Towers of Midnight by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson Page B

he’d been the one making an assault, he’d have done anything he could to sneak around and take out one of the southern towers first. That was the best way to make sure no messages got back to the capital.
    Jargen saluted, fist to chest, then withdrew. The message would be sent immediately: three times on legs of horseflesh, once on legs of light. Malenarin let himself feel a hint of relief that his son was one of those riding to safety. There was no dishonor in that; the messages needed to be delivered, and Keemlin was next on the roster.
    Malenarin glanced out his window. It faced north, toward the Blight. Every commander’s office did that. The bubbling storm, with its silvery clouds. Sometimes they looked like straight geometric shapes. He had listened well to passing merchants. Troubled times were coming. The Queen would not have gone south to seek a false Dragon, no matter how cunning or influential he might be. She believed.
    It was time for Tarmon Gai’don. And looking out into that storm, Malenarin thought he could see to the very edge of time itself. An edge that was not far distant. In fact, it seemed to be growing darker. And there was a darkness beneath it, on the ground northward.
    That darkness was advancing.
    Malenarin dashed out of the room, racing up the steps to the roof, where the wind swept against men pushing and moving mirrors.
    “Was the message sent to the south?” he demanded.
    “Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Landalin said. He’d been roused to take command of the tower’s top. “No reply yet.”
    Malenarin glanced down, and picked out three riders breaking away from the tower at full speed. The messengers were off. They would stop at Barklan if it wasn’t being attacked. The captain there would send them on southward, just in case. And if Barklan didn’t stand, the boys would continue on, all the way to the capital if needed.
    Malenarin turned back to the storm. That advancing darkness had him on edge. It was coming.
    “Raise the hoardings,” he ordered Landalin. “Bring up the store hitchings and empty the cellars. Have the loaders gather all of the arrows and set up stations for resupplying the archers, and put archers at every choke point, kill slit and window. Start the firepots and have men ready to drop the outer ramps. Prepare for a siege.”
    As Landalin barked orders, men rushed away. Malenarin heard boots scrape stone behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder. Was that Jargen back again?
    No. It was a youth of nearly fourteen summers, too young for a beard, his dark hair disheveled, his face streaming with sweat caused—presumably—by a run up seven levels of the tower.
    Keemlin. Malenarin felt a stab of fear, instantly replaced with anger. “Soldier! You were to ride with a message!”
    Keemlin bit his lip. “Well, sir,” he said. “Tian, four places down from me. He is five, maybe ten pounds lighter than I. It makes a big difference, sir. He rides a lot faster, and I figured this would be an important message. So I asked for him to be sent in my place.”
    Malenarin frowned. Soldiers moved around them, rushing down the stairs or gathering with bows at the rim of the tower. The wind howled outside and thunder began to sound softly—yet insistently.
    Keemlin met his eyes. “Tian’s mother, Lady Yabeth, has lost four sons to the Blight,” he said, softly enough that only Malenarin could hear. “Tian’s the only one she has left. If one of us has a shot at getting out, sir, I figured it should be him.”
    Malenarin held his son’s eyes. The boy understood what was coming. Light help him, but he understood. And he’d sent another away in his place.
    “Kralle,” Malenarin barked, glancing toward one of the soldiers passing by.
    “Yes, my Lord Commander?”
    “Run down to my office,” Malenarin said. “There is a sword in my oaken trunk. Fetch it for me.”
    The man saluted, obeying.
    “Father?” Keemlin said. “My nameday isn’t for three days.”
    Malenarin