Lan strode away, calling orders. Prince Kaisel ran up to him, obviously afraid. “What’s happening, Lord Mandragoran?”
“Compulsion, likely,” Lan said. “We’ve been like rabbits in a snare, w
ith the line being drawn slowly—but snugly—around our necks. Someone please tell me the Asha’man still have enough strength for gateways! And bring me news of the eastern flank! Those archers will need support. Commit the rest of the reserves to protecting them.”
Prince Kaisel backed away as the orders continued, his eyes wide, his hand on his sword. He looked at Lord Agelmar, face pale. “We’ve really lost?” he asked Lan once the orders were out, messengers racing to deliver them.
“Yes,” Lan said. “We have.”
“Lan!” Agelmar said suddenly, opening his eyes.
Lan turned to him.
“Queen Tenobia,” Agelmar said. “I’ve sent her into danger without understanding what I’d done. Whoever put these plans into my head wanted her dead!”
Lan swore softly, bolting out of camp and up the side of the nearest hill. The scouts there made room for him as he reached the top, pulling his looking glass from his belt. He didn’t need it. He found the Queen’s flag while scanning the battlefield.
She was surrounded. Whatever support she had thought she would receive had not been sent. Lan opened his mouth to call orders, but they died on his lips as the Trollocs swarmed over the small flag of white and silver where she’d been fighting. It fell, and in seconds, he couldn’t pick out a living soldier in that section of the battlefield.
Coldness. He could do nothing for Tenobia. It was no longer about saving individuals.
He would be lucky to escape this day with any semblance of an army at all.
Mat rode with Tuon south toward the battlefield, along the banks of the river that was the western border of Arafel.
Of course, where Tuon went, so did Selucia. And now Min; Tuon wanted to keep her new Doomseer at her side at all times. Tuon kept asking for viewings, and Min kept reluctantly explaining what she saw.
Mat had tried to make her say she saw a hat floating around Mat’s head. That would persuade Tuon to stop trying to get rid of his, would it not? It would have been better than Min explaining about the eye on a scale, and the dagger, and all of the other bloody things she had seen about Mat.
Where Tuon went, a hundred of the Deathwatch Guards also went. And Galgan and Courtani, who felt chastised for not acting quickly enough to help Mat. Furyk Karede was along, too, leading the Deathwatch Guard. Being around Karede was about as pleasant as finding another man’s hand in your purse, but he was a good soldier, and Mat respected him. He would very much like to put Karede and Lan in a staring contest together. They could be at it for years.
“I need a better view,” Mat said, scanning the battlefield when they came within range. “There.”
He turned Pips and rode toward a rise close enough to where the opposing forces traded destruction at the river’s edge. Tuon followed him without a word. When they all reached the rise, he noticed Selucia staring daggers at him.
“What’s wrong?” Mat asked. “I’d have assumed you would be happy to have me back. It gives you someone else to scowl at.”
“The Empress will follow where you go,” she said.
“So she will,” Mat said. “As I’ll follow where she goes, I suppose. I hope that doesn’t lead us in too many circles.” He inspected the combat.
The river was not terribly wide—maybe fifty spans across—but it was swift-moving and deep on either side of the ford. The water made a nice barrier, and not just for Trollocs. The ford, though, made for an easy crossing—the water there was knee-deep and wide enough for at least twenty files of riders to cross at the same time.
In the distant middle of the Sharan army, a man sat upon a brilliant white horse. Mat could barely make him out with his glass; the man’s glistening armor didn’t seem like any Mat had seen, though the distance made it difficult to tell specifics. “I assume that’s our Forsaken?” he asked, gesturing with the ashandarei.
“He seems to be yelling for the Dragon Reborn,” Galgan said. Demandred’s voice boomed across the battlefield right then, enhanced by the One Power. He was demanding that the Dragon come and face him in a duel.
Mat inspected the fellow through the glass. “Demandred, eh? Has he gone a bit dotty, or what?” Well, Mat knew which part of the battle to bloody stay away from. He had not signed up to fight Forsaken. In fact, so far as he remembered, he had not signed up at all. He had been bloody press-ganged every step of the way. Usually by force, and always by one fool woman or another.
Egwene could deal with Demandred, or maybe the Asha’man could. Rand said the Asha’man were not going crazy anymore, but that was a shallow promise. Any man who wanted to wield the One Power was already crazy, so far as Mat considered it. Adding more crazy to them would be like pouring tea into an already full cup.
At least Tuon’s damane had those Sharan channelers occupied. Their firefight ripped up the ground on both riverbanks. It was impossible to get a clear picture of what was going on, though. There was just too much confusion.
Mat pointed his looking glass southward along the river once more, and frowned. There was a military camp set up just a few hundred paces opposite the ford, but it wasn’t the haphazard arrangement of tents that caught his attention. At the eastern edge of the camp was a large body of troops and their horses, just standing there. He picked out a figure pacing in front of the assembly, who appeared to be in a foul mood. Mat might have been missing an eye, but it was no difficult task to recognize Tylee.
Mat lowered the looking glass. He rubbed his chin, adjusted his hat and set his ashandarei on his shoulder. “Give me five minutes on my own,” he said, then kicked Pips into a gallop down the hill, hoping that Tuon would let him go alone. For once, she did, though as he reached the base of the rise, he could imagine her up there watching him with those curious eyes of hers. She seemed to find everything he did to be interesting.
Mat galloped alongside the river toward Tylee’s location. Explosions rang out, painful to the ears, announcing that he had neared the heart of the battle.