Gawyn felt so tired. This week of preparation would normally have rested him, but he felt today as if he’d hiked for tens of leagues.
There was no helping it. He forced his attention toward the gateway in the table in front of him, overlooking the battlefield. “You’re certain they cannot see this?” he asked Yukiri.
“I’m certain,” she replied. “It has been tested exhaustively.”
She was becoming skilled with these viewing gateways. She had created this one on top of a table brought through to their camp from Tar Valon. He was looking down at the battleground as he would a map.
“If you have truly made the other side invisible,” Egwene said speculatively, “this might be useful indeed . . .”
“It would be easier to spot from up close,” Yukiri admitted. “This one is so high in the sky that nobody below will be able to make it out.”
Gawyn didn’t like Egwene standing there, head and shoulders hanging out over the battlefield. He held his tongue; the gateway was as safe as they could make it. He couldn’t protect her from everything.
“Light,” Bryne said softly, “they’re cutting us to pieces.”
Gawyn glanced at him. The man rebuffed suggestions—even strong ones—that he return to his estates. He insisted that he was still capable of holding a sword; he just couldn’t be allowed to lead. Besides, he argued, any of them could be under Compulsion. In a way, knowing that he was gave them an advantage. At least him they could watch.
And Siuan did, holding to his arm protectively. The only others in the tent were Silviana and Doesine.
The battle was not going well. Cauthon had lost the Heights already— the original plan had been to hold there as long as possible—and the dragons were in pieces. Demandred's attack with the One Power had come far more powerfully than any of them had anticipated. And the other large Trolloc army had arrived from the northeast and were pressing Cauthon’s defenders upriver.
“What is he planning?” Egwene said, tapping the side of the table. Distant yells drifted through the opening. “If this keeps up, our armies are going to be surrounded.”
“He’s trying to bait the trap,” Bryne said.
“What kind of trap?”
“It is a guess,” Bryne said, “and Light knows, my own assessment cannot be trusted as it once was. It looks like Cauthon is planning to heap everything into one battle, no delaying, no trying to wear the Trollocs down. The way this is going, it will be decided in days. Maybe hours.”
“That sounds exactly like something Mat would do,” Egwene said, resigned.
“The strength of those weaves,” Lelaine said, “that power . . .
Demandred is in a circle,” Egwene said. “Eyewitnesses say a full circle. Something that hasn’t been seen since the Age of Legends. And he has a sa’angreal. Some of the soldiers saw it—a scepter.”
Gawyn watched the fighting far below, his hand on his sword. He could hear men scream as Demandred aimed wave after wave of fire at them.
The Forsaken’s voice boomed, suddenly, reaching high into the air. “Where are you, Lews Therin! You were seen at each of the other battlefields in disguise. Are you here, too? Fight me!”
Gawyn’s hand tightened on his sword. Soldiers flooded down the southwestern side of the Heights, to cross the ford. A few small groups held on the slopes, and dragoners there—tiny as insects to Gawyn—led the remaining dragons to safety, pulled by mules.
Demandred flung destruction at the fleeing troops. He was an army unto himself, hurling bodies into the air, exploding horses, burning and destroying. Around him, his Trollocs seized the high ground. Their brutish cheers floated through the gateway.
“We’re going to have to deal with him, Mother,” Silviana said. “Soon.”
“He’s trying to draw us out,” Egwene said. “He has that sa’angreal. We could build a circle of seventy-two ourselves, but what then? Fall into his trap? Be slaughtered?”
“What choice have we, Mother?” Lelaine asked. “Light. He’s killing thousands.”
Killing thousands. And here they stood.
Gawyn stepped back.
Nobody seemed to notice his withdrawal other than Yukiri, who eagerly stepped up and took his place beside Egwene. Gawyn slipped out of the tent, and when the tent guards glanced at him, said he needed some fresh air. Egwene would approve. She sensed how tired he was lately; she’d mentioned it to him several times. His eyelids felt as if they had weights of iron pulling them down. Gawyn looked toward the blackened sky He could hear the distant booms. How long would he just stand around and do nothing while men died?
You promised, he thought to himself. You said you were willing to stand in her shadow.
That didn’t mean he had to stop doing important work, did it? He fished in his pouch and took out a ring of the Bloodknives. He put it on, and immediately his strength returned, his exhaustion fleeing.
He hesitated, then took out the other rings and slipped them on as well.
On the south bank of the River Mora, in front of the ruins northeast of Dashar Knob, Tam al’Thor summoned the void as Kimtin had taught him all of those years ago. Tam imagined the single flame, and poured his emotions into it. He grew calm, then the calmness left him, leaving nothing. Like a newly painted wall, beautiful and white, that had just been washed. Everything melted away.
Tam was the void. He drew his bow, the good black yew bending, arrow to his cheek. He took aim, but this was only a formality. When he was this strongly within the void, the arrow would do exactly as he commanded. He didn’t know this, any more than the sun knew that it would rise or the branches knew that their leaves would fall. These were not things known they were things that were.
He released, bowstring snapping, arrow drilling through the air. Another followed, then another. He had five in the air at once, each one aimed in anticipation of the shifting winds.
The first five Trollocs fell as they tried to make their way across one of several of the raft bridges they had managed to place on the river here. Trollocs hated water; even shallow water daunted them. Whatever Mat had done to protect the river upstream, it was working for now, and the river was still flowing. The Shadow would try to stop it. Was trying to stop it. Occasionally a Trolloc or mule carcass floated past from far upriver.
Tam continued to launch arrows, Abell and the other Two Rivers men joining him. Sometimes they aimed into the mass, not picking out an individual Trolloc—though that was rare. A regular soldier might shoot unsighted and assume his arrow would find flesh, but not a good Two Rivers archer. Arrows were cheap to soldiers, but not to woodsmen.
Trollocs fell in waves. Beside Tam and the Two Rivers men, crossbowmen cranked their weapons and loosed wave after wave into the Shadowspawn. Fades behind whipped at the Trollocs, trying to urge them across the river—with little success.
Tam’s arrow hit a Fade right where its eyes should have been. Nearby, a large man named Bayrd whistled in appreciation, leaning on his axe and watching the arrows fall. He was part of the group of soldiers set just behind the archers to move in and protect them, once the Trollocs were forced to cross.
Bayrd was one of the mercenary leaders who had drifted into the army, and though he was an Andoran, neither he nor the hundred or so men he led would speak of where they’d come from. “I need to get one of those bows,” Bayrd said to his companions. “Burn me, do you see that?”
Nearby, Abell and Azi smiled, continuing to shoot. Tam did not smile. There was no humor within the void, though outside of the void, a thought did flutter. Tam knew why Abell and Azi had smiled. Having a Two Rivers bow did not make one into a Two Rivers archer.
“I think,” Galad Damodred said from horseback nearby, “that you’d likely do more harm to yourself than to the enemy, should you try to use one of those. Al’Thor, how long?”
Tam released another arrow. “Five more,” he said, reaching for the next arrow in his side quiver. He raised it, shot it, then continued. Two, three, four, five
.
Five more Trollocs dead. In all, he’d loosed over thirty arrows. He’d missed once, but only because Abell had killed the Trolloc that Tam had aimed for.
“Archers, halt!” Tam yelled.
The Two Rivers men pulled back, Tam releasing the void, as a straggling group of Trollocs stumbled onto the riverbank. Tam still led Perrin's troops, to an extent. Whitecloaks, Ghealdanin and the Wolf Guard all looked to Tam for final say, but each had their own leaders as well. He personally commanded the archers.
Perrin, youd better heal up strong. When Haral had found the boy lying in the grass on the outskirts of camp the day before, bloodied and near death . . . Light, that had given them all a fright.
Perrin was safely in Mayene, where he would likely spend the rest of the Last Battle. A man didn’t quickly recover from the type of wound the lad had taken, even with Aes Sedai Healing. It would probably drive Perrin near mad to miss the fighting, but sometimes that happened. It was part of being a soldier.
Tam and the archers retreated back to the ruins to get a better vantage to watch the battle, and he organized his archers in case they were needed while runners brought them more arrows. Mat had positioned all of Perrin’s troops alongside the Dragonsworn, led by Tinna, a statuesque woman. Tam had no idea where she’d come from or why she was in command—she had the bearing of a lady, the build of an Aiel and the coloring of a Saldaean. The others seemed to listen to her. Dragonsworn made little sense to Tam, so he stayed out of their way.
Tam’s army had been told to hold. Mat had expected the Sharan and Trolloc attack from the west to be the strongest; therefore Tam was surprised to see Mat sending more reinforcements upriver from the ford. The Whitecloaks were a recent arrival, and their clothing rippled as they charged along the riverbank, cutting through the Trollocs stumbling off their unstable bridges.
Arrows started to fly from the Trollocs on the other bank toward Galad and his men. The clanks and pings of arrowheads on the Whitecloak armor and shields sounded like hail on a roof. Tam ordered Arganda to bring in their foot soldiers, including Bayrd and the mercenaries.
They didn’t have enough pikes, so Arganda’s men held halberds and spears. Men began to scream and die, Trollocs howling. Near Tam’s rearward position, Alliandre came riding up, surrounded by well-armed foot soldiers. Tam raised the bow to her, and she nodded, then settled back to watch. She had wanted to be here for the battle. Tam couldn’t blame her, nor could he blame her for ordering her soldiers to carry her off at the first sign that this battle was turning against them.
“Tam! Tam!” Dannil came riding up, and Tam waved for Abell to take command of the archers. He strode over to Dannil, meeting the lad in the shade of the ruins.
Inside those broken walls, Tam’s reserves watched the battle with nervousness. Most of them were archers pulled from among the mercenaries and Dragonsworn. Many of that latter group had never been in battle before. Well, neither had most of the Two Rivers men until a few months back. They’d learn quickly. Hitting a Trolloc with an arrow wasn’t so different from hitting a deer.
Though, if you missed the deer, it didn’t gut you with a sword a few seconds later.
“What is it, Dannil?” Tam asked. “Word from Mat?”
“He’s sending you infantry banners from the Legion of the Dragon,” Dannil said. “He says to hold the river here, no matter what.”
“What is that boy up to?” Tam said, looking toward the Heights. The Legion of the Dragon had good infantry, well-trained crossbowmen who would be useful here. But what was happening on the Heights?
The flashes of light reflected off columns of thick black smoke, rising from the Heights toward the clouds above. The fighting was in earnest up there.
“I don’t know, Tam,” Dannil said. “Mat . . . he’s changed. I hardly think I know him any longer. He was always a bit of a scoundrel, but now . . . Light, Tam. He’s like someone from one of the stories.”
Tam grunted. “We’ve all changed. Mat would probably say similar things about you.”
Dannil laughed. “Oh, I doubt that, Tam. Though I do wonder, sometimes, what would have happened if I’d gone with the three of them. I mean, Moiraine Sedai was looking for boys the right age, and I guess I was just a little too old . . .”
He seemed wistful. Dannil could say, and think, what he wanted—but Tam doubted he would have liked to endure the things that had forced Mat, Perrin and Rand to become the people they now were. “Take command of this lot,” Tam said, nodding to the reserve archers. “I’ll see that Arganda and Galad know we’re being reinforced.”
Thick Trolloc arrows sprayed around Pevara as she desperately wove Air. Her gust blew away the arrows like stones swept off the board by a furious player. Sweating, she clung to saidar and wove a stronger shield of Air, moving it into the sky to defend against further volleys.
“It’s safe!” she yelled. “Go!”
A group of soldiers dashed out from underneath an overhang on the steep riverside slope of the Heights. More thick black shafts fell from above. They hit her shield; it slowed them to the point that once they passed through, they dropped as idly as feathers.
The soldiers she’d helped dashed for the rallying point at Hawal Ford. Others decided to stand and fight as Trolloc bands poured down the slopes.
Most of the Shadowspawn stayed atop the Heights to secure the position, and finish pushing humans off.
Where? Androl’s furious thought came to her, a soft whisper inside her mind.
Here, she sent him. Not completely a thought, more an image, a sense of place.
A gateway split beside her, and he dashed through, Emarin on his heels. Both men carried swords, but Emarin spun and thrust his hand backward, a streak of fire shooting through the open gateway. Screaming sounded from the other side. Human screaming.
“You went all the way to the Sharan army?” Pevara demanded. “Logain wanted us to stay together!”
“So you care about what he wants, now?” Androl asked, grinning.
You're insufferable, she thought. Around them, arrows clattered to the ground. The Trollocs above hooted in anger.
“Nice weave,” Androl said.
“Thank you.” She glanced at the sword.
“I’m a Warder now.” He shrugged. “Might as well look like one, eh?”
He could cut a Trolloc in half with a gateway at three hundred paces, and summon fire from inside Dragonmount itself, and he still wanted to carry a sword. It was, she decided, a male thing.
I heard that, Androl sent her. “Emarin, to me. Pevara Sedai, if you’d graciously agree to accompany us . . .”
She sniffed, but joined the other two as they moved along the southwestern base of the Heights, passing some wounded stumbling toward the rallying point. Androl glanced at them, then wove a gateway back to their camp. The flagging men cried out in surprise and thanks, and shambled through it to safety.
Androl had grown . . . more confident since they had left the Black Tower. When they’d first met, he’d displayed hesitation about whatever he did. A kind of nervous humility. No more.
“Androl . . ” Emarin said, pointing up the slope with his sword.
“I see them,” Androl said. Above, Trollocs poured over the top of the Heights like pitch boiling over the side of a pot. Behind, Androl’s gateway closed, that group of soldiers safe. Others cried out as they saw it close.
You can’t save them all, Pevara thought sternly to Androl, sensing his spike of anguish. Stay focused on the task at hand.
The three of them moved through the soldiers, angling toward several channelers they could feel ahead. Jonneth, Canler and Theodrin were there, throwing fire at groups of Trollocs. Their position was being overrun.
“Jonneth, Canler, to me,” Androl said, charging past them and opening a gateway in front of him. Pevara and Emarin ducked through after him, finding themselves on the top of the Heights, a few hundred paces away.
Jonneth and the others followed, joining them as
the group dashed past a group of startled Trollocs.
“Channeling!” Pevara yelled. Light, but it was hard to run in these skirts. Androl did know that, didn’t he?
Androl opened another gateway for them as a few bursts of flame came from the direction of some Sharans atop the Heights. Pevara ran through, beginning to pant. They appeared on the other side of the Sharans, who were firing at where Pevara had been moments before.
Pevara opened her senses, trying to spot—or feel—their quarry. The Sharans turned on them and pointed, but then cried out as Androl brought an avalanche of snow down on them from a gateway to the side. He had tried making those Deathgates that the other Asha’man used, but the weave was apparently just different enough that he had trouble. Instead, he stuck to what he was good at doing.
Groups of Tower Guards still fought atop the Heights, holding ground against orders. Pieces of the dragons, including the large bronze firing tubes, lay smoldering nearby amid burned corpses. Thousands upon thousands of Trollocs howled, most at the edges of the Heights, loosing arrows on those below. Their joyous roars set Pevara on edge, and she wove Earth and sent the flows toward the ground near a group of them. A large chunk of ground trembled, then split off, dumping two dozen Trollocs over the edge.
“We’re drawing attention again!” Emarin said, setting ablaze a Myrddraal that had been slinking toward them. It thrashed in the flames, screeching in an inhuman voice, refusing to die. Sweating, Pevara lent her Fire to Emarin’s, burning the creature until it was nothing more than bones.
“Well, that’s not all bad!” Androl said. “If we draw enough attention, sooner or later, one of the Black Ajah or one of Taim’s men will decide to confront us.”
Jonneth cursed. “That’s a little like jumping into an anthill and waiting to be bitten!”
“Actually, it’s a lot like that,” Androl said. “Keep watch. I’ll deal with the Trollocs!”
That’s quite a strong assertion, Pevara sent to him.
His answer was warm, like heat off a cooking plate. It sounded heroic.
A Memory of Light Page 78
