A Memory of Light

horse and had him lie on the ground to continue the Healing, while Mat paused to consider their situation.
    Behind them, mist gathered. Mat was struck with a terrible thought. He had ignored a terrible possibility. The Horn of Valere still called, a distant—yet unmistakable sound. Oh, Light, Mat thought. Oh, bloody stumps on a battlefield. Who blew it? Which side?
    The fog formed, like worms crawling out of the ground after a rainstorm. It gathered into a billowing cloud, a thunderhead on the ground, and shapes on horses charged down it. Figures of legend. Buad of Albhain, as regal as any queen. Amaresu, holding aloft her glowing sword. Hend the Striker, dark-skinned, a hammer in one hand and a spike in the other.
    A figure rode through the mists at the front of the heroes. Tall and imperious, with a nose like a beak, Artur Hawkwing carried Justice, his sword, on his shoulder as he rode. Though the rest of the hundred-odd heroes followed Flawkwing, one broke off in a streak of mist, galloping away. Mat didn’t get a good look at the rider. Who had it been, and where was he going so quickly?
    Mat pulled his hat on tighter, nudging Pips forward to meet the ancient king. I suppose I’ll know which side summoned him, Mat thought, if he tries to kill me. Mat lifted the ashandarei across his saddle. Could he fight Artur Hawkwing? Light, could anyone beat one of the heroes of the Horn?
    “Hello, Hawkwing,” Mat called.
    “Gambler,” Hawkwing replied. “Do take better care of what has been allotted you. Almost, I worried we would not be summoned for this fight.” Mat let out a relaxing breath. “Bloody ashes, Hawkwing! You needn’t have drawn it out like that, you bloody goat-kisser. So you fight for us?
    Of course we fight for the Light,” Hawkwing said. “We would never fight for the Shadow.”
    “But I was told—” Mat began.
    “You were told wrong,” Hawkwing said.
    “Besides,” Hend said, laughing. “If the other side had been able to summon us, you’d be dead by now!”
    “I did die,” Mat said, rubbing at the scar on his neck. “Apparently that tree claimed me.”
    “Not the tree, Gambler,” Hawkwing said. “Another moment, one that you cannot remember. It is fitting, as Lews Therin did save your life both times.”
    “Remember him,” Amaresu snapped. “I have seen you murmur that you fear his madness, but all the while you forget that every breath you breathe—every step you take—comes at his forbearance. Your life is a gift from the Dragon Reborn, Gambler. Twice over.”
    Blood and bloody ashes. Even dead women treated him the way Nynaeve did. Where did they learn it? Were there secret lessons?
    Hawkwing nodded toward something nearby. Rand’s banner; Dannil still held it aloft. “We arrive here to gather at the banner. We can fight for you because of it, Gambler, and because the Dragon leads you—though he does it from afar. It is enough.”
    “Well,” Mat said, looking at the banner, “I guess since you’re here, you can fight the battle now. I’ll pull my men back.”
    Hawkwing laughed. “You think we hundred can fight this entire battle?”
    “You’re the bloody heroes of the Horn,” Mat said. “That’s what you do , isn’t it?”
    “We can be defeated,” said pretty Blaes of Matuchin, dancing her horse to the side of Hawkwing’s. Tuon couldn’t be mad if he looked a little at a hero, right? People were supposed to stare at them. “If we are wounded in dire ways, we will have to withdraw and recover in the World of Dreams.”
    “The Shadow knows how to incapacitate us,” Hend added. “Bind us hand and foot, and we can do nothing to aid the battle. It doesn’t matter if one is immortal when one cannot move.”
    “We can fight well,” Hawkwing said to Mat. “And we will lend you our strength. This is not our war alone. We are just one part of it.”
    “Bloody wonderful,” Mat said. That Horn was still sounding. “Then tell me this. If I didn’t blow that thing, and the Shadow didn’t do it . . . who did?”

    Thick Trolloc nails scored Olver’s arm. He kept blowing the Horn through his tears, eyes squeezed shut, in the small cleft in the rocky outcrop.
    I'm sorry, Mat, he thought as a dark-haired hand scrabbled for a hold on the Horn. Another grabbed him by the shoulder, nails digging deeply, making blood pulse down his arm.
    The Horn was ripped from his hands.
    I'm sorry!
    The Trolloc yanked Olver upward.
    Then dropped him.
    Olver tumbled to the