A Memory Of Light: Wheel of Time Book 14

by Robert Jordan

  Doesine led the motley bunch. A dozen or so Aes Sedai, a smattering of Warders and soldiers. The men clutched their weapons, but lately those had proven about as effective as loaves of bread. The Power crackled and sizzled in the air. The improvised bulwark thumped as Sharans pounded it with fire.

  Leane peeked above the defenses, clutching the One Power. She had recovered from her encounter with the Forsaken Demandred. It had been an unsettling experience—she had been totally in his power, and her life could have been snuffed out in an instant. She had also been unnerved by the intensity of his ravings; his hatred of the Dragon Reborn was unlike anything she had ever seen.

  A group of Sharans moved down the slope, and together they sent weaves at the makeshift fortification. Leane sliced one weave from the air, working like a surgeon cutting away withered flesh. Leane was much weaker in the One Power now than she had once been.

  She had to be more efficient with her channeling. It was remarkable what a woman could achieve with less.

  The bulwark exploded.

  Leane threw herself aside as clods of soil rained down. She rolled through curling smoke, coughing and clinging to saidar. It was those Sharan men! She couldn’t see their weaves. She picked herself up, her dress tattered from the explosion, her arms scored by scratches. She caught a hint of blue peeking from a furrow nearby. Doesine. She scrambled over.

  She found the woman’s body there. Not her head, though.

  Leane felt an immediate, almost overpowering, sense of loss and grief. Doesine and she had not been close, but they had been fighting together here. It was wearing on Leane—the loss, the destruction. How much could they take? How many more would she have to watch die?

  She steeled herself with difficulty. Light, this was a disaster. They had anticipated enemy Dreadlords, but there were hundreds upon hundreds of those Sharans. An entire nation’s worth of channelers, all trained in war. The battlefield was strewn with bright bits of color, fallen Aes Sedai. Their Warders charged up the hillside, screaming in rage at the loss of their Aes Sedai as they were cut down by blasts of the Power.

  Leane stumbled toward where a group of Reds and Greens fought from a hollowed out piece of ground on the western slope. The terrain protected them for now, but how long could the women hold out?

  Still, she felt proud. Outnumbered and overwhelmed, the Aes Sedai kept fighting. This was nothing like the night the Seanchan attacked, when a fractured Tower had broken from the inside out. These women held firm; each time a pocket of them was scattered, they grouped back together and continued fighting. Fire fell from above, but nearly as much flew back, and lightning struck on either side.

  Leane carefully made her way over to the group, joining Raechin Connoral, who crouched next to a boulder while launching weaves of Fire at the advancing Sharans. Leane watched for return weaves, then deflected one with a quick weave of Water, making the ball of fire burn away in tiny sparks.

  Raechin nodded to her. “And here I thought you’d stopped being useful for anything other than batting your eyes at men.”

  “The Domani art is about achieving what you want, Raechin,” Leane said coolly, “with as little effort as possible.”

  Raechin snorted and launched a few fireballs toward the Sharans. “I should ask advice from you on that sometime,” she said. “If there really is a way to make men do as you like, I should like very much to know it.”

  That idea was so absurd as to nearly make Leane laugh, despite the terrible circumstances. A Red? Putting on paints and powders and learning the Domani arts of manipulation? Well, why not? Leane thought, striking down another fireball. The world was changing, and the Ajahs—ever so subtly—changing with it.

  The sisters’ resistance was attracting the attention of more Sharan channelers. “We’ll have to abandon this position soon,” Raechin said.

  Leane only nodded.

  “Those Sharans…” the Red growled. “Look at that!”

  Leane gasped. Many of the Sharan troops in this quarter had withdrawn earlier in the fight—something seemed to have drawn them away—but the channelers had replaced them with a large group of frightened-looking people and were herding them at the front of their line to absorb attacks. Many carried sticks or tools of some sort for fighting, but they bunched together, holding the weapons timidly.

  “Blood and bloody ashes,” Raechin said, causing Leane to raise an eyebrow at her. She continued weaving, trying to send lightning down behind the lines of the frightened people. It still hit many of them. Leane felt sick, but joined in the attacks.

  As they worked, Manda Wan crawled up to them. Soot-stained and blackened, the Green looked horrible. Probably much as I do, Leane thought, glancing down at her own scratched and sooty arms.

  “We’re pulling back,” Manda said. “Maybe we’ll have to use gateways.”

  “And go where?” Leane said. “Abandon the battle?”

  The three grew silent. No. There was no retreat from this fight. It was win here or nothing.

  “We are too fragmented,” Manda said. “We must at least fall back to regroup. We need to bring the women together, and this is the only thing I can think of. Unless you have a better idea.”

  Manda looked to Raechin. Leane was too weak in the power now for her opinion to hold much weight. She started cutting down weaves as the two continued to speak in hushed tones. The Aes Sedai nearby began pulling back out of the hollow and moving back down the slope. They’d regroup, make a gateway toward Dashar Knob and decide what to do next.

  Wait. What was that? Leane sensed powerful channeling nearby. Had the Sharans created a circle? She squinted; they were well into night now, but enough of the landscape burned to give firelight. It also raised a lot of smoke. Leane wove Air to blow the smoke out of the way, but it lifted on its own, split as if by a powerful wind.

  Egwene al’Vere strode past them up the slope, glowing with the power of a hundred bonfires. That was more than Leane had ever seen a woman hold. The Amyrlin walked forward with her hand thrust out, holding a white rod. Egwene’s eyes seemed to shine.

  With a burst of light and force, Egwene released a dozen separate flows of fire. A dozen. They battered the hillside above, throwing the bodies of Sharan channelers into the air.

  “Manda,” Leane said, “I think we have found you a better rallying point.”

  Talmanes lit a twig off the lantern, then used it to light his pipe. He took one puff before hacking and emptying the pipe’s bowl on the rock floor. The tabac had gone bad somehow. Horribly bad. He coughed and ground the offending tabac into the floor with his heel.

  “You all right, my Lord?” Melten asked, walking past, idly juggling a pair of hammers with his right hand as he walked.

  “I’m still bloody alive,” Talmanes said. “Which is far more than I likely have a right to expect.”

  Melten nodded without expression and continued on, joining one of the teams working on the dragons. The deep cavern around them echoed with the sounds of hammers on wood as the Band did its best to reconstruct the weapons. Talmanes tapped the lantern, judging the oil. It smelled awful when it burned, though he was growing used to that. They had enough for a few more hours yet.

  That was good, since—so far as he knew—this cavern had no exits to the battleground above. It was accessible only by gateway. Some Asha’man had known of it. Strange fellow. What kind of man knew of caverns that could not be reached, except through the One Power?

  Anyway, the Band was trapped down here, in a place of safety but isolation. Only rare bits of information came in Mat’s messages.

  Talmanes strained, thinking he could hear the distant sounds of channelers fighting above, but it was mere fancy. The land was silent, and these ancient stones had not seen the light since the Breaking, if then.

  Talmanes shook his head, walking to one of the working teams. “How goes it?”

  Dennel gestured toward a few sheets of paper Aludra had given him, instructions on how to repair this particular d
ragon. The woman herself gave precise directions to another of the work teams, her lightly accented voice echoing in the chamber.

  “Most of the tubes are solid,” Dennel said. “If you think about it, they were built to withstand a little fire and an explosion now and then…” He chuckled, then fell silent, looking at Talmanes.

  “Do not let my expression dampen your good humor,” Talmanes said, tucking his pipe away. “Nor let it bother you that we are fighting at the end of the world, that our armies are grossly outnumbered, and that if we lose, our very souls will be destroyed by the Dark Lord of all evil.”

  “Sorry, my Lord.”

  “That was a joke.”

  Dennel blinked. “That?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was a joke.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have an interesting sense of humor, my Lord,” Dennel said.

  “So I have been told.” Talmanes stooped down and inspected the dragon cart. The scorched wood was held together with screws and extra boards. “This does not seem very functional.”

  “It will work, my Lord. We won’t be able to move it fast, though. I was saying, the tubes themselves fared well, but the carts… Well, we’ve done what we can with salvage and the supplies out of Baerlon, but we can only do so much with the time we have.”

  “Which is none,” Talmanes said. “Lord Mat could call upon us at any moment.”

  “If they’re still alive up there,” Dennel said, looking upward.

  A discomforting thought. The Band could end its days trapped down here. At least there wouldn’t be many of those days. Either the world would end or the Band would run out of food. They wouldn’t last a week. Buried here. In darkness.

  Bloody ashes, Mat. You’d better not lose up there. You’d better not! The Band still had fight in them. They were not going to end this one starving underground.

  Talmanes held up his lantern, turning to go, but noticed something. The soldiers working on the dragons cast a twisted shadow on the wall, like a man with a wide cloak and hat that obscured his face.

  Dennel followed the glance. “Light. It looks like we’re being watched over by old Jak himself, doesn’t it?”

  “That it does,” Talmanes said. Then, in a louder voice, he shouted, “It’s too quiet in here by far! Let’s have some singing, men.”

  Some of the men paused. Aludra stood up, placing hands on her hips, and gave him a displeased glance.

  So Talmanes started it himself.

  “We’ll drink the wine till the cup is dry,

  And kiss the girls so they’ll not cry,

  And toss the dice until we fly,

  To dance with Jak o’ the Shadows!”

  Silence.

  Then they started it up:

  “We’ll give a yell with a bloody curse,

  And hug the maids, it could be worse,

  As we ride away with the Dark One’s purse,

  To dance with Jak o’ the Shadows!”

  Their loud voices beat against the stones as they worked, furiously preparing for the part they would play.

  And they would play it. Talmanes would make certain they did. Even if they had to blast their way out of this tomb in a storm of dragonfire.

  * * *

  As Olver stabbed the woman in white, Faile’s bonds vanished. She dropped to the ground, stumbling but remaining upright. Mandevwin dropped beside her with a curse.

  Aravine. Light, Aravine. Docile, careful and capable. Aravine was a Darkfriend.

  She had the Horn.

  Aravine glanced at the fallen Aes Sedai that Olver had attacked, then panicked, grabbing the horse a servant had brought and jumping into the saddle.

  Faile dashed for her as captives roared out of the nearby pens, throwing themselves at Trollocs and trying to wrestle weapons free. She had almost reached Aravine before the woman galloped away, carrying the Horn with her. She headed toward the gentler slopes that would allow her to ride to the top of the Heights.

  “No!” Faile screamed. “Aravine! Don’t do this!” Faile started to run after her, but saw that that was no use.

  A horse. She needed a horse. Faile looked around, frantic, and found the few pack animals they had brought through the gateway. Faile scrambled to Bela’s side, cutting free the saddle—and all of its burdens—with a few swipes of the knife. She leaped up onto the mare bareback and took the reins, then kicked her into motion.

  The shaggy mare galloped after Aravine, and Faile leaned low on her back. “Run, Bela,” Faile said. “If you’ve kept any strength back, now is the time to use it. Please. Run, girl. Run.”

  Bela charged across the trampled ground, hoofbeats accompanying thunder from above. The Trolloc camp was a place of darkness, lit by cook fires and the occasional torch. Faile felt as if she were riding through a nightmare.

  Ahead, a few Trollocs burst onto the path to head her off. Faile leaned lower, praying to the Light that they’d miss when they attacked. Bela slowed, and then two horsemen charged up alongside Faile, bearing lances. One pierced a Trolloc’s neck, and though the other rider missed his mark, his horse shouldered another Trolloc aside, making way. Bela galloped between the disoriented Trollocs, catching up to two men riding ahead, one large of girth, the other lean. Harnan and Vanin.

  “You two!” Faile yelled.

  “Ho, my Lady!” Harnan said, laughing.

  “How?” she yelled at them over the sound of the hooves.

  “We let a caravan find us,” Harnan yelled back, “and let them take us captive. They brought us through the gateway a few hours back, and we’ve been preparing the captives to break free. Your arrival gave us the opportunity we needed!”

  “The Horn! You tried to steal the Horn!”

  “No,” Harnan yelled back, “we tried to steal some of Mat’s tabac!”

  “I thought you had buried it to leave it behind!” Vanin yelled from the other side. “I figured Mat wouldn’t care. He owes me a few marks anyway! When I opened that sack and found the bloody Horn of Valere… bloody ashes! I’ll bet they heard my yell all the way in Tar Valon!”

  Faile groaned, imagining the scene. The yell that Faile had heard was a yell of surprise, and it was what had drawn the bear-thing to attack.

  Well, there was no going back to that moment. She clung to Bela with her knees, urging the horse forward. Ahead, Aravine galloped between Trollocs, heading toward where the steep slopes tapered off. Aravine yelled frantically for Trollocs to help her. The racing horses traveled faster than any Trollocs could, however.

  Demandred. Aravine had said she would take the Horn to one of the Forsaken. Faile growled softly, leaning down further, and amazingly, Bela pulled ahead of Vanin and Harnan. She didn’t ask where they’d found the horses. She directed her entire attention toward Aravine.

  A cry went up through camp, and Vanin and Harnan split off, intercepting riders who came for Faile. She cut to the side, urging Bela to leap a pile of supplies and charging through the center of a group of people in strange clothing, eating beside a small fire. They yelled after her with thick accents.

  Inch by inch, she gained on Aravine. Bela snorted and puffed, sweat darkening her coat. The Saldaean cavalry was among the best in the land, and Faile knew horses. She’d ridden all breeds. In those minutes on the battlefield, she would have put Bela up against the Tairen best. The shaggy mare, of no particular breed of note, moved like a champion runner.

  Feeling the rhythm of the hoofbeats beneath her, Faile slipped a knife from her sleeve. She urged Bela to jump over a small dip in the land, and they hung in the air for a moment, Faile judging the wind, the fall, the moment. She reached her arm back, and flipped the knife through the air right before Bela’s hooves touched the ground.

  The knife flew true, burying itself in Aravine’s back. The woman slipped from the saddle, crumpling to the ground, sack sliding from her grip.

  Faile leaped off Bela, landing while still in motion and sliding to a stop beside the sack. She untied the s
trings that secured its opening, and saw the glittering Horn inside.

  “I’m… sorry…” Aravine whispered, rolling over. Her legs did not move. “Don’t tell Aldin what I did. He has… such terrible taste… in women…”

  Faile stood up, then looked down with pity. “Pray that the Creator shelters your soul, Aravine,” Faile said, and climbed back onto Bela’s back. “For if not, the Dark One will have you as his. I leave you to him.” She nudged Bela back into motion.

  There were more Trollocs ahead, and they fixed their attention on Faile. They shouted, and several Myrddraal slid forward, pointing toward Faile. They began to shift around her, blocking her path.

  She set her jaw, grim, and heeled Bela back in the direction she had come, hoping to meet up with Harnan, Vanin or anyone else who would help.

  The camp was abuzz with activity, and Faile picked up riders chasing after her, yelling, “She has the Horn of Valere!”

  Somewhere high atop the hill, Mat Cauthon’s forces fought the Shadow. So close!

  An arrow hit the ground beside her, followed by others. Faile reached the captive pens, the broken fence lying in pieces and bodies littered about. Bela was huffing, perhaps at the end of her strength. Faile caught sight of another horse nearby, a roan gelding that was saddled, nudging at a fallen soldier at his feet.

  Faile slowed. What to do? Switch horses, but then what? She glanced over her shoulder and then ducked down as another arrow passed overhead. She’d picked up some dozen Sharan soldiers on horseback, all chasing her, wearing cloth armor sewn with small rings. They were followed by hundreds of Trollocs.

  Even with a fresh horse, she thought, I can’t outrun them. She led Bela behind some supply wagons for cover and leaped off, intending to dash for the fresh mount.

  “Lady Faile?” a small voice asked.

  Faile glanced down. Olver huddled beneath the wagon, holding his knife.

  The riders were almost upon her. Faile didn’t have time to think. She whipped the Horn from its sack and pushed it into Olver’s arms. “Keep this,” she said. “Hide. Take it to Mat Cauthon later in the night.”