"You have an interesting artifact, I see", Demandred said as the medallion grew cold again. "Surely you don’t think that is going to keep you from meeting the same fate as your pathetic brother? The dead one, I mean".
"Do we fight, son of Shadows? Or do we talk?"
Demandred unsheathed his sword, herons on the blade and hilt. "May you give me a better match than your brother, little man. I grow displeased. Lews Therin can hate me or rail against me, but he should not ignore me".
Galad stepped forward into the ring of crossbowmen and channelers. If he won, he would still die. But Light, let him take one of the Forsaken with him. It would be a fitting end.
Demandred came at him, and the contest began.
Her back pressed against a stalagmite, seeing only by the light of Callandor reflected against the walls of the cavern, Nynaeve worked to save Alanna’s life.
There were those who, in the White Tower, had mocked her reliance on ordinary healing techniques. What could two hands and thread do that the One Power could not?
If any of those women had been here instead of Nynaeve, the world would have ended.
The conditions were horrible. Little light, no tools besides the implements she kept in her pouch. Still, Nynaeve sewed, using the needle and thread she always carried. She had mixed a draught of herbs for Alanna and forced it through her lips. It wouldn’t do much, but every little bit might help. It would keep Alanna’s strength up, help her with the pain, keep her heart from giving out as Nynaeve worked.
The wound was messy, but she had sewn messy wounds before. Though she trembled inside, Nynaeve’s hands were steady as she sewed up the wound and coaxed the woman back from the very precipice of death.
Rand and Moridin did not move. But she felt something thrumming from them. Rand was fighting. Fighting a fight she could not see.
"Matrim Cauthon, you bloody fool. You’re still alive?"
Mat glanced over as Davram Bashere rode up beside him in the early evening darkness. Mat had moved with the Deathwatch Guard to the back of the Andoran lines fighting at the river.
Bashere was accompanied by his wife and a guard of Saldaeans. Judging by the blood on her clothing, she had seen her share of fighting.
"Yes, I’m alive", Mat said. "I’m usually pretty good at staying alive. I’ve only failed one time that I remember, and it hardly counts. What are you doing here? Aren’t you . . ".
"They dug into my bloody mind", Bashere said, scowling. "That they did, man. Deira and I talked it over. I’m not going to lead, but why should that stop me from killing a few Trollocs?"
Mat nodded. At Tenobia’s fall, this man had become king of Saldaea—but he had refused the crown, so far. The corruption in his mind had shaken him. All he had said was that Saldaea fights alongside Malkier, and told the troops to look toward Lan. The throne would be sorted out if they all survived the Last Battle.
"What happened to you?" Bashere asked. "I heard the command post fell".
Mat nodded. "The Seanchan have abandoned us".
"Blood and ashes!" Bashere cried. "As if this weren’t bad enough. Bloody Seanchan dogs".
The Deathwatch Guards who stood around Mat made no response to that. Elayne’s forces held along the riverbank, just barely—but Trollocs were slowly working around them upriver. Elayne’s lines held only because of tenacity and careful training. Each huge square of men held pikes outward, bristling like a hedgehog.
Those formations could be separated if Demandred drove wedges between them in the right way. Mat employed cavalry sweeps of his own, including Andoran cavalry and the Band—trying to keep the Trollocs from penetrating the pike squares or surrounding Elayne.
The rhythm of the battle pulsed beneath Mat’s fingertips. He felt what Demandred was doing. To anyone else, the end of the battle probably seemed a simple matter now. Attack in force, break the pike formations, crack Mat’s defenses. It was so much more subtle.
Lan’s Borderlanders had finished crushing the Trollocs upriver, and needed orders. Good. Mat needed those men for the next step in his plan.
Three of the enormous pike formations were flagging, but if he could place a channeler or two in each center, he could shore them up. Light shelter whoever had distracted Demandred. The Forsaken’s attacks had destroyed entire pike formations. Demandred didn’t need to kill each man individually; he needed only to launch attacks of the One Power to shatter the square. That let the Trollocs overwhelm them.
"Bashere", Mat said, "please tell me that someone has heard from your daughter".
"Nobody has", Deira said. "I'm sorry".
Bloody ashes, Mat thought. Poor Perrin.
Poor him. How was he going to do this without the Horn? Light. He was not certain he could do it with the bloody Horn.
"Go", Mat called as they rode. "Ride to Lan; he’s upriver. Tell him to engage those Trollocs trying to move around the Andorans’ right flank! And tell him I’ll have other orders for him coming soon".
"But I—"
"I don’t care if you’ve bloody been touched by the Shadow!" Mat said. "Every man has had the Dark One’s fingers on his heart, and that’s the bloody truth. You can fight through it. Now ride to Lan and tell him what needs to be done!"
Bashere stiffened at first; then—strangely—he smiled a broad smile beneath drooping mustaches. Bloody Saldaeans. They liked being yelled at. Mat’s words seemed to give him heart, and he galloped off, wife at his side. She threw Mat a fond look, which made him uncomfortable.
Now . . . he needed an army. And a gateway. He needed a bloody gateway. Fool, he thought. He had sent the damane away. Could he not have at least kept one? Though they did make his skin crawl as if it were covered in spiders.
Mat halted Pips, the Deathwatch Guards stopping with him. A few of them lit torches. They had certainly gotten the drubbing they had wanted, joining Mat in fighting the Sharans. They seemed to itch for more, though.
There, Mat thought, heeling Pips toward a force of troops south of Elayne’s pike formations. The Dragonsworn. Before the Seanchan left Dashar Knob, Mat had sent this army to reinforce Elayne’s troops.
He still did not know what to make of them. He had not been at the Field when they had gathered, but he had heard reports. People from all ranks and stations, all nationalities, who had joined together to fight in the Last Battle, heedless of loyalties or national borders. Rand broke all vows and all other bonds.
Mat rode at a quick trot—the Deathwatch Guards jogging to keep up—around the back of the Andoran lines. Light, the lines were buckling. This was bad. Well, he’d made his bet. Now he could only ride the bloody battle and hope it did not buck too much.
As he galloped for the Dragonsworn, he heard something incongruous. Singing? Mat pulled to a halt. The Ogier had been caught up fighting the Trollocs, and had pushed across the dry riverbed to help fight at Elayne’s left flank, across from the bogs, to keep Trollocs from coming around that way.
They stood their ground here, as immovable as oaks before a flood, hacking with axes as they sang. Trollocs lay in piles around them.
"Loial!" Mat yelled, standing up in his stirrups. "Loial!"
One of the Ogier stepped back from the fighting and turned. Mat was taken aback. His usually calm friend had ears laid low, teeth clenched in anger, and a blood-soaked axe in his fingers. Light, but that expression sent terror through Mat’s body. He would rather stare down ten men who thought he had been cheating than fight a single angry Ogier!
Loial called something to the others, and then rejoined them in the fighting. They continued to lay into the Trollocs nearby, cutting them down. Trollocs and Ogier were near the same size, but the Ogier somehow seemed to tower over the Shadowspawn. They did not fight like soldiers, but like woodsmen felling trees. Chop one way, then the next, breaking Trollocs. But Mat knew that Ogier hated felling trees, while they seemed to relish felling Trollocs.
The Ogier broke the Trolloc fist they’d been fighting, making them flee. Elayne’s soldiers moved in and blocked off the rest of the Trolloc army, and the several hundred Ogier pulled back to Mat. Among them, Mat noticed, were more than a few of the Seanchan Ogier—the Gardeners. He had not ordered that. The two groups fought together, but barely seemed to look at one another now.
Every one of the Ogier, male and female, had numerous cuts on their arms and legs. They did not wear armor, but many of the cuts seemed trivial, as if their skin had the strength of bark.
Loial walked up to Mat and the Deathwatch Guards, raising his axe to his shoulder. Loial’s trousers were dark up to the thighs, as if he had been wading in wine. "Mat", Loial said, drawing a deep breath. "We have done as you asked, fighting here. No Trolloc got by us".
"You did well, Loial", Mat said. "Thank you".
He waited for a reply. Something long-winded and eager, no doubt. Loial stood breathing in and out with lungs that could hold enough air to fill a room. No words. The others with him, though many were senior to Loial, offered no words either. Some lifted torches. The glow of the sun had vanished beneath the horizon. Night was fully upon them.
Quiet Ogier. Now that was strange. Ogier at war, though . . . it was not something Mat had ever seen. He did not have any memory of it in the memories that were not his.
"I need you", Mat said. "We have to turn this battle around or we're finished. Come on".
"The Hornsounder commands!" Loial bellowed. "Up axes!"
Mat winced. If he ever needed someone to yell a message from Caemlyn to Cairhien for him, he knew who to ask. Only they would probably hear it all the way up in the Blight, too.
He heeled Pips into motion, the Ogier falling in around him and the Deathwatch Guards. The Ogier had no trouble keeping up.
"Honored One", Karede said, "I and mine are ordered to—"
"To go die on the front lines. I’m bloody working on that, Karede. Keep your sword out of your own gut for the moment, kindly".
The man’s expression darkened, but he held his tongue.
"She doesn’t really want you dead, you realize", Mat said. He could not say more without revealing the plot to bring her back.
"If my death serves the Empress, may she live forever, then I give it willingly".
"You’re bloody insane, Karede", Mat said. "Unfortunately, so am I. You’re in good company. You there! Who leads this force?"
They had reached the back ranks, where the reserves of the Dragonsworn were located, the wounded and those who were resting from their time at the front ranks.
"My Lord?" one of the scouts said. "That would be Lady Tinna".
"Go fetch her", Mat said. Those dice kept rattling in his head. He also felt a pull from the north, a tugging, as if some threads around his chest were yanking on him.
Not now, Rand, he thought. I’m bloody busy.
No colors formed, only blackness. Dark as a Myrddraal’s heart. The tugging grew stronger.
Mat dismissed the vision. Not. Now.
He had work to do here. He had a plan. Light, let it work.