Dreadlord

Heren Minari Tanasta, Aes Sedai, was tired.

Dark rings of fatigue encircled his eyes, his attention seemed abtracted, even absent, and even when he met with others, from time to time his eyes seemed to close of their own volition, and his head drooped forward momentarily until an emergency signal from his sense of balance jerked him upright into wakefulness.

His friends, mostly other Aes Sedai, politely ignored these lapses, and concluded amongst themselves that his studies had been occupying too much of his attention deep and late into the night. It had happened to them all once or twice, late nights of learning with only a glow-bulb for company, leaving them too tired the next day. It usually lasted for a week or so, then the imperatives of sleep became more commanding.

In fact, if anything, his tiredness gave rise to a sense of expectation, for Heren was one of the most innovative geologists ever to have studied at the Collam Daan, and if he was studying hard, quite possibly a new breakthrough in the channelling of Earth was imminent. Heren's ability to use Earth was astounding. He had reclaimed deserts. He had developed ways of learning where earthquakes would occur, then quieting them. He was a marvel.

If Heren was aware of his friends' and colleagues' concerns and expectations he gave no sign. His lack of sleep was something he distinctly did not wish discuss, because to him its reason was obvious.

I am going mad.

It had begun, oh, perhaps a month since, as no more than a simple nightmare. He had woken, in a cold sweat, with no more then the memory of a memory of the dream which had shaken him awake. Something, he thought, about chanelling to release the tremendous forces and stresses beneath the crust the earth, to cause destruction on a massive scale, the changing of the very face of the earth. It was distressing, of course, but no more than a dream, and as he lay in his bed Heren was washed with that sense of relief that the terrible consequences had not in fact come to pass.

It was only a dream.

But when, the following night, the same dream returned, he began to fear. And the next night, and the next, and the next, his nights were plagued by the same dream, and each time he woke he remembered a little more, and a little more, and a little more. He was standing on a mountain, a dark mountain which somehow reeked of evil. He looked out over the earth, and by chanelling gently could feel deep into the heart of the planet. Every fault line, every change in composition, every pocket of gas or magma, every mineral deposit, spoke to him as to an old friend. He raised his hands and channeled. Small changes at first, releasing a pocket of gas into a pool of magma to create an explosion, contained within the earth, straining the land around it.

More stresses and more he added, until the pitifully thin crust upon which mankind dwelt was stretched balloon-tight over a seething mass of destructive forces. All that was needed was one more touch, one slight tear in the crust, and the result would be terrible.

Forced by some awful compulsion he sought a weakness in the crust, and channeled ...

And woke, moaning, sweating, and crying.

He began to fear sleep, to stay awake, to avoid the dream, but sooner or later, after a night or two of wakefulness, sleep would enfold him and terrifying slumber began.

After perhaps the tenth repetition of this terrible dream he started to become aware of a person ... well, more a presence than a person ... behind his shoulder. The presence somehow communicated to him its mood. It was delighted with the damage he caused, sardonically amused at his horror and efforts to stop.

Gradually Heren became aware that the awful compulsion he felt to use his ability to channel to destroy the earth came from the presence behind him. Somehow, while it was there, and while the presence wanted him to destroy, there was no way he could do anything else.

After six long weeks of enduring the nightmare in silence, Heren had decided what he must do. He had decided that there was only one way he could defy the awful compulsion to destroy.

He must be severed.

If he could not channel, he could not destroy, and the compulsion of the strange presence in his dream would be useless. It was the only way.

Convinced of this, he woke, dressed, and made his way towards the University's central halls. But the closer he came to the office of the University's Sitter, the more the enormity of his decision struck him. To be severed. To be cut off from the source, able to feel it but to never touch it. The closer he came to the Sitter's office, the more his steps faltered, until, barely a dozen paces from his destination he turned and ran, scattering students and faculty alike in his desperate need to flee from the near-suicidal act he had almost completed.

That night, he slept again, and as the dream began he tossed and turned his head, trying to catch a glimpse of the figure he felt was somewhere behind him, but was unable to do so. For the first time in these dreams he spoke to the presence.

I will not do this.

Again, that feeling of sardonic amusement, which grew to outright laughter, mocking and jeering, as despite himself Heren once again ripped open the very fabric of the earth.

The next night, Heren again defied the evil presence, but again his defiance came to nothing, as he was compelled into wanton destruction.

After perhaps five repetitions of this scene, he slept one night night and the dream did not come. For the whole night he slept soundly, and remembered no dream when he woke. For a second and a third night, he slept soundly and peacefully, and began to think that perhaps his defiance had finally banished the dream, and that whatever demons lurked in his mind had been laid to rest.

On the fourth night, when his defences were down and he was dreaming a happy dream, he was wrenched bodily from his dream, with a tear like ripping fabric, and found himself standing again on the dark mountain. But, looking around, he realised that if this was a dream, it was much more real than any he had dreamt so far. It was so close to reality he could amost believe he was awake. Instinctively he knew where he was.

Tel'aran'rhiod.

He spun around, and there before him was a figure clothed in shadow, with a face more flames than flesh. He knew who it was. Everyone knew who it was. Ishamaeal.

He drew back his arm and threw, a ball of hot liquid magma forming in hand as he did so, but Ishamael brushed it aside almost negligently and for the first time spoke.

"Fool. If I wanted to kill you I'd have done it long since. I've had my hand around your heart for weeks.You could not even sever yourself without my consent."

Heren began to shake slightly, aware of Ishamael's superior strength in the power, and his far greater ruthlessness. Ishamael laughed and compelled Heren to turn and once more look out over the landscape. "You know what you must do."

Helplessly, Heren raised his hands and began to seek out those small weaknesses in the earth, hating the laughing Forsaken behind him but unable to turn away.

And yet this time he did not wake. He ripped apart the earth, turned to face Ishamael, who was still laughing, but then was forced to turn back once more, and the landscpae below him was whole and untouched by detruction.

Again, whispered Ishamael to his soul. Again.

And so Heren destroyed the earth again, and again, and again, until he was on his knees, tears streaming from his face, begging Ishamael to stop, to let him be, to leave him alone.

"There is one way, and one way only to leave this dream," said Ishamael. "You will come with me down this mountain, to the depths below Shoyul Ghul, and there make obesience to the Great Lord of the Dark, Shaitan himself."

Nooooooooooo! Heren's wail was long and anguished, but before it had finished he was forced to turn again and behold the untouched landscape below. Again he began its destruction. This time when it was done he collapsed trembling. Resistance to the compulsion was less than useless.

"Take me to the Great Lord," he said.

Moments later he was crawling on his belly below an endless roof of razor sharp points, row upon row of stone teeth which dug into his skin, tearing the flesh of his back .... but he didn't mind the pain, for he knew that when he turned around there would be no landscape arrayed before him to destroy.

When he reached the Pit itself, the presence of Shaitan was overwhelming, even glorious in its intensity, and the voice, when it came, boomed in his mind.

WHY HAVE YOU COME?

"I have come, Great Lord, to make mine obesience."

Surprising how easily the dread words flow. ISHAMAEL. TAKE HIM. HE SHALL BE HEREN SHADAR, A DREADLORD. GIVE HIM PAIN AND GLORY. Ishamael bowed low and with a flicker, Heren found himself back on the mountainside. This time he was awake, somehow in his own body, and it was real. Not a dream, Not tel'aran'rhiod, but real. Ishamael smiled wickedly. "You know what you must do." Dreadlord Heren Shadar raised his arms and called to the earth to release its powers of destruction. Inside, his soul screamed.