It had been nearly two weeks since Ituraldes victory at Darluna. He’d extended himself far for that victory. Perhaps too far.
“What now?” Rajabi prodded.
“We wait,” Ituralde said. Light, but he hated waiting. “Then we fight. Or maybe we run again. I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“The Taraboners—”
“Won’t come,” Ituralde said.
“They promised!”
“They did.” Ituralde had gone to them himself, had roused them, had asked them to fight the Seanchan just one more time. They’d yelled and cheered, but had not followed with any haste. They would drag their feet. He’d gotten them to fight “one last time” on half a dozen different occasions now. They could see where this war was going, and he could no longer depend on them. If he’d ever been able to in the first place.
“Bloody cowards,” Rajabi muttered. “Light burn them, then! We’ll do it alone. We have before.”
Ituralde took a long, contemplative puff on his pipe. He’d chosen to finally use the Two Rivers tabac. This pipeful was the last in his store; he’d been saving it for months, now. Good flavor. Best there was.
He studied his maps again, holding a smaller one up before him. He could use better maps, that was certain. “This new Seanchan general,” Ituralde said, “is marshaling over three hundred thousand men, with a good two hundred
“We’ve beat large forces before. Look what we did at Darluna! You crushed them, Rodel!”
And doing so had required every bit of craftiness, skill and luck Ituralde could muster. Even then, he’d lost well over half his men. Now he ran, limping, before this second, larger force of Seanchan.
This time, they weren’t making any mistakes. The Seanchan didn’t rely solely on their
His enemies were done being herded and goaded; instead they hunted him, relentlessly, avoiding his traps. Ituralde had planned to retreat deeper and deeper into Arad Doman; that would favor his forces and stretch the Seanchan supply lines. He’d figured he could keep it up for another four or five months. But those plans were useless now; they’d been made before Ituralde had discovered there was an entire bloody army of Aiel running about Arad Doman. If the reports were to be believed—and reports about Aiel were often exaggerations, so he wasn’t sure how much
A hundred thousand Aiel. That was as good as two hundred thousand Domani troops. Perhaps more. Ituralde well remembered the Blood Snow twenty years ago, when it had seemed he’d lost ten men for each Aiel who fell.
He was trapped, a walnut crushed between two stones. The best he’d been able to do was retreat here, to this abandoned
“Have you ever seen a master juggler, Rajabi?” Ituralde asked, studying the map.
From the corner of his eye, Ituralde saw the bull-like man frown in confusion. “I’ve seen gleemen who—”
“No, not a gleeman. A master.”
Rajabi shook his head.
Ituralde puffed in thought before speaking. “I did, once. He was the court bard of Caemlyn. Spry fellow, with a wit that might better have belonged in a common room, for all the way he was decorated. Bards don’t often juggle; but this fellow didn’t mind the request. He liked juggling to please the young Daughter-Heir, so I understand.”
He removed the pipe from his mouth, tapping down the tabac.
“Rodel,” Rajabi said. “The Seanchan. . . .”
Rodel held up a finger, situating his pipe before continuing. “The bard started by juggling three balls. Then he asked us if we thought he could do another. We cheered him on. He went to four, then five, then six. With each ball he added, our applause grew greater, and he always asked if we thought he could do another. Of course we said yes.
“Seven, eight, nine. Soon he had ten balls going in the air, flying in a pattern so complex that I couldn’t track them. He had to strain to keep them going; he kept having to reach down and grab balls that he nearly missed. He was too lost in concentration to ask us if he should add another, but the crowd called for it. Eleven! Go for eleven! And so, his assistant tossed another ball into the mess.”
Ituralde puffed.
