Shadar Logoth
The graveyard-city trembled with the presence of the Trolloc hordes. Misshapen heads in twisted bodies frantically searched through the growing mist, spurned onward by the sightless Myrddraal and the urge to hunt their quarry. Their paws and warped hands only just held onto their weapons as they fled down the streets chasing echoes in the night, half in fear of the Fades and half in fear of the city itself, and even the Myrddraal themselves nervously checked for the encroaching tendrils of Mashadar. Horns called out through the darkness, sounding throughout the ruins and calling out the locations of various Fists, and the Myrddraal moved the Trollocs under their command in kind as they swept through the broken roads.
A diminutive form slinked past the fists as they searched, slipping into one of the many deserted buildings along the causeway. Though she moved cautiously, the frenzied Trollocs never once noticed her as she wove her way through the tainted bones of civilization, as if some other force kept them from noticing her presence. Heedless of the fine fabric that made up her dress she moved as fast as she dared, crouching on rubble and waiting for the patrol to pass. A lifetime seemed to pass, the beastly soldiers an endless stream, then just as suddenly they moved on. Still she crouched in the shadows, watching for any last scouts to pass.
Not but a minute later, three terrified sentries barreled down the street in front of her. Instead of checking for signs of movement, they gave shrieks of fear, running from a shapeless mass behind them. One, with the head of a wolf, slowed as it neared her hiding place, its half-human eyes overtaken briefly by surprise, and it sniffed the air tentatively. In its moment of confusion, a tendril snaked forward from the fog behind it and latched onto its ankle. The Trolloc managed a short yip before its mouth was covered by another coil, circling around it as fast as thought, and its body seemed to glow with darkness before it vanished into the murk. Its comrades paused for not even a moment, flying down the street without a backwards glance.
The woman tarried for a moment longer before quickly moving herself through the buildings away from Mashadar. Past crumbling relics and fortunes untold she moved without pause; her charges were her only focus, distant though they were from each other, and from her. She crept as quickly as she dared to put distance between the cursed fog and herself, checking every now and again for any sign of the Fists that hunted them through the night.
Of a sudden, she became aware of a familiar presence hurdling toward her. Taking a single glance at the room she found herself in she fell into a defensive stance, readying a weave with as much haste as she dared. A precious second passed before a well-known face appeared through the doorway across from her, silent and dark as death. She lowered her arms, letting the weave dissipate. "Lan."
The Warder's eyes never stayed still as he sheathed his sword. "The way ahead is clear, for now," he muttered. He paused before looking at the woman, concern foremost in the knot of his mind in the back of her consciousness. "Two dozen Fists! There weren't even that many when they tried to come after the boys in the first place."
Moiraine took in a metered breath, willing herself into serenity. "The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills," she murmured, walking to his side as she spoke; then, after a pause, she added "though the Light send that it deliver us through this night unscathed."
If Lan heard her comment he chose to ignore it. "We have to hurry," he warned, turning as she reached him. "I don't know where all the sheepherders got to, but the Fists are moving toward the east of the city."
They cleared the building at a run, reaching the next street. Aldieb stood next to Mandarb, both patiently waiting for their riders' return. It was such a small thing, but in the midst of the night's events Moiraine's heart leapt at the sight of Aldieb unharmed. As one, Aes Sedai and Warder mounted, turning toward the Arinelle. They moved forward at a fast canter, a ward muffling the clatter of the horses' hooves on the stones. Neither of them spoke; nothing new could be said, until they found the travelers from Emond's Field. Moiraine forced herself through the calming exercises; but for one glance to her and the feeling of a wry grin, Lan kept silent as she did so. What was done was done, and the only thing to do was to move forward. She allowed for her own wry smile at the thought. Perhaps if she kept thinking that, the situation would become easier to bear after a time.
The horns suddenly called out in rapid succession in front of them, accompanied by a dull roar. The sound froze both of them for a brief instant. "By the Light," she breathed, "let it not be so." Lan needed no urging, racing forward toward the cacophony even as he unsheathed his sword. Moiraine followed close behind, embracing nearly as much of the One Power as she could hold. Every detail in the darkness stood out as clearly as on a moonlit night, every scent was suddenly stronger. She could feel her own determination mirrored in Lan, and she steeled herself for what lay before her. They would make it through this night. Light, but they had to make it.
The road they traveled ended in a courtyard that could have been ripped straight from her worst nightmare. Trollocs swarmed out of every opening, all rushing toward two groups of fighters that were but barely able to stem the onslaught. She could make out the hulking form of a young man, stout and armed with a wicked axe that gave no pause when meeting with Trolloc flesh. Both blade and wielder were spattered in black blood. Beside him, a woman of an age with him, whirling a quarterstaff with deadly proficiency. They fought back to back, a desperation behind their moves that spoke both of their plight and their tiredness. Of the second group she could see no one, but that could not be her concern at the moment. Turning her attention to the masses in front of her, she raised her hand and channeled.
Amplified by the sa'angreal in her hand, the weave of Fire and Air expanded out in front of her and engulfed a dozen Trollocs in fire. Their charge was unabated, but it carved a small opening in their numbers. Lan leapt into the fray from Mandarb's back and began dancing a nearly unfollowable pattern as he sliced through the solid wall of Shadowspawn. The Trollocs paused, confused at the sudden attack, and only at the urging of the Myrddraal did they try to fall into a defensive formation. Moiraine gave them no chance; she wove again, and blasted the front line of their formation to the ground. Surprised by the sudden obstacles, they fell into a writhing mass of limbs and fur, and the two youths were only just able to break free in the confusion. They both opened their mouths as if to speak, but Moiraine held up her hand to stem the commentary. "Take our horses," she commanded, climbing off Aldieb. "Ride to the river and find a way across. Wait for us one hour, then if all else fails make for Tar Valon."
"But Moiraine Sedai," Egwene protested. "What if—"
A pair of Trollocs charged at them, roaring as they sighted their prey. Without pause Moiraine wove again, Earth and Water causing the ground to give way under their weight. She turned back to the Emond's Fielders, who both had an appropriate amount of shock on their faces. "I give no room for discussion!" she snapped. "Ride now!" She paused from the battle just long enough to ensure that they had left before returning to the melee in front of her.
Lan was dueling two Myrddraal at once, the very picture of deadly grace. He parried and slashed with such blinding speed that even her eye was barely able to follow the moves. The sinuous motions of the Fades were just as quick, but she could see the vicious snarls on both their eyeless faces. They weren't used to having such a challenging opponent, let alone one that could fight two of them at once. Lan was a singular focus in the back of her mind, with no room for anything else save the fight at hand. She finished the Trollocs in front of her with a thin weave of Fire, then continued hammering away at their numbers in between her and the second band of fighters. Was it just her imagination, or had the feverish desperation overtaken her as well?
Fire and Air, Earth and Water, her life narrowed to the horde in front of her. Weave after weave met wave after wave, and neither she nor the Trollocs seemed to hold the advantage. She could feel the strain of channeling so much of the One Power, yet she held on; it was required of her, so there was no recourse. Of a sudden the Fist in front of her collapsed, writhing a few moments before lying still. She cast a glance at Lan. The severed head of one of the Myrddraal lay on the ground next to its thrashing body, limbs swinging wildly in death throes. Lan pressed his advantage, unleashing a furious rain of blows on the Fade. Teeth gritted, its pale face showed the closest thing she had ever seen to outright fear from a Shadowspawn. The pair of them kept at it, dancing to the side of the river of Trollocs, deadlocked, until Lan feinted forward. The Myrddraal took a step back, straight into the razor edge of a blackened Thakan'dar blade. It opened its mouth to scream, and without pause the Warder stabbed it through the heart and slashed open its neck. The Myrddraal's scream became a gurgle, black blood filling its wounds. Another group of Trollocs fell to the ground as the second Fade fell over the first, both bodies squirming as so much dying flesh.
Lan backed away from the skirmish, and he and Moiraine exchanged a wordless moment. We might just make it, she found herself thinking. Light above, but there is an end—
A high-pitched shriek came from the second group. Turning, she saw the gaping form of one of the other Emond's Fielders. A Trolloc pike skewered her through and through, and she had been hoisted into the air. The hordes below roared in triumph, and those nearest the group began squabbling for a chance to reach the girl. Nynaeve, she realized with a start. Eyes widening, she thought of Lan, praying that she had been wrong about her Warder's heart.
With an inhuman bellow of grief and pain, he slammed into the Trollocs closest to him, fighting as a man possessed to reach the second group. Her own heart caught in her throat, Moiraine wove as close to him as she dared, trying frantically to clear the way for him, doing her best to ignore the sight of Nynaeve's body being attacked and defiled. The True Source threatened to slip away from her, but she clung to it. One more weave, and he would be closer. One weave past that, and there would be fewer Trollocs. One weave more…
The One Power fled from her.
She cried out, watching as the scene unfolded in front of her even as the world dulled around her. Without the weaves holding them back, Shadowspawn flooded the courtyard anew. The Trollocs, now aware of an assailant, turned and converged on him. The man that had been al'Lan Mandragoran gave one final grunt, one more roar of defiance, and fell underneath their attack. She felt a stab of fear for the red-haired boy she could only just see, the young Rand al'Thor brandishing his sword at the encircling Trollocs, but her greater worry was for Lan. His wounds were too many for him to survive without Healing. She could feel his broken bones, the many gashes and cuts through which his blood came trickling out, but not a shred of thought for anything but death. Frantically she stared at the sa'angreal, pushing to reach the True Source, yearning for its embrace, but it would not come. In the back of her mind she felt a concentrated needle of pain, burning hotter than the brightest flame, before Lan vanished from her mind.
Hollowness. Wrongness. The void where her Warder should have been left a pain beyond simple grief. She fought to keep from falling to her knees from the sudden lack. In the numb mindset that set in she looked toward the courtyard, idly knowing that she should be more concerned. Rand had clambered onto a broken fountain, Matrim Cauthon by his side. They had more cuts and slashes than should be possible for them to keep standing, but stand they did. A wicked knife in Matrim's hand kept the Shadowspawn at bay, and they seemed to howl in pain and fear at even the slightest cut from its edge. A part of her registered the oddity in the fact, but there seemed to be so much that she should be doing. It didn't matter. Lan was dead.
From his position Rand was able to hold off the throng with a few clumsy blocks and the occasional swipe, but for every Trolloc struck down or injured another took its place immediately. Sweat poured down his face, and he favored his left side as if he had taken a heavy blow. Moiraine leaned on a pillar, forcing herself to breathe, to think. She had to help them somehow. Lan was gone. Light, but the simple act of walking was a challenge! Clutching her arm, she lurched onto the street. A Myrddraal had wormed its way to the front of the group, steel blade black as despair flashing outward. There was nothing she could do. The Light help her, but she was helpless.
She had failed. The White Tower, the Amyrlin, the world. The Two Rivers folk, depending on her for guidance and protection. Lan. They were doomed, and she stood devoid of any power to stop it. The Fade raised its sword above its head, cackling in victory. Of Matrim there was nothing to be seen, and so Rand al'Thor stood alone, a lone boy against the combined powers of darkness. Another name to add to those she had failed.
As if she had voiced the thought he looked up, the blade moments away from impact. He caught her gaze with that stare, a piercing quality to his eyes. Moiraine couldn't say what held her, but for their age that defied his young years. When had his eyes seen so much? In the middle of so much chaos and evil he stood out, a mote of calm where aught else had vanished. He opened his mouth to speak to her, and even from the distance she could understand the words that were meant for her, words that she was certain would haunt her dreams if ever she survived this.
Be at peace.
The blade struck true, and he crumpled. The many gathered Shadowspawn howled in triumph, descending upon the fallen boy, and it seemed as if the earth itself trembled under their advance. No, that wasn't right. The longer Moiraine stood there, the more certain she was that the earth was shaking. She stumbled, reeling against the force, and ran toward Lan's body. Pulling on his cape, she grunted at the effort of trying to move him. A violent tremor knocked her to the ground, and with a ripping sound she was left with only a corner of his cloak. She tried to get back to her feet, but as she did she noticed the very air around the square had darkened. Trollocs and Myrddraal alike looked about in a panic as the ground underneath the fountain cracked open, leaving a yawning maw in its place. Rand's body floated motionless for an instant, and the rift seemed to swallow the night itself in blackness. From everywhere, from nowhere, a voice resonated with a terrible power.
I HAVE WON AGAIN, LEWS THERIN.
A column of umbral energy shot upward, buffeting and enveloping his body. The tremors began again, so strong that the buildings around the square began collapsing. Trolloc and Fade alike tried to escape, but the entire market seemed to fall into the expanding sinkhole. In the face of such unfathomable horror, when even the powers of the Shadow ran from its might unveiled, Moiraine did the only thing she could.
She ran, without thought for what might be following her. Clutching the scrap of cloth in one hand she ran with every last measure of strength left to her, toward the river, away from the unending nightmare. Lan was dead. By the Light, the Shadow had killed the Dragon Reborn! She forced her feelings down, stumbling with the tremors that fed on the strength of the last. Light preserve them, but what were they to do?
She broke clear of Shadar Logoth, slowed by the unexpected plant life underfoot. A voice shouted by the river, but she stood where she was dazed. The world was ending. The Shadow had won a great victory, perhaps the only victory it needed to. The ground shuddered again, and she fell to her knees. Despondency settled over her, and she very nearly let herself stay where she had fallen.
A hand on her shoulder made her involuntarily twitch. "Moiraine Sedai," she heard Egwene call excitedly, "we found Bela and one of the pack horses. And there's a ship waiting for you to arrive so we can leave! Perrin had to stay behind, but…" As if noticing the absences for the first time, the young girl paused. "Where's Lan? Where are Rand and the others?"
Moiraine winced at hearing his name. He should be here. He should have been protected. She had failed. "We need to move to Tar Valon quickly," she found herself saying, picking herself up and walking quickly in the direction of the river. "I do hope this ship will be fast enough to expedite our journey."
The girl trailed behind her, dogging her every step. "Moiraine Sedai?" she asked, worry creeping into her voice. "What happened to the others?"
Questions about what had happened. She couldn't think about that. With sheer determination she assumed a calmer nature, almost distancing herself from her inner turmoil. Saidar shone brightly, comfortingly, and tantalizingly out of reach. She yearned for the stillness it held, but try as she might she still could not reach it. With reluctance she carried onward. "Our focus must needs be on surviving this night," she continued, surprised at the calm in her voice. "We must be on our way before we've nowhere to turn."
If Egwene had further questions, she drowned them out. Focus was what she needed. She still had charges to tend to, and the Trollocs may still decide they were worth hunting. Focus on the task at hand.
The ship was clearly visible once she crested the last of the hills. Two figures could be seen on the banks of the Arinelle, while the rest of the ship swarmed with activity. One of them she recognized as Perrin, his axe drawn and ready. The other was a man equally as stout, and by the cut of his attire she recognized him as an Illianer. As she approached Perrin nodded, his weapon lowering. "We've found a ship that can get us out of here, Moiraine Sedai. Master Domon will be waiting here until we've all come out."
Master Domon wagged his finger in Perrin's face. "Now you do listen here, boy," he growled, "the Spray do be a transport ship only. It do no be a pleasure yacht for some highborn, and we do no be servants to order about at your pleasure! We set sail now. No, boy, I do no care if you wave that shiny butcher's toy in my face! As captain my word do be final, and we do be leaving now!"
Perrin's face darkened, but Moiraine cut into the conversation before the situation could be allowed to grow worse. "That is acceptable, Master Domon. If our horses have been seen to, I should like to depart as soon as you are able."
The captain blinked before starting his tirade again. "And who do you be, walking about like some Aes Sedai? You did no buy your passage, and I'll no be taking you on without good reason!"
Suppressing the urge to flare her nostrils in irritation, Moiraine raised her right hand so the great serpent ring could be seen clearly. "I am on official business of the White Tower, Master Domon. If compensation is required, I can assure you that we shall more than adequately provide for the price of passage. However, I must insist that we leave presently and make all possible haste toward Whitebridge; I would rather not wait for Shadowspawn to come within range of us."
Master Domon pursed his lips for a moment before nodding. "Fortune prick me, but that do be where the Spray be headed. I do believe we can reach an agreement." Before he could say more he looked behind Moiraine, whipping out a knife. She turned, fearing the worst, and was greeted by the loping stride and patchwork cloak of Thom Merrilin. Sensing the impending question, she raised her voice. "Now would be an excellent time to prepare for departure, Master Domon. There are worse things than Trollocs to deal with in the days to come."
She could hear the man gasp behind her. "Blood and bloody ashes! What do be worse than dealing with Trollocs?"
Every loss, every death, became acutely aware to her. The hole where Lan used to be suddenly seemed to pulse with grief. Thom reached her side and took in a few breaths, looking at her quizzically as he steadied his breathing. He had not been lost, but so many had. The hope of the world had been lost. She pushed the feelings down, closing her eyes for a moment from the effort. "What form it may take, I do not yet know. But the Shadow has struck at the heart of us tonight. The Dragon Reborn is dead."
Silence from the group. She could see Thom's face mired in pain, and she nearly lost her own composure once more. Without waiting for anyone's response she made her way to the Spray, walking up the gangplank and staring at the horizon.
An hour later, when they had left Shadar Logoth far behind, Moiraine found herself below deck in what stood for the first mate's quarters. She could not remember how she got there. Vague memories of being above deck with the survivors, of the crew commenting on some changed features of the landscape, but they were simply events to her. A fog had settled in on her mind, keeping her safe in apathy, safe from memories. She could not grieve until the Amyrlin Seat knew what had happened. She could not think about who had been lost, the hole that could not be filled in her mind.
A knock on her door warned her of the impending presence of the gleeman. His burly white moustache twitched once, a look of concern on his face. "I know that there are other important things to take care of, but I wanted to make certain you were alright," he offered. "It's more than sad, what happened tonight. We all lost…people we cared for."
Moiraine felt the fog threaten to dissipate, but she clung on to it. She cleared her throat, but words would not come. Instead she simply nodded, not looking at anything in particular.
Thom looked pensive for a second before allowing himself in the small space. "Egwene is giving a good cry up on the deck. I'm not sure Perrin knows quite how to come to terms with Rand or Mat being gone. Or Nynaeve, may the Light shelter them all. The crew is giving them space." He gingerly sat down next to her on the cot. "And…Moiraine, I can't even begin to imagine what it was like losing Lan."
Hollowness. The lance of pain. The fog over her mind wavered, threatening to let all the pent-up emotions come spilling through, yet she held on. She gripped her dress, closing her eyes at the stress of maintaining the fog. Her calm must be preserved until she met with the Amyrlin. She must deliver her report. Then, once the Tower was aware of her failure, maybe then she could grieve.
A hand rested lightly on top of her own, breaking her concentration. Moiraine's eyes blinked open, focusing on the weathered fingers enveloping her own. They were so much larger than her own. Truly that should not bother her anymore, not in the face of the night's losses, but she still felt a tickle of irritation as she noted that she was again the more diminutive. His hands seemed able to fold themselves over in their expanse. Lan's used to do the same thing. Once more emotions pushed toward her, threatening to embrace her as saidar would; but as with the True Source, it stayed just past her reach. She took in a calming breath, not for a moment trusting words to function.
The gleeman gave a quiet harrumph, moustache fidgeting once more. He made as if to speak, mouth opening slightly, before giving her hand the slightest squeeze. "I have had my disagreements with the White Tower," he gave carefully, "but I know you did everything you could to protect them. Never before have I seen an Aes Sedai work so valiantly, against so many. If the Dark claimed those younglings, it was not from lack of effort on your behalf. You can be at peace with that."
Perhaps it was his choice of words, perhaps it was the unexpected sympathy in his voice. Perhaps it was the simple fact that Thom was there, for her. She made a concerted effort to rein herself in, cutting off a sob she hadn't realized had left her mouth, and the fool man reached around her arms to comfort her! With no other options and days of travel yet to go – easily a month in the best of situations, and she doubted hers would be the best of situations – she let go of the fog that had protected her. Moiraine wept, harder and for more reason than any she knew had before her. Thom remained silent, providing wordless comfort and occasionally rubbing her shoulder gently. She should have rebuffed his shows, but by the Light there was just so much to bear! She wept silently, leaning into his arms as the world seemed to shift its weight to her shoulders. Lan had always likened duty to a mountain; now she felt that weight, regardless of what Thom and Rand al'Thor had said.
"I don't know what to do," she admitted in a hushed whisper, the very words sending shivers through her as she spoke. "The Dragon Reborn is dead, and there is nothing to guard us from the Shadow's will."
Thom gave a shudder of his own, becoming somehow yet quieter. She mourned again, for the loss of the world. Nothing more needed to be said, for nothing more could be said. The Dragon Reborn was dead. The Shadow had won.
•
And the Shadow fell upon the Land, and the World was riven stone from stone. The oceans fled, and the mountains were swallowed up, and the nations were scattered to the eight corners of the World. The moon was as blood, and the sun was as ashes. The seas boiled, and the living envied the dead. All was shattered, and all but memory lost, and one memory above all others, of him who brought the Shadow and the Breaking of the World. And him they named Dragon.
(from Aleth nin Taerin alta Camora,
The Breaking of the World.
Author unknown, the Fourth Age)
And it came to pass in those days, as it had come before and would come again, that the Dark lay heavy on the land and weighed down the hearts of men, and the green things failed, and hope died. And men cried out to the Creator, saying, O Light of the Heavens, Light of the World, let the Promised One be born of the mountain, according to the prophecies, as he was in ages past and will be in ages to come. Let the Prince of the Morning sing to the land that green things will grow and the valleys give forth lambs. Let the arm of the Lord of the Dawn shelter us from the Dark, and the great sword of justice defend us. Let the Dragon ride again on the winds of time.
(from Charal Drianaan te Calamon,
The Cycle of the Dragon.
Author unknown, the Fourth Age)