Most describe it as a sword mounted on a pole, but it is far more sophisticated than that. It consist of a curved blade, 1 to 2 feet in length, mounted onto an oak shaft that is usually 5 to 9 feet long. The actual dimensions of the ashandarei are primarily dependent on personal preferences and battle conditions. Attached to the butt end of the shaft you can often find a sharp end-cap, which can be used to pierce between the plates of an attacker's armor.
The first time I encountered it was in a introductionary polearm class, led by Firredal Gaidin. I knew already then that there was something special with it.There was something beautiful and sophisticated in its shape, even its name. How it rolls of the tounge, Ashandarei. I knew that this was the weapon I wanted to learn, even before I learnt anything about it. I suppose I'm lucky as to the fact that it's a good versatile weapon that relies more on stamina and leverage rather than raw muscles, anyone could tell I am somewhat lacking in the brawns department.
Caith looked up from his parchment and gazed at the window. In the flickering light of the candle he only saw his own reflection, but he knew that the yards outside were dark and empty at this hour. In an hour or so, dawn would come. He turned back to his writing.
No one is quite sure on the origins of the ashandarei. Some claim that it begun as a farmer's tool, used for heavy chopping. Others claim that it begun as a military weapon, specifically designed for infantry versus Cavalry battles. There are some that claim that it was imported from the mysterious countires beyond the Aiel waste a long long time ago. While many discredit and even laugh at that theory I am not so sure myself. There is something in its design that feels foreign and the light knows that strange enough things are imported from Shara.
Whatever the origin, it is a superb weapon for close-up fighting; it's sweeping arcs is used to cut a horse's legs and kill its rider once the horse has fallen to the ground, and it beats the sword with ease when it comes to facing several enemies simultaneously. The downside is of course that it is not suitable for indoor fighting. And you can't stab with it, which is a great shame. Stabbing is an essential part of killing and I suffer greatly when deprived of my stabbing rights.
It is often called a woman's weapon, much like the quarterstaff is considered a peasant's weapon. It is amusing, as if either a woman or a peasant would be less deadly than a man, or a noble.
He leaned back momentarily, chewing toughfully at the end of his quill, not quite liking the taste of ink, but not really caring anyhow.
The term "A woman's weapon" can hardly be considered degrading either. If you consider the ashandarei, there is the story of Itagaki, a noblewoman from Aramelle. She was particularly wellknown for her skill with the ashandarei but also, for the way she died.
She was in charge of a garrison of 3.000 soliders in Aramelle (which is partly Shienar today) at the beginning of the Trollocwars.
He wasn't entierly sure why he wrote this, other than that he couldn't sleep and wanted something to occupy himself with. He had had trouble sleeping ever since the dreams begun. There were no more dreams now, there never would be, but sleep still eluded him at times and when he slept, he slept lightly. Perhaps it was his own curiosity, the ashandarei held a special allure that he had never managed to figure out, and no other weapon was dear to him in the same manner. He tapped his lip thoughtfull with his quill before dipping it in the inkjar and setting it upn the paper once more.
I am not a great story teller and the details are quite sordid. Suffice to say that there was a sudden, unexpected trolloc attack. She rode out with her men, they fought and they died. However, they fought till they all died, and she was the last one standing. None turned and ran making sure that the trollocs payed a dear prize for their victory. This was enough to make the reminder of the trollocs turn back, unwilling to keep fighting so great an opposition. Or so the story goes. It is not a wellknown story, often forgotten in the heroic deeds of Manetheren or the treachery of Aridhol. It is rather sad that war produces far to many legends for humans to remember when you think of it.
Caith put down his quill and blinked somewhat surprised, during his efforts light had softly crept into the room, rendering his small candle useless. He looked at the candle for a moment, strangely facinated by its flickering light before giving himself a shake. He bent over and softly blew it out before getting up. He looked down at the parchment before him for a little while before deciding to leave it there untill later, it wasn't as if somone would sneak in and look at it while he was gone, and if they did, it didn't exactly contain the secrets to defeating the dark one. He smiled wryly to himself. You are entierly to paranoid these days Caith.
The Morning mists still hung heavily over the training yard and Caith pulled his black uniform closer to himself, shivering slightly. His stomach had begun sending small tenative signals to his brain, perhaps in hope that negotiations would go down well today, but Caith ignored them as he assumed the void. Besides, the kitchens weren't ready to serve breakfast as of yet anyhow. No, Caith's early mission was different as he walked over the training yard, his ashandarei slung over one shoulder.
It wasn't a practice one, but a real one with a sharpened blade and when he assumed the guard of wrath he could almost feel imaginary enemies taking form and dissipating just as quickly in the soft mists that sneaked around him, he closed his eyes, focusing his attention inward, on the void. Then he begun.
At first he moved almost painfully slow, willing himself to be completely aware of every nuance of the technique.
The Falcon dives becomes Closing the Circle
Slowly, ever so slowly he picked up speed, one with his weapon, one with the void, one with the mists and shadows that were his enemies.
The Butterfly's Wings becomes The Wave breaks on Rocks
It looked more like a dance than a battle and Caith courted the mists and the shadows, inviting them to come closer. To caress his very being.
The Whirlwhind Dances becomes The Heron's Wing
Only to slice them apart, dispelling them, denying them.
Climbing the Mountain becomes Turning the Waterwheel
When the sun finally scattered the last remnants of the nightly guests he was panting, soaked in sweat despite the morning chill, but he was not tired. He felt refreshed, invigorated even. And as he made his way back to his room for a quick shower he felt a glimmer of pride and courage that had been kept from him for so long. Mists and Shadows were nothing but tricks on the mind's eye, and he knew that he would never let them rule him again.