rj.theshadowrising-第237部分

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　of　the　Tuatha'an　caravan's　destruction　pained　him　even　more　than　the　farmhouses。　The　Way　of　the　Leaf　should　have　a　chance。　Somewhere。　Not　here。　Not　letting　himself　look；　he　leaped　south　a　mile　or　more。
　　　　　　　Eventually　he　came　to　Deven　Ride；　rows　of　thatch…roofed　houses　surrounding　a　green　and　a　pond　fed　by　a　spring　walled　'round　with　stone；　the　spillover　splashing　from　cuts　long　since　worn　deeper　than　they　had　been　made。　The　inn　at　the　head　of　the　green；　the　Goose　and　Pipe；　was　roofed　with　thatch；　too；　yet　a　little　larger　than　the　Winespring　Inn；　though　Deven　Ride　surely　had　even　fewer　visitors　than　Emond's　Field。　The　village　was　certainly　no　bigger。　Wagons　and　carts　drawn　close　by　every　house　spoke　of　farmers　who　had　fled　here　with　their　families。　Other　wagons　blocked　the　streets　and　the　spaces　between　the　houses　all　the　way　around　the　edge　of　the　village。　The　precautions　were　not　enough　to　have　halted　even　one　of　the　assaults　made　on　Emond's　Field　the　last　seven　days。
　　　　　　　In　three　circuits　around　the　village　Perrin　found　only　half　a　dozen　Trolloc　camps。　Enough　to　keep　people　in。　Pen　them　until　Emond's　Field　was　dealt　with。　Then　the　Trollocs　could　fall　on　Deven　Ride　at　the　Fades'　leisure。　Perhaps　he　could　find　a　way　to　get　word　to　these　villagers。　If　they　fled　south；　they　might　find　some　way　across　the　White　River。　Even　trying　to　cross　the　trackless　Forest　of　Shadows　below　the　river　was　better　than　waiting　to　die。。。
　　　　　　　The　golden　sun　had　not　moved　an　inch。　Time　was　different；　here。
　　　　　　　Running　north　as　hard　as　he　could；　even　Emond's　Field　passed　by　in　a　blur。　Watch　Hill　on　its　round　prominence　was　bordered　as　Deven　Ride　had　been　with　wagons　and　carts　between　the　houses。　A　banner　waved　lazily　in　the　breeze；　on　a　tall　pole　in　front　of　the　White　Boar　on　the　hill's　crest。　A　red　eagle　flying　across　a　field　of　blue。　The　Red　Eagle　had　been　the　symbol　of　Manetheren。　Perhaps　Alanna　or　Verin　had　told　ancient　stories　while　they　were　in　Watch　Hill。
　　　　　　　Here；　too；　he　found　only　a　few　Trolloc　camps；　enough　to　pen　the　villagers。　There　was　an　easier　way　out　from　here　than　trying　to　cross　the　White；　with　its　endless　stretch　of　rapids。
　　　　　　　On　northward　he　ran；　to　Taren　Ferry；　on　the　bank　of　the　Tarendrelle；　which　he　had　grown　up　calling　the　River　Taren。　Tall；　narrow　houses　built　on　high　stone　foundations　to　escape　the　Taren's　yearly　flooding　when　the　snows　melted　in　the　Mountains　of　Mist。　Nearly　half　those　foundations　supported　only　piles　of　ash　and　charred　beams　in　that　unchanging　afternoon　light。　There　were　no　wagons　here；　no　signs　of　any　defense。　And　no　Trolloc　camps　that　he　could　find。　Perhaps　no　people　remained　here。
　　　　　　　At　the　water's　edge　stood　a　stout　wooden　dock；　a　heavy　rope　drooping　as　it　arced　across　the　swift…flowing　river。　The　rope　ran　through　iron　rings　on　a　flat…decked　barge　snugged　against　the　dock。　The　ferry　was　still　there；　still　usable。
　　　　　　　A　jump　took　him　across　the　river；　where　wheel　ruts　scarred　the　bank　and　household　objects　lay　about。　Chairs　and　stand…mirrors；　chests；　even　a　few　tables　and　a　polished　wardrobe　with　birds　carved　on　the　doors；　all　the　things　panicked　people　had　tried　to　save；　then　abandoned　to　run　faster。　They　would　be　spreading　the　word　of　what　had　happened　here；　what　was　happening　in　the　Two　Rivers。　Some　could　have　reached　Baerlon　by　now；　a　hundred　miles　or　more　north；　and　surely　the　farms　and　villages　between　Baerlon　and　the　river。　Word　spreading。　In　another　month　it　might　reach　Caemlyn；　and　Queen　Morgase　with　her　Queen's　Guards　and　her　power　to　raise　armies。　A　month　with　luck。　And　as　much　to　return；　once　Morgase　believed。　Too　late　for　Emond's　Field。　Maybe　too　late　for　the　whole　Two　Rivers。
　　　　　　　Still；　it　hardly　made　sense　that　the　Trollocs　had　let　anyone　escape。　Or　the　Myrddraal　at　any　rate；　Trollocs　did　not　seem　to　think　much　beyond　the　moment。　He　would　have　thought　destroying　the　ferry　would　have　been　the　Fades'　first　task。　How　could　they　be　sure　there　were　not　enough　soldiers　at　Baerlon　to　e　down　on　them？
　　　　　　　He　bent　to　pick　up　a　doll　with　a　painted　wooden　face；　and　an　arrow　streaked　through　where　his　chest　had　been。
　　　　　　　Springing　out　of　his　crouch　he　leaped　up　the　bank；　a　blur　streaking　a　hundred　paces　into　the　woods　to　crouch　below　a　tall　leatherleaf。　Brush　and　flood…toppled　trees　woven　with　creepers　covered　the　forest　floor　around　him。
　　　　　　　Slayer。　Perrin　had　an　arrow　nocked；　and　wondered　if　he　had　drawn　it　from　his　quiver　or　simply　thought　it　there。　Slayer。
　　　　　　　On　the　point　of　leaping　away　again；　he　paused。　Slayer　would　know　roughly　where　he　was。　Perrin　had　followed　the　man's　blurring　form　easily　enough；　that　elongated　streak　was　clear　if　you　were　standing　still。　Twice　now　he　had　played　the　other's　game　and　nearly　lost。　Let　Slayer　play　his　this　time。　He　waited。
　　　　　　　Ravens　swooped　above　the　treetops；　searching　and　calling。　No　movement　to　give　him　away；　not　a　twitch。　Only　his　eyes　moved；　studying　the　forest　around　him。　A　vagrant　puff　of　air　brought　him　a　cold　smell；　human　yet　not；　and　he　smiled。　No　sound　save　the　ravens；　though；　this　Slayer　stalked　well。　But　he　was　not　used　to　being　hunted。　What　else　did　Slayer　forget　beside　smells？　He　surely　would　not　expect　Perrin　to　remain　where　he　had　landed。　Animals　ran　from　the　hunter；　even　wolves　ran。
　　　　　　　A　hint　of　movement；　and　for　an　instant　a　face　appeared　above　a　fallen　pine　some　fifty　paces　away。　The　slanting　light　illuminated　it　clearly。　Dark　hair　and　blue　eyes；　a　face　all　hard　planes　and　angles；　so　reminiscent　of　Lan's　face。　Except　that　in　that　brief　glimpse　Slayer　licked　his　lips　twice；　his　forehead　was　creased；　and　his　eyes　darted　as　they　searched。　Lan　would　not　have　let　his　worry　show　if　he　stood　alone　against　a　thousand　Trollocs。　Just　an　instant；　and　the　face　was　gone　again。　The　ravens　darted　and　swirled　above　as　if　they　shared　Slayer's　anxiety；　fearing　to　e　below　the　treetops。
　　　　　　　Perrin　waited　and　watched；　motionless。　Silence。　Only　the　cold　smell　to　say　he　was　not　alone　with　the　ravens　overhead。
　　　　　　　Slayer's　face　appeared　again；　peering　around　a　thick…boled　oak　off　to　his　left。　Thirty　paces。　Oaks　killed　most　of　what　grew　close　to　them；　only　a　few　mushrooms　and　weedy　things　sprouted　from　the　leafy　mulch　beneath　its　limbs。　Slowly　the　man　emerged　into　the　open；　boots　making　no　sound。
　　　　　　　In　one　motion　Perrin　drew　and　fired。　The　ravens　screamed　warning；　and　Slayer　spun　to　take　the　broadhead　shaft　in　his　chest；　but　not　through　the　heart。　The　man　howled；　clutching　the　arrow　with　both　hands；　black　feathers　rained　down　as　the　ravens　beat　their　wings　in　a　frenzy。　And　Slayer　faded；　him　and　his　cry　together；　growing　misty；　transparent；　vanishing。　The　ravens'　shrieks　vanished　as　if　severed　with　a　knife；　the　arrow　that　had　transfixed　the　man　dropped　to　the　ground。　The　ravens　were　gone；　too。
　　　　　　　With　a　second　shaft　half…drawn；　Perrin　exhaled　slowly；　let　off　his　tension　on　the　bowstring。　Was　that　how　you　died　here？　Simply　fading　away；　gone　forever？
　　　　　　　〃At　least　I　finished　him；〃　he　muttered。　And　let　himself　be　diverted　in　the　process。　Slayer　was　no　part　of　why　he　had　e　to　the　wolf　dream。　At　least　the　wolves　were　safe　now。　The　wolves　…　and　maybe　a　few　others。
　　　　　　　He　stepped　out　of　the　dream。。。
　
　　　　　　　。。。and　woke　staring　at　the　ceiling；　his　shirt　clinging　sweatily。　The　moon　gave　a　little　light　through　the　windows。　There　were　fiddles　playing　somewhere　in　the　village；　a　wild　Tinker　tune。　They　would　not　fight；　but　they　had　found　a　way　to　help；　by　keeping　spirits　up。
　　　　　　　Slowly　Perrin　sat　up；　pulling　on　his　boots　in　the　pale…lit　dark。　How　to　do　what　he　had　to　do？　It　would　be　difficult。　He　had　to　be　cunning。　Only；　he　was　not　sure　he　had　ever　been　cunning　in　his　life。　Standing；　he　stamped　his　feet　to　settle　them　in。
　　　　　　　Sudden　shouts　outside　and　a　fading　clatter　of　hooves　made　him　stride　to　the　nearest　window　and　throw　up　the　sash。　The　panions　were　milling　about　below。　〃What's　going　on　down　there？〃
　　　　　　　Thirty　faces　turned　up　to　him；　and　Ban　al'Seen　yelled；　〃It　was　Lord　Luc；　Lord　Perrin。　He　nearly　rode　down　Wil　and　Tell。　I　don't　think　he　even　saw　them。　He　was　all　hunched　over　in　his　saddle　like　he　was　hurt；　and　spurring　that　stallion　for　all　he　was　worth；　Lord　Perrin。〃