Roland pulled the horn from his belt. It was cold, smelling of ancient battles and lost honor. He didn't wait for the second toll. He put the horn to his lips and blew a note that defied the fading light. It was a brassy, defiant roar that tasted of gunpowder and home. The teeth in the ground shattered. The white sky cracked.
"Go then," Roland whispered, though whether he spoke to Jake, the Tower, or himself, he did not know. "There are other worlds than these." The Dark Tower
Roland began to walk. His boots clicked against the teeth. He didn't think about the countless miles behind him or the ghosts that trailed in his wake like smoke. He thought only of the weight of the horn in his bag—the Horn of Eld, which he had finally remembered to pick up at the hill of Jericho Hill. Roland pulled the horn from his belt