A Memory of Light

handed her the army of an entire nation to play with. This would go quite well indeed!
    “Dragonslayer,” said a kneeling Ayyad woman. She was weeping! How weak these Sharans were. “We saw that you had fallen . . .”
    “How could I fall? You have prophecies, do you not?”
    The women looked at one another. “They say you will fight, Dragonslayer,” the woman said. “But . . .”
    “Gather five fists of the Trollocs from the back lines,” Moghedien said, turning to the commander of the reserve unit, “and send them upriver to the ruins.”
    “The ruins?” the man asked. “Only the Caemlyn refugees are in that direction.”
    “Exactly, you fool. Refugees—children, the elderly, women who search for the dead. They can’t fight back. Tell the Trollocs to start slaughtering. Our enemies are weak; an attack like this will force them to break off and protect the ones that true warriors would just let die.”
    The general nodded, and she saw approval in his face. He accepted her as Demandred. Good. He ran off to give the order.
    “Now,” Moghedien said as the dragons fired in the distance, “why haven’t any of our Ayyad gone to remove those weapons from the battle?”
    The Ayyad kneeling before Moghedien bowed her head. “We have fewer than a dozen Ayyad left, Wyld.”
    Your excuses are weak,’ Moghedien said, listening as the explosions stopped. Perhaps some of M’Hael’s remaining Dreadlords had just resolved the problem of the dragons.
    She felt her skin itch as the Sharan commander strode toward a Myrddraal across the field. She hated being in the open like this. She was meant to remain in shadows, letting others lead battles. However, she would never have it said that when the situation demanded it, she was too frightened to go and—
    A gateway split open behind her, and several of the Sharans yelled out. Moghedien spun, opening her eyes wide as she looked into what appeared to be a dark cavern. Dragons pointed out of it.
    “Fire!” a voice yelled.

    Close the gateway! Talmanes shouted, and the portal winked shut.
    This was one of Lord Mat's ideas, wasn't it? Daerid yelled, standing beside Talmanes as the dragons were reloaded. They both had wax in their ears.
    “What do you think?” Talmanes yelled back.
    If the dragons were vulnerable when firing, what did you do? You fired them from a hidden location.
    Talmanes smiled as Neald opened the next gateway in front of ten dragons. The fact that many of the dragon carts were too broken to roll well meant nothing when you could open a gateway in front of them, pointing them wherever you wanted.
    This gateway opened up on several fists of Trollocs engaged in fierce combat against Whitecloaks. Some of the Shadowspawn turned horrified eyes toward the dragons.
    “Fire!” Talmanes shouted, waving his hand down to give a visual cue, in case any of the men couldn’t hear him.
    Smoke filled the cavern, explosions echoing against Talmanes’ earplugs, as the dragons recoiled, releasing a storm of death into the Trollocs. They broadsided the fists, sweeping them out of the way, leaving them broken and dying. The nearby Whitecloaks cheered and raised swords.
    Neald shut the gateway, and the dragoners reloaded their weapons. Neald then made a gateway above them, facing downward, to vent the dragon smoke out of the cavern complex and away into empty air somewhere distant.
    “Are you smiling ,?” Daerid asked.
    “Yes,” Talmanes said, satisfied.
    “Blood and bloody ashes, Lord Talmanes . . . that expression is horrifying on you.” Daerid hesitated. “You should probably do that more often.”
    Talmanes grinned as Neald opened the next gateway to a point on Dashar Knob where Aludra stood with spyglass and scouts, deciding on the next place to target. She yelled through a position, Neald nodded, and they set up the next shot.

CHAPTER 42

    Impossibilities

    A viendha felt as if the world itself were cracking, breaking apart, being consumed.
    The lightning that fell on the valley of Shayol Ghul was no longer under control. Not by the Windfinders, not by anyone. It slew Shadowspawn and defender alike. Unpredictable. The air smelled of fire, burned flesh and something else—a distinctive, clean odor she had come to recognize as the scent of a lightning strike.
    Aviendha moved like the twisting wind itself, trying to stay ahead of Graendal, who hurled bar after bar of white-hot balefire at her. With each shot, the ground trembled. Black lines spread