The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  Galad didn’t respond. Once-good maps were proving faulty these days. Open fields would turn to broken hills, villages would vanish, pastures would be arable one day, then suddenly overgrown with vines and fungus. The swamp could indeed have spread.

  “The men are exhausted,” Bornhald said. “They’re good men—you know they are. But they are starting to complain.” He winced, as if anticipating a reprimand from Galad.

  Perhaps once he would have given one. The Children should bear their afflictions with pride. However, memories of lessons Morgase had taught—lessons he hadn’t understood in his youth—were nagging at him. Lead by example. Require strength, but first show it.

  Galad nodded. They were nearing a dry clearing. “Gather the men. I will speak to those at the front. Have my words recorded, then passed to those behind.”

  Bornhald looked perplexed, but did as commanded. Galad stepped off to the side, climbing up a small hill. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, inspecting his men as the companies at the front gathered around. They stood with slouched postures, legs muddied. Hands flailed at bitemes or scratched at collars.

  “We are Children of the Light,” Galad announced, once they were gathered. “These are the darkest days of men. Days when hope is weak, days when death reigns. But it is on the deepest nights when light is most glorious. During the day, a brilliant beacon can appear weak. But when all other lights fail, it will guide!

  “We are that beacon. This mire is an affliction. But we are the Children of the Light, and our afflictions are our strength. We are hunted by those who should love us, and other pathways lead to our graves. And so we will go forward. For those we must protect, for the Last Battle, for the Light!

  “Where is the victory of this swamp? I refuse to feel its bite, for I am proud. Proud to live in these days, proud to be part of what is to come. All the lives that came before us in this Age looked forward to our day, the day when men will be tested. Let others bemoan their fate. Let others cry and wail. We will not, for we will face this test with heads held high. And we will let it prove us strong!”

  Not a long speech; he did not wish to extend their time in the swamp overly much. Still, it seemed to do its duty. The men’s backs straightened, and they nodded. Men who had been chosen to do so wrote down the words, and moved back to read them to those who had not been able to hear.

  When the troop continued forward, the men’s footsteps no longer dragged, their postures were no longer slumped. Galad remained on his hillside, taking a few reports, letting the men see him as they passed.

  When the last of the seven thousand had gone by, Galad noted a small group waiting at the base of the hill. Child Jaret Byar stood with them, looking up at Galad, sunken eyes alight with zeal. He was gaunt, with a narrow face.

  “Child Byar,” Galad said, walking down from the hillside.

  “It was a good speech, my Lord Captain Commander,” Byar said fervently. “The Last Battle. Yes, it is time to go to it.”

  “It is our burden,” Galad said. “And our duty.”

  “We will ride northward,” Byar said. “Men will come to us, and we will grow. An enormous force of the Children, tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. We will wash over the land. Maybe we will have enough men to cast down the White Tower and the witches, rather than needing to ally with them.”

  Galad shook his head. “We will need the Aes Sedai, Child Byar. The Shadow will have Dreadlords, Myrddraal, Forsaken.”

  “Yes, I suppose.” Byar seemed reluctant. Well, he’d seemed reluctant about the idea before, but he had agreed to it.

  “Our road is difficult, Child Byar, but the Children of the Light will be leaders at the Last Battle.”

  Valda’s misdeeds had tarnished the entire order. More than that, Galad was increasingly convinced that Asunawa had played a large role in the mistreatment and death of his stepmother. That meant the High Inquisitor himself was corrupt.

  Doing what was right was the most important thing in life. It required any sacrifice. At this time, the right thing to do was flee. Galad could not face Asunawa; the High Inquisitor was backed by the Seanchan. Besides, the Last Battle was more important.

  Galad stepped swiftly, walking through the muck back toward the front of the line of Children. They traveled light, with few pack animals, and his men wore their armor—their mounts were laden with food and supplies.

  At the front, Galad found Trom speaking with a few men who wore leathers and brown cloaks, not white tabards and steel caps. Their scouts. Trom nodded to him in respect; the Lord Captain was one of Galad’s most trusted men. “Scouts say there’s a small issue ahead, my Lord Captain Commander,” Trom said.

  “What issue?”

  “It would be best to show it to you directly, sir,” said Child Barlett, the leader of the scouts.

  Galad nodded him forward. Ahead, the swampy forest seemed to be thinning. Thank the Light—did that mean they were nearly free?

  No. As Galad arrived, he found several other scouts looking out at a dead forest. Most trees in the swamp bore leaves, though sickly ones, but those ahead were skeletal and ashen, as if burned. There was some kind of sickly white lichen or moss growing over everything. The tree trunks looked emaciated.

  Water flooded this area, a wide but shallow river with a very slow current. It had swallowed the bases of many of the trees, and fallen tree limbs broke the dirty brown water like arms reaching toward the sky.

  “There are corpses, my Lord Captain Commander,” one of the scouts said, gesturing upriver. “Floating down. Looks like the remnants of a distant battle.”

  “Is this river on our maps?” Galad asked.

  One by one, the scouts shook their heads.

  Galad set his jaw. “Can this be forded?”

  “It’s shallow, my Lord Captain Commander,” Child Barlett said. “But we’ll have to watch for hidden depths.”

  Galad reached out to a tree beside him and broke free a long branch, the wood snapping loudly. “I will go first. Have the men remove their armor and cloaks.”

  The orders went down the line, and Galad took off his armor and wrapped it in his cloak, then tied it to his back. He hiked up his trousers as far as he could, then stepped down the gentle bank and plowed forward into the murky water. The sharply cold spring runoff made him tense. His boots sank inches into the sandy bottom, filling with water, stirring up swirls of mud. Stout made a louder splash as he stepped into the water behind.

  It wasn’t too difficult to walk in; the water only came up to his knees. He used his stick to find the best footing. Those skeletal, dying trees were unnerving. They didn’t seem to be rotting, and now that he was closer, he could better see the ash-gray fuzz among the lichen that coated their trunks and branches.

  The Children behind splashed loudly as more and more of them entered the wide stream. Nearby, bulbous forms floated down the river to catch upon rocks. Some were the corpses of men, but many were larger. Mules, he realized, catching a better look at a snout. Dozens of them. They’d been dead for some time, judging by the bloat.

  Likely a village upstream had been attacked for its food. This wasn’t the first group of dead they’d found.

  He reached the other side of the river, then climbed out. As he unrolled his trouser legs and donned his armor and cloak, he felt his shoulder aching from the blows Valda had given him. His thigh still stung, too.

  He turned and continued down the game trail northward, leading the way as other Children reached the bank. He longed to ride Stout, but he dared not. Though they were out of the river, the ground was still damp, uneven, and pocked with hidden sinkholes. If he rode, he could easily cost Stout a broken leg and himself a broken crown.

  So he and his men walked, surrounded by those gray trees, sweating in the miserable heat. He longed for a good bath.

  Eventually, Trom jogged up the line to him. “All men are across safely.” He checked the sky. “Burn those clouds. I can never tell what time it is.”

/>   “Four hours past midday,” Galad said.

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Weren’t we to stop at midday to discuss our next step?” That meeting was to have taken place once they got through the swamp.

  “For now, we have few choices,” Galad said. “I will lead the men northward to Andor.”

  “The Children have met…hostility there.”

  “I have some secluded land up in the northwest. I will not be turned away there, regardless of who controls the throne.”

  Light send that Elayne held the Lion Throne. Light send that she had escaped the tangles of the Aes Sedai, though he feared the worst. There were many who would use her as a pawn, al’Thor not the least of them. She was headstrong, and that could make her easy to manipulate.

  “We’ll need supplies,” Trom said. “Forage is difficult, and more and more villages are empty.”

  Galad nodded. A legitimate concern.

  “It’s a good plan, though,” Trom said, then lowered his voice. “I’ll admit, Damodred, I worried that you’d refuse leadership.”

  “I could not. To abandon the Children now, after killing their leader, would be wrong.”

  Trom smiled. “It’s as simple as that to you, isn’t it?”

  “It should be as simple as that to anyone.” Galad had to rise to the station he had been given. He had no other option. “The Last Battle comes and the Children of the Light will fight. Even if we have to make alliances with the Dragon Reborn himself, we will fight.”

  For some time, Galad hadn’t been certain about al’Thor. Certainly the Dragon Reborn would have to fight at the Last Battle. But was that man al’Thor, or was he a puppet of the Tower, and not the true Dragon Reborn? That sky was too dark, the land too broken. Al’Thor must be the Dragon Reborn. That didn’t mean, of course, that he wasn’t also a puppet of the Aes Sedai.

  Soon they passed beyond the skeletal gray trees, reaching ones that were more ordinary. These still had yellowed leaves, too many dead branches. But that was better than the fuzz.

  About an hour later, Galad noted Child Barlett returning. The scout was a lean man, scarred on one cheek. Galad held up a hand as the man approached. “What word?”

  Barlett saluted with arm to chest. “The swamp dries out and the trees thin in about one mile, my Lord Captain Commander. The field beyond is open and empty, the way clear to the north.”

  Light be thanked! Galad thought. He nodded to Barlett, and the man hurried back through the trees.

  Galad glanced back at the line of men. They were muddied, sweaty, and fatigued. But still, they were a grand sight, their armor replaced, their faces determined. They had followed him through this pit of a swamp. They were good men.

  “Pass the word to the other Lords Captain, Trom,” Galad said. “Have them send word to their legions. We’ll be out of this in under an hour.”

  The older man smiled, looking as relieved as Galad felt. Galad continued onward, jaw set against the pain of his leg. The cut was well bound, and there was little danger of further damage. It was painful, but pain could be dealt with.

  Finally free of this bog! He would need to plot their next course carefully, staying away from any towns, major roads, or estates held by influential lords. He ran through the maps in his head—maps memorized before his tenth nameday.

  He was thus engaged when the yellow canopy thinned, clouded sunlight peeking between branches. Soon he caught sight of Barlett waiting at the edge of the line of trees. The forest ended abruptly, almost as neat as a line on a map.

  Galad sighed in relief, relishing the thought of being out in the open again. He stepped from the trees. Only then did an enormous force of troops begin to appear, climbing over a rise directly to his right.

  Armor clanged, horses whinnying, as thousands of soldiers lined up atop the rise. Some were Children in their plate and mail, with conical helms shined to perfection. Their pristine tabards and cloaks shone, sunbursts glittering at the breasts, lances raised in ranks. The larger number were foot soldiers, not wearing the white of the Children, but instead simple brown leathers. Amadicians, likely provided by the Seanchan. Many had bows.

  Galad stumbled back, hand going to his sword. But he knew, immediately, that he had been trapped. Not a few of the Children wore clothing adorned with the crook of the Hand of the Light—the Questioners. If ordinary Children were a flame to burn away evil, the Questioners were a raging bonfire.

  Galad did a quick count. Three to four thousand Children and at least another six to eight thousand foot, half of those with bows. Ten thousand fresh troops. His heart sank.

  Trom, Bornhald and Byar hastened out of the forest behind Galad along with a group of other Children. Trom cursed softly.

  “So,” Galad said, turning to the scout, Barlett, “you are a traitor?”

  “You are the traitor, Child Damodred,” the scout replied, face hard.

  “Yes,” Galad said, “I suppose it could be perceived that way.” This march through the swamp had been suggested by his scouts. Galad could see now; it had been a delaying tactic, a way for Asunawa to get ahead of Galad. The march had also left Galad’s men tired while Asunawa’s force was fresh and ready for battle.

  A sword scraped in its sheath.

  Galad immediately raised a hand without turning. “Peace, Child Byar.” Byar would have been the one to reach for his weapon, probably to strike down Barlett.

  Perhaps something of this could be salvaged. Galad made his decision swiftly. “Child Byar and Child Bornhald, you are with me. Trom, you and the other Lords Captain bring our men out in ranks onto the field.”

  A large cluster of men near the front of Asunawa’s force was riding forward, down the hillside. Many wore the crook of the Questioners. They could have sprung their ambush and killed Galad’s group quickly. Instead, they sent down a group to parley. That was a good sign.

  Galad mounted, suppressing a wince for his wounded leg. Byar and Bornhald mounted as well, and they followed him onto the field, hoofbeats muffled by the thick, yellowed grass. Asunawa himself was among the group approaching. He had thick, graying eyebrows and was so thin as to appear a doll made of sticks, with fabric stretched across them to imitate skin.

  Asunawa was not smiling. He rarely did.

  Galad pulled his horse up before the High Inquisitor. Asunawa was surrounded by a small guard of his Questioners, but was also accompanied by five Lords Captain, each of whom Galad had met with—or served under—during his short time in the Children.

  Asunawa leaned forward in his saddle, sunken eyes narrowing. “Your rebels form ranks. Tell them to stand down or my archers will loose.”

  “Surely you would not ignore the rules of formal engagement?” Galad said. “You would draw arrows upon men as they form ranks? Where is your honor?”

  “Darkfriends deserve no honor,” Asunawa snapped. “Nor do they deserve pity.”

  “You name us Darkfriends then?” Galad asked, turning his mount slightly. “All seven thousand Children who were under Valda’s command? Men your soldiers have served with, eaten with, known and fought beside? Men you yourself watched over not two months ago?”

  Asunawa hesitated. Naming seven thousand of the Children as Darkfriends would be ridiculous—it would mean that two out of three remaining Children had gone to the Shadow.

  “No,” Asunawa said. “Perhaps they are simply…misguided. Even a good man can stray down shadowed paths if his leaders are Darkfriends.”

  “I am no Darkfriend.” Galad met Asunawa’s eyes.

  “Submit to my questioning and prove it.”

  “The Lord Captain Commander submits himself to no one,” Galad said. “Under the Light, I order you to stand down.”

  Asunawa laughed. “Child, we hold a knife to your throat! This is your chance to surrender!”

  “Golever,” Galad said, looking at the Lord Captain at Asunawa’s left. Golever was a lanky, bearded man, as hard as they came—but he was also fa
ir. “Tell me, do the Children of the Light surrender?”

  Golever shook his head. “We do not. The Light will prove us victorious.”

  “And if we face superior odds?” Galad asked.

  “We fight on.”

  “If we are tired and sore?”

  “The Light will protect us,” Golever said. “And if it is our time to die, then so be it. Let us take as many enemies with us as we may.”

  Galad turned back to Asunawa. “You see that I am in a predicament. To fight is to let you name us Darkfriends, but to surrender is to deny our oaths. By my honor as the Lord Captain Commander, I can accept neither option.”

  Asunawa’s expression darkened. “You are not the Lord Captain Commander. He is dead.”

  “By my hand,” Galad said, unsheathing his weapon, holding it forward so that the herons gleamed in the light. “And I hold his sword. Do you deny that you yourself watched me face Valda in fair combat, as prescribed by law?”

  “As by the law, perhaps,” Asunawa said. “But I would not call that fight fair. You drew on the powers of Shadow; I saw you standing in darkness despite the daylight, and I saw the Dragon’s Fang sprout on your forehead. Valda never had a chance.”

  “Harnesh,” Galad said, turning to the Lord Captain to the right of Asunawa. He was a short man, bald, missing one ear from fighting Dragonsworn. “Tell me. Is the Shadow stronger than the Light?”

  “Of course not,” the man said, spitting to the side.

  “If the Lord Captain Commander’s cause had been honorable, would he have fallen to me in a battle under the Light? If I were a Darkfriend, could I have slain the Lord Captain Commander himself?”

  Harnesh didn’t answer, but Galad could almost see the thoughts in his head. The Shadow might display strength at times, but the Light always revealed and destroyed it. It was possible for the Lord Captain Commander to fall to a Darkfriend—it was possible for any man to fall. But in a duel before the other Children? A duel for honor, under the Light?

  “Sometimes the Shadow displays cunning and strength,” Asunawa cut in before Galad could continue to question. “At times, good men die.”