Towers of midnight wot-13

by Robert Jordan

  The Trollocs screamed and howled. Then, from the top of the rise, a thousand horsemen charged. Lights flashed around them; fires fell from above, arcing down like red-golden lances. They illuminated the horsemen in silver.

  It was an incredible maneuver. The incline was steep enough that horses could have tripped, fallen, tumbled the entire force into a useless mass of bodies. But they didn't fall. They galloped sure-footed, lances gleaming. And at their front rode a bearded monster of a man with a large hammer held high. Perrin Aybara himself, above his head a banner flapping, carried by a man riding just behind. The crimson wolfhead.

  Despite himself, Galad lowered his shield at the sight. Aybara almost seemed aflame from the tongues of fire that surrounded him. Galad could see those wide, golden eyes. Like fires themselves.

  The horsemen crashed into the Trollocs that had surrounded Galad's force. Aybara let out a roar over the din, then began to lay about him with the hammer. The attack forced the Trollocs back.

  "Assault!" Galad yelled. "Press the attack! Force them into the cavalry!" He charged northward, toward the face of the heights, Bornhald at his side.

  Nearby, Trom rallied what was left of his legion and brought it around to attack the Trollocs opposite Aybara.

  The fray grew increasingly chaotic. Galad fought furiously. Above, incredibly, Aybara's entire army poured down the incline, giving up the high ground. They fell upon the Trollocs, tens of thousands of men yelling. "Goldeneyes! Goldeneyes!"

  The attack put Galad and Bornhald into the Trollocs' ranks. The creatures tried to pull back from Aybara, surging in all directions. The men near Galad and Bornhald were soon fighting desperately to stay alive. Galad finished off a Trolloc with Ribbon in the Air, but spun and immediately found himself facing a ram-faced behemoth ten feet tall. Horns curled around the sides of its enormous square face, but the eyes were human, and the lower jaw as well.

  Galad ducked when it swung its catchpole, then rammed his sword up into its gut. The creature screamed, and Bornhald hamstrung it from the side.

  Galad yelled and leaped backward, but his twisted ankle finally failed him. It got caught in a cleft in the ground, and Galad heard a terrible snap as he fell.

  The dying monster crashed down on him, pinning him to the ground. Pain shot up his leg, but he ignored it. He dropped his sword, trying to shove the carcass free. Bornhald, swearing, fended off a Trolloc that had the snout of a boar. It made a horrid grunting sound.

  Galad heaved off the stinking carcass. To the side, he could see men in white—Trom, with Byar at his side, fighting desperately to reach Galad. There were so many Trollocs, and those Children immediately nearby had mostly fallen.

  Galad reached for his sword just as a mounted figure burst through the shadows and Trollocs just to the north. Aybara. He rode up and pounded that massive hammer of his into a boar Trolloc, sending it crashing to the ground. Aybara leaped off his horse as Bornhald scrambled over to help Galad to his feet.

  "You are wounded?" Aybara asked.

  "My ankle," Galad said.

  "On my horse," Aybara said.

  Galad didn't protest; it made sense. He did, however, feel embarrassed as Bornhald helped him up. Aybara's men filled in around them, pushing the Trollocs back. Now that Aybara's army had joined the fray, Galad's men were rallying.

  Rushing down the slope had been a dangerous gamble, but as soon as Galad was astride Aybara's horse, he could see that the gamble had worked, The massive charge had broken the Trollocs apart, and some groups started fleeting. Tongues of flame fell from above, burning Myrddraal and dropping entire fists of Trollocs linked to them.

  There was still a great deal of fighting to do, but the tide was turning. Aybara's forces carved out a section around their leader, giving him—and by extension Galad—some breathing room to consider the next stage of the attack.

  Galad turned to Aybara, who was studying the Trollocs with keen eves. "I assume you think that saving me will influence my decision about your judgment," Galad said.

  "It had better," Aybara muttered.

  Galad raised an eyebrow. It wasn't the response he'd been expecting. "My men find it suspicious that you appeared so soon before the Trollocs."

  "Well, they can think that if they want," Aybara said. "I doubt anything I say will change their minds. In a way, this is my fault. The Trollocs were here to kill me; I just got away before they could spring their trap. Be glad I didn't leave you to them. You Whitecloaks have caused me nearly as much grief as they have."

  Oddly, Galad found himself smiling. There was a straightforward air about this Perrin Aybara. A man could ask for little more in an ally.

  Are we allies, then? Galad thought, nodding to Trom and Byar as they approached. Perhaps for now. He did trust Aybara. Yes, perhaps there were men in the world who would put together an intricate plot like this one, all to trick his way into Galad's favor. Valda had been like that.

  Aybara wasn't. He really was straightforward. If he'd wanted the Children out of his way, he'd have killed them and moved on.

  "Then so be it, Perrin Aybara," Galad said. "I name your punishment here, this night, at this moment."

  Perrin frowned, turning away from his contemplation of the battle lines. "What? Now?"

  "I deem, as punishment, that you pay blood price to the families of the dead Children in the amount of five hundred crowns. I also order you to fight in the Last Battle with all the strength you can muster. Do these things, and I pronounce you cleansed of guilt."

  It was an odd time for him to give this proclamation, but he had made his decision. They would still fight, and perhaps one would fall. Galad wanted Aybara to know the judgment, in case.

  Aybara studied him, then nodded. "I name that fair, Galad Damodred." He held up his hand.

  "Creature of darkness!" Someone moved behind Aybara. A figure, pulling free his sword. A hiss, a flash of metal. Byar's eyes, alight with anger. He'd positioned himself right where he could strike Aybara in the back.

  Aybara spun; Galad raised his sword. Both were too slow.

  But Jaret Byar's blow did not fall. He stood with his weapon upraised, frozen, blood dribbling from his lips. He fell to his knees, then flopped onto the ground right at Aybara's feet.

  Bornhald stood behind him, eyes wide with horror. He looked down at his sword. "I… It wasn't right, to strike a man in the back after he saved us. It…" He dropped his sword, stumbling back from Byar's corpse...

  "You did the right thing, Child Bornhald," Galad said with regret. He shook his head. "He was a fine officer. Unpleasant at times, perhaps, but also brave. I am sorry to lose him."

  Aybara glanced to the sides, as if looking for other Children who might strike him. "From the beginning, that one was looking for an excuse to see me dead."

  Bornhald looked at Aybara, eyes still hateful, then cleaned his sword and rammed it into its sheath. He walked away, toward the area where the wounded had been taken. The area around Galad and Aybara was increasingly safe, the Trollocs pushed back, more solid battle lines forming, made of Aybara's men and the remaining Children.

  "That one still thinks I killed his father," Aybara said.

  "No," Galad replied. "I think he believes that you did not. But he has hated you for very long, Lord Aybara, and has loved Byar longer." He shook his head. "Killing a friend. It is sometimes painful to do what is right."

  Aybara grunted. "You should get to the wounded," he said, hefting his hammer and looking toward where the fighting was still thick.

  "I am well enough to fight if I have your mount."

  "Well then, let's be on with it." Aybara eyed him. "I'll stay by you, though, just in case it looks like you might fall."

  "Thank you."

  "I'm fond of the horse."

  Smiling, Galad joined him, and they waded back into the melee.

  CHAPTER 42

  Stronger than Blood

  Once again, Gawyn sat in the small, unadorned room of Egwene's quarters. He was exhaus
ted, which wasn't surprising, considering what he'd been through, Healings included.

  His attention was consumed by the new awareness inside of him. That wonderful blossoming in the back of his mind, that link to Egwene and her emotions. The connection was a wonder, and a comfort. Sensing her let him know she was alive.

  Able to anticipate her approach, he stood up as the door opened. "Gawyn," she said as she stepped in, "you shouldn't be standing up in your condition. Please, sit."

  "I'm fine," he said, but did as commanded.

  She pulled over the other stool, sitting down in front of him. She was calm and serene, but he could sense that she was overwhelmed by events during the night. Servants were still dealing with the bloodstains and the bodies while Chubain was holding the entire Tower at alert, checking on each and every sister. One other assassin had turned up. They'd lost two soldiers and a Warder killing her.

  Yes, he could feel her emotional tempest behind that calm face. During the past few months, Gawyn had begun to think that maybe Aes Sedai learned not to feel anything at all. The bond gave him proof otherwise, Egwene did feel; she merely didn't let her emotions touch her features.

  Looking at her face and feeling the storm inside, Gawyn was given—for the first time—another perspective on the Warder and Aes Sedai relationship. Warders weren't just bodyguards; they were the ones—the only ones—who saw the truth of what happened within the Aes Sedai. No matter how proficient the Aes Sedai became at hiding emotions, her Warder knew there was more than the mask.

  "You found Mesaana?" he asked.

  "Yes, though it took some time. She was impersonating an Aes Sedai named Danelle, of the Brown Ajah. We found her in her room, babbling like a child. She had already soiled herself. I'm not sure what we will do with her."

  "Danelle. I didn't know her."

  "She kept to herself," Egwene said. "Which is probably why Mesaana picked her."

  They sat in silence for a few moments longer. "So," Egwene finally said, "how do you feel?"

  "You know how I feel," Gawyn said honestly.

  "It was simply a means of beginning the conversation."

  He smiled. "I feel wonderful. Amazing. At peace. And concerned, and worried, anxious. Like you."

  "Something must be done about the Seanchan."

  "I agree. But that's not what is worrying you. You're bothered by how I disobeyed you, and yet you know it was the right thing to do."

  "You didn't disobey," Egwene said. "I did tell you to return."

  "The moratorium on guarding your room had not been lifted. I could have unhinged plans, caused a disturbance, and scared off the assassins."

  "Yes," she said. Her emotions grew more troubled. "But instead, you saved my life."

  "How did they get in?" Gawyn asked. "Shouldn't you have awakened when the maid tripped your alarms?"

  She shook her head. "I was deep within the dream, fighting Mesaana. Tower Guards were within range to hear the alarms," Egwene said. "They have all been found dead. It sounds like the assassins were expecting me to come running. They had one of their members hiding in the entry room to kill me after I captured the other two." She grimaced. "It might have worked. I was anticipating the Black Ajah, or maybe a Gray Man."

  "I sent warning."

  "The messenger has been found dead as well." She eyed him. "You did the right thing tonight, but it still has me worried."

  "We'll work it out," Galad said. "You let me protect you, Egwene, and I'll obey you in anything else. I promise it."

  Egwene hesitated, then nodded. "Well, I'll need to go speak with the Hall. They'll be ready to break down my door and demand answers, by now." How could tell that on the inside, she was grimacing.

  "It may help," he said, "if you imply that my return was always part of the plan."

  "It was," Egwene said. "Though the timing wasn't anticipated." She hesitated. "When I realized how Silviana had phrased my request that you return, I was worried that you wouldn't come back at all."

  "I nearly didn't."

  "What made the difference?"

  "I had to learn how to surrender. It's something I've never been good at."

  Egwene nodded, as if understanding. "I'll leave orders for a bed to be brought into this room. I was always planning this to be my Warder's station."

  Gawyn smiled. Sleep in another room? Underneath it all, there was still some of the conservative innkeeper's daughter remaining. Egwene blushed as she sensed his thoughts.

  "Why don't we get married?" Gawyn said. "Right here, today. Light, Egwene, you're Amyrlin—your word is as good as law in Tar Valon. Speak the words, and we'd be wedded."

  She paled; odd, how that would unsettle her this night. Gawyn felt a stab of anxiety. She'd said she loved him. Didn't she want to— But no, he could feel her emotions. She did love him. Then why?

  Egwene sounded aghast when she spoke. "You think I could face my parents if I got married without them knowing about it? Light, Gawyn, we'll at least have to send for them! And what about Elayne? You'd marry without telling her?"

  He smiled. "You're right, of course. I'll contact them."

  "I can—"

  "Egwene, you're the Amyrlin Seat. The weight of the world itself is on your shoulders. Let me make arrangements."

  "Very well," she said. She stepped outside, where Silviana waited—she had one of her glowers for Gawyn. Egwene sent some servants for a bed for him, then she and her Keeper moved off, a pair of Chubain's soldiers following.

  Gawyn would have liked to go with her. There might still be assassins about. Unfortunately, she was right to send him to sleep. He was having trouble remaining upright. He stood on unsteady legs, then noticed a line of sheet-covered bodies outside. They wouldn't be removed until sisters had a chance to look them over. Right now, rinding Mesaana—and looking for other assassins—had been more pressing.

  Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to walk over and pull back the sheet, revealing Celark's and Mazone's lifeless faces—Celark's, unfortunately, sitting beside his body, separated from it at the heck.

  "You did well, men," he said. "I'll see that your families know that you saved the life of the Amyrlin." It made him angry to lose such good men.

  Burn those Seanchan, he thought. Egwene is right about them. Something needs to be done.

  He glanced to the side, to where the three assassins lay beneath sheets of their own, black-slippered feet sticking out the bottom. Two women and a man. I wonder… he thought, then crossed to where they lay. Guards glanced at him as he pulled back the sheet, but nobody forbade him.

  The ter'angreal were easy to pick out, though only because he'd been told what to look for. Identical black stone rings, worn on the middle fingers of their right hands. The rings were carved in the shape of a vine with thorns. Apparently none of the Aes Sedai had recognized them for what they were, at least not yet.

  Gawyn slipped all three rings off, then tucked them into his pocket.

  Lan could feel something, a distinct difference to the emotions in the back of his mind. He'd grown accustomed to ignoring those, and the woman they represented.

  Lately, those emotions had changed. More and more, he was certain that Nynaeve had taken his bond. He could identify her by the way she felt. How could one not know her, that sense of passion and kindness? It felt… remarkable.

  He stared down the roadway. It twisted around the side of a hill before turning straight toward a distinctive fortress ahead. The border between Kandor and Arafel was marked by the Silverwall Keeps, a large fortification built on two sides of Firchon Pass. It was an extremely impressive fortress—really two of them, each one built up the straight wall of the narrow canyonlike pass. Like two sides of an enormous doorway.

  Getting through the pass required traveling a considerable distance between large stone walls pocked with arrowslits, and it would be effective at stopping armies moving in either direction.

  They were all allies, the Borderlanders were. But that didn't stop the Araf
ellin from wanting a nice fortress blocking the way up to Shol Arbela. Camped in front of that fortress was a gathering of thousands of people, clustered in smaller groups. The flag of Malkier—the Golden Crane—flew over some of the groups. Others flew flags of Kandor or Arafel.

  "Which of you broke your oath?" Lan asked, looking back at the caravan.

  The men there shook their heads.

  "Nobody needed to break his oath," Andere said. "What else would you do? Cut through the Broken Lands? The Uncapped Hills? It is here or nowhere. They know this. And so they wait for you."

  Lan growled. It was probably true. "We are a caravan," he said loudly. "Remember, if any ask, you may admit that we are Malkieri. You may say you wait for your king. That is truth. You may not mention that you have found him."

  The others seemed troubled, but they made no objection. Lan led the way down the slope, their caravan of twenty wagons, warhorses and attendants following.

  This was what he'd always worried would happen. Reclaiming Malkier was impossible. They would die, no matter how large their force. An assault? On the Blight? Ridiculous.

  He could not ask that of them. He could not allow that of them. As he continued down the road, he became more resolute. Those brave men, flying those flags… they should join with the Shienaran forces and fight in a battle that meant something. He would not take their lives.

  Death is lighter than a feather… Rakim had thrown that at him several times during their ride. He had followed Lan decades ago, during the Aiel War. Duty is heavier than a mountain.

  Lan was not running from duty. He was running toward it. Still, sight of the camps stirred his heart as he reached the bottom of the slope, then rode forward. The waiting men wore simple warrior's garb, hadori in place, women marked with a ki'sain on their foreheads. Some of the men wore coats with the Golden Crown on the shoulders—the mark of the royal guard of Malkier. They would have donned those only if their fathers or grandfathers had served in that guard.