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Soon the Lan dashed to Perrins side, gesturing to them as the threw back the stocky youths cloak, exposing the great axe.
Rana nodded and tossed her own cloak over her shoulder to reveal her blade, and she let her hand rest of the pommel as Lan moved back to his horse as lights appeared in the mist and muffled footsteps approached.
Six stolidfaced men in rough clothes followed Master Hightower, the torches they carried burning away the fog around them.
When they stopped all of the party from Emond's Field could be plainly seen, the lot of them surrounded by a grey wall that seemed thicker for the torchlight reflected from it. The ferryman examined them, his narrow head tilted, nose twitching like a weasel, sniffing the breeze for a trap.
Lan was leaned against his saddle, almost seeming casual, but like Rana his hand rested on the hilt of his sword and he seemed ready to spring into action if needed.
Perrin eased his axe in it's leather loop and planted his feet deliberately, and Mat put a hand to his quiver.
Thom Merrilin stepped forward grandly and help up one empty hand turning it slowly, and then, with a flourish a dagger appeared, twirling between his fingers. The hilt snapped into his palm and he nonchalantly began trimming his fingernails. A low, delighted laugh floated from Moiraine. Egwene clapped as if watching a performance at Festival, then stopped and looked abashed, though her mouth twitched with a smile just the same.
Hightower seemed far from amused. He stared at Thom, then cleared his throat loudly. "There was mention made of more gold for the crossing." He looked around at them again, a sullen, sly look. "What you gave me before is in a safe place now, hear? It's none of it where you can get at it."
"The rest of the gold," Lan told him, "goes into your hand when we are on the other side." The leather purse hanging at his waist clinked as he gave it a little shake.
For a moment the ferryman's eyes darted, but at last he nodded. "Let's be about it, then," he muttered, and stalked out onto the landing followed by his six helpers. The fog burned away around them as they moved; gray tendrils closed in behind, quickly filling where they had been. Rand hurried to keep up.
The ferry itself was a wooden barge with high sides, boarded by a ramp that could be raised to block off the end. Ropes as thick as a man's wrist ran along each side of it, ropes fastened to massive posts at the end of the landing and disappearing into the night over the river. The ferryman's helpers stuck their torches in iron brackets on the ferry's sides, waited while everyone led their horses aboard, then pulled up the ramp. The deck creaked beneath hooves and shuffling feet, and the ferry shifted with the weight.
Hightower muttered half under his breath, growling for them to keep the horses still and stay to the centre, out of the haulers' way. He shouted at his helpers, chivvying them as they readied the ferry to cross, but the men moved at the same reluctant speed whatever he said, and he was halfhearted about it, often cutting off in midshout to hold his torch high and peel into the fog. Finally he stopped shouting altogether and went to the bow, where he stood staring into the mist that covered the river. He did not move until one of the haulers touched his arm; then he jumped, glaring.
"What? Oh. You, is it? Ready? About time. Well, man, what are you waiting for?" He waved his arms heedless of the torch and the way the horses wickered and tried to move back. "Cast off! Give way! Move!" The man slouched off to comply, and Hightower peered once more into the fog ahead, rubbing his free hand uneasily on his coat front.
The ferry lurched as its moorings were loosed and the strong current caught it, then lurched again as the guideropes held it. The haulers, three to a side, grabbed hold of the ropes at the front of the ferry and laboriously began walking toward the back, muttering uneasily as they edged out onto the gray cloaked river.
The landing disappeared as mist surrounded them, tenuous streamers drifting across the ferry between the flickering torches. The barge rocked slowly in the current. Nothing except the steady tread of the haulers, forward to take hold of the ropes and back down again pulling, gave a hint of any other movement. No one spoke. The villagers kept as close to the centre of the ferry as they could. They had heard the Taren was far wider than the streams they were used to; the fog made it infinitely vaster in their minds. After a time Rana moved closer to Lan. Rivers a man could not wade or swim or even see across were nervous making to someone who had never seen anything broader or deeper than a Waterwood pond. "Would they really have tried to rob us?" she asked quietly. "He acted more as if he were afraid we would rob him."
"I believe he would have." Lan murmured, "But he won't now, we have enough weapons to make them weary." he gave her a sidelong glance, "How is the cut on your arm? I'm surprised that it wasn't aggravated by the incident with Cloud."
Rana reached up, touching her arm thoughtfully, "It aches some, but not enough for me to complain. Not now at least. You think we're safe enough? Will he tell.."
"I doubt it. Robbing a stranger is one thing but that is quite another." He laid a hand on Rana's uninjured shoulder, "You are doing well enough for someone your age, you all are. We shall see you to safety I promise you."
Then the ferry thudded against the far bank and the haulers were hurrying to last the craft fast and let down the ramp at that end with a thump.
While Mat and Perrin loudly announced that the Taren was not half as wide as they had learned, Lan red his stallion down the ramp, followed by Moiraine and the others, with Rana going last, following Bela and Egwene.
"Here now, where's my gold?" Master Hightower demanded suddenly.
"It shall be paid. " Moiraine's voice came from somewhere in the mist. Rand's boots clumped from the ramp to a wooden landing. "And a silver mark for each of your men," the Aes Sedai added, "for the quick crossing. "
The ferryman hesitated, face pushed forward as if he smelled danger, but at the mention of silver the haulers roused themselves. Some paused to seize a torch, but they all thumped down the ramp before Hightower could open his mouth. With a sullen grimace, the ferryman followed his crew.
Cloud's hooves clumped hollowly in the fog as Rand made his way carefully along the landing. The grey mist was as thick here as over the river. At the foot of the landing, the Warder was handing out coins, surrounded by the torches of Hightower and his fellows. Everyone else except Moiraine waited just beyond in an anxious cluster. The Aes Sedai stood looking at the river, though what she could see was beyond Rand. With a shiver he hitched up his cloak, sodden as it was. He was really out of the Two Rivers, now, and it seemed much farther away than the width of a river.
"There," Lan said, handing a last coin to Hightower. "As agreed. " He did not put up his purse, and the ferretyfaced man eyed it greedily.
With a loud creak, the landing shivered. Hightower jerked upright, head swivelling back toward the mistcloaked ferry. The torches remaining on board were a pair of dim, fuzzy points of light. The landing groaned, and with a thunderous crack of snapping wood, the twin glows lurched, then began to revolve. Egwene cried out wordlessly, and Thom cursed.
"It's loose!" Hightower screamed. Grabbing his haulers, he pushed them toward the end of the landing. "The ferry's loose, you fools! Get it! Get it!"
The haulers stumbled a few steps under Hightower's shoves, then stopped. The faint lights on the ferry spun faster, then faster still. The fog above them swirled, sucked into a spiral.
The landing trembled. The cracking and splintering of wood filled the air as the ferry began breaking apart.
"Whirlpool," one of the haulers said, his voice filled with awe.
"No whirlpools on the Taren." Hightower sounded empty. "Never been a whirlpool..."
"An unfortunate occurrence. " Moiraine's voice was hollow in the fog that made her a shadow as she turned from the river.
"Unfortunate," Lan agreed in a flat tone. "It seems you'll be carrying no one else across the river for a time. An ill thing that you lost your craft in our service." He delved again into his purse, ready in his hand. "This should repay you."
For a moment Hightower stared at the gold, glinting in Lan's hand in the torchlight, then his shoulders hunched and his eyes darted to the others he had carried across. Made indistinct by the fog, the Emond's Fielders stood silently. With a frightened, inarticulate cry, the ferryman snatched the coins from Lan, whirled, and ran into the mist. His haulers were only half a step behind him, their torches quickly swallowed as they vanished upriver.