He was aware of Hurin unlimbering his short-bladed sword and notched sword-breaker, and Perrin reluctantly drawing his axe from the loop on his belt. A woman in a white dress, at the window. The Horn of Valere, my aged grandmother! Domon thought glumly. Hurry, Hawkwing.
Fal Dara, where Trollocs raid and Myrddraal ride as near every day as makes no difference. For an instant the void wavered. It did not seem to exist for the two servants, either, any more than Rand and his sword existed, or the sounds of fighting, fading now from the rooms to either side out into the house. Peace favor your sword, Lord Ingtar, she said finally.
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