New Spring: The Graphic Novel (Wheel of Time Series)

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Overview

In the last few years before his death, Robert Jordan worked closely with Chuck Dixon and Mike Miller on the graphic adaptation of New Spring.

The eight full-color issues of New Spring, released between 2005 and 2010, tell the story of the search for the infant Dragon Reborn and of the adventures of Moiraine Damodred, a young Aes Sedai, and Lan Mandragoran, the uncrowned king of a long-dead nation.  Adapted by noted comics writer Chuck Dixon with the full cooperation of ...

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New Spring: the Graphic Novel

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Overview

In the last few years before his death, Robert Jordan worked closely with Chuck Dixon and Mike Miller on the graphic adaptation of New Spring.

The eight full-color issues of New Spring, released between 2005 and 2010, tell the story of the search for the infant Dragon Reborn and of the adventures of Moiraine Damodred, a young Aes Sedai, and Lan Mandragoran, the uncrowned king of a long-dead nation.  Adapted by noted comics writer Chuck Dixon with the full cooperation of Robert Jordan, and illustrated by artists Mike Miller and Harvey Tolibao, New Spring will delight any of Robert Jordan’s millions of readers.

Tor is proud to collect all eight issues of New Spring in a single volume, which will also include developmental art, script pages, and correspondence between Jordan and Dixon.

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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
The Barnes & Noble Review
In 1998, Robert Jordan tantalized millions of Wheel of Time fans with a bite-sized literary appetizer when he published the novella "New Spring," a prequel to his epic ten-volume saga, in the heralded Legends anthology. Now comes the mouthwatering three-course meal -- the much-expanded version about the prophecy that started it all.

Set approximately two decades before the events of the first book in the series, the story focuses on two characters: Lan Mandragoran, the uncrowned warrior king of a nation that no longer exists, and Moiraine Damodred, a young Accepted soon to become an Aes Sedai (one of an elite group of powerful and often dangerous women who can channel the One Power). As Lan and his fellow soldiers drive the invading clans of black-veiled Aiel back across the Spine of the World, a blood-chilling prophecy is foretold by a dying Aes Sedai. "He is born again! The Dragon takes his first breath on the slopes of Dragonmount! He is coming! Light help us! Light help the world!" The birth of this child is both terrifying and wondrous in its implications. The birth means the Dark One will break free again, for the child is fated to face the Dark One in Tarmon Gai'don, the Last Battle. He could save the world -- or destroy it forever.

Although Wheel of Time followers will undoubtedly make this novel an international bestseller, the appeal of New Spring is even wider in scope because of its status as the prequel to one of the bestselling fantasy series of all time. This is not only a must-read book for longtime fans of the saga but also a perfect place for new fans to begin their epic literary journey on the ever turning Wheel of Time. Paul Goat Allen

From the Publisher
“There is plenty to like in this comic.  Fans can revel in the careful realizations of familiar characters.  Newcomers can delight in high quality, evocatively colored art, including numerous two-page spreads.  The story feels like it was intended for the comic book medium . . . due in no small way to Chuck Dixon’s hand in this.  Top flight.”

ComicCritique.com

ComicCritique.com
There is plenty to like in this comic. Fans can revel in the careful realizations of familiar characters. Newcomers can delight in high quality, evocatively colored art, including numerous two-page spreads. The story feels like it was intended for the comic book medium . . . due in no small way to Chuck Dixon’s hand in this. Top flight.
Children's Literature - BriAnne Baxley MLIS
Jordan presents to the graphic novel world a graphic version of his comic New Spring. As a prequel to his novel, The Wheel of Time, the graphic novel presents the the search for a young infant who will fulfill an ancient prophecy. Readers will enjoy nonstop adventure along with great fantasy qualities, including noble characters, magic, and heroic turmoil found throughout the pages. Each page is full of wonderfully detailed and beautifully colored art work which allows the action to jump off the pages. This graphic novel, however, is not written for the novice graphic novel reader. Each page consists of multilayered panels that move through a difficult story line. As a spin off of Jordan's other works, the plot of New Spring can be difficult to understand for readers with little or no prior knowledge of the storyline of his other works. Reviewer: BriAnne Baxley, MLIS
Publishers Weekly
Expanded from a story that first appeared in Robert Silverberg's anthology Legends (1998), Jordan's eagerly awaited prequel to The Wheel of Time, the first of a projected three, more than lives up to its high expectations. For three days, battle has raged around the city of Tar Valon. In the White Tower two young Accepted attend the Amyrlin Seat and her Keeper as they await word of the outcome. Purely by chance, Moiraine Damodred and Siuan Sanche are on duty when the Keeper foretells the rebirth of the Dragon, the world's only hope of winning the fight against the Dark One. Written with all the skill that has made Jordan one of the grand masters of fantasy, it's accessible enough for new readers, while the inside information is sure to captivate longtime fans. Far from the coldly self-possessed Aes Sedai who arrives in Emond's Field in The Eye of the World, the first Wheel book, Moiraine is a fun-loving, prank-playing and na ve Accepted, one who slowly grows into a determined and resourceful character. Even better, the narrative is flush with answers to mysteries only hinted at in Wheel (what was the test for Aes Sedai, what was "the Vileness") and with little details aimed at those in the know. Jordan buffs will be especially pleased to find the novel moves quickly, not at the glacial pace of recent books in the saga. (Jan. 6) Forecast: A $750,000 marketing campaign, including TV ads and movie slide advertising in conjunction with the release of the third Lord of the Rings movie, should ensure another #1 debut on many lists. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
VOYA
While training to earn the coveted rank of Aes Sedai, Moiraine and Siuan are present when the Keeper, Gitara, dies suddenly after foretelling the rebirth of the Dragon. Warning the girls to keep the foretelling secret, Tamra, the Amyrlin Seat, immediately begins a massive search for the child to protect it. In the guise of offering a bounty to women who gave birth while the city was in danger, Tamra gathers the names of those newborn babies. Tamra dies suddenly and is joined in death by several other Aes Sedai who are also privy to the secret. The hunt for the child continues, but Siuan and Moiraine suspect that some searchers intend to kill the Dragon Reborn, not save him. Discovering the existence of a secret Black Ajah, which channels the One Power for harm and not good, they are joined reluctantly by Lan Mandraoran as they continue their frantic search. A rewrite of a Jordan novella, this new addition is a prequel to The Wheel of Time series. Although fans might snap it up looking for new material on Lan and Moiraine Sedai, the pace is disappointing at first. Older Harry Potter fans might enjoy the school atmosphere describing the girls' studies to create the one hundred weaves of power for their testing for the Aes Sedai shawl. The latter half is more appealing for adventure buffs. This book's audience lies primarily with Jordan fans who have already read other offerings such as its predecessor, Crossroads of Twilight (Tor, 2003). VOYA Codes 3Q 2P J S A/YA (Readable without serious defects; For the YA with a special interest in the subject; Junior High, defined as grades 7 to 9; Senior High, defined as grades 10 to 12; Adult-marketed book recommended for Young Adults). 2004, Tor,335p., Ages 12 to Adult.
—Nancy K. Wallace
Library Journal
After hearing a prophecy that a child had been born to lead the world in a confrontation against the malevolent force of the Shadow, the newly confirmed Aes Sedai sister Moiraine sets out on a clandestine search to find the infant known as the Dragon Reborn. At the same time, the soldier Lan Mandragoran finds his battle-hardened life is leading him to an unknown destiny. Expanding on the novella by the same name that appears in the anthology Legends, Jordan embellishes the prehistory of two of the familiar characters from his best-selling "Wheel of Time" series. Insightful and vivid storytelling makes this a good addition to most fantasy collections. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780765323804
  • Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
  • Publication date: 1/18/2011
  • Series: Wheel of Time Series
  • Edition description: Illustrated
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 256
  • Sales rank: 599,954
  • Product dimensions: 6.60 (w) x 10.10 (h) x 0.80 (d)

Meet the Author

Robert  Jordan

Robert Jordan was born in 1948 in Charleston, South Carolina. He taught himself to read when he was four with the incidental aid of a twelve-years-older brother, and was tackling Mark Twain and Jules Verne by five. He is a graduate of The Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina, with a degree in physics. He served two tours in Vietnam with the U.S. Army; among his decorations are the Distinguished Flying Cross with bronze oak leaf cluster, the Bronze Star with "V" and bronze oak leaf cluster, and two Vietnamese Gallantry Crosses with palm. A history buff, he has also written dance and theater criticism and enjoyed the outdoor sports of hunting, fishing, and sailing, and the indoor sports of poker, chess, pool, and pipe collecting.

Robert Jordan began writing in 1977 and went on to write The Wheel of Time®, one of the most important and best selling series in the history of fantasy publishing with over 14 million copies sold in North America, and countless more sold abroad.

Robert Jordan died on September 16, 2007, after a courageous battle with the rare blood disease amyloidosis.

 

Chuck Dixon writer of New Spring: the Graphic Novel, has written many comics for DC, Marvel, and most other major comics publishers.  Considered one of the best writers of Batman of the last decade, Dixon worked closely with Robert Jordan on the adaptation of New Spring.

 

Mike Miller has worked for Marvel and DC and on other Dabel Bros. projects, including The Hedge Knight.

 

Harvey Tolibao draws Darkhawk for Marvel Comics and Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic for Dark Horse Comics.

Biography

Robert Jordan was born in 1948 in Charleston, South Carolina, where he lived with his wife, Harriet, in a house built in 1797. He taught himself to read when he was four (with the incidental aid of a twelve-years-older brother) and was tackling Mark Twain and Jules Verne by five. After graduating from The Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina, with a degree in physics, he served two tours in Vietnam with the U.S. Army, earning the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Bronze Star with "V", and two Vietnamese Crosses of Gallantry. A history buff, he also wrote dance and theater criticism. In September, 2007, Jordan died from complications of a rare blood disease. He was 58 years old.
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    1. Also Known As:
      James Oliver Rigney Jr. (real name)
    1. Date of Birth:
      October 17, 1948
    2. Place of Birth:
      Charleston, South Carolina
    1. Date of Death:
      September 16, 2007
    2. Place of Death:
      Charleston, South Carolina

Read an Excerpt

NEW SPRING

THE NOVEL
By Robert Jordan

Tor

ISBN: 0-7653-0629-8


Chapter One

A cold wind gusted through the night, across the snow-covered land where men had been killing one another for the past three days. The air was crisp, if not so icy as Lan was accustomed to for this time of year. It was still cold enough for his steel breastplate to carry the chill through his coat, and his breath to mist in front of his face when the wind did not whip it away. The blackness in the sky was just beginning to fade, the thousands of stars like the thick-scattered dust of diamonds slowly dimming. The fat sickle of the moon hung low, giving barely light to make out the silhouettes of the men guarding the fireless camp in the sprawling copse of oak and leatherleaf. Fires would have given them away to the Aiel. He had fought the Aiel long before this war began, on the Shienaran Marches, a matter of duty to friends. Aielmen were bad enough in daylight. Facing them in the night was as close to staking your life on the toss of a coin as made no difference. Of course, sometimes they found you even without fires.

Resting a gauntleted hand on his sword in its scabbard, he pulled his cloak back around himself and continued his round of the sentries through calf-deep snow. It was an ancient sword, made with the One Power before the Breaking of the World, during the War of the Shadow, when the Dark One had touched the world for a time. Only legends remained of that Age, except perhaps for what the Aes Sedai might know, yet the blade was hard fact. It could not be broken and never needed sharpening. The hilt had been replaced countless times over the long centuries, but not even tarnish could touch the blade. Once, it had been the sword of Malkieri kings. Once.

The next sentry he came to, a short stocky fellow in a long dark cloak, was leaning back against the trunk of a heavy-limbed oak, his head slumped on his chest. Lan touched the sentry's shoulder, and the man jerked upright, almost dropping the horn-and-sinew horsebow gripped in his gloved hands. The hood of his cloak slid back, revealing his conical steel helmet for an instant before he hastily pulled the cowl up again. In the pale moonlight, Lan could not make out the man's face behind the vertical bars of his face-guard, but he knew him. Lan's own helmet was open, in the style of dead Malkier, supporting a crescent moon above his forehead.

"I wasn't sleeping, my Lord," the fellow said quickly. "Just resting a moment." A copper-skinned Domani, he sounded embarrassed, and rightly so. This was not his first battle, or even his first war.

"An Aiel would have wakened you by slitting your throat or putting a spear through your heart, Basram," Lan said in a quiet voice. Men listened closer to calm tones than to the loudest shouts, so long as firmness and certainty accompanied the calm. "Maybe it would be better without the temptation of the tree so near." He refrained from adding that even if the Aiel did not kill him, the man risked frostbite standing in one place too long. Basram knew that. Winters were nearly as cold in Arad Doman as in the Borderlands.

Mumbling an apology, the Domani respectfully touched his helmet and moved three paces out from the tree. He held himself erect, now, and peered into the darkness. He shifted his feet, too, guarding against blackened toes. Rumor said Aes Sedai were offering Healing, closer to the river, injuries and sickness gone as if they had never been, but without that, amputation was the usual way to stop a man losing his feet to gangrene, and maybe his legs as well. In any case, it was best to avoid becoming involved with Aes Sedai more than absolutely necessary. Years later you could find she had tied strings to you just in case she might have need. Aes Sedai thought far ahead, and seldom seemed to have much care for who they used in their schemes or how. That was one reason Lan avoided them.

How long would Basram's renewed alertness last? Lan wished he had the answer, but there was no point in taking the Domani to task further. All of the men he commanded were bone weary. Likely every man in the army of the grandly named Great Coalition - sometimes it was called the Grand Coalition, or the Grand Alliance, or half a dozen other things, some worse than uncomplimentary - likely every last man was near exhaustion. A battle was hot work, snow or no snow, and tiring. Muscles could knot from tension even when you had the chance to stop for a time, and the last few days had offered small chance to stop very long.

The camp held well over three hundred men, a full quarter of them on guard at any given time - against Aiel, Lan wanted as many eyes on watch as he could manage - and before he had gone another two hundred paces, he had had to wake three more, one asleep on his feet without any support at all. Jaim's head was even up, and his eyes open. That was a trick some soldiers learned, especially old soldiers like Jaim. Cutting off the gray-bearded man's protests that he could not have been asleep, not standing up straight, Lan promised to let Jaim's friends know if he found him sleeping again.

Jaim's mouth hung open for a moment, then he swallowed hard. "Won't happen again, my Lord. The Light sear my soul if it does!" He sounded sincere to his bones. Some men would have been afraid that their friends would drub them senseless for putting the rest in danger, but given the company Jaim kept, more likely he dreaded the humiliation of having been caught.

As Lan walked on, he found himself chuckling. He seldom laughed, and it was a fool thing to laugh over, but laughter was better than worrying over what he could not change, such as weary men drowsing on guard. As well worry about death. What could not be changed must be endured.

Abruptly, he stopped and raised his voice. "Bukama, why are you sneaking about? You've been following me ever since I woke." A startled grunt came from behind him. Doubtless Bukama had thought he was being silent, and in truth, very few men would have heard the faint crunching of his boots in the snow, yet he should have known Lan would. After all, he had been one of Lan's teachers, and one of the first lessons had been to be aware of his surroundings at all times, even in his sleep. Not an easy lesson for a boy to learn, but only the dead could afford oblivion. The oblivious soon became the dead, in the Blight beyond the Borderlands.

"I've been watching your back," Bukama announced gruffly, striding up to join him. "One of these black-veiled Aiel Darkfriends could sneak in and cut your throat for all the care you're taking. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?" Bluff and broad, Bukama was almost as tall as he, taller than most men, and wearing a Malkieri helmet without a crest, though he had the right to one. He had more concern for his duties than his rights, which was proper, but Lan wished he would not spurn his rights so completely.

When the nation of Malkier died, twenty men had been given the task of carrying the infant Lan Mandragoran to safety. Only five had survived that journey, to raise Lan from the cradle and train him, and Bukama was the last left alive. His hair was solid gray now, worn cut at the shoulder as tradition required, but his back was straight, his arms hard, his blue eyes clear and keen. Tradition infused Bukama. A thin braided leather cord held his hair back, resting in the permanent groove across his forehead it had made over the years. Few men still wore the hadori. Lan did. He would die wearing it, and go into the ground wearing that and nothing else. If there was anyone to bury him where he died. He glanced north, toward his distant home. Most people would have thought it a strange place to call home, but he had felt the pull of it ever since he came south.

"I remembered enough to hear you," he replied. There was too little light to make out Bukama's weathered face, yet he knew it wore a glower. He could not recall seeing any other expression from his friend and teacher even when he spoke praise. Bukama was steel clothed in flesh. Steel his will, duty his soul. "Do you still believe the Aiel are pledged to the Dark One?"

The other man made a sign to ward off evil, as if Lan had spoken the Dark One's true name. Shai'tan. They had both seen the misfortune that followed speaking that name aloud, and Bukama was one of those who believed that even thinking it drew the Dark One's attention. The Dark One and all the Forsaken are bound in Shayol Ghul, Lan recited the catechism in his head, bound by the Creator at the moment of creation. May we shelter safe beneath the Light, in the Creator's hand. He did not believe thinking that name was enough, but better safe than sorry when it came to the Shadow.

"If they aren't, then why are we here?" Bukama said sourly. And surprisingly. He liked to grumble, but always about inconsequential things or prospects for the future. Never the present.

"I gave my word to stay until the end," Lan replied mildly. Bukama scrubbed at his nose. His grunt might have been abashed this time. It was hard to be sure. Another of his lessons had been that a man's word must be as good as an oath sworn beneath the Light or it was no good at all.

The Aiel had seemed like a horde of Darkfriends when they suddenly spilled across the immense mountain range called the Spine of the World. They had burned the great city of Cairhien, ravaged the nation of Cairhien, and in the two years since, had fought through Tear and then Andor before reaching these killing fields, outside the huge island city of Tar Valon. In all the years since the nations of the present day had been carved out of Artur Hawkwing's empire, the Aiel had never before left the desert called the Waste. They might have invaded before that; no one could be sure, except maybe the Aes Sedai in Tar Valon, but, as so often with the women of the White Tower, they were not saying. What Aes Sedai knew, they held close, and doled out by dribbles and drops when and if they chose. In the world outside of Tar Valon, though, many men had claimed to see a pattern. A thousand years had passed between the Breaking of the World and the Trolloc Wars, or so most historians said. Those wars destroyed the nations that existed then, and no one doubted that the Dark One's hand had been behind them, imprisoned or not, as surely as it had been behind the War of the Shadow, and the Breaking, and the end of the Age of Legends. A thousand years from the Trolloc Wars until Hawkwing built an empire and that, too, was destroyed, after his death, in the War of the Hundred Years. Some historians said they saw the Dark One's hand in that war, too. And now, close enough to a thousand years after Hawkwing's empire died, the Aiel came, burning and killing. It had to be a pattern. Surely the Dark One must have directed them. Lan would never have come south if he had not believed that. He no longer did. But he had given his word.

He wriggled his toes in his turned-down boots. Whether or not it was as cold as he was used to, iciness burrowed into your feet if you stood too long in one place in snow. "Let's walk," he said. "I don't doubt I'll have to wake a dozen more men if not two." And make another round to wake others.

Before they could take a step, however, a sound brought them up short, and alert; the sound of a horse walking in the snow. Lan's hand drifted to his swordhilt, half consciously easing the blade in its sheath. A faint rasp of steel on leather came from Bukama doing the same. Neither feared an attack; Aiel rode only at great need, and reluctantly even then. But a lone horseman at this hour had to be a messenger, and messengers rarely brought good news, these days. Especially not in the night.

Horse and rider materialized out of the darkness following a lean man afoot, one of the sentries by the horsebow he carried. The horse had the arched neck of good Tairen bloodstock, and the rider was plainly from Tear as well. For one thing, the scent of roses came ahead of him on the wind, from the oils glistening on his pointed beard, and only Tairens were fool enough to wear scent, as if the Aiel had no noses. Besides, no one else wore those helmets with a high ridge across the top and a rim that cast the man's narrow face in shadow. A single short white plume on the helmet marked him an officer, an odd choice for a messenger, even an officer of low rank. He huddled in his high-cantled saddle and held his dark cloak tightly around him. He seemed to be shivering. Tear lay far to the south. On the coast of Tear, it never snowed so much as a single flake. Lan had never quite believed that, whatever he had read, until he had seen it for himself.

"Here he is, my Lord," the sentry said in a hoarse voice. A grizzled Saldaean named Rakim, he had received that voice a year back, along with a ragged scar that he liked to show off when drinking, from an Aiel arrow in the throat. Rakim considered himself lucky to be alive, and he was. Unfortunately, he also believed that having cheated death once, he would continue to do so. He took chances, and even when not drinking, he boasted about his luck, a fool thing to do. There was no point to taunting fate.

"Lord Mandragoran?" The rider drew rein in front of Lan and Bukama. Remaining in his saddle, he eyed them uncertainly. Their armor was unadorned, their coats and cloaks plain wool and somewhat worn. A little embroidery was a fine thing, but some southern men decked themselves out like tapestries. Likely under his cloak the Tairen wore a gilded breastplate and one of those coats with puffy sleeves striped in bright satin. His high boots were certainly embroidered in scrollwork that shone in the moonlight with the glitter of silver. In any case, the man went on with barely a pause for breath. "The Light burn my soul, I was sure you were the closest, but I was beginning to think I'd never find you. Lord Emares is following about five or six hundred Aiel with six hundred of his armsmen." He shook his head slightly. "Odd thing is, they're heading east. Away from the river. At any rate, the snow slows them as much as it does us, and Lord Emares thinks if you can place an anvil on that ridgeline they call the Hook, he can take them from behind with a hammer. Lord Emares doubts they can reach it before first light."

Lan's mouth tightened. Some of these southlanders had peculiar notions of polite behavior. Not dismounting before he spoke, not naming himself. As a guest, he should have named himself first. Now Lan could not without sounding boastful. The fellow had failed even to offer his lord's compliments or good wishes. And he seemed to think they did not know that east would be away from the River Erinin. Perhaps that was just carelessness in speech, but the rest was rudeness. Bukama had not moved, yet Lan laid a hand on his sword arm anyway. His oldest friend could be touchy.

The Hook lay a good league from the camp, and the night was failing, but he nodded.

Continues...


Excerpted from NEW SPRING by Robert Jordan Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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  • Posted December 28, 2010

    Finally - I can see what happened in the comic books I never received!

    My husband subscribed to the individual comics of this when they were first announced back in 2005 and over the last 5 years they have arrived spurraticly and I am missing a few - I'm glad to see them all being released in a Graphic Novel.
    The art in these have been spectacular. I love how the artist envisioned each of the characters. I loved reading the novel when it was release several years ago, but there is something about SEEING the characters you have grown to love drawn out on paper.
    The story of Moraine's journey to find the Dragon Reborn and how she met up with Lan is a favorite of mine.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 8, 2012

    Great Book

    Loved the graphics and the story. Great Book

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    Posted April 23, 2010

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    Posted February 26, 2011

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