Robert Jordan - A Memory of Light

“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 this 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.”