This fellow Weiramon — he had heard the graybeard's name yesterday — was a stone fool. No foreguard out, and no scouts, or he'd know what was bloody in store for him. For that matter, the way the hills lay, the way the valley twisted, the Aiel could not see the column, either, only its thin dust rising skyward. They certainly had had scouts to get themselves in place; they could not just be waiting there on the off chance.
Idly whistling “Dance with Jak o' the Shadows,” he put the looking glass back to his eye and studied the hilltops. Yes. The Aiel commander had left a few men where they could signal a warning just before the column entered the killing ground. But even they could not possibly see anything yet. In a few minutes the first Tairens would come in sight, but until then...
It came as a shock when he heeled Pips to a gallop downslope. What under the Light am I doing? Well, he could not just stand by and let them all go their deaths like geese to the knife. He would warn them. That was all. Tell what lay in wait ahead, then he was gone.
The Cairhienin outriders saw him coming before he reached the bottom of the slope, of course, heard Pips' deadflat charge. Two or three lowered their lances. Mat did not precisely enjoy having a foot and a half of steel pointed at him, and still less three times over, but obviously one man was no threat, even riding like a madman. They let him pass, and he swung in near the lead Cairhienin lords long enough to shout, “Halt here! Now! By order of the Lord Dragon! Else he'll channel your head into your belly and feed you your own feet for breakfast!”
His heels dug in, and Pips sprang ahead. He only glanced back to be sure they were doing what he said — they were, if showing some confusion over it; the hills hid them from the Aiel still, and once their dust settled, the Aiel would have no way of knowing they were there — and then he was lying low on the gelding's neck, whipping Pips with his hat and galloping up alongside the infantry.
If I wait to let Weiramon pass the orders, it'll be too late. That's all. He would give his warning and go.
The foot marched in blocks of two hundred or so pikemen, with one mounted officer in the front of each and maybe fifty archers, or crossbowmen at the rear. Most looked at him curiously as he dashed by, Pips' heels kicking up spurts of dust, but none broke stride. Some of the officers' mounts frisked as if the riders wanted to come see what had him in such a hurry, but none of them left their places either. Good discipline. They would need it.
Defenders of the Stone brought up the tail end of the Tairens; in their breastplates and puffy blackandgold striped coatsleeves, plumes of various colors on the rimmed helmets marking officers and underofficers. The rest were armored the same, but bore the colors of various lords on their sleeves. The silkcoated lords themselves rode at the very front in ornate breastplates and large white plumes, their banners rippling behind them in a rising breeze toward the city.
Reining around in front of them so quickly that Pips danced, Mat shouted, “Halt, in the name of the Lord Dragon!”
It seemed the fastest way to stop them, but for a moment he thought they meant to ride right over him. Almost at the last moment, a young lord he remembered from outside Rand's tent flung up a hand, and then they were all drawing rein in a flurry of shouted orders that ran back along the column. Weiramon was not there; not a lord was as much as ten years older than Mat.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the fellow who had signaled. Dark eyes glared arrogantly down a sharp nose, chin lifted so his pointed beard looked ready to stab. Sweat trickling down his face spoiled it only a little. “The Lord Dragon himself gave me this command. Who are you to —?”
He cut off as another man Mat knew caught his sleeve, whispering urgently. Potatofaced Estean looked haggard beneath his helmet as we'll as hot — the Aiel had wrung him out concerning conditions in the city, so Mat had heard — but he had gambled at cards with Mat in Tear. He knew exactly who Mat was. Estean's breastplate alone had chips in the ornate gilding; none of the others had done more than ride around looking pretty. Yet.
Sharpnose's chin came down as he listened, and when Estean left off, he spoke in a more moderate tone. “No offense intended... ah... Lord Mat. I am Melanril, of House Asegora. How may I serve the Lord Dragon?” Moderation slipped into actual hesitation at that last, and Estean broke in anxiously.
“Why should we 'halt'? I know the Lord Dragon told us to hold back, Mat, but burn my soul, there's no honor in sitting and letting the Aiel do all the fighting. Why should we be saddled with chasing them after they're broken? Besides, my father is in the city, and...” He trailed off under Mat's stare.
Mat shook his head, fanning himself with his hat. The fools were not even where they should be. There was no chance of turning them back, either. If Melanril would go — and looking at him, Mat was not sure he would, even on supposed orders from the Lord Dragon — there was still no chance. He sat his saddle in plain sight of the Aiel lookouts. If the column started turning around, they would know themselves discovered, and very likely they would attack while the Tairens and the Cairhienin pike were tangled up. It would be a slaughter as surely as if they had gone ahead in ignorance.
“Where is Weiramon?”
“The Lord Dragon sent him back to Tear,” Melanril replied slowly. “To deal with the Illianer pirates, and the bandits on the Plains of Maredo. He was reluctant to go, of course, even for so great a responsibility, but... Pardon, Lord Mat, but if the Lord Dragon sent you, how is it that you don't know —”
Mat cut him off. “I am no lord. And if you want to question what Rand lets people know, ask him.” That set the fellow back; he was not about to question the Lord bloody Dragon about anything. Weiramon was a fool, but at least he was old enough to have been in a battle. Except for Estean, looking like a sack of turnips tied on his horse, all this lot had seen was a tavern fight or two. And maybe a few duels... Fat lot of good that would do them. “Now, you all listen to me. When you pass through that gap ahead between the next two hills, Aiel are going to come down on you like an avalanche.”
He might as well have told them there was going to be a ball, with the women all sighing to meet a Tairen lordling. Eager grins broke out, and they, started dancing their horses about, slapping each other on the shoulder and boasting how many they would kill. Estean was odd man out, just sighing and easing his sword in its scabbard.
“Don't stare up there!” Mat snapped. The fools. In a minute they would be calling the charge! “Keep your eyes on me. On me!”
It was who he was friends with that settled them down. Melanril and the others in their fine, unmarked armor frowned impatiently, not understanding why he did not want to let them begin the business of killing Aiel savages. If he had not been Rand's friend they probably would have trampled him and Pips both.
He could let them go charging off. They would do it piecemeal, leaving the pikes and the Cairhienin horse behind, though the Cairhienin might join in once they realized what was happening. And they would all die. The smart thing would be to let them get on with it while he headed in the opposite direction. The only trouble was that once these idiots let the Aiel know they were discovered, those Aiel might decide to do something fancy, like swinging around to take the strungout fools in the flank. If that happened, there was no certainty that he would get clear.
“What the Lord Dragon wants you to do,” he told them, “is to ride ahead slowly, just as if there wasn't an Aiel inside a hundred miles. As soon as the pikes are through the gap, they'll form a hollow square, and you get yourselves inside it double quick.”
“Inside!” Melanril protested. Angry mutters rose from the other young lords — except Estean, who looked thoughtful. “There is no honor in hiding behind stinking —”
“You bloody do it,” Mat roared, reining Pips close to Melanril's horse, “or if the bloody Aiel don't kill you, Rand will, and whatever he leaves, I'll chop into sausage myself!” This was taking too long; the Aiel had to be wondering what they were talking about by now. “With any luck, you will be set before the Aiel can hit you. If you have horsebows, use them. Otherwise, hold tight. You'll get your bloody charge, and you'll know when, but if you move too early...!” He could almost feel time running down.
Setting the butt of his spear in his stirrup like a lance, he heeled Pips back down the column. When he glanced over his shoulder, Melanril and the others were talking and peering after him. At least they were not haring up the valley.
The commander of the pikemen proved to be a pale, slender Cairhienin, half a head shorter than Mat and mounted on a gray gelding that looked past ready for the pasture. Daerid had hard eyes, though, an oftbroken nose, and three white scars crisscrossing his face, one of them not very old. He took off his bellshaped helmet while he talked with Mat; the front of his head was shaved. No lord, he. Maybe he had been part of the army, before the civil war started. Yes, his men knew how to form a hedgehog. He had not faced Aiel, but he had faced brigands, and Andoran cavalry. There was an implication that he had fought other Cairhienin as well, for one of the Houses contesting for the throne. Daerid sounded neither eager nor reluctant; he sounded like a man with a job of work to do.
The column stepped off as Mat turned Pips' head the other way. They marched with a measured pace, and a quick look behind showed the Tairens' horses moving no faster.
He let Pips go a little quicker than a walk, but not much. It seemed he could feel Aiel eyes on his back, feel them wondering what he had said, and where he was going now and why. Just a messenger who's delivered his message and is going away. Nothing to worry about. He certainly hoped that was what the Aiel thought, but his shoulders did not untense until he was sure they could no longer see him.
The Cairhienin were still waiting where he had left them. They still had their flankers out, too. Banners and con made a thicket where the lords had gathered, one in ten or better of the Cairhienin's number. Most of them wore plain breastplates, and where there was gilt or silverwork, it was battered as though a drunken blacksmith had been at it. Some of their mounts made Daerid's look like Lan's warhorse. Could they even do what was needed? But the faces that turned to him were hard, the gazes harder.