A Memory of Light

He shifted back and forth between the two as frequently as he blinked, chasing Slayer.

When he hit a patch of fighting bodies, he would jump into the wolf dream and crash through the figures made of sand and blown dust, then shift back into the waking world to keep on the trail. The shifting started to happen so quickly, he flickered between the two with each heartbeat.

Thump. Perrin raised his hammer, leaping off a small ridge after the scrambling form ahead.

Thump. Young Bull howled, summoning the pack.

Thump. Perrin was close now. Only a few steps behind. Slayer’s odor was pungent.

Thump. The spirits of wolves appeared around Young Bull, howling their thirst for the hunt.

Never had a prey deserved it more. Never had a prey done more damage to the packs.

Never had a man been more feared.

Thump. Slayer stumbled. He twisted as he fel , sending himself to the wolf dream by reflex.

Thump. Perrin swung Matialleinir; emblazoned with the leaping wolf. He who soars.

Thump. Young Bull leaped for the throat of the kil er of his brothers. Slayer fled.

The hammer connected.

Something about this place, this moment, sent Perrin and Slayer into a spiraling series of flickers between worlds. Back and forth, back and forth, flashes of moments and thoughts.

Flicker. Flicker. Flicker.

Men died around them. Some of dust, some of flesh. Their world, alongside shadows of other worlds. Men in strange clothing and armor, fighting beasts of al shapes and sizes.

Moments where the Aiel became Seanchan, who became something between the two, with spears and light eyes but helmets shaped like monstrous insects.

In all of those moments, in all of those places, Perrin’s hammer struck and Young Bull’s fangs grabbed Slayer by the neck. He tasted the salty warmth of Slayer’s blood in his mouth. He felt the hammer vibrate as it hit, and he heard bones crack. The worlds flashed like bolts of lightning.

Everything crashed, shook, then pulled together.

Perrin stood on the rocks in the valley of Thakan’dar, and Slayer’s body crumpled in front of him, head crushed. Perrin panted, the thril of the hunt clinging to him. It was over.

He turned, surprised to find that he was surrounded by Aiel. He frowned at them. “What are you doing?”

One of the Maidens laughed. “You looked like you were running to a great dance, Perrin Aybara. One learns to watch for warriors like you on the battlefield and fol ow. They often have the most fun.”

He smiled grimly, surveying the battlefield. It was not going well for his side. The Darkhounds ripped apart the defenders in a ruthless frenzy. The way up to Rand was completely exposed.

“Who commands this battle?” Perrin asked.

“Nobody, now,” the Maiden said. He did not know her name. “Rodel Ituralde did first. Then Darlin Sisnera led—but his command post fell to Draghkar. I have not seen any Aes Sedai or clan chiefs in hours.”

Her voice was grim. Even the stalwart Aiel were flagging. A quick scan of the battlefield showed Perrin that the remaining Aiel fought wherever they were, often in small groups, doing as much harm as they could before being cut down. The wolves who had fought here in packs were broken, their sendings those of pain and fear. And Perrin didn’t know what those Shadowspawn with the pocked faces meant.

The battle was finished, and the side of Light had lost.

The Darkhounds broke through the line of Dragonsworn nearby, the last group who held fal ing before them. A few tried to flee, but one of the Darkhounds leapt on them, pushing several to the ground and gnawing one. Frothing saliva sprayed across the others, and they dropped, twitching.

Perrin lowered his hammer, then knelt, pulling off Slayer’s cloak and wrapping the cloth around his hands as he picked up his hammer again. “Don’t let their spittle touch your skin.

It is deadly.”

The Aiel nodded, those with bare hands wrapping them. They smel ed of determination, but also resignation. Aiel would run toward death if it was the only option, and would laugh while doing so. Wetlanders thought them mad, but Perrin could smel the truth on them.

They were not mad. They did not fear death, but they did not welcome it.

“Touch me, all of you,” Perrin said.

The Aiel did so. He shifted them to the wolf dream—taking so many was a strain, like bending a bar of steel—but he managed it. He immediately shifted them to the path up to the Pit of Doom. The spirits of wolves had gathered here, silent. Hundreds of them.

Perrin brought the Aiel back to the waking world, his shift placing him and his small force between Rand and the Darkhounds. The Wild Hunt looked up, corrupted eyes shining like silver as they fixed on Perrin.

“We will hold here,” Perrin said to his Aiel, “and hope that some others aid us.”