A blood red sun rose over the mountains of Dhorom, its light casting black shadows into its many jagged crevasses.

Reimos shielded his eyes as he gazed up at the sun and wished that it was closer. He put all his bitter cold soul and body and heart into that wish. But alas, the Creator did not listen, and it looked to Reimos’ wind-reddened eyes that the sun looked even more distant. Reimos looked back down to see the last foothills of the Dhorom within sight.

Eldrene’s Company had traveled all night through the dangerous passes. One soldier, who had made a fatal misstep, had fallen into the darkness, never to be seen again. Thankfully, most took heed at this and took care. Some had even taken to calling it the Mountains of Dhoom. The trek was slow and laborious, but they had lost no one else. At dawn, they had finally passed the mountains into Northern Aramaelle. Reimos was tired and cold and extremely irritable, and was showing it.

“Hurry up, you worthless trash. And what the bloody ashes are YOU doing?” Reimos growled at two of his men who seemed to be throwing balls of snow at each other, “One’d think you never saw snow before. The Creator damn me if I never saw this white mush again. Now, shut up and move.”

“Well, Reimos, you’re cheerful today.” Tayren grinned. He looked so cheery that Reimos felt like punching him in his face. Or at least tapping him on the head with a morning star.

Reimos grunted, “We’d better link up to the Band soon. My bloody foot’s frozen, my bloody face is frozen, and I haven’t felt my bloody toes in days. I think I am still alive; but the only proof I have is this bloody forsaken headache. And that could very well be the death spasm. For all I care, the spawns can keep bloody forsaken Aramaelle.”

Tayren nodded his head towards the front of the company, “Well, looks like your wish has come true, Stef.”

Reimos followed Tayren’s gaze, and saw, as the Company came over the last snow-covered hill, a multitude of tents. In the middle were the Caldazar and Red Hand, flying proudly.

“Well…look at that.” Reimos grunted, his eyes capturing all the details of the camp. The sprawling encampment seemed to be concentrated around a rising, with tents in ring, enough for thousands upon thousands of soldiers. Squinting, Reimos could make out tarp-covered mounds on the top of the hill, which could only be siege engines.

The front of the company entered the camp and it appeared the line was meandering towards the top of the hill. As Reimos passed the perimeter, he inclined his head at the pickets who were gnawing on rations. Their cloaks were just as frayed as Reimos, but their spears were well kept and their eyes were alert as they attempted to break their fast, and apparently their teeth in the process. At that sight, Reimos’ stomach gurgled, and he looked forward to breakfast, even if it was thin barley soup or frozen heels.

As Eldrene’s company passed through the rings of tents, red-clad soldiers exited their tents to see the newcomers. Reimos saw two long separated brothers embrace, and he glanced around to see if he could find someone he knew. But though some looked vaguely familiar, the majority of these soldiers had left Manetheren five, ten years ago. Grizzled soldiers began to call out questions.

“How is Manetheren?”

“Does anyone know …”

“…still…”

“How are the people at…”

“Any news from home?”

“…please!’

Reimos’ searching eyes finally found what it seeked.

“Da!” Reimos called. He broke out of line and clasped the older man. His father had changed so much. His hair had turned completely white, intense lines creased his face, and his eyes seemed to be paler and older.

“Stef,” Jorj Reimos said as he stepped back, “So, you signed up. I can’t say I approve.”

“I can make my own decisions. I’ve fought before.” Stef Reimos hesitated, “Da, about Ma. She’s…she’s… The years have been hard on her since you left. She became so weak, and I couldn’t contact you…She passed away two winters ago. Before she passed away, she wanted me to give you this.”

Reimos pulled the thong-and-ring from his neck and placed it in Jorj’s hands. Jorj’s face had always seemed as if it was chiseled from stone, but when the ring found his hands, it seemed the stone cracked just a bit. His fingers closed around the ring, and his eyes seemed to fade. Jorj has always been a hard man, but for a brief moment, he seemed vulnerable. He whispered, “Oh Eve. Eve. For love of Manetheren.”

Jorj sighed, and looked back at Reimos. He seemed harder then he was before, if that was possible. A statue which had once been a man. “Thank you, Stef. Your company’s moving on.”

Stef Reimos clasped hands with his father. Jorj’s hands were cold and hard, almost all tendon and bone, its warmth long leeched away. Stef nodded soberly to his father, and moved back into the line. Stef felt a tiny ache of pain inside, like an old wound, but crushed it underneath a wall not unlike his father’s.

The wearied sergeant and Eldrene’s Company continued up the hill and pooled around the large tents of the HQ. The majestic Red Eagle danced in the wind alongside the Red Hand. Below them flew the Wolfhead of Aemon, the Boarhound of Cathon, and the Shield of the Covenant.

An assembly of men stood below the banners and waited patiently as the entire company had arrived. A tall man with gray-streaked hair watched the gathering company. His cloak was faded and worn, but he wore it proudly.

When all had arrived, he began to speak, “Welcome, Eldrene’s Company. I am the commander of the Band of the Red Hand, Marshall-General Lawe Cathon.

“I do not know many of you for I have left home over thirty years ago. But I do know that everyone one of you is a true son of Manetheren. You will hold back the black flood so that the Mountain Home will not drown, and you have made the terrible sacrifices. I thank you.

“Since Aemon has pledged the Band…scores of years ago, we have held back the flood here, but as most know, we cannot hold them much longer. Many of you will sacrifice your lives, your dreams, your hopes, for nothing more than the love for your country. For humanity. Our greatest endeavor is nigh, an assault on the Bastion of Shadows itself. If we fail or we succeed, I do not know, and I cannot know. For I will not lie to you. You have pledged your lives and aspirations to this superhuman task, and that is all I will ask.

“For those who have recently joined, the Band of the Red Hand is the Grand-Legion of Manetheren, consisting of five Legions, and subsequently, Banners, companies, platoons, and squads. Eldrene’s Company will be moving in under the command of the 50th Light Infantry Banner under Major General Drogan Tryth within Glene Hill’s Zephyr Hawk Legion. You will bivouac in the Third Encampment. Tryth will provide you with additional information.

“May the Light shelter us in the Darkness to come. Only with the love of Manetheren will we survive. For Manetheren!” Cathon saluted.

“For Manethren!” Eldrene’s Company shouted. Caldazar and the Red Hand flew above the True and Last Sons of Manetheren.

Diest Arcanum studied the papers in his hands from atop his gelding. After scrutinizing a design for a trebuchet, he absent-mindedly reached up to his ear for a pen, but his hand bounced off his helmet. He glanced at his empty hand for a second and looked up from his study. The Band was on the move again, the line of soldiers stretching far ahead and back.

Arcanum's nose curled at a stench he had just noticed and glanced down at the ground. The snow was melting into a brownish-yellow mush that sickened the stomach. Dry hot breezes assaulted the army from the north, bringing smells of decay and rot. While Arcanum did not miss the snow at all, he wasn't looking forward to this new climate as they approached the Blasted Lands.

Arcanum shrugged and glanced back at his designs. He made a mental note for the trebuchet to be used for the assault on Shayol Ghul, and rifled through the papers until he found the sketch for the Aclare. The assault on the Black Bastion didn't seem so insane when reduced to numbers and logistics. Actually, it was still insane, but not as so. He rubbed his chin and adjusted his helmet. It was becoming increasingly hot and stifling, and sweat was already starting to form on his forehead.

"Drov, look at this for a moment." Arcanum called to the engineer riding by his side. Arcanum had taken a liking to the Major, especially to his adroitness at siege engines.

Borsy rode his gelding closer and Arcanum showed him the designs. Arcanum pointed at a few points, "If we make a few changes here. And here. And scale this all down..."

Borsy pulled off his helm, wiped his face of sweat, and peered at the papers, "I believe that would work. On paper at least. And it certainly looks like an interesting machine. I'll get the boys working on these. Light, it's hot."

Arcanum handed the papers to Borsy, who went on to study the Storm Lord's new toy. Arcanum glanced at the surrounding and made a grimace. Trees and foliage had begun to appear. But he'd rather they hadn't. The trees seemed to be rotting while they grew, bloated and bleeding black liquids. Cancerous red and green growth splattered the leaves, and the fruits looked as if they were going to explode at any moment.

"You know the latest on the war situation?" Arcanum asked.

"Yeah, the Corp handles most of the pigeons, so we're generally updated, though the last one we received was about two weeks ago. Jaramide partisans running their hit-strikes. They're reporting heavy spawn activities there, but the Safaran Phalanxes should handle any move southwards. Nonoc Bashere is trying to rebuilt the Immortals. And Aridhol, well, you know Aridhol," Borsy ticked off his fingers, "We aren't exactly winning, but we aren't exactly bloody losing either."

"Well, at least I'm reassured that we're not alone." Arcanum glanced at a bloated bush at the side of the room, and felt a morbid fascination to actually touch one. Smartly, Arcanum restrained that urge for the grotesque. But, a soldier a few paces in front of the general didn't seem to have as much sense, and actually reached out towards a red-splotched shrub.

With a shriek he leaped back, thrashing his arm.

"Get it off! Get IT OFF!" He slammed into another soldier and fell to the ground, still shrieking. Arcanum watched in growing horror as the soldier's hands began to blacken and dissolve before his eyes, slowly inching up his arms. The Band came to a grinding halt.

Arcanum leaped off his horse and sprinted towards the soldier, but a ring of men was forming around the thrashing soldier. Everyone watched in stunned shock, but none knew what to do. Arcanum pushed his way through, grabbing a battleaxe from a soldier. He slammed past, raised the axe, and cracked it down upon the shrieking soldier's upper arm with a sickening noise.

The decapitated limb twitched and spasmed and continued to dissolve. Arcanum could now catch the sight of a tiny bloated insect attached to a blackened finger. A flash of fire hit the arm, as Arcanum shied away from the flaring heat and light. A dark-haired woman rushed to the downed man's side, and placed her hands upon his shuddering chest. As Arcanum watched on, the man's stump closed to smooth skin and his trembling slowly subsided.

She slowly stood up, her emerald eyes glancing down at the ashes by her feet. She straightened her yellow shawl, and coolly said, "A Stick. This man is lucky to be alive. Their bite digests its prey while they still live. He will be fine for now. Perhaps you all should take a lesson. Touch nothing. No trees. No leaves. Nothing. In fact, just stay away from any of the foliage, as if it was not common sense. There are worse things than the stick. A butcher bug spins a thread between trees so thin that the naked eye cannot detect it, and sharper than a steel blade. When a creature such as a foolish man walks into it, they decapitate themselves. That is, if the tree itself doesn't kill him first."

Airene Andalusa gave another look to the soldiers once more and glided away. A shadow detached from the crowd, trailing after her, his shimmering cloak floating behind.

Two soldiers kneeled besides their fallen comrade and helped pull him to his feet. The man groaned, and shook his head. He glanced at the stump of his right arm and shuddered, but shakily got back to his feet.

Arcanum glanced at the bloodied axe in his hand and tossed it to the ground. He gave a distasteful grimace, and rubbed at the blood stains on his shirt cuffs. The soldiers gave a wary look at the tree that the unfortunate man had touched, and returned to their formations.

As Arcanum remounted, the Band began to creep forth again, giving a wide birth to any flora. When his horse passed the remains of the arm, Arcanum glanced down at the black ashes and looked up at the looming black mountain in the distant.

"What are we getting into?" He muttered. Despite the dank heat, he shivered. The wind kicked up the ashes, scattering them.

Lawe Cathon rubbed the tarnished watchglass on his cloak, and fitted it to his eye. He studied the land before him and grimaced. Even with the glass, all he could see was fractured ground, spiderwebbed with league-wide crevasses and irregular crags. He removed the watchglass and unrolled a yellow-edged map from his saddlebag.

“Is there a way across?” His assistant asked. The Band of Red Hand had stopped at the lip of the lip of the giant mess of fissures, patiently waiting for a decision.

Lawe Cathon tugged at his beard thoughtfully, his fingers gliding across the rough paper, “These fissures go for leagues across. I wonder what had happened here. It is as if a giant fist pounded the land into submission. That canyon in front of us appears to be the only feasible way across.”

“Getty’s Canyon.”

Cathon glanced around to see Airene glancing over his shoulder. Her black-armored warder rode silently behind her. Since the pair had joined them when the Band had past through Mafal Dadaranell a year past, Cathon had never known what to call the dark-eyed gaidin. Cathon had never caught his name, and the warder had never offered it, and so Cathon just referred to him as The Warder. Warder apparently accepted that, and would respond to that name.

“Yes, Getty’s Canyon. You know it?” Cathon arched his eyebrow.

“The explorer Dravo Getty. Like all men, cocky and rash. Being such, decided to map the Blasted Lands one day. Not unexpectedly, he did not return. A van of Aramaellean scouts on patrol found a half-buried map accredited to Getty. This canyon was the last thing drawn, and well, the Aramaelleans named the canyon after him. His tomb if you will.”

“One immense tomb.” Austern noted.

Cathon looked down at the map again, deep in thought. A large sinister spire of Shayol Ghul was inked on the map, a whim of the mapper most likely, as Cathon doubted anyone had ever been foolish enough to map it.

“General!” A soldier rode up at a trot, his hand holding a small square of paper.

“A pigeon?” Cathon wheeled his gelding around.

“Just flew in, sir.” The soldier gave the sheet to the Marshall-General, and saluted. He nudged his horse and returned to his banner. Cathon glanced down at the paper for a second and shivers ran up his spine.

“Light!” Cathon grimaced, “it’s from Mafal Dadaranell. They’re under attack. There was treachery. Spawns broken through both walls. Assistance required.”

Airene snatched the message from Cathon, “But it would take a massive host to take down that city. I doubt if even the Band could besiege Mafal Keep. It’s dated two weeks ago.”

“They must have let loose all their pigeons with this message,” Austern said, “By your orders, general, we have not been sending them our positions anymore. This is a desperate act.”

“How far are we from Mafal Dadaranell?” Cathon asked.

“It would take us a month at the least.” The adjutant replied truthfully.

“Than whatever has happened there has already happened. Let us hope they have found reinforcements in time.” Cathon said grimly. He did not like it, but he was going to have to accept it. “We must go on.”

Cathon glanced at Airene, who was still staring at the message. Cathon knew that there were Aes Sedai in Mafal Dadarenell. But any words of support for Airene will result in backlash against him, which he had often found out. So he said nothing.

“The Band marches. To be safe, Legions in vans. Send some pickets out in front.” Cathon said, nudging his horse forward. The order rippled through the ranks, and like a waking beast, the Band started to move. Every time, Cathon felt heady at having a hundred thousand men at his back and command. No one was immune to the allures of power. But still he knew that it might not be enough for their task ahead.

Cathon glanced at the ground as the Band descended down into Getty’s Canyon. It was a mild incline, but could still prove to be dangerous for a horse and his rider. His brown gelding half-slid and half-walked down the cracked slope into the canyon.

Cathon studied the chasm named after the doomed explorer. It was perhaps a league wide and five leagues long, with tall canyon walls whose height rivaled the Dhoroms itself, the western part casting a shadow across half the valley. He felt an itch at the back of his neck, and he eyes instinctively drew down to a red-gold container hanging at the side of his gelding. But still, even that act did no reassure him, and he felt even tenser.

His horse seemed to be agitated as well, whuffing and rolling his eyes. Cathon patted it reassuringly and wondered if it was too late to pick a different path. Cathon had now ridden into the midpoint of the Canyon, into the shadows cast by the cliff walls. He glanced back and saw that the entire Band of Red Hand had entered Getty’s canyon, bracketed between two un-scalable walls.

Someone inside Cathon was yelling incoherently at him, telling him something was wrong. Cathon glanced up at the colossal walls, but saw nothing except heat waves. His gelding suddenly stopped. Cathon glanced down and saw the horse’s front hoof centered in the depression of a giant clawed footprint.

“Defensive perimeter now! Recall the scouts!” Cathon shouted, twisting his horse around.

“Shadowspawns.” Airene spoke a split-second later.

The Band halted and immediately rippled outwards. Monstrous heads appeared over the canyon walls, thousands upon thousands, looking down from all side.

The air at the far end of the canyon rippled and countless Trollocs stuffed the exit. Cathon glanced back and saw another massive host coming in to block the south entrance.

“They’ve got a Dreadlord. Perhaps more.” Airene said, “How could I have been so foolish.”

“Where’s our scouts?” Austern shouted.

“Most likely dead. Or wishing they were.” Cathon grimaced and nudged his horses in towards the center of the perimeter, as soldiers raced past him. His eyes took in their situation and saw that it was a difficult one. No, an impossible one. They were trapped between two massive walls to the side, and two hosts on either exits. The Band will hold them off, but not for long. Not for long.

As Cathon shouted out his orders, his voice was silenced by the crackle of thunder. From the clear sky, lightning bolts slashed in along the ranks, and the Shadowspawns from both ends closed in upon the trapped Band.