Set against the last days of the After-Breaking, just before the Trolloc Wars begun, this story follows the last stand of the Eternal City, joint-capital of the Logoth-Morian Combine, an alliance originally established to consolidate trade profits along the southwestern coast of the continent. I did not include geographic points of reference and any single-out dates since I think Sir Robert Jordan still deserves the right to expand his universe, from all timelines ( unless he said otherwise ofcourse). This story is full-of battle scenes and narratives of gore, something i did intentionally to go beyond the descriptions of battle only described as such in climactic detail as in the Battle at Dumai's Wells. Hope you enjoy the battle description. I will try to add nuances in between: light humor if you permit me to say. aHappy reading! - Carabas 05MAR2004
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Chapter 1. Nocked Arrows. Quiet Embers.
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Second Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose among the Wailing Hills, south of the Kha'alilian Annexed Territories. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.
The wind swirled mightily down the hills to the valleys long forgotten. Valleys long forgotten and found again. But it was neither an adventurous hero who found the place, nor any of the travelling scholars nor explorers scattered among the Provinces of Man. It was an army - an army brought together here not by whim of chance nor the intention of a glorious discovery, but by hope of a glorious victory.
Seventy four legions in all; of two thousand blades each. The dark-red leather armor, reinforced with interlaced iron plates, and the similarly dark-red plate helm shone through the midday sun, with a hint of dust here and there. The armored-infantry was positioned to the front, their heavy shields dugged into the muddy ground, pikes slanted forward and glittering in the rays, red-blood streamers drooping at the necks just below the iron blades. The elite arbalest units, iron tipped crossbows hanging on their right shoulders, loitered just behind the pikes - three lines of medium-ranged weapons awaiting orders, their commanders and platoon leaders conferring at the forward battle area command tent. Twenty paces behind the first defensive positions, 500 hundred longbows line up, some testing the strings of their bows, some checking the iron-tips of their arrows; fletchers and arrow-fetchers, mostly young boys, ran to and fro from one order to the next. Another twenty paces behind the longbows the bulk of the human army lies awaiting, seventy-five thousand light-infantry troopers murmuring in silence, their commanders running from end to end of the battle-line. To the right of the main army, thirty thousand light-cavalry ran the line from front-to-end of the infantry; to the left, one thousand heavy horses complimented with two thousand horse-bows did the same. To the rear, another five thousand light-infantry, including crossbows and the rest of the scout divisions guard the main army's back.
A horn sounded from northeast, its distant note piercing through the somber cloud over the heads and shoulders of the Praetorian Legions. Men from the East, from the South and from the Central Plains temporarily stopped whatever they were doing and turned their heads towards the direction of the ominous sound, silent and anxious of their inevitable fate.
Just beyond the hill where the horn-sound came, three riders came dashing over the hill-top and down through the muddy-green slope. Twenty-four men rode since midnight to scout ahead for enemy movements; the Light knows where the rest are. One of them seems to be crutching his stomach, head bent forward.
Rolando Ebaden, standing atop the wooden tower strategically placed above the highest point on the hill, watched silently as the riders were met by the Red Sentries. His first-lieutenant led the group in intercepting - in all probabilities - the ill-news.
The riders met fifty paces from the nearest pike-lines and rode towards the opening that the pike formations made for the riders, and the group rode towards the observation tower. Horse-handlers took the reins from the exhausted scouts as they dismounted while the army healers approached the one who was wounded, laid him down gently on woolen blankets and attended to his injuries. The rest of the sentries dismounted and proceeded towards their respective battle positions.
Ebaden watched as Barak, his first-lieutenant, debriefed the other two men. The scouts' faces wore signs of extreme fatigue, but that was not what disturbed him. Hard men - hailing from the ferocious mountain tribes from the Eastern Territories - showing signs of fear...
Barak kept scratching his head, as he usually does when he's puzzled, as the two scouts spoke in turns. Then he called a runner and gave him instructions. It's time to go down then, Ebaden thought.
He met the runner on top of the stairs and was right about the call. Barak was waiting below the tower walls.
"Bad news?", Ebaden asked as he stepped down from the last plank.
"Flaming bloody news, my lord. It seems you are right after all. The Third Avian Dreadlord leads this host."
"How many?"
"Three-hundred thousand flaming trollocs and as much as three hundred Mydraals and two packs of darkhounds are coming this way. We are outnumbered two-to-one, not counting the odds of facing the bloody Dreadlord himself."
"How long?"
"They will arrive at dawn tomorrow, General."
"Not enough time for the siege engines. Only the remaining mangonels will support us, and even then, it can only hinder their approach."
"Our runner brought news that Daedrid encountered troubles at the mountain pass. Organized bridands kept ambushing the party day and night. The infantry was able to hold off most of the attacks, but speed of travel has been compromised."
"I should never have left that traitor Aramir to command the artillery divisions. If not for my sister Petra..."
"Nay, my lord. You did what you can. Nobody, not even our Green Aes Sedai could smell the betrayal of one so honored in the continent."
"The ambitions of man... Sometimes I wonder if I am righteous myself."
Ebaden closed his eyes and took a deep breath, head raised towards the sky bathing in the sunlight. Thirteen years of fighting the Dark One's forces, thirteen years since he spoke the irrevocable vows of allegiance to the Logoth-Morian Combine. Thirteen years spent as Supreme Commander of the Northern Campaigns. Battles have been won whenever Rolando Ebaden leads the host. More wins than losses. Better than that, he won wars. Long wars. But the premise of war has never changed. The Combine does not fight wars with the Dark One alone; there are just too many humans - not enough space and resources to go around. The details are trivial and pointless; the reasons, as always, purely human ones. And yet Ebaden has always been faithful to the Combine's cause. He has seen the rest of the broken world; it is dark, it is brutal. The Combine is the light.
But the trivials of human conflict is nothing compared to what is about to come. The Eternal City and its people must be saved from a nether army bred for one single purpose - to enslave the world of men.
Ebaden smiled, opened his eyes and looked wearily at Barak.
"At my signal, unleash hell."
"Aye my lord."
The war-trumpets were sounded. Messengers were sent in all directions.
A battle is coming.
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Chapter 1. Nocked Arrows. Quiet Embers.
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Second Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose among the Wailing Hills, south of the Kha'alilian Annexed Territories. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.
The wind swirled mightily down the hills to the valleys long forgotten. Valleys long forgotten and found again. But it was neither an adventurous hero who found the place, nor any of the travelling scholars nor explorers scattered among the Provinces of Man. It was an army - an army brought together here not by whim of chance nor the intention of a glorious discovery, but by hope of a glorious victory.
Seventy four legions in all; of two thousand blades each. The dark-red leather armor, reinforced with interlaced iron plates, and the similarly dark-red plate helm shone through the midday sun, with a hint of dust here and there. The armored-infantry was positioned to the front, their heavy shields dugged into the muddy ground, pikes slanted forward and glittering in the rays, red-blood streamers drooping at the necks just below the iron blades. The elite arbalest units, iron tipped crossbows hanging on their right shoulders, loitered just behind the pikes - three lines of medium-ranged weapons awaiting orders, their commanders and platoon leaders conferring at the forward battle area command tent. Twenty paces behind the first defensive positions, 500 hundred longbows line up, some testing the strings of their bows, some checking the iron-tips of their arrows; fletchers and arrow-fetchers, mostly young boys, ran to and fro from one order to the next. Another twenty paces behind the longbows the bulk of the human army lies awaiting, seventy-five thousand light-infantry troopers murmuring in silence, their commanders running from end to end of the battle-line. To the right of the main army, thirty thousand light-cavalry ran the line from front-to-end of the infantry; to the left, one thousand heavy horses complimented with two thousand horse-bows did the same. To the rear, another five thousand light-infantry, including crossbows and the rest of the scout divisions guard the main army's back.
A horn sounded from northeast, its distant note piercing through the somber cloud over the heads and shoulders of the Praetorian Legions. Men from the East, from the South and from the Central Plains temporarily stopped whatever they were doing and turned their heads towards the direction of the ominous sound, silent and anxious of their inevitable fate.
Just beyond the hill where the horn-sound came, three riders came dashing over the hill-top and down through the muddy-green slope. Twenty-four men rode since midnight to scout ahead for enemy movements; the Light knows where the rest are. One of them seems to be crutching his stomach, head bent forward.
Rolando Ebaden, standing atop the wooden tower strategically placed above the highest point on the hill, watched silently as the riders were met by the Red Sentries. His first-lieutenant led the group in intercepting - in all probabilities - the ill-news.
The riders met fifty paces from the nearest pike-lines and rode towards the opening that the pike formations made for the riders, and the group rode towards the observation tower. Horse-handlers took the reins from the exhausted scouts as they dismounted while the army healers approached the one who was wounded, laid him down gently on woolen blankets and attended to his injuries. The rest of the sentries dismounted and proceeded towards their respective battle positions.
Ebaden watched as Barak, his first-lieutenant, debriefed the other two men. The scouts' faces wore signs of extreme fatigue, but that was not what disturbed him. Hard men - hailing from the ferocious mountain tribes from the Eastern Territories - showing signs of fear...
Barak kept scratching his head, as he usually does when he's puzzled, as the two scouts spoke in turns. Then he called a runner and gave him instructions. It's time to go down then, Ebaden thought.
He met the runner on top of the stairs and was right about the call. Barak was waiting below the tower walls.
"Bad news?", Ebaden asked as he stepped down from the last plank.
"Flaming bloody news, my lord. It seems you are right after all. The Third Avian Dreadlord leads this host."
"How many?"
"Three-hundred thousand flaming trollocs and as much as three hundred Mydraals and two packs of darkhounds are coming this way. We are outnumbered two-to-one, not counting the odds of facing the bloody Dreadlord himself."
"How long?"
"They will arrive at dawn tomorrow, General."
"Not enough time for the siege engines. Only the remaining mangonels will support us, and even then, it can only hinder their approach."
"Our runner brought news that Daedrid encountered troubles at the mountain pass. Organized bridands kept ambushing the party day and night. The infantry was able to hold off most of the attacks, but speed of travel has been compromised."
"I should never have left that traitor Aramir to command the artillery divisions. If not for my sister Petra..."
"Nay, my lord. You did what you can. Nobody, not even our Green Aes Sedai could smell the betrayal of one so honored in the continent."
"The ambitions of man... Sometimes I wonder if I am righteous myself."
Ebaden closed his eyes and took a deep breath, head raised towards the sky bathing in the sunlight. Thirteen years of fighting the Dark One's forces, thirteen years since he spoke the irrevocable vows of allegiance to the Logoth-Morian Combine. Thirteen years spent as Supreme Commander of the Northern Campaigns. Battles have been won whenever Rolando Ebaden leads the host. More wins than losses. Better than that, he won wars. Long wars. But the premise of war has never changed. The Combine does not fight wars with the Dark One alone; there are just too many humans - not enough space and resources to go around. The details are trivial and pointless; the reasons, as always, purely human ones. And yet Ebaden has always been faithful to the Combine's cause. He has seen the rest of the broken world; it is dark, it is brutal. The Combine is the light.
But the trivials of human conflict is nothing compared to what is about to come. The Eternal City and its people must be saved from a nether army bred for one single purpose - to enslave the world of men.
Ebaden smiled, opened his eyes and looked wearily at Barak.
"At my signal, unleash hell."
"Aye my lord."
The war-trumpets were sounded. Messengers were sent in all directions.
A battle is coming.
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