Lord of Chaos

  Half a dozen Aiel leaped through, and the three Ogier followed with a haste that was not at all unseemly in the circumstances. Rand paused, looking back over the ruined city. He had promised to let the Maidens die for him.

  As the last of the Aiel went through, Sulin hissed, and he glanced at her, but she was looking at his hand. At the back of his hand, where his fingernails had sliced a gash that oozed blood. Wrapped in the Void as he was, the pain might have belonged to someone else. The physical mark did not matter; it would heal. He had made deeper inside, where no one could see. One for each Maiden who died, and he never let them heal.

  “We are done here,” he said, and stepped through the gateway into the Two Rivers. The throbbing vanished with the gateway.

  Frowning, Rand tried to orient himself. Placing a gateway precisely was not easy where you had never been before, but he had picked a field he did know, a weedy meadow a good two-hour walk south of Emond’s Field that no one ever used for anything. In the lurid twilight he could see sheep, though, a sizable flock, and a boy with a crook in his hands and a bow on his back, staring at them from a hundred paces. Rand did not need the Power in him to tell the boy was goggling, as well he might. Dropping the crook, he set off running for a farmhouse that had not been there when Rand was last here. A tile-roofed farmhouse.

  For a moment Rand wondered whether he was really in the Two Rivers at all. No, the feel of the place told him he was. The smell of the air shouted home. All those changes Bode and the rest of the girls had told him about — they had not really sunk in; nothing ever really changed in the Two Rivers. Should he send the girls back here, back home? What you should do is stay clear of them. It was an irritable thought.

  “Emond’s Field is that way,” he said. Emond’s Field. Perrin. Tam might be there, too, at the Winespring Inn, with Egwene’s parents. “That is where Loial should be. I don’t know if you can make it before dark. You might ask at the farmhouse. I’m sure they will give you a place to sleep. Don’t tell them about me. Tell no one how you came.” The boy had seen but a boy’s tale might well be taken for exaggeration when Ogier appeared.

  Adjusting the bundles on their backs, Haman and Covril exchanged looks, and she said, “We will say nothing of how we came. Let people make the stories they wish.”

  Haman stroked his beard and cleared his throat. “You must not kill yourself.”

  Even in the Void, Rand was startled. “What?”

  “The road ahead of you,” Haman rumbled, “is long, dark, and, I very much fear, bloodstained. I also very much fear that you will take us all down that road. But you must live to reach the end of it.”

  “I will,” Rand replied curtly. “Fare you well.” He tried to put some warmth into that, some feeling, but he was not sure he succeeded.

  “Fare you well,” Haman said, and the women echoed it before all three turned toward the farmhouse. Not even Erith sounded as if she believed he would, though.

  A moment longer Rand stood there. People had appeared outside the house, watching the Ogier approach, but Rand stared north and west, not toward Emond’s Field, but toward the farm where he had grown up. When he turned away and opened a gateway to Caemlyn, it was like tearing his own arm off. The pain was a much more suitable memorial for Liah than a scratch.

  Chapter 22

  Heading South

  * * *

  The five stones made a smoothly spinning circle above Mat’s hands, one red, one blue, one clear green, the others striped in interesting ways. He rode on, guiding Pips with his knees, the black-hafted spear thrust behind the saddle girth on the opposite side from his unstrung bow. The stones made him think of Thom Merrilin, who had taught him to juggle, and he wondered whether the old fellow was still alive. Probably not. Rand had sent the gleeman haring after Elayne and Nynaeve what seemed a very long time ago now, supposedly to look out for them. If any two women needed looking out for less, Mat did not know them, but no two were more likely to get a man killed because they would not listen to reason. Nynaeve, poking into everything a man did or said or thought and tugging her bloody braid at a fellow all the time, and Elayne the bloody Daughter-Heir, thinking she could get her way by sticking her nose in the air and telling you what for as bad as Nynaeve ever did, only Elayne was worse, because if frosty high-handedness failed, Elayne smiled and flashed her dimple and expected everybody to fall down because she was pretty. He hoped Thom had managed to survive their company. He hoped they were all right too, but he would not mind if they had found themselves in the pickling kettle at least once since scurrying off to the Light knew where. Let them see what it was like without him to haul them out, and never an honest word of thanks when he was there to do it. Not too hot a kettle, mind — just enough to make them wish Mat Cauthon were around to rescue them again like an idiot.

  “What about you, Mat?” Nalesean asked, reining closer. “Did you ever think what it would be like to be a Warder?”

  Mat nearly dropped the stones. Daerid and Talmanes looked at him, sweaty-faced and waiting an answer. The sun was sliding toward the horizon; not long before they would have to stop. Twilight seemed to last a little longer as the days shortened, but Mat wanted to be settled in with his pipe by dusk. Besides, in terrain like this, horses broke legs once the light failed. So did men.

  The Band stretched out northward behind them, horse and foot beneath a rising tail of dust, banners flying but drums silent, across low hills covered with sparse scrub and scattered thickets. Eleven days since leaving Maerone, and they were halfway to Tear or a little better, moving faster than Mat had really hoped for. And only one full day spent resting the horses. He was certainly in no hurry to take Weiramon’s place, but he could not help wondering how much distance they could cover between sunup and sundown if they had to. So far their best had been forty-five miles, as near as anyone could calculate. Of course, the supply wagons took half the night catching up, but the foot had been making a point lately of showing they could match the horse over the long haul if not the short.

  A little farther back and to the east, a band of Aiel crested a tree-fringed rise, running easily and slowly closing the distance. Likely they had been trotting since sunrise, and would until nightfall if not later. If they passed the Band while there was still light to see, it would be encouragement for tomorrow. Whenever Aiel passed them, they seemed ready to try for another mile or two the next day.

  A few miles ahead the thickets blended into solid forest again; it would be necessary to drop down closer to the Erinin before they reached that. As they crested a hilltop, Mat could see the river, and the five hired riverboats flying the Red Hand. Four more were on their way back to Maerone to reload, mainly with fodder for the horses. What he could not see yet knew were there were the people, some meandering upriver, some down, some changing direction whenever they met a group led by someone with a convincing tongue. A handful had carts, usually pulled by themselves, and a few wagons, but most nothing beyond what they wore on their backs; even the densest brigands had learned there was no point to bothering those. Mat had no idea where they were going and neither did they, yet they were just enough to clog the sorry excuse for a road along the river. Short of clubbing people out of the way, the Band could make much better time up here.

  “A Warder?” Mat said, tucking the stones into his saddlebags. He could find more anywhere, but he liked the colors. He had an eagle feather in there, too, and a piece of weathered snow-white stone that might have been carved with scrolls once. There had been a boulder that looked as if it had been the head of a statue, too, but the thing would have needed a wagon. “Never. They’re all fools and dupes, letting Aes Sedai lead them around by the nose. What put a notion like that in your head?”

  Nalesean shrugged. He fairly oozed sweat, but he still wore his coat — red striped with blue today — buttoned to the neck. Mat’s hung open, and he still thought he was broiling. “I suppose it’s all the Aes Sedai,” the Tairen said. “Burn my soul, it can’t but make you th
ink, can it? I mean, burn my soul, what are they up to?” He meant the Aes Sedai on the other side of the Erinin, reportedly scurrying upriver or down a sight quicker than the wanderers that were over there as well.

  “Best not to think about them is what I say.” Mat touched the silver foxhead through his shirt; even with that, he was glad the Aes Sedai were across the river. A handful of his soldiers traveled on each of the river craft, and few as villages were, they put a boat ashore on his orders at every one they passed on the far side, to see what they could learn. So far the news had been unrevealing and often unpleasant. Aes Sedai swarming was the least of it.

  “And how are we not to think of them?” Talmanes asked. “Do you think the Tower really did pull Logain’s strings?” That was one of the newer bits, just two days old.

  Mat pulled off his hat long enough to mop his forehead before answering. Nightfall would be a little cooler. But no wine, no ale, no women, and no gambling. Who would be a soldier for choice? “There’s not much I’d say was beyond Aes Sedai.” Sliding a finger behind the scarf around his neck, he eased it. One thing about Warders, by what he knew from observing Lan anyway, they never seemed to sweat. “But that? Talmanes, I’d believe you were Aes Sedai first. You aren’t, are you?”

  Daerid doubled over the pommel of his saddle laughing, and Nalesean nearly fell off his horse. Talmanes stiffened at first, but finally he grinned. He almost chuckled. The man did not have much sense of humor, but he did have some.

  His seriousness reasserted itself quickly, though. “What about the Dragonsworn? If it is true, Mat, it means trouble.” The others’ laughter might as well have been chopped with an axe.

  Mat grimaced. That was the newest news or rumor — call it what you would — picked up yesterday, a village burned somewhere in Murandy. Worse, supposedly they had killed everybody who would not swear to the Dragon Reborn, and their families with them. “Rand will settle for them. If it’s true. Aes Sedai, Dragonsworn, all that is his business, and we’re well out of it. We have our own to tend.”

  That made nobody’s face less grim, of course. They had seen too many burned villages, and thought they would see more soon after reaching Tear. Who would be a soldier?

  A horseman appeared over the next rise ahead, galloping toward them, leaping his mount over brush rather than swerve around even on the downslope. Mat signed for a halt, adding, “No trumpets.” Word rippled behind him in a fading murmur, but he kept his eyes on the rider.

  Dripping sweat, Chel Vanin reined his dun gelding in before Mat. In a rough gray coat that fit his balding bulk like a sack, he sat his saddle like a sack, too. Vanin was fat, and no getting around it. Yet improbable as it seemed, he could ride anything ever born, and he was very good at what he did.

  Long before they reached Maerone, Mat had surprised Nalesean, Daerid and Talmanes by asking for the names of the best poachers and horse thieves among their men, the ones they knew were guilty but could not prove anything against. The two nobles in particular had not wanted to admit having any such men in their commands, but after a little prodding they came up with the names of three Cairhienin, two Tairens and, surprisingly, two Andorans. Mat had not thought any of the Andorans had been with the Band long enough to make themselves known like that, but apparently word got about.

  Those seven men he took aside and told that he needed scouts, and that a good scout used much the same skills as a poacher or horse thief. Ignoring fervent denials that they had ever committed any crime whatsoever — more from each than from Talmanes and Nalesean combined, and just as eloquent if far coarser — he offered pardons for any thefts done before that day, triple pay and no work details as long as they reported the truth. And a hanging for the first lie; a lot of men could die from a scout’s lie. Even with the threat they leaped at it, probably more for less work than for the extra silver.

  But seven was not enough, so he asked them to suggest others, and to keep in mind what he said about the needed skills, as well as the fact that whether they lived to collect their triple pay would depend in large part on the abilities of those they named. That caused a lot of chin-scratching and edgy looks, but between them they produced eleven more names, emphasizing all the while that they were not implying anything about those fellows. Eleven men, good enough poachers and horse thieves that neither Daerid nor Talmanes nor Nalesean had suspected them but not good enough to avoid the notice of the first seven. Mat made those the same offer, and asked for names again. By the time he reached a point where no more names were to be found, he had forty-seven scouts. Hard times had put a lot of men to soldiering instead of the craft they would rather have followed.

  The last, named by all three just before him, had been Chel Vanin, an Andoran who had lived in Maerone but ranged wide on both sides of the Erinin. Vanin could steal a hen pheasant’s eggs without disturbing her on the nest, though it was unlikely he would fail to put her in the sack too. Vanin could steal a horse out from under a nobleman without the nobleman knowing it for two days. Or so his recommenders claimed in tones of awe. With a gap-toothed smile and a look of utter innocence on his round face, Vanin had protested he was a stableman and sometime farrier, when he could find work. But he would take the job for four times the Band’s normal pay. So far, he had been more than worth it.

  Sitting his dun in front of Mat on that hilltop, Vanin looked disturbed. He approved of Mat not wanting to be called “my Lord,” since he did much like bowing to anyone, but he managed to knuckle his forehead casually in a rough sort of salute. “I think you got to see this. I don’t know what to make of it myself. You got to look for yourself.”

  “Wait here,” Mat told the others, and to Vanin, “Show me.”

  It was not a long ride, just over the next two hills and up a winding stream with wide borders of dried mud. The smell announced what Vanin wanted him to see before the first vultures waddled into the air. The others just flapped a few paces before settling again, darting featherless heads and squawking challenges. Worst were those that never looked up from their dinners, milling piles of stained black feathers.

  An overturned wagon like a little house on wheels, virulently painted in green and blue and yellow, identified the scene as a Tinker caravan, but few of the wagons had escaped burning. Bodies lay everywhere in bright clothes torn and darkened with dried blood, men and women and children. A part of Mat analyzed it coldly; the rest of him wanted to vomit, or run, anything but sit there on Pips. The attackers had come from the west first. Most of the men and older boys lay there, mingled with what was left of a number of large dogs, as if they had tried to form a line, to hold back killers with their bodies while the women and children ran. A futile flight. Heaped corpses showed where they had run headlong into the second attack. Only the vultures moved now.

  Vanin spat disgustedly through a gap in his teeth. “You chase them off before they steal too much — they’ll snap up children if you don’t look sharp; raise them as their own — maybe you add a kick to speed them, but you don’t do this. Who would?”

  “I don’t know. Brigands.” The horses were all gone. But brigands wanted to steal, not kill, and no Tinker would resist if you stole his last penny and his coat to boot. Mat forced his hands to ease their grip on his reins. There was nowhere to look without seeing a dead woman, a dead child. Whoever did this had not wanted any survivors. He rode a slow circuit around the site, trying to ignore the vultures that hissed and flared their wings when he passed — the ground was too dry to hold tracks well, although he thought horses had gone in several directions — and came back to Vanin. “You could have told me about it. I don’t need to see.” Light, but I don’t!

  “I could’ve told you there was no good tracks,” Vanin said, turning his horse to wade the shallow stream. “Maybe you need to see this.”

  Fire had taken most of the wagon lying on its side, but the wagon bed survived, propped on yellow wheels with red spokes. A man in a coat that still showed a little eye-wrenching blue lay hard against i
t, one sprawled hand black with blood. What he had written in shaky letters stood out darker than the wood of the wagon bottom.

  TELL THE DRAGON REBORN

  Tell him what? Mat thought. That somebody had killed a whole caravan of Tinkers? Or had the man died before he could write whatever it was? It would not have been the first time Tinkers had come onto important information. In a story he would have lived just long enough to scrawl the vital bit that meant victory. Well, whatever the message, nobody was ever going to know a word more now.

  “You were right, Vanin.” Mat hesitated. Tell the Dragon Reborn what? No reason to start any more rumors than they already had. “See the rest of this wagon burns before you leave. And if anybody asks, there was nothing here but a lot of dead men.” And women, and children.

  Vanin nodded. “Filthy savages,” he muttered, and spat through his teeth again. “Could have been some of them, I suppose.”

  That band of Aielmen had caught up, three or four hundred strong. They trotted down the slope and crossed the stream no more than fifty paces from the wagons. A number raised a hand in greeting; Mat did not recognize them, but a good many Aiel had heard of Rand al’Thor’s friend, he who wore the hat and whom it was better not to gamble against. Across the stream and up the next slope, and all those bodies might as well not have existed.

  Bloody Aiel, Mat thought. He knew that Aiel avoided Tinkers, ignored them, if not why, but this . . . “I don’t think so,” he said. “See it burns, Vanin.”

  Talmanes and the other two were right where he had left them, of course. When Mat told them what lay ahead, and that burial parties had to be told off, they nodded grimly, Daerid muttering a disbelieving, “Tinkers?”

  “We will camp here,” Mat added.

  He expected some comment — there was light left for a few more miles, and these three had gotten caught up in how far the Band could move in a day to the point of laying wagers — but Nalesean just said, “I’ll send a man down to signal the ships before they get too far ahead.”