CHAPTER EIGHT

"The Dark One wins not by the ascension of Evil, but the corruption of the Good."

Plinth the Elder. Philosophia on Morality. FY 750.

With Jena as their guide through the decaying wetlands of Illian, the journey became much smoother, albeit not without its challenges. She seemed to have a sixth sense of the negotiable roads and trails that crisscrossed the seemingly impassable bog. With her coveted hunting knife, she had split the length of her wool dress to convert it to a riding dress with a bone needle and thread. This allowed her to sit in front of Halfhand on his warhorse. It was out of the question for her to ride with Viellain on his temperamental Matese that merely greets the girl with bared teeth.

And at each of the nightly resting spots, the two Child of the Light provided the instructions in the ways of the Hunt. Jena seemed to take to the didactic with a sharp aptitude. Hidden behind her backwater facade and rough Illian accent was a seed of keen intellect and curiosity. She took a keen liking to Viellain's assortments of tools from his remarkable articulating Manus to his razor-whip and his arsenal of flechette. She had a nimble hand and a quick study of the Hand's projectile handling.

But, the brunt of her attention was on the greater treasure trove, the books of the trade that both Children always carried. It was a surprise to Halfhand to learn Jena's level of literacy. But, she consumed the books that they shared with alacrity, and only needed bare assistance with some of the more arcane writings. Jena has little interest in sharing any details of her own upbringing, although based on her story of Troas, Halfhand already had his suspicions of the source of her reticence. But, it seemed that she had been raised in the books by the goodwife Lordis of Troas.

So, it was on an average camp night after a meager supper of a malnourished gamefowl, that Jena was surrounded by small piles of the beloved books. From Viellain's collection came Rakin's Complete Threat Dossier, the Booke of Wytches, and the Atlus Anatomicus. From Halfhand's collection came his copies of the Way of the Light, Thais Meditations, and Universal Wordes of Power. Immediately after Jena had received the lent tomes, she had eagerly poured through them for a mention of her Witika. To her eventual disappointment she had only found only a one-sentence reference, in a cursory mention as a Omen of Calamity without even a footnote. However, that letdown was soon forgotten in the wealth of precious knowledge buried within the old pages. However, Halfhand did note her lack of interest in his own books after her cursory flip through them.

"Do not neglect the fundamentals." Halfhand lectured her as he watched over her study from his seat by the campfire. He chewed slowly on the willow bark resin provided by Viellain, letting the bitterness seep into his throat. It was one of the few things that kept his headaches at bay.

She frowned, her eyes flickered briefly to the books of rhetorics. "I don't see the point. I find nothing that would talk a draghkar to death."

Viellain gave a stifled snort without looking from his own work with his makeshift contraptions that seemed to consist of a small copper kettle of burning woodscrap attached to a glass column of marsh water.

"Words may seem light and abstract, Jena, but they can carry the same weight and edge as a sword. With a sword, you may kill your foe. And in a productive day, you may even kill a dozen, perhaps a hundred before you can no longer find the strength to raise your arm. But with the right word at the right time, you could topple a nation or save a soul."

Jena appeared unconvinced, but agreed to take another look through her neglected books.

Satisfied, Halfhand peered down at what Jena was currently perusing. It was the familiar red-leathered Booke of Wytches with its thick illustrated pages. It was opened to the worn section on the Thirteen Forsaken.

On those smooth vellum pages was illustrated the most vile creatures that were once mortal. There was a page dedicated to each Forsaken, with an artist's rendition in skilled woodcut relief. There was Lanfear, her willowy figure undulating like a snake, with ink-black braided hairs that trailed the ground behind her like a cape, and Sammael the Destroyer roaring like a lion with fanged overbite, a mane of golden hair and a jagged scar splitting his face. According to the lore, the Forsaken were supposed to have been bound in Shayol Ghul at the end of the War of Shadows, to be unleashed at the Last Battle. Although it was the suspicion of many historians, including the author of the Booke, that they prematurely tread the earth once more.

"Wouldn't it be obvious to anyone with eyes if they came back?" Jena pointed at the gross caricatures of their beastly faces, as if reading his mind.

"These are just the artist's guesses based on recount and gossip. If they walk the world now, they would appear like any other man, their evil cloaked beneath normal human flesh. That counts as your First Question of tonight, Jena." Halfhand raised one finger.

Jena clamped her mouth shut as if she realized she wasted one of her precious questions. This was one of the rules imposed by the Child of Light after the first day of endless questions. Three questions a day. It was a lesson in itself. Questions can be a useful tool, but it can be a double-edge sword and a crutch of the weak-minded. She would have to choose them carefully and methodically, or research the answers herself.

However, Jena pushed forward undaunted. "Then I do use my second question. This refers to the Forsaken as if they had two meanings. One as the damned group of thirteen of the stories. But the second as the peno- penul- 'penultimate of the Threat Hierarchy'." She worked out the latter phrase from the book. "What does that mean?"

Halfhand nodded in understanding. The dense prose of the Booke of Wytches was known for dead-end references with minimal elaborations, if any. "I will explain to you the Threat Hierarchy, in which The Forsaken are the namesake of their own tier."

Halfhand picked up a long stick and drew a curved triangle on the soil. "This is Abralof's Threat Hierarchy of Powers, how we classify the danger of the witches who wield the One Power. There are five levels, and at each higher ascending level, there is a ten-fold increase in overall strength and ten-fold increase in rarity. Vermis, Behemoth, Leviathan, and Forsaken."

He stabbed at the lowest level at the base of the triangle and scrawled a V. "At the bottom is the Vermis class. From hedge witches to Tower Novices, they are the most common. The initial estimate was a few thousands in the world, but with the wild awakening in the last decade, we suspect their number may be even greater. Their average power places them at the level of one trained Child of Light soldier." He picked up a fist-sized rock from the ground. "This rock is a representation of their relative manifest strength. Ordinary appearing, yet in the right hand, enough to maim and kill." Halfhand tapped the rock lightly against Jena's forehead who gave not a single flinch.

With the stick, he drew the second level of the triangle.

"The next level is the Behemoth class, of which there are many hundreds in the Westlands. Your average Tower witch or Seanchan damane. These are the equivalent of a ten-man squad of determined Children of Light hunter-killers. The rock of their relative strength would be the size of a catapult round." He tapped the rock in his hand against a half-buried granite boulder rising out of the marsh.

Then he scratched the third level of the triangle with an "L".

"And this next tier above is the Leviathan class, of which there may be few dozens in the world. Each individually the equal of at least a hundred Children. The manifest rock of their destructive power would now be the size of the Stone fortress of Tear. A walking army with true city crushing power. "

"And finally, your penultimate level, the Forsaken class. Of their official count is just thirteen, the strongest Dreadlords sworn to the Dark One in the War of Shadows. And one Forsaken can only be matched with the power of a full Legion. At the highest peak of the Children of Light's strength, the Thirteen Named Legions were raised by the Secundus Lord to await the Thirteen's revival. The Forsaken's stone is the size of the Mountain of Mists."

"And that leaves the tip." The observant girl pointed at the tiny triangle left unmarked at the top.

Halfhand stabbed the stick into the top of the pyramid. "This is Annihilation. At this scale, we talk more of a force of destructive nature barely contained in human skin. Their stone's size would be greater than that of the entire Westlands. If even one comes into existence, they have the capacity to destroy the whole world, break it anew, maybe permanently. If the Dragon comes once more. Or if a Forsaken class obtains a tier-raising force multiplier. To oppose an Annihilation would necessitate the entire Order of the Children united. And even that would be an uncertain outcome, because theoretically there is no ceiling to the power of an Annihilation."

"Then based on this Hierarchy, the pair of you do only be able to face two Vermis-level witches." Jena concluded as she studied the pyramid, but she arched a brow as if implying the question.

"Possibly. But, Abralof's Hierarchy is a theoretical construct. If the outcome of all engagements was based simply on pure power, the world would be already lost and we may as well give up. In pure numbers alone, the Vermis now surpass the current roster of the Children. And if the Forsaken showed their face, we may be able to raise five full Legions if lucky, let alone the Named Thirteen Legions. No, if we take the Threat Hierarchy as gospel, the Children would all be huddling in the Fortress against the threat of unopposable power.

"It is thus that we have the Philosophy of Da'vat. It means 'Just one'. Whether a vermis or leviathan, it just takes one Child of Light. That in the right circumstances, no matter how rare, with the right preparation and the right luck, one simple Child of Light can overcome even the greatest witch."

"Even an Annilhation?..." Jena asked incredibly, before flattening her ending inflection to pretend it was a statement. Halfhand let it pass without counting it as a question.

Halfhand nods, "Philosophy of Da'vat is what allows a Child of Light to rise and face insurmountable odds. Even a sliver in a million chance is greater than the zero chance of despair." He points to Viellian who seemed to be already bored with this dialogue. "Just ask our witchkiller there who has listed a Leviathan by himself."

Viellain snorted in derision. "They're all human flesh. They sleep and eat. They toss mountains but they're still mortal. Sheep or Annihilation, they bleed the same to me." But his bravado seemed to reflect the admiration of Jena. But he tempered his words, "The Hierarchy is not wrong. In terms of absolute power in a faceoff between us and a witch, there is indeed a sheer chasm. Human ingenuity will close the gap, but only so far. If faced with even a Behemoth class, it would be wise to reconsider our strategy. And a single Leviathan would render our little trip painfully short. But only a fool would rush into a battle with one, when indirect methods will work. Even with the tools at Child Halfhand and my disposal, you are actually more equipped to bring down any witch than us. Your innocuous appearance and a hidden dagger will find success where Legions would fall."

She pondered Viellain's words comfortably, digesting them in her head. Then she spoke up, methodically picking her words carefully. "But why target witches in the first place? The ones that do not pledge their soul to the Dark Ones like the Forsaken. One of the written theory says their source is the True Source that runs the Wheel of Time. That is not inherent evil. What of the thousands of them that mind their own business. "

"Like for example a village goodwife plying her potions." Viellain probed carefully. There was a flash of predatory gleam in his searching eyes.

Jena remained silent to the probe, but there was a brief tightness of the corner of her lips.

"I will take this." Halfhand gestured to Viellian. He sat next to Jena. "That is your question three. Let us say the theory is true. Channelers tap the power of the Creator. But there lay the rub.

"We take it as a universal truth that the Male Channelers will inevitably become irredeemably mad from their use of the True Source. Why would we assume women are immune to this? The White Tower declares this, but they have everything to gain from that claim. When mortals seize that of the divine, they corrupt willingly or not. That is the nature of corruption. No one wakes up one morning to decide to be evil. Corruption is an insidious path that starts with good intention and belief. But one misguided step after another finds you slowly becoming something unrecognizable from what you started.

"It is akin to a rabid dog. Sometimes one may fight a bear with you. But, you would never sleep with your back to one. Nor doubt that the right path is to put down a rabid dog at the earliest, if not only for the sake of the once loyal hound. Unlike many, I do not relish the taking of any life, but I appreciate the necessity of the sacrifice for the greater good. It was not any true evil beast or creature of the shadow that sparked the greatest calamities of the times, from the War of the Shadows to the Breaking to the Trolloc Wars. No, they were each started by a channeler who believed they wielded the Creator's powers for good.

"And when the Last Battle finds us, and child, pray it does not in our lifetime, and the combined death and misery blot out all those other stains of history, its source will no doubt once again be the catalyst of a single human channeler."

"So, yes, innocent or guilty, the spilt blood of a witch pave the road for the rest of humanity. It is what we call the Reaper's Cut. And for the innocent lives of the world, our grim job is to give the reaper his due."

He picked up one book from his pack and dropped it to the top of Jena's collection. He could feel Viellain's eyes boring into his back. The Hand could likely recognize the slim black book with gilded edges. E.M.T's Philosophy of Nature and Powers.

"That was your last question, Jena. Sharp as always. Read and think. But do remember that an inquisitive mind is blessed, but dangerous is an entirely open mind for everyone. Corruption is not limited only to the witches, and often more subtle."

And like every night, he left Jena to read in silence and ponder the lessons of the night. But even after that particularly heavy didactic, he could see the burning spirit in the young woman's eyes, undiminished by the cold edge of his words of reality. And in fact, these grim talks in the dreadful swamps will soon be remembered as halcyon days in the face of the wicked storm that will soon consume their group.