“Prayers for the dead must wait,” Varek said bluntly. What he was about to do would end with him in the hands of the Seekers, if he failed, but there was not a Seanchan left standing here except the sul’dam. “I am assuming command. We will disengage and turn south.”
“Disengage!” the heavy-shouldered Taraboner barked. “It will take us days to disengage! The Illianers, they fight like badgers backed into a corner, the Cairhienin like ferrets in a box. The Tairens, they are not so hard as I have heard, but there are maybe a dozen of these Asha’man, yes? I do not even know where three-quarters of my men are, in this jolly-bag!” Emboldened by his example, the others began giving protest, too.
Varek ignored them. And forbore asking what a “jolly-bag” was; looking at the tangled forest all around, listening to the clash of battle, the booms of explosions and lightnings, he could imagine. “You will gather your men and begin pulling back,” he said loudly, cutting through their chatter. “Not too fast; you will act in unison.” Miraj’s orders to Chianmai said “with all possible speed” — he had memorized them, in case something happened to the copy in his saddlebags — “all possible speed,” but too much speed in this, and half the men would be left behind, chopped to flinders at the enemy’s leisure. “Now, move! You fight for the Empress, may she live forever!”
That last was the sort of thing you told fresh recruits, but for some reason, the listening men jerked as if he had struck them all with his quirt. Bowing quickly and deeply, hands on knees, they all but flew to their horses. Strange. Now it was up to him to find the Seanchan units. One of those would be commanded by someone above him, and he could pass his responsibility.
The sul’dam was on her knees, stroking her still weeping damane’s hair and crooning softly. “Get her soothed down,” he told her. With all possible speed. And he thought he had seen a touch of anxiety in Miraj’s eyes. What could make Kennar Miraj anxious? “I think we will be depending on you sul’dam to the south.” Now, why would that make the blood drain from her face?
Bashere stood just inside the edge of the trees, frowning through his helmet’s face-bars at what he saw. His bay nuzzled his shoulder. He held his cloak close against the wind. More to avoid any motion that would draw eyes than for the cold, though that chilled his flesh. It would have been a spring breeze back in Saldaea, but months in the southlands had softened him. Shining bright between gray clouds that sailed along quickly, the sun still lay a little short of midday. And ahead of him. Just because you began a battle facing west did not mean you ended it that way. Before him lay a broad pasture where flocks of black-and-white goats cropped at the brown grass in desultory fashion just as if there was no battle raging all around them. Not that there was any sign of it here. For the moment. A man could get himself cut to doll rags crossing that meadow. And in the trees, whether forest or olive groves or thickets, you did not always see the enemy before you were on top of him, scouts or no scouts.
“If we’re going to cross,” Gueyam muttered, rubbing a wide hand over his bald head, “we should cross. Light’s truth, we’re wasting time.” Amondrid snapped his mouth shut; likely, the moon-faced Cairhienin had been about to say much the same thing. He would agree with a Tairen when horses climbed trees.
Jeordwyn Semaris snorted. The man should have grown a beard to hide that narrow jaw. It made his head look like a forester’s splitting wedge. “I do say go around,” he muttered. “I’ve lost enough men to those Light-cursed damane, and . . . ” He trailed off with an uneasy glance toward Rochaid.
The young Asha’man stood by himself, mouth tight, fingering that Dragon pin on his collar. Maybe wondering whether it was worth it, by the look of him. There was no knowing air about the boy now, only frowning worry.
Leading Quick by the reins, Bashere strode to the Asha’man and drew him farther aside in the trees. Pushed him farther aside. Rochaid scowled, going reluctantly. The man was tall enough to loom over Bashere, but Bashere was having none of it.
“Can I count on your people next time?” Bashere demanded, jerking a mustache in irritation. “No delays?” Rochaid and his fellows seemed to have grown slower and slower responding when they found themselves opposite damane.
“I know what I’m about, Bashere,” Rochaid snarled. “Aren’t we killing enough of them for you? As far as I can see, we’re about done!”
Bashere nodded slowly. Not in agreement with the last. There were plenty of enemy soldiers left, almost anywhere you looked hard enough. But a good many were dead. He had patterned his movements on what he had studied of the Trolloc Wars, when the forces of the Light seldom came anywhere near the numbers they had to face. Slash at the flanks, and run. Slash at the rear, and run. Slash, and run, and when the enemy chased after, turn on the ground you had chosen beforehand, where the legionmen lay waiting with their crossbows, turn and cut at him until it was time to run again. Or until he broke. Already today he had broken Taraboners, Amadicians, Altarans and these Seanchan in their strange armor. He had seen more enemy dead than in any fight since the Blood Snow. But if he had Asha’man, the other side had those damane. A good third of his Saldaeans lay dead along the miles behind. Nearly half his force was dead, all told, and there were still more Seanchan out there with their cursed women, and Taraboners, and Amadicians and Altarans. They just kept coming, more appearing as soon as he finished the last. And the Asha’man were growing . . . hesitant.
Swinging into Quick’s saddle, he rode back to Jeordwyn and the others. “We go around,” he ordered, ignoring Jeordwyn’s nods as much as he did Gueyam and Amondrid’s scowls. “Triple scouts out. I mean to push hard, but I don’t want to trip over a damane.” No one laughed.
Rochaid had gathered the other five Asha’man around him, one with a silver sword pinned to his collar, the others without. There had been two more with bare collars when they started out that morning, but if Asha’man knew how to kill, so did damane. Waving his arms angrily, Rochaid appeared to be arguing with them. His face was red, theirs blank and stubborn. Bashere just hoped Rochaid could keep all of them from deserting. Today had been costly enough without adding that sort of man wandering about loose.
A light rain fell. Rand scowled at the thick black clouds gathering the sky, already beginning to obscure a pale sun halfway down to the far horizon. Light rain now, but it would thicken like those clouds! Irritably he returned to studying the land ahead of him. The Crown of Swords pricked his temples. With the Power in him, the land was clear as a map despite the weather. Clear enough, anyway. Hills sinking away, some covered with thickets or olive trees, others bare grass or just stone and weeds. He thought he saw movement at the edge of a copse, then again among the rows of an olive orchard on another hill a mile from the copse. Thinking was not enough. Dead men lay across the miles behind, dead enemies. Dead women, too, he knew, but he had stayed away from anywhere sul’dam and damane had died, refused to see their faces. Most thought it was hatred for those who killed so many of his followers.
Tai’daishar frisked a few steps on the hilltop before Rand settled him with a firm hand and the pressure of his knees. A fine thing if a sul’dam spotted his movement. The few trees around him were not enough to hide much. Vaguely, he realized he did not recognize a one of them. Tai’daishar tossed his head. Rand tucked the Dragon Scepter into his saddlebags, just the carved butt-end sticking out, to free both hands in case the gelding was not satisfied. He could have taken weariness from the horse with saidin, but he knew no way to make it obey with the Power.
He could not see how the gelding retained enough energy. Saidin filled him, bubbled in him, but his distantly felt body wanted to sag with weariness. Part of that was the sheer amount of the Power he had handled today. Part was the strain of fighting saidin to make it do what he wanted. Always, saidin had to be conquered, forced, but never before like today. The half-healed, never-healing wounds in his left side were agony, the older an auger trying to drill through the Void, the newer a blaze of raw flame.
“It was an accident, my Lord Dragon,” Adley said suddenly. “I swear it was!”
“Shut up and watch!” Rand told him harshly. Adley’s eyes sank to his hands on his own reins for a moment, then he raked damp hair out of his face and jerked his head up obediently.
Today, here, controlling saidin was harder than ever, but letting it slip anytime, anywhere, could kill you. Adley had let it slip, and men had died in uncontrolled bursts of fire, not just the Amadicians he had been aiming at, but near thirty of Ailil’s armsmen and almost as many of Anaiyella’s.
Except for his slip, Adley would have been with Morr, with the Companions in the woods half a mile to the south. Narishma and Hopwil were with the Defenders, to the north. Rand wanted Adley under his eye. Had any other “accidents” happened, out of his sight? He could not watch everyone, all the time. Flinn’s face was grim as day-old death, and Dashiva, far from looking vague, seemed on the point of sweating with concentration. He still muttered to himself under his breath, so low Rand could not hear even with the Power in him, but the man mopped rain from his face continually with a sodden lace-edged linen handkerchief that had grown more than grimy as the day wore on. Rand did not think they had slipped. In any case, neither they nor Adley held the Power now. Nor would until he instructed them to seize it.
“Is it done?” Anaiyella asked behind him.
Heedless of who might be watching out there, Rand wheeled Tai’daishar around to face her. The Tairen woman started back in her saddle, the hood of her richly elaborate rain cape falling to her shoulders. Her cheek gave a twitch. Her eyes might have been full of fear, or hate. At her side, Ailil fingered her reins calmly with red-gloved hands.
“What more can you want?” the smaller woman asked in a cool voice. A lady being polite to a menial. Barely. “If the size of a victory is accounted by dead enemies, I think today alone will put your name in the histories.”
“I mean to drive the Seanchan into the sea!” Rand snapped. Light, he had to finish them now, when he had the chance! He could not fight the Seanchan and the Forsaken and the Light alone knew who or what else, all at the same time! “I did it before, and I will again!”
Do you have the Horn of Valere hidden in your pocket this time? Lews Therin asked slyly. Rand snarled at him silently.
“There’s someone below,” Flinn said suddenly. “Riding up this way. From the west.”
Rand pulled his mount back around. Legionmen ringed the slopes of the hill, though they hid well enough that he seldom caught sight of a blue coat. None of them had a horse. Who would be riding . . .
Bashere’s bay trotted up the slope almost as though it were level ground. Bashere’s helmet hung from his saddle, and the man himself looked tired. Without preamble, he spoke in a flat voice. “We’re finished, here. Part of fighting is knowing when to go, and it’s time. I’ve left five hundred dead behind, near enough, and two of your Soldiers for salt. I sent three more to find Semaradrid, Gregorin and Weiramon and tell them to rally on you. I doubt they’re in any better condition than I am. How does your butcher’s bill run?”
Rand ignored the question. His own dead topped Bashere’s by close to two hundred. “You had no right sending orders to the others. So long as there are half a dozen Asha’man left — so long as there’s me! — I have enough! I mean to find the rest of the Seanchan army and destroy it, Bashere. I won’t let them add Altara to Tarabon and Amadicia.”
Bashere knuckled his thick mustaches with a wry laugh. “You want to find them. Look out there.” He swept a gauntleted hand across the hills to the west. “I can’t point to a particular spot, but there are ten, maybe fifteen thousand close enough to see from here, if those trees weren’t in the way. I danced with the Dark One getting through them unseen to reach you. Maybe a hundred damane down there. Maybe more. More coming, for sure, and more men. Seems their general has decided to concentrate on you. I suppose it isn’t always cheese and ale being ta’veren.”
“If they’re out there . . . ” Rand scanned the hills. The rain fell more heavily. Where had he seen movement? Light, he was tired. Saidin hammered at him. Unconsciously he touched the wrapped bundled beneath his stirrup leather. His hand jerked away of its own accord. Ten thousand, even fifteen . . . Once Semaradrid reached him, and Gregorin, and Weiramon . . . More important, once the rest of the Asha’man did . . . “If they’re out there, that’s where I’ll destroy them, Bashere. I’ll hit them from all sides, the way we intended in the first place.”
Frowning, Bashere reined his horse closer, until his knee almost touched Rand’s. Flinn moved his mount away, but Adley was too focused on staring through the rain to notice anything so near, and Dashiva, still wiping his face incessantly, stared with open interest. Bashere lowered his voice to a murmur. “You aren’t thinking straight. That was a good plan, in the beginning, but their general thinks fast. He spread out to blunt our attacks before we could fall on him spread out marching. We’ve cost him even so, it seems, and he now he’s pulling everything together. You won’t catch him by surprise. He wants us to come at him. He’s out there waiting for it. Asha’man or no Asha’man, if we stand nose-to-nose with this fellow, I think maybe the vultures grow fat and nobody rides away.”
“Nobody stands nose-to-nose with the Dragon Reborn,” Rand growled. “The Forsaken could tell him that, whoever he is. Right, Flinn? Dashiva?” Flinn nodded uncertainly. Dashiva flinched. “You think I can’t surprise him, Bashere? Watch!” Pulling the long bundle loose, he stripped away the cloth covering, and Rand heard gasps as raindrops glistened on a sword seemingly made of crystal. The Sword That Is Not a Sword. “Let’s see if he’s surprised by Callandor in the hands of the Dragon Reborn, Bashere.”
Cradling the translucent blade in the crook of his elbow, Rand rode Tai’daishar forward a few steps. There was no reason to. He had no clearer view from there. Except . . . Something spidered across the outer surface of the Void, a wriggling black web. He was afraid. The last time he had used Callandor, really used it, he had tried to bring the dead back to life. He had been sure he could do anything, then, anything at all. Like a madman thinking he could fly. But he was the Dragon Reborn. He could do anything. Had he not proved it time and again? He reached for the Source through the Sword That Is Not a Sword.
Saidin seemed to leap into Callandor before he touched the Source through it. From pommel to point, the crystal sword shone with a white light. He had only thought the Power filled him before. Now he held more than ten men could have unaided, a hundred, he did not know how many. The fires of the sun, searing through his head. The cold of all of the winters of all the Ages, eating into his heart. In that torrent, the taint was all the midden heaps in the world emptying into his soul. Saidin still tried to kill him, tried to scour away, burn away, freeze away, every scrap of him, but he fought, and he lived for a moment more, and another moment, another. He wanted to laugh. He could do anything!
Once, holding Callandor, he had made a weapon that searched out Shadowspawn through the Stone of Tear, struck them dead with hunting lightning wherever they stood or ran or hid. Surely there must be something like that, to use against his enemies here. But when he called to Lews Therin, only anguished whimpers answered, as if that disembodied voice feared the pain of saidin.
With Callandor blazing in his hand — he did not remember raising the blade overhead — he stared at the hills where his enemies hid. They were gray now, with thickening rain, and dense black clouds blocking the sun. What was it he had told Eagan Padros?
“I am the storm,” he whispered — a shout in his ears, a roar — and he channeled.
Overhead, the clouds boiled. Where they had been the black of soot, they became midnight, the heart of midnight. He did not know what he was channeling. So often, he did not, in spite of Asmodean’s teaching. Maybe Lews Therin was guiding him, in spite of the man’s weeping. Flows of saidin spun across the sky, Wind and Water and Fire. Fire. The sky truly did rain lightning. A hundred bolts at once, hundreds, forked blu
e-white shafts stabbing down as far as he could see. The hills before him erupted. Some flew apart under the torrent of lightning like kicked anthills. Flames sprang up in thickets, trees turning to torches in the rain, flames racing through olive orchards.
Something struck him hard, and he realized he was picking himself up from the ground. The crown had fallen from his head. Callandor still blazed in his hand, though. Vaguely, he was aware of Tai’daishar scrambling to his feet, trembling. So they thought to strike back at him, did they.
Shoving Callandor high, he screamed at them. “Come against me, if you dare! I am the storm! Come if you dare, Shai’tan! I am the Dragon Reborn!” A thousand sizzling lightning bolts hailed down from the clouds.
Again something struck him down. He tried to fight up again. Callandor, still shining, lay a pace from his outstretched hand. The sky shattered with lightnings. Suddenly, he realized that the weight atop him was Bashere, that the man was shaking him. It must have been Bashere who had flung him down!
“Stop it!” the Saldaean shouted. Blood fanned down his face from a split across his scalp. “You’re killing us, man! Stop!”
Rand turned his head, and one stunned look was enough. Lightnings flashed all around him, in every direction. A bolt stabbed down onto the reverse slope, where Denharad and the armsmen were; the screams of men and horses rose. Anaiyella and Ailil were both afoot, trying vainly to quiet mounts that reared, eyes rolling, trying to rip reins free. Flinn was bending over someone, not far from a dead horse with legs already stiff.