The Wheel of Time, page 1111
The two of them left the stairwell and entered Malenarin’s office. He grabbed his best quill off the rack on his wall. That blasted shutter was blowing and rattling again; the papers on his desk rustled as he pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.
Rena and Farmay not responding to flash messages. Possibly overrun or severely hampered. Be advised. Heeth will stand.
He folded the paper, holding it up to Jargen. The man took it with a leathery hand, read it over, then grunted. “Two copies, then?”
“Three,” Malenarin said. “Mobilize the archers and send them to the roof. Tell them danger may come from above.”
If he wasn’t merely jumping at shadows—if the towers to either side of Heeth had fallen so quickly—then so could those to the south. And if he’d been the one making an assault, he’d have done anything he could to sneak around and take out one of the southern towers first. That was the best way to make sure no messages got back to the capital.
Jargen saluted, fist to chest, then withdrew. The message would be sent immediately: three times on legs of horseflesh, once on legs of light. Malenarin let himself feel a hint of relief that his son was one of those riding to safety. There was no dishonor in that; the messages needed to be delivered, and Keemlin was next on the roster.
Malenarin glanced out his window. It faced north, toward the Blight. Every commander’s office did that. The bubbling storm, with its silvery clouds. Sometimes they looked like straight geometric shapes. He had listened well to passing merchants. Troubled times were coming. The Queen would not have gone south to seek a false Dragon, no matter how cunning or influential he might be. She believed.
It was time for Tarmon Gai’don. And looking out into that storm, Malenarin thought he could see to the very edge of time itself. An edge that was not far distant. In fact, it seemed to be growing darker. And there was a darkness beneath it, on the ground northward.
That darkness was advancing.
Malenarin dashed out of the room, racing up the steps to the roof, where the wind swept against men pushing and moving mirrors.
“Was the message sent to the south?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Landalin said. He’d been roused to take command of the tower’s top. “No reply yet.”
Malenarin glanced down, and picked out three riders breaking away from the tower at full speed. The messengers were off. They would stop at Barklan if it wasn’t being attacked. The captain there would send them on southward, just in case. And if Barklan didn’t stand, the boys would continue on, all the way to the capital if needed.
Malenarin turned back to the storm. That advancing darkness had him on edge. It was coming.
“Raise the hoardings,” he ordered Landalin. “Bring up the store hitchings and empty the cellars. Have the loaders gather all of the arrows and set up stations for resupplying the archers, and put archers at every choke point, kill slit and window. Start the firepots and have men ready to drop the outer ramps. Prepare for a siege.”
As Landalin barked orders, men rushed away. Malenarin heard boots scrape stone behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder. Was that Jargen back again?
No. It was a youth of nearly fourteen summers, too young for a beard, his dark hair disheveled, his face streaming with sweat caused—presumably—by a run up seven levels of the tower.
Keemlin. Malenarin felt a stab of fear, instantly replaced with anger. “Soldier! You were to ride with a message!”
Keemlin bit his lip. “Well, sir,” he said. “Tian, four places down from me. He is five, maybe ten pounds lighter than I. It makes a big difference, sir. He rides a lot faster, and I figured this would be an important message. So I asked for him to be sent in my place.”
Malenarin frowned. Soldiers moved around them, rushing down the stairs or gathering with bows at the rim of the tower. The wind howled outside and thunder began to sound softly—yet insistently.
Keemlin met his eyes. “Tian’s mother, Lady Yabeth, has lost four sons to the Blight,” he said, softly enough that only Malenarin could hear. “Tian’s the only one she has left. If one of us has a shot at getting out, sir, I figured it should be him.”
Malenarin held his son’s eyes. The boy understood what was coming. Light help him, but he understood. And he’d sent another away in his place.
“Kralle,” Malenarin barked, glancing toward one of the soldiers passing by.
“Yes, my Lord Commander?”
“Run down to my office,” Malenarin said. “There is a sword in my oaken trunk. Fetch it for me.”
The man saluted, obeying.
“Father?” Keemlin said. “My nameday isn’t for three days.”
Malenarin waited with arms behind his back. His most important task at the moment was to be seen in command, to reassure his troops. Kralle returned with the sword; its worn scabbard bore the image of the oak set aflame. The symbol of House Rai.
“Father….” Keemlin repeated. “I—”
“This weapon is offered to a boy when he becomes a man,” Malenarin said. “It seems it is too late in coming, son. For I see a man standing before me.” He held the weapon forward in his right hand. Around the tower top, soldiers turned toward him: the archers with bows ready, the soldiers who operated the mirrors, the duty watchmen. As Borderlanders, each and every one of them would have been given his sword on his fourteenth nameday. Each one had felt the catch in the chest, the wonderful feeling of coming of age. It had happened to each of them, but that did not make this occasion any less special.
Keemlin went down on one knee.
“Why do you draw your sword?” Malenarin asked, voice loud so that every man atop the tower would hear.
“In defense of my honor, my family, or my homeland,” Keemlin replied.
“How long do you fight?”
“Until my last breath joins the northern winds.”
“When do you stop watching?”
“Never,” Keemlin whispered.
“Speak it louder!”
“Never!”
“Once this sword is drawn, you become a warrior, always with it near you in preparation to fight the Shadow. Will you draw this blade and join us, as a man?”
Keemlin looked up, then took the hilt in a firm grip and pulled the weapon free.
“Rise as a man, my son!” Malenarin declared.
Keemlin stood, holding the weapon aloft, the bright blade reflecting the diffuse sunlight. The men atop the tower cheered.
It was no shame to find tears in one’s eyes at such a moment. Malenarin blinked them free, then knelt down, buckling the sword belt at his son’s waist. The men continued to cheer and yell, and he knew it was not only for his son. They yelled in defiance of the Shadow. For a moment, their voices rang louder than the thunder.
Malenarin stood, laying a hand on his son’s shoulder as the boy slid his sword into its sheath. Together they turned to face the oncoming Shadow.
“There!” one of the archers said, pointing upward. “There’s something in the clouds!”
“Draghkar!” another one said.
The unnatural clouds were close now, and the shade they cast could no longer hide the undulating horde of Trollocs beneath. Something flew out from the sky, but a dozen of his archers let loose. The creature screamed and fell, dark wings flapping awkwardly.
Jargen pushed his way through to Malenarin. “My Lord,” Jargen said, shooting a glance at Keemlin, “the boy should be below.”
“Not a boy any longer,” Malenarin said with pride. “A man. What is your report?”
“All is prepared.” Jargen glanced over the wall, eyeing the oncoming Trollocs as evenly as if he were inspecting a stable of horses. “They will not find this tree an easy one to fell.”
Malenarin nodded. Keemlin’s shoulder was tense. That sea of Trollocs seemed endless. Against this foe, the tower would eventually fall. The Trollocs would keep coming, wave after wave.
But every man atop that tower knew his duty. They’d kill Shadowspawn as long as they could, hoping to buy enough time for the messages to do some good.
Malenarin was a man of the Borderlands, same as his father, same as his son beside him. They knew their task. You held until you were relieved.
That’s all there was to it.
Chapter 1
Apples First
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose above the misty peaks of Imfaral. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.
Crisp and light, the wind danced across fields of new mountain grass stiff with frost. That frost lingered past first light, sheltered by the omnipresent clouds that hung like a death mask high above. It had been weeks since those clouds had budged, and the wan, yellowed grass showed it.
The wind churned morning mist, moving southward, chilling a small pride of torm. They reclined on a flat, lichen-stained granite shelf, waiting to bask in morning sunlight that would not arrive. The wind poured over the shelf, racing down a hillside of scraggly mura trees, with ropelike bark and green tufts of thick, needlelike leaves atop them.
At the base of the foothills, the wind turned eastward, passing an open plain kept free of trees and scrub by the soldier’s axe. The killing field surrounded thirteen fortresses, tall and cut entirely from unpolished black marble, their blocks left rough-hewn to give them a primal feeling of unformed strength. These were towers meant for war. By tradition they were unoccupied. How long that would last—how long tradition itself would be remembered in a continent in chaos—remained to be seen.
The wind continued eastward, and soon it was playing with the masts of half-burned ships at the docks of Takisrom. Out into the Sleeping Bay, it passed the attackers: enormous greatships with sails painted blood red. They sailed southward, their grisly work done.
The wind blew onto land again, past smoldering towns and villages, open plains filled with troops and docks fat with warships. Smoke, war calls and banners flew above dying grass and beneath a dockmaster’s gloomy sky.
Men did not whisper that this might be the end of times. They yelled it. The Fields of Peace were aflame, the Tower of Ravens was broken as prophesied and a murderer openly ruled in Seandar. This was a time to lift one’s sword and choose a side, then spill blood to give a final color to the dying land.
The wind howled eastward over the famed Emerald Cliffs and coursed out over the ocean. Behind, smoke seemed to rise from the entire continent of Seanchan.
For hours, the wind blew—making what would have been called tradewinds in another Age—twisting between whitecaps and dark, mysterious waves. Eventually, the wind encountered another continent, this one quiet, like a man holding his breath before the headsman’s axe fell.
By the time the wind reached the enormous, broken-peaked mountain known as Dragonmount, it had lost much of its strength. It passed around the base of the mountain, then through a large orchard of apple trees, lit by early-afternoon sunlight. The once-green leaves had faded to yellow.
The wind passed by a low wooden fence, tied at its joints with tan linen twine. Two figures stood there: a youth and a somber man in his later years. The older man wore a pair of worn brown trousers and a loose white shirt with wooden buttons. His face was so furrowed with wrinkles that it seemed kin to the bark of the trees.
Almen Bunt didn’t know a lot about orchards. Oh, he had planted a few trees back on his farm in Andor. Who didn’t have a tree or two to fill in space on the dinner table? He’d planted a pair of walnut trees on the day he’d married Adrinne. It had felt good to have her trees there, outside his window, after she’d died.
Running an orchard was something else entirely. There were nearly three hundred trees in this field. It was his sister’s orchard; he was visiting while his sons managed his farm near Carysford.
In his shirt pocket, Almen carried a letter from his sons. A desperate letter, pleading for help, but he couldn’t go to them. He was needed here. Besides, it was a good time for him to be out of Andor. He was a Queen’s man. There had been times, recently, when being a Queen’s man could get someone into as much trouble as having one too many cows in his pasture.
“What do we do, Almen?” Adim asked. “Those trees, they…Well, it ain’t supposed to happen like this.” The boy of thirteen had golden hair from his father’s side.
Almen rubbed his chin, scratching at a patch of whiskers he’d missed during shaving. Hahn, Adim’s older brother, approached them. The lad had carved Almen a set of wooden teeth as an arrival gift earlier in the spring. Wondrous things, held together by wires, with gaps for the few remaining teeth he had. But if he chewed too hard, they’d go all out of shape.
The rows of trees were straight and perfectly spaced. Graeger—Almen’s brother-in-law—always had been meticulous. But he was dead now, which was why Almen had come. The neat rows of trees continued on for spans and spans, carefully pruned, fertilized, and watered.
And during the night, every single one of them had shed their fruit. Tiny apples, barely as large as a man’s thumb. Thousands of them. They’d shriveled during the night, then fallen. An entire crop, gone.
“I don’t know what to say, lads,” Almen finally admitted.
“You, at a loss for words?” Hahn said. Adim’s brother had darker coloring, like his mother, and was tall for his fifteen years. “Uncle, you usually have as much to say as a gleeman who’s been at the brandy for half the night!” Hahn liked to maintain a strong front for his brother, now that he was the man of the family. But sometimes it was good to be worried.
And Almen was worried. Very worried.
“We barely have a week’s grain left,” Adim said softly. “And what we’ve got, we got by promises on the crop. Nobody will give us anything, now. Nobody has anything.”
The orchard was one of the largest producers in the region; half the men in the village worked it during one stage or another. They were depending on it. They needed it. With so much food going bad, with their stores used up during the unnatural winter…
And then there was the incident that had killed Graeger. The man had walked around a corner over in Negin Bridge and vanished. When people went looking, all they found was a twisted, leafless tree with a gray-white trunk that smelled of sulphur.
The Dragon’s Fang had been scrawled on a few doors that night. People were more and more nervous. Once, Almen would have named them all fools, jumping at shadows and seeing bloody Trollocs under every cobblestone.
Now…well, now he wasn’t so sure. He glanced eastward, toward Tar Valon. Could the witches be to blame for the failed crop? He hated being so close to their nest, but Alysa needed the help.
They’d chopped down that tree and burned it. You could still smell brimstone in the square.
“Uncle?” Hahn said, sounding uncomfortable. “What…what do we do?”
“I…” What did they do? “Burn me, but we should all go to Caemlyn. I’m sure the new Queen has everything cleared up there by now. We can get me settled right by the law. Who ever heard of such a thing, gaining a price on your head for speaking out in favor of the Queen?” He realized he was rambling. The boys kept looking at him.
“No,” Almen continued. “Burn me, boys, but that’s wrong. We can’t go. We need to keep on working. This isn’t any worse than when I lost my entire millet field to a late frost twenty years back. We’ll get through this, right as Light we will.”
The trees themselves looked fine. Not an insect bite on them, leaves a little yellowed, but still good. Sure, the spring buds had come late, and the apples had grown slowly. But they had been growing.
“Hahn,” Almen found himself saying. “You know your father’s felling axe has those chips on it? Why don’t you go about getting it sharpened? Adim, go fetch Uso and Moor and their carts. We’ll sort through those fallen apples and see if any aren’t rotted too badly. Maybe the pigs will take them.” At least they still had two. But there’d been no piglets this spring.
The youths hesitated.
“Go on now,” Almen said. “No use dallying because we’ve had a setback.”
The lads hastened off, obedient. Idle hands made idle minds. Some work would keep them from thinking about what was to come.
There was no helping that for him. He leaned down on the fence, feeling the rough grooves of the unsanded planks under his arms. That wind tugged at the tails of his shirt again; Adrinne had always forced him to tuck it in, but now that she was gone, he…well, he never had liked wearing it that way.
He tucked the shirt in anyway.
The air smelled wrong somehow. Stale, like the air inside a city. Flies were starting to buzz around the shriveled bits that had once been apples.
Almen had lived a long time. He’d never kept count; Adrinne had done that for him. It wasn’t important. He knew he’d seen a lot of years, and that was that.
He’d seen insects attack a crop; he’d seen plants lost to flood, to drought, or to negligence. But in all his years, he’d never seen anything like this. This was something evil. The village was already starving. They didn’t talk about it, not when the children or youths were around. The adults quietly gave what they had to the young and to women who were nursing. But the cows were going dry, the stores spoiling, the crops dying.
The letter in his pocket said his own farm had been set upon by passing mercenaries. They hadn’t harmed anyone, but they’d taken every scrap of food. His sons survived only by digging half-grown potatoes from the crop and boiling them. They found nineteen out of every twenty rotting in the ground, inexplicably full of worms despite green growth above.
Dozens of nearby villages were suffering the same way. No food to be had. Tar Valon itself was having trouble feeding its people.
Staring down those neat, perfect rows of useless apple trees, Almen felt the crushing weight of it. Of trying to remain positive. Of seeing all his sister had worked for fail and rot. These apples…they were supposed to have saved the village, and his sons.
