The Gathering Storm

  We have to stay, Ituralde thought, watching his men work, digging in, erecting a palisade. He hated the thought of cutting down trees in a stedding. He’d known a few Ogier in his time, and respected them. These massive oaks probably held some lingering strength from the days when the Ogier had lived here. Cutting them down was a crime. But you did what you had to. Running might gain him more time, but it might just as easily lose him time. He had a few days here before the Seanchan hit him. If he could dig in well, he might force them into a siege. The stedding would make them hesitant, and the forests would work to the advantage of Ituralde’s smaller force.

  He hated letting himself get pinned in. That was probably why he’d considered for so long, even though, deep down, he’d already known that it was time to stop running. The Seanchan had finally caught him.

  He continued along the ranks, nodding to working men, letting himself be seen. He had forty thousand troops left, which was a marvel, considering the odds they had faced. These men should have deserted. But they’d seen him win impossible battle after impossible battle, tossing ball after ball into the air to greater and greater applause. They thought he was unstoppable. They didn’t understand that when one tossed more balls into the air, it wasn’t just the show that became more spectacular.

  The fall at the end grew more spectacular as well.

  He kept his dark thoughts to himself as he and Rajabi continued through the forested camp, inspecting the palisade. It was progressing nicely, the men setting thick tree trunks into freshly dug troughs. After his inspection, Ituralde nodded to himself. “We stay, Rajabi. Pass the word.”

  “Some of the others say that staying here means dying for sure,” Rajabi responded.

  “They’re wrong,” Ituralde said.

  “But—”

  “Nothing is sure, Rajabi,” Ituralde said. “Fill these trees inside the palisade with archers; they’ll be almost as effective as towers. We’ll need to set up a killing field outside. Cut down as many trees around the palisade here as possible, then set the logs inside as barriers, a second line of retreat. We’ll hold strong. Perhaps I’m wrong about those Taraboners, and they’ll ride to aid us. Or maybe the king has a hidden army stashed away to defend us. Blood and ashes, maybe we’ll fight them off here on our own. We’ll see how much they like fighting without their damane. We’ll survive.”

  Rajabi straightened visibly, growing confident. That was the kind of talk Ituralde knew he expected. Like the others, Rajabi trusted the Little Wolf. They didn’t believe he could fail.

  Ituralde knew better. But if you were going to die, you did it with dignity. The young Ituralde had often dreamed of wars, of the glory of battle. The old Ituralde knew there was no such thing as glory to be had in battle. But there was honor.

  “My Lord Ituralde!” a runner called, trotting along the inside of the unfinished palisade wall. He was a boy, young enough that the Seanchan would probably let him live. Otherwise Ituralde would have sent the lad, and those like him, away.

  “Yes?” Ituralde asked, turning. Rajabi stood like a small mountain at his side.

  “A man,” the boy said, puffing. “The scouts caught him walking into the stedding.”

  “Come to fight for us?” Ituralde said. It was not uncommon for an army to draw recruits. There were always those tempted by the lure of glory, or at least by the lure of steady meals.

  “No, my Lord,” the boy said, puffing. “He says he’s come to see you.”

  “Seanchan?” Rajabi barked.

  The boy shook his head. “No. But he’s got nice clothes.”

  Some lord’s messenger, then. Domani, or perhaps a Taraboner renegade. Whoever he was, he could hardly make their situation worse. “And he came alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Brave man. “Bring him, then,” Ituralde said.

  “Where will you receive him, my Lord?”

  “What?” Ituralde snapped. “You think I’m some fancy merchant with a palace? The field here will do. Go get him, but take your time getting back. And make sure he’s properly guarded.”

  The boy nodded and ran off. Ituralde waved over some soldiers and sent them running for Wakeda and the other officers. Shimron was dead, burned to char by a damane’s fireball. Too bad, that. Ituralde would rather have kept him than many of the others.

  Most of the officers arrived before the stranger. Lanky Ankaer. One-eyed Wakeda, who might otherwise have been a handsome man. Squat Melarned. Youthful Lidrin, who continued to follow Ituralde after his father’s death.

  “What is this I hear?” Wakeda asked, folding his arms as he strode up. “We’re staying in this death trap? Rodel, we don’t have the troops to resist. If they come, we’ll be trapped here.”

  “You’re right,” Ituralde said simply.

  Wakeda turned to the others, then back to Ituralde, a little of his irritation deflated in the face of Ituralde’s frank answer. “Well . . . why don’t we run, then?” He blustered a lot less now than he had just months ago, when Ituralde had first begun this campaign.

  “I won’t give you sugar and lies,” Ituralde said, looking at them each in turn. “We’re in a bad shape. But we’ll be in a worse shape if we run. We’ve got no more holes to hide in. These trees will work to our advantage, and we can fortify. The stedding will negate the damane, and that alone is worth the price of staying. We fight here.”

  Ankaer nodded, seeming to understand the gravity of the situation. “We have to trust him, Wakeda. He’s led us right so far.”

  Wakeda nodded. “I suppose.”

  Bloody fools. Four months ago, half of them would have killed him on sight for staying loyal to the king. Now they thought he could do the impossible. It was a pity; he was beginning to think he could have brought them back to Alsalam as loyalists. “All right,” he said, pointing at various spots along their fortification. “Here’s what we’re going to do to shore up the weak points. I want . . .”

  He trailed off as he saw a group approaching through the clearing. The messenger boy, accompanied by a squad of soldiers, escorting a man in red and gold.

  Something about the newcomer drew Ituralde’s eyes. Perhaps it was the height; the young man was as tall as an Aiel, and fair of hair like them as well. But no Aiel dressed in a fine red coat with sharp golden embroidery. There was a sword at his side, and the way the newcomer walked made Ituralde think he knew how to use it. He strode with firm, determined steps, as if he thought the soldiers around him an honor guard. A lord, then, and one accustomed to command. Why had he come in person, rather than sending a messenger?

  The young lord stopped a short length in front of Ituralde and his generals, looking at each of them in turn, then focused on Ituralde. “Rodel Ituralde?” he asked. What accent was that? Andoran?

  “Yes,” Ituralde said cautiously.

  The young man nodded. “Bashere’s description was accurate. You appear to be boxing yourself in, here. Do you honestly expect to hold against the Seanchan army? They are many times your size, and your Tarabon allies do not appear . . . eager to join you in your defense.”

  He had good intelligence, whoever he was. “I am not in the habit of discussing my defenses with strangers.” Ituralde studied the young lord. He was fit—lean and hard, though it was difficult to tell with the coat on. He favored his right hand, and on closer inspection, Ituralde noticed that the left hand was missing. Both of his forearms had some kind of strange red and gold tattoo on them.

  Those eyes. Those were eyes which had seen death a number of times. Not just a young lord. A young general. Ituralde narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

  The stranger met his eyes. “I am Rand al’Thor, the Dragon Reborn. And I need you. You and your army.”

  Several of those with Ituralde cursed, and Ituralde glanced at them. Wakeda was incredulous, Rajabi surprised, young Lidrin openly dismissive.

  Ituralde looked back at the newcomer. The Dragon Reborn? This youth? He supposed it could be possible. Most rumors agree
d that the Dragon Reborn was a young man with red hair. But, then, rumors also claimed he was ten feet tall, and still others said his eyes glowed in dim light. And then there were the stories of him appearing in the sky at Falme. Blood and ashes, Ituralde didn’t know if he believed that the Dragon had been reborn in the first place!

  “I haven’t time to argue,” the stranger said, face impassive. He seemed . . . older than he looked. He didn’t appear to care that he was surrounded by armed soldiers. In fact, his coming alone . . . it should have seemed like such a foolish act. Instead it made Ituralde thoughtful. Only one such as the Dragon Reborn himself could stride into a war camp like this, completely alone, and expect to be obeyed.

  Burn him, if that fact by itself didn’t make Ituralde want to believe him. Either this man was who he claimed to be or he was an utter lunatic.

  “If we go outside the stedding, I will prove I can channel,” the stranger said. “That should count for something. Give me leave, and I’ll have ten thousand Aiel here and several Aes Sedai, all of whom will swear to you that I am who I say.”

  The rumors also said Aiel followed the Dragon Reborn. The men around Ituralde coughed and glanced about uncomfortably. Many had been Dragonsworn before coming to Ituralde. With the right words, this Rand al’Thor—or whoever he was—might be able turn Ituralde’s camp against itself.

  “Even if we assume that I believe you,” Ituralde said carefully, “I don’t see that it matters. I have a war to fight. You have other business to concern you, I assume.”

  “You are my concern,” al’Thor said, eyes so hard that they seemed ready to burrow into Ituralde’s skull and search about inside for anything of use. “You must make peace with the Seanchan. This war gains us nothing. I want you up on the Borderlands; I can’t spare men to guard the Blight, and the Borderlanders themselves have abandoned their duties.”

  “I have orders,” Ituralde said, shaking his head. Wait. He wouldn’t do as this youth asked if he didn’t have orders. Except . . . those eyes. Alsalam had had eyes like that, when they were both younger. Eyes that demanded obedience.

  “Your orders,” al’Thor said. “They are from the king? That is why you throw yourselves against the Seanchan as you do?”

  Ituralde nodded.

  “I’ve heard of you, Rodel Ituralde,” al’Thor said. “Men I trust, men I respect, trust and respect you. Rather than fleeing and hiding, you hunker down here to fight a battle you know will kill you. All because of your loyalty to your king. I commend that. But it is time to turn away and fight a battle that means something. One that means everything. Come with me, and I’ll give you the throne of Arad Doman.”

  Ituralde stood up sharply, alert. “After commending my loyalty, you expect me to unseat my own king!”

  “Your king is dead,” al’Thor said. “Either that, or his mind has been melted like wax. More and more, I think Graendal has him. I see her touch on the chaos in this land. Whatever orders you have likely came from her. Why she wants you fighting the Seanchan, I haven’t yet been able to determine.”

  Ituralde snorted. “You speak of one of the Forsaken as if you’ve had her as a dinner guest.”

  Al’Thor met his eyes again. “I remember each of them—their faces, their mannerisms, the way they speak and act—as if I’ve known them for a thousand years. I remember them better than I remember my own childhood, sometimes. I am the Dragon Reborn.”

  Ituralde blinked. Burn me, he thought. I believe him. Bloody ashes! “Let’s . . . let’s see this proof of yours.”

  There were objections, of course, mostly from Lidrin, who thought it too dangerous. The others were shaken. Here was the man they’d sworn themselves to without ever meeting him. There seemed to be a . . . a force about al’Thor, drawing Ituralde in, demanding that he do as asked. Well, he’d see the proof, first.

  They sent runners for horses to ride out of the stedding, but al’Thor spoke as if Ituralde was his man already. “Perhaps Alsalam lives,” al’Thor said as they waited. “If so, I can see that you would not want his throne. Would you like Amadicia? I will need someone to rule there and keep an eye on the Seanchan. The Whitecloaks fight there now; I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stop that conflict before the Last Battle.”

  The Last Battle. Light! “I won’t take it if you kill the king there,” Ituralde said. “If the Whitecloaks have already killed him, or if the Seanchan have, then perhaps.”

  King! What was he saying? Burn you! he thought to himself. At least wait until the proof is given before agreeing to accept thrones! There was a way about this man, the way he discussed events like the Last Battle—events that mankind had been fearing for thousands of years—as if they were items on the daily camp report.

  Soldiers arrived with their horses, and Ituralde mounted, as did al’Thor, Wakeda, Rajabi, Ankaer, Melarned, Lidrin and a half-dozen lesser officers.

  “I’ve brought a large number of Aiel into your lands,” Rand al’Thor said as they began to ride. “I had hoped to use them to restore order, but they are taking longer than I’d wished. I’m planning to secure the members of the merchant council; perhaps once I have them in hand, I’ll be able to improve the stability of the area. What do you think?”

  Ituralde didn’t know what to think. Securing the merchant council? That sounded like kidnapping them. What had Ituralde gotten himself into? “It could work,” he found himself saying. “Light, it’s probably the best plan, all things considered.”

  Al’Thor nodded, looking forward as they passed out of the palisade and moved out along a trail toward the edge of the stedding. “I’ll have to secure the Borderlands, anyway. I will care for your homeland. Burn those Borderlanders! What are they up to? No. No, not yet. They can wait. No, he’ll do. He can hold it. I’ll send him with Asha’man.” Suddenly, al’Thor turned to Ituralde. “What could you do if I gave you a hundred men who could channel?”

  “Madmen?”

  “No, most of them are stable,” al’Thor said, taking no apparent offense. “Whatever madness they incurred before I cleansed the taint is still there—removing the taint didn’t heal them—but few of them were far gone. And they won’t get worse, now that saidin is clean.”

  Saidin? Clean? If Ituralde had his own men who could channel. . . . His own damane, in a way. Ituralde scratched his chin. It was coming at him quickly—but, then, a general had to be able to react quickly. “I could use them well,” he said. “Very well.”

  “Good,” al’Thor said. They had left the stedding; the air felt different. “You’ve got a lot of land to watch, but many of the channelers I’ll give you can spin gateways.”

  “Gateways?” Ituralde asked.

  Al’Thor glanced at him, then seemed to grit his teeth, closing his eyes, shaking as if nauseated. Ituralde sat upright, suddenly alert, hand on his sword. Poison? Was the man wounded?

  But no, al’Thor opened his eyes, and there seemed to be a look of ecstasy in those depths. He turned, waving his hand, and a line of light split the air in front of him. Men around Ituralde cursed, backing up. It was one thing for a man to claim he could channel; it was another to see him do so in front of you!

  “That’s a gateway,” al’Thor said as the line of light turned around, opening a large black hole in the air. “Depending on the Asha’man’s strength, a gateway can be made wide enough to drive wagons through. You can travel nearly anywhere with speed, sometimes instantly, depending on circumstances. With a few trained Asha’man, your army could dine in Caemlyn in the morning, then have lunch in Tanchico a few hours later.”

  Ituralde rubbed his chin. “Well now, that’s a thing to see. A thing to see indeed.” If this man spoke truthfully, and these gateways really did work. . . . “With this I could clear the Seanchan out of Tarabon, and maybe off the land entirely!”

  “No,” al’Thor snapped. “We make peace with them. From what my scouts say, it’s going to be hard enough to bring them to agreement without promising them your head. I won’t rile them furt
her. There is no time for squabbling. We have more important matters to be about.”

  “Nothing is more important than my homeland,” Ituralde said. “Even if those orders are forged, I know Alsalam. He would agree with me. We won’t stand for foreign troops on the soil of Arad Doman.”

  “A promise, then,” al’Thor said. “I will see the Seanchan out of Arad Doman. I promise you this. But we don’t fight them away any further than that. In exchange, you go to the Borderlands and protect against an invasion there. Hold back the Trollocs if they come, and lend me some of your officers to help secure Arad Doman. It will be easier to restore order if the people see that their own lords are working with me.”

  Ituralde considered, though he knew already what his answer would be. That gateway could spirit his men away from this death trap. With Aiel on his side—with the Dragon Reborn as an ally—he really did have a chance of keeping Arad Doman secure. An honorable death was a good thing. But the ability to keep on fighting with honor . . . that was a prize far more precious.

  “Agreed,” Ituralde said, holding out a hand.

  Al’Thor took it. “Go break camp. You’re to be in Saldaea by nightfall.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The Death of Adrin

  I think he should be beaten again, said Lerian, moving her fingers in the complex motions of Maiden handtalk. He is like a child, and when a child touches something dangerous, the child is beaten. If a child hurts himself because he was not taught properly to stay away from knives, then the shame is upon his parents.

  The previous beating did not seem to do any good, Surial replied. He accepted it like a man, not a child, but did not change his actions.

  Then we must try again, Lerian replied.

  Aviendha dropped her rock into the pile by the watchpost, then turned around. She did not acknowledge the Maidens who watched the way into the camp, and they did not acknowledge her. Speaking to her while she was being punished would only heighten her shame, and her spear-sisters would not do that.