The Gathering Storm

effective as towers. We'll need to set up a killing field outside. Cut down as many trees around the palisade here as possible, then set the logs inside as barriers, a second line of retreat. We'll hold strong. Perhaps I'm wrong about those Taraboners, and they'll ride to aid us. Or maybe the king has a hidden army stashed away to defend us. Blood and ashes, maybe we'll fight them off here on our own. We'll see how much they like fighting without their damane. We'll survive.'

Rajabi straightened visibly, growing confident. That was the kind of talk Ituralde knew he expected. Like the others, Rajabi trusted the Little Wolf. They didn't believe he could fail.

Ituralde knew better. But if you were going to die, you did it with dignity. The young Ituralde had often dreamed of wars, of the glory of battle. The old Ituralde knew there was no such thing as glory to be had in battle. But there was honor.

'My Lord Ituralde!' a runner called, trotting along the inside of the unfinished palisade wall. He was a boy, young enough that the Seanchan would probably let him live. Otherwise Ituralde would have sent the lad, and those like him, away.

'Yes?' Ituralde asked, turning. Rajabi stood like a small mountain at his side.

'A man,' the boy said, puffing. 'The scouts caught him walking into the sledding.'

'Come to fight for us?' Ituralde said. It was not uncommon for an army to draw recruits. There were always those tempted by the lure of glory, or at least by the lure of steady meals.

'No, my Lord,' the boy said, puffing. 'He says he's come to see you.'

'Seanchan?' Rajabi barked.

The boy shook his head. 'No. But he's got nice clothes.'

Some lord's messenger, then. Domani, or perhaps a Taraboner renegade. Whoever he was, he could hardly make their situation worse. 'And he came alone?'

'Yes, sir.'

Brave man. 'Bring him, then,' Ituralde said.

'Where will you receive him, my Lord?'

'What?' Ituralde snapped. 'You think I'm some fancy merchant with a palace? The field here will do. Go get him, but take your time getting back. And make sure he's properly guarded.'

The boy nodded and ran off. Ituralde waved over some soldiers and sent them running for Wakeda and the other officers. Shimron was dead, burned to char by a damane's fireball. Too bad, that. Ituralde would rather have kept him than many of the others.

Most of the officers arrived before the stranger. Lanky Ankaer. One-eyed Wakeda, who might otherwise have been a handsome man. Squat Melarned. Youthful Lidrin, who continued to follow Ituralde after his father's death.

'What is this I hear?' Wakeda asked, folding his arms as he strode up. 'We're staying in this death trap? Rodel, we don't have the troops to resist. If they come, we'll be trapped here.'

'You're right,' Ituralde said simply.

Wakeda turned to the others, then back to Ituralde, a little of his irritation deflated in the face of Ituralde's frank answer. 'Well . . . why don't we run, then?' He blustered a lot less now than he had just months ago, when Ituralde had first begun this campaign.

'I won't give you sugar and lies,' Ituralde said, looking at them each in turn. 'We're in a bad shape. But we'll be in a worse shape if we run. We've got no more holes to hide in. These trees will work to our advantage, and we can fortify. The stedding will negate the damam, and that alone is worth the price of staying. We fight here.'

Ankaer nodded, seeming to understand the gravity of the situation. 'We have to trust him, Wakeda. He's led us right so far.'

Wakeda nodded. 'I suppose.'

Bloody fools. Four months ago, half of them would have killed him on sight for staying loyal to the king. Now they thought he could do the impossible. It was a pity; he was beginning to think he could have brought them back to Alsalam as loyalists. 'All right,' he said, pointing at various spots along their fortification. 'Here's what we're going to do to shore up the weak points. I want ...'

He trailed off as he saw a group approaching through the clearing. The messenger boy, accompanied by a squad of soldiers, escorting a man in red and gold.

Something about the newcomer drew Ituralde's eyes. Perhaps it was the height; the young man was as tall as an Aiel, and fair of hair like them as well. But no Aiel dressed in a fine red coat with sharp golden embroidery. There was a sword at his side, and the way the newcomer walked made Ituralde think he knew how to use it. He strode with firm, determined steps, as if he thought the soldiers around him an honor guard. A lord, then, and one accustomed to command. Why had he come in person, rather than sending a messenger?

The young lord stopped a short length in front of Ituralde and his generals, looking at each of them in turn, then focused on Ituralde. 'Rodel Ituralde?' he asked. What accent was that? Andoran?

'Yes,' Ituralde said cautiously.

The young man nodded. 'Bashere's description was accurate. You appear to be boxing yourself in, here. Do you honestly expect to hold against the Seanchan army? They are many times your size, and your Tarabon allies do not appear . . . eager to join you in your defense.'

He had good intelligence, whoever he was. 'I am not in the habit of discussing my defenses with strangers.' Ituralde studied the young lord. He was fit—lean and hard, though it was difficult to tell with the coat on. He favored his right hand, and on closer inspection, Ituralde noticed that the left hand was missing. Both of his forearms had some kind of strange red and gold tattoo on them.

Those eyes. Those were eyes which had seen death a number of times. Not just a young lord. A young general. Ituralde narrowed his eyes. 'Who are you?'

The stranger met his eyes. 'I am Rand al'Thor, the Dragon Reborn. And I need you. You and your army.'

Several of those with Ituralde cursed, and Ituralde glanced at them. Wakeda was incredulous, Rajabi surprised, young Lidrin openly dismissive.

Ituralde looked back at the newcomer. The Dragon Reborn? This youth? He supposed it could be possible. Most rumors agreed that the Dragon Reborn was a young man with red hair. But, then, rumors also claimed he was ten feet tall, and still others said his eyes glowed in dim light. And then there were the stories of him appearing in the sky at Falme. Blood and ashes, Ituralde didn't know if he believed that the Dragon had been reborn in the first place!

'I haven't time to argue,' the stranger said, face impassive. He seemed . . . older than he looked. He didn't appear to care that he was surrounded by armed soldiers. In fact, his coming alone ... it should have seemed like such a foolish act. Instead it made Ituralde thoughtful. Only one such as the Dragon Reborn himself could stride into a war camp like this, completely alone, and expect to be obeyed.

Burn him, if that fact by itself didn't make Ituralde want to believe him. Either this man was who he claimed to be or he was an utter lunatic.

'If we go outside the stedding, I will prove I can channel,' the stranger said. 'That should count for something. Give me leave, and I'll have ten thousand Aiel here and several Aes Sedai, all of whom will swear to you that I am who I say.'

The rumors also said Aiel followed the Dragon Reborn. The men around Ituralde coughed and glanced about uncomfortably. Many had been Dragonsworn before coming to Ituralde. With the right words, this Rand al'Thor— or whoever he was—might be able turn Ituralde's camp against itself.

'Even if we assume that I believe you,' Ituralde said carefully, 'I don't see that it matters. I have a war to fight. You have other business to concern you, I assume.'

'You are my concern,' al'Thor said, eyes so hard that they seemed ready to burrow into Ituralde's skull and search about inside for anything of use. 'You must make peace with the Seanchan. This war gains us nothing. I want you up on the Borderlands; I can't spare men to guard the Blight, and the Borderlanders themselves have abandoned their duties.'

'I have orders,' Ituralde said, shaking his head. Wait. He wouldn't do as this youth asked if he didn't have orders. Except . . . those eyes. Alsalam had had eyes like that, when they