Gleeman Bob writes : greetings Fanfictioneers! well, it has been a bit more than a year but I have been kind of busy with the Real World, as opposed to the Wheel World, and I put quite a lot of creative effort into He Sleeps Under the Hill as well as some other projects, so sort of burnt myself out a bit as far as the writing goes... the foolish Gleeman has been on hiatus! but now he is back, with a new story to tell. well, I couldn't exactly leave my characters stuck in Madman Land forever, that would be cruel and unusual.
In the Land of the Madmen will be a little different from its predecessor... for one thing, SHORTER CHAPTERS! LESS FLASHBACKS! MORE SEX & VIOLENCE! well, that last one might not necessarily be true, but ItLotM is designed to be a tad more user-friendly than my last extended opus. please R&R... go on! you know you want to!
for those who haven't read HSUtH, there is now a brief summary to catch them up. if you HAVE read HSUtH (and may the Creator bless you for doing so!) then feel free to ignore what lies beneath and move on to Chapter 1 : The Message. Roth's ballad is called 'Message in a Bottle' and this is of course the title of a Police song, which makes him a bit of a plagiarist, but what can you do? Gleemen will be Gleemen, and he has always secretly admired the work of Master Gleeman Sting, so look on it as a homage.
as ever, respect and admiration for the Master of Master Gleemen, James Oliver Rigney Jnr / Robert Jordan. may the Hand of the Creator shelter him. and don't forget to...
...Walk in the Light!
He Sleeps Under the Hill summary
the young Aes Sedai Ellythia Desiama of the Blue Ajah, a Noblewoman of Amadacia, has a rare Talent - she can sense the presence of ter'angreal, even though she does not know what their function is. not much of a Talent, but better than nothing... with her Warder Atual Aendwyn of Far Madding and her friend, Shrinalla Tolamani of the Green Ajah, a feisty young woman from Falme, as well as her Warders Aebel & Blaek, twin brothers from Mayene, she journeys through the Westlands seeking lost ter'angreal with which to fight the Last Battle.
while sheltering in an abandoned stedding in Arafel from a Shadowspawn raiding party, Ellyth senses an ancient and powerful ter'angreal, deliberately hidden there thousands of years ago. it is a flattened crystal sphere - when Spirit is channeled into it, a flashing red light indicates a particular direction. back at the White Tower, her other friend, Rennetta Faltrey of the Brown Ajah and her Sea Folk Warder (and husband) Jabal din Sudim Lionfish, help her to discover that the crystal ter'angreal is the means to finding something hidden at the end of the Age of Legends - this, combined with a vision from Ellyth's test to become Accepted, as well as a reading from Elmindreda Farshaw of Baerlon, convince her that the crystal will lead her to a mysterious man who is also a weapon, someone who might tip the scales of Tarmon Gai'don in the Light's favour.
Ellyth and Atual set off to find their destiny, unaccompanied by Shrina and her twin Warders, who have already left for Illian to become Hunters for the Horn, the finding of which is something of an obsession for the young Green. after falling in with the redoubtable Aes Sedai Cadsuane Melaidhrin and assisting her in capturing the False Dragon Mazrim Taim, Ellyth and Atual are led by the crystal to the desolate and dangerous place on the far west coast known as World's End. unbeknownst to them, they are followed there by a small group of Shaido Aiel, led by one-eyed Cohradin of the Sovin Nai. the Shaido have been sent to the Westlands to find He Who Comes with the Dawn, and Cohradin is convinced that the Aes Sedai will lead them to him.
Ellyth's old enemy, the ancient Darkfriend Wilder Arachnae Kirikil, is aware of her plans and despatches a Shadowspawn horde through the Ways to capture her. in the final fighting, Atual is slain. Ellyth manages to locate a Stasis Box of the Age of Legends, hidden in an ancient Collam, and using the crystal, she wakes the occupant.
he is Sin'aethan Shadar Cor, He who Shields from the Shadows of Night, N'aethan for short. N'aethan is the Last Lightborn, a War-Construct created by the notorious Aes Sedai, Chaime Kufer Mors, to battle against the forces of the Shadow. his two older Brothers were created for the same purpose, both fell in the War. acting on the prompting of prophecy, Chaime sealed N'aethan in a Stasis Box to preserve him from the Breaking of the World, knowing that he would be awakened in time to fight in the Last Battle.
N'aethan has a variety of powers, he is very strong and fast, heals swiftly and, like a Gholam, stands immune to Channeling. after killing a Myrddraal and Draghkar sent to capture Ellyth, the two of them make their way outside, where they encounter the Shaido Aiel. they join forces, in order to fight their way out of the trap that is World's End. escape is impossible however, and they take refuge in an ancient Cenotaph that hides Chaime Kufer's forbidden laboratory. N'aethan is surprised to learn that the Aiel know of him from a children's fable - their name for him is Vron'cor, Nightwatcher. he does not reveal to them the truth concerning the Da'shain Aiel of the Age of Legends and their adherence to the Way of the Leaf. the Shadowspawn horde closes in on them.
fortunately, Shrina and Renn have not been idle in the meantime. both have had their separate adventures; Shrina, Aebel and Blaek have discovered the Horn of T'oph which summons ancient Sages, led by Ghoetam himself, to give advice. she would far rather have found the Horn of Valere, but that is not her destiny. she has also encountered Thaeus, Ellyth's younger brother, who has renounced his rank as a Lord Lieutenant in the Children of Light. he has a dark secret; like his sister he can touch the Source, and has begun to channel involuntarily. meanwhile, Renn and Jabal have travelled through the Ways, seeking the kidnapped girls from the White Tower; Nynaeve, Egwene, Elayne and Min. Renn wishes to bring her old enemy Liandrin to justice for the crime of novice-napping! unfortunately, this does not come to pass and after numerous detours, Renn and Jabal arrive in Falme.
it is here that Shrina, Renn and the Warders are reunited; they have learnt that Ellyth is in danger. with the help of the Sages, they discover her location. Shrina is a Watcher over the Waves, and with the aid of her cantankerous grandfather, they take ship to World's End, where they arrive just in time to rescue Ellyth, N'aethan and the Shaido Aiel. unfortunately, Arachnae Kirikil is a sore loser and uses her great powers to summon an enormous storm, which blows their small ship far to the north, where they are becalmed off the shore of the Blight. on the way they pick up a shipwrecked mariner, the Seanchan Bloodknife Mitsu, whose own vessel was wrecked in the storm.
chased by Sea Folk renegades and Darkfriends, they are run aground on a rock due to the intercession of a traitor in their midst, one of the Shaido who is a Shadowrunner, and murders Shrina's grandfather. Shrina avenges him. they await the end as a Shadowspawn army emerges from the Blight, waiting for the tide to go out so that they can attack the ship. it seems Arachnae's revenge is complete. fortunately, the discovery of a Portal Stone just beneath the receding waves gives them the opportunity to escape. unfortunately, the only other Portal Stone to which they can travel is located in the far south, where N'aethan was born. the whole ship and its occupants are transported to a clearing in the middle of a forest. they set out to explore this strange new land.
in due course, N'aethan, Ellyth and the others arrive at a vast ocean, stretching away to the north. Jabal reveals to them that they have come to the Land of the Madmen, a terrible place where the Breaking never ended and dangerous, insane male channelers abound, in addition to the savage inhabitants who attack strangers on sight. in the confusion, Thaeus takes the opportunity to leave the others, fearing that he will go mad and harm them - he wanders inland to seek his fate. Ellyth sends N'aethan to find him...
it is the nine-hundred and ninety-ninth year of the New Era, and all are aware that the Dragon walks the land again, as he did before, as he will again, World without end.
GB
* I am indebted to long-standing Fanfiction aficionado Syed for his idea concerning Ogier and sung-wood armour. I have used this invention and give full credit to him. I also named Duadh's rude parrot after him! anyway, it was his idea, not mine. blame him, not me!
Kor Paendrag Athan moved soundlessly through the Ghost Forest, four hands of his finest hunters stalking to either side. They were on deep patrol in enemy territory and the dangers were many. In one hand Kor held a heavy war club, fashioned of teak and studded with shark's teeth. In the other, a mark of his status as one of the Blood; a rare steel weapon, a long knife, honed to razor sharpness. The pommel of the blade was solid gold, worn smooth by countless generations of hands clasping the hilt, but the stylised head of some great cat, like the wild felines that lived to the south, could still be made out – though with a mane of hair about the head. Kor did not know what a lion was, anymore than he knew that a distant ancestor of his had taken the knife from the corpse of one of Aldeshar's Golden Lions a thousand years before. He only knew that the blade was sharper than the flint and obsidian weapons favoured by his enemies, the savages and the followers of the Laughing God. Though it would have satisfied him to know that a soldier in the army of the Great Hawkwing had won such a trophy from an Officer in an elite regiment of his foes.
From up ahead came a low whistle and Kor froze, as did his hunters. Blowpipes were raised to lips, javelins hefted. Trisk appeared noiselessly through the brush, her long lance decorated with scalps held low so that it would not snag on any branches. She wore the same buckskin kilt and jerkin as the rest of them, her feet bare. She was his best scout and hence had the dangerous task of going first when they were in hostile territory. But despite the warning whistle, she did not seem wary, though it was hard to tell through the war-paint. If anything, she looked… perplexed.
Kor sheathed his knife and made a hand sign.
'Enemy?'
Trisk shook her head, her dark plaited locks of hair shifting from side to side. She considered a moment, then simply shrugged and beckoned. Clearly, whatever lay ahead, there did not exist a signal for… Kor raised a fist and pumped it in the air twice. As one, his hunters moved silently forward, following in his tracks.
In the clearing up ahead was something that should not have been there. Kor stared at it wordlessly, summoning memories of woodcuts in the rare crumbling tomes that were held back on the Island. They depicted the great ships that had brought his ancestors here. This craft was significantly smaller, he decided… and was in the middle of a clearing in the forest! The clearing that held the Everstone, at that. How had it got here? His hunters also stared. The painted eye on the black ship stared back.
Kor scowled. This was a mystery, and he did not much care for mysteries. It would have to be reported. The High Princess, may she never die, would wish to be informed.
Apat whistled softly. Though not as skilled as Trisk, the youth was still an excellent tracker. He pointed at the clear sign of several pairs of feet heading north, towards the Great Ocean.
Kor nodded. The Hawx would follow. They would solve this mystery.
There's a message in a bottle and it's heading out to sea;
And I'm waiting, yes I'm waiting, for someone to rescue me.
But it's a great big ocean and my chances aren't so fine –
Still, at least before I threw it in I drank the bloody wine!
Message in a Bottle
by Roth Blucha, Gleeman
Chapter One * The Message
Sin'aethan Shadar Cor, he who had once slept under the hill, stalked swiftly and silently through the forest, his strange eyes scanning the mossy ground ahead for the tell-tale signs left by the feet of Ellythia Sedai's wayward brother, Lord Whitecloak. Even without his particular ability to see such things, the slight depressions in the loamy earthy and bent-back ferns would have clearly pointed out the path that the errant young man was taking. Not to mention the places where he had clearly used his sword to hack through the thicker swathes of vegetation.
N'aethan inhaled deeply, relishing the myriad scents of green growing things, so abundant after the grim desolation of World's End. The wind shifted slightly. He frowned, paused and turned.
"I know you are there," N'aethan shouted. "Come out! Show yourself!"
After a moment, the bushes to his rear rustled slightly and Mitsu the Seanchan assassin stepped out on soundless feet. She held the heavy, curved blade that had belonged to High Lord Turak (and a double millennia before him, to the Gaidin Anselan) loosely in both hands, ready to draw and strike at a moment's notice. She was scowling. Not an unusual occurrence.
N'aethan regarded the diminutive woman disapprovingly, but with a trace of respect. She really was very good at sneaking around, as good as the Shaido, but of course, that had made no difference.
"Why do you follow me?" N'aethan demanded.
Mitsu ignored the question. "How did you know I was there, Chami?" she demanded, in turn.
"Stop calling me that!"
"It is what you are. How did-"
"I could smell you. You smell of anchovies!"
"I do not!"
"Do too!"
"You are a liar, Chami!"
"You are an idiot, Anchovy!"
They glared at each other awhile, then N'aethan shrugged his broad shoulders. "Come with me then, though uninvited," he allowed, "but keep up, you will, or leave you to be eaten by the kangaroos, will I!"
Mitsu fell into step with him, eyeing him suspiciously. "What is that?" she hissed, "what you said; a kanga..?"
"Kangaroo. A beast that lives on the plains north of Larcheen. They hop. And eat people who ask too many questions!" N'aethan did not trouble to mention that kangaroos actually ate grass. Let her worry! It served her right for calling him-
"Chami."
"What, Anchovy?"
"Where are we?"
"The Great Southern Continent. Where I was born in the Light, it is."
"You were born in shadows, Chami, like all your foul kind. But the Atha'an Miere Gaidin, he called it-?"
"The Land of the Madmen, yes, I know. It is troubling." N'aethan's brow furrowed. He knew a brave man when he met one and the Warder Jabal Lionfish was obviously not the type to let his fears control him... and yet, his trepidation at their destination was clearly heartfelt. What had happened here? Something bad. They could not retreat via the Portal Stone, the Crone and her Shadowfilth horde would be waiting for them. If they were to survive here, he would need to find some answers. But he had his orders; first he was to seek Ellythia Sedai's missing brother, Thaeus of House Desiama.
The seeking ended abruptly at a wide, fast-flowing stream. Lord Whitecloak's tracks vanished into it, and did not emerge on the other side.
"An old trick, Chami," Mitsu scoffed.
"But a good one, Anchovy," N'aethan pointed out.
After some bickering, they chose to follow the stream east.
They chose wrong.
Ellythia Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah, sat cross-legged on the desolate shore, her dark, unblinking gaze fixed on the waves that lapped fitfully at the sand. The ocean seemed to stretch out forever, and some way beyond it lay the Westlands. Her home. She doubted that she would ever see it again.
"Watcher's Oath! What have we got ourselves into this time?" muttered Shrina. Ellyth glanced at her friend, sat beside her. Her eyes were red-rimmed, she had been crying over her grandfather again.
Ellyth draped a commiserating arm about her shoulders. "We will find a way home, yes?" Sounding more confident than she felt, she added; "surely ships dock here from time to time?"
"No, actually they don't."
They both glanced up. Renn was trudging through the sand towards them, shaking her head, unruly locks of pale hair sweeping across her placid brown eyes. She had been consulting with Jabal, who stood at the edge of the waves, speaking quietly with Aebel and Blaek. All three Warders had their blades drawn. There was no sign of the Aiel... and none either of the Seanchan girl, for that matter. Ellyth frowned. Good riddance!
Shrina regarded Renn as she plumped down beside them in the sand. "What, even the Atha'an Miere? They sail everywhere. Don't they come here?"
Renn continued to shake her head. "Especially not them. Travelling here is forbidden."
Ellyth thought about Jabal's words. 'The Land of the Madmen.' It sounded ominous. More than ominous.
Renn eyed them both soberly. "Apparently, the Breaking never ended here. Perhaps there were too few female Aes Sedai to properly restore order? But all I know is, there are powerful, insane male channelers on the loose, bringing death and destruction to all whom they encounter."
There was silence as they considered this. Shrina broke that silence. She usually did. "Where in the Waves are the bloody Red Ajah when you actually flaming need them?!"
Despite their predicament, Ellyth could not help but smile. Renn chuckled softly. The Warders glanced over at them curiously, frowning. This was hardly a moment for levity!
Ellyth composed herself. "What of the other inhabitants?"
"The less said of them the better," Renn replied. "Savages, who attack strangers on sight."
Ellyth shivered.
Thaeus... and Naythan…please come back safely.
Thaeus of House Desiama, once but no longer a Lord Lieutenant of the Children of Light, squelched through the deep forest, his blade bared and ready. His boots had leaked while he waded west through the shallow stream but the discomfort was worth it if it foiled any pursuit. His doom was his own to follow, and no-one else's. He suspected that his sister would send her unusual Warder, Naythan Shieldman, in pursuit of him… perhaps the Aiel also… well, that would not deter him. He would find a place where he could be alone, where he could do no harm to others. Where he could die in peace.
The smell of roasting meat came on the breeze and Thaeus' stomach growled involuntarily. It had been a long time since he had eaten anything. Cautiously, he pushed his way through the ferns. A clearing lay up ahead, and it was not empty.
Thaeus noticed two things simultaneously. The dozen-or-so people squatting around the fire wore filthy rags and furs, their faces marked with disfiguring scars. And the meat cooking over the fire, arranged on a long spit, was a dismembered human leg. Thaeus felt his gorge rise. One of the savages looked up and noticed him; he shouted something unintelligible to the others. As one, they rose, brandishing crude wooden clubs and flint-tipped spears.
"I have no quarrel with you, good cannibals," Thaeus found himself saying, but they either did not understand or did not care, but charged forward, howling bestial war cries. Flight was not an option – they were too close – so Thaeus slipped into the void and darted forward to meet them, blade raised.
Their weapons were poor and they were untrained but they still outnumbered him thirteen-to-one. Thaeus didn't care. The Courtier Taps the Fan split the skull of the leader, a bearded savage with filed teeth. The Leopard's Caress gutted a snarling woman who lacked a nose. Cataract in the Mountains, and two more savages were down, clutching at their ruined throats. Then, a club smashed into his shoulder and Thaeus dropped his sword. He tried to retrieve it but his attacker, a tall, lean man with a heavily scarred face, raised his weapon to finish him off. As the implement swept down to crack his skull, Thaeus narrowed his eyes – and his opponent burst into flames, screaming. The remaining savages fell back.
"Souvraniene!" one shrieked, and they turned and fled into the forest.
Nursing his wounded shoulder, Thaeus surveyed the scene. The noseless woman was still alive, clutching her spilled intestines and gazing up at him with raw terror from where she lay on the gore soaked ground.
"Who are you foul people?" Thaeus demanded, picking up his sword and wiping it clean awkwardly, as his right arm didn't seem to work properly.
"Souvraniene," she moaned, followed by a string of words in what sounded like a debased version of the Old Tongue. Then, she died, seemingly as much from fear as her wound.
"I'm no Madman," Thaeus muttered, "not yet, at least." He paused. "Then again, I am talking to myself…"
Thaeus left the grisly clearing, heading south towards the line of smoking mountains in the far distance. But before he did, he kicked dirt over the fire and interred the severed leg in a shallow pit that he scraped out with his sword. He hoped the unknown victim of these savages would approve.
The Wet Sands Shaido squatted in the low dunes above the beach, leaning on their spears, their backs resolutely turned towards the vast and disconcerting expanse of salty water that stretched out to the horizon. The sight of it was troubling to them. This was not all that was troubling. As leader, Cohradin tried to put an optimistic cast on things.
"How many algai'd'siswai can claim that they have travelled through a magickal rock at the behest of Aes Sedai, journeyed to a distant land where no Aiel has ever set foot?" he enthused. "Why, I expect that even the Wetlander explorer Jain Farstrider never came to here!"
The others regarded him stonily.
"We are not as you, Cohradin," Chassin pointed out, "we have not your lust for adventure."
"Indeed," agreed Gerom, "we did not voyage to Forbidden Shara as boys."
"Bah!" bahed Cohradin, before turning to Manda. "What say you, Maiden of the Pretty Ringlets?!"
Manda ceased fiddling with her oddly curled hair long enough to direct a baleful stare at Cohradin. "I say that you are a pig," she muttered.
Cohradin made a piggish grunting sound, then glanced at Chassin and Gerom, inviting his Knife-Brothers to share the joke. They were in no mood for jests, however.
Gerom's voice rumbled; "the Sea Folk Warder says we are in a horrible place, where Madmen and savages abound."
"And I thought we were the savages," Cohradin quipped. "The foolish Gleeman, Roth Blucha, often used this word to describe we, the Aiel... at least until I told him not to."
"There is the Gleeman now," commented Chassin, pointing.
The Shaido turned their heads. Clad in the ragged remains of gaudy finery, Roth Blucha was indeed walking toward them through the dunes. He had not seen them yet; their cadin'sor blended in with the sandy surroundings. He looked skinnier than when he had guested at Wet Sands Hold, his hair was longer and he sported an unkempt, narrow beard. In one hand he held his precious harp, in the other, a wine bottle. His colourful Gleeman's cloak fluttered about him in the fitful breeze.
"It is indeed the Gleeman," affirmed Cohradin, "I wonder what he is doing here?"
"Let us ask him," suggested Gerom.
The Shaido rose. Roth Blucha saw them and stared, coming to a halt.
"I see you, Roth Blucha," Cohradin called out, "what do you here, Gleeman?"
Roth ignored the question but stumbled forward, waving his arms. "Not so loud! The savages might hear you…" he considered. "The other savages, I mean… the locals… the natives… they're awful! They kill everything that moves and they eat each other! Why, they're even worse than you lot!"
"How came you here?" Cohradin repeated, with slow persistence, well aware that the Gleeman could be somewhat verbose.
"By ship, of course – how else? It is a long story. I didn't want to come... it was an accident! I was being chased by a homicidal dwarf! Actually, I think I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind. By the by, that glass eye looks horrid, Cohradin, why don't you wear a patch instead?"
"Hello again, Gleeman," said Manda, with a sultry smile.
Roth smiled back at her winningly. "Magda! What happened to your hair?"
Manda scowled ferociously and Roth's smile slipped from his narrow face. "It is Manda, you fool! How many times?!"
"Silence, Maiden," Cohradin snapped, before turning back to the Gleeman. "By ship, say you? Where is this craft? We left ours in the forest."
Roth blinked, mouthed the word 'forest?' and then shrugged. "The ship was wrecked in a storm, only a few of us made it ashore. Our camp is a mile down the beach." He held up the wine bottle, which was tightly corked and empty, but for a scrap of rolled-up parchment, covered in familiar florid scrawl. "I came to launch my latest message out to sea, in hopes of rescue."
"That is foolish, Gleeman!" Cohradin scoffed.
Roth spoke with offended dignity. "It is just my way of contributing," he explained. Then, he shaded his sea-green eyes and peered down at the people on the beach below. "I say, is that Shrina? It is! And her matching Warders… her two Aes Sedai friends… the secret Sea Folk husband too…" He shook his head and laughed softly. "Typical! You come halfway around the bloody world and the first people you meet... why, you know 'em!"
"I do not think he went this way…" N'aethan muttered.
"What was that, Chami? I did not understand you." Mitsu was eyeing him suspiciously, as she usually did.
With a start, N'aethan realised that he had been speaking the High, the Old Tongue as they called it now. This was not all that he realised. A nagging sensation that had been with him ever since his arrival in this strange land. "Be'lal is dead," he stated wonderingly, "the Weaver of Nets is no more… and Ishamael, he too is gone." But he would be back, the Lord of the Grave would see to that. And finally, there was Asmodean, the Dark Composer… he wasn't dead unfortunately, but it felt almost as though he had been severed from the Shadow somehow. "But that is impossible, is it not?" A little like the realisation when he had been awakened from his long sleep in the Stasis Box, N'aethan realised that quite a deal of time must have passed since he entered the arcane corona of the Portal Stone, found himself in tel'aran'rhiod where he spoke with the dead and emerged once more into the World of the Wheel… months, years even. There was more information waiting to trickle into his subconscious… more dead Forsaken, he could only hope.
"Why do you mutter to yourself and look grim, Chami?" Mitsu demanded.
N'aethan ignored her, his eyes scanning the opposite side of the stream from which no footprints emerged. The stream itself had devolved into a small waterfall, replete with slippery rocks… clearly, the young Lord Whitecloak had not descended there. They had chosen the wrong path. Or had they?
N'aethan raised his gaze from the splashing water to a long, low hill that rose from the distant forest. A hill that was not a hill. And he recollected the glimmer message from Father, back in the Cenotaph, the ancient words he had spoken to the Finder of the Key, Ellythia Desiama… and the intricate coded orders he had simultaneously tapped out against his leg. A message meant for N'aethan.
'Go to the Dragon College, my Son. There, will you find answers.'
Cryptic as ever, it was typical of Father… and yet, even after he was long dead, N'aethan found it imperative to obey the ancient Aes Sedai who had created him. And there it lay in the distance, the Collam Aman. Not even the Breaking of the World could destroy that. He would go there and he would find his answers… and then he would go west and locate Ellythia Sedai's missing brother. Father's orders superseded hers, it would seem. And he would prefer to do this alone.
N'aethan turned to Mitsu. "Anchovy, go back to the beach. Tell the others to wait there, they should not venture inland. There are doubtless many dangers."
Mitsu scowled. "I am not your messenger, Chami! I will do as I see fit."
N'aethan narrowed his eyes. "Tell me, have you ever been spanked?"
"As a girl, yes, I was unruly. Why do you ask?"
"Do as I say, or receive the worst spanking of your life!"
Mitsu stared at N'aethan for a long moment, then did something unexpected. She laughed. It was not much of a laugh, admittedly, a curt bark of mirth, but it was still the most human thing he had seen her do, thus far. "You are a fool, Chami, to threaten a Bloodknife. Perhaps I will take you back to Seanchan and present you at Court, that you might entertain the Blood and the Empress, may she live forever, with your antics." She shrugged. "But I will do as you say, this once."
N'aethan nodded. "Good!"
"Where will you go in the meantime, Chami? In case anyone asks…"
"Where else?" N'aethan pointed at the hill that was not a hill. "Home."
Kor Paendrag Athan closed one dark eye and peered with the other through his most prized possession, but for the knife. An ancient telescope, the brass barrels worn smooth as glass by generations of hands, a relic of the great ships that had brought his people here. He crouched in the thick undergrowth atop the hill that overlooked the dunes and the beach, his hunters and scouts hidden to either side, awaiting his orders.
What Kor saw disturbed him. Aes Sedai! Three of them! The legends mentioned the gold rings that they wore, the colour-fringed shawls, though they seemed to lack the ageless faces that were also spoken of. And who but the accursed witches could transport a ship to the middle of a forest? The three men with them wore strange cloaks that shifted their colours, also spoken of in the stories. Warders, then. Gaidin. They looked as though they knew how to use their swords. Kor eyed the valuable weapons with envy. Only the High Princesses' Hawk Guard carried these prized, rare blades. He shifted his gaze from the beach to the dunes. The gaudy fellow in the many hued cloak confused him. He held a harp; a bard, perhaps? And as for the others, with whom he spoke…
His second, Chel, crawled silently up beside him. Wordlessly, Kor passed him the telescope. Chel examined the tall strangers for a long moment, then turned to Kor. 'Aiel?' he mouthed silently, his scarred, painted face holding bemusement, wonder even. Kor nodded curtly. The spears, the long tails of hair, their height… they could be nothing else. All knew the tale of the High King's sole defeat at the hands of these savages. What were they doing here?
Kor's eyes narrowed with resolve. The Aiel were too dangerous to let live, they must be killed, but the others should be taken alive if possible, brought back to the Island to answer questions. The war-canoes were hidden not far to the west, he had already sent a runner to fetch them. It would not be easy, but by the Hawkwing's soul, it could be done.
Roth Blucha, Journeyman Gleeman, could not help but notice that Cohradin was shading his eyes and peering up at the hills above them; he followed his gaze and thought he detected a brief flash of light up there. Though he could not be sure, his eyes had always been rather weak. He had a poor constitution also, and rations had been a bit short of late. The mile walk from the camp had worn him out, but Ysmet was angry with him again about something or other, so he had thought it best to absent himself for a while. And had encountered the same three peculiar Aielmen who had rescued him from the Blight! Not to mention the equally peculiar Aielwoman, who had provided such warm companionship at their horrendous Hold… and down on the beach, Shrina and the others! It certainly was a small world. But despite his ardent attachment to his first love, Roth was in no hurry to be reunited with Shrina. She would doubtless be angry with him for lying to her about Lord Wakime, as well as the rude song. Really, what was it about him that females found so objectionable? He was a reasonable man, was he not?
Cohradin was still scanning the hills.
"What are you looking at, Cohradin?" Roth enquired. With a start, he realised that the big Aielman had his good eye shut and was staring with the red one… Aiel were all mad! Every last one of them!
"There are people up there, Gleeman. They are looking at us."
"How in the Waves can you see them with that glass eye?"
"It is not fashioned of glass, but of something else. A relic of the Age of Legends, it enables me to see far, far indeed." Cohradin adopted a musing tone. "Hmm. Their faces are painted and they carry weapons."
"Painted?" Roth gulped. "Uh-oh! Hawx!"
The Shaido looked at him. "What is 'Hawx' Roth Blucha?" Gerom enquired.
"Bad news! Our guide told us about them. They live on an island to the east, apparently. They come ashore to battle the natives…"
"Who is this guide?" Chassin asked, curiously.
"Oh, he's a local who was driven north in his boat by a storm… some oilfishers from Mayene found him, he was half-dead and had been drinking seawater. He's a useful chap, knows all sorts of things about the Land of the you-know-what's…" Roth considered. "Mind you, he is completely crazy; why, he actually wanted to come back here!"
"They are approaching," Cohradin commented, sounding bored.
Roth pawed at his arm with the hand that was not holding the harp, the message in a bottle lying discarded at his feet. "Then we'd best get out of here!"
The Shaido looked at him again.
"Why?" asked Manda.
"Why? Why do you think? Because they're dangerous!"
Cohradin chuckled softly. "Oh, but so are we! Do you think we fear to dance with these… these…"
"Hawx," supplied Gerom.
"Yes, them. Let the fools come." Cohradin raised his voice; "Shaido of Wet Sands – it is time to wash the spears!" As one, they wrapped their black veils about their faces.
Roth groaned.
"Danger, Shrina!" the Twins shouted at the same time, while Jabal added; "get behind me, wife!" Ellyth whirled around, scrambling to her feet. There were nine men and women advancing on them across the sand, formed into a loose line. Shrina rose, while Renn struggled to see over the shoulder of her protective husband, who had placed himself between her and the enemy.
"Who are they?" Ellyth gasped.
Shrina drew her sword. "I don't know, but they don't exactly look friendly," she muttered.
They certainly did not. They wore jerkins and kilts of buckskin, their feet bare, their hair twined in long braids, and they carried spears and short blades, as well as odd-looking wooden tubes. In addition, their faces were painted in stylised, feathery designs, giving them the aspect of predatory birds. The tallest, clearly their leader, took a step ahead of the others when they were twenty paces away, and called out to them.
Ellyth caught the words 'Aes Sedai' but since the man was speaking the Old Tongue, discerned little else. She glanced at Renn. "What did he say?"
Renn frowned. "It's a very debased dialect and a damned strange accent, but I think he wants us to go with them… if we do not resist, we will not be harmed?"
The tall, severe-looking man nodded. "I speak the Vulgar also, witches," he declared, in a strange, sibilant accent, "though I am of the Blood. You will come with us, your guardians also. Tell them to drop their swords."
Aebel and Blaek growled angrily and Jabal took a step forward. "You want our swords? Come and take them, if you dare," he shouted.
The leader eyed him and something like surprise flickered over his stony, painted face. "Atha'an Miere," he muttered, "this is passing strange…" He raised his voice to an authoritative bellow; "take them!" As one, several of the enemy raised the bamboo tubes to their lips, blowing hard, shooting forth small, feathered darts.
Jabal flicked one from the air with his blade, deflecting it, but another dart struck him in the arm. He staggered, his legs buckling, but with the last of his strength, threw his sword in a deadly spinning arc, directly at the leader – who casually slipped aside, letting the whirling blade go past. It struck the man behind in the chest and he fell back, blood spurting from the wound. Jabal collapsed face-down in the sand and lay still. Renn cried out.
Aebel and Blaek charged the enemy, but only got a few paces before more of the feathered darts struck them and they too fell. Shrina snarled furiously and thunder rumbled ominously above. The attackers turned their attention to the three young Aes Sedai – more darts flew towards them, but Renn raised a hand and the feathered missiles came to an abrupt halt halfway to their targets, before falling to the sand. The tips of the darts were covered with a dark, oily substance.
Renn smiled calmly, though her eyes were on Jabal, lying comatose before her. "If you've hurt my husband, I will-" she began to say and then her eyes widened and she fell forward, a dart protruding from the back of her neck. Ellyth turned; three large, long wooden boats were landing in the surf, more of the predatory attackers disembarking, the bamboo tubes raised to their lips. Two more advanced on Shrina from the front, holding a net between them; she scowled and a jagged fork of lightening spat from the sky, striking them down. Then Shrina gasped and fell back, another dart sticking in her chest.
Ellyth frowned and prepared to summon her fires – but there was a sharp pinprick in her arm, a strong sensation of drowsiness, and then she knew no more.
"I see you, bird-faced ones!" called Cohradin cheerfully, as the line of ten oddly-garbed men and women advanced on the Shaido, brandishing spears, knives and clubs. "I am red-eyed Cohradin of the Sovin Nai. Which of you is leader?"
The biggest enemy, a much-scarred villain with a long lance, spoke up; "I am Chel," he stated, "I lead."
Cohradin found his accent rather strange. He grinned. "Then I shall slay you first," he promised the fellow. The enemy broke into a run, raising their weapons and howling savagely. "Wake them!" Cohradin shouted. The Shaido needed no encouragement to do so. Their opponents were good at the dance, better than the renegade pirates had been – but they had never faced Aiel before. They learned this to their cost.
Cohradin avoided a savage thrust of Chel's lance with alacrity – the fellow was almost as fast as a Myrddraal – then kicked him in the face and plunged his spear into his enemy's chest. Two more came at him from either side – he chopped one in the neck with his knife-hand, a fatal blow, and cut the other's throat with the Sea Folk blade that he had acquired in the Nightwatcher's odd Hold.
"There," Cohradin told the weapon with satisfaction, "now you have been blooded."
"Only a foolish Sovin Nai talks to his dagger," Manda sneered, as she wiped the blood from her spear-point, "do you expect it to talk back?"
Cohradin ignored her and looked around. The four Shaido were still standing. Their enemy were not, but lay littered about their feet in various attitudes of death. Cohradin sighed, and lowered his black veil, as did the others.
Gerom came over, his large hands bloody. "The one called 'Chel' yet lives," he commented, looking down at the leader.
Chassin joined them, wiping his daggers clean. "Not for long," he pointed-out. It was true, blood bubbled from the wound in the big man's chest, which rose and fell raggedly. His gaze was fixed on Cohradin. His lips formed a few soft words in the Old Tongue. Then, he died.
Cohradin felt the strange malaise that sometimes affected him after the Dance of the Spears, and shrugged it off. One day, he knew that it would be him lying there, looking up with fading sight at the one who had killed him. Sulin, most probably. He would not begrudge it. And besides, that day was not this day!
"What did he say?" Cohradin asked Gerom.
Gerom shrugged his massive shoulders. "He was hard to understand. But I think he said; 'I see now why the Hawkwing failed.' Then, he waked from the dream."
"The Hawkwing? What is that supposed to mean?" Cohradin demanded.
"Never mind!" Manda snapped, "there are more of them attacking the Aes Sedai and their Gaidin – see?" They saw.
The Shaido ran down to the beach with their usual ground-eating pace, but by the time they arrived it was all over. The painted enemy were loading the limp forms of Ellythia Desiama and her companions into their strange boats. The Shaido advanced on them. Three of the attackers lay dead on the sand, leaving about thirteen to deal with.
"It is a good day to die!" Cohradin called out, "tell me, strangers, after we have waked you, would you prefer to be buried or burned? What are your funerary customs?"
A tall, severe-looking man turned away from one of the boats. He held a long steel blade with a golden pommel in one hand, and Cohradin noted that he had the Sea Folk Warder's blade tucked through his belt.
"You killed Chel and the others." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.
Cohradin was unsure if it was a question or a statement. "They danced well enough for… for Madlanders," he allowed, generously.
One of the women snarled angrily, raised her javelin and hurled it at Cohradin. He caught the weapon neatly, spun it, then broke it across his knee, dropping the shards to the sand. Another of the enemy raised a long wooden tube to his lips and blew – a feathered dart shot towards Chassin, who caught it casually on his buckler, examined it briefly, then grinned his rare, disturbing grin, the twin scars on his cheeks twisting.
"We can play this game all day," Cohradin pointed-out, feeling bored, "come and face us – there are worse ways to die!" The Shaido pulled up their black veils again and began to drum their spears on their bucklers. They started forward.
"No," said the leader, "I do not think so." He grabbed Ellythia Desiama by the hair, pulling her head up out of the boat, and held his long knife to her throat. "Come no closer or this one dies – they all die!"
Cohradin ceased his advance, as did the other Shaido. "How do we know she is not already dead?" he demanded.
"You don't, savage! But do you wish to take the risk?"
Cohradin frowned. He could see Ellythia Sedai's chest rising and falling slowly, that she and the others were still alive. "It is dishonourable, to kill someone in their sleep," he grumbled.
The leader smiled coldly. "What know you of honour?" he hissed, then shouted something in the Old Tongue. The enemy hastily fell back to the boats, pushing them into the surf, embarking and seizing wooden paddles. The leader was the last to go, standing at the stern, watching the Aiel warily.
"I will see you again, friend," Cohradin promised him. "We shall have words, you and I."
The leader did not answer, but his eyes were cold and held murder.
Cohradin watched as the boats put out to sea and turned, heading east, their occupants paddling hard. Then, he blinked, looked at the others. "Where is the Gleeman?" he wondered.
"He was standing behind me when the strangers attacked," reported Manda. She considered a moment. "I expect that he ran away." The Shaido nodded.
"No I didn't! I'm right here!" complained Roth Blucha, sounding hurt. There was no sign of him, however.
"Where are you, Gleeman? Reveal yourself!" Cohradin barked, in no mood for Roth Blucha's foolishness.
"Oh… sorry. I forgot." There was the sound of a high-pitched note being blown on some kind of pipe, the air nearby shimmered and Roth Blucha appeared out of nowhere. He held his precious harp in one hand, a small round pipe in the other. The wine bottle was tucked through his belt. Manda gasped at his sudden appearance, but the Knife Hands took it in their stride. They were familiar with the Gleeman's strange pipe-ter'angreal, that conferred invisibility on the user.
"You hid yourself whilst we Danced the Spears," Cohradin accused scornfully, "you are a coward Roth Blucha!"
"Am not!" Roth held up his golden harp. "Do you think I'm going to go charging into battle while I'm holding this? Think again, Aielman!"
"You are just making excuses," Cohradin exclaimed.
Roth Blucha adopted a patient tone. "This harp is thousands of years old; they say it belonged to Mangore Kiramin himself!" The Shaido just looked at him. "You don't know who that is, do you?" the Gleeman added, witheringly.
"I do," protested Gerom, mildly. "I have read his translated prophecies. A fine writer."
"Well, yes, but my point is, the harp is worth more than your entire Hold and everything in it! Do you seriously think I'm going to risk it in a fight?"
"Gah!" shouted Cohradin, exasperated, "why does talking to you always make me feel as though I am going mad, Gleeman? You are a big fool! You were a fool when we found you dying in the Blight, you were a fool when you guested at Wet Sands and you are yet a fool now! Fool!"
Roth Blucha ventured an air of offended dignity, then shrugged. "I suppose you'd all better come back to the camp," he suggested, "we need to plan some sort of a rescue and Ysmet is better at planning things than me… well, just about everyone is, to be honest."
"Who is Ysmet?" asked Manda, suspiciously.
"Well, she's the Captain of our ship, the Queen Mab… not that there is a ship anymore… and she's also sort of… well… my wife…"
Cohradin grinned and slapped Roth Blucha on the back, making him stagger. "So, the carefree Gleeman has finally picked up a wreath, eh?"
"Wetlanders do not make bridal wreaths," Gerom pointed-out.
"I know this, my brother! It was a figure of speech."
Roth Blucha was giving them all a funny look, when it was usually the other way around. "There's an Aielman back at the camp, he signed on as crew in Illian… he's a bit strange, quite frankly."
"Strange? How so?" enquired Chassin.
"It's difficult to explain… you'll have to see for yourself."
"So, we are not the first Aiel to visit this strange land," posited Cohradin, frowning. "It is certainly unusual for one of our people to wish to become a sailorman."
"Uh… yes."
"What Clan is he from, Gleeman? Is he of the mighty Shaido, or another, lesser Clan?"
"Um… I think he's a… a Mangonel?"
"That is not an Aiel Clan, Roth Blucha," Gerom corrected him, "that is a type of Wetlands catapult. It is used for siege warfare."
"It is? Oh… I knew I'd heard the name somewhere…"
"The idiotic Gleeman has a problem with names," observed Manda, sneering.
"Well, I don't know! You Aiel have too many Clans, and they all have silly names! Except for the Shaido, of course," Roth added hastily, seeing Cohradin's eyes narrow.
"Perhaps the Gleeman means the Tomanelle?" Chassin suggested, "this sounds similar..."
"Yes, that's the one! Well anyway, the Aielman... he's rather odd. Don't say I didn't warn you."
They set off down the beach, Roth tucking his odd pipe away in a pocket of his patched cloak. He paused. The Shaido stopped walking, looked at him.
"Almost forgot," Roth Blucha exclaimed, tugging the message-bearing wine bottle out of his belt. He took a deep breath, then hurled it into the waves.
"A puny throw," Cohradin commented disparagingly. It was true, the bottle had barely made it out beyond the surf. It bobbed in the seawater.
"It'll do," Roth Blucha muttered. "It'll do."
The line of smoking mountains seemed a little closer, Thaeus had been walking for hours and dusk was falling, but clearly he would not reach his goal that day. He held the ancient blade of his House at the ready, in case he encountered any more savages, though he supposed he could always burn them, as his sister had first immolated a Grey Man assassin beneath the Dome of Truth. That seemed like a very long time ago. His boots had dried out but his stockings still felt rather damp. Finally, exhausted, Thaeus sank down on a log in a clearing and removed both. He inspected his bare feet glumly. It felt as though he had blisters. His wounded shoulder pained him and his head ached, probably as a result of channeling the One Power…
"Hello, handsome. Sore feet?"
Thaeus looked up, startled. The voice was clear, high-pitched and emerged from a strange looking girl who had stepped out from behind a tree, moving with unnerving silence as she approached him. Thaeus' grip on his sword hilt tightened and he rose, examining his interlocutor. She was tall and graceful, shaped like a dancer. A long mane of russet hair swept back from her brow, she had an upturned nose and full lips. She wore a ragged maroon dress with a tooled leather girdle about her slim waist, an ancient-looking bronze knife tucked through it. Her feet were bare, the nails on her toes rather long, her fingers also, coming to points. Her ears also came to points, lying flat against her skull. Her eyes were very pale, almost colourless.
Thaeus said the first thing that came into his head. "You look a bit like a fox!"
The girl threw back her head and laughed, an odd, yipping sound. Her teeth were very white, and rather sharp. "Do I? Do I really? Well, you may have something there…" She ceased her approach and stood a few paces away, regarding him with what seemed like satisfaction.
Thaeus returned the gaze with fascination. He had never seen anyone quite like her. Or had he?
"My name's Feir. What's yours?"
"Lord Thaeus of House Desiama."
"Ooh, impressive! I've never met a Lord before…" The girl – Feir – adopted a quizzical mien. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"What makes you say that?" Thaeus hedged, reluctant to give anything away.
"Because you haven't got ugly scars all over your pretty face and you're not wearing filthy rags!"
Thaeus laughed, but his overriding sense was one of wariness. He suspected that this strange girl was dangerous.
Feir's gaze moved to his sword. "That's a lovely blade. May I look at it?"
"Um…" Thaeus wondered how best to refuse without giving offence. He did not get that far. There was a blur of movement and he found himself lying on his back, winded. Feir stood over him, holding the blade in a two-handed grip. She performed an elegant Heron Wading in the Rushes. Clearly, she was no stranger to swordplay.
"One of the Warmen taught me the sword-forms," Feir explained. "Father didn't know about it, he would have disapproved…"
Thaeus leaned up on his elbows, watching her carefully. He had never seen anyone move so fast. The closest had been when he sparred with Naythan Shieldman…
"This is a fine blade," Feir commented, eyeing it admiringly, "an Officer's weapon if I'm not mistaken, from the War." She executed a Lizard in the Thornbush expertly. "Middle Brother had one like this," she added, wistfully.
Thaeus was not sure, but got the impression that Feir was enjoying talking to him, that it was something she did not get to do very often.
"Power-wrought, of course, or I shouldn't be able to touch it…" Feir glanced at him curiously. "What are you doing down there?"
"You pushed me," Thaeus pointed-out, though not particularly accusingly.
"Oh yes, I did, didn't I? Sorry about that, don't know my own strength…" A long nailed hand was presented to him and Thaeus took it cautiously, was pulled unceremoniously to his feet. Feir returned the sword and Thaeus sheathed it at his back with a single, smooth motion. There was no use brandishing it at the girl, he did not think it would do him any good.
"You're not entirely human, are you?" Thaeus suggested carefully.
"Not entirely, no. But we can't all be perfect." Feir turned her head. "Gholam! You can come out now!"
A slight woman with short, dark hair emerged from the trees. She wore drab trews and a shirt, both a little too large for her, feet equally bare. She had a pale, expressionless face and blank, black, soul-less eyes. She came over to stand beside Feir, staring at Thaeus hungrily.
"Well?" enquired Feir, "what do you think of him, Gholam?"
The woman replied in a soft voice; "I think that I would like to drink all of his blood, Mistress."
"Tsk! Manners!" Feir turned to Thaeus apologetically. "Sorry about the Gholam," she confided, "it is a nasty, rude, uncouth creature."
Thaeus felt like taking a cautious step back, but the log was in the way. He felt like running! Running away from this odd pair, who were both clearly not quite sane.
As though sensing his thoughts, Feir enquired; "by the way, have you begun to go mad yet?" She squinted her strange, pale eyes, pupils narrowing slightly. "You've not been channeling very long, have you milord?"
"Souvraniene," muttered the Gholam.
"How… how did you know?" Thaeus wondered.
"I can sense it." Feir shrugged. "See it, too. It's part of what I was made to do." She licked her lips with a small pink tongue. "Well, it's been lovely talking to you, Thaeus…" The Gholam made an irritable sound, they both moved a pace closer to him, "…but a girl must eat…"
Unbidden, the void claimed Thaeus and he felt saidin flowing into him, sweetness and filth combined. He felt the fires forming – and then, everything seemed to shatter.
"Now, now, none of that!" said Feir impatiently. She seemed to inhale, her pupils dilating, and Thaeus suddenly felt empty. Drained. The saidin was gone, and so was the void. He sat back down on the log, head spinning.
Feir sighed with pleasure. "That was awfully nice… it's been a while…" her eyes narrowed, "but I want more!"
"Stop talking to the food and get on with it!" the Gholam grumbled.
"Shut-up, Gholam. Insolent creature!"
Thaeus looked up at Feir. "You remind me of someone," he muttered. Perhaps it was the madness, but he felt no fear at his predicament. He felt nothing. And knew that he had only moments to save his life.
"I remind you of someone? I rather doubt that. I'm somewhat unique." Feir loomed over him, fingering the bronze blade in her belt. "Who?"
"My sister's Warder, Naythan Shieldman."
"Never heard of him."
"He comes from the Age of Legends, as do you two, I think." Thaeus considered. "The Aiel call him Vron'cor. Nightwatcher."
Feir's eyes widened, with what could only be excitement. "Describe him."
"Of middling height, a muscular frame. White hair, strange cobalt eyes, sharp teeth, never removes his gloves… oh, and his ears are pointed, as are yours. There the resemblance begins and ends."
Feir had a thin gold chain about her neck from which dangled a silver locket. She opened it, crouched lithely before Thaeus, and showed him the picture inside. An old man sitting in a chair, a tall, white haired fellow who resembled a Myrddraal standing to one side, and to the other…
"Yes, that is him, on the left."
Feir laughed her strange laugh and clapped her hands together.
"Can we eat him now?" asked the Gholam.
"No! Go and catch a squirrel or something…"
Muttering angrily to itself, the Gholam disappeared into the forest.
"You know him then?" enquired Thaeus, distantly grateful for the reprieve.
"Oh, only by reputation. We've never met." Feir smiled, a sly smile. "But he is my Brother."
It was getting dark by the time Mitsu returned to the beach, but a bright, full moon overhead gave her light enough to see by. To see the three strangely-attired corpses, the discarded weapons, the unmistakeable signs of a battle in the sand. The Aes Sedai, their Gaidin, the Aiel also… all were gone. What had happened here? Two of the dead looked scorched, she had seen corpses that looked like that before, back in Seanchan. The damane sometimes used lightning in battle so she supposed one of the marath'damane had done likewise. The third body had a deep wound in his chest, the eyes wide and staring. Mitsu began to turn away with disinterest, then turned back, thinking she had seen something. She kicked the dead man's arm and it flopped over. There, on the bicep, a stylised tattoo of a hawk. Mitsu rolled up her left sleeve, exposing an almost identical tattoo. She had got it when she joined the Fists of Heaven, a long time ago.
"Strange," Mitsu muttered.
It was dim and murky beneath the trees, moonlight occasionally flickering through the leaves, but of course, N'aethan could see perfectly well. If he walked all night, he thought he would reach the Collam Aman by daybreak. He felt vaguely guilty to be making this unauthorised detour, but excited also – he was going home! But other things were occupying his mind at present.
"Rahvin…" he muttered, in the High. He was convinced that he too was dead. One less evil reprobate to have to worry about... Perhaps it was the work of the Dragon Reborn, but the Forsaken were dropping like flies! This was a good thing… but Balthamel and worse, Aginor, evil old Grandfather… they were certainly back, courtesy of the Lord of the Grave. This was not so good. It was not fair! The dead should stay dead. Typical of the vile Dark One to break the rules. What a cheat! And as for Asmodean… he was definitely dead too, probably killed by one of the other Forsaken. N'aethan had always taken a guilty pleasure in the man's music, though it could be rather morbid. Hardly surprising, really, given the provenance of the composer.
N'aethan hoped that he could pick up Lord Whitecloak's trail again, once Father's orders had been complied with. He was sure he could. He hoped equally that Ellythia Sedai would not be angry with him, for neglecting her brother's whereabouts. But if she was, well, he could think of several interesting and diverting ways to assuage her anger!
N'aethan smiled, recollecting their pleasant tryst. She was so beautiful, so tender, so… Abruptly, N'aethan slowed for a dozen paces and then finally stopped walking as an unfamiliar sensation swept through him, something that he had not felt in a long time. It took him a moment to correctly identify it.
"I am in a stedding," N'aethan remarked, wonderingly.
"Yes, you are," boomed a deep voice, speaking the Old Tongue. An Ogier stepped out of the trees ahead of him. N'aethan stared. Quite the biggest Ogier he had ever seen… his eyebrows and beard were trimmed short and he wore a helmet and armour unmistakeably fashioned of sung-wood. He held an enormous axe in his massive hands, looked extremely formidable. "Do you not know that it is death to come here, human?" the Ogier asked.
"But I'm not-" N'aethan began to say, then sensed someone behind him. He whirled round, half drawing his sword, but it was too late – something heavy crashed into his skull and darkness claimed him.