Drak knew this was one of the most difficult tasks so far. Trying to concentrate enough to do the forms while being pelted with rice balls was hard enough, but when the Captain said he had to concentrate without using the Void it made things infinitely tougher.

After all, the Void was a concentration tool that worked remarkably well. But the Captain knew his business, and if he thought this tactic would help him improve, then Drak was going to give it his best effort.

Eyeing the gathered crew one last time, the young swordsman began the sword kata. Immediately the rain of rice-filled leather balls began. The hard little packets pelted him relentlessly, but he managed to begin his routine, while not quite flawlessly, somewhat effectively.

His best efforts were soon thwarted, however, as multiple balls smacked him square in the face, and another connected flush on his testicles.

It was enough to disrupt his routine almost before it even got started.

When she took his hand, Drak knew that she was his.

But, unlike with so many other women on so many other nights, he had no desire to rush things with this young warrior maiden. He was enjoying her company more than he would have expected, and her clever wit was positively charming. Not to mention her other lovely assets that her dress was showing off in fine fashion.

“I’m sorry, Zoe,” he answered honestly after he finished laughing. “But I’ve already forgotten your friend’s name. I beg your pardon, but I’d just as soon forget she even exists.” Winking devilishly, he added, “I think I made the right decision in choosing a dancing partner.”

Grinning broadly, they both sipped on their wine. Had he requested a refill for them? Regardless, their goblets were full. Their soft laughter warmed them even more than the wine, and between dances they ate the best the fine establishment had to offer. They were dancing when their food came, and again when the dessert arrived. She ate her piece of pie off his fork, and he nibbled her neck while she rubbed her fingers through his hair.

The only other patrons were just as involved with their own affairs as he and Zoe were with theirs, so their behavior wasn’t out of place. Even so, he made sure to keep things subdued. It wouldn’t do to act untoward tonight.

The evening passed in a blur of secret kisses, countless dances, and just enough wine to get them a little tipsy. Well maybe a bit more than a little, Drak admitted to himself as he walked Zoe home.

“The Fortress of Light, eh?” he asked rhetorically as they approached the largest structure in Amador. “Quite a nice place you’ve got here.” They laughed whimsically at the silliness of it, and drew funny looks from the guards who were on duty. When he finally reached her door, she pulled him too her and gave him a passionate kiss that was fit to curl his toes. It was nothing like the teasingly playful kisses they had shared throughout the night.

“Zoe!” He proclaimed with an evil grin as he reluctantly pulled back, then teasingly added, “What has gotten into you?”

The hungry look in her eyes, and the hand tracing playful patterns on her lovely, heaving bosom told him exactly what she had in mind, but for some reason he wanted to make sure she really wanted him, and that it wasn’t the wine talking. So he didn’t take advantage of the situation, but instead stepped back and kissed her hand.

“Shall we call it an evening, milady? I believe the wine has gone to my head, and I can’t think clearly with your kisses clouding my thoughts even more.” Smiling charmingly, he asked, “Can we do this again tomorrow? Or rather, shall we go on a picnic? I know a lovely place where the two of us can get away from the crowds and get to know each other better.”

Drak strolled into the dinner a little over half an hour late, just in time for the good wine to be served.

“Black is so overdone,” he joked to himself under his breath as the great double doors closed behind him. With the exception of himself and a bare handful of other guests in attendance, everyone at the party was dressed in black, with maybe just a bit of color splashed on a cuff or collar to offset the stark black. It was always that way here in the Fortress, which was why he was dressed as he was.

Tonight, he wanted to stand out.

As such, he was dressed in an immaculate, perfectly tailored white suit. His coat was of the Andoran style, purposefully looking just like an Asha’man’s coat, except for the color of course. It would take a clever mind to make the connection, but he suspected his target was very clever. His crushed white velvet trousers were tucked into knee-high black leather boots, polished to a mirror gloss, the numerous silver buckles adorning the sides of the boots were equally polished.

His white silk shirt was just tight enough to hint at his lean, muscular physique, but not so much as to be obvious about it, and it was tucked into his trousers. A black leather belt with a silver buckle in the shape of the ancient symbol of Aes Sedai, rounded out his clothing. He had relatively simple silver rings on the first and second fingers of his left hand and an intricate one on the thumb of his right hand. His raven-black hair, a perfect match to his boots and belt, was pulled back in a short tail with a silver clasp, also engraved with the ancient Aes Sedai symbol, but inevitably his bangs escaped and framed his face. All of that was intentional, as well.

The only bit of color was the ruby and gold pendant pinned to his breast.

All of it was meant to pull eyes toward him, and for one set in particular to keep them there. Of course, there was always danger when you were focused upon here, but he accepted that as readily as he did the other certainties in life. It kept him alert, but he wasted no energy being fearful of it. There was always risk when you chased reward.

There was a long table in the room that was bursting with activity as swarms of servants bustled out with innumerable succulent dishes shortly after he took a goblet of mulled wine. There were no chairs, but no one would have bothered to sit down anyway. This gathering was meant to encourage interaction, and he was more than pleased to do his part.

He made small talk with a variety of guests, especially a few teachers who still had many lessons to offer. But it didn’t take long before he “accidentally” bumped into the guest of honor. She was easy to spot. In an emerald green gown, she was one of the few colorfully dressed guests.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, “I didn’t realize you needed so much space.” Grinning at the jest, he turned his back to her slightly as he snared a goblet of wine from a passing tray. It wouldn’t do to appear eager.

No, it won’t do at all, he thought.

He smiled warmly at her, as he leaned back, then turned and ordered wine of his own.

“I know what you mean about a long day, but thankfully it is over and now I can relax.” Looking around the room, he lounged in his chair until the serving maid returned with their wine. “Where to begin with who I am?”

Chuckling self deprecatingly, he spread his arms. “I am a simple man, who just happens to have had a bit of good luck with business. But none of that is especially fun to talk about. I mean, trading in ice peppers and furs doesn’t exactly stimulate me when I’m talking to a lovely lady. I am originally from Tear, but I’ve traveled quite a bit since then.”

He briefly told her of sailing on a Sea Folk ship, seeing the beautiful vistas from the Spine of the World, and visiting the Borderlands. He didn’t go into too much detail, but spiced it up with amusing stories that often had her laughing with him as he revealed funny, foolish moments from his past. He teased her, as well. Nothing mean spirited, but he taunted her in a fun way enough to engage her in the conversation and entice her to become more at ease.

Finally, he turned the conversation over to her as he ordered more wine for the both of them. “But tell me, Zoe, how did you come to be who you are? I’ve done far too much talking, when you are probably much more interesting.”

Peering considerately into the Attack Leader’s face, Drak nodded in agreement. “A man needs to feel like he’s a part of something bigger than himself, else he’ll drift wherever the wind takes him. I know exactly what you mean.”

After pausing for a few moments, he added, “I still can’t believe I’m here, though. I grew up hearing horror stories about men channeling, the same as you. Whenever I stop and think about it, it makes my head spin.”

Laughing wryly at himself, he grinned and said, “But the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, as they say. Still, you have to admit this isn’t something you’d wake up one morning and expect. How do you wrap your head around being the thing we were taught to fear?”

As the serving maid returned with breakfast, Drak added a few more questions before digging in to the food piled onto his plate. “Where will I be staying while I learn? Any tips you have for me that might keep me from making a fool of myself? And most importantly, when do we get started with the insanity?”

Laughing at the jest, he listened eagerly to what Arath had to say.

“As you wish, milady,” Forge bowed teasingly. “Where should we go?”

Grinning broadly at the look on her face, Forge allowed her to take his hand and lead him through the crowd. It was nice to see that despite all the changes, the Tirzah he knew and loved was still in there, despite the strange clothing. The Aes Sedai hadn’t made her into someone completely different, only refined, however slightly, what was already there. It was a welcome relief. He would hate for something as delightfully beautiful as his little sister to be removed from the Pattern.

As they walked, he enjoyed the beauty of the Tower. It was a truly magnificent structure. He had been to Tar Valon on many occasions, several of which included repair work for the Aes Sedai, and each time it was as breathtaking as the last. His brethren certainly knew their craft when it came to working with stone.

When they had gained a bit of distance between them and the nearest people, Forge spoke softly to Tirzah. “Where are we headed, my little hero? And should we wait until we get there to talk about what’s on your mind?”

Mathurin walked through the lunchroom, conscious of the eyes upon him. He was new and still very much a mystery to those who had noticed him.

It’s not too bad, though, he thought to himself. He’d not made any acquaintances yet, and no one had approached him to offer to help him break the ice, but at the same time he’d made it through half the day without a fight. That’s got to be some sort of record for me, he thought as a wry grin spread across his face.

Finding an empty table near the wall away from the doors, he sat his tray down and dropped his backpack alongside it. Looking around to make sure no one was looking and using his backpack as cover, he picked up the lukewarm slice of pizza in his hand and let the heat within him do its work.

He didn’t know why, and he didn’t know how, and besides himself only his grandpa knew what and when. But Mat had a secret.

He carried Fire inside him, and it ached to get out. Ever since the strangeness started this past spring, fires had sprung up around him far too often. And once he had figured out he was the reason, he had fought to gain control. It was like something from a comic book, although that sounded too much like a crazy person talking. He’d kept quiet, except for his gramps, afraid to tell anyone else lest some government type take him off to study like a lab rat.

So far, he had been able to keep his cool. Ha! Keep my cool! he barked inside his head. But he could feel the heat growing inside him. Needless to say, he could handle being looked at funny for wearing worn out blue jeans and scuffed cowboy boots. He had more important things on his mind…

Digging into his lunch, he pulled out his schedule and looked over his afternoon classes. He was looking forward to calculus right after lunch, but he was VERY excited about his last period. “Football. Let the fun begin!”

Drak enjoyed dancing, perhaps even more than was usual tonight because of the fire in the eyes of the feisty, buxom woman he held in his arms. She was certainly a pleasant handful, and he imagined she knew how to move as well with a sword in her hand as she did on the dance floor. The challenge in her eyes as she pondered who this strange man was told him that he had guessed the right of it.

He waited for a few moments before answering her. After all, she was playing coy with him by refusing to introduce herself. He enjoyed the ritual games of romance, but it was a dance far more intricate than the one they were performing to the music, although dancing to a lovely tune certainly made things more… immediately pleasurable. After all, sharing the company of a lovely lass was one of life’s truly wonderful things.

“Dangerous?” he asked rhetorically. “I think any time you deal with a woman it is dangerous, is it not? It certainly is when, in addition to the other dangerous weapons that the Creator provided her with, she wields a sword.” He smiled warmly at her, as they moved gracefully to the music. And he let her see his admiring glance at her body, not long enough to be leering, but just enough to let her know she had successfully managed to look as lovely as she had wanted when she had dressed to go out. He mostly just looked deep into her eyes. They were lovely enough to get lost in, as the old expression said. There was even a hint in his gaze that he might be interested in more than sharing a single dance, but only just a hint. After all, he didn’t even know her name. He paused as they separated briefly then came back together with a touching of the fingertips.

“But cruel?” He tasted the word on his tongue like some strange food, uncertain of what it was and if he wanted it in his mouth. “I suppose anyone could call anything cruel, if they were so inclined. But my response to her would be hard pressed to fit my understanding of the word.” He spun her delicately once, then twice more before pulling her back to him to circle the room again.

“She was playing a game to get what she wanted, and she should have been prepared to lose. It is so in any game. Otherwise it is utterly condescending to any man she meets. Do you disagree? I was more than polite, I think, although I certainly didn’t give her what she was looking for. But she is a woman fully grown, who can make her own choices. She certainly wasn’t concerned with your feelings… or mine.”

Turning to spin her deftly once, then twice again, he pulled her back close to him, looking deeply into her eyes as they swayed softly to the music. He could feel her pressed up against him, and could see her heart beat pulsing in the lovely curves of her neck. “But why are we discussing her? I have no interest at all in the subject. Perhaps, I should return alone to my table at the end of this song, since you’ve not even given me your name.”

As if on cue the song ended. “Thank you for the dance.” He bowed slightly and began to turn away.

Drak walked alone through the Fortress’ halls, his boots sending a hollow boom resonating through the vast stone emptiness at each step.

Word had spread through whispers and innuendo of course, things were rarely spoken outright in the calculating, and lethal, world of the Fortress, that someone important was being escorted to the Fortress. No details were mentioned, but his instincts told him that he had been right. He had spoken to no one of his intentions, nor even of his interest, merely feigning a cavalier air of apathy when the discussions of who it might be came up.

His mind, though, was very intent on uncovering the identity of the forthcoming guest. He tried to keep from getting his hopes up, but he couldn’t help becoming a little excited late at night alone in his room. If all his efforts, instincts, and gambles had been correct, it would be a most worthy prize that he would win.

Today would be the day he found out. There was to be a gathering, perhaps party would be a better word for the event, to welcome this important guest. All the high-ranking people currently at the Fortress had been invited to come, and Drak knew he would make a fashionably late entrance. It wouldn’t do to become eager at this point.

No, it won’t do at all, he thought to himself as he walked toward the library. There is still much to be done.

Composing himself was easy now that things were in motion. It was always that way with him. Once the action started, the tension evaporated. It was only the waiting that was difficult. If he had been told correctly about when the party would begin, and there was no reason to believe he hadn’t been, he knew he had plenty of time to finish his work before getting dressed in his finest and joining in the festivities… He didn’t even bother to wipe the smile from his face before he said aloud to the emptiness.

“Tonight is going to be fun.”

“Evening ladies,” he said cordially, taking in the situation between the pair of lovely women in an instant, noting the very revealing apparel of the Domani and her reluctant companion trying to hide in her chair. So? he thought, as he smiled politely to the duo. The Domani wants a wild night on the town and expects to get what she wants when she wants it, eh? And the gray-eyed soldier was drug along to watch the show, but she doesn’t like it…

Thinking he had the right of it, the tall Tairen decided to have a little fun. Besides, he was much more interested in the gray-eyed buxom lass, anyway.

He furrowed his brow at the Domani and said, “Beg your pardon, mistress. I thought you were someone else,” the disappointment in his voice was audible. He turned to walk away, his disinterest in her apparent. But as he did so, she leaned across the table and grabbed his arm. Turning to look back at her, he asked, “Yes?”

“I can be whoever you want me to be,” the Domani said, putting all the sultry appeal in her voice that she had honed, and been taught, since adolescence. Her warm, inviting smile and seemingly accidental pose, leaned over the table in a very alluring manner, her body hinting at what her clothing barely contained, was meant to entice him, to make him forget everything else but her. He had to admit, she was a lovely girl, but he didn’t care for the flirting of Domani women as a general rule.

They liked to play games but were rarely worth the trouble, in his mind.

“No, I don’t think that will do,” he answered coolly, pulling his arm loose as he did so. “No, it’s far better for you to be who you are, I think.” She sat back, an expression of shock on her face. He doubted anyone had ever refused before. Giving a hint of a bow and smiling slightly as he turned again to walk away, he paused and looked directly into the warrior maiden’s eyes. Eyes twinkling with genuine amusement at her look of surprise, he addressed the Domani once more, “I would have thought you’d want to introduce me to your friend, but I guess that slipped your mind.”

Bowing slightly, he spoke to the gray-eyed lovely. “I am called Drak.” Hearing the musicians strike up a merry song, he held out his hand to her.

“Would you care to dance?”

Groaning and cursing his luck for at least the hundredth time that morning, Drak stood poised to run the gauntlet. He wasn’t “ready” per se, because he doubted anyone could ever get ready to dodge spears being thrown at them by Mr. Sweeper, even blunted spears. But he was as ready as he was going to get.

I’m in for a world of hurt.

How he was supposed to manage reaching the first mate without having his bones broken was beyond him… but he’d not give in before he began. As such, he took a couple of deep breaths, rolled his head around a few times to get loose, and did some last-second stretching. The time was now.

Just as the first mate reached back to hurl his first wooden rod, Drak feinted to the right and dove to the left, tumbling and coming up in a run. His misdirection worked, and the first rod went flying harmlessly, nowhere near its intended target. Meanwhile, Drak had managed to gain cover behind a stack of barrels, and just as importantly had gotten more than ten feet closer.

His task would be increasingly difficult as he continued. He would have less time to react, and Mr. Sweeper would not need to be as careful with his throws because he would offer a larger target. It didn’t bode well for him. Not at all.

Biding his time, and trying to catch the rhythm of Mr. Sweeper’s throws, Drak waited. His foe was too wily to fall in to a routine, though, so that part didn’t work. But the young Dreadlord did notice how short a time the first mate needed between throws. Scanning the deck of the ship for his next possible cover, he spied two options. The first was the main mast, which he could almost completely hide behind, the second was a crate Light-knows-what about waist high. The gap between the main mast and the crate was too wide to think about.

Sticking his head out from behind the barrels, he ducked back to avoid another wooden projectile, then sprinted for the mast. He almost made it when another shot came sailing at his head. He barely avoided it, and then tried to make himself skinny behind the mast. After a couple of spears caromed off the big wooden pillar, Drak dashed toward the crate, falling to his stomach at one point to avoid another rod, and just managing to make the cover as one clipped the edge of the box.

Gathering himself, and breathing deeply with the effort, he mentally reviewed where he was in comparison to the first mate. He was less than ten feet away, he thought, which meant he would have to be VERY lucky to dodge a throw. He would be more likely to be successful if he could distract the first mate, or trick him somehow, but he didn’t know how he was going to manage that. He popped his head up to take one last look to make sure of where he was and saw nothing but the blunt end of a rod as it smashed him between the eyes.

The last thing he saw before the world went dark was the numeral 12, That’s weird, on the end of the blunt spear.

It never ceased to amuse him to visit Amador. Here, in the seat of the Children of Light’s power, he rode without a care in the world. In all honesty, Amadicia was one of the more corrupt nations of the world, at least in his view. One just had to know what to look for to see it.

He rode along the main road through the marketplace of Amadicia’s capital city with a relaxed air. There were certainly plenty of things to see, not the least of which was a young soldier dressed in the white cloak and uniform of a new member of the Whitecloaks. Of course they didn’t like being called that, but in his mind that was one of the gentler phrases he used for them.

She was lovely.

The light armor she wore did nothing to hide her buxom figure. Rather the militant accoutrement only enhanced the fact that she was incredibly feminine. Her delicate features a stark juxtaposition to the hard steel. The braids in her hair, complete with tiny silver bells, added an exotic air.

For a moment, across the marketplace her gray eyes found his blue, and all else was forgotten. His blue roan gelding came to a halt, sensing his willingness to stop. And he didn’t think it was his imagination that made him believe she didn’t remember the boots she was holding. It was a magical instant, but his manservant burst the bubble he shared with the distant lovely maiden of war.

“Master, the heat of the day approaches, and we still need to find an inn,” he spoke in a clipped, almost anxious voice. “My lord?”

Looking down at the tiny man on his stout mare, Drak acknowledged. “Of course, Paitr. Of course.” Looking back for the girl, the crowd had consumed her and the magic was gone.

He rode on, allowing his retinue to do their duties. It served him better to be a man of significance here than a traveling mercenary, so that was what he was. For now. He traveled comfortably either way, but the Whitecloaks looked skeptically at mercenaries, and he didn’t like the Children looking over his shoulders.

As such, he was dressed in the finest garments gold could buy. Comfortable, crushed velvet black pants were tucked in black, knee-high leather boots that shined despite the dust of the road. His wide-brimmed hat was black, as was the kerchief tied around his neck, and the long cattleman’s coat that he wore instead of a cloak. The ring on the first and second finger of his left and the thumb of his right hand were silver, as was the buckle that clasped his belt, and the buttons on his coat. The only bit of color that he wore was his silk shirt. It was a perfect match to the bluish-gray color of his horse, which wasn’t coincidental. His sword hung from the pommel of his saddle, and his baggage train was strapped on the mules that his servants led.

He had three “servants” in addition to Paitr, but he doubted if their services would be necessary. He also doubted if anyone could pick out one of them from a crowd of three. They were very good at what they did, though. All in all, he looked very much a wealthy merchant or a minor noble. Either suited his purpose.

He passed the day napping in a comfortable bed in what was said to be “the nicest inn in all of Amador, m’lord.” At least so its owner proclaimed. He certainly offered comfortable beds. As evening turned to night, he left the cool comforts of his room and entered the common room. He wanted to listen to soft music and dine on fine food. He found all that, and more.

As he was eating, he saw the lovely gray-eyed warrior maiden enter the room.

Drak awoke to the feel of a soft naked body lying next to him and a murmur of “Mmm…”

The night before had been quite an adventure, especially after his companion realized it was a bad idea to try to kill him. She certainly knew what she was doing with the pleasurable arts, and he had enjoyed his night much more than he would have expected before entering the hell last night. But now, playtime was over and he had to get back on the road.

Pushing the leg that was draped over his torso off of him, he rose naked from the bed and began to make ready. He wanted a bath before he left. He wouldn’t enjoy the luxuries of civilization again for a while, and he wanted a last relaxing soak and a full breakfast before he had to face the rigors of travel yet again. Looking to the bed, he spoke up politely to the sultry female still resting under the covers as he pulled on his trousers.

“If you want to come with me, you better wake up. I’m ordering a hot bath to be prepared.” With a devilish smile he added, “You are welcome to join me, but don’t be tardy. Either way, we’ve a long way to go to get where you want to be.”

Enjoying an eyeful of tender flesh as she sat up, the blankets falling away from her body, he smiled again. “I’ll be back, shortly. I need to make sure they’ve started the bath. If you have changed your mind about traveling with me, be gone when I get back. I’ll harbor no ill will.”

He had looked before he entered the room to make sure there was only one exit, and the window was too high to jump from. She would have to walk right past him holding his belongings if she wanted to steal. So he wasn’t worried at all, but he had been honest. He understood what she had tried to do, but he had survived and taken his payment. If she chose to leave, he held no grudge. Besides, it would be a shame to have to kill such a tasty treat.

He paused to untie the shield he had woven on her, and walked out of the room to check on the bathwater, shirtless and barefoot.

The days and weeks flew by for Drak as he trained with the Captain.

Not only was his body becoming used to the rigors of his duties on board and the cold of these northern seas, under the expert tutelage of the Captain he was rapidly improving his skill with the sword. The forms were becoming second nature to him now, almost reflexive. He didn’t have anywhere near the speed that the Captain had and he still had to improve many areas of his technique, but he had gotten to the point where his balance a strength. And the errors he made now were more about refining his technique than learning the basic skills.

Perhaps his excitement had gotten carried away, because the Captain’s next session definitely shook up the routine. Doing the Forms on a raft? It sounded incredibly difficult, but the wager made the challenge even more intense.

The weather had been fairly calm over the last several days, but that was on board the Merry Pauper. The raft was much smaller and as such would be affected more dramatically by every wave, not to mention his movements. Still, having his shield removed would be a dream come true. He had grown more than tired of it. But a good hunter was patient, and in many ways that was exactly the position he was in.

He lowered himself to the raft, and tied himself to it as some of the crewmembers played out the rope so the raft could drift loosely. The raft itself was plenty large enough for him to move around on without worrying about tipping over or falling off, and he was beginning to feel really good about his wager, when the ship JERKED the slack out of the rope.

He was flung to his back and only his grip on his sword and quick reflexes kept him and it from being dumped into the icy ocean. He felt weaves emanating from the ship and knew that the Captain had added a few chips to their bet.

Once the motion of the raft stabilized, Drak found the rhythm and began the forms. He found the Void, and it allowed him to forget all the distractions. He was at one with the raft, the waves, the wind, his sword. He felt the smoothness of the planks as if he were rubbing them with a delicate finger. He rode the waves like a well-trained horse. The cold was punctuation to his every breath, the icy wind slicing his exposed skin as he sliced it with his sword.

He flowed from stance to stance, never minding the raft’s movements. His time on board the pirate ship had given him sea legs, and the Void made him one with it. He went through the routine once, twice, three times. He was relaxed, he was balanced, he was the sword.

Four times he finished. He was so intent on the forms he didn’t notice the gathering numbers of ice flows that the raft was sailing through. Five times he finished. Most of the floating ice was small enough to be nothing more than a distant bump that the Void noticed, embraced, and forgot. Six times he finished.

His focus didn’t absorb the growing number of larger ice chunks that were passing him by. He was the sword, and the forms were his life. Seven times he finished. Thoughts bubbled outside the Void, thoughts would distract him, but he was still vaguely aware of being confident. Eight times he…

The raft gave a huge lurch as it hit a huge chunk of ice, heaving the raft half way out of the water and sending him flying. Inside the Void, he was relaxed and at one with the sudden shift, but that didn’t absolve his body from the laws of physics. It did, however, allow him to survive.

As his body plummeted toward the icy water, he was at one with the ropes that bound the planks together, and his fingers found them. His body felt the freezing cold water, but inside the Void the only thing that mattered was pulling himself onto the raft. If he didn’t he was dead. His grip held.

His muscles bulged, and his will refused to let the ocean win. One pull, then another, and he was lying on his stomach. The Void left him as he lost concentration, and with it came the bitter, bitter cold. But also relief.

The smell of over-cooked meat permeated his home, but he cackled softly, madly at the joke in his head. I mustn’t have guests drop by with nothing to eat.  Ho, ho. What kind of host would I be if I threw a party and didn’t have surprise treats?

On a whim he rose from his seat and, with a small ball of light to illuminate his path, he examined the ten crisped corpses that decorated his floors. Finding one that was only slightly larger than he was, his eyes lit up with glee. Oh, this will do nicely. Very nicely, indeed! he thought wickedly, his hands rubbing together happily as he began to disrobe the Soldier and then skin his torso and head with the Power. It required surprisingly little power to do, and with surgical skill, he was nearly finished when he felt the Gateways open in his yard. "He he he," he laughed joyously, the sound in his head more than hinting at his madness, but the dumb ones will come search a bit more closely. It would be a fine joke that they found…

Allowing the dome of silence and darkness to dissolve, the devastation that the Asha’man had made of his home was quickly revealed. If anything, they are certainly good at destroying things, he thought condescendingly. Most of his roof had blown away, and there were numerous chunks blown out of his walls. He began wailing in pain just as he felt a few Gateways form nearby and open near where his had. So my plan is working…

He screamed out in pretend pain, crying out that, “The monster is gone! Help me! Help me!” Almost simultaneously, several of his timed warding weaves went off. They did nothing more than make noise and explosions, but they were meant to only distract and disrupt any cohesive attack, to prevent those who remained from patiently thinking things through.

It worked, of course. The tenderhearted fools came running in to save their fallen comrade.  Those who entered through his home’s doors, were sliced to ribbons. The blades of Air that he had placed there at knee, waist, chest, and neck-level were sharper than a razor and the three and a half pairs of Dedicateds and Soldiers that entered via his doors never felt their deaths as they were sliced into chunks of already-cooling meat.

But three were clever enough to make their way inside without tripping any of his tricks. Three entered via blown holes in his walls, and it didn’t take them long to follow his agonized wails to find him lying there “in pain.”

They managed to drag him out of the blazing, dust-and-rubble strewn structure, before any other black-coated men arrived. Under the guise of thrashing in pain, he looked around to be sure. When he was satisfied that no one would see… Arrows of Fire disposed of the three Dedicateds, and Folded Light wrapped around him.

Moving slowly to minimize the rippling side effect, he found a comfortable spot near a wall, and stood waiting. It would be interesting to see what happened next.

Cor walked along blissfully in the night. The book Shaneevae el’Edware had given him was filled with interesting insights and examples. She said it was from before the Age of Legends, and that it was exceedingly rare. But after he had read it the first time, he knew how truly valuable it was. The author Szunn Szuu was a brilliant strategist, and his theories could be applied to more than just the battlefield.

Cor soaked up the wisdom on the pages like the Threefold Land soaked up blood. He had already begun to try and apply the lessons the book contained, but it was difficult at times. Many of the teachings went against what he had always held to be true, but he could see where he had been wrong. It was truly an engrossing read, and he couldn’t wait to collapse in his tent tonight and focus more on the mysteries it revealed. Perhaps, if he were fortunate, his wetlander gai’shain Alianna would come by to help make him more comfortable.

He still couldn’t believe the thiefcatcher was his gai’shain. Even inside his head it felt weird, but the Wise Ones had spoken, and both he and she were trying to fulfill the obligations that honor required.

An unusual sound caught his ear, and he looked up just as a man started to heave himself over a tall fence. There was no gate nearby, so obviously he was trying to enter unexpectedly. His instincts suddenly alerted, the Aiel warrior called out.

“Who goes there?!?”

Drak took the proffered black coat and nodded at Arath’s brief announcement of the day’s upcoming proceedings. The Asha’man gave him a thoughtful, probing look for a brief moment, and it was clear to Drak that the man was wary of him. His suspicion was confirmed when the Asha’man invited the young mercenary to train with him. Not surprising, considering the type of man Drak was, and the job that Arath had to do. But, Drak also noticed the intelligent mind behind the eyes. Arath was not only dangerous; he was a smart man, as well.

He is no one to trifle with, he thought to himself. And he is certainly no fool. I like him already.

Smiling with genuine happiness at the invitation to study with the Attack Leader personally, and even more widely at the invitation to eat, the young mercenary walked outside with his new commander and then alongside him as they made their way to where ever they were headed. At Arath’s question, Drak openly responded with a brief history of a part of his life as they walked. The best part was, he didn’t have to lie.

“I can tell you that if anyone had asked me that question a few years back, I would have thought the Light had touched their mind,” he began with a chuckle. “I guess it began in Tear, where I was born…”

As they walked, he recounted traveling, first as a merchant’s guard, then getting offered a job as both a guard and horse trainer with a man who sold horses to the military. Armies always needed good mounts and lots of them, and business had been good. At least until a trip to the Borderlands. The horse trader, Manny LeFlure by name, died to a Trolloc’s axe, as had most of the other men. The few that survived managed to stick together and make a living selling their services to various parties who needed swords, and men who could wield them with no questions asked. That was when the weird things had begun…

“As I told you before, I’d always been counted as lucky, but this was different somehow…”

He went on to explain how things sometimes happened around him without any reason, like a storm would come up at just the right time to help his men escape, or a lightning bolt would just happen to hit his enemies just before he got overrun, or an avalanche would fall and save them. Things like that happened all too often around him. At first, his fellows thought he was their lucky charm, but as things continued they begin to whisper about it instead of cheer.

“The Power, they were saying,” he said. “And you know what that means. It’s not exactly something you want to hear around you, and certainly not about you. So before they decided to cut my throat one night while I was asleep, I took my pay and rode out. I figured I needed to find answers.”

Pausing outside of the doorway they were about to enter, he finished. “So here I am. Would it be improper if I asked the same of you?”

He had awakened that morning to the freezing chill of these northern seas, but it was a welcomed difference from the heat of his native Tear. He had dressed appropriately for the weather, although his hands and feet were still bare. You couldn’t work properly on board otherwise. The icy chill was at first welcomed, but quickly his hands and feet grew miserably uncomfortable. He didn’t know if he would even be able to feel the sword in his hands, at this rate. It was an unexpected, but pleasant surprise when the Captain offered him a hot cup of tea, but Drak savored the shared peaceful moment as much as the warmth in his hands.

It would have been easy to distance himself from the cold, but the young Dreadlord had come to this boat with a purpose, and he had fully immersed himself into the task. Much like you couldn’t learn to swim without getting wet, he doubted that one could come to master the physical fighting art he was here to learn without getting tired, cold, sore. The full gambit of physical agony was as much a part of the training as was the weapon he wielded, and as such he didn’t wrap himself in the Void. He prepared himself in the now, embracing the pain, because who knew what might happen on the morrow? Certainly not me, he thought with a sardonic grin. It paid to be prepared.

After the tea was finished the Captain handed Drak his sheathed sword, as he had every morning since their sessions had begun. Listening attentively to the Captain’s every word, the young pupil nodded when appropriate but was otherwise silent. Now was not the time for quips or inane questions. Now was only for focus.

“Pay attention,” the Captain said finally, punctuating the need once again to give his all to the lesson.

The Captain rapidly burst into action, each explosively fast movement exquisitely controlled, each motion precise. The forms Drak knew by heart by now, having had them drilled into his mind over the last week’s lessons. But the Captain performed them blindingly fast, unlike with previous demonstrations, while his technique remained flawless. It made Drak realize for the thousandth time how foolish, and futile, his attempt to kill the Captain with a sword would have been, as he had momentarily considered his first day on the vessel.

Unfolding the Fan began the routine, the Captain drawing the sword and striking in one smooth, swift motion. Arc of the Moon swiftly followed, the slash starting in the guard position and arcing up to cut off an adversary’s head before returning to the guard. It was followed by The Courtier Tips his Fan, the overhead strike cleaving an invisible foe’s head, then flowed swiftly into Hummingbird Kisses the Honey Rose, the sword blade thrusting at an opponent’s face from shoulder height, like a snake’s tongue thrusting the air. Next it was on to Parting the Silk, a precision slash to an enemy’s stomach; The Kingfisher Takes the Silverback, a downward, angled strike to a foe’s abdomen or thigh, then The Grapevine Twines, the tip of his sword spinning swiftly to disarm his enemy. Each movement precise. Smooth. Controlled, despite the speed. Then it was The Falcon Stoops, a quick overhand thrust; Folding the Fan, the proper, swift sheathing of the sword in one fluid motion, then Unfolding the Fan again.

The sound of the sword being drawn from its sheath was the hiss of violence in the otherwise quiet morning. Immediately, the Captain posed in Heron Wading in the Rushes, standing and pivoting on one foot as he slashed with surgical precision. Finishing the routine, the Captain once again admonished him concerning Heron Wading in the Rushes and then urged him to begin.

The bitter cold in his fingers made holding the sword difficult, but as he focused on his warm-up exercises, his blood warmed, and soon the cold was forgotten.

All that mattered was the sword, his balance, and the Captain’s voice calmly giving direction, correcting his myriad mistakes. Time was lost to him. His world was just the sword, his body, and the voice. Fluid motion, exquisite control, and the voice… until the world came to an end.

Then it was back to business as usual, climbing the rigging and then ship’s chores with his name on them.

The flame disappeared, and Arath’s words hit him right between they eyes. At least that is how Drak played it. He dropped his head to his chest and closed his eyes, his hands coming up to grasp his head, his fingers clenching around his hair in obvious distress.

Breathing deeply, he let out a long sigh. Still holding his head in his hands and looking at the floor, he spoke, the words barely containing the emotion. “It’s one thing to think something may be true, but when you finally come face to face with it, nothing really prepares you. Does it?”

Not waiting for an answer, Drak took another deep breath and forced himself to sit up straight. Looking Arath in the eyes, he said. “I will go mad and die now.” It was a statement, but the Asha’man nodded, hearing the unspoken question. His jaws clenching with determination, Drak forced the words out of his mouth. “He is truly the Dragon Reborn?” Again, Arath nodded silently, his fingers steepled as he sat behind his desk, patiently waiting for the truth to sink in.

All the stories he had grown up with flashed before Drak’s eyes. He knew the truth of the Power, but he still recognized what it meant for the Dragon to be Reborn. Nodding determinedly, he spoke again. “The Shadow reaches out, and the Last Battle is coming.” Yet again, Arath nodded without speaking, but this time was their a hint of a smile? Probably just a trick of the light.

“What do I do next?” Drak asked quietly, then with a wry grin he added, “I hope I look good in black.”

Drak woke early, as he was wont to do, but despite the early hour the Captain was already up, fully dressed, and sipping tea. As he always was, no matter the hour anyone rose. No one ever woke up before the Captain was on deck. Drak had lost track of the times he’d wondered if the Captain ever slept, but as he always did, he shoved the question aside and focused on more immediate things.

He was adding another session to his morning ritual today. Normally, the young Dreadlord climbed the rigging upon awakening, as he had vowed to do after his first shipside morning’s lesson, but the Captain had agreed to instruct him personally on the use of the sword, and so his daily climb to the ratlines would have to wait.

Despite the early morning chill, Drak went barefoot, as did most all the sailors on board, and wore only black trousers, held up with a black sash. Clothes tended to bind up when climbing, especially if they got wet, and of late the weather had been plenty warm to not need extra layers. His were carefully packed away in a chest beneath his bunk.

Since his arrival, his body had grown both stronger and leaner, his muscles had grown more defined and become harder, his body had taken on a slender, hungry look. Like a sword blade was slender. Like a wolf was hungry.

After giving the proper salute, he took the sword the Captain handed him and the lesson began. Upon first grasping the weapon, he knew something was different about it. The sword he owned was accounted to be a fine piece of craftsmanship, but alongside this one it might as well have been a club. Drak knew little about the making of swords, but the one he handled this morning felt alive in his hands.

The Captain began the session by making sure he knew the proper way to hold his weapon, inspecting his grip and finding it to be correct. Then, the Captain demonstrated the proper manner in which to draw the sword from its sheath. Drak rapidly progressed from that, as well. Both lessons had been well learned from previous instructors. The rest of the lesson, though, proved as challenging as it was enlightening.

The Captain focused on the proper footwork and technique of sword handling to a degree the young Dreadlord had never known before. Drak had been around swords most of his life, and he knew that a blademaster didn’t use the dramatic swings and exaggerated movements a gleeman might recount in his tales, but under the expert eye of the Captain every little detail was sharply corrected. Each movement subtly led into the next. But the need for perfection was paramount, and the Captain made sure to correct each mistake at once, no matter how small. And Drak made plenty.

The feet had to be just so. The strike had to be just so. The various movements were demonstrated and repeated, with the pupil struggling mightily to replicate the practiced elegance of the master. Each lunge, strike, or parry requiring the proper positioning of the feet, the proper angle of the blade, the necessary flick of the wrists. And of course, balance. Balance was key.

Soon, Drak was dripping with moisture as if he had fallen into the sea, and his breathing as labored as if he had sprinted ten miles, but the Captain had not even a sheen of sweat on his brow. Looking very much as he had when he had been sipping tea a few minutes before, he was still the poised essence of cool command.

Drak grinned, then all rational thought was lost.

Her outburst took him by surprise. It was the last thing he had expected to hear.

After a moment’s pause, he asked her, but without loosening her bonds in the slightest, “You tried to kill me, and now you ask for a favor?” His tone was completely lacking in emotion, cold even to his own ears, tucked away in the Void as he was.

“Why should I let you breathe another breath? Why should I spare you after the vile trick you tried to play on me?”

Searching her face for an answer, he waited but no words came. He let her dangle for a few more moments, the silence growing ominous. “You swear that you will make it worth my while? Then prove it.”

He tied off the shield, then let her fall to the floor. The choice was hers now.

His hands caressed the smoothness of her skin as she straddled him, the tender, but passionate, kisses on his neck making his body burn with a fever no medicine could cure. She removed his shirt and chainmail with expert, well-practiced fingers, and when her hands began to tug at his belt he could only imagine what pleasures her body had in store for his.

He had only an instant to react. Her body tensed unnaturally, at least under the circumstances, and his left hand just managed to catch her right arm as she tried to drive two feet of knife blade into his guts. Before he could wrench her arm and break her neck, he was knocked to the floor by an unseen blow to his face, only the goosebumps on his body giving a clue as to where the blow had come from.

She can channel!

As quick as thought, he seized saidin and drove a shield between her and the source while at the same time flinging her through the air to SLAM against the wall with enough force to send the candle plummeting to the floor.

The whole encounter had lasted just mere moments, but the span of a handful of heartbeats was enough to turn his thoughts to ending life rather than reveling in the joys of it.

After retrieving her blade, he walked slowly toward her, not bothering to wipe away the heavy stream of blood that was flowing from his mouth where her club of Air had smashed him. She didn’t bother to scream, dangling from the wall as she was. Things were well past that at this point, and it wasn’t as if anyone would come to check on her if she did. Not here. Not in a place like this.

Her hands held high above her by his bonds of Air, he took the time to notice her body one more time before she no longer lived in it, the flickering light of the candle on the floor giving an eerie cast to its golden glow. Her luscious breasts heaved from both her exertion and her fear. They were truly lovely, as was the smooth hairlessness of the rest of her body. All the way down to her boots. There was something undeniably sexy about a naked woman wearing boots that he just couldn’t explain.

Too bad, neither one of them would enjoy her body any more…

He came close enough that he could have kissed her if he wanted, but he no longer did. His eyes had turned as cold as the heat they had held moments ago. He paused before plunging the knife into her luscious body, then softly, ever so softly, he said, “You made a mistake.”

Much like the rest of her approach, her dancing lacked subtlety. But he had to admit that she made up for the lack of refinement with energy and animal-like intensity. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he had ever been with, though she was very pretty, but something about her was completely enthralling. She was like one of those great mountain cats he had seen in the Mountains of Mist, breathtakingly magnificent at least in part because of how lethal she was.

This Black Widow truly had dangerous curves.

The knives she had strapped around her body at strategic locales, were as alluring as the most intimate lingerie. They heightened the effect of the smoothness of her skin, the fullness of her breasts, the delicacy of the other inviting regions of her body that she so provocatively, and teasingly, revealed to him. Soon, she was completely bare before him, except for the knives she wore. And her boots.

He smiled at her question, and allowed a few moments to pass before he answered. She licked her lips wantonly as she posed for him, arching her back and looking back at him over her shoulder as she turned to show off her body to its full effect. His body was responding, too. The combination of her sex appeal and her personal arsenal was having an intoxicating effect on him, and his desire was growing.

Looking at her hungrily, he replied, “I knew you had several of them hidden, but you are showing them off in a most appealing way. I’m thinking their maker never expected them to be a part of such a riveting performance.”

Pausing momentarily, as he again let his eyes rove lustfully over her naked body, he added, “As for your second question, I am not fool enough to think you were unarmed even if you held no knives. I think you are deadly as a leopard.”

Smiling, he crooked a finger and invited her to come to him.

His body tingled with pleasure at her attentions. She certainly knows what she’s about, he thought appreciatively.

Looking down at his now empty platter and mug and looking around at the sorry lot in this miserable den, he decided he might as well. It’s not like there is a whole lot of other fun options, he jested in his mind. Standing, and unceremoniously pushing her off him, he made his mind up. “My lovely, your charms have wooed me and my heart is captivated. Let us find a more private place to express our tender affections.”

Smiling happily at her vexed look, he retrieved his gear and walked to the bartender and paid for a room.

Motioning for his dangerously fetching companion to lead him up the stairs, he followed with his belongings draped on his left side except for the sword, which he carried by its sheath in his right hand. As always, in his right hand.

Following her just a few steps behind, he couldn’t help but admire the view. She was walking with an exaggerated sway that emphasized the delicious curves of her body. The evening promised to certainly be eventful.

When they arrived at the honeymoon suite, he followed her in, never letting her leave his gaze for a second. He was playing with fire, which was undeniably fun. But he, of all people, well knew the dangers of fire. Dumping his gear on the floor, and propping his sword against the wall, he circled the room as she reclined casually on the bed.

He lit one candle and placed it on the mantle, then blew out the lamp, throwing the room into a soft, golden light. The kind of light that would flatter her already attractive body. When he was finished, he pulled the room’s lone chair in front of the fireplace and dropped comfortably into it. With a smile of desire, he spoke the first words since they had entered the room.

“Will you dance for me?”