A Memory of Light

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 smel ed 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 Ashaman 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 Mats 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 dragon. 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 fel 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 cal 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 stil 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.