(no subject)
[Before: The fringe of the Blight.]
"Fire and ashes, my lord." Varia Merillan curls her lip as if she's about to spit, though she doesn't. Water is too precious to waste, and there's no point in feeding this land. "Not a Runner in four days. I haven't seen a tree stir since we crossed the Gap."
"They're hiding," mutters Neril Gerellin, wrapping one big fist around the lance tied to his saddle. He wears his hair in a Shienaran topknot, but there's no breeze for it to wave in. "Biding their bloody time for us."
Varia snorts. "Peace! Since when have the Blight's creatures had the brains to hide?"
"Some do," Neril says darkly.
Lan grunts. "They hide, or they've been summoned."
A sickly beam of sunlight filters through a gap in the clouds, and glints off the white dot of Varia's widow's ki'sain as she glances up at him sharply. Lan says nothing more, and for a moment neither do the other two.
It would be unprecedented. The Blight's creatures are animals: twisted, unnatural, vicious, but no brighter than a bear or a cow. They can be roused or driven by fear, no more. But on the eve of the Last Battle, with the seals of the Dark One's prison crumbling -- who knows?
Varia jerks her chin defiantly, touching hand to hilt. Few women wear swords, but Varia Merillan is an exception to many things. She grew up in Saldaea, her parents' only child born after their four sons died in Malkier's fall, and it shows. "Burn me! We'll make them wish they'd hidden longer."
Neril grunts. "Light willing."
Five days more. On the sixth day, the trees begin to thin, and the squelching undergrowth gradually yields to a dry, crumbling clay. Two more days, and they're out of the Blight and into the Blasted Lands -- the scorched, sere desert surrounding the mountain of Shayol Ghul.
Three and a half thousand years ago, this land was destroyed in the Breaking of the World. It has never recovered. Even now, nothing grows here. Strange vapors ooze from cracks in bare rock; stone twists into tortured shapes, worn by wind and scouring sand. It's a misshapen landscape, like a corpse mutilated and baked beneath the sun. In comparison to this, the Aiel Waste looks like a welcoming pasture.
Lan has never seen the Blasted Lands before, except in a few glances from a distance. No one here has.
But they know where they're going. Shayol Ghul rises above the cracked plain, a smoking ruin hulking far off against the horizon. It dominates the horizon.
Lan touches light heels to Mandarb's sides, and around him the others ride forward.
All these men and women are seasoned warriors, and tried in a hundred battles in the Blight. But Lan is the only Warder here.
That means he's often one of the advance riders, scouting ahead of the long armored column of riders. The Warder's honor, as they say: to be first to go in, and last to come out. It has nothing to do with leadership -- a general would stay in the heart of the army for this -- and everything to do with practicality. He has greater stamina than the others, and a Warder's sense of the Shadow. Everything here is tainted, but a Halfman or a group of Trollocs have a particular stink. He'll know if any is within half a mile.
Which is why he's the first one to crest the rim of a wide valley, and stop dead at the sight before him.
"Fire and ashes, my lord." Varia Merillan curls her lip as if she's about to spit, though she doesn't. Water is too precious to waste, and there's no point in feeding this land. "Not a Runner in four days. I haven't seen a tree stir since we crossed the Gap."
"They're hiding," mutters Neril Gerellin, wrapping one big fist around the lance tied to his saddle. He wears his hair in a Shienaran topknot, but there's no breeze for it to wave in. "Biding their bloody time for us."
Varia snorts. "Peace! Since when have the Blight's creatures had the brains to hide?"
"Some do," Neril says darkly.
Lan grunts. "They hide, or they've been summoned."
A sickly beam of sunlight filters through a gap in the clouds, and glints off the white dot of Varia's widow's ki'sain as she glances up at him sharply. Lan says nothing more, and for a moment neither do the other two.
It would be unprecedented. The Blight's creatures are animals: twisted, unnatural, vicious, but no brighter than a bear or a cow. They can be roused or driven by fear, no more. But on the eve of the Last Battle, with the seals of the Dark One's prison crumbling -- who knows?
Varia jerks her chin defiantly, touching hand to hilt. Few women wear swords, but Varia Merillan is an exception to many things. She grew up in Saldaea, her parents' only child born after their four sons died in Malkier's fall, and it shows. "Burn me! We'll make them wish they'd hidden longer."
Neril grunts. "Light willing."
Five days more. On the sixth day, the trees begin to thin, and the squelching undergrowth gradually yields to a dry, crumbling clay. Two more days, and they're out of the Blight and into the Blasted Lands -- the scorched, sere desert surrounding the mountain of Shayol Ghul.
Three and a half thousand years ago, this land was destroyed in the Breaking of the World. It has never recovered. Even now, nothing grows here. Strange vapors ooze from cracks in bare rock; stone twists into tortured shapes, worn by wind and scouring sand. It's a misshapen landscape, like a corpse mutilated and baked beneath the sun. In comparison to this, the Aiel Waste looks like a welcoming pasture.
Lan has never seen the Blasted Lands before, except in a few glances from a distance. No one here has.
But they know where they're going. Shayol Ghul rises above the cracked plain, a smoking ruin hulking far off against the horizon. It dominates the horizon.
Lan touches light heels to Mandarb's sides, and around him the others ride forward.
All these men and women are seasoned warriors, and tried in a hundred battles in the Blight. But Lan is the only Warder here.
That means he's often one of the advance riders, scouting ahead of the long armored column of riders. The Warder's honor, as they say: to be first to go in, and last to come out. It has nothing to do with leadership -- a general would stay in the heart of the army for this -- and everything to do with practicality. He has greater stamina than the others, and a Warder's sense of the Shadow. Everything here is tainted, but a Halfman or a group of Trollocs have a particular stink. He'll know if any is within half a mile.
Which is why he's the first one to crest the rim of a wide valley, and stop dead at the sight before him.