Perrin shook his head. He knew the Aiel Waste held little water — it was one of the few things he knew about the Waste or the Aiel — but he had not thought it could be scarce enough to cause this reaction. “You're a long way from home, Gaul. Why are you here?”
“We search,” Gaul said slowly. “We look for He Who Comes With the Dawn.”
Perrin had heard that name before, under circumstances that made him sure who it meant. Light, it always comes back to Rand. I am tied to him like a mean horse for shoeing. “You are looking in the wrong direction, Gaul. I'm looking for him, too, and he is on his way to Tear.”
“Tear?” The Aiel sounded surprised. “Why...? But it must be. Prophecy says when the Stone of Tear falls, we will leave the Threefold Land at last.” That was the Aiel name for the Waste. “It says we will be changed, and find again what was ours, and was lost.”
“That may be. I don't know your prophecies, Gaul. Are you about ready to leave? Somebody could come any minute.”
“It is too late to run,” Gaul said, and a deep voice shouted, “The savage is lose!” Ten or a dozen whitecloaked men came running across the square, drawing swords, their conical helmets shining in the moonlight. Children of the Light.
As if he had all the time in the world, Gaul calmly lifted a dark cloth from his shoulders and wrapped it around his head, finishing with a thick black veil that hid his face except for his eyes. “Do you like to dance, Perrin Aybara?” he asked. With that, he darted away from the cage. Straight at the oncoming Whitecloaks.
For an instant they were caught by surprise, but an instant was apparently all the Aiel needed. He kicked the sword out of the grip of the first to reach him, then his stiffened hand struck like a dagger at the Whitecloak's throat, and he slid around the soldier as he fell. The next man's arm made a loud snap as Gaul broke it. He pushed that man under the feet of a third, and kicked a fourth in the face. It was like a dance, from one to the next without stopping or slowing, though the tripped fellow was climbing back to his feet, and the one with the broken arm had shifted his sword. Gaul danced on in the midst of them.
Perrin had only an amazed moment himself, for not all the Whitecloaks had put their attentions on the Aiel. Barely in time, he gripped the axe haft with both hands to block a sword thrust, swung... and wanted to cry out as the halfmoon blade tore the man's throat. But he had no time for crying out, none for regrets; more Whitecloaks followed before the first fell. He hated the gaping wounds the axe made, hated the way it chopped through mail to rend flesh beneath, split helmet and skull with almost equal ease. He hated it all. But he did not want to die.
Time seemed to compress and stretch out, both at once. His body felt as if he fought for hours, and breath rasped raw in his throat. Men seemed to move as though floating through jelly. They seemed to leap in an instant from where they started to where they fell. Sweat rolled down his face, yet he felt as cold as quenching water. He fought for his life, and he could not have said whether it lasted seconds or all night.
When he finally stood, panting and nearly stunned, looking at a dozen whitecloaked men lying on the paving blocks of the square, the moon appeared not to have moved at all. Some of the men groaned; others lay silent and still. Gaul stood among them, still veiled, still emptyhanded. Most of the men down were his work. Perrin wished they all were, and felt ashamed. The smell of blood and death was sharp and bitter.
“You do not dance the spears badly, Perrin Aybara.”
Head spinning, Perrin muttered, “I don't see how twelve men fought twenty of you and won, even if two of them are Hunters.”
“Is that what they say?” Gaul laughed softly. “Sarien and I were careless, being so long in these soft lands, and the wind was from the wrong direction, so we smelled nothing. We walked into them before we knew it. Well, Sarien is dead, and I was caged like a fool, so perhaps we paid enough. It is time for running now, wetlander. Tear; I will remember it.” At last he lowered the black veil. “May you always find water and shade, Perrin Aybara.” Turning, he ran into the night.
Perrin started to run, too, then realized he had a bloody axe in his hand Hastily he wiped the curved blade on a dead man's cloak. He's dead, burn me, and there's blood on it already. He made himself put the haft back through the loop on his belt before he broke into a trot.
At his second step he saw her, a slim shape at the edge of the square, in dark, narrow skirts. She turned to run; he could see they were divided for riding. She darted back into the street and vanished.
Lan met him before he reached the place where she had been standing. The Warder took in the cage sitting empty beneath the gibbet, the shadowed white mounds that caught the moonlight, and he tossed his head as if he were about to erupt. In a voice as tight and hard as a new wheel rim, he said, “Is this your work, blacksmith? The Light burn me! Is there anyone who can connect it to you?”
“A girl,” Perrin said. “I think she saw. I don't want you to hurt her, Lan! Plenty of others could have seen, too. There are lighted windows all around.”
The Warder grabbed Perrin's coat sleeve and gave him a push toward the inn. “I saw a girl running, but I thought... No matter. You dig the Ogier out and haul him down to the stable. After this, we need to get our horses to the docks as quickly as possible. The Light alone knows if there is a ship sailing tonight, or what I'll have to pay to hire one if there isn't. Don't ask questions, blacksmith! Do it! Run!”
Chapter 35
(Waves)
The Falcon
The Warder's long legs outdistanced Perrin's, and by the time he pushed through the throng outside the inn doors, Lan was already striding up the stairs, not seeming in any particular hurry. Perrin made himself walk as slowly. From the doorway behind him came grumbles about people pushing ahead of other people.
“Again?” Orban was saying, holding his silver cup up to be refilled. “Aye, very well. They lay in ambush close beside the road we traveled, and an ambush I did not expect so close to Remen. Screaming, they rushed upon us from the crowding brush. In a breath they were in our midst, their spears stabbing, slaying two of my best men and one of Gann's immediately. Aye, I knew Aiel when I saw them, and ...”
Perrin hurried up the stairs. Well, Orban knows them now.
Voices came from behind Moiraine's door. He did not want to hear what she had to say about this. He hurried past to stick his head into Loial's room.
The Ogier bed was a low, massive thing, twice as long and half as wide as any human bed Perrin had ever seen. It took up much of the room, and that was as large and as fine as Moiraine's. Perrin vaguely remembered Loial saying something about it being sung wood, and at any other time he might have stopped to admire those flowing curves that made it seem as if the bed had somehow grown where it stood. Ogier really must have stopped in Remen at some time in the past, for the innkeeper had also found a wooden armchair that fit Loial, and filled it with cushions. The Ogier was comfortably sitting on them in his shirt and breeches, idly scratching a bare ankle with a toenail as he wrote in a large, clothbound book on an arm of the chair.
“We're leaving!” Perrin said.
Loial gave a jump, nearly upsetting his ink bottle and almost dropping the book. “Leaving? We only just arrived,” he rumbled.
“Yes, leaving. Meet us at the stable as quickly as you can. And don't let anyone see you go. I think there's a back stair that runs down by the kitchen.” The smell of food at his end of the hall had been too strong for there not to be.