A Memory of Light

we’re proud of it.”
    Dannil took the banner, finding a spear to use as a pole. Mat took a deep breath. The way the Borderlanders spoke, they thought this would end in a glorious, heroic, suicidal charge. That was how Thom’s songs always ended . . . the kinds of songs Mat had hoped to never find himself in. Faint hope that was, now.
    Think, think. In the distance, the Trolloc horns started blowing. Tuon had delayed. Was she going to come? He hoped, secretly, she would not. With the battle going so poorly, even the Seanchan might not be enough.
    He needed an opening. Come on, luck! Another gateway opened, and Arganda went to collect the messenger’s report. Mat did not need to hear to realize the kind of news it was, as when Arganda returned, he was frowning.
    “All right,” Mat said, sighing. “Give me your news.”
    “The Queen of Andor is dead,” Arganda said.
    Bloody Ashes! Not Elayne! Mat felt a lurch inside. Rand. . . I'm sorry. “Who leads there? Bashere?”
    “Dead,” Arganda said. “And his wife. They fell during an attack against the Andoran pikemen. We’ve lost six Aiel clan chiefs as well. Nobody leads the Andorans or the Aiel at the riverbed. They’re crumbling fast.”
    “This is the end!” Demandred’s augmented voice washed across Mat from the other end of the plateau. “Lews Therin has abandoned you! Cry out to him as you die. Let him feel your pain.”
    They had arrived at the last few moves in their game, and Demandred had played well. Mat looked over his army of exhausted troops, many of them wounded. There was no denying it, they were in a desperate situation.
    “Send for the Aes Sedai,” Mat said. “I don’t care if they say they can’t lift a feather. Maybe when it comes down to their lives, they’ll find a little strength for a fireball here and there. Besides, their Warders can still fight.” Arganda nodded. Nearby, a gateway opened, and two beleaguered-looking Asha’man stumbled out. Naeff and Neald bore scorch marks on their skins, and Naeff’s Aes Sedai was not with them.
    “Well?” Mat asked the three.
    “It is done,” Neald said with a growl.
    “What of Tuon?”
    “They found the spy, apparently,” Naeff said. “The Empress is waiting to return on your mark.”
    Mat breathed in, tasting the battlefield air, feeling the rhythm of the fighting he had set up. He didn’t know if he could win, even with Tuon. Not with Elayne’s army in disarray, not with the Aes Sedai weakened to the point of being unable to channel. Not without Egwene, her Two Rivers stubbornness, her iron backbone. Not without a miracle.
    “Send for her, Naeff,” Mat said. He called for paper and a pen, and scribbled a note, which he handed off to the Asha’man. He shoved aside the selfish desire to let Tuon fly to safety. Bloody ashes, there was no safety, not anywhere. “Give this to the Empress, Naeff; tell her these instructions must be followed exactly.”
    Then Mat turned to Neald. “I want you to go to Talmanes,” he said. “Have him move forward with the plan.”
    The two channelers left, off to deliver their messages.
    “Will it be enough?” Arganda asked.
    “No,” Mat said.
    “Then why?”
    “Because I’ll be a Darkfriend before I’ll let this battle go without trying everything, Arganda.”
    “Lews Therin!” Demandred boomed. “Come face me! I know you watch this battle! Join it! Fight!”
    “I sure am growing tired of that man,” Mat said.
    “Cauthon, look, those Trollocs have regrouped,” Arganda said. “I think they are about to attack.”
    “Then this is it; lets form up,” Mat said. “Where is Lan; has he come back yet? I’d hate to do this without him.”
    Mat turned, scanning the lines for him, as Arganda shouted orders. His attention was drawn back suddenly as Arganda grabbed his arm, pointing toward the Trollocs. Mat felt a chill as he saw in the light of bonfires a lone horseman on a black stallion charge into the right flank of the Trolloc horde, making for the eastern slope of the Heights. Toward Demandred. Lan had gone to fight a war on his own.

    The Trollocs ripped at Olver’s arm in the night, reaching into the crack, trying to pry him free. Others dug at the sides, and soil streamed in onto him, sticking to the tears on his cheeks and the blood flowing from his scratches.
    He couldn’t stop shaking. He also couldn’t make himself move. He trembled, terrified, as the beasts pried at him with filthy fingers, digging closer and