Robert Jordan - A Memory of Light

Wind shook the tent, chilling Cadsuane down deep. This place was awful, even when the battle slowed. The dread that hung here was like that of a funeral for a child. It stifled laughter, killed smiles. The Dark One watched. Light, but it would be good to leave this place.

Aviendha drank her tea. The woman still looked haunted, although she had obviously lost allies in battle before.

“I left them to die,” she whispered.

“Phaw,” Cadsuane said to her. “You are not to blame for what one of the Forsaken did, child.”

“You don’t understand,” Aviendha said. “We were in a circle, and they tried to break free—I felt them—but I didn’t know what was happening. I held on to their Power, and so they couldn’t fight her. I left them helpless.”

“Well, from now on don’t leave those in your circle behind,” Cadsuane said briskly. “You could not have known what would happen.”

“If you suspect this one is nearby, Aviendha,” Sorilea said, “you will send word to Cadsuane, me or Amys. There is no shame in admitting that another is too strong to face alone. We will defeat this woman together and protect the Car’a’carn”

“Very well,” Aviendha said. “But you will do the same for me. All of you.”

She waited. Cadsuane reluctantly agreed, as did Sorilea.

Faile crouched in a dark tent. The air had grown even colder, now that they were close to Thakan’dar. She ran her thumb along the hilt of her knife, breathing in slowly and evenly, then releasing the breath in the same manner. She stared at the tent flaps, unblinking.

She’d placed the Horn’s chest there with one corner sticking out into the night. She felt more alone here on the border of the Blasted Lands—surrounded by supposed allies—than she had in the Shaido camp.

Two nights ago, she’d been called out of her tent to inspect some odd tracks that had worried the men. They hadn’t lost anyone since drawing so close to the Blasted Lands—that part of the plan was working—but tensions were still high. She’d been gone only a few minutes, but when she’d returned, the Horn’s chest in her tent had been moved just slightly.

Someone had tried to open it. Light. Fortunately, they hadn’t managed to break the lock, and the Horn had still been there when she’d looked.

The traitor could be anyone. One of the Redarms, a wagon driver, a member of Cha Faile. Faile had spent the past two nights being extra—even obviously—vigilant with the chest to frustrate the thief. Then, tonight, she’d complained of a headache and allowed Setalle to fix her some tea to help her sleep. She’d brought the tea back to her tent, had not taken a sip and now crouched, waiting.

The chest’s corner would be obvious, poking out into the night. Would they try again? As a precaution, she’d removed the Horn from the chest and taken it when she went out to answer the call of nature. She’d hidden it there in a cubby of rock and, upon returning, had put Cha Faile on patrol duty for the night, away from her tent. They had not liked leaving her unguarded, but Faile had made it clear that she was worried about tensions among the men.

That would be enough. Light, let it be enough.

Hours passed with Faile crouched in that same position, ready to leap up and call the alarm the moment someone tried to enter her tent. Surely they would try again tonight, when she was supposedly ill.

Nothing. Her muscles ached, but she didn’t move. The thief could be out there, in the dark, waiting. Wondering if this was the right moment to strike, to grab the Horn and run off to his or her masters. It—

A scream shattered the night.

Faile wavered. A distraction?

That scream, she thought, judging the direction. It came. . . from just west of here.

Near where she’d hidden the Horn. Faile cursed, making a snap decision. The chest was empty. If she took the bait and it really was just a distraction, then she would not lose anything. If, on the other hand, the thief had anticipated her . . . She darted from the tent as others scrambled from bedrolls. Members of Cha Faile raced through the camp. The yell came again.

It was accompanied by a haunting screech, a type that had been following them in the distance.

She crashed through some thin, Blight-stained weeds. Running through them was a foolish move in a place where a twig could kill, but she was not thinking clearly.

She arrived first on the scene, reaching the area where she’d hidden the Horn. There stood not only Vanin, but Harnan as well. Vanin clutched the Horn of Valere in thick arms while Harnan fought against some kind of beast with dark fur, shouting and swinging his sword.

Vanin looked at Faile and grew as pale as a Whitecloak’s shirt.

“Thief!” Faile shouted. “Stop him! He has stolen the Horn of Valere!”

Vanin cried out, tossing the Horn as if it had bitten him, then dashing away. Light, but he could move quickly for one of his bulk! He grabbed Harnan by the shoulder, pulling him to the side as the beast screamed that haunting wail.

Other roars came in the distance. Faile skidded to the ground, grabbing the Horn and clutching it close. These men were no common thieves. They had not only seen through her plan, but anticipated exactly where she’d hidden the Horn. She felt like a farmgirl who had just fallen for a townsman’s three-cup scam.

Those who had come running with her stood stunned, either by the sight of the Horn or the monster. The creature screeched—it looked like some kind of bear with too many arms, though it was larger than any bear Faile had seen. She stumbled to her feet. There was no time to look for the thieves as the beast smashed its way into Faile’s guards. It ripped the head off a member of Cha Faile , screeching.

Faile shouted, flinging a knife at the thing as Arrela hacked at one of its shoulders with her sword. Just then, a second beast came lumbering over the rocks next to Faile.

She cursed, leaping away, flinging a knife. She hit it—or, at least, the thing cried out in what sounded like anger and pain. As Mandevwin rode up on horseback, bearing a torch, the light revealed that the horrible things had faces like those of insects, with a multitude of fanglike teeth. Faile’s knife protruded from one bulblike eye.

“Protect the lady!” Mandevwin yelled, throwing spears to nearby Red-arms, who rammed them at the first monster, pushing it back from Arrela—who scrambled away, bleeding. The woman hadn’t lost her sword, though.

Faile fell back as Cha Faile organized around her, then looked down at what she held. The Horn of Valere itself, pulled from the sack in which she’d hidden it. She could blow it . . .

No, she thought. It is bound to Cauthon. To her, it would be just an ordinary horn.

“Steady!” Mandevwin said, dancing his warhorse back as one of the beasts lunged at it. “Verdin, Laandon, we need more spears! Go! The things fight like boars. Draw them forward, impale them!”

The tactic worked on one of the monsters, but as Mandevwin yelled, the other one charged at him and grabbed his horse by the neck. The beast brushed aside soldiers who tried to strike, and Mandevwin crashed to the ground, groaning.

Still clutching the Horn, Faile dashed past where a group of Redarms had managed to skewer the other beast. She grabbed a freshly lit torch and threw it at the other monster, lighting the fur on its back. The thing bellowed as fire raced up its spine, the fur burning like dry tinder. It dropped Mandevwin’s dead horse, the head ripped nearly free, as it thrashed, yelling and howling.

“Grab the wounded!” Faile ordered. She took a member of the Band by the arm. “See to Mandevwin!”