Through the Fire and the Flame

[Quibby]

Clang! The ring of hammer on steel was accompanied by a shower of white-hot sparks, filling the air with the metallic scent of heated steel. Clang! The blacksmith's shop was sweltering, the intense heat of the furnace causing the air under the tiled overhang to wave. Light reflected off the bare, sweat-sheened torso of Mehrin Mahrvon. Clang! The sparks bounced off his chest, wisps of steam rising from the sweat, leaving small burns where they struck. The man didn't flinch. Scars crisscrossed his body, a book telling the tale of a life lived longer than anyone bearing such scars has any right to live. Several were less than a year old. Some were less than a week old.Clang! The steel was a shapeless lump, not even a ghost of what it would become. Clang! Flames flickered in Mehrin's eyes. Eyes that he kept focused on the work in front of him. He was a fighter, and some things a fighter must have.

 

********

 

The small Andoran village, just north of Murandy, did not know what to think of the strange man who had come in the middle of the night, pounding on the inn door and asking for a room. They whispered of gold paid, of the quiet brooding brute of a man that stayed in his rooms. They whispered of muffled cries in the night and of bloody bandages. They whispered of a shattered sword. The man had stayed sequestered for nearly a month before approaching the village blacksmith and offering his services for an unnamed price. The blacksmith told several of his friends that the man had not asked for gold, and was working only for "a favor." When pressed for more, the blacksmith only smiled and said no more. Two months the stranger worked, shaping steel into barrel hoops, coopers' knives, farm tools. His conversations were limited to one-word answers and grunts. Soon, even the most forward and friendly of villagers stopped trying. The stranger seemed to find that to his liking.

 

********

 

A small group of bandits had come to the village once, in the middle of the night. Amidst the sound of windows breaking and people screaming, Mehrin stood alone. There were only six of them, and they used their weapons like amateurs. Of course, none of the villagers knew. Mehrin did...

 

********

 

The next morning, in the ruins of the inn's common room, men gathered around, listening to one man tell the story of what he'd seen. The stranger had stood in the middle of the street, sun setting behind him and casting his features into shadow.

 

("But it was in the early morning and still dark, you woolheaded fool!" "Who's telling the story, you or me?")

 

The stranger had stood in the middle of the street, a haystack on the edge of town silhouetting him in the night. It had taken the raiders some time to figure out that there was a person that was not running. Having never experienced a villager offer anything like resistance before, they seemed to think that they had found a new plaything. They started cursing at him and threatening violence. The stranger... smiled. It was a chilly smile, a smile that said that he had nothing to fear from these... these insects that had dared disturb him. ("Really?" "Really. I've never been scared of a smile before, but this... it was like that really bad winter we had a couple years ago. You know, the one where Thad's kid froze to death?") The leader, the only man on a horse, had charged the man, swinging his sword wildly. The stranger had stood his ground until the last second, then briskly sidestepped, a large knife appearing in his hand as if from nowhere.

 

The horse screamed once and fell. The rider kept screaming.

 

In the glow of the fire, the pool of blood from the horse formed a pool of black. The stranger had stepped back into that black pool, and the knife moved again, silencing the screaming man, trapped under his horse. The other five raiders, all on foot, hesitated. "Be smart. Go," the stranger said. ("You mean that he can talk?" "Do you want me to finish this story or not?" "Sorry...") There was a moment where they seemed to consider it, but it was obvious that they were also weighing their odds. Five men against one? Even if he had just taken down a horse and its rider, five-to-one was good odds. They charged.

 

The stranger switched the knife to his left hand, and his right hand moved. It seemed as if the shadows around him had moved with his hand, and a loud crack filled the street. The charge faltered as one man reached for his throat, trying to claw away the black tendril that had seized hold of him. In the firelight, the whip seemed to gleam. ("Gleam? How can a whip gleam?" "Shut up.") The stranger pulled his arm back with a hard jerk, and the bandit spun on his feet and fell. Where he fell, another pool of darkness formed.

 

The first charging man reached the stranger, his arms back for a massive downswing with the axe he held. Instead, he jarred to a stop as the stranger's left arm struck him in the throat. As the arm came away, a reddened glint came from the stranger's knife. The moving arm suddenly shifted, sending the stranger's knife flying through the night, where it buried itself to the hilt in another charging man's chest. The stranger moved as if he already knew what the remaining three men were going to do. As soon as he had thrown the knife, the stranger had shifted behind a third charging man, catching him by the hair and pulling him off his feet, where his head bounced off the ground. The stranger kneeled and picked up the rusted sword that the raider had been carrying as if he had all the time in the world. The stranger had hefted the sword, sending the blade into a complex spinning pattern. The move seemed to scare the two raiders who were still standing. They hesitated. The stranger didn't. It took only two steps to close within range. The sword could not have been very sharp, but the angled hacking slash that the stranger swung down at the bandit's shoulder didn't stop until it lodged in his spine.

 

The last bandit froze, his mace falling from nerveless hands. Again, the stranger didn't hesitate. Ignoring the sword, which propped the bandit's body up, even after he fell on the handle, the stranger had the last bandit by the throat, bearing him back against the front door of the mayor's house. One-handed, he held the man by the throat. The streets had gone quiet except for the ragged, panicky breathing of the bandit. The stranger didn't even seem to be sweating. "Told you," he said.

 

The crack of the man's neck being broken sounded like thunder.

 

********

 

Clang! Mehrin could feel the eyes of the villagers on his back as he worked. The incessant hammering had drawn a crowd after the first day. Between swings, Mehrin could hear the villagers talking among themselves. He ignored them. Mostly. There was one question that kept breaking into his consciousness: "Who is this man?" The smile that touched Mehrin's lips never reached his eyes. His eyes were focused on the glowing metal on the anvil before him, but this part did not require his full attention. In the fiery steel, Mehrin watched his past as he forged his future.

[Quibby]

Making a bullwhip crack the air is an easy skill to learn, but a hard one to fully master. Fortunately, herding sheep with the loud cracks did not require much skill. As long as the user had enough to avoid hitting the sheep, it was enough. At fourteen, Mehrin was already taller than his adopted father, and had been using a bullwhip for six years, and he was more than able to avoid sheep. The rural farm where he lived was more than three hours from any village, so there was nothing with which to occupy himself other than chores and the whip. The fair that the area held every year held a competition every year for the bullwhip, and Mehrin had become a serious competitor in the list, coming closer than was comfortable to the usual champions.

 

Generally, herding sheep was not that difficult. Mehrin would spend his days lounging beneath one tree or another watching the herd. It didn't take much to make sure that a sheep didn't wander away, so he could spend his time daydreaming. Like every farmboy that he knew, Mehrin dreamed of leaving home to go into the world and seek his fortunes. Often, these fantasies included things like buried treasures and damsels in distress- In the forge, the hammer fell upon the heated steel, and below his breath, Mehrin muttered, "Hah!"- and other things that young fools dream about.

 

The wolf seemed as though it came out of nowhere.

 

The gray, shifting shape on the right edge of Mehrin's vision drew him out of one of his more interesting fantasies involving one of his damsels in distress. It was wrong, and more importantly, it was frightening the sheep. Standing, Mehrin began hollering at the creature, hoping to scare it away. A better look shattered that hope. The wolf was mangy, and even from Mehrin's vantage, it looked almost skeletal. With a curse, Mehrin ran down the hill, uncoiling his whip as he did so. The wolf noticed his approach; Mehrin had all the stealth of a bull in a tavern. It turned its attention from the sheep to the more immediate threat. Mehrin froze. The wolf was a terrifying sight, close up. It seemed to bear him a malevolence that was unnatural. Mehrin had been told stories of wolves like these. Usually, they involved dead children and savaged bodies.

 

The wolf advanced.

 

Mehrin retreated.

 

The wolf snarled.

 

Mehrin whimpered.

 

The wolf hunkered.

 

Mehrin cowered.

 

The wolf leaped.

 

Mehrin flinched.

 

It was odd, but the wolf, as terrifying as it was, didn't weigh much. Mehrin's adrenalin-fueled flailing was enough to throw it back. With wonder, Mehrin found himself still on his feet. The wolf had only just righted itself, and had begun to circle Mehrin, looking for another opening. Mehrin focused on the creature, trying to find a way to drive it off, escape, and ignore certain uncomfortable damp places in his trousers. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Mehrin was trying to get his own attention, though, and when he managed to do so, Mehrin remembered the whip.

 

His arm moved automatically. The familiar crack filled the air, and this time it was accompanied by a pained howl. The wolf's snout had a long red cut across it. It leaped again. Somehow, though Mehrin never knew how he managed it, he caught the wolf's throat in a wide coil. The full weight of the wolf, though, drove him onto his back. Blood and saliva dripped into his face, and the wolf's claws tore at his chest and stomach, but Mehrin had the wolf's head held back. And he had the whip pulled tight.

 

Gradually, the wolf's struggles lessened, then ceased all together. Mehrin did not move.

 

His father found him, position unchanged, when he ran over the hilltop at the sound of the yelling.

 

********

 

Mehrin remembered his father helping him back to the house, face covered in wolf's blood and body torn to pieces, but he could not recall what had been said that day. Absentmindedly, he wiped some of the sweat from his chest. The scars had faded to being nearly invisible. With so many more interesting scars, Mehrin hardly even noticed these ones anymore.

 

It had been nearly fourteen hours since he had started working the steel, and there was still much that needed to be done, more steel to heat and fold and reforge. Mehrin rinsed himself and went into the common room of the inn and sat in a far corner of the room. The innkeeper had already been paid far more than was necessary, and she brought food and water without being asked. Mehrin nodded his gratitude to her.

 

A young man, maybe fourteen years of age, approached him while he ate and sat across from him. Mehrin glanced up at him briefly, then continued eating. "Where did you learn to fight like that?" the boy asked. Mehrin glanced at him again, then continued eating. The boy didn't seem fazed. "I've never seen anybody move like you did. It was like you'd done that before. Where you in the army? Were you a bandit?" Mehrin glanced at the boy yet again, and sighed. "You're not going to leave me alone until I answer you, am I?"

 

The boy's mouth dropped open. "Umm... well, I... err..." He blinked and stared at Mehrin for a moment. "You can actually talk?"

 

Mehrin chuckled. "Aye, I can. Don't like to much."

 

"Why not?"

 

"Because," Mehrin said, "you learn a lot more when you listen."

 

"Yeah, yeah, sure," the boy said, excited. "So, where did you learn to fight like that?"

 

"Lots of places, over lots of years, with lots of mistakes."

 

"Can you teach me to fight like that?" The boy looked at Mehrin with hope.

 

Shaking his head, Mehrin replied, "Boy, that kind of fighting takes years to learn, and years I don't have. And that's only if you're lucky. I came by a lot of it naturally. Always been a fighter." Sitting back, Mehrin drank a cupful of water, then added, "Trust me, boy, you're better off being a blacksmith or a farmer or a thatcher. This isn't something you want to do."

 

"But I really do! I wanna be a warrior, too!"

 

"Hah! A warrior! Sit still awhile, boy, and I'll tell you just how I became a 'warrior', as you say."

[Quibby]

"Where do you want me to start, boy?"

 

The boy bristled. "My name is not 'boy,' stranger. It's-"

 

"It's not important. I'm trying to make you understand that, boy." Mehrin took a breath, then explained. "When I look at you, I see a boy, no real combat training whatsoever. I see exactly what you would try to do in a fight, and in my mind I've already killed you in about fifty different ways." Sitting back, he gave the boy another look. "That's how veterans look at people. We've become so used to having to react on the field that that's how we see the world." Taking a drink from his cup, Mehrin looked over the cup at the boy. "In truth, you're about as scary as a puppy trying to bite my ankle."

 

The boy said nothing. He listened. Mehrin smiled. "Good, lesson learned. Listening is important." Mehrin settled into his chair, noticing a few of the villagers looking in their direction. "Now, I left home when I was hardly any older than you..."

 

********

 

At seventeen, Mehrin looked like a man built from casks and kegs. It was why he was hired as a tavern strongarm, even without any sort of training. Training came with the job, however. The senior strongarm was a man by the name of Tral. He had been a regular with the Murandian King's Guard, and it turned out that his favorite pastime was 'training' people in hand-to-hand combat and knife combat. Mehrin received more bruises and cuts at the hands of that man than he had imagined possible, but he had also learned from every bruise and every stitch, usually enough to avoid a different lesson with another. Working daily with the man whenever they weren't sleeping, eating, or working, it still took Mehrin a year and a half to learn enough to fight the man to a standstill.

 

Mehrin never won a fight with him. That had taken a drunk man with a knife.

 

The man was a violent drunk, one that Mehrin and Tral had thrown out before, but he always seemed able to sneak back in. This time, he had hidden in the far corner, with his back to the room. Well, hidden had been the right word right up to the moment when he'd broken a chair across the back of one of the other patrons. Mehrin and Tral fought their way through the crowd to the man, with Tral taking the man while Mehrin tried to keep the rest of the man's friends at bay. "We've got him, boys. Back to your drinks. Norm, another round for the house, on me." It usually worked, and Norm generally paid half of those drinks. It kept the strongarms popular with the crowd, and it kept the crowd calm. Behind him, he heard Tral mutter, "Good move, lad. Now help me get this bastard to the door."

 

Mehrin was turning to take the man's other arm when the knife came out. Tral saw it before Mehrin did, and drove his shoulder into Mehrin, shoving him aside. The knife meant for Mehrin instead cut Tral's throat. Mehrin froze, and the world seemed to slow to a crawl as Tral collapsed, his hand moving weakly towards the long cut. The knife moving towards his face barely seemed to register as his body, realizing that it was going to have to do some of the thinking, leaned away from the downward slash. It wasn't far enough.

 

The blinding pain across the left side of Mehrin's face snapped him out of his shock, and instinct from long hours of training kicked in. His left hand took the right wrist of the knifeman, pulling the arm out away from his body, while his right hand found the man's throat. He was a small man, and Mehrin was large and angry. He lifted the man from the ground by his neck, turned to the fireplace behind him, and crushed the back of his skull against the mantle.

 

********

 

"The murder- and that's what it was, boy, don't mistake that- was considered justified, but I was still flogged by the local lordling and banished from the village. And that was my first kill." Mehrin sat back and looked at the boy. Behind the boy, several tables resumed conversations that had stopped quite some time before. The boy just stared. Mehrin gave him a moment, then added, "What, not as glamorous as you'd imagined?"

 

The boy didn't respond. Mehrin stood. "Life isn't glamorous. It isn't all buried treasure and damsels in distress. It is pleasure, it is pain, it is everything in between. But it ain't magical, boy."

[Quibby]

As impurities were forced out of the steel, the clanging blows of the hammer against it began to change into a ringing sound. Sweat was once again pouring off Mehrin as he worked the steel. It had to be perfect, otherwise it would shatter. Outside the forge, the boy was watching him. From his room, Mehrin had watched him go the previous night, walking as if he had heard something that he didn't like. Good, Mehrin had thought. He was not proud of everything that he had been forced to do, and if he could spare the boy from trying to walk the same road, then he was doing the boy a favor. A good deed to balance out the bad.

 

Back to the sweltering fire he went, returning the cooling steel to the fire, and moving another piece of something in the furnace. When they were glowing hot again, Mehrin pulled both pieces from the furnace and returned them to the anvil. Atop the block of steel he had been working sat a glowing piece of what had once been the blade of a sword. Mehrin felt the boy's focus shift to that piece of steel. He, too, looked at it for a moment before the first hammer stroke fell, turning his back to the boy. He didn't want the boy to see the tears.

 

********

 

Lugard, the capital of Murandy, was a bustling city, though not as large as Caemlyn or Tar Valon or Cairhien. Not that Mehrin would know that. It was the first true city that he had ever seen, and it was an impressive sight. The flogging was two weeks behind him, yet Mehrin still had to move with care. His entire back , it seemed, was a massive scab, and moving too much aggravated it, made it crack painfully.

 

His funds were low, but a stout young man could always find work somewhere. In Mehrin's case, it seemed that the Creator liked him. Just inside the gate, the sound of a hammer striking an anvil ceased as he walked past, and a heavy hand landed on Mehrin's shoulder. If somebody would have set his shirt on fire, Mehrin would have felt better. The man behind him must have noticed; the hand withdrew faster than it had landed. "Sorry, lad," he said as Mehrin turned to look at him. He was a big man, bigger than Mehrin, and he looked like somebody had figured out how to make the side of a mountain walk and look contrite, with dark red hair and small burn marks. Offering his hand, the man said, "Orin Malon, at your service. Sorry again about that, but I had to stop you. My apprentices are both young boys, but I need somebody that I can train to actually work the hammers and help with the real work from time to time. You seem a likely sort; you have the right build and all. Would you like a job?"

 

"I've no experience, sir, but I thank you-"

 

"Nonsense!" the blacksmith interrupted. "I'll give you the crash course on the basic work, let you do that so I can handle the major orders. Come on, what do you say?"

 

Mehrin consented.

 

Mehrin spent another year and a half with Orin Malon, living under his roof with his daughter, Ana. Orin's wife had died giving birth to a second child, who had also died in childbirth. Orin's eyes still looked sad when he talked of her, but the pain was old, maybe as old as he was. Mehrin didn't press. The work was hard, the apprentices a nuisance. One, especially, a boy named Alyx, was a particularly cruel bully to the other, Jehryn. Things came to a head when Alyx shoved Jehryn into the furnace. The boy was only in for a second when Mehrin pulled him out, but it was enough. He was no good to Orin anymore. Though it was never said by anyone, Mehrin knew that the boy's apprentice fee had been returned, and that Alyx had been tried in court as an adult.

 

After Mehrin had been with Orin for a couple months, he found himself curious. On the wall at the back of the forge was a rather singular sword: a claymore that stood as tall as most men. When he asked Orin about it, the man spit and said, "That big bastard never paid for that damn sword, and I'm stuck with it. By rights I should melt it down and make something useful out of it, but it's good for business. I make swords for officers now because of that thing."

 

As Mehrin worked the forge for the time he was there, the forge worked Mehrin. His already-muscular frame filled out, leaving behind a man that looked as if he could walk through a wall. Years of swinging a hammer had raised his endurance as well. By the end, Mehrin could work a whole day with only a couple short breaks. Often, Orin had to force him to leave the forge for fear of losing his help to heat prostration. People took notice of Mehrin, including Ana. A sad smile came over Mehrin's face as the hammer rang against the steel, driving the sword fragment into the block, folding it, driving it in further. Ana was Mehrin's first love, the first woman to ever share his bed, the only secret he ever kept from Orin. Mehrin saved and worked so that he could provide a home for her.

 

Fate can be cruel.

 

Due to shady dealing, Orin lost his forge to a competitor, who fired him and left him near-destitute. refusing to leave everything to the swindler, a man named Traval, Orin gave Mehrin the claymore. It was unfinished, lacking the leather band below the blade, but it was as sharp as a winter wind. Traval did not approve of the gift, though. In the night, Traval murdered Orin, and Mehrin had in turn murdered Traval, then left behind everything that he had earned to travel south, to Tear.

 

********

 

The warrant they had issued for his arrest was still in force. Mehrin had checked several times in the past. He had always wanted to be able to return to Lugard, to take Ana away from the place and give her a good home, but it had never happened. The hammer rang against the steel again. That sword had served him well for a decade. Orin Malon had been a true master smith, far better than Mehrin could ever hope to become. However, he knew that he was up to this task. In the ten years since Lugard, Mehrin had worked forges, usually to repair things, but he had continued to learn. Mehrin's first forged sword had been a poor thing, but his hundredth had been a thing of beauty. It could very well still be serving some soldier somewhere, but Mehrin would never know.

 

That night in the inn, the boy returned. "You looked a bit shaken up, there today."

 

Mehrin glanced at the boy. "Old memories. I have years of them."

 

The boy seemed anxious about something, as if he was trying to find the words to say something. "Out with it, boy. You have a question, I have an answer. Let's see if they match."

 

"Well, there's been talk about.... about the other night, when those bandits came to town. They were only a small group, but their leader is... Well..." The boy cleared his throat, then looked back at Mehrin. "Anyway, there's been talk about one of the men you killed. Used a whip on him, they say, but when the men went to bury him, they said... They said that his neck was stripped to the bone. How is that possible?"

 

Mehrin didn't answer. Instead, he took the whip off his belt and dropped it on the table, where the boy examined it. The last six feet of the whip had something shiny woven into the leather. The boy picked it up carefully. The steel shards still cut his hand. "Oh."

 

"Yeah, 'oh'," Mehrin replied. "I made it special in Tear, along with a lot of other things. All leather. It's durable, and Tral always said it deflected knives well. Had a job down there for a little bit before I headed north on the river to Shienar."

 

The boy looked confused. "Shienar? Why?"

 

Mehrin smiled. "I had a big damn sword, and I needed somebody to teach me how to use it. Shienar has the best heavy infantry on the continent, and they use swords like the one I had."

[Quibby]

The boy sitting across from Mehrin looked at him in confusion. "You keep talking about this sword, but when the bandits came, you didn't-"

 

"'Had'. I believe I said 'had' several times." Mehrin worked to keep his face smooth. "Beautiful thing it was, too. Orin was a master, like I said. Tang ran the full length of the handle, and the grip was bound in black leather and more than wide enough for both hands. There was a band of black leather around the base of the blade, gave a bit of extra leverage if your foe was too stubborn to just die and you wanted to give them a quick surprise. Ten years I had that sword..."

 

The boy remained silent as Mehrin trailed off in thought for a moment. "The Shienarans are amazing infantrymen. On the front lines, they use heavy infantry, men wielding swords like mine was. Even as inexperienced as I was, I knew to go to them to learn the basics of that sword. Others would tell me the same, all the time. I used to spend mornings just spinning the thing, trying to get a feel for how the weapon would work. It was amazing what that thing would do if you just let it work..."

 

********

 

Mehrin left the ship at the first port in Shienar and presented himself to the local garrison commander, requesting training. The response was a request for enlistment. The response was a polite refusal. "The Shienarans could use a man like you. You're eager to learn, and you have, if I may say so, a fine weapon, though no knowledge of its use. Why not stay?"

 

"If I may say so, sir, I don't care to serve at the whim of a general who may decide that my decidedly non-Shienaran head would make a good leader for the vanguard." The garrison commander blinked at that, but said nothing. Mehrin gestured in apology for the comment, but continued. "I can offer other services in exchange for training, though. I have worked as a smith, and I would be more than happy to add my ability to what you already have in exchange for training."

 

The commander seemed to consider this for a moment, then said, "That is acceptable as long as you're willing to fight for the town if the need arises." At Mehrin's nod, the commander said, "Very well. You'll have to find housing for yourself, and the first offer stays open as long as you want it to do so."

 

Mehrin was in southern Shienar for four years. Training was slow. Incredibly slow. The garrison was never short of smithing work, and Mehrin spent most of his time at the forges, first making horseshoes and knives, then mending armor. His first sword was made in his second year, and it was a terrible piece of work that shattered at the first blow. Mehrin went back to the forge and made another. And another after that one failed. And another after that one failed. It would take another year before his swords were passably good, and another year before he would be willing to use one in combat.

 

Actual training started with the recruits and ended within a year. The combat techniques were useful, and Mehrin learned fast. He began to show a lot of promise towards the end of the first year, but the weapon he used began working against him. The Shienarans' two-handed swords were slightly lighter than the one he used, and while he could attack and defend with the best of the recruits, and he could move as fast or faster, the mechanics of the weapon began working against him. The sergeant noticed this, and told Mehrin in no uncertain terms that he could continue training with the recruits, but he would have to change his weapon to one similar to their own. Mehrin responded, "I understand, but could you refer me to the master-at-arms? It seems I'm going to have to work out a way to use this thing independently of your training."

 

It took three years to come up with a method of using the claymore that he had been given. Unlike the Shienaran swords, Mehrin's longer blade made it possible to actually grip the blade itself to use the hilt as a weapon. This meant learning a different way to swing, a different way to position his hands, a different stance. Everything had to change. Over the course of three years, Mehrin learned the basics of the quarterstaff, the mace, and the battleaxe. From the quarterstaff and the mace, he took the pinpoint strikes and bludgeoning of each weapon, respectively. From the battleaxe, Mehrin took some hand positioning tips and the the chopping motion. These all combined into a working form that, while rudimentary in its current execution, could be expanded upon and could potentially make the user into one of the deadliest men on the battlefield. By the time the call went out to the regiments to march, Mehrin's style was respected among his sparring partners. One of those men, Beleo Ronas, was an experienced Blight sergeant back from the Blightborder on a brief sojourn from the front, and the two of them sparred regularly while he was there. They hit it off well, even if Beleo would regularly beat Mehrin bloody. After each beating, Beleo would point out weaknesses in his style, and Mehrin would gladly take the lessons to heart and come back the next time to show how well he had done.

 

A call went out, after four years, to the commanders of the garrisons, calling them to Tarwin's Gap. As per their agreement, Mehrin parted ways with the Shienarans, thanking them for their training and aid, and setting out on his own.

 

In the wilderness over the next three months, Mehrin's training added a new layer. Every morning, Mehrin would simply work with the sword, using it as if he was fighting at the front lines of a battle, with the same amount of effort. It took six minutes until Mehrin was unable to move his arms. A month later, it was ten minutes. At the end of three months, he could continue the drill for thirteen minutes. Mehrin knew that it was important to be able to fight for more than a few minutes at a time. Battles were hard work, and he needed to be able to fight for Light knew how long.

 

It was after his evening exercises that Mehrin heard the sound. It was a human sound. People talking, people singing. There was the ring of steel on steel. Curiosity getting the better of him, Mehrin approached the sound.

 

Which is why, within ten minutes, Mehrin found himself in a circle of archers and spearmen, scouts of some sort. "Who are you, and what's your business here?" Mehrin looked around rapidly. There were several Shienarans among the men present, but also men from Arafel, Saldaea. There were Andorans, Cairhienin, and even Tairens. This was a strange army, it seemed. Squinting in the dark, Mehrin looked around for any sign of who the men were. His eye happened upon a red palm print. No... Mehrin knew the stories, knew the legends. These men had raised a flag long dead. In that moment, Mehrin knew that he had to join these people. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. A chance for glory and to add his name to the legend. It was a foolish thought, he knew, but there it was. He had left his parents' name when he had left them, so that anything that he did would not come back to them. He needed something... something... anything... He needed a name to give these men...

 

********

 

"'My name is Mehrin Deathwatch, and I'm here to join the Band.' With those words, I found myself at the true beginning of my story. The Band of the Red Hand had reformed after the battle at Tarwin's Gap. Several of the remaining Shienaran battalions, along with the other men and women at the Gap, came together to raise a banner out of legends. After I signed the register, I was pleased to find myself reassigned to the very same Shienaran unit that I had worked with. They were shocked to see me again, but they welcomed me back well enough." Mehrin took a drink and looked around the room. It was silent as a tomb. Men and women stared at him in shock.

 

The boy was no better. He appeared to be torn between awe and disbelief. For the first time, Mehrin realized a truth: he was a legend. Commander of the Band of the Red Hand, a man who led from the front lines. Leader of a group of heroes, as the stories went. At the back of the tavern, a man finally found his voice: "Oy, 'e ain't Mehrin Deathwatch! I 'eard that 'e died in Shienar! Beside, Mehrin was eight foot tall!"

 

Mehrin simply shrugged, listening while the tavern burst out into laughter. Mehrin could almost hear their thoughts: This is no legend. This man couldn't be the man who did all those things. He didn't fight his own shadow. He didn't slaughter monsters out of nightmares at Falme, or Bandar Eban, or wherever that place was. This man is a fraud. It was better than awe, Mehrin thought. At least they wouldn't be spreading the story. Every person in the village had heard that admission, and every person in the village was laughing at the man who had, before everybody in the tavern, drank three flagons of whatever the innkeeper had been bringing him.

 

The boy, on the other hand... The boy believed him. The boy believed that he was looking at the legend made flesh. Boy, how do I make you understand that legends aren't real. Legends don't kill the women they love. Legends don't drink themselves near to death. Legends don't bleed. Legends don't die. Without another word, Mehrin drank the last of the water in the flagon, and went back upstairs.

 

After stripping to his smallclothes, Mehrin sat on the edge of his bed. He felt feverish. There had to be more shards, something that hadn't been found yet. Something that was killing him. Taking his belt, Mehrin pulled it against his shoulders and dragged it down the length of his back. It struck something that made him cry out through his clenched teeth. Ah... Mehrin drew his boot knife and pressed it carefully against the sore spot, feeling the rigidness. He traced its length, then made the cut.

 

The steel shard had been resting against his ribs.

 

After a shoddy stitching job done while looking sideways in a mirror, Mehrin dropped the bloody shard, bearing part of the mark of Orin Malon, into a leather bag. It rang against other shards of steel. He then drew out a velvet bag. In the bag was a nine-inch piece of a sword. The mark was a blacksmith that Mehrin did not know, some man presumably from Illian. The woman who had owned it no longer needed it, and Mehrin had never been sure why he had kept it. A few moments of painful memories, and Mehrin set the broken blade aside, next to the bag of steel pieces. Soon.

[Quibby]

"What's that cut on your back?"

 

"It's nothing. Leave it be."

 

Mehrin was again at the forge. There still was not enough steel for the whole project to be completed, but there was enough for a part, and that part was what Mehrin chose to work. The boy had chosen to stay close, watching as if he expected Mehrin to suddenly lift the anvil and fly away to the moon in the belly of a fiery eagle or some other legendary feat. It was frankly getting annoying.

 

It had been a long time since Mehrin had made a pommel, and this one was going to be different than usual. It was small, detailed work, and so Mehrin was at a smaller work area, using smaller tools and softer strokes. Detail work had never been his specialty, though, so he imagined that the final product would not be beautiful. That was okay. He did not need beauty, only function.

 

Beauty. Hah! Mehrin had known several beautiful women in his life. Some in particular stayed in his memory, tied to his story from the day he had joined the Band until the day he had left, and even beyond....

 

********

 

The Band taught Mehrin just how much he did not know about fighting with the sword. Sparring matches in which he took part quickly changed to Mehrin using whip and knife. His time in the wilderness had not been only about 'learning' the claymore. Mehrin had worked to become more proficient with the bullwhip than any man had any right to be, and though he was not so far yet, he was able to cut the wick of a candle with enough time to aim. Sparring was how he had met Kuro Ketsukei.

 

For some reason, Kuro had chosen to hide her identity as a woman, and Mehrin had been taken in by the facade for the first few weeks he was with the Band. Mehrin never did pressure her for any more information than what she had given. She was rather striking, though, but there had never been anything more between them. The first time they had met was in a three-way spar. Kuro was a scout who favored a poleaxe-style weapon called a glaive. The cavalryman was... Mehrin frowned. Time had been that he knew every man and woman he had sparred with, but this cavalier was an exception, apparently. He had never seen him again after that day; perhaps he had died at Bandar Eban... ... The cavalryman had used a standard sword and shield. Mehrin, heavy infantry, had chosen to go with the whip and knife. A quick dash to the nearest cart and a quicker grope beneath the seat had yielded a long bullwhip, one not laced with shards of steel. With a smile, Mehrin turned to the other two and began circling.

 

Mehrin had come out the worse for wear in that exchange. Later, around the fire they'd chosen to share, Kuro said, "You can't rely on that whip. It gives you an edge in battle, certainly. Especially the way you can catch somebody with that quick draw off the waist you do. You have no defense, though, and if you're going to be running and screaming at the enemy, you need something."

 

"I had an off day," Mehrin muttered sullenly. "I know what I'm doing. The knife and whip are a devastating combination, and I'll make it work." Back through the years of recollection, Mehrin groaned as he began making a double-triangle spike, wondering if he had truly ever been so young and stupid.

 

"Whatever you say, big man," she teased. "Just remember: when you're dying on the ground with some man's spear being friendly with your guts, look to the sky and say, 'Kuro was right.' Deal?"

 

Mehrin chuckled. "Deal."

 

Mehrin resumed working with the Shienarans the next day, though he still dedicated time to learning the whip and knife. The whip and knife combination did prove to be deadly in dueling situations, especially when Mehrin finally began incorporating more of that Tral had taught him. The day soon came when none of the other privates would dare duel him with the two, even men far his senior.

 

The sword, on the other hand... The training duels that Mehrin fought with the claymore gradually became more proficient. Well, proficient was probably the wrong way to say it. Less embarrassing, though. The unique style that he was using certainly drew the curious, but the battles usually ended the same way: both men bruised and bleeding, but Mehrin usually the worse of the two. The Band marched quickly, and there were rumors of something happening at Bandar Eban.

 

Two things served to rapidly hasten Mehrin's education.

 

The first was an encounter with a group of Aiel, who were traveling to Bandar Eban with some strange men and women who tended to keep their distance from everybody else. A taste for alcohol had led Mehrin to befriend a man named Krachend, a member of the Sovin Nai. When the two weren't drinking and talking, they sparred. Mehrin's progress was markedly faster; something about the Aiel tradition of not using sparring weapons served as encouragement. Towards the end of the march, Mehrin and Krachend would even exchange jokes over the fighting.

 

"You fight well for a wetlander. I have yet to see you lop off your leg with that foolish sword," Krachend called as he circled, veil raised. Aiel only raised their veils when they meant violence, Mehrin knew, but Krachend had a prickly sense of honor about such things. He fought with his whole being, and if he accidentally killed 'the wetlander', as he called Mehrin, he refused to do it with an unveiled face. The effect was unsettling, to say the least.

 

"Funny, Aielman. I was about to say the same for you." Krachend tapped a spear against his buckler a few times, then charged at Mehrin. Mehrin dropped to his knee with a sweeping cut meant to take the Aielman in the legs, but the man was viper-quick. Even as the sword was swinging, Krachend sprang into the air, drawing a spear back in preparation to skewer him.

 

This was where Mehrin's recent education in the school of pain began to show itself. Mehrin had learned through several cuts that he needed to let the claymore do some of his work. If he tried to control every cut, he would simply tire and the opponent would take him down with ease. Instead of fighting the swing, Mehrin allowed it to carry all the way through, guiding it back up into an arcing cut, knocking the spear aside.

 

Of course, being that he was fighting an Aielman, Mehrin received a foot to the face for his trouble, his nose breaking- again- in a spray of blood. Even that, though, worked to his benefit. As the sword must be allowed to move, his body had learned the same lesson. Rolling backward to one knee with the kick lessened the power, though his eyes still watered from the broken nose. The sword never stopped moving, though, and he had it stopped at an angle across the front of his body as he rose. Just in time to deflect the next stab from Krachend's spear. Too close, Mehrin thought grimly, even as his fist flew to connect with the Aielman's face. Both men staggered back and began circling again.

 

"You seem to have something on your face, Mehrin Deathwatch," the Aielman said, his voice muffled.

 

"Your veil seems to be darker than usual, Krachend. Maybe you'd like a break to have your Wise Ones check it?" Putting a look of mock concern on his face, Mehrin added, "Or do you need help finding them?!" The last word was spat as his right hand moved down to his waist. A quick flick of his wrist, backward, then forward, sent the length of the whip whistling towards the Aielman. Krachend caught it out of the air without breaking stride. Damn, he's fast, Mehrin thought.

 

Rather, he had enough time to think, Da-, before the Aielman was on top of him. A flurry of blows from fists and feet left Mehrin too stunned to fight back, and Mehrin fell back into the dust. The Aielman kneeled over him, a spear pressed against his throat. "Well fought, Mehrin Deathwatch. Again tomorrow?" Standing, Krachend offered Mehrin a hand. Gratefully, Mehrin took it.

 

"Same time." With a nod, both men turned and returned to their separate camps.

 

The most important lesson that Mehrin learned was at Bandar Eban.

 

Mehrin and the entire Bear platoon found themselves in the van. Mehrin's squadron, Red, had been chosen to lead at the center, and Mehrin had been given command of the squad after the sergeant had been killed in an ambush. The Seanchan were across from them, men with odd armor riding beasts out of nightmare, to hear the stories. There were other stories told, too, of weapons that caused the ground to erupt, flying creatures from the Pit of Doom itself. Mehrin saw none of that. All he saw were a bunch of men who would be doing their damnedest to kill him.

 

Looking at his squadmates, Beleo Ronas among them, Mehrin grinned and said, "Okay, boys, here's the drill. Those men over there are adamant that they will die for their emperor. What say we prove them right?" Behind him, the drums began to sound, and the pipers began playing. An oddly lively tune, considering its meaning, "Dance with Jak o' the Shadows" would play the Band to glory and death. As Mehrin passed a heavy pin from the bottom of the spike through a circle of steel and prepared to weld the two together in the forge, he rolled his eyes. Glory was for kids like the one who was watching him outside the forge.

 

One sound rose above everything, though. Above the violent warcries of the Band, above the drums and the pipes, a single horn sounded. The note was ringing and clear, even over the field, and the sounds of the armies died to stillness as long as the horn sounded. "Umm... Mehr? Is that fog?" Mehrin's eyes refocused on the field, and there was indeed a fine fog beginning to settle between the armies.

 

"Okay, boys, mind the uniforms. Try not to kill your brothers unless they owe you money." A few men chuckled. Typical gallows humor. Even more chuckled at Mehrin's lack of a uniform. It was impossible to say how Mehrin had been given command of the squad. Since the day he had joined the Band, he had refused to wear the uniform, had refused to salute. Even Commander Ehlana Toredall could not elicit a salute from the man. It was a trait that would follow Mehrin throughout his entire career with the Band.

 

The charge sounded, and Mehrin was the first man off the line, the rest soon following and overtaking him. It was difficult, though, to tell where he was. As the charge was sounded, the entire plain was engulfed in a heavy fog. Mehrin fell back to the third rank. It was the only reason he survived.

 

The front lines clashed unexpectedly, and the first two ranks were stunned in the crash. The third rank began killing each other. The first shock of his claymore striking flesh became one of the most vivid memories that resurfaced in his nightmares. In the middle of a battle, Mehrin froze, watching the life drain from the face of the man who had a massive claymore pass through his shoulder, through several ribs, and only stop when it hit his spine. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then fell off the sword in a mess of blood that began to stink even as it fell.

 

The second man was easier. The third even easier than the second. Mehrin began settling into a rhythm, careful to keep his squadmates nearby. The ones who had survived anyway. Of the original twelve men, only six had survived first shock. They stayed together, each man guarding the other man, each man distracting a foe so the others could finish him off. It was obvious that this line was not the most skilled in the Seanchan army, but even so, Mehrin bled from countless small cuts, and a large slice across his ribcage would certainly need stitching.

 

It was either ten minutes or ten years before the explosions started.

 

After that, things got a bit blurry in Mehrin's mind. The only clear memory he had was of a battle in the sky. That was another scene that would play through his nightmares for weeks to come. A man with a face of fire fighting a red-haired man wielding a blademaster's sword.

 

********

 

Battles are messy business, Mehrin thought as he put the finishing touches on the long pommel. After awhile, they run together so you can't tell where one foe ends and another begins. I don't know how many men I killed at Bandar Eban, but I remember the drinking afterward. I was disgusted with myself. The final detail added, Mehrin turned to the quenching barrels, smoothly sliding the glowing steel into the water, watching it hiss and sputter. The boy was mesmerized. Mehrin ignored him. That's when my drinking problem began, that battle. I was trying to drown the disgust that first time. But that's not all. I was trying to drown part of me.

 

Part of me reveled in it. A part of me was bathing in the blood, and wanted more. A part of me liked killing those men.

[Quibby]

Men scoffed at Mehrin as he entered the inn and returned to his usual place in the corner. The boy came trailing after, of course. Mehrin had begun to take a liking to the boy despite himself. A total stranger willing to listen to the ramblings of a damaged man. It was cathartic. Mehrin felt as if the weight of some of his guilt was being borne by another. As soon as the boy sat, The Question spilled out of his mouth. "Do you have anybody? You know, a... well... you know."

 

Mehrin winced. The boy noticed. Mehrin said, "Come upstairs with me. There's a smaller common area up there, and I'd rather get away from this noise." The boy complied, while Mehrin stopped at the counter to request two dinners and several flagons of water. The men and women close enough to hear the order looked at him in confusion. Water? The drunk's taking water? The question seemed to shout itself in its silence. Mehrin smirked and went up to his room.

 

The boy was sitting at the small table in the common room when a broken blade lodged itself in the middle of the table. The boy jumped, startled. "I've had several lovers," Mehrin said as he sat across from the boy. "Two of them I actually loved. One was a romance of close proximity; it would never have worked." His eyes drifted from the boy to the broken blade. "The woman who owned that sword was an Illianer, a woman named..."

 

********

 

Anya Tarin Winter. Honey hair braided into several small, beaded braids, she had come to the Band just after Bandar Eban. Some men's wounds were still being tended, and wounded men still died every day. She had come at the same time as several other recruits: Bruce "Ram" Shephard, Zander Cross, a man who had fled shortly after joining. It didn't take long for the four to distinguish themselves: they were the most argumentative foursome the Band had ever seen, nearly coming to actual blows several times.

 

Mehrin had seen an opportunity.

 

After Bandar Eban, Mehrin was promoted to sergeant, and he took the opportunity to choose his command. He chose those four, even though they had chosen separate corps. When command, including former scout and now Commander Cabroci Ramzael asked him about the unprecedented choice, Mehrin explained that he wanted to create a commando team to execute pinpoint strikes against the enemy, and these four had the energy and vitality for the task. "After all," he had said, "they can't stay away from each other's throats. If I can turn that violent behavior another way, they would be unstoppable."

 

The command given, Mehrin set out to make the soldiers' lives a living hell, with quite some success. Long runs before the sun was even considering the possibility of rising, hours of physical labor, and ridiculous tasks like spending days at a time with their ankles tied together. One man couldn't take it, and he deserted. The others held gamely on.

 

When they were not engaged in these ridiculous tasks, Mehrin was drilling them in weaponry, while he himself trained with Beleo. Training with the Shienaran sergeant again began to improve his abilities, but Mehrin was amazed to discover that as much of his progress was due to training the three recruits. When he asked Beleo about it, the man had shrugged and said, "'If you would learn, then teach'. I've found it to be true. Now it's your turn." It was true. As Mehrin worked with the recruits, they began to learn his style, and his style began to evolve in order to cope with their growing skill. This in turn was tested in his training with Beleo. The duels between them began to grow longer and more furious. By the time Mehrin was promoted to lieutenant, a bare month after Bandar Eban, he was winning half his training bouts with the Shienaran.

 

Most of Mehrin's spare time was spent training Anya, however. Her weapons of choice were the sabre, a weapon with which Mehrin had no experience whatsoever, and the bullwhip, which Mehrin had plenty of experience. They spent countless hours working together, each trying to show the other up. Anya was far more graceful in her use of the weapon, being able to execute twirls and twists riddled with the sound of whipcracks. Mehrin was more brutal and fast, with accuracy that was far superior to Anya's. The two completely different styles began to rub off on each other, though, to the betterment of both Mehrin and Anya.

 

"Hey, Mehr! I do be winning this time!" Anya called as the two worked through an obstacle course that the other two members of their little group had assembled for them. (Mehrin had beaten it into his trainees that, while they had to wear the Band's uniform and salute officers, he would do neither, and if any of them dared to salute him, Mehrin vowed a painful vengeance that would make training seem a relief.) A mud pit, followed by wooden targets ranging in size from tree trunks to twigs. Rings hung in trees that needed to be grabbed. Straw dummies that needed to be killed. At the end, there were always five candles that needed to be snuffed out, one by one. These were kept in a long tent, out of the wind. Anya had navigated the mud pit with ease, swinging over the pit on her whip. Mehrin walked through instead, and as a result was behind the woman. Not that behind her is a bad thing, Mehrin thought, then quashed the thought immediately. Being distracted was not the way to win a contest.

 

Mehrin caught up through the targets, however. Pinpoint strikes to either side allowed him to send the wooden circles falling off their stands, and the rings in the trees were only a little harder, where Anya caught him up. She caught the rings without missing a single one, then dashed forward towards the straw dummies. Mehrin came hard on her heels. The straw dummy proved laughably simple. Mehrin simply caught the dummy by the neck and pulled. The sharpened shards in the whip tore the throat from the dummy, and Mehrin was off on the long sprint to the tent, to loud cursing from the Illianer. "You're slow, Blonde!" he called back.

 

It was no contest after that.

 

That night around the campfire, the Dagger Squad, as they were being called in some reports, shared a bottle and a few stories. Ram was quiet, looking across the fire on occasion as he bent over his sketchbook. He had an infatuation with Anya, Mehrin knew, and he felt bad. Despite his desire to avoid any sort of potentially awkward relationship with a soldier under his command, Mehrin flirted with Anya quite a bit. She had been under his command for two months, and the only person he spent more time with was Beleo. Beleo was not Mehrin's type, though. Too scarred. The thought, out of nowhere, caused Mehrin to laugh, suddenly, through his nose.

 

A bad thing when drinking triple-distilled apple brandy.

 

The fire roared up as the rest came out of Mehrin's mouth so he could swear, eyes watering and nose burning like somebody had shoved a red-hot poker up there. The laughter from the others was uproarious. The rest of the night descended into a drunken haze.

 

The next morning, it all came back to Mehrin, accompanied by a pounding headache that signaled that he had won a whole day with the hangover from hell. It hurt to stand, and even pulling his wide-brimmed hat low over his eyes did nothing to stop the pounding agony in his skull. He knew somewhere in the camp, there was a medics' tent. Hell, he visited it enough for this precise reason. Staggering in, Mehrin crashed into somebody, to whom he muttered apologies. Surprisingly, it was an Illianer accent that responded. A woman's voice. Mehrin's pain-addled brain tried to sort out what he was hearing. That was when the sensation changed.

 

There were suddenly slender arms around Mehrin's neck, pulling him down into... a kiss. Mehrin was in shock. He was sluggish and unable to think straight. His body must have realized that, and reacted accordingly, shooting an accusational glare at his brain, which slumped off sullenly. The kiss seemed to go on forever, in the blink of an eye. Even after they had torn themselves away from each other, they held each other close... until the rest of the world finally came back, and they became aware of the catcalls and sniggering from the medics. As a joke, Mehrin cracked his whip to silence the hecklers. That was enough to drive the two apart, both clutching their heads in agony. The laughter started again, even louder.

 

That night, they shared Mehrin's tent.

 

Their relationship was an odd one. As a rule, Mehrin and Anya agreed not to be flirty when on duty, but they were inseparable when they were off-duty. Anya began dueling with Mehrin in their off time, together with other soldiers in the Band. Beleo had long ago ceased to prove enough of a challenge, so Mehrin began fighting two or three soldiers at a time, with relative success. Blows landed were rare, but they were spread pretty evenly through all three or four fighters. The first night after such a bout, as Anya was disrobing for sleep, Mehrin saw the bruises and began to apologize. It was the only time that she had ever been furious with him. "I do no be a child, Mehr! You best be getting that through your head! You do be needing a challenge, and if this be the cost of that, I guess I have to be living with that."

 

Mehrin's work with Dagger Squad earned him a promotion to Banner Captain in record time. Mehrin took command of Hurricane Battalion, and immediately set to work trying to make his battalion the most feared infantrymen on the continent. He also tried to train the men not to salute him, but that never seemed to work for long. Too long in other armies, Mehrin assumed.

 

Mehrin's promotion was one of the last acts of Cabroci Ramzael. The disappearance of Commander Ehlana Toredall had gnawed at his mind for too long, and he chose to leave in order to find some clue to her fate. Xandrea Raylin, Captain General of the Scouts was chosen to take his place. An order immediately came down from her office: march to Emond's Field. There were reports of Trollocs, and something needed to be done.

 

The hastened march was one that Mehrin hardly remembered. He remembered Undercommander Amon Turamber leading a small force to the Ogier in order to negotiate their aid in constructing a base, a Citadel that the Band could call home. Mehrin and Dagger Squad became advanced scouts, searching for hints of what was to come. During one range, the Captain General of the Infantry, Naven al'Baerlon, was killed by Trolloc archers. Mehrin was promoted to his place.

 

The greatest test of Mehrin's training came one night during a search and rescue. Another group of scouts, led by a foolish former Child of the Light named Rowul Stromblade, had failed to report in. Dagger Squad was dispatched to find him. What they found was worse than they had expected. The scouts were barricaded in a barn, and the barn was surrounded by bestial Trollocs. Mehrin did a quick count- twelve- and made some quick hand gestures to the group. Spread out. Creep in. Kill.

 

The squad operated smoothly. Each member killed one Trolloc before the rest realized that they were under attack. By that time, it was too late. One more Trolloc fell to each member of Dagger Squad before they could focus on the newcomers. The last four fell quickly.

 

That was when the Fade appeared.

 

The only warning that Mehrin had was a flicker of shadow in the corner of his eye. Immediately, Mehrin's claymore was carving a figure-eight through the air in front of him, and the two circled, looking for an opening. The Fade moved first.

 

Mehrin had heard how the creatures moved like snakes, but it was another story to see it. The thing's strikes almost came faster than Mehrin could track, but he deflected each one. Steadily, though, Mehrin was pushed back. The creature did not make mistakes like his sparring partners often did. There was nothing Mehrin could use against it. "You're going to die. Why not make it easy?" the Fade hissed. The next strike, Mehrin swung hard to deflect. The creature stumbled. Mehrin was shocked, but his body reacted. Pressing forward, Mehrin's strikes became more violent. The Fade managed to stop one downswing dead, but Mehrin stepped forward and drove one of the claymore's crossguards into the flat skin where its eye should be. The creature let loose scream that felt like needles in Mehrin's head. Mehrin gripped the blade of the claymore, pulling the crossguard free, then drove the pommel hard into the creature's forehead, staggering it. Again shifting his grip, Mehrin's left hand found the hilt of the sword, and the blow to the head fluidly became an arcing upswing that cut the creature open from groin to throat. Without stopping, the claymore ended in Mehrin's back scabbard.

 

The Fade touched the long cut, its maggot-white hand coming up black with its blood. Coils of intestine were visible, trying to burst free. Mehrin smiled grimly. "You were saying, Fade?"

 

The Fade laughed, then fixed Mehrin with its cold stare.

 

Mehrin couldn't move. Terror welled up in his soul, drowning out the encouraging shouts of his squad, of the men coming from the barn. Mehrin's squad acted first, charging the Myrddraal, but not before it could cut at Mehrin's neck. Somehow, Mehrin managed to flinch away, but the blade bit his arm.

 

And Dagger Squad fell upon the Fade like a bolt from heaven.

 

Mehrin could not remember the trip back to the Band. He knew he walked strongly at first, then slowly, then supported by Anya and Ram.

 

From there, Mehrin had few conscious moments, and he could not tell whether it was actual consciousness or nightmare. A strange woman looked over him, declaring that she had done all she could. Anya was there, always there, in these moments. Once, he seemed to be floating, as if he were being moved somewhere. After that, he was in a room, a real room with floors and walls and a ceiling and a bed.

 

Finally, full awareness began to come back. Mehrin's dream slowly became real in his mind. He was in a wooden room with a window. The sun was up. There was a woman in the room with him. Turning his head, Mehrin saw Anya sitting on the bed next to him, stroking his forehead. The first words Mehrin said came out as a croak, "You look like hell."

 

She had been crying, Mehrin could see, and the words brought the tears back. She collapsed onto his chest, crying tears of joy, her arms wrapped around Mehrin's neck. Mehrin held her. They said that a Fade's sword was death, but Mehrin had never believed it. "They did say that you would be waking up, but I couldn't be believin' in until I did see it." Anya cried herself out quickly, falling asleep where she lay. Mehrin simply held her, and a strange exhaustion overcame him.

 

He woke to Anya's voice. "Aye, he be awake, now, but do you have to be doing this now? He just be recoverin'."

 

"Anya, let them in, whoever they are."

 

Anya glared at him, then said, "Mehr, I did be meanin' to tell you..."

 

One by one, the Captain Generals entered the small room. Apparently, Banner Captain Salla Alliatar of Tornado Battalion had been promoted to Captain General. "Mehrin Deathwatch," Amon Turamber said, "you have been chosen by the Captain Generals. Effective immediately, you are Mehrin Deathwatch, Commander of the Band of the Red Hand."

 

Mehrin blinked. Then blinked again. And a third time. "Oh, you're bloody well kidding me," he said as blackness again swallowed the world.

 

The Band had been busy in his 'absence'. Emond's Field had a wooden stockade around the entire village, and the forest had been cleared back by hundreds of strides, possibly as far as a thousand strides. Scouting parties regularly brought reports of small skirmishes with Trollocs. The battle would be held off for as long as possible.

 

Mehrin was given a month to regain his strength, and he used it well. By the end, he felt as good as he had ever felt, possibly even better. Every day was spent checking fortifications and provisions. Then the rest of the day was spent training. By the end of the month, Mehrin was training exclusively against Amon. The two were close in skill. A single mistake by either meant defeat.

 

Mehrin chose to command the battle from the village instead of the front. It was time to test his skills as a true battle commander. When the foe finally came, Mehrin felt he was ready.

 

He was mistaken.

 

In the aftermath, the Band suffered heavy casualties, many of which could have been prevented. In conference with the Captain Generals, things were subdued. Many tried to console Mehrin, telling him of extenuating circumstances and unknown factors, but the deaths weighed heavily.

 

Then Ram had found him. "Anya's missing."

 

Mehrin had left the command tent before Ram had finished the sentence, combing the battlefield. She had been in one of the reserves, meant to plunge into any break in the Trolloc lines. Mehrin remembered ordering their charge.

 

That charge had proven to be a slaughter. Nearly half of the force had been killed before reaching the line, and when they did reach the line, it closed behind them. Mangled Trollocs and Banders lay side-by-side and atop each other.

 

********

 

"Near the center was where I found her sabre. It had been shattered. I never found her body."

 

The boy sat in silence for a moment, watching Mehrin. When he was realized that Mehrin was done speaking, he left.

[Quibby]

"Um, Mehrin? Sir?" The boy seemed hesitant to talk to Mehrin as he worked the forge, but the hand guard he was making was not a difficult piece of work. It was a bit unique, though. Mehrin had spent a lot of time considering the design; it would complement what he needed.

 

"What is it, boy?" Mehrin responded, not looking up from his work.

 

"If it's okay... I mean... if you're not too upset, I'd, err... I'd like to hear more." The boy danced anxiously, shifting his balance from foot to foot. To Mehrin, it looked as though the boy needed to relieve himself, but he didn't say anything.

 

Mehrin sighed and looked up from the heavy loop of steel he was forging. "Why, boy? Why do you insist on hearing these stories? Are they your inspiration? Do you want to run away and become a hero?"

 

The boy looked downcast at the outburst. "I... I... I just want to help. You seem so..."

 

"I seem so down? I seem depressed? Well, maybe I am. Maybe I'm finally growing up." Mehrin shrugged as he returned to his work. "Army life seems romantic and exciting, boy. Trust me, it isn't. You hardly sleep in the same place twice, you march till your feet bleed, and the pay is absolutely awful. Hell, I don't know why anyone would want it."

 

"Wasn't commanding an army fun?" the boy asked.

 

"HAH! If anything..."

 

********

 

Command of the Band was anything but fun. Mehrin quickly discovered that nine-tenths of command was in the paperwork. This became especially apparent when the Band settled into the just-started Citadel. The Citadel was already massive, a triangle of wooden palisades and barracks, with stonework already started. The nearby Ogier stedding had sent every stonemason they had to build, and more were arriving every day from other steddings. The grounds were extensive, with plenty of room for training of all sorts. Circular pits had already been filled with sand for weapons training, and there was a cavalry course and horse pasture. The first thing that Mehrin had done was set aside one corner of the triangle as a cemetery and memorial area, and he set people to work making headstones for all the Band's deceased, from its inception to the Battle of Emond's Field. In the center, a mausoleum was constructed for the commanders of the Band. Mehrin refused to let them place markers for any of the simply missing commanders, but he felt it appropriate to memorialize Ehlana Toredall.

 

One of the stone quarries that the Ogier used to cut block for the city was exhausted incredibly quickly, and Mehrin immediately found a use for it. The details would take months to finalize, but he hoped it would be a place of revelry, with Banders able to relax and have fun, as well as participate in gladiator-style arena matches at the bottom of the pit. The Red Trench, it would be called.

 

When Mehrin wasn't in his office ignoring paperwork or creating hidden weapon caches (his two predecessors had vanished, and Mehrin was not going to take a chance), Mehrin was training. His regimen began well before dawn, when he would take one of the sand circles and work the sword until he couldn't move. By the time Mehrin resigned, his endurance and mastery of his self-made style meant that this could take close to two hours. Then Mehrin would retire to his office to sign the payroll and glance at a few other papers (almost all of which, he ignored). After morning reports, Mehrin would take to the training ground again, this time to teach. Quite often, there were soldiers that wanted to learn from Mehrin, especially for hand-to-hand and knife combat. Others wanted to test their skill against his notorious swordsmanship. These, he would take six at a time.

 

The added bounty for any group who could defeat him was great motivation.

 

One particular day, Mehrin found himself in the middle of a circle, consisting of scouts, cavalry, and infantry. These were the latest challengers that Mehrin had accepted to face. He knew that they had been plotting how they would confront him- what use was command if he couldn't have spies? It wasn't any surprise. Every group tried. None had succeeded yet.

 

The six men circled Mehrin, who was simply waiting, one hand resting on the training claymore he had made especially for this sort of training, which was itself resting with its tip in the sand. Predictably, the first attacker came from behind. When he heard the sound of sand crunching, he tilted the claymore to see the charger's stance. Its polished surface- made especially for this trick- caught the man in a charge, sword held over his head. Mehrin sidestepped and tripped the man. By then, the rest were moving. A second swooped in from the side, while the third approached from the front slowly, forcing Mehrin to attack the charging man. The low arching swing was caught on the claymore's blade, which Mehrin had shifted around. All the man received for his trouble was a punch in the face and a broken nose. The last three were moving in now, all charging in order to make Mehrin divide his attention.

 

Mehrin didn't let that happen.

 

The first man to attack Mehrin had only gotten to his feet when the claymore hit him in the ribs as Mehrin charged past. In accordance with the rules, the man fell back to the sand and stayed there. Continuing on to the man who had started in front of him, Mehrin began his own upward swing. To the man's credit, he did not try to stop the heavier weapon, instead choosing to deflect it to the side. Mehrin let the sword go around, but punched the man in the chest as his fist came even with it, turning the sweeping strike into a vertical circle, which Mehrin used to power a heel-spin of his own, intercepting the thrust of one of the three men behind him. The claymore must have hit his bastard sword hard, because he dropped it to grab his wrist. Twisting sideways to the man, Mehrin let the spinning blade strike him in the groin, twisting the blade and slowing it so that only the flat of the blade struck. In true combat, it was not technically a killing blow, but the man folded anyway, vomiting at the pain.

 

When the blade bounced, Mehrin powered it to point behind him, glancing over his shoulder as he did to strike the man behind him in the chest. As soon as he felt it hit, Mehrin then brought the hilt back to the front, hitting another man on the point of the chin. He collapsed unconscious. Mehrin only had time to drop the claymore as the other man's sword sliced at his head. Mehrin sidestepped and slapped the descending blade to one side, taking the man by the throat and arm, and throwing him into his teammate with the broken nose, who was charging him. The two tripped each other up, and fell to the sand. Mehrin drew his training knife and calmly walked forward, touching each man's throat as they tried to disentangle themselves.

 

That made six.

 

The whole fight took less than fifteen seconds.

 

Mehrin helped each man who could rise to his feet, complimenting them. The other two, he referred to the medics, who were standing by for such an occasion. This had been a good fight; none of the soldiers had become enraged at being beaten so badly, so nobody had tried to break the rules. The only time that had happened, Mehrin had broken the man's arm. Mehrin always made sure that the soldiers- he would fight any man or woman who offered challenge- were paid a bonus, and each was sworn to secrecy. Mehrin didn't want a bunch of green boys being hurt for an extra bit of silver in their next pay.

 

Later in the day, Mehrin would return to his office and drink. He always had a cask of triple-distilled brandy on hand, from the best stock that the Two Rivers had to offer. Mehrin's day typically ended with him staggering to his room in the barracks, where he would cry himself to sleep. Anya still weighed heavily on his mind, and without time to properly mourn, Mehrin relied on the alcohol to get him through his days.

 

The next day, Mehrin would rise, splash cold water on his face to tame down the pounding headache, and begin the routine again.

 

Very little changed in the Citadel those first several months, though the walls rose with alarming speed, and the tower headquarters had begun construction rapidly, too; it was up two floors, with more being added. In gratitude, Mehrin altered the construction of the Citadel, adding a large, walled area that the Ogier could use for a grove. A military installation did not need one, but Mehrin felt that it would be a nice addition.

 

The first change to procedure was a shock. A scout came riding, his horse nearly dead from exhaustion. An army was marching against Emond's Field. An army flying the banner of the Red Hand. The scout even claimed to see people he knew, including Mehrin and Amon.

 

It took less than a day for the Band to get between their doppelgangers and the village. The battle was likely to be one of epic proportions, against an enemy that knew their every weakness. And epic the battle had been.

 

Leading the charge, Mehrin found himself in the middle of the fray, Banders fighting Banders all around him. It was a relief to see Amon's charger ride through the line... until he had leveled his lance at Mehrin's chest.

 

Dancing to the side flat-footed, Mehrin still managed an overhanded strike that severed the horse's head. Amon managed to leap from the crumpling steed and avoid being pinned, where he drew his two swords. Absently, Mehrin wondered if this exact experience was happening somewhere else. Mehrin and Amon had always been evenly matched in the training circles. Warily, the two circled, neither speaking. Mehrin could feel the... the thing remembering every duel the two had fought, working out a strategy, so Mehrin gave him something that Amon had rarely seen: he charged.

 

Mehrin had always been wary of Amon; he was ambidextrous, and either of those swords could be used to devastating effect. Mehrin generally worked to keep the man on his toes. After the initial downswing failed, Mehrin punched with the hilt of the weapon, which was changed to a sliding block to avoid the slash Amon aimed at his arm in retaliation. Taking the blade in hand, Mehrin crashed the hilt into the doppelganger's helmet, then rapidly backed away. A trickle of blood came from beneath Amon's helmet, and Mehrin smiled icily. Amon worked his swords through a complicated flourish that ended in a guard stance, one sword held high over his head, the other in a classic one-handed guard. Mehrin responded by starting his claymore into a one-handed circular spin.

 

Amon charged, and Mehrin responded with one of the snake-like whip strikes he was known for. The whip caught the doppelganger by his arm, and Mehrin pulled him off-balance, then dropped the whip and charged again. To Amon's credit, he recovered in time to defend the bone-shatteringly hard blow. The the fight then descended into a flurry of blows. Mehrin's whirling momentum was countered at every step by Amon's double-sword defense. It was impossible to tell when the cuts started appearing, but when thirty seconds had passed- an hour later, it felt- both men were bleeding from cuts. Mehrin's arms were red and slick with blood, while Amon had blood seeping from beneath his plate armor, and he slightly favored his right side, the result of broken ribs.

 

Both Mehrin and Amon looked at each other, each knowing that it was endgame, each knowing that one of them was not leaving this battle. The circling began again, this time slower than it had been. The two paused, Mehrin with the claymore in his right hand, held pommel up, with the point on the ground behind him. Amon's stance was low, both blades parallel to the ground. The battle around them faded away. Their eyes locked. Then the charge. As Mehrin accelerated, he began to shout, a long cry that carried over the battlefield and brought a lull to combat around them. Amon remained silent.

 

Mehrin's blow was a massive upward strike, carried by desperation and momentum from the run. Amon tried to parry with his left hand, but the strike knocked the man's sword aside as if it wasn't there. There was a screaming sound as the claymore bit through Amon's plate and chain mail, under and through his ribs and spine, then out at his shoulder.

 

It was only then that Mehrin noticed the sword planted straight through his body, under his ribcage on the right side.

 

Then it started to hurt.

 

********

 

"I managed to stagger off the field and to the medic aid station, but I was weeks recovering from that blow. I never asked Amon about his experience on the field. I don't think either of us wanted to relive what we'd been through." Mehrin stopped for a moment, looking almost nostalgic. The boy waited patiently for what would come next. "It was after that that Amon and I began dueling daily, and we soon found it hard to actually land any strikes against the other, but I gradually began pulling ahead in the victories." With a wry chuckle, Mehrin added, "That might be because I started fight seven soldiers at a time in my other bouts, which I chose to do twice a day."

 

With that, Mehrin turned and plunged the piece of hot steel into the quenching barrel. When the water stopped sputtering, Mehrin pulled the piece from the water. It was a long, thick curve of steel, with two rings of steel on either side. Towards the middle, it became wider, and the hole in the middle for the tang of a sword was perfectly shaped, if Mehrin would say so himself.

 

With a smile, Mehrin said, "Tomorrow, the beginning of the end."

[Quibby]

OOC: By this point, Mehrin had achieved WS 20, so this is going to be a lot of glossed-over RP-type things that can be read elsewhere, except the Cairhien RP, which Mehrin only observed and commanded. At the end of the thread, I will post links to any other threads referenced, for your reading pleasure. (If you've read this far, I congratulate you.)

 

"Boy, why are you after my whole life story here?" Mehrin asked, mildly exasperated. It was his own fault, he knew, encouraging the boy by actually answering his questions. However, he hoped that he would be able to serve some good with the boy.

 

In the end, it might save his life.

 

"No, I want to know you. You're one of the most famous men on the continent, and you're here! In my village! That has to be, I don't know, fate or the Wheel or something!" The boy was giddy! Also foolish.

 

"Look, boy, fate is not always a good thing," Mehrin sighed. "I should know. For the past year, more or less, my life has been an unmitigated disaster!"

 

********

 

It had not all been a disaster. In that time, Mehrin had been reunited with former commander Xandrea Raylin. She had returned to the Band, shortly before Cairhien, and Mehrin had found her presence reassuring. even calming. Ever since taking office, Mehrin had no clue what he was doing. Drea had some experience with command, and he immediately assigned her as his aide. The two got along quite well. It was Drea who finally broke Mehrin of his drinking habit. It was also Drea who taught Mehrin how to let go of Anya. They became close after that.

 

It seemed that the Wheel, though, was not done with windfalls. Shortly after Cairhien (Mehrin had chosen to do the wise thing and stay out of that battle; being one of only a handful of surviving Band members from nearly the beginning, Mehrin knew what the Aiel could do.), another surprise dropped into Mehrin's lap. It seemed that his time in Lugard had provided more than just a story and a sword. Sneaking into the Citadel on a cart was a young girl, Renalie Malon. Mehrin's daughter.

 

They were a happy trio, despite a couple of rough starts between Renalie and Drea. When Mehrin wasn't training or working, he was spending time with the two women in his life that actually made him happy. It seemed as if the Band was finally going to give him everything he ever wanted.

 

And then it was gone.

 

Mehrin never knew he had a brother. He knew that he was taken in by his parents, given their name, and then left into the world to seek his fortune. He knew that he had been brought to them by a stranger in the night. This knowledge had never been denied to him; his parents felt that he needed to know where he came from. Nobody had said anything about a brother. But there it was. A man named Ayrik Drayven. A male channeler sworn to the Dark One.

 

And a complete and utter bastard. No, that wasn't the right word. Mehrin did not know a curse in the common tongue or the Old Tongue strong enough to express what a man who would kidnap a child in the middle of the night should be called. As far as Mehrin knew, the man had murdered his own niece. It had driven Mehrin to the most painful decision of his life. As much as he hated command, he had loved the Band, and he had been forced to give it up. Because of a scared little girl. A scared little girl who was only in danger because her daddy was the commander of a bloody army.

 

That pleasant thought had kept Mehrin awake more nights than he cared to think about.

 

Drea and Mehrin immediately went to Mehrin's family's home. Ayrik had found it first. His family... It was as if the bastard was out to destroy him, bit by bit. Almost surgical in nature. The thought was unsettling. The sense of dread that Mehrin felt from seeing the aftermath of the attack on his home was mirrored in Drea. They had to get to Shienar, to Fal Dara. Drea's family had to be protected.

 

Too late, too late.

 

After the encounter with Ayrik over the still-warm corpses of Drea's family, Drea had begun to withdraw from Mehrin. She hardly ate, she barely slept, and when she slept, she tossed and turned, often crying out as if she was reliving that moment again and again. At least Mehrin could hope that his family had died quickly; Drea knew that her's had suffered for simply being related to her. She had eventually left him. She needed to be on her own for awhile.

 

Not a night went by that Mehrin did not weep for that pain.

 

A chance stop in a tavern, and Mehrin received a message: Tanchico. The Band's eyes-and-ears network would have received that message, but this one was coded specifically for Mehrin's eyes. It also included a threat involving certain parts of his anatomy, a hammer, a goat, and some sesame seeds. Something about some paperwork.

 

When Mehrin found the Band, he was hired on as a mercenary and extra muscle to aid the Band in the infiltration of Tanchico. The job appealed. Mehrin had spent too much time out of the action, and his desire for blood was nearly overwhelming. Why? You may be a murderer, but you've never wanted to kill. The thought struck Mehrin as funny. Too much has been done. I need to relieve this rage, otherwise I will crack.

 

The events of Tanchico ran together in Mehrin's mind, which would have seemed odd except for the reason: the departure.

 

It had taken quite some time to plan the extraction of Calder Berrick from the Panarch's palace, and this... this... this woman and her jester just had to take a late-night walk along this bloody hall at this exact bloody time! Mehrin had been told that he wasn't to give orders, but this was too much. "You two," he said to two other members of the infiltration team. "Take them." The jester didn't put up any fight, but merely submitted with grace, but the woman...

 

The woman fought like a wildcat, leaving the men Mehrin had sent to take her curled in balls of pain on the floor. Mehrin had stepped in, then. The girl was light, and Mehrin's hand was large enough to easily encircle her throat. She came off the ground with no effort whatsoever. A part of Mehrin's mind was screaming that this was wrong, that he should let her down. That he could kill her. Mehrin ignored it. Instead, he took the girls blows for a few moments until she realized that she couldn't reach anything tender enough to make him drop her. She descended into sullen silence.

 

"You two, tie her hands and gag her. As for you, girl, if you fight back, I'll have them tie your feet, and I'll drag you out of the palace." Calder had looked at him, then. It was a look that promised words later. Mehrin didn't care. "Okay, let's get out of here."

 

Outside the palace, another issue had come up. The girl was struggling yet again, and it would be hard to get out of the city if she didn't stop. "You, bard!" Calder said, "Tell.... ummm... tell... what's her name?"

 

The bard tilted his head and looked at Calder with a strange look on his face. Amusement, maybe? Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to say, he replied, "She's Ruan Andradem Shoa Paendrag, the Daughter of the Nine Moons."

 

Mehrin looked shocked, but not as shocked as Calder. "Put her down," he said, quietly. "She's my wife."

 

"Wait, what? You only just met the woman, man! What are you talking about?" The Bander who asked the question was apparently beginning to feel as if he had joined a select group of madmen.

 

"You heard me, you bloody goat of a man! She's my wife!"

 

Mehrin looked at the man askance. "Calder, are you sure you didn't hit your head or something?"

 

"No. I'm telling you, the bloody Daughter of the bloody Nine Moons is my wife!"

 

It was strange, but the words seemed to cause the woman to stop struggling. Instead she looked... she looked shocked and smug. A strange combination, if Mehrin had ever seen one. Still they were standing in the middle of a town square with a tied-up woman. It was a wonder the guards weren't descending upon them as they spoke. "Okay, we'll deal with who is whose wife when we're far away from here. Now, how do we get the girl out of the city?"

 

One of the Banders pointed to a wagon loaded with barrels. Mehrin said, "Perfect. We can get both her and the Aes Sedai out of here in that."

 

The Daughter of the Nine Moons apparently did not like that idea. She began to fight again.

 

Enough was enough.

 

As far as punches from Mehrin were concerned this one was nothing at all. As far as people who could take punches, the girl was nowhere to be found on the list. She crumpled. Immediately, Calder was in front of Mehrin, knife against his throat. It was all Mehrin could do not to draw his own knife in retaliation. "She was doing nothing, you flaming coward. I should gut you right here, but there's no time to make a proper job of it. I don't want to see you again. If I do, you will die. Is that understood?"

 

Meeting the man's gaze with a glare of his own, Mehrin replied, "Perfectly." Ignoring the knife at his throat, Mehrin turned and strode away.

 

Before he reached the corner of the palace, though, he stopped and turned back. "You get out of here. I'll make sure that the bloody Seanchan are distracted long enough that you won't be too sharply questioned."

 

Mehrin's trip to the gate was memorable. Stopping at the barrel where he had stowed his things, Mehrin didn't even bother sheathing the claymore when he donned the back scabbard. Instead, setting his feet on a thoroughfare that ran straight to a gate, Mehrin set to work with a fury that he'd never felt before. A group of ten Seanchan guards on patrol were cut down before any of them realized that they should be afraid. That sent the twenty from the gate charging at Mehrin, swords drawn and alarm cries raised. Unfortunately, they were not smart enough to attack him as a group.

 

Rage fueled Mehrin through that walk. As the first guard approached, he set the claymore to spinning, and the guard suddenly found himself without a head. The next two fared no better. One upward angled cut left the man on Mehrin's right legless, and the man on Mehrin's left fell to the ground in two bloody pieces. The next tried to block the following downward chop, but only managed to get his head cut in half. The man directly behind him ended with the claymore in his face. The next two were apparently smarter than the preceding five, trying to flank Mehrin. The man to Mehrin's right, unfortunately for him, had a poorly-made sword, and the swing that he tried to deflect snapped the blade in two, and separated his arm from his body. The man to Mehrin's left came at his back, but ended on the ground gurgling, his throat crushed by the pommel of Mehrin's claymore. Thirteen left. And the fools were still coming in ones, twos, and threes! The next three came shoulder-to-shoulder. One horizontal slash opened all three of their throats. Mehrin kicked the center man out of his way as he strode over the men. The next one managed three blows against him. The high blow rang off Mehrin's upheld sword. The side swing passed harmlessly between the two, and the angled slash slid harmlessly along the edge of the claymore. The flat of the blade introduced itself to the man's face, breaking his nose and knocking him on his back. Mehrin stomped once on his way past. Numbers twelve and thirteen had spears. Spears were easy. The two men thrust at the same time, a well-practiced move that would have served them well on a battlefield. Not so against one man. Mehrin sidestepped and slid between the two spears, drawing his knife with his right hand. Two quick swipes, and it was done. The last seven men looked at the blood-drenched horror walking towards them and abandoned their post. Pity, Mehrin thought.

 

There was a small door in the gate. The gate was barred and locked. The door was barred from the inside, impassible from the outside.

 

Mehrin was inside.

 

Outside, it was no problem to steal one of the gate guards' stabled and saddled horses, though it didn't seem to like the smell of blood all that much. It was thus that Mehrin was galloping uncomfortably into the night when the gate opened, and about fifty guards poured out, with a pair of women leading them. Mehrin saw one of the women point at him before he turned his head away to watch the upcoming forest.

 

Then his sword shattered.

 

If felt as if somebody had hit Mehrin in the back with a hammer the size of a tree. The blow knocked the breath out of him. Beneath him, the horse screamed in pain, and Mehrin suddenly felt as if his back had been pierced by hundreds of tiny knives. Moving his arm to feel for what was in his back, Mehrin dislodged the hilt of his claymore. Reflex set in fast enough for him to catch it before it was lost, but the rapid movement made his back feel as if it was on fire. Mehrin screamed, but he had made the cover of the trees.

 

Behind him, nightflowers filled the sky.

 

********

 

"I rode until the horse died from exhaustion, then I stole another one and kept riding. I didn't stop for four days, and then it was because I had no choice. I spent most of a night with a bottle of brandy and my knife, cutting out shards of my own sword, stitching, then dousing with brandy." The alcoholic in Mehrin sighed. "And it was good brandy, too."

 

The boy's face was no longer one of awe. It was one of shock, of disgust. "You... you actually did that to a woman?!"

 

Mehrin shrugged. "It was the best idea at the time. If Calder didn't have the guts for it, then damn him. And damn you, too, boy. I did what I had to do. I gave them what they needed to survive and get out of there. If that's not what the legendary Mehrin Deathwatch would do, then damn him, too! There are no such things as legends, boy! There is no glory, no honor in what I've done and what I do! I am a killer. I take living people, men and women, and turn them into dead meat! There is NO BLOODY HONOR IN THAT, BOY!"

 

The boy was silent, sullen. There were actually tears in his eyes. Mehrin looked at him again. "The world ain't like you want it to be? Oh well. Better get used to the idea. Me, I've gotten to the point that if life's being good, it's only because the other boot hasn't dropped."

 

Wordlessly, the boy rose, reached to the table, took the flagon of water, and threw it in Mehrin's face. Then he left without a word. Mehrin smiled slightly. Hopefully, this would keep the boy from being a soldier. He seemed a good kid, and Mehrin would not wish the life on anybody. It cost too much.

 

Mehrin knew. He'd paid the cost. It was far too high.

[Quibby]

For three days, Mehrin hardly left his room. He took his meals and rested, sleeping when he could, sketching when he couldn't; he had seen swords akin to what he was making, but the sketches would keep the work accurate. It was going to be a long time before he got to sleep again; once he started the final process, Mehrin had no intention of resting until it was finished.

 

On the fourth day, a shirtless Mehrin descended the stairs. It was early; dawn was still a way's off, and the only person awake was in the kitchen, baking bread for the guests. Mehrin took a loaf, ignoring the pointed glare, but leaving a silver penny in payment, then went out to the forge.

 

Coal went into the banked fire, and a few pumps from the bellows soon had the fire hotter than a raging battle. The simile felt appropriate to Mehrin. Into the fire, Mehrin placed the steel block he had made, then on top of it, the shard of Anya's sabre. In death, maybe she could watch his back again. On top of that, Mehrin added one more item he had held onto, one that meant more to him than the sabre: a dagger blade, hilt removed. It had belonged to Drea, and Mehrin had found it in his satchel shortly after she had left him. He had worn it in his shirt behind his neck for a long time, but it belonged in this sword.

 

In the final folding, the philosophy of the weapon finally came together. Mehrin's past- the shards of his life to that moment, the broken blade of a broken heart, and a dagger that held a promise, were folded together with new steel, new resolve. Of course, Mehrin was not deep enough to consider it in such terms, though it was most definitely a new beginning for him. Or maybe he was. It was hard to tell, even in Mehrin's own mind. He only knew that it was right.

 

The ringing hammer blows drew some angry cries from villagers who weren't used to rising at four in the morning. Mehrin ignored them. Some of the few early risers came to see what was happening. Mehrin ignored them, too. The sun was well above the horizon, and more villagers had come to the forge to watch, by the time Mehrin had completed the folding. Back into the fire the steel went, and then the real work began.

 

The blade seemed a good place to start. Just as well. It was a difficult piece of work. The length of the actual blade was as long as a typical sword, and the shape was one that Mehrin had once seen used in a sword before, and the wave would work to his advantage, he hoped. Inch by painful inch, the blade formed. The villagers looked at it in confusion. Some had seen the blacksmith work before, and he had made one or two swords in his time in the village. This was something different. No one had ever heard of a blade with... with waves in it before. By the time full night set in, the blade was only partially finished. The villagers still gathered waited, hoped to see Mehrin leave the forge so they could more closely examine this steel monstrosity that was taking form before them.

 

But Mehrin didn't stop.

 

Few people in the village slept that night. The ringing of the hammer proved to be too much.

 

The next morning, the crowd had returned. Their conversation had changed drastically, though. The blade had been finished, and it was long, longer than anything they were used to seeing. A few men wielding two-handed swords had come though town before, but this was larger than the ones that even they used. And what were those curved spikes?

 

Just below the long, waved blade, a crescent moon-shaped curve seemed to cup the blade, coming to two points that, even in an unfinished sword, looked evilly dangerous. It was these that Mehrin had just finished when the crowd appeared. Working below the curve now, there was a wide, flat piece. That was more familiar to the crowd. It was after noon, though, when the final touches had been added, the holes punched in the tang. Then, back into the fire went the blade, where Mehrin heated it until it evenly glowed nearly white.

 

In the night, Mehrin had moved a water trough into the forge, next to the furnace. Using two sets of tongs, Mehrin carefully lifted the sword from the forge and slid it into the water-filled trough. A scalding cloud of steam filled the smithy, and the villagers closest backed away. When the steam cleared, Mehrin was standing over the trough, lifting the blackened steel from the trough. It was monstrous.

 

Then came the long process of polishing.

 

The black mass of steel looked like a nightmare, and it would be terrifying to see on a battlefield, but it was pretty much useless. Inch by inch, the gleaming steel appeared, as Mehrin carefully ground it away with a bare touch of the grindstone, only leaving the tang for the hilt unpolished. Then, with a small file, Mehrin cleaned the fuller from the middle of the wide blade.

 

Assembly came last. The crosspiece slid over the tang, then stopped against the blade. Mehrin smiled. A perfect fit. Heating a small piece of steel, Mehrin welded the crosspiece in place. The hilt came next. Finding ironwood had been pricy, but Mehrin had managed to. Holes drilled into the wood allowed the five pins to pass through the wood, the tang, and out the wood pieces on the other side. There was very little trim work that needed to be done to make the pieces fit tightly around the still-black steel. The pins were then flattened against the wood, holding the wood in place. Lifting the blade, Mehrin checked the balance. It was slightly blade-heavy. The pommel would need some more weight to it. That was a step for later, though. Mehrin had taken his leather cloak with him down from the room, and with a knife, he began to cut pieces from it. the first was a wide piece that he set against the flat of the blade between the crescent moon and the crosspiece. When he was satisfied with the size, Mehrin soaked the leather in water, then quickly and tightly stitched it to the blade. The next was trickier. Cutting bands from the cloak, Mehrin repeated the process with the handle, trimming, soaking, and stitching. Then the pommel. The balance had changed with the addition of the leather, so the weight needed was not as drastic. Mehrin added a series of evenly-spaced raised spots to the pommel. If nothing else, it would make it more useful as a club, when needed.

 

When the final pin was added, Mehrin lifted and surveyed his handiwork. It felt right. It weighted a bit more than the claymore had, but it felt the same, mostly. There were a few new tricks, too. The crescent moon was a great idea from the one other sword he'd seen like this; a nice touch for a man who had received one too many bruises in training from weapons sliding up the blade, and the sharp points at the ends would do a lot of damage to somebody's face when introduced. The spike on the pommel would be useful for helmets; the point was strong, and the cross-shape would mean less work to cut through the steel as it was punched in. The wave in the blade, though, was Mehrin's favorite part. It meant that any weapon moving along it would bounce, slowing it down. A nice advantage to have.

 

It also made sharpening the thing a pain in the neck, as Mehrin soon learned.

 

It had been nearly three days since Mehrin started the project when he finally emerged from the smithy into the street to examine the finished sword in the sunlight. The leather had dried, and both the hilt and the blade felt securely tight. Setting the point on the ground, Mehrin stood the sword on its tip. The spike on the pommel touched the bottom of his chin. Mehrin smiled. More reach than he'd expected. That would be useful. Experimentally, Mehrin gave the sword a twist. It moved, smooth as glass. With a growing sense of excitement, Mehrin changed the twist into an overhand strike. The crowd around him quickly moved away. As the blade touched the ground, Mehrin stepped forward, hands moving familiarly to the leather band on the blade, pulling the blade back into a reverse stab with the pommel spike. Reversing his hand on the leather band, Mehrin pushed the pommel of the blade forward, where it would have broken a man's jaw if there had been one standing there.

 

It was good.

 

Retiring to his room with the sword and his cloak, Mehrin worked to finish the last part of the project. Hanging from a nail in the wall was a leather harness. With the sword in hand, Mehrin could finish the last details. It would be a new back scabbard for the sword. The flamberge. That is what the man had called it, a tiny man with big dreams. Mehrin remembered him joining the Band just before Cairhien, carrying a sword that was taller than he was. The Aiel had apparently laughed at him before killing him.

 

Back scabbard complete, Mehrin slept.

 

********

 

It was two days later. Mehrin had paid everyone he owed, and then some. It was time to go.

 

Mehrin had left the tattered remains of his cloak in the stable. Hopefully, they would be able to come up with some use for it. Maybe a horse blanket. Instead, he was wearing the dress coat that he had been given for the visit to the Black Tower. It was black leather, and long enough that it nearly touched the ground at his feet. Time and occasional wear had made the coat's original shine fade. It now looked like a functional, if somewhat ornate, coat. Strapped around it was the new harness. It was a belted bandolier, black and worn over the coat. The flamberge's hilt jutted over his right shoulder, two hooks and a foot of leather sheath keeping the weapon in place. For the first time in ages, Mehrin was again wearing his hat. He had missed his hat.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Mehrin saw the boy watching him go. Ever since that night, he had avoided Mehrin, and now he shot him a sullen glare. Life is disappointment, boy. Get used to it.

 

Hoofbeats on the road ahead. Two horses, if his ears had it right. Mehrin stopped. "Folks," he said, loud enough for his voice to carry, but not shouting, "you may want to find someplace else to be. It sounds like some more of your friends are back."

 

The horse were not long in appearing. Mehrin had been wrong. There had been only one, but the rider had spurred it bloody, and the crazed look suggested that it had also been whipped mercilessly. Running behind the rider to catch up were eight men, axes and swords and spears in hand. The rider reined up hard in front of Mehrin, causing the horse to rear. Mehrin was more interested in the men behind him. They had staggered to a halt, breathing heavily and bent over. One man threw up.

 

"After those six buffoons didn't return, I asked questions," the man on the horse said, his voice ringing through the helmet. He must have thought he sounded imposing and terrifying. Mehrin thought he sounded a fool. The axe on his back had spots of rust on it, and the armor may have once been fine, but it was in even worse shape than the axe. Something about that axe seemed to tug at Mehrin's memory. "Two weeks I waited for them, and when they didn't come back, I assumed they had run off with their loot. I sent men to track them, and they came back with strange tales. Tales of a demon killing six men in this village. 'Well,' I said to myself-"

 

"Cut the drama. You sound like a fool," Mehrin interrupted. The men behind the horse were still wheezing. Obviously not the cream of the crop. Either that, or this man had kept them running for quite some time to keep up with the horse. "I'll tell you what: you give me your name, and I'll give you mine."

 

"Oh, I don't need your's, Mehrin Deathwatch. Though you seem to have lost your sword. Nice piece you have there, though. Might be I'll use it for decoration, along with your head."

 

The arrogance of the man was what finally set off Mehrin's memory. "Rowul Stromblade? Light be good, I thought that you'd finally done the world a favor and died at Cairhien! Did you know that casualties in the cavalry dropped dramatically after you left?"

 

The man pulled his helmet off and glared hot death at Mehrin. The time they'd been apart had not done him any good. He looked pale, as if he wore that helmet all the time to try to inspire fear. His beard was scraggly, his hair lanky. The man was only arrogance and hot air in armor. "I've dreamed of killing you ever since I left the Band. I was the best cavalryman you had, but you never promoted me! You just kept me down. You were jealous of me and my skill. You would never even fight me in the Red Trench, but now I have the upper hand." He grinned in a manner he must have felt was cold and menacing. He looked constipated. "You will fight me now, let me prove that I'm better than you. Otherwise, I'll send the might of my men against you, and you'll die at the hands of eight mighty fighters!"

 

Mehrin looked around the horse. One of the men, the one in the heavy breastplate, had passed out. Rowul hadn't noticed. Glancing back at the man, Mehrin shook his head sadly, then turned to the village. "Folks, I need a favor. I am no longer a soldier. I am a mercenary, a soldier of fortune. I don't fight for free." With another glance at Rowul, Mehrin added, "For this piece of work, my price is one copper, and that's far more than it is worth. Is anyone willing to-"

 

A wild yell came from the trees behind Rowul, and the boy burst from the foliage, holding an axe that was probably, up until recently, decently lodged in a wood chopping block. Rowul was quick enough, Mehrin granted, to have the axe out to knock away the blow, then cleave the boy's head in two.

 

The silence that descended felt like a rock had fallen on everybody. Mehrin looked from Rowul's smug expression to the barely discernible look of shock on the mangled face of the boy. He was out to prove me wrong, Mehrin realized, suddenly. He wanted to prove that heroes were real. Damn fool boy! With shock, Mehrin realized that he actually cared. The life of a boy suddenly seemed to matter to Mehrin. Cold rage filled him as he turned his head to Rowul, saying in a quiet voice, "Never mind. This one is free."

 

Rowul howled, then pulled the horse around to charge, but Mehrin was already on him. The flamberge arced, silver in the sunlight, and bit through the horse's head. The horse fell without a sound. "I would have expected even you to take better care of an animal than this," Mehrin said coldly, circling the fool.

 

Rowul spat at Mehrin. "It's a tool, nothing more. I'll get another one."

 

"Ayep," Mehrin replied, "Just like the Rowul I knew. Everything was a tool to you, wasn't it? Your axe, your horse, your squad?" Shaking his head, Mehrin added, "But somehow you seemed to keep coming back alive. Tell me, are you still as much a coward now as you were then?"

 

With a snarl, Rowul charged, bringing his axe down in a double-handed swing. It met the flamberge in Mehrin's own swing in a ringing crash. Pressing the blade against Mehrin's axe, he stepped close to Rowul and glared into his eyes. There was a flicker of something behind them, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. The man punched Mehrin in the face with a roar. Mehrin stepped back and blinked. "Is that really the best you can do?"

 

Rowul came at Mehrin again, axe tracing large, sweeping paths in the air. The flamberge seemed alive in Mehrin's hands, twirling and dancing to intercept the raining blows. He took a step back. Rowul pressed on. He took another step away. Rowul redoubled his attacks. A faint gleam of triumph shone in his eyes. "I'm winning, Mehrin. You're going to die."

 

Mehrin responded, "Hmm? Oh, sorry. I was enjoying the feel of this new sword. Too bad you weren't in town a few days ago. You might have been amusing."

 

Roaring wordlessly, Rowul surged forward, battering at Mehrin's defenses. In standard fashion, the man overstepped his limit, bearing down blindly. With contemptuous ease, Mehrin caught the upswing, blade against the axe handle, and rammed Rowul with his shoulder. The man staggered back, and Mehrin shifted his hands, one hand to one of the large rings on the crosspiece, the other to the wide leather band. It was all a matter of a pushed, upward swing with the spiked pommel.

 

Blood poured from Rowul's mouth, and the spike was visible in his throat as he gasped, trying to say something. His eyes had become pleading, as if he was trying to beg for his life. Mehrin kicked him away, off the spike. The man squirmed on the ground, holding the bottom of his jaw and trying to scream. Not a lethal blow, then. Walking up to the wretch on the ground before him, Mehrin kicked the axe away. "You are nothing but a small man trying to look big. I was like you at one time. I used friends as tools. I know that now. I learned the hard way. You?" Mehrin chuckled. "You'll never learn at all." Turning from the man on the ground, Mehrin said to the village at large, "He's all yours."

 

The remaining bandits cowered away from Mehrin, all but the one who had passed out. He was trying to stand. Mehrin gave him a boot between the legs, just to encourage him. He collapsed again, rolling to one side to vomit. Some people just don't like encouragement, Mehrin thought wryly.

 

The village had been good for him. The boy... the boy had been good for him, too. It had been nice to finally tell his story to somebody who truly wanted to know. And though part of him felt that he should feel guilty for the boy's death, he didn't. The boy had made a choice. He should have been allowed to make his choices. But Mehrin also knew that he would have some sleepless nights ahead of him, remembering that that choice had been to prove him wrong. Life always seemed like it was out to prove Mehrin wrong.

 

Still, if life was going to be a trial by fire, Mehrin would take it. And through the fire and the flames, he would carry on.

[Quibby]

OOC: As promised, threads referenced in the second-to-last post of the actual RP. If you actually want to read them after finishing that massive thing, more power to you.

 

Mehrin and Drea:

Drea's return to the Band

Drinking, and it's consequences

Give it up, already

Dating in the Band

 

 

 

Mehrin and Renalie

Renalie arrives

Dad tells daughter why mommy won't be making dinner again

Mehrin cooks, hilarity ensues