Page 52 of The Gathering Storm (The Wheel of Time 12)

“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 stedding.”

“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 damane, 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 agree