A/N: This one will have two chapters, because I wanted to end the first part where it ends but wanted to include the aftermath, also. Again, as always, dedicated to Pettymotives on Tumblr. Check out her Asmodean art (links in my profile)!

ALSO: This should be obvious to anyone who's read Dumai's Wells in the books (which is hopefully all of you because otherwise I don't know what you're doing here), but just to avoid any wankery: parts of the dialogue are taken straight from the book. Obvious lines. For obvious reasons.

The sword felt heavy in Asmodean's hand. He never had properly learnt how to fight with a sword — he shared Taim's dislike of the weapon, although probably for somewhat different reasons, and damn, did he wish Taim was there right now. Whatever else the man was — little more than a child playing with deadly powers he had barely begun to comprehend — whatever else he was, there was no denying that he and a few dozen of those so-called Guardians of his would have been supremely useful in hauling al'Thor's arse out of the death trap they'd witnessed on the other side of the ridge. But they didn't have Taim, they didn't have the Asha'man. What they had was a couple of thousand Aiel, a few hundred Cairhienin and Mayeners, a handful of Two Rivers archers and nine Aes Sedai. Against the White Tower delegation it might have been enough — it should have been enough — but against the forty thousand Shaido currently laying siege to said Tower delegation's camp? Against their channellers — according to Kiruna Nachiman, there could be up to three hundred Wise Ones channelling down there — against all of that? They didn't stand a chance.

Yet there he was, weighing the useless weapon in his hand, contemplating riding into the frey with Perrin Aybara. Ta'veren, he kept telling himself. Anything was possible with two of those around — Aybara, and al'Thor himself, where ever he was being held in that camp. Asmodean didn't believe in miracles, not really, but if such things happened, if miracles happened, then surely this would be a good time for one?

"You're going to ride with us, bard?" Dobraine Taborwin's voice interrupted his thoughts. The Cairhienin looked grim, determined, and utterly convinced that he was not going to see the sun rise tomorrow. Asmodean nodded, not trusting his voice. The look on Lord Dobraine's face took on a distinct 'why am I even surprised?' quality. "Well then. I don't suppose you know how to use that sword of yours?"

Asmodean had no chance to reply because then Aybara marched up to them. "You'd be safer staying with the Wise Ones and the Aes Sedai," the young lord said.

Not if they realised he was channelling. Not that Aybara would know about that little detail. Asmodean shook his head. "If this goes bad it's not going to be much safer."

The yellow-eyed man nodded slowly. "You probably have a point there." He looked as though he wanted to say something more, but decided against it, adding simply, "Stay close to me and Loial. Maybe we can…" He trailed off with a helpless gesture; protecting anyone but yourself was going to be an achievement down there. Ta'veren. It had to count for something.

Lord Dobraine mounted up as a squire brought his horse. "Are you sure you will not ride, Lord Aybara?" the Cairhienin asked; the idea of a lord going into battle on foot seemed strange to him. Aybara declined, explaining that his axe was not that useful from horseback.

Asmodean mounted up as well and positioned himself near Loial. The ogier's ears twitched nervously as he watched people taking their positions, readying their weapons. He glanced at Asmodean, made as if to say something, but changed his mind and remained silent. Asmodean was glad. He didn't mind the ogier — most of the time — but he was very much not in the mood. It was difficult to try to focus on having a conversation when one was planning to ride into near-certain death.

Ta'veren.

Ta'veren.

Ta'veren.

Only when Lord Dobraine gave him a curious look did he realise that he was muttering the word repeatedly under his breath like a prayer. He gave the Cairhiening a blank stare until the man looked away. Around them the Aiel were veiling themselves, looking eager to pit their spears against those of the Shaido. Everything seemed to be ready — or as ready as they were going to be. Asmodean, drawing as deeply from the True Source as the accursed shield allowed — it was so little, a mere trickle compared to what he'd used to have at his disposal! — and wove barriers of Air around himself. Nobody would have the time to pay enough attention to him to notice that he was deflecting arrows and glancing blows from spears. Or so he hoped. He was… reasonably sure, and that had to be good enough right now.

They climbed to the crest of the hill again; the view of the battle had changed very little. The Shaido were still attacking the Tower delegation with spears and the Power. Many of the wagons were burning — more than before? Asmodean couldn't tell. It looked like it. He was amazed that the Aes Sedai were still holding against the masses of Aiel throwing themselves at them. He wondered if there was any chance that they would hold until they could reach them. If there was any chance of ever reaching that ring of wagons in the first place.

No. There had to be. He couldn't see how, but… He couldn't see how!

And then there was no more time to thing about any of that. Lord Dobraine raised his sword and his voice. "The Lord Dragon, Taborwin and victory!" he shouted, and five hundred voices echoed his words. And then the five hundred Cairhienin cavalry, one ogier, one Wolfbrother, one former tinker and one Forsaken were charging down the slope at a breakneck pace, straight into the masses of the Shaido.

Out of nowhere, wolves, hundreds of them, fell upon the Shaido. Arrows rained down as the Two Rivers men set to their task. The Shaido finally realised that they were being attacked from behind and turned to fight the wolves, only to be hit with the hammer of the Cairhienin lancers, with the Maidens and the siswai'aman to either side.

Asmodean was following close behind Lord Dobraine when a Shaido spear took his horse down. Somehow he managed to not end up crushed under the animal. Somehow he managed to hold on to his sword — the part of his mind that wasn't screaming in panic noted how absurdly useless effort that was — and somehow he managed to keep his shields intact and not get skewered on a spear. He was hauled to his feet by Loial before the ogier went on to fend off the horde of Aiel that suddenly seemed to be everywhere. Asmodean raised his sword, slashing wildly at the Aiel that made it past Loial and his ogier-sized battle axe. He undoubtedly did more damage with the little Power he could afford to use for attacking without having his protective shields dissolve, but the sword served to distract the Aiel before him if nothing else.

There was no time for fear. There was no time to think. There was only the next enemy before him, a veiled face that might belong to either man or woman, the startled disbelief in the blue or grey or green eyes as their spears reflected off what must seem like thin air, the spurt of blood as Asmodean cut their throats with a thin weave of Air… And then, another body at his feet. But it was tiring, straining against the shield to draw as much of the Power as he could — barely enough — and it soon took all his considerable skill to maintain his defences as well as keep killing his way through the Shaido.

Through the fog of exhaustion he suddenly realised that Loial was no longer at his side. After a frantic moment he could spot the tall ogier further ahead — presumably with Aybara, although Asmodean could only see the ogier. Quick assessment of the situation — even as he parried a blow with his sword, more thanks to luck than intent — told him that there was no way he could catch up with them unless they came back for him. Fat chance of that, hell bent as they were to reach al'Thor.

Not that Asmodean could blame them.

He could, however, curse them for leaving him behind.

Or rather could have, had he had time to spare for such thoughts, because then everything happened at once. A spear came at him with enough force that it shattered the shields of Air. Although the impact with the shield slowed and diverted the spear enough that the hit wasn't fatal, it left Asmodean defenceless and rendered his left arm useless. Through a red haze of pain he saw two more spears raised, poised to strike, and knew that he wasn't going to be able to deflect them both.

The gateway that opened dispatched one of the threatening spears by slicing the Shaido wielding it neatly in half. The other spear thrust forward — and took the man who had been unfortunate enough to be the first one through the gateway in the back. The man staggered, eyes wide with shock, and collapsed against Asmodean, who dropped his sword and caught the man by the shoulders. Young, barely twenty if even that much, the man tried to speak but instead coughed up a stream of blood. Panic filled the wide, blue eyes as the youth realised that he couldn't breathe for the blood filling his lungs. He grasped frantically at Asmodean's coat, wordlessly begging for him to do something, but there was nothing he could do; even if he had been able to channel more than a trickle, a spear through the lung required rather more skill in Healing than he had.

Asmodean sank to his knees, lowering the dying youth to the ground. Half score more men in black coats had come through the gateway straight after the unfortunate individual and formed a protective circle around their fallen companion and Asmodean. Around them, Aiel died in their scores. Blood and worse things rained down. Asmodean realised with a start that he couldn't afford to channel anymore, not with the Asha'man present. Thankfully he had had the presence of mind to release saidin, even with a man dying in his arms.

One of the men, a short, pale Dedicated no older than the one who had fallen to the spear, glanced over his shoulder at Asmodean. "Is he alive?" he shouted over the sounds of the battle. Asmodean shook his head tiredly. He could see the raw pain on the boy's face before he turned his full attention to the battle again. Asmodean looked down at the dead Asha'man — Dedicated, actually, judging by the silver sword pin on his collar — whose dead eyes were staring sightlessly up to the sky. A child. Not even in the War of Power had children been trained to do… this.

"Get up! We need to move!" a voice commanded. Asmodean looked up to find the short man who had addressed him earlier gesturing impatiently at his companions although the words were clearly aimed at Asmodean. "To the wagons. The Lord Dragon will be there, and the M'Hael. Marle, take point. Kajima, Hopwil, rear. Don't bloody get skewered!"

"What about Dar—?" the one called Hopwil began, but cut off as the leader shot him a warning glare.

"You just focus on keeping the rest of us alive, dammit!" The leader turned back to Asmodean, who quickly scrambled to his feet and tried — in vain — to brush the dirt off his trousers. "I don't know what you're doing here or where the hell you came from, but make yourself useful and help me with—" He cut off with an abrupt shake of his head, frowning down at the corpse of his comrade. "I can't leave him here. Not like this." The last part was quiet enough that Asmodean was sure the others couldn't hear nor were they meant to. He wasn't entirely sure he was, either.

"Of course," he said, and together they picked up the dead Dedicated. The battle around them didn't seem to have changed at all; people were dying, to Aiel spears and to arrows and to bolts of Fire and blades of Air. In the midst of the chaos, the small party began making their slow, messy way towards the ring of wagons, the plain-faced blond man called Marle clearing a path for them with brutal efficiency.

Asmodean had to focus on not tripping over the corpses on their path, but he kept telling himself it was easier than having to dodge spears wielded by living Shaido. A lot easier. And safer. Even though all he really wanted was to be somewhere else, almost anywhere, with solid walls around him to keep out the screams of the dying. And the spears. Especially the spears. There was a reason he had always left the crazy battlefield stunts to Demandred and Sammael and the rest of them. He was not cut out for this, nor did he want to be. He wanted to be somewhere quiet and clean, with a bottle of good wine. Or make that two or three. And he wanted to sleep. If he made it out of this alive he was never going to leave his bed again. Never getting involved again. Never, ever, ever going into battle again. Never carrying a dead body across a battlefield again, with a boy who was trying so hard not to cry, to pretend he wasn't crying, because he was the leader of a squad of trained killers, a living weapon and weapons don't mourn when the battle is on.

"What's your name?" Asmodean asked, raising his voice to carry over the sounds of the battle. Such a ridiculous question to be asking in that moment, but the whole situation was ridiculous — a nice, bland understatement — and it was either that or thinking about what he was stepping on as he walked in rather more detail than he wanted to.

The boy glanced at him — and casually decapitated a Shaido warrior who was getting a bit too close for comfort with a blade of Air. The Aiel's body crumpled at the feet of the one behind him, and that one was burned to cinders moments later. "Arawin," the boy replied. "Brys Arawin." He blinked angrily but seemed to regain his composure to some extent. He didn't pause in his channelling, in killing. "And I know who you are, bard. I've seen you visiting the Black Tower with the Lord Dragon."

"Brilliant," Asmodean said. "I have a name too, you know. Jasin Natael."

"A pleasure, Master Natael." There was a hint of wry humour in Arawin's voice, now, and Asmodean knew he was going to be fine. At least for long enough. And what happened after the battle was a worry for later.

By the time they reached the ring of wagons, the fighting inside was mostly over. Asmodean scanned the campsite frantically for any sign of al'Thor. He had to be alive! "I must go find the Lord Dragon," he said distractedly as they lowered the dead boy to the ground by one of the wagons. "You will excuse me, Dedicated Arawin…" He didn't wait for a reply.

He made his way through the camp, while around him captured Shaido warriors were being stripped of their weapons — and clothes? how bizarre — and young men in green uniforms were gathered under guard by the Cairhienin and Mayeners. Nearly a dozen Aes Sedai were guarded and shielded by an equal number of men in black coats. More Asha'man swiftly raised barriers of Air around the campsite, blocking the masses of Shaido outside. Despite the killing that had already taken place, their numbers didn't seem diminished in the least. Asmodean shuddered; he had a sinking feeling that the worst wasn't over yet.

He finally found al'Thor accompanied by Taim and the girl Min, and Aybara and Loial. The ogier seemed glad and more than a little surprised to see him, but nobody else paid him any mind; al'Thor seemed to be arguing with Taim over something. And wasn't that a surprise, Asmodean thought tiredly. He staggered over the uneven ground towards the small group; Taim, noticing him, stopped mid sentence and stared, black eyes widening in surprise.

"You," the Saldaean said incredulously. "You were fighting?"

Asmodean shrugged — and winced as his wounded arm took the motion as a signal to notch up the pain. "I lost my sword," he said faintly.

"Your sword," Taim repeated. "You were fighting. With a sword."

"Taim!" al'Thor snapped. He looked rather worse for wear, his shirt in bloodied tatters and something wild and dangerous lurked in the depths of his eyes, barely constrained. His voice, although slightly hoarse, was harder than stone. "I thought I gave you an order."

"My Lord Dragon…" Taim began stiffly, but al'Thor didn't let him finish.

"I told you to make weapons, Taim. Show me just how deadly they are. Disperse the Shaido. Break them."

A moment of silence so thick Asmodean was almost surprised the air didn't turn solid with it. Then Taim spoke again, his voice perfectly respectful, utterly colourless. "As you command."

But al'Thor wasn't done yet. "Put my standard up where they can see it," he ordered.

Taim gave a minuscule bow, face set in an impassive mask, before he turned to the Asha'man awaiting orders. Taim had fought battles with the One Power before, Asmodean realised. The man's posture, shoulders squared and head held high, hands clasped behind his back, radiated command and control, but there was a tension to his movements, a sharp edge to his voice that told Asmodean that he knew exactly how ugly this was going to get.

And it was going to get ugly.

"Grady, raise the Banner of Light!" Taim's voice boomed, amplified with the Power to carry over the entire camp. One of the Dedicated picked up the crimson banner deftly with flows of Air and raised it high above the centre of the dome.

"Asha'man, form line of battle!" Taim commanded. The men in black coats — all of them except for Grady and the ones guarding the Aes Sedai — took their places between the barrier and the people within the dome in such swift and orderly fashion that it had to be trained. Asmodean spotted some of the men who had inadvertently rescued him earlier; Arawin and the ones he had called Hopwil and Kajima.

Taim continued issuing commands. "Asha'man, raise the barricade two spans!" Like a well-oiled clockwork machine, the Asha'man obeyed. The barricade rose. The masses of Shaido lurched forward, spears raised, astonished to see only a single line of men between them and their target. Eager for slaughter. They didn't get far before Taim's next command.

"Asha'man, kill!"

Asmodean had to revise his previous assessment; ugly didn't begin to cover it. The first ranks of the Shaido exploded. They weren't burned to cinders or chopped to pieces with blades of Air. They burst like overripe fruit, blood and… things… spraying into the air. What was left was not recognisable as having ever been human, if one didn't know. Asmodean wanted to look away — it was not something anyone wanted to watch — but the sight of living human beings being methodically turned into a bloody wreckage of flesh and bones was as mesmerising as it was horrifying and he couldn't tear his eyes away.

And Taim watched it all, still as a statue, impassive and unrelenting as an avatar of destruction. Or so one would have thought if one didn't see the way his nails dug into his left palm. He wasn't enjoying this, either. That was somehow reassuring. Perhaps there would be an end to the madness. The Shaido were beginning to retreat — if the mad scramble to get away could be called that — surely there was no need to continue…

"Asha'man, rolling ring of Earth and Fire!"

A series of explosions tossed bodies into the air. Dirt and limbs rained back down. Asmodean saw everything too clearly, couldn't stop identifying everything he saw — an arm no longer attached to a body, a head still attached to a torso too slim to be that of a man, a boot that might or might not still have a foot inside it — and it was too much. He forced his petrified body into motion, towards Taim, and he wasn't sure what he could say to make the man see that enough was enough already, but he had to try.

Before he got there, however, al'Thor's voice boomed over the sound of the explosions. "Stop it, Taim!"

Taim turned his head a fraction, waited for another round of explosions and then called, "Asha'man, rest!"

And everything… stopped, just like that. Asmodean's ears were ringing. He saw people around him begin to move and talk again, but he couldn't hear a thing. Maybe that was for the better. He wished he didn't have to see a thing, either, or feel or… or smell a thing. He was so tired. He didn't try too hard to resist when his vision began to grow dim.

Taim turned his back to the devastation — and came face to face with Natael. The bard's face, where not covered in blood, was ashen and he swayed on his feet, looking as though he might keel over. Al'Thor, the girl, the ogier and the axe-wielding, yellow-eyed man were all behind Natael, looking scarcely better. Taim fought the urge to glare. Now did the bloody Dragon Reborn finally grasp what he had done? What he had ordered Taim to do in his name? His words of commendation rang hollow, forced, but the men raised a cheer and Taim let them have the moment. Anything that would put off the moment when the full horror of the day would begin to sink in. The world had to see the Asha'man as dangerous, indomitable, men of steel and fire.

He reached Natael just as the man began to fall. Taim caught him and eased him gently to the ground. "Really, bard, what exactly are you doing here?" he muttered under his breath, not expecting an answer. A quick Delving told him the bard wasn't badly injured, although a not insignificant part of the blood staining the formerly blue coat was his own. Taim looked up and found the Dedicated he was looking for. "Marle!" he called.

Estevan Marle, a nondescript man approximately of an age with Taim himself, came running and saluted crisply. "Yes, M'Hael?"

"This man needs Healing," Taim said curtly. Marle chuckled as he knelt down to lay his hands on Natael, and Taim gave him a sharp look. "Is there something funny, Dedicated?"

"Oh, nothing, M'Hael," Marle replied distractedly as he wove the weaves of Spirit, Water and Air for Healing. He had a knack for Healing, although his interests lay… elsewhere. "We just picked him up on the battlefield. With Arawin's squad. Nearly Travelled straight on top of him."

"Good thing you didn't," Taim said wryly. He doubted al'Thor would have been impressed. Taim had yet to figure out what exactly the deal with Natael was — he had initially assumed that al'Thor was sleeping with the bard, but since the Farshaw woman had appeared, he was not so sure anymore. And speaking of al'Thor… From the corner of his eye, Taim could see several of the Aes Sedai approaching him. Taim's temper flared again; this whole mess was the fault of Aes Sedai! "Watch over Natael," he said and stood up, heading towards the group.

"You forget who we are," one of the women who seemed to be in charge of the Aes Sedai, the prettier one, was saying proudly. She appeared utterly oblivious to the reality of the situation, which was that after what had just taken place, no Aes Sedai, whatever their supposed allegiance, was in any position to be taking that tone with the Lord Dragon. "They may have mistreated you, but we—"

"I forget nothing, Aes Sedai," al'Thor said, cutting her off. "I said six could come, but I count nine. I said you would be on an equal footing with the Tower emissaries, and for bringing nine, you will be. They are on their knees, Aes Sedai. Kneel!"

Taim watched the women's faces; their expressions ranged from disbelieving to indignant to outright defiant. He gestured discreetly to Gedwyn and Rochaid, who gave a few curt commands in a low voice, and a dozen Asha'man surrounded the Aes Sedai, every man strong enough to shield one of the women without problems. He didn't care if it seemed excessive. He didn't care if the Aes Sedai were offended. He didn't know what had happened with the delegation in Caemlyn — curse al'Thor and his aversion for communication — but it had obviously sent al'Thor to Cairhien to begin with, placing him within the reach of the Tower emissaries. Aes Sedai were to blame, all of them, and the fact that these particular women had not been the ones to kidnap the Dragon Reborn counted for very little in Taim's books right now. Forcibly clamping down on his fury, he spoke.

"Kneel and swear to the Lord Dragon," he said softly, "or you will be knelt."