A Memory of Light

Well, now Grady waited in the darkness atop the canyon walls, hiding among a cluster of rocks. Distant from him, perhaps a hundred paces, Trollocs moved by torchlight—the Dreadlords needed that to see. They, too, were atop the canyon wal s, which gave them the height and position to look down on the river below—which had become a lake. The three Dreadlords had broken up large chunks of the canyon walls and created the barrier of rock that dammed the river.

That had dried out the Mora at Merrilor and let the Trollocs cross the river with ease. Grady could open that dam in a moment—a strike with the One Power would open it up and release the water from the canyon. So far, he hadn’t dared. Cauthon had ordered him not to attack, but beyond that, he’d never be able to defeat three strong Dreadlords on his own.

They’d kill him and dam the river again.

He caressed his wife’s letter, then prepared himself. Cauthon had ordered him to make a gateway at dawn to that same village. Doing so would reveal Grady. He didn’t know the purpose of the order.

The basin below was filled with water, covering the bodies of the fallen.





I guess now will do as well as any time, Grady thought, taking a deep breath. Dawn should be almost here, though the cloud cover kept the land dark.

He’d fol ow his orders. Light burn him, but he would. But if Cauthon survived the battle downriver, he and Grady would have words. Stern ones. A man like Cauthon, born of ordinary folk, should have known better than to throw away lives.

He took another deep breath, then began to weave a gateway. He opened it at that vil age the people had come from yesterday. He didn’t know why he was to do this; the vil age had been depopulated to make up the group that had fought earlier. He doubted anybody remained. What had Mat called it? Hinderstap?

People roared through the gateway, yelling, holding aloft cleavers, pitchforks, rusty swords.

With them came more soldiers of the Band, like the hundred who had fought here before.

Except . . .

Except by the light of the Dreadlords’ fires, the faces of those soldiers were the same as the ones who had fought here before . . . fought here and died.

Grady gaped as he stood up in the darkness, watching those people attack. They were all the same. The same matrons, the same farriers and blacksmiths, the very same people. He’d watched them die, and now they were back again.

The Trollocs probably couldn’t tell one human from another, but the Dreadlords saw it—and understood that these were the same people. Those three Dreadlords seemed stunned. One of the Dreadlords yel ed out about the Dark Lord abandoning them. He started flinging weaves at the people.

Those people just charged on, heedless of the danger as many of their number were blown apart. They fel on the Dreadlords, hacking at them with farming implements and kitchen knives. By the time the Trol ocs attacked, the Dreadlords were down. Now he could. . . .

Shaking off his stupor, Grady gathered his power and destroyed the dam blocking the canyon.

And in doing so, he released the river.



A Smile

Cauthon has the dragons back and fighting again,” Jonneth said, trying to peer through the smoke. “Listen to them!”





CHAPTER


41


Pounding echoed across the top of the Heights. Pevara smiled. She, Androl, Jonneth, Emarin and Canler had joined Logain and the other Ashaman, along with some of the Aes Sedai who were bonded to them. They stood at the edge of the steep slopes opposite Dashar Knob, a half mile up from where Demandred’s headless corpse lay.

Another round of dragonfire sounded across the Heights, though in the darkness, they couldn’t see the smoke. “Those dragons won’t last long, not if Taim’s men have mixed in with the Sharans,” Pevara said. “The dragoners can’t defend themselves against channelers, and they’re too easy to locate because of the noise.”

“I doubt Cauthon has a choice but to use them,” Androl said. “He can’t hold anything back now.”

“Asha’man!” Logain appeared through the smoke, striding among them, Gabrelle at his side.

“It is time to move.”

“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.