There was an odd scent in the air. A staleness. Like the inside of a room that had been left locked up for years. Stepper trotted onto the Jehannah Road. Grady and Neald flanked Perrin directly, and they smelled eager.

“Neald, you sure you’re ready?” Perrin asked as he turned the army to the southeast.

“I feel as strong as I ever have, my Lord,” Neald answered. “Strong enough to kill some Whitecloaks. I’ve always wanted a chance to do that.”

“Only a fool looks for a chance to kill,” Perrin said.

“Er, yes, my Lord,” Neald said. “Though, maybe I should mention—”

“No need to speak of that,” Grady interrupted.

“What?” Perrin asked.

Grady looked embarrassed. “It’s nothing, I’m sure.”

“Say it, Grady,” Perrin said.

The older man took a deep breath. “We tried to make a gateway this morning to send refugees back, and it didn’t work. One time earlier, it happened, too. Weaves fell apart and unraveled on us.”

Perrin frowned. “Other weaves work fine?”

“They do,” Neald said quickly.

“Like I said, my Lord,” Grady said. “I’m sure it will work when we try again. Just not enough practice.”

It wasn’t likely that they’d need Traveling to retreat from this battle—not with only two Asha’man and so large a force. But it was still disconcerting to lose the chance. It had better not happen with other weaves. He was depending on Grady and Neald to confuse and disrupt the initial Whitecloak charge.

Maybe we should turn back, Perrin thought, but squelched the thought immediately. He didn’t like having to make this decision. It made him sick to think of fighting, man against man, when their real enemy was the Dark One. But his hand had been forced.

They continued on, his hammer in its strap at his side. Hopper had implied it was no different from the axe. To the wolf, one weapon was like another.

Mayener Winged Guards rode beside him, red-painted breastplates gleaming, looking like graceful hawks ready to swoop. Alliandre’s soldiers, straightforward and determined, rode behind, like boulders poised to crush. Two Rivers longbowmen, like sapling oaks, were nimble yet sturdy. Aiel, like adders with razor teeth. Wise Ones, reluctantly drawn along, uncertain thunderheads boiling with unpredictable energy. He didn’t know if they would fight for him.

The rest of his army was less impressive. Thousands of men with a range of experience and age—some mercenaries, some refugees from Malden, some women who had seen the Maidens and Cha Faile and insisted on being trained alongside the men. Perrin hadn’t stopped them. The Last Battle was coming. Who was he to forbid those who wanted to fight?

He had considered forbidding Faile to come today, but he’d known how that would turn out. Instead, he placed her at the back, surrounded by Wise Ones and Cha Faile, accompanied by Aes Sedai.

Perrin gripped his reins tighter, listening to the marching feet. Few of the refugees had armor. Arganda had called them light infantry. Perrin had another term for them: “innocents with blades.” Why did they follow him? Couldn’t they see that they would fall first?