The Black Tower Story

[Temanin]

A cold wind sliced its way through the barracks, sending shivers down the spines of the men stationed within. It continued across the training field, scorched and disheveled, and at last found its way to the main entrance of the large farmhouse there. A master ward was the only thing that stopped the wind’s progress.

Within the room designated as the conference room were two men. The first was a diminutive man, short in both stature and temperament. With pitch black hair and penetrating green eyes, this minor Illianer noble was the personification of arrogance. But this night the news that the second man had brought lowered the man to a nervous wreck.

“This…this can not be. How…how…” The man began to pace back and forth, running his hands over the fine red jacket hanging off his shoulders. How could this be possible? What am I suppose to do now?!

“I assure you that the reports are true,” the second man began. “He was seen be thousands, battling in the sky with who most are claiming to be Ba’alzamon.” He paused, trying to gauge the reaction of the man pacing before him. Standing almost an entire head above the Illianer, wearing a black coat with a dragon and sword pin on the collar, the man seemed composed and confident. He was anything but, for the news he brought stabbed fear into the hearts of most men. “Here, these began appearing in the streets within days.” The second man reached into his back pocket and removed a piece of parchment, hastily rolled and sealed for long travel. He broke the seal and handed it over.

The second man did not even have to look at the picture to know what it held, for he had seen it with his own eyes. A man, standing tall and proud, red hair and grey eyes, stood in a basic duel stance, sword extended before him. Opposite the red-haired man stood an even more ominous creature from legend. Cloaked in black, holding forth a quarterstaff as black as the cloak, fire billowed from his eyes and mouth, presenting the essence of horror. And both men were represented as standing upon clouds, some sort of battle taking place below.

“Marcus, you saw this with your own eyes? Looked upon it from below?”

Marcus nodded slowly to the shorter man, trying not to show his nervousness. “I did. May I speak openly, without formality?”

“Of course, of course.” He paid him little mind as he stared, transfixed upon the picture he held in his hand.

“Cyril, I believe this man presents a serious problem to you and this establishment. Many are proclaiming him as…as the Dragon Reborn.” Marcus stumbled only slightly on the last words.

Cyril stood for a moment, gazing intently at the parchment, before crumpling it in his hand. “No! I refuse to believe this. This man can not be the Dragon Reborn!” With that he held the picture above his head and it burst into flames, disappearing in a cloud of ash within seconds. “I am the Dragon Reborn.”

Now Marcus was growing nervous. He was coming upon the point which he had been dreading ever since he witnessed the men in the sky. “Cyril. Calm yourself and listen, for I have something to say.” He reached up and removed the dragon pin from his collar. Holding it in his palm, he held it before Cyril’s face. “When your predecessor Errol pinned this upon my collar, I swore an oath. And that oath was to remain loyal to the Dragon Reborn.” He swallowed hard before continuing. “When you proclaimed yourself as the Dragon in Illian, Errol was quick to challenge you, for he believed you were a threat to him. And how right he was. You don’t need me to tell you of your battle with him. When the dust cleared, you stood victorious. This Black Tower, formed by Errol himself to harbor male channelers, embraced you as the true Dragon, for obviously Errol was not the one.”

He stopped and made a large deal of drinking from the glass of water that he had left untouched up until this time. Marcus looked at Cyril and wondered if he could see when he was going with this subject. He stalled for as long as he though he could before continuing.

“And then a little over a year ago you named me M’hael, leader of all the Black Tower under yourself. And again I swore loyalty to the Dragon Reborn. I know not of what you think or believe, but the Black Tower has prospered under my command as you have been out gathering supporters and attempting to complete prophecy. As you know, I adhere very carefully to my oaths.” At last he was here. There was no going back now.

“Every time I spoke the words ‘My honor, my spirit, my loyalty, my life to the Dragon Reborn’ I meant them. But what is said in the oath and what you believe are two very different things.” He inhaled greatly twice before moving on. “For almost two years I have known you, and I would consider you one of my few friends. But, truth be old, I do not know for a fact that you are the Dragon Reborn. The death of Errol has hardened me against False Dragons.” He could see the rage building in Cyril, yet he remained oddly quiet. His friend wanted to lash out, destroy the M’hael who practically spoke treason. Marcus knew this as well and began running through his mind what weaves he would use. And he continued. “If this sky walker, this al’Thor, proclaims himself as the Dragon Reborn, the Black Tower must be ready to look upon him, call him out. We stand loyal to the true Dragon Reborn.” He stood tall and waited for Cyril’s response.

For a moment, Cyril stood still, forcing down thoughts which told him to burn this traitor before him to ash. He had been my friend. My best friend, yet now he speaks of disposing my from the position that is rightfully mine. He subconsciously reached for saidin, drawing on the power and the madness. He was surprised by the response of Marcus, for he too embraced saidin, but much more quickly and had readied a shield to place upon him. Cyril knew that if he truly wanted, he could destroy any shield that Marcus could throw at him, but instead released the One Power, walked over to a high-backed chair and fell into it.

“What would you have me do, then? I am the Dragon Reborn, whether you choose to believe it or not. I am.” He glared at Marcus, a stare that would normally send grown men running, but Marcus stood firm. “Would you have me challenge him, just as Errol challenged me?”

“That is one possibility that I see. Destroy this boy before he gains support. Your crushing him would reassure the asha’man, dedicated, soldiers and recruits here at the Farm.”

Cyril gave him a quizzical look. “The men here. Do they speak of me? What is it that they say?”

Again Marcus took a deep breath. “The men that went with me to Falme, who witnessed the battle first-hand, spread the story throughout the entire compound within a few hours. They brought back the drawings and passed them through the men. I regret to report to you that most in the camp already favor this al’Thor.”

Again Cyril fell into a great depression. His mind heaved, attempting to dislodge the anguish that had fallen upon him from this news. The men no longer feel that I am who I am. This single thought went through his mind again and again as he tried to find a way out of the predicament.

Suddenly, calm and composed, he arose. Marcus was surprised, but as was his habit, did not show it. He turned towards Cyril, ready for anything when the man placed his hand upon Marcus’s shoulder. “My friend, thank you for this news. I know that it was not easy for you to give, and I appreciate your honesty.” Gathering his things from the table, he said, “Now if you will excuse me, I take my leave.” With that he turned and marched out of the room, lowering the master ward as he went.

Marcus had little idea on how to gauge what had just occurred. Was Cyril planning on challenging al’Thor? He was only sure about one thing: if this Rand al’Thor is the true Dragon Reborn, he was ready to dispose his friend and execute him if necessary. “We stand loyal to the true Dragon Reborn,” he murmured as he, too, turned and walked from the room.

* * *

Cyril stood in his room on the third floor of the farmhouse, watching out his window as Marcus strode away. He called me his friend. Friend! How could he call me a friend, and in the same breath speak that I, Cyril, a lord of Illian, successor of Errol, the true Dragon Reborn, was not?! How could he say that I am not the Dragon Reborn? Did he not recall when I destroyed his previous master? Did he not reLocal all the men that have rallied to my banner?

Cyril began to pace back and forth, trying to figure out what it was that he was going to do. What was he going to do? If he challenged this Rand and lost, he would not be alive very long. But if he won… He grew more nervous, so he went and took a long draw of ale.

He was up most of the night, deliberating. At last he reached a decision. He woke a few hours before the sun rose, and set out to see his plan fulfilled.

[Temanin]

* * *

Marcus had a fitful night. He couldn’t get out of his mind the look upon Cyril’s when he gave him the news. He rolled out of his bed early, no longer able to sleep. He took his time dressing, placing the Dragon and sword pin upon his collar, placing the badge of the M’hael onto his breast. He ate what was left of his meal from the previous night, not wishing to leave his room just yet.

He walked over into his small audience room and marveled once again at the picture lying upon the table. A battle in the sky. The picture didn’t do the actual event justice. It had been spectacular; an incredible show of power, all the while a war raging below. Marcus admitted to himself that had that man came to him and asked him for his allegiance, he would have given it willingly, paying no heed to his ties to the Black Tower. Perhaps this is what the prophecy spoke of, he though as he paced around his room.

When he had finished the last of his bread and water, the sun was just rising over the horizon. He looked at himself just once more in the mirror, and then stepped in front of his door. He was running his hands through his hair, preparing to meet with Cyril again, when he grabbed the knob and opened the door. There, floating right in his face, suspended by a tied off weave of air, hung a folded letter surrounded by a strong ward. Marcus was surprised for a moment at the fact that someone had channeled so closely to his room and his wardings had not woken him. And then he saw the seal upon the letter and knew what was going on. It was from Cyril, bearing the seal of the soaring Dragon. He reached up and grabbed it, at the same time channeling the key-like weave to remove the ward, just as Cyril had shown him. He read the letter twice, the first time almost choking from lack of air.

He immediately whirled down the hall to the servant’s quarters, where a few messengers still lounged. Snapping to attention when he rounded the corner, he quickly ordered the men to round up all of the residents of the Black Tower. They were to meet him out on the Proving Grounds. He turned back to his room and retrieved the picture lying on the table. He then departed to the grounds.

He was met by a growing group of men of all sizes and shapes, some wearing the traditional black coats, others in training uniforms, and still others and casual or work clothing. He had two men channel and drag out a raised platform from which it was customary to speak. It soared a few feet into the ground before it landed behind Marcus, an added flare that the men might needed talked to about, he noted. He turned and stepped up the short flight of air-made stairs onto the platform. He turned and looked at the men. More had gathered in just the time it took to set up the platform. Marcus had the exact count of these men lying in his office; every name and history of every man, located in a large cabinet drawer.

When he determined that enough of the men were present, he channeled, projecting his voice over the assembly. “Silence. Asha’man, Dedicated, Soldiers, recruits, the M’hael addresses you.” The crowd grew silent in a heartbeat, Marcus’s voice booming over the entire compound. “You are all men and do not deserve to be talked to as though you were children. Because of this, I will get right to it.”

He unrolled the letter once again, read over it once more quickly, and the looked back at the men. “Cyril Algasa, reigning Lord of the Black Tower, whom claims the title of the Dragon Reborn, has, for a lack of a better phrase, ran away. He left me this letter, explaining his departure.” Marcus paused for a moment, trying to choose his words carefully. “We shall follow the normal procedure in such events. We are to assume the Cyril will not be returning. If in one month no sign or word is sent, Cyril shall be removed from the ranks of the Black Tower and no longer be recognized by this organization as the Dragon Reborn. That is all. Dismissed.” With that, Marcus stepped down from the platform and began to move back to his office. He expected the Tsorovan’m’hael, Baijan'm'hael and Mandarb’m’hael would have many questions. As he entered his office, he gave the order to his guard to only admit these two ranking officers.

It was about an hour before the first Storm Leader stormed into Marcus’s office. “What’s going on here?! How could he just run away?! He’s the Dragon Reborn!” Before he had any more time to talk, Marcus slammed a block of air over his mouth, eliminating all sound coming out and lifted him a foot off the ground.

“You will show the proper respect to your M’hael. Now you will listen and accept all that I have to say. Cyril has run in fear of another man laying claim to the title of the Dragon Reborn. He is afraid. This, alone, in my mind, throws all claims Cyril once had to the Dragon Reborn to the wind. If I had my way, we would strip his name from the ranks immediately. But, as the rules dictate, we must wait. Now go and tell this to your fellow Storm, Battle, and Blade Leaders. It is your responsibility, but if I get word that a single asha’man, dedicated, soldier, recruit, or any others living on the Farm has this same information, you will find yourself regretting your loose tongue.” With that he threw the man from his office and closed the door. “Guard! Admit no one. I do not wish to be disturbed.” He then slammed the door shut with a blast of air, and then sealed it with a strong ward.

He undressed and lowered himself into the bath. The water covered his body as he sunk lower and lower. He finally came to rest with only his face above water. And he again found himself thinking of the letter from Cyril. He had considered this man his friend, and yet look at what he had done. The section in the letter that had really struck Marcus entered into his head once more, for he had it committed to memory by now.

Marcus. You are powerful. You could have been great. But instead, you chose to betray me. You have committed mutiny, and I shall never forgive you or your loyal Black Tower. All of you will see the power that I have within me. You shall see that I can best this al’Thor and all that will come after. You shall see that I am the true Dragon Reborn, Lord of all! You shall see me standing upon the top of Dragonmount dealing forth my justice as I see fit. The world will be mine.

Wait and watch, for I am coming back. And you shall be destroyed.