Robert Jordan - A Memory of Light

If that was what awaited them if the Windfinders weren’t using their bowl, Ituralde was more than happy to leave them at their task. The Dark One wouldn’t care how many Trollocs he destroyed while sending a blizzard, twister or hurricane to kill the humans they fought.

“They’re gathering for another surge at the mouth of the pass!” someone yelled in the night air, followed by other calls confirming it. Ituralde peered through the mist, aided by light from the bonfires. The Trollocs were indeed regrouping.

“Withdraw the seventh and ninth infantry squads,” Ituralde said. “They’ve been at it too long. Pull the fourth and fifth out of reserve and have them take flanking positions. Prepare for more arrows. And . . .” He trailed off, frowning. What were those Trollocs doing? They’d pulled back farther than he’d have expected, drawing into the darkness of the pass. They couldn’t be retreating, could they?

A dark wave slid out of the mouth of the pass. Myrddraal. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. Black cloaks that did not move, in defiance of the breeze. Faces with no eyes, lips that sneered, black swords. The creatures moved like eels, sinuous and sleek.

They gave no time for orders, no time for response. They flowed into the squares of defenders, sliding between pikes, whipping deadly swords.

“Aiel!” Ituralde bellowed. “Bring in the Aiel! All of them, and channelers! Everyone except for those who guard at the Pit of Doom itself! Move, move!”

Messengers scrambled away. Ituralde watched in horror. An army of Myrddraal. Light, it was as bad as his nightmares!

The seventh infantry collapsed before the attack, square formation shattering. Ituralde opened his mouth to order the primary reserve—the one defending his position—to give support. He needed the cavalry to ride out and draw pressure off the infantry.

He didn’t have much cavalry; he’d agreed that most of the horsemen would be needed on other fronts. But he did have some. They’d be essential here.

Except . . .

He squeezed his eyes shut. Light, but he was exhausted. He had trouble thinking.

Pull back before the attack , a voice seemed to be saying to him. Pull back to the Aiel, then make a stand there.

“Pull back . .” he whispered. “Pull . .”

Something felt very, very wrong about doing that. Why was his mind insisting upon it?

Captain Tihera, Ituralde tried to whisper. You have command. It wouldn’t come out. Something physical seemed to be holding his mouth shut.

He could hear men screaming. What was happening? Dozens of men could die fighting a single Myrddraal. At Maradon, he’d lost an entire company of archers—one hundred men—to two Fades who had slipped into the city at night. His defensive squads were built to deal with Trollocs, to hamstring them, to drop them.

The Fades would crack those pike squares open like eggs. Nobody was doing what needed to be done.

“My Lord Ituralde?” Captain Tihera said. “My Lord, what was it you said?”

If they retreated, the Trollocs would surround them. They needed to stand firm.

Ituralde’s lips opened to give the order to retreat. “Pull the—”

Wolves.

Wolves appeared in the fog like shadows. They leaped at the Myrddraal, growling. Ituralde started, spinning, as a man in furs pulled himself up onto the top of the rocky outcrop.

Tihera stumbled back, calling for their guards. The newcomer in furs leaped for Ituralde and shoved him off the top of the rocks.

Ituralde did not fight back. Whoever this man was, Ituralde was grateful to him, feeling a moment of victory as he fell. He hadn’t given the order to retreat.

He hit the ground not far below, and it knocked the wind out of him. The wolves took his arms in gentle mouths and pulled him off into the darkness as he slowly drifted into unconsciousness.

Egwene sat in the camp as the battle for the border of Kandor continued.

Her army held back the Trollocs.

The Seanchan fought alongside her troops just across the river.

Egwene herself held a small cup of tea.

Light, it was galling. She was the Amyrlin. But she was drained of energy.

She still hadn’t found Gareth Bryne, but that wasn’t unexpected. He moved about. Silviana was hunting him, and should have word soon.

Aes Sedai had been sent to take the wounded to Mayene. The sun drooped low in the sky, like an eyelid that refused to stay open. Egwene’s hands shook as she held her cup. She could still hear the battle. It seemed that the Trollocs would fight into the night, grinding the human armies against the river.

Distant shouts rose like the calls of an angry crowd, but the explosions from the channelers had slowed.

She turned to Gawyn. He didn’t seem tired at all, though he was strangely pale. Egwene sipped her tea and silently cursed him. It was unfair, but she wasn’t concerned with fairness right now. She could grumble at her Warder. That was what they were for, wasn’t it?

A breeze blew through camp. She was a few hundred paces east of the ford, but she smelled blood in the air. Nearby, a squad of archers drew their bows at their commander’s call, launching a volley of arrows. A pair of blackwinged Draghkar plummeted moments later, hitting the ground with dull thuds just beyond camp. More would come, as it grew dark and they had an easier time hiding against the sky.

Mat. She felt strangely sick thinking about him. He was such a blow-hard. A carouser, leering at every pretty woman he met. Treating her like a painting and not a person. He . . . he . . .

He was Mat. Once, when Egwene had been around thirteen, he’d jumped into the river to save Kiem Lewin from drowning. Of course, she hadn’t been drowning. She’d merely been dunked under the water by a friend, and Mat had come running, throwing himself into the water to help. The men of Emond’s Field had made sport of him for months about that.

The next spring, Mat had pulled Jer al’Hune from the same river, saving the boy’s life. People had stopped making fun of Mat for a while afterward.

That was how Mat was. He’d grumbled and muttered all winter about how people made sport of him, insisting that next time, he’d just let them drown. Then the moment he’d seen someone in danger, he’d gone splashing right back in. Egwene could remember gangly Mat stumbling from the river, little Jer clinging to him and gasping, a look of pure terror in his eyes.

Jer had gone down without making a sound. Egwene had never realized that could happen. People who started to drown didn’t yell, or sputter, or call for help. They just slipped under the water, when everything seemed fine and peaceful. Unless Mat was watching.

He came for me in the Stone of Tear, ; she thought. Of course, he’d also tried to save her from the Aes Sedai, unwilling to believe she was Amyrlin.

So which was this? Was she drowning or not?

How much do you trust Matrim Cauthon? Min had asked. Light. I do trust him. Fool that I am, I do. Mat could be wrong. He often was wrong.

But when he was right, he saved lives.

Egwene forced herself to stand. She wavered, and Gawyn came to her side. She patted him on the arm, then stepped away from him. She would not let the army see its Amyrlin so weak that she had to lean against someone for support. “What reports do we have from the other battlefronts?”

“Not much, today,” Gawyn said. He frowned. “In fact, it’s been rather silent.”

“Elayne was supposed to fight at Cairhien,” Egwene said. “It was an important battle.”

“She might be too occupied to send word.”

“I want you to send a messenger by gateway. I need to know how that battle is going.”