Robert Jordan - Lord of Chaos

Praise for The Wheel of Time

The Wheel of Time [is] rapidly becoming the definitive American fantasy saga. It is a fantasy tale seldom equaled and still less often surpassed in English.

Chicago Sun-Times

Jordans multivolume epic [is] a feast for fantasy aficionados.

Library Journal

The most ambitious American fantasy saga... [may] also be the finest.

Booklist

For those who like to keep themselves in a fantasy world, its hard to beat the complex, detailed world created here.

Locus

Praise for Lord of Chaos

Jordans talent for sustaining the difficult combination of suspense and resolution, so necessary in a multivolume series such as this one, is nothing short of remarkable.

Library Journal

A great read... Some surprising new developments... A spectacular kidnapping and rescue bring this volume to a (temporarily) satisfying conclusion. This series is so complex, I cant recommend starting anywhere but at the beginning, but the volumes only get richer as they go along.

Locus

T HE W HEEL OF T IME

by Robert Jordan

The Eye of the World
The Great Hunt
The Dragon Reborn
The Shadow Rising
The Fires of Heaven
Lord of Chaos
A Crown of Swords
The Path of Daggers
Winters Heart
Crossroads of Twilight
Knife of Dreams

by Robert Jordan
and Brandon Sanderson

The Gathering Storm

ROBERT JORDAN

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
NEW YORK

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

LORD OF CHAOS

Copyright 1994 by The Bandersnatch Group, Inc.

The phrases The Wheel of Time and The Dragon Reborn, and the snake-wheel symbol, are trademarks of Robert Jordan.

All rights reserved.

Frontispiece by Gregory Manchess
Maps by Ellisa Mitchell
Interior illustrations by Matthew C. Nielsen and Ellisa Mitchell

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor-forge.com

Tor is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

ISBN 978-1-4299-6053-3

First Edition: November 1994

First E-book Edition: March 2010

Manufactured in the United States of America

For Betsy

The lions sing and the hills take flight.
The moon by day, and the sun by night.
Blind woman, deaf man, jackdaw fool.
Let the Lord of Chaos rule.

chant from a childrens game
heard in Great Arvalon,
the Fourth Age

D emandred stepped out onto the black slopes of Shayol Ghul, and the gateway, a hole in realitys fabric, winked out of existence. Above, roiling gray clouds hid the sky, an inverted sea of sluggish ashen waves crashing around the mountains hidden peak. Below, odd lights flashed across the barren valley, washed-out blues and reds, failing to dispel the dusky murk that shrouded their source. Lightning streaked up at the clouds, and slow thunder rolled. Across the slope steam and smoke rose from scattered vents, some holes as small as a mans hand and some large enough to swallow ten men.

He released the One Power immediately, and with the vanished sweetness went the heightened senses that made everything sharper, clearer. The absence of saidin left him hollow, yet here only a fool would even appear ready to channel. Besides, here only a fool would want to see or smell or feel too clearly.

In what was now called the Age of Legends, this had been an idyllic island in a cool sea, a favorite of those who enjoyed the rustic. Despite the steam it was bitter cold, now; he did not allow himself to feel it, but instinct made him pull his fur-lined velvet cloak closer. Feathery mist marked his breath, barely visible before the air drank it. A few hundred leagues north the world was pure ice, but Thakandar was always dry as any desert, though always wrapped in winter.

There was water, of a sort, an inky rivulet oozing down the rocky slope beside a gray-roofed forge. Hammers rang inside, and with every ring, white light flared in the cramped windows. A ragged woman crouched in a hopeless heap against the forges rough stone wall, clutching a babe in her arms, and a spindly girl buried her face in the womans skirts. Prisoners from a raid down into the Borderlands, no doubt. But so few; the Myrddraal must be gnashing their teeth. Their blades failed after a time and had to be replaced, no matter that raids into the Borderlands had been curtailed.

One of the forgers emerged, a thick slow-moving man shape that seemed hacked out of the mountain. The forgers were not truly alive; carried any distance from Shayol Ghul, they turned to stone, or dust. Nor were they smiths as such; they made nothing but the swords. This ones two hands held a sword blade in long tongs, a blade already quenched, pale like moonlit snow. Alive or not, the forger took care as it dipped the gleaming metal into the dark stream. Whatever semblance of life it had could be ended by the touch of that water. When the metal came out again, it was dead black. But the making was not done yet. The forger shuffled back inside, and suddenly a mans voice raised a desperate shout.

No? No! NO! He shrieked then, the sound dwindling away without losing intensity, as though the screamer had been yanked into unimaginably far distance. Now the blade was done.

Once more a forger appearedperhaps the same, perhaps anotherand hauled the woman to her feet. Woman, babe and child began to wail, but the infant was pulled away and shoved into the girls arms. At last the woman found a scrap of resistance. Weeping, she kicked wildly, clawed at the forger. It paid no more mind than stone would have. The womans cries vanished as soon as she was inside. The hammers began ringing again, drowning the sobs of the children.

One blade made, one making, and two to come. Demandred had never before seen fewer than fifty prisoners waiting to give their mite to the Great Lord of the Dark. The Myrddraal must be gnashing their teeth, indeed.

Do you loiter when you have been summoned by the Great Lord? The voice sounded like rotted leather crumbling.

Demandred turned slowlyhow dare a Halfman address him in that tonebut the quelling words died in his mouth. It was not the eyeless stare of its pasty-pale face; a Myrddraals gaze struck fear in any man, but he had rooted fear out of himself long ago. Rather, it was the black-clad creature itself. Every Myrddraal was the height of a tall man, a sinuous imitation of a man, as alike as though cast in one mold. This one stood head and shoulders taller.

I will take you to the Great Lord, the Myrddraal said. I am Shaidar Haran. It turned away and began climbing the mountain, like a serpent in its fluid motion. Its inky cloak hung unnaturally still, without even a ripple.

Demandred hesitated before following. Halfmens names were always in the Trollocs tongue-wrenching language. Shaidar Haran came from what people now named the Old Tongue. It meant Hand of the Dark. Another surprise, and Demandred did not like surprises, especially not at Shayol Ghul.

The entry into the mountain could have been one of the scattered vents, except that it emitted no smoke or steam. It gaped enough for two men abreast, but the Myrddraal kept the lead. The way slanted down almost immediately, the tunnel floor worn smooth as polished tiles. The cold faded as Demandred followed Shaidar Harans broad back down and down, slowly replaced by increasing heat. Demandred was aware of it, but did not let it touch him. A pale light rose from the stone, filling the tunnel, brighter than the eternal twilight outside. Jagged spikes jutted from the ceiling, stony teeth ready to snap shut, the Great Lords teeth to rend the unfaithful or the traitor. Not natural, of course, but effective.