The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  Mat bellowed, knifing one of the men, but he didn’t have his spear. Min didn’t know where it was. Mat pushed forward, reckless, taking a gash along his side. Why?

  Tuon, Min realized, stumbling to a halt. One of the Gray Men knelt above her motionless form, raising a dagger, and—

  Min threw.

  Mat toppled to the ground a few feet from Tuon; the final Gray Man had him by the legs. Min’s knife spun through the air, reflecting flames, and took the Gray Man over Tuon in the chest.

  Min breathed out. Never in her life had she been so happy to see a knife fly true. Mat had cursed, turning about, booting his aggressor in the face. He followed that with a knife, then scrambled for Tuon, hauling her up onto his shoulder.

  Min met him. “Siuan is here, too. She—”

  Mat pointed. Siuan lay on the floor of the building. Her eyes stared sightlessly, and all the images were gone from above her.

  Dead. Min froze, heart wrenching. Siuan! She moved toward the woman anyway, unable to believe she was dead, though her clothing burned from the explosion of fire that had taken her and about half of the wall nearby her.

  “Out!” Mat said, coughing, cradling Tuon. He threw his shoulder against a wall that was only half-burned, breaking out into the air.

  Min groaned, leaving Siuan’s corpse, blinking away tears both from grief and from the smoke. She coughed as she followed Mat out into open air. The outside smelled so sweet, so cold. Behind them, the building groaned, then collapsed.

  In moments, Min and Mat were surrounded by members of the Deathwatch Guard. Not a one tried to take Tuon—who was still breathing, if shallowly—away from Mat. From the look in his eye, Min doubted they’d have been able to do so.

  Farewell, Siuan, Min thought, looking back as Guards ushered her away from the fighting below Dashar Knob. May the Creator shelter your soul.

  She would send word to others to protect Bryne, but she knew—deep down—it would be futile. He would have gone into a vengeful rage the moment Siuan died, and discounting that, there was the viewing.

  She was never wrong. Sometimes, Min hated her accuracy. But she was never wrong.

  * * *

  “Strike at their weaves,” Egwene yelled. “I’ll attack!”

  She didn’t wait to see if she was obeyed. She struck, holding as much power as she could, drawing it through Vora’s sa’angreal and heaving three different bands of fire upslope at the entrenched Sharans.

  Around her, Bryne’s well-trained troops struggled to maintain battle lines as they fought Sharan soldiers, working their way up the western side of the Heights. The hillside was pocked with hundreds of furrows and holes, created by weaves from one side or the other.

  Egwene fought forward desperately. She could feel Gawyn above, but she thought he was unconscious; his spark of life was so faint that she could barely sense his direction. Her only hope was to fight through the Sharans and reach him.

  The ground rumbled as she vaporized a Sharan woman above; Saerin, Doesine and other sisters concentrated on deflecting the enemy weaves, while Egwene focused on sending attacks. She stepped forward. One step after another.

  I’m coming, Gawyn, she thought, growing frantic. I’m coming.

  * * *

  “We come to report, Wyld.”

  Demandred ignored the messengers for the moment. He flew upon the wings of a falcon, inspecting the battle through the bird’s eyes. Ravens were better, but each time he tried using one of those, one Borderlander or another shot it down. Of all the customs to remember through the Ages, why did it have to be that one?

  No matter. A falcon would work, even if the bird did resist his control. He guided it about the battlefield, inspecting formations, deployments, advancements of troops. He did not have to rely upon the reports of others.

  It should have been an almost insurmountable advantage. Lews Therin could not use such an animal; this was a gift only the True Power could grant. Demandred could channel only a thin trickle of the True Power—not enough for destructive weaves, but there were other ways to be dangerous. Unfortunately, Lews Therin had his own advantage. Gateways that looked down upon a battlefield? It was discomforting the things people of this time discovered, things that hadn’t been known during the Age of Legends.

  Demandred opened his eyes and broke his bond to the falcon. His forces were advancing, but each step was a grueling ordeal. Tens of thousands of Trollocs had been slain. He had to be careful; their numbers were not limitless.

  He was currently on the eastern side of the Heights, looking down at the river below and northeast of the place where Lews Therin’s assassin had tried to kill him.

  Here, Demandred was nearly opposite the hill that Moghedien said they called Dashar Knob. The rock formation rose high in the air; its base was a fine position for a command post, sheltered from attacks by the One Power.

  It was so tempting to strike there himself, to Travel to it and lay waste. But was that what Lews Therin wanted? Demandred would fight the man. He would. However, Traveling into the enemy’s stronghold and possibly a trap, surrounded as it was by those high rock walls … Better to draw Lews Therin to him. Demandred dominated this battlefield. He could choose where their confrontation would occur.

  The riverbed had been slowed to a muddy trickle below, and Demandred’s Trollocs fought to seize the southern bank. The defenders held for now, but he would have them soon. Far upriver M’Hael had done his work well in diverting that water, though he had reported unusual resistance. Townspeople and a small unit of soldiers? An oddity that Demandred had not yet deciphered.

  He had almost wished for failure from M’Hael. Though Demandred himself had been the one to recruit the man, he had not expected M’Hael to rise to the rank of Chosen so quickly.

  Demandred turned to the side. Before him bowed three women in black with white ribbons. Next to them, Shendla.

  Shendla. He had thought himself long past caring for a woman again—how could affection thrive beside the burning passion that was his hatred for Lews Therin? And yet, Shendla … Devious, capable, powerful. Almost, it was enough to change his heart.

  “What is your report?” he asked the three bowing women in black.

  “The hunt was a failure,” Galbrait said, her head low.

  “He escaped?”

  “Yes, Wyld. I have failed you.” He heard the pain in the woman’s voice. She was leader of the female Ayyad.

  “You were not meant to kill him,” Demandred said. “He is a foe beyond your skill. You have disrupted his command post?”

  “Yes,” Galbrait said. “We killed half a dozen of his channelers, set the building aflame and destroyed his maps.”

  “Did he channel? Did he reveal himself?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head.

  So he could not know for certain yet if this Cauthon was Lews Therin in disguise. Demandred suspected he was, but there were reports from Shayol Ghul that Lews Therin had been seen there, on the slopes of the mountain. He had proven devious in the Last Battle before, jumping between battlefields, showing himself here and there.

  The more Demandred maneuvered against the enemy general, the more he believed that Lews Therin was here. It would be very like Lews Therin to send a decoy north while coming to fight this battle himself. Lews Therin had difficulty letting others fight for him. He always wanted to be doing everything himself, leading every battle—every charge, if he could.

  Yes … how else could Demandred explain the skill of the enemy general? Only a man with the experience of an ancient was so masterly at the dance of battlefields. At their core, many battle tactics were simple. Avoid being flanked, meet heavy force with pikes, infantry with a well-trained line, channelers with other channelers. And yet, the finesse of it … the little details … these took centuries to master. No man from this Age had lived long enough to learn the details with such care.

  During the War of Power, the only thing that Demandred had ever done better than his friend was as a
battle general. It stung to admit that, but he would no longer hide from that truth. Lews Therin had been stronger in the One Power. Lews Therin had been better at capturing the hearts of men. Lews Therin had taken Ilyena.

  But Demandred … Demandred had been better at war. Lews Therin had never been able to correctly balance caution and boldness. The man would hold back and deliberate, worrying over his decisions, until boiling forward in a reckless military action.

  If this Cauthon was Lews Therin, the man had grown better at that. The enemy general knew when to flip the coin and let fate rule, but did not let too much ride on each result. He would have made an excellent card player.

  Demandred would still defeat him, of course. The battle would merely be more … interesting.

  He rested his hand on his sword, considering his scan of the battlefield moments before. His Trollocs continued their attack at the riverbed, and Lews Therin had formed his pikemen, opposite them, into disciplined square formations, a defensive move. Behind Demandred, the shaking booms of channelers marked the greater war, that between his Sharan Ayyad and the Aes Sedai.

  He held the advantage there. His Ayyad were far better at war than the Aes Sedai. When would Cauthon commit those damane? Moghedien had reported some dissension between them and the Aes Sedai. Could Demandred widen the fracture there somehow?

  He gave orders, and the three Ayyad nearby retreated. Shendla remained, waiting his permission to leave. He had her scouting the area nearby and watching for more assassins.

  “Are you worried?” he asked her. “You know now for which side we fight. So far as I know, you have not given yourself to the Shadow.”

  “I’ve given myself to you, Wyld.”

  “And for me you fight beside Trollocs? Halfmen? Creatures from nightmare?”

  “You said some would call your actions evil,” she said. “But I do not see them as such. Our path is clear. Once you are victorious, you will remake the world, and our people will be preserved.” She took his hand, and something stirred within him. It was quickly smothered by his hatred.

  “I would cast it all away,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Everything for a chance at Lews Therin.”

  “You have promised to try,” she said. “That will be enough. And if you destroy him, you will destroy one world and preserve another. I will follow you. We will follow you.”

  Her voice seemed to imply that perhaps, once Lews Therin was dead, Demandred would be able to become his own man again.

  He was not certain. Rule only interested him insofar as he could use it against his ancient enemy. The Sharans, devoted and faithful, were just a tool. But within him, there was something that wished it was not so. That was new. Yes, it was.

  The air nearby warped, bending. No weaves were visible—this was a ripping of the fabric of the Pattern, Traveling by the True Power. M’Hael had arrived.

  Demandred turned, and Shendla released his arm, but did not leave his side. M’Hael had been given access to the Great Lord’s essence. That did not make Demandred jealous. M’Hael was another tool. Still, it made him wonder. Was anyone denied the True Power, these days?

  “You are going to lose the battle near the ruins, Demandred,” M’Hael said with an arrogant smile. “Your Trollocs there will be crushed. You had the enemy vastly outnumbered, and yet they still will defeat you! I thought you were supposed to be our greatest general, yet you lose to this rabble? I’m disappointed.”

  Demandred raised his hand casually, two fingers up.

  M’Hael jerked as two dozen nearby Sharan channelers slammed shields between him and the One Power. They wrapped him in Air, jerking him backward. He fought back, the air-warping aura of the True Power surrounding him, but Demandred was faster. He wove a True Power shield, building it from burning threads of Spirit.

  The threads trembled in the air, each one barbed with twisting strands of energy so small, the ends vanished into nothing. The True Power was so volatile, so dangerous. A shield crafted from it had a strange effect, drinking in the power of another trying to channel it.

  Demandred’s shield stole M’Hael’s power, and used the man like a conduit. Demandred gathered the True Power and wove it into a crackling ball of force above his hand. Only M’Hael would be able to see it, and the man’s proud eyes opened wide as Demandred drained him.

  It was not unlike a circle. The pulling of energy made M’Hael tremble, sweat, as he was held up by the weaves of Demandred’s Ayyad. This flow could burn M’Hael out, if unchecked—could flay his soul with the rushing of the True Power, like a river surging beyond its banks. The twisting mass of threads in Demandred’s hands pulsed and crackled, warping the air, beginning to unravel the Pattern.

  Tiny spiderweb cracks spread out on the ground from him. Cracks into nothingness.

  He walked up to M’Hael. The man began to have a seizure, froth dripping from his lips.

  “You will listen to me, M’Hael,” Demandred said softly. “I am not as the other Chosen. I do not care one whit for your political games. I don’t care which of you the Great Lord favors, which of you Moridin pats on the head. I care only for Lews Therin.

  “This is my fight. You are mine. I brought you to the Shadow, and I can destroy you. If you interfere with what I do here, I will snuff you out like a candle. I realize you think yourself strong, with your stolen Dreadlords and untrained channelers. You are a child, an infant. Take your men, create what chaos you wish, but stay out of my way. And stay away from my prize. The enemy general is mine.”

  M’Hael’s eyes, though his body betrayed him with trembles, were full of hatred, not fear. Yes, this one always had shown promise.

  Demandred turned his hand and launched a stream of balefire with the gathered True Power. The white-hot line of liquid destruction burned through the armies at the river below, vaporizing each man or woman it touched. Their forms became points of light, then dust, hundreds of them vanishing. He left a long line of burned ground, like a furrow cut by an enormous cleaver.

  “Release him,” Demandred said, allowing the True Power shield to unravel.

  M’Hael stumbled back, keeping his feet, sweat dripping from his face. He gasped, hand raised to his chest.

  “Stay alive through this battle,” Demandred said to him, turning away and beginning a weave to summon his falcon back. “If you do so, perhaps I will show you how to do as I just did. You may think you wish to kill me now, but know that the Great Lord watches. Beyond that, consider this. You may have a hundred pet Asha’man. I have over four hundred of my Ayyad. I am this world’s savior.”

  When he looked back, M’Hael was gone, having Traveled away with the True Power. It was amazing that he could summon the strength, after what Demandred had just done. He hoped he wouldn’t have to kill the man. He should prove useful.

  * * *

  I WILL WIN EVENTUALLY.

  Rand stood before the blowing winds, stood strong, though his eyes watered as he stared into the darkness. How long had he been in this place? A thousand years? Ten thousand?

  For the moment, he concerned himself only with defiance. He would not bend before this wind. He could not give in for a fraction of a heartbeat.

  THE TIME HAS COME, FINALLY.

  “Time is nothing to you,” Rand said.

  It was true, and it was not. Rand could see the threads swirling around him, forming the Pattern. As it formed, he saw the battlefields below him. Those he loved fighting for their lives. These were not possibilities; this was the truth, what was actually happening.

  The Dark One wrapped around the Pattern, unable to take it and destroy it, but able to touch it. Tendrils of darkness, spines, touched the world at points all along its length. The Dark One lay like shadow upon the Pattern.

  When the Dark One touched the Pattern, time existed for him. And so, while time was nothing to the Dark One, he—or it, as the Dark One had no gender—could only work within its bounds. Like … like a sculptor who had marvelous visions and dreams but was still boun
d by the reality of the materials he worked with.

  Rand stared at the Pattern, resisting the Dark One’s attack. He did not move or breathe. Breath wasn’t needed here.

  People died below. Rand heard their screams. So many fell.

  I WILL WIN EVENTUALLY, ADVERSARY. WATCH THEM SCREAM. WATCH THEM DIE.

  THE DEAD ARE MINE.

  “Lies,” Rand said.

  NO. I WILL SHOW YOU.

  The Dark One spun possibility again, gathering up what could be, and thrust Rand into another vision.

  * * *

  Juilin Sandar was not a commander. He was a thief-catcher, not some nobleman. Certainly not a nobleman. He worked on his own.

  Except, apparently, when he ended up on a battlefield, put in charge of a squad of men because he had successfully captured dangerous men as a thief-catcher. The Sharans pressed against his men, aiming for the Aes Sedai. They fought on the western side of the Heights, and his squad’s job was to protect the Aes Sedai from Sharan infantry.

  Aes Sedai. How had he ever gotten tangled up with Aes Sedai? Him, a good Tairen.

  “Hold!” Juilin yelled to his men. “Hold!” He yelled it for his own benefit, too. His squad held to their spears and pikes, forcing the Sharan infantry backward up the slope. He wasn’t sure why he was here, or why they were fighting in this sector. He just wanted to stay alive!

  The Sharans shouted and cursed in an unfamiliar tongue. They had a lot of those channelers, but the outfit he faced was made up of regular troops who used a variety of hand weapons, mostly swords and shields. Corpses littered the ground, and that made it difficult for both sides as Juilin and his men followed orders, pushing against the Sharan troops while the Aes Sedai and enemy channelers traded weaves.

  Juilin wielded a spear, a weapon he was only mildly familiar with. An armored Sharan squad forced its way between Myk and Charn’s pikes. The officers wore breastplates, strangely wrapped in cloth of a variety of colors, while the common rank and file wore leather fitted with strips of metal. They all had their backs painted with strange patterns.

  The leader of the Sharan troop wielded a wicked mace, smashing one pikeman, then the other. The man shouted at Juilin, curses he didn’t understand.