The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  He left lines of smoke in the air as he spun the ashandarei, grabbing it in two hands again. The end of his weapon glowed and smoldered. He found himself yelling in the Old Tongue.

  “Al dival, al kiserai, al mashi!” For light, glory, and love!

  The gholam stepped back, snarling at the barrage. It looked over its shoulder, seeming to notice something behind, but Mat’s attack drew its attention back.

  “Tai’daishar!” True Blood of Battle!

  Mat forced the creature toward an open doorway at the back of the hallway. The room beyond was entirely dark. No light of the fires reflected off walls there.

  “Carai manshimaya Tylin. Carai an manshimaya Nalesean. Carai an manshimaya ayend’an!” Honor of my blade for Tylin. Honor of my blade for Nalesean. Honor of my blade for the fallen.

  The call of vengeance.

  The gholam backed into the darkened room, stepping onto a bone white floor, eyes flickering down.

  Taking a deep breath, Mat leaped through the doorway with a final burst of strength and slammed the smoldering butt of his ashandarei into the side of the creature’s head. A spray of sparks and ash exploded around its face. The creature cursed and stumbled to the right.

  And there, it nearly stepped off the edge of a platform hanging above an expansive void. The gholam hissed in anger, hanging with one leg over the void, flailing to keep its balance.

  From this side, the doorway into the room was ringed by a glowing white light—the edges of a gateway made for Skimming. “I don’t know if you can die,” Mat said softly. “I hope to the Light that you can’t.” He raised a boot and slammed it into the thing’s back, throwing it off the platform into the darkness. It fell, twisting in the air, looking up at him with horror.

  “I hope you can’t die,” Mat said, “because I’m going to enjoy the thought of you falling through that blackness forever, you misbegotten son of a goat’s droppings.” Mat spit over the side, sending a bit of bloody spittle down, plummeting after the gholam. Both disappeared into the blackness below.

  Sumeko walked up beside him. The stout Kinswoman had long dark hair and the air of a woman who did not like being ordered about. Nearly every woman had that same air. She’d been standing just inside the gateway, to the side where she would be unseen from the hallway. She had to be there to maintain the white platform, which was in the shape of a large book. She raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Thanks for the gateway,” Mat said, shouldering his ashandarei, the butt still trailing a thin line of smoke. She’d made the gateway from inside the palace, using it to travel to this point and open the gateway in the hallway. They’d hoped that would keep the gholam from feeling her channel, as she’d made the weaves in the palace.

  Sumeko sniffed. Together, the two walked out through the gateway and into the building. Several of the Band were hurriedly putting out the fire. Talmanes rushed up to Mat as the gateway vanished, accompanied by another of the Kinswomen, Julanya.

  “You sure that darkness goes on forever?” Mat asked. Julanya was a plump, pretty woman who would have fit nicely on Mat’s knee. The white in her hair did not detract from her prettiness at all.

  “Near as we can tell, it does,” Sumeko said. “This was quite nearly bungled, Matrim Cauthon. The thing didn’t seem surprised by the gateway. I think it sensed it anyway.”

  “Still managed to fight it off the platform,” Mat said.

  “Barely. You should have let us deal with the beast.”

  “Wouldn’t have worked,” Mat said, taking a wetted kerchief from Talmanes. Sumeko glanced at his arm, but Mat didn’t ask for Healing. That cut would heal right nicely. Might even have a good scar. Scars impressed most women, so long as they were not on the face. What did Tuon think of them?

  Sumeko sniffed. “The pride of men. Do not forget that we lost some of our own to that thing.”

  “And I’m glad I could help you get revenge,” Mat said. He smiled at her, though she was right, it had nearly been bungled. He was certain the gholam had felt the Kinswoman beyond that doorway as they approached. Fortunately, though, the thing hadn’t seemed to consider women who could channel to be a threat.

  Talmanes handed Mat back the two fallen medallions. He tucked them away and untied the one on his ashandarei, slipping it back onto his neck. The Kin watched those medallions with a predatory hunger. Well, they could do that all they wanted. He intended one for Olver and the other for Tuon, once he could find her.

  Captain Guybon, Birgitte’s second-in-command, walked into the building. “The beast is dead?”

  “No,” Mat said, “but close enough for a Crown contract.”

  “Crown contract?” Guybon asked, frowning. “You asked the Queen’s aid on this endeavor. This wasn’t done on her contract.”

  “Actually,” Talmanes said, clearing his throat, “we just rid the city of a murderer who has taken, at last count, nearly a dozen of her citizens. We’re entitled to combat pay, I surmise.” He said it with a completely straight face. Bless the man.

  “Bloody right,” Mat said. Stopping the gholam and getting paid for it. That sounded like a sunny day for a change. He tossed his kerchief to Guybon and walked away, leaving behind the Kinswomen who folded their arms and watched with displeasure. Why was it a woman could look angry with a man even when he had done exactly what he had said he would, risking his neck even?

  “Sorry about the fire, Mat,” Talmanes said. “Didn’t mean to drop the lantern like that. I know I was just supposed to lead him into the building.”

  “Worked out fine,” Mat said, inspecting the butt of his ashandarei. The damage was minor.

  They had not known where—or if—the gholam would attack him, but Guybon had done his job well, getting everyone out of the nearby buildings, then picking a hallway that the Kinswoman would make the gateway into. He’d sent a member of the Band to tell Talmanes where to go.

  Well, Elayne and Birgitte’s idea with the gateway had worked out, even if it hadn’t been the way they’d planned. It was still better than what Mat had been able to come up with; his only idea had been to try to stuff one of those medallions down the gholam’s throat.

  “Let’s collect Setalle and Olver from their inn,” Mat said, “and get back to camp. Excitement’s over for now. About bloody time.”

  Chapter 32

  A Storm of Light

  The city of Maradon burned. Violent, twisting columns of smoke rose from dozens of buildings. The careful city planning kept the fires from spreading too quickly, but did not stop them entirely. Human beings and tinder. They went together.

  Ituralde crouched inside a broken building, rubble to his left, a small band of Saldaeans to his right. He’d abandoned the palace early on; it had been swarmed with Shadowspawn. He’d left it packed with all the oil they’d been able to find, then had the Asha’man set it aflame, killing hundreds of Trollocs and Fades trapped inside.

  He glanced out the window of his current hiding place. He could have sworn he’d seen a patch of bare sky out the window, but the ash and smoky haze in the air made it difficult to tell. A building nearby burned so intensely that he could feel the heat through the stone.

  He used the smoke and the fire. Almost everything on a battlefield could be an advantage. In this case, once Yoeli had accepted that the city was lost, they’d stopped defending it. Now they used the city as a killing ground.

  The streets created a maze that Ituralde—with the help of the Saldaeans—knew and his enemies did not. Every rooftop was a ridge to give high ground, every alley a secret escape route, every open square a potential trap.

  The Trollocs and their commanders had made a mistake. They assumed that Ituralde cared about protecting the city. They mistook him. All he cared about now was doing as much damage to them as possible. So, he used their assumptions against them. Yes, their army was large. But any man who had ever tried to kill rats knew that the size of his hammer didn’t matter so long as the rats knew how to hide.

  A hesi
tant 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, and 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 Asha’man 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 Asha’man 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 groups of defenders. But better to attack than be discovered or surrounded.

  Ituralde sidled up to the window, waiting, listening, breathing shallowly. Light, but he was tired. The group marched around the corner outside, footfalls in unison. That was odd. The Trollocs raiding the city were hunting in packs, not marching in formation.

  “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 them 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 laughing, 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, al’Thor’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 that 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 Torkumen’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.