פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ
Chapter Three: The Beginning of an End
Marshall-General Lawe Cathon flexed his fingers, stiffened by cold and age, and gazed at the aftermath of the battle of the hill. He felt old, as if a heavy weight had been placed upon his shoulder. Which was technically true. He had been in command of this Grand-Legion of the Band of Red Hand for...fifteen years (has it been that long?), moving up through the officer ranks, through a combination of skill and harsh fatalities of previous commanders.
He tugged at the beard at his chin, almost as if he just discovered it existed. He remembered when he used to shave everyday. But, it kept his face warm, and shaving supplies were non-existent, considering that the grand-legion now camped hundreds of leagues from civilization in the midst of a hostile territory. And a half world away from his home. He had not seen his family in twenty years or the silent woods where he had explored during his youth...the Sandbars and the giant buried bones inside that were made of rock...the great Halls of the Citadel and the voices that echo forever in their vaulted arches...the most beautiful woman he had known dancing with flowers in her hair…
"Sir?" A voice broke through the faint echoes of home. Cathon shook his head sadly. All the things that we fight for. If only I could believe we are winning…
"Yes?" He replied.
"The Butcher's Bill is in." Nathen Austern, his Adjutant, stood patiently by Cathon's horse.
Cathon sighed, "What did we pay?"
"A hundred and ten infantry casualties. Most of them concentrated in Zephyr, which took the brunt of the spawn assault. Thirty-two cavalry. Fifty horses. And almost half of Raisse's 133rd Banner."
Cathon gazed at the battlefield, and mentally replayed the battle in his head, "Less than I had expected. Some would call it extraordinarily small, considering what we faced. But we cannot continue to lose this much in every engagement. We cannot afford to."
"It is only the first time we tried the Bashere Gambit. I am sure that next time, we can be more efficient with it." Nathen noted.
"Yes, and we can be even better the third. And then the Spawns learn. They counter it. By the fifth engagement it becomes useless. The longer they drag on the war, the more they win. Even if every one of the Band destroys ten spawns, twenty more come to replace them. It is time for that staff meeting we discussed before, Nathen."
The adjutant nodded and walked off, his faded cloak trailing behind him.
Cathon sighed again and ran his fingers through his hair. His once raven hair was streaked with gray now. It was a rare occasion, almost non-existent, for an officer to stay alive more than ten years in the Trolloc Wars. The only thing keeping him alive was his luck. Luck was all he had.
Cathon nudged his horse with his knee and began to move towards HQ. His thirtieth horse. The wars in the north had been the harshest against horses, with hidden trip-holes hidden by snow, and their bulk making for prominent targets. He had stopped bothering to name them.
He nodded to the soldiers that he passed, huddled around campfires in tattered red cloaks. Sometimes he stopped to speak a few words or offer a word of encouragement.
"Sir, are we winning?" A soldier asked. He looked to be no older than twenty, but his eyes had the grim set of a veteran who had seen battles.
"We are." Cathon smiled reassuringly. Both the soldier and Cathon knew it was a lie. But, the soldier simply nodded and returned to his fire. The soldier looked gaunt with sunken cheeks. Their rations were at all time minimum down with barely enough to sustain life.
Cathon tried to remember when the last supply convoy came in. A month ago at the most recent. Supply lines were suffering appallingly. With meager amount of armed escort, they were easy prey to the spawns that ranged throughout Aramaelle. And because the Band kept moving, any supply trains that survived spawn raids had to scour the land before finding them. And then they had to make the journey back. The bravest of men were not those who carried a banner into battle, but those who rode the caravans through dangerous land, so that others may live to fight, and rode those caravans back into the shadows of obscurity, while generals claim the victory.
Cathon came towards the main tent in HQ and dismounted. A stable boy took the reins from his hands.
Lights emanated through the canvas walls, evidence that the generals had already gathered. Cathon adjusted his frayed cloak and ducked in.
He blinked and felt the tendrils of heat warming his body. The fire in the middle of the tent crackled and popped, its smoke streaming through the break in the tent ceiling.
Cathon noted the familiar faces circled around the fire, many of whom have been with him through much of his command. Cathon sat down at the space left for him, and lifted his hands towards the fire, the thin warmth seeping in.
"Bandor Lu'tra e Shen an Calhar." Lieutenant General Stren Vader greeted him.
"Tai'shar Manetheren." Cathon replied. He met the eyes of every one of the waiting generals for the five Legions. Vader of the First Legion, Arcanum of Thunder Legion, Hill of Zephyr Hawk, Notar of Black Moon, and Diadrem of True Blade Legion. Then his eyes came upon a particular ageless face. Two green eyes met his, a cool and calculating look. She was knitting, but set down her needles. That one kept her emotions sealed, but he could see the flickering of curiosity on her delicate brow.
"A victory today!" Lieutenant General Deist Arcanum proclaimed his booming voice.
"More victories like this, and it won't be long before we lose the war." Major-General Hill replied. His Zephyr Hawks had suffered the worst fatalities.
"Better than a defeat." Arcanum retorted.
"I agree with Hill." Cathon cut in, "we are losing. Sure, we're winning battles. Undefeated so far. But, we're still losing.
"We lost close to a company today, and we'll keep losing them. This...war has gone on for two hundred some years. All we have known in life is war. T'Eldrene Company will arrive soon, if she makes it, she will cover the losses this time. But there will be no more reinforcements after T'Eldrene's for a very long time. The last unclaimed men in the Mountain Home are in that company. Manetheren is bled dry of men. Anyone who is able to carry a blade or staff is fighting. And dying. Our crops have long wilted and our homes lie entombed in dust and cobwebs. The Band of Red Hand will lose. Perhaps not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But the hardest rock will not withstand two hundred years of storm and flood."
The grim eyes that met his own were without emotion.
Major General Jot Diadrem steepled his fingers, and leaned forward, "Then what are we to do."
"We end it." Cathon spoke softly, "Gentlemen, we have long seen that tall black visage like a dagger in the sky, in the long years we have been entrenched in Northern Aramaelle. In a long war, we will lose, and this war has gone long enough, as it is. We must strike the heart of the Darkness."
A veil of thick silence descended in the tent. Stunned faces met him. Arcanum's jaw was agape.
"Shayol Ghul." Finally, a soft melodic voice said shattered the silence.
"Shayol Ghul." Cathon repeated, and met those liquid green eyes.
"You truly believe you can take it?" She coolly remarked and picked up her needles again, resuming her work. There was the briefest flicker of the corner of her lip.
"That's what I'm going to find out, Airena Sedai."
Some of the commanders were visibly uneased. Others eyeing the Marshall General like he had gone crazy. Cathon saw Arcanum now sputtering, struggling to find words that would not outright affront Cathon.
"When you are outnumbered, and surrounded," Vader was the first to find his words. His voice was calm and composed like rich leather. He stirred the fire, causing it to flicker and dance, "the only option is to attack."
Cathon just realized he was holding his breath and he let it out. "I have faith in the Band. I have faith in the commanders. I have faith in the men. And frankly, we don't have much choice." Cathon said.
There was a silence, filled with only the crackle of the fire, as the generals silently contemplated it. Cathon could feel the sense of momentum shifting in the room.
"It may be so. We'll need supplies." Seth Notar broke the second silence. Cathon gave a nod. The generals had agreed. Deep down inside, Cathon had wished some would disagree. As a sane man, he didn't want to die, which the assault on Shayol Ghul would most likely render. But, like him, the commanders all knew the truth and what must be done. Cathon had only said aloud what was already lurking in each of the generals' minds.
"T'Eldrene Company will be bringing in the sufficient supplies. Anything else?" Cathon glanced at Airena Andalusa. The Aes Sedai advisor from Tar Valon met his glance again, and remained silent and her emotions unreadable. No microexpressions this time.
"To Shayol Ghul we go." General Hill placed a hand over the dying fire. The hand seemed to glow red with the radiance of the fire.
Cathon reached out, and placed his right hand upon Hill's hand. Four more hands joined, glowing red in the fire's range.
"For the Band."
"The Band of Red Hand."
The fire flickered and died, its embers glowing for a second before fading into blackness.
פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ