The Wheel of Time, page 1251
Sure enough, now that the battle had broken off, the Trollocs swarmed the field in their gruesome scavenging. They preferred human meat, but would eat their own fallen. Lan had spent four days running before their army, not giving them any bodies to feast upon.
They’d managed it only because of the burning of Fal Dara and Fal Moran and other cities in western Shienar. Scouring those cities for food had slowed the Trollocs, allowing Lan’s army to get its feet underneath it and organize its retreat.
The Shienarans had left nothing edible in any of the nearby cities. Four days without food. The Trollocs didn’t use supply lines; they ate what they came across. They’d be starving. Ravenous. Lan studied them with his spyglass. Many did not wait for the cookpots. They were far more animal than they were human.
They’re far more Shadow than they are either one, Lan thought, lowering his spyglass. His plan was morbid, but the Light send it would be effective. His men would fight, and there would be casualties. Those casualties would become the bait for the real battle.
“Now,” Lan whispered.
Lord Agelmar saw it, too. The horns blew, and a yellow streak of light rose into the air. Lan turned Mandarb, the horse snorting at the command. He was tired, but so was Lan. Both could stand another battle. They had to.
“Tai’shar Malkier!” Lan roared, lowering his sword and leading his force back onto the field. All five Borderlander armies converged on the fractured Shadowspawn horde. The Trollocs had broken lines completely to fight over the corpses.
As Lan thundered toward them, he heard the Myrddraal yelling, trying to force the Trollocs back into order. It was far too late. Many of the famished beasts didn’t look up until the armies were nearly upon them.
When Lan’s forces hit this time, the effect was very different from before. Earlier, their attack had been slowed by the Trollocs’ close ranks, and they had managed to penetrate only a dozen paces before being forced to take up swords and axes. This time, the Trollocs were spread out. Lan signaled the Shienarans to hit first; their line was so tight, one would have been hard-pressed to find an opening of more than two paces between the horses.
That left no room for the Trollocs to run or dodge. The riders trampled them in a thunder of hooves and clanking barding, skewering Trollocs on their lances, firing horsebows, laying about themselves with two-handed swords. There seemed to be a special viciousness to the Shienarans as they attacked, wearing their open-fronted helmets and armor made up of flat plates.
Lan brought his Malkieri cavalry in behind, riding cross-field behind the Shienarans to kill any Trollocs that survived the initial onslaught. Once they’d passed, the Shienarans broke to the right to gather for another pass, but the Arafellin slammed in behind them, slaying more Shadowspawn that were attempting to form up. After them came a wave of Saldaeans crossing as the Malkieri had, then the Kandori sweeping from the other direction.
Sweating—sword-arm tired—Lan prepared again. Only then did he realize that Prince Kaisel himself was carrying the banner of Malkier. The lad was young, but his heart was right. Though he was somewhat stupid about women.
Light, but we all are, in one way or another, Lan thought. Nynaeve’s distant emotions in the bond comforted him. He could not sense much over the distance, but she seemed determined.
As Lan began his second sweep, the ground started exploding beneath his men. The Dreadlords had finally realized what was happening and had made their way back to the front lines. Lan directed Mandarb around a crater that erupted in the ground just before him, soil spraying across his chest. The Dreadlords’ appearance was his signal to stop the sweeps; he wanted to ride in, hit hard, and ride out. To fight the Dreadlords, he’d have to commit all of his channelers, which was something he didn’t want to do.
“Blood and bloody ashes!” Deepe swore as Lan rounded another explosion. “Lord Mandragoran!”
Lan looked back. Deepe was slowing his horse.
“Keep moving, man,” Lan said, reining in Mandarb. He signaled for his forces to keep riding, though Prince Kaisel and Lan’s battlefield guard stopped with him.
“Oh, Light,” Deepe said, concentrating.
Lan surveyed the scene. Around them, Trollocs lay dead or dying, howling or simply whimpering. To his left, the mass of Shadowspawn was belatedly forming up. They’d have a unified line soon, and if Lan and the others didn’t move, they’d find themselves alone on the field.
Deepe had his eyes on a figure standing atop what appeared to be a large siege engine; it had a flat bed, and was perhaps twenty feet tall. A group of Trollocs were heaving it forward, and it rolled on large wooden wheels.
Yes, there was a figure up there. There were several of them. Balls of fire began to fall toward the Borderlanders as they rode away, and lightning flashed from the sky. Lan suddenly felt like a target on an archery practice field.
“Deepe!”
“It’s the M’Hael!” Deepe explained.
Taim had not been with the enemy army for the last week or so—but now the man had returned, it seemed. It was impossible to tell for sure because of the distance, but the way the man flung weaves in rapid succession, he seemed angry about something.
“Let’s ride!” Lan yelled.
“I could take him,” Deepe said. “I could—”
Lan saw a flash of light, and suddenly Mandarb reared. Lan cursed, trying to blink the afterimage from his eyes. There was something wrong with his ears, too.
Mandarb bucked and curvetted, quivering. It took a lot to shake the stallion, but a lightning bolt that close would unnerve any horse. A second flash of lightning threw Lan to the ground. He tumbled, grunting, but something—deep within—knew what to do. When he came to himself, he was already on his feet, dizzy, sword in hand. He groaned, staggering.
Hands grabbed him, hauling him up into a saddle. Prince Kaisel, face bloodied from fighting, held the reins. Lan’s guard made sure he was steady on his mount as they rode away.
He caught sight of Deepe’s corpse, mangled and lying in pieces, as they fled.
CHAPTER
17
Older, More Weathered
“… was not fruitful, Majesty,” the voice said through Mat’s doze.
Something was pricking Mat’s face. This mattress was the absolute worst he had ever slept on. He was going to thrash the innkeeper until he got his money back.
“The assassin is very difficult to follow,” that annoying voice continued. “People he passes do not remember him. If the Prince of the Ravens has information on how the creature may be tracked, I would very much like to hear it.”
Why would the innkeeper let these people into Mat’s room? He drifted toward consciousness, leaving behind a lovely dream involving Tuon and no cares in the world. He opened a bleary eye, looking up at a cloudy sky. Not an inn’s ceiling at all.
Bloody ashes, Mat thought, groaning. They had fallen asleep in the gardens. He sat up, finding himself totally bare except for the scarf around his neck. His and Tuon’s clothing was spread out beneath them. His face had been in a patch of weeds.
Tuon sat beside him, ignoring the fact that she was completely naked, speaking with a member of the Deathwatch Guard. Musenge was on one knee, head bowed, face toward the ground. But still!
“Light!” Mat said, reaching for his clothing. Tuon was sitting on his shirt, and gave him an annoyed look as he tried to yank it free.
“Honored One,” the guard said to Mat, face still down. “Greetings upon your waking.”
“Tuon, why are you just sitting there?” Mat demanded, finally retrieving his shirt from under that luscious rump.
“As my consort,” Tuon said sternly, “you may call me Fortuona or Majesty. I would hate to have you executed before you give me a child, as I am growing fond of you. Regarding this guard, he is of the Deathwatch. They are needed to watch me at all times. I have often had them with me when bathing. This is their duty, and his face is averted.”
Mat hurriedly began dressing.
She started to dress, though not quickly enough for his taste. He did not think much of a guard ogling his wife. The place where they had slept was rimmed by small blue fir trees—an oddity here in the South, perhaps cultivated because they were exotic. Though the needles were browning, they offered some measure of privacy. Beyond the firs was a ring of other trees—peaches, Mat thought, but it was hard to tell without the leaves.
He could barely hear the city waking up outside the garden, and the air smelled faintly of the fir needles. The air was warm enough that sleeping outside had not been uncomfortable, though he was glad to be back in his clothing.
A Deathwatch Guard officer approached just as Tuon finished dressing. He crunched dried fir needles, bowing low before her. “Empress, we may have caught another assassin. It is not the creature from last night, as he bears no wounds, but he was trying to sneak into the palace. We thought you might wish to see him before we begin our interrogation.”
“Bring him forward,” Tuon said, straightening her gown. “And send for General Karede.”
The officer withdrew, passing Selucia, who stood near the pathway that led to the clearing. She walked in to stand beside Tuon. Mat put his hat on his head and went up to her other side, setting the ashandarei butt down in the dead grass.
Mat felt sorry for this poor fool caught sneaking into the palace. Maybe the man was an assassin, but he could just be a beggar or other fool looking for excitement. Or he could be …
… the Dragon Reborn.
Mat groaned. Yes, that was Rand they led along the path. Rand looked older, more weathered, than the last time Mat had seen him in person. Of course, he had seen the man recently in those blasted visions. Although Mat had trained himself to stop thinking of Rand to avoid those colors, he still slipped on occasion.
Anyway, seeing Rand in person was different. It had been … Light, how long had it been? The last time I saw him with my own eyes was when he sent me to Salidar after Elayne. That felt like an eternity ago. It had been before he had come to Ebou Dar, before he had seen the gholam for the first time. Before Tylin, before Tuon.
Mat frowned as Rand was led up to Tuon, his arms bound behind his back. She spoke with Selucia, wiggling her fingers in their handtalk. Rand did not seem the least bit worried; his face was calm. He wore a nice coat of red and black, a white shirt underneath, black trousers. No gold or jewelry, no weapon at all.
“Tuon,” Mat began. “That’s—”
Tuon turned from Selucia to see Rand. “Damane!” Tuon said, cutting Mat off. “Bring my damane! Run, Musicar! RUN!”
The Deathwatch Guard stumbled backward, then ran, yelling for the damane and for Banner-General Karede.
Rand watched the man go, nonchalant though he was bound. You know, Mat thought idly, he kind of does look like a king. Of course, Rand was mad, most likely. That would explain why he had strolled up to Tuon like this.
Either that, or Rand was just planning on killing her. Bonds did not matter one bit to a man who could channel. Blood and ashes, Mat thought. How did I end up in this situation? He had done whatever he could to avoid Rand!
Rand met Tuon’s stare. Mat took a big breath, then jumped in front of her. “Rand. Rand, here now. Let’s be calm.”
“Hello, Mat,” Rand said, voice pleasant. Light, he was mad! “Thank you for leading me to her.”
“Leading you…”
“What is this?” Tuon demanded.
Mat spun. “I … Really, it’s just…”
Her stare could have drilled holes in steel. “You did this,” she said to Mat. “You came, you lured me to be affectionate, then you brought him in. Is this true?”
“Don’t blame him,” Rand said. “The two of us needed to meet again. You know it is true.”
Mat stumbled out between them, raising one hand either direction. “Here now! Both of you, stop. You hear me!”
Something seized Mat, hauling him into the air. “Stop that, Rand!” he said.
“It isn’t me,” Rand said, adopting a look of concentration. “Ah. I am shielded.”
As Mat hung in the air he felt at his chest. The medallion. Where was his medallion?
Mat stared at Tuon. She looked ashamed for a brief moment, reaching into the pocket of her gown. She brought out something silver in her hand, perhaps intending to use the medallion as protection against Rand.
Brilliant, Mat thought, groaning. She had taken it off him while he slept, and he had not noticed. And the copies were not in his pocket.
The weaves of Air set him down beside Rand; Karede had returned with a sul’dam and damane. All three were flushed, as if having run quickly. The damane had been doing the channeling.
Tuon looked over Rand and Mat, then began gesturing with handtalk at Selucia with sharp motions.
“Thanks a bundle for this,” Mat muttered to Rand. “You’re such a bloody good friend.”
“It’s good to see you too,” Rand said, a hint of a smile on his lips.
“Here we go,” Mat said with a sigh. “You’ve pulled me into trouble again. You always do this.”
“I do?”
“Yes. In Rhuidean and the Waste, in the Stone of Tear … back in the Two Rivers. You do realize that I went south, instead of coming to your little party with Egwene in Merrilor, to escape?”
“You think you could stay away from me?” Rand asked, smiling. “You really think it would let you?”
“I could bloody try. No offense, Rand, but you’re going to go mad and all. I figured I’d give you one less friend nearby to kill. You know, save you some trouble. What did you do to your hand, by the way?”
“What did you do to your eye?”
“A little accident with a corkscrew and thirteen angry innkeepers. The hand?”
“Lost it capturing one of the Forsaken.”
“Capturing?” Mat said. “You’re growing soft.”
Rand snorted. “Tell me you’ve done better.”
“I killed a gholam,” Mat said.
“I freed Illian from Sammael.”
“I married the Empress of the Seanchan.”
“Mat,” Rand said, “are you really trying to get into a bragging contest with the Dragon Reborn?” He paused for a moment. “Besides, I cleansed saidin. I win.”
“Ah, that’s not really worth much,” Mat said.
“Not worth much? It’s the single most important event to happen since the Breaking.”
“Bah. You and your Asha’man are already crazy,” Mat said, “so what does it matter?” He glanced to the side. “You look nice, by the way. You’ve been taking better care of yourself lately.”
“So you do care,” Rand said.
“Of course I do,” Mat grumbled, looking back at Tuon. “I mean, you have to keep yourself alive, right? Go have your little duel with the Dark One and keep us all safe? It’s good to know you’re looking up to it.”
“That’s nice to hear,” Rand said, smiling. “No wisecracks about my nice coat?”
“What? Wisecracks? You aren’t still sore because I teased you a little a couple of years ago?”
“Teased?” Rand said. “You spent weeks refusing to talk to me.”
“Here now,” Mat said. “It wasn’t all that bad. I remember that part easily.”
Rand shook his head, as if bemused. Bloody ungrateful was what he was. Mat had gone off to fetch Elayne, as Rand had asked, and this was the thanks he was given. Sure, Mat had been a little sidetracked after that. He had still done it, had he not?
“All right,” Mat said very softly, tugging at the bonds of Air holding him. “I’ll get us out of this, Rand. I’m married to her. Let me do the talking, and—”
“Daughter of Artur Hawkwing,” Rand said to Tuon. “Time spins toward the end of all things. The Last Battle has begun, and the threads are being woven. Soon, my final trial will begin.”
Tuon stepped forward, Selucia waving a few last finger-talk words toward her. “You will be taken to Seanchan, Dragon Reborn,” Tuon said. Her voice was collected, firm.
Mat smiled. Light, but she made a good Empress. There was no need to filch my medallions, though, he thought. They were going to have words about that. Assuming he survived this. She would not really execute him, would she?
Again, he tried the invisible bonds tying him.
“Is that so?” Rand asked.
“You have delivered yourself to me,” Tuon said. “It is an omen.” She seemed almost regretful. “You did not truly think that I would allow you to stroll away, did you? I must take you in chains as a ruler who resisted me—as I have done to the others I found here. You pay the price of your ancestors’ forgetfulness. You should have remembered your oaths.”
“I see,” Rand said.
You know, Mat thought, he does a fair job of sounding like a king, too. Light, what kind of people had Mat surrounded himself with? What had happened to the fair barmaids and carousing soldiers?
“Tell me something, Empress,” Rand said. “What would you all have done if you’d returned to these shores and found Artur Hawkwing’s armies still ruling? What if we hadn’t forgotten our oaths, what if we had stayed true? What then?”
“We would have welcomed you as brothers,” Tuon said.
“Oh?” Rand said. “And you would have bowed to the throne here? Hawkwing’s throne? If his empire still stood, it would have been ruled over by his heir. Would you have tried to dominate them? Would you instead have accepted their rule over you?”
“That is not the case,” Tuon said, but she seemed to find his words intriguing.
“No, it is not,” Rand said.
“By your argument, you must submit to us.” She smiled.
“I did not make that argument,” Rand said, “but let us do so. How do you claim the right to these lands?”
“By being the only legitimate heir of Artur Hawkwing.”
“And why should that matter?”
“This is his empire. He is the only one to have unified it, he is the only leader to have ruled it in glory and greatness.”
“And there you are wrong,” Rand said, voice growing soft. “You accept me as the Dragon Reborn?”
