The Wheel of Time, page 1165
Wolves appeared around Perrin, flashing into existence midleap. They continued to bay, jumping at one another, exulting and dancing in the sunlight as it washed over them. They yipped and barked, tossing up patches of snow as they bounded. Hopper was among them, and he leaped into the air, soaring over to Perrin.
The Last Hunt begins, Young Bull! Hopper screamed. We live. We live!
Perrin turned back to the place where Rand had stood. If that darkness had taken Rand…
But it hadn’t. He smiled broadly. “The Last Hunt has come!” he screamed to the wolves. “Let it begin!”
They howled their agreement, as loud as the storm had been just moments before.
Chapter 31
Into the Void
Mat dumped the rest of the wine into his mouth, savoring the sweet, cool taste. He brought the cup down and tossed a handful of dice. They tumbled to the wooden floor of the tavern, clacking against one another.
The air was thick. Thick with sounds, thick with curses, thick with scents. Smoke, pungent liquors, a steak that had been peppered so much that you could hardly taste the meat. That was probably for the best. Even in Caemlyn, meat spoiled unpredictably.
The pungent men around Mat watched his dice fall: one of the men stank of garlic, another of sweat, a third of a tannery. Their hair was stringy, their fingers were grimy, but their coin was good. The game was called Koronko’s Spit, and hailed from Shienar.
Mat did not know the rules.
“Five ones,” said the man who stank of garlic. His name was Rittle. He seemed unsettled. “That’s a loss.”
“No it’s not,” Mat said softly. Never mind that he did not know the rules. He knew he had won; he could feel it. His luck was with him.
Good thing, too. He needed it tonight.
The man that smelled of a tannery reached for his belt, where he carried a wicked knife. His name was Saddler, and he had a chin that could have been used to sharpen swords. “I thought you said you didn’t know this game, friend.”
“I don’t,” Mat said. “Friend. But that’s a win. Do we need to ask around the room to see if anyone else can confirm it?”
The three men looked at each other, expressions dark. Mat stood up. The inn had walls dark from years of men smoking pipes inside it, and the windows—though of fine glass—had grown opaque with dirt and smoke. It was a tradition that they never be cleaned. The weathered sign out front had a wagon wheel painted on it, and the official name was The Dusty Wheel. Everyone called it The Rumor Wheel instead; it was the best place in Caemlyn to listen to rumors. Most of them were untrue, but that was half the fun.
Most everyone in the place was drinking ale, but Mat had taken a fancy to good red wine lately. “Want some more, Master Crimson?” Kati, the serving woman, asked. She was a raven-haired beauty with a smile so wide it reached halfway to Cairhien. She had been flirting with him all night. Never mind that he had told her he was married. He had not even smiled at her. Well, not much. And hardly his best smile. Some women could not see the truth of things, even if it was written on their own foreheads, that was a fact.
He waved her away. Only one cup tonight, for courage. Burn him, but he needed a little of that. With resignation, he took the scarf off his neck and dropped it to the side. He untucked the foxhead medallion—Light, but it felt good to be wearing that again!—and hung it out front of his clothing. He wore the new red and silver coat that Thom had bought him.
Mat took his ashandarei from beside the wall and pulled off the cloth cover, revealing the blade. He set it over his shoulder. “Hey,” he said in a loud voice. “Anyone in the bloody place know the rules for Koronko’s Spit?”
The three men he had been dicing regarded the weapon; the third of them, Snelle, stood up, hooking his thumbs into the top of his trousers, pushing back his coat and showing the shortsword buckled at his waist.
Most people ignored Mat at first. Conversations rang, stories about the Borderlander army that had passed, about the Queen’s pregnancy, about the Dragon Reborn, about mysterious deaths or not so mysterious ones. Everyone had a rumor to share. Some of the inn’s occupants wore little better than rags, but some wore the finest of clothing. Nobles, commoners and everything in between came to The Rumor Wheel.
A few men by the bar glanced at Mat because of the outburst. One hesitated, blinking. Mat reached down and took his wide-brimmed black hat off the table beside him, holding it by the crown, then set it on his head. The man nudged his companions. The sweaty, balding man Mat had been dicing with raised fingers to his chin, rubbing it in thought, as if trying to remember something.
Snelle smiled at Mat. “Looks like nobody answered you, friend. Guess you’ll have to trust us. You shouldn’t have thrown if you didn’t ask the rules. Now, are you going to pay, or—”
Rittle’s eyes opened wide, and he stood hastily and took his friend’s arm. He leaned in, whispering something. Snelle looked down at Mat’s medallion. He looked up and met Mat’s eyes.
Mat nodded.
“Excuse us,” Rittle said, stumbling away. The other two joined him. They left their dice and coins on the ground.
Mat casually knelt down, scooping up the coins and dumping them in his pouch. He left the dice. They were loaded, meant to almost always throw threes. He had been able to judge that from a few quick throws before laying down coins.
Whispers moved through the inn’s common room like a swarm of ants covering a corpse. Chairs scooted back. Conversations changed tempo, some silencing, others becoming urgent. Mat stood up to go. People hastened out of his way.
Mat left a golden crown on the edge of the bar, then tipped his hat to Hatch, the innkeeper. The man stood behind the bar wiping a glass, his wife next to him. She was a pretty one, but Hatch kept a special cudgel for thumping men who looked too long. Mat gave her only a short look, then.
Mat pulled off his black scarf, leaving it on the floor. It had a hole in it now anyway. He stepped out into the night, and the moment he did, the dice stopped thundering in his head.
It was time to get to work.
He walked out onto the street. He had spent all evening with his face uncovered. He was certain he had been recognized a few times, mostly by men who had slipped out into the night without saying anything. As he walked down off the inn’s front porch, people gathered at the windows and doorway.
Mat tried not to feel like all of those eyes were knives sticking into his back. Light, he felt like he was dangling from another noose. He reached up and felt at the scar on his neck. It had been a long while since he had gone about with his neck uncovered. Even with Tylin, he had normally left the scarf on.
Tonight, though, he danced with Jak o’ the Shadows. He tied his medallion to the ashandarei. He affixed it so that the medallion rested against the flat of the blade, and one edge hung out over the tip. It would be hard to use—he would have to hit with the flat of the blade in most cases to touch the medallion to flesh—but it gave him much better reach than swinging the medallion by hand.
Medallion in place, he picked a direction and began walking. He was in the New City, a place heaped with man-made buildings, a contrast to the fine Ogier work elsewhere in Caemlyn. These buildings were well built, but were narrow and thin, up close next to one another.
The first group tried to kill him before he was one street away from The Rumor Wheel. There were four of them. As they charged him, a group of shadows leaped from a nearby alleyway, Talmanes at their head. Mat spun on the killers, who pulled up short as his soldiers joined him. The street toughs fled in a scramble and Mat nodded to Talmanes.
The men of the Band faded back into the darkness, and Mat continued on his way. He walked slowly, carrying his ashandarei on his shoulder. His men had been told to keep their distance unless he was attacked.
He ended up needing them three more times through the hour, each time scaring away a larger group of thugs. The last time, the Band and he actually clashed with the assassins. The thugs were no match for trained soldiers, even on the darkened streets that were their home. The exchange left five of the thugs dead, but only one of his men wounded. Mat sent Harvell away with a guard of two.
It grew later and later. Mat began to worry that he would have to repeat this act the next night, but then he noticed someone standing in the street ahead. The paving stones were wet from a misting earlier in the night, and they reflected the diffused light of a hidden slivered moon.
Mat stopped, lowering his weapon to his side. He could not make out details about the figure, but the way it stood…
“You think to ambush me?” the gholam asked, sounding amused. “With your men who squish and rip, who die so easily, almost at a touch?”
“I’m tired of being chased,” Mat said loudly.
“So you deliver yourself to me? What a kind gift.”
“Sure,” Mat said, lowering his ashandarei, foxhead on the back gleaming faintly. “Just mind the sharp edges.”
The thing slid forward, and Mat’s men lit lanterns. The men of the Band set the lanterns on the ground, then backed away, a few of them dashing off to deliver messages. They had strict orders not to interfere. Tonight would probably strain their oaths to him on that.
Mat planted himself and waited for the gholam. Only a hero charged a beast like that, and he was no bloody hero. Though his men would be trying to clear away anyone on the streets, trying to keep the area empty so nobody would scare the gholam away. That was not heroism. It might have been stupidity, though.
The gholam’s fluid movements threw lanternlight shadows across the road. Mat met it with a sweep of his ashandarei, but the beast danced to the side, easily evading him. Bloody ashes, but the thing was fast! It reached out, swiping at the front of the ashandarei with the knife it held.
Mat yanked the ashandarei back, not letting the monster cut the medallion free. It danced around Mat, and he spun, staying inside the ring of lanterns. He had chosen a relatively wide street, remembering with a shiver that day in the alleyway of Ebou Dar where the gholam had nearly taken him in close quarters.
The beast slid forward again, and Mat feinted, drawing it in. He almost miscalculated, but twisted the ashandarei in time to slap the gholam with the flat of the weapon. The medallion let out a hiss as it touched the gholam’s arm.
The gholam cursed and backed away. Wavering lanternlight illuminated its features, leaving pockets of darkness and pockets of light. It was smiling again, despite the wisp of smoke rising from its arm. Before, Mat had thought this creature’s face unremarkable, but in the uneven light—and with that smile—it took on a terrifying cast. More angular, reflected lanternlight making its eyes glow like tiny yellow flames consumed by the darkness of its sockets.
Nondescript by day, a horror by night. This thing had slaughtered Tylin while she lay helpless. Mat gritted his teeth. Then he attacked.
It was a bloody stupid thing to do. The gholam was faster than he was, and Mat had no idea if the foxhead could kill it or not. He attacked anyway. He attacked for Tylin, for the men he’d lost to this horror. He attacked because he had no other option. When you really wanted to see what a man was worth, you backed him into a corner and made him fight for his life.
Mat was in the corner now. Bloodied and harried. He knew this thing would eventually find him—or, worse, find Tuon or Olver. It was the kind of situation where a sensible man would have run. But he was a bloody fool instead. Staying in the city because of an oath to an Aes Sedai? Well, if he died, he would go out with weapon in hand.
Mat became a swirling cyclone of steel and wood, yelling as he attacked. The gholam, seeming shocked, actually backed away. Mat slammed his ashandarei into its hand, burning the flesh, then spun and knocked the dagger from its fingers. The creature leaped away, but Mat lunged forward, ramming the butt of his spear between the thing’s legs.
It went down. Its motions were fluid, and it caught itself, but it did go down. As it threw itself to its feet, Mat slashed the ashandarei’s blade at its heel. He neatly severed the gholam’s tendon, and if the thing had been human, it would have collapsed. Instead, it landed without even a wince of pain, and no blood seeped free of the cut.
It spun and lunged at Mat with clawed fingers. He was forced to stumble back, swinging the ashandarei to ward it away. The creature grinned at him.
Then, oddly, it turned and ran.
Mat cursed. Had something scared it away? But no, it was not fleeing. It was going for his men!
“Retreat!” Mat called at them. “Back! Burn you, you bloody monster. I’m here! Fight me!”
The members of the Band scattered at his orders, though Talmanes hung back, wearing a grim expression. The gholam laughed, but did not chase down the soldiers. Instead, the thing kicked over the first lantern, causing it to wink out. It ran around the circle, kicking at each one, plunging the street into darkness.
Bloody ashes! Mat chased after the creature. If it managed to get all of those lights out, with that cloud cover, Mat would be left fighting it unable to see!
Talmanes—blatantly ignoring his own safety—leaped forward and snatched his lantern up to protect it. He fled down the street, and Mat cursed as the gholam chased after.
Mat dashed behind them. Talmanes had a good lead, but the gholam was so quick. It nearly got to him, and Talmanes jerked to the side, backing up the steps of a nearby building. The monster lunged for him, and Talmanes stumbled backward as Mat ran toward them for all he was worth.
The lantern fell from Talmanes’ fingers and splashed oil across the front of the building. The dry wood came alight, tongues of flame rippling across the lamp oil, illuminating the gholam. It leaped for Talmanes.
Mat threw his ashandarei.
The broad-bladed spear was not meant for throwing, but he did not have a knife handy. He aimed for the gholam’s head. One would have never known that, for he missed pitifully. Fortunately, the weapon dipped down and passed between the gholam’s legs.
The monster tripped, thudding heavily to the paving stones. Talmanes scrambled back up the steps of the now-blazing building.
Bless this luck of mine, Mat thought.
The gholam stood up and made a motion to follow Talmanes, but then looked down at what had tripped it. The creature looked at Mat with a wicked grin, half its face cast in the light of the burning building. The creature picked up Mat’s ashandarei—foxhead medallion still tied to the front—then whipped its hand to the side, tossing the weapon away. The ashandarei crashed through a window and passed into the burning building.
Lamps sparked on inside, as if those living there were only now noticing the fight happening in their proximity. Talmanes gave Mat a look, and they met eyes. The Cairhienin man threw himself against the door into the burning building and broke in. The gholam spun on Mat, backlit by the growing flames. They blazed quickly, and Mat’s heart thumped with alarm as the creature came for him, unnaturally fast.
Mat reached into his coat pockets with sweaty fingers. Right before the gholam reached him—hands going for Mat’s neck—Mat pulled something out with each hand, slamming them forward into the gholam’s palms. Hissing rang in the air, like meat being placed on a grill, and the gholam screeched in pain. It stumbled, wide-eyed, as it looked at Mat.
Who held a foxhead medallion in each hand.
He whipped them out, each held on a long, thick chain, spinning them. The medallions caught firelight, seeming to glow as Mat whipped them at the gholam, striking it on the arm.
The creature howled, backing up another step. “How?” it demanded. “How!”
“Don’t rightly know myself.” Elayne had said her copies weren’t perfect, but it seemed they did the job well enough. So long as they hurt the gholam, he didn’t care about their other abilities. Mat grinned, spinning the second medallion forward. “Guess I just got lucky.”
The gholam glared at him, then stumbled up the steps toward the burning building. It dashed inside, perhaps deciding to flee. Mat was not about to let it escape, not this time. He charged it up the steps and ducked through the flaming doorway, reaching out a hand as Talmanes tossed his ashandarei to him from a side hallway.
Mat caught the weapon, leaving the medallions wrapped around his forearms. The gholam spun on him; the hallway was already burning, the heat from the sides and above oppressive. Smoke lined the ceiling. Talmanes coughed, a kerchief held to his face.
The gholam turned on Mat, snarling and attacking. Mat met the beast in the middle of the wide hallway, bringing up his ashandarei to block the gholam’s clawlike hands. The butt of Mat’s ashandarei had been singed from sitting in the fire, and the wood smoldered at the end. It left a trail of smoke in the air.
He attacked for all he was worth, spinning the ashandarei, the back end leaving a whirl of smoke around him. The gholam tried to strike at him, but Mat dropped the ashandarei with one hand and flung one of the medallions like a knife, hitting the creature in the face. It howled and stumbled back, face burned and smoking. Mat stepped forward, slamming the end of the ashandarei against the medallion as it hit the floor, flipping it back up and hitting the creature again.
He pushed forward, slashing with the ashandarei, and several of the creature’s fingers flew free. Sure, it did not bleed and did not seem to feel pain from ordinary wounds, but that would slow it a bit.
The gholam recovered, hissing, eyes wide with anger. Its smile was gone now. It leaped forward in a blur, but Mat spun and sliced down the creature’s tan shirt, exposing its chest. Then he whipped the second medallion to the side, hitting the gholam as it clawed at his arm, slicing the skin and spraying blood across the wall.
Mat grunted. The gholam howled and stumbled back, farther down the burning hallway. Mat was sweating from the heat, from the exertion. Mat could not fight this creature. Not for long. That did not matter. He pushed forward, letting his ashandarei become a blur. He slapped the flat of it—with the medallion—against the gholam. When the beast recovered, he flung the second medallion at its face, making it duck. But then he kicked the third one up to hit it on the neck.
