Moonlight Sonata

Moonlight Sonata

A disgusted lunar orb sneered down upon a devastated world with whom it unfortunately shared an orbit. Shielded in celestial serenity as it was, it basked in a luxurious aloofness not known in generations to any terrestrial creature. A reluctant witness to untold atrocities, it had long since ceased maintaining a sympathetic façade. Its tear felt accusations punctured the dust-ridden sky. Look at the fools down below on Earth! In their pride they thought they could improve upon the Creator’s good works. Where is their pride now, as they scurry through the broken continents and boiling oceans that was once His most precious garden?

Jyreem Jasem Ebra greeted its anguished indictment with a deaf ear, refusing to acknowledge its very existence. The ash and smoke of volcanic excrement dancing vulgarly through the heavens had long ago stained the moonlight’s white pureness with a crimson hue. The stars, of course, had ceased to shine altogether through the particle blanket now embracing the world, and the sun’s ray were reduced to half intensity in what was once called daylight. The sky served as but another reminder of the alien world he now inhabited, and was therefore to be avoided.

With the last of his locomotive energies exhausted, the walking skeleton known as Jyreem Jasem collapsed near a twisted object as a powerful gust of dust-wind battered his ragged adornments. When it had roared passed, he arose to inspect what would be the tombstone of his grave. Ebra recognized a fossil from the past in the decaying exoskeleton of an armored jo-car. Its marking insignia still somehow lay vaguely intact through years of fire and storm. With some effort, Jyreem was able to discern two blood red daggers crossing themselves arrogantly before a pitch-black sun. Underneath this incredible sigil lay a tale-tell fireball with a lightening streak. This had been, in another age, the personal transport vehicle for a Greater Dreadlord of the Shadar Mandarb. Not knowing whether to laugh or vomit, Jyreem Jasem somehow accomplished both, nearly choking in the process and soiling the dust storm veil permanently attached to his face.

The Shadow Blades. Yes, he remembered now through murky layers of bygone years, sensing the swelling of an atavistic pride. Decades ago he had been a ranking officer of the Shadow Blades, a loyal servant of Be’lal. Now there were no Shadow Blades and there was no Be’lal. For all he knew there was no Shadow as well. The Trolloc he had gutted for his meal a week ago had sworn that Ishamael still walked the earth, though for his part Jyreem felt the beast must in its hysteria have been hallucinating. No, there were only a few scattered survivors, human or otherwise, of a once great society. A society he had willingly helped slaughter. A society in its final death throes from all male channelers not protected by the Great Lord of the Dark.

Ha! The “Great” Lord, indeed! Not Great enough to avoid incarceration in the Bore at Lews Therin’s hands, that was certain. Not Great enough to protect one of his loyal servants from starving to death in a world being shred apart at its seems. Not Great enough to return to Jyreem his friends and colleagues now dead or scattered across the burning globe.

Ebra unsheathed from his tattered clothing a long, stylish blade that had begun rusting years ago; it had serviced his increasingly sparse meals countless times since the madness began. In another world and another time, the Netweaver had presented him a ceremonial knife for accomplishments done in the Shadow’s service. And now, as Jyreem lay dying in the middle of nowhere, with only the vitriolic moonlight reflecting off the dagger as his companion, he meditated wretchedly on what his long years of service had yielded.

A sultry breeze born in the womb of the Carellian Sea lovingly caressed the port city of Shorelle, while Luna showered luminescence upon the world below. Given the turbulent affairs of the period, it was somehow comforting to Lieutenant Jyreem Jasem that nature stayed fixed upon her eternal vigil over the affairs of man. It was a beautiful, star splashed evening, a perfect night for the Midsummer Festival. When the lieutenant had been a young child, he and the rest of the continent would clamor out into their city squares or out on into the countryside in a giant torch lit procession under the light of a full moon. Then, after erecting a massive bonfire, everyone would enjoy a night of drinking and dancing and retelling the familiar legends of old. The holiday was a mirthful homage to the early ancestors of humanity who were said to have worshipped the spirits of nature. It was a link to a simpler past and an expression of continuity into the future, and generally an excuse to enjoy oneself.

It the last several years the festival had suffered a decline in popularity among the masses. Most people these days did not venture far from the presumed safety of their dwellings into the uncertain dangers of the night. Tonight in the provincial capitol of Shorelle, however, there marched a mighty torch lit procession as legions of Friends of the Dark converged in front of the Minister’s Palace, snarling insults and dark oaths at the region’s most powerful politician. It seemed every tenth person was burning the Minister in effigy, the flaming remains forming bonfires of their own in the middle of the street. Squadrons of armed Ogier Guardsmen had erected a towering line of defense in front of the Palace, obstructing the enraged hordes from their intended target.

Behind and apart from the seething throngs, Be’lal stared bemusedly at the Darkfriends as they swore viciously at the Ogier and offered rude gestures. “To think I once stood at Lews Therin’s side and helped preserve society from these thugs. And now I am one of their masters.”

Lieutenant Jyreem Jasem, recently commissioned officer of the Shadar Mandarb, hid a mocking smile at his master’s musings behind a datapad he pretended to reread. It had been up-linked to the local information network and displayed an article from yesterday’s political news.

MINISTER LIKINUG BLOCKS EXPANSION OF DARKFRIEND COMPLEX. Provincial Minister Likinug today led the regional parliament in issuing a restraining order on the planned expansion of the so-called Shadar Mandarb Academy on the outskirts of Shorelle. Citing security concerns, the leader of the Traditional Party prohibited any further construction on the local center used by elements of the Friends of the Dark. “The Darkfriends are using the Shadar Mandarb complex to train a paramilitary force for Creator knows what,” said Minister Likinug. “Until they hold themselves more accountable for their shadowy (no pun intended) activities, this administration will block any further development in that area.” The Progression Party joined with the Traditionalists, giving the minister the slim majority he needed to pass the motion through parliament.

Reaction from the opposing faction was predictably vehement. “This is a travesty of democratic government,” claimed Be’lal, leader of the regional Shadow Party, the political wing of the rapidly growing social movement known as The Friends of the Dark. As in parliaments the world over, the Shadow Party commands a significant minority of seats in Shorelle, forcing the age-old enemies of the Traditional and Progression Parties into an uneasy coalition to retain control. Be’lal, formerly known as Duram Laddel Cham, the former Advocate and Aes Sedai who publicly disavowed his oaths to The Hall of Servants, has been a prime force in the Shadar Mandarb sect of Shorellen Darkfriends since moving to the city. “The Shadar Mandarb complex is an educational establishment that trains bright young citizens as scholars and leaders of the next generation of Friends of the Dark. The Academy is a private institution, built with private funds on private property. Our actions have been completely peaceful and legal, and have not violated any public trust. The Traditional and Progression Parties are merely trying to retard the growth of us, their rapidly expanding political competitor in parliament. The Shadow Party will not stand for this unlawful use of democratic power!”

Upon hearing Be’lal’s side of the story, Minister Likinug roared with laughter. “A peaceful academy of political scholars? With a name like Shadow Blades? Please! Those people are nothing but street hooligans swaggering around in their trademark gray shirts. They are a private thug force for the Shadow Party designed to intimidate their opponents and subvert our ancient democratic order. No, I am not permitting their devious activities to continue, not while I am still alive!”

Parliament’s decision is expected to draw mass protests from Friends of the Dark from all over the continent tomorrow evening, during the holiday observances of the Midsummer Festival.

“Mass protests indeed,” murmured Jyreem. An ever-growing crowd of outraged Darkfriends had been assembling in front of the Minister’s palace, waving torches and angry fists. A few, Jyreem noted, had brought civilian versions of shocklances used for hunting in rustic areas. The lieutenant shook his head condescendingly. It would take more than a few bumpkins armed with second rate weapons to break through the Ogier and torch the palace.

Which, of course, is where he came in. Be’lal appraised him seriously. “Well, my fine young scholar ,” the Lord Chosen intoned with a self-deprecating smirk, “it’s time to test the limits of your academy training. The Great Lord Himself has deemed the Shadar Mandarb as a vital component in the coming war that is now considered inevitable. Do not disappoint me in this mission.” His last order was uttered in a viciously quiet voice.

“Your will be done, Great Master. If I do not return victorious I shall renounce my life and sacred honor before these very masses.” The Lieutenant motioned to a nearby platoon of gray shirted Shadar Mandarb agents who came to stiff attention and readied themselves for the fray.

“One small matter, Jyreem.” Be’lal commenced. He produced a long, stylish dagger of sharp, silver metal. It was a thing of exquisite beauty, like a revered ceremonial blade of some primordial tribe that Jyreem had seen in museums. On both its sides, elegantly etched, glistened the Shadow Party’s mantra: May the Glories of the Great Lord Reign Eternal. “I am instituting a tradition today. All officers of the Shadar Mandarb are to wear these daggers as a sigil of their office and symbol of their loyalty to the cause. It seemed somehow appropriate, given the spirit of the holiday. Consider it a graduation present.”

Jyreem silently appraised it for a moment, letting the moon highlight its handsome features. Sheathing it in his belt patch, he bowed deeply. “I shall treasure it always, Great Master.”

He left Be’lal with his small squadron of agents, and disappeared into a deserted alley where they would not be seen. Jyreem grinned eagerly to his anxious agents. “When I was in grade school, my class took an academic tour of the Minister’s palace. Being the impatient young scullion I was, I ran off from the tour group to explore the place on my own and soon found myself in an unguarded section of the basement. My teacher found me and gave me the scolding of my life. I can still remember the exact spot …. Now comes the time of truth. Make me proud, Shadow Blades.”

Jyreem channeled, and time and space folded in on themselves into a square hole. Thirty of Be’lal’s agents stormed the Minister’s palace. Silently, stealthily, Jyreem led them up from the basement, dispatching the security systems and surveillance cameras with ease. Since most of the guards were outside defending the palace from the presumed threat of the protestors, passage through the mansion proved swift and effortless. The few random sentries that were found in the hallways were noiselessly neutralized. Just like the Academy’s training scenarios mused Jyreem. Finally, at the minister’s quarters, it was the Lieutenant himself who was given the honor of ending the mission. Channeling Fire and Air, the thick security doors to Likinug’s chambers were breached. Jyreem and his agents plowed through to find the minister and his family gazing out of the window in apprehension at the growing protests below them.

At the site of thirty gray shirted, armed hooligans, Likinug’s wife and children screamed and wept uncontrollably. The Minister himself, however, merely spat on floor. “So, this is what the ways of the world have come to?” he asked rhetorically, his words edged with anger and resignation.

“Its nothing personal, Minister. We simply cannot allow you to stand in the way of history. Long Live the Shadar Mandarb!” Jyreem raised his sawed-off shocklance, a feral glint infusing his eyes.

They left as quickly as they had arrived, leaving no indication of their presence having ever been there. Taking no chances, they crossed some electrical circuits in the residence, starting a great fire that burned uncontrollably within. On the street below, the formidable line of Ogier Guards in front of the palace turned their attention away from the assembled throngs; behind them the object of their security had inexplicably become a raging inferno on their watch. It was at that moment, with their attention distracted, the Darkfriend sea washed over them in bloodlust

In front of a great bonfire the throngs danced and drank and retold stories of old as the full moon traversed a starry sky. Jyreem joined them, laughing gleefully as he had not done so since childhood. Prayers of thanks to the Great Lord were invoked, and ceremonies in His name performed. The celebrations of the Midsummer Festival ceased only when the continental militia came swarming in with armored jo-cars.

Jyreem placed a bony hand on the jo-car, tracing its metallic outline and letting its concrete feel bring him back to this alleged reality. He tearfully caressed the Shadow Blade insignia and the dreadlord sigil beneath it, proud symbols of a now extinct age.

What had come from those countless victories the Shadow Blades had attained? Nothing! Nothing but a doomed planet upon which the sacred name of the Shadar Mandarb was no longer spoken. To oblivion with the Great Lord and the Chosen and the Shadow! To oblivion with the Creator and Earth and humanity itself!

Jyreem’s existence had revolved solely around Shadar Mandarb itself, around the thrill of victory and the sense of power; it had always been about the pride and near sexual ecstasy derived from another mission completed in victory. Perhaps in another lifetime, in another world, he would have the chance to relive old glories with old friends.

Dreadlord Jyreem Jasem Ebra grasped the Shadar Mandarb dagger with both gnarled hands and raised it high above his chest. “Long Live the Shadar Mandarb!” He screamed, plunging the shadow blade into his heart.

The howling dust-wind and roaring earth drowned out his voice in an unholy chorus, and only the accusing waves of crimson moonlight bore witness to his passing.