf, demanding without words to know if the man was alive. An image came back. Elyas, lying on a bed of evergreen branches beside a small fire in a cave, tending a wound in his side. It all took only an instant. He gaped at Byar, and his face broke into a foolish grin. Elyas was alive. Dapple was alive. Help was coming.
Byar paused, risen only to a crouch, looking at him. “Some thought has come to you, Perrin of the Two Rivers, and I would know what it is.”
For a moment Perrin thought he meant the thought from Dapple. Panic fled across his face, followed by relief. Byar could not possibly know.
Byar watched his changes of expression, and for the first time the Whitecloak’s eyes went to the rock he had tossed on the ground.
He was reconsidering, Perrin realized. If he changed his mind about the rock, would he dare risk leaving them alive to talk? Ropes could be frayed after the people wearing them were dead, even if it made for risk of discovery. He looked into Byar’s eyes—the shadowed hollows of the man’s eye sockets made them appear to stare at him from dark caves—and he saw death decided.
Byar opened his mouth, and as Perrin waited for sentence to be pronounced, things began to happen too fast for thought.
Suddenly one of the guards vanished. One minute there were two dim shapes, the next the night swallowed one of them. The second guard turned, the beginning of a cry on his lips, but before the first syllable was uttered there was a solid tchunk and he toppled over like a felled tree.
Byar spun, swift as a striking viper, the axe whirling in his hands so fast that it hummed. Perrin’s eyes bulged as the night seemed to flow into the lantern light. His mouth opened to yell, but his throat locked tight with fear. For an instant he even forgot that Byar wanted to kill them. The Whitecloak was another human being, and the night had come alive to take them all.
Then the darkness invading the light became Lan, cloak swirling through shades of gray and black as he moved. The axe in Byar’s hands lashed out like lightning . . . and Lan seemed to lean casually aside, letting the blade pass so close he must have felt the wind of it. Byar’s eyes widened as the force of his blow carried him off balance, as the Warder struck with hands and feet in rapid succession, so quick that Perrin was not sure what he had just seen. What he was sure of was Byar collapsing like a puppet. Before the falling Whitecloak had finished settling to the ground, the Warder was on his knees extinguishing the lantern.
In the sudden return to darkness, Perrin stared blindly. Lan seemed to have vanished again.
“Is it really . . . ?” Egwene gave a stifled sob. “We thought you were dead. We thought you were all dead.”
“Not yet.” The Warder’s deep whisper was tinged with amusement.
Hands touched Perrin, found his bonds. A knife sliced through the ropes with barely a tug, and he was free. Aching muscles protested as he sat up. Rubbing his wrists, he peered at the graying mound that marked Byar. “Did you . . . ? Is he . . . ?”
“No,” Lan’s voice answered quietly from the darkness. “I do not kill unless I mean to. But he won’t bother anyone for a while. Stop asking questions and get a pair of their cloaks. We do not have much time.”
Perrin crawled to where Byar lay. It took an effort to touch the man, and when he felt the Whitecloak’s chest rising and falling he almost jerked his hands away. His skin crawled as he made himself unfasten the white cloak and pull it off. Despite what Lan said, he could imagine the skull-faced man suddenly rearing up. Hastily he fumbled around till he found his axe, then crawled to another guard. It seemed strange, at first, that he felt no reluctance to touch this unconscious man, but the reason came to him. All the Whitecloaks hated him, but that was a human emotion. Byar felt nothing beyond that he should die; there was no hate in it, no emotion at all.
Gathering the two cloaks in his arms, he turned—and panic grabbed him. In the darkness he suddenly had no sense of direction, of how to find his way back to Lan and the others. His feet rooted to the ground, afraid to move. Even Byar was hidden by the night without his white cloak. There was nothing by which to orient himself. Any way he went might be out into the camp.
“Here.”
He stumbled toward Lan’s whisper until hands stopped him. Egwene was a dim shadow, and Lan’s face was a blur; the rest of the Warder seemed not to be there at all. He could feel their eyes on him, and he wondered if he should explain.
“Put on the cloaks,” Lan said softly. “Quickly. Bundle your own. And make no sound. You aren’t safe yet.”
Hurriedly Perrin passed one of the cloaks to Egwene, relieved at being saved from having to tell of his fear. He made his own cloak into a bundle to carry, and swung the white cloak around his shoulders in its place. He felt a prickle as it settled around his shoulders, a stab of worry between his shoulder blades. Was it Byar’s cloak he had ended up with? He almost thought he could smell the gaunt man on it.
Lan directed them to hold hands, and Perrin gripped his axe in one hand and Egwene’s hand with the other, wishing the Warder would get on with their escape so he could stop his imagination from running wild. But they just stood there, surrounded by the tents of the Children, two shapes in white cloaks and one that was sensed but not seen.
“Soon,” Lan whispered. “Very soon.”
Lightning broke the night above the camp, so close that Perrin felt the hair on his arms, his head, lifting as the bolt charged the air. Just beyond the tents the earth erupted from the blow, the explosion on the ground merging with that in the sky. Before the light faded Lan was leading them forward.
At their first step another strike sliced open the blackness. Lightning came like hail, so that the night flickered as if the darkness were coming in momentary flashes. Thunder drummed wildly, one roar rumbling into the next, one continuous, rippling peal. Fear-stricken horses screamed, their whinnies drowned except for moments when the thunder faded. Men tumbled out of their tents, some in their white cloaks, some only half clothed, some dashing to and fro, some standing as if stunned.
