The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  He looked back up the slope behind the camp, and his heart leaped. A body was plummeting down from the top of the slope, still clutching in its hand a banner—a banner that bore a large red hand. The Band of the Red Hand! The man and banner fell among a group of Trollocs eating sizzling pieces of meat around a fire. Sparks flew in all directions, and the enraged beasts yanked the intruder out of the flames, but he was long past caring what they did to him.

  “Faile!” he whispered.

  “I see it.” Her bundle concealed the sack with the Horn in it. She added, almost whispering, “Light. How are we going to reach Mat?”

  They moved off to the side as the rest of her group came through the gateway. They had swords, but carried them bundled up like arrows, in packs, atop the backs of a few of the men as if they were tied-up supplies for the battlefield.

  “Blood and ashes,” Mandevwin whispered, joining the two of them. Captives whimpered from a pen nearby. “Maybe they’ll put us in there? We could sneak out in the night.”

  Faile shook her head. “They’ll take our bundles. Leave us unarmed.”

  “Then what do we do?” Mandevwin asked, glancing to the side as a group of Trollocs passed, dragging corpses harvested from the front lines. “Start fighting? Hope Lord Mat sees us, and sends help?”

  Olver didn’t think much of that plan. He wanted to fight, but those Trollocs were big. One passed nearby, and its wolf-featured head swung his way. Eyes that could have belonged to a man looked him up and down, as if hungry. Olver stepped back, then reached toward his bundle, where he’d hidden his knife.

  “We’ll run,” Faile whispered, once the Trolloc passed. “Scatter in a dozen different directions, and in doing so, try to disorient them. Maybe a few of us will escape.” She frowned. “What is delaying Aravine?”

  Almost as she said it, Aravine strode through the gateway. The woman in white who had channeled followed her out, and then Aravine pointed at Faile.

  Faile jerked into the air. Olver gasped, and Mandevwin cursed, throwing down his bundle and digging for his sword while Arrela and Selande shouted. All three were hauled into the air by weaves moment later, and Aiel in red veils ran through the gateway, weapons out.

  Pandemonium followed. A few of Faile’s soldiers fell as they tried to fight back with their fists. Olver dove for the ground, hunting for his knife, but by the time he had his hand on its hilt, the skirmish was over. The others were all subdued or tied in air.

  So fast! Olver thought with despair. Why hadn’t anyone warned him that fighting happened so quickly?

  They seemed to have forgotten him, but he didn’t know what to do.

  Aravine walked up to Faile, still hanging in the air. What was happening? Aravine … she had betrayed them?

  “I am sorry, my Lady,” Aravine said to Faile. Olver could barely hear. Nobody paid any attention to him; the Aiel kept watch on the soldiers, shoving them into a group to be guarded. More than a few of their number lay bleeding on the ground.

  Faile struggled in the air, her face growing red as she strained. Her mouth was obviously gagged. Faile would never remain quiet at a time like this.

  Aravine untied the Horn’s bag from Faile’s back, then checked inside it. Her eyes widened. She pulled the sack tight at the top and held it close. “I had hoped,” she whispered to Faile, “to leave my old life behind. To start fresh and new. I thought I could hide, or that I would be forgotten, that I could come back to the Light. But the Great Lord does not forget, and one cannot hide from him. They found me the very night we reached Andor. This is not what I intended, but it is what I must do.”

  Aravine turned away. “A horse!” she called. “I will deliver this package to Lord Demandred myself, as I have been commanded.”

  The woman in white walked up beside her, and the two started arguing in hushed tones. Olver glanced about. Nobody was looking at him.

  His fingers started trembling. He’d known that Trollocs were big, and that they were ugly. But … these things were nightmares. Nightmares all around. Oh, Light!

  What would Mat do?

  “Dovie’andi se tovya sagain,” Olver whispered, unsheathing his knife. With a cry, he threw himself at the woman in white and rammed his knife into her lower back.

  She screamed. Faile dropped free of her bonds of Air. And then, suddenly, the captive pens burst open and a group of yelling men scrambled to freedom.

  * * *

  “Raise it higher!” Doesine cried. “Flaming quickly!”

  Leane obeyed, weaving Earth with the other sisters. The ground trembled in front of them, buckling and slumping like a bunched-up rug. They finished, then used the mound for cover as fire dropped from upslope.

  Doesine led the motley bunch. A dozen or so Aes Sedai, a smattering of Warders and soldiers. The men clutched their weapons, but lately those had proven about as effective as loaves of bread. The Power crackled and sizzled in the air. The improvised bulwark thumped as Sharans pounded it with fire.

  Leane peeked above the defenses, clutching the One Power. She had recovered from her encounter with the Forsaken Demandred. It had been an unsettling experience—she had been totally in his power, and her life could have been snuffed out in an instant. She had also been unnerved by the intensity of his ravings; his hatred of the Dragon Reborn was unlike anything she had ever seen.

  A group of Sharans moved down the slope, and together they sent weaves at the makeshift fortification. Leane sliced one weave from the air, working like a surgeon cutting away withered flesh. Leane was much weaker in the One Power now than she had once been.

  She had to be more efficient with her channeling. It was remarkable what a woman could achieve with less.

  The bulwark exploded.

  Leane threw herself aside as clods of soil rained down. She rolled through curling smoke, coughing and clinging to saidar. It was those Sharan men! She couldn’t see their weaves. She picked herself up, her dress tattered from the explosion, her arms scored by scratches. She caught a hint of blue peeking from a furrow nearby. Doesine. She scrambled over.

  She found the woman’s body there. Not her head, though.

  Leane felt an immediate, almost overpowering, sense of loss and grief. Doesine and she had not been close, but they had been fighting together here. It was wearing on Leane—the loss, the destruction. How much could they take? How many more would she have to watch die?

  She steeled herself with difficulty. Light, this was a disaster. They had anticipated enemy Dreadlords, but there were hundreds upon hundreds of those Sharans. An entire nation’s worth of channelers, all trained in war. The battlefield was strewn with bright bits of color, fallen Aes Sedai. Their Warders charged up the hillside, screaming in rage at the loss of their Aes Sedai as they were cut down by blasts of the Power.

  Leane stumbled toward where a group of Reds and Greens fought from a hollowed out piece of ground on the western slope. The terrain protected them for now, but how long could the women hold out?

  Still, she felt proud. Outnumbered and overwhelmed, the Aes Sedai kept fighting. This was nothing like the night the Seanchan attacked, when a fractured Tower had broken from the inside out. These women held firm; each time a pocket of them was scattered, they grouped back together and continued fighting. Fire fell from above, but nearly as much flew back, and lightning struck on either side.

  Leane carefully made her way over to the group, joining Raechin Connoral, who crouched next to a boulder while launching weaves of Fire at the advancing Sharans. Leane watched for return weaves, then deflected one with a quick weave of Water, making the ball of fire burn away in tiny sparks.

  Raechin nodded to her. “And here I thought you’d stopped being useful for anything other than batting your eyes at men.”

  “The Domani art is about achieving what you want, Raechin,” Leane said coolly, “with as little effort as possible.”

  Raechin snorted and launched a few fireballs toward the Sharans. “I should ask advice from you on that s
ometime,” she said. “If there really is a way to make men do as you like, I should like very much to know it.”

  That idea was so absurd as to nearly make Leane laugh, despite the terrible circumstances. A Red? Putting on paints and powders and learning the Domani arts of manipulation? Well, why not? Leane thought, striking down another fireball. The world was changing, and the Ajahs—ever so subtly—changing with it.

  The sisters’ resistance was attracting the attention of more Sharan channelers. “We’ll have to abandon this position soon,” Raechin said.

  Leane only nodded.

  “Those Sharans…” the Red growled. “Look at that!”

  Leane gasped. Many of the Sharan troops in this quarter had withdrawn earlier in the fight—something seemed to have drawn them away—but the channelers had replaced them with a large group of frightened-looking people and were herding them at the front of their line to absorb attacks. Many carried sticks or tools of some sort for fighting, but they bunched together, holding the weapons timidly.

  “Blood and bloody ashes,” Raechin said, causing Leane to raise an eyebrow at her. She continued weaving, trying to send lightning down behind the lines of the frightened people. It still hit many of them. Leane felt sick, but joined in the attacks.

  As they worked, Manda Wan crawled up to them. Soot-stained and blackened, the Green looked horrible. Probably much as I do, Leane thought, glancing down at her own scratched and sooty arms.

  “We’re pulling back,” Manda said. “Maybe we’ll have to use gateways.”

  “And go where?” Leane said. “Abandon the battle?”

  The three grew silent. No. There was no retreat from this fight. It was win here or nothing.

  “We are too fragmented,” Manda said. “We must at least fall back to regroup. We need to bring the women together, and this is the only thing I can think of. Unless you have a better idea.”

  Manda looked to Raechin. Leane was too weak in the power now for her opinion to hold much weight. She started cutting down weaves as the two continued to speak in hushed tones. The Aes Sedai nearby began pulling back out of the hollow and moving back down the slope. They’d regroup, make a gateway toward Dashar Knob and decide what to do next.

  Wait. What was that? Leane sensed powerful channeling nearby. Had the Sharans created a circle? She squinted; they were well into night now, but enough of the landscape burned to give firelight. It also raised a lot of smoke. Leane wove Air to blow the smoke out of the way, but it lifted on its own, split as if by a powerful wind.

  Egwene al’Vere strode past them up the slope, glowing with the power of a hundred bonfires. That was more than Leane had ever seen a woman hold. The Amyrlin walked forward with her hand thrust out, holding a white rod. Egwene’s eyes seemed to shine.

  With a burst of light and force, Egwene released a dozen separate flows of fire. A dozen. They battered the hillside above, throwing the bodies of Sharan channelers into the air.

  “Manda,” Leane said, “I think we have found you a better rallying point.”

  * * *

  Talmanes lit a twig off the lantern, then used it to light his pipe. He took one puff before hacking and emptying the pipe’s bowl on the rock floor. The tabac had gone bad somehow. Horribly bad. He coughed and ground the offending tabac into the floor with his heel.

  “You all right, my Lord?” Melten asked, walking past, idly juggling a pair of hammers with his right hand as he walked.

  “I’m still bloody alive,” Talmanes said. “Which is far more than I likely have a right to expect.”

  Melten nodded without expression and continued on, joining one of the teams working on the dragons. The deep cavern around them echoed with the sounds of hammers on wood as the Band did its best to reconstruct the weapons. Talmanes tapped the lantern, judging the oil. It smelled awful when it burned, though he was growing used to that. They had enough for a few more hours yet.

  That was good, since—so far as he knew—this cavern had no exits to the battleground above. It was accessible only by gateway. Some Asha’man had known of it. Strange fellow. What kind of man knew of caverns that could not be reached, except through the One Power?

  Anyway, the Band was trapped down here, in a place of safety but isolation. Only rare bits of information came in Mat’s messages.

  Talmanes strained, thinking he could hear the distant sounds of channelers fighting above, but it was mere fancy. The land was silent, and these ancient stones had not seen the light since the Breaking, if then.

  Talmanes shook his head, walking to one of the working teams. “How goes it?”

  Dennel gestured toward a few sheets of paper Aludra had given him, instructions on how to repair this particular dragon. The woman herself gave precise directions to another of the work teams, her lightly accented voice echoing in the chamber.

  “Most of the tubes are solid,” Dennel said. “If you think about it, they were built to withstand a little fire and an explosion now and then…” He chuckled, then fell silent, looking at Talmanes.

  “Do not let my expression dampen your good humor,” Talmanes said, tucking his pipe away. “Nor let it bother you that we are fighting at the end of the world, that our armies are grossly outnumbered, and that if we lose, our very souls will be destroyed by the Dark Lord of all evil.”

  “Sorry, my Lord.”

  “That was a joke.”

  Dennel blinked. “That?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was a joke.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have an interesting sense of humor, my Lord,” Dennel said.

  “So I have been told.” Talmanes stooped down and inspected the dragon cart. The scorched wood was held together with screws and extra boards. “This does not seem very functional.”

  “It will work, my Lord. We won’t be able to move it fast, though. I was saying, the tubes themselves fared well, but the carts … Well, we’ve done what we can with salvage and the supplies out of Baerlon, but we can only do so much with the time we have.”

  “Which is none,” Talmanes said. “Lord Mat could call upon us at any moment.”

  “If they’re still alive up there,” Dennel said, looking upward.

  A discomforting thought. The Band could end its days trapped down here. At least there wouldn’t be many of those days. Either the world would end or the Band would run out of food. They wouldn’t last a week. Buried here. In darkness.

  Bloody ashes, Mat. You’d better not lose up there. You’d better not! The Band still had fight in them. They were not going to end this one starving underground.

  Talmanes held up his lantern, turning to go, but noticed something. The soldiers working on the dragons cast a twisted shadow on the wall, like a man with a wide cloak and hat that obscured his face.

  Dennel followed the glance. “Light. It looks like we’re being watched over by old Jak himself, doesn’t it?”

  “That it does,” Talmanes said. Then, in a louder voice, he shouted, “It’s too quiet in here by far! Let’s have some singing, men.”

  Some of the men paused. Aludra stood up, placing hands on her hips, and gave him a displeased glance.

  So Talmanes started it himself.

  “We’ll drink the wine till the cup is dry,

  And kiss the girls so they’ll not cry,

  And toss the dice until we fly,

  To dance with Jak o’ the Shadows!”

  Silence.

  Then they started it up:

  “We’ll give a yell with a bloody curse,

  And hug the maids, it could be worse,

  As we ride away with the Dark One’s purse,

  To dance with Jak o’ the Shadows!”

  Their loud voices beat against the stones as they worked, furiously preparing for the part they would play.

  And they would play it. Talmanes would make certain they did. Even if they had to blast their way out of this tomb in a storm of dragonfire.

  * * *

  As Olver st
abbed the woman in white, Faile’s bonds vanished. She dropped to the ground, stumbling but remaining upright. Mandevwin dropped beside her with a curse.

  Aravine. Light, Aravine. Docile, careful and capable. Aravine was a Darkfriend.

  She had the Horn.

  Aravine glanced at the fallen Aes Sedai that Olver had attacked, then panicked, grabbing the horse a servant had brought and jumping into the saddle.

  Faile dashed for her as captives roared out of the nearby pens, throwing themselves at Trollocs and trying to wrestle weapons free. She had almost reached Aravine before the woman galloped away, carrying the Horn with her. She headed toward the gentler slopes that would allow her to ride to the top of the Heights.

  “No!” Faile screamed. “Aravine! Don’t do this!” Faile started to run after her, but saw that that was no use.

  A horse. She needed a horse. Faile looked around, frantic, and found the few pack animals they had brought through the gateway. Faile scrambled to Bela’s side, cutting free the saddle—and all of its burdens—with a few swipes of the knife. She leaped up onto the mare bareback and took the reins, then kicked her into motion.

  The shaggy mare galloped after Aravine, and Faile leaned low on her back. “Run, Bela,” Faile said. “If you’ve kept any strength back, now is the time to use it. Please. Run, girl. Run.”

  Bela charged across the trampled ground, hoofbeats accompanying thunder from above. The Trolloc camp was a place of darkness, lit by cook fires and the occasional torch. Faile felt as if she were riding through a nightmare.

  Ahead, a few Trollocs burst onto the path to head her off. Faile leaned lower, praying to the Light that they’d miss when they attacked. Bela slowed, and then two horsemen charged up alongside Faile, bearing lances. One pierced a Trolloc’s neck, and though the other rider missed his mark, his horse shouldered another Trolloc aside, making way. Bela galloped between the disoriented Trollocs, catching up to two men riding ahead, one large of girth, the other lean. Harnan and Vanin.