Dannil readied ten Companions to escort Perrin, all young men who should have been laughing and carousing with him, all with bows ready to see him safe. Aram did not join them as Dannil led the way down the dark, dirt street; it was Perrin he was with and no one else. Faile kept hard by Perrin's side, dark eyes shining in the moonlight, scanning the surroundings as though she were his whole protection.
Where the Old Road entered Emond's Field the blocking wagons had been drawn aside to admit the Whitecloak patrol, twenty snowy-cloaked men with lances who sat their horses in burnished armor, no less impatient than their stamping mounts. They stood out in the night for any eye, and most Trollocs could see as well in darkness as Perrin, but the Whitecloaks insisted on their patrols. Sometimes their scouting had brought warnings, and maybe their harassment kept the Trollocs a little off balance. It would have been good, though, if he had known what they were doing before it was done.
A cluster of villagers and farmers wearing bits of old armor and a few rusty helmets stood clustered around a man in a farmer's coat lying in the roadway. They gave way for Faile and him, and he went to one knee beside the mart.
The odor of blood was strong; sweat glistened on the man's moon-shadowed face. A thumb-thick Trolloc arrow like a small spear was stuck through his chest. "Perrin – Goldeneyes," he muttered hoarsely, laboring for breath. "Must – get through – to Perrin – Goldeneyes."
"Has someone sent for one of the Aes Sedai?" Perrin demanded, lifting the man as gently as he could, cradling his head. He did not listen for the answer; he did not think this man would last till an Aes Sedai came. "I am Perrin."
"Goldeneyes? I – cannot see – very well." His wide, wild stare was right at Perrin's face; if he could see at all, the fellow must see his eyes shining golden in the dark.
"I am Perrin Goldeneyes," he said reluctantly.
The man seized his collar, pulling his face close with surprising strength. "We are – coming. Sent to – tell you. We are co —" His head fell back, eyes staring at nothing now.
"The Light be with his soul," Faile murmured, slinging her bow across her back.After a moment Perrin pried the man's fingers loose. "Does anyone know him?" The Two Rivers men exchanged glances, shook their heads. Perrin looked up at the mounted Whitecloaks. "Did he say anything else while you were bringing him in? Where did you find him?"
Jaret Byar stared down at him, gaunt-faced and hollow-eyed, an image of death. The other Whitecloaks looked away, but Byar always made himself meet Perrin's yellow eyes, especially at night, when they glowed. Byar growled under his breath – Perrin heard "Shadowspawn!" – and booted his horse in the ribs. The patrol galloped into the village, as eager to be away from Perrin as from Trollocs. Aram stared after them, expressionless, one hand over his shoulder to finger his sword hilt.
"They said they found him three or four miles south." Dannil hesitated, then added, "They say the Trollocs are all scattered out in little bunches, Perrin. Maybe they're finally giving up."
Perrin laid the stranger back down. We are coming. "Keep a close watch. Maybe some family who tried to hold on to their farm is finally coming in." He did not believe anyone could have survived out there this long, but it might be so. "Don't shoot anybody by mistake." He staggered to his feet, and Faile put a hand on his arm.
"It is time you were in bed, Perrin. You have to sleep sometime."
He only looked at her. He should have made her stay in Tear. Somehow, he should have made her. If he had only thought well enough he could have.
One of the runners, a curly-haired boy about chest-high, slipped through the Two Rivers men to tug at Perrin's sleeve. Perrin did not know him; there were many families in from the countryside. "There's something moving in the Westwood, Lord Perrin. They sent me to tell you."
"Don't call me that," Perrin told him sharply. If he did not stop the children, the Companions were going to start using it, too. "Go tell them I will be there." The boy darted away.
"You belong in your bed," Faile said firmly. "Tomas can handle any attack very well."
"It isn't an attack, or the boy would have said so, and somebody would be sounding Cenn's bugle."
She hung on to his arm, trying to pull him toward the inn, and so she was dragged along when he started the opposite way. After a few futile minutes she gave up and pretended she had been merely holding his arm all along. But she muttered to herself. She still seemed to think that if she spoke softly enough he could not hear. She began with "foolish," "mule-headed," and "muscle-brained"; after that it escalated. It was quite a little procession, her muttering at him, Aram heeling him, Dannil and the ten Companions surrounding him like a guard of honor. If he had not been so tired, he would have felt a proper fool.
There were guards spaced in small clusters all along the sharp stake fence to watch the night, each with a boy for a runner. At the west end of the village the men on guard were all gathered up against the inside of the broad barrier, fingering spears and bows as they peered toward the Westwood. Even with the moonlight, the trees had to be blackness in their eyes.
Tomas's cloak seemed to make parts of him vanish in the night. Bain and Chiad were with him; for some reason the two Maidens had spent every night at this end of Emond's Field since Loial and Gaul left. "I'd not have bothered you," the Warder said to Perrin, "but there only seems to be one out there, and I thought you might be able to..."
Perrin nodded. Everyone knew about his vision, especially in darkness. The Two Rivers people seemed to think it something special, something that marked him out an idiot hero. What the Warders thought, or the Aes Sedai, he had no idea. He was too tired to care tonight. Seven days, and how many attacks?
The edge of the Westwood lay five hundred paces away. Even to his eyes the trees ran together in shadows. Something moved. Something big enough to be a Trolloc. A big shape carrying.... The burden lifted an arm. A human. A tall shadow carrying a human.
"We will not shoot!" he shouted. He wanted to laugh; in fact, he realized he was laughing. "Come on! Come on, Loial!"
The dim shape lumbered forward faster than a man could run, resolving into the Ogier, speeding toward the village, carrying Gaul.
Two Rivers men shouted encouragement as if it were a race. "Run, Ogier! Run! Run!" Perhaps it was a race; more than one assault had come out of those woods.
Short of the stakes Loial slowed with a lurch; there was barely room for his thick legs to edge through the barrier sideways. Once on the village side, he let the Aielman down and sank to the ground, leaning back against the hedge, panting, tufted ears drooping wearily. Gaul limped on one leg until he could sit, too, with Bain and Chiad both fussing over his left thigh, where his breeches were ripped and black with dry blood. He only had two spears left, and his quiver gaped emptily. Loial's axe was gone, too.
"You fool Ogier," Perrin laughed fondly. "Going off like that. I ought to let Daise Congar switch you for a runaway. At least you're alive. At least you're back." His voice sank at that. Alive. And back in Emond's Field.
"We did it, Perrin," Loial panted, a tired drumlike boom. "Four days ago. We closed the Waygate. It will take the Elders or an Aes Sedai to open it again."
"He carried me most of the way from the mountains," Gaul said. "A Nightrunner and perhaps fifty Trollocs chased us the first three days, but Loial outran them." He was trying to push the Maidens away without much success.
"Lie still, Shaarad," Chiad snapped, "or I will say I have touched you armed and allow you to choose how your honor stands." Faile gave a delighted laugh. Perrin did not understand, but the remark reduced the imperturbable Aielman to splutters. He let the Maidens tend his leg.