“About ten miles from us,” Rand said loudly, “a good fifty thousand men are preparing to march.” They were aware of that, but it pulled every eye to him and silenced every tongue. Weiramon’s mouth snapped shut sourly; the fellow did love to hear himself talk. Gueyam and Maraconn, tugging at sharp oiled beards, smiled in anticipation, the fools. Semaradrid looked like a man who had eaten an entire bowl of bad plums; Gregorin and the three lords of the Nine with him merely wore grim determination on their faces. Not fools. “The scouts saw no signs of sul’dam or damane,” Rand went on, “but even without them, even with Asha’man, that’s enough to kill a lot of us if anybody forgets the plan. No one will forget, though, I’m sure.” No charges without orders, this time. He had made that clear as glass, and hard as stone. No haring off because you thought maybe you just might have seen something, either.
Weiramon smiled, managing to put as much oil into it as Sunamon ever could.
It was a simple plan, in its way. They would advance west in five columns, each with Asha’man, and attempt to fall on the Seanchan from every side at once. Or as close to all sides as could be managed. Simple plans were best, Bashere insisted. If you won’t be satisfied with a whole litter of fat piglets, he had muttered, if you have to rush into the woods to find the old sow, then don’t get too fancy, or she’ll gut you.
No plan of battle survives first contact, Lews Therin said in Rand’s head. For a moment, he still seemed lucid. For a moment. Something is wrong, he growled suddenly. His voice began to gain intensity, and drift into wild disbelieving laughter. It can’t be wrong, but it is. Something strange, something wrong, skittering, jumping, twitching. His cackles turned to weeping. It can’t be! I must be mad! And he vanished before Rand could mute him. Burn him, there was nothing wrong with the plan, or Bashere would have been on it like a duck on a beetle.
Lews Therin was mad, no doubt of it. But so long as Rand al’Thor remained sane... A bitter joke on the world, if the Dragon Reborn went mad before the Last Battle even began. “Take your places,” he commanded with a wave of the Dragon Scepter. He had to fight down the urge to laugh at that joke.
The large clump of nobles broke apart at his order, milling and muttering as they sorted themselves out. Few liked the way Rand had divided them up. Whatever breaking down of barriers had occurred in the shock of the first fight in the mountains, they had sprung up again almost immediately.
Weiramon frowned over his undelivered speech, but after an elaborate bow that thrust his beard at Rand like a spear he rode north over the hills followed by Kiril Drapeneos, Bertome, Doressin, and several minor Cairhienin lords, every last one of them stonyfaced at a Tairen being placed over them. Gedwyn rode by Weiramon’s side almost as if he were the one leading, and got dark scowls for it that he affected not to notice. The other groupings were as mixed. Gregorin also headed north, with a sullen Sunamon trying to pretend he was heading in the same direction by happenstance, and Dalthanes leading lesser Cairhienin behind. Jeordwyn Semaris, another of the Nine, followed Bashere south with Amondrid and Gueyam. Those three had accepted the Saldaean almost eagerly for the simple reason that he was not Tairen, or Cairhienin, or Illianer, depending on the man. Rochaid seemed to be trying the same with Bashere that Gedwyn was with Weiramon, but Bashere appeared to ignore it. A little way from Bashere’s party, Torean and Maraconn rode with their heads together, likely venting spleen at having Semaradrid placed over them. For that matter, Ershin Netari kept glancing toward Jeordwyn, and standing in his stirrups to look back toward Gregorin and Kiril, though it was improbable he could see them any longer past the hills. Semaradrid, his back ironrod straight, looked as unflappable as Bashere.
It was the same principle Rand had used all along. He trusted Bashere, and he thought he might be able to trust Gregorin, and none of the others could dare think of turning against him with so many outlanders around him, so many old enemies and so few friends. Rand laughed softly, watching them all ride off from his hillside. They would fight for him, and fight well, because they had no other choice. Any more than he had.
Madness, Lews Therin hissed. Rand shoved the voice away angrily.
He was hardly alone, of course. Tihera and Marcolin had most of the Defenders and Companions mounted in ranks among the olive trees on hills flanking the one where he sat his horse. The rest were out as a screen against surprise. A company of bluecoated Legionmen waited patiently in the hollow below under Masond’s eye, and at their rear, as many men in what they had worn surrendering on the heath back in Illian. They were trying to emulate the Legionmen’s calm — the other Legionmen, now — trying without a great deal of success.
Rand glanced at Ailil and Anaiyella. The Tairen woman gave him a simpering smile, but it faltered weakly. The Cairhienin woman’s face was frost. He could not forget them, or Denharad and their armsmen. His column, in the center, would be the largest, and the strongest by a fair margin. A very fair margin.
Flinn and the men Rand had chosen out after Dumai’s Wells rode up the hill toward him. The balding old man always led, though all save Adley and Narishma now wore the Dragon as well as the Sword, and Dashiva had worn it first. In part it was because the younger men deferred to Flinn, with his long experience as a bannerman in the Andoran Queen’s Guards. In part it was because Dashiva did not seem to care. He only appeared amused by the others. When he could spare time from talking to himself, that was. Most often, he hardly seemed aware of anything past his own nose.
For that reason, it was something of a shock when Dashiva awkwardly booted his slabsided mount ahead of the rest. That plain face, so often vague or bemused with the fellow’s own thoughts, was fixed in a worried frown. It was more than something of a shock when he seized saidin as soon as he reached Rand and wove a barrier around them against eavesdropping. Lews Therin did not waste breath — if a disembodied voice had breath — on mutters about killing; he lurched for the Source snarling wordlessly, tried to claw the Power away from Rand. And just as abruptly fell silent and vanished.
“There’s something askew with saidin here, something amiss,” Dashiva said, sounding not at all vague. In fact, he sounded... precise. And testy. A teacher lecturing a particularly dense pupil. He even stabbed a finger at Rand. “I don’t know what it is. Nothing can twist saidin, and if it could be twisted, we’d have felt it back in the mountains. Well, there was something there, yesterday, but so small... I feel it clearly here, though. Saidin is... eager. I know; I know. Saidin is not alive. But it... pulses, here. It is di