Towers of midnight wot-13

by Robert Jordan

  "No, my Lord. He's…" The boy looked over his shoulder. In the pike line nearby, the soldiers were bulging forward toward the Trolloc wave, rather than falling back.

  "What in the Light?" Ituralde said, heeling Dawnweave into motion. The white gelding galloped forward, Ituralde's guard and the young messenger joining him in a thunder of hooves.

  He could hear Lidrin's yells despite the roar of the battlefield. The young Domani officer was out in front of the pike lines, attacking the Trollocs with sword and shield, bellowing. Lidrin's men had pushed through to defend him, leaving the pikemen confused and disoriented.

  "Lidrin, you fool." Ituralde reined his horse to a halt.

  "Come!" Lidrin bellowed, raising his sword up before the Trollocs. He laughed loudly, voice half-mad, face splattered with blood. "Come! I will face you all! My sword thirsts!"

  "Lidrin!" Ituralde screamed. "Lidrin!"

  The man glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were wide with a crazed kind of glee. Ituralde had seen it before, in the eyes of soldiers who fought too long, too hard. "We're going to die, Rodel," Lidrin called. "This way, I get to take them with me! One or two at least! Join me!"

  "Lidrin, get back here and—"

  The man ignored him, turning back and pressing forward.

  "Get his men back here," Ituralde yelled, gesturing. "Close the pike ranks! Quickly. We can't…"

  The Trollocs surged forward. Lidrin fell in a spray of blood, laughing. His men were too strongly pressed, and they split down the middle. The pikemen reset themselves, but a fist of Trollocs crashed into them. Some Trollocs fell.

  Most didn't.

  The nearby creatures screeched and howled at seeing the hole in the defenses. They came, scrambling over bodies at the base of the hill, throwing themselves at the pikemen.

  Ituralde cursed, then pushed Dawnweave forward. In war, as in farming, you sometimes had to step in and get knee-deep in the muck. He bellowed as he crashed into the Trollocs. His guard rode in around him, closing the gap. The air became a crashing tempest of metal on metal and grunts of pain.

  Dawnweave snorted and danced as Ituralde lashed out with his sword. The warhorse disliked being so close to the Shadowspawn, but he was well trained, a gift from one of Bashere's men. He had claimed that a general on the Borderlands needed an animal who had fought Trollocs before. Ituralde blessed that soldier now.

  The fighting was brutal. The leading rank of pikemen, and those behind, began buckling. Ituralde briefly heard Ankaer's voice taking command, screaming at the men to get back into line. He sounded frantic. That was bad.

  Ituralde swung, doing Heron on the Stump—a horseback sword form—and taking a bull-headed Trolloc across the throat. A spray of fetid brownish blood spurted forth, and the creature fell back against a boar-headed monster. A large red standard-depicting a goat's skull with a fire burning behind it—rose atop the hill. The symbol of the Ghob'hlin Band.

  Ituralde turned his horse, dancing out of the way of a wicked axe blow, then urged his mount forward, driving his sword into the Trollocs side. Around him, Whelborn and Lehynen—two of his best—died as they defended his flank. Light burn the Trollocs!

  The entire line was breaking apart. He and his men were too few, but most of his forces had already pulled back. No, no, no! Ituralde thought, trying to extricate himself from the battle and take over the command. But if he pulled back, the Trollocs would break through.

  He'd have to risk it. He was ready for problems like this.

  A trumpet sounded retreat.

  Ituralde froze, listening with horror to the haunted sound rolling across the battlefield. The horns weren't supposed to blow unless he, or a member of his guard, gave the order personally! It was too soon, far too soon.

  Some of the other trumpeters heard the call and took it up, though others did not. They could see that it was far too soon. Unfortunately, that was worse. It meant that half of the pikemen began to pull back while the other half held their position.

  The lines around Ituralde burst, men scattering as the Trollocs swarmed over them. It was a disaster, as bad a disaster as Ituralde had ever been part of. His fingers felt limp.

  If we fall, Shadowspawn destroy Arad Doman. Ituralde roared, yanking on the reins of his horse and galloping back away from the surging Trollocs. The remaining members of his guard followed.

  "Helmke and Cutaris," Ituralde yelled to two of his men, sturdy, longlimbed Domani. "Get to Durhem's cavalry and tell them to attack the center as soon as an opening appears! Kappre, head to Alin's cavalry. Order him to assault the Trollocs on the eastern flank. Sorrentin, go to those Asha'man! I want the Trollocs to go up in flame!"

  The horsemen galloped off. Ituralde rode westward, to the place where the pikemen were still holding. He started to rally one of the back ranks and bring it to the bulging section. He almost had it working. But then the Myrddraal came, sliding through the Trolloc ranks like snakes, striking with oily speed, and a flight of Draghkar descended.

  Ituralde found himself fighting for his life.

  Around him, the battlefield was a terrible mess: ranks destroyed, Trollocs roaming freely for easy kills, Myrddraal trying to whip them into attacking the few remaining pike formations instead.

  Fires flew in the air as the Asha'man aimed for the Trollocs, but their fires were smaller, weaker than they had been days ago. Men screamed, weapons clanged, and beasts roared in the smoke beneath a sky of too-black clouds.

  Ituralde was breathing hard. His guards had fallen. At least he had seen Staven and Rett die. What of the others? He didn't see them. So many dying. So many. There was sweat in his eyes.

  Light, he thought. At least we gave them a fight. Held out longer than I thought possible.

  There were columns of smoke to the north. Well, one thing had gone well—that Asha'man Tymoth had done his job. The second set of siege equipment was burning. Some of his officers had called it madness to send away one of his Asha'man, but one more channeler wouldn't have mattered in this disaster. And when the Trollocs attacked Maradon, the lack of those catapults would make a big difference.

  Dawnweave fell. A Trolloc javelin that had been meant for Ituralde had fallen low. The horse screamed with the weapon lodged in its neck, blood pulsing down its sweat-frothed skin. Ituralde had lost mounts before, and he knew to roll to the side, but was too off-balance this time. He heard his leg snap as he hit.

  He gritted his teeth, determined not to die on his back, and forced himself up into a sitting position. He dropped his sword—heron-mark though it was—and lifted up a broken, discarded pike in a fluid motion and rammed it through the chest of an approaching Trolloc. Dark, stinking blood coated the shaft, spurting down onto Ituralde's hands as the Trolloc screamed and died.

  There was thunder in the air. That wasn't odd—there was often thunder from those clouds, often eerily disjointed from the bursts of lightning.

  Ituralde heaved, pushing the Trolloc to the side by levering the pike. Then a Myrddraal saw him.

  Ituralde reached for his sword, gritting his teeth, but knew he had just seen his killer. One of those things could fell a dozen men. Facing it with a broken leg…

  He tried to stumble to his feet anyway. He failed, falling backward cursing. He raised his sword, prepared to die as the thing slunk forward, movements like liquid.

  A dozen arrows slammed into the Fade.

  Ituralde blinked as the creature stumbled. The thunder was getting louder. Ituralde propped himself up, and was amazed to see thousands of unfamiliar horsemen charging in formation through the Trolloc ranks, sweeping the creatures before them.

  The Dragon Reborn! He came!

  But no. These men flew the Saldaean flag. He looked back. The gates of Maradon were open, and Ituralde's tired survivors were being allowed to limp inside. Fire was flying from the battlements—his Asha'man had been allowed up top to get a vantage on the battlefield.

  A force of twenty horsemen broke off and ran down the Myrddraal, trampling i
t. The last man in the group leaped free of his saddle and hacked at the creature with a hand axe. All across the battlefield, the Trollocs were run down, shot or lanced.

  It wouldn't last. More and more Trollocs were rolling through Ituralde's former fortifications and loping down the slope. But the Saldaean relief would be enough, with those gates open, and with the Asha'man blasting wreaking destruction. The remnants of Ituralde's force were fleeing to safety. He was proud to see Barettal and Connel—the last of his guard—stumbling across the field toward him on foot, their mounts no doubt dead, their uniforms bloodied.

  He slid his sword into its scabbard and pulled the javelin from Dawnweave's neck. Supporting himself on it, he managed to stand. A rider from the Saldaean force trotted up to him, a man with a lean face, a hooked nose, and a set of bushy black eyebrows. He wore a short, trimmed beard, and he raised a bloodied sword to Ituralde. "You live."

  "I do," Ituralde said as his two guards arrived. "You command this force?"

  "For now," the man said. "I am Yoeli. Can you ride?"

  "Better that than staying here."

  Yoeli reached out a hand and pulled Ituralde into his saddle behind him Ituralde's leg protested with a flare of pain, but there wasn't time to wait for a stretcher.

  Two other horsemen took Ituralde's guards onto their horses, and soon they three were riding for the city at a gallop.

  "Bless you," Ituralde said. "It took you long enough, though."

  "I know." Yoeli's voice sounded oddly grim. "I hope you are worth this, invader, for my actions this day will likely cost my life."

  "What?"

  The man didn't reply. He simply bore Ituralde on thundering hooves into the safety of the city—such as that safety was, considering the city was now besieged by a force of several hundred thousand Shadowspawn.

  Morgase walked out of the camp. Nobody stopped her, though some did give her odd looks. She passed the wooded northern rim. The trees were burloak, spaced apart to allow for their great, spreading arms. She moved beneath the boughs, breathing deeply of the humid air.

  Gaebril had been one of the Forsaken.

  She eventually found a place where a tiny highland stream filled a cleft between two rocks and created a still, clear pool. The tall rocks around it clustered like an ancient, broken throne built for a giant fifteen spans tall.

  The trees bore leaves above, though many looked sickly. A thinner patch of clouds blew past, allowing fingers of sunlight to reach down from the overcast sky. That splintered light shone in rays through the clear water, making patches of light on the pool's bottom. Minnows darted between the patches, as if investigating the light.

  Morgase rounded the pool, then settled atop a flat boulder. The sounds of the camp could be heard in the distance. Calling, posts being driven into the ground, carts rattling on pathways.

  She stared into the pool. Was there anything more hateful than being made the pawn of another? Of being forced to dance upon their strings like a wooden puppet? In her youth, she'd grown well acquainted with bowing berore the whims of others. That had been the only way for her to stabilize her rule.

  Taringail had tried to manipulate her. In truth, he'd been successful much of the time. There had been others, too. So many who had pushed her this way or that. She'd spent ten years pandering to whichever faction was the strongest. Ten years slowly building alliances. It had worked. She'd eventually been able to maneuver on her own. When Taringail had died hunting, many had whispered that his passing released her, but those close to her had known that she had already gone a long way toward unseating his authority.

  She could remember the very day when she'd cast off the last of those who had presumed to be the real power behind the throne. That was the day that, in her heart, she'd truly become Queen. She'd sworn that she'd never let another manipulate her again.

  And then, years later, Gaebril had arrived. After that, Valda, who had been worse. At least with Gaebril, she hadn't realized what was happening. That had numbed the wounds.

  Footsteps on fallen twigs announced a visitor. The light from above dimmed, the thinner clouds moving on. The shafts of light faded, and the minnows scattered.

  The footsteps stopped beside her stone. "I'm leaving," Tallanvor's voice said. "Aybara has given leave for his Asha'man to make gateways, starting with some of the distant cities. I'm going to Tear. Rumors say there's a king there again. He's gathering an army to fight in the Last Battle. I want to be with it."

  Morgase looked up, staring ahead through the trees. It wasn't really a forest. "They say you were as single-minded as Goldeneyes," she said softly. "That you would not rest, that you barely took time to eat, that you spent every moment searching for a way to free me."

  Tallanvor said nothing.

  "I've never had a man do that for me," she continued. "Taringail saw me as a pawn, Thom as a beauty to be hunted and romanced, and Gareth as a queen to be served. But none of them made me their entire life, their heart. I think Thom and Gareth loved me, but as something to be held and cared for, then released. I didn't think you'd ever let go."

  "I won't," Tallanvor said softly.

  "You go to Tear. Yet you said you'd never leave."

  "My heart stays here," he said. "I know well what it is to love from afar, Morgase. I'd done it for years before this fool's trip began, and I will do it for years yet. My heart is a traitor. Perhaps some Trolloc will do me a favor and rip it free of my chest."

  "So bitter," she whispered.

  "You have made it amply clear that my attentions are not wanted. A queen and a simple guardsman. Pure foolishness."

  "A queen no longer," she said.

  "Not in name, Morgase. Just in mind."

  A leaf fell from above and struck the pool. With a lobed margin and verdant richness, it should have had a long life yet.

  "Do you know the worst part of this?" Tallanvor asked. "It's the hope. The hope I let myself feel. Traveling with you, protecting you, I thought maybe you would see. Maybe you would care. And forget about him."

  "Him?"

  "Gaebril," Tallanvor snapped. "I can see that you still think of him. Even after what he did to you. I leave my heart here, but you left yours in Caemlyn." From the corner of her eye, she could see him turn away. "Whatever it is you saw in him, I don't have it. I'm only a simple, common, idiot of a Guardsman who can't say the right words. You fawned over Gaebril, and he all but ignored you. That's how love is. Bloody ashes, I've all but done the same thing with you."

  She said nothing.

  "Well," he said, "that's why I have to go. You're safe now, and that's all that matters. Light help me, but that's still all that I care about!"

  He began to walk away, feet crunching twigs.

  "Gaebril was one of the Forsaken," she said.

  The crunching twigs stopped.

  "He was really Rahvin," she continued. "He took over Andor through use of the One Power, forcing people to do as he said."

  Tallanvor hissed, twigs crunching as he hastened back to her. "Are you certain?"

  "Certain? No. But it does make sense. We can't ignore what is happening in the world, Tallanvor. The weather, the way food spoils in a heartbeat, the movements of this Rand al'Thor. He is no false Dragon. The Forsaken must be loose again.

  "What would you do, if you were one of them? Raise up an army and conquer? Or simply stroll into a palace and take the Queen as your consort? Twist her mind so that she lets you do as you wish. You'd gain the resources of an entire nation, all with minimal effort. Barely a finger raised…"

  She raised her head and stared off into the distance. Northward. Toward Andor. "They call it Compulsion. A dark, foul weave that removes the will from your subject. I'm not supposed to know that it exists.

  "You say that I think of him. That is true. I think about him and hate him. Hate myself for what I let him do. And a part of my heart knows that if he were to appear here and demand something from me, I'd give it. I couldn't help myself. But this thing I feel
for him—this thing that blends my desire and my hatred like two locks in a braid—it is not love."

  She turned and looked down at Tallanvor. "I know love, Tallanvor, and Gaebril never had it from me. I doubt that a creature like him could comprehend love."

  Tallanvor met her eyes. His were dark gray, soft and pure. "Woman you give me that monster hope again. Be wary of what lies at your feet."

  "I need time to think. Would you refrain, for now, from going to Tear?"

  He bowed. "Morgase, if you want anything from me—anything—all you ever need to do is ask. I thought I made that clear. I'll remove my name from the list."

  He withdrew. Morgase watched him, her mind a tempest despite the stillness of the trees and pond before her.

  CHAPTER 22

  The End of a Legend

  At night, Gawyn couldn't see the White Tower's wounds. In darkness, one couldn't tell the difference between a beautifully intricate mural and a wall full of mismatched tiles. At night, the most beautiful of Tar Valon's buildings became another dark lump.

  And at night, the holes and scars on the White Tower were patched with a bandage of darkness. Of course, on a night as dark as these clouds caused, one also couldn't tell the Tower's color. White or black; at night, it didn't really matter.

  Gawyn walked the White Tower grounds, wearing stiff trousers and coat of red and gold. Like a uniform, but of no specific allegiance. He didn't seem to have a specific allegiance these days. Almost unconsciously, he found himself walking toward the eastern tower entrance as if to climb up to Egwene's sleeping chambers. He set his jaw, turning the other way.

  He should have been sleeping. But after nearly a week of guarding Egwene's door at night, he was—as soldiers liked to say—on a midnight lunch. Perhaps he could have stayed in his rooms to relax, but his quarters in the White Tower's barracks felt confining.

  Nearby, two small feral cats stalked through tufts of grass, eyes reflecting the torchlight of a guard post. The cats hunkered low, watching him as if considering—for a brief moment—whether or not he'd be worth attacking. An unseen owl cruised in the air above, the only evidence of its passing a solitary feather that floated down. It was easier to pretend at night.