matter so long as the rats knew how to hide.
A hesitant group of the creatures shuffled down the blackened street outside Ituralde's building. The Trollocs snapped and hooted warily at one another. Some sniffed at the air, but the smoke ruined their sense of smell. They completely missed Ituralde and his small band, just inside the building.
Hoofbeats rang on the other end of the street. The Trollocs began to shout, arid a group hurried to the front, setting wickedly barbed spears down with the butts against the cobbles. Charging that would be death for cavalry. The Trollocs were learning to be more careful.
But they weren't learning well enough. The cavalry came into view, revealing one man leading a group of wounded and exhausted horses. A distraction.
"Now," Ituralde said. The archers around him sprang up and began shooting out the windows at the Trollocs. Many died; others spun and charged.
And from a side street a cavalry charge—the horses' hooves covered with rags to dampen sound—galloped out, their approach covered by the louder hooves of the diversionary horses. The Saldaeans ripped through the Trollocs, trampling and killing.
The archers whooped and took out swords and axes to finish off the wounded Trollocs. No Fade with this group, bless the Light. Ituralde stood up, a wet handkerchief to his face against the smoke. His weariness—once buried deep—was slowly resurfacing. He was worried that when it hit him, he'd drop unconscious. Bad for morale, that.
No, he thought, hiding in the smoke while your home burns, knowing that the Trollocs are slowly penning you in . . . that's bad for morale.
His men finished off the fist of Trollocs, then hastened to another pre-decided building that they could hide in. Ituralde had about thirty archers and a company of cavalry, which he moved among five independent bands of irregular fighters similar to this one. He waved his men back into hiding while his scouts brought him information. Even with the scouts, it was difficult to get a good read on the large city. He had vague ideas of where the strongest resistance was, and sent what orders he could, but the battle was spread over too large an area for him to be able to coordinate the fighting effectively. He hoped Yoeli was well.
The Ashaman were gone, escaping at his order through the tiny gateway-only large enough to crawl through—that Antail had made. Since they'd gone—it was hours ago now—there had been no sign of whatever "rescuers" were supposedly coming. Before the Ashaman left, he'd sent a scout through a gateway to that ridge where the Lastriders had been said to watch. All that the scout found was an empty camp, the fire burning unattended.
Ituralde joined his men inside the new hiding place, leaving his handkerchief—now stained with soot—on the doorknob to give the scouts a clue to his location. Once inside, he froze, hearing something outside.
"Hush," he said to the men. They stilled their clinking armor.
Footfalls. Many of them. That was a Trolloc band for certain; his men had orders to move silently. He nodded to his soldiers, holding up six fingers. Plan number six. They'd hide, waiting, hoping the creatures would pass them by. If they didn't—if they delayed, or started searching the nearby buildings—his team would burst out and broadside them.
It was the riskiest of the plans. His men were exhausted and the cavalry had been sent to another of his group of defenders. But better to attack than be discovered or surrounded.
Ituralde sidled up to the window, waiting, listening, breathing shal-lowly. Light, but he was tired. The group marched around the corner outside, footfalls in unison. That was odd. Trollocs didn't march so regularly.
"My Lord," one of his men whispered. "There aren't any hooves."
Ituralde froze. The man was right. His tiredness was making him stupid. That's an army of hundreds, he thought. He got to his feet, coughing despite himself, and pushed open the door. He stepped outside.
A gust of wind blew down the street as Ituralde s men piled out behind him. The wind cleared the smoke for a moment, revealing a large troop of infantry kitted out in silvery armor and carrying pikes. They seemed ghosts for a moment—glowing in a phantom golden light from above, a sun he had not seen in months.
The newcomers began to call as they saw him and his men, and two of their officers charged up to him. They were Saldaean. "Where is your commander?" one asked. "The man Rodel Ituralde?"
"I. . ." Ituralde found himself coughing. "I am he. Who are you?"
"Bless the Light," one of the men said, turning back to the others. "Pass the word to Lord Bashere! We've found him!"
Ituralde blinked. He looked back at his filthy men, faces blackened with soot. More than a few had an arm in a sling. He'd started with two
hundred. Now there were fifty. They should be celebrating, but most of fhem sat down on the ground, closing their eyes.
Ituralde found himself laughing. "Now? The Dragon sends help now?" He stumbled, then sat down, staring up at the burning sky. He was laugh-ing, and he could not stop. Soon tears began streaking down his cheeks.
Yes, there was sunlight up there.
Ituralde had regained some composure by the time the troops led him into a well-defended sector of the city. The smoke here was much less thick. Supposedly, alThor's troops—led by Davram Bashere—had reclaimed most of Maradon. What was left of it. They'd been putting out the fires.
It was so odd to see troops with shiny armor, neat uniforms, clean faces. They'd swept in with large numbers of Asha'man and Aes Sedai, and an army that—for now—had been enough to drive the Shadowspawn back to the hillside fortifications above the river. Al'Thor's men led him to a tall building inside the city. With the palace burned out, mostly destroyed, it looked like they'd picked this building as a command center.
Ituralde had been fighting a draining war for weeks now. Al'Thor's troops seemed almost too clean. His men had been dying while these men washed and slept and dined on hot food?
Stop it, he told himself, entering the building. It was far too easy to blame others when a battle went wrong. It wasn't the fault of these men that their lives had been easier than his recently.
He labored up the stairs, wishing they'd let him be. A good night's sleep, a wash, and then he could meet with Bashere. But no, that wouldn't do. The battle wasn't over, and al'Thor's men would need information. It was just that his mind was failing him, working very slowly.
He reached the top floor and followed Bashere's soldiers into a room to the right. Bashere stood there, wearing a burnished breastplate without the matching helmet, hands clasped behind his back as he looked out the window. He wore one of those overly large Saldaean mustaches and a pair of olive trousers stuffed into knee-high boots.
Bashere turned and started. "Light! You look like death itself, man!" He turned to the soldiers. "He should be in the Healer's tent! Someone fetch an Asha'man!"
'I'm all right," Ituralde said, forcing sternness into his voice. "I look worse than I feel, I'd warrant."
The soldiers hesitated, looking to Bashere. "Well," the man said, "at least get him a chair and something to wipe his face with. You poor fellow; we should have been here days ago."
Outside, Ituralde could hear the sounds of distant battle. Bashere had chosen a tall building, one from which he could survey the fighting. The soldiers brought a chair, and—for all his wish to show a strong face to a fellow general—Ituralde sat with a sigh.
He looked down, and was amazed to see how dirty his hands were as though he'd been cleaning a hearth. No doubt his face was soot-covered, streaked with sweat, and there was likely still dried blood on it. His clothing was ragged from the blast that had destroyed the wall, not to mention a hastily bandaged cut on his arm.
"Your defense of this city was nothing short of stunning, Lord Ituralde," Bashere said. There was a formality to his tone—Saldaea and Arad Doman were not enemies, but two strong nations could not share a border without periods of animosity. "The number of Trollocs dead compared to the number of men you had . . . and with a gap that large in the wall . . . Let me say th
at I'm impressed." Bashere's tone implied that such praise was not easily given.
"What of Yoeli?" Ituralde asked.
Bashere's expression grew grim. "My men found a small band defending his corpse. He died bravely, though I was surprised to find him in command and Torkumen—a distant cousin of mine, the presumed leader of the city—locked in his rooms, and abandoned, where the Trollocs could have gotten him."
"Yoeli was a good man," Ituralde said stiffly. "Among the bravest I've had the honor of knowing. He saved my life, brought my men into the city against Torkumen's orders. It's a burning shame to lose him. A burning shame. Without Yoeli, Maradon wouldn't stand right now."
"It hardly stands anyway," Bashere said somberly.
Ituralde hesitated. He's uncle to the Queen—this city is probably his home.
The two looked at one another, like old wolves, leaders of rival packs. Stepping softly. "I'm sorry for your loss," Ituralde said.
"The city stands as well as it does," Bashere said, "because of you. I'm not angry, man. I'm saddened, but not angry. And I'll take your word on Yoeli. To be frank, I've never liked Torkumen. For now, I've left him in the room where we found him—still alive, thankfully—though I'll hear thunder from the Queen for what's been done to him. She's always been fond of him. Bah! She normally has better judgment."
Bashere nodded to the side when he spoke of Torkumen, and—with a start—Ituralde realized that he recognized this building. This was Torku-
men's home, where Yoeli had brought Ituralde on his first day in the city. It made sense to choose this building as a command post—it was close enough to the northern wall to have a good view of the outside, but far enough away from the blast to have survived, unlike the Council Hall.
Well, it would have served Torkumen right if the Trollocs had gotten him. Ituralde sat back, closing his eyes, as Bashere consulted with his officers. Bashere was capable, that much was obvious. Very quickly he'd swept the city clean; once the Trollocs had realized that there was a larger force to fight, they'd abandoned the city. Ituralde could feel pride that, in part, his tenacity was what had made them so quick to run.
Ituralde continued to listen. Most of Bashere's troops had come into the city through gateways, after sending in one scout to find safe places to make them. Fighting in the streets wouldn't work for him as it had Ituralde; the hit-and-hide tactic had been devoted to doing as much damage as possible before getting killed. It was a losing tactic.
The Trollocs had pulled back into the fortifications, but they wouldn't stay there for long. As he sat with closed eyes, struggling to stay awake, Ituralde heard Bashere and his captains come to the same dire conclusion Ituralde had. Maradon was lost. The Shadowspawn would wait for night, then swarm in again.
After all this, they'd just flee? After Yoeli had died holding the city? After Rajabi had been killed by a Draghkar? After Ankaer and Rossin had fallen during the skirmishes inside the walls? After all the bloodshed, they finally saw help arrive, only to have it prove insufficient?
"Perhaps we could push them off that hilltop," one of Bashere's men said. "Clean out the fortifications."
He didn't sound very optimistic.
"Son," Ituralde said, forcing his eyes open, "I held that hill for weeks against a superior force. Your people built it up well, and the problem with well-built fortifications is that your enemy can turn them against you. You'll lose men attacking there. A lot of them."
The room fell silent. We leave, then," Bashere said. "Naeff, we'll need gateways."
'Yes, Lord Bashere." Square-faced and lean of build, the man wore the black coat and the Dragon pin of an Asha'man.
Malain, gather the cavalry and organize them outside; make it look as if we're going to try an assault against their fortifications. That'll keep them eager and waiting. We'll evacuate the wounded, then we'll have the cavalry charge in the other direction into—"
"By the Light and my hope for rebirth!" a voice suddenly exclaimed.
Everyone in the room turned in shock; that wasn't the sort of oath you heard every day.
A young soldier stood by the window, looking out with a looking glass. Bashere cursed, and hurried to the window, the others crowding around, several taking out looking glasses.
What now? Ituralde thought, standing despite his fatigue and hurrying over. What could they possibly have come up with? More Draghkar? Darkhounds?
He peered out the window, and someone handed him a looking glass. He raised it, and as he'd guessed, the building was on enough of a rise to ' look out over the city wall and onto the killing field outside and the beyond. The tower positions on the crest of the hill were clustered with ra-' vens. Through the glass, he could see Trollocs clogging the heights, holding the upper camp, the towers, and the bulwarks there.
Beyond the hill, surging down through the pass, was an awesome force of Trollocs, many times the number that had assaulted Maradon. The wave of monsters seemed to continue on forever,
"We need to go," Bashere said, lowering his looking glass. "Immediately."
"Light!" Ituralde whispered. "If that force gets past us, there won't be anything in Saldaea, Andor, or Arad Doman that can stop it. Please tell me the Lord Dragon made peace with the Seanchan, as he promised?"
"In that," a quiet voice said from behind, "as in so many other things, I have failed."
Ituralde spun, lowering his looking glass. A tall man with reddish hair stepped into the room—a man whom Ituralde felt he had never met before, despite the familiar features.
Rand al'Thor had changed.
The Dragon Reborn had that same self-confidence, that same straight back, that same attitude expecting obedience. And yet, at the same time, everything seemed different. The way he stood, no longer faintly suspicious. The way he studied Ituralde with concern.
Those eyes, cold and emotionless, had once convinced Ituralde to follow this man. Those eyes had changed, too. Ituralde had not noted wisdom in them before.
Don't be a thickheaded fool, Ituralde thought, you can't tell if a man is wise by looking at his eyes.
And yet he could.
"Rodel Ituralde," al'Thor said, stepping forward and laying a hand on Ituralde s arm. "I left you and your men stranded and overwhelmed. Please forgive me."
"I made this choice myself," Ituralde said. Oddly, he felt less tired than he had just moments ago.
"I have inspected your men," al'Thor said. "There are so few left, and they are broken and battered. How did you hold this city? What you have done is a miracle."
"I do what needs to be done."
"You must have lost many friends."
"I. . . Yes." What other answer was there? To dismiss it as nothing would be to dishonor them. "Wakeda fell today. Rajabi . . . well, a Dragh-kar got him. Ankaer. He lasted until this afternoon. Never did find out why that trumpeter sounded early. Rossin was looking into it. He's dead,
too."
"We need to get out of the city," Bashere said, his voice urgent. "I'm
sorry, man. Maradon is lost."
"No," al'Thor said softly. "The Shadow will not have this city. Not after what these men did to hold it. I will not allow it."
"An honorable sentiment," Bashere said, "but we don't . . ." He trailed off as al'Thor looked at him.
Those eyes. So intense. They seemed almost alight. "They will not take this city, Bashere," al'Thor said, an edge of anger entering his quiet voice. He waved to the side, and a gateway split the air. The sounds of drums and Trollocs yelling grew closer, suddenly. "I'm tired of letting him hurt my people. Pull your soldiers back."
With that, al'Thor stepped through the gateway. A pair of Aiel Maidens hurried into the room, and he left the gateway open long enough for them to leap through behind him. Then he let it vanish.
Bashere looked stunned, mouth half-open. "Curse that man!" he finally said, turning to the window again. "I thought he wasn't going to do this sort of thing any longer!"
Ituralde joined Bashere, raising h
is looking glass, looking out through the enormous gap in the wall. Outside, al'Thor was crossing the trampled ground, wearing his brown cloak and followed by the two Maidens.
Ituralde thought he could hear the sounds of the howling Trollocs. Their drums beat. They saw three people alone.
The Trollocs surged forward, charging across the ground. Hundreds, Thousands. Ituralde gasped. Bashere uttered a quiet prayer.
Al'Thor raised one hand, then thrust it—palm forward—toward the tide of Shadowspawn.
And they started to die.
It began with waves of fire, much like the ones Asha'man used. Only these were far larger. The flames burned terrible swaths of death through the Trollocs. They followed the course of the land, seeping up the hill and down into the trenches, filling them with white-hot fire, searing and destroying.
Clouds of Draghkar spun in the sky, diving for al'Thor. The air above him turned blue, and shards of ice exploded outward, spraying the air like arrows from the bows of an entire banner of archers. The beasts shrieked their inhuman agony, carcasses tumbling to the ground.
Light and Power exploded from the Dragon Reborn. He was like an entire army of channelers. Thousands of Shadowspawn died. Deathgates sprang up, striking across the ground, killing hundreds.
The Asha'man Naeff—standing beside Bashere—gasped. "I've never seen so many weaves at once," he whispered. "I can't track them all. He's a storm. A storm of Light and streams of Power!"
Clouds began to form and swirl above the city. The wind picked up, howling, and lightning struck from above. Blasts of thunder overpowered the sounds of drums as Trollocs tried in vain to get to al'Thor, climbing over the burning carcasses of their brethren. The swirling white clouds crashed into the black, boiling tempest, intermingling. Wind spun around al'Thor, whipping at his cloak.
The man himself seemed to be glowing. Was it the reflection of the swaths of fire, or perhaps the lightning blasts? Al'Thor seemed brighter than them all, his hand upraised against the Shadowspawn. His Maidens hunched near the ground on either side of him, eyes forward, shoulders set against the great wind.
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