Chapter 50: We Do Not Run
It had been, Lan conceded, a trying day.
The King of Malkier sat upright, feeling his spine creak, giving the mounting heap of paper in front of him a weary look. Charts, maps and books covered every square inch of the table in front of him, illuminated by a candelabra bolted to the bookshelf above.
Not for the first time, Lan wished for a tilly-lamp. The soft, fuzzy glow from the beeswax candles was steady and clean, and their scent pleasant enough, but he feared his eyesight was being ruined.
Lan adjusted his reading-glasses – the lenses ground glass from Cairhienin artisans, a nameday-present from Nynaeve – and picked up the nearest book, a treatise on Seanchan tactics, from where it lay splayed face down, closing it and replacing it upon the bookshelf with a frown.
A thin volume, full of surmise and speculation. Not entirely unexpected. The Raven Empire tightly controlled the dissemination of information about their military. At the same time, they had a well-organised propaganda campaign, whose printing-presses extolled the virtues of the Seanchan Empire.
Ah well, Lan shrugged. We still have Mat. And Tuon. Still, one could never be over-prepared. There was no room for complacency. A lesson drummed into him from infancy.
Lan was aware of his limitations, as well as his advantages. He had been schooled extensively in the arts of war, had led armies in the Blood Snow and the running battle from the Borderlands to the final showdown in the Last Battle. But he was under no illusions as to his capabilities.
First and foremost, Lan was a sword. A competent commander, able to inspire men by his example, but no battlefield genius. Resolve would not be enough against the Seanchan. They, too, were disciplined and brave, extremely well-trained, and would be led by a great captain. A man of iron nerve, who could read the ebb and flow of battle like the thrust and counter of a single duel.
Lan's role was to be the Master of Horse, commanding seven thousand mounted Malkieri men-at-arms, plus whatever cavalry could be gleaned from the other Borderland nations and anyone else who came to their aid.
Overall leadership would fall to Mat Cauthon. Lan cracked a smile. It had been surprisingly easy to manipulate the legendary general into taking command. Nynaeve had shown him the way. "Don't encourage him," his wife had counselled. "And don't for the Light's sake try and twist his ear by telling him it's his duty. He'd just dig his heels in. Mat's obstinate that way. Just let him have his head. He'll help. As soon as he realises how badly we need him, and that nobody else has the necessary skills to pull our chestnuts out of the fire."
Lan had only grunted. Light, but that was the definition of a man who knew his duty, as far as he was concerned. For all of his offhand manner, Cauthon was a man you could count on. Reliable.
Lan would far rather put his trust in a fellow who would fight only when absolutely necessary, and then with the all-or-nothing ferocity of a baited bear, than any vainglorious fool who courted battle and glory. The former was the essence of Mat's fighting style, so far as Lan could fathom it, augmented with a surprisingly savage cunning and flair.
Mat's son – their enemy – seemed to be the other sort of man who thrived upon war. Driven. Chillingly ruthless. A general from a hard school, who saw everything as part of the materiel of battle – including civilians. And yet, paradoxically, a man beloved by the soldiers he led. Who inspired and rewarded excellence. The kind of man who loved war. Who would never, ever stop. Not as long as there was an enemy out there, someone he could test himself against.
The worst kind of foe. Other than the Shadow itself.
Nynaeve had departed the Seven Towers earlier this morning, by Gateway to the White Tower, accompanied by a small retinue. His wife was visiting Tar Valon, not as Aes Sedai, but in her capacity as Queen of Malkier, Nynaeve was going to entreat the Amyrlin Seat, Cadsuane Melaidhrin for the White Tower's aid.
Nynaeve had been fractious, even anxious, prior to their parting, which wasn't like her – unsurprising, considering the gravity of her mission. And the Light knew, she was charting dangerous waters.
To an Aes Sedai, with their long lives and eldritch powers, vested with the authority of the Tower White, kings and queens – even those of important and puissant lands like Andor and Tear – were ephemeral beings. Even in these times, with the Black Tower rising in parallel, rulers of the realms of men stepped lightly around an Aes Sedai, and all but gave fealty to the Amyrlin. The Queen of Malkier would have little authority or claim upon the White Tower, except for two things.
The first was a dangerous piece of knowledge, bequeathed to Lan by his former Aes Sedai, Moraine Damodred. Before it fell to the Blight, the Kingdom of Malkier had a compact with the Tower, which stipulated that the Aes Sedai would come to Malkier's aid against the Shadow, if called upon.
But when Malkier was assailed by unnumbered legions of Trollocs, Halfmen and Dreadlords, the White Tower had appeared to stand idly by. Not so much as a single Aes Sedai had fought beside the Malkieri in their hour of need. And so Malkier had been broken on the field, its cities and lands overrun. It had long been speculated that the Aes Sedai abandoned them to their plight.
The truth was, the Aes Sedai had sent a relieving force, riding in haste. All the strength the White Tower could spare. Hundreds of Aes Sedai and Warders, and a thousand Tower Guard – a rock upon which armies could founder, a force to give the Dark One himself pause.
However, by the time they reached the borders of Malkier, it was too late. There had been nothing left to save. So, the Aes Sedai had returned to the White Tower, and suppressed all knowledge of the attempt. Better to let men believe that for some reason of their own, the Tower chose to stand by than to admit to such a huge failure.
To the glacial mind of an Aes Sedai, it was better to be held faithless yet omniscient and powerful rather than impotent, short-sighted yet true of heart. This forbidden history was Sealed to the Tower. Known only by Aes Sedai. And now Lan.
In the hands of an Aes Sedai sufficiently motivated to help Malkier, this inconvenient truth was a lever that could move a mountain. An Aes Sedai such as Nynaeve.
The second matter was that Nynaeve – alongside the deceased Queen Elayne of Andor – was a quantity unknown for a thousand years. Since Queen Elisande of Manetheren. A reigning monarch who was also Aes Sedai. Although her rank bore little weight within Tar Valon, her strength and seniority amongst her Ajah did.
Nynaeve was a Sitter for the Yellow Ajah. And considering her contribution to the outcome of the Last Battle – fighting Shai'tan in the pit of Shayol Ghul itself alongside the Dragon Reborn – she would have almost certainly have been the First Healer, the Yellow Ajah head. Except that her duties as Queen of Malkier kept her away from Tar Valon.
Her clout would give her the authority to treat with Cadsuane upon almost equal footing. The Amyrlin was a strong woman, respected but not loved overmuch by the Hall of the Tower…..
Lan would rather face a Fade or two than be in the vicinity of that particular confrontation, thank-you kindly!
He took his pipe from the table-top, feeling somewhat furtive as he thumbed some tabac into the bowl. Smoking indoors would catch him the very devil if Nynaeve was here, especially here in the Royal Library. Coming from a village where paper was precious, she treated the place with a reverence that Lan, to some extent, shared.
For his part, in the free time afforded him, Lan was working his way through the Tales of Jain Farstrider. Another Malkieri exile, Jain. A piquant memoir, he found it. Bittersweet. In his bantering tales, it was sometimes easy to forget that Jain had played the part of thief-catcher for one of Malkier's greatest traitors.
You could leave Malkier. Malkier would never leave you.
Lan turned his mind back to the task in hand. The fact was, they were badly outmatched in almost every department. Tarmon Gai'donall over again, except on a smaller scale.
The Seanchan had the edge in numbers, in armour – his ponderous heavy cavalry would be up against not only their counterparts, but horse-archers, light lancers, and worse. Grolm and lopar. He had witnessed first-hand the destruction they had wreaked upon the forces of the Shadow.
The enemy also had something he had never encountered before. Raken and to'raken. The closest analogue he had come up against were the Shadow's Draghkar, but those succubi were creatures of stealth and ambush, not a true airborne fighting-force.
The disparity in the infantry was worrying, to say the least. He had the best light infantry in the world, in the Aiel, but the Seanchan irregulars were very near as good, and they had men armed with muskets and other black powder weapons, which outranged the short-bows of the Aiel.
He had nothing to oppose the Seanchan heavy infantry with. True, he could conscript a levy of Malkieri farmers, who would fight bravely and be slaughtered. No. It would be an unconscionable waste of their courage. The levy could hold the walls of the Seven Towers, far from the battle. He would rather offer unconditional surrender than throw untrained men into the abattoir.
The foe had hundreds of damane. He had a handful of Aes Sedai and a couple hundred Wise Ones. While he knew little about the Power, that was another mismatch. Without aid from the White Tower – or the Black – they could not hope to stand. In fact, unless Tar Valon sent a strong contingent of Aes Sedai, they were going to get butchered wholesale.
"How do we win?" he had asked Mat earlier.
Cauthon puffed out his cheeks. "We don't." he replied, bluntly. "Not in a single battle. We slip away. Harry them. Pick away at them until they're of a size with us. But we can't do that either. He has you in check. Either you face his army, or he slaughters your people, and the Aiel. You can't evacuate your citizens in the time you have left – not enough of them, anyway, even with Gateways."
"Your son. Would he make good on that threat?" Lan had asked, bracing himself for an outburst of anger at the calumny.
Light, but the hurt in Mat's eyes had been worse. Man didn't deserve that, no matter what his son had become. There was no helping it. He'd had to ask. Needed to know the nature of the man they faced.
Mat swallowed. "I hate to say it. But I reckon he might."
"A siege, then?" Lan suggested. "Draw everything back into the Seven Towers."
"Best of a short list of bad choices," Mat shrugged. "The walls won't stop him, not with his damane. But he won't be able to use his armour effectively inside the city, and he'll have to fight house-to-house, street by street.
We might be able to slow him down. Hold him for a week or so. But they've been doing this, all over Seanchan, for years. Taking cities. They're good at it. Brutal. It's a death-sentence for anyone within the walls."
"That what you would do?" Lan, ever-pragmatic, felt obliged to ask. That had, after all, been the essence of his lifelong war against the Shadow. Fight, until you were dragged down. "A siege?"
"No" Mat replied, surprising the King. "A siege offers no hope of victory. It is death deferred. If we face Uthair upon the field, we might win. And we will save more lives that way, for sure.
Not a campaign. A single, decisive battle. That's our best bet. Go big, or go home."
Lan stood up, pushing back his chair. Marginal gains. Could he find something he could use to even the odds somehow, no matter how incrementally?
There was something, a piece of information he had that had utility, he knew it. Could feel that itch inside his brain. Something not found in a dusty book, or on a map. Cauthon would pick the battleground, and if there was some weakness in the Seanchan, it would be the younger man who would see it first. With his past lives, leading armies in battle, if it was a matter of some abstruse tactic or long-forgotten gambit, the Raven Prince would be the first to divine it. But he, Lan, had something…
He sat on the floor. Crossed his legs, and assumed the ko'di. Emptiness came swiftly, and with it, emotion and care fell away. Responsibility, too. Duty. All that was left was the problem. Multifaceted. Cogs, gears and wheels, like the lock on a strong-box. An equation. Parameters and variables. He couldn't solve the whole problem. But he could, perhaps, solve a particular case. Or simplify the formula.
Begin with what you have. Malkieri heavy cavalry. Horsemen with lance, shortbow and sword. Slow but powerful, packing a heavy triple punch. Bows to thin the ranks of lightly-armoured foes. A nigh-irresistible charge. Great melee fighters, even against heavy infantry. But vulnerable to lopar and grolm. A known quantity. No, Lan was missing something, but the answer did not lie with his banners of horse…
Forget the men you have, for now. Start afresh. As if you were beginning the campaign anew. The objectives are defined. Next, resources….. What do you have that you can't use? Begin there.
We have plenty of war gear, but not enough soldiers, Lan reflected. Haubergeons of chain-mail, full fighting-suits of steel. Swords, mells, axes. Enough for hundreds of warriors. Inured to war, the Malkieri had learned that where injured men healed, and dead men could be replaced, war gear wore out, broke beyond repair.
The besieged nation spent surplus coin on buying the best armour and arms to lay up store for years of fighting, even as their own forges rang with the production of war gear. Malkier bought Tairen and Illianer steel, Andoran yew for bows and hundreds of bales of blackthorn for arrows.
Thanks to the foresight of the Nine Lords, the Seven Towers had vast, silent vaults, where rank upon rank of plate armour figures stood, inanimate golems waiting to awake.
Lan had walked amongst them. In the dark, in the cold, dry cellars, some long-ago quartermaster had opened boxes of rock salt, wicking the moisture from the air that otherwise would have rusted the armour and weapons into uselessness. The armour gleamed as if it had but newly come from the forge.
It was this storehouse that had tempted Lan to equip an untrained levy of heavily-armoured infantry. He might have done just that, if they faced the Last Battle, and gladly. But this was merely a conflict of nations.
Enough armour in reserve to equip five thousand men.
His thoughts turned to the Aiel. Doughty warriors, yes. Fleet, fast and fearless. Highly skilled with bow and spear. But not suited to soaking up punishment, surely.
Then he remembered. One of many battles, in the Blood Snow. An attempt to pincer a sizeable force of retreating Aiel between two forces of Borderland heavy cavalry. The plan had been to bind the Aiel into a scrimmage long enough for the slower-moving Tairen and Cairhienin heavy infantry to catch up and turn an Aiel reverse into a bloody defeat.
Easier said than done. What made fighting the Aiel frustrating was that Aiel victories were often complete, but their defeats were rarely so.
Anyway. What made this battle important was that the ambush had been a partial success. The main body of the Aiel broke away from the engagement cleanly, heading in the general direction of Dragonmount at a fair clip. In sufficient numbers and at a fast-enough pace to make pursuit a fool's game. Many such chases ended in a straggling, running fight, with the pursuers ending as prey, often as not.
What had enabled the main body to make their withdrawal was the sacrifice of a thousand Aiel men. Men, not a Maiden amongst them. They had stood and fought, and not taken a backwards step until they were overrun and cut down.
Lan had noted that this contingent had fought as a body, disciplined, shield to shield, and more surprisingly, that some had even appropriated light Wetland armour – chainmail hoods for example – enabling them to soak up punishment as well as dishing it out. A trade-off of mobility for staying-power.
Afterwards, when it was done, Lan walked among the bodies. There had been a dying Aiel, pierced by many arrows. He had looked at Lan with resignation in his eyes, face pale and bloodless. He knew Death was close.
"I know you.." he had spoken, in a blood-clogged voice.
"Hush," Lan had muttered, absently. Those Aiel were supposed to be Darkfriends, or so he had been told at the time. He hadn't believed it by then.
Lan thought of offering the man water from his skin, and reluctantly relinquished the idea. A good way to get a spear in the ribs, that.
The man's eyes refused to leave his, holding him there. "You fought well. With honour" Lan told him, feeling he owed the man something.
Green eyes glowed with the fire of pride. "We are the Stone Dogs, wetlander" the Aiel told him. "We do not run."
We do not run. That had sounded like a catechism to Lan.
At the time, it had been one moment, of no particular significance. A heartbeat's pause in between a bruising sequence of battles towards the end of the conflict. Back then, Lan had no knowledge of the Aiel warrior societies – excepting the Maidens, from pedlar's tales. He had noted the adoption of Wetland armour, but not seeing the like again, he had put it down to a failed experiment by the Aiel to augment their already deadly arsenal.
Now he knew better. The Stone Dogs were a warrior society, who pledged to never run from a fight. Their primary role was to cover the rear of a clan's retreat in an hour of great need. Their deployment meant the Aiel planned to fight to the bloody finish. They seemed, by and large to be drawn from the biggest, strongest physical specimens of Aiel manhood. And, Lan guessed, their training would emphasise close-order drill.
Assuming the warrior societies were split roughly evenly, excepting the Maidens, who would have a significant majority over any one of the male-only societies… there should be somewhere between five and seven thousand Stone Dogs.
Lan allowed himself a smile, like a chink of light creeping under a shut door.
There was a knock on the door, interrupting his reverie. It was a soldier, one of the old ones. A man who would have been about the age of Bukuma, if he were still alive. Lan hadn't the heart to pension his veterans off, though by rights, he should. Instead, he chose them to guard his personal quarters in the Seven Towers. A position of honour, and far from peril. And should danger come unawares – well, these men had made it through the fall of Malkier and the Last Battle.
The white-haired carle bowed deeply, hand on his sword-hilt. A mark of respect, his subordinate acknowledging the threat posed by his commanding officer.
It warmed Lan's heart to see the old ways observed. Southrons wouldn't understand. By and large, they hadn't had time to become acquainted with certain realities. The Shadow could corrupt anyone. No matter his rank, no matter how noble his line. That he himself, Diademed King of Malkier as he was, had not been foresworn was due to the Light's grace, as much if not more so than his own effort. His father's brother, and his cousin had not been so fortunate.
"Dai Shan," Emrin addressed him by his style. "There is a … an Aiel without. A clan chief, or so he says, by the name of Ronam, son of Rhuarc. Shall I show him in."
Lan heard the slight hesitation, and the words left unsaid. Black-veiled. Suppressed a sigh. There was a certain amount of bad blood, only to be expected from mutual antagonists of the Aiel War. "Show him in, Emrin, if you would." Lan replied.
Ronam strolled into the room, ducking under the door lintel. Lan appraised him with the intent of a general considering a fortress he might one day have to besiege.
Seated, or standing, you were aware of Ronam's sheer size, his bulk. A strong man, who looked as if you could crack boulders off his torso. When he walked, that was when you saw his grace. All that power, in motion, he moved with a restless, elastic energy, his frame no longer ponderous but rangy. Purposeful. He gave Lan a friendly enough nod, clan chief to clan chief, but nary the hint of a smile.
Emrin had divested the warrior of his spears, buckler and assorted knives. To Lan, the weapons seemed like a cosmetic afterthought to this man. Without them, Ronam looked about as harmless as a grizzly bear.
Lan rose to greet him, stepping toward him, conscious the Aiel overtopped him by a head. "It is good to see you, Ronam," he began, knowing the Aiel favoured plain speech. "Let's talk. Shall I send Emrin to bring you food? Something to drink, perhaps."
"Maybe later, Aan'allein, with thanks" the giant rumbled, in a mellow baritone. "I wished to hear, with my own ears, how things were progressing."
Without a Wise One looking over your shoulder, Lan guessed. "Well, Ronam, to be straight with you, it looks like the kind of fight we ought to avoid. Unfortunately, we can't."
"That kind" Ronam growled his understanding. "The sort where you wake from the dream. Aye. Well, all dreams end. This one has been mighty fine, but if it can't be helped…"
"We'll all do what we can." Lan promised. "But now, I have something to show you. A legacy, if you will. Something which might help in the dance of spears."
"What is it?" Ronam asked. His face, giving away little, betrayed much. Suspicion of wetlanders – even Aan'allein – was ingrained in the Aiel psyche.
Still, Ronam suffered Lan – accompanied by Emrin, bearing a lighted brand – as he led them deep into the bowels of the ancient fastness. Lan stopped at a nondescript iron door, and knocked upon it.
With not a word spoken, the door was retracted smoothly into the ceiling, almost noiselessly, the workings newly oiled and greased. The light of the torch penetrated the darkness, reflecting the gleam of burnished metal.
Ronam stared at the seemingly endless rows of armour in fascination, rapping his knuckles off a breastplate thoughtfully. "Wetlander armour. I don't understand, Aan'allein."
Lan outlined his proposal to the Taardad clan chief, who rubbed his square beard contemplatively. "You know, Lan," he responded, the quiet thunder of his voice setting up a tinny echo in the vault, "I once entertained a Sea Folk delegation at my hold… Well, the Wise Ones did, but you know. I was there.
The Sea Folk brought some delicacies along with the guest-gift. Fruits of the sea. There is a creature they showed me, I think it is called a lobster." Ronam's hand opened and closed, in imitation of the crab's claw. "Alive, before they prepared it for cooking. These suits remind me of that animal. Crustacean." he amended. "A clumsy thing, but well-protected.
I thank you for your offer, Lan, but I have seen wetland men, lumbering about to no purpose in these things. Easy prey for our spears. They only appear to be of some use from the back of a horse. I don't think they would serve us."
"Perhaps," Lan said, meaningfully, "their clumsiness is because those men were half-trained southrons. Not Aiel. Or Borderland men. I myself have fought in armour, from the saddle and on foot. I choose to in battle, where I can. Tell me, did I seem unduly encumbered?" Softly. Like silk upon steel.
"All men know that you are a great warrior," Ronam replied mildly, "and I offer no offense, Aan'allein. But you are an exceptional man. Not just another spear-brother. I misdoubt that another could do half so well borne down by all that weight."
"Perhaps," Lan suggested, "you could try it on yourself. By way of an experiment. I found a fine Illianer coat that was made for a man your size. Maybe a little tight in the shoulders" Lan allowed. "Nothing a blacksmith couldn't fettle for you, though."
Ronam gave Lan a flat look. "If this turns out to be an example of Wetland humour, at my expense, you are going to need that sword of yours. And not just to pick your teeth with, either." Wetland humour? Lan thought. What about the Aiel sort? For the life of him, Lan couldn't tell if Ronam was speaking in jest, or deadly earnest. Perhaps they were one and the same to him.
"Look at my face, Aiel" Lan replied, patiently. "Do I look like I am renowned for my sense of humour?"
Ronam rumbled laughter, clapping Lan on the shoulder with a heavy hand. "Then lead on, my friend."
Lan began, directing Ronam's attention to a shield of silvered steel. "Similar to the buckler shield your Aiel prefer, but made from durable Tairen steel. Have a look."
Ronam smiled cavernously. "Hold it up in the light, Aan'allen. At your head height. And brace yourself."
The King took the shield in a tight grip, both hands upon the rim, setting his feet.
Ronam thundered a heavy right-handed punch into the centre of the shield, a punch that would have given a charging grolm pause.
Lan staggered under the impetus, reeling backwards a couple of paces. "Let's have a look at this shield of yours now" Ronam demanded, confident it would have been crumpled under the weight of the strike.
The surface of the shield remained resolutely concave. Ronam whistled appreciatively through his teeth. "There's an elasticity in good steel," Lan told him. "The force of the blow is dissipated across the whole shield, not just at the point of impact. You can use this shield for more than just parrying. A rabbit-blow to the back of the neck will kill." Lan demonstrated, a chopping blow with the targe's inner edge. "And, as you have seen, it can withstand a forceful blow."
"The shield, I like" Ronam muttered, taking it from Lan's hands into his own shovel-like palms for a closer inspection. "Light, too. Not what I expected."
"I've got five thousand just like it." Lan informed him "Some bigger box shields too, if you want them, but you know as well as I that it's better to fight with what you know."
Lan coaxed Ronam into the armour, acting as his squire, efficiently lacing up the suit. Soon, the imposing Aiel was encased in his articulated armour, a steel paladin. His voice came muffled through his lowered visor. "Can't see a lot. Not unless I jerk my head from side to side like a pecking hen. That's no good."
"You can fight with the visor up," Lan told him. "I prefer that, myself. What you can't see, you cannot kill."
Ronam raised the visor. "It's surprisingly light" he commented, rolling his shoulders. "Didn't expect that. Thought it'd be like carrying a blacksmith and his forge on my back."
"Move around in it" Lan ordered him. "Get a feel for it."
The Taardad warrior obediently stalked about, suit clanking ominously in the half-light. He swung his arms, bounced on his heels, accustoming himself to the constraints of the armour. With an exuberant whoop, he leapt high in the air, kicking out his leg.
Lan grinned. He had watched Aiel do this for sport. Higher and higher, first one leg then the other, until they were turning somersaults. He had no idea if it was possible to perform such a stunt in full plate of proof. He had never tried, himself. You can be a dour man, Lan Mandragoran.
With a great leap, Ronam launched himself into the air, his massive frame encased in its steel carapace as graceful as a sporting salmon as his back arched. Lan winced. I really hope he gets it right, Lan prayed. It might be a bit of a tricky situation, explaining how the Taardad clan chief ended up with a broken neck….
Over he went, landing lithely on his feet, as if the issue was never in any doubt. Lan heaved a great sigh of relief. "I'm a beautiful man!" the Taardad chief boasted, with a deep laugh indicating he was being facile. "Or so my sister-wives tell me."
Lan grinned. "Well, I've learned that it doesn't pay to argue with wives. Ever. About anything. How do you like the armour?"
"There's only one more test" Ronam chuckled. "And I have a feeling that you're going to enjoy it more than me. I want you to hit me. With that." He indicated a blacksmith's forge hammer, leaning idle against the wall.
"Rather you than me, Ronam. Brace yourself." Lan warned as he hefted the long-handled implement. The unwieldy forge hammer was no weapon – not unless you were Perrin Aybara, or maybe Ronam himself. The balance was all wrong. Unwieldy.
Lan was well-accustomed to wielding an axe to cut wood. Good exercise. His long arms and robust frame were suited to generating power. More power than one usually required with the sword. He swept the hammer up, liking the dark potential of the penduluming mass at the apex of its swing. Ronam was right. He would have to test the armour for real, after so long unused.
"Hit me, little man" Ronam grunted, jutting out his chin defiantly.
Asking for it, by the Light!
"MALKIER!" Lan bellowed, putting his back into the stroke, aiming for the centre of Ronam's breastplate. He swung true, as hard as he had ever hit anything in his life, pouring all his anxiety into a single cathartic stroke.
The armour rang like a bell. Ronam was lifted from his feet. He crashed into the racks of armour, ploughing through them to land on the flat of his back.
Lan rushed to his side, fearing the worst.
Ronam pushed up the visor, which had fallen to cover his face. He was chuckling.
Of course he was.
"You hit like a drunken Ogier, I'll give you that" Ronam confided, as he sat up, and took Lan's proffered hand, as with an effort, Lan hauled him to his feet. "I definitely like the armour a lot better now."
"Tell me something" Lan asked the Taardad chief. "Are you a Stone Dog, by any chance?"
"Indeed I am," Ronam replied, with a straight face. "However did you guess?"
Lan turned serious. "Well, we won't be able to run from this fight, even if running was an option," he told Ronam, gravely. "At some point, it's going to be a matter of standing your ground, taking everything that's thrown at you. For as long as it takes. With that in mind, do you think your society could find a use for some five thousand suits of armour, and the same number of steel bucklers?"
"The Maidens will make jokes about us from here till the end of the bloody world" Ronam grumbled. "But at least, with a bit of luck and these lobster-suits, they'll be there to make those jokes. Aye, we'll take them, with our thanks."
