A Memory of Light

10 The Use of Dragons

Perrin rode Stayer, light cavalry from Elayne’s forces following behind him: Whitecloaks, Mayeners, Ghealdanin, joined by some of the Band of the Red Hand. Only a fraction of their armies. That was the point.

They swept along diagonally toward the Trollocs camped outside of Caemlyn. The city still smoldered; Elayne’s plan with the oil had driven the creatures out, for the most part, but some still held the walls above.

“Archers,” Arganda yelled, “loose!” His voice would be lost to most in the roar of the charge, the snorting of horses, the gallop of hooves. Enough would hear to start shooting, and the rest knew what to do anyway.

Perrin leaned low, hoping his hammer would not be needed on this sortie. They charged past the Trollocs, sweeping in front of them, launching arrows; then they turned away from the city.

Perrin glanced over his shoulder as he rode, and he was rewarded with the sight of Trollocs falling. The Band followed after Perrin’s cavalry, getting close enough to launch arrows.

Trolloc arrows followed—thick and black, almost like spears, loosed from enormous bows. Some of Perrin’s riders fell, but his attack had been swift.

The Trollocs didn’t break from their position outside the city walls. The riders slowed, Arganda coming up beside Perrin, watching over his shoulder.

“They still aren’t charging,” Arganda said.

“Then we’ll hit them again and again,” Perrin said. “Until they break.”

“Our attacks are continuing, Your Majesty,” the messenger said, riding through a gateway made by a pair of Kinswomen to where Elayne had her camp in the Wood. “Lord Goldeneyes sends word; they’ll continue through the day, if need be.”

She nodded, and the messenger rode back the way he had come. Braem Wood slumbered, trees bare, as if in winter. “It takes too much work to relay information back and forth to me,” Elayne said with dissatisfaction. “I wish we could have made those ter’angreal work; Aviendha said that one let you see over distance, and another talk that way. But wish and want trip the feet, as Lini says. Still, if I could see the fighting with my own eyes—” Birgitte said nothing. Eyes forward, the golden-haired Warder gave no sign at all that she’d heard the comment.

“After all,” Elayne said, “I can defend myself, as I have proven on a number of occasions.”

No response. The two horses walked softly beside one another, hooves on soft earth. The camp around them had been designed to be broken down and moved on the run. The soldiers’ “tents” were canvas tarps set over ropes pulled tight between trees. The only travel furniture was that of her own pavilion and the battle pavilion. The Kinswomen had one group ready with gateways to move Elayne and her commanders further into the woods.

Most of her forces waited at the ready, like a taut bow with the arrow nocked. She would not engage the Trollocs on their terms, however. By report, some of their fists still topped the city walls, and attacking directly would be a disaster, with them raining death on her from above.

She would draw them out. If that required patience, so be it. “I’ve decided,” Elayne continued to Birgitte. “I’ll just hop through a gateway to take a look at the Trolloc army myself. From a safe distance. I could—”

Birgitte reached beneath her shirt and removed the foxhead medallion she wore, one of the three imperfect copies Elayne had made. Mat had the original and a copy. Mellar had escaped with the other copy.

“You try anything like that,” Birgitte said, eyes still forward, “and I’ll throw you over my bloody shoulder like a drunken man with a barmaid on a rowdy night and carry you back to camp. Light help me, I’ll do it, Elayne.” Elayne frowned. “Remind me why, exactly, I gave you one of those medallions?”

“I’m not sure,” Birgitte said. “It showed remarkable foresight and an actual sense of self-preservation. Completely unlike you.”

“I hardly think that is fair, Birgitte.”

“I know! It is extremely unfair for me to have to deal with you. I wasn’t certain you’d noticed. Are all young Aes Sedai as reckless as you are, or did I just end up with the pick of this particular litter?”

“Stop whining,” Elayne muttered, maintaining a smile and a nod for the men who saluted as she passed. “I’m beginning to wish I had a Tower-trained Warder. Then, at least, I wouldn’t hear so much sauce.”

Birgitte laughed. “I don’t think you understand Warders half as well as you think you do, Elayne.”

Elayne let the matter die as they passed the Traveling ground, where Sumeko and the other Kinswomen were shuttling messengers back and forth from the battlefields. For now, Elayne’s agreement with them held.

In her dress pocket, Elayne carried Egwene’s—the Amyrlin Seat’s—official reply regarding the Kin and what Elayne had done. Elayne could almost sense heat radiating from the letter, but it was hidden behind official language and an agreement that now wasn’t the time to worry about such things.

Elayne would have to do more work there. Egwene would eventually see the logic of letting the Kinswomen work in Andor, beneath Elayne’s supervision. Just beyond the Traveling ground she noticed a tired-looking Shienaran accepting a waterskin from one of the Two Rivers men. The top-knotted man had an eyepatch and familiar features.

“Uno?” Elayne asked with shock, pulling Moonshadow to a halt.

He started, nearly spilling water over himself as he drank. “Elayne?” he asked, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “I’d heard that you’re the flaming—the Queen now. I guess that’s what should have happened, with you being the bloody Daughter-Heir. Sorry. The Daughter-Heir. Not bloody at all.” The Shienaran man grimaced.

“You can swear all you want, Uno,” Elayne said dryly. “Nynaeve isn’t around. What are you doing here?”

“The Amyrlin,” he said. “She flaming wanted a messenger, and I was bloody chosen. Already gave Egwene’s bloody report to your commanders, for all the bloody good it will do. We’ve set up our flaming battle positions and started scouting out Kandor, and the place is a bloody mess. You want details?”

Elayne smiled. “I’ll hear the report from my commanders, Uno,” she said. “Have a rest, and go have a flaming bath, you son of a shepherd’s boil.”

Uno blew a mouthful of water out at the comment. Elayne smiled. She’d heard that last curse from a soldier just the day before, and still didn’t know why it was considered to be so vile. It had the proper effect.

“I . . . No flaming bath for me,” Uno said. “Er, Your Majesty. I’ve had my five minutes of rest. The Trollocs could attack soon up in bloody Kandor, and I won’t have the others fighting without me.” He saluted her, hand across chest, and bowed before hurrying back toward the Traveling ground.

“Pity,” Birgitte said, “he was a good drinking companion. I’d have liked him to stay a little while.” Through the bond, Elayne felt a different reaction from her, as she watched Uno’s backside.

Elayne blushed. “There’s no time for that right now. Either of those things.”

“Just looking,” Birgitte said innocently. “I suppose we should go listen to the reports from the other battlefields.”

“We should,” Elayne said firmly.

Birgitte didn’t voice her annoyance, but Elayne could feel it. Birgitte hated battle planning, something Elayne found odd in a woman who had fought in thousands of battles, a hero who had saved countless lives during some of the great moments in history.

They came to the battle pavilion, one of the few full-sized tents the army carried. Inside, she found Bashere conferring with several of the commanders: Abell Cauthon, Gallenne and Trom, second-in-command of the Whitecloaks. Galad himself, like Perrin, was with the harrying forces at Caemlyn. Elayne found Trom surprisingly agreeable—much more so than Galad himself.

“Well?” she asked.

“Your Majesty,” Trom said, bowing. He didn’t like the fact that she was Aes Sedai, but he hid it well. The others in the room saluted, though Bashere gave merely a friendly wave, then pointed at their battle maps.

“Reports from all fronts are in,” Bashere said. “Refugees from Kandor are flocking to the Amyrlin and her soldiers, and that includes a fair number of fighting men. House soldiers or merchant guards, for the most part. Lord Ituralde’s forces still await the Lord Dragon before moving on Shayol Ghul.” Bashere knuckled his mustache. “Once they move into that valley, there won’t be any retreat available.”

“And the Borderlander army?” Elayne asked.

“Holding,” Bashere said, pointing to another map, showing Shienar. Elayne wondered, idly, if Uno wished he were fighting with the rest of his people at the Gap. “Last messenger said they feared being overwhelmed, and were considering a controlled retreat.”

Elayne frowned. “Are things so bad there? They were supposed to hold until I could finish the Trollocs in Andor and join them. That was the plan.”

“It was,” Bashere agreed.

“You’re going to tell me that a plan, in warfare, lasts only until the first sword is drawn,” Elayne said. “Or maybe until the first arrow falls?”

“First lance is raised,” Bashere said under his breath.

“I realize that,” Elayne said, stabbing a finger at the map. “But I also know that Lord Agelmar is a good enough general to hold a pack of Trollocs, especially with the Borderlander armies there to back him up.”

“They are holding for now,” Bashere said. “But they’re still being mightily pressed.” He held up a hand to her objection. “I know you’re worried about a retreat, but I counsel that you shouldn’t try to overrule Agelmar. He deserves his reputation as a great captain, and he’s there, while we are far away. He will know what to do.”

She took a deep breath. “Yes. You are right. Do see if Egwene can send him any troops. Meanwhile, we need to win our battle here quickly.” Fighting on four fronts was going to drain resources quickly.

Elayne had not only familiar terrain to fight on, but also the best odds. If the other armies could hold steady while she obliterated the Trollocs in Andor, she could join Lan and Agelmar and turn the Gap from a stalemate into a victory. From there, she could reinforce Egwene and reclaim Kandor.

Elayne’s army was the linchpin of the entire operation. If she didn’t win in Andor, the other armies would have no eventual reinforcement. Lan and Ituralde would waste away, losing wars of attrition. Egwene might have a chance, depending on what the Shadow hurled her direction. Elayne didn’t want to find out.

“We need the Trollocs to charge us,” she said. “Now.”

Bashere nodded.

“Step up the harrying,” Elayne said. “Hit them with constant waves of arrows. Make it clear that if they don’t charge, we’re going to wear them down to nothing.”

“And if they just retreat back into the city?” Trom asked. “The fires are dying down.”

“Then, like it or not, we’ll bring those dragons in to start leveling Caemlyn. We cannot wait any longer.”

Androl struggled to stay awake. The drink they had given him . . . it made him drowsy. What was the purpose of that?

Something to do with channeling, Androl thought in a daze. The One Power was lost to him, though there was no shield. What kind of drink could do that to a man?

Poor Emarin lay weeping in his bonds. They had not managed to Turn him yet, but as the hours wore on, he seemed closer and closer to breaking. Androl stretched, twisting his head. He could barely make out the thirteen men Taim had been using for the process. They slumped as they sat around a table in the dim room. They were exhausted.

Androl remembered . . . Taim yelling the day before. He railed against the men, claiming their work went too slowly. They had expended much strength on the first men and women they’d Turned, and now they were apparently having a more difficult time.

Pevara slept. The tea had knocked her out. They’d given it to Androl after her, but almost as an afterthought. They seemed to forget about him much of the time. Taim had actually been angry when he’d found his minions had given the tea to Pevara. He’d wanted to Turn her next, apparently, and the process required the victim to be able to channel.

“Release me!”

Androl twisted at the new voice. Abors and Mishraile pulled someone in through the door, a short woman with coppery skin. Toveine, one of the Aes Sedai that Logain had bonded.

Nearby, Logain—eyes closed, looking as if he’d been beaten by a mob of angry men—stirred.

“What are you doing!” Toveine demanded. “Light! I—” She cut off as Abors gagged her. The thick-browed man was one of those who had gone to Taim willingly, during the days before Turning had begun.

Androl tried, thoughts still cloudy, to pull his hands free from the bonds. The ropes were bound more tightly. That was right. Evin had noticed the bonds and retied them.

He felt so helpless. Useless. He hated that feeling. If there was one thing Androl had dedicated his life to, it was to never being useless. Always knowing something about the situation.

“Turn her next,” Taim’s voice said.

Androl twisted, craning his neck. Taim sat at the table. He liked to be there for the Turnings, but he wasn’t watching Toveine. He fondled something in his hands. Some kind of disc . . .

He stood up suddenly, tucking the object into a pouch at his waist. “The others complain about exhaustion from so much Turning. Well, if they Turn this one, she can join their ranks and lend her strength. Mishraile, you come with me. It’s time.”

Mishraile and several others joined Taim; they’d been standing where Androl couldn’t see them.

Taim stalked toward the door. “I want that woman Turned by the time I get back,” he said.

Lan galloped across the rocky ground, riding toward the Gap for what seemed like the hundredth time, though he had been fighting here less than a week.

Prince Kaisel and King Easar fell in beside him, riding hard. “What is it, Dai Shan?” Kaisel yelled. “Another attack? I did not see the emergency signal!”

Lan leaned down grimly in the dusk, bonfires made of carcasses and wood blazing to either side of him as he led the charge of several hundred Malkieri. Burning carcasses was difficult, but not only did they need the light; they wanted to deny the Trollocs some meals.

Lan heard something ahead, something that horrified him. Something he had been dreading.

Explosions.

The distant eruptions sounded like boulders crashing against one another. Each one made the air shake.

“Light!” Queen Ethenielle of Kandor joined them, galloping on her white gelding. She yelled to him. “Is that what I think it is?”

Lan nodded. Enemy channelers.

Ethenielle called back to her retinue, yelling something he did not catch. She was a plump woman, somewhat matronly for a Borderlander. Her retinue included Lord Baldhere—her Swordbearer—and the grizzled Kalyan Ramsin, her new husband.

They approached the Gap, where warriors fought to keep the beasts contained. A group of Kandori riders near the bonfires at the front were suddenly thrown into the air.

“Lord Mandragoran!” A figure in a black coat waved to them. Narishma hurried up, his Aes Sedai accompanying him. Lan always had one channeler at the front lines, but had given them orders not to fight. He needed them fresh for emergencies.

Like this one.

“Channeling?” Lan asked, slowing Mandarb.

“Dreadlords, Dai Shan,” Narishma said, panting. “Maybe as many as two dozen.”

“Twenty or more channelers,” Agelmar said. “They’ll cut through us like a sword through a spring lamb.”

Lan looked across the bitter landscape, once his homeland. A homeland he’d never known.

He would have to abandon Malkier. Admitting it felt like a knife twisting inside him, but he would do it. “You have your retreat, Lord Agelmar,” Lan said. “Narishma, can you channelers do anything?”

“We can try to cut their weaves from the air if we ride up close enough,” Narishma said. “But that will be hard, perhaps impossible, with them using just ribbons of Fire and Earth. Besides, with so many on their side . . . well, they’ll target us. I fear we would be cut down—”

A nearby blast rocked the earth, and Mandarb reared, nearly throwing Lan to the ground. Lan fought the horse, nearly blind from the flash of light. “Dai Shan!” Narishma’s voice.

Lan blinked tears from his eyes.

“Go to Queen Elayne!” Lan bellowed. “Bring back channelers to cover our retreat. We’ll be cut to ribbons without them. Go, man!”

Agelmar was yelling the retreat, bringing forward archers to target the channelers and drive them beneath cover. Lan unsheathed his sword, galloping to bring the horsemen back.

Light protect us, Lan thought, yelling himself ragged and salvaging what he could of his cavalry. The Gap was lost.

Elayne waited nervously just inside Braem Wood.

It was an old forest, the type that seemed to have a soul of its own. The ancient trees were its gnarled fingers, reaching out of the earth to feel the wind.

It was difficult not to feel tiny in a wood like Braem. Though many of the trees were bare, Elayne could feel a thousand eyes watching her from the depths of the forest. She found herself thinking of the stories told to her as a child, stories of the Wood being full of brigands—some goodly, others with hearts as twisted as those of Darkfriends.

In fact. . . Elayne thought, remembering one of the stories. She turned to Birgitte. “Didn’t you once lead a band of thieves out of this forest?” Birgitte grimaced. “I was hoping you hadn’t heard that one.”

“You robbed the Queen of Aldeshar!” Elayne said.

“I was very polite about it,” Birgitte said. “She wasn’t a good queen. Many claimed she wasn’t the rightful one.”

“It’s the principle!”

“That’s exactly why I did it.” Birgitte frowned. “At least . . . I think it was . . .”

Elayne didn’t push the topic any farther. Birgitte always grew anxious when reminded that her memories of past lives were fading. At times, she had no recollection of her past lives at all; at other times, certain incidents would come flooding back to her, only to disappear the next moment.

Elayne led the rear guard, which would—in theory—do the bulk of the damage to the enemy.

Dry leaves crunched as a winded messenger arrived from the Traveling ground. “I’ve come from Caemlyn, Your Majesty,” the woman said with a bobbing bow from her mount. “Lord Aybara has successfully engaged the Trollocs. They are on their way.”

“Light, they took the bait,” Elayne said. “Now we make our preparations. Go get some rest; you’ll be needing all your strength soon enough.” The messenger nodded, galloping away. Elayne relayed the latest news to Talmanes, the Aiel and Tam al’Thor.

As Elayne heard something in the forest she raised a hand, stopping a Guards-woman’s report. Moonshadow danced forward, anxious, past the men who crouched in the underbrush around Elayne. No one spoke. The soldiers barely seemed to be drawing breath.

Elayne embraced the Source. Power flooded her, and with it the sweetness of a world expanded. The dying wood seemed more colorful within the embrace of saidar Yes. There was something climbing over the hills in the near distance. Her soldiers, thousands of them, whipping at horses past the point of exhaustion, were fast approaching the Wood. Elayne raised her spyglass to make out the twisting mass of Trollocs chasing behind like black waves flooding onto an already shadowed land.

“Finally!” Elayne exclaimed. “Archers, to the front!”

The Two Rivers men scrambled out of the woods before her, forming up just inside the tree line. They were one of the smallest forces in her army, but if reports on their prowess weren’t exaggerations, they’d be as useful as an ordinary force of archers three times their size.

A few of the younger men began nocking arrows to bows.

“Hold!” Elayne yelled. “Those are our men coming toward you.”

Tam and his leaders repeated the order. The men lowered their bows nervously.

“Your Majesty,” Tam said, stepping up to her horse. “The lads can hit them at this range.”

“Our soldiers are still too close,” Elayne said. “We need to wait for them to break to the sides.”

“Pardon, my Lady,” Tam said. “But no Two Rivers man would miss a shot like this. Those riders are safe, and the Trollocs have bows of their own.” He was right on that last count. Some of the Trollocs were pausing in their pursuit long enough to draw their massive blackwood bows. Perrin’s men were riding with their backs exposed, and more than a few had dark-fletched arrows protruding from their limbs or their horses.

“Loose,” Elayne said. “Archers, loose!” Birgitte relayed the orders as she rode down the line. Tam barked orders to those nearby.

Elayne lowered the spyglass as a breeze blew through the forest, crackling dried leaves, rattling skeletal branches. The Two Rivers men drew. Light! Could they really shoot that far and still be accurate? The Trollocs were hundreds of paces away.

Arrows flew high, like hawks breaking from their roosts. She’d heard Rand brag about his bow, and she’d seen a Two Rivers longbow used on occasion. But this . . . so many arrows climbing into the air with incredible precision . . .

The arrows arced and dropped, not a one falling too short. They rained onto the Trolloc ranks, especially on the Trolloc archers. A few straggling Trolloc arrows returned, but the Two Rivers men had handily broken up their lines.

“That’s some fine archery,” Birgitte said, riding back up. “Fine indeed . . .” The Two Rivers men loosed more volleys in quick succession as Perrin’s riders entered the forest.

“Crossbowmen!” Elayne ordered, drawing her sword and raising it high. “Forward the Legion of the Dragon!”

The Two Rivers men fell back into the trees and the crossbowmen came out. She had two full banners of them from the Legion of the Dragon, and Bashere had drilled them well. They formed three ranks, one standing at a time to loose while the others reloaded while kneeling. The death they sent at the Trollocs hit like a crashing wave, driving a tremble through the advancing army, thousands falling dead.

Elayne leveled her sword at the Trollocs. The Two Rivers men had climbed the branches of the first line of trees and were loosing arrows from them. The men weren’t nearly as accurate from the precarious perches, but they didn’t need to be. The Trollocs faced death from the front and from above, and the creatures began to stumble over their dead.

Come on . . . Elayne thought.

The Trollocs advanced, forcing their way toward the archers. A large contingent of Trollocs broke off from the advance and headed to the east. The roadway that bordered Braem Wood was that way, and it would make sense for the Trollocs to seize it, then push along it to surround Elayne’s forces. Or so the Fades would think.

“Fall back into the Wood!” Elayne said, waving the sword. “Hurry!”

The crossbowmen each loosed one more bolt, then melted into the forest, pushing through the underbrush. The Two Rivers men dropped to the ground, then moved carefully through the trees. Elayne turned and rode in at a cautious trot. A short distance into the forest, she reached a banner of Alliandre’s Ghealdanin standing in ranks with pikes and halberds.

“Be sure to fall back as soon as they hit,” Elayne yelled to them. “We want to draw them deeper!” Deeper into the forest, where the siswai’aman awaited their arrival.

The soldiers nodded. Elayne passed Alliandre herself, sitting her horse with a small guard surrounding her. The dark-haired queen did a horseback curtsy to Elayne. Her men had wanted their queen to join Berelain at Mayene’s hospital, but Alliandre had refused. Perhaps seeing Elayne lead her troops directly had spurred the woman’s decision.

Elayne left them behind as the first Trollocs hit the Wood, grunting and yelling. They’d have a difficult time fighting in the forest. The humans could use the forest cover far more effectively, ambushing the huge Trollocs barreling through the woods, skewering and hamstringing them from behind. Mobile forces of bowmen and crossbowmen could shoot from cover—if they did it right, the Trollocs wouldn’t even know which direction the arrows were coming from.

As Elayne led her Queen’s Guard toward the roadway, she heard distant explosions and screams from Trollocs. The slingmen were tossing Aludra’s explosive roarsticks at the Trollocs through the trees. Flashes of light reflected off dim tree trunks.

Elayne reached the roadway just in time to see the Trollocs, led by several Myrddraal in deep black cloaks, come pouring onto it. They could quickly flank Elayne’s force—but the Band of the Red Hand had already set up the dragons on the road. Talmanes stood with hands clasped behind his back atop a pile of boxes, overlooking his force. The banner of the Red Hand flapped behind him, a bloody palm stamped on a field of red-fringed white, with Aludra yelling out measurements, aiming instructions and the occasional curse at dragoners making mistakes or moving too slowly.

Arrayed in front of Talmanes were the dragons, nearly a hundred of them, strung across the broad roadway in four ranks, spilling out into the fields around the roadway here. Elayne was too far away to hear him give the order to fire. That was perhaps a good thing, for the thunder that followed shook her as if Dragonmount itself had decided to erupt. Moon-shadow bucked, neighing, and Elayne had to fight to keep the animal from tossing her on her backside. In the end, she plugged the horse’s ears with a weave of Air as the dragoners rolled their weapons to the side and let the second rank open fire.

Elayne plugged her own ears as she calmed Moonshadow. Birgitte continued fighting her own terrified mount, eventually leaping free, but Elayne paid little attention. She peered through the smoke that choked the roadway. The third line of dragons was rolling up to fire.

Despite having her ears plugged, she could feel the blast jolt the ground, shake the trees. The fourth round followed, rattling her to the bones. Elayne breathed in and out, stilling her heart, waiting for the smoke to clear.

First, she made out Talmanes, standing tall. The first line of dragons had rolled back into place, reloaded. The other three ranks were hastily doing their own reloads, slipping powder and the large metal spheres into place.

A strong breeze from the west cleared the smoke enough for her to see . . . Elayne gasped softly.

Thousands of Trollocs lay in smoldering pieces, many blown off the road completely. Arms, legs, strands of coarse hair, pieces lay scattered amid holes in the ground fully two paces wide. Where there had once been many thousands of Trollocs, only blood, broken bones and smoke remained. Many of the trees had been shattered into splintered trunks. Of the Myrddraal that had been at the front, there was no sign at all.

The dragoners lowered their flame-sticks, not firing their reloaded rounds. A few surviving Trollocs near the back scrambled away into the forest.

Elayne looked at Birgitte and grinned. The Warder looked on, solemn, while several Guardswomen ran to chase down her horse.

“Well?” Elayne asked, unstopping her ears.

“I think . . .” Birgitte said. “Those things are messy. And imprecise. And bloody effective.”

“Yes,” Elayne said proudly.

Birgitte shook her head. Her horse was returned to her, and she remounted. “I used to think that a man and his bow were the most dangerous combination this land would ever know, Elayne. Now—as if it weren’t bad enough that men channel openly and the Seanchan use channelers in combat—we have those things. I don’t like the way this is going. If any boy with a tube of metal can destroy an entire army . . ”

“Don’t you see?” Elayne said. “There won’t be war any more. We win this, and there will be peace, as Rand intends. Nobody but Trollocs would go into battle, knowing they face weapons like these!”

“Perhaps,” Birgitte said. She shook her head. “Maybe I have less faith in the wisdom of people than you do.”

Elayne sniffed, raising her sword to Talmanes, who drew his and raised it back. The first step in destroying this Trolloc army had been taken.