I wrote this several years ago; I believe it was back in 2001. It's just been sitting on my computer till now. When I happened upon this site, I decided to dust it off, and share with you guys. I do have a second chapter that I also wrote, but I'm not entirely sure how much I like it. For now I'll leave this chapter in your hands and see how all of you approve. Following that and some editing to the second chapter, I'll post that also. Enjoy. And of course I do not own the Wheel of Time. It belongs entirely to Robert Jordan.
ETA: Thank you for being critical in your review. I have edited in some of the places you pointed out. Please, keep the R&R coming. If you're not up to writing a lengthy review pointing out my mistakes, I am always happy to receive pats on the back telling me how nice a job I have done. :)
Chapter 1: The Last Battle
Jherik was weary. He and his fellow Asha'man had been fighting day and night with little rest, not that any of them expected much anyway. He raised a hand to wipe his unshaven face, and noticed that his hand had still not stopped trembling. He wished he could ignore it, but it bothered him. A man should be able to control his own body, but the bloody hand would not stop trembling. It had nothing to do with the temperature although it was very cold. Besides, he was immune to the effects of the weather.
Jherik was a tall man. His hair was cropped short like most of the other Asha'man, though he wore his short more for convenience than to conform with the others. Two pins, the sword and the dragon, both given to him by the M'hael, shone brightly on his collar in contrast to the dull black of the dusty cloak he wore buttoned to his throat. The wind whipped his cloak around his heron mark blade still sheathed in a plain leather scabbard, so he untangled it while concentrating to avoid looking at his hand. The heron marked him as a blade master, though many might believe that an Asha'man had no need to learn the sword. Many might also think he was too young to have earned the sword, but the M'hael demanded that all Asha'man learn quickly, and that went just as much for the sword as for the Power. Even from within the void, he could hardly ignore the bite he felt every time he breathed the icy air. His nose was running, and his eyes would not stop watering--he was miserable. And tired.
Shayol Ghul's peaks were blacker than night with lightning frequently crashing into them from the even darker clouds that hung in a sky that seemed to be sick and dying. What was unsettling was that the lightning, although a natural phenomenon in the Blasted Lands, was now being directed by the Power to strike at the living, and that certainly did nothing to help his foul mood. The Shadow and the Lord Dragon's army fought for control over where the next bolt would strike like two thirsty men fighting over a drop of water.
Jherik had been resting, crouched on his heels, for some time now, and his calves were beginning to ache. He didn't want to stand up, and he knew if he sat down completely he would never find the strength to get back up. He stared at the violence and destruction that he and the others had caused. Dead bodies--Asha'man, Aes Sedai, Aiel, horses, wolves, not to mention Trollocs and Fades--lay at the feet of the living that were still fighting at the base of the dark mountain. And the battle was by no means over. They had been fighting for weeks, but it had only just begun.
It still raged all around the dead bodies, worse yet, it trampled over them. There was no room to fight without stepping on somebody's leg or arm, or sometimes worse. The smell was nauseating, but that could be easily ignored from within the void. Even worse was the smell of the strong, dry wind carried from the peaks of Shayol Ghul. Compared with the stench of the Dark One's home, the smell of decay was merely a nuisance.
Screams and howls from both man and beast alike pierced his ears constantly. A man could go mad hearing those sounds for as long as he had. He hadn't known the Aiel could scream. He guessed this place could even make a people as tough as the Aiel feel terror. But who wouldn't feel terror at the possibility of being burned to a cinder at any moment? At least he'd have the benefit of seeing the weave coming before he died; that was, if it came from another man. There would be no chance of feeling the tingle that warned a man that a woman was embracing the Power. He had long since gone numb to that warning. Like he, all who could wield the Power did. He would just have to anticipate an attack from anybody. The One Power was all around--it was part him, or he part of it...
Jherik leaned further back on his heels, and had to wrap his arms around his knees to keep his balance. He was lost in thought as he watched the dry wind blow swirls of dust between the dead and dying bodies. Some of those still living were within his ability to heal, but he must conserve his strength. Besides, he was not there to heal the dying; he was there to protect others from ending up on the ground with them. Suddenly a voice roused him from his thoughts. "You've rested long enough, Asha'man. It's time to give some of the weary a rest." Jherik chuckled to himself. Give the weary a rest. Were there any who were not tired?
He looked up at the man possibly even more battle weary than he. The other Asha'man and Jherik were dressed identically. Both possessed the same two pins, but the other man was far more powerful than him, so naturally Jherik deferred to him. He stood up, and wanted to cry aloud. His muscles protested; they had knotted up, and they demanded more rest. He pushed those thoughts away. Better to just let them skim off the void. Now was not the time to think of more rest. He could rest all he wanted when he was dead. He had a job to do.
The Lord Dragon was somewhere within the army, linked into a large circle of Asha'man, Aes Sedai, Aiel Wise Ones, and Sea Folk. Their duty was to battle the Forsaken, and more importantly, the Dark One. They had Callandor with them, and some more powerful sa'angreals or so the Lord Dragon said, but were they enough? Best not think of that either; it was not his battle.
His job was to protect the armies from destruction, and to provide escape for when the Lord Dragon won--or lost. Who knew what the Dark One would lash out with if sealed again? Three thousand years ago it was the taint. Might he do worse this time? What if the Lord Dragon wasn't able to defeat him? Jherik shook his head angrily, he shouldn't think of such a thing. The Lord Dragon would surely protect them. It was in the prophecies. But there was that one man who said the prophecies never stated that the Lord Dragon was going to win Tarmon Gaidon. Light! Couldn't he think of something better than the end of the world?
Jherik was stirred from his thoughts by movement from the Aiel front. Dressed in light browns that blended easily with the dusty ground around Shayol Ghul, the Aiel could make themselves invisible on flat, unobstructed ground if they wanted. However, now they stood in a mixed line of men and women, dancing with spears flashing. He had watched their dance before, and pictured it as a beautiful and deadly art form. The Aiel did not actually form a line. They fought in what looked like a pack of brown clad dancers, if dancers carried spears and skewered their enemies. They were effective though; hardly anything ever broke through the Aiel front. This was why he was surprised to see a Fade and handful of Trollocs break through that very line and start for the resting Asha'man. The Shadow knew what the greatest threat was--at least the greatest next to the Lord Dragon himself--and what better time to attack but when they were tired?
Jherik lashed out with the power, and there was death. They never even had a chance. His stomach still lurched at the sight of living creatures bursting into blood and bone--even Trollocs. The man who had stirred him from his rest earlier clapped him on the shoulder. "Well done, soldier. See, you've had enough rest. Now move on to some place where you'll continue to be of use." The man smiled a smile that never touched his eyes. His eyes said that he'd seen too much, and would never truly smile again.
Jherik nodded his head and turned away towards a cluster of Asha'man slashing at weaves that the Dreadlords flung at the Lord Dragon's army. He had to weave in out of Aiel and men on horseback battling Fades and Trollocs. He occasionally cast a weave or struck out with his sword at random Trollocs or darkfriends who were unfortunate enough to place themselves in front of his path. Enemies killed by the Power never knew what hit them, but the ones brought down by blade could still be heard screaming as he continued at the quick pace he had set for himself. He never even missed a step.
For the most part, the battle had shown little use of the Power, at least in the eyes of those who could not wield it. In reality, the One Power was used to protect the armies from destruction. Both Asha'man and Aes Sedai slashed at weavings from the Dreadlords aimed to destroy thousands of the Lord Dragon's army, and the Shadow did the same when the Dragon's army made a similar attempt. The true battle raged unseen, but that made it no less dangerous. If either side were to falter, the result would be catastrophic. That side would be utterly destroyed.
He was careful to step over the dark liquid that flowed out of a crack down the side of the mountain. He had seen what it had done to those who were not cautious. Any who so much as touched the liquid could expect nothing less than a painful and sickening death. Another Trolloc made a step for him and collapsed before it had the chance to make a second, when he sensed movement behind him. A boot scrape to his rear left was all the warning he had.
Jherik cut the weaving that was targeted at his still turning head. He turned to face his enemy and flashed a cold smile at the Dreadlord. They learned the Asha'man's tricks quickly. Some even used to be Asha'man. Both sides had learned their enemy's tricks, so as to turn them on their foes. Jherik was lucky to have heard the man's footstep at all with the sound of battle all around him. If not for his enhanced senses and training, he would have been laid out beside the Trolloc he had just had killed.
The two men stood unmoving, unblinking, only staring at one another in extreme concentration. To many it would seem all they did was stare, but in fact they attacked, parried, and slashed at the weaves that were thrown at one another. The Dreadlord was a tall, handsome man. Dark hair and blue eyes that many women must have fallen for in his time. Despite all that he had seen, Jherik still felt that the flesh should reflect one's heart, but it had proven not so. If it had, this man would be fouler than a Trolloc, for his weaves were certainly evil. Now that he thought of it though, the Dreadlord's weavings were no more evil than his own. But that was not the point. He was only doing what he had to do to defend himself. Under normal circumstances he was not a violent man. If not for the Dark One and his evil creatures, he'd never have learned to wield the Power. Cursed darkspawn! He wished sometimes that he had burnt himself out months ago. Surely sitting in fear of the outcome of the Last Battle would be better than where he was now. They said that those cut off from the source died within a couple years, but even that must be better than a stray weave from a Dreadlord or a Fade's sword.
The man reached into his pocket, and spoke to Jherik with an evil grin, "I'm tired of your struggle. You've proven a worthy adversary, but I must end this now. I'm needed on the battle front, and you were just unfortunate to be in my way. Any other time, I might wish to play a little longer, but the Great Lord demands my presence. You will forgive me." At that, the Dreadlord's hand came out wielding a long, lance-like rod that must surely be too long to have fit in his pocket.
Jherik didn't know what it did, but it had to be an angreal or something of the sort. Possessing that the Dreadlord would have too much of an advantage. He was definitely this man's equal, but if he didn't act now, he would have no chance. He was already drawing at the Power to his limit, but he desperately clawed for more. He drew so much in, he felt his head would explode even without the Dreadlord's weaving. His bloody hand began to shake again; funny, but he hadn't noticed it had stopped. It felt like his brain was pounding through his ears, yet Jherik drew more still.
The Dreadlord's eyes widened with surprise and he exclaimed, "You fool, you'll kill yourself," as he continued to raise his weapon at him. Jherik thought it amusing for the Dreadlord to feel the need to warn him to not draw too much of the Power, when it was his intention to kill him anyway. Suddenly, he felt a tear in the cord that linked him to the source, and he knew it was time to release his weaving.
He struck out with a complex weave consisting mostly of fire and water, and watched as the Dreadlord's eyes widened further still in recognition and fear. The Dreadlord hastely attempted to cut Jherik's weave, but the weave was too complex and too powerful. A fly would have a better chance of swatting away a spider as it pounced. This was an all or nothing gambit from Jherik. He felt his connection to the source tearing as the weave settled on the Dreadlord. The Dreadlord's mouth opened to scream, but nothing came out, except for a dry, raspy, choking sound. Jherik collapsed to his knees even before the Dreadlord's twitching body fell to its side, the blood boiling from every opening, every pore. The Dreadlord's hand clenched and unclenched in rhythm with his final breaths. But Jherik was unaware, he had already welcomed the darkness. Maybe the ground wasn't so cold. It was soft too. Rest, at last.