A Memory of Light

“The Amyrlin Seat is dead,” Arganda reported.

Blood and bloody ashes, Mat thought. Egwene. Not Egwene too? It hit him like a punch to the face.

“What’s more,” Arganda continued, “the Aes Sedai report that they have lost over half their numbers. The ones remaining claim . . . and this is a quote . . . that they ‘couldn’t channel enough of the One Power to lift a feather.’ They’re out of the battle.”

Mat grunted. “How many of the Sharan channelers did they take?” he asked, bracing himself.

“All of them.”

Mat looked at Arganda and frowned. “What?”

“All of the channelers,” Arganda said. “All the ones that were fighting the Aes Sedai.”

“That’s something,” Mat said. But Egwene . . .

No. No thinking of that right now. She and her people had stopped the Sharan channelers.

The Sharans and Trol ocs fel back from the front lines to regroup. Mat took the opportunity to do the same.

His forces—what remained of them—were strung out across the Heights. He had joined together everyone he had left. The Borderlanders, the Dragonsworn, Loial and the Ogier, Tam’s troops, the Whitecloaks, soldiers of the Band of the Red Hand. They fought hard, but their foe greatly outnumbered them. It was bad enough when they just had the Sharans to contend with, but once the Trol ocs had broken through on the eastern edge of the Heights, they were forced to defend themselves on two fronts. Over the past hour they had been pushed back more than a thousand paces, in a northerly direction, and their back ranks had almost reached the end of the plateau.

This would be the last push. The end of the battle. With the Sharan channelers gone, Mat would not be wiped out immediately, but Light . . . there were stil so many bloody Trollocs left. Mat had danced this dance wel . He knew he had. But there was only so much a man could do. Even Tuon’s return might not be enough, if it came.

Arganda handled reports from the other areas of the battlefield—the man was wounded badly enough he could not fight, and there was no one with enough of the Power left to spare for Healing. He did his job well. Good man. Mat could have used him in the Band.

The Trollocs gathered for their push, again moving bodies out of the way, forming into fists with Myrddraal leading them. That would give Mat five or ten minutes to get ready. Then it would come.

Lan walked over, expression grim. “What would you have my men do, Cauthon?”

“Get ready to fight those Trol ocs,” Mat said. “Has anyone checked with Mayene lately?

Now would be a wonderful time to get back a few ranks of men who have been Healed.”

“I will check on it for you,” Lan said. “And then I will prepare my men.”

Mat dug in his saddlebags as Lan withdrew. He pul ed out Rand’s banner, the one of the ancient Aes Sedai. He’d gathered it earlier, thinking perhaps it might have some use.

“Somebody hoist this thing up. We’re fighting in Rand’s bloody name. Let’s show the Shadow we’re proud of it.”

Dannil took the banner, finding a spear to use as a pole. Mat took a deep breath. The way the Borderlanders spoke, they thought this would end in a glorious, heroic, suicidal charge.

That was how Thom’s songs always ended . . . the kinds of songs Mat had hoped to never find himself in. Faint hope that was, now.

Think, think. In the distance, the Trol oc horns started blowing. Tuon had delayed. Was she going to come? He hoped, secretly, she would not. With the battle going so poorly, even the Seanchan might not be enough.

He needed an opening. Come on, luck! Another gateway opened, and Arganda went to col ect the messenger’s report. Mat did not need to hear to realize the kind of news it was, as when Arganda returned, he was frowning.

“All right,” Mat said, sighing. “Give me your news.”

“The Queen of Andor is dead,” Arganda said.

Bloody Ashes! Not Elayne! Mat felt a lurch inside. Rand. . . Ym sorry. “Who leads there?

Bashere?”

“Dead,” Arganda said. “And his wife. They fel during an attack against the Andoran pikemen.

We’ve lost six Aiel clan chiefs as well. Nobody leads the Andorans or the Aiel at the riverbed.

They’re crumbling fast.”

“This is the end!” Demandred’s augmented voice washed across Mat from the other end of the plateau. “Lews Therin has abandoned you! Cry out to him as you die. Let him feel your pain.”

They had arrived at the last few moves in their game, and Demandred had played well. Mat looked over his army of exhausted troops, many of them wounded. There was no denying it, they were in a desperate situation.

“Send for the Aes Sedai,” Mat said. “I don’t care if they say they can’t lift a feather. Maybe when it comes down to their lives, they’ll find a little strength for a fireball here and there.