“Infantry, ready behind the archers!” Perrin yelled. “Arganda, on the left flank. Gallenne, on the right! I’ll call if I need you to sweep for us.” He turned to the foot soldiers—mainly former refugees. “Keep in a tight formation, boys. Keep your shields up and your spear arms flexed. Archers, arrows to bow!”

Faile felt herself start to sweat. This was wrong. Surely Perrin wasn’t going to…

He still wasn’t looking at the Whitecloaks below them. He was staring at the riverbed on the other side, perhaps a hundred yards or so beyond the heights, which ended in a steep drop-off because of the ancient river’s washing. Perrin looked as if seeing something the rest of them weren’t. And with those golden eyes of his, perhaps he was doing just that.

“My Lord,” Berelain said, moving her horse up beside him, sounding desperate. “If you must attack, could you spare the commander of the Whitecloaks? He might be useful for political reasons.”

“What are you talking about?” Perrin said. “The whole reason I’m here is to keep Damodred alive.”

“You…what?” Berelain asked.

“My Lord!” Grady suddenly exclaimed, riding nearby. “I sense channeling!”

“What’s that, there!” Jori Congar yelled, pointing. “Something in the fog. It’s…”

Faile squinted. There, just below the army in the former riverbed, figures began to rise as if from the ground. Misshapen creatures with animal heads and bodies, half again as tall as Perrin, bearing brutish weapons. Moving among them were sleek, eyeless figures in black.

Fog streamed around them as they strode forward, trailing wisps. The creatures continued to appear. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Thousands.

An entire army of Trollocs and Myrddraal.

“Grady, Neald!” Perrin bellowed. “Light!”

Brilliant white globes appeared in the air and hung there. More and more Trollocs were rising from the fog, as if it were spawning them, but they seemed bewildered by the lights. They looked up, squinting and shielding their eyes.

Perrin grunted. “How about that? They weren’t ready for us; they thought they’d have an easy shot at the Whitecloaks.” He turned, looking down the lines of surprised soldiers. “Well, men, you wanted to follow me to the Last Battle? We’re going to get a taste of it right here! Archers, loose! Let’s send those Shadowspawn back to the pit that birthed them!”

He raised his newly forged hammer, and the battle began.

Chapter 41

An Unexpected Ally

Galad ran with his shield raised high. Bornhald joined him, also holding a shield and tossing aside his lantern as those unnatural lights flared in the air. Neither spoke. The hail of arrows would begin momentarily.

They reached the horse pickets, where a pair of nervous grooms handed over their horses. Galad lowered his shield, feeling terribly exposed as he swung onto Stout’s back. He turned the horse and got the shield back up. He could hear the familiar twang of bows, distant, arrows snapping as they rained down.