The wheel of time, p.1292
The Wheel of Time, page 1292
It missed, striking just beside Gawyn as he leaped away. Cracks opened all across the ground nearby. Deep, black cracks, that seemed to open into eternity itself.
Gawyn leaped forward, cutting at Demandred’s saddle. So fast. These rings let him react while Demandred was still staring in confusion.
The saddle came off and Gawyn rammed his knife into the horse’s side. The beast screamed and reared, throwing Demandred backward, saddle and all.
Gawyn leaped, bloodied knife out, as the horse bolted and the Sharan archers cried out. He loomed over Demandred, knife raised in two hands.
The Forsaken’s body suddenly jolted, and the man was pushed to the side. Air blew about the blackened ground, raising flakes of ash, as weaves of air caught Demandred and spun him about, depositing him on his feet with a clink, sword unsheathed. The Forsaken crouched, and released another weave—Gawyn felt air spinning next to him, as if threads of it had tried to grab him. He was too quick, and Demandred obviously had trouble hitting him because of the rings.
Gawyn backed away and switched his knife to his off hand, unsheathing his sword in his right.
“So,” Demandred said, “an assassin. And Lews Therin always spoke of the ‘honor’ of facing a man face-to-face.”
“I wasn’t sent by the Dragon Reborn.”
“With Night’s Shade surrounding you, a weave that none from this Age remember? Do you know that what Lews Therin has done to you will leak your life away? You are dead, little man.”
“Then you can join me in the grave,” Gawyn said.
Demandred stood up, taking his sword in two hands in an unfamiliar battle stance. He seemed able to track Gawyn somewhat despite the rings, but his responses were a hair slower than they should have been.
Apple Blossoms in the Wind, with three quick strikes, forced Demandred back. Several Sharans came forward with swords, but Demandred raised a gauntleted hand to warn them off. He did not smile at Gawyn—this man did not seem as if he ever smiled—but he performed something that was similar to Lightning of Three Prongs. Gawyn replied with The Boar Rushes Down the Mountain.
Demandred was good. With the edge granted by the rings, Gawyn narrowly escaped Demandred’s riposte. The two danced through a small circle of open ground guarded by the watching Sharans. Distant booms threw iron spheres at the hillside, making the ground shake. There were only a few dragons still firing, but they seemed to be concentrating on this position.
Gawyn grunted, throwing himself into Storm Shakes the Branch, trying to push inside Demandred’s guard. He would need to be close and ram his sword into the armpit or between the seams of the coin armor.
Demandred responded with skill and finesse. Gawyn was soon sweating beneath his mail. He felt faster than he’d ever been, his reactions like the darting movements of a hummingbird. Yet, try as he did, he could not land a hit.
“Who are you, little man?” Demandred growled, walking back with sword raised at his side. “You fight well.”
“Gawyn Trakand.”
“The little queen’s brother,” Demandred said. “You realize who I am.”
“A murderer.”
“And has your Dragon not murdered?” Demandred said. “Has your sister never killed to keep, dare I say seize, her throne?”
“That’s different.”
“So everyone always says.” Demandred stepped forward. His sword forms were smooth, his back always straight but relaxed, and he used the broad, sweeping movements of a dancer. He had absolute mastery of his sword; Gawyn had not heard that Demandred was known for his swordsmanship, but this man was as good as any man Gawyn had ever faced. Better, truly.
Gawyn performed Cat Dances on the Wall, a beautiful, sweeping sword form that matched Demandred’s. Then he ducked in with The Serpent’s Tongue Dances, hoping his previous form would have lulled Demandred into letting a thrust slip past.
Something crashed into Gawyn, throwing him to the ground. He rolled, coming up in a crouch. His breathing grew labored. He did not feel pain because of the rings, but he had probably broken a rib.
A rock, Gawyn thought. He channeled and brought a rock in to hit me. He had trouble hitting Gawyn with weaves, because of the shadows, but something large could be tossed at the shadows and still hit him.
“You cheat,” Gawyn said with a sneer.
“Cheat?” Demandred asked. “Are there rules, little swordsman? As I recall, you tried to stab me in the back while hiding in a shroud of darkness.”
Gawyn breathed in and out, holding his side. A dragon’s iron sphere thumped into the ground just a short distance away, then exploded. The blast ripped apart some Sharans, their bodies shielding Gawyn and Demandred from the brunt of the blast. The soil rained down, like a spray of surf on the deck of a ship. At least one of the dragons was still working.
“You name me a murderer,” Demandred said, “and I am. I am also your savior, whether you wish it or not.”
“You’re mad.”
“Hardly,” Demandred walked around him, cutting the air with a few sweeps of his sword. “That man you follow, Lews Therin Telamon, he is mad. He thinks he can defeat the Great Lord. He cannot. That is simple fact.”
“You’d have us join the Shadow instead?”
“Yes.” Demandred’s eyes were cold. “If I kill Lews Therin, in victory I will be given the right to remake the world as I wish. The Great Lord cares nothing for rule. The only way to protect this world is to destroy it, and then shelter its people. Is that not what your Dragon claims he can do?”
“Why do you keep calling him my Dragon?” Gawyn said, then spat blood to the side. The rings … they urged him forward. His limbs pulsed with strength, energy. Fight! Kill!
“You follow him,” Demandred said.
“I do not!”
“Lies,” Demandred said. “Or perhaps you are simply fooled. I know that Lews Therin leads this army. At first I was uncertain, but no longer. That weave about you is proof enough, but I have a greater one. No mortal general has such skill as this day has shown; I face a true master on the battlefield. Perhaps Lews Therin wears the Mask of Mirrors, or perhaps he leads by sending messages to this Cauthon through the One Power. It does not matter, I see the truth. I dice with Lews Therin this day.
“I was always the better general. I will prove it here. I would have you tell that to Lews Therin, but you will not live long enough, little swordsman. Prepare yourself.” Demandred raised his sword.
Gawyn stood, dropping his knife, taking his sword in two hands. Demandred stalked toward him, using forms that were different from those Gawyn knew. They were still familiar enough for him to counter, but despite his greater speed, time and time again Demandred caught his sword and deflected it harmlessly to the side.
The man did not strike. He barely moved, feet set wide apart, sword in two hands, battering aside each and every attack Gawyn hurled at him. The Dove Takes Flight, The Falling Leaf, Leopard’s Caress. Gawyn gritted his teeth, growling through them. The rings should have been enough. Why weren’t the rings enough?
Gawyn stepped back, then ducked backward as another stone came hurtling toward him. It missed him by inches. Thank the Light for these rings, he thought.
“You fight with skill,” Demandred said, “for one of this Age. But you still wield your sword, little man.”
“What else would I do?”
“Become the sword yourself,” Demandred said, as if baffled that Gawyn did not understand.
Gawyn growled and came in again, battering at Demandred. Gawyn was still faster. Demandred didn’t attack; he was on the defensive, then, although he didn’t retreat. He just stood there, turning aside each blow.
Demandred closed his eyes. Gawyn smiled, then thrust in Black Lance’s Last Strike.
Demandred’s sword became a blur.
Something struck Gawyn. He gasped, pulling to a stop. He wobbled and fell to his knees, looking down at a hole in his gut. Demandred had thrust straight through the mail, then pulled his sword free in a single fluid motion.
Why can’t … why can’t I feel anything?
“If you do survive this and see Lews Therin,” Demandred said, “tell him I am very much looking forward to a match between the two of us, sword against sword. I have improved since we last met.”
Demandred whipped his sword around, catching the back of the blade in the crook between his thumb and forefinger. He pulled the sword across, stripping the blood from the steel and splattering it to the ground.
He slid the weapon into his sheath. He shook his head, then released a ball of fire toward a still-firing dragon.
It fell silent. Demandred strode away along the edge of the steep slope facing the river, his Sharan guard forming around him. Gawyn collapsed to the ground, stunned, spurting his life onto the burned grass. He tried to hold in the blood through trembling fingers.
Somehow Gawyn managed to push himself up to his knees. His heart cried out; he needed to return to Egwene. He began to crawl, blood mixing with the earth beneath him as it seeped from his wound. Through eyes clouded with cold perspiration, he spotted several cavalry mounts twenty paces ahead, poking at blackened tufts of grass at their feet and tethered to a picket-line. After minutes of struggle, an impossible interval of time that left him drained, he pulled himself up on to the back of the first horse he could reach and untether. Gawyn hunched over, dazed, grasping its mane in one hand. Summoning his remaining strength, he kicked his heel into the animal’s rib cage.
* * *
“My Lady,” Mandevwin said to Faile, “I have known those two men for years! They are not without a few spots in their past. No man comes to the Band without a few of those. But, Light provide, they are not Darkfriends!”
Faile ate her midday rations in silence, listening with as much patience as she could muster to Mandevwin’s protests. She wished Perrin were here so she could have a good argument. She felt as if she would burst from pressure.
They were close to Thakan’dar, horribly close. The black sky rumbled with lightning, and they hadn’t seen a living creature—dangerous or not—in days. Nor had they seen Vanin or Harnan again, though Faile set a double guard each night. The minions of the Dark One did not give up.
She now carried the Horn in a large bag tied to her waist. The others knew it, and moved between pride in their duty and horror at the import of it. At least she shared that with them now.
“My Lady,” Mandevwin said, kneeling down. “Vanin is out there nearby somewhere. He is a very gifted scout, the best in the Band. We will not see him unless he wants us to, but I would swear that he is following us. Where else would he go? Perhaps if I call out to him, invite him in to tell his story, so we can resolve this.”
“I will consider it, Mandevwin,” Faile said.
He nodded. The one-eyed man was a good commander, but had the imagination of a brick. Uncomplicated men assumed others to have uncomplicated motivations, and he could not imagine someone like Vanin or Harnan helping the Band for so long—under orders, undoubtedly, to avoid suspicion—only to now do something so terrible.
At least now she knew that she hadn’t been worried without cause. That look of pure terror in Vanin’s eyes when he’d been caught was confirmation enough, if catching him with the Horn in his hands hadn’t been. She had not expected two Darkfriends, and they had outsmarted her in their thievery. However, they had also underestimated the dangers of the Blight. She hated to think what would have happened if they hadn’t drawn the attention of the bear-thing. Faile would have remained in her tent, anticipating the arrival of thieves who had already disappeared with one of the most powerful artifacts in the world.
The sky rumbled. Dark Shayol Ghul loomed ahead, rising out of the valley of Thakan’dar in a range of smaller mountains. The air had grown chill, almost wintery. Reaching that peak would be difficult—but one way or another, she was going to bring this Horn to the forces of the Light for the Last Battle. She rested her fingers on the sack at her side, feeling the metal within.
Nearby, Olver scampered across the lifeless gray rock of the Blasted Lands, wearing his knife at his belt like a sword. Perhaps she should not have brought him. Then again, boys his age in the Borderlands learned to run messages and carry supplies to besieged forts. They wouldn’t go out with a war band or be given a post until they were at least twelve, but their training started much earlier.
“My Lady?”
Faile looked toward Selande and Arrela as they approached. Faile had put Selande in charge of the scouts, now that Vanin had revealed himself. The pale little woman looked less like an Aiel than many of the others in Cha Faile. But the attitude helped.
“Yes?”
“Movement, my Lady,” Selande said softly.
“What?” Faile stood. “What kind?”
“Some kind of caravan.”
“In the Blasted Lands?” Faile asked. “Show me.”
* * *
It wasn’t just a caravan. There was a village out there. Faile could make it out through the looking glass, though only as a smudge of darkness to indicate buildings. It was settled into the foothills near Thakan’dar. A village. Light!
Faile moved the looking glass down to where a caravan crept across the bleak landscape, heading toward a supply station set up a good distance outside the village.
“They’re doing what we did,” she whispered.
“What’s that, my Lady?” Arrela lay on her stomach beside Faile. Mandevwin was on her other side, peering through his own looking glass.
“It’s a central supply station,” Faile explained, looking over the stacks of boxes and bundles of arrows. “Shadowspawn can’t move through gateways, but their supplies can. They needn’t have carried arrows and replacement weapons as part of the invasion. Instead, the supplies are being collected here, then sent to the battlefields when needed.”
Indeed, down below, a ribbon of light announced a gateway opening. A large train of dirty-looking men trudged through it with packs on their backs, followed by dozens of others pulling small carts.
“Wherever those supplies are going,” Faile said slowly, “there will be fighting nearby. Those carts carry arrows, but no food, as the Trollocs are dragging corpses away to feast on each night.”
“So if we could slip through one of those gateways…” Mandevwin said.
Arrela snorted, as if the conversation were a joke. She looked at Faile, and the smile slipped from her lips. “You’re serious. Both of you.”
“We are still a long hike from Thakan’dar,” Faile said. “And that village blocks our way. It might be easier to sneak through one of those gateways than try to work our way into the valley.”
“We’d end up behind the enemy lines!”
“We’re already behind their lines,” Faile said grimly, “so nothing would change there.”
Arrela fell silent.
“That will be a problem,” Mandevwin said softly, turning his looking glass. “Look at the fellows approaching the camp from the village.”
Faile raised her looking glass again. “Aiel?” she whispered. “Light! The Shaido have joined with the forces of the Dark One?”
“Even the Shaido dogs would not do that,” Arrela said, then spat to the side.
The newcomers did look different. They wore their veils up, as if for killing, but the veils were red. Either way, sneaking past Aiel would be nearly impossible. Likely, only the fact that her group was so distant had saved them from discovery. That, and the fact that no one would expect to find a group like Faile’s here.
“Back,” Faile said, inching back down the hillside. “We need to do some planning.”
* * *
Perrin awoke, feeling as if he had been tossed into a lake during winter. He gasped.
“Lie down, you fool,” Janina said, putting her hand on his arm. The flaxen-haired Wise One looked as exhausted as he felt.
He was in someplace soft. Too soft. A nice bed, clean sheets. Outside the windows, waves broke gently against a shore and gulls called. He also heard moans echoing from some place nearby.
“Where am I?” Perrin asked.
“At my palace,” Berelain said. She stood near the doorway, and he hadn’t noticed her before. The First wore her diadem, the hawk in flight, and had on a crimson dress with yellow trim. The room was lavish, with gold and bronze on the mirrors, windows and bedposts.
“I might add,” Berelain said, “that this is a somewhat familiar situation for me, Lord Aybara. I took precautions this time, in case you were wondering.”
Precautions? Perrin sniffed the air. Uno? He could smell the man. Indeed, Berelain nodded to the side, and Perrin turned to find Uno sitting in a chair nearby, his arm in a sling.
“Uno! What happened to you?” Perrin asked.
“Bloody Trollocs happened to me,” Uno grumbled. “Waiting my turn for Healing.”
“Those with life-threatening wounds are Healed first,” Janina said. She was the most accomplished of the Wise Ones at Healing; she’d apparently decided to stay with the Aes Sedai and Berelain. “You, Perrin Aybara, were Healed to the point of survival. Only just to the point of survival. It wasn’t until now that we could take care of the wounds that did not threaten your life.”
“Wait!” Perrin said. He struggled to sit. Light, he was exhausted. “How long have I been here?”
“Ten hours,” Berelain said.
“Ten hours! I have to go. The fighting…”
“The fighting will continue without you,” Berelain said. “I’m sorry.”
Perrin growled softly. So tired. “Moiraine knew a method of wiping away a man’s fatigue. Do you know this, Janina?”
“I wouldn’t do it for you if I did,” Janina said. “You need sleep, Perrin Aybara. Your participation in the Last Battle is over.”
Perrin gritted his teeth, then moved to stand.
“Step out of that bed,” Janina said, turning her eyes toward him, “and I’ll bundle you in Air and leave you hanging there for hours.”
Perrin’s first instinct was to shift away. He began forming the thought in his head, and felt foolish. He’d somehow returned to the real world. He couldn’t shift here. He was as helpless as a babe.
