The Grey Tower

Really? He just wants me to walk around the walls? Ok, Alric though trying to suppress a bemused smile. This was rather tame compared to his near drowning the day before. Anyway, he’d been a foot soldier, he’d rarely road even when he’d become an officer. To tell the truth, he wasn’t much more than a competent rider. A long walk wouldn’t kill him. He’d lost track of how many mile’s he’d marched in armor, with a heavy pack, and fifteen foot long pike. As he climbed the stairs to the wall, he thought to himself, You’d think scary old Rodric could come up with something better. Alric set off on at a leisurely pace in the pre-dawn light.

As he walked, Alric looked out over Hama Valon. The sun was peeking over the horizon at his back and the city was just beginning to stir. Alric had to admit it was all quite peaceful. The morning stirrings of shop keepers opening their business, and laborers climbing scaffolding to rebuild the battle scarred city.

His walk took him across some scaffolding on the Tower’s Walls were workers repaired damage that was most likely done by the Power. Waving to the workers coming on duty, he kept on walking.

The sun was climbing higher now. Alric wasn’t counting his laps, but he had noticed that the workers were beginning to mutter to each other as he passed. He had to admit, it must be strange to see a Soldier repeatedly walking by.

It wasn’t quite noon yet and Alric was growing bored. His body was enjoying the exercise, but his mind lacked stimulation. He should have brought a book.

As the sun hung directly overhead, Alric walked along balanced on the low guard wall. Arms spread out to either side, he hummed along to a jaunty marching toon, occasionally singing a few bars. When he passed the workers, they’d stopped to take lunch. By this point he’d begun learning their names. They weren’t bad sorts. He longed to join them, but orders were orders.

The sun was past its zenith now, and Alric could hear the clatter of practice swords. He was above the Warder Yards again. He’d have loved to been down there with them. At this point he’d have loved to been doing anything else. Scrubbing floors, that sounded like a fun task. Maybe mucking out stables. As he walked, he began to do something he’d never thought he’d ever do. Write poetry of his own free will. Boredom, and a lack of water, did strange things to a man.

Only one problem, he couldn’t think of any good rhymes for Rodric. He was planning something of the angry satirical sort, and he certainly wasn’t going to use his own name as a rhyme. That would only fill a single line as it was. He decided he’d base the poem around another rhyme. Still nothing. Poetry had never been his strong site. He could remember his master shaking his head at his attempts or scolding his shallow poetry analysis.

Finally, he settled on something, a form of Shienaren poetry that relied on syllables instead of rhyming. With a triumphant grin, he announced:
“I must walk circles
My path is one of boredom
Rodric is a git” He thought of his master. Javier would have laughed his moustache off at his student’s predicament.

It was going on mid-afternoon. His mouth was dry and his head was beginning to hurt. Why hadn’t he brought water? Would Rodric have even allowed it? He passed a slightly darker stone, he’d lost track of how many times he’d seen it today. He’d named it Gareth. At some point, he’d begun calling cadence in his head, he didn’t know when but the steady call of, Up, two, three, four…. Two, three, four. echoed on and on for eternity.

The sun was sinking lower in the sky. At least on long marches, he’d had people to talk to new scenery observe. This silence just wasn’t for him. Below, he could see Tower initiates moving about on various errands. He let himself imagine what they were doing. That Soldier was running because he’d pranked an Aes Sedai. There was the Master of Training. He wasn’t angry at that Drin, he just had a stomach ache. It didn’t have to make sense.

His stomach began to rumble as the sun set. His feet ached, and he wanted to stop walking. No. Push through. This wouldn’t be a second wind, it would be a third or maybe fourth. He forced his exhaustion into the Flame, pulling the Void around him. He hadn’t thought of it before because he didn’t just walk around in the Void. He liked being in the moment, but now he needed that buffer.


It was dark now. Alric trudged along, eyes fixed on the square building stones. Somewhere along the line, a mantra had begun within the Void, All these squares make a circle, all these squares make a circle.

There was a man in dark clothes standing in the darkness ahead of him. Alric froze, hand going to a nonexistent sword. He was exhausted, hungry, and dehydrated. He wasn’t in any shape for a fight. That didn’t mean a fight wouldn’t be in shape for him though. He was so exhausted his metaphors were suffering. As he drew near, he could see it was Rodric, that flaming, one-eyed tosser. No, that wasn’t proper, it was, Asha’man Rodric flaming, one-eyed tosser, sir! He stopped in front of the man, standing at parade rest, every muscle in his body begging for sleep and said, “Good evening, sir”

Even after walking around the parameter of the Tower Grounds to the point of exhaustion and then being abruptly dropped twenty feet off the edge of the wall into nothing, Alric did not channel. He did curse inventively then abruptly collect himself and stand at attention to away Rodric’s next orders. Impressed by the boy’s fortitude, yet irritated by the lack of progress, the Green sent his student to bed.

They met every day for weeks thereafter, even after the older man was chosen as M’Hael. Exhaustion didn’t work. Embarrassment did not work. Fire, Water, strong wind, hunger, boredom...none of it had any effect at all. He even tried plying the man with beer until he could not stand straight, and still nothing. If not for the indisputable fact that the man had channeled, the Green might have suspected there had been some sort of mistake. The one-eyed man began to keep detailed notes and to research the likely conditions of his student’s life in the army. He tried every possible arrangement of circumstances he could think of, he thought, until abruptly he realized he had been missing the most obvious one of all. Burn me! Could it really be that bloody simply?

The next day, the Asha’man met Alric in the Channeling Yard. He had told the younger man to find a flat area; as with everything else, the Mayener had followed instructions to the dot, standing in the center of a circle of preternaturally smooth earth. No flaming wonder he did so well in the military. Rodric carried his mace over his shoulder, and a sheathed sword in one hand. It was a simple affair, of Shienaran make, but it would do. As he approached, the former Green unceremoniously tossed the blade into the soldier’s grip.

“Fight,” he said simply, and pulled his mace around, the spiked head describing an arch before him that would have splintered Alric’s shoulder if the man hadn’t thrown himself backward.

Pride. It was pride that kept him standing. Many said pride was a vice. No, avarice was a vice, hubris was a vice. Pride kept had kept Alric’s back straight no matter what a tyrant with poor depth perception threw at him. Pride had had kept his father going as he built the family business. Pride had kept his mother’s family, hailing from distant shores, from faltering and crumbling, but instead making their fortune as importers. After being beaten, drowned, and even lit on fire, his pride was the only thing from telling Rodric to go eat his eyepatch.

That kind very pride was the reason Asha’man Rodric found his student standing at parade rest in the vacant Channeling Yard that chill, autumn morning. He could have found a seat and waited until the Asha’man arrived, but that just wasn’t his way. He wouldn’t show the man an inch of weakness. So he stood, breath misting in the cold, watching Rodric striding towards him like a man on a mission. He was holding a sword and carrying a mace on his shoulder.

Alric tensed for a moment, but no why was he expecting an attack? Rodric was a git, but he wasn’t actually trying to kill him. No he must have something— Rodric tossed the sword.

“Wait what?” Alric managed to say, catching the sword reflexively. Eyes wide as saucers, he dodged back as a mace whizzed by.

“Fight,” Rodric commanded swinging again.

Still unsure of what was going on, Alric brought the scabbarded weapon up to block another series of blows. Wrapping himself in the Void, he continued to evade and backpedal. “Bloody ashes, what’s wrong with you?” he yelled battering aside another strike with his scabbard. He’d still not drawn the blade. This whole “Lesson” was just insane. A meaty fist struck him just below the ribs and he staged back gasping for air.

“Fight!” Rodric yelled.

Driving the tip of the scabbard into the ground, he steadied himself. Whipping the blade free, he dropped into the Leaf Floating on the Breeze as the mace wielding maniac charged again. It was a curved, single edge affair like he’d carried for almost a decade, and it was sharp. “Wait! This is a live blade?” he shouted in disbelief as he threw himself aside.

“Of course boy, now fight!”

He was running out of room to retreat, and Rodric was giving him very few options. If he killed the M’hael, he doubted they’d just let him leave, even if it was just an accident. He staggered again, as the back of Rodric’s fist slammed across his jaw. Well, that clenched it, Alric thought, wiping blood from his lip. The only way to beat a man like this was to go on the offensive.

Assuming the Ox Lowers his Horns, one of the more aggressive stances, and charged. The weapon felt right in his hands. Black Pebbles on Snow. Swatting aside his opponents mace, he struck down at Rodric’s chest. Rodric dodged to the side, but the momentum had shifted. Cutting the Clouds. Rodric managed to get the shaft of his weapon in between his chest and Alric’s draw cut. He shoved them apart but Alric kept coming.

Alric’s sword flowed naturally between the forms striking, blocking parrying steadily driving his opponent back. He felt his spirts soaring, he light as air as he fought. There was something in the Void, calling to him, roaring at him. He’d often felt it when he fought: pure adrenaline, a will to survive, confidence in one’s own skill. The Dandelion in the Wind. He forced the Rodric’s guard down again. Grabbing at that heat, that light, that power he felt in the Void. Time stood still, options sprawled out before him in the Void. He seized hold of that strange energy and his senses burst to life. The prickle of cold on his skin, each drip of sweat on his back, the leather of the swords hilt. It urged him, drove him to act. Finish the fight!

With a sidestep and twist of his wrists, he executed Cutting the Wind, all the while, feeling the heat welling within him. As the blade connected, the heat burst outwards. Both men were hurled back in a wash of heat and light and pain. Landing on his back with a grunt, Alric blinked spots from his eyes.

“Mother’s milk!” he yelled realizing his coat was burning. In a fit of incredulous laughter, he began to pat at the flames, and roll on the ground unaware of the burns up both of his arms. Somehow he still held the sword.

The occasional gamble was necessary to achieve true success, and in truth, Rodric rather enjoyed the rush that came with throwing himself into the unknown. It wasn't a desire for adrenaline that caused him to toss a blade at Alric bloody Aurella, however, it was simple curiosity mixed with a strong desire for results. There were a few absolute constants in a soldier's life: uniform, marching, orders, and weaponry. The time had come for the last item on that list.

Well, he’s certainly not lacking in bloody courage, he thought as Alric jumped away from another sweeping blow and came back with a series of slicing attacks that drove the Asha’man back to avoid real damage. He had not worn armor; if Alric landed a blow, the consequences would be painful. It seemed only fair given there was no real way to cushion the force of his own blunt weapon.

Overbearing menace began to flow outward from the boy, and Rodric’s lips curled up into a grim smile. There we go. He said nothing, but brought his weapon up to block another blow from the Mayener, waiting for whatever may come.

Light and sound exploded in the air, and Rodric felt himself tossed backward as if he weighed no more than a child’s doll. He reflexively tossed his weapon aside and curled in on himself, thankful for the Void that protected him from the burst of heat that seared his skin. A half-breath later and his shoulders hit the ground. His body kept going and he flipped, finally landing on hands and knees facing the direction he had come. The curses he unleashed as he struggled to catch his breath did not travel far.

Alric’s did, however. Rodric looked up in time to see the soldier patting at his burning coat, laughing like a madman. The former Green remained silent as he patted at his breeches to smother small flickering flames. Abruptly he joined in the boy’s amusement, deep laughter booming over the Yard as he pushed himself to his feet. “So it seems that weapons are the flaming key to your bloody block, boy,” he commented, his gaze pointedly directed at the burned fabric of what had once been a uniform coat. “Now our real work begins.”

A slender man with tilted eyes and copper skin approached, hands extended. “Your pardon Father, but I believe the child needs Healing,” the Asha’man explained. “He did a number on both of you.” Rodric lifted a hand to his face to assess the damage and growled a curse before surrendering to the Yellow’s ministrations.

Once the Yellow departed, master turned to student once more. “Blood and bloody ashes, but you don’t do things by flaming halves, do you?” he commented. Some of the irritated distance had vanished from his voice. “Come on, let’s see what you can do. There’s still plenty of daylight left.”