A Memory Of Light: Wheel of Time Book 14

by Robert Jordan

  He was currently on the eastern side of the Heights, looking down at the river below and northeast of the place where Lews Therin’s assassin had tried to kill him.

  Here, Demandred was nearly opposite the hill that Moghedien said they called Dashar Knob. The rock formation rose high in the air; its base was a fine position for a command post, sheltered from attacks by the One Power.

  It was so tempting to strike there himself, to Travel to it and lay waste. But was that what Lews Therin wanted? Demandred would fight the man. He would. However, Traveling into the enemy’s stronghold and possibly a trap, surrounded as it was by those high rock walls… Better to draw Lews Therin to him. Demandred dominated this battlefield. He could choose where their confrontation would occur.

  The riverbed had been slowed to a muddy trickle below, and Demandred’s Trollocs fought to seize the southern bank. The defenders held for now, but he would have them soon. Far upriver M’Hael had done his work well in diverting that water, though he had reported unusual resistance. Townspeople and a small unit of soldiers? An oddity that Demandred had not yet deciphered.

  He had almost wished for failure from M’Hael. Though Demandred himself had been the one to recruit the man, he had not expected M’Hael to rise to the rank of Chosen so quickly.

  Demandred turned to the side. Before him bowed three women in black with white ribbons. Next to them, Shendla.

  Shendla. He had thought himself long past caring for a woman again—how could affection thrive beside the burning passion that was his hatred for Lews Therin? And yet, Shendla… Devious, capable, powerful. Almost, it was enough to change his heart.

  “What is your report?” he asked the three bowing women in black.

  “The hunt was a failure,” Galbrait said, her head low.

  “He escaped?”

  “Yes, Wyld. I have failed you.” He heard the pain in the woman’s voice. She was leader of the female Ayyad.

  “You were not meant to kill him,” Demandred said. “He is a foe beyond your skill. You have disrupted his command post?”

  “Yes,” Galbrait said. “We killed half a dozen of his channelers, set the building aflame and destroyed his maps.”

  “Did he channel? Did he reveal himself?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head.

  So he could not know for certain yet if this Cauthon was Lews Therin in disguise. Demandred suspected he was, but there were reports from Shayol Ghul that Lews Therin had been seen there, on the slopes of the mountain. He had proven devious in the Last Battle before, jumping between battlefields, showing himself here and there.

  The more Demandred maneuvered against the enemy general, the more he believed that Lews Therin was here. It would be very like Lews

  Therin to send a decoy north while coming to fight this battle himself. Lews Therin had difficulty letting others fight for him. He always wanted to be doing everything himself, leading every battle—every charge, if he could.

  Yes… how else could Demandred explain the skill of the enemy general? Only a man with the experience of an ancient was so masterly at the dance of battlefields. At their core, many battle tactics were simple. Avoid being flanked, meet heavy force with pikes, infantry with a well-trained line, channelers with other channelers. And yet, the finesse of it… the little details… these took centuries to master. No man from this Age had lived long enough to learn the details with such care.

  During the War of Power, the only thing that Demandred had ever done better than his friend was as a battle general. It stung to admit that, but he would no longer hide from that truth. Lews Therin had been stronger in the One Power. Lews Therin had been better at capturing the hearts of men. Lews Therin had taken Ilyena.

  But Demandred… Demandred had been better at war. Lews Therin had never been able to correctly balance caution and boldness. The man would hold back and deliberate, worrying over his decisions, until boiling forward in a reckless military action.

  If this Cauthon was Lews Therin, the man had grown better at that. The enemy general knew when to flip the coin and let fate rule, but did not let too much ride on each result. He would have made an excellent card player.

  Demandred would still defeat him, of course. The battle would merely be more… interesting.

  He rested his hand on his sword, considering his scan of the battlefield moments before. His Trollocs continued their attack at the riverbed, and Lews Therin had formed his pikemen, opposite them, into disciplined square formations, a defensive move. Behind Demandred, the shaking booms of channelers marked the greater war, that between his Sharan Ayyad and the Aes Sedai.

  He held the advantage there. His Ayyad were far better at war than the Aes Sedai. When would Cauthon commit those damane? Moghedien had reported some dissension between them and the Aes Sedai. Could Demandred widen the fracture there somehow?

  He gave orders, and the three Ayyad nearby retreated. Shendla remained, waiting his permission to leave. He had her scouting the area nearby and watching for more assassins.

  “Are you worried?” he asked her. “You know now for which side we fight. So far as I know, you have not given yourself to the Shadow.”

  “I’ve given myself to you, Wyld.”

  “And for me you fight beside Trollocs? Halfmen? Creatures from nightmare?”

  “You said some would call your actions evil,” she said. “But I do not see them as such. Our path is clear. Once you are victorious, you will remake the world, and our people will be preserved.” She took his hand, and something stirred within him. It was quickly smothered by his hatred.

  “I would cast it all away,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Everything for a chance at Lews Therin.”

  “You have promised to try,” she said. “That will be enough. And if you destroy him, you will destroy one world and preserve another. I will follow you. We will follow you.”

  Her voice seemed to imply that perhaps, once Lews Therin was dead, Demandred would be able to become his own man again.

  He was not certain. Rule only interested him insofar as he could use it against his ancient enemy. The Sharans, devoted and faithful, were just a tool. But within him, there was something that wished it was not so. That was new. Yes, it was.

  The air nearby warped, bending. No weaves were visible—this was a ripping of the fabric of the Pattern, Traveling by the True Power. M’Hael had arrived.

  Demandred turned, and Shendla released his arm, but did not leave his side. M’Hael had been given access to the Great Lord’s essence. That did not make Demandred jealous. M’Hael was another tool. Still, it made him wonder. Was anyone denied the True Power, these days?

  “You are going to lose the battle near the ruins, Demandred,” M’Hael said with an arrogant smile. “Your Trollocs there will be crushed. You had the enemy vastly outnumbered, and yet they still will defeat you! I thought you were supposed to be our greatest general, yet you lose to this rabble? I’m disappointed.”

  Demandred raised his hand casually, two fingers up.

  M’Hael jerked as two dozen nearby Sharan channelers slammed shields between him and the One Power. They wrapped him in Air, jerking him backward. He fought back, the air-warping aura of the True Power surrounding him, but Demandred was faster. He wove a True Power shield, building it from burning threads of Spirit.

  The threads trembled in the air, each one barbed with twisting strands of energy so small, the ends vanished into nothing. The True Power was so volatile, so dangerous. A shield crafted from it had a strange effect, drinking in the power of another trying to channel it.

  Demandred’s shield stole M’Hael’s power, and used the man like a conduit. Demandred gathered the True Power and wove it into a crackling ball of force above his hand. Only M’Hael would be able to see it, and the man’s proud eyes opened wide as Demandred drained him.

  It was not unlike a circle. The pulling of energy made M’Hael tremble, sweat, as he was held up by the weaves of Demandred’s Ayyad. This flow could bu
rn M’Hael out, if unchecked—could flay his soul with the rushing of the True Power, like a river surging beyond its banks. The twisting mass of threads in Demandred’s hands pulsed and crackled, warping the air, beginning to unravel the Pattern.

  Tiny spiderweb cracks spread out on the ground from him. Cracks into nothingness.

  He walked up to M’Hael. The man began to have a seizure, froth dripping from his lips.

  “You will listen to me, M’Hael,” Demandred said softly. “I am not as the other Chosen. I do not care one whit for your political games. I don’t care which of you the Great Lord favors, which of you Moridin pats on the head. I care only for Lews Therin.

  “This is my fight. You are mine. I brought you to the Shadow, and I can destroy you. If you interfere with what I do here, I will snuff you out like a candle. I realize you think yourself strong, with your stolen Dreadlords and untrained channelers. You are a child, an infant. Take your men, create what chaos you wish, but stay out of my way. And stay away from my prize. The enemy general is mine.”

  M’Hael’s eyes, though his body betrayed him with trembles, were full of hatred, not fear. Yes, this one always had shown promise.

  Demandred turned his hand and launched a stream of balefire with the gathered True Power. The white-hot line of liquid destruction burned through the armies at the river below, vaporizing each man or woman it touched. Their forms became points of light, then dust, hundreds of them vanishing. He left a long line of burned ground, like a furrow cut by an enormous cleaver.

  “Release him,” Demandred said, allowing the True Power shield to unravel.

  M’Hael stumbled back, keeping his feet, sweat dripping from his face. He gasped, hand raised to his chest.

  “Stay alive through this battle,” Demandred said to him, turning away and beginning a weave to summon his falcon back. “If you do so, perhaps I will show you how to do as I just did. You may think you wish to kill me now, but know that the Great Lord watches. Beyond that, consider this. You may have a hundred pet Asha’man. I have over four hundred of my Ayyad. I am this world’s savior.” When he looked back, M’Hael was gone, having Traveled away with the True Power. It was amazing that he could summon the strength, after what Demandred had just done. He hoped he wouldn’t have to kill the man. He should prove useful.

  I WILL WIN EVENTUALLY.

  Rand stood before the blowing winds, stood strong, though his eyes watered as he stared into the darkness. How long had he been in this place? A thousand years? Ten thousand?

  For the moment, he concerned himself only with defiance. He would not bend before this wind. He could not give in for a fraction of a heartbeat.

  THE TIME HAS COME, FINALLY.

  “Time is nothing to you,” Rand said.

  It was true, and it was not. Rand could see the threads swirling around him, forming the Pattern. As it formed, he saw the battlefields below him. Those he loved fighting for their lives. These were not possibilities; this was the truth, what was actually happening.

  The Dark One wrapped around the Pattern, unable to take it and destroy it, but able to touch it. Tendrils of darkness, spines, touched the world at points all along its length. The Dark One lay like shadow upon the Pattern.

  When the Dark One touched the Pattern, time existed for him. And so, while time was nothing to the Dark One, he—or it, as the Dark One had no gender—could only work within its bounds. Like… like a sculptor who had marvelous visions and dreams but was still bound by the reality of the materials he worked with.

  Rand stared at the Pattern, resisting the Dark One’s attack. He did not move or breathe. Breath wasn’t needed here.

  People died below. Rand heard their screams. So many fell.

  I WILL WIN EVENTUALLY, ADVERSARY. WATCH THEM SCREAM. WATCH THEM DIE.

  THE DEAD ARE MINE.

  “Lies,” Rand said.

  NO. I WILL SHOW YOU.

  The Dark One spun possibility again, gathering up what could be, and thrust Rand into another vision.

  Juilin Sandar was not a commander. He was a thief-catcher, not some nobleman. Certainly not a nobleman. He worked on his own.

  Except, apparently, when he ended up on a battlefield, put in charge of a squad of men because he had successfully captured dangerous men as a thief-catcher. The Sharans pressed against his men, aiming for the Aes Sedai. They fought on the western side of the Heights, and his squad’s job was to protect the Aes Sedai from Sharan infantry.

  Aes Sedai. How had he ever gotten tangled up with Aes Sedai? Him, a good Tairen.

  “Hold!” Juilin yelled to his men. “Hold!” He yelled it for his own benefit, too. His squad held to their spears and pikes, forcing the Sharan infantry backward up the slope. He wasn’t sure why he was here, or why they were fighting in this sector. He just wanted to stay alive!

  The Sharans shouted and cursed in an unfamiliar tongue. They had a lot of those channelers, but the outfit he faced was made up of regular troops who used a variety of hand weapons, mostly swords and shields. Corpses littered the ground, and that made it difficult for both sides as Juilin and his men followed orders, pushing against the Sharan troops while the Aes Sedai and enemy channelers traded weaves.

  Juilin wielded a spear, a weapon he was only mildly familiar with. An armored Sharan squad forced its way between Myk and Charn’s pikes. The officers wore breastplates, strangely wrapped in cloth of a variety of colors, while the common rank and file wore leather fitted with strips of metal. They all had their backs painted with strange patterns.

  The leader of the Sharan troop wielded a wicked mace, smashing one pikeman, then the other. The man shouted at Juilin, curses he didn’t understand.

  Juilin feinted, and the Sharan raised his shield, so Juilin rammed his spear into the man’s armor at the gap between breastplate and arm. Light, he didn’t even flinch! He smashed his shield into Juilin, forcing him back.

  The spear slipped from Juilin’s sweaty fingers. He cursed, reaching for his sword breaker, a weapon he knew well. Myk and the others fought nearby, engaging the rest of this Sharan squad. Charn tried to help Juilin, but the crazed Sharan brought his mace down on Charn’s head—splitting it in two like a cracked walnut.

  “Die, you bloody monster!” Juilin cried, leaping forward and ramming his sword breaker into the man’s neck just above the gorget. Other Sharans were moving quickly toward his position. Juilin fell back as the man in front of him collapsed and died. Just in time, as a Sharan to his left tried to take his head off with a broad swing of his sword. The tip of the sword went by his ear, and Juilin instinctively raised his own blade. His opponent’s weapon broke in two, and he quickly dispatched the man with a backhand slice to the man’s throat.

  Juilin scrambled to pick up his spear. Fireballs fell nearby, attacks from the Aes Sedai behind and the Sharans on the Heights ahead. Soil coated Juilin’s hair, and stuck in clumps to the blood on his arms.

  “Hold!” Juilin shouted to his men. “Burn you, we need to hold!”

  He attacked another Sharan who came at him. One of the pikemen raised his weapon in time to pin the man on the shoulder, and Juilin speared him through his leather-clad chest.

  The air trembled. His ears rang faintly from all of the explosions. Juilin pulled back, yelling orders to his men.

  He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be someplace warm, with Amathera, thinking about the next criminal he needed to catch.

  He figured that every man on the field felt they should be someplace else. The only thing to do was keep on fighting.

  You look good in black, Androl sent to Pevara as they moved through the enemy army on top of the Heights.

  That, she replied back, is something one should never, never say to an Aes Sedai. Ever.

  His only response was a sense of nervousness through the bond. Pevara understood. They—wearing inverted weaves of the Mask of Mirrors—walked among Darkfriends, Shadowspawn and Sharans. And it was working. Pevara wore a white dress and a black cloa
k over it—those weren’t part of a weave—but anyone looking into her cloak’s hood would see the face of Alviarin, a member of the Black Ajah. Theodrin wore the face of Rianna.

  Androl and Emarin wore weaves that gave them the faces of Nensen and Kash, two of Taim’s cronies. Jonneth looked very unlike himself, wearing the face of a nondescript Darkfriend, and he played the part well, skulking behind and carrying their gear. One would never have seen the good-natured Two Rivers man in that hawk-faced man with the greasy hair and nervous manner.

  They moved at a brisk pace along the back lines of the Shadow’s army on the Heights. Trollocs hauled bundles of arrows forward; others left the lines to feast on piles of corpses. Cookpots boiled here. That shocked Pevara. They were stopping to eat? Now?

  Only some of them, Androl sent. It’s common for human armies too, though these moments don’t make it into the ballads. The fighting has lasted all day, and soldiers need energy while fighting. Usually, you rotate in three batches. Your front lines, your reserves, and your off-duty—troops who will trudge away from the fight and eat as quickly as they can before grabbing a little sleep. Then back to the front lines.

  She’d once seen war differently. She’d imagined every man committed every moment of the day. A true battle, however, was not a sprint; it was an extended, soul-grinding trudge.

  It was late afternoon already, approaching evening. To the east, below the Heights, battle lines extended far in both directions along the dry riverbed. Many thousands of men and Trollocs fought back and forth there. Large numbers of Trollocs fought there, but others were rotated back up the Heights to either eat or collapse into unconsciousness for a time.

  She did not look too closely at the cookpots, though Jonneth fell to his knees and sicked up beside the path. He had noticed the body parts floating in the thick stew. As he emptied his stomach onto the ground, a passing group of Trollocs snorted and hooted in mockery.

  Why are they pushing off the Heights to take the river? she sent to Androl. It seems to be a better position up here.