CHAPTER
28
Too Many Men
Lord Agelmar sent us directly,” the Arafellin said to Lan. The man kept glancing toward the front line, where his companions fought for their lives.
Thunder shook the battlefield here in Shienar. The scent of burnt flesh was pungent in the air, alongside burnt hair. The Dreadlords didn’t care if their attacks killed Trollocs, so long as they hit men as well.
“You’re certain?” Lan asked from horseback.
“Of course, Dai Shan,” the man said. He wore his braids long, the bells painted red for some reason Lan did not understand. Something to do with the Arafellin Houses and their approach to the Last Battle. “If I lie, let me be whipped a hundred times and left in the sun. I was surprised by the order, as I thought my men were to guard the flanks. Not only did the messenger have the proper passwords, but the man I sent to the command tent returned to confirm.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Lan said, waving for him to go back to his men. He glanced at Andere and Prince Kaisel, both of whom sat nearby, looking confused. They had listened to Lan interrogate the Kandori banner leader just before this, and that man had made similar assertions.
Lord Agelmar had sent them both. Two reserve forces, sent separately, neither knowing the other was going to the same place. A cool breeze blew across the river to Lan’s right as he turned and rode toward the back lines. The land’s heat soon smothered that coolness. Those clouds above seemed so close, one could almost reach out and touch them.
“Lan?” Andere asked, as he and Kaisel trotted their horses up beside Mandarb. “What is this about?”
“Too many men sent to plug the same hole in our lines,” Lan said softly.
“It is an easy mistake to make,” Prince Kaisel said. “The worry that the Trollocs would punch through is a real one, now that the Dreadlords have joined the battle. The general sent two banners instead of one. Best to be safe. He probably did it intentionally.”
No. It had been a mistake. A small one, but a mistake. The correct move would have been to pull the soldiers back and stabilize their battle lines. A single banner of cavalry then could ride in and cut off the Trollocs coming through. Two waves could have been coordinated, but without giving warning to the different captains, the risk was that they would trip one another up—which was what had happened.
Lan shook his head and scanned the battlefield. Queen Ethenielle’s banner was not far away. He headed straight for it. The Queen waited with her honor guard, Lord Baldhere on one side, the Sword of Kirukan held with its hilt directly toward the Queen, though she had chosen not to ride into battle herself. Lan had half-wondered if she would follow Tenobia’s lead on that point, but he shouldn’t have. Ethenielle was a coolheaded woman. More importantly, she’d surrounded herself with coolheaded advisors.
Lord Ramsin—her new husband—spoke with a group of his commanders. A sly-looking fellow in the clothing of a scout brushed past Lan as he rode up, off to deliver orders. Lord Agelmar didn’t usually give the squad-by-squad commands; his concern was the overall battle. He told his commanders what he wanted them to accomplish, but details of how they would carry out those objectives were left up to them.
A stout, round-faced woman sat beside the Queen, speaking calmly to her. She noticed Lan, and nodded. Lady Serailla was the Queen’s primary advisor. Lan and she had had… disagreements in the past. He respected her as much as he could someone he occasionally wanted to throttle and toss off a cliff.
“Dai Shan,” the Queen said, nodding to him. Ramsin, standing a little ways off, gave a wave. Thunder rumbled. There was no rain, and Lan didn’t expect any, despite the thick humidity. “You are wounded? Let me send for one of the Healers.”
“They are needed elsewhere,” Lan said tersely as her guards saluted him. Each man wore a green tabard over his breastplate, the Red Horse embroidered on it, and each lance trailed red and green streamers. The helmets had steel face-bars, as opposed to Lan’s own open-fronted, wide Malkieri helmet. “Might I borrow Lord Baldhere, Your Majesty? I have a question for him.”
“You need but make the request, Dai Shan,” Queen Ethenielle said, though Lady Serailla narrowed her eyes at him. Obviously, she wondered what he needed of the Kandori queen’s Swordbearer.
Baldhere moved up to Lan, shifting the Sword of Kirukan to his other arm, to keep the hilt still pointed at his queen. It was a formality, but Baldhere was a formal man. Andere and Prince Kaisel joined the two of them, and Lan did not make them fall back.
“Lord Agelmar committed a good fourth of our reserves to a small opening in our lines,” Lan said softly enough that only Baldhere, Andere and Kaisel could hear. “I’m not certain all were needed.”
“He just gave orders for our Saldaean light cavalry to pull away from the eastern flank,” Baldhere said, “and hit the Trollocs’ left flank deep behind their lines, a surprise hit-and-run attack. He says he wants the Dreadlords’ attention spread out, and claims that making our defenses appear weaker than they are will tempt them into making a mistake.”
“Your thoughts?” Lan asked.
“It’s a good move,” Baldhere said, “if you intend to force the battle to go long. Alone, it wouldn’t worry me too much, not as long as the Saldaeans can get out with their necks intact. I hadn’t heard about the reserves. That leaves us enormously exposed on the east.”
“Let’s assume,” Lan said softly, carefully, “that one were in a position to sabotage the entire army. Let’s assume that one wanted to do so, but do it with great subtlety, as to not be suspected. What would you do?”
“Put our back to the river,” Baldhere said slowly. “Claim a position for the high ground, but leave us in danger of being surrounded. Commit us to a deadly fight, then expose an opening in our defenses and let us be split. Make each step seem rational.”
“And your next step?” Lan said.
Baldhere considered, looking troubled. “You’d need to pull the archers off the hills to the east. The land is rough over there, and so Shadowspawn could come around our scouts—particularly with everyone’s eyes up toward the front lines—and draw close.
“Archers would see them and raise the alarm, perhaps be able to hold the Trollocs back long enough for the other reserves to arrive. But if the archers were moved, and the eastern reserves committed, and the enemy could swing around our eastern flank and attack our back lines… our whole army would be pinned back against the river. From there, it would be only a matter of time.”
“Lord Mandragoran,” Prince Kaisel said, nudging his horse forward. He looked about, as if ashamed. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Surely you don’t suspect Lord Agelmar of betraying us!”
“We can’t afford to leave anyone above suspicion,” Lan said grimly. “A caution I should have listened to with a keener ear. Perhaps it is nothing. Perhaps.”
“We’re going to have enough difficulty getting out of this position as it is,” Andere said, frowning. “If we get pinned against the river…”
“The plan originally was to use the reserve light cavalry to cover the retreat,” Lan said. “The infantry could retreat first, crossing the river on foot, then we could bring the heavy cavalry through gateways. The river is not swift, and the horses of the light cavalry could ford it, while Trollocs wouldn’t dare. Not until they were forced. It was a good enough plan.”
Unless they got pressed too hard for the foot to disengage. Everything would fall apart then. And if they were surrounded, there was no way Lan would get his army out. They didn’t have enough channelers to move the entire army. The only way out would be to leave the foot, abandoning half of his army to the slaughter. No, he’d die before he let that happen.
“Everything Lord Agelmar has been doing lately is a good enough plan,” Baldhere said intensely. “Good enough to avoid suspicion, but not good enough to win. Lan… something is wrong with him. I’ve known him for years. Please. I still believe that he’s merely tired, but he is making mi
stakes. I’m right, I know I am.”
Lan nodded. He left Lord Baldhere at his post and rode, with his guard, toward the back lines and the command tent.
The sense of dread that Lan felt was like a stone stuck in his throat. Those clouds seemed lower than before. They rumbled. The drums of the Dark One, come to claim the lives of men.
By the time Lan reached the command tent, he had a hundred good men at his back. As he drew near, Lan spotted a young Shienaran messenger—unarmored, topknot streaming behind him as he ran—making for his horse.
At Lan’s wave, Andere dashed over and caught the man’s reins, holding them tight. The messenger frowned. “Dai Shan?” he asked, saluting as Lan rode up.
“You are delivering orders for Lord Agelmar?” Lan asked, dismounting.
“Yes, my Lord.”
“What orders?”
“The eastern Kandori archers,” the messenger said. “Their hill is too far from the main part of the battlefield, and Lord Agelmar feels they would serve better coming forward and launching volleys at those Dreadlords.”
The archers probably thought that the Saldaean light cavalry were still back there; the Saldaeans thought the archers would stay; the reserves thought that both would hold after they’d been deployed.
It could still be a coincidence. Agelmar was being worked too hard, or had some greater plan that was beyond the eyes of other generals. Never accuse a man of a killing offense unless you were ready to kill him yourself, right then, with your own sword.
“Belay that order,” Lan said, cold. “Instead, send the Saldaean scouts out roving through those eastern hills. Tell them to watch for signs of a force of Shadowspawn sneaking in to strike at us. Warn the archers to prepare to shoot, then return here and bring me word. Be quick about it, but tell nobody but the scouts and archers themselves that you are doing it.”
The man looked confused, but he saluted. Agelmar was commanding general of this army, but Lan—as Dai Shan—had final word on all orders, and the only authority greater than his in this battle was that of Elayne.
Lan nodded to a pair of men from the High Guard. Washim and Geral were Malkieri whom he’d grown to respect a great deal during their weeks fighting together.
Light, has it only been weeks? It feels like months…
He pushed the thought away as the two Malkieri followed the messenger to make certain he did as told. Lan would consider the ramifications of what was happening only after he knew all of the facts.
Only then.
Loial did not know much about warfare. One did not need to know much to realize that Elayne’s side was losing.
He and the other Ogier fought, facing a horde of thousands upon thousands of Trollocs— the second army that had come up to crush from the south, skirting the city. Crossbowmen from the Legion of the Dragon flanked the Ogier, launching volleys of quarrels, having withdrawn from the front as the Trollocs hit their lines. The enemy had dispersed the Legion’s heavy cavalry, exhausted as they had been. Companies of pikemen held desperately against the tide, and the Wolf Guard clung to a disintegrating line on the other hill.
He’d heard fragments of what was happening on other parts of the battlefield. Elayne’s armies had crushed the northern force of Trollocs, finishing them off, and as the Ogier fought, guarding the dragons that fired from the hill above them, more and more soldiers came to join the new front. They came bloodied, exhausted and weak.
This new force of Trollocs would crush them.
The Ogier sang a song of mourning. It was the dirge they sang for forests that had to be leveled or for great trees that died in a storm. It was a song of loss, of regret, of inevitability. He joined in the final refrain.
“All rivers run dry,
All songs must end,
Every root will die,
Every branch must bend…”
He downed a snarling Trolloc, but another one sank its teeth into his leg. He bellowed, breaking off his song as he grabbed the Trolloc by the neck. He had never considered himself strong, not by Ogier standards, but he lifted the Trolloc and flung it into its fellows behind.
Men—fragile men—were dead all around his feet. Their loss of life pained him. Each one had been given such a short time to live. Some, still alive, still fought. He knew they thought of themselves as bigger than they were, but here on the battlefield—with Ogier and Trollocs—they seemed like children running around underfoot.
No. He would not see them that way. The men and women fought with bravery and passion. Not children, but heroes. Still, seeing them broken made his ears lie back. He started singing again, louder, and this time it was not the song of mourning. It was a song he had not sung before, a song of growing, but not one of the tree songs that were so familiar to him.
He bellowed it loud and angry, laying about him with his axe. On all sides, grass turned green, cords and ribbons of life sprouted. The hafts of the Trolloc polearms began to grow leaves; many of the beasts snarled and dropped the weapons in shock.
Loial fought on. This song was not a song of victory. It was a song of life. Loial did not intend to die here on this hillside.
By the Light, he had a book to finish before he went!
Mat stood in the Seanchan command building, surrounded by skeptical generals. Min had only just returned, after being taken away and dressed in Seanchan finery. Tuon had gone as well, to see to some empressly duty.
Looking back at the maps, Mat felt like cursing again. Maps, maps and more maps. Pieces of paper. Most of them had been sketched by Tuon’s clerks in the fading light of the previous evening. How could he know they were accurate? Mat had once seen a street artist drawing a pretty woman at night in Caemlyn, and the resulting picture could have been sold for gold as a dead-on representation of Cenn Buie in a dress.
More and more, he was thinking that battle maps were about as useful as a heavy coat in Tear. He needed to be able to see the battle, not how someone else thought the battle looked. The map was too simple.
“I’m going out to look at the battlefield,” Mat declared.
“You’re what?” Courtani asked. The Seanchan Banner-General was about as pretty as a bundle of sticks with armor bolted to it. Mat figured she must have eaten something very sour once and—upon finding the resulting grimace useful for frightening away birds—had decided to adopt it permanently.
“I’m going to go look at the battlefield,” Mat said again. He set aside his hat, then reached up over his head and grabbed the back of his rich, bulky Seanchan robes. He pulled the clothing, awkward shoulder pieces and all, over his head with a rustle of silk and lace, then tossed it aside.
That left him clad in only his neck scarf, his medallion and the strange breeches the Seanchan had given him, black and somewhat stiff. Min raised an eyebrow at his bare chest, which made him blush. But what did it matter? She was with Rand, so that made her practically his sister. There was Courtani, too, but Mat was not convinced that she was female. He was not convinced she was human, either.
Mat dug under the table for a moment, and pulled out a bundle he had stashed there earlier, then straightened up. Min folded her arms. Her new clothing looked very nice on her, a dress nearly as rich as the ones worn by Tuon. Min’s was a dark green shiny silk with black embroidery and wide, open sleeves that were at least long enough to stick your head into. They had done up her hair, too, sticking bits of metal into it, silver with inset firedrops. There were hundreds of them. If this whole Doomseer title did not work out for her, perhaps she could find work as a chandelier.
She was quite fetching in the outfit, actually. Odd. Mat had always considered Min on the boyish side, but now he found her appealing. Not that he looked.
The Seanchan in the room seemed stunned that Mat had suddenly stripped to the waist. He did not see why. They had servants that wore much less. Light, but they did.
“I’m tempted to do the same as you,” Min muttered, grabbing the front of her dress.
Mat froze, then sputt
ered. He must have swallowed a fly or something. “Burn me,” he said, throwing on the shirt he dug out of the bundle. “I’ll give you a hundred Tar Valon marks if you do it, just so I can tell the story.”
That earned him a glare, though he did not know why. She was the one talking about striding about like a bloody Aiel Maiden on her way to the sweat tent.
Min did not do it, and he was almost sad. Almost. He had to be careful around Min. He was certain that a smile in the wrong place would earn him a knifing not only from her, but from Tuon, and Mat was much happier with only one knife stuck in him at a time.
The foxhead medallion rested comfortably against his skin—Tuon had returned them all, and refused to keep a copy—as he tossed on his coat, also retrieved from the bundle.
“How did you retain those?” Captain-General Galgan asked. “I was under the impression that your clothing had been burned, Raven Prince.”
Galgan looked very silly with that one strip of white hair on his head, but Mat did not mention this. It was the Seanchan way. Folk could be funny, but he didn’t doubt Galgan could handle himself in a battle, however he looked.
“These?” Mat said, gesturing to his coat and shirt. “I really have no idea. They were just down there. I’m completely baffled.” He had been very pleased to learn that Seanchan guards—for all their stoic expressions and too-straight backs—responded to bribes like other people.
All but those Deathwatch Guards. Mat had learned not to try it with them; the glare they’d given him made him think that if he tried it again, he’d end up with his face in the mud. Perhaps it would be better not to even talk to a Deathwatch Guard again, as it was quite obvious that each and every one one of them had traded his sense of humor for an oversized chin.
In a pinch, though, he knew exactly who he would trust with Tuon’s safety.
Mat strode out, grabbing his ashandarei from against the wall as he passed. Courtani and Min followed him out. It was too bad Tylee was so good at what she did. Mat would rather have kept her behind for company and sent the scarecrow instead. Maybe he should have. Some of the Trollocs might have mistaken her for one of them.