The Dragon Reborn - By Robert Jordan Page 0,182

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 half-moon 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 white-cloaked 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 empty-handed. 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 hands. 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

The Falcon

The Warder’s long legs outdistanced Perrin’s, and by the time he