A day in the life

My father's people did not write much down about their past, though they had a deep love of reading, and he was no different. They preferred, instead, to pass knowledge verbally through the extended family. Following the traditions of his people, He spent long hours telling me about his experiences, those of his father and mother, their parents, as far back as memory persevered. He never put pen to paper as far as I know.

The day he started out from the Three-Fold Land of his fathers was a good day. He had not been called to move over the Dragonwall with the rest of the forces called upon in the chase of the Shaido into Cairheinan lands. This had been a blow to him I think, though he never said so. Therefore, when called forth with other Red Shields to help pacify the increasingly lawless lands outside the cities the Dragon Reborn had taken, he was ecstatic (for an Aiel, which is to say, he smiled).

Curoc and his fellow Aethen Dor made their way to Cairhein. They found themselves amazed at the water falling from the sky so readily, and the many brooks, streams, and especially the rivers they had to cross, ford or skirt so often. In a matter of less than a week, they found themselves in the city of Carhein, the home of tree killers and oath breakers that Curoc the Red Shield had been raised to despise.

They did not have to stay long. In a matter of weeks, they were on their way to Caemlyn. Once there, my father spent many days walking in the alleys, under the walls, and even into the depths of the foul sewers that lay hidden from anyone who wanted to forget them. In the sewers, my father found solace in action, for there were always darkfriends to kill. He soon grew bored with this, however, for none of these darkfriends seemed to be worthy of his fighting prowess, and he feared that he might grow dull and become less effective.

Once his group was established in Caemlyn, they began scouting further afield, sometimes for weeks, or months. Going as far as the Four Kings, they felt need to run even farther, and found themselves a distance to the southwest, in the area of Lugard. It was here that my father's adventures truly began.

Under the leadership of a spear warrior, and with three other Red Shields, a Stone Dog, a Night Runner, and two Maidens of the Spear, Curoc went into the outskirts of Lugard. They stopped at a merchant heading west, and bought some items while they questioned him about the local happenings. He seemed friendly enough, though ill-at-ease around the Aiel, so they let him go on his way. Two days later, they came upon him again, heading back into Lugard…

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The Stone Dog, his suspicions aroused, immediately intercepted the merchant, who stopped his wagon only when it became apparent the Aielman would not move from his position in the middle of the road. The merchant seemed nervous, his eyes darting everywhere, but the spear warrior appeared oblivious to this, demanding to know why the merchant had returned so soon.

The two Maidens, who had been communicating with eachother by handtalk, moved from their positions to join the Stone Dog while chuckling about men. Something niggled Curoc in the back of his mind, but he was distracted by the Maidens.

Click!

The Stone Dog was falling to his knees, pierced by ten crossbow quarrels, as two men in white armor and capes leapt from their hiding place in the back of the wagon. With a yell men in white poured out of the woods along both sides of the road, waving their swords and making straight for the Maidens.

The Aiel veiled, and Curoc joined the Maidens as the Night Runner pulled his bow from his back and let fly. Five men in white fell instantly to spears and arrows, and then the Whitecloaks were upon them. A Maiden fell to a sword in the back even as she pierced one in the throat with her spear. The other Maiden returned the favor by killing that one by smashing her buckler into his face, sending bone fragments into his brain with her upward sweep, even as she brought the spear in her other hand around and swept the tip of her spear across the throat of another, nearly severing the head from its body.

Curoc leapt between two of the onrushing figures, keeping his spear at kneck-level and thus clotheslining them even as he threw another spear into the belly of a Child rushing up behind them. As he landed with the first two, the spear in his hands leapt back, the butt of the shaft crushing the throat of one only a moment before the tip sliced cleanly through the other.

The Night Runner killed many with his arrows before falling to a single crossbow dart to his heart. Curoc and the remaining Maiden fought on against the odds. Perhaps if the other three Red Shields had been with them, it might have gone differently, but as my father and the Maiden wore down to their last spear each, it became apparent to them how it would end.

A glancing blow to the top of the woman's skull by a sword stunned her, and that was enough to let three swords slip through her guard, piercing her torso. She fell wordlessly, and they mutilated her corpse.

Curoc's spear splintered when it was slammed into a shield, and using a half in each hand, he fought on.

Fending off swords with the broken shaft, and stabbing endlessly with the spear tip, my father worked his way to the elusive outer edge of the ring of white surrounding him, leaving a mess of flesh and blood in his wake. Suddenly my father lost the tip of his spear, yanked from his hand as it caught on a rib of his last victim, staying embedded in the man’s chest as he fell. Taking the broken shaft in both hands, he slammed it home into the mouth of another, and lost himself in the dance with nothing but his bare hands and battered buckler.

Dodging sword thrusts, and redirecting others into yet more victims, he continued to move toward the edge, sweeping legs, smashing bone and cartilage with stiffened hands, ripping ears with clawed fingers, and bludgeoning with fists and feet, elbows, knees and buckler. It took hours, though he knew it was over in minutes. He felt elation at the test of his skills, even as he neared exhaustion, thinking he might actually make it out of the ring and evade his attackers, perhaps make it back into Lugard and find his fellow Red Shields.

Click!

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A voice speaks from the darkness, "Oh, good. You're awake."

Curoc opened his eyes slowly. As his vision came into focus he found himself in a small, dark room, cool and built of stone. It was too dark to see the speaker well, though he was tall and gaunt. Curoc himself was laid bare on a wooden table, angled to lean back at a forty-five degree angle, his elbows, wrists, chest, abdomen and ankles secured by thick leather straps. My father could smell the burning of sulfur, wood and coal. He could hear the crackling of flames and the bubbling of hot water, tar, and other things.

The man, who had been standing to his left, bent over him, "You are far from home, Aielman. Oh, you need not consider yourself Aiel anymore. I am going to save you from yourself. Your fellows are dead or have fled. No Aiel has been seen in Lugard in three days, ever since we took you in. You are no longer Aiel. I am your family now." Smiling, he continued, "You may refer to me as father. As your father, there are certain things I expect from you, son. First, I expect intelligence. You must forget your brute ways. I assure you that you cannot escape. You will not be free until you can be trusted with much simpler things. You must have a new name. I will not allow you to slip back into the fold of the Dark One. You shall be called Jarek." Seeming quite pleased with himself, the man began to pace back and forth across the small room, continueing his monologue.

Laying there, feeling the straps, smelling, hearing and catching glimpses of instruments devoid of any purpose save the art of torture, Curoc was sure any wetlander would have been quivering with fear. He was confident that he could handle whatever punishment this man could deal him, but that would not help him in the long run. He could handle torture, but he might not survive it. If he did not live, then his clan would never know what had happened to him and his companions. They would never know how many of these dishonorable dogs they had dispatched in the ambush set up for them. They would never know of the treachery. Curoc was in no hurry to die at the hands of this wretched man, so confident in the face of an Aielman when he should be on the floor, begging his forgiveness. He wanted to scoff at the fool's mind games. Yet he remained constrained by a few simple leather straps.

"You're not listening, are you?" The man had stopped pacing and was looking at him with a sneering, condescending look. “I have ways to get your attention, and it’s time you learned the ropes.” With this, the man walked calmly over to a fire fed by coal, and pulled a specially made blade from a stand next to it. It had a long shaft, apparently for being used with the fire, and the blade itself was curved in places, straight in others, and included a hook, a serrated edge, and a bulge on one side, attenuated by a depression in the other. The thing could only be made for one purpose. After a brief inspection of his tool, the man stabbed it into the hot coals, twisting it around with a faint smile upon his face.

As he pulled it out of the fire, the man was so intent upon his work that he did not acknowledge a rushed pounding on the thick wooden door that comprised the sole exit from the room. A voice came through a slot in the door, “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but you should know that we have a problem!”

With a sigh, and a reproachful look at the door, the man stabbed the blade violently back into the stand he had pulled it from and with two steps, was sliding the bolt free and yanking the door open. “What kind of a problem could you possibly be having that requires my attention?” He asked bitterly.

“The kind of problem… attack…” the voice faded quickly down the hall, interrupted by the slamming of the door, and rushing footsteps sounding further down the hall outside.

Attack? Curoc smiled to himself. If it was his Red Shields come to rescue him, then it was fortunate timing; if not, then he had heard the Whitecloaks made enemies more easily than allies, and whoever it was suited his timing as well. Looking down at the straps holding him down, he sought a means of freeing himself. None were apparent. The position of his body left him no room to wriggle out, and the straps were too well made to simply rip out of them. There was a way though, and with no other options left, he did not hesitate.

Slamming his head to the right, and forcing his left shoulder down and forward violently, he slumped, angry and frustrated more at himself than at the straps. Gritting his teeth slightly and feeling out the strained joint, he slammed it violently again, this time feeling hot agony wash through his arm and torso as the ball came out of the socket, tearing sinew and muscle, producing a nauseating grinding, popping sound and ripping the strap over his left elbow for good measure.

Quickly he pulled his arm free enough to work at the clasp securing the strap over his chest, and leaned to pull his right arm free, working with rapidly numbing fingers as he lost blood flow in his arm. By the time he freed himself, his arm was next to useless. Bracing himself, he flew at the nearest wall and put the brunt of the impact fully on his left shoulder. As his arm turned from a garish blue to a more promising brownish red blotched pattern, Curoc knew he had at least restored the needed blood flow. His arm was still useless, and without the attentions of a Wise One, it would likely be lame the remainder of his days; but he was free, and that was what mattered.

Finding the remains of his cadin’sor in a heap in a corner, he put on as much of it as he could, and when he found his shoufa, wrapped that about his torso and left arm. The legs of the working clothes were intact for the most part, while the rest barely served as an open vest of sorts. He found the door to be unsecured from the outside. After insuring there was no sentries in the hallway, he worked his way silently up the corridor, barefoot.

He met almost no resistance. Once, as he approached a corner, he heard rushing footsteps. Stepping into a depression in the wall serving to hold a torch, he put it out hurriedly and waited, pressing himself against the wall. As the man rushed by, my father leaped forward, slamming the man’s head into the opposite wall with one outstretched hand. Hearing the dull pop, and feeling the man’s head buckle under his palm, Curoc was satisfied that his opponent would not rise again. He continued on.

Making his way outside, he found it to be more quiet than what he would have expected. Looking about, he saw a large number of bodies laying around, pierced with arrows. From what he could see as he made his way to a secluded section of the outside wall, the attack had come from three or more directions, arrows hailing down upon the unsuspecting Whitecloaks. They had rallied themselves into small groups, shields interlocked and huddling close. Curoc avoided these easily, as their attention seemed focused soley on the perimeter. Approaching the nearest wall, in one smooth motion, my father leaped forward and up, finding a toehold in a joint of the wall’s woodwork, and propelled himself over the wall, landing in an uncustomary, ungainly sprawl, once more washing himself in the hot agony coming from his tortured joint.

Curoc allowed himself a moment of rest, controlling his breathing as he listened for signs of pursuit. Hearing none, he gathered himself up and got his bearings. He was crouching outside the north wall, and all was quiet.

Avoiding the road that led north along the western wall, he instead worked his way through the natural shadows provided by the clouds overhead and rough terrain beneath his feet, northeast towards the forest and safety.

He did not waste time looking for the people responsible in part for his freedom. They would have made their presence known if they had wanted to. Satisfied that his toh was to escape and report the situation, he faded into the wooded hills.