Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time 10 - Crossroads of Twilight

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Crossroads of Twilight
Crossroads of Twilight
Wheel of Time 10
Robert Jordan
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
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CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
EPILOGUE
GLOSSARY
And it shall come to pass, in the days when the Dark Hunt rides, when the right hand falters and the left
hand strays, that mankind shall come to the Crossroads of Twilight and all that is, all that was, and all that
will be shall balance on the point of a sword, while the winds of the Shadow grow.
- From The Prophecies of the Dragon translation believed done by Jain
Charin, known as Jain Farstrider,
shortly before his disappearance
Glimmers of the Pattern
Rodel Ituralde hated waiting, though he well knew it was the largest part of being a soldier. Waiting for
the next battle, for the enemy to move, to make a mistake. He watched the winter forest and was as still as
the trees. The sun stood halfway to its peak, and gave no warmth. His breath misted white in front of his
face, frosting his neatly trimmed mustache and the black fox fur lining his hood. He was glad that his
helmet hung at his pommel. His breastplate held the cold and radiated it through his coat and all the layers
of wool, silk and linen beneath. Even Dart’s saddle felt cold, as though the white gelding were made of
frozen milk. The helmet would have addled his brain.
Winter had come late to Arad Doman, very late, but with a vengeance. From summer heat that lingered
unnaturally into fall, to winter’s heart in less than a month. The leaves that had survived the long
summer’s drought had been frozen before they could change color, and now they glistened like strange,
ice-covered emeralds in the morning sun. The horses of the twenty-odd arms-men around him
occasionally stamped a hoof in the knee-deep snow. It had been a long ride this far, and they had farther
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to go whether this day turned out good or ill. Dark clouds roiled the sky to northward. He did not need his
weather-wise there to tell him the temperature would plummet before nightfall. They had to be under
shelter by then.
“Not as rough as winter before last, is it, my Lord?” Jaalam said quietly. The tall young officer had a way
of reading Ituralde’s mind, and his voice was pitched for the others to hear. “Even so, I suppose some
men would be dreaming of mulled wine about now. Not this lot, of course. Remarkably abstemious. They
all drink tea, I believe. Cold tea. If they had a few birch switches, they’d be stripping down for snow
baths.”
“They’ll have to keep their clothes on for the time being,” Ituralde replied dryly, “but they might get
some cold tea tonight, if they’re lucky.” That brought a few chuckles. Quiet chuckles. He had chosen
these men with care, and they knew about noise at the wrong time.
He himself could have done with a steaming cup of spiced wine, or even tea. But it was a long time since
merchants had brought tea to Arad Doman. A long time since any outland mer-chant had ventured farther
than the border with Saldaea. By the time news of the outside world reached him, it was as stale as last
month’s bread, if it was more than rumor to begin. That hardly mattered, though. If the White Tower truly
was divided against itself, or men who could channel really were being called to Caemlyn… well, the
world would have to do without Rodel Ituralde until Arad Doman was whole again. For the moment,
Arad Doman was more than enough for any sane man to go on with.
Once again he reviewed the orders he had sent, carried by the fastest riders he had, to every noble loyal to
the King. Divided as they were by bad blood and old feuds, they still shared that much. They would
gather their armies and ride when orders came from the Wolf; at least, so long as he held the King’s
favor. They would even hide in the mountains and wait, at his order. Oh, they would chafe, and some
would curse his name, but they would obey. They knew the Wolf won battles. More, they knew he won
wars. The Little Wolf, they called him when they thought he could not hear, but he did not care whether
they drew attention to his stature - well, not much - so long as they rode when and where he said. Very
soon they would be riding hard, moving to set a trap that would not spring for months. It was a long
chance he was taking. Complex plans had many ways to fall apart, and this plan had lay-ers inside layers.
Everything would be ruined before it began if he failed to provide the bait. Or if someone ignored his
order to evade couriers from the King. They all knew his reasons, though, and even the most stiff-necked
shared them, though few were willing to speak of the matter aloud. He himself had moved like a wraith
racing on a storm since he received Alsalam’s latest command. In his sleeve where the folded paper lay
tucked above the pale lace that fell onto his steel-backed gauntlet. They had one last chance, one very
small chance, to save Arad Doman. Perhaps even to save Alsalam from himself before the Council of
Merchants decided to put another man on the throne in his place. He had been a good ruler, for over
twenty years. The Light send that he could be again.
A loud crack to the south sent Ituralde’s hand to the hilt of his longsword. There was a faint creak of
leather and metal as others eased their weapons. For the rest, silence. The forest was as still as a frozen
tomb. Only a limb breaking under the weight of snow. After a moment, he let himself relax - as much as
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he had relaxed since the tales came north of the Dragon Reborn appearing in the sky at Palme. Perhaps
the man really was the Dragon Reborn, per-haps he really had appeared in the sky, but whatever the truth,
those tales had set Arad Doman on fire.
Ituralde was sure he could have put out that fire, given a freer hand. It was not boasting to think so. He
knew what he could do, with a battle, a campaign, or a war. But ever since the Council had decided the
King would be safer smuggled out of Bandar Eban, Alsalam seemed to have taken into his head that he
was the rebirth of Artur Hawkwing. His signature and seal had marked scores of battle orders since,
flooding out from wherever the Council had him hidden. They would not say where that was, even to
Ituralde himself. Every woman on the Council that he confronted went flat-eyed and evasive at any
mention of the King. He could almost believe they did not know where Alsalam was. A ridiculous
thought, of course. The Council kept an unblinking eye on the King. Ituralde had always believed the
merchant Houses interfered too much, yet he wished they would interfere now. Why they remained silent
was a mystery, for a king who damaged trade did not remain long on the throne.
He was loyal to his oaths, and Alsalam was a friend, besides, but the orders the King sent could not have
been better written to achieve chaos. Nor could they be ignored. Alsalam was the King. But he had
commanded Ituralde to march north with all possible speed against a great gathering of Dragonsworn that
Alsalam sup-posedly knew of from secret spies, then ten days later, with no Dragonsworn yet in sight, an
order came to move south again, with all possible speed, against another gathering that never
materialized. He had been commanded to concentrate his forces to defend Bandar Eban when a three-
pronged attack might have ended it all and to divide them when a hammer blow could have done the
same, to harry ground he knew the Dragonsworn had abandoned, and to march away from where he knew
they camped. Worse, Alsalam’s orders often had gone directly to the powerful nobles who were supposed
to be following Ituralde, sending Machir in this direction, Teacal in that, Rahman in a third. Four times,
pitched battles had resulted from parts of the army blunder-ing into one another in the night while moving
to the King’s express command and expecting none but enemies ahead. And all the while the
Dragonsworn gained numbers, and confidence. Itu-ralde had had his triumphs - at Solanje and Maseen, at
Lake Somal and Kandelmar - the Lords of Katar had learned not to sell the products of their mines and
forges to the enemies of Arad Doman - but always, Alsalam’s orders wasted his gains.
This last order was different, though. For one thing, a Gray Man had killed Lady Tuva trying to stop it
from reaching him. Why the Shadow might fear this order more than any other was a mystery, yet it was
all the more reason to move swiftly. Before Alsalam reached him with another. This order opened many
possi-bilities, and he had considered every last one he could see. But the good ones all started here, today.
When small chances of success were all that remained, you had to seize them.
A snowjay’s strident cry rang out in the distance, then a second time, a third. Cupping his hands around
his mouth, Ituralde repeated the three harsh calls. Moments later a shaggy, pale dapple gelding appeared
out of the trees, his rider in a white cloak streaked with black. Man and horse alike would have been hard
to see in the snowy forest had they been standing still. The rider pulled up beside Ituralde. A stocky man,
he wore only a single sword, with a short blade, and there were a cased bow and a quiver fastened to his
saddle.
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“Looks like they all came, my Lord,” he said in his perma-nently hoarse voice, pushing his cowl back
from his head. Some-one had tried to hang Donjel when he was young, though the reason was lost in the
years. What remained of his short-cropped hair was iron-gray. The dark leather patch covering the socket
of his right eye was a remnant of another youthful scrape. One eye or two, though, he was the best scout
Ituralde had ever known. “Most, anyways,” he went on. “They put two rings of sentries around the lodge,
one inside the other. You can see them a mile off, but nobody will get close without them at the lodge
hearing of it in time to get away. By the tracks, they didn’t bring no more men than you said they could,
not enough to count. Course,” he added wryly, “that still leaves you outnumbered a fair bit.”
Ituralde nodded. He had offered the White Ribbon, and the men he was to meet had accepted. Three days
when men pledged under the Light, by their souls and hope of salvation, not to draw a weapon against
another or shed blood. The White Ribbon had not been tested in this war, however, and these days some
men had strange ideas of where salvation lay. Those who called them-selves Dragonsworn, for instance.
He had always been called a gambler, though he was not. The trick was in knowing what risks you could
take. And sometimes, in knowing which ones you had to take.
Pulling a packet sewn into oiled silk from his boot top, he handed it to Donjel. “If I don’t reach Coron
Ford in two days, take this to my wife.”
The scout tucked the packet somewhere beneath his cloak, touched his forehead, and turned his horse
west. He had carried its like for Ituralde before, usually on the eve of battle. The Light send this was not
the time Tamsin would have to open that packet. She would come after him - she had told him so - the
first incident ever of the living haunting the dead.
“Jaalam,” Ituralde said, “let us see what waits at Lady Osana’s hunting lodge.” As he heeled Dart
forward, the others fell in behind him.
The sun rose to its height and began again to descend as they rode. The dark clouds in the north moved
closer, and the chill bit deeper. There was no sound but the crunch of hooves breaking through the snow
crust. The forest seemed empty save for them-selves. He did not see any of the sentries Donjel had
spoken of. The man’s opinion of what could be seen from a mile differed from that of most. They would
be expecting him, of course. And watching to make sure he was not followed by an army, White Ribbon
or no White Ribbon. A good many of them likely had reasons they felt sufficient to feather Rodel Ituralde
with arrows. A lord might pledge the White Ribbon for his men, but would all of those feel bound?
Sometimes, there were chances you just had to take.
About midafternoon, Osana’s so-called hunting lodge loomed suddenly out of the trees, a mass of pale
towers and slender, pointed domes that would have fitted well among the palaces of Bandar Eban itself.
Her hunting had always been for men or power, her trophies numerous and noteworthy despite her
relative youth, and the “hunts” that had taken place here would have raised eyebrows even in the capital.
The lodge lay desolate, now. Broken windows gaped like mouths with jagged teeth. None showed a
glimmer of light or movement. The snow covering the cleared ground around the lodge had been well
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trampled by horses, how-ever. The ornate brass-bound gates of the main courtyard stood open, and he
rode through without slowing, followed by his men. The horses’ hooves clattered on the paving stones,
where the snow had been beaten to slush.
No servants came out to greet him, not that he had expected any. Osana had vanished early in the troubles
that now shook Arad Doman like a dog shaking a rat, and her servants had drifted quickly to others of her
house, taking whatever places they could find. These days, the masterless starved, or turned bandit. Or
Dragonsworn. Dismounting in front of the broad marble stairway at the end of the courtyard, he handed
Dart’s reins to one of his armsmen, and Jaalam ordered the men to take shelter where they could find it
for themselves and the animals. Eyeing the marble balconies and wide windows that surrounded the
courtyard, they moved as if expecting a crossbow bolt between the shoulder blades. One set of stable
doors stood slightly ajar, but in spite of the cold, they divided themselves between the corners of the
courtyard, hud-dling with the horses where they could keep watch in every direc-tion. If the worst came,
perhaps a few might make it out.
Removing his gauntlets, he tucked them behind his belt and checked his lace as he climbed the stairs with
Jaalam. Snow that had been trodden underfoot and frozen again crackled beneath his boots. He refrained
from looking anywhere but straight ahead. He must appear supremely assured, as though there were no
possibil-ity events should go other than as he expected. Confidence was one key to victory. The other side
believing you were confident was sometimes almost as good as actually being confident. At the head of
the stairs, Jaalam pulled open one of the tall, carved doors by its gilded ring. Ituralde touched his beauty
spot with a finger to make sure it was in place - his cheeks were too cold to feel the black vel-vet star
clinging - before he stepped inside. As self-assured as he would have been at a ball.
The cavernous entry hall was as icy as the outside. Their breath made feathered mists. Unlit, the space
seemed already wreathed in twilight. The floor was a colorful mosaic of hunters and animals, the tiles
chipped in places, as though heavy weights had been dragged over them, or perhaps dropped. Aside from
a single top-pled plinth that might once have held a large vase or a small statue, the hall was bare. What
the servants had not taken when they fled had long since been looted by bandits. A single man awaited
them, white-haired and more gaunt than when Ituralde had last seen him. His breastplate was battered,
and his earring was just a small gold hoop, but his lace was immaculate, and the sparkling red quarter
moon beside his left eye would have gone well at court, in better times.
“By the Light, be welcome under the White Ribbon, Lord Itu-ralde,” he said formally, with a slight bow.
“By the Light, I come under the White Ribbon, Lord Shimron,” Ituralde replied, making his courtesy in
return. Shimron had been one of Alsalam’s most trusted advisors. Until he joined the Dragonsworn, at
least. Now he stood high in their councils. “My armsman is Jaalam Nishur, honor bound to House
Ituralde, as are all who came with me.”
There had been no House Ituralde before Rodel, but Shimron answered Jaalam’s bow, hand to heart.
“Honor be to honor. Will you accompany me, Lord Ituralde?” he said as he straightened.
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The great doors to the ballroom were gone from their hinges, though Ituralde could hardly imagine
bandits looting those. They left a tall pointed arch wide enough for ten men to pass. Within the
windowless oval room, half a hundred lanterns of every size and sort beat at shadows, though the light
barely reached the domed ceiling. Separated by a wide expanse of floor, two groups of men stood against
the painted walls, and if the White Ribbon had induced them to leave off helmets, all two hundred or
more were armored otherwise, and certainly no one had put aside his swords. To one side were a few
Domani lords as powerful as Shimron - Rajabi, Wakeda, Ankaer - each surrounded by his cluster of lesser
lords and sworn commoners and smaller clusters, of few as two or three, many containing no nobles at all.
The Dragonsworn had councils, but no one commander. Still, each of those men was a leader in his own
right, some counting their followers in scores, a few in thousands. None appeared happy to be where he
was, and one or two shot glares across the floor, to where fifty or sixty Taraboners stood in one solid
mass and scowled back. Drag-onsworn they might all be, yet there was little love lost between Domani
and Taraboners. Ituralde almost smiled at the sight of the outlanders, though. He had not dared to count
on half so many appearing today.
“Lord Rodel Ituralde comes under the White Ribbon.” Shim-ron’s voice rang through the lantern
shadows. “Let whoever may think of violence search his heart, and consider his soul.” And that was the
end of formality.
“Why does Lord Ituralde offer the White Ribbon?” Wakeda demanded, one hand gripping the hilt of his
longsword and the other in a fist at his side. He was not a tall man, though taller than Ituralde, but as
haughty as if he held the throne himself. Women had called him beautiful, once. Now a slanting black
scarf covered the socket of his missing right eye, and his beauty spot was a black arrowhead pointing at
the thick scar running from his cheek up onto his forehead. “Does he intend to join us? Or ask us to
surren-der? All know the Wolf is bold as well as devious. Is he that bold?” A rumble rose among the men
on his side of the room, part mirth, part anger.
Ituralde clasped his hands behind his back to keep from finger-ing the ruby in his left ear. That was
widely known as a sign that he was angry, and sometimes he did it on purpose, but he needed to present a
calm face, now. Even while the man spoke past his ear! No. Calm. Duels were entered into in anger, but
he was here to fight a duel, and that required calm. Words could be deadlier weapons than swords.
“Every man here knows we have another enemy to the south,” he said in a steady voice. “The Seanchan
have swallowed Tarabon.” He ran his gaze over the Taraboners, and met flat stares. He never had been
able to read Taraboners’ faces. Between those preposterous mustaches - like hairy tusks; worse than a
Saldaean’s! - and those ridiculous veils, they might as well wear masks, and the poor light from the
lanterns did not help. But he had seen them veiled in mail, and he needed them. “They have flooded onto
Almoth Plain, and moved ever north. Their intent is clear. They mean to have Arad Doman, too. They
mean to have the whole world, I fear.”
“Does Lord Ituralde want to know who we will support if these Seanchan invade us?” Wakeda demanded.
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“I have true faith you will fight for Arad Doman, Lord Wakeda,” Ituralde said mildly. Wakeda went
purple at having the direct insult flung in his teeth, and his oath-men’s hands went to hilts.
“Refugees have brought word that there are Aiel on the plain, now,” Shimron put in quickly, as though he
feared Wakeda might break the White Ribbon. None of Wakeda’s oath-men would draw steel unless he
did, or commanded them to. “They fight for the Dragon Reborn, so say the reports. He must have sent
them, per-haps as an aid to us. No one has ever defeated an Aiel army, not even Artur Hawkwing. You
recall the Blood Snow, Lord Ituralde, when we were younger? I believe you agree with me that we did
not defeat them there, whatever the histories may say, and I cannot believe the Seanchan have the
numbers we did then. I myself have heard of Seanchan moving south, away from the border. No, I
suspect the next we hear will be of them retreating from the plain, not advancing on us.” He was not a
bad commander in the field, but he had always been pedantic.
Ituralde smiled. Word came more swiftly from the south than from anywhere else, but he had been afraid
he would have to bring up the Aiel, and they might have thought he was trying to trick them. He could
hardly believe it himself, Aiel on Almoth Plain. He did not point out that Aiel sent to help the
Dragonsworn were more likely to have appeared in Arad Doman itself. “I’ve ques-tioned refugees, too,
and they speak of Aiel raids, not armies. Whatever the Aiel are doing on the plain may have slowed the
Seanchan, but it hasn’t turned them back. Their flying beasts have begun scouting on our side of the
border. That does not smack of retreat.”
Producing the paper from his sleeve with a flourish, he held it up so all could see the Sword and Hand
impressed in green-and-blue wax. As always of late, he had used a hot blade to separate the Royal Seal on
one side while leaving it whole, so he could show it unbroken to doubters. There had been plenty of
those, when they heard some of Alsalam’s orders. “I have orders from King Alsalam to gather as many
men as I can, from wherever I can find them, and strike as hard as I can at the Seanchan.” He took a deep
breath. Here, he took another chance, and Alsalam might have his head on the block unless the dice fell
the right way. “I offer a truce. I pledge in the King’s name not to move against you in any way so long as
the Seanchan remain a threat to Arad Doman, if you will all pledge the same and fight beside me against
them until they are beaten back.”
A stunned silence answered him. Bull-necked Rajabi appeared poleaxed. Wakeda chewed his lip like a
startled girl.
Then Shimron muttered, “Can they be beaten back, Lord Itu-ralde? I faced their… their chained Aes
Sedai on Almoth Plain, as did you.” Boots scraped the floor as men shifted their feet, and faces darkened
in bleak anger. No man liked to think he was helpless before an enemy, but enough had been there in the
early days, with Ituralde and Shimron, for all to know what this enemy was like.
“They can be defeated, Lord Shimron,” Ituralde replied, “even with their … little surprises.” A strange
thing to call the earth erupting under your feet, and scouts that rode what looked like Shadowspawn, but
he had to sound assured as well as look it. Besides, when you knew what the enemy could do, you
adapted. That had been one core of warfare long before the Seanchan appeared. Darkness cut the
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Seanchan advantages, and so did storms, and a weather-wise could always tell you when a storm was
coming. “A wise man stops chewing when he reaches bone,” he continued, “but so far, the Seanchan have
had their meat sliced thin before they reached for it. I intend to give them a tough shank to gnaw. More, I
have a plan to make them snap so fast they’ll break their teeth on bone before they have a mouthful of
meat. Now. I have pledged. Will you?”
It was hard not to hold his breath. Each man seemed to be looking inward. He could all but see them
mulling it over. The Wolf had a plan. The Seanchan had chained Aes Sedai and flying beasts and the
Light alone knew what else. But the Wolf had a plan. The Seanchan. The Wolf.
“If any man can defeat them,” Shimron said finally, “you can, Lord Ituralde. I will so pledge.”
“I do so pledge!” Rajabi shouted. “We’ll chase them back across the ocean where they came from!” He
had a bull’s temperament as well as its neck.
Surprisingly, Wakeda thundered his agreement with equal enthusiasm, and then a storm of voices broke,
calling that they would match the King’s pledge, that they would smash the Sean-chan, even some that
they would follow the Wolf into the Pit of Doom. All very gratifying, but not all Ituralde had come for.
“If you ask us to fight for Arad Doman,” one voice shouted above the rest, “then ask us!” The men who
had been calling their pledges fell to angry mutters and half-heard curses.
Hiding his pleasure behind a bland expression, Ituralde turned to face the speaker, on the other side of the
room. The Taraboner was a lean man, with a sharp nose that made a tent of his veil. His eyes were hard,
though, and keen. Some of the other Taraboners frowned as if displeased he had spoken, so it appeared
they had no one leader any more than the Domani, but he had spoken. Ituralde had hoped for the pledges
he had received, but they were not necessary to his plan. The Taraboners were. At least, they would make
it a hundred times more likely to work. He addressed the man courteously, with a bow.
“I offer you the chance to fight for Tarabon, my good Lord. The Aiel are making some confusion on the
plain; the refugees speak of it. Tell me, could a small company of your men - a hundred, per-haps two -
cross the plain in that disorder and enter Tarabon, if their armor was marked with stripes, as those who
ride for the Seanchan?”
It seemed impossible the Taraboners face could grow any tighter, yet it did, and it was the turn of the men
on his side of the room to mutter angrily and curse. Enough word had come north for them to know of a
king and panarch put on their thrones by the Seanchan and swearing fealty to an empress on the other side
of the Aryth Ocean. They could not like reminders of how many of their countrymen now rode for this
empress. Most of the “Seanchan” on Almoth Plain were Taraboners.
“What good could one small company do?” the lean man growled, contemptuous.
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“Little good,” Ituralde replied. “But if there were fifty such companies? A hundred?” These Taraboners
might have that many men behind them, all told. “If they all struck on the same day, all across Tarabon? I
myself would ride with them, and as many of my men as can be outfitted in Taraboner armor. Just so you
will know this is not simply a stratagem to get rid of you.”
Behind him, the Domani began protesting loudly. Wakeda the loudest of all, if it could be believed! The
Wolf’s plan was all very well, but they wanted the Wolf himself at their head. Most of the Taraboners
began arguing among themselves, over whether so many men could cross the plain without being
discovered, even in such small bands, over what good if any they could do in Tarabon in small
companies, over whether they were willing to wear armor marked with Seanchan stripes. Taraboners
argued as easily as Saldaeans, and as hotly. Not the sharp-nosed man. He met Ituralde’s gaze steadily.
Then gave a slight nod. It was hard to tell, behind those thick mustaches, but Ituralde thought he smiled.
The last tension faded from Ituralde’s shoulders. The fellow would not have agreed while the others
argued if he were not more of a leader among them than he seemed. The others would come, too, he was
certain. They would ride south with him into the heart of what the Seanchan considered their own, and
slap them hard and full across the face. The Taraboners would want to stay afterward, of course, and
continue the fight in their own homeland. He could not expect anything more. Which would leave him
and the few thousand men he could take with him to be hounded back north again, all the long way across
Almoth Plain. If the Light shone on him, hounded with fury.
He returned the Taraboners smile, if smile it was. With any luck, furious generals would not see where he
was leading them until it was too late. And if they did. … Well, he had a second plan.
Eamon Valda held his cloak tight around himself as he tramped through the snow among the trees. Cold
and steady, the wind sighed through the snow-laden branches, a deceptively quiet sound in the damp gray
light. It sliced through the thick white wool as through gauze, chilling him to the bone. The camp
sprawling around him through the forest was too quiet. Movement provided a little warmth, but in this,
men huddled together unless driven to move.
Abruptly he stopped in his tracks, wrinkling his nose at a sud-den stench, a gagging foulness like twenty
midden heaps crawling with maggots. He did not gag; instead, he scowled. The camp lacked the precision
he preferred. The tents were clustered haphaz-ardly wherever the limbs overhead grew thickest, the
horses teth-ered close by rather than properly picketed. It was the sort of slackness that led to filth.
Unwatched, the men would bury horse dung under a few shovels of dirt to be done with it quicker, and
dig latrines where they would not have to walk far in the cold. Any officer of his who allowed that would
cease to be an officer, and learn firsthand how to use a shovel.
He was scanning the camp for the source of the smell, when suddenly there was no smell. The wind did
not change; the stink just vanished. He was startled for only a moment. Walking on, he scowled all the
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CrossroadsofTwilightCrossroadsofTwilightWheelofTime10RobertJordanContentsCHAPTER1CHAPTER2CHAPTER3CHAPTER4CHAPTER5CHAPTER6CHAPTER7CHAPTER8CHAPTER9CHAPTER10CHAPTER11CHAPTER12CHAPTER13CHAPTER14CHAPTER15CHAPTER16CHAPTER17CHAPTER18CHAPTER19CHAPTER20CHAPTER21CHAPTER22CHAPTER23CHAPTER24file:///D|/Documents...

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