The wheel of time, p.1273
The Wheel of Time, page 1273
“They … It…” Agelmar raised a hand to his head, looking dazed. He looked down at the battle map, and his eyes widened.
“What’s wrong with you, Agelmar?” Lan said.
“I don’t know,” the man said. He blinked, staring at the maps at his feet. His face adopted a look of horror, eyes wide, lips parting. “Oh, Light! What have I done?”
“Pass my orders!” Lan said urgently to his high guard. “Bring Lord Baldhere to the command tent. Queen Ethenielle and King Easar as well.”
“Lan, you have to bring the…” Agelmar stopped. “Light! I can’t say it. I start thinking about what to do, and the wrong thoughts come into my head! I’m still trying to sabotage us. I’ve doomed us.” His eyes wide, he reached for his shortsword, sliding the blade free.
Lan caught the sword around the guard and the blade collar, stopping it just before Agelmar could ram it into his stomach and end his life. Blood seeped between Lan’s fingers from where one brushed the sharp edge of the blade, just below the collar.
“Let me die with honor,” Agelmar said. “I … I’ve destroyed us all. I’ve lost us this war, Lan.”
“Not the war, just the battle,” Lan said. “Something is wrong with you. A sickness, a fatigue or something of the Shadow. I suspect we’ll find someone has been tampering with your mind.”
“But—”
“You are a soldier!” Lan bellowed. “Act like one!”
Agelmar froze. He met Lan’s eyes, then nodded once. Lan removed his fingers from the blade and Agelmar thrust it back in its sheath. The great captain sat down cross-legged in the traditional Shienaran meditation posture, eyes closed.
Lan strode away, calling orders. Prince Kaisel ran up to him, obviously afraid. “What’s happening, Lord Mandragoran?”
“Compulsion, likely,” Lan said. “We’ve been like rabbits in a snare, with the line being drawn slowly—but snugly—around our necks. Someone please tell me the Asha’man still have enough strength for gateways! And bring me news of the eastern flank! Those archers will need support. Commit the rest of the reserves to protecting them.”
Prince Kaisel backed away as the orders continued, his eyes wide, his hand on his sword. He looked at Lord Agelmar, face pale. “We’ve really lost?” he asked Lan once the orders were out, messengers racing to deliver them.
“Yes,” Lan said. “We have.”
“Lan!” Agelmar said suddenly, opening his eyes.
Lan turned to him.
“Queen Tenobia,” Agelmar said. “I’ve sent her into danger without understanding what I’d done. Whoever put these plans into my head wanted her dead!”
Lan swore softly, bolting out of camp and up the side of the nearest hill. The scouts there made room for him as he reached the top, pulling his looking glass from his belt. He didn’t need it. He found the Queen’s flag while scanning the battlefield.
She was surrounded. Whatever support she had thought she would receive had not been sent. Lan opened his mouth to call orders, but they died on his lips as the Trollocs swarmed over the small flag of white and silver where she’d been fighting. It fell, and in seconds, he couldn’t pick out a living soldier in that section of the battlefield.
Coldness. He could do nothing for Tenobia. It was no longer about saving individuals.
He would be lucky to escape this day with any semblance of an army at all.
* * *
Mat rode with Tuon south toward the battlefield, along the banks of the river that was the western border of Arafel.
Of course, where Tuon went, so did Selucia. And now Min; Tuon wanted to keep her new Doomseer at her side at all times. Tuon kept asking for viewings, and Min kept reluctantly explaining what she saw.
Mat had tried to make her say she saw a hat floating around Mat’s head. That would persuade Tuon to stop trying to get rid of his, would it not? It would have been better than Min explaining about the eye on a scale, and the dagger, and all of the other bloody things she had seen about Mat.
Where Tuon went, a hundred of the Deathwatch Guards also went. And Galgan and Courtani, who felt chastised for not acting quickly enough to help Mat. Furyk Karede was along, too, leading the Deathwatch Guard. Being around Karede was about as pleasant as finding another man’s hand in your purse, but he was a good soldier, and Mat respected him. He would very much like to put Karede and Lan in a staring contest together. They could be at it for years.
“I need a better view,” Mat said, scanning the battlefield when they came within range. “There.”
He turned Pips and rode toward a rise close enough to where the opposing forces traded destruction at the river’s edge. Tuon followed him without a word. When they all reached the rise, he noticed Selucia staring daggers at him.
“What’s wrong?” Mat asked. “I’d have assumed you would be happy to have me back. It gives you someone else to scowl at.”
“The Empress will follow where you go,” she said.
“So she will,” Mat said. “As I’ll follow where she goes, I suppose. I hope that doesn’t lead us in too many circles.” He inspected the combat.
The river was not terribly wide—maybe fifty spans across—but it was swift-moving and deep on either side of the ford. The water made a nice barrier, and not just for Trollocs. The ford, though, made for an easy crossing—the water there was knee-deep and wide enough for at least twenty files of riders to cross at the same time.
In the distant middle of the Sharan army, a man sat upon a brilliant white horse. Mat could barely make him out with his glass; the man’s glistening armor didn’t seem like any Mat had seen, though the distance made it difficult to tell specifics. “I assume that’s our Forsaken?” he asked, gesturing with the ashandarei.
“He seems to be yelling for the Dragon Reborn,” Galgan said. Demandred’s voice boomed across the battlefield right then, enhanced by the One Power. He was demanding that the Dragon come and face him in a duel.
Mat inspected the fellow through the glass. “Demandred, eh? Has he gone a bit dotty, or what?” Well, Mat knew which part of the battle to bloody stay away from. He had not signed up to fight Forsaken. In fact, so far as he remembered, he had not signed up at all. He had been bloody press-ganged every step of the way. Usually by force, and always by one fool woman or another.
Egwene could deal with Demandred, or maybe the Asha’man could. Rand said the Asha’man were not going crazy anymore, but that was a shallow promise. Any man who wanted to wield the One Power was already crazy, so far as Mat considered it. Adding more crazy to them would be like pouring tea into an already full cup.
At least Tuon’s damane had those Sharan channelers occupied. Their firefight ripped up the ground on both riverbanks. It was impossible to get a clear picture of what was going on, though. There was just too much confusion.
Mat pointed his looking glass southward along the river once more, and frowned. There was a military camp set up just a few hundred paces opposite the ford, but it wasn’t the haphazard arrangement of tents that caught his attention. At the eastern edge of the camp was a large body of troops and their horses, just standing there. He picked out a figure pacing in front of the assembly, who appeared to be in a foul mood. Mat might have been missing an eye, but it was no difficult task to recognize Tylee.
Mat lowered the looking glass. He rubbed his chin, adjusted his hat and set his ashandarei on his shoulder. “Give me five minutes on my own,” he said, then kicked Pips into a gallop down the hill, hoping that Tuon would let him go alone. For once, she did, though as he reached the base of the rise, he could imagine her up there watching him with those curious eyes of hers. She seemed to find everything he did to be interesting.
Mat galloped alongside the river toward Tylee’s location. Explosions rang out, painful to the ears, announcing that he had neared the heart of the battle.
Mat nudged Pips to the left and rode directly toward the pacing general. “Tylee, you Light-blinded fool! Why are you sitting around here instead of making yourself useful?”
“Highness,” Tylee said, falling to her knees, “we were ordered to stay here until we were called.”
“Who told you to do that? And get up.”
“General Bryne, Highness,” she said, rising. He could sense the annoyance in her tone, but she kept her face under control. “He said that we were only a reserve force, and that under no circumstances were we to move from here until he gave the order. He said many lives depended on it. But look, you can see for yourself,” she said, gesturing toward the river, “the battle is not going well.”
Mat had been too caught up with Tylee to see the state of affairs across the water, but now he gave the field a wide sweep with his eye.
While the damane still seemed to be holding their own against the Sharan channelers, the regular troops were clearly in a bind. The defenses on Bryne’s left flank downriver had completely broken down, and the soldiers there were being mobbed by Sharans.
Where was the cavalry? It was supposed to be protecting the flanks. And, as Mat had predicted, Sharan archers had moved out into the field and were sending arrows into Bryne’s cavalry on the right flank. It was all like a boil being squeezed, and Bryne’s troops were the boil about to pop.
“This doesn’t make any bloody sense,” Mat said. “He’s spinning this more and more into a disaster. Where is the general now, Tylee?”
“I cannot say, Highness, I have people out looking for him, but so far there is no word. But I have reports that our side has had a major setback just south of here. Two large cavalry units of General Bryne’s have been wiped out by the Sharans just below the hills on the border. It is said they had been sent there to relieve the marath’damane on the hilltops.”
“Blood and bloody ashes.” Mat considered this information. “All right, Tylee, we can’t wait around any longer. Here’s what we are going to do. Have Banner-General Makoti take the Second Banner right up the middle. He has to work his way around our troops fighting there and push back those Sharans. You take the Third Banner and swing around to the right flank; take out those archers and any other goat-kissers that cross your path. I’m going to take the First Banner over to the left flank and put a patch on those defenses. Get going, Tylee!”
“Yes, Highness. But surely you aren’t going to get so close to the battle?”
“Yes I am. Now get going, Tylee!”
“Please, if I might make a humble suggestion, Highness? You are unprotected; let me at least give you some proper armor.”
Mat thought for a moment, then agreed that her suggestion was a prudent one. A person could get hurt out there, what with arrows flying and blades swinging. Tylee called over one of her senior officers who seemed to be about the same size as Mat. She had the man remove his armor, which was extremely colorful, overlapping plates lacquered green, gold and red, outlined with silver. The officer looked bemused when Mat handed him his coat in trade, saying that he expected it to be returned at the end of the day in the same condition. Mat put on the armor, which covered his chest, the back of his arms and the front of his thighs, and it felt comfortable enough. When the officer held out his helmet, though, Mat ignored him, merely adjusting his wide-brimmed hat as he turned to Tylee.
“Highness, one more thing, the marath’damane…”
“I’ll deal with those channelers personally,” Mat said.
She gawked at him as if he were insane. Bloody ashes, he probably was.
“Highness!” Tylee said. “The Empress…” She stopped when she saw Mat’s expression. “Let us at least send for some damane to protect you.”
“I can take care of myself just fine, thank you very much. Those bloody women would just get in my way.” He grinned. “Are you ready, Tylee? I would really like this over with before it’s time for my bedtime mug of ale.”
In response, Tylee turned and yelled, “Mount up!” Light, she had a strong set of lungs! With that, thousands of bottoms hit their saddles, producing a slapping sound that reverberated across the legion, and each soldier sat at attention, eyes straight ahead. He’d give the Seanchan one thing—they trained bloody good soldiers.
Tylee barked out a series of orders, turned back to Mat and said, “On your command, Highness.”
Mat cried out, “Los caba’drin!” Words most of those assembled did not understand, and yet instinctively knew to mean “Horsemen forward!”
As Mat spurred Pips into the waters of the ford, the ashandarei raised above his head, he heard the ground rumble as the First Banner closed ranks around him. The blaring Seanchan horns behind were giving the call to charge, each horn pitched slightly differently from the next, producing a grating, dissonant sound meant to be heard at great distances. Ahead, soldiers of the White Tower glanced over their shoulders at the noise, and in the seconds it took Mat and the Seanchan to cross the passage, soldiers were flinging themselves out of the way to make room for the riders.
Just a short veer to the left and the Seanchan were suddenly in the thick of Sharan cavalry, which had been grinding through Egwene’s foot soldiers. The speed of their approach enabled the Seanchan vanguard to smash hard into the Sharans, their well-trained steeds rearing up just before crashing down on the foe with their forelegs. Sharans and their mounts fell, many crushed as the Seanchan cavalry continued their relentless forward motion.
The Sharans appeared to know what they were about, but these were heavy cavalry, weighted down with burdensome armor and equipped with long lances; perfect for eliminating foot soldiers with their backs up against a wall, but disadvantaged against a highly mobile light cavalry in such tight quarters.
The First Banner were a crack unit that used a wide variety of weaponry, and they were trained to work in teams. Spears thrown by lead riders with deadly accuracy plunged into the visors of the Sharans, a surprising number of which went through the slits and into faces. Pushing through behind were riders wielding two-handed swords with curved blades, slicing their weapons across the vulnerable space that separated helmets from the top of body armor, or at other times slashing the vulnerable chests of armor-clad Sharan mounts, bringing their riders to the ground. Other Seanchan used hooked polearms to pull Sharans out of the saddle while their partners swung spiked maces at the enemy, denting their armor so much that movement was severely restricted. And when the Sharans were on the ground, trying with difficulty to rise, the spikers would descend on them, lightly armed Seanchan whose job it was to pull up visors of the fallen and thrust a narrow dagger into exposed eyes. The lances of the Sharans were useless under these conditions—in fact, they were a hindrance, and many Sharans died before they could drop their lances and draw swords.
Mat ordered one of his cavalry squadrons to ride along the water’s edge until they reached the far left edge of battle, and then to swing around the Sharan cavalry. No longer overwhelmed by Sharan lances, the White Tower infantry on the left-center were able to use their pikes and halberds again, and with the addition of the efforts of the Seanchan Second and Third Banners, defenses were slowly reestablished at the ford. It was dirty, slippery work, as the ground within several hundred paces of the river got beaten down and became an expanse of churned-up mud. But the forces of Light stood their ground.
Mat found himself washed into the thick of the fray, and his ashandarei never stopped spinning. He quickly found, however, that his weapon was not very useful; a few of his swings met with vulnerable flesh, but most of the time his blade glanced off the armor of his opponents, and he was forced to duck and twist in the saddle repeatedly to avoid being struck by a Sharan blade.
Mat slowly worked his way forward through the brawl, and had nearly reached the back lines of Sharan cavalry when he realized that three of his companions were no longer in their saddles. Odd, they had just been there a minute ago. Two others stiffened up, scanning from side to side, and suddenly they both went up in flames, screaming in agony and throwing themselves to the ground before going limp. Mat looked to his right just in time to see a Seanchan flung back a hundred feet in the air by an unseen force.
When he turned back, his eye met the gaze of a most beautiful woman. She was oddly clad in a black silk dress that stood out from her body, adorned with white ribbons. She was a dark-skinned beauty, like Tuon, but there was nothing delicate about her bold, high cheekbones and wide sensuous mouth, lips that seemed to pout. Until they curved up into a smile, a smile that was not meant to comfort him.
As she stared at him, his medallion grew cold. Mat breathed out.
Luck seemed to be with him so far, but he did not want to press it too far, any more than you wanted to press your best racehorse. He would still have a healthy need of that luck in the days to come.
Mat dismounted and walked toward her as the woman gasped, trying another weave, her eyes wide with amazement. Mat flipped the ashandarei around and spun it, sweeping her feet from beneath her. He brought the haft just below the blade back down to his right, cracking her on the back of the head as she fell.
She landed facedown in the mud. Mat did not have time to pull her out, as he was suddenly confronted by dozens of Sharans. Ten of Mat’s soldiers filled out around him, and he pressed forward. These Sharans only had swords. Mat fended them off with spinning blade and pole, and he and the Seanchan fought furiously.
The fight became a blur of sweeping weapons, his ashandarei spraying clods of mud into the air. Two of Mat’s men grabbed the facedown woman before she could suffocate in the mire.
Mat pushed forward.
Men yelled, calling for reinforcements.
Steps taken cautiously, but inevitably forward.
The ground was turning red.
Sharan soldiers replaced the ones who were slain, and the bodies of the fallen sank deeper in the mud. Soldiers often were a grim folk, but each of these Sharans seemed personally intent on killing him—until the Sharans stopped coming. Mat looked around him; there were only four Seanchan remaining at his side.
Despite the chaos of the fight, Mat felt he saw more clearly than he had before. And the lull in fighting gave him a chance to act like a commander again.
