A Memory of Light

the Pit of Doom, but it was like a quiet pulse, as opposed to the storm that had been the cleansing. Rand. Was he all right? What was happening?
    The white clouds brought in by the Windfinders churned among the jet black storm clouds above, swirling together in a massive, writhing pattern above the mountain peak. From what she’d heard of the Windfinders— they had withdrawn up Shayol Ghul to a ledge far above the cave entrance, still working the Bowl of Winds—they were at a breaking point. More than two thirds of their numbers had collapsed from exhaustion. Soon, the storm would consume everything.
    Aviendha prowled through the maelstrom, seeking the source of those howls. She didn’t have any other channelers with whom to link, now that Rafela had left to join the Dragonsworn’s last stand at the cavern. Out here, in the valley, different groups killed one another, shifting back and forth. Maidens, Wise Ones, siswai’aman , Trollocs, Fades. And wolves; hundreds of them had joined the battle so far. There were also some Domani, Tairens and Dragonsworn—though most of those fought near the path up to Rand.
    Something hit the ground beside her, crooning, and she lashed out before thinking. The Draghkar burst into flames like a stick dried by a hundred days of sunlight. She took a deep breath, looking around her. Howls. Hundreds upon hundreds of them.
    She broke into a run toward those howls, crossing the valley floor. As she did so, someone emerged from the dusty shadows, a wiry man with a gray beard and golden eyes. He was accompanied by a small pack of wolves. They glanced at her, then turned back in the direction they’d been going.
    Aviendha stopped. Golden eyes.
    “Ho, he who runs with wolves!” she called at the man. “Have you brought Perrin Aybara with you?”
    The man froze. He acted like a wolf, careful yet dangerous. “I know of Perrin Aybara,” he called back, “but he is not with me. He hunts in another place.”
    Aviendha walked closer to the man. He watched her, wary, and several of his wolves growled. It did not seem they trusted her or her kind much more than they trusted Trollocs.
    “These new howls,” she called over the wind, “they are from your . . . friends?”
    “No,” the man said, eyes growing distant. “No, not any longer. If you know of women who can channel, Aiel, you should bring them now.” He moved off toward the sounds, his pack running with him.
    Aviendha followed him, keeping her distance from those wolves, but trusting their senses above her own. They reached a small rise in the floor of the valley, one that she’d seen Ituralde use on occasion for overseeing the defense of the pass.
    Pouring out of the pass were scores of dark shapes. Black wolves, the size of small horses. They loped across the rock, and though they were out of her sight, Aviendha knew they were leaving footprints melted into the stone.
    Hundreds of wolves attacked the darker shapes, leaping on their backs, but were thrown free. They didn’t seem to be doing much good.
    The man with the wolves growled.
    “Darkhounds?” Aviendha shouted.
    “Yes,” he called back, bellowing to be heard over the tempest. “This is the Wild Hunt, the worst of their kind. These cannot fall to mortal weapons. The bites of common wolves will not harm them, not permanently.”
    “Then why do they fight?”
    The wolfbrother laughed. “Why do any of us fight? Because we must try to win somehow! Go! Bring Aes Sedai, some of those Asha’man if you can find them! These creatures will roll over your armies as easily as a wave over pebbles!”
    The man took off down the slope, his wolves joining him. She understood why they fought. They might not be able to kill the Darkhounds, but they could slow the creatures. And that was their victory here—buying Rand enough time to do what he needed to.
    She turned, alarmed, running to gather the others. The sensation of a powerful channeler wielding saidar nearby stopped her dead. She spun, looking toward the source of the sensation.
    Graendal was there, up ahead—just barely visible. She calmly sent deadly weaves at a line of Defenders of the Stone. She had collected a small group of women—Aes Sedai, Wise Ones—and a few guards. The women knelt around her, and had to be feeding her their power, considering the strength of the weaves she unleashed.
    Her guards were four Aiel men with black veils, not red. Under Compulsion for certain. Aviendha hesitated, wavering. What