A Memory of Light

his saddle by Bulen.
    “Andere?” Lan said, heeling Mandarb toward him. “You are in no condition to ride. Go join the wounded at the back camp.”
    “So I lie back there and let the Trollocs butcher me after finishing you lot?” Andere leaned forward in the saddle, teetering slightly, and Bulen looked up with concern. Andere waved him off and forced himself upright. “We’ve already moved the mountain, Lan. Let’s budge this feather and be through with it.”
    Lan could offer no argument. He called the retreat to the men ahead of him in the pass. His remaining men bunched around him, slowly backing out toward the plain.
    The Trollocs hooted and yelled in excitement. They knew that once they were free of the walls that restricted their movement, they would win this fight easily.
    Lan and his small force left the narrow confines of the Gap, those on foot running toward their horses tethered near the mouth of the canyon.
    The Trollocs—for once—needed no push from the Myrddraal to charge. Their footfalls were a low rumble on the stony ground.
    Several hundred yards out of the Gap, Lan slowed Mandarb and turned. Andere brought his horse up beside Lan’s with difficulty, and they were joined by the other riders, who formed long lines of cavalry. Bulen cantered up to the other side of Lan.
    The storm of Shadowspawn neared the mouth of the Gap, a charging force of thousands of Trollocs that would soon burst out into the open— and try to consume them.
    Lan’s forces were silently lined up around him. Many were old men, the last remnants of their fallen kingdom. This force that had managed to plug the narrow gap now seemed tiny on the much larger plain.
    “Bulen,” Lan said.
    “Yes, Lord Mandragoran?”
    “You claim to have failed me, years ago.”
    “Yes, my Lord. It—”
    “Any failing on your part is forgotten,” Lan said, eyes forward. “I am proud to have given you your hadoru
    Kaisel rode up, nodding to Lan. “We are ready, Dai Shan.”
    “This is for the best,” Andere said, grimacing, still holding to his wound, barely able to remain in the saddle.
    “It is what must be,” Lan said. Not an argument. Not exactly.
    “No,” Andere said. “It is more than that, Lan. Malkier is like a tree that lost its roots to whiteworms, the branches withering slowly. I’d rather be burned away in a flash.”
    “I’d rather charge,” Bulen said, voice growing firm. “I’d rather charge now than let them overrun us. Let us die on the attack, with swords pointed home.”
    Lan nodded, turning and raising his sword high above his head. He gave no speeches. He had given those already. The men knew what this was. One more charge, while they still had some strength, would mean something. Fewer Shadowspawn to flood into civilized lands. Fewer Trollocs to kill those who could not fight back.
    The enemy seemed endless. A slavering, rampaging horde without battle line or discipline. Anger, destruction incarnate. Thousands upon thousands of them. They came forward like floodwaters suddenly released, surging out of the canyon.
    Lan’s little force was but a pebble before them.
    The men silently raised their swords to him, a final salute.
    “Now!” Lan yelled. Now as they begin to spread out. It will do the most damage. Lan kicked Mandarb forward, leading the way.
    Andere galloped beside Lan, clinging to his pommel with both hands. He didn’t try to raise a weapon; he’d have fallen from his saddle if he had.
    Nynaeve was too far away for Lan to feel much of her through the bond, but sometimes very powerful emotions could stand out despite the distance. He tried to project confidence in case it reached her. Pride in his men. Love for her. He wished deeply for those to be the last things she remembered of him.
    My arm will be the sword . . .
    Hooves clattered on the ground. The Trollocs ahead hooted in delight, realizing that their prey had transformed a retreat into a charge of men rushing right into their grasp.
    My breast itself a shield . . .
    Lan could hear a voice, his father’s voice, speaking these words. That was foolish, of course. Lan had been a baby when Malkier had fallen.
    To defend the Seven Towers . . .
    He had never seen the Seven Towers stand against the Blight. He’d only heard stories.
    To hold back the darkness . . .
    The horses’ hooves were becoming a thunder. So loud, louder than he’d have thought possible. He held himself straight, sword out.
    I will stand when all others