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Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

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by The Way of Kings Prime (ALTERNATIVE VERSION) (pdf)


  not have done what, Jasnah?” he snapped. “Would you command my men

  as well as lead my armies? Am I not king?”

  Jasnah closed her mouth, grinding her teeth as Elhokar sighed and

  took another drink. She had to be calm. The harder she pushed, the more

  difficult Elhokar would become.

  “Who did you give the Blade to?” she asked in a more reserved voice.

  “No one, yet,” Elhokar said, moving toward the far side of the tent and

  pulling open one of the window flaps. “I might give it to Meridas.”

  Jasnah exhaled softly in annoyance.

  “What?” Elhokar asked.

  “I don’t trust him. Meridas is too . . . calculating.” Too clever. I can’t watch everyone for you, Elhokar.

  Her brother snorted. “You don’t trust anyone, my dear sister. Sometimes I

  wonder if you even trust me.” He looked at her. After a moment, he simply

  chuckled and turned to stare out the window flap toward the south. He held up a hand—cutting Jasnah off even as she opened her mouth.

  “Very well,” he said. “Perhaps I was too hard on Renarin. I will try and

  think of a way to make it up to Dalenar. Is that sufficient?”

  She didn’t reply, but he knew her silence—signifying the end of the

  argument—was word enough.

  “This should be a day of joy, not anger,” Elhokar said, still staring out

  the window. “Regardless of the methods, our father is avenged.”

  “And the war is over,” Jasnah said, stepping around the water he’d dripped on the floor and moving toward him.

  Elhokar did not answer. He continued to stare out the window. Toward

  the south. Toward the free kingdoms of Distant Prall—a collection of

  loosely-organized states, young and tempestuous, with weak militaries

  and weaker alliances.

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 33

  “Elhokar?” Jasnah asked, stepping up behind him. “The war is over. The

  Traitor is dead.”

  “And if we were to . . . continue?” Elhokar asked without turning.

  “You would become a tyrant?” Jasnah asked.

  “The difference between a tyrant and a liberator depends on who

  writes the history,” Elhokar said.

  “The difference between a tyrant and a liberator, Elhokar, is one of intention. Would you conquer those people for their benefit, or for your own?”

  Elhokar stood for a moment, then snorted quietly, turning from the

  window and walking away from her, toward his chair on the other side

  of the tent. “You sound like Dalenar, always spouting morality at me from

  The Way of Kings.”

  The king eased into his chair. As he settled back, she could see the

  fatigue behind the ambition. And beneath that . . . a young boy, desperate for validation.

  “Elhokar,” she said softly, “your men are tired, your lands are overbur-

  dened, and you are exhausted. The kingdoms of Distant Prall have had

  enough suffering and conflict—do not bring them a war no one needs.”

  Elhokar didn’t respond.

  “You have a wife waiting for you, Elhokar,” Jasnah continued. “And a son

  you barely know. You’ve proven that the Kholin line is strong—you brought

  justice to the man who killed our father, and you destroyed the kingdom

  that harbored him. Our scouts say Orinjah is defenseless—we could take

  the city within five days, and the Prallan Oathgate would be ours. We could be home before the month is over.”

  Elhokar glanced toward the south one last time, then met her eyes. “Very

  well,” he said. “We will return.”

  Jasnah sighed quietly in relief. “There is one other thing,” she said.

  “Speak quickly,” Elhokar said. “I’m tired from the battle.”

  “It’s about the second battlefield, the one where you found the Traitor

  dead.”

  “What about it?” Elhokar asked, his face darkening at her mention of

  the Traitor.

  “Well, don’t you find it a bit odd?” Jasnah asked. “Twenty thousand men,

  killed by five? And in such a short time—barely two hours?”

  “It could be done,” Elhokar said. “Four-to-one isn’t real y that bad of odds.”

  It’s far worse than I’d ever want to face, Jasnah thought. “Something’s wrong, Elhokar. The death of the Traitor . . . the faceless Shardbearer who attacked you . . .”

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  “You’re being paranoid again, sister,” Elhokar said with a wave of his

  hand. “Go speak to Dalenar about these things, if you must. He was

  muttering about something similar on the battlefield. In fact, go speak to him now—leave me in peace. It has been a difficult day.”

  Jasnah frowned, but bit off a response, instead turning to leave the king

  to his ‘peace.’ She had gotten what she wanted from him.

  The war was finally over.

  chapter 3

  MERIN 1

  The monks taught that wind was the voice of the Almighty. The

  storms were His fury—a tempest to remind of His omnipotent will.

  The gentle breezes were His love—a calm reminder that He was watching,

  and that He cared for those below.

  From his haze of near-wakefulness, Merin could feel the wind blowing

  across his face. Despite the slight pounding in his head, he lay peacefully, letting the wind soothe him. Wherever he had gone in life, the wind had

  been his companion. It had blown over his back as he worked the fields

  back in Alethkar. It had ruffled his cloak as he marched across lonely stormlands in Prallah. It had been behind his spear as he fought in the King’s

  Army. At times, Merin thought he could feel the presence of the Almighty,

  that he could hear the wind before it arrived. Then he knew that he was not alone. Someone was watching over him.

  He took a deep breath, then opened his eyes. The tent ceiling overhead

  was unexpected. He groaned slightly, propping himself up. He lay on a

  comfortable mat in a large, open-sided tent. He recognized it—he had

  helped put it up on several occasions. It was the healer’s tent—but he was on the wrong side. He wasn’t lying with the regular soldiers, but was instead on a special pallet, over in the . . .

  “Merin!” a voice exclaimed.

  Merin turned as a couple of figures approached, smiling. Ren, Sanas,

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  and Vezin were spearmen from his squad—spearmen, like himself, who

  had come from small Tenth Vil ages in rural Alethkar. As they approached,

  Merin sensed a hesitance in their faces.

  “Uh, are you feeling better, my lord?” Sanas asked as the men paused

  beside Merin’s pallet, just inside the tent.

  Merin frowned. “Lord? Who are you . . . ?” then he saw it. Sitting at the

  end of his cot, lying across the top of a cloth-wrapped package.

  A Shardblade.

  It came back to him. He had been on the battlefield, in his formation.

  Orders had come from the generals to divide the enemy troops, splitting

  them along the fissure created by the king’s honor guard. Merin’s squad

  had fought on the eastern internal flank, pushing the enemy back, making

  way for their towers to roll forward.

  Then he had come. The martial force that every spearman feared, yet every spearman dreamed of defeating. A Shardbearer.

  Riding a massive war stallion, his armor unadorned, the man had cut

  through the Aleth ranks with ease, slaughtering foot
men, batting away

  spears. That blade had cut the tip from Merin’s own weapon as it passed,

  leaving him with a useless stub. The soldier standing beside him had died

  with an almost casual swipe of the Shardbearer’s weapon.

  Merin had watched the king’s horse die from a single blow. He had seen his squad scattering in fear before the deadly blade. And . . . he had run. Dropping his broken spear, he had dashed forward, and . . .

  “By the winds,” Merin mumbled. “That has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done!”

  “It worked, though,” Ren said quietly, looking toward the end of the mat.

  Merin paused. He can’t be saying what I think he’s saying. It can’t be . . .

  Merin slowly pulled the blanket off his legs and knelt before the sword,

  ignoring the pain in his head. He reached forward tentatively, running

  his fingers along the blade. It was enormous, almost as long as a footman’s spear. The weapon glistened silvery, but the design of the metal made it

  seem as if it were crafted from thousands of small quartz gemstones. Four

  intricate glyphs were etched into the blade, subtly created by the orientation of the quartz pattern.

  “It’s . . .” Merin trailed off. It was his. He grabbed the handle with

  suddenly eager fingers, hefting the Blade.

  “Wow,” he mumbled. “It’s a lot heavier than I thought it would be. The

  stories always say Shardblades are light!”

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 37

  Of course, it was a lot lighter than a weapon its size would normally

  have been. Even with two years of spearman’s training, Merin probably

  wouldn’t have been strong enough to lift such a massive weapon if it had

  been constructed of normal steel. The Shardblade was heavy, but no heavier than a regular sword.

  “Here,” he said, turning to the others. “Try it.”

  The three spearmen didn’t move.

  “What?” Merin asked.

  “You’re not supposed to let anyone else hold your Blade, um, my lord,”

  Sanas said. “They told us to wait here until you awakened, to make sure

  nothing happened to the Blade. Now that you’re up, we’re supposed to go

  back to the squad camp . . .”

  Merin moved to stand. “I’ll go with you. It would be good to see everyone.”

  The three exchanged awkward glances. “Um, if you want to, my lord . . .”

  Sanas said.

  Merin paused. Even the normally enthusiastic Ren seemed reserved.

  They were obviously happy to see him awake, but they were still . . . un-

  comfortable.

  “Maybe I’ll just wait here,” Merin said.

  The three smiled. “You’re a lord now, Merin,” Sanas explained. “A Fifth Lord. You don’t belong with spearmen. But, well . . . you give us hope. It’s good to know someone made it, after all the talk and stories.”

  “Everyone in the army heard about you,” Ren said eagerly. “You saved the

  king’s life! Old captain Tunac wasn’t very happy when you got the Blade

  instead, but what’s he going to do about it? Eh, uh, my lord?” The short

  man chuckled.

  The three stood awkwardly for a moment. Then they bowed and left.

  Merin watched them go, fingers still resting on the hilt of the Shardblade.

  You’re a lord now. It was unfathomable.

  Outside, he could see signs of the camp breaking down. No wonder his

  friends needed to return—deconstructing camp was an enormous task,

  and every hand was needed. Merin turned, motioning toward a healer. The

  aging man looked up, then quickly rushed over to Merin’s mat.

  “Yes, my lord?” he asked. His sleeves and clothing were speckled with

  blood, and his posture was tired.

  “Um, yes,” Merin said. How exactly did one speak like a lord, anyway?

  “Why are we breaking down camp?”

  “The Traitor is dead, my lord,” the healer explained, eager to help despite

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  his obvious weariness. “As is the Prallan king. The war is ours—Lord

  Elhokar plans to march on Orinjah before the day is out.”

  Over. They had known it would end this day, one way or another. Captain

  Tunac had said this would probably be Pralir’s last stand.

  “Are you feeling better, my lord?” the healer asked. “You took a strong

  blow to the head, and slept all through the night. You woke a few times, but you were dazed and incoherent.”

  “I don’t remember that,” Merin confessed. “My head hurts a little bit,

  but I think I’m all right.”

  “Might I recommend a little more rest, my lord?” the man asked.

  Merin glanced toward the camp. Everyone had something to do. It felt

  wrong to sleep when everyone was so busy. “Am I allowed to leave?” Merin

  asked.

  “Of course, my lord. Just don’t do anything too strenuous, and check

  back with the healers at the end of the day.”

  Merin nodded, and the healer withdrew. As the man left, however,

  Merin realized something. “Healer,” he called.

  The elderly healer turned, eyebrow raised. “Yes, my lord?”

  “What is it I’m supposed to do? As a lord, I mean?”

  “I’m not sure, my lord,” the man said with amusement. “Perhaps that

  would be a question best asked of another lord.”

  “Good idea,” Merin said, climbing out of his bed. He was a bit dizzy

  as he stood, but the wave passed quickly. He reached over and picked up

  the Shardblade, then regarded the package underneath.

  “Your Shardplate, my lord,” the healer explained helpfully. “I can send

  some packmen for it, if you wish.”

  “Yes, that would be wonderful,” Merin said. He stepped outside the tent,

  standing in the morning light, and stopped.

  Now what?

  He thought for a moment, then glanced down at his Shardblade. There

  was one thing he’d always wondered. He walked over to a large boulder,

  then raised the Blade and thrust it into the stone.

  The ballads had exaggerated a bit. The Shardblade didn’t ‘cut through

  stone like the breezes cut the air.’ There was a resistance to his pushing, but with a small amount of effort, he was able to slide the blade into

  the boulder up to its hilt.

  Merin pulled the blade free, looking down at it with wonder. He backed

  up, hefting the Blade up over his shoulder, and swung with a mighty

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 39

  two-handed blow. The Blade sheared through the middle of the boulder—

  as if the momentum somehow increased the weapon’s sharpness—and

  whipped out the other side to slice clean through one of the healing tent’s support poles.

  The tent lurched slightly, one side drooping. Healers and patients alike

  looked out at a sheepish Merin, who lowered his Shardblade. “Uh, sorry!”

  he called before blushing and hurrying away.

  Still, the exhilaration of the moment did not pass. He finally let himself believe what had happened. He was a Shardbearer—he outranked a good

  three quarters of the noble population. Only the lords of independent cities and their heirs were of a higher stature than Shardbearers. To capture a

  Blade on the field of battle . . . it was the dream of every lowly footman. It was the possibility that spawned stories, the hope that gave normal men

  the courage to face a Shardbearer, despite their bleak chances of success.

  But it had happened to Merin.

&
nbsp; His enthusiasm dulled slightly, however, as he reached the camp’s main

  thoroughfare. To his right, in the distance, he could see the white-and-blue banner marking Zircon Tensquad, his home of the last three years. A

  home to which he could not return.

  He looked down at the Blade. It was awkward to carry with its incredible

  length and super-sharp edge. It glistened in the sunlight, its quartz-like patterns shimmering. Apparently, they would fade over time. The markings

  were a manifestation of the bond the sword had had with its master—a

  man who was now dead.

  He couldn’t return to Zircon Tensquad, but that was only a manifestation

  of a larger issue. What of home? What of Stonemount, with its fields and

  simple farmers? No Shardbearers lived in small tribute vil ages—the ballads said they were needed at the sides of their lords, to go to war or to duel for honor. He would never be able to return to Stonemount. But he had no

  lordly family to honor and protect. He no longer had a place—not really a

  citizen, but not really a lord either.

  Not really a lord at all. Merin knew all the songs, from “The Chron-

  icle of the First Return” to “The Storms of Summer.” He wasn’t a man

  like those in the stories. He was a boy who had acted without thought.

  His rescuing of the king had been done out of reflex and luck, not out

  of heroism. He hadn’t even really killed the enemy Shardbearer, only

  distracted him.

  This shouldn’t be mine, Merin thought. Surely someone will realize that.

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  He looked up, turning from Zircon Tensquad’s tents and looking to the

  northern side of the camp—toward the tents of the noblemen. He would

  find his answers there.

  He began walking through the camp. Men bustled around him, collaps-

  ing tents, carrying supplies, packing equipment. Once, he would have been

  befuddled by the enormous number of people. Stonemount was a Tenth

  City, a village of less than five hundred people. The tens of thousands that comprised the King’s Army had amazed him. Over time, however, the

  amazing had become mundane.

  He passed massive chul s rested within their pens, the sound of crunching

  rockbuds echoing from within their boulder-like shells. Dark-eyed Kaven

  tribesmen watched him as he passed, speaking to each other in their

 

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