A/N: This piece is actually a collaboration between myself
and two other people (Rick and Matt) and was actually originally written for
the
alt.wheel.of.time newsgroup (which is a group that partakes
in a combination of Fan Fiction and role playing to create an group story)
It is important to note that this story, while set in
Jordan's world does not use his actual characters with the exception of
Asmodean. (We like to consider it a mirror world) This story is just a piece of
the larger story that we are writing on the alt.wheel.of.time newsgroup. Because
of this I figure I should give you a brief introduction to one or two of the
major characters and differences.
Asmodean has turned traitor to the Dark One and is trying to
redeem himself and become his own man. To this end he has adopted the guise of
an old Shienarian warrior and has become the well-loved ruler of the whole of
the Borderlands. As King Neotar, Asmodean has shaped the Borderland Alliance
into a military state and has been extremely successful in holding back the
Blight. One of the tools that Neotar/Asmodean has implemented is a group of
male channelers known as the Northern Watch and these men are led by a man by
the name of Daedalus Cammeron. As the story opens, Neotar is preparing to leave
Tar Valon (having just assisted in lifting a dark friend Siege.)
As part of a new alliance with the White Tower, Neotar is
returning to the Borderlands with 100 warders who will train with his armies,
and one Aes Sedai, a young blue sister by the name of Rhys.
BTW - The Mordero Haran are King Neotar's personal
bodyguards. And while the characters are ours (or at least in the case of
Asmodean, his personality) the world and its constructs,
belong to Robert Jordan.
******
Thin plumes of smoke wound their way into the sky on the
plains just outside of Tar Valon. A series of small black tents were
haphazardly cast about the plains, where soldiers had simply decided to sleep
rather than march the six miles back to the Borderland camp. The fires were
mostly quenched, leaving only piles of charred bones that had once been the besiegers
of the White Tower. Near the dying fires were great piles of arms and armor,
which would be transported back to camp.
The sun was just beginning to rise over the White Tower when
the small procession marched across the Erinin on the sole remaining bridge
after the siege. As they stepped onto the blood and smoke-stained grass, men were
beginning to emerge from their make-shift shelters to greet the day. When they
saw the massed black armor on the black stallions that proclaimed the Mordero
Haran, it became clear who exactly was leaving the Tower. In half an instant they had flown into
formation and were marching to greet their King.
At the head of the procession marching from the Tower was
the fifty-man unit of the Haran, massed in a protective formation around King Neotar.
The Mordero Haran was in its full battle armor, as was usual. Not one of them was shorter than six feet,
and every one built like an ox. Each
man had two blades strapped across his back in the manner of the Kandoran, and
various other instruments of death dangled from his armor or stallion. All had
a short riding bow, with the quiver hanging off of his saddle, and every man
had at least two or three other weapons, be it a mace, an axe, or a ball and
chain. Their mounts too were uniform, proud stallions darker than night,
muscles rippling, hides shimmering in the quiet morning light. No one kept better care of his mounts than a
Borderman. Within the pitch black formation rode King Neotar himself, clad in
freshly polished battle armor which was gilded in an orangish light by the
rising sun. He rode bareheaded, his snowy topknot tumbling straight down his
back. No emotion touched his face; his eyes were hard, and jaw set. For
everything, it looked like he was riding to his own execution.
Behind the Haran slunk a winding train of warriors who for
everything looked more like prowling wolves than they did men. In a stark
contrast to the orderly Haran, they rode mostly smaller, nimble mares and mustangs.
Their cloaks shifted color as the young sun touched them, blending them into
their surroundings startlingly well. At their head rode Rhys Sedai sitting
uncomfortably straight on her mount and wondering for the hundredth time how it
was that she was suddenly in the lead of a group of a hundred Warders.
That Neotar had managed to leave the Tower without any
sisters but she was impressive; that to do so he had announced her as his
advisor in front of the half the sisters in the Tower was troubling. She shook her head slowly, wishing that the
motion would be enough to clear it. How many sisters had sought her out in the
wee hours of the morning?
She had heard more advice in the last few hours than she
ever cared to again, and while she was fully aware that every sister played her
own game, the incongruity of the various games had made her head spin. The Reds
were fairly consistent, and rather pushy if truth were told. Not one, but seven
of them, had arrived at various points of the morning to whisper what they
could of the Northern Watch into her ear and insist that it was her duty to
hunt them down. What the Reds seemed to think one woman could do against
twenty, fifty, a hundred--the numbers varied--channeling men, she had no idea,
and even now she couldn't remember what she had said to put them off.
A Gray sister had taken her aside for a significant amount
of time and lectured her as to proper conduct in the north, a conversation that
had boiled down to a crash course in how to be diplomatic. Needless to say the Gray
had been somewhat less then pleased with what she had to work with, and it was
all Rhys could do to remember to keep smiling.
The Yellows had sniffed that she was a bad choice and in a
place like the Borderlands someone who actually knew something about Healing
would be needed. The Browns had rattled off a list of questions that she was to
uncover the answers to in her travels. The Greens had fairly hissed their displeasure
that she was removing a hundred Gaidin from the Tower, but it was the visit
from her fellow Blue sisters that had left her mind in a muddle.
All in all she had a visit from a representative of each
Ajah, baring only the White--it seemed it was illogical to try to influence the
North through her.
Clearly the majority of the Tower was not pleased by her
selection; not that she imagined they would have been truly pleased by any
selection.
Ahead of her the Haran stopped abruptly as the Borderland
clean-up unit approached. "Greetings, and Hail to our King!" cried
the commander, and as one the soldiers dropped to a knee, bowing in the manner
of the Shienaran. The Haran formation parted, and Neotar himself rode out to
greet them.
"Rise," he ordered, his voice not betraying a
single hint of emotion. After a short
hesitation, they all did. "You have done well, soldiers," he said,
turning about and observing the field. He noted the freshly upturned
earth--they had buried their brethren as well as burnt the enemy. "It is a
worthy sacrifice, to fall protecting the White Tower. The Southerners may offer
no thanks, but they live in peace, and thus our struggles are never in
vain."
"Indeed, my King," called back the commander.
"I have never thought for a moment they were." Another brief pause, and
he asked, "If I may inquire, where goes our King?"
Neotar almost smiled. Almost. The Borderlanders fought the
Dark One to give peace to the Southerners, and Asmodean fought the Dark One to
give peace to the Borderlanders; and if not peace, then reason, and hope. It was
for men such as this one that Asmodean had done what he did; or at least so he
told himself. "I go home, my friend," he said. "I return back to
our lands to carry on the everlasting war."
The commander saluted his King proudly, then knelt again.
Neotar saluted him in return, and turned his stallion about, riding back to the
procession. The Bordermen didn't rise until all had passed, but when they did,
the unit stood and the quiet morning air was broken with cries of "Kiserai
ti Neotar!"
In short order the procession reached the Borderland camp,
which was already bustling with activity. Wagons were racing out to the
battlefield to collect the arms of both the enemy and the friendly, and
messengers were being sent to Tar Valon to check on the status of the
casualties and to bury those who hadn't lived through the night. There was also
a good deal of haggard faces and bloodshot eyes--there had obviously been quite
a celebration at the Borderland camp; a celebration somewhat different than the
one Neotar had suffered at Tar Valon.
The Warders paused at the edge of the Borderland camp and
after a brief conversation two of them broke off to follow Rhys, Neotar and the
Haran into the camp: a state of events that surprised Rhys considerably. It seemed
she was to have an escort at all times. Vaguely she wondered whose idea that
had been, before dismissing it as unimportant. There were a hundred Gaidin and
one sister--clearly her safety mattered to them.
When they reached the command tent she gestured for the two
Warders to wait as she followed Neotar inside.
"Well met, Neotar," greeted General Jakope when
they finally entered his command tent, the Saldean's long hair combed and tied
behind him at the neck with a loose thong. He was one man who didn't look any
worse for the wear. He pointedly ignored Rhys Sedai, true to form, and after a
few very brief formalities, they leapt into business. Julan Jakope was never a
man for formalities.
"I need a couple thousand cavalry to accompany me back
to Fal Dara," ordered the King. "I can't have anything happening to
these Gaidin."
"What, you're marching?" asked Jakope incredulously.
"Well the whole bloody *army* will go with you if you're marching-"
"No, I am Traveling. They'll need an escort to the
Blightborder from Fal Dara."
"Bah," grunted Julan. "Let 'em roast in a cook
pot," he grunted, his eyes flickering towards Rhys Sedai. An arrogant smirk touched the General's lips.
Neotar was used to such comments from his most passionate
General, and let it fly. Julan would do as he was ordered, there was no
question of that. The Gaidin would simply need to be acclimated not only to the
cold, but to the Blight itself. For southerners, the Blightborder left such a foul
taste in ones mouth that they vomited just to approach it.
"Indeed they may, as may you, and as may I,"
acknowledged the King with the twitch of an eyebrow. "I trust you have
received your orders?" he asked naturally.
Julan nodded. "Indeed," came the reply. Not a look flashed between them, but the General knew what he had to do.
"Very good," nodded Neotar. "I need the cavalry outside the camp in
twenty minutes."
Twenty minutes. Before the words were completely out of
Neotar's mouth, Rhys excused herself and fairly raced back to the group of
Warders at the edge of the camp. If Neotar intended for her to open a Gateway,
she was going to need to get to know an area of ground fairly quickly.
Dismounting, she tossed her reins to one of the Warders who
had accompanied her and proceeded to embrace Saidar and start pacing. While not
the best display of Aes Sedai serenity, it was the quickest way to learn a
patch of ground, a necessity if she was to open a gateway.
Fortunately, twenty minutes was a very short time to rally a
couple thousand cavalrymen, and it was about forty minutes before all were ready--a
juncture of time that allowed Rhys to not only have learned the ground before
her, but to be back in her saddle and waiting.
Julan had given them three thousand Arafellin cavalrymen,
under command of Magnus Thanson, the young cavalryman who had brought back the
small feast the night before the battle. They rode in strict military
discipline, honored to have been chosen to ride with the King. The Gaidin were mounting
up as well, slipping bits back between their rides' teeth.
Neotar and the Haran would be the first through the Gate,
followed quickly by the Gaidin, the rear taken up by the Arafellin cavalry.
The King turned to Rhys, who was waiting quietly with the
Gaidin. "If you would do the honors, Aes Sedai?" he asked
respectfully, but it wasn't really a question at all.
"Certainly," she replied as she slid back down off
her horse. She may have figured out the basics of riding, but she preferred her
own two feet when she had to do anything that required concentration.
The problem of course was that they were going to need a
fairly large Gateway to transport that many people quickly. Did Neotar realize
that a Sister's Gate was by nature smaller? She hoped so. Still she had every intention
of making as large a Gate as she could safely hold, and that said she began the
weaving. In moments a slash of silver
light appeared, rotating gently to create a gateway large enough for a small
group of mounted men to ride through at any one time. A decent size, to be sure, and she realized she was quite pleased
as the first of the Haran began to ride through.
Neotar passed through to the Borderlands after the Haran,
and was struck instantly by the vicious cold. The North wouldn't be such a
dangerous place were it not for the winds. Yes, it was cold, yes there was
snow, but it was the wind that killed, that blew snow into a man's eyes so he couldn't
see. In an instant Neotar's wide eyes were narrowed into slits, and tears from
the bitter gusts were dripping out of the corners of his eyes. What he could
see was not what he expected.
Ideally the Gate should have taken them to a small clearing
which the Watchmen used when Traveling to Fal Dara. Rhys hadn't gotten it
exactly right, and they ended up near a farmhouse of the elderly once-lord of
Fal Moran--the man who had knelt to King Neotar in the Return. That the Gate hadn't
hit the clearing dead on wasn't strange in itself; Neotar would have been
somewhat suspicious had Rhys nailed the Gate right on the button. What startled
the King was the naked form of the former Lord of Fal Moran nailed against a
tree near his simple farmhouse, a gaping bloody hole between his legs and his
face twisted in a rictus of agony. The face of a brave warrior, a man who stood
against the Dark One his whole life, a man who rode against the Enemy at Tarwin's
Gap countless times. Killed only now,
when he moved to the countryside trusting in the security that Neotar had
brought to the Borderlands. At the man's feet were the decapitated bodies of
his family--all of whom Neotar knew well--and their heads were on posts
surrounding the small farm.
The Haran, all of whom were older veterans who had seen this
sort of thing, were unmoved. Neotar had seen things like it as well; hell, he'd
done it, and worse back when he was under the yoke of the Dark One. The wind
snapped against his face ferociously, and whipped the tears from his eyes,
pulling more out. It was different somehow, and the terrible foreboding the
King had felt in his time in the south came back a hundredfold. The first of
the Gaidin began guiding their mounts through the Gate, and were nearly blown back
through to Tar Valon by the wind. They curled over their mounts, threw their
hoods over their faces, and pushed through.
On the other--and considerably warmer--side of the Gate, a
different pair of men broke off to accompany Rhys Sedai, and the three of them
stood silently waiting as the Tar Valon party crossed, and then the Arafellins,
in a process that took significantly less time then would be expected. When
everyone else was through, Rhys gestured to the two Warders, and still leading
their mounts, they stepped through.
Closing the Gateway, Rhys was suddenly aware of the
environment around her and of the cold. Almost without thinking she pulled her
cloak more tightly around her; not feeling the cold was one thing, but not
letting it touch your body was another. The wind whipped at her cloak and her eyes stung. Light, how did people
deal with this kind of weather? Even
the Haran hunched a little bit lower in their saddles.
Blinking away tears, she suddenly took note of the
environment around her and what she saw made her almost drop her reins in
shock. She smoothed her face again in a matter of moments, but the sight of the
dead man hanging before her made her uneasy. This looked like more then plain
banditry, and clearly it didn't speak well of events to come. Almost as suddenly she became aware of the
flurry of motion around her.
Neotar was galloping back and forth, making wild gestures to
accompany his shouted orders to the Arafellin cavalry. The cavalry was breaking
off into smaller units and riding off in every direction. One of the King's
orders floated towards her.
"Find out what the hell is going on!"
The cavalryman went galloping off, and as the Arafellin were
rallying and flying away on their sturdy mounts, the King himself rode up to
Rhys and the mass of Gaidin who were unconsciously huddling together against
the cold. Neotar leaned in close and
tried to shout something to her, but the sound was whipped off by the wind, and
all she saw was the King opening and closing his mouth. Clearly the King was
quickly growing exasperated. Embracing Saidar, Rhys channeled a tiny tube of
Air reaching from Neotar's mouth to her ear and gestured for him to
continue. His familiar voice suddenly
drowned out the whistling of the wind.
"Thanson's sniffer fainted as soon as he stepped out of
the Gate! Something's afoot, and I
don't know what! We're going straight to Fal Dara! You and the Gaidin come with
me, that's the safest place to be right now!"
Neotar then rode away to order the Haran to do the same.
Snow was whirling about the barren lands; thin flurries, but vicious if they
caught you full in the face. There was little snow as the winter was yet young
but the ground was twinged with frost in its extremities; the sky which should have
been a bright morning, was obscured by ominous storm clouds.
In short order, the fifty-man Haran unit was riding hard for
Fal Dara with the Gaidin following closely behind. When they broke the tree
line, Fal Dara would rise up like a bastion against all evil. Its impregnable
stone walls had only once before been breached by Shadow forces, and it's
entire existence was to ward off attack from the Blight. Neotar would reclaim
the throne from Himilco, and tell everyone about the Lord of Fal Moran's unhappy
demise. It was regrettable, but the culprits were probably already found, or
would be soon.
They just needed to get inside Fal Dara, out of this damned
cold.
***
Magnus Thanson rode at the head of his two hundred man
detachment from the Arafellin cavalry. Neotar had ordered that they find what was going on, in light of the
recent death of the former Lord of Fal Moran. It was an unhappy situation, and all the men had seen it. The Lord had
only just moved to the north, after being reassured of his security under
Neotar's reign. He had hoped that his young son would join the garrison of Fal Dara,
and he wanted to be near the boy. Thanson set his jaw. That was before those
animals got to them.
The question was, was it a surgical strike? Some bastard with a personal vendetta
against the former Lord? Was it the
Shadow? But why did the Dark One give a
damn about the former Lord of Fal Moran? Why him? Or was it a general
offensive by the Enemy? But then why hadn't word gotten south yet? These
questions and hundreds more raced through the mind of Magnus Thanson and the
rest of the Arafellin cavalry as they pounded in every direction to catch the
culprits. It had to have been a recent killing, or Fal Dara would have known
about it and at least buried the bodies.
That was when one of the Eyeless stepped out from the shadow
of a tree, and Magnus was struck cold with terror. The look of the Eyeless is fear. The slimy bastard grinned with thin, pale lips as Thanson's horse reared
in terror and tossed off the terrified Arafellin commander. Before Thanson hit
the ground, he heard behind him his men's wild shouts as they realized they'd
ridden into an ambush. Before he knew it Trollocs were all around, hundreds of
them, and Thanson was cut off from his cavalry, alone and unhorsed. Setting his
jaw he whipped out his blade and with a terrible wordless roar of anger began
the fight for his life.
A few short feet away, the Myrdraal threw its head back and laughed.
Laughed, and laughed, until it could laugh no more.