In the Land of the Madmen

by Bob G. Leeman

the sequel to He Sleeps Under the Hill, featuring the continuing adventures of N'aethan, Ellyth and their companions after they are stranded... in the Land of the Madmen! Chapter 12 : Prisoners of Larcheen, in which; the Lightborn, Gen and Roth Blucha, Gleeman, reach the Midnight City / The Breaker is revealed to the captive Aes Sedai / Flashback: 'The Death of Lord Ingtar.' R&R

11. Chapter 9 : The Battle

Gleeman Bob writes: the previous chapter was titled 'The Bottle' while this chapter is titled 'The Battle.' see what the Gleeman did there? changed the O to an A! less typing for his poor tired fingers! perhaps the next chapter will be titled 'The Rattle' and will feature Gen annoying everyone with the loudness & persistence of his maracas! but no, that would be foolish... Chapter Nine is admittedly a bit on the long side, I tried to keep it as brief as possible but a simple beach skirmish ultimately assumed Waterloo-like dimensions! I wanted to do the subject matter justice, since I feel I skimped on the nautical engagement at the end of HSUtH... I was a bit lacking in inspiration for that one, I concede.

but it is not easy to describe a complex series of events experienced by various characters in 1,000 words or less! I have split the chapter into three Acts for easier consumption... though there is a lengthy flashback at the end of Act One that has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH THE PLOT so feel free to skip it if you want to stay with the action. or just stay sane? I had to include the recollection, since it describes from a differing perspective one of the (in this Gleeman's humble opinion) best bits of narrative from the best Wheel of Time book, The Shadow Rising... the deposing of Siuan Sanche from the Amyrlin Seat, as flashbacked by Rashiel Sedai, notorious Trollop of the Tower! I promise that there will be no further Rashiel flashbackery, but I wanted to explain how & why she, Dagnon and Raab fled Tar Valon & signed-on for a mysterious sea-voyage to the Antipodes. in the interests of brevity I did make some cuts (I will post the compelling details of Soorla's marriage plans at the end of ItLotM...) & that is all I have to say about that...

YMILLA! the keen observer will note that there has been a name-change! since they have not met until now, it did not occur to me that Ymilla & Ysmet had rather similar names... in retrospect, it was foolish of the Gleeman to create two characters who were both called something that began with a Y pronounced as an I, but there it is. anyway, Ymilla will henceforth be known as... Irmilla! & I have instructed my Editing Zomara to change the name in all previous chapters where the naughty Darkfriend Apprentice puts in an appearance, to avoid confusion. a useful Spawn of the Shadow, that Zomara... I just wish it wouldn't keep staring at me in a funny way... it is distinctly unnerving...

Walk in the Light!

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RIP Ursula le Guin... while I was scribbling this interminable chapter, a great writer of speculative fiction passed away. Master Gleewoman le Guin was the last author of a legendary generation that preceded Robert Jordan's hegemony, the members of which included Arthur C Clarke, Isaac Asimov, Frank Herbert and Anne McCaffrey... she will be sorely missed, as are they. coincidentally, I was reading Tehanu, the fourth book of Earthsea, when I heard the sad news. I am embarrassed to admit that I am STILL reading it, even though it isn't that long... well, I have been busy with my own creations, I hope that she would understand...

the Light shine on you and the Creator shelter you, Ursula le Guin, the last embrace of the Mother welcome you home.

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Jebedah Chul Simanon; Master Gleeman, intrepid explorer and profoundly doomed male-channeler, paused when he reached the top of the cliff, breathing heavily. Weeks spent cooped-up aboard the Windrunner had left him ill-equipped to walk long distances, particularly when those distances included steep slopes. Jeb pulled the black kerchief from about his neck, revealing the bronze torc beneath which he never removed, and then used the silken scarf to wipe the perspiration from his face and brow. It was accursed humid here, wherever here was…

Reluctantly Jeb turned, compelled to look, bright blue eyes in a sun-scorched face scanning the vast ocean at his back, stretching away to the north. At first, he could not see the Windrunner, but shifting his gaze further out toward the horizon revealed a dark speck in the far distance, a three-masted Sea Folk Raker, hull down and all sails spread, a trail of white, frothy wake extending landwards from the stern.

Jeb frowned, trying not to feel too resentful about the way things had turned out… the Atha'an Miere had wasted little time in raising anchor and setting sail, heading back out to sea as fast as ever they were able, leaving this forbidding, insane land behind like some unpleasant memory. Jeb sighed, feeling one of his black moods settling heavily upon him. Leaving him behind, also. Well, the Westlands had proved too hot for him; implacable Red Ajah hunters on the one hand, vengeful Darkfriend assassins on the other… some days, it had seemed that everyone was out to get him! His miserable existence had truly become the epitome of paranoia… but then, he had made a lot of enemies over the years. Still, his fervent wish comprised travel to somewhere else, did it not? To a faraway place where the name 'Simanon' was unknown? But not here… never to here.

A last regretful stare at the fleeing Raker and Jeb shifted his gaze to the beach below, the ill-omened site where they had made landfall and set up camp. Various fires were yet burning fitfully down there, wisps of oily smoke rising into the evening sky. The tents and stores were still aflame, a particularly large blaze off to the west where stacks of trade-goods, mostly bolts of silks and satins, had been set afire also. Jeb groaned softly, shaking his head slowly back and forth. He had not done all of that… just most of it. At the height of the fighting, he had got a little carried away, he was forced to admit. And amongst the smouldering flames; the bodies… twisted, charred corpses for the most part, interspersed with bloody cadavers marred with the marks of violence. No few of the dead were Sea Folk; the men bare-chested, the women clad in colourful blouses, all garbed in the loose, comfortable trews that the Takana wore aboard ship and land alike…

Jeb was wearing a pair of these himself. Along with his linen, laced shirt, scuffed boots, Gleeman's patched cloak, lute and the three ter'angreal gifted him by the accursed Foxes, these were the sole items that he possessed, all that he had to his name…

"Except my talent!" Jeb added, then threw back his head, laughing long and loud. The laughter had an unhinged quality to it. His stocktaking and personal mirth done with, his eyes returned to the shore and its burnt bodies… the rest of the dead down there, mostly his work, were the locals, the natives. Some had arrived from the east at dawn, claiming that they wanted to trade with the Atha'an Miere… then later, without warning, many more of the savages had attacked from the forest. They had been led by a pair of wild-eyed women who could both channel, but were certainly not Aes Sedai… and then, in the midst of the desperate battle, a lone, rotting Madman had come wandering along the beach to see what all the commotion was about. At this point, things had got really interesting… though not in a good way.

Jeb did not trouble to search for the remains of the deadly Souvraniene since there were none… the insane, decaying lunatic had rather messily exploded at the culmination of their mutual test of wills and strength in the Power. Jeb winced at the memory… that could well have been him violently disintegrating into a cloud of bloody mist; his opponent had been strong, very strong. Without the additional saidin from his Well-ter'angreal, he would like have not prevailed in the duel. If the rest of this chaotic land's psychotic male-channelers were anything like that one, Jeb knew that he was in trouble. A depressingly familiar state of affairs…

"At least I yet have my genius!" Jeb quipped, then laughed again. This time, it took real effort to force himself to stop. Jeb frowned, concerned. Of late, he had been doing that far too much; speaking to himself and then reacting with exaggerated mirth to remarks that were not even particularly amusing. It was the Dark One's Taint at work, it must be… he had never had much of a firm hold on sanity, of course, but now he was clearly starting to go mad in earnest. Would he end like that Souvraniene he had faced in a desperate battle of saidin-fuelled power; garbed in filthy rags, his face rotting off, burbling archaic nonsense that betrayed the fact that he had lost all touch with reality?

Jeb blinked, realising something. Yes, of course… the Madman had been speaking the Old Tongue, had he not? So had the natives, clad in rough furs and leathers, crudely tattooed, their teeth filed to points… all of them had conversed in a debased dialect of what sounded a bit like the High Chant. So presumably, they did not use the Vulgar speech here… this land must have been cut off from the rest of the world for quite some time, perhaps ever since the Breaking. Jeb's eyes narrowed. Certainly, that must be it… the Breaking of the World, which had ended everywhere else some twenty-five hundred years ago, had not come to any sort of inevitable conclusion here, in this dread place. Clearly, this lost land had never recovered from the effects of extremely dangerous, enormously powerful, insane male-channelers running amok. Here, the Breaking was alive and well and going on all around him. And if he did not do something drastic, and soon, then he would end by only adding to the chaos… instead of Jebedah Chul Simanon, Master Gleeman, there would be just another psychopathic Souvraniene wandering aimlessly, destroying everything that moved and much that didn't.

"Over my dead body!" Jeb growled, then laughed again as he saw the morbidly funny side of this statement, laughing for quite some time. When he eventually came back to his senses, Jeb noted with a feeling of abandonment that the Sea Folk Raker that had brought him here had now passed beyond the limits of the horizon. The Windrunner was gone, and would not be coming back. He misdoubted that any of the Atha'an Miere would venture to this land of evil aspect again, given the far-from friendly reception that they had received. Which was a sorry state of affairs for him, since he was in consequence marooned here. His own fault, really, for getting involved in a fight that was none of his affair, but the savages, the Witches, the Madman… he had saved the surviving Clan Takana crew from them all, but in so doing, had misfortunately revealed the fact that he could channel the One Power. And also, which was worse, that in his current weakened condition, was not above losing control of the great forces that burned within his meagre frame.

Jeb stared at one Sea Folk corpse in particular, down by the tide-line. Korena din Sudim Breaking Wave lay on her back in a pool of her own blood, the broken-off haft of a flint-tipped spear projecting from her chest, sightless eyes staring up at the darkening sky. Jeb's gaze held vague regret; he had not particularly liked the Sailmistress of the Windrunner, she had been far from a likeable person, after all. But he had respected her abilities, the effortlessly capable way that she exerted control over her ship and crew. Had Korena survived the attack by the channelers and savages, she might well have let him come back aboard, carried him away from this terrible land, since he had used his powers to defeat her Clan's enemy… she had been harsh, but fair with it, a little like Davian. But Korena called-Breaking Wave had taken a mortal spear thrust whilst holding off a mob of the natives, buying time for more of her people to escape into the boats… and her eldest daughter, Doretta din Sudim Whirlpool, the new Sailmistress, had made it quite clear that Jeb, in his capacity as a dangerously unhinged male-channeler, would not be permitted back aboard the Windrunner.

Jeb supposed that he could have killed the odious siren, the surviving Atha'an Miere crew also, if need be… but then, who would have sailed the ship? He certainly could not have handled the management of an entire Sea Folk Raker on his own… and besides, he had been too weary from his exertions in the battle to do more than give the scowling Doretta a withering look, then turn and trudge slowly away up the beach. In hindsight, he considered himself fortunate to not have received a knife in the back. So, they had gone their separate ways, the Takana and he… Jeb had considered making a funerary pyre for Korena and the other Atha'an Miere dead, but it would have taken too long; he needed to put some distance between himself and the site of the fighting, in case further Souvraniene were attracted by the turmoil and came to investigate. Dealing with just one Madman had been hard enough, he certainly had no wish to face another so soon after the first duel of Power.

Jeb took a last, long look at the Great Southern Ocean, prior to turning away and heading inland. To find what? He had no idea… food and a bed would be a good start, though. And after that? "What in the bloody burning Pit am I supposed to do now?" Jeb wondered loudly to himself, his plaintive voice piercing the silence.

"Cease speaking to thyself, fool! Why, tis a very sign of madness!"

The voice was cultured and cruel, spoke the Old Tongue with a pronounced Shiotan accent. Even before Jeb whirled around to gape in amazed terror at the one who so contemptuously derided him, he clearly recognised the speaker… no-one else talked like that.

A tall figure stood in the gloom beneath the trees, shrouded in shadows. The only details that Jeb could discern were the piercing, violet-tinged eyes which watched him intently from within the dark cowl of a voluminous cloak. No-one else had eyes like that either…

"Davian!" Jeb gasped, "is it you?!"

"Of course it is I, imbecile! Who else?" The hidden head shook back and forth, disapprovingly. "And speak not the Vulgar, it displeases me!"

"Sorry," Jeb apologised in the Old Tongue, feeling a profound sense of unreality about the situation. "Force of habit…" He blinked. "Um… Davian… my Dragon King… you are dead, are you not?"

"Naturally I am dead," confirmed the shadowy shade of the False Dragon, Davian. "Very dead, in point of fact. Lord Nuriel stabbed me in the heart with a poisoned blade and then twisted it uncommon viciously. One cannot get much more dead than that."

"No, I would suppose not…" Jeb concurred absently, summoning an image of Lord Nuriel in his mind… a quiet, bookish fellow, for all that he had been one of the more powerful channelers amongst the Dragonsworn… "I am much surprised to hear that it was Nuriel," Jeb muttered, "I thought it would have like been Haavane…"

The shade of Davian shook his head once more. "Not so. Lord Haavane remained surprisingly loyal to my memory until the very end. Even after the Tar Valon witches severed him from the Power, he was still shouting my praises as the grim White Tower Gaidin dragged him to the headsman's block. General Comadrin was there to observe the execution, curse him…"

Jeb scowled. Lord-General Madoc Comadrin had been the only military leader to overcome the Dragon King in open battle, commanding the coalition that drove Davian's forces back from the fortified borders of Moreina. This failed invasion had been the beginning of the end for the People of the Dragon and their King. Though of course, the meddling Aes Sedai had a prominent role in their defeat as well.

The apparition of the dead False Dragon shrugged bony shoulders. "But yes, I grant you that I also was taken aback when Lord Nuriel assassinated me… I did not think that the treacherous little cur had it in him."

"You never can tell about people, can you?" Jeb commented.

"Indeed not."

"I have gone insane, haven't I?" Jeb observed, fatalistically, "you are not really there, are you Davian? I am imagining this conversation."

A hollow, chuckling sound emerged from the dark hood. "Trust me, good Jeb, your imagination was never that fertile!"

"Am I dead too?" Jeb moaned, sinking to his knees in despair.

The shadowy figure made a gusty, sighing sound. "Be not so dramatic! You are quite alive, in truth."

"But you aren't! How is it that you can converse with me, Davian? That you can appear in my presence, somewhat insubstantial though you be…"

"There is dead… and there is dead."

"Oh…"

"You do not comprehend, do you?"

"Not really, my King…"

Davian's shade adopted a lecturing tone; "I have come to appreciate that death takes many forms. This particular apparition that manifests before you is merely a representation of me, a faded memory of the man I once was."

"I can see the tree through you!" Jeb declared.

"Perceptive as ever, good Jeb."

"Sarcastic as ever, good Davian!"

The shade of the deceased Dragon King laughed again, a deathly sound, naturally. "I have missed your sly wit, my friend, and much else of the living world I once knew." Again, he sighed. "Ah, me…"

"What is it like, being dead?" Jeb asked, "your kind of dead, at least?"

"I may not tell you, Jebedah… there are strictures to the contact betwixt alive and deceased, rules to be observed, bounds from which one may not stray… though in this place, those barriers are thin, insubstantial, and may be crossed after a fashion…" Davian's shade straightened, looming within the shadows, the cold voice carrying a note of urgency; "but time is short… I have advice for you, good Jeb, will you heed it?"

"Of course, my King… you ne'er failed to give good counsel in life, why should you now in-"

"Yes, yes," snapped the shade of Davian impatiently, "now listen; you were gifted thrice by the Eelfinn, were you not?"

"You know that I was, Davian. Did I not tell you of my venture within the Tower of Ghenjei?"

"That you did, although I assumed the tale to be mostly exaggerated nonsense. Well, good Jeb, I have three gifts for you also… they are not mine to give, exactly, but their owner shall raise no objection." Once more, the hollow laugh. "You yet have a part to play, for good or ill, and Fate is not done with you. These boons will preserve you in the times to come."

Jeb listened carefully to the directives he was then given; where he should go, what he should do when he got there… and how to avoid the peril that had beset all others who had made that same journey.

"Thank you, my King Dragon," Jeb said in farewell as the shade of his former Overlord began to dissipate into the gloom. Impulsively, he called out; "was it worth it, Davian? Raising your Banner, gathering the People of the Dragon to your cause… would you do it again, had you the chance?"

"Of course I would!" whispered the fading voice of Davian, "though no, it certainly was not worth it. But remember, Jebedah Chul Simanon; you and I, we are Men of Fire… we walk the path of flame while the World burns around us. Ever has it been thus, and ever will it be, so long as the Wheel turns." Then, he was gone. Gone to wherever it was that the False Dragons of Legend went, when their time was done.

Jeb considered these final, fleeting words of Davian. "Perhaps the Wheel is to blame for my predicament?" he mused, adding speculatively; "mayhap it behoves me to stop the accursed Wheel of Time from turning, to put a final end to the implacable tyranny of Fate?" On this occasion, the insane laughter lasted for a very long time…

A week later, and Jeb was in a bad way. In the course of his seven day journey – he still thought of it as that, though the Sea Folk had told him that a week now amounted to ten days – he had encountered savages, cannibals, wild beasts, Witches… and another Madman. All had sought to kill him, at least two on the list presumably wishing to eat him into the bargain… and Jeb had responded by destroying them all. He was not a particularly violent man, but the important requirements of self-preservation always served to bring out his dark side, the deadlier aspects of his ruthless nature.

The channeling was beginning to take its toll, however… each time Jeb now seized saidin proved a greater and more intense struggle to retain control, to not be swept away into the maelstrom of the One Power. His torc-ter'angreal was proving less effective with each passing day, and the bouts of eccentric and unhinged behaviour were growing steadily more pronounced. Jeb clearly did not have long left… soon, he would be little different from the noseless villain who had sought to burn him with weaves of Fire at a ford in the river that he had needed to cross. The unkempt Souvraniene had been chewing on something that looked like a dried fig, but on later examination proved to be a human ear.

The Madman had stationed himself there on the bank of the deep and fast-flowing stream, naming himself the 'River God' and refusing to let Jeb pass without a fight. Well, they had fought long, leaving scores of felled trees about the battlefield and the river's course inexorably changed… and Jeb had ultimately prevailed, though at the cost of yet more of what remained of his sanity.

These deadly encounters were not the worst of it, however… Jeb had seen things that sickened him deeply, and he had a strong stomach for carnage and cruelty. Bordering a forest; a long row of severed heads impaled on wooden stakes, all men, though some had been little more than boys. Each twisted face was crudely tattooed, each gaping mouth contained teeth filed to points. A couple of day's later, Jeb came upon a great pile of splintered human bones, the grinning skulls set atop it, left to bleach in the hot sun. And he had spent the previous night in a deserted village, sleeping fitfully on the dirt floor of a rude, mud hut. In the morning, he had discovered why the settlement was empty of its inhabitants… going down to the brook to wash, he had found the missing villagers; men, women and children, their dismembered corpses thrown into a shallow pit and left to rot.

Why such acts had been committed made little sense to Jeb, in a way it was worse than the massacres perpetrated by the Shadow, which however vile, at least had some evil purpose to them. Trollocs needed to be fed, Myrddraal needed to indulge their taste for cruelty, Darkfriends needed to set vicious examples to those who remained loyal to the Light, refusing to swear fealty to the Dark One. But here, these abominations that had been enacted by unknown perpetrators, these abhorrent crimes and others even fouler that he did not care to think on… there seemed to be absolutely no motive for them. This unknown land was a terrible place, where nightmarish events occurred for no other reason than that they could. It seemed to be the only explanation, eminently dissatisfactory though it was.

Jeb had found a small sack of withered apples in the empty village, some roasted corn also. This was enough for him to subsist on for the time being. There had been several strips of dried meat hanging on a wooden rack also, but since he could not be entirely sure what – or who – the cured flesh had come from, had left it for the scavenging of the strange-looking wild dogs that loitered in the vicinity.

The going was slow, but not without a destination in mind, Davian had been quite clear about that. Jeb frowned. If it had even been Davian's shade that addressed him, and not some hallucination, a figment of his addled mind. But it had certainly sounded like Davian, had said the sort of things that his Dragon King used to say… well, time would tell. He must be getting close now.

At the summit of a long slope, Jeb stood gazing down at the expanse of dark forest below. Or more particularly, at the smooth, round, artificial hill that arose amidst the centre of the looming trees, surrounded by a clear space, paved in dark stone. That which Davian's unquiet shade had told him to seek… and now, found. Jeb scratched fitfully at his fair stubble – with the departure of the Windrunner his access to a razor had departed also – then took several deep breaths, waiting for his respiration to settle after the tiring slog up to his current vantage.

"Now for the hard part," Jeb muttered eventually, and began to make his footsore way down toward the waiting forest below, patched cloak flapping about him, a cautious hand on the hilt of his dark, jagged blade, lute slung upon his back.

Beneath the trees it was still and silent… far too quiet, in fact, the other stretches of forest through which Jeb had journeyed had been alive with bird calls, the song of exotic species that he did not recognise. Not so here… before he had ventured far along the ancient, obsidian-flagged path that wound through the woods, shattered statues set at intervals, Jeb became convinced that he was being watched; and not by friendly eyes, either. The dark forest held a malevolent presence, antipathetical to any intruder, he was sure of it. But then, he had been warned… it was what he was expecting. Dreading, also. But there was nowhere else for him to go, no other plans to preserve both life and sanity had presented themselves.

A flash of rapid movement in the corner of Jeb's eye and he turned, staring suspiciously into the gloom that lurked beneath the tall trees. Nothing there. He moved on. Moments later, a blur as something pallid sped through the forest, this time to the other side of the path. Jeb drew his blade, crouching, but no attack came. The sensation of hostile eyes upon him remained, increased if anything. Jeb shrugged, and continued on his way, though he did not sheath the knife. As an added precaution, he partially drained his Well-ter'angreal, filling himself with comforting, sickening saidin. Ignoring the occasional half-seen glimpses of white shapes flickering amongst the trees, knowing that they would not be there when he looked directly at them, Jeb strode rapidly along the winding path toward his destination, doing his best to prevent fear from controlling him. It was difficult though, to not let instinct take over and flee in panic from this dread place… he was, after all, being stalked.

Jeb heard it before he saw it… a wet chewing sound, the noise of something masticating something else, breaking the uncanny silence of the dark forest. He rounded a corner and beheld the statue of a fox, a serpent coiled about it, rendered in pitted elstone. This was not what claimed his attention, however. A man-sized creature was hunched before the carving, its curved back toward him, paper white skin stretched over a knobbly spine. It was gaunt, naked, and clearly not human… though not exactly animal, either. Something in-between, like a Trolloc, only worse. Much worse. Pointed ears arose to either side of its hairless skull… no, not entirely bald, a thin stripe of russet hair extended back from its brow, falling part-way down its elongated back. Its limbs were long, it would be tall standing, though at the moment was crouching in a feral posture, hands raised to its mouth. Feeding.

Jeb really did not want the creature to turn around and reveal more of itself, he had seen quite enough of it already. Perhaps there was an alternate route to the dome at the forest's centre? One that avoided encountering this fell creature, or its ilk? Jeb took a cautious step back… and trod upon a dry twig, which snapped loudly. The creature's ears twitched and its head jerked up, turning upon a long, white neck, to fix Jeb with large, pale eyes.

"Light!" Jeb gasped, a word he did not oft use.

The creature had a narrow face tapering down past a vestigial nose with just slits for nostrils, descending to a distended mouth and jaw, a muzzle filled with sharp teeth, the pallid skin of its lips and chin bloody. Jeb could not help but notice that it clutched in its pale hands a lump of dark meat that looked like a partially-consumed liver. Whose liver? he wondered distantly. It was a moot point; the creature dropped its fleshy supper carelessly to the ground and advanced on Jeb, stalking forward, moving on all fours, long fingers tipped with sharp claws splayed on the flagstones. Its disturbing gaze held his, and it made a soft, snarling noise.

"What in the Pit are you?" Jeb whispered, horrified.

By way of a response, the creature threw back its head and made a loud, yipping noise. Answering yips and other bestial calls erupted from deep within the trees to either side, and from behind as well. Clearly, retreat or diversion were not viable options… Jeb would have to go forward, to escape this dread situation. The trouble was, the horrific creature crouched between him and his goal. Well, that was likely not a problem, Jeb had always had a short way with obstacles to his progress… he raised a hand, narrowing his eyes at the creature, which paused its stalking approach, waiting.

"Time to die," Jeb told the monster in the Old Tongue, and cast a fireball. Or at least, he tried to. Something disrupted the weaves, and they fell apart even as they formed. The creature's pale eyes widened slightly, pupils expanding, as though it could actually see the flows of saidin… it inhaled slowly, diagonal nostril slits flaring, then did something truly disturbing. It smiled. Though its distended mouth was not made for such expressions, it yet managed to smile slyly at him. It was this mocking gesture, combined with the white skin, colourless eyes and russet hair that confirmed a nagging suspicion which had preyed upon Jeb ever since seeing the creature – and how he wished that he had not! "Eelfinn?" he gasped, wonderingly.

At which the creature flinched slightly, a shadow of fear in its pale eyes, then shook its head in negation, the thin mane of hair twitching against its bony shoulders. "Nnott Eelffinn," it growled harshly, in what was barely recognisable as an ancient form of the High Chant. It hesitated, as though searching for words with its bestial mind, then jabbed a thumb-claw at its chest, indicating itself. "Ffoxx… Ddaemmonn!"

Jeb's mouth dropped open, his arm falling limply to his side. He yet held saidin, but clearly, it would do him little good against this monstrosity. The creature – the Fox Daemon! – resumed its slyly savage smile, creeping closer to Jeb in predatory fashion. More of the yipping sounds arose from the forest all around, sounding closer.

"Ttimme tto ddie, Mmaddmmann!" the creature snarled, preparing to pounce.

But Jeb, despite his shock at being addressed by this monstrous aberration, in his own words no less, had not lived to be ninety-three by letting the unexpected get the better of him. He had ever been quick-witted, and possessed the advantage of experience. He had been to Sindhol, and had lived to tell of it, albeit barely. Jeb channeled, exhausting the remaining saidin in his Well, though not casting the weaves directly at the creature this time, but into the air high above his head. A bright sphere of light bloomed, fierce white flames dancing within – and the creature shrieked in horrified anguish, covering its eyes with malformed hands and cowering away from the terrible, burning orb. Jeb promptly stepped up and kicked it hard in its hollow chest, and as the monstrosity rolled back, slipped forward to neatly slash it across its white-skinned throat with his jagged blade. Dark blood gouted from the deep wound, a substance like steam rising from the splattering gore, but Jeb did not linger to admire his handiwork. By this, he was running hard down the path.

Angry, yipping cries rose from the forest to either side as Jeb ran, getting nearer as the hunters pursued their prey. Jeb was unsure how many of these vile fox-creatures there were in the trees, but it sounded like a lot. A man's body lay across the path ahead of him, Jeb leapt over it without having time to give the corpse more than a cursory examination. A slight young fellow with a thin moustache, dark eyes staring emptily up at the boughs above, his throat ripped open. A sword lay near to a gauntlet-clad hand and the dead man wore the remnants of blue lacquered armour over a black uniform, breastplate pulled awry, insides torn out… the unfortunate owner of the liver upon which the monster had been dining, Jeb presumed.

The yips and snarls at his back grew louder, closer, Jeb did not dare to look behind him but redoubled his pace, gasping breathlessly. Up ahead lay a crumbling arch across the path and beyond, a wide space surrounding the great dome that he strived to reach, ahead of his pursuers. 'Hob's Hill' Davian had named it. Jeb was familiar with the legend of Caisen Hob, a popular story from Shandalle that he had occasionally told around the villages in his youth… and then, there was the far older tale, that of Bili beneath the Hill. Well, if the monsters chasing Jeb did not catch him first, he would emulate the foolish Bili! Though some older versions of the fable named him 'Gwili…'

Shards of bone crunched under Jeb's worn boots as he raced across the paved space, heading for a semicircular aperture in the dome's curving wall, a dark opening that seemingly afforded entrance. With luck, there would be some kind of door that he could close on his pursuers… but his fortune had been poor of late, admittedly. More bones were kicked up by his hasty passage; ribs, femurs, skulls… some were the remnants of animal skeletons, but most were not. It appeared that the paved area around the Hill was a killing ground, and had been for some time… the daemonic creatures evidently resented intruders trespassing upon their territory.

Jeb risked a glance around himself as he ran… mortal remains lay everywhere; some old, others less so, all showing clear sign of predation. Then, he tripped on something large and fell full-length onto his stomach, winded… but absurdly glad that he had not landed on his back. That was an accursed fine lute strapped there, if he shattered the instrument to kindling then he doubted that he would find another in this savage land. Wheezing for breath, Jeb glanced over his shoulder, noting that the obstacle on which he had stumbled was another fresh corpse in the blue lacquered armour, a young woman this time, her brown hair cropped short. She had been disembowelled, lay in a pool of dark blood. And just beyond her, one of the ferocious, white-skinned creatures, loping towards him on all fours, muzzle gaping wide, sharp teeth ready to rend flesh. At the tree-line; more of its horrific fellows were emerging from the forest, his attacker must have pursued faster than the others.

The Fox Daemon crouched, stringy muscles tensing, prior to pouncing upon its victim. Jeb made to raise his blade, but it was no longer in his hand and lay a couple of paces away, where it had fallen when he tripped. Desperately, he tried to seize saidin, for all that it would do him little good, since something about these monstrous creatures clearly disrupted his flows… but then, a black-feathered arrow sprouted in the monster's chest. It reared up, howling, looming over the cringing Jeb… then another shaft struck beside the first, as a third and final dark-fletched arrow took it in the neck. The creature fell back, writhing and thrashing on the bone-bestrewn flags as steaming dark blood gouted from the wounds. Jeb picked himself up, hastily retrieving his knife whilst dazedly wondering from whence the providential arrows had been shot?

"Come on!" roared a rough but unmistakeably female voice from within the dark portal that led into Hob's Hill, "run, you fool!" The brusque words were formed in the Old Tongue.

Jeb ran. On the way to presumed safety, he passed a third corpse wearing the distinctive blue armour, a grizzled man with a broken neck. From behind, he could hear the bestial cries of the pursuing Fox Daemons, but abruptly the yipping and howling ceased, leaving only the sound of his frantic, pounding feet. Three figures emerged from the semicircular aperture in the Hill, wearing blue-lacquered helms, breastplates and greaves buckled over their black uniforms, holding short, recurved bows with black-fletched arrows nocked. They were not exactly pointing them at Jeb, but it would be the work of a moment to raise the weapons and feather him with shafts as thoroughly as they had the attacking creature.

"That is far enough!" warned the soldier in the middle, a compact, tough-looking woman with a short, red plume on her helmet and a dark gaze that drilled into Jeb, eyes so cold and merciless that the average Red Ajah witch would have been proud to possess them. The curving face-guards on her helm hid the rest of her features.

Jeb skidded to a halt, he knew when someone meant business. "But I am being chased!" he protested, using the same archaic language.

"No, you are not. Look." The armoured soldier with the plume of rank – an Officer, presumably – pointed briefly behind Jeb before returning her fingers to the bow-string. He glanced over his shoulder. About a score of the white-skinned, savage creatures loitered some fifty paces away, seeming reluctant to approach any closer, crouching on all fours, loping back and forth, more of them prowling from the trees to join their fellows. Their pack. They all seemed roughly the same, some larger than others, though Jeb noted that several were clearly female; with slighter builds, more delicate pointed ears and wider manes of russet hair.

"Why aren't they attacking?" Jeb wondered hoarsely, struggling for breath.

"They're afraid to come too close to the Hill," answered a deep voice, the soldier to the left of the Officer, a big man with stern eyes.

"There's something inside this place that scares 'em, and it's not us…" added the soldier to the right, a slim youth. He lowered his bow and removed his helmet, revealing morose features beneath close-cropped pale hair.

Jeb noted that both soldiers spoke the Vulgar. The Officer barked at them in the same language; "shut your bloody mouths, crow-bait!" She turned back to Jeb, slipping into the Old Tongue again; "you with the absurd cloak, get in here and account for yourself!"

Jeb obeyed meekly enough, tucking his dark, jagged blade back into its sheath and taking several cautious glances over his shoulder as he hurried toward the portal, still breathing heavily from his recent exertions. There were about two score of the creatures assembled now, crouching in a loose semicircle at the edge of the clearing, large, pale eyes fixed on their quarry. "Are you sure we are safe?" he asked the Officer as he passed beneath the curved aperture.

The Officer snorted with disgust. "Safe? Ask Dydra and Elmos if we are safe!" She nodded at the two dead soldiers lying some distance away, the gutted woman and the older man with the broken neck.

"Did you see anyone else out there?" asked the youthful soldier hopefully, still speaking the Vulgar, "a young fellow, a little older than me?"

"Did he have a thin moustache?" Jeb enquired in the same tongue, talking absently, wary gaze fixed on the Fox Daemons that surrounded them.

"Yes, that's him!"

"Dead, I'm afraid… one of those monsters was eating his liver… I killed it."

"Poor Tomlin!" moaned the youth, "he went to fetch help, but-"

"Shut-it, Paetar!" snapped the Officer.

"What are those things?" Jeb queried.

After a brief pause, the big soldier answered shortly, his dark eyes warily fixed on the monstrous enemy without. "Them? Why, they are the children of Caisen Hob."

The Officer scowled. "And you, Jahan! Silence in the bloody ranks!"

"What ranks?" the youth Paetar muttered resentfully, "we're all that's left…"

The Officer glared at the insubordinate young soldier, but did not repeat her command. Tensions were obviously running high…

Jeb glanced past the soldiers at the interior of Hob's Hill. A huge, cavernous space wreathed in shadows, but for just inside the portal, where a small camp-fire flickered fitfully, fuelled by what looked like broken pieces of ancient furniture. Three knapsacks were piled beside it, as well as a trio of long spears propped up in a triangle. In addition to their bows, each soldier had a long sword sheathed at their back, daggers tucked into belts. Their lacquered armour appeared rather old and dented, with mismatched straps holding it in place.

"Caisen Hob?" Jeb queried, recalling the big soldier Jahan's words, "the Dark One… his children? You mean, those things are some kind of Shadowspawn?"

The two soldiers eyed each other, then looked at Jeb dismissively.

"Shadowspawn are all dead," Jahan pointed-out, gruffly.

"The High King's armies killed 'em all at the Battle of Talidar, everyone knows that," Paetar added, eyeing Jeb askance.

Jeb had never heard of this 'Talidar' but thought it best to not enquire further, especially since the Officer was watching him closely, with great suspicion. "I think that you will find those foul creatures are named 'Fox Daemons,'" he murmured, "or at least, that's what the one I killed called itself…"

The soldiers reacted with surprise, speaking on top of each other;

"You spoke to it?"

"They can talk?"

"Oh yes," Jeb concurred, "after a fashion, but-"

"Never mind that!" growled the Officer, "by the Hawkwing's sword, who are you, fellow?"

Ignoring the mention of the Hawkwing – him again! – Jeb answered carefully. He felt that he was far enough away from his notorious past, both geographically and temporally, to give his true title. "Jebedah Chul Simanon, Master Gleeman."

"Gleeman?" whispered young Paetar, wonderingly.

"And may I know your name, my Lady?" Jeb enquired of the Officer.

The Officer removed her helm and passed it to Jahan. Her hair was jet black and shorn close to her scalp, she had a deep, white scar marring her left cheek and thin lips compressed in disapproval. "I am not your Lady! I am High Captain Larynda, Larynda Paendrag Aethelle of the Blood."

Jeb smiled sardonically. "Indeed? Should I bow or kneel?" He did not recall seeing any actual movement, but the high-born Officer's bow promptly disappeared, replaced by a gold-pommelled knife, its razor-edge touching his throat.

High Captain Larynda's dark, cold eyes were fixed firmly on his, and held ruthless intent. "Already I regret giving the order to save your worthless life, oddly-dressed outlander," she hissed in the Old Tongue, "there is something about you that troubles my mind… give me one good reason why I should not just cut your throat and be done with you?" The keen blade pressed a little harder for emphasis, raising a bead of blood on Jeb's skin.

"I can give you two excellent reasons not to kill me!" Jeb croaked in the same language, speaking carefully so as not to slice open any important veins, "the cloak that I wear and the lute upon my back!"

Captain Larynda raised a sceptical eyebrow, but at least lowered the knife slightly. Jeb glanced down at the weapon in surprise… it appeared to be the distinctive Officer's dagger of the famed Golden Lions of Aldeshar, with the pommel shaped into a stylised feline head, though somewhat age-worn by the looks of it… how had this dangerous Noblewoman come by the rare blade? Did these blue-armoured soldiers also hail from the Westlands? They spoke the Vulgar after all, no-one else he had encountered here did that…

"Explain yourself, fool!" Captain Larynda demanded, slipping back into the language in question. Jeb opened his mouth to do so, but the youthful soldier forestalled him.

"He is a Gleeman, High Captain!" Paetar exclaimed, "my grandfather told me of them… they tell tall tales and sing silly songs and wear many colours on their capes…" he grabbed the edge of Jeb's patched cloak and tugged on it for emphasis, "…to identify themselves… why, tis ill luck to harm Gleemen!"

Captain Larynda glowered at Paetar, while Jeb breathed a sigh of relief. A rather simplistic explanation of his craft, but it was nice to know that at least one of these strange soldiers respected the sanctity of his rank… something that even the savage Aielmen did!

"But I don't believe that last part," Paetar added, lowering his bow and touching the hilt at his back, "want me to kill him, sir?"

Jeb glared at the bloodthirsty and disrespectful youth whilst Captain Larynda considered his fate. The big soldier, Jahan, eyed Jeb hopefully. "Got any food, outlander?" he asked, in his deep voice.

Jeb checked the pockets of his patched cloak. The corn had fallen out at some point whilst he fled the demons, but there was yet the small sack, bulging with about a quarter of its original contents… Jeb held it up. "Just some apples, I am afraid…"

"Apples!" rumbled Jahan eagerly, snatching the sack from Jeb and digging a hand in. He stuffed a withered fruit into his mouth, before passing the sack to Paetar, who enthusiastically began to eat also.

Captain Larynda took the sack and examined the contents suspiciously. "Those could be poisoned," she pointed-out. Jahan and Paetar ceased chewing and eyed each other uncertainly. "You eat one, Gleer-man!" Larynda spat, tossing an apple to Jeb.

"Gleeman, actually," Jeb corrected her, before taking a bite and swallowing. "Master Gleeman, in fact," he qualified, then enquired; "might I ask where you people are from?"

Captain Larynda hesitated, then reluctantly answered; "the Isle of the Spire."

"Oh… I know it not... and before that?"

Larynda declined to respond further, but Paetar spoke, his mouth full; "our forebears came from the Empire."

"Whose Empire would that be?"

"The Hawkwing's, of course! There is only one Empire, Master Gleeman!"

Jeb raised his eyebrows… this Artur Hawkwing, yet again! The High King of yore certainly seemed to have a powerful influence over historical events… one of the Atha'an Miere had claimed that he was Ta'veren. Jeb would not be surprised… Davian had always hinted that he, too, was Ta'veren, but most probably, had not been. Such personages were exceedingly rare, after all. Very little knowledge about Jeb's former patron, the Dragon King, had survived to present times… he seemed to have largely been forgotten, beyond 'Davian' yet being an extremely unpopular name to give to one's male children. A subsequent False Dragon named 'Guaire Amalasan' had almost entirely eclipsed him in notoriety, it seemed…

"So what brings you here, to this perilous place?" Jeb wondered.

Captain Larynda stood silent, scowling at him, but the two soldiers answered readily enough, whilst grabbing fresh apples from the depleted sack.

"The High Princess, may she never die, sent us on this mission," Paetar explained.

"On the advice of the Deathless One," Jahan added.

"The Deathless One?" Jeb prompted.

"Yes, it has always been with us, ever since our ancestors came here some five centuries ago. The Deathless One watches over our Ruler, kills anyone who tries to harm her…" Paetar shrugged. "Looks like a woman, but it isn't."

"It drinks blood," Jahan revealed, grimly.

"These apples are good," Paetar commented, "we've been trapped in here since yesterday with nothing to eat…"

"Got anything else?" Jahan wondered.

"Sorry," Jeb demurred, shading his eyes and glancing out at the waiting monstrosities that lingered at the tree-line, preventing their escape. "So… these children of Caisen Hob or Fox Daemons or whatever they are… where do they-?"

"Enough!" Captain Larynda shouted angrily, "we will ask the questions, not answer them! What do you here, outlander? How did you come to our lands? You speak the Vulgar and are clearly not one of the debased inhabitants!"

"Thank you!" Jeb responded, erroneously taking this statement for a compliment… though the way Larynda's dark eyes narrowed dangerously made him recall the sharpness of her lion-pommelled dagger, so he answered hastily. "I actually came here aboard an Atha'an Miere craft, a Raker named the Windrunner…"

"The Sea Folk have returned?" Captain Larynda cried, eyes widening, before composing herself and resuming her threatening gaze. The two soldiers paused in their apple-gorging, staring hopefully at Jeb.

"It has been long since the Tolaman deserted our cause," Jahan muttered.

"They sailed south in the last ship left and were ne'er seen again," Paetar added, mournfully.

Jeb's brow furrowed. "The Tolaman, you say? Why no, these were mariners of Clan Takana with whom I voyaged, but they did not stay overlong." Jeb shrugged apologetically. "They sailed down here to trade, but the locals attacked without provocation and attempted to murder and devour us all!" Jahan and Paetar looked crestfallen, but not so much that they abandoned their fervent apple-eating.

Captain Larynda snarled angrily. "Filthy savages! We strive to bring them the peace and security of the Hawkwing's Law, but they will not change their ways! This land is truly cursed!" She eyed Jeb with suspicion, which he was beginning to realise was her habitual attitude, both to him and to everything else. "Why, then, did the Atha'an Miere leave you behind, Gleam-man?"

"Gleeman. Well, I wanted to stay, in point of fact." All three of them stared at Jeb as though he were mad… they were not far wrong, he considered. "I have long had an interest in certain ancient artefacts… I had heard that such were to be found in this edifice."

"That is why we were sent to this evil place," Paetar observed, darkly.

"There is nothing here though, we have searched thoroughly," Jahan went on, "just old broken junk from the Age of Legends…"

"And those vile monsters out there," Paetar added, "they've slaughtered half the patrol and I expect we're next."

"The Deathless One never said anything about them," Jahan grumbled.

"That is something I mean to have words with it about, when we return to the Isle," Captain Larynda growled.

"If we return," Paetar muttered, pessimistically.

Jeb thought about it, then smiled. "I believe I can help you in that regard," he offered, unslinging his lute from his back and checking the strings for signs of wear, before beginning to deftly tune the instrument. They watched him, nonplussed.

"What are you going to do, play a nice song for the monsters?" Captain Larynda enquired sarcastically.

Jeb nodded firmly. "Yes. That is exactly what I mean to do." His smile widened, but with effort, he managed to keep himself from laughing. If he started, he did not think that he would be able to stop.

A time later, the Master Gleeman and the trio of soldiers stood at the edge of the wide, paved space that bordered Hob's Hill, the tall trees of the forest looming over them. All around; white-skinned, russet-maned Fox Daemons lay curled upon the obsidian slabs amongst discarded, gnawed bones, pale eyes tightly closed, narrow, slat-ribbed chests rising and falling slowly. Fast asleep, every one of them.

Paetar took a cautious step toward the nearest comatose creature and gave it a prod with the butt of his long spear. It stirred slightly, making the youth flinch nervously, then resumed its slumbers. Paetar considered a moment, then his eyes narrowed vengefully and he reversed the spear, drawing it back for a thrust, preparing to stab the sleeper.

"I would not do that, were I you…" Jeb advised. Paetar hesitated, his dark eyes moving uncertainly to the Master Gleeman. "If you slay one of them, the commotion may awaken the others… they would certainly attack us."

"He is right," Captain Larynda agreed grudgingly, "much as I should like to put an end to these foul creatures, we had best leave while we are able." Her cold eyes flicked toward Jeb and she added, even more grudgingly; "I would suppose we have you to thank for that, Gleeman."

"You finally got it right!" Jeb congratulated her, "though actually, I am a Master Glee-"

"Move out!" Captain Larynda ordered, ignoring Jeb.

Jahan and Paetar shouldered their spears and filed toward the crumbling archway where the forest path began. "Bye, Master Gleeman," Paetar called as he moved into the forest, "and thanks for the apples!"

Jahan eyed Jeb curiously as he too strode past. "What was that sad song you sang to Caisen Hob's children?" he wondered.

"The Ballad of Jeren, an ancient ode," Jeb answered, recalling with satisfaction the way the Fox Daemons had reacted to his singing and playing, their eyelids growing heavy, distended mouths gaping wide to yawn, the strength draining from their long, sinewy limbs as they curled up on the flagstones and went to sleep. The Eelfinn had behaved in much the same fashion, long ago, when he breached Ghenjei's Tower with a bronze blade and went to seek his destiny in Sindhol. Clearly, the Foxes were in some way related to these hybrid, daemonic creatures… but how had that happened? What dark deeds of experimentation had taken place here at Hob's Hill to make that abomination of breeding transpire?

Captain Larynda stared at Jeb with her customary suspicion as she too shouldered her spear, preparatory to following her men into the trees. "How did you know that music would do this to them?" she demanded in the Old Tongue, gesturing with a gauntleted hand at the slumbering Fox Daemons that lay all around them.

"A lucky guess," Jeb lied, switching to the same language. Larynda had tersely explained that the Blood, the Nobility who could claim descent from the Hawkwing, solely spoke the Old Tongue amongst themselves, scorning the Vulgar which was mostly used by the commonality, including the lowly soldiery. Of necessity, she employed both languages, switching from one to the other depending upon whom she conversed with. Jeb grinned insolently. "Do you not recall the rhyme from Snakes and Foxes? 'Courage to strengthen, Fire to blind, Music to-'"

"Dazzle," Larynda completed. She scowled. "So you are saying that these vile monstrosities-" she kicked the nearest one, fortunately it remained asleep, "-are the Foxes from a simplistic children's game?"

"It is a story, too," Jeb pointed-out, wincing over the kick. If the fool Noblewoman woke the accursed things up, he did not think that any amount of singing and strumming would put them to sleep again… the tactic had only worked once on the Eelfinn, after all.

"So you stay?" Captain Larynda continued, "you realise that you will almost certainly die if you do?"

Jeb shrugged. "I think not. Though I thank you for your offer of safe passage back to the Isle of the Spike-"

"Spire!"

"Spire, then. But I came here for a purpose, and may not leave until I have searched this ruin for that which I seek."

"There is nothing in there, I tell you! The Deathless One was wrong, we have sought thoroughly and found nothing!"

"I call no doubt upon your words, High Captain, but must see for myself or ne'er be satisfied."

Captain Larynda regarded Jeb levelly for a long moment, as though rethinking her decision to let him live, then contented herself with a disparaging snort as she turned away toward the crumbling arch, the forest path. "Well, in the unlikely event that you survive, Master Gleeman, come to our island fortress," she suggested, "you have done us a service and shall have sanctuary there, should you require it…" she paused, glancing over her shoulder, a crooked smile twisting her lips, "…you can play and sing for the Blood, mayhap… for my cousin, the High Princess, may she never die…" her smile became contemptuous, "…the Court is ever in need of diversion."

Jeb wanted her to go, but could not help but wonder… "this Isle of yours, High Captain… what is this Spire that you speak of?"

"A great device of the Age of Legends, it preserves my people from the depredations of the Souvraniene, the Witches also…"

"Indeed? How so?"

Captain Larynda eyed Jeb flatly. "I suspected that you were deceiving me at first, outlander, you have the aspect of a born-liar… but you truly are not from around here, are you? The Spire prevents channeling." Without another word, High Captain Larynda Paendrag Aethelle, Blood of the Hawkwing, turned and paced away, disappearing into the gloomy forest on the trail of her men.

"Interesting," Jeb commented, feeling the incipient madness rage and roil within him, stronger than ever, the siren-call of saidin keening at the edge of his awareness. "Perhaps one day I shall pay a visit to this Isle of the Spire after all…" But first things first… he had to-

Nearby, one of the Fox Daemons stirred, stretching, eyes flickering behind its white lids. To either side, others of its dread kind were showing signs of movement also. Clearly, they were waking up.

"That's not good," Jeb muttered, and set off hastily, back to the dark entrance that breached the dome, his feet moving faster with each step until he was running. Behind, he could hear the yips and snarls of the awakening daemons, but did not dare look over his shoulder. Passing two low, hastily-made cairns beneath which the mortal remains of the pair of unfortunate soldiers languished, Jeb ducked into the cool, comforting darkness of Hob's Hill.

The campfire was still burning fitfully; Jeb hesitated, then pulled a blazing brand from it, holding it up to give himself some illumination. He did not want to risk seizing the saidin he would need to summon a more eldritch light… though he had a feeling that he might well have to. There was something here, the shade of Davian had assured him of it, and he trusted the word of his former Ruler, whatever disquieting guise the Dragon King manifested himself in. Jeb was sure that the soldiers had searched the place to the best of their abilities, but his own talents exceeded theirs in one important regard. He could channel.

Jeb smiled grimly. Naturally, he had kept that aspect of his nature secret, though he believed that the Captain might have guessed. Her wary treatment of him, perhaps… perhaps not. In this place, this 'Land of the Madmen' as the soldiers named it, wariness toward strangers was simply commonsensical, the accepted policy. Besides, had the Captain known that he was Souvraniene, his head would have like rolled upon the stone flags.

But she was a good Officer in her way, this Larynda of the Blood… she had overridden the objections of her men by insisting that cairns be raised for their fallen comrades. Had they done likewise with the unfortunate fellow in the forest? They would be dead if they had lingered, the awakened Fox Daemons he could hear outside would see to that… doubtless, they had taken the corpse – or what was left of it – with them, to observe funerary rites elsewhere, in a place of safety. If there even was such a thing in this insane, deadly land.

Either way, Jeb doubted that he would be seeing the soldiers again, though he might well be visiting this Isle of theirs at some point… but not for a long while. There was much that he had to accomplish first. And if Davian was correct, then he would have the time he needed to do it. Abruptly, Jeb recalled that final conversation with Barashelle… his revealing to the celebrated Aes Sedai his innermost plans, since it was safe to do so as she was condemned to an imminent death, and he her executioner. Jeb had told Barashelle Sedai of his intention to build a power-base, to no longer be a follower but to have others follow his lead instead. He might have been washed-up by the tides of Fate on some strange shore, that of a savage and ungovernable land, far away from all that he knew… but Jeb had long practice at turning a misfortune into an opportunity. If anywhere needed a Ruler, then it was the Land of the Madmen. And who better than he?

"If not me, who? If not now, when?" Jeb demanded of the darkness around him, then threw back his head and laughed loud and long, the crazed cackling rebounding from the cavernous roof above. Outside, the Fox Daemons temporarily ceased their whining and snarling at this unwarranted sound, then redoubled it.

It took a while for Jeb to make himself stop laughing, but he managed it eventually, the echoes of his maniacal mirth fading gradually. He sighed. "I really do have to stop doing that," he muttered ruefully, then put his best foot forward and embraced the darkness, beginning his search. did not take long for Jeb's Power-attuned senses to reveal that there was something strange about the centre of the vast edifice. Around the circumference of the dome, stacked in various alcoves and small chambers, lay the 'junk' that the big soldier had mentioned. Given time, Jeb might have examined it more closely, since the wreckage of the Age of Legends had always interested him… but there was no time. This was a commodity that was fast running out for him. However, in the centre… there was something there, hidden from ordinary sight. And deep below, Jeb could sense ter'angreal. How many he was unsure, but they felt powerful.

Jeb sighed, knowing that he would have to channel. Seizing saidin was not particularly difficult, he had been doing it for much of his misspent life, but controlling those forces… that was the real problem. Sinking to his knees, clutching his pounding skull, Jeb gritted his teeth and fought long and hard to exert his will over the raging forces that burned within. "Man of fire… I am… man of fire…" Jeb groaned as he did so. And eventually, he triumphed in his battle with the One Power. For the time being.

Jeb raised his spinning head, blurred vision doubled and distorted, squinting at the bare, empty space beneath the centre of the dome. An illusion, he could see the way the dim light bent around whatever was there, rendering it invisible to any casual observer who did not possess his gift… his curse. An ancient and very powerful weave, but by no means impregnable. Almost, it seemed intended to be found and dispelled, by the right sort of visitor to this forgotten place.

"Am I expected?" Jeb wondered to himself, then channelled a complex combination of all five Powers, the flows melding together almost of their own volition, without quite requiring his will to guide them. It was as though there were some hidden presence there, working alongside him. The senescent weaving vanished, and Jeb beheld a wide, spiralling ramp, leading down into the darkness. What lay below? His death? Possibly... but he had come this far, he had to go on, to find out what Fate, if there even was such a thing, had in store for him.

Leaving the burning torch lying on the ancient, cracked tiles, Jeb summoned a quintet of palely glowing globes that revolved above his head. He would go down into the darkness accoutred with the saidin-fuelled signs of his station, or not at all. Whatever awaited him down there would know him for what he was. An Adept of the True Source. A man who, in more enlightened times, would have held the title of Aes Sedai and received the respect due to his rank. Well, he had been born in different days than those and it was not to be. And in any case, had he been around during the War of Power, Jeb rather suspected that he might not necessarily have been fighting on the side of the Light... he could even have been one of the Chosen.

Jeb thought of his long-ago visit to Shayol Ghul, and shuddered. That bizarre conversation with Ishamael which had taken place there, the pre-eminent Forsaken's hollow, hideous words emerging from the mouth of a Myrddraal... and people thought him mad? They should spend a few moments conversing with the Betrayer of Hope, and then revise their opinion! Jeb shook his head. Best not to dwell upon such things... he had been young and foolish when he journeyed to the Bore, extremely ambitious also. Everyone made mistakes in their youth, did they not? He was finished with the Dark One... though was less sure that the Great Lord was entirely finished with him.

At the end of the long ramp, deep beneath the earth, lay a massive, circular chamber. The shining rods of a three-sided metallic pyramid stood in the centre, providing ample light, so Jeb let the luminescent orbs whirling above his head dissipate, releasing saidin with relief, though taking the precaution of refilling his Well first. He peered curiously at the triple rods, the glowing nimbus that flickered within... he had the strong impression that if he went inside, he would be transported to another place, another reality... and a dangerous one at that. Whatever it was, it was undoubtedly a ter'angreal, as was the tall, crystalline column to his right, though it seemed devoid of power, dead. And to his left...

Jeb stared. A large chair carved out of gleaming elstone, throne-like in its proportions... and there was someone sitting in it! "Hello?" Jeb called softly, as he cautiously approached, stepping over a musky animal pelt that lay discarded upon the floor. The seated figure did not move, or otherwise acknowledge his presence. Moving closer, Jeb could see why. Whoever it was had clearly expired a long time ago; the antique Troubadour's coat swathing the body was still, the chest did not rise nor fall, the sockets of the bronze mask worn by the corpse were dark and empty... that was also a ter'angreal, his Talent informed him, as was... Jeb gasped.

Cradled in golden gloved hands, resting on his lap, the dead man held a large huntsman's horn, skilfully worked in beaten silver, a narrow mouthpiece curling twice around as it tapered out to a wide bell. With a trembling finger, Jeb traced the ancient script inlaid into the instrument; Tia mi Aven Moridin Isainde Vadin. Jeb's surprised voice broke the deathly silence as he prized the ancient ter'angreal from the stiff grasp, hesitantly lifting the silvered artefact of Legend and raising it on high...

"But... I thought me that the Horn of Valere was supposed to be cast in gold!"

Up above, the pack of Fox Daemons were still waiting for Jeb to emerge, though loath to approach Hob's Hill too closely. If his suspicions about the pyramidical ter'angreal down there and where it led to were correct, then he thought he knew why. But the fell creatures were clearly unwilling to let their prey escape either. Jeb stepped out into the fading sunlight – it seemed that he had been under the Hill much longer than he thought – and levelled his third acquisition at the daemons, preparing to annihilate them.

The first ter'angreal Jeb was now wearing, and felt much better for it. The second ter'angreal he held at his side; the arcane, silver Horn that he supposed he would get around to sounding at some point, in order to find out what exactly it was. But Jeb's third acquisition, which he had taken from the mysterious dead man, found in the deep pocket of his metallic-hued Troubadour's coat, was no mere ter'angreal. It was, in fact, a sa'angreal. And an extremely powerful one, at that.

Jeb sighted along the extended, pointing finger of the solid gold hand he held by its wrist, slowly filling himself with saidin, wondering how best to dispose of these vile Fox Daemons... lightning, perhaps? If the flows he weaved originated from far above, the creature's particular ability to disrupt them would be nullified, surely? Yes, it had been a long while since he had slain an enemy with sky-fire... he would summon a storm. A large storm.

But in the event, Jeb did not need to do anything of the sort. At the revelation of the ancient, bronze mask-ter'angreal that he wore, fashioned in the likeness of a smiling fox's face, the daemonic creatures abruptly ceased their yipping, snarling and growling, then crept forward as close as they dared, abasing themselves abjectly upon the flagstones, grovelling amongst the bones whilst making ingratiating whining noises. Jeb blinked. The fox-mask artefact had quieted his manic ideation, dispelled the sour presence of the Taint to a far greater extent than ever the bronze torc-ter'angreal had, and made seizing saidin a matter of some ease again... but it also seemed to have a marked effect on these bestial Fox Daemons. There was recognition in their pale eyes, as well as something akin to awe. Jeb held-off from destroying the creatures for the time being. He found them repellent, yet was desirous to learn more concerning their origins. They might even prove useful to him..?

"Do you know me, daemons?" Jeb demanded in the Old Tongue, his voice echoing hollowly from within the metallic confines of the ancient mask.

"Mmassterr!" hissed the nearest Fox Daemon, raising its hideous face briefly before resuming its grovelling. More of the demons echoed this stark title, until they were all uttering it, interspersed with yipping sounds that held terror mixed with devotion. "Mmmassstterrr!"

Jeb waved an impatient hand at them, not his own but the golden one, which he recognised from ancient lore as Cair Osan, one of the more powerful saidin-attuned sa'angreal to have ever been created, almost as potent as Callandor itself. Quite a find! It was one of a pair, naturally; the fabled Left Hand and Right Hand of Legend. The other sa'angreal, Cair Aran, had been in the keeping of the First amongst the Companions to the Dragon, Culan Cuhan, and was considered lost with him during the Breaking of the World, amidst the destruction of the Great Wave he summoned to destroy the City of Shorelle, in the extremity of his madness. But the provenance and location of Cair Osan had always been more of a mystery. A mystery no longer...

Whether the Fox Daemons recognised the golden hand as a mighty device of the One Power that could exterminate them all easily, or were simply obeying Jeb's evident desire for peace and quiet, the creatures fell silent at this peremptory gesture. Waiting. Jeb considered. He really should put an end to these monstrosities and do this evil land one of the few favours it had received since the War of Power... and yet, for all that they disquieted and disgusted him, the Fox Daemons interested him also. He was curious. Ever had this been his blessing and his bane.

"What are you?" Jeb enquired.

"Ffoxx Ddaemmonss!" the creatures chorused, answering noisily.

Jeb scowled. "I know that! Who named you so?"

"Yyou ddidd, Mmassterr!"

"Indeed? When did I do that?"

"Llonngg aggo!"

"Wwhenn yyou ssummonned uss!"

"Yyou bbidd uss awwaitt yyourr rretturnn!"

Jeb blinked. It seemed that the mysterious personage whose grave he had robbed, a powerful Aes Sedai of the Age of Legends presumably, was responsible for the presence of these dangerous creatures in the vicinity of Hob's Hill. And had given them their fanciful name, in addition. "What were you called before then?"

The Fox Daemons raised their pallid eyes to stare at Jeb, then looked at each other blankly, clearly perplexed. It seemed that no-one had ever asked them this before. Eventually, one of the older-looking daemons rose to a furtive crouch, licking its thin lips with a long tongue, blinking its large, pale eyes, seemingly trying to remember something from the distant past. "Mmisstake?" it growled, then; "abbomminnationn!"

"Yess!" hissed a female Fox Daemon excitedly, "Ffatherr! Hee ccalledd uss thiss!" Several other daemons nodded their hideous heads sagely in agreement.

Jeb's brow furrowed with confusion behind the ancient mask-ter'angreal that preserved his sanity. "Father, say you? And who might he be?"

"Hee mmade uss!" the Fox Daemons chanted in concert.

The older, more erudite Fox Daemon added; "bbutt hee ddidd nnott llike uss! Hee wwass mmosst ddissppleassedd wwith hhiss mmisstakess!"

"I can certainly see why!" Jeb observed drolly, finding the whole situation more than a little unusual, unreal even. He was very tired, exhausted in fact... it had been a long day. "Where did you Fox Daemons dwell, before you came here, to Hob's Hill?" he asked.

"Thee Wastellanndss!"

"Inn thee Wasstelandds!"

"Wwasttelannddsss!"

Jeb was glad that the fox-mask partially protected his ears from the resulting cacophony. "Alright, don't all answer at once! Now listen, monsters; I command you to return to these Wastelands and remain there. When I require your services, I shall send for you. Do you understand?"

"Yyess, Mmasstterr!" the Fox Daemons responded loyally. They rose from their subservient postures and began to slink away, giving Jeb a wide berth, keeping a respectful distance, loping toward the trees to the south. As the older, wiser daemon passed him, something occurred to Jeb and he pointed the finger of Cair Osan at it.

"Wait, you. One more question..."

The Fox Daemon paused expectantly, crouching and cocking its head to one side, pale eyes staring. "Mmassterr?"

"Why would you and your kin not enter Hob's Hill? What is inside that prevents you from infesting that place with your presence?"

A hint of fear flickered briefly over those bestial, inhuman features. Jeb recalled the same look in the eyes of the first Fox Daemon to accost him, when he had mentioned the Eelfinn. "Yyou knnoww thiss, Mmassterr! Yyou ttestt uss?"

"I do," Jeb answered glibly, the lie echoing from within the confines of the mask-ter'angreal he wore. "Well?"

Again, the old Fox Daemon licked its lips nervously, then answered hesitantly; "wwe ddo nnott ggo inntto thee hhill ass thee Ggate iss ttherre... ourr wwayy hhomme tto bblessedd Ssinnddholl! Bbutt thee llightt... thee tterribblle llightt... itt kkillss uss!"

Jeb nodded thoughtfully, watching through the eyeholes in the ancient, bronze fox-mask as the Fox Daemon hastened away on all fours, as the last of the fell creatures disappeared into the forest gloom, returning to their ancestral homeland.

"The light destroys you, eh?" Jeb commented. He chuckled softly, and this time, the mirth held little trace of madness. "Yes… I imagine that it would."

---

Defending a fortified position is simplicity itself. Remain behind the walls, if walls there be. Utilise your archers at key points along the line. Protect all vulnerable areas as strongly as ever you may. Kill as many of the attacking force as possible. Above all; watch your enemy, watch them closely. Know what they will do before they have done it, then plan your counterstroke accordingly. And finally; pray fervently to the Divine Creator that your foe do not number in their ranks certain of those accursed individuals who channel the destructive male-half of the One Power, the Shadow-tainted evil that Broke the World. This is the sole factor in warfare against which there is no adequate defence.

Lord-Marshall Madoc Comadrin, Ducal Regent of Farashelle

circa: FY 357 (extract taken from a surviving fragment of Fog and Steel)

---

Chapter Nine * The Battle

Act One – Opening Moves

"I do not think that I like the look of this."

Rashiel Tamor, Aes Sedai of no particular Ajah, glanced at the person who had spoken; her oldest friend, the Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar. Ysmet was looking unaccustomedly worried as she lowered the brass-bound telescope, which Rashiel promptly and rather rudely snatched from her, raising it to her own pale eye.

Ysmet turned her head back toward the camp, below the parapet on which they stood. "Raab!" she yelled.

"Coming, Sailmistress!" responded a familiar, breathless voice.

"Captain!" Ysmet corrected, though her heart was clearly not in it. She seemed almost nervous, unlikely though that was. Examining the stranger's ship that had heaved-to out beyond the reef, not to mention its crew, Rashiel shared her concern. They were certainly a fearsome-looking lot…

"Are they Sea Folk?" Rashiel wondered, peering at the heavily-tattooed sailors, "the women aren't wearing anything on their upper halves and are sporting bizarre nose-jewellery, but they don't seem like any Atha'an Miere that I have ever encountered."

Aboard the ship, a heavy anchor splashed down into the sea and an organised commotion began on the main-deck. Rashiel lowered the spyglass, her brow furrowed with trepidation. "They are launching boats," she murmured, "this could well be a problem…"

Ysmet snatched her telescope back and took a long look. "Only one boat, so far," she commented, "but yes, some of them are certainly coming ashore."

Raab joined them on the parapet, having scrambled nimbly up the ladder. At the same time, atop the foremast of the unknown ship, a silken flag broke out, rippling in the breeze. A black banner, embroidered with a grinning white skull, crossed daggers beneath. A far-from friendly image, in Rashiel's estimation…

Ysmet lowered the telescope and thrust it impatiently toward Raab. "Who are they? Sea Folk? Your people?"

"I have no people," Raab muttered sulkily, "I am outcast…" He raised the spyglass to a dark eye and stared intently; first, at the tattooed crew swarming upon the decks of the vessel, then up at the grim flag which fluttered above them. After which, Raab lowered the telescope, dusky face slowly growing paler.

"Well?" Ysmet demanded, when the Atha'an Miere renegade did not immediately speak, "who might they be?"

"Storm Children," Raab croaked, then glanced at the Noblewoman and Aes Sedai of Ebou Dar, attempting a sickly-looking smile, though it more closely resembled a grimace. "Darkfriend brigands from the Smoking Islands, pirates and killers of the Waketa, the once-dead Clan that swore service to the Shadow two millennia gone… devoted adherents of the Father of Storms, at least three times our strength in number, skilled fighters all…" Raab swallowed with difficulty, then added in firmer tones; "every one of us; we are assuredly going to die."

---

Irmilla Nadona, Friend of the Dark and accomplished murderess, raised her silk skirts and took a tremulous step from the bow of the longboat, splashing down into the shallow surf, feeling firm, wet sand yield beneath her bare feet. It felt wonderful to be back on land again! Though her legs were rather wobbly… she stumbled, and Duadh's rough, tattooed hands encircled her slim hips, steadying her. Irmilla shoved him away. "Keep your greasy paws to yourself, Duadh!" she snarled.

Duadh grinned, gold teeth flashing in the bright sunlight, then strode up the beach, unslinging his wicked axe from his broad back and swinging it back and forth. Irmilla had to take a couple of running steps to catch up with him, a dozen heavily-armed Clan Waketa crew falling in around them, the Samma N'Sei channeler now known as 'Mastri' bringing up the rear. The Shadowrunning Aielman glanced about himself curiously as he paced along; his red veil swathed his nose and mouth, but Irmilla suspected that he was smiling the small, strange smile that seemed a permanent expression now.

Though other things preoccupied Irmilla; the way the ground seemed rock-hard and immobile in spite of it being comprised of shifting sand, the odd fashion in which it was not tilting back and forth… clearly, she had been aboard a ship for far too long! And up ahead; a rudely-built stockade, a line of waiting figures stood atop it, watching them warily as they approached. With good reason, Irmilla considered… the Waketa were going to kill them all, were they not? But first, she required information.

As though reading Irmilla's thoughts, Duadh grumbled; "why do we not just give them all to the salt, as is only right and proper? Why must you talk to them, 'prentice?"

Irmilla sighed. Hopefully, at some point in the coming encounter, Duadh would become fatally acquainted with the business-end of a sword. Probably not, though… her luck had never been that good. "Our Dread Mistress sent us here to find her enemies… these shipwrecked mariners may well know their whereabouts… and cease calling me 'prentice,' I am your Windfinder!"

"That you assuredly are not," Duadh refuted, giving Irmilla a disapproving sideways stare with his dark, murderous eyes, but then his stern expression cleared and he looked straight ahead, something of a spring in his step. He even whistled a few bars of a jaunty sea shanty…

"What are you in such a fine mood about?" Irmilla asked suspiciously.

Duadh shrugged his wide, bare shoulders, causing his perched parrot to squawk in protest. "I am about to slay some people," he explained, "this knowledge makes me happy." Irmilla sniffed disparagingly. Duadh eyed her drolly. "Does it not feel good to kill?" he asked.

"Well, of course it does!" Irmilla responded scathingly, "but unlike you, I happen to enjoy other things as well."

"Oh?"

"There is more to life than just chopping people's heads off or drowning them, you know!"

Duadh looked quizzical. "There is? Such as?"

"Fine clothes, excellent wines, wealth, power, the intimate company of handsome young men…"

"I am not remotely interested in that last activity," Duadh pointed-out.

"Not you, cretin! Me!" Irmilla might have added something about 'the pursuit of immortality' but decided to leave it there, for all that she shared her Mistress's obsession with living forever.

"Superficial!" Duadh remarked contemptuously.

"Worse than that; decadent!" spoke a muffled voice over their shoulders. The Aielman, Mastri, had been unashamedly eavesdropping upon their conversation, he was now walking directly behind Irmilla and Duadh, moving with his customary disturbing stealth. The Clan Waketa crew gave him a wide berth. "You pitiful Wetlanders are all decadent and addicted to your own selfish pleasures," Mastri further commented, then chuckled softly. Irmilla scowled, as did Duadh. Mastri clearly did not care. "The Boat-Chief has the right of it; the only worthwhile pursuit in life lies in the waking of one's enemies." Mastri shrugged his bony shoulders. "Or anyone else who happens to annoy you," he added, reflectively.

"I warn you, Shadowrunning Aielfish," Duadh growled, "name me 'Boat-Chief' but once more, and I shall take my axe and-"

"This is close enough, I think," Irmilla interjected smoothly, "some of those sailors up there are aiming crossbows at us. It would be a shame to come all this way only to die so mundane and boring a death…"

The Friends of the Dark had come to within a hundred paces of the palisade that encircled the camp by this point, and ceased their advance. A tall, fierce-looking woman up there, her dark hair plaited into a long braid draped over one shoulder, shouted down to them; "that's close enough, Shadowsworn! Come no further or I shall give the command to loose our bolts into your filthy hides!"

Irmilla examined her. She had the sound of Ebou Dar in her speech, the complexion of Southern Altara to her skin… clearly, like her, a native of the Westlands. A Noblewoman too, by her accents, dress and haughty attitude. Irmilla took an instant dislike to her, though she was a stranger. But the woman standing next to the Noble, swathed in a maroon, silken gown, pale eyes coldly fixed on the intruders… she certainly recognised her.

"Hello, Rashiel!" Irmilla called out, cheerfully, "fancy meeting you here… it is a small world, is it not?"

"Irmilla!" the young Aes Sedai spat, "you evil, Shadow-loving bitch!

Irmilla laughed delightedly. "Really! Is that any way to address an old friend and fellow novice? I can see that the years have not mellowed you overmuch, dearest Rashiel!"

"We were never friends and you murdered Revan!"

"The handsome youngling? Well of course I did; he found out I was oath-bound to the Great Lord and was going to tell on me!"

"Bitch!"

"You already said that. Do try to be a little more imaginative with your insults…"

Rashiel gripped the small, ivory-hilted knife that hung on a cord betwixt her breasts. "By my marriage-blade, I swear that I will avenge Revan, and all others that you have slain!" she promised, darkly.

Irmilla arched her eyebrows. "Are you still wearing that tatty old thing around your neck? How quaint! And your vengeance for my victims would comprise a very long list, I am afraid…"

Rashiel bared her teeth at Irmilla, but seemed too angry to speak further.

"Is this what you call 'gaining information?'" Duadh muttered, "trading jibes with some Ebou Dari witch?"

"Silence, Duadh!" Irmilla hissed back at him, "you do things your way, I'll do them mine… I am just greeting an old rival whom I soon intend to kill slowly, that is all."

The Noblewoman loudly spoke up once more; "there is nothing of worth for you here, brigands. Return to your ship and sail away, into the nearest maelstrom, preferably… or face the consequences! Challenge my will and I shall see to it that you piratical Darkfriend scum decorate the trees at the ends of hempen nooses!"

The Clan Waketa crew eyed each other… then burst out laughing, their harsh mirth echoing back from the cliffs beyond the camp. Duadh grinned savagely, shaking his deadly axe in the air. "You would hang us?" he shouted back, "will I lend you some rope if you have none to spare?! The Waketa are not yours to kill, foolish Shorebound wench! Only the Father of Storms can do that, and in his own good time!"

On Duadh's shoulder, the parrot stirred, raising a brightly-plumed head. "Squaaa! Stormfather!" it squawked loudly.

Even from a distance, Irmilla could see the Ebou Dari Noblewoman's large brown eyes widen with surprise. "Did that odd bird just say something?" she demanded.

Duadh nodded complacently, scratching his parrot's feathery neck. "Aye, that he did," he confirmed.

Irmilla frowned impatiently. That bloody bird must have been an odious Gleeman or a strutting Bard in a former life, she considered, it was always showing-off, seeking attention and adulation! "Never mind that!" She turned toward the stockade, inadequately defended by their prospective victims. "We would have words with you, before we settle our differences. Will you treat with us? Send down three of your own to talk, and I swear on my Oath to the Great Lord of the Dark that no harm shall come to them." She smiled cruelly. "Yet."

Irmilla could see the Noblewoman discussing it with the hated Aes Sedai, a strange, gnarled little man with crude tattoos on his face lingering beside them, shaking his head and clearly objecting to the idea… she glanced imperiously at the burly Sailmaster of the Stormchaser. "Order your people back to the boat." Duadh frowned. "Do it!"

Reluctantly, Duadh dismissed the dozen Waketa men and women of his crew, who trudged back toward the beached longboat, evidently disappointed that there was to be no blood-letting in the immediate future.

"There will be plenty of mayhem for all, ere long," Irmilla reassured Duadh, "but first, we need to know about the Aes Sedai and the Spawn of the Dragon…"

"Dragonspawn! I have not even seen this creature," Duadh grumbled, "what does it look like, assuming that it even exists? Does it have wings?"

"What, like a Draghkar? No, of course not! Well, I don't think so… I haven't seen it either…" Irmilla gave her response distractedly, eyes fixed on the stockade and the discussion taking place atop it, wishing that she knew how to read lips. Her Dread Mistress could, and had attempted to teach her this skill, but to no avail…

"What of the Lost One and his men, and Edaryne who was to go with them?" Mastri wondered softly, possibly speaking to himself in his veiled, muffled tones. "Do you think that they are here yet, somewhere in this strange land?"

Irmilla waited a moment to see if Mastri would answer his own question, perhaps in a differing voice, but he did not… so she did. "The other expedition our Mistress contemplates?" Irmilla shrugged, carelessly. "Hopefully, the Portal Stone sent them all straight to the Pit, or somewhere even less pleasant," she muttered spitefully, "especially that arrogant, thieving Tinker boy!" Irmilla's gaze remained on the top of the palisade, now bereft of those who had addressed them, occupied only by a dozen gaunt, shabby sailors clutching crossbows in nervous hands.

"The Shorebound Friends? We will not need them," Duadh observed confidently, "those shallow-water wretches up there look half-dead already… my people will slaughter them without breaking sweat." He eyed Irmilla enquiringly; "that Tar Valon witch who does not like you – I cannot imagine why! – is she more powerful than yourself, 'prentice?"

Irmilla shook her head curtly. "About the same." She smiled coldly, taking a dark, heart-shaped jewel from the pocket of her lace blouse and balancing it on her palm. "But then, I suspect that she does not have an angreal."

Abruptly, with a creaking sound, a section of the palisade swung outwards, lowered slowly to the sand by a rope to either side. Three figures stepped through the aperture; the Noblewoman, the scowling Rashiel and an exotic, dark-skinned youth wearing only a pair of baggy trews. His handsome features were covered in intricate, swirling tattoos.

"Ayyad," Duadh muttered, before turning to Mastri. "Beware, Samma N'Sei, that Sharaman can most likely channel."

"I already sense that he does," Mastri's indistinct voice responded, "he is strong in the Power… but I am stronger."

"And uglier!" Irmilla commented snidely, taking approving note of the Sharan youth's fine physique.

The trio began to walk cautiously towards the waiting Friends of the Dark, the Noblewoman's hand resting on the hilt of her sheathed rapier. In addition, tucked into her belt on the other side, she had a long dagger with a carved ivory hilt. Completing her arsenal; a small, bejewelled marriage-knife hung about her neck on a silver chain. It looked finely-made and rather valuable, Irmilla had always had a penchant for precious stones, and resolved to take the decorative item from the Ebou Dari slut's corpse. Even at a distance, Irmilla could tell that Rashiel was holding saidar, so she embraced the Source also, accessing it through her angreal, shivering with pleasure as the sweetness of the female-half of the One Power flowed into her.

But then, another individual slipped out of the open gateway, hastening after the others; a tall Aielman with reddish-gold hair and a crimson orb set in the right-hand socket of his much-scarred face, balancing the piercing blue eye to the other side. Oddly for an Aiel, he did not wear the cadin'sor but a dark and dirty robe, flapping about him… and even stranger, he did not appear to be armed, but even so…

"I said three, not four!" Irmilla objected loudly, "can't you ignorant Light-lovers count?!" The Noblewoman glared at her, then turned to the one-eyed Aielman, remonstrating with him and pointing back to the stockade, but he shook his head firmly so she shrugged and continued her progress towards them, her three compatriots following. "Try any treachery and I'll burn you all to cinders!" Irmilla warned the enemy when they came to a halt ten paces away.

Rashiel scowled furiously. "You are the treacherous one, Irmilla!" she spat, "you betrayed the White Tower itself!"

"And was glad to do so!" Irmilla retorted, "that crumbling edifice languishing at the heart of Tar Valon was unworthy of my loyalty… and did you but know how many of the Black Ajah walk its halls, then you would truly fear the Shadow!"

Rashiel sneered. Irmilla recalled from their time as novices together that she had always been good at sneering… "I am well aware of how far the rot has spread, Darkfriend treacher! Though there are thirteen less of your Shadow Sisters than there were… my doing!" The Noblewoman nodded approvingly, and patted Rashiel on the back.

Irmilla shrugged, unconcerned. "I care not. They weren't Sisters of mine, I claim no kinship with the Blacks. Do you see a serpent-ring 'pon my finger?" She glanced at the golden snake biting its own tail that decorated Rashiel's hand, a little enviously if truth be told… which, with Irmilla was something of a rarity. But still… she had been only a few weeks shy of her Testing for the Ring when she had been forced to flee the Tower… it might have been laudable, to prove herself in that wise.

Rashiel laughed tauntingly. Irmilla frowned, as certain ill memories of her novice days came back to her. Taunting laughter… Rashiel had always been good at that, too… "You would have been too weak to attain the Ring or the Shawl, Irmilla! Too bad that you did not attempt it, and disappear inside the Testing ter'angreal, never to be seen again! Murderess!"

Irmilla narrowed her eyes and opened rosebud lips to give as good as she got, but the tall Aielman garbed in the dark robe forestalled her. He had been staring intently at Mastri throughout the exchange, now he spoke up in a high, clear voice; "I believe that I know you, fellow! Lower that unseemly veil, which is red and not black, and show to me your face!"

Mastri promptly complied, pulling aside the cloth and smiling broadly, exposing his horrid filed, teeth. "I see you, Cohradin! I see also that you are Da'tsang now…" he ceased smiling and pursed his lips with disapproval, "…I cannot say that I am surprised by this!"

Irmilla watched as the one-eyed Aielman named 'Cohradin' scowled darkly. "I see you, Medelin, the foolish Thunder Walker! Tell to me why you wear a red veil, in stead of a proper black one, and also why your teeth are now pointy? What do you here, amongst these lowly Shadowrunners?"

Mastri scratched his hollow cheek with a dirty fingernail, considering, then answered proudly; "I am a Shadowrunner now. I am Samma N'Sei, in fact. It is a fine thing, to be an Eye Blinder in service to the Great Lord of the Dark!"

Cohradin shook his head forcibly. "It is not fine to be an Eye Blinder, though I do not know what that even is! But I saw one who looked as you, when last I was up in the Blight, a red-veiled villain of evil aspect… I chased the suspicious fool to demand of him his purpose, but a large and slimy monster of the Shadow ate him whole ere I could ask my questions!"

Mastri was clearly not listening, was droning on self-importantly; "and you should know before I wake you, Cohradin, that my name is no longer 'Medelin' but Mastri, which means-"

"Silence, both of you!" Irmilla possessed no patience for this nonsense. She had not arranged this meet so that a pair of addled Aielmen could reminisce and threaten each other! "You savages from the Waste are all mad, and clearly belong in this insane place, but we do not!" She turned briskly to the Ebou Dari Noblewoman, whose desirable marriage-knife she intended to despoil. "You appear to be the leader of that rabble up there in the driftwood shanty-town or whatever it is… I am Irmilla Nadona, initiated adept of the Shadow. Who might you be?"

The Noblewoman eyed Irmilla with great contempt and declined to answer. "She is the Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar, in line of succession to the Throne of Winds," Rashiel hissed, making the introductions for her companion, adding; "and we are no rabble!"

"Yes you are!" Ysmet goaded, "you look exactly like what you are, in fact; mendicant shipwrecked mariners in sore need of a rescue that shall never come!"

Both Ebou Dari females glared at Irmilla, who smiled insolently at them. The Aielmen continued to scowl at each other, and the facially-tattooed youth was watching Mastri cautiously with his dark, almost black eyes, in addition.

Duadh's dangerous gaze had been lingering curiously on the carved ivory hilt of the dagger tucked in the Mitsobar woman's belt, now he broke the strained silence. "Where is the Gleeman?" he demanded, of no-one in particular.

Ysmet stared at him with ill-disguised consternation. "What Gleeman?" she asked carefully.

"The one called 'Roth Blucha.' He who wrote the message."

"What message?" Rashiel enquired innocently.

Duadh frowned. "By the Siren's Teats, pretend not ignorance with me, Shorebound strumpets! I am Duadh din Retif Blue Ring, scourge of the seven seas, not some witless bilge-boy to be confounded by the likes of you! The message that was in the bottle, of course!"

"The Red Bull bottle," Mastri mumbled, adding to the confusion.

"Strumpets!" squawked Duadh's horrid parrot. "Squaaa! Bottle!"

"It did it again!" Rashiel exclaimed, staring at the talking bird with amazement.

Ysmet Mitsobar's face darkened. "Roth…" she muttered.

Irmilla smirked. "The message we found led us here, incidentally." She gestured at the coral reef offshore, the masts of the drowned ship projecting from the lapping waves. "It was quite specific."

"Roth! You and your bloody silly messages in bottles!" the Noblewoman Ysmet fumed, before composing herself. She regarded Duadh with loathing. "My husband is not here, pirate," she revealed, "which is just as well for him!" Duadh blinked, Irmilla raised an eyebrow. Clearly, the Lady Ysmet did not mean on account of the Storm Children's wrath, but her own! "Well, you simpering Darkfriend?" the Noblewoman snarled at Irmilla, "you wanted to talk… so talk!"

Irmilla smiled sweetly. "You are a Lady of House Mitsobar, then? Should I curtsy before addressing you?"

"You should grovel upon the ground and abjectly beg forgiveness of the Creator for your countless crimes!" Rashiel shouted angrily.

Irmilla ignored the hot-tempered young Aes Sedai, explaining to Ysmet Mitsobar; "at the behest of my Dread Mistress, I am sent here seeking three more of my old novice chums, a trio of foolhardy Sisters of the Tower who have defied her. I would locate their abominable servant also; a strange creature apparently, a kind of inhuman, protean Warder by all accounts… though not of this Age, but that previous."

The Lady Ysmet sneered, she was almost as good at it as Rashiel. "If by that you mean the Age of Legends, why do you not just say 'the Age of Legends?'"

"She was always mealy-mouthed as a novice," Rashiel observed disparagingly, "pompous too, ever trying to sound cleverer than she actually was... we all called her 'Twisty-tongue!'"

Irmilla scowled furiously. She did not like to be reminded of her less-than-complimentary novice-name, nor of her miserable days spent wearing the white dress and her unpopularity amongst her peers... "Well, Rashiel, perhaps you will recall that the novices all called you-"

"Trollop!" squawked Duadh's rude parrot.

Rashiel gasped. "How did it know that?" she wondered, agog.

"It didn't, imbecile!" Irmilla snapped, "the beastly bird just likes to shout-"

"Harlot! Squaaa!"

"-shout rude words. Duadh teaches them to it."

"I do not," Duadh responded truculently, stroking his vile parrot's head while it snapped at him with its large and vicious beak.

Abruptly, the Sharaman with the tattooed face, who had evidently not been following what was being said, pointed warningly at Mastri, whom he had been staring at intently throughout the exchange. "Souvraniene!" he declared, then furrowed his brow, swirling lines on his forehead writhing, clearly attempting to summon further words in a language not his own. "Him... channel!"

The one-eyed Aielman Cohradin reacted to this revelation with enthusiastic accusation. "So you are now an accursed Madman, Medelin?"

"Mastri!"

"This explains much! Always were you a strange fellow! Everyone at Wet Sands said so, even the other Sha'mad Conde… and your mother! Now I wisely see the reason that you did not honourably attempt to wake the Dark One from the Shadow Dream, for you stand revealed as a loathly Shadowrunner!"

Mastri frowned. "I did not serve the Shadow when first I began to channel, Cohradin… I mean; Da'tsang… on the way back from the Sharan Trade Hold with the others of our Sept, bearing our bolts of silk-"

"Silk, yes!" the Ayyad youth uttered, but was ignored.

"-I began to have strange dreams and to touch the Source… I caused fires and other ill happenings… there was an earthquake, though just a small one… and back at Wet Sands Hold, I then made a goat explode by staring at it!"

"That had better not have been my goat," Cohradin warned, grimly.

Mastri shook his head vehemently. "It was not your horrible and strange-looking goat, Cohradin… I mean; Da'tsang… but another, more valuable goat, that of our Sept Chief, Aluric."

"That Aethan Dor fool is now Chief?" Cohradin shook his head disapprovingly, before demanding; "but what became of the foolish Seia Doon Timburlan, who was Sept Chief when I and the other Sovin Nai were banished from Wet Sands Hold by old Sadora to go and seek out the Car'a'carn in the Wetlands?"

Mastri blinked, confused. "Was that a question?"

"Yes, you big fool, with your silly pointed teeth! Timburlan?"

Mastri shrugged, raising and then lowering bony shoulders. "If you must know, I heard that whilst returning from the raid on the Tomanelle, our Sept Chief Timburlan was bitten on the face by a venomous leaping spider!"

Cohradin laughed harshly. "Typical of that Black Eyed fool to be waked in so dishonourable and embarrassing a fashion! When the leaping spider attacks, you do not just stand there and let it jump onto your face and bite you! You duck!"

"Yes. Anyway, after the regrettable incident with the exploded goat, the Wise One Sadora struck me many times with her stick and then sent me north to Shayol Ghul, to slay the Great Lord of the Dark…" Mastri trailed-off, blinking. "Then… something happened… I know not what…" his confused expression faded from his gaunt face and he smiled widely; "…and now I am Samma N'Sei, an algai'd'siswai of the Shadow!" His sludgy green eyes narrowed dangerously as he then addressed Cohradin in menacing tones; "I always disliked you Cohradin… I mean; Da'tsang… especially after you led my brother into the Blight on one of your ridiculous Worm-hunts and he did not return… I shall very much enjoy waking you, boastful fool that you are!"

Cohradin's scarred lip curled with contempt. "Am I meant to be impressed by that meagre threat? I am not. You are the fool, for only the truly foolish run with the Shadow… no-one will sing songs for you when you are waked, Medelin!"

"Mastri!"

"Huh. Call yourself what you will in the brief time that you have left, Shadowrunner. It matters not, for you are but a walking dead man!" With that, Cohradin turned and stalked away, heading back to the stockade. Mastri glared after him for a moment, then resumed his strange smile. The Sharan youth continued to watch him warily.

Irmilla cleared her throat pointedly. "Well, now that the nonsensical Aiel-blather is finally done with, perhaps you might care to answer my question… three Aes Sedai and their unusual Warder? Any ideas, hmm?"

"Even if we knew of them, why should we tell you, Darkfriend?" the Lady Ysmet demanded, whilst Rashiel stared at Irmilla coldly, a promise of deadly retribution in her pale eyes.

Irmilla shrugged, unconcernedly. "I was sent here to find them, not you." She eyed Rashiel slyly. "Tell me where your wayward Sisters are hiding and perhaps I shall let you live, dearest Rashiel, your Regal friend also."

Ysmet Mitsobar and Rashiel Tamor exchanged a wordless glance, then the Ebou Dari Noblewoman turned back to Irmilla, no fear in her clear, brown eyes, but a certain amount of fatalism. "Let us live? No. You won't. You serve the Father of Lies, and emulate him with every false word that your vile mouth utters. Whatever we tell you – and that will be nothing, incidentally – you shall seek to kill us, irregardless." She smiled icily. "Do your worst, Shadowsworn liar."

Irmilla inclined her head mockingly. "Oh, but we shall!" She turned back to Rashiel. "I'll take you alive, my dear, and you will answer every one of my questions to my full satisfaction before you beg for the sweet release of death. Why, if there is time, perhaps we can even indulge in some warm-hearted nostalgia concerning the good old days, back in the novice quarters!"

"I think not," Rashiel responded in wintry tones, and left it at that.

"Well, then there is no more to be said," Irmilla declared, before her eyes narrowed threateningly. "For now, at least."

Without another word, the two women of Ebou Dar turned and walked away, back toward their camp, the facially-tattooed young man giving Mastri a final cautious glance before following. Irmilla watched them go.

"We could have taken them both, then and there," Duadh complained.

Irmilla shook her head decisively. "I swore no treachery on my Oaths to the Great Lord, Duadh. There are some things that it is wise not to lie about. Not many, but some."

Duadh snorted, clearly not agreeing. The trio of enemies disappeared inside the stockade and the gate was raised behind them. Irmilla sneered. The roughly-built palisade was but a paltry defence, it would scarcely serve to protect the camp for long.

"Is it time?" Duadh asked, softly. Irmilla nodded. "Finally!" Duadh pulled a short, wooden tube from his sash, a fuse projecting from the base. He dug in the pocket of his britches, producing tinder and flint, but the Samma N'Sei intervened.

"No need," Mastri murmured, "let me." He waved a hand and the end of the fuse abruptly flared alight. Duadh bit back a muffled curse and hastily held the tube aloft; sparks exploded from the end and a burst of red flame shot high above, flaring brightly.

Irmilla glanced over her shoulder at the anchored Stormchaser, out beyond the coral reef. At their Sailmaster's signal, the rest of the longboats were swiftly lowered to the water, Clan Waketa killers festooned with weaponry leaping nimbly down into them. Loaded with threescore bloodthirsty brigands, a pair of rowers at each oar, the boats began to pull swiftly for the shore.

"It begins," Duadh observed, forebodingly.

Irmilla smiled viciously. "Let battle commence," she whispered.

---

As he peered through the foliage at the edge of the forest, Lord Thaeus of House Desiama narrowed intense, blue eyes. From his place of concealment he watched the enemy closely as they leapt out of their boats and waded through the surf to form up on the beach in a loose mob. They looked to be a formidable foe by local standards, but clearly had no idea how to dress ranks or appear soldierly. Thaeus' time in the Legions had taught him that, and more. One good cavalry charge by a half-dozen squadrons would bloody them nicely, sweep them back into the sea, but unfortunately this was not an option. In his travels, Thaeus had not seen a horse in the Land of the Madmen, was unsure if they even had them here. Just the odd, sheepish creatures that hopped about on their large hind legs, and the annoying dog-like beasts that kept him awake at night with their incessant yelping and barking…

As Thaeus spied upon the invaders, he bared his teeth slightly, without being aware that he was doing it. He had never been a particularly fervent Child of the Light, not near so fanatical as some, but his years spent wearing the white cloak and golden sunburst had not endeared him to Darkfriends… and that was what these brigands were, according to Raab, some sort of Shadowsworn Sea Folk Clan who served the Father of Storms, their name for Shai'tan. As if they had not had enough dangers to face already! But is was likely that these Darkfriend Atha'an Miere had not stumbled upon their quarry by chance, were here at the command of the evil old Hag who had vowed vengeance upon his sister…

Thaeus' brow furrowed with concern at the thought of Ellyth and her dire predicament as captive of the Laughing God, whoever that particular Madman was… The worry only increased when his mind turned to Feir, his eldritch Lady, who had gone to confront this powerful souvraniene and his many followers, taking with her just a strange girl who talked to wolves! And there was the wolf too, he supposed… the three of them setting themselves against an army of dangerous male-channelers, while he hid himself in the bushes, prior to battling pirates. Something that he had always wished to do, admittedly, ever since he had been a small boy in the Manor House's library, avidly reading the exploits of Jain Farstrider and other adventurers of his ilk. But the reality of the situation was gravely different from the lurid fantasies of his childhood. Thaeus sighed softly. Ever since the Family Curse had fallen upon him and he had begun to channel the One Power, he had felt events rapidly spiralling out of his control. But who could really say that they had control over their own fate? Precious few.

The Darkfriends, about three score in number, had formed into a long double line and had begun to march up the beach, bare feet scuffing in the sand. The fierce sunlight glinted off their steel blades and axe-heads, shone on the garish tattoos that decorated their torsos. These 'Waketa' as Raab had named them, were clearly a more serious threat than the lesser Shadowsworn Sea Folk renegades that Thaeus and his companions had fought in the shoals of the Dead Sea, beneath the shadow of the Blight. Wolves, as opposed to mangy dogs. The Hag was no fool, had expended her weakest troops in the first battle, saving her best soldiers for now, when her enemy were at their weakest. But how had the Darkfriends known where to seek for them? The foolish Gleeman husband of the Lady Ysmet might have provided an immediate location with his silly bottled message… but what had sent the brigands to the Land of the Madmen in the first place? And how had they voyaged here so fast?

Thaeus clearly recognised the anchored ship out in the bay as the same which had pursued them on the Dead Sea, half a world away and a scant week past… evidently, there was some working of the Power involved here. The Hag knew where they were, had already dispatched a patrol of her Shadowspawn servants through the Portal Stone to search for them… there would undoubtedly be more of her wicked minions coming via the same arcane route, assuming that they were not already here. Perhaps the Hag would come herself? Thaeus certainly hoped so, he would very much like to put an end to her evil existence. He would take her head… no, that was too quick, too merciful… he would use his fires… he would burn her…

"Are you alright, Lord Whitecloak?"

The pair of voices spoke simultaneously from behind, pitched low so as not to reveal their position. Thaeus turned, blinking, a reddish mist fading from behind his eyes. The twin Warders of Shrina Sedai crouched there, watching Thaeus carefully, their dark eyes holding more than a hint of wariness.

"Yes, I am fine… why wouldn't I be?" Thaeus mumbled in response.

The Twins exchanged a meaningful glance. "You were whispering to yourself," explained one.

"You sounded angry," added the other.

Thaeus shook his head, trying to clear the buzzing sensation within his mind. "I was?"

The Twins nodded gravely, continuing to eye Thaeus with caution. He glared at them. "Stop looking at me like that! I haven't gone raving mad just yet!"

The identical Gaidin brothers shrugged simultaneously and complied with Thaeus' wishes, turning their eyes back to the curved, Power-wrought blade that lay upon the dead leaves between them.

"It is my turn," said the Twin on the left.

"It is not," responded the Twin on the right, "you had it yesterday."

"Only for part of the afternoon and the evening… you forgot to give it to me in the morning, remember?"

Thaeus sighed again. Surely these peculiar, matching Mayener Warders were not still arguing over which of them would get to use the good sword in the coming battle, as opposed to the more mundane blade that had not been forged by and Aes Sedai, long ago? But they were…

"I did not forget! I retained the sword in the morning because you neglected to ask for it, brother!"

"Well then, I forgot… you should have reminded me, brother!"

Thaeus cleared his throat quietly, to get their attention; the twin Gaidin glanced at him. "You do realise that we are most likely all about to perish fighting against odds of three-to-one?" he reminded them. The Twins nodded calmly. "So if we are to die, what difference does it make who has the nice blade?"

"I should like to fall on the battlefield with a Swordmaster's weapon gripped in my cold, dead hand!" declared a Twin.

"As would I," affirmed the other Twin, "very much so! What could be better than that?"

"And you think that I am the mad one?" Thaeus muttered, then dug two fingers into his belt pouch and drew out a silver Taraboner mark. He tossed the weighty coin high into the air, caught it neatly on the descent and slapped it down onto the back of his gauntlet. "Call."

"Heads!" nominated the left-hand Twin, promptly.

The right-hand Twin scowled at his brother, then muttered; "tails, then."

Thaeus took his hand away from the coin, revealing the haughty silvered face of a long-dead Panarch of Tanchico, etched in profile. "The sword is yours for the battle, Aebel," he told the winning Warder.

"I am Blaek."

"Whichever! Now cease this foolish bickering… we have red work to do!"

Blaek eagerly snatched up the Power-wrought blade, then paused, eyeing his frowning sibling. He hesitated a moment, then spun the sword skilfully, extending the hilt toward Aebel. "Take it, brother. It probably is your turn."

Aebel blinked in surprise, then reached out to touch the pommel. "Are you sure, brother?"

"No. But take it anyway."

Aebel nodded solemnly, gripping the hilt and sliding the curved blade deftly into the scabbard at his belt. Blaek retrieved another sword from the leaves, an inferior but still fine weapon, running his thumb critically along the edge, then sheathed it also. Two pairs of dark, dangerous eyes fixed on Thaeus.

"We stand ready," the Twins confirmed.

Thaeus nodded curtly, then turned back to his vantage. The Darkfriends were halfway to the palisade lined with defenders now, extending their uneven lines to encircle the stockade. They evidently meant to attack on all sides at once. It made sense to Thaeus, it was the order he would have given, were he in charge. With this in mind, his attention moved to the burly, shaven-skulled brigand with the large axe and the octopus tattoo writhing across his barrel chest, a colourful bird perched on his broad shoulder. He appeared to be the one giving the commands…

"That one," Thaeus hissed, pointing, "the big Shadowsworn brute with the blue tattoo… do your best to kill him, he is certainly the leader of this mob."

"We will," the Twins assented.

The plan, hastily hatched by Thaeus and the Lady Ysmet, was simple enough, but then, the best plans usually were. Whilst the meeting requested by the smirking Darkfriend witch had been taking place, the camp's three best swordsmen had taken advantage of the distraction to exit through the hidden sally-port at the back of the stockade and sneak into the forest, working their way stealthily around to the west. Hopefully, the Shadowsworn brigands on the ship had not seen them do so... Whilst the enemy were concentrating on their frontal assault, Thaeus and the Twins intended to attack from the rear, doing as much damage as possible and hopefully decapitating their leadership. Literally as well as figuratively, with any luck. Thaeus did not like the look of the big villain with the axe, and believed that his ill-favoured, shaved head would look far better separated from his bull neck.

It was not much of a plan, admittedly, and offered little hope for survival beyond the first moments of surprise and confusion amongst the foe, but it was all they had been able to come up with at short notice. It would have to do.

"What of the Shadowsworn witch?" Aebel enquired softly.

"She who Rashiel named 'Twisty-tongue,'" Blaek added unnecessarily, since there could be no doubt to whom his brother was referring.

"Rashiel Sedai says that she can deal with her… she insisted on doing so, in fact, and forbade anyone else from interfering." Thaeus smiled grimly, recalling his Uncle Leol's stories of the war in Altara… the Troubles… "Ebou Dari women take their vengeance seriously!" He considered a moment, then added; "Hamadi thinks that the red-veiled Aielman can channel too… he could not be entirely sure until he got up close to him, though."

"Do you speak Hamadi's language also, Lord Whitecloak?"

"Did Hamadi tell you this in the strange speech of Shara?"

"Of course not! I can barely speak my own language, let alone that of the Sharans! Hamadi told Raab to tell me…"

"Raab!" the Twins growled, contemptuously.

Thaeus grinned, and rolled his eyes. He, the Twins and Hamadi had all spent part of the previous night cloistered with the Sea Folk renegade, making fruitless plans for the rescue of the Laughing God's four prisoners, whilst Gen snored in the corner of his dank hut. Though they did not even know where the Aes Sedai and the Ayyad woman were being kept… all Aebel and Blaek could tell of Shrina's whereabouts through the Bond was that she was somewhere far to the south. But they were assuming that the captives were being kept together, and had not been separated.

This planning was not all that had taken place… after the Twins turned-in for the night, Hamadi had used Raab as a reluctant translator to convey to Thaeus some of his knowledge concerning saidin and its offensive and defensive uses in battle, about which he seemed to know a great deal. All taught to him by his missing paramour, Dara, apparently… these Ayyad certainly sounded like deadly foes. While no expert, Thaeus hoped that he might now have recourse to more than one option for opposing the Shadowsworn enemy. With this in mind, Thaeus touched the ornate, Heron-marked hilt that projected above his right shoulder… the Family Sword. But it was not the sole weapon in his arsenal. If need be, he yet had the Family Curse.

---

"Forward!" bellowed Duadh din Retif Blue Ring, Sailmaster of Clan Waketa, and his people obeyed, breaking into a run, charging the palisade some fifty paces away. With a loud squawk, Syed the parrot sprang from Duadh's broad shoulder and launched into the air, flapping aloft to circle high above, from where a better view of the fighting would present itself. Very wise of the bird, Duadh considered, the sagacious winged creature always departed its customary perch when there was blood-letting to be done. A battle was no place for a parrot…

To either side, the long lines of Storm Children pounded up the beach, bare feet raising clouds of sand, keen weapons brandished aloft. Duadh threw back his head and howled, the bestial war-cry of the Storm Children, heard by the few who lived to tell of it, and his people joined-in, yelling and whooping savagely. Duadh saw the puny sailors up on the parapet flinching at the dread cacophony, though they did not retreat. Well, they were surrounded, there was nowhere for them to go…

At Duadh's flank, his niece Samarla slowed her pace slightly, drawing back her arm to hurl a cruelly-barbed javelin, teeth bared in her dark face, predatory eyes fixed on a prospective victim. Duadh would have thought her a little far from the target for such a throw, had he not seen Samarla accurately spit a distant enemy with her fearsome weapon on numerous occasions. This time, however, events went differently for his niece; before she could cast the javelin, a crossbow bolt struck her square in the chest. Blood erupted from her mouth and she fell back with a choking cry. Duadh scowled murderously; she had been one of his best fighters… he paused to scoop up the fallen weapon, vowing to thrust it into the guts of Samarla's killer and twist it. It would be what she would have wanted…

Further bolts were being fired steadily from the stockade, though at a slow rate, and Duadh saw more of his people fall to the deadly missiles as they rushed up the beach, about a half-dozen in all… many of the quarrels missed their targets, however, they were being fired too high. Duadh grinned ferociously. Had his crew been facing disciplined soldiers, trained archers, the toll would have been higher… but these were mere sailors, what passed for mariners amongst the Shorebound, and they clearly lacked experience with the crossbow. In either case, the end result would be the same. Clan Waketa would fight anyone, anywhere… and what few survivors remained from the encounter would be given to the salt, sacrificed to the Stormfather. It was the way of things, and had been for a very long time.

Duadh could not see either of the Ebou Dari women up on the parapet; he particularly desired to find and take captive the Noblewoman, not merely to ravish her though he would most probably do that too, but because she had something that he wanted and he wished to discover how she had come by it. What this Lady Ysmet was doing with an ancient and valuable Clan Waketa dagger stuck through her belt, Duadh had no idea, but it would be his ere long… as would her life. Eventually.

A sallow sailor atop the palisade raised his crossbow, sighting on Duadh. Without breaking his stride, the Sailmaster of the Stormchaser swept back his powerful arm and threw the javelin forcibly. The sharp steel point went through the thin wood of the hoarding like paper, plunging into the sailor's belly. He screamed and dropped the crossbow, clutching at the haft sunk into his bloody midriff, then sank from view.

"I shall be up there to twist it presently, Shorebound!" Duadh shouted, then laughed wildly. The battle-madness was upon him, the red thirst for blood, and his dark soul sang with joy. By the Stormfather's Beard, this was what he lived for!

The Waketa were but ten paces from the stockade when suddenly, a high wall of flame sprang into existence between them and their goal, encircling the camp. The fighters fell back, cursing, no few of them somewhat singed. That was real fire, and no illusion…

"Windfinder!" Duadh roared, forgetting that she was no such thing in his haste, and then Irmilla was at his side, looking winded from her run up the beach. "Do something about those flames!" Duadh commanded, gesturing impatiently at the fiery barrier that lay between him and his prey.

"I'm already doing it, you great oaf!" Irmilla snapped, staring intently at the blazing barrier.

"You could have shielded us from those cursed crossbow bolts," Duadh grumbled, "I lost some useful people…"

"I needed to preserve my strength for this sort of thing," Irmilla explained impatiently, "now cease distracting me, Duadh, I must concentrate…"

On the other side of the burning wall, the gate in the palisade swung down to the sand. The Aes Sedai stood there alone, her pale eyes narrowed, hands raised. Irmilla smiled cruelly and gestured; a dark ball of fire appeared before her and shot through the flames directly toward her enemy, who promptly crossed her wrists in front of her face. The fireball exploded against an invisible shield that she must have hastily conjured, scorching the timbers of the stockade to either side. The Aes Sedai staggered back, a look of severe strain on her face, before straightening up and composing herself.

Duadh comprehended little of the One Power, but presumably the Crone's Apprentice used this distraction to her advantage, for the flaming barrier abruptly froze, its red hue shifting to blue-grey, becoming a jagged wall of ice around its entire length. "What good is this?" Duadh angrily demanded of Irmilla, "there is yet a wall between we and our foe!"

"Give me that!" Irmilla snarled, snatching Duadh's prized axe from his grasp. He was too surprised by the unexpected nature of this action to stop her! Gripping the heavy weapon inexpertly in both hands, Irmilla swung it hard against the ice barrier, which promptly shattered, making a hole wide enough for a man to fit through. "The ice is thin, you idiot!" Irmilla shouted, passing Duadh back his axe, "your people can break through easily… now go and get on with about the only thing you swabs of the Shadow are any good at – kill them!"

Duadh put a hand over his heart and grinned. "It shall be as you say, Daughter of the Sands," he promised. Irmilla frowned confusedly. Clearly, she did not realise that she had just been insulted…

The Aes Sedai yet stood in the gateway of the stockade, watching wide-eyed. Irmilla noticed and waved at her through the hole in the frozen wall. "Hello again, Rashiel dear!" she called out, "Ice beats Fire! Go and hide in a hole or under a rock, I shall count to twenty and then come find you!" The Ebou Dari witch glared at Irmilla poisonously. Duadh did not particularly blame her since he found the annoying 'prentice irritating also. The Aes Sedai then stepped back, the gate beginning to swing up again.

"Quick, stop it before it closes!" Duadh commanded. To either side, his people were yet engaged in smashing their way through the ice-wall, but two of his swifter crew, a brother and sister named Cinn and Cerra, slipped through the hole Irmilla had made in the barrier with his axe. They ran fleetly forward to obey Duadh's order, whilst he and a dozen of his strongest fighters attacked the wall in earnest, smashing it asunder.

Duadh watched as the Clan Waketa youth and maiden sped to opposite sides of the closing gate, slashing the ropes that held it up with their long knives. The section of palisade began to fall, but then halted and resumed rising, despite the cut cables. Presumably, the Aes Sedai was doing it, or the Sharaman… Duadh turned to Irmilla to demand that she again intervene, but she was now kneeling on the sand, head bowed, clearly overcome by her recent exertions. The insane Aielman was nowhere to be seen… Duadh cursed, turning back to the gate. "Stop them!" he shouted, as he and his crew advanced on the palisade, trampling shattered chunks of ice beneath their thorny feet.

Cinn and Cerra exchanged a mute glance, then placed their knives between their teeth and leapt to grab the top of the closing gate, nimbly swinging themselves up to vault over the edge. They disappeared inside the stockade as the gate slammed shut. Duadh stared, nonplussed. That was not quite what he had in mind… Reaching the palisade he angrily slammed his axe into the logs, wood chips flying. Sailors stood above, hurriedly reloading their crossbows. More Clan Waketa fighters inexorably closed-in on the stockade from all sides, surrounding their enemy.

"Ropes and grapnels!" Duadh roared commandingly, wondering what had become of the two young deck-hands who had so imprudently ventured within the camp… his answer came as the severed head of Cerra landed in the sand beside him, her eyes wide, staring blankly. A moment later, her brother's head thumped down also, though Cinn's eyes were tightly closed. Duadh glared up at the top of the palisade, where the Noblewoman now stood on the parapet, smiling down at him coldly. The strange little man he had seen earlier hovered beside her, faded tattoos marking his lined face, which wore a stern expression; he held a blood-stained leather sack, from which he had presumably emptied the decapitated trophies.

"Begone, Darkfriend pirate, or you shall share the fate of those two!" the Lady Ysmet shouted.

Duadh snarled with rage. He did not particularly care about Cerra and Cinn, they had just been a couple of half-breed orphans, holding little status within the Clan, but they had still been part of his crew and had died at his behest… their deaths were an insult to the Waketa, and must be avenged! "You shall perish slowly for that, Shorebound harlot!" Duadh promised, though was not sure if his threat had been heard over the howling and agonised screams that punctuated the battle.

"Shoot!" commanded the Ebou Dari Noble, and the sailors to either side let loose their bolts. Most were aimed at Duadh, unsurprisingly, but did not strike home; instead, the quarrels slammed to a halt short of their target as they hit an invisible barrier of some kind, then dropped harmlessly to the ground. The sailors gasped, before frantically beginning to turn the cranks on their crossbows. The Noblewoman cursed and beside her, the small fellow stared at something behind Duadh and opened his mouth, revealing a few yellowing teeth that were filed to points. "Ware Souvraniene!" he screamed, then ducked out of sight.

Duadh suspected a familiar presence behind him and turned to look. Sure enough, Mastri stood there, a broad smile twisting his wide mouth, exposing filed, pointed teeth, his disturbing gaze fixed on the palisade. "That old man up there had teeth a little like mine," he commented, then in more decisive tones, bade them to; "stand aside, Sea Folk." Duadh and his crew did as they were bid. Further crossbow bolts were fired at the tall Samma N'Sei from above, but again he halted them in mid-air, and this time, retaliated. The sailor directly opposite raised his weapon, sighting on Mastri, who narrowed his eyes and gestured with one hand in response. The unfortunate sailor promptly exploded, erupting instantaneously into a welter of gore, torn skin and shattered bone.

"Take cover!" the Noblewoman shrieked; she and the remaining sailors disappeared from sight. The Waketa began to swing their ropes, iron grappling hooks knotted to the ends, but Mastri shook his head.

"No need," the Samma N'Sei declared, closing one hand into a fist and making a punching motion directed at the gate. This too exploded; Duadh and his closest crew threw themselves to the sand to avoid a swarm of flying splinters… then the Sailmaster looked up, beholding a ragged hole in the palisade where the gate had stood, a breach in the enemy's defences that he and his fighters might profitably exploit.

Duadh bared his teeth savagely. "Come on!" he yelled, "kill!" The Waketa needed no encouragement; they all came from a line of hardened killers that went back to long before the Trolloc Wars, their people had been doing this sort of thing for a great many generations. They surged forward, weapons raised, howling fiercely. But then, the dark-skinned Sharan youth with the tattooed face stepped into the gap in the shattered stockade. He smiled grimly, raising his hands… and it began to rain fire.

---

Cirla din Retif Swordfish stood at the large spoked wheel up on the quarterdeck of the Stormchaser, keeping her customary station whilst avidly watching the attack on the enemy camp. Cirla felt disappointment and anger that she was not there herself, taking part in what would undoubtedly be a satisfactory slaughter of the Shorebound weaklings who opposed them, but unfortunately, someone had to remain behind and watch over the ship. In this case, that meant she and a dozen Clan Waketa crew down on the main-deck, taking an equally keen interest in the mayhem ashore.

Abruptly, a high wall of flame sprang into being, encircling the stockade. Cirla flinched, jerking her dark gaze away from the eyepiece of the telescope she had been training on the shore, blinking the spots out of her vision. It was an Aes Sedai's doing, doubtless. The One Power had always made Cirla nervous, her people also… the few channeling Windfinders of their Clan were assiduously avoided and she was glad that there was not one aboard. Her hated sister especially… it was bad enough that they sailed with the ill-omened Aiel Madman and the sluttish 'prentice of She Who Calls the Gales, but Cirla knew that to have Melda din Retif Barracuda as her shipmate would be truly nightmarish. When they were both children, Melda had tormented her younger sister relentlessly; stealing her toy knives, poisoning her pet dog-shark and oft threatening to give little Cirla to the salt. When the vile siren began to channel and became a Windfinder, her ill behaviour had only worsened.

Cirla raised the spyglass to her other eye, to better see what was being done about the fiery barrier by their own channelers... she was surprised to note that in the intervening moments, the flames had been turned to ice. So that was what had been done… but it made little sense to her. To exchange one wall for another? Why-?

"That is a fine tattoo upon your back, Friend to the Darkness," complimented an oddly accented, husky voice from right behind Cirla, "a swordfish, is it not?"

---

Rashiel Tamor rose unsteadily, a pair of tattooed hands helping her to her feet. "Thank you, Raab," she murmured, blinking rapidly, clearing her distorted vision… that wall of flame had really taken its toll on her, and it had all been for naught. She strongly expected that Irmilla – foul, conniving bitch that she was – had obtained an angreal from her loathsome, Shadowsworn Mistress. Transforming the fiery barrier to ice was no mean feat and Irmilla had never been that strong in the Power.

"The Storm Children will be over the palisade soon, and then we will certainly be slain," Raab observed mournfully, "well, the lucky ones, at least…"

Rashiel eyed the doleful Sea Folk renegade with confusion. "Still here, Raab? I thought you said that you were going to kill yourself?" she reminded him.

Raab shrugged, and touched the carven ivory hilt of the short-sword tucked through his sash. "I am not very skilled with a blade," he admitted, "but have decided to at least try and take some of those Light-cursed children-of-the-sands with me."

Rashiel approvingly ruffled Raab's curly hair, causing him to flinch. "Good for you, Atha'an Miere! That's the spirit!" Her pale eyes swept along the palisade, taking account of the paucity of men lining its length. With a dozen of the crew away on the rescue mission to the Isle of the Spire – Dagnon too, she truly regretted sending him along with the others and had not been able to sense his whereabouts through the Bond as yet – there really were not enough sailors left to adequately defend the camp. They were spread far too thin. With a gurgling cry, a sailor dropped his crossbow and tumbled from the parapet, an arrow lodged in his throat. Rashiel frowned. And getting thinner all the time.

Rashiel tried to recall the last time that she had been in such danger. The fight with those other pirates on their way to this insane land? But no, the savages who had attacked the Queen Mab near an uncharted archipelago to the north had not been as deadly as the Storm Children, though fearsome enough… short, pale folk, their bodies covered with swirling blue paint patterns, armed with flint-tipped spears and tridents. They had swarmed around the ship in long war-canoes, a little like those used by the Hawx, and had done much violence in a short space of time… but when Rashiel began to hurl fireballs into their midst, the savage brigands had fled in terror. They had not enjoyed the advantage of having their own channeler, to dispel her weaves…

Also, in addition to the despised Irmilla, there was that strange Aiel Darkfriend Souvraniene to deal with. Hopefully, Hamadi could do so. If not, they were probably all as good as dead… Rashiel scowled furiously. She had survived the worst that the Black Ajah could do to her, and she would kiss a Myrddraal before she allowed a pack of Shadow-loving sea-scum to end her life! No, Rashiel considered, the last time that she had been in this much peril, this close to dying, had definitely been on that dreadful day in Tar Valon…

"That is lovely, Soorla. What is it?"

"A tree, Rashiel Sedai."

"I can see that it is a tree, I meant what kind?"

"It is a yew, of course." The Ogier maiden turned her large head, long tresses of chestnut hair sweeping down her back, raising silky eyebrows. "Can you not tell? Oh dear, perhaps it is not very good…"

Rashiel tilted her head to one side, squinting at the finished work of art that rested upon the easel, examining the skilful brush-strokes that had taken paint and canvas, and had brought forth a tree that looked as though you could reach out and touch it. "Um… no, don't be silly Soorla, it is every bit as excellent as everything else you paint and draw, it is just that we don't have… what was it again?"

"A yew tree."

"Yes, that, we don't have them down in Altara… I think…"

"But of course you do, Rashiel Sedai! They grow everywhere in the Westlands, and even beyond…" Soorla chuckled softly, rising from her three-legged stool and towering over the young Aes Sedai. "Humans! You know little of the arboreal realm, it would seem…"

"I know lots about fish!" Rashiel pointed-out.

"That is hardly the same thing, Aes Sedai. One cannot rest beneath the shade of a fish on a hot summer's day."

"I suppose not…"

Soorla's huge eyes widened with enthusiasm, her long ears lifting, and Rashiel, noting the sure signs of a dissertation on trees being imminent, felt her heart sink a little. "A tree is not merely a plant… why, it is an entire world unto itself! An unknowable entity! And this living, breathing Grove, tended by the Aes Sedai of the White Tower, lovingly created many generations gone by my brethren who built this fine City, it is the quintessence, the veritable epitome of-"

"Rashiel!"

Both Aes Sedai and Ogier artist turned to see Dagnon Gaidin running towards them, weaving and veering around the tall trunks of the Tar Valon Grove. He looked unaccustomedly flustered and was clad in drab, farmer's woollens, a sack on his back. Strangest of all, he did not appear to have his Heron-mark blade sheathed at his belt. Rashiel did not think that she had ever seen Dagnon without his Family Sword. Except in bed, of course…

"Dagnon!" Rashiel exclaimed, "you have ignobly interrupted dearest Soorla's exposition! How rude!" Though secretly, she was rather glad that her Warder and lover had done so…once Soorla got onto the subject of her flaming trees, she could drone on for an entire afternoon!

Dagnon skidded to a halt beside the easel, which he nearly knocked over in his haste, and bowed gracefully to Soorla. "My abject apologies, honoured Builder… I mean, Painter… but-"

"You could at least pause to admire her latest masterpiece!" Rashiel added tartly.

Dagnon gave Rashiel one of his impatient stares, but swiftly scanned the oil-painting with his cold, blue-eyed gaze, even so. "Very nice," he commented, unconvincingly. Rashiel repressed a smile. Her beloved Dagnon was probably even less interested in trees than she! The closest he had ever come to the 'arboreal realm' was back in Murandy, helping-out at the local saw-mill! Best not to tell Soorla that, though…

Naturally, Soorla did not notice the falseness of Dagnon's admiration but, being an Ogier, took the compliment at face value. "My thanks, good Brother of Battles." She raised a long finger to her lips, thoughtfully. "When the paint has dried, do you think I might perhaps present this art to the Amyrlin Seat, to thank the Mother for hosting me at the Tower and allowing me access to her beautiful Grove?" She blushed, ears twitching. "Or would that be too forward?"

Rashiel rather doubted that Siuan Sanche was any more interested in trees than she was, though the Amyrlin certainly knew even more of fishes… the bloody woman never stopped mentioning the burning things! Rashiel opened her mouth to make some sort of polite yet nugatory reply, but this never came.

"You will have to give the tree painting to the new Amyrlin," Dagnon muttered darkly, "but I shouldn't bother if I were you, Mistress Soorla… I hear that she does not care for landscapes, is only really interested in silly ivory carvings of animals!"

Rashiel gaped at her Warder. "The…new Amyrlin? Whatever do you mean, Dagnon?"

Dagnon Gaidin frowned grimly. "There has taken place this dark day a coup in the Tower, the Mother has been deposed… how could you not know, Rashiel?" Rashiel glared at Dagnon, about to protest, but he held up his hand authoritatively, hissing; "shush! Listen…" This brusqueness was so unlike Dagnon's habitual mannerly behaviour that Rashiel, in her surprise, obediently fell silent!

Aes Sedai, Warder and Ogier all strained their ears in the ensuing quietude. One of those pairs of ears was tufted with fine, silky hairs, and heard more keenly than the less decorative ears of the humans… Soorla's wide mouth fell open in shock and dismay as she detected something. Then, Rashiel heard it too… in the distance, the clashing of steel on steel, punctuated by harsh screams and shouts. Sniffing, she thought that she could detect the odour of burning.

"What..?" Rashiel muttered.

Dagnon's voice was pitched low, held urgency; "Elaida has supplanted the Amyrlin and stolen the Seat for herself! She is backed by a narrow consensus in the Hall of Sitters and holds the support of various co-conspirators, numbering many of the more ambitious and less ethical Sisters of the White Tower!"

"Elaida?" Rashiel gasped, shocked, "Elaida do Avriny a'-"

"Yes, her!" Dagnon shook his head in disgust. "Truly, it shames me that one of my Nation, of the noble Stornlands no less, daughter of a House almost as old as mine own, should be capable of such black treachery!"

"Oh, Elaida is capable of just about anything…" Rashiel murmured absently, her mind working furiously.

"What of the Watcher of the Seals, good Gaidin?" Soorla asked quietly, her voice a low drone, like the buzzing of a large honey-bee, "what has become of the true Amyrlin?"

Dagnon shrugged. "A good question, honoured Alantin ti Avende. Some say Siuan Sanche is dead, others that she languishes in the deep cells below the Tower. There is even a rumour that she has escaped the Island, and intends to lead a revolt against the usurpers…" Dagnon hesitated, eyeing Rashiel uncertainly, then reluctantly added; "…but all whom I have spoken with; Warders and Guardsmen mostly, Old Quilly and some of his stableboys also, agree on one thing… the deposed Amyrlin has almost certainly been stilled."

"Oh, how awful!" Soorla cried.

Rashiel scowled, resisting the urge to shudder with horror. Better that Elaida's cabal had just killed her… stilling was an almost certain death-sentence in any case. Rashiel had never particularly liked Siuan Sanche, and was far from alone in this, but she had respected her even so… her moral strength and iron will had been a reassuring factor in the stability of the White Tower. Rashiel felt no such sentiment for Elaida, quite the opposite… even by the base standards of the Red Ajah, the woman was repugnant! Conceited and deeply stupid, also. That the Tower should have turned upon itself, that Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan was now Amyrlin Seat at such a time… the Dragon had been reborn, for the Light's sake! The Last Battle was coming! Elaida leading the Aes Sedai in these dark and dangerous days? It would be a bloody disaster!

"How is it that you did not know of these events, Rashiel?" Dagnon reiterated, "why, you must be the very last person in Tar Valon to be unaware that-"

"Shut your pie-hole, moustache-face!" Rashiel rudely interrupted, annoyed, before shouting; "you already flaming-well asked me that!" She nodded at a picnic basket standing nearby. "I have been in the middle of the Grove with Soorla all morning, if you must know. It was a nice enough day, so we thought that we would eat outside, after she had finished her painting… where have you been, anyway? You were still asleep when I left, slugabed! And why in the Wheel are you wearing those old clothes? You look like a travelling manure-salesman!"

Dagnon frowned and drew himself up nobly, to indicate that his dignity had been wounded, then dumped the sack he carried out onto the grass; it contained more drab woollens, a skirt, blouse and shawl. "I have been gathering information, Rashiel," he explained resentfully, though a little smugly, "and doing my best to avoid the fighting until I could find you, by disguising myself as-"

"A travelling manure-"

"No! As something other than a Gaidin of the Tower…"

"You were already doing that," Rashiel reminded him, "since nobody is supposed to know about you being my Warder and suchlike…"

"I know!" Soorla stated importantly.

"Yes, dearest Soorla, but I swore you to secrecy, did I not? Ogier's Oath! You're a Treesister, so you're eminently trustworthy!"

"I thank you, Aes Sedai," Soorla mumbled bashfully.

Rashiel eyed the rough garments lying on the grass with confusion. "Who are those for? They probably won't fit Soorla…"

"They are for you of course!" Dagnon growled impatiently, "get changed, Rashiel!"

"Shan't! Hold! Fighting?"

"What in the blue blazes do you think that noise was, Rashiel?" Dagnon demanded, exasperated, "the kitchen staff throwing pots and pans at each other?!"

"There is no need to be sarcastic…" Rashiel muttered, sulkily.

Dagnon did not hear, enlarging on his theme; "it is Warder against Warder out there, Guardsman against Guardsman… that young Andoran Princeling who came here to train with the Gaidin… I misremember his name…"

"The beautiful boy, Galad?" Rashiel enthused.

"Not that prancing fop! The other one, his brother!"

"He's not a fop and he doesn't prance… well, not that much… you are just jealous of his good looks, Dagnon!"

"I am not! He lacks a moustache! What kind of fellow shaves his top lip like that? Why, tis unmanly and slightly effeminate!"

"Yes, well… I assume you mean Prince Gawyn? What of him?"

"What indeed?" Dagnon scowled. "This Prince of the Sword, Gawyn, he led the younglings against the Senior Gaidin when they tried to free Siuan Sedai, acting in support of Elaida, the bloody fool!"

"Surely not?!" Rashiel gasped.

"Tis the very truth! It is bruited about that Gawyn slew Hammar Gaidin!"

"Oh no! Poor Hammar!"

"And Coulin Gaidin, also!"

"Coulin too? The wretch! Andorans are all sneaks! Except for dear old Thom Merrilin, of course… and the gorgeous Prince Galad, naturally."

"Huh. My Warhorse is more gorgeous than he." Dagnon lowered his voice portentously; "and which is worse; Sisters of the Tower are reportedly slaying their fellow Aes Sedai, using the One Power to do violence!"

"Never! I refuse to believe it!"

"Believe it even so! That is why you must disguise yourself as well, the Reds and the other conspirators know you for a probable loyalist, opposed to their schemes… there may even be Black Ajah amongst them. If they catch you, Rashiel, then you shall never leave the White Tower alive!"

Rashiel blinked, then regarded the ill-fashioned woollens without enthusiasm. She sighed, reached a decision and slipped out of her fine maroon gown after Dagnon had helped her with the buttons. Clad only in crimson silk stockings and shift, she began to get changed. "What of the others loyal to the old Amyrlin?" Rashiel's muffled voice enquired as she pulled the rough and itchy blouse down over her head.

"There are no few of them, but they have mostly fled the Island to regroup and gather their strength elsewhere… it seems that the entirety of the Blue Ajah has decamped, many Greens also, a smattering of reactionaries from the other Ajahs… they have taken their Warders with them, naturally, some servants also, and-"

"Alright, enough information!" Rashiel snapped, "my head is spinning…" She pecked Dagnon affectionately on the cheek to take the sting from her words, since she had asked him for further details, after all. "Hush, handsome! Your Aes Sedai needs to think…"

Whilst they had been engaged with the dire affairs of the day, Soorla had occupied herself with packing her painting and some charcoal sketches into a leathern portfolio and dismantling her collapsible easel. The tall Ogier maiden now stood waiting patiently, these items under one arm, her sturdy stool held in the other hand.

Rashiel came to a weightier decision than that reached concerning the wearing of ugly clothing. "Obviously, we shall have to flee Tar Valon," she announced, "but where to go? Cairhein, perhaps?"

"We should leave passing soon, true enough," Dagnon agreed, before protesting; "but Cairhein is full of rampaging Aielmen! And the most recent incarnation of the Lord of the Morning! Tis right dangerous… why there?"

"I was just entertaining the possibility, it isn't exactly a decision… back in Saldaea, before she rode off into the night on her big, black horse, Cadsuane told me that she intended to gather a group of useful Aes Sedai for a private endeavour. Something to do with the Dragon Reborn, apparently? The old goat offered me a place in their number, Ellyth too if she turned up in time… I wonder where Lady Whitecloak is, anyway? She should have returned from her latest foolish quest by now…"

"Cairhein?" Dagnon reminded Rashiel, pointedly.

"Oh yes… well, Cadsuane said that I should meet her and the others there…"

"Then we shall go to Cairhein," Dagnon stated, clearly relieved that they had arrived at a choice concerning their destination. He did not care for uncertainty…

"No we flaming shan't go to Cairhein! I would rather bed a particularly ill-favoured Trolloc than spend another moment in the vile company of Cadsuane bloody Melaidhrin! She can keep her burning schemes to herself!"

"Then where-?" Dagnon began to ask, but Soorla spoke up at this point, her rumbling tones claiming their attention.

"Excuse me Aes Sedai, Gaidin, but I think perhaps it might be time for me to go now… to travel back to Stedding Saishen, that is. This exchange of power within the White Tower seems very hasty and intemperate…" Soorla's ears drooped sadly, "…not to mention violent… most sad, a great shame… but I have remained longer than I intended and it is certainly high time that I left Tar Valon." She sighed, a gusty sound reminiscent of a breeze stirring dead leaves. "I am sure that the Elders of my stedding shall wish to be informed of these dire happenings amongst the Aes Sedai…"

"I'm sure they shall," Rashiel agreed, then spoke seriously; "but please don't return to your stedding through the Ways, Soorla, I know we did not actually see anything in there when we journeyed to Tar Valon along those dark paths, but I had this horrid feeling that I was being watched by some inimical entity for the entire time…"

"As did I," Dagnon agreed, but neither female heard him, so he returned to scanning the trees around them in case Elaida's minions decided to search the Ogier Grove for loyalists.

"There is something evil within the Ways, I am sure of it!" Rashiel further warned.

Soorla nodded gravely. "I concur with your opinion, Rashiel," she commented, "the very moment I stepped through the Waygate I felt the presence of something untoward and dangerous, and instantly regretted my decision to lead you both to Tar Valon… I might have turned back, then and there, but you humans set such store in bravery that I did not wish you to think me craven…"

"Oh, I would never think that, Soorla… you defied the wishes of your mother in coming here to paint your trees, something that I would never have risked!"

Soorla's broad mouth spread even wider in a warm smile. "Mother is yet upset with me about that, and shall probably remain so for at least another century! But do not fear, I shall ride back to Stedding Saishen upon the fine horse that the Keeper of Chronicles was good enough to gift me with… a most pleasant and generous woman…" Soorla glanced at Dagnon, "…I do hope that she..?" She could not bring herself to actually say it.

Dagnon shook his head. "Leanne Sedai yet lives, though the word is that she was stilled also." Rashiel frowned. Unlike Siuan Sanche, she actually liked Leanne Sharif… Elaida and her cronies would pay for their crimes… probably Black Ajah traitors, the entire sorry lot of them!

Soorla sighed regretfully. "Such terrible times that we live in," she commented, then brightened; "in any case, I shall shun the foreboding Ways and travel home upon my noble steed, though slower than ever my feet could carry me! I have developed a decided taste for horse-riding. We Ogier should do it more often."

"It is not really a noble steed, it is actually a rather old cart-horse," Dagnon pointed-out in the interests of veracity, but again, he went unheard.

Soorla inclined her head courteously to Rashiel. "Under your fine tutelage, Rashiel Sedai, I believe that I have become an accomplished horsewoman… or Caba Alantin ti Avende might be more appropriate, perhaps..?"

Rashiel could not quite repress a smile this time, despite the dread events of the day, for the image of Soorla atop her plodding beast of burden, legs swinging and body swaying inexpertly back and forth, was a humorous one. Rashiel smiled up at Soorla, patting her arm. "Come, we will go with you as far as the Tower stables, but then we must say our goodbyes, my friend." She turned to Dagnon, resuming her glare. "Where are your fabled manners, Gaidin? Carry Soorla's easel and stool! Be quick about it lest I set your large and bristly moustache aflame!" Dagnon sighed, and obeyed, taking these heavy items from Soorla.

A time later, Rashiel and Dagnon stole along a lengthy street from archway to archway, slender spires and minarets looming to either side above architecture that looked as though it had been as much grown as constructed. Ogier work, and not even the finest that Tar Valon had to display. The thoroughfare was strangely deserted for this time of day, the citizenry of the Island City were mostly secreting themselves indoors until the turmoil was ended, and a foreboding silence reigned.

Up ahead, the corpse of a thickset man was slumped face down in a pool of blood. He wore shabby workman's garb, but Dagnon flipped his coat aside with a boot to reveal that he was armoured in plate and mail beneath. A fallen sword lay nearby.

"Another one," Dagnon commented, "a mercenary disguised as a mason… I think me that Elaida and her friends have been smuggling their clandestine armsmen into Tar Valon for weeks."

Rashiel nodded bleakly. "Siuan Sanche was too focused on faraway events; the Dragon, the Aiel, those invaders out to the west who claim descent from the High King's lost legions…" she shook her head chidingly, "…she never noticed what was going on under her nose until it was too late."

They moved on, heading for North-harbour, about which Rashiel knew several lewd jokes, which she liked to cause her lover blushes with… Dagnon was such a prude! She was in no mood for jests at the moment, however, not after what she had recently seen in the Tower grounds, images upon which she did not like to dwell, mostly involving the dead bodies of people she had known.

The White Tower had been broken, not from without but from within… something that five great sieges by Shadowspawn and Darkfriend armies during the Trolloc Wars had failed to accomplish, that the Hawkwing himself had not been able to bring about with all the might of his considerable forces… no, the Aes Sedai had done it to themselves. And with Tarmon Gai'don coming, with the Dragon's rebirth, the Tower had been split asunder at the worst possible time! It had to be a plot of the Shadow behind this terrible schism, it must be.

"Hsst!" hissed Dagnon, "there is someone coming…"

Rashiel eyed her Warder with affectionate amusement. "Dagnon dear, did you actually just say 'hsst?'" she whispered, "why, I didn't know people actually did that!"

"Hush!" hushed Dagnon commandingly, and unceremoniously grabbed Rashiel's arm, yanking her into a darkened archway, whilst reaching beneath his dusty wool coat for the long dagger he had concealed there. His Family Sword he had left at their destination, so as not to attract notice. Men dressed as farmers did not usually carry a Blademaster's weapon. Though a certain youthful shepherd from the Two Rivers had done so, but neither Rashiel nor Dagnon were aware of this.

From around the nearest corner, slow, shuffling footsteps were gradually approaching. Dagnon watched warily from their shadowy place of concealment, Rashiel less so, rubbing her bruised bicep and glaring at the muscle-bound oaf who she had Bonded as her Gaidin, going against both convention and reason… but she opened herself to saidar, just in case. This proved an unnecessary precaution…

A big man came stumbling into sight, moving with the hesitant pace of one who is more than merely exhausted. He paused a moment to rest, leaning upon one of the pillars that supported the archway beneath which Rashiel and Dagnon lurked, breathing deeply, his mournful face dripping with sweat. He wore a well-tailored dark coat and matching britches tucked into fine calf-boots, but something about his dejected manner made this expensive garb seem little better than the drab woollens worn by the Aes Sedai and her Warder.

Abruptly, the stranger turned his head, long, black curls brushing wide shoulders, and stared directly at Rashiel with eyes that held only abject despair. She flinched, feeling that she recognised the unfortunate fellow, but was unsure from where. Dagnon took a swift step forward, brandishing his knife, but the tall man barely reacted to the threat, giving the impression that he would be content to be stabbed. Grateful, even. Rashiel examined him curiously; he might have been handsome had his features not registered such profound depression… as it was, he looked drained, old before his time.

The tall man spoke wearily in cultured accents, his speech containing the cadence of Ghealdan; "I mean you no harm, Mistress… I fear that I am lost, this city is larger far than Jehannah." He turned to Dagnon; "tell me, which way is the bridge?"

Dagnon scowled suspiciously, but lowered the long dagger. "Which bridge, fellow? There are six."

"Any bridge! I mind not which one. In truth, a way off this cursed island is all that I seek!" The stranger had become almost animated at this assertion but now lapsed back into misery.

"You and us both!" Rashiel quipped, then indicated the way the man had come. He seemed to take note of the golden serpent-ring on her pointing finger and his eyes widened for a moment in what could only be fear, before resuming their sad stare. "You are going the wrong way, Master Cheerful! Back down there, turn right and walk for about seven blocks. The Luagde Bridge is up ahead, beside a large palace that looks a bit like a turtle. You can't miss it!"

"The bridge will probably be guarded, though," Dagnon warned.

The lost traveller shrugged his broad shoulders unconcernedly. "I care not," he muttered, "anything is better than remaining trapped in my gilded cage, awaiting the blessing of death…" With this enigmatic statement, he turned and shuffled away, feet dragging on the paving stones.

"You're welcome!" Rashiel called after him, sarcastically. She received no reply, the man disappeared from sight around the corner and was gone from their lives. "What a depressing person!" Rashiel commented, but Dagnon made no answer. She glanced at him. Her Warder was staring in the direction that the man had taken, his brow furrowed, lips pursed. "What is it?" Rashiel enquired.

"That mordant Ghealdani fellow with the death-wish…I am not sure, but I imagine that I knew him from somewhere? I think perhaps that he might have been..?" Dagnon trailed-off, attempting recollection, but then shook his head. "Ah, it is nothing."

"He probably just lost all his coin dicing, like Raab regularly does! It matters not who some bleak wanderer is, Dagnon… we have larger concerns! Come along!"

A further time later, and without additional incident, Rashiel and Dagnon came to their destination; Jabal Gaidin's rented boathouse which bordered on the great circular dock of North-harbour. So as not to arouse suspicion, Rashiel had mostly used her rooms within the Red Ajah quarters of the White Tower, but this draughty shed was where Dagnon was accustomed to staying. He had lived in worse places in the course of his hard life, had told Rashiel that the ancient manor-house of his family had half fallen down for want of unaffordable repair and was a good deal colder and grimmer than the boathouse. Of course, Rashiel often met her lover at his unfashionable North-harbour residence for pleasant afternoon trysts, and sometimes stayed the night, but not too often. One of the many things she detested about the women of her Ajah was their propensity for spying upon one another…

The first thing Dagnon did on unlocking the door of the boathouse was to ensure that no-one was waiting within to ambush them… no-one was. He then went straight to the long, sleek hull of Jabal's beloved yacht, the Rivershark, and retrieved his prized Heron-mark blade from where it lay hid in the locker beneath the wheel, where the boat's owner was accustomed to concealing his secret store of illicit wine.

Rashiel sniffed disparagingly, finding Dagnon's priorities objectionable… his first act should have been to see to her comfort, not to ensure the safety of some silly bird-emblazoned blade! Though to be fair, the Family Sword was about all that the impoverished young Lord had to his name. It was the only thing of worth that his House had sworn never to sell, no matter how dire their circumstances. Of course, Dagnon also had his honour, that made two things… and as for the third…

"You have me too, you know!" Rashiel reminded her consort loudly as she locked the door behind her, shutting out the deserted and silent avenue.

Dagnon glanced up confusedly from his Power-wrought sword, which he had been stroking lovingly in a slightly disturbing way. "Huh?"

"Never mind!" Rashiel sniffed again, then ascended the rickety ladder to the cramped loft above which contained the boathouse's rudimentary living quarters, and sat down on the large and sagging bed, removing her boots with relief. They were new, and pinched her toes. There was a more comfortable pair that she had left here, but where? Rashiel scanned the piles of clothing that were lying on the floor and heaped upon the bed fruitlessly, wondering if her old boots were in one of the chests that cluttered the small loft. "Dagnon!" Rashiel called. The ladder creaked and after a moment, her lover's handsome face appeared in the hatchway, a politely enquiring look on his manly and moustachioed features… though they were a little hard to see, since the skylight above was very dirty and resisted the sun's rays. "This place is a mess, even more so than usual… do you know where my boots are? The ones I left here the last time I stayed the night?"

"Beneath the bed, I do believe."

Rashiel reached under the bed-frame, encountering what felt like a leather boot… and something else, that moved when she touched it, something with a hard shell… the something promptly nipped her questing fingers! "Oww!" Rashiel cried, sucking the minor wound, then slipped off the bed to kneel on the floorboards, reaching underneath with both hands this time. In due course, she brought out from the place of hiding a small tortoise, an exotic Sharan crab-lizard as she termed it, which waved its stumpy legs about fruitlessly as she held the creature up to glare into its beady, myopic eyes. "Bad boy, Pelateos!" Rashiel chided, "you mustn't bite mummy's finger!"

Rashiel glanced at Dagnon as the rest of his impressive frame appeared from below to stand beside her. "Why did you let Pelateos out of his box?" she demanded, "you know he likes to surprise me from beneath the bed!"

"Something which you like me to do also, Rashiel!" Dagnon jested, but then looked somewhat… cautious. "In truth, I did not release the tortoise-creature from its box," he mumbled, avoiding Rashiel's accusatory stare, gazing upwards and musing; "I really must clean that skylight… tis filthy…"

"Don't try to change the subject! And anyway, you've been promising to clean that bloody skylight for months and we both know you won't get around to it! Now, if you didn't let him out of his box, who did?"

Dagnon answered reluctantly; "Raab did…"

"Raab? When was that little reprobate here?"

"Last night. He was thrown out of his lodgings for owing too much rent, and for other offences also. Believe me, you do not want to know what they are. He said he had nowhere else to go. And…" Dagnon hesitated.

"And?"

"I regret to inform you, Rashiel, that Raab is still here."

"He is? Where?"

"Behind you."

Rashiel lowered the tortoise and whirled around, in time to see Raab crawling out from beneath the pile of clothing on the bed, gazing blearily up at them. Rashiel scowled ferociously. "Raab! What are you doing in that bed?"

"Slumbering," Raab mumbled, still-half asleep, "or at least I was until you woke me…"

Rashiel turned to Dagnon angrily. "You let that Sea Folk swindler sleep in our bed?!" she yelled.

Raab winced, clutching at his head. "I beg you," he moaned, "not so loud… I am not feeling well… could you please lower your voice a little?"

"Not feeling well?" Rashiel shouted, "hah! You are hung-over, you mean! As usual!" Raab groaned, slowly trying to burrow back into the bed. "And why did you let Pelateos out of his box? He likes it in there!"

"If I was stuck in a box, I might not like it," Raab muttered, clutching his skull with tattooed hands and trembling.

"You are clearly not a tortoise, Raab!" Rashiel loudly pointed-out, adding even more loudly; "but it is an excellent idea, even so… Dagnon, go and get a big box… a Raab-sized one! We shall put his sage theory to the test!"

Raab shuddered, then rolled onto the floor with a loud thump, where he lay still, flat on his back, gasping like a landed fish.

"I shall stuff you in a box and see what happens!" Rashiel cried triumphantly.

Dagnon sighed. "I allowed Raab use of the bed out of pity for his wretched condition," he explained, self-consciously adding; "and also because he beat me at dice."

"Cheated you at dice, more like… really, Dagnon!"

"Windfinder…" Raab bleated from his supine position on the floor.

"Don't call me that!"

"Aes Sedai, then…

"What?" Rashiel screamed.

Raab writhed about a little, making choking sounds, then managed to say; "while you were out… a letter arrived for you…"

"Another letter? Like the one from Shrina that you totally failed to give to Renn?" Rashiel blushed slightly, glad that Raab could not see, since his eyes were tightly closed. She recalled that she too had a letter, also for Renn though from Ellyth this time, that she had equally not managed to deliver… but that was different! She was a responsible person, Raab was not! And only the Creator knew where either of the two young Aes Sedai correspondents were, Shrina as well, for that matter… off hunting her silly Horn, doubtless. Though given the current situation in Tar Valon, the three of them were better off a long distance away from the White Tower… on the other side of the world, even! But that was absurd, of course they were not that far away. Then again, she and Dagnon would do well to put several hundred leagues between themselves and the regime of the new Amyrlin also… but where to go? Was anywhere safe anymore?

"Give me the letter, Raab," Rashiel commanded stridently, "present me with my post this instant!"

"It is… ahh, my brain is aflame… on the dresser…" Raab whimpered.

Rashiel turned to Dagnon. "Perhaps you had better go and get Raab a drink of water," she suggested, feeling a little sorry for the Atha'an Miere outcast, despite herself. She had endured the travails of a morning-head herself, on a few occasions, and this ill experience could not help but engender sympathy in her breast, even for a sneaking little rodent like Raab! Dagnon scowled at the thought of playing the servant, but obediently disappeared below to fetch the water.

A warped dresser with peeling varnish stood in the corner, Rashiel stalked over to it, setting Pelateos the tortoise down in front of the cracked mirror, that he might admire himself. She then snatched up the folded parchment with her name and the boathouse's address writ upon it, noting that the missive was sealed with green wax imprinted with a pair of stalking leopards; the Royal Seal of Altara...

"The message is from darling Ysmet!" Rashiel called excitedly down to Dagnon. No answer. She raised her voice even more, shouting; "Dagnon? Can you hear me?"

"Ahhh… my pounding skull…" Raab whined from his place on the floor.

"Shut-up Raab, you dissipated halfwit! Stick a pillow over your head or something! And if you vomit then you're clearing it up this time!"

Rashiel glanced at the return address on the back of the parchment. An Inn in the Perfumed Quarter of Illian called 'Easing the Badger.' What a strange name! Illianers were funny! Everyone in Ebou Dar thought so… But the last she heard, Ysmet had been inured in some isolated fishing village on the Shadow Coast, building her precious ship and cohabiting with her conceited Gleeman… Rashiel had met Roth Blucha briefly, a few years back when he visited Shrina at the Tower and had found him extremely annoying, even when compared with all the other irritating Gleemen! What in the Wheel did Ysmet see in him? "Love can be a strange thing," Rashiel murmured thoughtfully.

"It certainly can," Raab agreed, absently. He was clearly still rather drunk.

Rashiel scowled. "I wasn't talking to you!" Stuffing the letter into her ample cleavage, Rashiel descended the ladder to read the message from Ysmet in privacy. The contents, which she immediately shared with Dagnon, were interesting. In addition to the usual gossip concerning their mutual acquaintances, the missive contained an offer, and also, which was more to the point, an opportunity. "Raab!"

After a long pause, a feeble voice responded; "yes, Wind- Aes Sedai?"

"How would you like to get away from it all for a while?" Rashiel called up to the loft, "your patron, the Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar, requests your presence, mine and Dagnon's also… she proposes a long sea voyage!"

Presently, Raab's sallow, rat-like visage appeared in the hatchway above. Rashiel smiled up at him, Dagnon did not. He frowned. He was an excellent frowner.

"Do I have a choice?" Raab wondered fatalistically, as though already knowing the answer.

"Not remotely!" Rashiel replied cheerfully.

"Get down here and help me launch the Rivershark," Dagnon commanded.

"What about my drink of water, Gaidin?" Raab reminded him pathetically.

Dagnon glowered. "I am not your maidservant, Sea Folk dice-cheat! The water is yours to fetch from the cistern if you wish some, tis a bit stale and shall likely not have a pleasant savour, whereas my fist will taste much worse if you continue to aggravate me!"

"Alright, alright…" Raab's dark eyes moved to Rashiel hopefully. "Any chance of some Healing? This must be the very worst hangover I have ever had…"

"Since the last one," Rashiel muttered snidely, then shouted; "stop peering at me like that and come down from there, it is starting to look as though our loft is infested with some sort of strange, aquatic vermin!" She relented a little. "I'll Heal your sick head if you agree to accompany us."

At this offer, Raab began to reluctantly descend the ladder. In his sorry state, he managed to miss the last few rungs and fell awkwardly to the floorboards beneath with a loud crash. Rashiel and Dagnon watched disapprovingly as Raab slowly scrambled to his bare feet and stood before them, swaying slightly as though he were already back aboard a ship, reunited with his watery element.

"Alright, I'll come," Raab muttered grudgingly, adding a query in a tone that illustrated that he really did not care what the answer was; "where are we going?"

"Down the Erinin to Tear, first," Rashiel told Raab, filling herself with saidar and preparing the rudimentary Healing weaves that were the best her meagre ability for this skill could manage. Raab had not been Healed by her before and she neglected to inform him that it would hurt… he would find that out for himself, shortly.

"Thence to Illian, where we board that big ship you helped to design, using plans stolen from your own Clan and kin!" Dagnon added, with righteous indignation.

Raab shrugged, completely unabashed at this accusatory reminder of the sort of behaviour that had led to him being declared outcast by the Takana in the first place. "And where are we sailing to after that?" Raab wondered.

Now it was Rashiel's turn to shrug. "I am not entirely sure of our ultimate destination, Ysmet is being rather cagey about that part… but given the sorts of dark events that have transpired at the White Tower this day, then wherever it is, it certainly can't be any worse than here…" Dagnon nodded in agreement. Raab made no such gesture of concordance. In fact he looked sceptical, but then, he always did.

Rashiel Tamor sighed ruefully as she recalled her foolish words. She would trade Tar Valon in the full spate of bloody internecine feuding for the horrific Land of the Madmen, any day! Talk about out of the frying pan and into the bloody fire!

"Rashiel!" It was Ysmet calling down to her from the parapet, crouched low to avoid flying arrows and javelins. Rashiel stumbled forward to better hear her friend above the clamour of battle, Raab lingering at her side solicitously… though most probably, he just considered that being in close proximity to the Aes Sedai was currently the safest place for him. Ysmet continued; "they've broken through that ice wall the Darkfriend witch weaved, they'll be over the palisade soon! I cannot stop them, I don't have enough men!"

Rashiel glanced over at Hamadi, who was sitting cross-legged on the sand, staring fixedly at the gate, holding it shut with the Power that burned fiercely within his mind. A pair of headless corpses lay nearby, the young Shadowsworn Sea Folk who had imprudently invaded the camp alone. They had made the further mistake of choosing Hamadi for their first victim; the Sharan Ayyad had dealt with them with the ease of a hound savaging kittens, swiftly summoning a silvery straight-bladed sword of Air and decapitating his Darkfriend attackers with two lightning fast blows. Rashiel was glad that Hamadi was ostensibly on their side… inflicting destruction and dealing death seemed to come to him as naturally as breathing. Gen had tucked the severed heads into a sack and run up to the parapet with them, Rashiel was unsure why and did not wish to know, in any case.

"We are going to fall back to my cabin and make a stand there," Ysmet continued to shout, "can you create a diversion for us when we do?"

"I shall try my best!" Rashiel promised, and embraced the True Source again, feeling saidar flow sweetly and seductively into her, the essence of desire and danger intermixed. Her head ached badly but she was of no use to anyone if she did not channel to the greatest extent of her abilities… though with a sinking sensation, Rashiel acknowledged to herself that in a contest of the One Power between she and the vile Irmilla Nadona, the Light would undoubtedly be defeated by the Shadow.

Needing to take her mind off the current desperate situation while she awaited her moment to re-enter the fray, Rashiel asked Raab; "do you recall our escape from Tar Valon?"

Raab blinked, surprised at her choice of conversation given the situation, but then nodded. "In the Rivershark? Aye. The new Amyrlin's soldiers had lowered the chain at North-harbour, but we unshipped the mast and just about squeezed under it at the edge, with your Warder using that long sweep he'd fitted at the stern to row us out into the river…" Talking seemed to serve to distract Raab from their danger also.

Rashiel continued; "then that barge full of Tower Guardsmen hoved-to in front of us and some officious little Officer demanded to know who you were, Raab…" she grinned, recollecting the arrogant way Raab had promptly answered, "…and you told him that you were an official Atha'an Miere courier taking a proclamation from the new Amyrlin Seat to the Mistress of Ships!"

"I still can't fathom why the idiot believed me!" Raab muttered, scathingly.

"The Officer believed you because firstly; he was stupid, and secondly; you are an excellent liar, Raab."

"Thanks."

Rashiel got to her favourite part; "and then, the Officer wanted to know who I was, and you said I was your doxy!" She sniggered. Raab eyed Rashiel uncertainly, but she was smiling, so he sketched a smile also, a rather nervous expression given their circumstances, but a smile nonetheless. "And after that, he asked who Dagnon was, and you said-"

"That he was my simple-minded, man-child cabin-boy who I generously employed to ply the oars out of sympathy for his feeble wits!" Raab almost grinned at this pleasant memory, but then recalled their imminent fate, and frowned instead.

"Dagnon is still annoyed about that, you know," Rashiel confided, "were he here now, he would-" Her mouth snapped shut, pale eyes widening; "Light! He is here! I can finally sense my Warder through the Bond, Renn said I would get the hang of it eventually… Dagnon is nearby, he is close!"

"Too late so save us, most likely," Raab commented in dreary tones, "in fact, the Gaidin may well be a prisoner aboard that single-hulled, half-rigged Soarer that's anchored out there beyond the Storm-cursed reef…"

"Don't be such a bloody pessimist, Raab, and cut-out that nautical jargon about hulls and rigs and whatnot, you know I don't understand a word of it!"

"Sorry, Windfinder."

"Stop calling me that and cheer up, you long-faced bilge-rat! We have Hamadi, remember? He is a handsome though facially-tattooed killing-machine!" Rashiel's tone became less enthusiastic, but more speculative. "Did you not tell me that there are lots and lots of these 'Ayyads' in Shara? If they're anything like Hamadi, then no wonder the Hawkwing's attempt to conquer their vast land failed… as complete a failure as when the High King endeavoured a similar conquest of the Aiel Waste…"

"This is true, Aes Sedai," rumbled a deep voice from right behind Rashiel. She jumped and whirled around, beheld the huge Aielman Gerom, his scarred face habitually placid. "Artur Paendrag Tanreall's unwise invasion of the Three-fold Land is oft commemorated by we Aiel as an honourable time for the Clans," Gerom further commented, "almost as satisfying a washing of the spears as the Trolloc Wars were, prior to this."

The one-eyed Aielman Cohradin was standing just behind Gerom, having also approached Rashiel with equal stealth. He frowned and growled; "the Big Dance with the Shadow!" Rashiel blinked. Mention the Dark One and he appeared… it seemed to apply to the Aiel also!

Gerom turned to Cohradin. "Only you call it that, my brother! Why must you always employ different terms for things than those that are used by everyone else?"

Cohradin drew himself up importantly. "Because I am different than everyone else! I am no ordinary man! I am… heroic!" Gerom sighed loudly, shaking his head back and forth. Cohradin scowled. "Do not just stand there, looming like a big… like a big tree! Ask of the Aes Sedai your boon, Gerom… I mean; Gai'shain!"

Gerom snorted, then turned back to Rashiel as he was bid. "Aes Sedai, we wish to help, to serve, as it is said our ancestors served those of your station in the Age of Legends... we ask that-"

"Command us!" interrupted Cohradin, evidently impatient with Gerom's slow speech, "do but give the order and we shall briefly relinquish our roles as Da'tsang and (less honourable!) Gai'shain, and join the Dance of Spears with these Shadowrunning Sea Fools who seek to wake us all from the Dream!"

Rashiel glanced at Raab, found no help there, and confusedly asked; "but… you both broke your spears did you not?"

"We did."

"This is true."

"Well, how can you fight the enemy without them? There are some spare swords, I think, but I know that Aiel will not touch them…"

"Swords are dishonourable, like Chassin and Manda."

"I would sooner kiss Cohradin's objectionable goat than hold a sword."

Rashiel became exasperated; "well then, what use will you be without weapons, you pair of lunatics?!"

Cohradin answered proudly, but also, menacingly. "Aes Sedai, we are Sovin Nai. We are weapons." Rashiel blinked.

After a pregnant pause, Gerom spoke up; "Sovin Nai means 'Knife Hands' in the Old Tongue," he explained, helpfully.

Cohradin glared at Gerom. "Why do you trouble to tell her this? She is Aes Sedai, she knows what it means!"

In point of fact, Rashiel's knowledge of this ancient language was poor, but the Aielmen did not need to know this… they seemed to be waiting for her to say something. Rashiel shrugged. What did they have to lose? "Very well. I, Rashiel Tamor, an Aes Sedai of the White Tower, hereby order you eccentric Aielmen to cease being… whatever it is that you think you are… and go back to being Knife Hands for the duration of this battle and… and… to fight for the Light!" Rashiel thought that she had done rather well, considering that she had been put on the spot and had never been much good at improvisation. Particularly that last bit, which had a note of triumphalism to it, she imagined.

The pair of peculiar Aielmen seemed fairly satisfied with her brief speech, though it was hard to tell what was going on in an Aiel's mind, if anything. Gerom promptly shed his grubby white robe, which Rashiel had seen him make out of an old piece of canvas sailcloth. Beneath the garment, he wore surprisingly clean smallclothes, his huge body thickly and impressively muscled, she noted with admiration… really, had Gerom's ears been hairy and his eyes larger, he might well have passed for an Ogier. He was heavily scarred also, bearing the marks of countless battles that he had survived and his opponents presumably had not…

"Unless I am Waked from the Dream," Gerom then declared, "I shall resume my Gai'shain robe and duties after the Dance of the Spears is done."

Rashiel nodded, then glanced at Cohradin, quailing a little under the gaze of his horrid crimson eye. "What about you? Will you go back to being a… a..?"

"Da'tsang, Aes Sedai. Yes, of course, my honour is equal to Gerom's. No, that is wrong… my honour exceeds his!" Gerom frowned disapprovingly at Cohradin, who did not notice and swiftly removed his dirty, dark robe. Unlike his compatriot, he had neglected to wear smallclothes beneath the garment… or indeed, anything at all.

Rashiel stared in alarm, though noting distantly that Cohradin was absolutely covered in scars – how was it that he was even still alive? – then hastily averted her eyes. "Honestly!" she complained, "we are in the midst of a battle, we shall probably all be killed soon… I really don't need to see that sort of thing right now!"

Cohradin put his hands on his hips and exchanged a puzzled glance with Gerom. "To what do you refer, Aes Sedai?"

"What do you think, you rude, immodest fellow! Put your robe back on this instant!"

"I cannot do that, Aes Sedai, I have pledged to not be Da'tsang until the Dance of Spears… hands… is ended, with our glorious victory over the Shadowrunners!"

Rashiel scowled, and turned to the Sea Folk outcast at her side, who was grinning lewdly. "Raab, cease that clownish expression immediately, or I shall use the One Power to transform you into the scurvy rat that you so closely resemble!" Raab blanched, and composed himself, doing his best to look serious. "Better. Now, run to my hut and fetch a spare pair of Dagnon's britches… immediately!"

As Raab sped away, Cohradin pridefully declared; "I am Sovin Nai again, for the time being. With the Aes Sedai and Gerom as witness, I now swear on the bones of my ancestors that I shall find that Shadowrunning, Leafblighter-loving turncoat Medelin and I shall-"

"Mastri," Gerom interrupted.

"What?"

"I hear that the former Thunder Walker Medelin now calls himself 'Mastri,' which in the Old Tongue means fish."

Cohradin was outraged. "I care not if he is fish or fowl, or even lizard! Do not interrupt me, my brother, for I have sworn to wake this Shai'tan-kissing Madfool, whatever his foolish name may be! I make solemn Water-Oath that I shall thrust my knife-hand through his chest, tear out his beating heart and make him eat it!"

"Eww!" exclaimed Rashiel, involuntarily glancing back at Cohradin before averting her eyes once more. There even appeared to be a scar on his… his… fortunately, at this point Raab returned with the necessary britches. Rashiel snatched the apparel from him and hurled them at Cohradin, hitting him in the face. "Put those on now!" Rashiel commanded the nude savage, who held the garments uncertainly and hesitated. "I am an Aes Sedai, you said so yourself! You have to do as I say… so wear the britches, Aielman, or there will be trouble!"

Cohradin scowled, but obeyed, if with ill grace, struggling into the pale britches, which were slightly too small for him. "They do not fit particularly well," he observed, as he fiddled with the buckles.

Rashiel smirked. "Well, personally I like to see a strapping fellow in tight trews," she commented, "the tighter the better!" She could sense that Dagnon was nearer now and opened her mouth to share these tidings with Atha'an Miere and Aielmen alike… but then, one of the sailors up on the parapet suddenly exploded in a welter of gore and a moment later, the gate disintegrated into a cloud of flying splinters. Rashiel sensed no flows of saidar, it must be saidin at work… the Darkfriend Souvraniene had made his move. She prepared battle-weaves, ready to sell her life dearly, for it seemed that their time was up.

In response to this fierce channeling, Hamadi rose smoothly and strode calmly and purposefully toward the shattered breach in the palisade, to meet whatever was coming for them. He came to a halt and glanced upwards, smiling grimly and raising his hands… then the heavens opened, and the fire began to fall.

---

Act 2 – Exchanges

Sin'aethan Shadar Cor stood on the quarterdeck of the captured ship, swaying with the movement of the waves, gazing down at the dead steerswoman with a touch of regret. N'aethan never liked to see females die, even if they were sworn to the Shadow, as this one had been. And that was quite a tattoo… most decorative. He wished that he could have such a colourful image inked into his epidermis, but his regenerative abilities would have just taken it for a wound of some kind and it would have faded before long; all he had in the way of skin-art was the boring number on his chest. Still, Darkfriend or not, N'aethan was glad that he had not done the deed.

Manda wiped her long knife clean on the loose trews of the corpse she had just made and rose with lithe grace, cold eyes glancing disparagingly at N'aethan from above a black veil. Her voice was muffled by the cloth covering her mouth; "cease lecherously ogling the waked Shadowrunner's firm breasts, Vron'cor!"

"I wasn't!" N'aethan protested.

Manda sniffed, the disapproving noise utilised by women the world over sounding equally indistinct. She tugged her veil down, since the killing was done with for the time being, her full lips arranged into a sneer. "They are shameless, these Sea Folk maidens," she commented, "flaunting their bosoms outside of the sweat-tent!"

N'aethan had noticed Manda displaying her own womanly attributes beyond these bounds on several occasions, but wisely chose to not mention this. Instead, his strange eyes swept over the main-deck below… the Atha'an Miere Friends of the Dark down there were all dead or dying, mostly at the hands and blade of the Sea Folk Warder, Jabal. He evidently had a personal grudge against these 'Storm Children' as he called them. Jabal stood amongst the slain, breathing heavily, the curved, Power-wrought sword he had acquired in the Castle of the Hawx held in a double-handed grip, blood dripping from its length. His fellow Gaidin, Lord Dagnon, loomed at his back, ancient Warman Officer's weapon equally besmirched. The Heron-mark sword looked a lot like the one that Middle Brother had borne, presented to him by the Dragon himself.

N'aethan sighed sadly. Presumably, this fine, Power-forged blade had been lost with Taw up at Shayol Ghul, his Screaming Spear also… trophies of the Shadow. With this dark consideration in mind, he did not feel quite so bad about the swordfish-tattooed steerswoman, her crew and kin either… they had made their choice to serve the Dark One, and had suffered the fatal consequences of this treacherous allegiance. As would the rest of those Darkfriend Sea Folk, ere long.

With this in mind, N'aethan raised his eyes to the beach, the stockade beyond it… and stared in surprise. The wall of flames had been turned to ice since last he looked. He blinked slowly, in a feline manner. It oft surprised him that the Aes Sedai of these debased and primitive times, a mere dim reflection of their omnipotent forebears though they were, could come up with webs – no, weaves they now called them – that the Servants of All in his day had never thought of. The Warder Bond, to name but one, and now, this. Even as he watched, the mob of Shadowsworn Atha'an Miere attacking the camp were smashing their way through the ice, prior to resuming their assault on the camp which the heavily outnumbered forces of Light were desperately defending.

"Time to move the Dance of Spears to the land, methinks," N'aethan suggested to Manda.

"You do not have a spear, Nightwatcher!" Manda retorted, shading her eyes and peering at the forest to the west. "Who are those three Wetlanders running from the trees?" she then wondered, pointing with her knife.

N'aethan looked in the indicated direction. "It seems that Lord Whitecloak and the Twins are joining the fight."

Manda nodded sagely. "A wise stratagem; taking the Shadowrunners unawares… but the handsome Lordling and the comely Brothers of the Battles will assuredly be slain, for there are too many of the foe for them to wake." She sighed, gustily. "A shame that such pretty fellows should meet their end."

"Your concern is duly noted," N'aethan commented sarcastically. Manda merely shrugged. N'aethan called down to the Warders; "Fishy! Moustache-face! Back in the boat, now!" Frowning, Jabal and Dagnon hurried to the steps leading up to the quarterdeck, wiping their blades clean as they did so. N'aethan turned to look over the stern. Apart from the foaming white breakers about the coral reef where the masts of a sunken vessel projected from the sea, the rippling waves were seemingly empty. With the exception of an area near the rudder, where up close, there was a faint blurring, a shimmering above the water as though something floated there unseen, all-but hidden from sight. Which it did, of course. "Enough with the invisibility, Gleeman!" N'aethan shouted, "there are no eyes left to see us!" In response, there came a shrill note from below and a longboat appeared from nowhere, filled with nervous sailors and their not-so nervous Bosun. As well as the Gleeman, Roth Blucha, lowering a small, round pipe from his lips.

N'aethan had his suspicions about that particular instrument-ter'angreal. It was almost certainly the same that Uncle Gwili made, long ago. Everyone he knew from those times was gone, but certain more permeable artefacts seemed to keep turning up; the Horn of T'oph, Kiam Sedai's old soldier's angreal, the pipe that bent light… what next? Their reappearance could just be coincidence, but N'aethan firmly believed that there was no such thing. Fate, then.

The Gleeman was looking less sickly now, but he would still not be of much use in the coming encounter. "Get up here, Master Blucha," N'aethan commanded, extending a gloved hand.

Roth's face fell, the new, red scar on his cheek twitching. "On board the ship?" he whined, "must I?"

"Yes. Someone should stay to guard our prize… I nominate you!" N'aethan grinned, his sharp teeth flashing in the bright sunlight, "just don't ask me why… you won't like the answer!" The Bosun chuckled and slapped Roth encouragingly on the back, making him stagger and almost fall into the water. He scowled. N'aethan noticed that Chassin was still squatting in the stern of the longboat, clutching the tiller. "What do you there, Chassin?" he demanded of the diminutive Aielman, "you missed the fray! Unusual behaviour for a bloodthirsty fellow like yourself! Have you decided to lay down the spear also?"

Chassin shook his head vehemently. "Never, Vron'cor! I am no fool, like Gerom and Cohradin…"

"Cohradin is not just a fool, he is also an idiot!" Manda corrected him, as the Warders joined she and N'aethan on the quarterdeck.

Chassin ignored her. "I keep my honourable station on board of the boat," he explained importantly, "as steersman of this craft, I may not-"

"Never mind!" N'aethan interrupted impatiently, "come along, Gleeman… time is wasting!"

"I wanted to set foot on land again," Roth grumbled as he tucked his pipe-ter'angreal away and scrambled awkwardly up the stern ladder, "I am worried about Ysmet and sick of the bloody sea!"

"You have certainly been sick into the sea," N'aethan observed, grabbing one of the Gleeman's flailing hands and tugging him upwards, "rather frequently, in fact."

"Please don't remind me!" Roth importuned, then jumped as Manda, ostensibly helping to pull him over the side, took the opportunity to lewdly pinch his bottom. Roth glared at her, Manda winked slyly. N'aethan pretended not to notice. Roth's sea-green eyes moved to the mayhem surrounding the stockade and he flinched. "On the other hand," he muttered, "you do need someone responsible to tend this captured vessel…" his eyes widened as something optimistic occurred to him; "…which we can now sail back to the Westlands in! Hurrah!"

"Only after we have rescued Renn and the others," Jabal growled, pushing past and dropping nimbly down into the longboat.

Dagnon eyed Roth contemptuously as he followed. "Responsible, you?" he snarled, "why, we shall probably return to find the bloody ship on fire!"

Roth frowned, then Manda slipped past, patting him on the cheek. "You look so much more handsome with a warrior's scar, Roth Blucha," she cooed.

"My wife will certainly think so!" Roth answered, pointedly.

"Huh!" Manda retorted, "she is but a soft, Wetlander Noblewoman… mayhap I shall fight her for your favours, Gleeman?" With that, she deftly descended to the waiting boat, veiling herself again.

"Flaming Maidens of the Spear!" Roth muttered, "they're insatiable!"

"You make that sound as though it is a bad thing!" N'aethan jested as he swung a leg over the rail. He paused and nodded toward the main-deck. "A couple of those Shadowsworn brigands looked to still be breathing, though barely… you know what to do?"

Roth nodded glumly, unsheathing his poniard and brandishing the long, slim dagger reluctantly. Shrina's curved-forward blade was strapped to his back, alongside his harp-case. "War is a terrible thing," Roth observed.

N'aethan laughed, an odd, mewling sound. "You think this mild diversion a war? Pray to the Creator that you never participate in a real battle, Gleeman!

Roth shrugged. "Oh, but I pray to the Creator all the time…" he sighed, theatrically. "Never answers me, though."

"Of course your prayers are answered! You are still alive, are you not?"

A fiery flash in the heavens and they both turned to stare as bright plumes of flame began to descend from the sky, striking around the camp. Roth gasped, cowering, but N'aethan simply watched, his pupils narrowing to slits. "Interesting," he commented, "you know, Gleeman, the last occasion on which I saw Fire Rain was back when I fought with Goaeur Rantoel."

"Who?" Roth wondered absently, eyes fixed on the burning destruction.

"You do not recall this story? Know you nothing of your trade, Gleeman? Goaeur was a Companion, and I bested him!"

"A Companion, say you? Of Illian?"

"Of the Dragon, lackwit!" N'aethan fumed; "do none remember my bold exploits?" Roth shook his head apologetically.

"Master Shieldman?" It was the Bosun, standing in the bow of the longboat bobbing on the waves below, swaying back and forth with the motion. The crew were staring up at them, those who were not gazing open-mouthed upon the flames falling from the sky.

"Yes, Boatswain?"

"Are you coming aboard? It's just that's our camp the pirate scum are attacking, and the lads are eager to-"

"Yes, yes, I will be with you momentarily." N'aethan glared at Roth. "We shall continue this discussion at another time. Or not. I go now to perhaps kill numerous Friends of the Dark."

"And save my wife from the fiery downfall?"

"I think me that is the work of someone on our side, since the Rain of Fire only seems to be hitting the Shadowsworn lines… but yes, I shall also save your spouse, that too." N'aethan poked a finger into Roth's chest. "In the meantime, despatch the wounded and ensure that this ship does not fall into the hands of an enemy… piratical mermaids, perchance?"

Roth solemnly placed a hand over his heart, for all that he seemed to think that this organ resided in the right-hand side of his chest. "You can count on me."

"Doubtful!"

With that, N'aethan dropped down into the longboat, which promptly pulled away from the stern, heading landwards as fast as the sailors could ply the oars.

"Good luck!" Roth shouted. Though N'aethan had a feeling that they would need more than just fortune's favour…

---

Lord Thaeus of House Desiama dropped beneath the whirling axe, letting the deadly weapon sweep over his head, so close that he felt he might have lost a few hairs to its keen edge. The stocky Sea Folk Darkfriend wielding it had clearly expected the axe-head to lodge in his skull, and had employed considerable force with her brutal blow… as a result of failing to connect with her opponent, she was temporarily overbalanced. Vulnerable. Thaeus saw her dark eyes widen with the knowledge of her mistake, teeth bared in her dark face, a snarl of rage as much directed at herself as him, he imagined. He wasted no time, but took full advantage of the opening. His venerable and ruthless father, Lord Guye, had taught him to always exploit an enemy's weakness when such an opportunity presented itself, for it might not come again.

Thaeus darted in, lunging into the sword-form of the Leopard's Caress, and deftly gutted his opponent. The Shadowsworn Atha'an Miere woman shrieked, dropped her axe and fell back to the sand, writhing in her own gore… affording Thaeus a temporary respite. 'The bone-yards are full of soldiers who hesitated, who flinched from killing,' Lord Guye had told him often, usually after leaving plenty of bruises and scrapes upon his youngest son with a practice sword. For an old man with a limp, he had always been accursed dangerous with any weapon that came to hand…

"I did not hesitate, father," Thaeus whispered as he glanced left and right, to see how the Gaidin Twins were doing. They were doing fine. Just seeing them go about their bloody work served to illustrate how difficult it had been for the Children of Light to execute Aes Sedai witches, given that well-trained, battle-hardened Warders of the White Tower stood between them and their prospective victims. Though a more affable comparison rested on the trouble Tear had long experienced in subduing the tiny neighbouring city-state to the east of its borders…

"Tai'shar Mayene!" Thaeus shouted to the Twins in encouragement, though they seemed to need none as they spun and leapt amongst the enemy, blades dipping and weaving, a dance of death amidst a welter of shed blood.

Aebel and Blaek must have heard over the shouts and screams, however, for they took the trouble to reciprocate, yelling; "Tai'shar Amadicia!" in response. At exactly the same time. Thaeus wondered, not for the first time, how the Mayener brothers did that… was simultaneous speech some sort of-?

A howling Sea Folk Darkfriend, a head taller than his slight people usually were, broke Thaeus' train of thought by charging him with a wickedly-barbed spear levelled. The young Amadici Lord waited till the last moment, then sidestepped and neatly took his attacker's head off with Lizard in the Thornbush. Two more Atha'an Miere brigands ran forward on the heels of their decapitated kinsman and Thaeus shifted his stance, raising the ancient, Power-wrought blade of his House, preparing to meet them. They were dangerous, true… but he was deadly. As a result, he would live, whilst they would die.

The surprise raid from the forest had gone well from the beginning, the first dozen enemies that Thaeus and the Twins slew had not even seen death coming for them… but the Darkfriend pirates had soon taken note of the fact that they were being attacked in the rear, and a score of them had broken-off from the assault on the camp to deal with this new threat. Well, that had been the purpose of their diversion, after all… to draw a substantial force away from the primary objective, to give the outnumbered defenders a better chance of holding off their foe.

As he parried the long knives of his opponents, Thaeus could see an untidy line of brigands forming-up beyond them, javelins raised, preparing to end the fight from a safe distance. "That is hardly sporting!" Thaeus muttered, as he used the Courtier Taps the Fan to sever the knife-hand of one of his attackers, then Lion on the Hill to cleave the skull of the other.

"Ware spears!" Thaeus loudly warned the Twins, then grabbed the short Sea Folk Darkfriend who was clutching at his spurting stump and wailing, gripping him by the throat and ducking behind him as several javelins flew through the air towards them. Some missed entirely, but three hit the unfortunate Shadowsworn Atha'an Miere in the back, stilling his agonised cries. His thrashing struggles ceased and he went limp. Thaeus quit sheltering behind the corpse and let the dead pirate fall away, distantly noting that he had what looked like a Silverpike tattooed across his chest.

"You made an excellent shield, Darkfriend," Thaeus complimented his fallen enemy, glancing to either side. The Twins were still standing, eyeing him with dark, identical gazes. There did not appear to be any javelins in their vicinity…

"They threw them all at you, Lord Whitecloak," Aebel complained, as he flicked the blood from his Power-wrought blade. For once, Thaeus could tell which Twin was which by glancing at their swords…

"They must think you the most dangerous," Blaek added, sounding equally aggrieved, though perhaps this was just because he was flicking more blood from a less-impressive, mundane blade.

Thaeus shrugged, then grinned. "Well, I am! I've killed a Myrddraal! Have you?"

"No."

"Not yet."

The Twins looked sulky. "But we will, one day!" they added, fervently.

Thaeus considered. "Well, to be fair, I only chopped the Lurk's leg off… Naythan Gaidin finished it, by stamping on its head…"

"Archers, to me! Bows, now!" roared a female voice, "shoot them down!" A fierce-looking Shadowsworn brigand, a leather patch over one eye, was giving the order, and several of her crew were obeying, running towards them with short, recurved bows in their tattooed hands, barbed arrows nocked. Thaeus frowned. Those would be harder to avoid than the javelins… the Twins moved nearer to him, though this was probably not a good idea, since they presented a better target in a group.

"Shadow-kissing cowards!" Aebel shouted.

"Face us with steel in your craven hands!" Blaek added.

The Atha'an Miere Darkfriends clearly had no intention of doing so, but formed a loose rank twenty paces away, raising their bows… they could not possibly miss from that range, but were too far off for Thaeus and the Twins to attack with their blades.

"It has been an honour fighting beside you, Lord Whitecloak," the Warder brothers stated quietly, clearly seeing the end in sight.

"Pessimists!" Thaeus responded, letting the Family Sword fall to the sand, reaching out for something intangible with his mind.

The Twins noted the way that Thaeus had raised his hands and was making grasping motions with his fingers… they eyed each other askance.

"Are you perhaps trying to surrender?"

"They won't accept capitulation, Darkfriends don't take prisoners…"

"Unless they want to torture you, brother!"

"Oh yes, I forgot about that, so I suppose that sometimes-"

"Shut-up, will you?!" Thaeus snarled, "I am… attempting to… concentrate…"

"On what?" the Twins wondered.

"Something that… Hamadi… tried to… teach me…" Thaeus' teeth were gritted, his eyes staring blindly… he felt the sickening sensation of saidin flow into him, accompanied by the comforting feeling of being complete… now, if he could only manage to weave a… "Shield," Thaeus gasped, "we need… a shield…"

"Too late," the Twins observed, dolefully.

The Shadowsworn Sea Folk archers had levelled their bows, bright sunlight glinting off the keen arrowheads, and the brigand with the eye-patch smiled cruelly, before opening her mouth wider to give the command to loose.

It was at this point that fire began to rain down onto the beach, the very first flaming plume striking the Sea Folk woman giving the orders, all-but obliterating her into a burning ruin, only a charred, blackened skeleton remaining. The Atha'an Miere archers lowered their bows, gaping in consternation at what was left of their Bosun… and then, another fiery missile struck their ranks, immolating three of them outright and scattering the rest. They fled back up the beach, nursing seared skin.

Thaeus sensed imminent danger and promptly channeled, raising a Shield of Air over his head, the weaves coming to him unconsciously, as though he had done this a thousand times before, instead of never. Though perhaps he had performed this act previously, in other lives? Whatever the provenance of his action, it came just in time; a plume of fire burst overhead as it struck the invisible barrier, flaming shards erupting outwards on all sides. Thaeus sank to his knees with a groan, exerting every fibre of his will on maintaining the Shield. Aebel and Blaek crouched beside him, staring up the beach where more fire was descending from the sky, destroying numerous Darkfriends and plunging their brethren into disarray. The attack on the stockade was quite comprehensively halted for the time being…

"What is this burning downpour?" Aebel demanded loudly, so as to be heard over the roar of flames, the screams of the dying.

"I don't know!" Blaek answered at an equal volume, "but it's even worse than Shrina's bloody lightning!"

"No… it isn't!" Thaeus gasped through bared teeth, as further fire exploded against the Shield above. He groaned again. "I do not know… how much longer… I can hold this…" Then, saidin slipped away from him and he felt the Shield disappear. Fortunately, at that same moment, so did the burning rain. The beach seemed strangely silent in the aftermath; just the cries of the scorched wounded, the crackle of flames from where some of the longboats drawn up on the shore had been set ablaze.

Thaeus blinked some sand out of his eyes, his vision blurred, indistinctly observing as another boat drew in to land down there, a dozen-and-a-half people leaping out to splash through the surf, running up the beach towards them. He retrieved his Heron-mark sword and stumbled to his feet, head spinning, seeing double.

"Look out, here come more of the Dark-loving filth!" Thaeus slurred.

The Twins eyed Thaeus strangely, but then, they often did. They answered;

"That is Naythan Shieldman with Jabal Gaidin…"

"…it is good to see that Jabal yet lives…"

"…also; Rashiel Sedai's Murandian Warder…"

"…we do not recall his name…"

"…as well as some sailors led by a man with a hook…"

"…he looks to be a Tairen, misfortunately…"

The Twins completed their report in unison; "…and the missing Aiel, the short, violent one alongside the salacious maiden!" They paused a moment. "There is no sign of the foolish Gleeman, however," they added simultaneously, sounding pleased.

Thaeus blinked again, his vision slowly returning to normal. He waved his sword at Naythan Gaidin, who waved his own blade back as the reinforcements approached. Then, something broke the relative silence; a deep, hollow boom, like thunder, followed by two more eruptions. The ominous noise came from the stockade.

"What was that?" wondered the Twins.

Thaeus frowned, muttering; "I think me that the Father of Storms has come…"

---

Irmilla Nadona crouched up against the palisade, seeking insufficient shelter from the fiery rain that obliterated anything – or anyone – it touched. Still, better here than out in the open. She watched closely as the tall Samma N'Sei, Mastri, strode uncaring through the burning chaos, Waketa fighters fleeing the blazing downpour all around him… some were aflame, screeching in agony, their kin knocking them down and rolling them in the sand in mostly futile attempts to save them. A plume of fire dropped directly onto Mastri, but shattered harmlessly above his shoufa-swathed head as it impacted against an invisible Shield. Irmilla frowned, envy in her eyes. She would gladly have woven her own Shield, a barrier of Air, but was unable to… her Dread Mistress had tried repeatedly to teach her the weave, but her Apprentice lacked the aptitude for it.

"Shadowrunner! Stop these storm-cursed flames from falling!" Duadh bellowed at the Eye Blinder. Irmilla was uncertain if Mastri even heard over the cacophony of shouts and screams, the roaring furnace-noises as each blazing missile struck the beach, but a moment later, the Aielman paused and raised his hands, a look of intense concentration on his gaunt face. In an instant, the terrible rain of fire ended as abruptly as it had begun. Shocking silence descended, broken only by the crackle of burning wood, the groans of the wounded and dying.

Short of the breach he had made in the stockade, Mastri turned to look upon Duadh with his disturbing gaze, the Clan Waketa Sailmaster also taking cover up against the wooden logs alongside a score of his more prudent crew. "I see you, Duadh din Retif!" the Samma N'Sei commented loudly, "I go now to settle with the Sharaman." He grinned in ghastly fashion, baring his filed teeth savagely. "For the coming Dance, I use the Power, not spears; I cannot answer for your safety if you get in my way." With that, Mastri turned and stepped through the hole in the palisade, disappearing from sight, everyone's eyes on him.

Except Irmilla's. By this point, she had risen unsteadily and, holding her skirts clear of her knees, was dashing east around the corner of the stockade, keeping close to the wooden walls so as to not be seen from above. Let Duadh and what was left of his people make a frontal assault, losing their lives in the process, most likely… assuredly, not all would perish and as long as there were enough of the Waketa left to sail her home to the Westlands, she cared not what became of the rest. Entering the camp through that breach or climbing the palisade would clearly be dangerous, and Irmilla had never been in favour of putting herself in harm's way any more than she had to, given that she wished to live forever. No, she had a better idea… there was most probably a back way into the camp, she would find it and deal with that odious slut, Rashiel. And her snobbish friend. Irmilla did not care what became of the Noblewoman at Duadh's hands, and his crew could loot what they liked from the camp; but that striking, bejewelled marriage-knife she coveted… it would be a valuable and desirable item to add to her collection, would compensate her for the trouble she had been put to.

Head yet spinning from her channeling exertions, Irmilla hastened unsteadily around the next corner and beheld the rear wall of the stockade, bordering on the forest. A couple of dead Waketa lay on their backs before it, crossbow-bolts embedded in their still corpses, but there was no sign of anyone living. A loud boom resonated from within the camp, sounding like thunder, followed by a further pair of resounding crashes. Irmilla flinched. Even after all these years as a Friend of the Dark, the sorts of horrific things she had seen and participated in, she was not so hardened against terror that the prospect of a duel of Power between two deadly, saidin-cursed Madmen did not fill her with dread. She would really rather not go into the camp until it was all over, but if her Dread Mistress discovered that she had shirked her duty… that was an eventuality too terrifying to contemplate.

Arachnae Kirikil might represent herself as a kind-natured old lady, there may even have been genuine affection for her talented young Apprentice within her… but her benevolent manner did not fool Irmilla for an instant. Her Mistress simply was not human, and had not been so for a very long time. She was something else now, something other, inhuman entirely and capable of acts of cruelty and malice that even Irmilla might have shrunk from. Why, she had once spent most of a night making an insubordinate Myrddraal scream its throat raw, just to see if it could be done! The methods she had employed to produce this reaction yet gave Irmilla nightmares… No, failing the Dread Mistress was in no way an option, not if she wished to live to see the dawning of another Age.

Irmilla scanned the long section of stockade, wondering if she had been wrong… perhaps there was no rear door? Could she scale the palisade? It was rather high… probably not, she had little skill with that sort of thing. Why had she not thought to bring a rope? Fool!

"Who are you?" enquired a clear yet bland voice from right behind Irmilla. She all but jumped out of her skin, whirling around, eyes wide. Naturally, she yet held saidar and prepared to lash out with a suitably deadly weave, but in the event, did not need to. An Aielman stood too close for comfort, as tall as the one-eyed savage from the meeting earlier, if less off-putting in appearance. He had vacant green eyes and his hair was auburn, longer than that of the other Aiel. He wore the distinctive dusty brown clothing of his people… but bore no weapons. Instead, he held a large bucket in each hand.

Irmilla raised her eyebrows, her wariness receding, but took a cautious step back even so, coming into contact with the logs of the palisade. "Never you mind who I am, Aielman!" she snapped, "who in the Wheel are you, to come sneaking up on me like that?"

"I am Ruon," declared the savage, his voice all-but devoid of intonation; "once of the Blue Canyon Sept of the Tomanelle Aiel, but no longer." He nodded at the camp behind her. "This is my Hold, now."

The fellow had a strange manner, Irmilla felt, but then, he was an Aielman… they were all strange. "You live here?" she demanded. Ruon nodded. "Do you not know that your home is being attacked?"

Ruon shrugged, giving the impression that he cared little about this, or indeed, anything else. "I heard the clamour of the Dance from the forest, I saw fires fall from out of the sky…" further thunderous booms erupted from the other side of the palisade, "…and that also, of course, whatever it is."

"This does not concern you?" Irmilla wondered. Ruon shook his head and set the buckets down wearily, rubbing at his back. Irmilla glanced at the wooden containers; they were full of water. "Why are you not helping to defend the camp, and carrying water buckets about in stead?" she demanded, incredulously.

Ruon eyed her with his empty gaze, smiled a small, bitter smile. "My Society was Duadhe Mahdi'in before the Car'a'carn came, the Water Seekers. What better toil for me to engage in?" A trace of what might almost have been pride entered his toneless voice; "when first we were wrecked here, it was I who found the spring, up in the hills beyond the forest."

"Fascinating," Irmilla observed, "but for now, why don't you make yourself useful in another wise, and tell me if there is a back door to this stockade?"

Ruon blinked slowly. "Oh, there is, Wetlander… but I do not think my Captain-Chief would wish for me to show it to you."

Irmilla bared small, white teeth dangerously. "Oh? Whyever not?"

Ruon smiled bleakly. "Because you did not tell me your name, and also because you have an evil aspect to you… I think that you are one of those who raid my Sept. I will tell you nothing."

Irmilla shook her head slowly, gathering the complex flows that Compulsion required. Strange that something as simple as a Shield was beyond her ability, whilst the far more difficult weave that bent others to one's will had always come relatively easily… but then, Irmilla had long experience in the arts of manipulation, combined with a penchant for discovering people's secrets. She smiled coldly at Ruon, preparing herself to invade and subdue his mind…

"No, savage… as it just so happens, you shall tell me everything."

---

The Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar felt the parapet beneath her tremble as another thunderclap rocked the camp. She wondered if the thin wooden platform would collapse and plunge she and her dozen crew down to the sand below. For now, it held. She should have been watching the killing-ground in front of the stockade for enemies, but raising one's head above the hoarding was a sure way to attract arrows; she had already lost a couple of men to the accuracy of the Darkfriend archers though fortunately, there were not that many of them. Besides, Ysmet's attention was currently being firmly held by something else… the dark dome of swirling black mist, lit across its surface by periodic flashes of lightning, that had appeared inside the gateway to the camp. The eldritch dome was already two-dozen spans in circumference and steadily swelling in size, the sky-fire that streaked over it increasing in intensity. It was, in effect, a contained, localised thunder-storm, its destructive power growing until soon, it might eclipse and obliterate the entire camp.

Another boom of thunder emanated from the disquieting phenomenon and Ysmet frowned with grave concern. The red-veiled Aielman had summoned the dread effect and now presumably stood at the centre of his creation, controlling it. And Hamadi was in there too; he had walked calmly through the dark, roiling fog and disappeared within, most probably to his doom. Part of Ysmet wished that she could see what was going on inside, the rest of her was glad that she could not. She scanned the immediate area for Rashiel, but there was no sign of her Aes Sedai friend. Gen squatted beside her, staring at the black dome with a strange mixture of fascination and regret. Ysmet clapped him upon the shoulder, making him jump.

"Find Rashiel Sedai!" Ysmet shouted, raising her voice over the thunder of the artificial storm, "tell her to try and help Hamadi!" Gen nodded, touching a gnarled finger to his brow and dropped nimbly to the sand below, racing away between the huts. Ysmet watched him go… he certainly was spry for an old man. Just how old she had no idea… but if, as the unearthly Fourthborn had asserted, Gen had once been Souvraniene, then he might be of a great age indeed.

Abruptly, a grappling hook snagged on the hoarding beside Ysmet, knotted to a rope which was pulled tight, the sharp tines digging into the soft wood. She glanced to either side, noting more grapnels thrown from below, and motioned to what was left of the defenders to stand ready. Nearly half of her crew had fallen in the fighting thus far, mostly to arrows and javelins… but for the unfortunate Estal, who had been spectacularly exploded with the One Power. Well, at least it had been quick, he probably would not have had time to feel anything. But these remaining sailors were really more the survivors of the survivors, given the amount of men who had been lost in the original wreck of the Queen Mab. Ysmet knew all of their names and fully intended to compensate their families with adequate pensions in the unlikely event that she ever returned to Illian… even if it meant going home with her tail between her legs and begging the money from Aunt Tylin! A truly frightening prospect… but for the time being, there were more pressing concerns.

Ysmet drew the fine, ivory-hilted knife from her belt, the decorative dagger that the Aielman Cohradin had gifted to her. It was very sharp, Rashiel thought the blade might be Power-wrought, but was unsure. Where had the one-eyed Aiel savage come by it? The knife was clearly not the work of his people; with its intricately carved handle, it more closely resembled a weapon of the Atha'an Miere.

The rope attached to the grappling hook grew taught, trembling as someone climbed. Ysmet might have cut it, had the stockade been twice as high, in the hopes that the fall would kill her enemy… but since it was not, she had other plans. A dusky Sea Folk face drew level with the top of the palisade, a long, curved dagger held between bared, white teeth, tattooed hands gripping the rope… the pirate's dark eyes widened as he beheld Ysmet. She smiled coldly and deftly slashed the Darkfriend across the throat. He uttered a choked-off cry, blood jetting from the deep wound; his hands slipped from the rope and he dropped from sight.

Ysmet checked on how her men were doing. To her right, Bari was engaged in sweeping a heavy forge-hammer down onto the skull of an invader, the thick muscles in his nautically-tattooed arms bunched with the effort… a sickening crunch of breaking bone and the brigand fell silently from the rope. Bari grinned at Ysmet, adjusting the grubby woollen hat that he never removed, even in this heat… he waved the hammer, shouting; "you said I were mad to save this from the wreck, Captain… but see; tis right useful!"

"Keep your fool head down, Bari!" Ysmet responded, as a couple of retaliatory arrows whizzed overhead. The grin slipped from Bari's homely face and he ducked cautiously.

Ysmet glanced to her left in time to see Jer take care of his Darkfriend. As the thin, predatory features of a Sea Folk woman appeared opposite, the fading sunlight reflecting from her golden ear and nose rings, as it did off the shiny, bald dome of Jer's head, he closed an eye and fired his crossbow at point-blank range, taking the attacker in the face. She did not so much fall from the rope as fly from it, her body limp as a rag-doll, tumbling to the blood-stained sand below the stockade. Jer smiled wickedly and winked at his Captain. She scowled.

"Don't waste bolts, Jer!" Ysmet scolded, "use your flaming knife!"

Warning shouts came from the western wall of the palisade, Ysmet looked and cursed. The frontal attack had been a diversion, the main body of the enemy was coming over the stockade in force where she had not expected them. Two of the Atha'an Miere Darkfriends had gained the parapet via the same rope and grapnel; they stood back to back, holding off the half-dozen sailors that were all Ysmet had been able to spare to guard that stretch of the defences. The pair of pirates were clearly buying time for more of their people to climb the stockade; Ysmet witnessed fatalistically as one with a shark tattoo crouched below the whirling hatchet of a desperate sailor, then stabbed viciously with his ivory-hilted short-sword. At the same time, the Sea Folk woman to his back was using a long knife in each hand to hold off another defender… as Ysmet watched, she saw the Darkfriend roll dexterously beneath the clumsy swipe of the sailor's cutlass and savagely disembowel him, a triumphant smile on her cruel face. Distantly, Ysmet noted that the knifewoman had a greyish fish tattooed on her back, a long tusk projecting from its mouth. She had no idea what it was…

"Don't trade hand-blows with them!" Ysmet shouted in her best quarterdeck voice, "use your crossbows!"

But it was too late. Even as a sailor further along the parapet knelt and prepared to shoot, more of the Shadowsworn brigands were gaining the top of the palisade. Amongst them was their leader, the burly, shaven-skulled brute with the big axe. He vaulted over the hoarding to stand on the parapet, legs braced, then raised his axe high, threw back his head and howled in feral fashion. Answering howls erupted from his piratical people as they swarmed up ropes and scrambled over the top of the stockade.

"Shoot them down!" Ysmet yelled desperately, then dropped to the sand below, adding; "follow me!" to her men. She did not look back to see if they were obeying, but raced for the west wall, drawing her rapier as she ran. Atop the parapet, the knifewoman coughed blood as a quarrel struck her in the chest; she snarled with rage at the kneeling sailor who had shot her and with the last of her waning strength, hurled one of her daggers at him, taking him in the throat. Ysmet watched as her crewman dropped his crossbow and fell bonelessly to the sand, as the Sailmaster of these Darkfriend pirates clapped the mortally-wounded woman approvingly on the shoulder before she, too, tumbled from the parapet.

Another sailor closed-in with a knife in one hand, a belaying-pin in the other; Ysmet admired his bravery, though not his good sense. The Darkfriend Captain moved with shocking speed for such a big man, avoiding the sailor's attacks with ease in a brief flurry of rapid, economical motion, then swept his axe down in a deadly arc… and another of Ysmet's men fell, his skull cleft in twain. Meanwhile, the shark-tattooed swordsman had slain another sailor, then dropped nimbly down into the camp. His dark eyes narrowed as he saw Ysmet approach and he ran swiftly forward to meet her, white teeth flashing in his dusky face as he grinned with bloodthirsty anticipation. Even as she moved to confront him, Ysmet was aware of more pirates reaching the top of the palisade, fierce fighting in which the last few defenders of the western wall were rapidly despatched. But, as a girl in the Tarasin Palace, her first lesson from her sword-tutor had concerned the importance of focusing fully on one's opponent in a duel. Loss of concentration inevitably led to loss of life…

So, as the Darkfriend swordsman closed on her, his bloody blade raised, Ysmet shut out the rest of the world for the time that it would take to kill him. Even the expanding dome of dark, thunderous mist was temporarily forgotten as her rapier clashed repeatedly with the pirate's short-sword… parry, disengage, riposte… and from this preliminary contact, Ysmet knew that she had the better of her adversary. Apart from anything else, his sword was too short – as was he – and he lacked her reach. But time was not on her side, she had to end this, and quickly. With a cry, Ysmet stumbled, losing her balance momentarily… grinning wider, the Darkfriend darted in to finish the fight. Ysmet promptly recovered her poise, striking his short blade aside, stamping a foot down in the sand and lunging with the speed of a striking blacklance. The point of her rapier took the swordsman neatly in the heart, then withdrew. Ysmet straightened up and raised her blade in salute, whilst the Shadowsworn pirate's dark eyes widened, as he touched a finger wonderingly to the small, deep wound in his chest, from which his life's blood spurted in time with his fading pulse.

"You… tricked me, Shorebound!" the Atha'an Miere brigand gasped, then collapsed to lie face down in the sand, legs kicking weakly before he went still.

With the temporary respite, Ysmet glanced over her shoulder; Bari, Jer and the others were running to join her, as were the half-dozen sailors who had been guarding the east wall of the stockade. There were no defenders left to the south that she knew of, she had pulled her men from there since this section of the palisade bordered on the dangerous forest and had therefore been built higher and stouter than the rest. It was also where the hidden rear door was situated, that the survivors might well have to use to escape into the trees if all else failed. A skilled piece of carpentry, that door, but then, it had been constructed by a skilled carpenter. Too bad what had become of old Hulan… he had unwisely gone hunting by himself one day, and when he did not return, Ysmet had led a patrol into the forest to search for him. They had found what was left of the ship's carpenter in a clearing, beside the ashes of a camp-fire. The cannibals had not left much of him, but Ysmet had ordered Hulan's meagre remains burned on a small pyre anyway, and she had said a blessing for his soul. Going into the forest alone had become an unpopular activity from then on, only Ruon did it.

As her men closed on her, Ysmet noted with rageful despair that most had left their crossbows behind on the parapet… but she forbore to scream angrily at them. That sort of thing was the Bosun's duty in any case, and he was not here, much as Ysmet wished he was. The Bosun was the only member of her crew with actual experience of warfare, which would have proved invaluable in the defence of their camp… the rest of the men were doughty and did not shrink from a fight, but sailors simply were not soldiers, and that was all there was to it. What Ysmet wouldn't give for a company of Palace Guardsmen or failing that, even just her cousin Beslan and a dozen of his rowdy, duelling drinking-companions!

Lantern-jawed Jer was in the lead of the mob of sailors coming to oppose the incursion on the west wall of the stockade; his eyes widened in alarm at the sight of something to Ysmet's rear. "Behind ye, Captain!" he warned, loudly.

Ysmet turned smoothly, leant back to let an iron-studded club whistle past her face, then smoothly riposted, the point of her rapier taking her Sea Folk assailant in the throat. She withdrew the slender blade and kicked her opponent aside; gurgling and clawing at his spurting neck-wound, the Darkfriend collapsed. Ysmet turned side-on, flicked the blood from her rapier and levelled it at two more of the pirates as they closed on her. Beyond them, a dozen more were dropping down to the sand and behind them, a further score now occupied the parapet, including the octopus-tattooed Sailmaster, his blood-stained axe held loosely in one hand, the severed head of a young sailor named Owyn in the other. Their eyes met across the intervening space and the Darkfriend leader inclined his shaved-head mockingly.

"Take her alive if you can!" the Sailmaster shouted to his crew below, "and bring me that Waketa knife!"

Ysmet's brow furrowed. So the dagger was an heirloom of his Shadowsworn Clan? Its carved ivory hilt did look like Atha'an Miere craftsmanship… well, if that was the case, she had no wish to keep it, she wanted to possess nothing a Darkfriend might lay claim to…

The pair of pirates moved in, splitting up to attack from each flank. Ysmet smiled coldly. It was hardly the first time that she had fought multiple opponents… a brief exchange of deadly motion and it was over, one of the Darkfriends kneeling in bloodied sand, vainly trying to prevent arterial blood spilling from the deep gash in her thigh, the other flat on his back, arms and legs splayed, the Sea Folk knife sunk into his breastbone. Ysmet crouched and wrenched the ivory-hilted dagger from the dead man's mortal wound, cut the injured woman's throat with it and waved the Clan Waketa weapon tauntingly at the Sailmaster, who was yet watching from his place on the parapet, dark eyes narrowed murderously.

"You want this, Darkfriend?" Ysmet shouted to the pirate leader, "fine! I shall make sure to bury it with you!"

"Kill the Shorebound strumpet!" the Sailmaster roared in response, and the dozen fearsome brigands at the foot of the stockade beneath him began to move purposefully forward.

"I am no strumpet!" Ysmet protested, "Rashiel is!" Which reminded her… where in the Winds was that dratted Aes Sedai? Disappearing when they needed her most… had Gen found her, or had the little lecher run away into the forest to save himself? But no, Gen appeared at her side, his mouth and chin bloody. "What have you been doing, Gen?" Ysmet demanded, her eyes fixed on the approaching enemy.

"Fighting!" Gen replied, baring his hideous, yellow teeth, filed to points. There was blood on them too… Ysmet would have gladly left it at that, but Gen chose to enlarge on his explanation; "which a Shadar-kissing Atha'an Miere did try to take my life, O succulent Captain, and having mislaid my trusty blade of dark-glass, I then did defend myself as do the dingoes… why, I did tear out his throat with my fearsome fangs!"

"Urgh!" Ysmet groaned, "you didn't eat any of him, did you?"

"Nay, in course I did not!" Gen refuted, sounding scandalised, "the Fox Queen taught me tis wrong to dine upon man-flesh, your delectable Ladyship, which I durst never do so anymore!"

"Anymore?" Ysmet muttered. "Ahh! Never mind that! Where is Rashiel Sedai, you gibbering loon?!"

"She is…" Gen blinked as a large shadow fell over him, and looked up cautiously. Ysmet took her eyes off the warily advancing Darkfriends for a moment, it seemed that they were being more cautious now that they had seen what she could do with her rapier, and glanced up at the big Aielman, Gerom, standing there, his murky green eyes fixed on the enemy, an extremely serious look on his face. For some reason, he had shed his white robe and was clad only in his smallclothes, though they were very clean compared with those of most men, Ysmet distantly noted. Then, another shadow blotted out the sun; it was the heavily-scarred Aiel, their leader, Cohradin, looking even more stern than his comrade, both red and blue eyes drilling into the foe. Again, he wore no black robe… he was solely garbed in what looked like Dagnon Gaidin's best britches, oddly enough. Neither Aielman was armed.

"What do you here?" Ysmet demanded, "we are in the middle of a battle, or had you not noticed? Begone, flee to the woods and please take Gen with you… I have no time for any of your idiocy!"

The Aielmen spoke without removing their implacable gazes from the steadily encroaching Darkfriends.

"Go to your hut where we have sent your sailormen also, Ysmet Mitsobar," Gerom rumbled.

"Make your stand there, as was your plan," Cohradin added flatly. It was not a request.

"What are you even going to do?" Ysmet queried desperately, glancing over her shoulder and noting that the remaining defenders had disappeared from sight, "you lack your spears, you ridiculous savages! And how dare you command my men?! I am their Captain, not you!"

"The Aielfolk don't need spears to slay them Friends o' the Darkness… which they could bite 'em!" Gen suggested. Ysmet frowned at him. "With their teeth!" Gen added, in case she had not taken his point. Ysmet scowled.

"Go!" Cohradin shouted, "now!" To her considerable surprise, Ysmet found herself obeying, hastening back to her cabin, from whence she could see sailors aiming the few crossbows left to them out of the small windows. Bari and Jer lingered nervously in the doorway, motioning franticly for their Captain to hurry. Gen trailed at Ysmet's side, wiping his sticky mouth with the back of a dirty hand. From behind, Ysmet heard harsh screams and quickened her pace, regretting the loss of the Aielmen… Cohradin had been a fool, true, but in that moment there had been something commanding, almost noble, in his unaccustomedly grim visage; a hint of heroism, even?

Ysmet paused in the doorway of her hut, the structure larger and more stoutly-built than the others, looking back… she fully expected to see the Darkfriend pirates butchering the corpses of the two mad Aiel… she blinked. Cohradin and Gerom stood calmly in the midst of a dozen dead Shadowsworn brigands, their bodies lying in twisted attitudes of violent demise about the Aielmen's feet.

"Did you see what they did, Gen?" Ysmet gasped.

Gen nodded, smiling with morbid relish. "Aye, curvaceous Captain Ysmet! The deathsome Aiels did hit them… and kick them, and… and other things besides…" he shrugged, "…in truth, it did all happen so fast, why, I could not quite-"

"Come-on, Captain!" Jer cried, tugging at Ysmet's sleeve.

"Get in here Gen, you raving turnip-head!" Bari added, urgently.

Ysmet felt amazement as she ducked into her cabin. She had known that the savage denizens of the Waste were deadly, of course, she had lost two cousins and an uncle in the Aiel War… but she had not realised quite what they were capable of, even without their spears…

The cramped interior of the hut was stuffed full of sailors, some nursing crudely bandaged flesh wounds… but not near so many of Ysmet's crew as there should have been, she had lost several good men.

"Alright," the Lady Ysmet commanded, "pick up the bed and barricade the door with it!" As the more able-bodied of her crew rushed to obey, Ysmet frowned with concern. In all of the excitement, she had quite forgotten… where was Rashiel?

---

Rashiel Tamor gaped in consternation at the flickering dome of dark mist, striated with jagged forks of lightning, that had appeared in the gateway of the stockade. The red-veiled Aiel channeler had created it, and Hamadi had walked calmly into the storm to face his Shadowsworn adversary, almost as though compelled to. Should she go in too? Rashiel had no desire to enter the forbidding saidin-cloud, or whatever it was, but Hamadi might need her help. The Sharan youth was powerful, true… he had summoned the burning rain, after all, something far beyond Rashiel's capability for channeling she was sure, even had she known how to. But then, the Darkfriend Aielman had seemingly dispelled this same weaving of Fire with ease… he could well be more powerful than Hamadi, much more.

"I expect it is like the Breaking of the World inside that storm thing," Rashiel commented to Raab. No answer. She turned to look… Raab was gone, he must have slipped away whilst she had been staring at the lightning-riven dome! Doubtless he had lost his nerve and run off into the trees, the little rat! Well, he had best watch out for the cannibals that lurked within the forest in that wise, or suffer the fate of poor old Hulan, the ship's carpenter. "Raab probably wouldn't taste very nice, anyway," Rashiel muttered spitefully, "there are some things that even cannibals won't eat!"

Rashiel's pale eyes were abruptly drawn to a flicker of movement between two huts, further back in the camp. Raab? No… no, it was just Ruon, striding along with his buckets. He had been fetching water in the middle of a battle? Well, nothing about the resolutely pacifistic Aielman would surprise her… or any of the Aiel for that matter, they were quite clearly all completely mad! And she had told Raab to choose a pair of Dagnon's old britches for Cohradin to wear… the snivelling idiot had fetched the best ones instead! Dagnon would not be pleased, he did not possess much in the way of fine clothes. Rashiel was certain that she could still sense her Warder nearby, but there was no sign of him as yet… would he arrive only in time to avenge her death?

"Ruon!" Rashiel called out, "where have you been? Don't you know we're being invaded?!" By way of an answer, Ruon paused some fifty paces away, lowered his buckets to the sand and smiled an enigmatic smile. Rashiel blinked. She did not think that she had ever seen Ruon smile before! "Ruon..?" she repeated, uncertainly. The tall, auburn-haired Aielman turned on his heel and disappeared into the nearest hut. Rashiel frowned. That was her hut, hers and Dagnon's… Ruon wasn't allowed in there!

Rashiel took a quick glance up at the parapet; Ysmet and her men were crouched there, waiting to repel the enemy, and after a final worried gaze upon the dark and foggy dome, which seemed to be expanding in size, Rashiel hastened over to her hut, ready to give Ruon the rough side of her tongue! They did not need water now, they needed fighting men… and they had three fearsome Aiel warriors present in the camp, every one of whom had thrown away his spears! It really was too provoking!

Within Rashiel's hut it was dark, the oil-lamps were not lit. Ruon stood by the far wall, half-hidden in the gloom, waiting for her it seemed. "Ruon, what do you think you are-?" The words stuck in Rashiel's throat – Ruon was channeling saidar! A powerful force clamped down upon Rashiel; she fought it, desperately attempting to embrace the True Source, trying to dispel the assault, but there was nothing there… she had been Shielded! She could not even sense the One Power! Potent weaves of Air pressed down upon Rashiel's shoulders, forcing her to kneel upon the threadbare rug, whilst more flows snaked around her wrists and ankles, binding her… and Ruon flickered, growing smaller, his cadin'sor shifting to colourful silk and pale lace, his features changing to a pouting, sly, feminine face that Rashiel knew all too well.

"Irmilla!" she moaned, eyes widening in disbelief.

"Hello, dearest Rashiel," Irmilla purred, "we meet again…" She took a few slow, sinuous steps forward until she stood before the kneeling, bound Aes Sedai, gazing down at her with predatory satisfaction. "Surprised? You certainly look surprised. Something my Dread Mistress taught me, a bit like the Mirror of the Mists only more subtle… I can look like anyone I choose. A useful skill, don't you think?"

"What did you do to Ruon?" Rashiel demanded.

"The lowly Aielman?" Irmilla examined her fingernails idly. "He did not appear to be enjoying life very much… I put him out of his misery."

Rashiel opened her mouth to angrily lambaste Irmilla for yet another murder in her long list of crimes, but then closed it. She was being taunted, she would not rise to the vile Darkfriend's bait. Instead, she chose to maintain a belligerent, resentful silence.

Irmilla's smile widened until she was showing her teeth, then she slapped Rashiel hard across the side of her face. Rashiel turned her head, then turned it back, pale eyes glaring up at Irmilla defiantly. "That was for calling me a 'bitch,'" Irmilla explained. She then slapped Rashiel across the other side of her face, harder this time, no doubt trying to provoke some sort of a reaction. Rashiel gave her no such satisfaction; the blow had nearly knocked her onto her side, but she straightened up, blinking back tears of pain, and continued to glower up at her captor. "And that," Irmilla went on, unhurriedly, "was for calling me a 'bitch' again!"

"You are a bitch, Irmilla," Rashiel pointed-out, adding wearily; "just kill me and get it over with. I am tired of listening to you. Ever were you tedious as a novice, and you have only grown more boring in the years since…"

Irmilla scowled and raised her hand to deliver a third slap… but then lowered it, resuming her predatory smile. "Kill you, Rashiel? Oh no, I have changed my mind about that… I want you to live for a very long time, in fact, to serve me faithfully in the most menial and degrading of tasks…" Irmilla's smile widened, the pupils of her dark eyes shrinking to pinpoints, "…I'm not going to kill you, my dear, I'm going to still you!"

Rashiel's soul shrank with horror at the prospect of being irrecoverably cut-off from the True Source and despite her best efforts, she could not prevent a moan of terror from escaping her lips. Irmilla laughed delightedly. With every ounce of strength she possessed, Rashiel fought against the Shield that blocked her from connecting with the One Power, desperately tried to fill herself with saidar… but to no avail.

Irmilla smirked. "Attempting to break my preventative weave, Rashiel? Some chance!" She reached into the pocket of her lacy blouse. "You might have had an iota of success if you but possessed one of these…" she drew out a dark, heart-shaped jewel and held it up, "…the angreal that my Mistress gifted me with. But as it is, you could sooner keep your legs closed in the company of a handsome gallant than you could now embrace saidar!"

Irmilla laughed delightedly at her cruel wit… people who expressed mirth at their own jests were usually far from as funny as they thought they were, Rashiel considered. She scowled up at Irmilla, disliking her choice of comparison even so, desperately trying to think of a way out of this dire situation. But there was simply none that occurred to her…

Irmilla assumed a more serious mien. "Now, dear Rashiel, it is time for you to bid the True Source farewell… forever!" She tucked the jewel-angreal back into her pocket and placed her hands on either side of Rashiel's head, preparatory to stilling her. Rashiel knew better than to beg for mercy; apart from the fact that Irmilla did not know the meaning of the word, she would give this… this bitch no such gratification! But she closed her eyes tightly, in an attempt to lessen the misery of the moment.

As such, she heard a familiar voice speak, but did not immediately see the speaker. "Excuse me, Windfinder?"

"I am busy! What do you want, imbecile?!"

"Forgive the interruption… I was sent to find you…"

Rashiel's eyes snapped open… she knew that voice! She turned her head, about the only part of her that she could currently move, and stared. Raab stood in the doorway, a hand resting on the ivory hilt of the sword tucked through his sash. He looked much as he usually did, but there now seemed to be an element of danger to him that was not usually present. And he had what appeared to be a large tattoo on his bare chest; some sort of golden fish with a great many sharp teeth… squinting at it, Rashiel could detect that it had been painted on, and none too skilfully either! She only hoped that Irmilla would not notice, it was dark in here after all and the sly-tongued little trull had never been too observant…

Raab cleared his throat, held up a slip of paper and stated, in rough, piratical tones; "may it please the Dark, Windfinder, I bear a message from the Sailmaster."

Irmilla frowned, not bothering to do more than glance at Raab, her attention focused on her victim. "What in the Pit does Duadh want now?" she muttered, "never a moment's peace…" Her wicked gaze remained fixed on Rashiel, who did her best to hold the Darkfriend's interest by letting her lower lip tremble a little and widening her eyes as though terrified. This required less pretence than she would have liked… Smiling down at her prey, Irmilla held out an imperious hand to the messenger. "Give it here, then."

Raab shuffled over but his bare feet somehow got tangled in the rug and with a surprised yelp, he stumbled forward, bumping into Irmilla, tattooed hands flailing at her briefly.

"Get off me you clumsy fool!" Irmilla shouted, shoving Raab away.

Raab staggered back, tripping on the rug once more, and ended on his backside, leaning against the wall of the hut. "A thousand apologies, Windfinder!" he cried out.

Irmilla glared down at Raab, then paused a moment. Rashiel could not see her face but when next she spoke, Irmilla sounded distinctly suspicious. "Hold… I've not seen you before… what's your name?" The note had fallen to the floor in the confusion, she picked it up.

"Caroc din Rieta Lionfish!" Raab answered promptly.

"Oh..?"

"I'm the bilge-boy! You've not met me for I am most usually down below in the bowels of the ship, manning the pumps…" It all sounded plausible, once again Rashiel was impressed by Raab's facility for lying.

"It appears that you're an important member of the crew," Irmilla drawled with heavy sarcasm, then glanced down at the note, half swivelling back to Rashiel. Irmilla's brow furrowed with confusion, she turned the paper over to look on the other side, but was left none the wiser. "What is this, some silly joke? There is nothing writ upon it!"

Raab sprang to his feet, yanking the short-sword from his sash. Irmilla did not immediately react since she had discovered a more pressing concern; her eyes widened with alarm, she dropped the blank scrap of paper and patted frantically at her blouse pockets. "My angreal! Where..?" She scanned the floor, kicking at the rug so see if the dark jewel had fallen at her feet.

"Are you looking for this, Shadowsworn witch?"

Both Irmilla and Rashiel stared at Raab. In the hand not brandishing the sword, he held the heart-shaped angreal. He smiled his most insolent smile, tossing the large jewel up into the air and catching it. "Compliments of Clan Takana!" he shouted, "now die, Daughter of the Sands!" Raab leapt forward, inexpertly attempting to stab Irmilla. At the same time, he hissed; "catch!" to Rashiel, and the dark jewel-angreal bounced off her chest and fell to the rug in front of her.

Irmilla recovered from her surprise and dismay quickly enough to channel viciously; powerful flows of Air ensnared Raab a step away from her, hurling him back to hit the wooden wall behind with enough force to shake the whole hut. He slumped to the floor and lay still, the sword slipping from his hand… and Rashiel found that she could move again, the weaves ensnaring her wrists and ankles were gone. She swiftly snatched up the angreal and rose… but her attempt to draw saidar failed, revealing that she was still Shielded. Irmilla had not let the block dissipate, as she had with the bonds of Air. Rashiel's eyes flicked toward Raab's still form, lying supine by the wall. She very much hoped that he was not dead… what he had done had been brave, very brave. When Rashiel returned her gaze to Irmilla, the Darkfriend was now staring directly at her, dread purpose in her dark eyes.

"Forget stilling," Irmilla snarled, "I have had a change of heart, White Tower trollop! I am going to tear out your soul and present it to the Great Lord of the Dark as a plaything! But first, I will- ahhh!" Irmilla stumbled back, tears of pain staining her cheeks, a hand clutched to her upper arm where blood ran freely down to her wrist from a deep wound… in which there was now embedded Rashiel's marriage-knife! "You stabbed me!" Irmilla sobbed, as she hesitantly plucked the small blade from her arm, dropping it to the floor, "it hurts!"

"You always were a big cry-baby!" Rashiel observed contemptuously, giving Irmilla a hard shove, sending her tumbling back to land on the rug, winded and in considerable pain, with any luck. "Tatty old thing, eh? I'm only supposed to use the marriage-knife on my husband if he displeases me, but in your case I was glad to make an exception!"

Rashiel then struck at the Shield imposed on her with all the strength she could muster; the block promptly tore asunder and the sweet power of saidar flowed into her, magnified considerably by the angreal gripped in her hand. In a flash, she channeled at Irmilla, imposing her own Shield on the Darkfriend. Irmilla gasped and scrambled to her knees, a bloodstained hand still clutched to her wound, staring up at Rashiel with the eyes of a cornered, frightened animal.

Rashiel smiled down at her coldly. "Now, Irmilla dear… where were we?"

---

Red-eyed Cohradin, temporarily of the Sovin Nai, disparagingly flicked blood from the stiffened fingers of his striking-hand, whilst glaring contemptuously at the Shadowrunning Sea Folk over by the wooden wall. "They dance a little better than the Dark-loving sailormen we waked in the boat fight, back by the Blight," he commented, "but not much!"

Gerom did not respond, he was moodily examining the bloodstains upon his smallclothes, which he would doubtless remove and wash carefully at the first opportunity. The big Knife Hand – also temporarily – was always most fastidious about the cleanliness of his garments, which Cohradin certainly was not. The borrowed and ill-fitting britches that the Aes Sedai had commanded him to wear were now much besmirched with gore, and torn also.

Cohradin waved tauntingly at the Atha'an Miere pirates, then beckoned, inviting them to come and face him. At his feet lay a dozen of their people, all quite thoroughly dead in the way that only a Sovin Nai could accomplish. There was blood everywhere, and the remaining Shadowrunners did not seem eager to come and avenge their kin anytime soon, but appeared to be waiting for something. Their scowling Chief, the bald Darkfriend who cultivated the company of talking animals (they were strange, these Sea Folk of Shai'tan!) had bellowed an order earlier, though Cohradin had not heard what exactly it was. The command had coincided with one of the loud noises of thunder from the smoky dark thing, which minded Cohradin of the dome of fog that hid the forbidden city of Rhuidean from sight… though blacker and smaller. But getting bigger all the time.

The tattoo-faced Sharaman had gone in there, to face Medelin or Mazri or whatever it was that the lunatic now called himself. Cohradin called him a fool, as he had done since long before the raving Shadowrunner began to channel and went to serve Leafblighter… Wormlover… Cohradin had a score to settle with the former Sha'mad Conde of his Sept. Medelin had spoken insultingly of his goat! Only Cohradin was allowed to do that, and often did… the Shadowrunning Madman would answer for his rude description. Cohradin had threatened to make him eat his own heart, and what he said, he did!

Whilst waiting to see what would happen next, Cohradin glanced enquiringly at Gerom. "What is that black and booming thing over there, my brother?" he asked.

Gerom shrugged his broad shoulders, not troubling to look up from his stained smallclothes. "I know not," he muttered, "I am no adept of the Power to hold such knowledge."

Cohradin blinked. Even on those rare occasions when Gerom did not actually possess the information that was requested of him by his near-brothers, he would at least speculate. He appeared to be depressed… "What is amiss, Gerom? You seem out of sorts. Does it not feel good, to Dance with the Shadow once more?"

"I suppose…" Gerom mumbled, then frowned at the waiting enemy, "but I would have it otherwise… I wished no more killing, my brother!"

It was now Cohradin's turn to shrug. "It is what we now do, it is what we are… no matter what the Aes Sedai of the Age of Legends intended for us. Let us finish this dance with the Shadowrunning Sea Fools, let us finish them, especially that big, scowling bald fool over there! Afterwards, if we are not Waked from the Dream, we shall put on our robes once more and should we ever return to Wet Sands Hold with the Nightwatcher to show to old Sadora, I shall herd rocks in stead of goats and drink oosquai all day, and you shall be Gai'shain to your books and go back to your precious library… and be known as Gerom the Librarian!"

Gerom looked up, then smiled briefly. "Chassin told you of my wish..?"

"He did."

"Very well." Gerom turned his large head and eyed the Shadowrunners in a way that made some of them take a cautious step back. He flexed his powerful arms, clenching and unclenching massive fists. "Let us go and wake those murderers and thieves, I grow weary of this waiting."

As one, they started forward and the Darkfriend Atha'an Miere raised their weapons, preparing to meet them, though none too enthusiastically, Cohradin noted. These pirates had not faced Aiel before, clearly. Well, he would see to it that they did not do so again! But then, a dozen more Sea Folk Shadowrunners came scrambling over the top of the palisade to form a line along the parapet, pulling short, recurved bows from their backs and nocking barbed arrows.

"Archers!" Gerom warned.

"I am not blind, my brother!" Cohradin protested, adding smugly; "my special red eye sees more better then ever your sludgy green ones could!"

"It is poor grammar to say; 'more better,' Cohradin," Gerom chided.

"Loose!" roared the Darkfriend Chief, whilst waving his axe about foolishly. A deep twang of bowstrings and a small swarm of arrows shot towards them. With the speed of striking snakes, Gerom rolled left and Cohradin right; the feathered shafts failed to hit their targets, flying through the empty space where the Knife Hands had stood. Most probably, the arrows would not miss the next time, and the archers were too far away for the Sovin Nai to reach before they could draw and loose again.

"Follow me!" Cohradin shouted, acting upon an idea that he had been considering whilst waiting for the Shadowrunners to come to them and be waked, and he raced toward the dark and misty dome as another peal of thunder shook the sand beneath his pounding feet. Gerom had longer strides than he, and soon caught up.

"You are going in there?" Gerom queried.

"If we stay out here, we shall surely fall to the cowardly arrows of Shadowrunning sailormen – a fool's death, and dishonourable also! I go to wake Medelin in stead… to wake or be waked trying!"

"He is named 'Mastri' now, and can channel… how will you defeat him?"

"In the way that my ancestor, Mighty Sasaradin, bested the Madman at the water-hole – with guile and with stealth! Listen..."

Frowning, Gerom slipped into the fog on Cohradin's heels, attending intently to his Society Leader's whispered plan. It was without doubt the stupidest plan, in a long line of stupid plans, that Cohradin had ever had…

---

Raab din Sudim Black Squall blinked open his eyes and groaned, his head aching fit to burst, worse than any hangover ever inflicted upon him by an unwise evening's carousal. Rashiel Sedai was smiling admiringly down at him, which was a rarity in itself. Raab seemed to yet be in her hut, lying upon the threadbare rug… and in the background, he could hear deep, wracking sobs.

"Raab! You're alive!" Rashiel cried loudly, and Raab winced. "Sorry…" she murmured, moderating her volume, then leaned down to kiss Raab firmly upon the lips! "Mwah! You certainly saved the day, you wonderful little liar!"

"Oww…" Raab whined, since Rashiel was leaning against his side and it felt like several of his ribs were broken.

Rashiel did not notice; "why, when you mysteriously disappeared, I assumed that you had run away… faithless me!"

"I thought about it, admittedly," Raab mumbled, "tis why I painted a Waketa tattoo on my chest, using Gen's paints…" He enlarged upon his false story; "I hoped to sneak past the Storm Children, disguised as one of their number, and mayhap steal a boat…"

Rashiel was not listening to this last part in any case, was solely focused on the word; 'paints.' "I did not know Gen had artistic leanings..?"

"Aye. Well, sort of… he paints lewd pictures of you or the Sailmistress… sometimes you and the Sailmistress… nudes… he hides them under his sleeping mat and looks at them when no-one is around!"

Rashiel put a serpent-ringed hand over her mouth, eyebrows raised in alarm. "Oh no! That's terrible!" She chuckled. "Gen! He's dreadful!"

"That he is," Raab agreed absently, considering the real reason he had guised himself as one of the hated Waketa… he wanted to kill a man, had been on his way to do it when he noticed Ruon's buckets outside the Windfinder's hut… empty buckets, when the placid Aielman always returned from the spring with full ones. His suspicions further aroused by the raised female voices within, he had gone to investigate. The rest had been pure improvisation. The background sobbing had meanwhile become a thin wailing. "What is that sad sound?" Raab wondered, doing his best to lie still so as not to disturb his cracked ribs or any other injuries he might have sustained.

"Oh, that is just Irmilla," Rashiel answered casually, turning her head. "Shut-up, Twisty-tongue!" she shouted. Irmilla's wails only increased. Rashiel sighed, turning back to Raab. "Ignore her. The little sneak is only looking for attention…"

Raab paid little notice. He felt immensely weary, disappointed also… in his current sorry state, he could not now go and fulfil the Bargain that he had made with his cousin Jabal, many years ago, before he was declared outcast from Clan Takana. He had recognised the Sailmaster of the Waketa, after all… the same brute who had led his Storm Children onto the decks of the old Waverunner, the three-masted Skimmer that Raab and Jabal had first served aboard as youths. The Children of the Storm had attacked them in thick fog off the shoals of Tremalking and before the pirates were driven back, many of the Takana crew had fallen. Including Laandra din Sudim White Gull, apprentice Windfinder of their ship, Jabal's betrothed… and Raab's sister.

Raab had loved his sister deeply and never quite recovered from the sight of the Clan Waketa killer cutting her down with his axe. When the opportunity for revenge had diminished with time, he had despaired of ever avenging Laandra and had begun to drink too much, to keep low company, to dice with coin that he did not have… all to try and take his mind off the bad memories that tormented him. It had not worked, had only led him into a downward spiral that culminated with his estrangement from Clan and kin. Jabal had probably never got over it either, though had devoted himself to the sword arts instead… and Raab understood that he had since taken a secret Aes Sedai wife, so at least he had moved on. Raab never had… but if he could only kill the Shadowsworn murderer who had slain his sister, then perhaps her soul would be at peace, even if his was not.

Raab had taken the guise of a Waketa in order to infiltrate their ranks, to get close enough to slay the Storm-cursed Sailmaster, before he himself was killed. It was what Laandra would have wanted…well, probably not, Raab's sister had always been a peaceable girl who detested violence, but he would kill her murderer anyway. He and Jabal had sworn to avenge their kin, and Raab intended to show his cousin that there was at least one oath he could keep. Though it did not seem likely that he would be able to do so now, having been flung against a wall by a Shadowsworn witch, being severely injured in the process…

At this point, Raab unwisely tried to sit up, screamed loudly as his broken ribs protested in agonising fashion, and sank back to the rug.

Rashiel raised her eyebrows. "Oh dear… I forgot to ask if you were injured? Well, clearly you are… hold still and I'll Heal you!"

Raab frowned. He had seen the young Aes Sedai perform this painful service for one of the menacing Mayener Gaidin, as well as various sailors… it had not seemed to be a pleasant experience. "It is quite alright, Windfinder," he said quickly, "I will just bind my ribs up later, I will be fine…"

"Nonsense! You could have internal bleeding… now don't move!"

"Perhaps yon captive Darkfriend witch might Heal me?" Raab suggested desperately, lifting his head cautiously and nodding toward where Irmilla knelt in the corner, head bowed and shoulders shaking as she resumed her deep, wracking sobs.

Rashiel glanced at her prisoner with contempt. "Not likely. She was never very good at Healing either, I recall… and besides, tis a moot point now!"

"How so?" Raab enquired, flinching away from Rashiel's dubious healing hands.

"I said, don't move! What, Irmilla? Why do you think?" Rashiel turned to the sobbing Darkfriend, smiling vengefully. "Won't you tell Raab why you can't Heal him, Irmilla?" No response came, the sobbing continued, Irmilla's head lowered almost to the rug, her arms, one of which was bandaged, clasped tightly about herself. "She planned to do it to me," Rashiel confided to Raab, "so it seemed only fitting, when the boot was on the other foot, to do likewise. What goes around, comes around." Rashiel paused for dramatic effect, while Irmilla ceased sobbing and began to wail again, then revealed; "I stilled her."

---

The Samma N'Sei Mastri, once Medelin, Sha'mad Conde of the Wet Sands Shaido, stood at the centre of the dark and unquiet dome he had created from all five Powers, though primarily Air and Water, with a lesser amount of Fire added for the lightning. Those outside; the foolish servants of the Light whom he would wake from their false Dream ere long, as well as the equally foolish Sea Folk who served the Great Lord, whom he also planned to wake now that he no longer needed them to bring him to this place… presumably, they had no idea what the roiling apparition of storm and thunder he had summoned actually was. But that was quite alright, since he did not know either! It was simply one of the things that the Masked Man had shown to him, when he visited his dreams. There was a place for Mastri within the ranks of this Fox-masked Madman's followers, it seemed… but the Eye Blinder had his orders, from Ishamael himself, in this regard. The Masked Man had apparently betrayed the Shadow, long ago. He must die. And that would only be the beginning of his troubles!

A low groan came from nearby. Mastri glanced without interest at the young Sharan channeler with the tattooed face who lay on the blood-soaked sand a few paces away. The blood was not all his own. The Ayyad youth had been strong, had attacked bravely, even taking Mastri by surprise when he wove that keen blade of Air and cut off his hand… but in the end, all to no avail. Mastri might be Samma N'Sei now, but he was yet Aiel. No-one was better at killing than they, and no Aiel were deadlier than the Shaido! Not that his Sharan foe was exactly dead… not yet, anyway. But he was close enough to waking from his own particular nightmare. The ragged, red hole in the left side of his face, the empty socket where his eye had been, was actually the lesser of his wounds, though looked the most severe.

Next to him lay Mastri's severed hand, in a pool of blood… the Eye Blinder – he had certainly lived up to his name in this wise! – did not like to look at the appendage that had once been attached to the blackened, scorched stump at the end of his right arm, but could not bring himself to pick it up and cast it away. Besides, he was already holding something in his sole remaining hand… Mastri held it up to gaze upon it again. Balanced on his palm; a bloodshot eye with a very dark iris looked up at him. Mastri stared at the Sharaman's eye for a long moment, then impulsively popped it into his mouth, chewed once and swallowed with difficulty. It did not taste so bad as he had imagined, but was not particularly pleasant either. Goat's eyes were better, and ideally, should be cooked first.

The youthful Sharan channeler stirred a little, groaned again. Mastri waited patiently. If the Sharaman regained his senses, and then his feet, the duel of Power could continue. If not… well, Mastri had not quite decided what to do with him, yet. Nothing good, though.

"I see you, Mastri who was once Medelin!" rumbled a deep voice. Mastri watched without concern as Gerom, wearing just his smallclothes, came striding out of the fog to stand ten paces away, his placid eyes taking in the unconscious Ayyad youth, the severed hand, and finally Mastri himself. "You have been busy," Gerom further commented.

Mastri ignored this conversational gambit. "I see you, Gerom," he observed in bored tones, adding; "I never liked you when I was back at Wet Sands. Always were you reading your books and using long words that the other algai'd'siswai did not understand!" His voice became angrier; "do you think yourself better than me?!"

Gerom shrugged his wide shoulders. "You are a Shadowrunner now, Mastri who used to be Medelin the Thunder Walker… therefore, not only I but anything is better than you, even a sorda!"

Mastri blinked and thought about this, focusing on one word in particular. "Yes!" he enthused, "thunder!" In answer, the dark dome around them trembled and the earth shook as further storm-sounds resounded throughout. "Truly do I walk with the thunder now!"

"And I thought it but a boastful name," Gerom commented, with some irony.

"I am not boastful!" Mastri insisted, then hesitated, "well, not that much… not so much as Cohradin is!"

"This is certainly true," Gerom agreed.

"Where is that one-eyed fool, anyway?"

"He was waked by the Pirate Chief."

"Good! Though I would that I had ended his pitiful existence myself. And Chassin? I am surprised to not see the stunted lizard-hunter at your side, Gerom!"

"Chassin went away in a boat and has not returned," Gerom answered.

Mastri sneered. "I tire of this! Your dull chatter makes me forget my bold plans!" He raised his remaining hand, preparing the weaves that would destroy Gerom. "Anything to say before I wake you, big book-obsessed fool that you are?"

Gerom shrugged again. "Just a question, Mastri who once was Sha'mad Conde of Wet Sands… do you not wonder why I came here to speak with you?"

Mastri considered briefly. "Not particularly… oh very well then, why?"

Gerom smiled faintly. "To distract you, of course."

Mastri's brow furrowed. "To distract..?"

A finger tapped Mastri firmly on the shoulder, he turned to see Cohradin standing right behind him, wearing his serious face. Before Mastri could wake the one-eyed Knife Hand, something very hard punched into the left side of his chest, followed by a violent, wrenching sensation. Mastri then found himself lying on his back, gasping for breath, his vision dimming. Distantly, he heard Gerom say; "I cannot believe that worked!"

As his sight faded to blackness, Mastri beheld Cohradin standing over him, grinning savagely and holding something red and dripping in a blood-drenched hand. "Well, Shadowrunner," Cohradin remarked, "I said I would do it… and I did! Now, fool… eat!"

---

Aboard the captured Darkfriend ship, anchored out beyond the reef, Roth Blucha, Journeyman Gleeman, leant upon the rail of the forepeak, training the telescope he had found on the quarterdeck upon the land. It was difficult to tell what was going on; after the rain of fire had ended, the smoky dome had appeared and the thunder had begun to sound… but that was about all he knew.

Roth shifted the spyglass from the actual camp to the area immediately in front of it. The only movement there came from the phalanx of Warders and sailors led by the peculiar Naythan Shieldman, finally reaching the stockade. They had been delayed on their way up the beach by sporadic attacks from scorched Sea Folk survivors, and the fighting had been fierce. The forces of the Light lingered a moment before the shattered gateway, now quite comprehensively blocked by the roiling, lightning-streaked fog, clearly unwilling to enter it… very wise of them, Roth considered, such bizarre phenomena should be roundly avoided.

Roth could see Master Shieldman turn to shout orders at his men, waving his sword for emphasis. Roth's eyes were weak but there could be no mistaking that long, white hair or compact, muscular frame. He shook his head pityingly… an unusual fellow, this Naythan Gaidin, extremely capable when it came to the martial skills, but sadly deluded! Why, he actually seemed to believe that he came from the Age of Legends, that he had slept in a box for several thousand years… absurd! Doubtless, as a boy the other children had cruelly made fun of his odd eyes, his strange ears, and he had invented such grandiose stories to boost his self-esteem…

But for Master Shieldman and the Aiel, who headed directly for the gate, the company then split into a pair of groups, going west and east, circumventing the danger, their intention obviously being to invest the camp from two directions at once.

"A pincer movement," Roth commented sagely, "very wise of them… tis what I should have advised…"

Roth lowered the spyglass, sliding the telescopic brass barrels shut, his brow furrowed, worried about Ysmet… he really ought to be over there with the others, defending his wife from harm, though this protection usually went the other way. But secretly, Roth was very glad that he was not ashore, taking part in the fighting… a battle was no place for a fragile yet gifted Gleeman, particularly one of his poor constitution and delicate sensibilities. Besides, he had been given the important duty of watching over their prize, this fine, twin-masted… whatever it was. The Sea Folk had far too many names for their differing kinds of ship. Roth yet felt a little queasy, but not near so sick as he had been aboard that wretched, rocking, pitching longboat… the deck beneath his boots was noticeably firmer, for which he fervently thanked the Creator.

Roth awkwardly descended the ladder to the main-deck, making his way towards what he believed was termed the 'stern' of the ship, though there did not seem to be anything particularly stern about it. He picked his path carefully amongst the various dead Atha'an Miere Darkfriends that he lacked the strength to throw overboard, the brightly tattooed bodies sprawled about, lying in their own blood. Roth averted his eyes from a particularly gruesome corpse, the brutal Lord Dagnon's work no doubt, and so managed to trip upon the splayed legs of a dead Sea Folk youth, stumbling a couple of steps before recovering his balance. The young fellow then proved himself to be not quite dead yet, by groaning softly.

Roth stared at him in consternation. He had obeyed his orders prior to this by putting three mortally injured Shadowsworn sailors – one of them a woman – out of their misery, and had not enjoyed the onerous task one bit… but evidently, he would not have to do so again, this particular unfortunate clearly did not have long left. Roth examined the youth, slumped back against the rail, a long knife fallen from one tattooed hand… the Gleeman kicked it out of reach, just in case. The young Darkfriend's face had the waxy look of one not long for this world, and the deep wound in his Stingray-tattooed chest bubbled gore at a steady rate. He groaned again, blinking open blood-encrusted eyes, slowly focusing on Roth, standing over him and rubbing his hands together nervously.

"Would you like a drink of water?" Roth enquired. Well, it was the best that he could do, under the circumstances… he was a Gleeman, not a hedge-doctor!

The Sea Folk youth ignored the question, or perhaps he had not heard, licking his rather blubbery lips prior to speaking. "You… are… the Gleeman…" he rasped, with some difficulty.

Roth was uncertain if this was a question or a statement, but nodded in the affirmative, raising a corner of his cloak and fluttering the patches upon it for corroboration.

"Roth… Blucha…"

"You have heard of me?" Roth exclaimed, delighted that even amongst Shai'tan-serving murderous Sea Folk brigands, his fame was acknowledged!

The dying youth tried to nod, but could not manage it. Instead, he fumbled his fingers into the pocked of his striped trews and, after a few failed attempts, managed to draw out a folded sheet of parchment. He tossed it onto the deck at Roth's feet. While he was doing this, Roth had been gazing upwards, considering that he really should lower the horrid pirate flag and replace it with something nicer. Then he would look for the galley… he was starving… Glancing down, Roth noticed the parchment and cautiously, in case it was a trick, stooped to retrieve it. Standing, Roth unfolded the wrinkled and bloodstained sheet, beholding a familiar florid scrawl covering it… his own!

"My verse!" Roth cried, gratified. He had not expected to see this missive again. Then, his face fell as something occurred to him… something worrisome, in fact. "You found the bottle?" he asked the mortally wounded young Darkfriend.

"Aye… that we did…" the Shadowsworn pirate's bloodstained mouth twisted with difficulty into a cruel smile, "it led… us here…"

Roth blinked, and considered the ramifications, foremost of which was… "Ysmet's going to kill me!" he moaned.

The Sea Folk youth attempted to laugh, but coughed wrackingly instead, blood spilling from his mouth. He would undoubtedly be dead soon, not even an Aes Sedai's Healing might save him now. When he could finally speak again, he whispered; "Gleeman… come closer…" Reluctantly, Roth knelt on the deck, trying to keep his britches clear of the sticky gore puddled upon it. "Closer…" Roth's eyes narrowed with suspicion and he kept a firm grip on the hilt of his poniard, should the Darkfriend attempt treachery or murder… or both… but the young fellow in his dying state could surely not kill a fly? Against his better judgement, Roth moved his ear nearer to the bloody mouth of his enemy.

"These are the… the last words… of Kivan din Rieta… Stingray…" The youth fell silent and Roth wondered if he had died… but then, he raised his head slightly and in louder tones, continued; "Roth… Blucha… before I die… I would have you… to know…" the dying Shadowsworn Atha'an Miere summoned the last of his failing strength and hissed; "you are a… terrible poet! Your rhymes are… obvious! The meter is… poor!" He sucked in a final, ragged breath. "You have… no talent!" Then, the young Clan Waketa Darkfriend's head fell back, and he spoke no more, his dark eyes staring sightlessly.

Roth rose, frowning. "Tsk! Everyone's a critic!"

---

Act Three – Endgame

"Now, that is something I have never beheld before," N'aethan commented softly; "and I thought that I had seen everything!" His strange eyes examined the swelling dome of roiling black mist, the jagged lightning that forked across its surface. Whatever it was, it was undoubtedly woven of saidin. Perhaps the Laughing God was within? But Jabal Lionfish had told him that these savage attackers were named 'Storm Children…' and this was a storm, was it not? Appropriate…

To either side of N'aethan, Manda and Chassin waited patiently, light eyes glaring fiercely above black veils. N'aethan had sent half of the sailors, commanded by Lord Thaeus with the Twins as his lieutenants, west around the stockade. The other half, under Jabal Gaidin with Dagnon Gaidin and the Bosun as his subordinates, east. N'aethan hoped that they would find more than just corpses within the camp. On their way up the beach, they had encountered several of these 'Clan Waketa' brigands, and the pirates had put up a respectable struggle before they were killed, despite being burned or otherwise wounded. N'aethan had not taken part in the fighting, he had not needed to, contenting himself with shouting orders and warnings.

"Well, let us go and slay this Souvraniene, whoever he may be," N'aethan suggested and, touching his Shield-ter'angreal for luck, strode forward into the dark and thunderous fog. The pair of Aiel walked beside him without hesitation. A final hollow boom shook the sand beneath their feet… and then; no further thunder sounded, the attendant lightning ceased also. The mist already seemed thinner, insubstantial, as it slowly began to dissipate. N'aethan blinked. Up ahead, before the shattered gateway in the palisade, he saw Gerom wearing just his bloodied smallclothes, looming over a squatting Cohradin, clad in gory, filthy britches. A dead Da'shain garbed in the cadin'sor lay between them, pale eyes staring up at a sun partially occluded by swirling black mist. There was a ragged hole in the left side of his chest and Cohradin was vigorously pushing what was unmistakeably the deceased man's heart against his cold lips!

"Go on," Cohradin was urging, "eat it, Shadowrunner!"

Gerom was disapprovingly shaking his large head back and forth. "Cohradin, I do not think…" he noticed his fellow algai'd'siswai and nodded to them. "I see you, Chassin. I see you, Manda." His eyes moved to N'aethan and he frowned slightly. "Vron'cor, you have toh to us! You spoke falsehoods concerning-"

"Yes, I know, Gerom! Everyone has told me this! Repeatedly! I shall atone for my lie in due course, but right now we have more important matters that… that…" N'aethan's gaze strayed back to Cohradin, who had not noticed them yet and was continuing to try to shove the non-beating heart into the corpse's mouth. "Uh… what is Cohradin doing?"

Gerom shrugged his broad shoulders. "Besides being habitually foolish? He is attempting to feed to the dead Darkfriend channeler his own heart."

"I can see that! But… the Souvraniene is dead!"

"Cohradin cares not. He said-"

"I said I would and so I will!" Cohradin growled, rising and facing them. He scowled darkly at N'aethan, pointing an accusing, bloodstained finger. "So, we Aiel were mighty warriors in the Age of Legends, Nightwatcher? Hah! So, we fought for the Aes Sedai in the War with the Shadow? Pah!"

"Cohradin…"

"So, we were fearsome and renowned fighters, Vron'cor? Bah!"

"Shut-up, Cohradin! I have toh to you, alright?!"

"So, we Aiel used to have big-"

"Tsag! You have made your damned point, Cohradin! Foolish Da'shain! Why are you trying to stuff that heart into the mouth of what I presume to be a dead souvraniene?"

"I already told you, because I said I would!"

"And if you said that you could fly, would you jump off that cliff up there whilst flapping your arms?" N'aethan demanded.

"Probably!"

N'aethan sighed, shaking his head slowly. "I have tried to feed a Myrddraal its own heart a few times," he confided, "trust me; it cannot be done!"

Cohradin thought about it, then frowned. "Very well." Unconcernedly, he tossed the heart away, wiping his hand carelessly on his filthy britches.

"You are a big idiot, Cohradin!" Manda observed, scathingly.

Cohradin ignored her, eyeing Chassin. "It is well to see you, my brother. Did you free the captive Aes Sedai?"

Chassin shook his head curtly, scowling. "We did not. They were already gone by the time we got there." His pale green eyes moved over Cohradin and Gerom, taking note of their bloodstained hands and minor flesh-wounds. "Do you return to the Dance, my brothers?" he asked hopefully, "will you cease your foolishness, wear the cadin'sor and once more take up the spear?"

"I shall not, Chassin," Gerom answered stubbornly, "I made promise to the Aes Sedai, Rashiel Tamor, to resume the white robe of the Gai'shain when the battle is done."

"No you won't!" Cohradin declared smugly.

Gerom glanced at the red-eyed Aiel suspiciously. "Why not?"

"Because I burned your foolish white robe when you were not looking… now, you shall have to be Da'tsang, as I… we will find you the more honourable black robe to wear, when I resume mine own…"

"No, you will not," Gerom pointed-out, "for I burned your absurd black gown when you were not looking!"

Chassin and Manda found this amusing and guffawed loudly, shaking their spears in the air, whilst Cohradin and Gerom stared at each other challengingly over the corpse of the Aiel Souvraniene… N'aethan observed them all, speechlessly. The Da'shain had always seemed a bit strange to him when he was growing up, their pacifistic mode of life antithetical to his own, violence-tinged existence… but compared with these more contemporary specimens, they Aiel of his times seemed in retrospect the picture of normalcy. He was about to demand that the Shaido recall their duty… but then the earth beneath them began to tremble and shake.

"Earthquake!" shouted Manda, experiencing difficulty keeping her feet.

The others were in similar straits, except for N'aethan, who stood stock still, legs braced, staring with eldritch eyes at the flare of Power emanating from the dark-skinned youth who had just sat upright on the sand. With all the nonsense about hearts and robes, N'aethan had not noticed him until now… he pointed. "Not an earthquake… it's him! He is doing it!" The young man was clutching his skull with both hands as though trying to prevent his head from exploding, his teeth bared in a rictus of insane fury, flashing whitely in a dusky, heavily tattooed face. His left eye was missing; just a red, weeping hole where it once had been.

"That is Hamadi, Ayyad channeler of Shara!" Gerom shouted in explanation, wobbling on his powerful legs as the earth tremors steadily increased in force.

"Is he on our side?" N'aethan demanded.

"Yes!" confirmed Cohradin, "a useful fellow!"

"Then I shan't kill him unless I have to," N'aethan growled, striding over to Hamadi whilst digging something out of his belt pouch. As N'aethan approached, the maniacal youth stared up at him with his sole eye… the quake lessened in power as the Shield-ter'angreal did its work, disrupting his saidin flows with its proximity.

The snarl faded abruptly from Hamadi's face as he gaped at N'aethan. "Animal Spirit?" he enquired in what was unmistakeably the ancient language of the Easterlings, "another one?"

N'aethan did not immediately reply, but swiftly clapped a bronze torc about the young man's neck. At once, the earth ceased to shake and relative calm returned to those dark, tattooed features. N'aethan nodded, satisfied. The torc was a ter'angreal, he had taken it from one of the Laughing God's followers near to the Dragon College… a channeling, red-masked villain, whom he had killed. He had suspected that the bronze device might protect the wearer from the chaotic effects of the Dark One's Taint; it seemed that this was the case…

"Have you been channeling for long, young fellow?" N'aethan asked Hamadi, in the youth's own exotic tongue.

Hamadi gasped. "You know the civilised speech!" he exclaimed, gratified.

"Yes, Father made me learn it. Been channeling long?"

"About a year, Spirit…"

"Has anything like this happened before?"

"Like what?"

"The earthquake."

"What earthquake?"

N'aethan sighed. "Just wear the torc-ter'angreal, alright?" he told Hamadi, "don't take it off, even in the bath!" He laughed, an odd, mewling sound. "Hopefully, it will prevent you from Breaking the World once again, all on your own!"

Hamadi raised his eyebrows, running a hand over the whorled ridges of the torc encircling his neck, then nodded hesitantly. N'aethan helped him to his feet where he stood, swaying slightly. "My head hurts," he reported, then touched a wondering finger to the edge of the empty socket in his heavily-tattooed face. "My eye! It is gone! I thought that things looked different…"

N'aethan grinned. "Not to worry, I have something back on the boat that will serve to replace it…"

Hamadi looked at him hopefully. "You can use your magickal arts to restore my eye to me, Honoured Spirit?"

"Well… I wouldn't go quite that far…" N'aethan turned to Cohradin, who was moodily kicking the dead Souvraniene whilst the other Shaido watched with disapproval. "Cohradin! Come here!" Cohradin strode over to them, looking sulky. N'aethan pointed at the seia'dor optical-implant set in the Aielman's scarred right socket. "One of these, you see?"

Hamadi looked doubtful. "My woman will probably not like it," he muttered.

Cohradin interpreted N'aethan's meaning correctly and grinned, his mood changing with the usual alarming rapidity. "We shall be eye-brothers, Sharaman!" he enthused, "the enchanted eye is a fine gift, you will find! Worthy of a Hero, which we both are, Ayyad! (Though myself more so than you, naturally.) You may see far with your new red eye, far indeed… and at night, too!"

"What did the gruesome barbarian say, Spirit?" Hamadi asked. N'aethan translated. Hamadi nodded thoughtfully, his remaining dark eye moving to the corpse of the Aiel Madman. "Ah, so the monster is indeed slain… good! I would that I had done it, but he was too strong and overcame my attacks with his evil and unholy Power, but for the first when I took him by surprise and cut off his hand…" Hamadi's abbreviated gaze shifted to the severed article in question and he nodded again, satisfied. "Yes, there it is. It angered my adversary when I did that, and he then swatted me, like a fly! I do not really recall what happened after…" he glanced at N'aethan enquiringly; "did you kill the monster, Spirit?"

N'aethan shook his head. "Not I. Certainly, I was going to, but did not get here in time. The grinning, one-eyed Da'shain did the necessary deed. His name is 'Cohradin,' incidentally."

"Cohradin, yes. But how did he accomplish this feat? He cannot channel!"

"I have no idea. But while Cohradin is terrible at most things, he is very good at killing. As are you, it would seem. That Fire Rain was your doing?"

"Is that what it is called? Yes, I did that."

"Spectacular! But you did not know its name? Who taught you this weave?"

"No-one… it just came to me, popped into my head, I know not from where… we needed to stop the attack of the sea-barbarians and that seemed the best way."

"Necessity is a fine incentive for invention…" N'aethan shrugged. "In any case, we may need your fiery services when we go to rescue the Aes Sedai."

"And Dara!"

"Yes, her too, of course." N'aethan had no idea who this 'Dara' might be, but he was sure that they would have time to compare notes on the voyage south. Hamadi swayed a little and N'aethan placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. "You have had a hard time of it, young fellow… you had best sit down again." He helped ease Hamadi back to the sand, where the youth sat cross-legged, looking exhausted.

"Thank you, Spirit."

"I am not a Spirit."

"What are you, then?"

N'aethan grinned, baring sharp teeth. "A Cat-Demon! Sssss!" He laughed again, whilst Hamadi looked up at him uncertainly. N'aethan turned to the Shaido. "Manda, please to go back to the longboat and fetch my bag full of things that I brought from out of Father's Hold." Manda nodded and ran fleetly back down the beach. N'aethan addressed the Knife Hands; "I go to take stock of the camp, Sovin Nai. If there are any more earthquakes while I am gone, hit Hamadi over the head with something hard, but try not to actually kill him!" They nodded solemnly. N'aethan lingered a moment, eyeing Cohradin and Gerom critically. "You appear to be undressed, Da'shain! We shall need to find you some cadin'sor."

Gerom refuted this with a determined shake of the head. "I am sworn to Peace in Battle now, Vron'cor."

"And I am Da'tsang!" Cohradin declared defiantly and with obscure pride.

N'aethan frowned, puzzled. "Cohradin, I am aware that nearly everyone with whom you interact ultimately ends up despising you, but is it really necessary to make that unfortunate character trait into some sort of a title?"

Cohradin scowled. "For me, it is a mark of honour, Nightwatcher," he explained stolidly, adding; "and I am not despised by all! There are many amongst the Aiel who appreciate my warm personality, generosity and amusing jests!"

"Like Sulin of the Taardad," Gerom observed innocently. Chassin sniggered. Cohradin glared at them both.

"We shall all convene later," N'aethan declared, "and then I shall atone for my lie, by speaking of your lost origins… I will finally tell you Da'shain Aiel the Truth."

---

Jabal din Sudim Lionfish was the first up the rope which the wave-cursed Children of the Storm had thoughtfully left trailing down the side of the palisade for him to climb, swarming up hand over hand as he had as a boy, when first sent aloft to set and reef sail. Those had been fine times on the old Wavedancer, he and his cousins learning the art of sailing the salt. At least, until… Jabal scowled. The bad fight off Tremalking, the death of his beloved… the work of the despised pirates of Clan Waketa, the Shadowsworn Storm Children. He was glad that their paths had crossed again, he would slay every one that he could find. His dearest wish, in fact, was to one day lead a fleet of the Takana and perhaps some of the other Sea Folk Clans to the Smoking Islands and roust the vile Waketa from their hidden ports and bolt-holes, wipe them all out and finally obliterate the shame of their very existence from the annals of the Atha'an Miere.

Before going to the White Tower, Jabal had oft mentioned this plan to his mother, a prominent Sailmistress of their Clan, until she angrily told him not to. When she had been elected Wavemistress of Clan Takana, Jabal had sent several letters to her on the subject, but they had been ignored. All Korilla din Sudim Tidal Wave really cared about was the silk trade… and occasionally, Jabal's father. Revenge was notoriously bad for business, as she was fond of pointing-out.

Vaulting nimbly over the hoarding and crouching upon the parapet, Jabal drew his sword, eyeing it critically. The quality of the steel was good enough, but the blade was too long and of the sort he was unused to, curved and not straight. Jabal frowned with annoyance. He wanted his own sword back, almost as much as he wanted Renn back! The thieving Kor would pay for appropriating a valuable heirloom of Clan Takana, atone with his miserable life! Though this weapon was less lengthy than the Power-wrought one he had taken from a dead enemy in the Castle of the Hawx… that sword he had presented to Blaek Gaidin when they were reunited on the beach. The Twins had thanked Jabal profusely, ecstatic that they now both had these rare, antique blades, and would no longer be required to argue over who retained possession of the sole Power-forged sword in their possession… though they would doubtless find other things to squabble about. Jabal had always found the Twins strange, even compared with most Shorebound, but they were good friends of his, so he had been glad to see them yet living, in the midst of what had clearly been a bloody battle.

Jabal noted that there were a couple of dead sailors lying on the parapet, feathered with the cruel, barbed arrows favoured by the Waketa, another defender's corpse sprawled on the sand below, impaled on a javelin. Lord Dagnon joined him, keeping low in case of further arrows, sliding his Heron-mark blade from its sheath.

"Where is everyone?" Dagnon enquired.

Jabal pointed. "There."

The remaining Storm Children surrounded one of the wooden huts below, the largest one; about a score of the Waketa, all that were left. Even as they watched, a crossbow-bolt shot from one of the small windows and slammed into the chest of an attacker, sending the Darkfriend Atha'an Miere pirate flying back several paces to land in the sand, twitching. Several of his fellows were grouped around the doorway of the hut, which appeared to be barricaded, trying to break their way in with axes. A slim, steel blade lunged out and took a Shadowsworn Sea Folk woman in the eye; she collapsed, shrieking. A big, brutish axeman with a shaven skull kicked her out of the way. "Fetch fire-brands!" he roared, "we'll burn them out!"

"That stabbing blade looked to me like the Lady Ysmet's rapier," Dagnon commented, "it would seem that she yet lives… as does Rashiel, I can sense her!"

Jabal did not respond, did not even hear. "Him!" he snarled furiously, glaring at the big axeman, then promptly dropped down inside the camp and began to run with fatal intent toward the burly Darkfriend, the leader of these brigands… as the same Waketa pirate had led those who stormed the decks of the Wavedancer, many years before. "I am coming for you, Son of the Sands!" Jabal yelled fiercely, and heads turned amongst the mob surrounding the large hut, noting his approach warily. Jabal grinned savagely. The Creator had been very good to him, this day… his vengeance was finally at hand!

---

The Lord Dagnon do Avriny a'Vrois, former Hunter of the Horn and currently clandestine Warder of the White Tower, watched in surprise and perturbation as his Sea Folk friend and comrade hared off toward the enemy, attacking on his own… well, he certainly did not seem to care for these Darkfriend Atha'an Miere. During the brief fight when they took the ship, Jabal Gaidin had been extremely keen to slay the foe, had even shoved Dagnon out of the way at one point, so that he could claim the kill! An offence that might well have been considered a duelling matter, back in Murandy… but Warders of the Tower did not fight one another, except with wooden weapons. But for the obvious exception of the civil strife during the black day of the coup, naturally. Besides, Dagnon was willing to overlook the rudeness, given the undoubted insult that these Storm Children represented to the Sea Folk… a shame that Jabal clearly wished to see expiated. It was depressing to think that those who swore oath to the Shadow existed in all realms of humanity, in every land and nation… and even upon the seas. The evil influence of the Father of Lies seemed all-pervasive.

The Bosun's dark face appeared over the top of the stockade beside Dagnon; he had climbed the rope one-handed, digging his hook into the logs of the palisade to further his progress. "Where's the Sea Folk Warder off to?" he wondered.

"He is passing eager for the fray!" Dagnon explained, "I go to join him… follow with the men as fast as ever you may, Boatswain!"

"Aye-aye, milord," the Bosun agreed laconically as he scrambled onto the parapet, touching his hook to the front of his odd, three-cornered hat. "Come on, you scuttling swabs!" he shouted down to the climbing sailors.

By this, Dagnon had dropped to the sand below and was sprinting toward the fighting. Beyond; he could see Lord Thaeus and the Twins atop the westernmost wall of the stockade, being joined by more sailors armed with an assortment of weaponry. Dagnon waved his sword at Thaeus, and the young Amadici Lord raised his own in response; a pair of Heron-mark blades flashing in the waning sunlight.

On the way to the Captain's hut where the defenders of the camp were making their last stand, Dagnon passed the lightning-infused dome of blackness that blocked the gateway, and he took care to not get too close to it. He had no idea what it was, and did not wish to know. The One Power was a disturbing factor in any eventuality, a battle most of all. But a particularly loud boom of thunder drew Dagnon's attention back to the dome and he noted that the lightning strikes had now ceased, that the roiling fog had begun to disperse. He was unsure if this was a good thing or not…

Up ahead, Jabal Gaidin was engaged in enthusiastically cutting the head from a Storm Child; two additional opponents lay at his feet in pools of their own blood, but a dozen more were closing on him. As much as Jabal detested the brigands of Clan Waketa, for their part, they clearly did not care for the Sea Folk Clans who served the Light either, if their hate-filled features were any indication. A slender, wiry Atha'an Miere woman leapt high as Jabal turned to meet her, golden nose rings glinting, a boarding-axe raised in each tattooed hand. "Die, Takana fish-bait!" she screamed, wild with blood-lust. Jabal promptly dropped to one knee, raised his sword and spitted his attacker upon it neatly. She died without a sound, rolling to the side in a welter of gore, axes slipping from her nerveless fingers… Jabal yanked at the long blade, trying to loose it from the corpse of his enemy, but it was caught on bone and muscle, refused to pull free.

A pair of Waketa fighters leapt at Jabal from either side as he struggled with the hilt. "Bloody Shorebound blade!" he bellowed furiously, appreciating the danger of his situation… but then, Dagnon slipped in to cleave the skull of one attacker with the sword-form Cataract in the Mountains, before pivoting smoothly to stab the other in the heart, utilising Striking Blacklance. He then yanked Jabal to his bare feet.

"You are supposed to be leading us!" Dagnon reminded his fellow Gaidin loudly, "what do you think you are about, making a one-man charge?"

Jabal was not listening, his dark eyes intently scanning the mob of Darkfriends attacking the hut. Thaeus and his men were ploughing into them from one side and as the Waketa turned to face this new threat, the Lady Ysmet and what remained of her defenders sallied forth from their stronghold to take the enemy in the back.

"Where is he?" Jabal shouted angrily.

"Whom?" Dagnon wondered, as he kept the closest Storm Children at bay with his whirling blade. Crossbow-bolts began to strike the brigands down and glancing behind, Dagnon saw that the Bosun had made his sailors form a fairly straight line so that they could fire volleys into the foe. "Good man!" he called to the Bosun, glad that the fellow understood the rudiments of military tactics.

"There he is, the murdering bilge-rat!" Jabal exclaimed, pointing. Dagnon looked in time to see the leader of the Waketa pirates disappearing between two huts to the south… roaring with rage, Jabal raced off after him.

"But you lack your sword!" Dagnon reminded him. He went unheard. Cursing, he followed as fast as he could. At his back; the remnants of the Storm Children fell to the blades and bolts of the crew of the wrecked Queen Mab, righteous in their wrath. The last of the Waketa went down fighting, and they fought hard.

---

The Lady Ysmet stamped and lunged, taking the attacking pirate just below the breastbone with her rapier, then withdrew the point, blood spurting from the deep and mortal wound. The dark Sea Folk woman dropped her short-sword and fell back with a choked gasp. Ysmet turned, seeking further enemies, in time to see the Bosun striking a stocky Darkfriend across his snarling face with the heavy iron-hook that had replaced his lost hand, stunning his opponent and then chopping down with his cutlass, ending the fight. Beyond him, there seemed only Warders and sailors, the brigands were all down on the sand, kicking or still, dying or dead. Silence descended, but for the deep breaths of the exhausted defenders and the moans of the wounded.

Ysmet wiped the blood from her rapier with a square of cloth she kept tucked in her belt for such purposes, then sheathed the slim blade with a deft motion. She inclined her head to the big, dark-skinned Tairen sailor who was grinning at her.

"Bosun." Everyone called him that; Ysmet was aware of the man's real name, but never used it in public out of respect for his privacy. But really; the odd things people called their children!

"Captain," greeted the Bosun, touching his hook to his hat respectfully.

"You all got here just in time," Ysmet observed, "though a little sooner might have been better…"

"Forgiveness, Lady Ysmet," the Bosun muttered, "there was a right forceful rip-tide delayed us coming back down the coast, and then a fair bit of fighting on our way up the beach…"

"Well, you came to our aid in the end, that is the main thing," Ysmet allowed, glancing around at the various weary sailors leaning upon their weapons or each other. Doubtless, they were surprised to yet be alive. She sighed as she made a swift tally of who was left and who was not. "We have lost a lot of shipmates…"

"They knew what they were signing-on for when they agreed to crew the Queen Mab," the Bosun pointed-out philosophically, "this voyage was always likely going to be a risk…"

"A risk?!" Ysmet spat, "this expedition has turned into a bloody disaster!" Her brown eyes continued to search the crowd, wondering where Rashiel had got to. As well as... "Where is Roth?" she demanded.

The Bosun gestured with his hook out beyond the reef, at the anchored ship. "Your spouse be aboard our prize, Lady."

Ysmet blinked. In the bloody turmoil, she had not noticed until now, but the skull-embroidered flag had been lowered and replaced with what was unmistakeably the fluttering, many-patched cloak of a Gleeman! She smiled, despite her anger at Roth's silly message that had led the pirates here.

"It would seem that Master Blucha has claimed the Darkfriend ship for himself," Lord Thaeus observed as he strode over to them, moving with deadly grace, "or perhaps, for Gleemen in general?"

Ysmet shook her head firmly. "Absolutely not, Lord Thaeus! We are married, Roth and I, and that according to Ebou Dari custom… what's his is also mine… only more so!"

Thaeus bowed fluidly, smiling. "Then it appears that you are Captain of a ship once more, Lady Ysmet."

Ysmet averted her gaze, flushing slightly. It wasn't fair for a man to have a smile like that! It was hard to focus on the enormous amount of important tasks at hand when some ridiculously handsome fellow was flashing his perfect teeth and giving you decidedly impure thoughts into the bargain! But then, duelling or any other form of fighting had always roused her blood, raised her passions, put her in the mood for love-play… as she would shortly demonstrate to her feckless husband! But first things first; command carried responsibility…

"Orders?" the Bosun enquired.

Ysmet collected herself. "Let the men rest, but I need a couple of them to scout around and make sure there are no pirates still lurking in the vicinity…"

"We shall do that, Milady."

"It would be our pleasure."

Ysmet glanced at the attractive Twin Warders, unsure which had said what, though it did not particularly matter. They were decidedly easy on the eye, too…

"Very well Gaidin, I thank you for your assistance… see if you can locate Rashiel Sedai while you're at it."

The Mayener brothers nodded and stalked away, each with a gauntleted hand resting proudly on the hilt of a Power-wrought blade. Ysmet tore her gaze from their decidedly pretty bottoms, a matched pair of posteriors at that, and banished all speculation of what it would be like to bed a brace of identical lovers… something that she and Rashiel had wondered about and giggled over only the night before. Where was that bloody girl? Ysmet sincerely hoped that Rashiel was alright. She turned back to the Bosun, who was waiting patiently for further commands.

"When the men are rested and have had something to eat," Ysmet continued, "form two watches… one to gather firewood, though not from too deep in the forest lest this commotion has attracted the attention of any of the natives…"

The Bosun nodded cautiously and Thaeus looked grim. They both well knew what Ysmet meant by this… not merely savages or cannibals but worse; a Madman might come. It was an ever-present danger in this dread land.

"…then, a second watch to collect our dead and prepare them for funerary rites… I shall need a precise head-count, Bosun."

"The butcher's-bill?" The Bosun nodded. "Aye-aye Captain, I'll take care of it." Ysmet gazed down toward the sea, noting that during the final clash with the enemy, the strange dome of fog and lightning had mostly dissipated. A compact figure was walking towards them through the remaining wisps of mist, long white hair streaming in the wind, a man whom she did not recognise…

"We shall hold the services on the beach tonight," Ysmet declared, her eyes fixed on the approaching stranger as he stepped through the shattered gateway, "a pyre for each of our slain people." The unknown man had a blade sheathed at his belt and was wearing fancloth. A Warder?

"What of the Waketa, Captain?" the Bosun wondered, "do we burn them too?"

"Do what you like with the dead pirates," Ysmet answered distractedly, "the bloody lionfish can have them for all I care." The Bosun saluted with his hook, then moved away. Ysmet pointed at the strange Gaidin, or whatever he was. As he came nearer, she noted that there was something decidedly odd about his eyes. "Do you know that man, Lord Thaeus?"

"Indeed I do." Thaeus raised a hand in greeting and the strange man waved back with a dark gauntlet. "That is my sister's Warder, Naythan Shieldman." He shrugged, lowering his voice as the stranger closed on them; "though to be honest, Lady Ysmet, like his own sister whom you have met, he is not exactly human…"

---

Jabal-called-Lionfish raced between the rude, driftwood huts of the camp, dark eyes searching furiously and frantically for the Clan Waketa brute who had murdered his betrothed those many years ago. The fact that he had left his sword behind had since occurred to him, filtering through the red mist of his rage, but Jabal cared not. In the White Tower, Atual Gaidin and other stern, deadly Warders had taught him various ways to kill without any weapons other than one's hands and feet, the martial knowledge adding to that he had already learned from old Caroc, his Clan's Swordmaster. Indeed, Jabal felt that he was spoilt for choice when it came to gaining his revenge on the Shadowsworn Sailmaster whose demise he had long planned.

A forceful kick in the right part of his abdomen would crush various of his internal organs, causing a slow and painful death… though Jabal did not want the Darkfriend to have the benefit of time for any taunting last words. A blow to the bridge of the nose with clenched fist or the heel of the hand would drive the nasal bone into the brain… but that would be far too quick. Jabal frowned. He needed to settle on some sort of median between a fast and slow death… how about..?

"Aaarghh!"

The scream of agony came from a nearby hut, Jabal skidded to a halt in the sand, eyes narrowing. The murderer must be in there… murdering someone! That was what murderers did, after all… it was why they were called that!

Jabal leapt for the doorway of the hut, covered only by a hanging strip of sailcloth, and forward-rolled neatly through to avoid the possible attack of anyone waiting on the other side, springing to his bare feet, ready and willing to do violence. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim interior.

A pretty girl garbed in a colourful skirt and lace blouse knelt on a threadbare rug, staring up at Jabal in alarm with large, brown eyes that were red-rimmed and teary. She had been injured; a bloodstained bandage wound about her upper arm. A victim of the Waketa, perhaps? "Fear not, I won't harm you," Jabal reassured her.

"You bloody-well ought to harm her, considering that she's an evil Darkfriend murderess," observed a familiar voice, tinged with the musical accents of Ebou Dar.

Jabal whirled around, staring at Rashiel Tamor, sitting cross-legged by the wall, looking extremely weary. In her lap, she was cradling the head of a bare-chested, supine man, his arms and legs moving feebly. "Rashiel Sedai!" Jabal gasped, "I heard a cry of great pain and came to investigate… did you scream?"

Rashiel shook her head, pale eyes moving down to her charge. "Not I. That was Raab…"

Jabal gaped as the slender, dark-skinned man weakly raised his head, lips twisted in an insolent smile that he recalled all-too well. "Cousin!" Raab croaked, "fancy seeing you here… when was our last reunion? Tar Valon, was it not?"

"You!" Jabal shouted, "outclan!" An ivory-hilted short-sword lay discarded on the rug, he snatched it up and sprang forward, blade poised for a death-stroke.

Raab cringed back, eyes wide. "Wait, Jabal, can we not discuss this?"

"No!" Jabal growled, "you betrayed the Takana and near got me executed! I was exiled from the salt and had to train as a Warder of the Tower, all because you-"

"And you met Renn!" Rashiel loudly pointed-out, "your wife, remember? You wouldn't have crossed paths with the love of your life if it hadn't been for Raab!"

Raab raised himself up on his elbows, curious. "You are married now? Even though not invited to the wedding, I extend to you my warmest felicitations, cousin!"

Jabal scowled. "Stick your felicitations where the sun refuses to shine and call me not 'cousin,' renegade! We are no longer kin!"

"Be not so dramatic!" Raab chided, "it ill becomes you…" his brow furrowed, "…Renn? Renn Faltrey? The Aes Sedai to whom I was to deliver the letter..?"

Raab struggled to his feet, Rashiel assisting him. She noted that Jabal still had the sword levelled unwaveringly at his erstwhile cousin and sighed. "Put up your blade, Jabal Gaidin! You can't slay Raab… he is a Hero!"

"A what?!" Jabal spat.

Raab smiled smugly, running a cautious hand over his ribcage.

"Better?" Rashiel asked.

"Aye, Windfinder, though it flaming hurt!"

"Yes, you squealed like a stuck pig! My Healing is always rather painful, I am afraid… except when I cast the weaves on an Aes Sedai, for some reason…"

"A Hero?" Jabal reminded Rashiel, pointedly.

"Yes, of course…" Rashiel pointed to the wide-eyed maiden kneeling upon the rug; "that treacherous harlot intended to give my soul to the Dark One… Raab bravely confounded her wicked plan!"

Jabal blinked, eyed Raab uncertainly. "You did?"

Raab nodded. "Aye, Jabal… I still cannot quite believe it myself, but…"

"Then I shall not kill you just yet, out of respect for Rashiel Sedai," Jabal allowed generously.

"Oh… good." Raab smiled tentatively. "Can I have my sword back, please?"

"No. It is my sword now. The very least that you owe me for the trouble that you have put me to, over the years." Jabal's eyes widened. "The murderer! He is getting away whilst I waste time talking to you, Raab!"

Raab pursed his lips sagely. "I saw him too, he who slew my sister…" his visage grew unaccustomedly grim, "I have sought him long over the years since. I asked around about him, talked to shady types in low places… his name is Duadh din Retif Blue Ring of the Waketa, he titles himself 'Scourge of the Seven Seas…'"

"But there are eight seas!"

"So he can't count! What do you want me to do about it, cousin?"

"I am not your cousin! Just because I have agreed to spare your miserable life for the time being, you should not presume to-"

A tall man abruptly ducked into the hut and Jabal spun, preparing to stab with the short blade – but it was only Dagnon Gaidin, followed by a strange little man with faded tattoos etched into his wrinkled face, who hovered at his side.

"There you are, Jabal!" Dagnon exclaimed, "I feared that-" his piercing blue-eyed stare moved beyond the Sea Folk cousins to Rashiel and his mouth fell open indistinctly beneath curled reddish moustaches. "Rashiel!" The next moment, Jabal and Raab were unceremoniously elbowed aside and Rashiel was flinging herself into Dagnon's arms, kissing him exuberantly. Jabal averted his eyes, as did Raab. The Shorebound had no shame! Public kissing and holding of hands, warm embraces for all to see… was Rashiel Sedai intending to couple with her Warder, right in front of them?! It certainly seemed so… the young Aes Sedai was determinedly dragging the big Gaidin towards their low bed, she already had his sword-belt off and was working on his britches… "Mmff! Wait, Rashiel! I must…"

"Don't you ever leave me again, dearest Dagnon! I was so worried!"

"But… it was you who commanded me to-"

"Shut-up! Stop struggling!"

"I think we had best leave them to it," Raab murmured, grabbing the Darkfriend prisoner by her uninjured arm and yanking her to her feet. "Come along, Shadow-lover… outside…" Jabal followed hastily, closing his ears to the sounds of passion beginning to arise from the bed. He blinked in the brighter light beyond the doorway, though evening was coming on. Raab had found a length of rope and was binding the captive Darkfriend's wrists before her. She made no attempt to resist.

Jabal examined the Shadowsworn captive. Empty eyes, her face slack, as though half-dead already. "What did Rashiel Sedai do to her?" Jabal wondered.

Raab grinned nastily. "The same that the witch threatened her with… the Windfinder cut her off from the One Power."

At this reminder of her stilling, the Darkfriend let her mouth fall open and began to sob loudly, tears running down her cheeks. Jabal frowned. He had no sympathy for those traitors to humanity who served the Stormfather. "I'll gag her," he offered, patting his pockets for something appropriate.

Raab passed him a grubby silk kerchief. "Use this." His dark eyes moved beyond his cousin and narrowed. "Gen!" he shouted. Jabal looked. The peculiar old man, wearing what looked like filthy goatskin britches and shirt, was yet loitering in the doorway of the hut, avidly watching what was going on inside which, judging by the noises that periodically emerged, was of a decidedly carnal nature.

Gen turned his head, eyeing Raab askance. "What?" he enquired, yellowish teeth filed to points flashing in his leathery face.

"Get away from there!" Raab hissed, "if the Windfinder or the Sailmistress catch you spying on them again, they'll likely geld you!" Raab considered. "Which would not be such a bad idea, given your lecherous disposition… why, it might even do you some good!"

Gen's tattooed brow furrowed. "What do 'geld' be?" he wondered, then his expression cleared; "oh, it do be that shiny metal you odd Northlanders do prize…" he looked confused again; "but Raab, you say that if I do watch the beauteous Captain Ysmet and her sultry friend, the good witch Rashiel, a-sporting with their menfolk, they will gift me with treasure?"

"Keep on doing it and you'll assuredly find out!" Raab promised.

Jabal yanked the silk taught between the Darkfriend's bared teeth and pushed her toward Gen. "You… whatever you are… take this prisoner to your Captain."

"We can hang her later!" Raab added, menacingly. On hearing this, the gagged maiden made a moaning sound in the back of her throat, eyes blinking rapidly.

Gen shrugged bony shoulders and produced another length of rope, looping it about the Darkfriend's neck as a rough halter. She shrank away from his touch which, to be fair, was understandable. "Where do you Sea Folks go off to?" Gen wondered.

"To settle with the murdering Waketa, their shaven-skulled leader with the big axe," Raab answered promptly.

"Oh, the Pirate Chief? I seed him, though he did not see me… I were hiding!" Gen pointed south toward the forest; "which he did go that way…" Gen then ambled off toward the gate, tugging the stilled and stumbling Darkfriend witch along behind him on the rope, like a farmer leading a cow to market… or to the slaughter, perhaps.

Jabal shook his head wordlessly, then glanced at Raab, or rather, at what was painted on his chest. "What is that silly gold thing supposed to be, anyway?"

Raab straightened-up, proudly. "A lionfish!"

Jabal shook his head dismissively. "Lionfishes do not look like that… well, except for the teeth, mayhap." He then broke into a run, heading purposefully for the southern palisade and the forest beyond it. Raab appeared at his side, fleetly keeping pace with him. "Where do you think you are going?" Jabal demanded.

"I'm coming with you!" Raab declared.

"No you're not! What use will you be in the coming fight?"

"Very little, considering that you have stolen my sword!"

"As if you even knew how to use it!"

They reached the rear door in the stockade, which stood open. Raab plucked a long knife from his sash, flourishing it. "I know how to use this," he promised.

Jabal shrugged, then nodded. "Well, the murdering Storm Child cannot have gone far. Let us take our revenge for Laandra!"

"For Laandra!"

The vengeance of the din Sudim cousins was finally at hand. Like most things worth having, it had been a long time coming…

---

As he strode into the makeshift camp of the shipwrecked mariners, stepping over numerous corpses and around puddles of gore, N'aethan considered wonderingly that of the many battles of the several wars in which he had fought, this was the very first encounter in which he had shed no blood. None! The opportunity had not presented itself. He had simply given orders and provided encouragement, and the others had taken care of the actual killing. The Aiel, mostly. They lived for it. It surprised N'aethan how good it felt, to have not unsheathed sword (or claws) at any point. But Tarmon Gai'don was coming… there would be much fighting to do in that. In the Last Battle, he would doubtless shed rivers of blood, an entire lake of the stuff… but first he had Ellythia Sedai to rescue, as well as her two Aes Sedai friends and this 'Dara,' whoever she might be. And the Laughing God to kill, also.

Up ahead, by the largest hut, Lord Thaeus stood waiting for him, beside a tall, dark woman, beautiful in a severe sort of way. Her cold eyes watched N'aethan closely as he approached, a hand resting on the pommel of the slim blade sheathed at her belt. Around them, various of the surviving sailors sat exhausted upon the ground, the Bosun passing out hard-tack to them. The seamen who had already encountered N'aethan were whispering in the ears of those who had not; all were watching him curiously, to see what he would do.

"Greetings, Naythan Gaidin," Thaeus called out, when N'aethan was but a dozen paces away, "how went the day? Did you slay the Aiel Madman?"

N'aethan shook his head. "Not I. Cohradin did… doubtless, he shall boast to you of his feat should you ask him about it, or even if you do not." Thaeus laughed and N'aethan eyed him surreptitiously. Was there a hint of insanity to his mirth? He could not be sure… "How do you feel, Lord of the Desiamas?" he enquired carefully.

Thaeus' manner sobered. "Well enough," he responded levelly, "like myself."

"Should that situation change, advise me of it," N'aethan urged, "and I shall-"

"Kill me?" Thaeus was perfectly serious, no fear in his eyes, just resignation.

"Nay! Hit you over the head with a stick, tie you up and sit upon you till you calm down!" This time, they both laughed. N'aethan did not trouble to ask why Thaeus had wandered off on his own… clearly, he had not wished to be a danger to his companions. Of course, N'aethan being commanded to look for the errant young man by his Aes Sedai had left she and the others undefended… but Thaeus knew this as well as he did, there was little point in further compounding the guilt he must be feeling. 'Good intentions so often lead to the Pit of Doom that the path there must be paved with them…' Father had said that, and who better than he to know?

The tall, proudly beauteous woman was staring at N'aethan with what could only be fascination. Thaeus recalled his etiquette and made hasty introductions; "my Lady, I present Naythan Shieldman, Warder to my sister and Hero of the Light… he hails from the Age of Legends…" The Noblewoman's eyes widened slightly and she curtsied gracefully. "Master Shieldman, I give you the Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar, former Captain of the Queen Mab and current Captain of whatever that ship out there is called…"

"It had Stormchaser painted on the bow," N'aethan murmured, then bowed elaborately, a gloved hand on his hilt, sweeping his fancloth poncho back.

The Lady Ysmet stared at N'aethan for a moment, then blinked, remembering her manners. "Stormchaser is an ill name for a ship," she commented, "I shall think on a new one…"

"How about; The Light's Revenge?" Thaeus suggested eagerly.

Ysmet shook her head fastidiously. "Too Whitecloakish…" Thaeus looked crestfallen. Ysmet smiled and patted his arm in commiseration. "Your talents lie elsewhere, Lord Thaeus. I shall ask Roth to invent something appropriate…" he eyes narrowed, "…my husband has to be good for something!"

N'aethan blinked. "You are the Gleeman's wife, Lady Ysmet?"

Ysmet nodded. "Yes. Why shouldn't I be?" Her eyes narrowed further at N'aethan's hesitation.

N'aethan chose his next words carefully; "it is just that I expected someone more… that is to say, less…" he trailed-off.

Ysmet smiled thinly. "A tavern floozy, perhaps? The sort of woman who might let a scurrilous Gleeman sweep her off her feet?" She shook her head, the long braid she wore her dark hair in whisking back and forth against her shoulders. "Believe me, I am oft surprised to find myself wed to Roth also… but there it is. In spite of everything, I do love him, you see. And who can tell what peculiar paths fate will lead us down?"

"Indeed!" N'aethan agreed, fervently, thinking of some of the strange people and places his own fate had guided him to…

"Tell me, Naythan Gaidin..?" Ysmet noted the two-dozen sailors staring at them curiously whilst shamelessly eavesdropping, and nodded toward the large hut. "Let us repair to my palace and speak further in privacy…" She turned to the Bosun, who was standing nearby. "Is there much rum left in the stores?"

The Bosun nodded. "Aye, Captain, about a barrel-and-a-half."

"Break it out, Bosun… they've earned it." The sailors raised a ragged cheer at this welcome command, whilst N'aethan and Thaeus followed Ysmet into the hut. Within, it was cool and shady, though a dreadful mess; a large bed-frame, much hacked with axes, lay near the door, broken chairs and stools were overturned, and discarded crossbows scattered about. A lumpy mattress on the floor, much stained with blood, was ripped open; mounds of scattered feathers adding to the disorder. Ysmet surveyed the sorry scene, shaking her head in defeat. "There is little point in tidying, I might as well just set the hut aflame and have done with it," she muttered, then brightened as something occurred to her; "besides, I believe that I shall sleep aboard ship tonight!"

"The vessel might be full of Darkfriend things," Thaeus warned, "skulls and bones, whips and chains…"

Ysmet eyed Thaeus with bemusement. "Is that what Whitecloaks look for, when they go searching in Shadowsworn boudoirs?" Thaeus blushed, and declined to answer. "Your concern is duly noted," Ysmet declared, "if there is anything of that nature, I shall have it thrown overboard." She adopted a musing tone; "with any luck, they will be well-found in stores and provisions, since we are running low…"

"Think you there may be some cheese?" asked a cracked voice, hopefully. N'aethan turned to the doorway; a spry old man clad in ill-sewn skins stood there, his wrinkled face decorated with faded ink designs.

"Gen!" Ysmet shouted, "knock!"

Gen shrugged his bony shoulders. "Which there do be nothing to knock upon, O toothsome Lady of Ebou Dar!" he protested, and in all fairness, he had a point.

N'aethan, stood in the shadows at the rear of the hut, noted that Gen's yellow teeth were filed to points. A local, presumably, though he spoke the Vulgar, if with a damned strange accent…

"What do you want, Gen?" Ysmet demanded.

Gen stepped into the hut and tugged upon the rope he held, the end of which proved to be tied around the slim neck of a bound and gagged woman. "Raab's kin, who I do think may be called 'Jabbo,' did tell me to bring you this," Gen explained.

Ysmet immediately drew her rapier whilst Thaeus swept his Heron-mark blade from the sheath at his back. "Are you mad, Gen? Well, clearly you are, but what do you mean by bringing this dangerous Darkfriend witch into our midst?"

"Which the Warder Jabbo did tell me to!" Gen reiterated sullenly, "it do be his blame, and none of mine…"

"Should I execute her, milady?" Thaeus wondered, slipping forward and raising his sword for a beheading stroke. The bound woman shook her head frantically, and made 'mmff! mmff!' noises behind her gag.

"No need," N'aethan said softly, examining the prisoner in the special way he could, "she has been severed, and recently at that."

"Severed?" Ysmet repeated, suspiciously.

"You call it 'stilling.' She can no longer channel."

At this reminder of her condition, the Darkfriend captive sank to her knees, head bowed, and produced a series of muffled sobs. Ysmet hesitated, then sheathed her rapier. "It seems to have taught the arrogant witch some humility," she observed.

Ysmet glanced at N'aethan and jumped; from her reaction, he knew that his cobalt irises must be glowing in the gloom. He grinned with his sharp teeth; Ysmet's eyes widened. "Mayhap you should shave the prisoner's head and write 'Betrayer' upon it?" N'aethan suggested, "tis what the Aes Sedai did to captured Dreadlords in the War." Prior to their executions at the hands of Ogier Headsmen, of course.

Ysmet raised an eyebrow. "And which War would this be, exactly?"

N'aethan shrugged broad shoulders. "The War of-"

"Cat King!" Gen had abruptly knelt also and was staring at N'aethan, agog… all present stared at him with bemusement, even the sobbing prisoner.

"What?" N'aethan responded.

"Tis you!" Gen cried, "King o' the Cats! Your sister did say you would come to Aisle Souvraniene one day and here you be… finally!"

"My sister?"

"The Goddess! Fox Queen! Feir-called-Fourthborn!"

N'aethan frowned, puzzled. "You... you know her?"

Gen nodded enthusiastically and began to shuffle forward on his bony knees across the feather-bestrewn floor, mumbling as he went; "aye, that I do, King Cat! A long time ago I was sent to slay her, and did fail miserably… the Goddess took pity on me in my wretched state and did spare my unworthy life. She did find me amusing! Each night I did tell to her a different story, and she would say; 'that was lovely, Gen, so I'll not kill you just yet… tomorrow, for definite!' In the end, she did free me… all hail the Fox Queen!" By this, Gen had reached N'aethan and began to grovel before him, stroking his boots and muttering prayers in an obscure dialect of the Old Tongue which the Lightborn could barely comprehend.

The Lady Ysmet was looking embarrassed and Lord Thaeus was grinning. "It seems that you have made a new friend, Naythan Gaidin!" he jested.

N'aethan scowled down at the crouching lunatic. "Stop that! Leave my feet alone, you!" Gen obeyed, ceasing his unwanted obeisances, and gazed up at N'aethan with dog-like devotion. "How do you know who I am anyway, strange person?" N'aethan demanded of the addled old man.

Gen answered readily enough; "which your holy sister did describe you on occasion, and did show to me a picture of thee!"

"A picture?"

"Aye! A small painting of you and your scaresome blind brother and he who did make you all, the Father of Creation, a-sitting in a nice Ogier chair…"

"Oh, that picture. Wait! Where is she? Where is my sister, Feir?" N'aethan glanced around eagerly; "is she here?"

Thaeus shook his head. "Feir was at the camp briefly, but she went to Stedding..?"

"Dashai," Ysmet supplied.

"Yes, there. The Ogier are being attacked by the forces of the Laughing God, she went to aid them. She asked that you join her there, Naythan Gaidin." Thaeus' brow furrowed with concern; "and I must go there too, she may be in danger…"

"Unlikely!" Gen chimed-in, "the Fourthborn do be a deadly foe to all who cross her! She will be unto the red-masks like a fearsome fox amongst chicklings!"

"She certainly sounds like a Lightborn," N'aethan commented, his mind working furiously. Stedding Dashai was relatively near to the Dragon College, he could be there in less than a day, if he pushed the pace. But he could not leave yet, he had to recall Cohradin and Gerom to their duty first… and, much as he wanted to finally meet his sister, to no longer be the Last Lightborn, he felt caution also. One should always be careful of what one wished for…

"Naythan Gaidin?" N'aethan turned enquiringly to the Lady Ysmet. She hesitated, then asked; "forgive the impertinence, but may I see your ears?"

N'aethan blinked slowly, in a feline way. "An unexpected request, milady, but I don't see why not…" He swept back the long, white locks at his left temple, exposing an ear that rose to an abbreviated point, tipped with a tuft of bristly hair.

Ysmet gasped. "Like your sister!" She paused, then tentatively asked; "are… are you and she… of the Fair Folk?"

N'aethan stared, then laughed, the mewling sound he made when amused. "Nay, my Lady! We are Lightborn, that is all!" His mirth faded, replaced by a more bitter mien. "Believe me, there is nothing remotely fair about our existence."

Outside, the sun was sinking below a line of volcanoes, far to the west. Thaeus glanced at N'aethan hesitantly, then spoke; "I travelled with your sister… with Feir… for a time. She is a most singular person, unlike anyone I have ever met…"

Out beyond the surf, a longboat crewed by a dozen of the less inebriated sailors was pulling for the captured ship. The Lady Ysmet sat in the stern, tending the tiller, and the peculiar Gen balanced in the prow, eager to search the hold of their prize for cheese. The captured Darkfriend woman had been locked in the store hut, and was being closely guarded by the Shaido Aiel. No-one had seen Rashiel Sedai nor Dagnon Gaidin for quite some time...

Thaeus continued; "we… we became intimate, Feir and I… I have not known her long, but care for her deeply… I hope that you do not disapprove?"

N'aethan smiled. "I have never even met my sister… how could I?"

Thaeus looked relieved. "Her Gholam was not happy about the relationship," he confided.

N'aethan's eyes narrowed, pupils slitting dangerously. "Her what?"

Before Thaeus could reply, N'aethan's attention was drawn to Jabal Gaidin and another Sea Folk man, a slender fellow with a large, golden fish painted on his bare chest. The Twins were with them; the four men staggering past, heading down to the sea. They bore a heavy burden between them… the Atha'an Miere holding the arms, the Mayener brothers the legs.

Thaeus watched them also, until they were out of sight, then turned to N'aethan. "What was that all about?" he wondered.

N'aethan shrugged. "Somebody else's nightmare."

---

Duadh-called-Blue Ring stood atop the cliff, gazing moodily out to sea, his parrot perched upon his shoulder. His axe hung limply from one tattooed hand, the fingers of the other clenching and unclenching fitfully. The sight of the Stormchaser with its Clan Waketa flag lowered and replaced by an accursed Gleeman's cloak was surely the final straw… truly, this was the worst day of his life! And to think that it had begun so promisingly… The Children of the Storm had outnumbered their enemy three-to-one, had a pair of powerful channelers on their side; but the stout defence, that shoal-cursed burning rain, the untimely arrival of reinforcements… it had all gone horribly wrong. And no-one had told Duadh that their foe had Aiel amongst them! The sight of two unarmed, unclothed Aielmen slaughtering a dozen of his best fighters like silverpike amongst a school of sprats, then going to deal with the Samma N'Sei, had driven home to Duadh quite thoroughly that the battle was lost.

True, Duadh had led the remnants of his crew against the last stand of his enemy, hoping that he might at least slay the Shorebound Noblewoman and take back the ancient Waketa dagger to which she had no right… but his heart had not been in it. With his fine ship taken and the last of his people falling all around him, Duadh had retreated to the forest with but one thought in mind; retribution.

The Darkfriend Tinker and his men would be somewhere to the south, near to the arcane stone that had brought them here. Another of those Samma N'Sei channelers should be there too. Duadh would lead them back to this place, massacre the Shorebound Light-lovers and take back the Stormchaser, or die in the attempt. If he did not, then he would perish for his failure in any event; if She Who Called the Gales did not have him killed for losing his ship and crew, then his ruthless mother, Wavemistress of the Waketa, assuredly would. And if the Shadowsworn Tuatha'an assassin objected to Duadh assuming his command? Duadh's grip tightened upon the axe haft. Then he would take great pleasure in splitting that mincing pretty-boy's skull!

Syed the parrot cocked his brightly-plumed head and made the chirruping sound that let Duadh know someone was coming. He turned, not particularly caring who it was. Whoever had followed him up here should have thought better of it, since he was going to kill them. He was in a killing mood.

The bushes parted and two Atha'an Miere men emerged; one muscular with a fancloth cloak draped over his bare torso, the other skinny, with a ridiculous-looking fish painted upon his chest. The first Sea Folk mariner held a sword, the second clutched a long knife. Two pairs of dark eyes regarded Duadh with cold hatred.

Duadh chuckled. "I know that look! I slew someone you cared for, did I not?" He glanced at their hands without much interest, noting their Clan sigils. "Did I give your kin to the salt, Takana?"

The Atha'an Miere with the Warder cloak snarled angrily. "You murdered my Laandra, Son of the Sands!" he shouted.

Duadh shrugged his broad shoulders. "Laandra? Who is Laandra?"

"She was my sister!" yelled the skinny Sea Folk man.

"That hardly helps," Duadh pointed-out, "I have slain a lot of people over the years… can you be more specific?"

After a hesitation, the Takana Warder growled; "off Tremalking, seven years ago… you led a raiding party onto the decks of the Wavedancer, a double-masted Soarer of my Clan…"

"Oh, that old tub? I recall something of the sort… you two cabin-brats are kin to the 'prentice Windfinder I slew? I did not intend to, I wished to take her alive and enjoy her favours at my leisure, then give what was left of her to my crew for their own diversion…" Duadh grinned nastily, gold teeth flashing, raising his axe; "…but she tried to stab me with her little knife and the battle-lust was upon me, so I struck her down. The war-madness, it is upon me now, also… I shall send you both to join her, in whatever place that cowardly Takana stinkfish go to when they die!"

"Stinkfish! Squaaa!" squawked the parrot, then sensing imminent violence, launched itself skyward, out of harm's way.

With twin howls of rage, the pair of Sea Folk hurled themselves at Duadh and he leapt forward to meet them, axe whirling overhead. He concentrated his attack upon the Takana in the Warder cloak, clearly the more dangerous of the two, driving him back with a fierce flurry of blows. "Are you a real Gaidin?" Duadh demanded loudly as their weapons clashed, "or did you steal that cloak from a corpse?"

"I am a Warder of the White Tower!" his opponent proclaimed, proudly.

"I have never slain a Brother of Battles before…"

"And you never will!" the Takana swordsman responded, side-stepping and slashing a long, red line in Duadh's blue-tattooed chest. The other Takana darted in, stabbing with his knife, but Duadh avoided the clumsy strike easily, whirling his axe in a circle to keep his other opponent at bay whilst cuffing the knifeman hard across the face; he went reeling back, blood on his lip, and collided with a tree trunk, sitting down hard against it.

"You fight like an Amayar!" Duadh shouted at him, scornfully.

The Sea Folk Warder sprang high into the air, bringing his sword sweeping down to cleave Duadh's skull… he was fast, this one, but then, so was his adversary. Duadh raised his weapon swiftly to parry the blow… and the sword-blade shattered against the axe-head, snapping off near the tang! The Atha'an Miere Gaidin sprang back, barely avoiding Duadh's return-stroke and raised the ivory hilt, drawing attention to the few inches of steel that were all that now projected from it. "Where did you get this bloody sword?" he demanded of his kin.

"I won it in a dice game!" Duadh heard the skinny Takana wail in response.

Duadh laughed harshly, then lunged forward, his axe swiping at the Warder's head, but his opponent rolled out of the way of the descending blade, scooping up the other Takana's fallen knife, then stood waiting calmly. Duadh paced toward him, spinning his axe skilfully. "Any last words, Takana?" he asked.

The Sea Folk Warder nodded. "Yes, Waketa. I have just decided how to end your miserable life. I think that you will find it appropriate!"

Duadh resumed his laughter as he prepared to kill his enemy… but then, something hard smashed into the back of his skull. His eyes rolled up into his head, his axe fell from paralysed fingers, and he toppled forward into darkness.

When Duadh came back to his senses, blinking open blood-encrusted eyes, he could feel waves lapping at his bare feet. Odd. He tried to move, but his arms and legs would not obey the commands of his brain. Turning his head, groaning at the pounding in his skull, Duadh could see that his wrists were securely held in place with thick, leather thongs knotted to large, wooden stakes, driven deep into the damp sand. Presumably, so were his ankles.

The Sea Folk Warder appeared in Duadh's field of vision, crouching and staring at him with dark eyes that held great satisfaction. Over his shoulder, Duadh could see the skinny Takana standing with arms crossed, watching him with an equally satisfied gaze.

"What happened?" Duadh mumbled, his mouth dry.

The Takana Warder jerked a thumb at his kin. "Raab there hit you over the head with a tree branch," he stated.

Raab nodded. "More of a stick, really," he qualified, "but you looked like you had a hard head, murdering Waketa, so I made sure it was a big one!"

"There is little honour in that," Duadh grumbled, "I offered you fair fight, and was struck down from behind… dishonourable!"

The Warder scowled. "What honour lies in murdering an unarmed maiden?"

Duadh might have pointed out that the girl had waved a knife at him, though it had done her little good… but he did not bother. He really did not care anymore.

"What honour is there in anything else you have done in the course of your evil existence?" demanded Raab.

Duadh attempted to shrug, and despite his constraints, just about managed it. "True enough, I suppose. I have never had much use for honour, as a rule."

"I am Jabal din Sudim Lionfish, Gaidin of the Tower," the crouching Takana revealed, "and I believe that you know my cousin, Raab din Sudim Black Squall?"

"What of it?" Duadh muttered sullenly. He could feel the waves washing about his thighs now.

"I wanted you to know our names before you died," Jabal explained.

"And us!" reminded two voices with Mayener accents, speaking at once.

Duadh swivelled his aching head and beheld a pair of identical Shorebound men wearing Warder cloaks also, watching him belligerently with dark brown eyes.

"These are Aebel and Blaek Feruile, also Warders."

"I have slain a few Oilfishers in my time," Duadh commented.

The twin Warders scowled an identical scowl.

"We helped carry you down to the beach, pirate," said one.

"You were heavy!" added the other.

Duadh snorted contemptuously, then turned back to the Takana cousins. "What now?" he demanded, "will you torture me? I was put to the question by Whitecloak Inquisitors once… I laughed at them!"

Jabal shook his head. "You have no information that we require, so what would be the point of torturing you?"

"Enjoyment of course, you Light-loving fool!" Raab seemed to be actively considering it, but Jabal shook his head firmly. "Oh, just kill me and get it over with!" Duadh roared, "I am bored with talking to you and your matching Oilfishers, Takana scum!" The waves were breaking over his hips now, his legs fully submerged.

Jabal exchanged an amused glance with Raab, then smiled coldly down at Duadh. "Oh, we are not going to kill you… the sea will do that for us. It seems only fitting, given the way that you vile Storm Children have always made sacrifice to the Dark One, by drowning your victims."

Raab moved closer, leaning over Duadh, smirking insolently. "That's right, Duadh din Retif Blue Ring… we're giving you to the salt."

What angered Duadh most of all was that his Storm-cursed, self-righteous executioners did not even bother staying to watch him die! After a brief while, the four of them simply walked away up the beach, discussing the day's events with one another… it was humiliating! Duadh lay there awhile – well, he had little choice but to do so – as the sun slowly sank in the west, feeling the rising tide cover his barrel chest and lap against his thick neck, like the cold touch of death. Well, there were worse ways to die, he supposed. Duadh had lived life to the full and indulged his passion for carnage often… he had few regrets. Then, Duadh heard footsteps crunching in the wet sand, slowly approaching. A tall man loomed over him, a brightly plumed bird perched on his shoulder.

"Syed!" Duadh cried, glad to be reunited with his prized parrot for one last time, "I see that you have found a new master."

"That he has," the man agreed, equably.

"Look after him well," Duadh bade the stranger, before stretching the truth by claiming; "he is a good bird."

"That he is not," the man commented, "but I shall take care of him, even so."

Duadh frowned. "What do you want?" he demanded, "come to gloat?"

The man shook his head. "Not really. Mayhap your parrot wished to bid you farewell? Or perhaps my Mistress sent me to watch you drown, to ensure that you were dead? All things are possible…"

"That they are," Duadh agreed absently, feeling the rising tide against his chin, the waves lapping over his face. It was useless to try to break his bonds, he had attempted this several times and had only bloody wrists to show for it. He could tell that Syed's new master had absolutely no intention of aiding him, his eyes held little in the way of pity for his plight, just a certain interest in witnessing an ancient and barbaric mode of execution… or sacrifice… "I go now to the embrace of the Father of Storms," Duadh intoned, as the water rose above his ears.

"Squaaa! Stormfather!"

The stranger smiled coldly, venturing to stroke the talking bird. The parrot pecked his finger viciously, but the man merely chuckled in response. He sucked his sore digit and gazed down at Duadh, staked-out in the surf, before commenting; "Stormfather, eh? Now personally, I always refer to our Master as the Great Lord of the Dark…" With that, he turned and walked away, Syed yet perched upon his shoulder. Duadh thought about it, then began to laugh harshly. He was still laughing when the sea washed into his mouth, drowning his mirth, as the salt claimed him for its own.

---

"Life is a dream – that knows no shade

Life is a dream – of pain and woe."

N'aethan stood by the graves, up in the dunes beyond the beach, listening as the Shaido Aiel sang their lament for the dead. He recalled the cremation of young Tevin at the Cenotaph, the last occasion on which he had heard this sonorous song, and sighed regretfully. Funerals always made him feel melancholy… probably, he was not alone in this. How many more would fall to the Shadow before the Dark One was finally defeated? Too many. N'aethan joined-in on the second part, adding his light tenor to the deeper baritones of Cohradin and Chassin, Gerom's rumbling bass and Manda's high soprano;

"A dream from which – we pray to wake

A dream from which – we wake and go."

With that, it was done. N'aethan helped the Shaido to fill in the deep, narrow pit in which the shrouded body of Ruon, Water Seeker of the Tomanelle, was interred upright and facing in the direction of sunrise, as was the ancient burial custom of the Aiel. Ruon had been found lying outside the hidden, rear door in the stockade, quite dead though there were no marks of violence upon him. The Duadhe Mahdi'in had had a surprisingly peaceful expression on his cold face. The captive Darkfriend witch, Irmilla, had been responsible of course, though as yet had refused to confess to the murder… the shipwrecked crew had been unanimous in wishing to see her hanged for this crime, in addition to numerous others, but sense had prevailed. Irmilla represented a valuable source of information concerning their enemy – one of their enemies, at least – and so her execution had been stayed at the insistence of the Lady Ysmet and N'aethan. For the time being, at least.

Gerom gazed down at Ruon's grave for a moment, then muttered; "he was brave, for a Tomanelle, and carried great honour. He could not bear his shame, and yet he had the courage to live with it." The other Shaido murmured their agreement.

With Ruon's remains buried, they moved on to the second pit… that of Medelin, once Thunder Walker of the Shaido. In death, his true name had been restored to him. Cohradin had objected to this honour being paid to his foe, but N'aethan had strongly suspected that the unfortunate male-channeler had been forcibly Turned to the Shadow, as had often been done to captured Aes Sedai in his day. More than once he had been required to kill a former comrade who had been suborned in this fashion, possessed by the Dark One's immeasurable evil. He had taken consolation in the fact that they were not who they had been anymore, that a wicked presence now possessed them… slaying one who was Turned was really doing them a favour.

Irmilla had reluctantly confirmed this suspicion, when pressed, so Medelin too occupied a narrow grave amongst the dunes. Cohradin began to kick sand into the pit, then paused and dug something out of his pocket. It was Medelin's heart, looking shrivelled and somewhat the worse for wear… he tossed it in with the rest of the dead Aielman – his severed hand had been tucked into his shroud already – and they filled in the grave. Then, as one, the Shaido turned to stare expectantly at N'aethan.

"You promised that you would tell us the truth of our origins, Vron'cor," Gerom reminded him.

N'aethan did not answer immediately, glancing at the beach below, where a large bonfire blazed, surrounded by smaller camp-fires. Further toward the sea, a long line of funeral pyres still flickered fitfully, where the sailors who had fallen in the battle had been honoured and remembered. He could hear music coming from down there, the Gleeman's high, trilling flute winding in and out of the rhythm of a drum, played skilfully by the Atha'an Miere, Raab. There would be singing and dancing… and also, courtesy of the stores found aboard the captured ship, feasting. N'aethan would far rather have been by the fires than up here in the faintly starlit darkness... but he had made a promise.

N'aethan turned to the Shaido, motioning for them to sit. Being Aiel, they squatted instead, Chassin and Manda leaning on their spears, Cohradin and Gerom doing without this prop, as they had broken theirs. A decision that N'aethan intended to make them rethink. He needed these two Knife Hands to be warriors, not water-carriers and… and whatever foolish activities Cohradin had engaged in!

N'aethan sat cross-legged on the sand and ran glowing, cobalt eyes over his audience, who waited expectantly, with the ineffable patience of the Aiel. He began; "I will now tell to you Shaidos a tale that Father once told me…" Cohradin opened his mouth eagerly, but N'aethan forestalled him; "not the Father of Creation, Cohradin! Never met him, have I! I speak of Chaime Kufer Mors, the Aes Sedai who made me!" Though Father had probably thought he was the Creator at times, N'aethan considered. Chaime Sedai's delusions of grandeur had been legendary! "He constructed my Brothers also, my Sister too. Betimes, here is what happened… one day, a very long time ago, I asked of him…"

"Why are the Da'shain the way they are, Father?"

Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai, turned away from the spectrograph-ter'angreal that he was adjusting with a slender web of Spirit and glanced enquiringly at the small boy with the long white hair who loitered beside the work-table, staring up at him solemnly with shining, cobalt eyes. "Hmmf?"

"The Aiel, Father, the Da'shain Aiel... they won't commit violence, even to protect themselves… why do they follow the Leaf Way, and do no harm?" Chaime Sedai raised a thin eyebrow and did not answer immediately. Someone else did.

"Because of the Covenant, stupid!" The voice was whispery and unnerving; it emerged from the thin lipped mouth of a pale youth occupying a stool at the neighbouring table, sorting through his collection of barbed and jagged hand-blades. He too had long white hair, a dark band stretched across his pallid face, covering where his eyes might have been.

The boy glared at the youth, his Brother. "I know about the Covenant, Taw, and I am not stupid, you are!"

"No, you are."

"No, you are!"

"Boys!" Chaime very rarely raised his voice, so they fell respectfully silent. The small boy, Tro, stuck his long tongue out at his Brother, however.

"Do that again and I'll cut it off and make you eat it!" Taw hissed, waving a sharp blade at Tro. The Thirdborn retracted his tongue swiftly, gulped nervously.

"Cease threatening Younger Brother, Taw," Chaime commanded wearily, obviously not expecting to be obeyed. He considered a moment, then swivelled on his stool, facing them both. His lean form was swathed in a voluminous robe of dark velvet, a blunt, horn-hilted dagger hung about his neck on a silken cord. Tro wore a simple pair of grey flatweave shorts and a matching vest, an embroidered badge over his heart depicting a blue triangle with curlicues at the points. Taw, in black shattercloth coveralls decorated with a double row of silver buttons shaped like skulls, was more impressively garbed than his Brother; his badge displayed an elongated green figure-eight, a lemniscate.

"It is not entirely a stupid question," Chaime observed, then pinned Taw with his inscrutable, almond-shaped eyes, eyes that had seen terrible things. "You speak of the Covenant, my Son… but do you know why there is a Covenant?"

Taw shrugged, uncaring. "Because there is, Father… there has always been the Covenant betwixt the Aes Sedai and their Da'shain."

"Always is a long time, my Son. There has always been a Creator. There has always been a Great Lord. All else is transitory."

"Father," Tro pointed-out, "the Dark One… you called him…"

"Ah. Yes. The Dark One, then… forgive my lapse."

"I always call him Shai'tan," Taw muttered.

"That's bad luck!" Tro objected.

"So is annoying me, kitten!" Taw snarled.

"Don't call me that! Father, Taw called me-"

"Yes, my Son, I heard. Apologise to your Brother, Taw."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes. You know that Tro does not like to be named that."

Taw produced a sepulchral sigh. "Very well. Brother, I am sorry for calling you… what I called you."

Tro smiled, baring pointy teeth. "That's alright, Middle Bro. It's not your fault that you're so horrible! It's just the way that Father made you…"

"True."

"Boys?" The eldritch Brothers turned expectantly, to face the Aes Sedai who had constructed them, the only father that they would ever know. "I am very busy. Do you wish to hear the answer to Tro's question or not?" They nodded, Tro eagerly, Taw less so. "I told this tale to Elder Brother also, before he went away to the War…" Chaime paused for a moment, a shadow of concern passing over his gaunt features, then began;

"Long ago, at the end of the Last Age, the first Aes Sedai began to manifest. They were men and women who had taught themselves to access the Power that turns the Great Wheel, and in so doing, found a new way of controlling existence, without recourse to mere technology. As their numbers grew and their strength increased, they sought to remake the world, using their burgeoning influence to banish war and want for all time. Most concurred with their plans, followed their lead; some did not."

"What does this have to do with the Da'shain, Father?" Tro demanded.

"Shut-up and listen, stupid!" Taw whispered chillingly.

"I was just getting to that part. One by one, the nascent Aes Sedai, ancestors to those Servants of All who exist today, overcame all who opposed them in their great task of bringing peace and prosperity to a troubled world. The Servants accomplished this with negotiation, intimidation, and when all else failed, annihilation. Finally, there remained but a single people extant that yet stood between the Aes Sedai and their grand goal. Can you guess who?"

Tro and Taw exchanged a glance.

"The Da'shain?"

"The Aiel?"

"Indeed. They were not called that then, of course… their original name is lost to human memory, but their race have many names in legend, oft borrowed from myths even older; The Painted People, the Fianna, the Warped Ones, and many more. But all of these legends agree that these... 'Proto-Aiel' let us call them, were the most skilled and brave warriors who have ever existed. Utterly implacable in battle, fearing nothing, not even death itself."

Tro gasped, strange eyes wide and staring.

"The Da'shain, warriors?" Taw uttered incredulously, his voice buzzing like a swarm of angry wasps.

"Difficult to accept, is it not?" Chaime smiled thinly, warming to his subject. "But it is nonetheless true… or at least, she who told me this tale claimed that it was. I have no reason to believe otherwise, to doubt the veracity. In any case, these Proto-Aiel of the Last Age fought the Aes Sedai longer and harder than anyone else, resisting their every attempt to change them. But inevitably, they were overcome. They lost their final war. The survivors surrendered themselves to the victors, expecting to be exterminated. Anticipating it, even. But their courage and conviction had impressed the highest amongst the Aes Sedai, their dedication to what they believed in seemed too valuable a resource to waste. And so; the Covenant was created, and the Proto-Aiel swore to it, their honour compelling them to obey those who had defeated them. They made solemn oath to put aside their violent past and follow the Way of the Leaf, doing no harm under any circumstances. They entered a pact to faithfully serve their new masters, the only force to ever vanquish them… the Aes Sedai." Chaime leaned back on his stool and smiled enigmatically. "And they have been doing so ever since. The End."

A thoughtful silence followed as the young Lightborn considered this, a silence that Tro was about to break by asking who had told Father this story… but then, there came the sound of the lock cycling open. Tro and Taw turned to look; the circular heartstone portal rolled aside with a grinding sound and the familiar figure of the Da'shain Ledrin stepped into the Secure Laboratory, followed by his son, Jarn, pushing a trolley stacked with artefacts. The Lightborn gazed upon the tall Aiel with their reddish hair and light irises, though only one of them had eyes to gaze with.

"The items that you requested, Chaime Sedai," Ledrin murmured in his habitual mild tones, and Jarn pushed the trolley further into the laboratory, eyes meekly downcast as always. Tro stared at the Da'shain in wonder and confusion, trying to resolve these placid, peaceable servants with Father's description of fearsome warriors… surely not?

"Thank you, Ledrin. My thanks, Jarn."

Ledrin bowed, the respect he paid to the Master invested with great dignity. "Will that be all, Chaime Sedai?"

"Yes. You may go."

As Ledrin turned to leave and follow Jarn from the chamber, he smiled fondly at the two young Lightborn… then hesitated, raising his eyebrows. "Why do you stare at me so, Young Masters?" he enquired gently.

"Oh, it is nothing, Ledrin."

"No reason, Ledrin."

Ledrin resumed his smile and left the laboratory, the portal rolling shut behind him with the finality of fate itself.

"The End." N'aethan leaned back, tale complete, waiting to see which of the considering Shaido would break the silence. It was Cohradin, naturally.

"How do we know that this tale of our ancestors is even true, Nightwatcher?"

N'aethan shrugged his broad shoulders. "Technically, they were the ancestors of your ancestors," he pointed-out, "and you don't know if it is true. Neither do I, not really. But whilst Father often withheld parts of the truth, I am certain that he never lied to me, to my Brothers either. Not once."

Gerom lifted his head, asking in his deep tones; "Vron'cor, you mention that your father was told this story by another? Whom?"

"Latra Posae Decume, Aes Sedai. The Tamyrlin. Long before he told us."

Gerom raised his thick, reddish eyebrows. "Shadar Nor!"

N'aethan smiled, gratified. "You have heard of her, at least? Good…"

"The Cutter of the Shadow was mentioned in a very old book, Nightwatcher."

"The Mother never lied to me either. Except that she said my poems were good, when they weren't, but that was just her being kind." N'aethan sighed, regretfully. "A pleasant woman, was Latra Sedai…"

"Wait!" cried Chassin, his brow furrowed, "so what you are saying, Vron'cor, is… is that we Aiel have always been warriors, except for in the Age of Legends, when we were not?"

"When we were but lowly servants who pushed trolleys around," Cohradin muttered, adding suspiciously; "and what is a 'trolley' anyway?"

N'aethan ignored Cohradin, answering Chassin instead; "I suppose that the Da'shain Aiel did start out as warriors, yes. But my point is that while your ancestors abandoned the Covenant during this Breaking of the World that I slept through, they did not entirely go against their natures in so doing… in a way, the Aiel came full circle, back to where they began."

"As the Wheel of Time revolves from one Age back to the Age that gave it birth," Gerom intoned.

N'aethan nodded approvingly. "Yes Gerom, an excellent metaphor."

Manda rose, yawning. "I thank you for the story, Nightwatcher, it was an interesting tale. But since I never gave up the spear in the first place, I do not require convincing to take it up again." She glanced disparagingly at Cohradin and Gerom, sniffing with disapproval. "See if you can talk some sense into these two fools, though." With that, she slipped into the night, running lithely down to the beach.

"Manda is doubtless off to rut with that hook-handed Wetlands sailorman," Chassin observed, "she was making eyes at him the whole way back in the boat."

A pause, then Chassin and Cohradin growled; "Maidens!" at the same time. Gerom did not join in with their disapproval, his eyes had a far-away look as he considered the distant past.

Chassin rose. He held his favourite spear in his right hand, two additional spears in his left. One of these he offered to Cohradin. "Well, my brother?" he demanded pugnaciously, "will you cease your foolishness and take up the spear once more, to be Sovin Nai again and join me for the Final Dance with the Shadow?"

Cohradin hesitated, then sighed and took the spear. "Though my honour demanded it, I did not really enjoy being Da'tsang anyway," he admitted, "little wonder that it is more usually considered a punishment!"

Chassin then moved on to Gerom, holding out the other spear. Gerom looked at it for a long moment. "I would that I had been born in the Age of Legends," he mumbled, mournfully.

"You would have made a fine Da'shain back then, Gerom," N'aethan felt obliged to declare, though he supposed that he should not encourage the big Aielman's pacifistic yearnings.

"Would I have made a fine Da'shain of the Age of Legends also?" Cohradin enquired hopefully, as he stood up.

"No, Cohradin, you most definitely would not!"

Cohradin frowned, but then brightened when Gerom reluctantly took the spear from Chassin. The big Knife Hand rose, looking at the weapon with fatalism. "One cannot outrun fate," Gerom observed.

N'aethan nodded, rising also. "I have been trying to do that for most of my life, without much in the way of success!" he commented. As N'aethan and the Shaido walked down toward the fires on the beach, he added; "Ruon tried to outdistance his destiny, and look where it got him." He scowled, eyes slitting. "This Car'a'carn of yours, whether he is the Dragon Reborn or not, has much to answer for! In making public to the Aiel the secret of the Covenant, he did not set free men and women like Ruon… he destroyed them!"

The Sovin Nai were more philosophical about this. "The Prophecy did say that the Chief of Chiefs would break us," Gerom pointed-out, "it was inevitable."

"He Who Comes with the Dawn can do whatever he wants!" Chassin added loyally, "even telling the truth!"

Cohradin was not paying attention to the others. "There is that Sharaman," he commented, "what is he doing out in the dark on his own?" The other Shaido lacked the night-vision of Cohradin's seia'dor and so did not immediately see the Ayyad youth, but N'aethan could, of course. His eyes were better at scanning the darkness than any optical implant, by far. Hamadi stood atop a dune, head craned back, staring up at the stars.

"Hoy, eye-brother!" Cohradin called out to him, exuberantly.

Hamadi turned his head, a red orb glowing in the left-hand socket of his tattooed face; a match for the one in Cohradin's.

"Young Hamadi certainly made a lot less fuss when we gave him his eye," N'aethan observed, grinning at Cohradin; "you screamed like you were giving birth!"

Cohradin scowled. "His wound was new, Nightwatcher! When you gave to me my magickal eye, you told me it was making my dead nerves wake up, that is why it was so painful!"

"Fair enough." N'aethan switched to the speech of the Easterlings, addressing the Sharan youth; "good eve, red-eyed Hamadi of the Ayyad! What are you staring at?"

Hamadi came down the dune to join them, white teeth flashing in his dusky, decorated face. "The stars, Honoured Spirit… they have always fascinated me and now, with this wondrous eye, I see them better than ever I could before!" He nodded companionably to Cohradin. "Please tell the foul-smelling barbarian that he was entirely correct about the powers of this red eye that he also wears…"

"Hamadi says he is looking at the stars and you were right about the abilities of the seia'dor," N'aethan diplomatically translated for Cohradin's benefit, a suitably edited version of what had actually been said.

Cohradin nodded, looking pleased, then gazed upwards, closing his blue eye and letting the red one scan the heavens. "I wonder what the stars are?" he mused.

"Immense spheres of burning gases," N'aethan answered, promptly.

Cohradin did not hear. "There is a big bird up there," he reported, "an eagle, I think… odd, to see one flying at night." N'aethan looked up. There was indeed a large eagle, circling as it descended. "I could swear that I had seen that eagle somewhere before," Cohradin speculated, "but where..?"

"When the Maidens were beating you with sticks," N'aethan reminded him, "there was an eagle overhead then, watching… it is the same one."

"The day of my honour-filled toh-giving!" Cohradin grinned. "Of course!"

"The eagle looks to be coming in to land over by the big fire," N'aethan reported, "let us go and see what it wants."

N'aethan hastened toward the fires, the Knife Hands following, Hamadi trailing after. "What is going on, Spirit?" he called to N'aethan.

"An eagle comes! We go to look at it!"

"You do? Is this eagle-watching some sort of barbaric animal-worshipping ritual?" Hamadi enquired.

N'aethan grinned. "Yes!"

Before the bonfire, to the accompaniment of wild, skirling music provided by Roth's flute and Raab's drum, the Lady Ysmet was dancing with Jabal whilst Rashiel Sedai danced with Dagnon. The Twins stood to one side, tapping their feet as they awaited their turn with the ladies, there being no other female partners available. An assortment of drunken sailors clapped encouragement as the two couples performed their swift and complex steps in perfect time to the beat. Gen was off to one side, dancing by himself in a peculiar way. There was no sign of either Manda or the Bosun…

The Darkfriend prisoner, Irmilla Nadona, was clapped in irons aboard the ship, being closely guarded by Lord Thaeus, who had already questioned her exhaustively concerning the Shadowsworn Hag she served, whom she termed her 'Dread Mistress.' Irmilla had been as reticent about Arachnae Kirikil as she dared… it seemed that she feared this 'Crone' even more than execution itself.

The song ended as N'aethan and the others entered the circle of firelight, a tune he had not recognised, which was hardly surprising. "What was that air you just played, Gleeman?" he asked the flautist.

"Fluff the Feathers!" Roth answered. His face was flushed, he had drunk rather a lot of the wine found aboard their prize, but this did not seem to affect his musical skills.

"Play another, husband!" Ysmet called to Roth as Aebel (or Blaek) came over to replace Jabal as her partner. Though there had been some hard words when they were reunited, she seemed to have forgiven the foolish Gleeman his message in a bottle since, after all was said and done, it had brought them a ship with which to attempt the long voyage home. Though at no small cost, as the row of flickering pyres along the shore attested. Dagnon gave way with good grace to Blaek (or Aebel) as the Mayener Warder took Rashiel's hand for the next dance, and strode toward the wine barrel, twisting the points on his large moustache good humouredly… but then he came to a sudden halt, staring suspiciously at Cohradin. Or rather, at the bloodstained, torn garment he was yet wearing.

"Why, those look like my best britches!" Dagnon declared, cold blue eyes narrowing, "they are! I was looking for them!" He peered closely at the ruined garb. "Light! What have you done to them, Aielman?!"

Cohradin shrugged. "I wore them in the Dance," he answered, "for all that they are uncomfortable…" He noted Dagnon's glare and protested; "look not daggers at me, Warderman! Your Aes Sedai commanded that I clothe myself in these!"

"It is true," Rashiel confirmed, coming over to diffuse the situation, "I did tell him to wear them, dear Dagnon, since the alternative was too awful to contemplate!"

Dagnon was not listening. "Thief!" he shouted.

"I am no stealer of other men's apparel!" Cohradin shouted back, "these are borrowed britches, only!" He began to peel them off. "See, I now remove them to return to you, slanderous Wetlander!"

"Stop that this instant!" Rashiel cried, "don't you dare!"

"Keep them, Aielman," Dagnon muttered sulkily, "I do not want my britches back, now that you have destroyed them…"

"I shall buy you some more when we return to Illian," Rashiel promised.

"Excuse-me," N'aethan interrupted, "but we saw a big-"

The large eagle came swooping out of the night, circled the bonfire once, then alarmingly settled upon Jabal's shoulder! The Sea Folk Warder jumped, eyeing the bird-of-prey somewhat nervously, but it only seemed to be gripping lightly with its powerful talons, cocking its head and regarding him with a fierce, yellow eye.

"I recognise this bird," Jabal stated wonderingly, "it is Renn's eagle! It flew off when we got to Falme… and we were glad of it! May it please the Light, what is it doing here?" All present watched closely, speculating about what would happen next. What happened next was that the eagle moved its cruel, curved beak close to the side of Jabal's head. His eyes widened.

"What is it doing, cousin?" Raab enquired curiously.

"The eagle… it is… it is nibbling my earlobe, much as my wife sometimes does, when… when we…" Jabal blushed, then asked the eagle; "is that you in there, Renn?" The eagle responded to this by tilting its proud head up and down.

"I've never seen a bloody eagle nod before!" Rashiel exclaimed.

"It could have been a coincidence," Ysmet muttered sceptically.

Rashiel frowned, and approached the eagle perched upon Jabal's bare shoulder. "Renn, if that is you controlling the eagle, then… flap your wings!" The eagle promptly spread its wings and flapped them vigorously, buffeting Jabal's head and making him stagger.

N'aethan moved closer and, feeling rather foolish, addressed the eagle firmly; "Rennetta Sedai, one screech for 'yes' and two for 'no.' Are you and the other Aes Sedai safe?" The eagle screeched once. "Are you all being held captive in the same place?" Another single screech.

Though he did not understand everything that was being said, with the exception of terms like 'Aes Sedai,' Hamadi was no fool and comprehended what was going on, more or less. "Ask the bird about Dara!" he reminded N'aethan, urgently.

"Is the Ayyad woman Dara there as well?" A third affirmative screech came from the eagle, which then glided down from its perch upon Jabal's shoulder and hopped around the bonfire, yellow eyes searching the sand. N'aethan paced after it, Jabal and Rashiel following, others coming over. "Don't crowd the eagle!" N'aethan warned them, then framed his next question carefully; "is there any way that you can tell us where you are, where you're being kept imprisoned?"

The eagle – or rather, Renn – had already thought of this. Locating a stout twig beside a pile of firewood, it gripped it firmly in its beak and, swivelling its feathery head awkwardly, began to scratch in the sand.

"Renn is writing!" Rashiel declared.

"Good idea, wife!" Jabal encouraged the eagle.

Before long, it was done… the eagle dropped the twig and moved to the side where it began to preen its feathers, allowing N'aethan and the others to clearly see what was unevenly writ in the sand. It proved to be a single word:

LARCHEEN