A Memory of Light

his axe, Erith and the other Ogier joining him and stopping the brunt of this Trolloc flanking force. He had not intended to lead the Ogier charge. He did anyway.
    He hacked at the shoulder of a ram-faced Trolloc, shearing its arm free. The thing yelled and fell to its knees, and Erith kicked it in the face, throwing it back into the legs of a Trolloc behind.
    Loial did not stop his song, the call to blood, to death. Let them hear! Let them hear\ Swing after swing. Chopping dead wood, that was all this was. Dead, rotting, horrible wood. He and Erith fell into place with Elder Haman, who—with ears laid back—looked utterly fierce. Placid Elder Ha-man. He felt the rage too.
    A beleaguered line of Whitecloaks—whom the Ogier had relieved— stumbled back, making way for the Ogier.
    He sang and fought and roared and killed, hacking at Trollocs with an axe meant for cutting wood, and never flesh. Working with wood was a reverent business. This . . . this was killing weeds. Poisonous weeds. Strangling weeds.
    He continued to chop the Trollocs, losing himself in the call to blood, to death. The Trollocs began to fear. He saw terror in their beady eyes, and he loved it. They were used to fighting men, who were smaller than themselves.
    Well, let the Trollocs fight someone their own size. They snarled as the Ogier line forced them back. Loial landed blow after blow, shearing through arms, hacking through torsos. He shoved his way between two bear Trollocs, laying about him with his axe, yelling in fury—fury now for what the Trollocs had done to the Ogier. They should be enjoying the peace of the stedding. They should be able to build, sing, and grow.
    They could not. Because of these . . . these weeds , they could not! The Ogier were forced to kill. The Trollocs made builders into destroyers. They forced Ogier and humans to be like themselves. The call to blood, to death.
    Well, the Shadow would see just how dangerous the Ogier could be. They would fight, and they would kill. And they would do it better than any human, Trolloc or Myrddraal could imagine.
    By the fear Loial saw in the Trollocs—by their terrified eyes—they were beginning to understand.

    “Light!” Galad exclaimed, falling back from the thick of the fight. “Light!”
    The Ogier attack was terrible and glorious. The creatures fought with ears drawn back, eyes wide, broad faces flat as anvils. They seemed to transform, all placidity gone. They cut through ranks of Trollocs, hacking the beasts to the ground. The second row of Ogier, made up mostly of females, sliced up Trollocs with long knives, bringing down any who made it through the first line.
    Galad had thought Trollocs fearsome with their twisted mix of human and animal features, but the Ogier disturbed him more. Trollocs were simply horrible . . . but Ogier were gentle, soft-spoken, kindly. Seeing them enraged, bellowing their terrible song and attacking with axes nearly as long as men were tall . . . Light!
    Galad waved the Children back, then ducked as a Trolloc slammed into a tree nearby. Some of the Ogier were seizing wounded Trollocs by their arms and hurling them out of the way. Many of the other Ogier were blood-soaked to their waists, hacking and chopping like butchers preparing meat. Now and then, one of them fell, but unarmored though they were, their skin seemed tough.
    “Light!” Trom said, moving up to Galad. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”
    Galad shook his head. It was the most honest answer he could think of.
    “If we had an army of those . . .” Trom said.
    “They’re Darkfriends,” Golever said, joining them. “Shadowspawn for certain.”
    “Ogier are no more Shadowspawn than I am,” Galad said dryly. “Look, they’re slaughtering the Trollocs.”
    “Any moment now, they’ll all turn on us,” Golever said. “Watch . . .” He trailed off, listening to the Ogier chant their war song. One large group of Trollocs broke, fleeing back around cursing Myrddraal. The Ogier didn’t let them go. Enraged, the giant Builders chased after the Trollocs, long-handled axes chopping their legs, dropping them in sprays of blood and cries of agony.
    “Well?” Trom asked.
    “Maybe . . .” Golever said. “Maybe it’s a scheme of some kind. To gain our trust.”
    “Don’t be a fool, Golever,” Trom said.
    “I’m not—”
    Galad held up a hand. “Gather our wounded. Let’s head toward the bridge.”

    Rand let the swirling colors fade from his vision.