“They won’t be caught again.”

“No,” Ituralde said. “But they’ll be slow and cautious. If we fight them head on, we lose. If we hold, buy time, we win. That’s the only way out of this, Yoeli. To survive until help comes. If it’s coming.”

Yoeli nodded.

“Our next trap won’t kill as many,” Ituralde said, “but Trollocs are cowards at heart. The knowledge that any roadway could suddenly turn into a death trap will make them hesitate, and will earn us more time than would losing half of our men holding that wall.”

“All right,” Yoeli said. He hesitated. “But…doesn’t this mean that they’re anticipating us? This phase of the plan will work only because they expect our ambushes.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“So shouldn’t we do something different? You said that if we’ve got a hint that the enemy knows what we’re going to do, we should change plans.”

“You’re thinking about it too much, son. Go do as I commanded.”

“Er, yes, my Lord.” He hurried away.

This, Ituralde thought, is why I should never teach tactics. It was hard to explain to students that there was a rule that trumped all of the others: Always trust your instincts. The Trollocs would be afraid. He could use that. He’d use anything they gave him.

He didn’t like to think too long about that rule, lest he dwell on the fact that he’d violated it already. Because his every instinct screamed that he should have abandoned this city hours ago.

Chapter 29

A Terrible Feeling

“What is Perrin plotting, do you think?” Berelain asked as she strolled beside Faile and Alliandre.

Faile didn’t answer. The late afternoon was softly lit by a distant sun shrouded in clouds. Soon it would make the horizon burn as it sank down for the night. In two days, Perrin would go on trial. He’d delayed specifically, she knew, to gain more time for the Asha’man to work out the strange problem with gateways.

Their army was growing, still more people flooding to them. Scout reports indicated that the Whitecloak force was growing as well. More slowly, but still growing. In days like these, an army was a symbol of strength and—at the very least—food.

A stand of fingeroot trees glutted themselves on the water of the stream near Perrin’s war camp. Such strange plants they were, with those roots that dipped into the water. Trunks like flowing glass that had pooled while hardening. There was nothing like them up in Saldaea. It seemed that two wrong steps here could lead you into a swamp.

“No answer for me?” Berelain asked. She seemed distracted these days. “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps it would be good to send an envoy to the Whitecloak army. Do you think Perrin would allow me to go and speak with them? Perhaps I could make a personal appeal on his behalf.”