Towers of Midnight (72 page)

Mat threw his ashandarei.

The broad-bladed spear was not meant for throwing, but he did not have a knife handy. He aimed for the gholam's head. One would have never known that, for he missed pitifully. Fortunately, the weapon dipped down and passed between the gholam's legs.

The monster tripped, thudding heavily to the paving stones. Talmanes scrambled back up the steps of the now-blazing building.

Bless this luck of mine, Mat thought.

The gholam stood up and made a motion to follow Talmanes, but then

looked down at what had tripped it. The creature looked at Mat with a wicked grin, half its face cast in the light of the burning building. The creature picked up Mat's ashandarei
 
foxhead medallion still tied to the front
 
 
then whipped its hand to the side, tossing the weapon away. The ashandarei crashed through a window and passed into the burning building.

Lamps sparked on inside, as if those living there were only now noticing the fight happening in their proximity. Talmanes gave Mat a look, and they met eyes. The Cairhienin man threw himself against the door into the burning building and broke in. The gholam spun on Mat, backlit by the growing flames. They blazed quickly, and Mat's heart thumped with alarm as the creature came for him, unnaturally fast.

Mat reached into his coat pockets with sweaty fingers. Right before the gholam reached him
 
hands going for Mat's neck
 
Mat pulled something out with each hand, slamming them forward into the gholam's palms. Hissing rang in the air, like meat being placed on a grill, and the gholam screeched in pain. It stumbled, wide-eyed, as it looked at Mat.

Who held a foxhead medallion in each hand.

He whipped them out, each held on a long, thick chain, spinning them. The medallions caught firelight, seeming to glow as Mat whipped them at the gholam, striking it on the arm.

The creature howled, backing up another step. "How?" it demanded. "How!"

"Don't rightly know myself." Elayne had said her copies weren't perfect, but it seemed they did the job well enough. So long as they hurt the gholam, he didn't care about their other abilities. Mat grinned, spinning the second medallion forward. "Guess I just got lucky."

The gholam glared at him, then stumbled up the steps toward the burning building. It dashed inside, perhaps deciding to flee. Mat was not about to let it escape, not this time. He charged it up the steps and ducked through the flaming doorway, reaching out a hand as Talmanes tossed his ashandarei to him from a side hallway.

Mat caught the weapon, leaving the medallions wrapped around his forearms. The gholam spun on him; the hallway was already burning, the heat from the sides and above oppressive. Smoke lined the ceiling. Talmanes coughed, a kerchief held to his face.

The gholam turned on Mat, snarling and attacking. Mat met the beast in the middle of the wide hallway, bringing up his ashandarei to block the gholam s clawlike hands. The butt of Mat's ashandarei had been singed from sitting in the fire, and the wood smoldered at the end. It left a trail of smoke in the air.

He attacked for all he was worth, spinning the ashandarei, the back end leaving a whirl of smoke around him. The gholam tried to strike at him, but Mat dropped the ashandarei with one hand and flung one of the medallions like a knife, hitting the creature in the face. It howled and stumbled back, face burned and smoking. Mat stepped forward, slamming the end of the ashandarei against the medallion as it hit the floor, flipping it back up and hitting the creature again.

He pushed forward, slashing with the ashandarei, and several of the creature's fingers flew free. Sure, it did not bleed and did not seem to feel pain from ordinary wounds, but that would slow it a bit.

The gholam recovered, hissing, eyes wide with anger. Its smile was gone now. It leaped forward in a blur, but Mat spun and sliced down the creature's tan shirt, exposing its chest. Then he whipped the second medallion to the side, hitting the gholam as it clawed at his arm, slicing the skin and spraying blood across the wall.

Mat grunted. The gholam howled and stumbled back, farther down the burning hallway. Mat was sweating from the heat, from the exertion. Mat could not fight this creature. Not for long. That did not matter. He pushed forward, letting his ashandarei become a blur. He slapped the flat of it
 
 
with the medallion
 
against the gholam. When the beast recovered, he flung the second medallion at its face, making it duck. But then he kicked the third one up to hit it on the neck.

He left lines of smoke in the air as he spun the ashandarei, grabbing it in two hands again. The end of his weapon glowed and smoldered. He found himself yelling in the Old Tongue.

"Al dival, al kiserai, al mashif" For light, glory, and love!

The gholam stepped back, snarling at the barrage. It looked over its shoulder, seeming to notice something behind, but Mat's attack drew its attention back.

"Tai'daisharf" True Blood of Battle!

Mat forced the creature toward an open doorway at the back of the hallway. The room beyond was entirely dark. No light of the fires reflected off walls there.

"Carai manshimaya Tylin. Carai an manshimaya Nalesean. Carai an man-shimaya ayend'an!" Honor of my blade for Tylin. Honor of my blade for Nalesean. Honor of my blade for the fallen.

The call of vengeance.

The gholam backed into the darkened room, stepping onto a bone white floor, eyes flickering down.

Taking a deep breath, Mat leaped through the doorway with a final

burst of strength and slammed the smoldering butt of his ashandarei into the side of the creature's head. A spray of sparks and ash exploded around its face. The creature cursed and stumbled to the right.

And there, it nearly stepped off the edge of a platform hanging above an expansive void. The gholam hissed in anger, hanging with one leg over the void, flailing to keep its balance.

From this side, the doorway into the room was ringed by a glowing white light
 
the edges of a gateway made for Skimming. "I don't know if you can die," Mat said softly. "I hope to the Light that you can't." He raised a boot and slammed it into the thing's back, throwing it off the platform into the darkness. It fell, twisting in the air, looking up at him with a horror.

"I hope you can't die," Mat said, "because I'm going to enjoy the thought of you falling through that blackness forever, you misbegotten son of a goat's droppings." Mat spit over the side, sending a bit of bloody spittle down, plummeting after the gholam. Both disappeared into the blackness below.

Sumeko walked up beside him. The stout Kinswoman had long dark hair and the air of a woman who did not like being ordered about. Nearly every woman had that same air. She'd been standing just inside the gateway, to the side where she would be unseen from the hallway. She had to be there to maintain the white platform, which was in the shape of a large book. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Thanks for the gateway," Mat said, shouldering his ashandarei, the butt still trailing a thin line of smoke. She'd made the gateway from inside the palace, using it to travel to this point and open the gateway in the hallway. They'd hoped that would keep the gholam from feeling her channel, as she'd made the weaves in the palace.

Sumeko sniffed. Together, the two walked out through the gateway and into the building. Several of the Band were hurriedly putting out the fire. Talmanes rushed up to Mat as the gateway vanished, accompanied by another of the Kinswomen, Julanya.

"You sure that darkness goes on forever?" Mat asked. Julanya was a plump, pretty woman who would have fit nicely on Mat's knee. The white in her hair did not detract from her prettiness at all.

"Near as we can tell, it does," Sumeko said. "This was quite nearly bungled, Matrim Cauthon. The thing didn't seem surprised by the gateway. I think it sensed it anyway."

"Still managed to fight it off the platform," Mat said.

"Barely. You should have let us deal with the beast."

"Wouldn't have worked," Mat said, taking a wetted kerchief from Talmanes. Sumeko glanced at his arm, but Mat didn't ask for Healing. That cut would heal right nicely. Might even have a good scar. Scars impressed most women, so long as they were not on the face. What did Tuon think of them?

Sumeko sniffed. "The pride of men. Do not forget that we lost some of our own to that thing."

"And I'm glad I could help you get revenge," Mat said. He smiled at her, though she was right, it had nearly been bungled. He was certain the gholam had felt the Kinswoman beyond that doorway as they approached. Fortunately, though, the thing hadn't seemed to consider woman who could channel to be a threat.

Talmanes handed Mat back the two fallen medallions. He tucked them away and untied the one on his ashandarei, slipping it back onto his neck. The Kin watched those medallions with a predatory hunger. Well, they could do that all they wanted. He intended one for Olver and the other for Tuon, once he could find her.

Captain Guybon, Birgitte's second-in-command, walked into the building. "The beast is dead?"

"No," Mat said, "but close enough for a Crown contract."

"Crown contract?" Guybon asked, frowning. "You asked the Queen's aid on this endeavor. This wasn't done on her contract."

"Actually," Talmanes said, clearing his throat, "we just rid the city of a murderer who has taken, at last count, nearly a dozen of her citizens. We're entitled to combat pay, I surmise." He said it with a completely straight face. Bless the man.

"Bloody right," Mat said. Stopping the gholam and getting paid for it. That sounded like a sunny day for a change. He tossed his kerchief to Guybon and walked away, leaving behind the Kinswomen who folded their arms and watched with displeasure. Why was it a woman could look angry with a man even when he had done exactly what he had said he would, risking his neck even?

"Sorry about the fire, Mat," Talmanes said. "Didn't mean to drop the lantern like that. I know I was just supposed to lead him into the building."

"Worked out fine," Mat said, inspecting the butt of his ashandarei. The damage was minor.

They had not known where
 
or if
 
the gholam would attack him, but Guybon had done his job well, getting everyone out of the nearby buildings, then picking a hallway that the Kinswoman would make the gateway into. He'd sent a member of the Band to tell Talmanes where to go.

Well, Elayne and Birgitte's idea with the gateway had worked out, even if it hadn't been the way they'd planned. It was still better than what Mat had been able to come with; his only idea bad been to try to stuff one of those medallions down the gholam's throat.

"Let's collect Setalle and Olver from their inn," Mat said, "and get back to camp. Excitement's over for now. About bloody time."

CHAPTER 32

A Storm of Light

The city of Maradon burned. Violent, twisting columns of smoke rose from dozens of buildings. The careful city planning kept the fires from spreading too quickly, but did not stop them entirely.
Human beings and tinder.
They went together.

Ituralde crouched inside a broken building, rubble to his left, a small band of Saldaeans to his right. He'd abandoned the palace early on; it had been swarmed with Shadowspawn. He'd left it packed with all the oil they'd been able to find, then had the Asha'man set it aflame, killing hundreds of Trollocs and Fades trapped inside.

He glanced out the window of his current hiding place. He could have sworn he'd seen a patch of bare sky out the window, but the ash and smoky haze in the air made it difficult to tell. A building nearby burned so intensely that he could feel the heat through the stone.

He used the smoke and the fire. Almost everything on a battlefield could be an advantage. In this case, once Yoeli had accepted that the city was lost, they'd stopped defending it. Now they used the city as a killing ground.

The streets created a maze that
Ituralde
 
with
the help of the Saldaeans
 
knew and his enemies did not. Every rooftop was a ridge to give high ground, every alley a secret escape route, every open square a potential trap.

The Trollocs and their commanders had made a mistake. They as

sumed
that Ituralde cared about protecting the city. They mistook him. All he cared about now was doing as much damage to them as possible. So, he used their assumptions against him. Yes, their army was large. But any man who had ever tried to kill rats knew that the size of his hammer didn't matter so long as the rats knew how to hide.

A hesitant group of the creatures shuffled down the blackened street outside Ituralde's building. The Trollocs snapped and hooted warily at one another. Some sniffed at the air, but the smoke ruined their sense of smell. They completely missed Ituralde and his small band, just inside the building.

Hoofbeats rang on the other end of the street. The Trollocs began to shout, and a group hurried to the front, setting wickedly barbed spears down with the butts against the cobbles. Charging that would be death for cavalry. The Trollocs were learning to be more careful.

But they weren't learning well enough. The cavalry came into view, revealing one man leading a group of wounded and exhausted horses.
A distraction.

"Now," Ituralde said. The archers around him sprang up and began shooting out the windows at the Trollocs. Many died; others spun and charged.

And from a side street a cavalry
charge
 
the
horses' hooves covered with rags to dampen sound
 
galloped out, their approach covered by the louder hooves of the diversionary horses. The Saldaeans ripped through the Trollocs, trampling and killing.

The archers whooped and took out swords and axes to finish off the wounded Trollocs. No Fade with this group, bless the Light. Ituralde stood up, a wet handkerchief to his face against the smoke. His
weariness
 
once
buried deep
 
was slowly resurfacing. He was worried that when it hit him, he'd drop unconscious. Bad for morale, that.

No, he thought, hiding in the hole while your home burns, knowing that the Trollocs are slowly penning you in . . . that's bad for morale.

His men finished off the fist of Trollocs, then hastened to another pre-decided building that they could hide in. Ituralde had about thirty archers and a company of cavalry, which he moved among five independent bands of irregular fighters similar to this one. He waved his men back into hiding while his scouts brought him information. Even with the scouts, it was difficult to get a good read on the large city. He had vague ideas of where the strongest resistance was, and sent what orders he could, but the battle was spread over too large an area for him to be able to coordinate the fighting effectively. He hoped Yoeli was well.

The Asha'man were gone, escaping at his order through the tiny gateway
 
 
only large enough to crawl
through
 
that
Antail had made. Since they'd
gone
 
it
was hours ago now
 
there had been no sign of whatever "rescuers" were supposedly coming. Before the Asha'man left, he'd sent a scout through a gateway to that ridge where the Lastriders had been said to watch. All that the scout found was an empty camp, the fire burning unattended.

Ituralde joined his men inside the new hiding place, leaving his
handkerchief
 
now
stained with soot
 
on the doorknob to give the scouts a clue to his location. Once inside, he froze, hearing something outside.

"Hush," he said to the men. They stilled their clinking armor.

Footfalls.
Many of them.
That was a Trolloc band for certain; his men had orders to move silently. He nodded to his soldiers, holding up six fingers.
Plan number six.
They'd hide, waiting, hoping the creatures would pass them by. If they
didn't
 
if
they delayed, or started searching the nearby buildings
 
his team would burst out and broadside them.

It was the riskiest of the plans. His men were exhausted and the cavalry had been sent to another of his group of defenders. But better to attack than be discovered or surrounded.

Ituralde sidled up to the window, waiting, listening,
breathing
shal-lowly. Light, but he was tired. The group marched around the corner outside, footfalls in unison. That was odd. Trollocs didn't march so regularly.

"My Lord," one of his men whispered. "There aren't any hooves."

Ituralde froze. The man was right. His tiredness was making him stupid. That's an army of hundreds, he thought. He got to his feet, coughing despite himself, and pushed open the door. He stepped outside.

A gust of wind blew down the street as Ituralde's men piled out behind him. The wind cleared the smoke for a moment, revealing a large troop of infantry kitted out in silvery armor and carrying pikes. They seemed ghosts for a
moment
 
glowing
in a phantom golden light from above, a sun he had not seen in months.

The newcomers began to call as they saw him and his men, and two of their officers charged up to him. They were Saldaean. "Where is your commander?" one asked.
"The man Rodel Ituralde?"

"I . . ." Ituralde found himself coughing. "I am he. Who are you?"

"Bless the Light," one of the men said, turning back to the others. "Pass the word to Lord Bashere! We've found him!"

Ituralde blinked. He looked back at his filthy men, faces blackened with soot. More than a few had an arm in a sling. He'd started with two hundred. Now there were fifty. They should be celebrating, but most of them sat down on the ground, closing their eyes.

Ituralde found himself laughing.
"Now?
The Dragon sends help
now
 
?"
He stumbled, then sat down, staring up at the burning sky. He was laughing, and he could not stop. Soon tears began streaking down his cheeks.

Yes, there was sunlight up there.

Ituralde had regained some composure by the time the troops led him into a well-defended sector of the city. The smoke here was much less thick. Supposedly, al'Thor's
troops
 
led
by Davram Bashere
 
had reclaimed most of Maradon. What was left of
it.
They'd been putting out the fires.

It was so odd to see troops with shiny armor, neat uniforms,
clean
faces. They'd swept in with large numbers of Asha'man and Aes Sedai, and an army
that
 
for
now
 
had been enough to drive the Shadowspawn back to the hillside fortifications above the river. Al'Thor's men led him to a tall building inside the city. With the palace burned out, mostly destroyed, it looked like they'd picked this building as a command center.

Ituralde had been fighting a draining war for weeks now. Al'Thor's troops seemed almost too clean. His men had been dying while these men washed and slept and dined on hot food?

Stop it, he told himself, entering the building. It was far too easy to blame others when a battle went wrong. It wasn't the fault of these men that their lives had been easier than his recently.

He labored up the stairs, wishing they'd let him be. A good night's sleep, a wash, and then he could meet with Bashere. But no, that wouldn't do. The battle wasn't over, and al'Thor's men would need information. It was just that his mind was failing him, working very slowly.

He reached the top floor and followed Bashere's soldiers into a room to the right. Bashere stood there, wearing a burnished breastplate without the matching helmet, hands clasped behind his back as he looked out the window. He wore one of those overly large Saldaean mustaches and a pair of olive trousers stuffed into knee-high boots.

Bashere turned and started.
"Light!
You look like death itself, man!" He turned to the soldiers. "He should be in the Healer's tent! Someone fetch an Asha'man!"

"I'm all right," Ituralde said, forcing sternness into his voice. "I look worse than I feel, I'd warrant."

The soldiers hesitated, looking to Bashere. "Well," the man said, "at least get him a chair and something to wipe his face with. You poor fellow; we should have been here days ago."

Outside, Ituralde could hear the sounds of distant battle. Bashere had chosen a tall building, one from which he could survey the fighting. The soldiers brought a chair,
and
 
for
all his wish to show a strong face to a fellow general
 
Ituralde sat with a sigh.

He looked down, and was amazed to see how dirty his hands were, as though he'd been cleaning a hearth. No doubt his face was soot-covered, streaked with sweat, and there was likely still dried blood on it. His clothing was ragged from the blast that had destroyed the wall, not to mention a hastily bandaged cut on his arm.

"Your defense of this city was nothing short of stunning, Lord Ituralde," Bashere said. There was a formality to his
tone
 
Saldaea
and Arad Doman were not enemies, but two strong nations could not share a border without periods of animosity. "The number of Trollocs dead compared to the number of men you had . . . and with a gap that large in the wall . . . Let me say that I'm impressed." Bashere's tone implied that such praise was not easily given.

"What of Yoeli?" Ituralde asked.

Bashere's expression grew grim. "My men found a small band defending his corpse. He died bravely, though I was surprised to find him in command and
Torkumen
 
a
distant cousin of mine, the presumed leader of the city
 
locked in his rooms, and abandoned, where the Trollocs could have gotten him."

"Yoeli was a good man," Ituralde said stiffly. "Among the bravest I've had the honor of knowing. He saved my life, brought my men into the city against Torkumen's orders. It's a burning shame to lose him.
A burning shame.
Without Yoeli, Maradon wouldn't stand right now."

"It hardly stands anyway," Bashere said somberly.

Ituralde hesitated. He's uncle to the
Queen
 
this
city is probably his home.

The two looked at one another, like old wolves, leaders of rival packs.
Stepping softly.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Ituralde said.

"The city stands as well as it does," Bashere said, "because of you. I'm not angry, man. I'm saddened, but not angry. And I'll take your word on Yoeli. To be frank, I've never liked Torkumen. For now, I've left him in the room where we found
him
 
still
alive, thankfully
 
though I'll hear thunder from the Queen for what's been done to him. She's always been fond of him. Bah! She normally has better judgment."

Bashere nodded to the side when he spoke of Torkumen,
and
 
with
a start
 
Ituralde realized that he recognized this building. This was Torkumen's home, where Yoeli had brought Ituralde on his first day in the city. It made sense to choose this building as a command
post
 
it
was close enough to the northern wall to have a good view of the outside, but far enough away from the blast to have survived, unlike the Council Hall.

Well, it would have served Torkumen right if the Trollocs had gotten him. Ituralde sat back, closing his eyes, as Bashere consulted with his officers. Bashere was capable, that much was obvious. Very quickly he'd swept the city clean; once the Trollocs had realized that there was a larger force to fight, they'd abandoned the city. Ituralde could feel pride that, in part, his tenacity was what had made them so quick to run.

Ituralde continued to listen. Most of Bashere's troops had come into the city through gateways, after sending in one scout to find safe places to make them. Fighting in the streets wouldn't work for him as it had Ituralde; the hit-and-hide tactic had been devoted to doing as much damage as possible before getting killed. It was a losing tactic.