"Take them upriver", Mat said. "The maps show there is only one good place to block the Mora, a narrow canyon a few leagues northeast of here".
"All right", Grady said. "There will be channelers involved".
"You will have to handle them", Mat said. "Mostly, though, I want you to let those six hundred men and women defend the river. Don’t risk your self too much. Let Delarn and his people do the work".
"Pardon", Grady said. "But that doesn’t seem like a very large force. Most of them aren’t trained soldiers".
"I know what I’m doing", Mat said. I hope.
Grady nodded reluctantly and moved off.
Egwene watched Mat with curious eyes.
"We can’t fall back from this fight", Mat said softly. "We don’t retreat. There isn’t anywhere to go. We stand here, or we lose it all".
"There is always a retreat", Egwene said.
"No", Mat said. "Not anymore". He rested his ashandarei on his shoulder, his other hand out, palm forward. He scanned the landscape, memories appearing as if from light and dust before him. Rion at Hune Hill. Naath and the San d’ma Shadar. The Fall of Pipkin. Hundreds upon hundreds of battlefields, hundreds of victories. Thousands of deaths.
Mat watched figments of memories flash across the field. "Have you spoken to the supply masters? We’re out of food, Egwene. We can’t win a protracted war, fighting and falling back. The enemy will overwhelm us if we do that. Just like Eyal in the Marches of Maighande. We are at our strongest now, broken though we are. Fall back, and we resign ourselves to starvation as the Trollocs destroy us".
"Rand", Egwene said. "We just have to hold out until he is victorious".
"That’s true in a fashion", Mat said, turning toward the Heights. In his mind’s eye, he saw what could come, the possibilities. He imagined riders on the Heights, like shadows. He would lose if he tried to hold those Heights, but maybe . . . "If Rand loses, it won’t matter. The Wheel is bloody broken, and we all become nothing, if we’re lucky. Well, we can’t do anything more about it. But here’s the thing. If he does what he’s supposed to, we could still lose—we will lose, if we don’t stop the Shadow’s armies". He blinked, seeing it, the entire battlefield spread before him. Fighting at the ford. Arrows from the palisade. "We can’t just beat them, Egwene", Mat said. "We can’t just stand and hold on. We have to destroy them, drive them away, then hunt them to the last Trolloc. We can’t just survive . . . we have to win".
"How are we going to do that?" Egwene asked. "Mat, you’re not talking sense. Weren’t you just saying yesterday how outnumbered we’ll be?"
He looked toward the bog, imagining shadows trying to slog through it. Shadows of dust and memory. "I have to change it all", he said. He could not do what they would expect. He could not do what spies might have reported he was planning. "Blood and bloody ashes . . . one last toss of the dice. Everything we have, piled into a heap . . ".
A group of men in dark armor came through a gateway to the top of the Knob, panting deeply, as if they’d had to chase down a damane to get them up here. Their breastplates were lacquered a deep red, but this batch did not need a fearsome display to be frightening. They looked furious enough to scramble eggs with a stare.
"You", said the lead Deathwatch Guard, a man named Gelen, pointing at Mat, "are needed at the—"
Mat held up a hand to cut him off.
"I will not be denied again!" Gelen said. "I have orders from—"
Mat shot the man a glare, and he stopped short. Mat turned northward again. A cool, somehow familiar wind blew across him, rippling his long coat, brushing at his hat. He narrowed his eye. Rand was tugging on him.
The dice still tumbled in his head.
"They’re here", Mat said.
"What did you say?" Egwene asked.
"They’re here".
"The scouts—"
"The scouts are wrong" Mat said. He looked up, and noticed a pair of raken speeding back toward the camp. They had seen it. The Trollocs must have marched through the night.
Sharans will come first, Mat thought, to give the Trollocs a breather. They’ll have arrived through gateways.
"Send runners", Mat said, pointing at the Deathwatch Guards, "get the men and women to their posts. And warn Elayne that I’m going to change the battle plan".
"What?" Egwene said.
"They’re here!" Mat said, turning on the Guards. "Why aren’t you bloody running! Go, go!" Above, the raken screeched. Gelen, to his credit, saluted, then ran—pounding in that massive armor—with his companions.
"This is it, Egwene", Mat said. "Take a deep breath, a last pull on the brandy, or burn your final pinch of tabac. Have a good look at the ground before you, as it’s soon going to be covered in blood. In an hour, we’ll be in the thick of it. The Light watch over us all".
Perrin drifted in darkness. He felt so tired.
Slayer still lives, a piece of himself thought. Graendal is corrupting the great captains. The end is near. You can’t slip away now! Hold on.
Hold on to what? He tried to open his eyes, but was so exhausted. He should. . . . should have gotten out of the wolf dream sooner. His entire body felt numb, except . . .
Except for his side. Moving fingers that felt like bricks, he touched the warmth. His hammer. It was blazing hot. That warmth seemed to move up his fingers, and Perrin took a deep breath.
He needed to wake up. He hovered at the edges of consciousness, as when he was close to sleep, but still partially aware. In that state, he felt as if he faced a forked pathway before him. One path led deeper into darkness. And one led . . . He couldn’t see, but he knew that it meant . . . It meant waking up.
Warmth from the hammer radiated up his arm. His mind gathered sharpness. Awaken.
That was what Slayer had done. He had . . . awakened . . . somehow . . .
Perrin’s life was trickling away. Not much time left. Half within death’s embrace, he gritted his teeth, drew in a deep breath and forced himself to wake.
The silence of the wolf dream shattered.
Perrin hit soft earth, and entered a place of shouts. Something about a battlefront, about
