The Gathering Storm

  “Next!” he bellowed as he checked the first wheel’s hub. The comment was directed at the crowd of people waiting to speak with him.

  “My Lord,” a voice said. It was deep and rough, like wood scraping against wood. Gerard Arganda, First Captain of Ghealdan. His scent was of well-oiled armor. “I must press the issue of our departure. Allow me to ride ahead with Her Majesty.”

  The “Her Majesty” he referred to was Alliandre, Queen of Ghealdan. Perrin continued working with the wheel; he wasn’t as familiar with carpentry as he was with smithing, but his father had taught each of his sons to recognize signs of trouble in a wagon. Better to fix the problem before leaving than to be stranded halfway to the destination. Perrin ran his fingers across the smooth, brown hickory. The grain was clearly visible, and he tested for cracks with questing fingers, searching each point of stress. All four wheels looked good.

  “My Lord?” Arganda asked.

  “We all march together,” Perrin said. “That’s my order, Arganda. I won’t have the refugees thinking that we’re abandoning them.”

  Refugees. There were over a hundred thousand of those to care for. A hundred thousand! Light, that was far more than lived in the entire Two Rivers. And Perrin was in charge of feeding every one of them. Wagons. Many men didn’t understand the importance of a good wagon. He lay down on his back, preparing to inspect the axles, and that gave him a view of the overcast sky, partially blocked by Malden’s nearby city wall.

  The city was large for one this far north in Altara. It was almost more of a fortress than a city, with daunting walls and towers. Until the day before, the land around this city had been home to the Shaido Aiel, but they were gone now, many killed, others fled, their captives freed by an alliance between Perrin’s forces and the Seanchan.

  The Shaido had left him two things: a scent of blood on the air and a hundred thousand refugees to care for. Though he was happy to give them their freedom, his goal in liberating Malden had been far different: the rescue of Faile.

  Another Aiel group had been advancing on his position, but they’d slowed, then camped, and were no longer rushing toward Malden. Perhaps they’d been warned by Shaido fleeing the battle that they had a large army before them, one that had defeated the Shaido despite their channelers. It seemed this new group behind Perrin had as little desire to engage him as he had to engage them.

  That gave him time. A little bit, at least.

  Arganda was still watching. The captain wore his polished breastplate and had his slotted helmet under his arm. The squat man wasn’t a puffed-up fluff of an officer, but a common man who had risen through the ranks. He fought well and did as instructed. Usually.

  “I’m not going to bend on this, Arganda,” Perrin said, pulling himself along the damp ground beneath the wagon.

  “Could we at least use gateways instead?” Arganda asked, kneeling down, graying hair—shorn short—nearly brushing the ground as he peeked under the wagon.

  “The Asha’man are near dead from fatigue,” Perrin snapped. “You know that.”

  “They’re too tired for a large gateway,” Arganda said, “but maybe they could send a small group. My lady is exhausted from her captivity! Surely you don’t mean for her to march!”

  “The refugees are tired too,” Perrin said. “Alliandre can have a horse to ride, but she’s leaving when the rest of us do. Light send that’s soon.”

  Arganda sighed, but nodded. He stood up as Perrin ran fingers along the axle. He could tell stress in wood with a glance, but he preferred touch. Touch was more reliable. There was always a crack or a splintering where wood weakened, and you could feel it near to breaking. Wood was reliable like that.

  Unlike men. Unlike himself.

  He gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to think about that. He had to keep working, had to keep doing something to distract himself. He liked to work. He’d been given far too few opportunities for it lately. “Next!” he said, voice echoing against the bottom of the wagon.

  “My Lord, we should attack!” a boisterous voice declared from beside the vehicle.

  Perrin thumped his head back against the well-trampled grass, closing his eyes. Bertain Gallenne, Lord Captain of the Winged Guards, was to Mayene what Arganda was to Ghealdan. Aside from that single similarity, the two captains were about as different as men could be. Perrin could see Bertain’s large, beautifully worked boots, with clasps shaped like hawks, from beneath the wagon.

  “My Lord,” Bertain continued. “A fine charge from the Winged Guard would scatter that Aiel rabble, of this I’m certain. Why, we easily dealt with the Aiel here in the city!”

  “We had the Seanchan, then,” Perrin said, finishing with the rear axle and wriggling his way to the front to check the other one. He wore his old, stained coat. Faile would chastise him for that. He was supposed to present himself as a lord. But would she really expect him to wear a fine coat if he was going to spend an hour lying in the muddy grass, looking at the bottoms of wagons?

  Faile wouldn’t want him to be in the muddy grass in the first place. Perrin hesitated, hand on the front axle, thinking of her raven hair and distinctive Saldaean nose. She held the sum total of his love. She was everything to him.

  He had succeeded—he’d saved her. So why did he feel as if things were nearly as bad as they had been? He should rejoice, he should be ecstatic, should be relieved. He’d worried so much about her during her captivity. And yet now, with her safety secure, everything still felt wrong. Somehow. In ways he couldn’t explain.

  Light! Would nothing just work as it was supposed to? He reached down for his pocket, wanting to finger the knotted cord he’d once carried there. But he’d thrown that away. Stop it! he thought. She’s back. We can go back to the way it was before. Can’t we?

  “Yes, well,” Bertain continued, “I suppose the departure of the Seanchan could be a problem in an assault. But that Aiel group camped out there is smaller than what we already defeated. And if you are worried, you could send word to that Seanchan general and bring her back. Surely she would wish to fight alongside us again!”

  Perrin forced himself back to the moment. His own foolish problems were irrelevant; right now, he needed to get these wagons moving. The front axle was good. He turned and pushed himself out from underneath the wagon.

  Bertain was of medium height, though the three plumes rising from his helmet made him look taller. He had on his red eye patch—Perrin didn’t know where he’d lost the eye—and his armor gleamed. He seemed excited, as if he thought Perrin’s silence meant they would attack.

  Perrin stood, dusting off his plain brown trousers. “We’re leaving,” he said, then held up a hand to forbid further argument. “We defeated the septs here, but we had them dosed with forkroot and there were damane on our side. We’re tired, wounded, and we have Faile back. There’s no further reason to fight. We run.”

  Bertain didn’t look satisfied, but he nodded and turned away, stomping across the muddy ground toward where his men sat their mounts. Perrin looked at the small group of people who waited in a cluster around the wagon to speak with him. Once, this kind of business had frustrated Perrin. It seemed like pointless work, as many of the supplicants already knew what his answer would be.

  But they needed to hear those answers from him, and Perrin had come to understand the importance of that. Besides, their questions helped distract him from the strange tension he felt at having rescued Faile.

  He walked toward the next wagon in line, his small entourage following him. There were a good fifty of the wagons set in a long caravan train. The first ones were loaded with salvage from Malden; the middle ones were in the process of being treated likewise, and he had only two left to inspect. He had wanted to be well out of Malden before sunset. That would probably carry him far enough away to be safe.

  Unless these new Shaido decided to give chase in revenge. With the number of people Perrin had to move, a blind man would be able to track them.

  The sun droo
ped toward the horizon, a shining spot behind the cloud cover. Light, but this was a mess, with the chaos of organizing refugees and separate army camps. Getting away was supposed to be the easy part!

  The Shaido camp was a disaster. His people had scavenged and packed many of the abandoned tents. Now cleared, the ground around the city was trampled weeds and mud, littered with refuse. The Shaido, being Aiel, had preferred to camp outside the city walls, rather than within them. They were a strange people, no denying that. Who would spurn a nice bed, not to mention a better military position, to stay outside in tents?

  Aiel despised cities, though. Most of the buildings had either been burned during the initial Shaido assault or looted for riches. Doors beaten down, windows shattered, possessions abandoned on the streets and trampled by gai’shain running back and forth to fetch water.

  People still scurried about like insects, moving through the city gates and around the former Shaido camp, grabbing what they could to stow it for transport. They’d have to leave the wagons behind once they decided to Travel—Grady couldn’t make a gateway big enough to pass a wagon through—but for now, the vehicles would be a big help. There were also a good number of oxen; someone else was inspecting those, making certain they were fit to pull the wagons. The Shaido had let many of the city’s horses run off. A shame, that. But you made use of what you had.

  Perrin reached the next wagon, beginning his inspection with the vehicle’s long tongue, to which oxen would be harnessed. “Next!”

  “My Lord,” said a scratchy voice, “I believe that I am next.”

  Perrin glanced over at the speaker: Sebban Balwer, his secretary. The man had a dry, pinched face and a perpetual stoop that made him look almost like a roosting vulture. Though his coat and breeches were clean, it seemed to Perrin that they should shed puffs of dust each time Balwer stepped. He smelled musty, like an old book.

  “Balwer,” Perrin said, running his fingers over the tongue, then checking the harness straps, “I thought you were speaking with the captives.”

  “I have, indeed, been busy with my work there,” Balwer said. “However, I grew curious. Did you have to let the Seanchan take all of the captive Shaido channelers with them?”

  Perrin glanced at the musty secretary. The Wise Ones who could channel had been knocked unconscious by forkroot; they’d been given over to the Seanchan while still unconscious, to do with as they pleased. The decision had not made Perrin popular with the Aiel among his allies, but he would not have those channelers running about to take revenge on him.

  “I don’t see why I would want them,” he said to Balwer.

  “Well, my Lord, there is much of great interest to learn. For instance, it appears that many of the Shaido are ashamed of their clan’s behavior. The Wise Ones themselves were at odds. Also, they have had dealings with some very curious individuals who offered them objects of power from the Age of Legends. Whoever they were, they could make gateways.”

  “Forsaken,” Perrin said with a shrug, stooping down on one knee to check the right front wheel. “I doubt we’ll figure out which ones. Probably had a disguise on.”

  From the corner of his eyes, he saw Balwer purse his lips at that comment.

  “You disagree?” Perrin asked.

  “No, my Lord,” he said. “The ‘objects’ the Shaido were given are very suspect, by my estimation. The Aiel were duped, though for what reason, I cannot yet fathom. However, if we had more time to search the city. . . .”

  Light! Was every person in the camp going to ask him for something they knew they couldn’t have? He got down on the ground to check the back of the wheel hub. Something about it bothered him. “We already know that the Forsaken oppose us, Balwer. They won’t rightly welcome Rand in with open arms to seal them away again, or whatever it is he’s going to do.”

  Blasted colors, showing Rand in his mind’s eye! He pushed those away again. They appeared whenever he thought of Rand or Mat, bringing visions of them.

  “Anyway,” Perrin continued, “I don’t see what you need me to do. We’ll take the Shaido gai’shain with us. The Maidens captured their fair share. You can interrogate them. But we’re leaving this place.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Balwer said. “It’s just a shame we lost those Wise Ones. My experience has been that they are those among the Aiel with the most . . . understanding.”

  “The Seanchan wanted them,” Perrin said. “So they got them. I wouldn’t let Edarra bully me on the point, and what is done is done. What do you expect of me, Balwer?”

  “Perhaps a message could be sent,” Balwer said, “to ask some questions of the Wise Ones when they awake. I. . . .” He stopped, then stooped down to glance at Perrin. “My Lord, this is rather distracting. Couldn’t we find someone else to inspect the wagons?”

  “Everyone else is either too tired or too busy,” Perrin said. “I want most of the refugees waiting in the camps to move when we give the marching order. And most of our soldiers are scavenging the city for supplies—each handful of grain they find will be needed. Half the stuff’s spoiled anyway. I can’t help with that work, since I need to be where people can find me.” He’d accepted that, cross though it made him.

  “Yes, my Lord,” Balwer said. “But surely you can be somewhere accessible without crawling under wagons.”

  “It’s work I can do while people talk to me,” Perrin said. “You don’t need my hands, just my tongue. And that tongue is telling you to forget the Aiel.”

  “But—”

  “There is nothing more I can do, Balwer,” Perrin said firmly, glancing up at him through the spokes of the wheel. “We’re heading north. I’m done with the Shaido; they can burn for all I care.”

  Balwer pursed his thin lips again, and he smelled just slightly of annoyance. “Of course, my Lord,” he said, giving a quick bow. Then he withdrew.

  Perrin squirmed out and stood up, nodding to a young woman who stood in a dirty dress and worn shoes at the side of the line of wagons. “Go fetch Lyncon,” he said. “Tell him to have a look at this wheel hub. I think the bearing’s been stripped, and the blasted thing looks ready to roll right off.”

  The young woman nodded, running away. Lyncon was a master carpenter who had been unfortunate enough to be visiting relatives in Cairhien when the Shaido attacked. He’d had the will beaten nearly out of him. Perhaps he should have been the one to inspect the wagons, but with that haunted look in his eyes, Perrin wasn’t sure how far he trusted the man to do a proper inspection. He seemed good enough at fixing problems when they were pointed out to him, though.

  And the truth was, as long as Perrin kept moving, he felt he was doing something, making progress. Not thinking about other issues. Wagons were easy to fix. They weren’t like people, not at all.

  Perrin turned, glancing across the empty camp, pocked with firepits and discarded rags. Faile was walking back toward the city; she’d been organizing some of her followers to scout the area. She was striking. Beautiful. That beauty wasn’t just in her face or her lean figure, it was in how easily she commanded people, how quickly she always knew what to do. She was clever in a way Perrin never had been.

  He wasn’t stupid; he just liked to think about things. But he’d never been good with people, not like Mat or Rand. Faile had shown him that he didn’t need to be good with people, or even with women, as long as he could make one person understand him. He didn’t have to be good at talking to anyone else as long as he could talk to her.

  But now he couldn’t find the words to say. He worried about what had happened to her during her captivity, but the possibilities didn’t bother him. They made him angry, but none of what had happened was her fault. You did what you had to to survive. He respected her for her strength.

  Light! he thought. I’m thinking again! Need to keep working. “Next!” he bellowed, stooping down to continue his inspection of the wagon.

  “If I’d seen your face and nothing else, lad,” a hearty voice said, “I’d assume that we’
d lost this battle.”

  Perrin turned with surprise. He hadn’t realized that Tam al’Thor was one of those waiting to speak with him. That crowd had thinned, but there were still some messengers and attendants. At the back, the blocky, solid sheepherder leaned on his quarterstaff as he waited. His hair had all gone to silver. Perrin could remember a time when it had been a deep black. Back when Perrin had just been a boy, before he’d known a hammer or a forge.

  Perrin’s fingers reached down, touching the hammer at his waist. He’d chosen it over the axe. It had been the right decision, but he’d still lost control of himself in the battle for Malden. Was that what bothered him?

  Or was it how much he’d enjoyed the killing?

  “What do you need, Tam?” he asked.

  “I’m only bringing a report, my Lord,” Tam said. “The Two Rivers men are organized for the march, each man with two tents on his back, just in case. We couldn’t use water from the city, on account of the forkroot, so I sent some lads to the aqueduct to fill some barrels there. We could use a wagon to bring them back.”

  “Done,” Perrin said, smiling. Finally, someone who did things that were needed without having to ask first! “Tell the Two Rivers men that I intend to have them back home as soon as possible. The moment Grady and Neald are strong enough to make a gateway. That could be a while, though.”

  “That’s appreciated, my Lord,” Tam said. It felt so strange for him to use a title. “Can I speak to you alone for a moment, though?”

  Perrin nodded, noticing that Lyncon was coming—his limp was distinctive—to look at the wagon. Perrin moved with Tam away from the group of attendants and guards, walking into the shadow of Malden’s wall. Moss grew green against the base of the massive blocks making up the fortification; it was strange that the moss was far brighter than the trampled, muddied weeds under their feet. Nothing but moss seemed green this spring.

  “What is it, Tam?” Perrin asked as soon as they were far enough away.

  Tam rubbed his face; there was gray stubble coming in. Perrin had pushed his men hard these last few days, and there hadn’t been time for shaving. Tam wore a simple blue wool coat, and the thick cloth was probably a welcome shield against the mountain breeze.