The world was dying. He couldn't save it. That was Rand's job. Perrin just wanted to go back to his simple life, didn't he?
No. No, he wanted Faile, he wanted complexity. He wanted life. He couldn't hide, any more than the people who followed him could hide.
He didn't want their allegiance. But he had it. How would he feel if someone else took command, and then got them killed?
Blow after blow. Sprays of sparks. Too many, as if he were pounding against a bucket of molten liquid. Sparks splashed in the air, exploding from his hammer, flying as high as treetops and spreading tens of paces. The people watching withdrew, all save the Asha'man and Wise Ones, who stood gathered around Neald.
I don't want to lead them, Perrin thought. But if I don't, who will? If I abandon them, and they fall, then it will be my fault.
Perrin saw now what he was making, what he'd been trying to make all along. He worked the largest lump into a brick shape. The long piece became a rod, thick as three fingers. The flat piece became a capping bracket, a piece of metal to wrap around the head and join it to the shaft.
A hammer. He was making a hammer. These were the parts.
He understood now.
He grew to his task. Blow after blow. Those beats were so loud. Each blow seemed to shake the ground around him, rattling tents. Perrin exulted. He knew what he was making. He finally knew what he was making.
He hadn't asked to become a leader, but did that absolve him of responsibility? People needed him. The world needed him. And, with an understanding that cooled in him like molten rock forming into a shape, he realized that he wanted to lead.
If someone had to be lord of these people, he wanted to do it himself. Because doing it yourself was the only way to see that it was done right.
He used his chisel and rod, shaping a hole through the center of the hammer's head, then grabbed the haft and—raising it far over his head—slammed it down into place. He took the bracket and laid the hammer on it, then shaped it. Mere moments ago, this process had fed off his anger. But now it seemed to draw forth his resolution, his determination.
Metal was something alive. Every blacksmith knew this. Once you heated it, while you worked it, it lived. He took his hammer and chisel and began to shape patterns, ridges, modifications. Waves of sparks flew from him, the ringing of his hammer ever stronger, ever louder, pealing like bells. He used his chisel on a small chunk of steel to form a shape, then placed it down on top of the hammer.
With a roar, he raised his old hammer one last time over his head and beat it down on the new one, imprinting the ornamentation upon the side of the hammer. A leaping wolf.
Perrin lowered his tools. On the anvil—still glowing with an inner heat—was a beautiful hammer. A work beyond anything he'd ever created, or thought that he might create. It had a thick, powerful head, like a maul or sledge, but the back was formed cross-face and flattened. Like a blacksmith's tool. It was four feet from bottom to top, maybe longer, an enormous size for a hammer of this type.
The haft was all of steel, something he'd never seen on a hammer before. Perrin picked it up; he was able to lift it with one hand, but barely. It was heavy. Solid.
The ornamentation was of a Crosshatch pattern with the leaping wolf stamped on one side. It looked like Hopper. Perrin touched it with a callused thumb, and the metal quieted. It still felt warm to the touch, but did not burn him.
He turned to look, and was amazed at the size of the crowd watching him. The Two Rivers men stood at the front, Jori Congar, Azi al'Thone, Wil al'Seen and hundreds more. Ghealdanin, Cairhienin, Andorans, Mayeners. Watching, quiet. The ground around Perrin was blackened from the falling sparks; drops of silvery metal spread out from him like a sunburst.
Neald fell to his knees, panting, his face coated with sweat. Grady and the women of the circle sat down, looking exhausted. All six Wise Ones had joined in. What had they done?
Perrin felt exhausted, as if all of his strength and emotion had been forged into the metal. But he could not rest. 'Wil. Weeks ago, I gave you an order. Burn the banners that bore the wolfhead. Did you obey? Did you burn every one?'
Wil al'Seen met his eyes, then looked down, ashamed. 'Lord Perrin, I tried. But… Light, I couldn't do it. I kept one. The one I'd helped sew.'
'Fetch it, Wil,' Perrin said. His own voice sounded like steel.
Wil ran, smelling frightened. He returned shortly, bearing a folded cloth, white with a red border. Perrin took it, then held it in a reverent hand, hammer in the other. He looked at the crowd. Faile was there, hands clasped before her. She smelled hopeful. She could see into him. She knew.
'I have tried to send you away,' Perrin announced to the crowd. 'You would not go. I have failings. You must know this. If we march to war, I will not be able to protect you all. I will make mistakes.'
He looked across the crowd, meeting the eyes of those who stood there. Each man or woman he looked at nodded silently. No regrets, no hesitations. They nodded.
Perrin took a deep breath. 'If you wish this, I will accept your oaths. I will lead you.'
They cheered him. An enormous roar of excitement. 'Goldeneyes. Goldeneyes the wolf! To the Last Battle! Tai'shar Manetheren!'
'Wil!' Perrin bellowed, holding up the banner. 'Raise this banner high. Don't take it down again until the Last Battle has been won. I march beneath the sign of the wolf. The rest of you, rouse the camp. Get every soldier ready to fight. We have another task tonight!'
The young man took the banner and unfurled it, Jori and Azi joining him and holding it so it didn't touch the ground. They raised it high, running to get a pole. The group broke up, men running this way and that, shouting the summons.
Perrin took Faile by the hand as she walked up to him. She smelled satisfied. 'That's it, then?'
'No more complaining,' he promised. 'I don't like it. But I don't like killing, either. I'll do what must be done.' He looked down at the anvil, blackened from his work. His old hammer, now worn and dented, lay across it. He felt sad to leave it, but he had made his decision.
'What did you do, Neald?' he asked as the Asha'man—still looking pale—stumbled up to his feet. Perrin raised the new hammer, showing the magnificent work.
'I don't know, my Lord,' Neald said. 'It just… well, it was like I said. It felt right. I saw what to do, how to put the weaves into the metal itself. It seemed to draw them in, like an ocean drinking in the water of a stream.' He blushed, as if he thought it a foolish figure of speech.
'That sounds right,' Perrin said. 'It needs a name, this hammer. Do you know much of the Old Tongue?'
'No, my Lord.'
Perrin looked at the wolf imprinted on the side. 'Does anyone know how you say 'He who soars'?'
'I… I don't…'
'Mah'alleinir,' Berelain said, stepping up from where she'd been watching.
'Mah'alleinir,' Perrin repeated. 'It feels right. Sulin? What of the Whitecloaks?'
'They have made camp, Perrin Aybara,' the Maiden replied.
'Show me,' he said, gesturing to Arganda's map.
She pointed out the location: a piece of land on the side of a hill, heights running to the north of it, roadway coming in from the northeast, wrapping around the south of the heights—following the ancient riverbed—and then bending southward when it hit the campsite by the hill. From there, the road headed toward Lugard, but the campsite was protected from wind on two sides. It was a perfect campsite, but also a perfect place for an ambush. The one Arganda and Gallenne had pointed out.
He looked at that passageway and campsite, thinking of what had happened the last few weeks. We met travelers… said that the muds to the north were almost completely impassable with wagons or carts…
A flock of sheep, running before the pack into the jaws of a beast. Faile and the others, walking toward a cliff. Light!
'Grady, Neald,' Perrin said. 'I'm going to need another gateway, Can you manage?'
'I think so,' Neald said. 'Just give us a few minutes to catch our breath.'