A Memory of Light twot-14

by Robert Jordan

  That had dried out the Mora at Merrilor and let the Trollocs cross the river with ease. Grady could open that dam in a moment—a strike with the One Power would open it up and release the water from the canyon. So far, he hadn’t dared. Cauthon had ordered him not to attack, but beyond that, he’d never be able to defeat three strong Dreadlords on his own. They’d kill him and dam the river again.

  He caressed his wife’s letter, then prepared himself. Cauthon had ordered him to make a gateway at dawn to that same village. Doing so would reveal Grady. He didn’t know the purpose of the order.

  The basin below was filled with water, covering the bodies of the fallen.

  I guess now will do as well as any time, Grady thought, taking a deep breath. Dawn should be almost here, though the cloud cover kept the land dark.

  He’d follow his orders. Light burn him, but he would. But if Cauthon survived the battle downriver, he and Grady would have words. Stern ones. A man like Cauthon, born of ordinary folk, should have known better than to throw away lives.

  He took another deep breath, then began to weave a gateway. He opened it at that village the people had come from yesterday. He didn’t know why he was to do this; the village had been depopulated to make up the group that had fought earlier. He doubted anybody remained. What had Mat called it? Hinderstap?

  People roared through the gateway, yelling, holding aloft cleavers, pitchforks, rusty swords. With them came more soldiers of the Band, like the hundred who had fought here before. Except . . .

  Except by the light of the Dreadlords’ fires, the faces of those soldiers were the same as the ones who had fought here before . . . fought here and died.

  Grady gaped as he stood up in the darkness, watching those people attack. They were all the same. The same matrons, the same farriers and blacksmiths, the very same people. He’d watched them die, and now they were back again.

  The Trollocs probably couldn’t tell one human from another, but the Dreadlords saw it—and understood that these were the same people. Those three Dreadlords seemed stunned. One of the Dreadlords yelled out about the Dark Lord abandoning them. He started flinging weaves at the people.

  Those people just charged on, heedless of the danger as many of their number were blown apart. They fell on the Dreadlords, hacking at them with farming implements and kitchen knives. By the time the Trollocs attacked, the Dreadlords were down. Now he could. . . .

  Shaking off his stupor, Grady gathered his power and destroyed the dam blocking the canyon.

  And in doing so, he released the river.

  CHAPTER 41

  A Smile

  “Cauthon has the dragons back and fighting again,” Jonneth said, trying to peer through the smoke. “Listen to them!”

  Pounding echoed across the top of the Heights. Pevara smiled. She, Androl, Jonneth, Emarin and Canler had joined Logain and the other Ashaman, along with some of the Aes Sedai who were bonded to them. They stood at the edge of the steep slopes opposite Dashar Knob, a half mile up from where Demandred’s headless corpse lay.

  Another round of dragonfire sounded across the Heights, though in the darkness, they couldn’t see the smoke. “Those dragons won’t last long, not if Taim’s men have mixed in with the Sharans,” Pevara said. “The dragoners can’t defend themselves against channelers, and they’re too easy to locate because of the noise.”

  “I doubt Cauthon has a choice but to use them,” Androl said. “He can’t hold anything back now.”

  “Asha’man!” Logain appeared through the smoke, striding among them, Gabrelle at his side. “It is time to move.”

  “We’re going to go defend those dragons?” Androl asked. Around them, dozens of other exhausted Asha’man hauled themselves to their feet, turning to Logain.

  “No,” Logain said. “We’re going to move west.”

  “To the west?” Pevara folded her arms. “That’s away from the battle!”

  “It is where your Amyrlin fought Taim,” Logain said, turning away from her. “The ground there, as well as many of the Sharans, was entombed in crystal. I want every Asha’man, soldier and Dedicated to whom I have not given other specific orders to begin searching. There is—”

  The ground shook, rumbling ominously, and Pevara stumbled. Androl caught her by the arm, though she sensed exhaustion through the bond to match her own. They didn’t have much left in them.

  As the trembling subsided, Logan continued. “Somewhere, inside that mass of crystals, is a golden scepter. Taim was said to have been holding it when Egwene al’Vere defeated him. we're going to find it. If any of you see it, do not touch it. Send for me.”

  Logain shouted the same orders to the next group of Asha’man. Androl watched him go, and Pevara sensed his frustration.

  “If that scepter is an angreal or sa’angreal,” Emarin said, “it could be of great use to us.”

  “Maybe,” Pevara said. “I think those dragons need protecting more than we need that rod. I swear there’s something about that horn sounding. We should be attacking now, not searching for battle spoils . . .”

  “The other Asha’man can do that,” Androl said. “We don’t have to.”

  “What?” Canler said, scowling. “You’re going to disobey?”

  “No,” Androl said. “He said this is for men who didn’t have any other orders. We do. Back at the start of the battle he told us to watch for Taim’s lackeys and to do something about them.”

  “I’m not sure he remembers that order, Androl,” Emarin said, rubbing his chin. “And I don’t know that if he did remember, he’d want us to follow it now. He seems pretty intent on that scepter.”

  “He gave us the order nonetheless,” Androl said.

  “Androl,” Canler said, sitting on his heels, “I feel so tired, I could hardly gather the strength to curse you if I wanted. None of these lads look any better, and you struggle to open a small gateway. How are we going to stand up to Mishraile and the others?”

  Androl frowned, but had no argument in return. However, something occurred to Pevara. A way, perhaps, to accomplish something while exhausted . . .

  Androl perked up, and his eyes widened, and then he grinned. “You’re a genius, Pevara.”

  “Thank you,” she said primly. “Canler, haul yourself to your feet. I’ll bet you gentlemen anything that we’ll find Taim’s men trying to destroy those dragons. We’re going to give them something of a surprise . . .”

  What a mess this had become.

  Moghedien kicked Demandred's corpse. It had been abandoned, the Sharans having gone to fight Cauthon’s army and avenge their leader.

  Demandred. The fool had let himself become distracted. If you focused too much on personal grudges, or if you let yourself be entangled with the worms you worked with . . . well, Demandred had earned his reward. Death, and likely eternal punishment at the Great Lord’s hands.

  Now that Demandred was indeed dead, she reached for the One Power—and found something else. A glowing river ten times as powerful, ten times as sweet. With so many of the Chosen having fallen, the Great Lord had opened himself to her. Survival was truly the best way to prove oneself to him.

  This changed her plans dramatically. First, she burned Demandred’s corpse to powder. Then she quickly wove the Mask of Mirrors—oh, how sweet the True Power was!—and replaced her form with an image of Demandred’s. She always made certain she could imitate the other Chosen. Demandred would be difficult, as he had changed so much recently, but she had paid close attention. No one touching her would be fooled; she would be careful.

  Disguise in place, she Traveled to the back lines of the Sharan army fighting Cauthon’s troops. Here were the reserve units, waiting to move forward, as well as supply carts and some of the wounded.

  The Sharans stopped sorting supplies to look at her. Gaping. They had been preparing to flee the battlefield itself. They were aware, as was everyone, that the huge Seanchan army had joined in the fight. She noticed that there were a handful of Ayyad in t
his group—only three, she could see. Two women with tattoos, and a grimy male channeler who squatted at their feet. Most of the others had been killed in the conflict with the Aes Sedai.

  The Seanchan. Thinking of them and that imperious leader of theirs made Moghedien writhe. When the Great Lord discovered the mess she’d made . . .

  No. He had given her the True Power. Moghedien had outlasted the others, and only that mattered, for now. He could not see everywhere, and probably did not yet know that she’d been uncovered. How had that girl seen through her disguise? It shouldn’t have been possible.

  Someone must have betrayed her. Still, she had been working closely with Demandred during this battle, and though she had never been as good a tactician as he—none of the Chosen had been, except maybe Sammael—she understood the battle well enough to take charge. She hated to do it, as it left her exposed in a way she disliked. But desperate times made for desperate actions.

  And actually, as she considered, she thought that events were going fairly well for her. Demandred down, defeated by his own pride. M’Hael, that upstart, was also dead—and had conveniently removed the leader of the Aes Sedai from the battlefield. She still had the bulk of Demandred’s Shadowspawn and some Dreadlords, some of the Black Ajah and a dozen of the Turned men M’Hael had brought.

  “This is not him!” said an older man wearing the robes of a Sharan monk. He pointed at Moghedien. “This is not our Wyld! It is—” Moghedien burned the man to nothingness.

  As his bones fell in a heap, she remembered off-handedly from her eyes-and-ears that Demandred had shown that old man fondness. “Better you should die, old one,” she said to the corpse, speaking as Demandred, “than live to denounce the one you should have loved. Does anyone else wish to deny me?”

  The Sharans remained silent.

  “Ayyad,” Moghedien said to the three, “did you see me craft weaves?” Both women and the grimy man shook their heads.

  “I kill without weaves,” Moghedien said, “only I, your Wyld, could have done this.”

  She had to remember not to smile, even in victory, as the people bowed their heads. Demandred was always solemn. As the people fell to their knees, Moghedien had to hold in her joy by force. Yes, Demandred had done good work here, and had handed her the army of an entire nation to play with. This would go quite well indeed!

  “Dragonslayer,” said a kneeling Ayyad woman. She was weeping! How weak these Sharans were. “We saw that you had fallen . . .”

  “How could I fall? You have prophecies, do you not?”

  The women looked at one another. “They say you will fight, Dragonslayer,” the woman said. “But . . .”

  “Gather five fists of the Trollocs from the back lines,” Moghedien said, turning to the commander of the reserve unit, “and send them upriver to the ruins.”

  “The ruins?” the man asked. “Only the Caemlyn refugees are in that direction.”

  “Exactly, you fool. Refugees—children, the elderly, women who search for the dead. They can’t fight back. Tell the Trollocs to start slaughtering. Our enemies are weak; an attack like this will force them to break off and protect the ones that true warriors would just let die.”

  The general nodded, and she saw approval in his face. He accepted her as Demandred. Good. He ran off to give the order.

  “Now,” Moghedien said as the dragons fired in the distance, “why haven’t any of our Ayyad gone to remove those weapons from the battle?”

  The Ayyad kneeling before Moghedien bowed her head. “We have fewer than a dozen Ayyad left, Wyld.”

  “Your excuses are weak,” Moghedien said, listening as the explosions stopped. Perhaps some of M’Hael’s remaining Dreadlords had just resolved the problem of the dragons.

  She felt her skin itch as the Sharan commander strode toward a Myrddraal across the field. She hated being in the open like this. She was meant to remain in shadows, letting others lead battles. However, she would never have it said that when the situation demanded it, she was too frightened to go and—

  A gateway split open behind her, and several of the Sharans yelled out. Moghedien spun, opening her eyes wide as she looked into what appeared to be a dark cavern. Dragons pointed out of it.

  “Fire!” a voice yelled.

  “Close the gateway!” Talmanes shouted, and the portal winked shut.

  “This was one of Lord Mat's ideas, wasn't it?” Daerid yelled, standing beside Talmanes as the dragons were reloaded. They both had wax in their ears.

  “What do you think?” Talmanes yelled back.

  If the dragons were vulnerable when firing, what did you do? You fired them from a hidden location.

  Talmanes smiled as Neald opened the next gateway in front of ten dragons. The fact that many of the dragon carts were too broken to roll well meant nothing when you could open a gateway in front of them, pointing them wherever you wanted.

  This gateway opened up on several fists of Trollocs engaged in fierce combat against Whitecloaks. Some of the Shadowspawn turned horrified eyes toward the dragons.

  “Fire!” Talmanes shouted, waving his hand down to give a visual cue, in case any of the men couldn’t hear him.

  Smoke filled the cavern, explosions echoing against Talmanes’ earplugs, as the dragons recoiled, releasing a storm of death into the Trollocs. They broadsided the fists, sweeping them out of the way, leaving them broken and dying. The nearby Whitecloaks cheered and raised swords.

  Neald shut the gateway, and the dragoners reloaded their weapons. Neald then made a gateway above them, facing downward, to vent the dragon smoke out of the cavern complex and away into empty air somewhere distant.

  “Are you smiling,?” Daerid asked.

  “Yes,” Talmanes said, satisfied.

  “Blood and bloody ashes, Lord Talmanes . . . that expression is horrifying on you.” Daerid hesitated. “You should probably do that more often.”

  Talmanes grinned as Neald opened the next gateway to a point on Dashar Knob where Aludra stood with spyglass and scouts, deciding on the next place to target. She yelled through a position, Neald nodded, and they set up the next shot.

  CHAPTER 42

  Impossibilities

  Aviendha felt as if the world itself were cracking, breaking apart, being consumed.

  The lightning that fell on the valley of Shayol Ghul was no longer under control. Not by the Windfinders, not by anyone. It slew Shadowspawn and defender alike. Unpredictable. The air smelled of fire, burned flesh and something else—a distinctive, clean odor she had come to recognize as the scent of a lightning strike.

  Aviendha moved like the twisting wind itself, trying to stay ahead of Graendal, who hurled bar after bar of white-hot balefire at her. With each shot, the ground trembled. Black lines spread all across the rocks.

  The defenders of the valley had nearly fallen. Those people who had not retreated to the very back, near the path up the mountain, were being destroyed by Darkhounds. The ground shook, and Aviendha stumbled. Nearby, a group of Trollocs broke from the windy shadows, snarling. The creatures did not see her, but turned and attacked something else . . . Other Trollocs? They were fighting each other.

  She wasn’t surprised. It was not unusual for Trollocs to fight one another if not closely controlled by the Eyeless. But what was that odd mist?

  Aviendha heaved herself to her feet and ran away from the Trollocs, moving up a nearby incline. Maybe from that vantage, she could pinpoint Graendal’s location. At the top, she found that she was standing on an impossibility: an enormous chunk of rock that was floating precariously with very little underneath it. It had ripped from the ground and risen here.

  All around the valley were similar impossibilities. A group of fleeing Domani horsemen galloped over a section of rock that rippled like water, and all four men and mounts sank into it, vanishing. That deep mist had started to enter the valley on one side. Men and Trollocs alike ran from it, screaming.

  A liquid bar of balefire broke through the floating
chunk of rock, passing just inches from her head. Aviendha gasped, falling flat against the ground. She heard a scrambling nearby, and she rolled over, preparing a weave.

  Amys—her Wise One’s clothing blackened and burned, the side of her face reddened—hurried up to Aviendha and huddled down beside her. “Have you seen Cadsuane or the others?”

  “No.”

  Amys cursed softly. “We all need to attack the Shadowsouled at once. You go round the right; I will go left. When you sense me weaving, join in. Together, perhaps we can fell her.”

  Aviendha nodded. They rose and parted. Somewhere, fighting here, was Cadsuane’s handpicked team. Talaan, a Windfinder who had somehow made her way to the Dragonsworn. Alivia, the former damane. They, with Amys and Aviendha, were some of the most powerful channelers the Light had.

  The origin of the balefire was at least some indication of where Graendal was. Aviendha rounded the floating rock—the balefire had punctured it, rather than destroying it completely—growing disturbed as she saw other chunks of stone rising randomly across the valley. It was a bubble of evil, only on a much grander scale. As she crept, she heard a low thrumming sound coming from the mountain. The ground began to tremble, chips of stone bouncing about. Aviendha stayed low, only to see that the valley had begun to sprout—incredibly—new plants. The once-barren ground turned vibrantly green, the plants seeming to writhe as they grew tall.

  Patches of those plants sprouted all across the valley, violent bursts of greenery. Above, the white and black clouds swirled together, white on black, black on white. Lighting crashed, then froze to the ground. The lightning, impossibly, seemed to have become a towering glass column, jagged, in the shape of the bolt that had struck, though it was no longer glowing.

  Those clouds above formed a pattern that looked familiar. Black on white, white on black . . .