A Beginning

[Jalim Mandren]

((Thread is now closed - I'm currently reworking through my posts, after having had some feedback, before I submit quest for judging))

Thunder rolled overhead, lightning cracked at regular intervals and Jalim muttered a curse as he tried to light the fire. He had thought the small flat clearing inside the copse of trees would provide sufficient cover, at least to have a cup of tea and a bit of warmth against the storm. The smell of damp leaves beneath his feet irked the Warder, but there had been little time or opportunity to scout a more suitable place to rest for the night.

"Water will do, Jalim." Mathwain spoke calmly as Jalim continued striking the flint, but the irritation was plain in her voice for the Warder. Their bond offered some level of empathy; Jalim could feel an impression of Mathwain's current mood. It had proved over the years to be both a blessing and a bane - sometimes, he simply did not want to know how she felt. The pair had never been romantically involved, she was too old for starters, and neither were celibate. He nodded and wrapped the cloak around himself, it did little good against the rain that seemed lie it would never stop. It was unusual for Jalim to feel like brooding but recent events had raised his hackles: The Aes Sedai had been taking unnecessary risks and it was a Warder's duty to protect the woman to whom he was bonded. It was unlike her, and while he understood that finding the unknown artefact was vitally important, she seemed not to realise that it would never be found if she was dead.

Only two days ago had they narrowly escaped a flood of Mathwain's creation and unfortunately left the villagers to fend for themselves. The quest to find the artefact was something known by the enemy, and their journey towards the northern continent had been fraught with danger. Almost on a daily basis Aes Sedai and Warder had been attacked; sometimes in the middle of the day, other times while they slept. At the last village, Mathwain said she sensed the presence of an enemy too strong. In an act of defence, the storm they now sat in had erupted from the heavens. The river that ran through the small village, Herle, began to swell in a matter of minutes, and the two companions had left with horses wading knee-deep in water. Enough gold had been left to ensure the poor folk of Helre would be able to rebuild. Jalim's free hand cupped the small pouch at his waist; too much money had been spent already on this journey - Mathwain was far too generous and the green eyed warrior had been brought up in a small town, his family poor. He doubted that there'd ever be a time when he became adjusted to such a lavish lifestyle.

"Would you rather I had left them nothing?" It was a chastising comment carried with a voice all ice and calm. Sometimes Jalim was sure that the bond offered her more than simple empathy - so often it felt like the woman could read his mind.

"We'll have no steady supply where we're going, Aes Sedai." As stony as his features, the Warder's voice showed no emotion but the use of such formality showed annoyance. She had a habit of gentle prodding taunts, needless considering their situation. Another attribute of the bond meant that he would obey Mathwain's every command if she so wished. Only on a couple of occasions had she ever done that, for which Jalim was grateful.

Silently they let the night pass them by and Jalim moved from the unlit fire after a few minutes to keep guard on the camp. Wrapped in his cloak, the steely fellow seemed to disappear, only his face visible, the colour-shifting cloak being more than a little disconcerting for those unused to such garb. As he peered into the blackness with keen green eyes, a quick shake of the head did little to fight off the fatigue of straining ears to listen for noises over the rain, thunder and lightning. Despite his training in the Tower, Jalim was still a young Warder, and the hardness of other, more experienced protectors was yet to form on him; his home town had been in a very warm part of Althanas' southern continent, and he still hated the rain.

The night remained still - except for the unrelenting storm - until an hour before dawn, when the black sky was just starting to lighten. Despite his shivers, right then Jalim thanked the storm and its lightning; not a hundred yards away a tall figure was moving through the trees, and though Jalim would have heard the approach from at least double that distance on any other night, the storm had drowned out the footfalls of the clumsy hunter. The thing was broader than any man, taller, and had a monstrous visage - a human face distorted with an unnatural merging of man and beast. Instead of a nose and mouth, a bear's snout exhaled steamy hot breath that was quickly lost to the rain. An unnatural creature of human creation, the man-beast hybrid was a hairy thing, clothed in black armour and chain-mail, spikes rising from shoulders and elbows, knees and boots. In the flash of light, dull metal could be seen: a long, strangely curved sword that would cleave a man in two behind the force of the thing's massive arms.

The instant the monster was seen, Jalim rose smoothly from his heels and had his sword in hand. "Wake, Mathwain! Kael Ork!"

She wasn't asleep, but habit had forced words from his mouth, and he ran the short distance back to the camp, standing over the surprised woman, sword in front of him held in both hands, legs apart, ready to defend the Aes Sedai with his life.

"If there's one, more are here. We should move, the risk is too much." Mathwain was stood, holding an unlit ivory tabac pipe in her left hand. She was right but there was no time to do anything about it.

Suddenly, from all sides, Kael Orks rushed the pair. Jalim danced the sword forms he had learned in the tower smoothly, cutting a swath through the beasts. Heron On The Lake took the arm of one Ork, disarming it, only for the Warder to turn, lowering himself to rise into Thrush Takes Flight, cutting half-way through the torso of another terrible Ork. On and on he moved from form to form, smooth precision and grace delivering death without prejudice.

Mathwain stood where she was, cool serenity personified, and where she looked, Orks burst into flame. One hand kept the skirt of her grey silk dress out of the mud as well as was possible, and she simply turned to face each monster she intended to incinerate. The Aes Sedai held the pipe tightly, and occasionally pointed it towards her next victim as though directing the flame with the small trinket.

The battle lasted only a few moments but both man and woman were panting - with no warning and such a strong raid, the battle was a constant fight to stay alive. Throughout the camp, dead bodies of Orks oozed black blood that stained the ground below. Not all were like the first Jalim had seen, some were almost human in appearance, but with hooves instead of feet, some with too-human eyes above a beak where nose and mouth should have been. Stalking through the camp, Jalim looked each Kael Ork over in turn, making sure they all were dead. He wiped the blade of his sword on the cloak that belonged to a hulking figure that stared with the eyes of a hawk and snout of a boar; the black blood would act like acid if kept on metal for too long.

The sweet, sickening stench of burned flesh was partly washed away by the rain, but Jalim had to wipe soot from his face - there had been no escaping the thick smoke of burning unnatural beasts and the rain made it stick to human flesh like tar. It would be a while before the small left his nose, and as he looked at Mathwain, Jalim knew she was in much the same state. Her face was still black but the grey dress was smeared where she had wiped her hands clean of the filth.

There was no time to rest, though: From east and west great horns bellowed their cry, deep and piercing through the storm. A moment later, two more horns were heard from the shouth. More were approaching, at least five Hands of Kael Orks - two hundred of the creatures - were quickly surrounding the two. Perhaps half a mile away. "We'll not survive this much longer." It was a simple statement of fact, but one that carried worry in the Warder's voice. He had supported Mathwain for five years, helped her as she sought to battle the forces of the Shadow; he could not see that go to waste now. He had heard, hoped, that the same forces weren't present in the northern continent where they were headed. It was there, so rumour said, that a malign artefact could be found which would give the Shadow what it needed for victory. They could not allow such a thing to be found by the wrong people.

"Then go. I'm hardly defenceless, Jalim. Reach Underwood! Go!" Mathwain spoke with command, using the bond between them to force the Warder's actions. Though she hated doing it, Mathwain knew there was no other choice: Her life was not as important as the mission, and Jalim stood a better chance of escape being a much better rider than she.

"Damn you, Aes Sedai!" Jalim roared his protestation even while he sheathed his sword and jumped onto the black war horse against his will. He tried in vain to resist his movements, there was nothing he could do to fight the Aes Sedai's order. He looked back as he galloped to the north, towards the ocean. The roars of battle could be heard as fire lit the sky where he had camped. It seemed as though each bolt of lightning was focused on the area surrounding Mathwain. Despite his worry over the life of his companion, Jalim was totally focused on reaching the ocean before he reached the next hill. He kicked the horse to a dead gallop, seething with anger.

Three weeks had passed since the Kael Orks had attacked, and Jalim sat aboard The Ten Sails. The ship's name was nothing more than a boast. The wide, broad bowed boat had only three sails, though bigger than any Jalim had ever seen. The ship did seem to make good time across the waves of the ocean, though Jalim was not certain - he was no sailor, and he didn't mean to ask when such a question could offend. The night he left Mathwain to battle the small army of Orks, the Warder was both full of fury and racked with worry. He rested much easier now, though; the bond allowed him to sense Mathwain even at this distance. She was alive, at least, and somewhere to the south. He couldn't tell her state, though, so was still a little worried - had she been injured? Captured? He had no way of knowing. At least he rested more easily knowing she was alive, not a weak woman he had confidence in her.

The journey aboard the ship had been pleasant so far, though far from perfect. Jalim had never been one to socialise and always preferred the company of a good book and a pipe. Unless he stayed in the ever-growing heat of the stuffy, windowless cabin he had hired, there'd be no chance of solitude. The further north the ship travelled, the hotter the weather and sitting on the deck gave a welcome breeze. The freshness of the ocean carried a salty scent, and the occasional spray that drifted like a fine mist over the deck was refreshing and cooling.

Throughout each day, Jalim would spend his time sat at the stern of the ship with his legs crossed, sword resting on his knees as the oiled whetstone made even, rhythmic whisk-whisks. Sword care had been one of the first lessons taught in the Tower, and now it was a habit to keep the blade razor sharp and oiled to a sheen. Occasionally, in the early morning or evening when the heat was not so intense, Jalim would stand on deck in just his breeches to practice the sword forms. He would spend an hour or more going through each movement, keeping his skills honed and gaining a small audience of sailors unused to seeing such activities.

Despite wanting to be left alone, the fat ship's captain - Terik Ylter - would often approach the Warder, asking if he could offer any service, if Jalim wanted a drink bringing up from the galley. A cold, blank stare was usually enough to send the balding man back to whatever it was a ship's captain did. Barking orders for things to be done that were already half-completed by the much slimmer, bare-footed crewmen of the Ten Sails, from what Jalim had seen.

Each time the captain left, though, it was not before more boasting about the speed of the ship accompanied with reassurances that Jalim's money had been well-spent.

"Fastest ship ye'll find, this, m'lord. Halfway there now, m'lord, the sun tells us. Ye can be sure the journey shan't be any much longer." The fat captain spoke with a drawl that made his speech difficult to understand but Jalim mostly ignored him. It had been a surprise on the first day at sea proper when Terik walked away with a perfect balance along the deck. The man's large body sway with the back-and-forth motions of the vessel while feet remained steady on wood that had once been polished.

Jalim maintained a mostly docile impression, but his eyes constantly scanned the length and breadth of the ship. Even though he was put at ease knowing Mathwain was still alive, and her insistence that there would be few, if any, enemies on the northern continent, the Warder remained cautious; he could not take any risks, especially in a foreign land he had never visited. Any of the crew could be Shadowfriends, or from the land he intended to reach soon. Danger could very well be around the next corner or on the ship itself.

Another month went by and Jalim's days were spent on deck sat alone or practising the sword forms. Nights had been spent in the small cabin that had been hired. The narrow, hard bed was built into the wall, and Jalim had no choice but to sleep on his side. If he had laid flat, his shoulder would hang from the edge, something that was never comfortable. The cabin had just enough room for a chipped clay washstand, striped blue and red, and a mirror for shaving that was not much bigger than the man's head. In Jalim's mind, there was no need for more and while he wasn't entirely comfortable in the cabin the cheap price had meant money could be saved. Mathwain, of course, would have ousted the captain from his own quarters, set herself in there and enjoyed Terik's own stock of food. Quite possibly for triple the price. She was certainly one for luxury.

The Warder ate with the crew silently. He had no reason to befriend them and was always wary of sailors - some men would choose the sea over the hangman's noose. One afternoon, eating a bowl of thin broth that was as tasteless as it was pale, Jalim looked each man over with piercing green eyes, weighing the crew in his mind. Some looked honest enough, their hiding nothing. Others scowled at him or even snarled; his eating with the crew meant their rations had been reduced. However slightly, some men were far from appreciative of it.

Whenever he received one of the acidic snarls and scowls, Jalim made special effort while practising the sword forms. It was sufficient to calm any wild thoughts of murder. Despite that, the journey had proved to be uneventful. Days came and went, time started to have less meaning, and the smell of salt air was hardly noticed and he could still sense that Mathwain was alive. Jalim almost allowed himself to relax. Almost.

Suddenly one morning, about two months after the journey began, a cry was heard from high above the deck, from a young man atop the tallest mast. "Ahoy! Scara Brae ahoy!"

Jalim sheathed his sword as he stood, put the whetstone in his pocket and headed below deck to collect his belongings. He travelled light and had a single large saddlebag that held essentials for travel; a razor for shaving, a steel pan for cooking, a couple of changes of clothes and his Warder's cloak. He did not want to draw more attention to himself here than necessary, and the colour-shifting cloak would certainly do that. Before boarding Ten Sails, Jalim had bought a well-made green cloak of rough. He donned it as he came on deck and pulled the hood up to hide his face before the docks came into view.

Men scurried around the ship, sails were folded somehow, barrels were brought up from the hold, and Terik bawled snapping orders to the crew who clearly new what they were doing. Sweeps were used to guide the large ship against its designated pier. As the gangplank was lowered, Jalim had to wait as barrels were taken ashore, none of the crew waiting for their passenger to alight before getting to work. Just an under hour later, the Warder was back on solid ground in Scara Brae docks.

Seagulls circled overhead, and people bustled around various ships, or waited for others. Merchants were waiting a little further inland, their wagons lacquered in a variety of colours, guards holding cudgels as if they intended to use them. The silk-clad merchants were all talking loudly, assuring the sailors that they would offer the best money, or that ordinary folk would be given the best prices. Hawkers wandered, calling their wares above the din: fruits, pins and needles, knives, even one man offering the greatest shoe shine you'd ever receive. It was a noisy, busy and lively centre of activity that surrounded Jalim.

It took a little while to find the pier where the ferry would take Jalim to the island of Corone, and as he walked his way through the crowd, the Warder reached out to sense Mathwain. At this distance, her presence was no longer in the back of his mind, though he was still aware she was alive. As he lit the long stemmed pipe and began to puff on it steadily, Jalim realised that Mathwain was not getting any closer. Either she was having difficulty finding a ship - they were not a common thing, ships that came this far - or she was in some kind of trouble. Regaining his outward was an effort as the Warder frowned, but once attained, it did not leave.

[Jalim Mandren]

Jalim had to wait for an hour until the ferry arrived. During that time, he stood against a rough stone wall near to the pier, letting the din of the harbour flow over him. Something was making him tired, perhaps it was the sudden noise after the quiet of Ten Sails. More likely it was related to his distance from Mathwain; for five years now he had reaped the benefits of the bond they shared and had grown quite accustomed to them. One such benefit was that he was able to go much longer than other men without sleep, could travel for days at a time atop horseback without pause. The distance between himself and Mathwain seemed to be draining that benefit from him - he held back a yawn as yet another ship turned into the harbour, the sweeps creating a froth on the water's surface. People pushed to reach the pier, a few indecent curses could be distinguished in the din, but Jalim simply leaned his head against a wooden pole of some sort. The wood was soft, rotten from the salt air, but it provided a mostly comfortable position in which to rest.

Allowing his mind to wander, Jalim found himself thinking of the first time he met Mathwain; a fateful day. Ten years ago...

The double doors were made of deeply varnished oak and as Jalim opened them, he suspected they felt so heavy due to nerves. The Tower would certainly have kept the hinges well oiled. It was an important day, one he had been anticipating since childhood when he met his first merchant's guard. The way in which the man, impossibly tall then, carried the sword resonated louder with Jalim than the rough look of his face, or the scars. The sword was a part of him, an extension of self. Since that day, he had dreamed of, firstly, carrying a sword, then learning to use it. Finally, the dream came of becoming a blade master had filled his nights.

That day had finally come. Jalim Mandren - Blade Master. Or so he hoped; he was entering to take the test. For five years, since the age of thirteen, Jalim had trained at the Tower - home of Aes Sedai - to become a Warder. He had asked many questions in his youth, and the same answer had been given: The Tower trained the best swordsmen, turned out more blade masters than any other school of swordsmanship. No, his day had come.

The Great Hall was a massive room, amidst the middle levels of the Tower itself; both name and building. It spanned three floors and was nearly forty spans in diameter, a circular room floored with polished tiles of black and red that gave the impression of marble. The walls were intricately carved with scenes of battle, ancient creatures that no living soul had seen, kings and queens of old, and the occasional flower. The images, carved into stone that curved into a massive dome at the ceiling gave the room a feeling of true age; as though the Great Hall had always existed. Light shone in from windows stained to show intricate patterns that tried to trick the eye: Where that line ended, another had begun, or was it all one line? The doorway in one pane had odd corners, as though the eye tried to avoid them. The noonday sun cast a prism of colours onto the floor and not a single mote of dust marred its rays. And yet the Great Hall was paled by the Council's Hall some floors up, where the ruling Aes Sedai met to discuss Jalim had no idea what.

The room itself was not what held Jalim's attention. Behind a long wooden table with ample gilt sat five men - blade masters. Their chairs were very nearly thrones, high-backed, cushioned at seat and armrest, a raven embossed in silver above each man's head against the back of their chair. He knew each of them, of course. They were the head teachers at the Tower. All Warders, their presence weighed on Jalim as he approached the centre of the room.

Old Barim, his age showing through more than the lack of hair on his head, had a surprisingly large gut. Yet he sat as regal as any king, and could run circles around you with his twin broadswords and never break a sweat. Wide-shouldered Mikell, a beard reaching below the table, rested his hands on the table and looked as placid as ever. His tongue, on the other hand, made even Aes Sedai jump to his command. Trelasti, a lithe, tall man who had once shown Jalim some compassion when he lost at sparring was the least familiar to Jalim. The last two, brothers, he knew very well. Vre and Seward Haptel were the youngest of the five, Seward four years junior, yet both had considerable silver in their hair.

Jalim knew he could not falter, and reaching the only black tile in the room, he stopped his near-stately procession across the room. A blade master, they had told him, was more than just a master of the sword, but also a master of self. Hopefully they didn't notice the small beads of sweat on the young man's forehead. Hand on hilt, fist to heart, Jalim made a bow, stepping forward with his right leg three tiles. Keeping his voice steady, a stark contrast to how he felt, the ritual began. "I, Jalim Mandren, trained of the Tower, five years of age," tradition dictated that age be stated as the time since you began to learn the sword, "seek the title of Blade Master. I have mastered myself and my blade."

Vre's lips twitched, which was near enough a gaping grin for any other man, and Jalim knew he was doing well. Much better than he had expected. But it was Barim who spoke, his deep tenor voice rumbled through the hall, "Five stand to observe, five ready to judge, Barim deNerith, trained of Gilthar Rendul, born sixty years ago, permit you to prove control of self and of blade. Begin."

No response was needed so Jalim rose from his bow, legs coming together. Quickly, he drew the slightly curved blade and held it in front of him vertically. Both hands on the hilt, he stood perfectly still for a count of fifteen. As the silent count finished, Jalim sprung into action. Lion Wakes became Parting The Silk shifted into Whirling Leaves. On and on, the young man danced through the forms, his blade a silver streak about his body, being turned, swung and controlled with perfection; each movement was precise, exactly as he had been taught, and graceful. Despite booted feet, he hardly made a sound on the tile floor.

For an hour he moved through the forms, every form in fact. When he was finished, a drawing together of his legs brought Jalim to his starting point and he assumed the starting stance, sword held straight in both hands. Sweat poured down his face and into his eyes. Jalim wanted to wipe his brow, but knew that the test was not yet over. Another count of fifteen and he sheathed the blade smoothly, the hilt slamming against the scabbard to ring through the Great Hall. Stepping forward, he bowed once more and sweat dripped onto the floor, a pool slowly forming.

As he bowed, Jalim noticed a woman to his left. She had the face of an Aes Sedai: a woman of indeterminate age. He didn't need to see her face from the corner of his eye, though. The green silk dress embroidered with flowers up each sleeve and at the hem and lace at the neck marked as surely as her face. He did not know why she was there, and right now he did not care.

"My proof has been displayed, masters. Might your wisdom judge me worthy." The fifteen second pause had been to allow his breath to return and Jalim managed to speak his final words of the ritual without sounding like he had run four miles. A little tight, perhaps, but was done was done.

Anticipation rose as the seconds passed, each blade master was taking an allotted time - he didn't know how long - to consider the display and decide his vote. Time seemed to slow, and the waiting turned into irritation that was targeted at the Aes Sedai. This was Warder business, not Aes Sedai. It was peculiar she was there, her eyes regarding him carefully, weighing, measuring. Soon he would hold a raven-marked sword, Jalim could feel it.

In truth, the blade masters waited for thirty seconds, but to Jalim it felt like an hour had passed. Each of the men took into consideration the demonstration, the recital of custom, and the way in which Jalim presented himself. When they reached a decision, answers were given.

"Yes." The sudden booming of Barim's voice made Jalim jump. After the silence, the announcement was deafening, but the young man's heart started to pound, filling his head with excitement. Years of training and preparation were coming to fruition at long last. "A superb telling of the Tower's training of young men."

"A perfect display of talent. Yes." Mikell spoke with a hint of pride in his short, tight voice. It took all the effort that Jalim could muster not to rise from his bowing position and jump around with excitement.

Trelasti and Vre gave their own responses of assent, each either complimenting Jalim or the Tower's training. It was a near certainty that Jalim would be given the rank of Blade Master now; there had only been three occasions in the Tower's two thousand year history when the blade masters didn't give a unanimous vote. Jalim held his breath, hoping, praying, that this would not be the fourth. He raised his eyes just enough from the tiled floor to catch a glance of Seward. The man, who had become somewhat of a friend to Jalim, seemed to be uncertain. Seward shifted a little, raising a hand to his forehead. Jalim could only wait; surely his friend would give assent.

"No." And with a single word Jalim's hopes had been smashed, his dreams shattered and excited anticipation became rage. He had trained so hard since arriving here, praise had been given to him throughout his career. He was an excellent student, a great swordsman and a master tactician. That was what his teachers had told the boy. Jalim would not have entered the hall if there was any doubt in his own mind that could he could pass the trial, if he had not been advised by the five sat before him that he was ready.

There was no hope now - the test could not be taken while any of the original five sat on those seats. At the very least, Jalim would have to wait another thirty years. There were only two ways to be granted the title of Blade Master: Have it agreed upon by five masters unanimously, or kill a blade master. Even in his rage, Jalim doubted he could kill a friend. But this had been Jalim's goal, the very reason he came to the Tower, something he craved more than glory or stories being told of him. More than any riches. Perhaps he could find another five blade masters and ask them to judge him, but the chances of that were slim. He had been betrayed by a friend.

As the rage built inside, Jalim had lost the cool collectedness that he had just demonstrated. As he rose, the sword was drawn and Jalim positioned himself ready to fight, green eyes intense and staring at Seward.

"This is preposterous! How dare you?!" The defiance and anger of Jalim echoed through the hall in a roar. He had no other option now, he had to gain the right of a raven-marked blade today. There would be no other chance. "How could you?"

"Jalim!" Barim's voice rumbled once more, the tone of a commander in battle expecting his orders to be followed without question. Jalim was so filled with rage that he ignored the old man and rushed for Seward. The young fellow's face was contorted on a silent snarl as he ran towards the table, shifting his sword to perform Tides On The Shore.

The four older blade masters shook their heads, disappointment masking their usual calm. A challenge against a blade master was not like battle - it was a personal affair that could not be interfered with. Stern eyes remained focused on Jalim, and as he reached the table, they knew what was going to happen.

Jalim was awoken from his reverie by a man bumping into him. Had it not been for the overwhelming feeling of tiredness, Jalim may well have grabbed the scruffy-looking fellow out of instinct. Instead the Warder just looked around, blinking a few times. The ferry had arrived and the crowd around him were pushing and shoving to get on board. The boat was a small one, shallow, with a long, rough wooden bench on each side that was split by seats for the rowers. It would hold roughly thirty people and Jalim was sure that it wasn't the main ferry that took people from Scara Brae to Corone.

As he stepped onto the small vessel, Jalim handed the ferryman a gold coin for passage and then sat down. He took a moment to look over the other passengers. They were a varied lot; men in rough woolens, women in well-made cotton dresses of greys and browns, children in silks. Jalim was surprised to see obviously richer folk on the ferry - he'd thought they would much rather wait for the larger boat that would perhaps just be leaving Corone. Maybe he was wrong, though, and this was the only way to travel between islands.

The journey lasted just short of an hour, but during that time Jalim's fatigue grew and grew, his mind wandered off to empty thoughts. With each rise and fall of the waves, he swayed without noticing the disgruntled looks of the man and woman sat to either side of him. For most of the journey, the Warder was more than half way to sleep, despite having had a good night's rest aboard Ten Sails.

Maybe he had fallen asleep. Jalim was the last to leave the ferry, jumping a little as one of the rowers nudged him with a boot to the knee. Stumbling off the boat with the appearance of a drunkard, Jalim had to find a bench to sit on before he continued his journey. It was actually a small brick wall he found, but it served the same purpose. After a few minutes, he started off up the road from the small dock.

Thankfully about fifteen minutes after leaving the Corone ferry harbour, Jalim found an inn. A stocky building, the inn was made of stone, two storeys high with a roof made of blue tiles. A slight wind made the sign outside creak on its hinges. A brightly dressed man was leaping among pastures of yellow flowers, clapping his heels together. The writing beneath named the inn The Tinker's Dance. Despite the lack of money he had left, Jalim knew he needed some rest - he doubted he'd even reach the forest of Concordia in his current state. If the maps Mathwain had shown him were accurate, that was. Very little was known about the northern continent of course, and the maps had been drawn by some merchant or other who claimed he had seen all the lands in the world.

Jalim gathered what little strength he could muster, hoping he did not look as weak as he felt. As he shifted the saddlebag to be less of a burden, he walked into the inn. The common room covered most of the ground floor, round wooden tables scattered the stone floor, with four or five chairs around each, a row of booths lined the left wall, opposite the large fireplace that burned brightly, giving warmth. Blue-grey smoke rose from the few men who sat with pipes in hand or between teeth and gathered just below the ceiling, roiling like a calm sea. A serving maid came through from the kitchen, the opening door allowing wafts of cooking smells into the common room. Jalim's stomach growled softly as he smelled mutton and spiced potatoes. Before he even started towards the bar, the innkeeper approached the Warder.

"How can I help, kind sir?" A middle-aged woman, the innkeeper was slim and showed the first signs of grey at her temples. She smiled with a kindliness that made Jalim think of home and the look his loving aunt had given him before offering sweetcakes. The innkeeper was more handsome than she was pretty or beautiful, though. "My name's Iryn, and this is The Tinker's Dance."

"I'd like a room until morning, and a meal in private. I trust you have a private dining room?" Jalim was sure he sounded as weak as he felt despite efforts otherwise. If there a private dining room, at least he'd not announce his weakened state to every other patron. Iryn looked at him askance, Jalim simply rattled the pouch of coins at his waist to show he could afford such luxuries.

"Yes yes. Definitely, follow me sir. Would you like a drink?" Hearing the coins made Iryn seem much more enthusiastic, as could only be expected. The slim woman was in business after all.

She didn't wait for Jalim, though, and started walking towards the back of the common room, wriggling fingers in a complex way towards one of the maids. Jalim had no choice but to follow. His eyes swept across the room as he followed Iryn, and something strange occurred to him: There was no heavy. Most inns had some thug or ex-soldier to make sure there was no trouble. "A spiced wine, please."

Iryn stood for a moment at the wooden door before she opened it, announcing "It's not very big, I'm afraid, but all I have."

The dining room was indeed small. A square table filled most of the room, with just enough space for six chairs around it and an armchair set in one corner. The floor was the same stone as Jalim had already seen, but thankfully had once-thick rugs under the table and chairs to help stop the cold. The fireplace was also stone but hadn't been used in some time. Jalim looked at the armchair and knew he was in no mood for conversation. "It'll do. My wine."

Jalim shut the door behind him, cutting off Iryn just as she was about to speak. Jalim threw the saddlebags on the table and looked at the small pile of books set in the centre; nothing he cared to read - all romantic novels, judging by the titles. The Warder sat down on the armchair, thankful for its cushions and deep seat. He leaned his head back and breathed a sigh of relief. As much as he disliked overspending, the softness of the chair was a welcome change from the saddle or the hard deck of Ten Sails. It took only a few minutes to fill and light the pipe and Jalim started puffing on the tabac smoke.

He still could not fathom why he felt so weak and tired, and as he chewed idly on the lacquered wood of his pipe a sudden thought came to him. Something he wasn't entirely happy about.

"Or could it be the artefact?" He wondered aloud. Quickly glancing at the door, he was glad that nobody had entered. He was getting careless, it seemed, and it would not do for someone to find out why he was here. Mathwain had been quite clear about the need for secrecy. He sighed.

At least Underwood should be within a day's ride. He would need to buy a horse in the morning, even more money needing to be spent, but at least a horse was useful. The morning would see the mystery of the artefact start to be unravelled.

[Jalim Mandren]

((Post currently being reworked))

The serving girl knocked shyly on the door twenty minutes later to bring Jalim his meal and a large pitcher of the same spiced wine that the Warder was sipping when she knocked. The smell of the food made Jalim's stomach growl once again. When the young girl left, Jalim quickly set about to eating the food. For mutton, the meat was very tender, almost melting in his mouth as he chewed. The potatoes were cooked to just firm enough; not too hard and not soft enough to suggest they'd been overcooked. Covering the meat and potatoes was a thick, near-black gravy that clung to the food and tasted sublime.

Compared to the crew's food aboard Ten Sails, the simple dinner tasted like a feast. After soaking up the last of the gravy with an end of bread, Jalim happily washed the meal down with a couple of glasses of wine. The Warder spent an hour sat in the armchair, enjoying the comfort, with his pipe puffing away, wine cup in arm's reach and a book in hand. It was entitled Letho Ravenheart - Adventures of Legend but Jalim couldn't find himself too interested but at least it helped pass the time.

Not long after the sun went down, Jalim began to feel what had to be natural tiredness. Added to the mysterious fatigue and weakness, it meant that he felt ready to collapse. When he walked back into the common room, there were considerably more people than earlier in the day and the hubbub of conversation was a surprise: The noise hadn't seeped into the private dining room at all. The room was now misted with the blue-grey smoke of pipes, but Jalim found Iryn and requested that he be shown his room.

He gave the woman a few gold coins, telling her it was for both the room and the meal. She guided him up narrow stairs, and Jalim needed to hold the banister as he climbed for fear of falling backwards. Iryn left him at the door, reassuring him that if anything was needed, he only had to ask. Walking into the room, the Warder threw his saddlebags on the floor and groaned. The room was likely the best in the whole inn. The bed was too large, with dark wooden posts rising from each of its corners, and when he sat on it, Jalim decided it was certainly too soft. Like the dining room, wooden panels lined the walls; far too deeply varnished, they had a gentle shine from the light of gilded lamps that were gaudy. At least the room was warm, though. A small fire burned in the hearth, and smouldering coals were left under the bed in case it went out during the night.

Jalim stood from the bed, and sat on the deep, heavily cushioned lounging chair. As he threw a leg over one of the arms, he could almost believe he was a lord as Terik insisted on calling him. The room was far too extravagant for a warrior, though Mathwain would have demanded this room and would make Iryn throw out whoever was there if it wasn't available. The Warder frowned. He had no idea what was taking Mathwain so long, why she hadn't made any progress. When his eyes started to drift shut of their volition, Jalim again wondered about the fatigue he felt. It was disconcerting and made for restless sleep. He still dreamed, though, returning to that fateful day where he had his aspirations denied.

As he walked out of the Great Hall, Jalim Mandren was the very avatar of rage. His face was red with fury and his eyes screamed bloody murder. It had not been enough that his dreams had been shattered for Seward. The man who Jalim considered a friend thought it necessary to humiliate him further by showing the difference in their levels of skill and experience. Without drawing his sword, the young blade master had managed to not only disarm Jalim but also took him to the floor in some convoluted twisting of arms and legs. Jalim had never been adept at unarmed combat despite his skill with a sword.

As he stalked through stone-walled corridors lined with tapestries several people risked looking at Jalim. His white-knuckled fist clenched around his sword's hilt and a constant growl rumbled from his throat. He looked every bit a man intent on murder and even those eyes that could not be averted by so unusual a sight looked with wariness.

Of course, rage would not stop an Aes Sedai. They were all women and it was said - quite accurately - that they were the true holders of power. Even without their Channelling of the One Power, every Aes Sedai Jalim had met had a regal presence and way of commanding respect. They pulled political strings, bringing nations together or tearing them apart according to their own designs. Kings and Queens came when the Aes Sedai's leader called. Men were often frightened by them, women had a reserved respect that bordered on the same.

It was the woman who had been watching Jalim perform his demonstration that suddenly appeared in front of him. He was en route to the training yard, and as he turned a corner, she was there. Face-to-face with the woman, even through rage, Jalim could not help but note that she had pretty features: A round face that was certainly not fat, large blue eyes that slanted slightly while measuring him, seeming to know his every thought. Light brown hair fell below the Aes Sedai's shoulders in waves and the green silk dress she wore hugged her curvy figure. Despite the high neck and lace at cuffs and collar, the dress more than hinted at what it kept hidden.

"You!" Jalim growled, his anger rising more when he recognised her. Perhaps because he had recognised her. "Why were you watching me, woman?" The ageless face marked the woman as Aes Sedai if her poise had not. Jalim was angry enough not to care; dropping the title he should have used and returning to the rough speech of the town in which he had been born. "You know the application is men's business.!

"You'd dare speak to an Aes Sedai with such tones, young man?" Her mouth twitched into a small smile, taunting him. Yet it could have been an amused smile, or a grin signalling danger. At that point, Jalim did not care.

"Get out of my way, I have nothing to say to you."

"I like you, you've spirit." She was certainly amused now; a twinkle shone in her eyes for an instant before they became like stone. They look at Jalim carefully, as though seeing him anew. A slight shift of the shoulders was all it took to give the Aes Sedai the appearance of looming over the considerable height of Jalim, despite her slight five foot frame. Despite the humour in her voice, the woman was calm. It was easy to understand why they could manipulate events so easily. "Maybe I'll have you as my Warder one day, boy."

There was nothing for it but to glare at the woman. Jalim's body quivered with white-hot rage. The woman had the bare faced tenacity to mock him! If he didn't leave now, Jalim knew that he would do something he'd live to regret. Admittedly, though, he may well not live to regret it. The trainee Warder stepped around the much shorter woman, sneering as he did, and continued on toward the training yard.

As he walked the rest of the way, Jalim continued to growl, though mumbles gave it an uneven rhythm. That she had seen the failure to pass the application then mocked him began to eat away at his anger. Instead, he began feeling contempt. The foul woman had taken her position too far. Even with Aes Sedai there must have been ideas of respect. He'd never let her bond him, that much was sure.

As Jalim turned the final corner to step out into the training yard, the scenery shifted in a blur. Rather than the clearing he had expected, Jalim stepped into a room not too dissimilar to the one at Tinker's Dance in Corone. Tinker's Dance? Corone? What's going on? With an unease, Jalim looked around the room, and it was an indication of his confusion that he hadn't noticed the woman sat in a small armchair in the corner.

It was the same woman he'd just seen: that mocking, vile Aes Sedai. She was older, but doubtlessly the same woman, with signs of grey at the temples. Before Jalim could berate her for further interference, she spoke. "My dear Warder, do not worry about me. I've a day's business to attend, then I'll move to join you. The artefact is doubtless in Underwood or the surrounding area."

Something tickled the back of Jalim's mind, but he couldn't identify what. Somehow it was as though he should know what the woman meant, but he didn't. Anger was suppressed by a desire to understand. "What are you talking about? Underwood?" Why was he suddenly in this room? Where was this room? He didn't understand what was happening. "Who are you?"

The woman gave that same amused smile as she had in the corridor and brought a cup to her lips to drink. Had that cup been there before? "You don't remember, but you will when you wake. There have been murmurs about elves, a strange creature supposedly but I don't know them."

The walls of the room seem to shimmer, as though shifting from existence and not. The woman seemed to fade, Jalim could see the chair through he body now. The world was becoming a blur, nothing holding substance and when the woman finally disappeared, her voice resonated. "Wake, Jalim Mandren."

"Damn you, woman. I'm already aw..."((Reworked to here))

Rain sizzled against the still-burning fire when Jalim jerked awake in the chair. He had no idea when he had fallen asleep. Shifting slightly, the Warder realised that he hadn't unbuckled the sword belt around his waist. The hilt had dug into the man's ribs and had surely caused a bruise or two. "Now that was a strange dream. Damn you, Mathwain."
At least she was okay, and would be here soon. Jalim stood up, stretching sleep from his body; he felt much more awake and was glad for the rest - even if in a chair, it had obviously restored some of his strength. He opened the door and started down the hall, hoping he could find Iryn and that she had a spare horse he could buy.
The common room was empty now, but Iryn was thankfully stood behind the bar polishing a wine glass a little too assiduously. Looking up from the wine glass, Iryn's eyes had a wicked glint to them that set Jalim on alert. If she hadn't had to move first to pick up the knife, Jalim would certainly have been dead. He leaped across the room, landing on his side, looking behind him for just a glance at the knife stuck into the wall at a perfect level with where his throat had been.

Rolling to his feet, Jalim narrowly missed another knife, he drew the sword and glared at the innkeeper; she apparently had no further knives. He walked slowly, watching her carefully, and put the sword to her throat. "What do you want?"
"You think you'll retrieve it? You're a fool." Iryn's smile was no longer friendly, but full of spite and gloating. She stepped back and the sword remained at her throat, Jalim keeping the pressure on, intent on finding the woman's purpose.
"I think that I'll let you keep my coin and your life in exchange for a horse." Jalim was once more wrapped in a quiet and confident calm, he wasn't asking, simply letting Iryn know what was going to happen now. A bead of sweat appeared on her forehead and Jalim simply waited for confirmation.
"I was surprised Terik's food had failed to kill you, Warder. You have some luck." She then grinned, "But I'll let you have a horse. You'll not get off this island alive, so it makes little difference."
Jalim raised an eyebrow, which for him was as much astonishment as any other man standing with an open mouth. There were others on this island intent on killing him. Terik had tried to poison him. He definitely disliked this place.

[Jalim Mandren]

Jalim didn't move the tip of his sword from Iryn's neck as he allowed her to guide him to the inn's stable. The kitchens were cold now, the night's supper had finished hours ago, and all pots, pans, plates, bowls and cutlery were hidden away in cupboards or under sinks; such a well-kept establishment. Jalim wondered why the woman would be so welcoming when she was clearly a servant of darkness.
Iryn lit a tarnished iron lamp and darkness evaporated. The stable, just like the kitchen, was tidy and the familiar smell of hay and horses filled the air. Jalim's eyes drifted for a single moment upwards, checking for signs of movement in the haylofts: Nothing. Although, the lamplight barely touched past the first eaves of the tall storage space. Ten horses were housed here, all of adequate stock though none compared to the warhorse Jalim had left in the continent to the south - the beast would not have tolerated the journey by sea. A grey bay stallion caught Jalim's eye, a strong looking horse with fiery eyes and a deep chest. He pointed with his left hand to the animal. "Get him saddled, and if you think you can escape or attack, you'd be mistaken woman."
Iryn moved with all the calm of a noblewoman at court, slowly putting a saddle on the bay. All the time, Jalim kept eyes between her and the lofts, his back against the gate of an unoccupied stable, so he would be free of an attack from inside the inn.
"There. He's ready. The owner will likely kill me, but he named the horse Fleet." Not even a touch of remorse touched Iryn's voice, which was steady as it first was, confident.
"If he kills you, woman, it'd be a mercy. Who do you work for?" Jalim's voice had regained some of its surety, and his strength seemed to be returning.
"You already know." There was a knowing smile on the innkeeper's face, a mocking tone to her voice; she was taunting the Warder. He ignored it, jumped on the horse then pointed the sword at her neck again all within a matter of seconds.
"Open the door."
Iryn walked to the large wooden door and lifted the bar from its brackets at either side. The hinges creaked loudly in the quiet of night. Maybe she didn't keep the inn as well as outward impressions indicated. Jalim kicked Fleet into a gallop after sheathing his sword, not caring that he nearly knocked down the woman.
Wheeling around towards the front of the inn, Jalim could hear Iryn's mocking laughter as she shouted to him, "You'll not live the night, Warder. Not this night."

Keeping the horse at a gallop, Jalim realised the horse was well-named. He raced through the night, his saddlebag still on his shoulder. Controlling the horse with his knees, Jalim fastened the bag to the horse's saddle, then took up the reigns once more, heeling the animal on.
As he swept along the road, cloak streaming behind him, Jalim wondered what the innkeeper had meant. Darkness shrouded the surrounding flatlands, occasional copses of trees could be seen whipping by - mounds of shadow dark against the black sky. Were there others who intended to attack him tonight? How far did this attempt at murder really go? Who else was involved?

"Fastest ship ye'll find this, m'lord," Terik enjoyed proclaiming his ship's speed, in fact he seemed to do little else when his mouth opened, "and food to whet the appetite. Not that the crew gets any, 'course, m'lord. I pay them too much for that, ya see. But we'll share a meal each night, m'lord permitting?"
"No. I shall eat with the crew." Terik had the look of a man of money. He certainly wouldn't offer his best food for free. The passage was a small price, considering the distance; even Jalim thought it was cheap, despite his love of frugal spending. Clearly, the captain of Ten Sails was a prudent fellow.
"So be it, m'lord. We'll be there in no time. Fastest ship ye'll find, m'lord, like I told ye."

If he had been with Mathwain, they certainly would have eaten with the captain. Or, more likely, Mathwain would have crewmen bring the food and let the captain eat on deck or with the crew. Thank goodness the Warder had eaten with the others. A dangerous time.
Green eyes never kept on one place for more than an instant, scanning for possible attackers. The darkness was a bane, but could be used to an advantage. As a copse of trees drew near, Jalim swung Fleet toward it. A few metres into the trees, he jumped form the horse, undid his saddlebags, withdrew his normal cloak and stuffed the other in its place. Throwing it across his shoulders, Jalim seemed to disappear, only his head was visible in the dark. The greens and browns always seemed to shift, allowing the Warder to blend into wherever he stood. He jumped back onto the horse and continued north, taking the road again some distance on from where he left.
The horse's hooves were all the sound in the night for nearly an hour. Even owls seemed to have forsaken their songs of wisdom. A fox barked suddenly, behind Jalim to his left. The cries of angry men then filled the air, "You can't escape, Warder; your cloak can't hide you tonight."

Certainly not on the open road, that was sure. He had barely enough time to turn his head, seeing burning torches getting closer, before an arrow struck through his left shoulder. Pushing the pain aside, Jalim drew his sword, thankful that the arrow had not disabled his sword arm. He had a decision to make: continue on and try to fight the men off when they reached him, or dismount now and take what would be an even chance - the men looked no more than louts. The four men he counted wouldn't pose much of a threat even in the Warder's weakened state.
The decision was made for him. To his right and directly behind, more roars of men intending murder erupted from the darkness. The first four were getting closer now, Jalim could hear their horses' hooves against the paved road.
He heeled Fleet viciously, knowing there was no real hope of outrunning these men. There was no time to escape, no chance to formulate a plan. The first man reach Fleets rump and swung his short broadsword wildly. Jalim ducked, his head pressing against the bay's neck. The horse's mouth was lathered; strong, fast, but with no stamina. Rising his head, Jalim struck behind him, careful not to hit the arrow sticking out of his cloak, and his blade dug into the throat of the attacker.
Ripping free as the man fell, Jalim swung the sword to block an axe intended to cleave his skull. He threw the horse to the right, ramming the second attacker. Fleet panicked, and Jalim spat a curse - this was no war horse, no use to him. The second attacker veered off the road and gave Jalim a moment of refuge. That was all he had. Ten men now were a matter of feet away, in a half-circle behind the Warder, raising short horn bows, drawing arrows, fletching to ears. No time to think. Think.