Towers of Midnight (The Wheel of Time 13)

"As I said, my Lord," Balwer continued, "they are being passed around in certain circles. Apparently there are very large sums of money promised to anyone who can produce your corpse, though I could not determine who would be doing the paying."

"And you discovered these while visiting the scholars at Rand's school?" Perrin asked.

The pinch-faced scribe displayed no emotion.

"Who are you really, Balwer?"

"A secretary. With some measure of skill in finding secrets."

"Some measure? Balwer, I haven't asked after your past. I figure a man deserves to be able to start fresh. But now the Whitecloaks are here, and you have some connection to them. I need to know what it is."

Balwer stood silently for a time. The raised walls of the pavilion rustled.

"My previous employer was a man I respected, my Lord," Balwer said.

"He was killed by the Children of the Light. Some among them may recognize me."

"You were a spy for this person?" Perrin asked.

Balwer's lips turned down distinctly. He spoke more softly. "I merely have a mind for remembering facts, my Lord."

"Yes, you've got a very good mind for it. Your service is useful to me, Balwer. I'm only trying to tell you that. I'm glad you're here."

The man smelled pleased. "If I may say, my Lord, it is refreshing to work for someone who doesn't see my information as simply a means of betraying or compromising those around him."

"Well, be that as it may, I should probably start paying you better," Perrin said.

That gave Balwer a panicked scent. "That won't be necessary." "You could demand high wages from any number of lords or merchants!"

"Petty men of no consequence," Balwer said with a twitch of his fingers.

"Yes, but I still think you should be paid more. It's simple sense. If you hire an apprentice blacksmith for your forge and don't pay him well enough, he'll impress your regular customers, then open a new forge across the street the moment he can afford to."

"Ah, but you do not see, my Lord," Balwer said. "Money means nothing to me. The information that is what is important. Facts and discoveries . . . they are like nuggets of gold. I could give that gold to a common banker to make coins, but I prefer to give it to the master craftsman to make something of beauty.

"Please, my Lord, let me remain a simple secretary. You see, one of the easiest ways to tell if someone is not what he seems is to check his wages." He chuckled. "I've uncovered more than one assassin or spy that way, yes I have. No pay is needed. The opportunity to work with you is its own payment."

Perrin shrugged, but nodded, and Balwer withdrew. Perrin stepped out of the pavilion, stowing the pictures in his pocket. They disturbed him. He'd bet these pictures were in Andor, too, placed by the Forsaken.

For the first time, he found himself wondering if he was going to need an army to keep himself safe. It was a disturbing thought..

The wave of bestial Trollocs surged over the top of the hill, overrunning the last of the fortifications. They grunted and howled, thick-fingered hands

tearing at the dark Saldaean soil and clutching swords, hooked spears, hammers, clubs and other wicked weapons. Spittle dripped from tusked lips on some, while on others wide, too-human eyes stared out from behind wicked beaks. Their black armor was decorated with spikes.

Ituralde's men stood strong with him at the bottom of the back slope of the hillside. He had ordered the lower camp to disband and retreat as far as they could to the south along the riverbank. Meanwhile, the army had retreated from the fortifications. He hated to surrender the high ground, but getting pushed down that steep hill during an assault would have been deadly. He had room to fall back, so he'd use it, now that the fortifications were lost.

He positioned his forces just at the base of the hill, near where the lower camp had once been. The Domani soldiers wore steel caps and had set their fourteen-foot pikes with butts in the dirt, holding them for more stability, steel points toward the towering wave of Trollocs. A classic defensive position: three ranks of pikemen and shieldmen, pikes slanted toward the top of the slope. When the first rank of pikes killed a Trolloc, they'd fall back and pull their weapons free, letting the second rank step forward to kill. A slow, careful retreat, rank by rank.

A double row of archers behind began loosing arrows, slamming wave after wave up into the Shadowspawn, dropping bodies down the slope. Those rolled, some still screaming, spraying dark blood. A larger number continued down, over their brothers, trying to get at the pikemen.

An eagle-headed Trolloc died on a pike in front of Ituralde. There were chips along the edges of the thing's beak, and its head set with predatory

eyes sat atop a bull-like neck, the edge of the feathers coated with some kind of dark, oily substance. The monster screeched as it died, voice low and only faintly avian, somehow forming guttural sounds in the Trolloc language.

"Hold!" Ituralde called, turning and trotting his horse down the line of pikemen. "Keep the formation, burn you!"

The Trollocs surged down the hillside, dying on those pikes. It would be a temporary reprieve. There were too many Trollocs, and even a rotating triple pike line would be overwhelmed. This was a delaying tactic. Behind them, the rest of his troops began their retreat. Once the lines had weakened, the Asha man would assume the burden of defense, buying rime for the pikemen to retreat.