Uh-oh, it looks like your Internet Explorer is out of date.

For a better shopping experience, please upgrade now.

New Spring (Wheel of Time Series)

New Spring (Wheel of Time Series)

3.6 240
by Robert Jordan

See All Formats & Editions

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass. What was, what will be, and what is, may yet fall under the shadow. Let the Dragon ride again on the winds of time.


The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass. What was, what will be, and what is, may yet fall under the shadow. Let the Dragon ride again on the winds of time.

Editorial Reviews

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

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.
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.
From the Publisher

“Jordan's eagerly awaited prequel to The Wheel of Time more than lives up to its high expectations. 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.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“This is The Wheel of Time at its best: political intrigue, powerful characters, dangerous magic, and even more dangerous secrets.” —Bookpage

“Jordan is the master of his domain.” —The Post and Courier, Charleston, SC

Product Details

Tom Doherty Associates
Publication date:
Wheel of Time Series
Edition description:
Revised by Author
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
4.06(w) x 6.76(h) x 1.16(d)
Age Range:
12 - 18 Years

Read an Excerpt


The Hook

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 expected 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 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.
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 faceguard, but he knew him. Lan's own helmet was open, in the style of dead Malkier, supporting a steel 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 black-rot, 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 one of them had tied strings to you just in case she might have need. Aes Sedai thought far ahead, and seldom seemed to care 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 they 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 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 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 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 Dark-friends 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 merely 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 indeed 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 had 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 sword hilt, 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, albeit 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, no doubt because 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 a silk satin coat striped in his house colors. 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. "Inform Lord Emares that I will be there by first light," he told the horseman. The name Emares was unfamiliar, but the army was so large, near two hundred thousand men representing more than a dozen nations, plus Tower Guards from Tar Valon and even a contingent of the Children of the Light, that it was impossible to know above a handful of names. "Bukama, rouse the men."
Bukama grunted, savagely this time, and with a gesture for Rakim to follow, stalked away into the camp, his voice rising as he went. "Wake and saddle! We ride! Wake and saddle!"
"Ride hard," the nameless Tairen said with at least a hint of command in his voice. "Lord Emares would regret riding against those Aiel without an anvil in place." He seemed to be implying that Lan would regret this Emares' regretting.
Lan formed the image of a flame in his mind and fed emotion into it, not anger alone but everything, every scrap, until it seemed that he floated in emptiness. After years of practice, achieving ko'di, the oneness, needed less than a heartbeat. Thought and his own body grew distant, but in this state he became one with the ground beneath his feet, one with the night, with the sword he would not use on this mannerless fool. "I said that I would be there," he said levelly. "What I say, I do." He no longer wished to know the man's name.
The Tairen offered him a curt bow from his saddle, turned his horse, and booted the animal to a quick trot.
Lan held the ko'di a moment longer to be sure his emotions were firmly under control. It was beyond unwise to enter battle angry. Anger narrowed the vision and made for foolish choices. How had that fellow managed to stay alive this long? In the Borderlands, he would have sparked a dozen duels in a day. Only when Lan was sure that he was calm, almost as cool as if he were still wrapped in the oneness, did he turn. Summoning the Tairen's shadowed face brought no anger with it. Good.
By the time he reached the center of the camp among the trees, it would have seemed a kicked ant-heap to most men. To one who knew, it was ordered activity, and almost silent. No wasted motion or breath. There were no tents to be struck, since pack animals would have been an encumbrance when it came to fighting. Some men were already on their horses, breastplates buckled in place, helmets on their heads, and in their hands lances tipped with a foot or more of steel. Nearly all of the rest were tightening saddle girths or fastening leather-cased horsebows and full quivers behind the tall cantles of their saddles. The slow had died in the first year fighting the Aiel. Most now were Saldaeans and Kandori, the rest Domani. Some Malkieri had come south, but Lan would not lead them, not even here. Bukama rode with him, but he did not follow.
Bukama met him carrying a lance and leading his yellow roan gelding, Sun Lance, followed by a beardless youth named Caniedrin, who was carefully leading Lan's Cat Dancer. The bay stallion was only half-trained, but Caniedrin was well advised to take care. Even a half-trained warhorse was a formidable weapon. Of course, the Kandori was not as innocent as his fresh face suggested. An efficient and experienced soldier, an archer of rare skill, he was a cheerful killer who often laughed while he fought. He was smiling now, at the prospect of fighting to come. Cat Dancer tossed his head, also impatient.
Whatever Caniedrin's experience, Lan checked Cat Dancer's saddle girths carefully before taking the reins. A loose girth could kill as quickly as a spear-thrust.
"I told them what we're about this morning," Bukama muttered after Caniedrin had headed off to his own mount, "but with these Aiel, an anvil can turn into a pincushion if the hammer is slow in coming." He never grumbled in front of the men, just to Lan.
"And the hammer can become a pincushion if it strikes with no anvil in place," Lan replied, swinging into the saddle. The sky was plainly gray now. Still a dark gray, but only a scattered handful of stars remained. "We will have to ride hard to reach the Hook before first light." He raised his voice. "Mount!"
Ride hard they did, cantering half a mile, then trotting, then leading the animals by the reins at a fast walk before mounting to begin over. In stories, men galloped for ten miles, twenty, but even without snow, to gallop the whole four or five miles would have lamed half the horses and winded the rest long before reaching the Hook. The silence of the fading night was broken only by the crunch of hooves or boots in the snow crust, the creak of saddle leather, and sometimes the muttered curses of men who caught a toe on a hidden stone. No one wasted breath on complaints or talk. They had all done this often, and men and horses hit an easy rhythm that covered ground quickly.
The land around Tar Valon was rolling plain for the most part, dotted with widely spaced copses and thickets, few large, but all thick with darkness. Large or small, Lan eyed those clumps of trees carefully as he led his men past, and he kept the column well away. Aiel were very good at using whatever cover they could find, places where most men would be sure a dog could not hide, and very good at springing ambushes. Nothing stirred, though. For all his eyes could see, the band he led could have been the only living men in the world. The hoot of an owl was the only sound he heard that they did not make.
The sky in the east was a much paler gray by the time the low ridge called the Hook came into sight. Well under a mile in length, the treeless crest rose little more than forty feet above the surrounding ground, but any elevation gave some advantage in defense. The name came from the way the northern end curved back toward the south, a feature plainly visible as he arranged his men in a long line along the top of the ridge to either side of him. The light was definitely growing. To the west, he thought he could make out the pale bulk of the White Tower itself, rising in the center of Tar Valon some three leagues distant.
The Tower was the tallest structure in the known world, yet it was overshadowed by the bulk of the lone mountain that rose out of the plains beyond the city, on the other side of the river. That was clear enough when there was any light at all. In the deepest night, you could see it blocking the stars. Dragonmount would have been a giant in the Spine of the World, but there on the plain, it was monstrous, piercing the clouds and rising taller. Higher above the clouds than most mountains were below, its broken peak always emitted a streamer of smoke. A symbol of hope and despair. A mountain of prophecy. Glancing at it, Bukama made another sign against evil. No one wanted that prophecy fulfilled. But it would be, of course, one day.
From the ridgeline, gently rolling ground ran more than a mile to the west, to one of the larger thickets, half a league wide. Three trampled paths crisscrossed the snow between, where large numbers of horses or men afoot had passed. Without going closer, it was impossible to say who had made them, Aiel or men of the so-called Coalition, only that they had been made since the snowfall stopped, late two days ago.
There was no sign of Aiel yet, but if they had not changed direction, which was always possible, they could appear out of those trees any moment. Without waiting for Lan's order, men drove their lances point-down into the ground beneath the snow, where they could be snatched up again easily at need. Uncasing their horsebows, they pulled arrows from their quivers and nocked them, but did not draw. Only newlings thought they could hold a drawn bow for long. Lan alone carried no bow. His duty was to direct the fight, not to select targets. The bow was the preferred weapon against the Aiel, though many southlanders disdained it. Emares and his Tairens would ride straight into the Aiel with their lances and swords. There were times when that was the only way, but it was foolish to lose men needlessly, before you must, and as surely as peaches were poison, you did lose men in close quarters with Aiel.
He had no fear that the Aiel would turn aside on seeing them. They were not wild fighters, no matter what some said; they refused battle when the odds were too great. But six hundred Aiel would see the numbers as just right; they would be facing fewer than four hundred, although placed on the high ground. They would rush forward to attack and be met with a hail of arrows. A good horsebow could kill a man at three hundred paces and wound at four, if the man drawing it had the skill. That was a long corridor of steel for the Aiel to run. Unfortunately, they carried bows made of horn-and-sinew, too, just as effective as the horsebows. The worst would be if the Aiel stood and exchanged arrows; both sides would lose men however quickly Emares arrived. Best would be if the Aiel decided to close; a running man could not shoot a bow with any accuracy. At least, it would be best if Emares was not behind time. Then the Aiel might try for the flanks, especially if they knew they were being followed, and that would kick open the hornets' nest. Either way, when Emares struck them from the rear, Lan would gather the lances and ride down.
In essence, that was the hammer and anvil. One force to hold the Aiel in place until the other struck it, then both closing in. A simple tactic, but effective; most effective tactics were simple. Even the pigheaded Cairhienin had learned to use it. A good many Altarans and Murandians had died because they refused to learn.
Grayness welled into light. The sun would be peeking over the horizon behind them soon, silhouetting them on the ridge. The wind gusted, catching Lan's cloak, but he assumed the ko'di once more and ignored the cold. He could hear Bukama and the other men near him breathing. Along the line, horses stamped their hooves impatiently in the snow. A hawk quartered above the open ground, hunting along the edge of the wide thicket.
Suddenly the hawk wheeled away and a column of Aiel appeared, coming out of the trees at a quick trot, twenty men abreast. The snow did not appear to hamper them to any great degree. Lifting their knees high, they moved as quickly as most men would have on cleared ground. Lan pulled his looking glass from the leather case tied to his saddle. It was a good glass, Cairhienin made, and when he pressed the brass-bound tube to his eyes, the Aiel, still a mile off, seemed to leap closer. They were tall men, many as tall as he and some taller, wearing coats and breeches in shades of brown and gray that stood out against the snow. Each had a cloth wrapped around his head, and a dark veil hiding his face to the eyes. Some might be women--Aiel women sometimes fought alongside the men--but most would be men. Each carried a short spear tipped in one hand, with a round, bull-hide buckler and several more spears clutched in the other. Their bows were in cases on their backs. They could do deadly work with those spears. And their bows.
The Aiel would have had to be blind to miss the horsemen waiting on them, but they came on without a pause, their column a thick serpent sliding out of the trees toward the ridge. Far to the west a trumpet sounded, thin with distance, and then another; to be that faint, they had to be near to the river, or even on the other side. The Aiel kept coming. A third trumpet called, far off, and a fourth, a fifth, more. Among the Aiel, heads swung, looking back. Was it the trumpets drew their attention, or did they know Emares was following?
The Aiel continued to issue from the trees. Someone had miscounted badly, or else more Aiel had joined the first party. Over a thousand were clear of the trees, now, and still more came. Fifteen hundred, and more behind. He slid the looking glass back into its case.
"Embrace death," Bukama muttered, sounding like cold steel, and Lan heard other Borderlanders echo the words. He merely thought them; it was enough. Death came for every man eventually, and seldom where or when he expected. Of course, some men died in their beds, but from boyhood Lan had known he would not.
Calmly, he looked left and right along the line of his men. The Saldaeans and Kandori were standing firm, of course, but he was pleased to see that none of the Domani showed any signs of edginess, either. No one looked over a shoulder for a path to run. Not that he expected any less after two years fighting alongside them, but he always had more trust of men from the Borderlands than elsewhere. Bordermen knew that sometimes hard choices had to be made. It was in their bones.
The last of the Aiel cleared the trees, easily two thousand of them, a number that changed everything, and nothing. Two thousand Aiel were enough to overrun his men and still deal with Emares, unless the Dark One's own luck was with them. The thought of withdrawing never arose. If Emares struck without the anvil in place, the Tairens would be slaughtered, but if he could hold until Emares arrived, then both hammer and anvil might be able to draw clear. Besides, he had given his word. Still, he did not mean to die here to no purpose, nor to have his men die to none. If Emares failed to arrive by the time the Aiel came inside two hundred paces, he would wheel his company off the ridge and try to ride around the Aiel to join the Tairen. Sliding his sword from its scabbard, he held it loosely at his side. It was just a sword now, with nothing about it to catch the eye or set it out. It would never again be anything except a sword. But it held his past, and his future. The trumpets to the west were sounding almost continuously.
Abruptly, one of the Aiel in the front of the column raised his spear overhead, holding it up for the length of three strides. When he brought it down, the column came to a halt. A good five hundred paces separated them from the ridgeline, well beyond bowshot. Why under the Light? As soon as they were halted, the rear half of the column turned to face the way they had come. Were they simply being cautious? Safer to assume they knew about Emares.
Drawing out his looking glass again, left-handed, he studied the Aiel. Men in the front rank were shading their eyes with their spear-hands, studying the horsemen on the ridge. It made no sense. At best they would be able to make out dark shapes against the sunrise, perhaps the crest on a helmet. No more than that. The Aielmen seemed to be talking to each other. One of the men in the lead suddenly raised his hand overhead, holding a spear, and others did the same. Lan lowered his looking glass. All of the Aiel were facing forward, now, and every one held a spear raised high. He had never seen anything like this before.
As one, the spears came down, and the Aiel shouted a single word that boomed clearly across the space between, drowning the trumpets' distant calls. "Aan'allein!"
Lan exchanged wondering glances with Bukama. That was the Old Tongue, the language that had been spoken in the Age of Legends, and in the centuries before the Trolloc Wars. The best translation Lan could come up with was One Man Alone. But what did it mean? Why would the Aiel shout such a thing?
"They're moving," Bukama muttered, and the Aiel were.
But not toward the ridge. Turning northward, the column of veiled Aiel quickly reached a trot again and, once the head of it was well beyond the end of the ridge, began to angle eastward once more. Madness piled on madness. This was no flanking maneuver, not on only one side.
"Maybe they're going back to the Waste," Caniedrin called. He sounded disappointed. Other voices scoffed him loudly. The general view was that the Aiel would never leave until they were all killed.
"Do we follow?" Bukama asked quietly.
After a moment, Lan shook his head. "We will find Lord Emares and talk--politely--concerning hammers and anvils," he said. He wanted to find out what all those trumpets were about, too. This day was beginning strangely, and he had the feeling there would be more oddities before it was done.

Copyright © 2004 by The Bandersnatch Group, Inc.

Meet the Author

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.

Brief Biography

Date of Birth:
October 17, 1948
Date of Death:
September 16, 2007
Place of Birth:
Charleston, South Carolina
Place of Death:
Charleston, South Carolina
B.S. in physics, The Citadel, 1974

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Post to your social network


Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews

New Spring 3.6 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 240 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The Wheel of Time series has readers that span the whole spectrum of 'Hated it' to religiously 'Loved It.' If you're looking for trite James Patterson-esque fiction you have come to the wrong place. Jordan has created a world so complex and real that the average reader isn't going to find value in complete immersion, which is what this story requires. No, every chapter isn't overflowing with action. No, every chapter isn't world-changing and sweat- inducing. But, God is in the details and The Wheel of Time seriously needs to be read 3 or 4 times to reasonably understand most of what's going on. A large part of the story is what isn't being said, and what isn't described. That makes it tough when related details are in different chapters and different books, but that's the way it works. You can't expect to read these waiting for the bus or between classes, you almost have to take notes of some chapters. Why is Moiraine the only person to find the Green Man twice? We aren't told, but we can guess. Who is Demandred? Who killed Asmodean? If you read close enough the personal asides and narrative thoughts all makes sense. Jordan doesn't sow details haphazardly, everything has meaning...and it's up to the reader to make the details work. It's not an easy task, but this series isn't for the average reader. If you read close enough, the first three books foreshadow the whole series, and every dream, viewing, and prediction has value. To be honest, the best way to read these is in a group, because each character merits discussion. True, some of the characters are petty and predictable, and one reviewer's deux ex machina comments might have merit, but to be realistic and grand in a whole-world setting not everyone is going to agree all of the time. Most people aren't going to drop everything and go save the world, they have to buy in...or be steered to. Therein lies Jordan's lesson in politics. Study well. It isn't always pretty but most of the time people need to think things are their own ideas, and that covers books 7-10. New Spring introduces two of the most complex characters in the series, and how they came to be together. Jordan's borrowed circular-time theory and overwhelming sense of fate makes each character affect every other, in some way, and that's all part of it. History, politics, magic, religion, fantasy, it's all here, but you have to be willing to sacrifice some serious reading time. The hardest part is going to the bookstore after you read these, since nothing else seems quite as good. Good luck.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Just because you get to lazy to continue reading the series doesn't mean you should try to talk others out of it. This is an exceptional series which I reccomend everyone read.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I really enjoyed seeing Moiraine as a young woman and not an icy Aes Sedai, and the young Lan was nice to meet. Jordan can drag this out as long as he darn well wants to - I, for one, will be purchasing whatever he writes. To the naysayers, whiners and those wanting an end: who is forcing you to read these books? An irate member of the Green Ajah who wants to battle your backside for badmouthing her creator? WhatEVER! Don't like 'em anymore, don't read 'em anymore. Quit whining.
Guest More than 1 year ago
New Spring: The Novel was a good place to start off the The Wheel of Time series. Robert Jordan wrote this book as if it was meant to be the first of the series 'even though it was a prequel to the main series'. The book develops the personalities of a younger Moiraine Damodred and Lan 'the two characters the book revolves around', and their travels until meeting each other. The books does have a tendency to change characters at odd times and often times left me with many questions on what one character is doing while the book is describing the other character. New Spring is also only those with patience. The books has some unneeded filler details that last for one or chapters at a time with little exciting moments. Though these selections have almost no effect on the plot, they do dive into the true personalities of Lan and Moiraine.
Skylinesend More than 1 year ago
The only prequel to the Wheel of Time that was completed before Robert Jordan's death. It is in his usual style, and is an enjoyable read for anyone curious about how Lan and Moraine met.
mattries More than 1 year ago
The Wheel of Time prequel, New Spring, is a very good addition to the series written by Robert Jordan. I read New Spring after Booke 5, The Fires of Heaven, based off the recommendation of several WoT fans instead of after Crossroads of Twilight (Book 10) when the prequel was published. Considering that Moiraine and Lan are the main POV characters throught the book and that after the events of The Fires of Heaven, reading the prequel when I did made New Spring both enjoyable and bittersweet. Obviously New Spring helps explain the motivations of both Moiraine and Lan when we first meet them in The Eye of the World, but it also gives us a view of the "normal" workings of Aes Sedai and the White Tower before the unusual happenings already seen in the series. Politics of the world are fully in view with Lan finding himself in the midst of the "biggest" political storm. If I were to find a bad thing about New Spring is that some of the material that Jordan wrote to expand New Spring from a short story to a full novel(la) seems to be just filler making the story bog down a tad. Overall, New Spring is a good quality introduction to some of the "older" characters of the early Wheel of Time books and I fully recommend reading it, especially after Book 5, The Fires of Heaven.
MLove More than 1 year ago
Now that the final installment for the WoT series is out, I've decided to re-start reading the whole series. To be honest, I only reached book 5 on my first attempt at reading the series. I stopped not because it's not worth reading. I stopped because, I could not accomplish getting any schoolwork done. With WoT, reading became an addiction. The story was just that riveting. It's an understatement to say that I was a fan of the series. Now that I have grown accustomed to a reading schedule, I've decided to re-read the series again. And this time, I intend to finish it. It was difficult for me to decide where to start reading. Do I read from Book 1: The Eye of the World? Or do I start from this prequel New Spring. I ended up re-starting the series with New Spring. Reading the first chapter made me think that I've made the wrong choice. Since, I've read Book 1-5 more than 10 years ago, it was a little bit difficult remembering the characters and concepts. This prequel made a lot of references to concepts introduced in the other books. Anyone, who have not read at least one of books written before New Spring would not understand the references made in the first few chapters of New Spring. This I feel is a major fault of this prequel. Those new to WoT who decide to start the series with New Spring, might be turned off from reading the whole series. Reading this book made me fall in love with Moraine and Lan. And after much musings, I think it was a good decision to re-start reading WoT with New Spring. I don't really mind the initial confusion I went through.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I say boo to anyone tired of a great series. As long as Jordan makes a good book, why end it. I haven't found but a handful of authors I slobber for their next book, but Jordan is one of them. Who cares about an ending, it just means the story is over, and you have to read some hack's work until you stumble on someone else you like. Crank 'em out, I'll read 'em.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
After writing most of his "Wheel of Time" series, Robert Jordan went back and penned this prequel. It exhibits all of his talent and skill (honed by the 11 preceding books in the series). New Spring is the work of an experienced author--an absorbing plot, interesting characters, adept world-building, and an involved magic system. There's so much to love here, and after multiple readings, New Spring has become my favorite fantasy book in a long time.
Cendy_Nelson More than 1 year ago
I didn't find out about this series until New Spring (the prequel) came out. I read it before any of the others, before I knew how many books were in the series and how many were yet to be written. I was devastated to learn that Robert Jordan had a fatal illness; what a talented man and such a loss. I am so thankful that Mr. Jordan decided to entrust his notes for the final books to Brandon Sanderson so that he could prepare them for the fans. I have read and re-read the books as they came out and I will re-read them for years to come. Remember that New Spring is a prequel... there is no need for it to be a monster novel. Just make sure you have "Eye of the World" ready to pick up when you are done. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Now that WOT has finally ended, I've started re-reading the series, and the ebooks make this projects much more user friendly. Waiting anxiously for the ebook version of AMoL ...
MSW4682 More than 1 year ago
I read this many years ago, and had to buy it to prepare for my re-read witht he 14th book coming out in January next year. It gives great background information about Moiraine and Lan and is a perfect introduction to the Eye of the World.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Great series
qabal75 More than 1 year ago
Did all you demanding impatient cynics screaming "finish the series!" realize that the author had a fatal illness? Pathetic. Grow up already.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book becomes very good if you read the series or start the series first. It flows a lot better and becomes more understandable if you do it this way.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A beautiful back story. Love Moraine and An. Recommend to all WoT fans!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Patience is a virtue