A Memory of Light

Many of that latter group had never been in battle before. Well, neither had most of the Two Rivers men until a few months back. They’d learn quickly. Hitting a Trolloc with an arrow wasn’t so different from hitting a deer.
    Though, if you missed the deer, it didn’t gut you with a sword a few seconds later.
    “What is it, Dannil?” Tam asked. “Word from Mat?”
    “He’s sending you infantry banners from the Legion of the Dragon,” Dannil said. “He says to hold the river here, no matter what.”
    “What is that boy up to?” Tam said, looking toward the Heights. The Legion of the Dragon had good infantry, well-trained crossbowmen who would be useful here. But what was happening on the Heights?
    The flashes of light reflected off columns of thick black smoke, rising from the Heights toward the clouds above. The fighting was in earnest up there.
    “I don’t know, Tam,” Dannil said. “Mat . . . he’s changed. I hardly think I know him any longer. He was always a bit of a scoundrel, but now . . . Light, Tam. He’s like someone from one of the stories.”
    Tam grunted. “We’ve all changed. Mat would probably say similar things about you.”
    Dannil laughed. “Oh, I doubt that, Tam. Though I do wonder, sometimes, what would have happened if I’d gone with the three of them. I mean, Moiraine Sedai was looking for boys the right age, and I guess I was just a little too old . . .”
    He seemed wistful. Dannil could say, and think, what he wanted—but Tam doubted he would have liked to endure the things that had forced Mat, Perrin and Rand to become the people they now were. “Take command of this lot,” Tam said, nodding to the reserve archers. “I’ll see that Arganda and Galad know we’re being reinforced.”

    Thick Trolloc arrows sprayed around Pevara as she desperately wove Air. Her gust blew away the arrows like stones swept off the board by a furious player. Sweating, she clung to saidar and wove a stronger shield of Air, moving it into the sky to defend against further volleys.
    “It’s safe!” she yelled. “Go!”
    A group of soldiers dashed out from underneath an overhang on the steep riverside slope of the Heights. More thick black shafts fell from above. They hit her shield; it slowed them to the point that once they passed through, they dropped as idly as feathers.
    The soldiers she’d helped dashed for the rallying point at Hawal Ford. Others decided to stand and fight as Trolloc bands poured down the slopes.
    Most of the Shadowspawn stayed atop the Heights to secure the position, and finish pushing humans off.
    Where? Androl’s furious thought came to her, a soft whisper inside her mind.
    Here, she sent him. Not completely a thought, more an image, a sense of place.
    A gateway split beside her, and he dashed through, Emarin on his heels. Both men carried swords, but Emarin spun and thrust his hand backward, a streak of fire shooting through the open gateway. Screaming sounded from the other side. Human screaming.
    “You went all the way to the Sharan army?” Pevara demanded. “Logain wanted us to stay together!”
    “So you care about what he wants, now?” Androl asked, grinning.
    You're insufferable, she thought. Around them, arrows clattered to the ground. The Trollocs above hooted in anger.
    “Nice weave,” Androl said.
    “Thank you.” She glanced at the sword.
    “I’m a Warder now.” He shrugged. “Might as well look like one, eh?”
    He could cut a Trolloc in half with a gateway at three hundred paces, and summon fire from inside Dragonmount itself, and he still wanted to carry a sword. It was, she decided, a male thing.
    I heard that, Androl sent her. “Emarin, to me. Pevara Sedai, if you’d graciously agree to accompany us . . .”
    She sniffed, but joined the other two as they moved along the southwestern base of the Heights, passing some wounded stumbling toward the rallying point. Androl glanced at them, then wove a gateway back to their camp. The flagging men cried out in surprise and thanks, and shambled through it to safety.
    Androl had grown . . . more confident since they had left the Black Tower. When they’d first met, he’d displayed hesitation about whatever he did. A kind of nervous humility. No more.
    “Androl . . ” Emarin said, pointing up the slope with his sword.
    “I see them,” Androl said. Above, Trollocs poured over the top of the Heights like pitch boiling over the side of a pot. Behind, Androl’s gateway closed, that