The tent flap swept aside, and Ordeith swaggered in. His fine gray coat was embroidered with silver, but stained heavily. His scrawny neck was dirty, too, jutting out of his collar and giving him the look of a turtle. “A good evening to you, my Lord Bornhald. A gracious good evening, and splendid.” The Lugard accent was heavy today.
“What happened to Child Joelin and Child Gomanes, Ordeith?”
“Such a terrible thing, my Lord. When we came on the Trollocs, Child Gomanes bravely—” Bornhald struck him across the face with his gauntlets. Staggering, the bony man put a hand to his split lip, examined the red on his fingers. The smile on his face no longer mocked. It looked viperish. “Are you forgetting who signed my commission now, lordling? Pedron Niall will be hanging you with your mother’s guts if I say a word, after he has the both of you skinned alive.”
“That is if you are alive to speak this word, yes?”
Ordeith snarled, crouching like some wild thing, spittle bubbling. Slowly he shook himself, slowly straightened. “We must work together.” The Lugarder accent was gone, replaced by a grander, more commanding tone. Bornhald preferred the taunting Lugarder voice to the slightly oily, barely veiled contempt in this one. “The Shadow lies all around us here. Not simply Trollocs and Myrddraal. They are the least of it. Three were spawned here, Darkfriends meant to shake the world, their breeding guided by the Dark One for a thousand years or more. Rand al’Thor. Mat Cauthon. Perrin Aybara. You know their names. In this place, forces are loosed that will harrow the world. Creatures of the Shadow walk the night, tainting men’s hearts, corrupting men’s dreams. Scourge this land. Scourge it, and they will come. Rand al’Thor. Mat Cauthon. Perrin Aybara.” He almost caressed the last name.
Bornhald drew ragged breath. He was not sure how Ordeith had discovered what he wanted here; one day the man had simply revealed his knowledge. “I covered over what you did at the Aybara farm—”
?
??Scourge them.” There was a hint of madness in that grand voice, and sweat on Ordeith’s brow. “Flay them, and the three will come.”
Bornhald raised his voice. “Covered it over because I had to.” There had been no choice. If the truth came out, he would have more than sullen stares to contend with. The last thing he needed was open rebellion on top of Trollocs. “But I will not condone the murder of Children. Do you hear me? What is it you do that you need to hide from the Children?”
“Do you doubt the Shadow will do whatever is needed to stop me?”
“What?”
“Do you doubt it?” Ordeith leaned forward intently. “You saw the Gray Men.”
Bornhald hesitated. Fifty of the Children around him, in the middle of Watch Hill, and no one had noticed the pair with their daggers. He had looked right at them and not seen. Until Ordeith killed the pair. The scrawny little fellow had gained considerable standing with the men for that. Later Bornhald had buried the daggers deep. Those blades had looked to be steel, but a touch seared like molten metal. The first earth thrown on them in the pit had hissed and steamed. “You believe they were after you?”
“Oh, yes, my Lord Bornhald. After me. Whatever it takes to stop me. The Shadow itself wants to stop me.”
“That still says nothing of murdered—”
“I must do what I do in secret.” It was a whisper, almost a hiss. “The Shadow can enter men’s minds to find me out, enter men’s thoughts and dreams. Would you like to die in a dream? It can happen.”
“You are … mad.”
“Give me a free hand, and I will give you Perrin Aybara. That is what Pedron Niall’s orders require. A free hand for me, and I will place Perrin Aybara in yours.”
Bornhald was silent for a long time. “I do not want to look at you,” he said finally. “Get out.”
When Ordeith was gone, Bornhald shivered. What was the Lord Captain Commander up to with this man? But if it put Aybara in his grasp … . Tossing his gauntlets down, he began digging through his belongings. Somewhere he had a flask of brandy.
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.
With a sigh, he seated himself on the edge of his bed. The lamps were already lit, more than a dozen, leaving no shadow anywhere. The tent was as bright inside as noonday. “Have you thought over my proposal? Accept, and you walk free. Refuse … . I know how to hurt your sort. I can make you scream through endless dying. Forever dying, forever screaming.”
The chains hummed at a jerk; the stakes driven deep into the ground creaked. “Very well.” The Myrddraal’s voice was dried snakeskin crumbling. “I accept. Release me.”