Galad remained silent. Each moment he stalled was a moment Demandred was not sending destruction upon Elayne or her armies. The Forsaken seemed to realize it, for he came in swiftly. Three strikes: down, side, backhand. Galad met each one, their arms a blur.
Motion to the side. It came from a rock that Demandred had thrown at Galad by channeling. Galad dodged it, barely, then raised his sword against the blows that came next. Furious strikes downward, The Boar Rushes Down the Mountain, crashing against Galad’s blade. He held against that, but was not able to stop the following twist of the blade that cut his forearm.
Demandred stepped back, his sword dripping Galad’s blood. They circled around again, watching one another. Galad felt warm blood inside his glove, from where it had seeped down his arm. A little blood loss could slow a man, weaken him.
Galad breathed in and out, abandoning thought, abandoning worry. When Demandred next struck, Galad anticipated it, stepping aside and striking down with two hands, biting deeply into the leather behind Demandred’s knee guard. The sword glanced off the side of the armor, but cut true otherwise. As Galad whipped back around, Demandred was limping.
The Forsaken grimaced. “You’ve blooded me,” he said. “It has been a very long time since someone did that.”
The ground began to heave and break beneath Galad. Desperate, he leaped forward, getting close to Demandred—forcing him to stop channeling, lest he topple himself. The Forsaken grunted, swinging, but Galad was inside his enemy’s guard.
Too close to do a full swing, Galad raised his sword and bashed it—pommel first—at Demandred’s face. Demandred caught Galad’s hand with his, but Galad grabbed Demandred by the helmet, holding tightly, trying to force the helmet down over the Forsaken’s eyes. He grunted, both men locked, neither moving.
Then, with a sickening sound Galad heard quite distinctly, his muscle ripped in the arm where he’d been cut. His sword slipped from numb fingers, his arm spasming, and Demandred threw him backward and struck with a flash of the blade.
Galad fell to his knees. His right arm—severed at the elbow by Demandred’s slice—flopped to the ground in front of him.
Demandred stepped back, panting. He had been worried. Good. Galad held to his bleeding stump, then spat at Demandred’s feet.
Demandred snorted, then swung his blade once more.
All went black.
Androl felt as if he’d forgotten what it was like to breathe fresh air. The land around him smoldered and quaked, smoke churning in the wind, bringing with it the stench of burning bodies.
He and the others had moved up across the top of the Heights to the western side, searching for Taim. Much of the Sharan army fought here, contending with the White Tower army.
Groups of channelers drew fire from one side or the other, so Androl crossed the horrid landscape alone. He stepped over broken patches of smoking earth, crouching low, trying to give off the air of a solitary wounded man trying to creep to safety. He still wore Nensen’s face, but with his head down and his posture low, that mattered very little.
He sensed a spike of alarm from Pevara, who moved alone nearby.
What is it? he sent. Are you all right?
After a tense moment, her thoughts came. I’m fine. A scare with some Sharans. I convinced them I was on their side before they attacked.
It’s a wonder anyone can tell friend from foe here, Androl sent back. He hoped Emarin and Jonneth were safe. The two had gone together, but if they—
Androl froze. Up ahead, through the shifting smoke, he saw a ring of Trollocs protecting something. They stood on an outcropping of rock that jutted out of the hillside like the seat of a chair.
Androl crept forward, hoping to steal a peek.
Androl! Pevara’s voice in his mind made him jump nearly out of his skin.
What?
You were alarmed at something, she said. I was reacting to you.
He took a few calming breaths. I’ve found something. Just a moment.
He drew close enough, indeed, to sense channeling inside the ring. He didn’t know if—
The Trollocs parted as someone inside barked a command. Mishraile peered out, then scowled. “It’s only Nensen!”
Androl’s heart thumped inside his chest.
A man wearing black turned from his contemplation of the battle. Taim. In his hands, he carried a thin disc of black and white. He rubbed his thumb across it as he overlooked the battlefield, sneering, as if disdainful of the lesser channelers struggling all about him.
“Well?” he barked at Androl, turning and dropping the disc into a pouch at his waist.