A Memory of Light

have reported he was planning. “Blood and bloody ashes . . . one last toss of the dice. Everything we have, piled into a heap . . .”
    A group of men in dark armor came through a gateway to the top of the Knob, panting deeply, as if they’d had to chase down a damane to get them up here. Their breastplates were lacquered a deep red, but this batch did not need a fearsome display to be frightening. They looked furious enough to scramble eggs with a stare.
    “You,” said the lead Deathwatch Guard, a man named Gelen, pointing at Mat, “are needed at the—”
    Mat held up a hand to cut him off.
    “I will not be denied again!” Gelen said. “I have orders from—”
    Mat shot the man a glare, and he stopped short. Mat turned northward again. A cool, somehow familiar wind blew across him, rippling his long coat, brushing at his hat. He narrowed his eye. Rand was tugging on him.
    The dice still tumbled in his head.
    “They’re here,” Mat said.
    “What did you say?” Egwene asked.
    “They’re here.”
    “The scouts—”
    “The scouts are wrong” Mat said. He looked up, and noticed a pair of taken speeding back toward the camp. They had seen it. The Trollocs must have marched through the night.
    Sharans will come first, Mat thought, to give the Trollocs a breather. They’ll have arrived through gateways.
    “Send runners,” Mat said, pointing at the Deathwatch Guards, “get the men and women to their posts. And warn Elayne that I’m going to change the battle plan.”
    “What?” Egwene said.
    “They’re here! ” Mat said, turning on the Guards. “Why aren’t you bloody running! Go, go!” Above, the raken screeched. Gelen, to his credit, saluted, then ran—pounding in that massive armor—with his companions.
    “This is it, Egwene,” Mat said. “Take a deep breath, a last pull on the brandy, or burn your final pinch of tabac. Have a good look at the ground before you, as it’s soon going to be covered in blood. In an hour, we’ll be in the thick of it. The Light watch over us all.”

    Perrin drifted in darkness. He felt so tired.
    Slayer still lives, a piece of himself thought. Graendal is corrupting the great captains. The end is near. You can’t slip away now! Hold on.
    Hold on to what? He tried to open his eyes, but was so exhausted. He should. . . . should have gotten out of the wolf dream sooner. His entire body felt numb, except . . .
    Except for his side. Moving fingers that felt like bricks, he touched the warmth. His hammer. It was blazing hot. That warmth seemed to move up his fingers, and Perrin took a deep breath.
    He needed to wake up. He hovered at the edges of consciousness, as when he was close to sleep, but still partially aware. In that state, he felt as if he faced a forked pathway before him. One path led deeper into darkness. And one led . . . He couldn’t see, but he knew that it meant ... It meant waking up.
    Warmth from the hammer radiated up his arm. His mind gathered sharpness. Awaken.
    That was what Slayer had done. He had . . . awakened . . . somehow . . .
    Perrin’s life was trickling away. Not much time left. Half within death’s embrace, he gritted his teeth, drew in a deep breath and forced himself to wake.
    The silence of the wolf dream shattered.
    Perrin hit soft earth, and entered a place of shouts. Something about a battlefront, about preparing the lines . . .
    Nearby, someone cried out. And then someone else. And others. “Perrin?” He knew that voice. “Perrin, lad!”
    Master Luhhan? Perrin’s eyelids felt so heavy. He couldn’t open them. Arms grabbed him.
    “Hang on. I have you, lad. I have you. Hang on.”

CHAPTER 37

    The Last Battle

Dawn broke that morning on Polov Heights, but the sun did not shine on the Defenders of the Light. Out of the west and out of the north came the armies of Darkness, to win this one last battle and cast a Shadow across the earth; to usher in an Age where the wails of suffering would go unheard.
    —from the notebook of Loial, son of Arent
son of Halan, the Fourth Age

    L an held his sword aloft as he galloped Mandarb through camp.
    Above, the morning clouds began to bleed red, reflecting enormous fireballs rising from the massive Sharan army that was approaching from the west. They arced in the sky gracefully, seeming slow because of the great distance.
    Groups of riders broke out of the camp, joining Lan. The remaining Malkieri rode just behind him, but his force had swelled like a tide. Andere joined