A Memory of Light

from Maradon that you wanted to keep your distance from the Trollocs.
    Pikes worked wonderfully. Ituralde’s pike squares could pivot and fight in all directions in case they were surrounded. Trollocs could be forced to fight in ranks, but these squares—properly applied—could break up their lines. Once the Trolloc ranks were shattered, the Aiel could kill with abandon.
    Behind ranks of pikemen he positioned foot soldiers carrying billhooks and halberds. Sometimes Trollocs fought their way through the pikes, pushing the weapons aside or pulling them down with the weight of corpses. The billhookmen then moved up—slipping between the pikemen—and hamstrung the leading Trollocs. This gave the leading foot soldiers time to pull back and regroup while the next wave of soldiers—more foot, with pikes moved up to engage the Trollocs.
    It was working, so far. He had a dozen such squares of troops facing the Trollocs in the night. They fought defensively, doing whatever they could to break the surging tide. The Trollocs threw themselves at the pikemen, trying to crack them, but each square operated independently. Ituralde didn’t worry about the Trollocs that made it through the gauntlet, because they would be handled by the Aiel.
    Ituralde had to keep his hands clasped behind his back to conceal their shaking. Nothing had been the same after Maradon. He’d learned, but he’d paid dearly for that education.
    Burn these headaches, he thought. And burn those Trollocs.
    Three times, he had nearly given the order to send his armies in with a direct assault, abandoning the square formations. He could imagine them slaughtering, killing. No more delaying. He wanted blood.
    Each time, he’d stopped himself. They weren’t here for blood, they were here to hold. To give that man the time he needed in the cavern. That was what it was all about . . . wasn’t it? Why did he have so much trouble remembering that lately?
    Another wave of Trolloc arrows dropped onto Ituralde’s men. The Fades had some of them stationed on the tops of the slopes above the pass, in places that Ituralde’s own archers had once held. Getting them up there must have been quite an undertaking; the walls of the pass were very steep. How many would have dropped to their deaths making the attempt? Regardless, Trollocs weren’t good shots with bows, but they didn’t need to be, when firing at armies.
    The halberdiers raised shields. They couldn’t fight while holding those, but they kept them strapped to their backs for need. The falling arrows increased, plummeting through the lightly foggy night air. The storm rumbled overhead, but the Windfinders were at their task again, keeping it away. They claimed that at several moments, the army had been mere breaths away from an all-out storm of destruction. At one point, hail the size of a man’s fist had fallen for about a minute before they’d wrested control of the weather again.
    If that was what awaited them if the Windfinders weren’t using their bowl, Ituralde was more than happy to leave them at their task. The Dark One wouldn’t care how many Trollocs he destroyed while sending a blizzard, twister or hurricane to kill the humans they fought.
    “They’re gathering for another surge at the mouth of the pass!” someone yelled in the night air, followed by other calls confirming it. Ituralde peered through the mist, aided by light from the bonfires. The Trollocs were indeed regrouping.
    “Withdraw the seventh and ninth infantry squads,” Ituralde said. “They’ve been at it too long. Pull the fourth and fifth out of reserve and have them take flanking positions. Prepare for more arrows. And ...” He trailed off, frowning. What were those Trollocs doing? They’d pulled back farther than he’d have expected, drawing into the darkness of the pass. They couldn’t be retreating, could they?
    A dark wave slid out of the mouth of the pass. Myrddraal. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. Black cloaks that did not move, in defiance of the breeze. Faces with no eyes, lips that sneered, black swords. The creatures moved like eels, sinuous and sleek.
    They gave no time for orders, no time for response. They flowed into the squares of defenders, sliding between pikes, whipping deadly swords.
    “Aiel!” Ituralde bellowed. “Bring in the Aiel! All of them, and channelers! Everyone except for those who guard at the Pit of Doom itself! Move, move!
    Messengers scrambled away. Ituralde watched in horror.