The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  “Bloody cowards,” Rajabi muttered. “Light burn them, then! We’ll do it alone. We have before.”

  Ituralde took a long, contemplative puff on his pipe. He’d chosen to finally use the Two Rivers tabac. This pipeful was the last in his store; he’d been saving it for months, now. Good flavor. Best there was.

  He studied his maps again, holding a smaller one up before him. He could use better maps, that was certain. “This new Seanchan general,” Ituralde said, “is marshaling over three hundred thousand men, with a good two hundred damane.”

  “We’ve beat large forces before. Look what we did at Darluna! You crushed them, Rodel!”

  And doing so had required every bit of craftiness, skill and luck Ituralde could muster. Even then, he’d lost well over half his men. Now he ran, limping, before this second, larger force of Seanchan.

  This time, they weren’t making any mistakes. The Seanchan didn’t rely solely on their raken. His men had intercepted several foot scouts, and that meant dozens hadn’t been caught. This time, the Seanchan knew Ituralde’s true numbers and his true location.

  His enemies were done being herded and goaded; instead they hunted him, relentlessly, avoiding his traps. Ituralde had planned to retreat deeper and deeper into Arad Doman; that would favor his forces and stretch the Seanchan supply lines. He’d figured he could keep it up for another four or five months. But those plans were useless now; they’d been made before Ituralde had discovered there was an entire bloody army of Aiel running about Arad Doman. If the reports were to be believed—and reports about Aiel were often exaggerations, so he wasn’t sure how much to believe—there were upwards of a hundred thousand of them holding large sections of the north, Bandar Eban included.

  A hundred thousand Aiel. That was as good as two hundred thousand Domani troops. Perhaps more. Ituralde well remembered the Blood Snow twenty years ago, when it had seemed he’d lost ten men for each Aiel who fell.

  He was trapped, a walnut crushed between two stones. The best he’d been able to do was retreat here, to this abandoned stedding. That would give him an edge against the Seanchan. But only a small one. The Seanchan had a force six times the size of his own, and the greenest of commanders knew that fighting those odds was suicide.

  “Have you ever seen a master juggler, Rajabi?” Ituralde asked, studying the map.

  From the corner of his eye, Ituralde saw the bull-like man frown in confusion. “I’ve seen gleemen who—”

  “No, not a gleeman. A master.”

  Rajabi shook his head.

  Ituralde puffed in thought before speaking. “I did, once. He was the court bard of Caemlyn. Spry fellow, with a wit that might better have belonged in a common room, for all the way he was decorated. Bards don’t often juggle; but this fellow didn’t mind the request. He liked juggling to please the young Daughter-Heir, so I understand.”

  He removed the pipe from his mouth, tapping down the tabac.

  “Rodel,” Rajabi said. “The Seanchan. . . .”

  Rodel held up a finger, situating his pipe before continuing. “The bard started by juggling three balls. Then he asked us if we thought he could do another. We cheered him on. He went to four, then five, then six. With each ball he added, our applause grew greater, and he always asked if we thought he could do another. Of course we said yes.

  “Seven, eight, nine. Soon he had ten balls going in the air, flying in a pattern so complex that I couldn’t track them. He had to strain to keep them going; he kept having to reach down and grab balls that he nearly missed. He was too lost in concentration to ask us if he should add another, but the crowd called for it. Eleven! Go for eleven! And so, his assistant tossed another ball into the mess.”

  Ituralde puffed.

  “He dropped them?” Rajabi asked.

  Rodel shook his head. “That last ‘ball’ wasn’t actually a ball at all. It was some kind of Illuminator’s trick; once it got halfway to the bard, it flashed and gave off a sudden burst of light and smoke. By the time our vision cleared, the bard was gone, and ten balls were lined up on the floor. When I looked around, I found him sitting at one of the tables with the rest of the diners, drinking a cup of wine and flirting with Lord Finndal’s wife.”

  Poor Rajabi looked completely dumbfounded. He liked his answers neat and straightforward. Ituralde usually felt the same way, but these days—with their unnaturally overcast skies and sense of perpetual gloom—made him philosophic.

  He reached out and took the worn, folded sheet of paper off the table from beneath his tabac pouch. He handed it to Rajabi.

  “ ‘Strike hard against the Seanchan,’ ” Rajabi read. “ ‘Push them away, force them into their boats and back across their bloody ocean. I’m counting on you, old friend. King Alsalam.’ ” Rajabi lowered the letter. “I know of his orders, Rodel. I didn’t come into this because of him. I came because of you.”

  “Yes, but I fight because of him,” Ituralde said. He was a king’s man; he always would be. He stood up, tapping out his tabac and grinding the embers beneath the heel of his boot. He set the pipe aside and took the letter from Rajabi, then walked to the door.

  He needed to make a decision. Stay and fight, or flee for a worse location, but gain a little more time?

  The shack groaned and wind shook the trees as Ituralde stepped outside into the overcast morning. The shed wasn’t Ogier-built, of course. It was too flimsy for that. This stedding had been abandoned for a long time. His men camped amid the trees. Hardly the best location for a war camp, but one made soup with the spices on hand; the stedding was far too useful to pass up. Another man might have fled to a city and hidden behind its walls, but here in these trees, the One Power was useless. Negating the Seanchan damane was better than walls, no matter how high.

  We have to stay, Ituralde thought, watching his men work, digging in, erecting a palisade. He hated the thought of cutting down trees in a stedding. He’d known a few Ogier in his time, and respected them. These massive oaks probably held some lingering strength from the days when the Ogier had lived here. Cutting them down was a crime. But you did what you had to. Running might gain him more time, but it might just as easily lose him time. He had a few days here before the Seanchan hit him. If he could dig in well, he might force them into a siege. The stedding would make them hesitant, and the forests would work to the advantage of Ituralde’s smaller force.

  He hated letting himself get pinned in. That was probably why he’d considered for so long, even though, deep down, he’d already known that it was time to stop running. The Seanchan had finally caught him.

  He continued along the ranks, nodding to working men, letting himself be seen. He had forty thousand troops left, which was a marvel, considering the odds they had faced. These men should have deserted. But they’d seen him win impossible battle after impossible battle, tossing ball after ball into the air to greater and greater applause. They thought he was unstoppable. They didn’t understand that when one tossed more balls into the air, it wasn’t just the show that became more spectacular.

  The fall at the end grew more spectacular as well.

  He kept his dark thoughts to himself as he and Rajabi continued through the forested camp, inspecting the palisade. It was progressing nicely, the men setting thick tree trunks into freshly dug troughs. After his inspection, Ituralde nodded to himself. “We stay, Rajabi. Pass the word.”

  “Some of the others say that staying here means dying for sure,” Rajabi responded.

  “They’re wrong,” Ituralde said.

  “But—”

  “Nothing is sure, Rajabi,” Ituralde said. “Fill these trees inside the palisade with archers; they’ll be almost as effective as towers. We’ll need to set up a killing field outside. Cut down as many trees around the palisade here as possible, then set the logs inside as barriers, a second line of retreat. We’ll hold strong. Perhaps I’m wrong about those Taraboners, and they’ll ride to aid us. Or maybe the king has a hidden army stashed away to defend us.
Blood and ashes, maybe we’ll fight them off here on our own. We’ll see how much they like fighting without their damane. We’ll survive.”

  Rajabi straightened visibly, growing confident. That was the kind of talk Ituralde knew he expected. Like the others, Rajabi trusted the Little Wolf. They didn’t believe he could fail.

  Ituralde knew better. But if you were going to die, you did it with dignity. The young Ituralde had often dreamed of wars, of the glory of battle. The old Ituralde knew there was no such thing as glory to be had in battle. But there was honor.

  “My Lord Ituralde!” a runner called, trotting along the inside of the unfinished palisade wall. He was a boy, young enough that the Seanchan would probably let him live. Otherwise Ituralde would have sent the lad, and those like him, away.

  “Yes?” Ituralde asked, turning. Rajabi stood like a small mountain at his side.

  “A man,” the boy said, puffing. “The scouts caught him walking into the stedding.”

  “Come to fight for us?” Ituralde said. It was not uncommon for an army to draw recruits. There were always those tempted by the lure of glory, or at least by the lure of steady meals.

  “No, my Lord,” the boy said, puffing. “He says he’s come to see you.”

  “Seanchan?” Rajabi barked.

  The boy shook his head. “No. But he’s got nice clothes.”

  Some lord’s messenger, then. Domani, or perhaps a Taraboner renegade. Whoever he was, he could hardly make their situation worse. “And he came alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Brave man. “Bring him, then,” Ituralde said.

  “Where will you receive him, my Lord?”

  “What?” Ituralde snapped. “You think I’m some fancy merchant with a palace? The field here will do. Go get him, but take your time getting back. And make sure he’s properly guarded.”

  The boy nodded and ran off. Ituralde waved over some soldiers and sent them running for Wakeda and the other officers. Shimron was dead, burned to char by a damane’s fireball. Too bad, that. Ituralde would rather have kept him than many of the others.

  Most of the officers arrived before the stranger. Lanky Ankaer. One-eyed Wakeda, who might otherwise have been a handsome man. Squat Melarned. Youthful Lidrin, who continued to follow Ituralde after his father’s death.

  “What is this I hear?” Wakeda asked, folding his arms as he strode up. “We’re staying in this death trap? Rodel, we don’t have the troops to resist. If they come, we’ll be trapped here.”

  “You’re right,” Ituralde said simply.

  Wakeda turned to the others, then back to Ituralde, a little of his irritation deflated in the face of Ituralde’s frank answer. “Well . . . why don’t we run, then?” He blustered a lot less now than he had just months ago, when Ituralde had first begun this campaign.

  “I won’t give you sugar and lies,” Ituralde said, looking at them each in turn. “We’re in a bad shape. But we’ll be in a worse shape if we run. We’ve got no more holes to hide in. These trees will work to our advantage, and we can fortify. The stedding will negate the damane, and that alone is worth the price of staying. We fight here.”

  Ankaer nodded, seeming to understand the gravity of the situation. “We have to trust him, Wakeda. He’s led us right so far.”

  Wakeda nodded. “I suppose.”

  Bloody fools. Four months ago, half of them would have killed him on sight for staying loyal to the king. Now they thought he could do the impossible. It was a pity; he was beginning to think he could have brought them back to Alsalam as loyalists. “All right,” he said, pointing at various spots along their fortification. “Here’s what we’re going to do to shore up the weak points. I want . . .”

  He trailed off as he saw a group approaching through the clearing. The messenger boy, accompanied by a squad of soldiers, escorting a man in red and gold.

  Something about the newcomer drew Ituralde’s eyes. Perhaps it was the height; the young man was as tall as an Aiel, and fair of hair like them as well. But no Aiel dressed in a fine red coat with sharp golden embroidery. There was a sword at his side, and the way the newcomer walked made Ituralde think he knew how to use it. He strode with firm, determined steps, as if he thought the soldiers around him an honor guard. A lord, then, and one accustomed to command. Why had he come in person, rather than sending a messenger?

  The young lord stopped a short length in front of Ituralde and his generals, looking at each of them in turn, then focused on Ituralde. “Rodel Ituralde?” he asked. What accent was that? Andoran?

  “Yes,” Ituralde said cautiously.

  The young man nodded. “Bashere’s description was accurate. You appear to be boxing yourself in, here. Do you honestly expect to hold against the Seanchan army? They are many times your size, and your Tarabon allies do not appear . . . eager to join you in your defense.”

  He had good intelligence, whoever he was. “I am not in the habit of discussing my defenses with strangers.” Ituralde studied the young lord. He was fit—lean and hard, though it was difficult to tell with the coat on. He favored his right hand, and on closer inspection, Ituralde noticed that the left hand was missing. Both of his forearms had some kind of strange red and gold tattoo on them.

  Those eyes. Those were eyes which had seen death a number of times. Not just a young lord. A young general. Ituralde narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

  The stranger met his eyes. “I am Rand al’Thor, the Dragon Reborn. And I need you. You and your army.”

  Several of those with Ituralde cursed, and Ituralde glanced at them. Wakeda was incredulous, Rajabi surprised, young Lidrin openly dismissive.

  Ituralde looked back at the newcomer. The Dragon Reborn? This youth? He supposed it could be possible. Most rumors agreed that the Dragon Reborn was a young man with red hair. But, then, rumors also claimed he was ten feet tall, and still others said his eyes glowed in dim light. And then there were the stories of him appearing in the sky at Falme. Blood and ashes, Ituralde didn’t know if he believed that the Dragon had been reborn in the first place!

  “I haven’t time to argue,” the stranger said, face impassive. He seemed . . . older than he looked. He didn’t appear to care that he was surrounded by armed soldiers. In fact, his coming alone . . . it should have seemed like such a foolish act. Instead it made Ituralde thoughtful. Only one such as the Dragon Reborn himself could stride into a war camp like this, completely alone, and expect to be obeyed.

  Burn him, if that fact by itself didn’t make Ituralde want to believe him. Either this man was who he claimed to be or he was an utter lunatic.

  “If we go outside the stedding, I will prove I can channel,” the stranger said. “That should count for something. Give me leave, and I’ll have ten thousand Aiel here and several Aes Sedai, all of whom will swear to you that I am who I say.”

  The rumors also said Aiel followed the Dragon Reborn. The men around Ituralde coughed and glanced about uncomfortably. Many had been Dragonsworn before coming to Ituralde. With the right words, this Rand al’Thor—or whoever he was—might be able turn Ituralde’s camp against itself.

  “Even if we assume that I believe you,” Ituralde said carefully, “I don’t see that it matters. I have a war to fight. You have other business to concern you, I assume.”

  “You are my concern,” al’Thor said, eyes so hard that they seemed ready to burrow into Ituralde’s skull and search about inside for anything of use. “You must make peace with the Seanchan. This war gains us nothing. I want you up on the Borderlands; I can’t spare men to guard the Blight, and the Borderlanders themselves have abandoned their duties.”

  “I have orders,” Ituralde said, shaking his head. Wait. He wouldn’t do as this youth asked if he didn’t have orders. Except . . . those eyes. Alsalam had had eyes like that, when they were both younger. Eyes that demanded obedience.

  “Your orders,” al’Thor said. “They are from the king? That is why you throw yourselves against the Seanchan as you do?”


  Ituralde nodded.

  “I’ve heard of you, Rodel Ituralde,” al’Thor said. “Men I trust, men I respect, trust and respect you. Rather than fleeing and hiding, you hunker down here to fight a battle you know will kill you. All because of your loyalty to your king. I commend that. But it is time to turn away and fight a battle that means something. One that means everything. Come with me, and I’ll give you the throne of Arad Doman.”

  Ituralde stood up sharply, alert. “After commending my loyalty, you expect me to unseat my own king!”

  “Your king is dead,” al’Thor said. “Either that, or his mind has been melted like wax. More and more, I think Graendal has him. I see her touch on the chaos in this land. Whatever orders you have likely came from her. Why she wants you fighting the Seanchan, I haven’t yet been able to determine.”

  Ituralde snorted. “You speak of one of the Forsaken as if you’ve had her as a dinner guest.”

  Al’Thor met his eyes again. “I remember each of them—their faces, their mannerisms, the way they speak and act—as if I’ve known them for a thousand years. I remember them better than I remember my own childhood, sometimes. I am the Dragon Reborn.”

  Ituralde blinked. Burn me, he thought. I believe him. Bloody ashes! “Let’s . . . let’s see this proof of yours.”

  There were objections, of course, mostly from Lidrin, who thought it too dangerous. The others were shaken. Here was the man they’d sworn themselves to without ever meeting him. There seemed to be a . . . a force about al’Thor, drawing Ituralde in, demanding that he do as asked. Well, he’d see the proof, first.

  They sent runners for horses to ride out of the stedding, but al’Thor spoke as if Ituralde was his man already. “Perhaps Alsalam lives,” al’Thor said as they waited. “If so, I can see that you would not want his throne. Would you like Amadicia? I will need someone to rule there and keep an eye on the Seanchan. The Whitecloaks fight there now; I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stop that conflict before the Last Battle.”