The shadow rising by Robert Jordan

Author:Robert Jordan
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fantasy - Epic, Fantasy - General, American Science Fiction And Fantasy, Rand al'Thor (Fictitious character), Fantasy fiction, Fantastic fiction, Fiction, Fantasy, General, Fiction - Fantasy, Epic, Rand al'Thor (Fictitious chara, Good and evil
ISBN: 9780312854317
Publisher: Tor
Published: 1992-09-28T07:00:00+00:00

The man who called himself Ordeith, even sometimes thought of himself as Ordeith, slunk through the tents of the Children of the Light, watching the white-cloaked men with a wary eye. Useful tools, ignorant tools, but not to be trusted. Especially not Bornhald; that one might have to be disposed of, if he became too troublesome. Byar would be much more easily handled. But not yet. There were other matters more important. Some of the soldiers nodded respectfully as he passed. He showed them his teeth in what they took for a friendly smile. Tools, and fools.

His eyes skittered hungrily across the tent holding the prisoners. They could wait. For a while yet. A little while longer. They were only tidbits anyway. Bait. He should have restrained himself at the Aybara farm, but Con Aybara had laughed in his face, and Joslyn had called him a filthy-minded little fool for naming her son Darkfriend. Well, they had learned, screaming, burning. In spite of himself he giggled under his breath. Tidbits.

He could feel one of those he hated out there somewhere, south, toward Emond’s Field. Which one? It did not matter. Rand al’Thor was the only really important one. He would have known if it was al’Thor. Rumor had not drawn him yet, but it would. Ordeith shivered with desire. It had to be so. More tales must be gotten past Bornhald’s guards at Taren Ferry, more reports of the scouring of the Two Rivers, to drift to Rand al’Thor’s ears and sear his brain. First al’Thor, then the Tower, for what they had taken from him. He would have all that was his by right.

Everything had been ticking along like a fine clock, even with Bornhald impeding, until this new one appeared with his Gray Men. Ordeith scrubbed bony fingers through greasy hair. Why could not his dreams at least be his own? He was a puppet no longer, danced about by Myrddraal and Forsaken, by the Dark One himself. He pulled the strings now. They could not stop him, could not kill him.

“Nothing can kill me,” he muttered, scowling. “Not me. I have survived since the Trolloc Wars.” Well, a part of him had. He laughed shrilly, hearing madness in the cackle, knowing it, not caring.

A young Whitecloak officer frowned at him. This time there was nothing of a smile in Ordeith’s bared teeth, and the fuzzy-cheeked lad recoiled. Ordeith hurried on in a slinking shuffle.

Flies buzzed about his own tents, and sullen, suspicious eyes flinched away from his. The white cloaks were soiled here. But the swords were sharp, and obedience instant and unquestioning. Bornhald thought these men were still his. Pedron Niall believed it, too, believed Ordeith his tame creature. Fools.

Twitching aside his tent flap, Ordeith went in to examine his prisoner, stretched out between two pegs thick enough to hold a wagon team. Good steel chain quivered as he checked it, but he had calculated how much was needed, then doubled it. As well he had. One loop less, and those stout steel links would have broken.

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