Young Bull followed with precision, placing his paws where hooves had fallen just moments before, matching each stride exactly. He could hear the stag panting, could see the sweat foaming on its coat, could smell its fear.
But no. Young Bull would not accept the inferior victory of running his prey to exhaustion. He would taste the blood of the throat, pumping full force from a healthy heart. He would best his prey in its prime.
He began to vary his leaps, not following the stag’s exact path. He needed to be ahead, not follow! The stag’s scent grew more alarmed. That drove Young Bull to greater speed. The stag bolted to the right, and Young Bull leaped, hitting an upright tree trunk with all four paws and pushing himself sideways to change directions. His turn gained him a fraction of a heartbeat.
Soon he was bounding a single breath behind the stag, each leap bringing him within inches of its hooves. He howled, and his brothers and sisters replied from just behind. This hunt was all of them. As one.
But Young Bull led.
His howl became a growl of triumph as the stag turned again. The chance had come! Young Bull leaped over a log and seized the stag’s neck in his jaws. He could taste the sweat, the fur, the warm blood beneath pooling around his fangs. His weight threw the stag to the ground. As they rolled, Young Bull kept his grip, forcing the stag to the forest floor, its skin laced scarlet with blood.
The wolves howled in victory, and he let go for a moment, intending to bite at the front of the neck and kill. There was nothing else. The forest was gone. The howls faded. There was only the kill. The sweet kill.
A form crashed into him, throwing him back into the brush. Young Bull shook his head, dazed, snarling. Another wolf had stopped him. Hopper! Why?
The stag bounded to its feet, and then bounded off through the forest again. Young Bull howled in fury and rage, preparing to run after it. Again Hopper leaped, throwing his weight against Young Bull.
If it dies here, it dies the last death, Hopper sent. This hunt is done, Young Bull. We will hunt another time.
Young Bull nearly turned to attack Hopper. But no. He had tried that once, and it had been a mistake. He was not a wolf. He—
Perrin lay on the ground, tasting blood that was not his own, exhaling deeply, his face dripping with sweat. He pushed himself to his knees, then sat down, panting, shaking from that beautiful, terrifying hunt.
The other wolves sat down, but they did not speak. Hopper lay beside Perrin, setting his grizzled head on aged paws.
“That,” Perrin finally said, “is what I fear.”
No, you do not fear it, Hopper sent.
“You’re telling me what I feel?”
You do not smell afraid, Hopper sent.
Perrin lay back, staring up at the branches above, twigs and leaves crumpling beneath him. His heart thumped from the chase. “I worry about it, then.”
Worry is not the same as fear, Hopper sent. Why say one and feel the other? Worry, worry, worry. It is all that you do.
“No. I also kill. If you’re going to teach me to master the wolf dream, it’s going to happen like this?”
Yes.
Perrin looked to the side. The stag’s blood had spilled on a dry log, darkness seeping into the wood. Learning this way would push him to the very edge of becoming a wolf.
But he had been avoiding this issue for too long, making horseshoes in the forge while leaving the most difficult and demanding pieces alone, untouched. He relied on the powers of scent he’d been given, reaching out to wolves when he needed them—but otherwise he’d ignored them.
You couldn’t make a thing until you understood its parts. He wouldn’t know how to deal with—or reject—the wolf inside him until he understood the wolf dream.
“Very well,” Perrin said. “So be it.”
Galad cantered Stout through the camp. On all sides, Children erected tents and dug firepits, preparing for the night. His men marched almost until nightfall each day, then arose early in the morning. The sooner they reached Andor, the better.
Those Light-cursed swamps were behind them; now they traveled over open grasslands. Perhaps it would have been faster to cut east and catch one of the great highways to the north, but that wouldn’t be safe. Best to stay away from the movements of the Dragon Reborn’s armies and the Seanchan. The Light would shine upon the Children, but more than one valiant hero had died within that Light. If there was no danger of death, there could be no bravery, but Galad would rather have the Light shine on him while he continued to draw breath.
They had camped near the Jehannah Road and would cross it on the morrow to continue north. He had sent a patrol to watch the road. He wanted to know what kind of traffic the highway was drawing, and he was in particular need of supplies.
Galad continued on his rounds through camp, accompanied by a handful of mounted attendants, ignoring the aches of his various wounds. The camp was orderly and neat. The tents were grouped by legion, then set up forming concentric rings with no straight pathways. That was intended to confuse and slow attackers.
A section of the camp lay empty near the middle. A hole in the formation where the Questioners had once set up their tents. He had ordered the Questioners spread out, two assigned to each company. If the Questioners were not set apart from the others, perhaps they would feel more kinship with the other Children. Galad made a note to himself to draw up a new camp layout, eliminating that hole.
Galad and his companions continued through the camp. He rode to be seen, and men saluted as he passed. He remembered well the words that Gareth Bryne had once said: Most of the time, a general’s most important function was not to make decisions, but to remind men that someone would make decisions.
“My Lord Captain Commander,” said one of his companions. Brandel Vordarian. He was an older man, eldest of the Lords Captain who served under Galad. “I wish you would reconsider sending this missive.”
Vordarian rode directly beside Galad, with Trom on his other side. Lords Captain Golever and Harnesh rode behind, within earshot, and Bornhald followed, acting as Galad’s bodyguard for the day.
“The letter must be sent,” Galad said.
“It seems foolhardy, my Lord Captain Commander,” Vordarian continued. Clean-shaven, with silver washing his golden hair, the Andoran was an enormous square of a man. Galad was vaguely familiar with Vordarian’s family, minor nobles who had been involved in his mother’s court.
Only a fool refused to listen to advice from those older and wiser than himself. But only a fool took all
