“Perhaps we could push them off that hilltop,” one of Bashere’s men said. “Clean out the fortifications.”
He didn’t sound very optimistic.
“Son,” Ituralde said, forcing his eyes open, “I held that hill for weeks against a superior force. Your people built it up well, and the problem with well-built fortifications is that your enemy can turn them against you. You’ll lose men attacking there. A lot of them.”
The room fell silent.
“We leave, then,” Bashere said. “Naeff, we’ll need gateways.”
“Yes, Lord Bashere.” Square-faced and lean of build, the man wore the black coat and the Dragon pin of an Asha’man.
“Malain, gather the cavalry and organize them outside; make it look as if we’re going to try an assault against their fortifications. That’ll keep them eager and waiting. We’ll evacuate the wounded, then we’ll have the cavalry charge in the other direction into—”
“By the Light and my hope for rebirth!” a voice suddenly exclaimed. Everyone in the room turned in shock; that wasn’t the sort of oath you heard every day.
A young soldier stood by the window, looking out with a looking glass. Bashere cursed, and hurried to the window, the others crowding around, several taking out looking glasses.
What now? Ituralde thought, standing despite his fatigue and hurrying over. What could they possibly have come up with? More Draghkar? Darkhounds?
He peered out the window, and someone handed him a looking glass. He raised it, and as he’d guessed, the building was on enough of a rise to look out over the city wall and onto the killing field outside and beyond. The tower positions on the crest of the hill were clustered with ravens. Through the glass, he could see Trollocs clogging the heights, holding the upper camp, the towers, and the bulwarks there.
Beyond the hill, surging down through the pass, was an awesome force of Trollocs, many times the number that had assaulted Maradon. The wave of monsters seemed to continue on forever.
“We need to go,” Bashere said, lowering his looking glass. “Immediately.”
“Light!” Ituralde whispered. “If that force gets past us, there won’t be anything in Saldaea, Andor, or Arad Doman that can stop it. Please tell me the Lord Dragon made peace with the Seanchan, as he promised?”
“In that,” a quiet voice said from behind, “as in so many other things, I have failed.”
Ituralde spun, lowering his looking glass. A tall man with reddish hair stepped into the room—a man whom Ituralde felt he had never met before, despite the familiar features.
Rand al’Thor had changed.
The Dragon Reborn had that same self-confidence, that same straight back, that same attitude expecting obedience. And yet, at the same time, everything seemed different. The way he stood, no longer faintly suspicious. The way he studied Ituralde with concern.
Those eyes, cold and emotionless, had once convinced Ituralde to follow this man. Those eyes had changed, too. Ituralde had not noted wisdom in them before.
Don’t be a thickheaded fool, Ituralde thought, you can’t tell if a man is wise by looking at his eyes.
And yet he could.
“Rodel Ituralde,” al’Thor said, stepping forward and laying a hand on Ituralde’s arm. “I left you and your men stranded and overwhelmed. Please forgive me.”
“I made this choice myself,” Ituralde said. Oddly, he felt less tired than he had just moments ago.
“I have inspected your men,” al’Thor said. “There are so few left, and they are broken and battered. How did you hold this city? What you have done is a miracle.”
“I do what needs to be done.”
“You must have lost many friends.”
“I…Yes.” What other answer was there? To dismiss it as nothing would be to dishonor them. “Wakeda fell today. Rajabi…well, a Draghkar got him. Ankaer. He lasted until this afternoon. Never did find out why that trumpeter sounded early. Rossin was looking into it. He’s dead, too.”
“We need to get out of the city,” Bashere said, his voice urgent. “I’m sorry, man. Maradon is lost.”
“No,” al’Thor said softly. “The Shadow will not have this city. Not after what these men did to hold it. I will not allow it.”
“An honorable sentiment,” Bashere said, “but we don’t…” He trailed off as al’Thor looked at him.
Those eyes. So intense. They seemed almost alight. “They will not take this city, Bashere,” al’Thor said, an edge of anger entering his quiet voice. He waved to the side, and a gateway split the air. The sounds of drums and Trollocs yelling grew closer, suddenly. “I’m tired of letting him hurt my people. Pull your soldiers back.”
With that, al’Thor stepped through the gateway. A pair of Aiel Maidens hurried into the room, and he left the gateway open long enough for them to leap through behind him. Then he let it vanish.
Bashere looked stunned, mouth half-open. “Curse that man!” he finally said, turning to the window again. “I thought he wasn’t going to do this sort of thing any longer!”
Ituralde joined Bashere, raising his looking glass, looking out through the enormous gap in the wall. Outside, al’Thor was crossing the trampled ground, wearing his brown cloak and followed by the two Maidens.
Ituralde thought he could hear the sounds of the howling Trollocs. Their drums beat. They saw three people alone.
The Trollocs surged forward, charging across the ground. Hundreds. Thousands. Ituralde gasped. Bashere uttered a quiet prayer.
Al’Thor raised one hand, then thrust it—palm forward—toward the tide of Shadowspawn.
And they started to die.
It began with waves of fire, much like the ones Asha’man used. Only these were far larger. The flames burned terrible swaths of death through the Trollocs. They followed the course of the land, seeping up the hill and down into the trenches, filling them with white-hot fire, searing and destroying.
Clouds of Draghkar spun in the sky, diving for al’Thor. The air above him turned blue, and shards of ice exploded outward, spraying the air like arrows from the bows of an entire banner of archers. The beasts shrieked their inhuman agony, carcasses tumbling to the ground.
Light and Power exploded from the Dragon Reborn. He was like an entire army of channelers. Thousands of Shadowspawn died. Deathgates sprang up, striking across the
