A Memory of Light

shaped like monstrous insects.
    In all of those moments, in all of those places, Perrin’s hammer struck and Young Bull’s fangs grabbed Slayer by the neck. He tasted the salty warmth of Slayer’s blood in his mouth. He felt the hammer vibrate as it hit, and he heard bones crack. The worlds flashed like bolts of lightning.
    Everything crashed, shook, then pulled together.
    Perrin stood on the rocks in the valley of Thakan’dar, and Slayer’s body crumpled in front of him, head crushed. Perrin panted, the thrill of the hunt clinging to him. It was over.
    He turned, surprised to find that he was surrounded by Aiel. He frowned at them. “What are you doing?”
    One of the Maidens laughed. “You looked like you were running to a great dance, Perrin Aybara. One learns to watch for warriors like you on the battlefield and follow. They often have the most fun.”
    He smiled grimly, surveying the battlefield. It was not going well for his side. The Darkhounds ripped apart the defenders in a ruthless frenzy. The way up to Rand was completely exposed.
    “Who commands this battle?” Perrin asked.
    “Nobody, now,” the Maiden said. He did not know her name. “Rodel Ituralde did first. Then Darlin Sisnera led—but his command post fell to Draghkar. I have not seen any Aes Sedai or clan chiefs in hours.”
    Her voice was grim. Even the stalwart Aiel were flagging. A quick scan of the battlefield showed Perrin that the remaining Aiel fought wherever they were, often in small groups, doing as much harm as they could before being cut down. The wolves who had fought here in packs were broken, their sendings those of pain and fear. And Perrin didn’t know what those Shadowspawn with the pocked faces meant.
    The battle was finished, and the side of Light had lost.
    The Darkhounds broke through the line of Dragonsworn nearby, the last group who held falling before them. A few tried to flee, but one of the Darkhounds leapt on them, pushing several to the ground and gnawing one. Frothing saliva sprayed across the others, and they dropped, twitching.
    Perrin lowered his hammer, then knelt, pulling off Slayer’s cloak and wrapping the cloth around his hands as he picked up his hammer again. “Don’t let their spittle touch your skin. It is deadly.”
    The Aiel nodded, those with bare hands wrapping them. They smelled of determination, but also resignation. Aiel would run toward death if it was the only option, and would laugh while doing so. Wetlanders thought them mad, but Perrin could smell the truth on them. They were not mad. They did not fear death, but they did not welcome it.
    “Touch me, all of you,” Perrin said.
    The Aiel did so. He shifted them to the wolf dream—taking so many was a strain, like bending a bar of steel—but he managed it. He immediately shifted them to the path up to the Pit of Doom. The spirits of wolves had gathered here, silent. Hundreds of them.
    Perrin brought the Aiel back to the waking world, his shift placing him and his small force between Rand and the Darkhounds. The Wild Hunt looked up, corrupted eyes shining like silver as they fixed on Perrin.
    “We will hold here,” Perrin said to his Aiel, “and hope that some others aid us.”
    “We will stand,” one of the Aiel said, a tall man wearing one of those headbands marked with Rand’s symbol.
    “And if we do not,” another said, “and wake instead, then we will at least water the earth with our blood and let our bodies nourish the plants that will now grow here.” Perrin had barely noticed the plants growing, incongruously, green and vibrant in the valley. Small, but strong. A manifestation of the fact that Rand still fought.
    The Darkhounds slunk toward them, tails down, ears back, fangs exposed, gleaming like bloodstained metal. What was that he heard over the wind? Something very soft, very distant. It seemed so soft that he shouldn’t have noticed it. But it pierced through the clamor of war. Faintly familiar . . .
    “I know that sound,” Perrin said.
    “Sound?” the Aiel Maiden said. “What sound? The calls of the wolves?”
    “No,” Perrin said as the Darkhounds began to lope up the path. “The Horn of Valere.”
    The heroes would come. But upon which battlefield would they fight? Perrin could expect no relief here. Except . . .
    Lead us, Young Bull.
    Why must the heroes all be human?
    A howl rose in the same pitch as that of the sounded Horn. He looked upon a field suddenly filled with a multitude of glowing