The Hunt Begins

[Temanin]

The streets were crowded with hawkers, peasants and the like as Tarac and his men rode into the city of Far Madding. A cool breeze blew through the city, pushing away for a moment the stagnant summer air. They soon made their way to a somewhat large inn, and they casually went inside, not wishing to begin work so soon.

The Legion men were tired and hungry, as Tarac and Herlic hadn’t allowed time for food because of their close proximity to the city. But now inside, the men were given free reign until sunset, upon which time they would report back to the inn. While they were told to keep an eye and ear open for news of their target, none, including Tarac himself, took the order too seriously. Even he realized that sometimes soldiers, just as everyone else, must relax at times.

While the foot soldiers departed, the Dedicated were not so lucky. One was sent to find a way to view the Guardian ter’angreal. This massive structure, along with cutting channelers off from the True Source, also was able to triangulate a position if men or women were channeling within a certain distance from the city. If Nero’s reports were correct, the man he pursued would most likely be channeling right outside the defensive barrier. The other Dedicated was ordered to travel into the more populated areas of the city and poke around, looking for information on the wilder. At a few hours before sunset, he was to go to the outlying farms and villages and then attempt to find some evidence of the destruction reported.

With the crossbowmen out on the town and the Dedicated doing their duty, Tarac and Herlic took the time to get some drinks and lounge. They talked idly, mostly about what they were there to do. Herlic wondered if they would be able to bring the wilder in alive. Tarac wondered if they would be able to survive an encounter without casualty all together. After such talk, Herlic decided to see a little of the town. Having studied maps of the city for some time, Tarac had no inclination to go with him.

He sat alone for a while, drinking casually and looking about the room, allowing his mind to wander for a time. He subconsciously ran his hand across the back of his head, his hand touching the new-sprouting hair that was beginning to grow. Though my loyalty lies with the Black Tower now, neither can I forget about my home. I will return some day and aid once more in the battle against the Blight.

Still dreaming of his homeland, he was startled by Herlic as he burst into the room. He walked quickly over to Tarac, sat down, and took a long draw of ale. Finally, he looked to Tarac, and there in the man’s eyes Tarac saw something he hadn’t seen in some time. Fear. “Herlic. What’s going on?”

“It’s…it’s Tear. I…I don’t know what’s going on anymore.” He took another drink from his cup. “I used to look up at it, in all of its glory. I used to marvel at its size and overwhelming power,” he muttered, half to himself. “It could never fall. Never!”

Tarac leaned close and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I will ask once more. What is going on?” He leaned back, the man opposite him slowly composing himself.

“It’s the Stone of Tear. It has fallen to al’Thor.”

Tarac sat silently for a moment before nodding. It was shocking news, to be sure. The Stone of Tear, the impenetrable fortress on the coast. It had never fallen to any siege in all its long history. And now it has fallen, and credit is given to a man many have begun claiming as the Dragon Reborn. Perhaps he is the one… With Cyril’s flee from the Black Tower, most men there had resigned to the fact that he was a False Dragon. And the majority of those men also believed that this Rand al’Thor was the true Dragon. Tarac, himself, was skeptical, though he believed most of the reports about this man. But now he had taken the Stone. This shed an entirely new light on everything.

The conversation the rest of that night centered on this boy al’Thor. Long into the night, Herlic told stories of his experiences with the Stone while living in Tear. With both horror and amazement he told of what he had heard on the streets. While he was frightened of the power that this Rand must control to be able to take the Stone, he was astonished, as well. Who could muster such a force and overthrow an impregnable fortress like the Stone if not the Dragon Reborn, he asked. All the while Tarac listened patiently, speaking only when he had to. He was lost in his own thoughts for most of the evening.

As the evening drew on, the men of the Legion returned, all brimming with the story of the fall of the Stone. They were simply ordered to bed, being told they would be woken early that morning. Herlic, too, retired to his room, too exhausted from his excessive storytelling to remain awake. Again Tarac was left to wait for the Dedicated to return. It wasn’t until after midnight that the two men arrived, almost one after the other.

The first to arrive was the Dedicated with the task to view the Guardian ter’angreal. He reported that he would be able to watch it, and would continue to do so until channeling was detected. Tarac nodded and sent him back to the Guardian, but with an order to get a little sleep if he could. The second Dedicated walked in just as the other was departing. He then gave his report.

“It was difficult to get anything out of these bloody people, what with al’Thor and his rock-stealing abilities. That’s all they jabbered about, no one paying any heed to a man just outside their town that could channel. I tell you, if this al’Thor comes here, they are likely to hold a festival…” His words were cut off by a menacing stare from Tarac. The Dedicated cleared his throat, and continued. “Umm, yes, anyway…the people complain about the crowded streets lately. They say it is because many of the people from the outer farms and villages are coming into the city. For what, most of them did not know. But some spoke that they came in for protection. They feared something outside the barrier of that bloody ter’angreal, so they all just moved here.” Tarac took a moment to take this all in before motioning for the man to continue. “And I have some news of outside the barrier and signs of a channeler. It appears as though a few very small villages just south of here have been completely destroyed. A few farms have burned to the ground, as well. There isn’t any pattern, though. The bloody man seems to just randomly point his finger and catch stuff on fire.”

“Alright,” Tarac responded after a moment. “You have done your duty for tonight. Get some sleep, and in the morning,” he paused, a small smirk upon his face. “We go hunting."

***

[Temanin]

***

Tarac quickly snapped up out of bed, his hand flying to his sword as the knob on his door slowly turned. In a flash his blade was out and pointed at the would-be intruder.

“Sir…” the young Dedicated said. “We have him.” Tarac exhaled deeply and sheathed his blade. It was the Dedicated charged with watching the Guardian ter’angreal. The man looked exhausted, and Tarac guessed he didn’t manage to get much sleep.

He nodded and slowly turned to the small chair beside his bed which held his clothing for the day. “Quickly, wake the others.” He glanced at the man once more, a small smile upon his face. “And try not to get yourself killed in the process.”

He hurriedly dressed, slipping a humble brown coat up over a white undershirt. To any passerby, he would look like a slightly wealthy farmer, and no more. If it wasn’t for his sword, that is. He debated for a moment as to the best way to transport it, yet could find no better option. Many were carrying weapons nowadays. He wouldn’t stand out too much. He quickly belted it on and went out the door.

When he arrived down in the inn stables, Herlic and the two Dedicated were already there. Herlic nodded slightly, obviously still tired. The men made there way to the horses, saddling them up and preparing to ride. When the men of the Legion arrived, they too readied their horses. They rode out casually, bearing south as they went. They reached the edge of the city and exited through the gates, no one making a sound as they followed the Dedicated.

At long last they rode out from the protective shield of the Guardian, and were once more able to feel saidin. Tarac had an instant urge to draw upon it and hold it forever. But he knew what would happen if he used it too much. What was already destined to happen to him. Madness, just like the man he now hunted…

After roughly 10 minutes of riding, the Dedicated veered off the road and started for a large copse of trees. What had been first hardly noticeable upon the dull dawn sky was now a beacon to the hunters: smoke. It billowed forth, seemingly unending from what appeared to be the center of the wood. Herlic and the others look, then, to Tarac.

“Shall we hold saidin?” Herlic asked, clearly also pleased to be able to sense it once more.

“No. We can’t let the man in these trees know we are here.” Herlic and the Dedicated simply nodded, and continued up to the edge of the trees. There, they dismounted and tied off their horses, the copse being too thick to ride effectively through. The Legion men readied their crossbows, drawing back the string and bolt, determination on their face. If Tarac had to guess, he would wager that none of the men with him had seen a mad channeler.

Tarac admitted to himself, then, that he had only seen two. The first had been dispatched quietly one evening, behind the locked and warded doors of the M’hael’s audience chamber. Marcus had done his duty well, standing firm as the poison was administered. He talked reassuringly to the mad Dedicated, who had shattered the bones of two men’s legs during a practice session and laughed manically as he slowly used weaves of earth to dig giant holes around him for no apparent reason that anyone could see. He stood steadfast as the fatal drink took the man’s life, not an emotion touching his face.

“That is what it means to be a leader,” Tarac remembered telling Nero shortly after the incident. “The ability and fortitude required to do what is needed.” Nero had nodded silently, and then looked to Tarac. “I only hope that we can all be like that when the time comes.” He paused for a moment. “Just pray that when the madness comes to us, we can simply die a calm, peaceful death. I don’t want a group of men chasing after me across the countryside. I don’t want to put anyone in danger. To be mad and alone…” These words rang through Tarac’s head as they began into the woods. He couldn’t help but think of the other mad man he had seen.

***

[Temanin]

***

It was a warm morning, with no breeze at all in the air. The sky was darkened by what threatened to be storm clouds. It would be a good day to train asha’man in the art of lightning. Tarac was making his way back to his small home from the mess hall when Lec, an asha’man of a year and a half, came up beside him. Tarac and Lec were close in strength, and had even trained together some. Lec was fully dressed in asha’man garb, with pins on collar and sword on hip. They talked idly about this and that, from the new shipment of goods coming next week to the lightning practice which was sure to be scheduled. The field was sparsely populated, with Dedicated and asha’man here and there. As they neared Tarac’s home, Lec bid him farewell.

Tarac turned towards his door, but offered one final glance back. Lec turned away, and then walked straight for an asha’man who was strolling by. He took three steps, drew his sword with impressive speed, and plunged in into the man’s heart. Tarac was stunned, unable to move. “What…” was all he was able to utter. As the man lay dying at Lec’s feet, he drew on the One Power, filling himself with it. Tarac’s stun state left him quickly as he knew what must be done. He reached for the Source, but as he did so, the ground under his feet collapsed. The hole was huge in diameter, and reached all the way under Tarac’s porch. Suddenly without support, the modest porch fell forward, snapped from the house and crashed into the hole, debris flying everywhere. Tarac quickly picked himself up and moved to the edge, where he channeled quickly, making a way for himself to get out. As he came above the hole, what he witnessed he would never forget.

There, in the middle of the Training Field, was Lec, his right hand extended, hurling fireballs and shards of earth in every direction, his left hand grasping a fiery sword, which was being used to cut down the men who came to challenge him in combat. Without thought, he threw his hand forward, attempting to shield Lec from the Source. It was to no avail. While Lec was close in strength to Tarac, all asha’man were trained to shield strong channelers, even once they held the One Power, for situations just like this. He should have been able to easily shield him, yet he could not. He wondered for a moment on how this could be as he watched other asha’man throw shields at the man, all of which were destroyed.

And then Tarac remembered it. Lec had been in a group of explorers who had recently found a small cache of angreal and sa’angreal. Lec had either managed to get a hold of one of these, or had simply kept one, not telling anyone of his find. This presented a new challenge, as a man as strong as Lec, even with a weak angreal, could cause major havoc on the Black Tower. Tarac ran a little ways, strafing Lec as he did so. There he came upon Herlic. This was the first time that they had ever met, though no greeting was sparred, as a plan had to be formed. As they debated what to do, they watched as men were burned alive, or exploded from the inside with wicked flows of air. And then Marcus finally arrived, being out in the woods surrounding the Farm, preparing for the lightning practice. He threw forth a shield, and all watching were sure that it would work. However, Lec was much stronger than first anticipated.

“Lec must have a sa’angreal. That’s the only way he could be stronger than the M’hael. Now, I need a diversion so I can get back behind…” Tarac’s words were cut off as a loud clap of thunder issued forth, and Lec’s weaves went into the clouds. And then all hell broke lose.

Lightning fell from everywhere, striking everything is sight. Among others, Marcus was hit, and he fell to the ground, motionless. Tarac and Herlic managed to throw up a weak ward just in time to prevent a large bolt from killing the two of them. Men ran in circles as fire consumed them, buildings burned wherever one looked, and Lec walked calmly, a child-like grin upon his face.

Herlic’s jaw dropped as he saw Marcus go down. “We have to help him!”

“There’s nothing we can do.” He looked over to the building they had been taking shelter against. “And I suggest we move. This building is on fire.” They quickly dashed forward, running to the closest non-burning building they could fine. It was simply a small shack, not even big enough to hide both men completely. “Okay, like I said, I need a diversion. He has to be looking the other way, or I’m a dead man. Just do…something to keep him looking in one direction.” Tarac then rolled off the side of the building and made a sweeping run, slowly angling out right at Lec.

For a moment, he thought that Herlic had become to frightened and bolted, and became worried. But then, all of a sudden, a loud pop sounded and large amounts of earth began pitching into the air, almost as if the ground, itself, was boiling. He nodded to himself as he watched Lec turn in that direction, watching with what seemed to be a lot of interest.

“I don’t have time to get much closer…” he mumbled to himself, and ground to a halt. He threw his hand forward and channeled, threads of fire knotting and wrapping around one another at his palms. It was a powerful fireball weave that Nero had taught him. It took only a moment to create, but it was still too long. He fired the weave at Lec, just as he turned around. It slammed into the man’s left shoulder, erupting in blazing hot blue and orange explosion. Lec fell to the ground, his left arm smoldering and lying limp at his side.

Just when Tarac thought it was all over, somehow Lec picked himself up and whirled on Tarac with incredible speed. His right hand flew forth and a weave, the likes of which Tarac had never seen, formed in his palm. It was a brilliantly shinning bluish green orb, roughly the size of a melon. Tarac didn’t even have a chance to blink. The orb slammed into his chest, throwing him back and bringing him crashing into the ground. On impact, the orb seemed to crack and ooze all over him, much like an egg. The light from the orb then burst into a small glowing flame which completely enveloped Tarac. He was frightened for a moment, but then realized that the flames did not burn, but only held him paralyzed. He laid there for a moment, and then watched another weave fly into his field of vision. It blasted away the flame surrounding him, allowing Tarac to rise to his feet once more. He nodded to Herlic, who had cleared the flames, then looked out to Lec. He was being assaulted on all sides, the fireball having severely damaged him.

Tarac took a deep breath and ran forward again, this time tripping Lec with air, then pulled the earth up around him to pin him to the ground. A daring young asha’man rushed forward and pulled a foot-long blue rod from Lec’s belt, the obvious sa’angreal. It was only then that Tarac saw Marcus on his feet once more. Still channeling like crazy, Marcus threw a shield onto Lec, and this time it found its mark. Without hesitation, Marcus then extended his right hand and a brilliant light shone from where Lec has been lying. The light receded to reveal the remains of Lec, incinerated beyond recognition. Lec was dead, the Black Tower safe once more. In total, 32 men were killed, including two Storm Leaders, twelve asha’man, seven Dedicated, and eleven regular citizens. It was the single bloodiest day in the history of the Black Tower to date.

This is what Tarac feared they would face again as they rode into those dark woods, the sun just beginning to shine through the tops of the trees. A madman channeling: one of the most feared things in the entire world. And he was riding in to face it head on.

***

[Temanin]

***

He did take confidence in his company, though. He had known Herlic for some time; a strong man, though somewhat childish at times. T Legion crossbowmen were well trained, having probably put some of them through their paces himself. And the Dedicated had strength, enough to guarantee that both would wear the pin of full asha’man some day. They had shown great resolve on this trip, from dealing with the road bandits to gathering information for the mission at hand. He would have to remember to mention their actions to a Storm Leader when they returned. Perhaps this trip was enough to allow them to advance.

It was then the he realized he didn’t even know the two men’s names. There they were, walking through dense woods straight at the Creator only knew what, ready to die if need be, just because Tarac had told them to. Power, he noted, was a very interesting thing.

Roughly five minutes passed, and they still had not come upon the source of the fire. Just as he was ready to gather the men and have then pair off and spread out, he felt it. It was a feeling he couldn’t really describe, yet he knew exactly what it meant. Saidin was near. His eyes caught that of Herlic and the Dedicated, who nodded and loosened their blades in their sheaths. He did the same as he scanned the trees ahead, trying to get a fix on where the saidin was originating.

Another two minutes passed, yet nothing was found. He quickly glanced over to the three Legion men to his right. They were obviously aware of something, as they too had settled into a more serious mood. He was turning back when he saw it.

There, stretched out at roughly shin height was a thread of fire, like some sort of trip line. And the three Legion men were walking right out it. He threw out his hand and yelled, “Stop!” but it was too late. Their legs passed through the weave and it seemed to sever, retracting back into the trees from which they seemed connected. There was only a second’s delay, and then the surrounding trees erupted, spewing fire and wood in all directions. Two Legion men were instantly killed, burnt and torn apart by flying tree fragments. The third caught a long wood shard through the shoulder and was severely burned. Tarac, Herlic, and one of the Dedicated were thrown to the ground by the blast, but went otherwise unharmed.

They picked themselves up off the ground and looked over once more. A great conflagration spread through the trees, quickly jumping from one to the next in the dense wood. Tarac threw weaves of air and water ahead of him, attempting to clear the fire from the downed Legion man still living, and called the closest Dedicated over. “You have to get in there and Heal him. Herlic and I have no Talent in it. We would only hurt him more. This is your chance…now go!” He again threw air and water in front of him, and the Dedicated ran forward, feeling the heat of the flames, but little more. In the meantime, Herlic took the other Dedicated and the remaining four Legion men ahead. “He has to be close,” he had said, just before going off.

The fire slowly swept around behind Tarac, completely cutting him off from the rest, yet he kept his weaves around the Dedicated and Legion men. While it should have been easy to put out such a blaze, the flames seem to have an odd quality about them. They seemed more tangible, more liquid. Whenever he hit one, it simply oozed away or around his weave, then returned to burn again. The Dedicated seemed to be taking his time, from what Tarac could tell. Impatient, he decided to try something different. He pulled earth up into and around the flames, at least hoping to contain them. Yet the fire seemed to flow into the earth, causing the small walls he created to shatter, spraying dirt everywhere.

He smiled slightly as he watched the healing weaves settle into the Legion man, but realized that the flames were closing once more. In a desperate attempt, Tarac sent weaves of fire into the blaze, hoping to control it. And, surprisingly, it worked. He was able to hold the flames in place. He looked over again, the heat from the flames piercing even his fortitude, the sweat rolling down his face. The Dedicated was helping the man to his feet, both looking exhausted, but otherwise okay. “It’s about time. Now we can catch up with…” A shimmering ball came hurtling through the trees and crashed squarely at the feet of the two men. A giant explosion ensued, uprooting trees, and sending Tarac sailing back. He slammed into a tree, his vision blurring.

He sat there for a moment before finally picking himself up. Looking in the direction Herlic and the others had gone off; he could see more flames and smoke. He ran towards what appeared to be a large battle, drawing deeply on the Source as he went. He could feel what had to be the madman, channeling large amounts of the One Power. He found Herlic, down behind a fell tree. “Herlic, what happened?!”

“He’s got an angreal. He killed one of the Legion men, and that Dedicated is wounded badly.” The only sounds were the popping of burning wood and the slight moans of a man dying.

“I don’t understand. Where is he?” There was a loud sizzling-like noise, and the moaning stopped. “Ah bloody ashes. Diplomatic relations are terminated. Kill him.” Tarac stood and whirled around; throwing any weave he could think of in the direction he felt the man channeling. Trees and other foliage went sailing as weaves of fire and lightning went sailing towards the madman. Tarac and Herlic advanced, dodging whatever came flying at them all the while. Coming up over the small knoll which had been concealing the channeler, Tarac saw him. He stood roughly 5’8” with a shaggy beard, but otherwise wore fine clothing, similar to that of Tarac. There was something familiar about the man, though he couldn’t put his finger on it…

Two crossbow bolts slammed suddenly into the man’s chest. A look of sadness and despair blossomed on his face, and for a moment Tarac felt pity for that man. But then he thought of those who had died at his hands. Tarac extended his hand and sent flows into the man, holding his heart still. He watched, unblinking, as the man died in front of him.

As Herlic and the two Legion men checked the others for life, Tarac searched the madman’s body. On his finger he found a ring or odd craft. It was slightly warm to the touch, and he soon realized that it was the angreal the man had been using. Tarac slipped the ring upon his finger, and though it had fit tightly on the hand of a man a head shorter than him, it also fit his finger perfectly. He then continued to search the man. He drew a small pouch from the man’s belt and emptied its contents on the ground. There, among the common items, was a torn letter, sealed with wax. The seal was broken, but Tarac immediately recognized it. It was the seal of the Dragon.

***

o.o.c.: Almost finished. I need one more post to tie together my story and this new plot twist, and then I can come after Kenith’s character, Bob’s character, or whatever. A story is building in my head. A story for Tarac deeply rooted in the story of the Black Tower. Good thing I’m the writer of both, huh?

[Tony]

o.o.c. Holy crap that is a lot to read. I'll read it tommarow Tem when I have more time. And would you like me to also read the thread you made in the BT?

[Temanin]

o.o.c.: My story begins in the Black Tower, then goes to the Unclaimed Lands, then here. You must read it all to understand. And to kill a good fourty-five minutes.

And if you haven't read the Black Tower story, I recommend you do that, as well. I'll be adding to it soon.

[Tony]

o.o.c. I shall do that tommarow Tem. Thanks for telling me. It gives me something to do on the computer instead of constantly refreshing the page to see if anyone is on.

[Temanin]

***

Tarac sat in his room at the inn alone, the only light emitting from two mismatched candles. He has moved the small end table over next to the bed, and he now sat, surveying the contents of the table once more. He casually rolled the ring angreal around in his hands, not really paying attention as he did so. His major focus was on the letter illuminated before him.

The letter appeared torn in half and charred from the weaves which had been thrown against the man it belonged to. Likewise inside it was almost impossible to make out more than a few words, none of which made any sense. But the seal, it had remained intact. Though broken to open the letter, it hadn’t received any other damage, despite the terrible condition of the letter upon which it was pressed. The seal held the image of the dragon, just like the asha’man pin, and in the corner was a small “C.R.“, Cyril’s initials. What could this possibly mean? Why would this man carry a letter from Cyril?

Just then Herlic came through the door. Tarac looked around quickly. “So?”

“It looks like Josef’s going to pull through. He’s a lucky one.” Tarac simply nodded. The Dedicated had taken some direct hits from the man in the forest, and everyone had assumed him dead. But when Herlic had gone to check on him, he found him breathing. Tarac and Herlic had done what little Healing they could, hoping that it was enough. So he was going to make it. One good that will come from this day.

“We’ll leave in the morning if Josef is up to it. Now go and get some rest, and tell the three Legion men to do the same.” As Herlic turned and exited, Tarac turned back to the letter. And then something suddenly came to mind. He quickly stood and walked out the door. He turned down the hall and made his way to Herlic’s room. He pounded on the door.

The door swung open, Herlic standing without a shirt, sword and coat lying upon a chair. “Did a messenger from the Black Tower ever come to you? Did a runner contact you or one of the Dedicated while you were out in the town?”

Herlic thought for a moment, then shook his head, obviously confused. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Nero had told me when we first set out that his runner…Simon, I believe it was, would be coming to Far Madding with more information. With the quick development of everything around here, I never paid it much mind.” Herlic motioned towards his bed, and Tarac absently walked over and sat down, completely lost in thought. Herlic retrieved his coat, placed his sword in the floor and pulled the chair over near Tarac.

“What’s going on? What’s all of this about?”

Tarac thought for a moment. It finally started to make sense to him, though he didn’t want to believe it. “This all has to do with Cyril.” He paused. Marcus had said Storm, Battle, and Blade Leaders were not permitted to tell asha’man and others of the nature of Cyril’s departure. He trusted Herlic, though, and believed he needed to know. “The night Cyril fled; he left a letter for Marcus. In it, he still held onto the claim of Dragon Reborn. He also said that he would be back to destroy the Black Tower and place himself in power once more.”

He looked down at his hands and saw that he still clutched the angreal. “Now this ‘madman’ in the woods here…I don’t know how mad he really was. You saw the precision of his weaves. You saw the fire trap and the complex attack weaves he was using. And not once did the man look mad. He looked composed, concentrating on the mission at hand. And he had this.” Tarac held up the ring angreal before him, the object casting light off at odd angles. ((angreal image)) “I have never heard of a wilder getting a hold of an angreal. I believe this was given to him. And I think I know who gave it to him. He had a letter on him; a letter with the seal of Cyril upon it.”

He let Herlic process all of this information before continuing. “I think this madman was a diversion to get some people out of the Tower. I think Cyril is planning an attack.” He quickly stood and made for the door. “We have to get back to the Black Tower. As soon as possible.”