A Memory of Light

That, likely, would be the end of him . . . and of the Last Battle.

    Mat hacked at the wood with his axe to sharpen it to a point. “See,” he said, “it doesn’t need to be fancy. Save your pretty carpentry to impress the mayor’s daughter.”
    The watching men and women nodded with grim determination. They were farmers, villagers and craftsmen, like people he’d known back in the Two Rivers. Mat had thousands of them under his command. He’d never have suspected that there would be so many. The good people of the land had come to fight.
    Mat figured they were insane, to a person. If he had been able to escape, he would be hiding in a basement somewhere. Burn him, but he would have tried.
    Those dice rattled in his head, just as they’d been doing ever since Egwene gave him control of all of the armies of the Light. Being bloody taveren was not worth two beans.
    He kept at it, shaping his stake for the palisade. One fellow watched particularly carefully, an old farmer with skin so leathery that Trolloc swords would likely just bounce off. He looked familiar to Mat for some reason.
    Burn these memories, Mat thought. Undoubtedly, this fellow resembled someone from one of those old memories Mat had been given. Yes, that felt right. He could not quite remember. A . . . cart? A Fade?
    “Come on, Renald,” the fellow said to one of his companions—another farmer, Borderlander stock from the looks of him. “Let’s go on down the line, and see if we can hurry the other lads up.”
    The two headed off as Mat finished his stake, then wiped his brow. He reached for another length of wood—he had better give these sheepherders another demonstration—when a cadin’sor -clad figure ran up along the mostly finished palisade wall.
    Urien had bright red hair, kept short save for the tail in the back. He raised a hand to Mat as he passed. “They are agitated, Matrim Cauthon,” Urien said, not stopping. “I believe they are coming in this direction.”
    “Thanks,” Mat called. “I owe you.”
    The Aiel turned as he ran, jogging backward for a second and facing Mat. Just win this battle! I have bet a skin of oosquai upon our success.”
    Mat snorted. The only thing more discomforting than a stoic Aiel was a grinning one. Bet? On the outcome of this battle? What kind of bet was that? If they lost, nobody would live long enough to collect . . .
    Mat frowned. Actually, that was a pretty good bet to be making. “Who did you find to take that bet?” Mat called. “Urien?” But the man was already too far away to hear.
    Mat grumbled, but handed his axe to one of the people nearby, a slender Tairen woman. “Keep them in line, Cynd.”
    “Yes, Lord Cauthon.”
    “I’m no bloody lord,” Mat said by habit as he picked up his ashandarei. He walked off, then turned to look at the palisade being erected and caught sight of a handful of Deathwatch Guards walking along the rows of working people. Like wolves among the sheep. Mat hurried on.
    His armies did not have much time left to prepare. Using gateways had put them ahead of the Trollocs, but they had not escaped. Light, there was no escape. Mat had been given his choice of battlefields, though, and this Merrilor place would work best.
    Like picking the plot for your own grave, Mat thought. Sure , I’d rather not have to choose in the first place.
    The palisade was rising in front of the woods east of the field. He did not have time to section off or surround the entire area with a palisade, and doing so would not make much sense anyway. With those Sharan channelers, the Shadow could rip through walls like a sword through silk. But some palisades, with catwalks on top, would give his archers height to target Trollocs.
    Mat had two rivers to work with here. The River Mora flowed in a southwest direction, running between the Heights and Dashar Knob. Its southern bank was in Shienar, the northern bank in Arafel. It joined the River Erinin, which ran directly westward at the southern edge of the field.
    Those rivers would serve better than any walls, particularly now that he had the resources to defend them correctly. Well, if you could call them resources. Half his soldiers were as new as spring grass and the other half had fought near to death the week before. The Borderlanders had lost two men out of three—Light, two out of three. A lesser army would have disbanded.
    Counting everyone he had, Mat would be outnumbered four to one when those Trollocs arrived, at