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 . . .
It’s the symbol, she realized with a start. The ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai.
Under this sign . . . shall he conquer.
Aviendha held tightly to the One Power. That thrumming sound was him, somehow. The life growing was him. As the Dark One ripped the land apart, Rand stitched it back together.
She had to keep moving. She crouched as she ran, using the newly grown plants as cover. They had come right where she needed them to hide her approach. Happenstance? She chose to believe otherwise. She could feel him, in the back of her mind. He fought, a true warrior. His battle lent her strength, and she tried to return the same.
Determination. Honor. Glory. Fight on, shade of my heart. Fight on.
She came upon Graendal—still surrounded by minions under Compulsion—exchanging lethal flows of the One Power with Cadsuane and Alivia. Aviendha slowed, watching the three of them lob bursts of fire at one another, slicing at one another’s weaves with Spirit, warping the air with heat and tossing weaves so quickly that it was difficult to make out what was happening.
She itched to help, but Amys was right. If she and Aviendha attacked together, particularly while Graendal was occupied, they had a better chance of killing the Forsaken. Assuming Cadsuane and Alivia could hold out, waiting was the better choice.
Could they hold out, though? Cadsuane was powerful, more powerful than Aviendha had thought. Those hair ornaments of hers included angreal and ter’angreal for certain, though Aviendha hadn’t been able to handle them and tell for certain, using her Talent.
Graendal’s women captives lay against the ground, obviously flagging. Two had collapsed; Sarene had fallen to her knees, and stared ahead with vacant eyes.
Cadsuane and Alivia didn’t seem to mind if they hit the captives. That was the right choice. Still, could Aviendha somehow—
The tall brush beside her moved.
Aviendha spun without thought and wove Fire. She burned down a black-veiled attacker mere moments before his spear would have stabbed her in the neck. The weapon sliced the side of her shoulder as the man stumbled, then toppled forward, her strike having burned a hole in his chest as large as a fist.
Another channeler joined the melee, frantically sending out weaves. Amys had arrived. Fortunately, Graendal focused on her, rather than attacking Aviendha’s just-revealed location.
That was good, for Aviendha was staring at the man she’d felled, a man Graendal had made to do her bidding through Compulsion. A man who looked familiar to Aviendha.
Horrified, trembling, she reached down and pulled aside the veil.
It was Rhuarc.
I'm leaving,” Mishraile said with a scowl, looking at the backs of the charging Sharan cavalry. They were standing on the western side of the Heights, far off the left flank of the Sharan army. “Nobody told us we’d be fighting the bloody heroes of the Horn.”
It is the Last Battle, child.” Alviarin sounded snide. She had taken to calling all of them child lately. Mishraile was about ready to strangle her. Why had M'Hael allowed her to bond Nensen? Why would a woman be put in command of them?
They stood in a small group, Alviarin, Mishraile, Nensen, Kash, Rianna, and Donalo, and Ayako—who had been Turned as he had. Mishraile didn’t know a lot about battlefield fighting; when he killed people, he liked to wait for them to stumble someplace dark, where nobody was watching. All of this open air battle, all of this chaos, made him feel as if a knife tip were pressed against his back.
“There,” Alviarin said to Nensen, pointing toward a flash of light as another explosion from those dragons sounded through gateways across the battlefield. “I think that came from the middle of the plateau. Make a gateway and go there.”
“We’re never going to—” Mishraile began.
“Go!” Alviarin said, face red with anger.
Nensen scrambled and did as she said. He liked following orders, feeling that someone was in charge.
I might have to kill her, Mishraile thought. And Nensen as well. Even without much experience of battle, Mishraile could see that this was not going to be an easy fight. The return of the Seanchan, the fall of Demandred and the Trollocs rampaging without any direction . . . Yes, the Shadow still had the numbers, but the fight wasn’t nearly as one-sided as he’d have liked. One of the first rules he’d learned in life was to never fight a man when you had an equal chance of losing.
The six of them piled through the gateway, coming out in the middle of the plateau. The ground burnt by dragons and channelers emitted smoke to mix with the strange fog that had arisen; it was hard to tell what was going on where. Holes in the ground, splayed open by the dragons.
Corpses . . . well, pieces of them . . . scattered about. An unusual scent in the
air. It was after sunrise now, but barely any light came through the clouds.
Cries came from above, made by those strange flying creatures the Seanchan had brought. Mishraile shivered. Light. It was like standing in a house without a roof, knowing your enemy had archers positioned above you. He shot one of them down with a weave of Fire, satisfied with the way the wings crumpled and the beast spun about, swirling as it dropped.
Attacking like that exposed him, though. He really would have to kill the other Dreadlords, then escape. He was supposed to be on the winning side!
“To work,” Alviarin said. “Do as I said. These are men making the gateways the devices fire through, so we will have to locate where the gateway was and have Donalo read the residue.”
The men moved out, inspecting the ground, trying to find the place where the gateway had opened. People fought nearby, uncomfortably close—Sharans and men flying a banner with a wolf on it. If they came back this way . . .
Donalo fell in beside Mishraile as they searched, quickly, both holding to the Power. Donalo was a square-faced Tairen, with his graying beard in a point.
“When Demandred went down,” Donalo whispered. “I figured this was a trap all along. We’ve been had.”
Mishraile nodded. Perhaps Donalo would be an ally. They could escape together. Of course, then he’d have to kill Donalo. Mishraile wouldn’t want any witnesses who could report back to the Great Lord what he had done.
He couldn’t trust Donalo anyway. The man had joined them only because of that forced trick with the Myrddraal. If a man could change sides that quickly, what was to keep him from changing again? Besides, Mishraile didn’t like the . . . feeling he got when looking at Donalo or the others who had been Turned. It was as if there was something unnatural deep within them, looking out at the world, seeking prey.
“We need to get out of here,” Mishraile whispered. “Fighting here now is a fool’s—” He cut off as they encountered someone moving through the smoke.
A tall man, with red-gold hair. A familiar man, scored with cuts, his clothing burned and blackened. Mishraile gaped and Donalo cursed as the Dragon Reborn himself saw them, started, then fled back across the plateau. By the time Mishraile thought to attack, al’Thor had crafted a gateway for himself and escaped through it.
The earth rumbled violently, and some chunks of earth actually broke apart, and a piece of the eastern slope went crashing down on to Trollocs below. This place was growing more and more unstable. Another reason to leave.
‘That was the bloody Dragon Reborn!” Donalo said. ‘Alviarin! The bloody Dragon Reborn is on the battlefield!”
“What nonsense is this?” Alviarin asked, approaching with the others.
“Rand al’Thor was here,” Mishraile said, still stunned. “Blood and bloody ashes, Donalo. You were right! That’s the only way Demandred could have fallen.”
“He did keep saying that the Dragon was on this battlefield somewhere,” Kash noted.
Donalo stepped forward, cocking his head, as if studying something in the air. “I saw exactly where he made the gateway to escape. It was right here. Right here . . . Yes! I can feel the resonance. I know where he went.”
“He defeated Demandred,” Alviarin said, folding her arms skeptically. “Can we hope to fight him?”
“He looked exhausted,” Mishraile said. “More than exhausted. He panicked when he saw us. I think, if he did fight Demandred, it took a lot out of him.”
Alviarin regarded the space in the air where al’Thor had vanished. Mishraile could practically see her thoughts. If they killed the Dragon Reborn, M’Hael might not be the only Dreadlord raised to the Chosen. The Great Lord would be grateful to the one who struck down al’Thor. Very grateful.
“I have it!” Donalo cried, opening a gateway.
“I need a circle to fight him,” Alviarin said. Then hesitated. “But I will use Rianna and Nensen only. I don’t want to risk us being too inflexible, all in the same circle.”
Mishraile snorted, gathering his power and leaping through the opening. What she meant was that she didn’t want one of the men leading the circle, potentially stealing the kill from her. Well, Mishraile would see about that.
He stepped from the battlefield to a clearing he did not recognize. The trees here didn’t look as deeply under the Great Lord’s touch as they did other places. Why was that? Well, the same dark sky thundered above, and the area was so dark that he had to weave a globe of light to make anything out.
Al’Thor rested on a stump nearby. He looked up, saw Mishraile, and cried out, scrambling away. Mishraile wove a fireball that sprouted in the air and flew after him, but al’Thor managed to cut it down with a weave of his own.
Ha! He is weak! Mishraile thought, dashing forward. The others followed him through the gateway, the women linked with Nensen, who trailed after Alviarin like a puppy. Donalo came through last, calling for them to wait for him.
A moment later they stopped running.
It hit Mishraile like a wave of cold water—like running face-first into a waterfall. The One Power vanished. It left him, just like that.
He stumbled, panicked, trying to figure out what had happened. He’d been shielded! No. He sensed no shield. He sensed . . . nothing.
The trees moved nearby, figures stepping from the shadows. Lumbering creatures with drooping eyebrows and thick fingers. They seemed as ancient as the trees themselves, with wrinkled skin and white hair.
He was in a stedding.
Mishraile tried to run, but firm arms grabbed him. Ogier ancients surrounded him and the others. Ahead, in the forest, al’Thor stepped forward— but it wasn't him. Not any longer. It had been a trick. Androl had been wearing the Dragon Reborn’s face.
The others screamed and battered at the Ogier with their fists, but Mishraile fell to his knees, looking into that emptiness where the One Power had been.
Pevara moved next to Androl as the Ogier, those too ancient to join the battle, took the Dreadlords in strong hands and dragged them further into Stedding Sholoon. Lindsar—eldest among them, leaning on a cane as large as a man’s thigh—approached Androl.
“We will care for the captives, Master Androl,” Lindsar said. “Execution?” Pevara asked.
“By the eldest trees, no!” The Ogier looked offended. “Not in this place, no, no killing here. We will hold them, and not let them escape.”
“These are very dangerous people, good Ogier,” Androl said. “Do not underestimate how devious they can be.”
The Ogier chuckled, limping toward the stedding's still beautiful trees. Men assume that because we are calm, we cannot be devious ourselves,” she said. “Let them see how crafty a mind can become with centuries worth of aging upon it. Do not worry, Master Androl. We will be careful. It will be well for these poor souls to live in the peace of the stedding. Perhaps a few decades of peace will change their outlook on the world.”
She vanished into the trees.
Androl looked at Pevara, feeling her satisfaction pulse through the bond, though her face was calm. “You did well,” he said. “The plan was excellent.”
She nodded in satisfaction, and the two of them left the stedding— passing the invisible barrier back to the One Power. Though Androl was so tired he could barely think, he didn’t have any trouble seizing saidin. He snatched it like a starving man taking a hunk of bread, though he'd only been without for a few minutes.
Almost, he felt sorry for what he had done to Donalo and the others.
Rest well here, my friend, he thought, looking over his shoulder. Perhaps we can find a way to free you someday from the prison they put upon your mind.
Well? Jonneth asked, running up.
“Done,” Androl said.
Pevara nodded as they stepped out of the trees to overlook the Mora and the ruins outside the stedding. She stopped as they saw the area around the ruins before them, where the refugees from Caemlyn had been gathering the wounded and weapons.
It was now fill
ed with Trollocs.
Slaughtering.
Aviendha knelt over Rhuarc's body.
Dead. She’d killed Rhuarc.
It was no longer him, she told herself. Graendal killed him. Her weave might as well have burned him away. This is just a shell.
It was just a . . .
It was just a . . .
It was just a . . .
Strength, Aviendha. Rand’s determination filled her, radiating from the bond at the back of her mind. She looked up and felt all fatigue leave her, all distractions vanish.
Graendal was dueling with Amys, Talaan, Alivia and Cadsuane—and Graendal was winning. Weaves zipped back and forth, lighting the dusty air, but those coming from Cadsuane and the others were less and less vibrant. More defensive. As Aviendha watched, a storm of lightning fell around Amys, throwing her to the ground. Beside Graendal, Sashalle Anderly shook, then fell to the side; the glow of the One Power no longer surrounded her. Graendal had worn her out, pulling too much Power.
Aviendha stood up. Graendal was powerful and wily. She was exceptionally good at slicing weaves from the air as they were formed.
Aviendha held a hand out to her side, and wove Fire, Air, Spirit. A glowing, burning spear of light and fire appeared in her hand. She prepared five other weaves of Spirit, then dashed forward.
The thrumming of the trembling ground accompanied her footsteps. Crystalline lightning fell from the heavens, then froze in place. Men and beasts howled as the Darkhounds reached the final lines of humans defending the pathway up to Rand.
Graendal saw Aviendha and began to weave balefire. Aviendha slashed the weave from the air with a flow of Spirit. Graendal cursed, weaving again. Aviendha struck, cutting the weave apart.
Cadsuane and Talaan sent bursts of fire. One of the captive Aiel threw himself in front of Graendal, dying with a long cry as the flames engulfed him.
Aviendha ran swiftly, the ground a blur beneath her, clutching a spear of light. She remembered her first race, one of the tests to join the Maidens. On that day, she had felt the wind behind her, urging her on.
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