He slammed his hammer down over and over. Sparks flew in the air like splashes of water, far too many to come from one length of iron. He gave one final strike, then breathed in and out.
The lump hadn’t changed. Perrin growled and grabbed the tongs, setting the lump aside and taking a fresh bar from the coals. He had to finish this piece. It was so important. But what was he making?
He started pounding. I need to spend time with Faile, to figure things out, remove the awkwardness between us. But there’s no time! Those Light-blinded fools around him couldn’t take care of themselves. Nobody in the Two Rivers ever needed a lord before.
He worked for a time, then held up the second chunk of iron. It cooled, turning into a misshapen, flattened length about as long as his forearm. Another shoddy piece. He set it aside.
If you are unhappy, Hopper sent, take your she and leave. If you do not wish to lead the pack, another will. The wolf’s sending came as images of running across open fields, stalks of grain brushing along his snout. An open sky, a cool breeze, a thrill and lust for adventure. The scents of new rain, of wild pastures.
Perrin reached his tongs into the coals for the final bar of iron. It burned a distant, dangerous yellow. “I can’t leave.” He held the bar up toward the wolf. “It would mean giving in to being a wolf. It would mean losing myself. I won’t do that.”
He held the near-molten steel between them, and Hopper watched it, yellow pinpricks of light reflecting in the wolf’s eyes. This dream was so odd. In the past, Perrin’s ordinary dreams and the wolf dream had been separate. What did this blending mean?
Perrin was afraid. He’d come to a precarious truce with the wolf inside of him. Growing too close to the wolves was dangerous, but that hadn’t prevented him turning to them when seeking Faile. Anything for Faile. In doing so, Perrin had nearly gone mad, and had even tried to kill Hopper.
Perrin wasn’t nearly as in control as he’d assumed. The wolf within him could still reign.
Hopper yawned, letting his tongue loll. He smelled of sweet amusement.
“This is not funny.” Perrin set the final bar aside without working on it. It cooled, taking on the shape of a thin rectangle, not unlike the beginnings of a hinge.
Problems are not amusing, Young Bull, Hopper agreed. But you are climbing back and forth over the same wall. Come. Let us run.
Wolves lived in the moment; though they remembered the past and seemed to have an odd sense for the future, they didn’t worry about either. Not as men did. Wolves ran free, chasing the winds. To join them would be to ignore pain, sorrow and frustration. To be free…
That freedom would cost Perrin too much. He’d lose Faile, would lose his very self. He didn’t want to be a wolf. He wanted to be a man. “Is there a way to reverse what has happened to me?”
Reverse? Hopper cocked his head. To go backward was not a way of wolves.
“Can I…” Perrin struggled to explain. “Can I run so far that the wolves cannot hear me?”
Hopper seemed confused. No. “Confused” did not convey the pained sendings that came from Hopper. Nothingness, the scent of rotting meat, wolves howling in agony. Being cut off was not a thing Hopper could conceive.
Perrin’s mind grew fuzzy. Why had he stopped forging? He had to finish. Master Luhhan would be disappointed! Those lumps were terrible. He should hide them. Create something else, show he was capable. He could forge. Couldn’t he?
A hissing came from beside him. Perrin turned, surprised to see that one of the quenching barrels beside the hearth was boiling. Of course, he thought. The first pieces I finished. I dropped them in there.
Suddenly anxious, Perrin grabbed his tongs and reached into the turbulent water, steam engulfing his face. He found something at the bottom and brought it out with his tongs: a chunk of white-hot metal.
The glow faded. The chunk was actually a small steel figurine in the shape of a tall, thin man with a sword tied to his back. Each line on the figure was detailed, the ruffles of the shirt, the leather bands on the hilt of the tiny sword. But the face was distorted, the mouth open in a twisted scream.
Aram, Perrin thought. His name was Aram.
Perrin couldn’t show this to Master Luhhan! Why had he created such a thing?
The figurine’s mouth opened farther, screaming soundlessly. Perrin cried out, dropping it from the tongs and jumping back. The figurine fell to the wood floor and shattered.
Why do you think so much about that one? Hopper yawned a wide-jawed wolf yawn, tongue curling. It is common that a young pup challenges the pack leader. He was foolish, and you defeated him.
“No,” Perrin whispered. “It is not common for humans. Not for friends.”
The wall of the forge suddenly melted away, becoming smoke. It felt natural for that to happen. Outside, Perrin saw an open, daylit street. A city with broken-windowed shops.
“Malden,” Perrin said.
A smoky, translucent image of himself stood outside. The image wore no coat; his bare arms bulged with muscles. He kept his beard short, but it made him look older, more intense. Did Perrin really look that imposing? A squat fortress of a man with golden eyes that seemed to glow, carrying a gleaming half-moon axe as large as a man’s head.
There was something wrong about that axe. Perrin stepped out of the smithy, passing through the shadowy version of himself. When he did, he became that image, axe heavy in his hand, work clothes vanishing and battle gear replacing it.