Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

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

  still missing something—a secret of the form. Why would it have such

  obvious strikes? He felt as if each of these capstone blows should hit, yet he logically knew that there was little chance of them getting past his

  enemy’s defenses.

  He couldn’t continue to fight as he was—he needed to divide the Vedens

  up. Striking with one final flourishing blow, Merin spun and ducked to the side, breaking between the two unarmored Shardbearers. He felt the winds

  brush his leg, and knew he had just barely missed having his foot sheared

  free. He jumped, pushing with senses he was only beginning to be aware

  of, and his wrist blazed with a sudden pain. The winds spun behind him,

  blowing him forward, carrying him a little farther than he should have been able to jump, pushing him a little faster than he should have been able to go.

  He landed on the gangplank and jumped again, whipping his Shardblade

  beneath him as he did so. The weapon easily sliced through the wood, and

  Merin landed on the docks below to hear the splash of two gangplank

  halves dropping into the water behind him.

  He spun as the docks thumped, a plated form easily dropping the twenty

  feet to land beside him. Merin could see the other two Shardplate-bearing

  Vedens preparing to jump, but the two unarmored men had paused beside

  the railing, judging the distance skeptically. One called to a solider, presumably demanding a rope, as the final Plated Veden leaped over the side.

  Merin ducked a swipe from the Shardbearer in silver, swinging his own

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  Blade downward—toward the docks themselves. Merin’s blade cut a massive

  gash in the planks, then he ducked to the side as the falling Shardbearer

  landed beside him. There was a satisfying crack as the weakened wood split, followed by a yelp of surprise—one that cut off in a splashing gurgle as the Shardbearer’s corner of the dock collapsed into the water.

  Merin spun to face his two opponents. The young Shardbearer in silver

  jumped forward, trying to thrust through Merin’s faceplate. Pain flared in Merin’s wrist as he commanded the winds, pushing himself to the side.

  The threatening Blade whistled in the air just a fingerlength from Merin’s ear, but the wind shoved Merin just out of the way.

  Merin brought up his own weapon mid-dodge, pushing his arms with

  the force of a river of wind. Where the Veden’s weapon had whistled,

  Merin’s wind-driven blade roared. It connected with Plate and kept going,

  ripping through the Awakened metal with a force even Merin hadn’t

  anticipated.

  The pain from his wrist was nearly overwhelming. Merin collapsed

  to the ground, completing his dodge, as his opponent fell to the docks

  in two pieces. Merin gasped in agony, his left hand—the one bearing

  the bracelet—spasming rigidly. There wasn’t time to pause, however. He

  stumbled to his feet, holding his Blade in one hand and lurching away

  from the fallen man.

  The final Plated Shardbearer, the older man Merin had fought originally,

  paused quietly, looking down at the dead man. There was both wonder

  and fury in his expression. Merin didn’t look down, though he knew

  what he would have seen had he done so. Somehow, he had cut through

  the Shardplate as if it weren’t there, killing the younger man as easily as one would a common solider.

  The aging Shardbearer raised an unhelmed face toward Merin, rage

  burning in his eyes. He raised his Blade.

  Merin backed away, moving toward the dock’s edge. He felt and heard

  the splashing near the dock’s side, and moved over to see the Shardbearer

  who had fallen into the ocean climbing up onto the docks. He no longer

  wore his Plate, of course, though he still carried his Blade. With a mer-

  cilessness that would have impressed his old spear commanders, Merin

  jumped toward the man and swung.

  The sodden man didn’t even have time to react. Both corpse and Blade

  fell back into the churning waters, and Merin looked as the two men above

  finally began to descend on a rope ladder. Merin tried to get close enough

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 625

  to swing at them while they were climbing, but the elder Shardbearer

  immediately launched an attack, drawing Merin’s attention.

  The man was good. Either the death of the younger man had encouraged

  him, or he just hadn’t taken Merin seriously before, for this offensive was measurably more potent than the previous attacks. It bore the fuel of a

  man’s fury, and Merin’s pained and exhausted body was reacting more

  and more slowly. He barely turned aside the blows, and each parry came

  more slowly.

  The two other men approached from behind—Merin could feel their

  movements on the wind. His sword arm was depleted, and his other hand

  burned so much it was barely usable. He had to attack. He had to—

  A fist—the Shardbearer’s fist—came at him unexpectedly. Merin cursed,

  reflexively gathering the winds to push it away.

  They failed. Somehow, the Shardplate resisted the winds, deflecting

  them.

  Merin’s stupefaction nearly cost him his life. He barely remembered

  to push against himself instead, moving his head away from the blow,

  counteracting some of the fist’s momentum. In a moment of lucidity, he

  dismissed his Blade so he wouldn’t lose it.

  The metal fist took him in the side of the head.

  The world flashed, then grew black, but fortunately returned as Merin

  crashed to the ground. Though his eyes refused to focus, he could feel a

  sword descending, and he used the wind to push himself to the side—bear-

  ing the bracelet-induced flash of pain.

  Merin stumbled across the docks, dazed, seeing double, his Blade

  unsummoned.

  Seeing double.

  It came back to him, the answer to a question that he had been so close

  to discovering. Like a name spoken that had been forgotten, like a memory

  suddenly recalled, he realized why dismissing and summoning his Blade

  felt so familiar.

  He hadn’t done it before—but he had done something just like it.

  The meditation exercise Vasher had taught him, the one where he made

  his finger vanish and reappear, felt exactly the same as summoning and

  dismissing a Blade.

  Another attack came, and this time Merin didn’t bother to block. He

  jumped back, retreating across the dock, summoning his Blade and trying

  to gather his wits. Dockworkers and gawking nobility scattered as Merin

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  backed away from his advancing opponents. They could sense his weakness,

  could see the growing sloppiness of his form.

  Sweat trickled down his cheek. Why? What did it mean? Vasher’s

  exercise had to have a purpose—the coincidence was just too great.

  Merin threw himself into an attack, trying to surprise the men. How-

  ever, they smartly coordinated a three-pronged offense, and Merin’s attack turned into a frantic defense. He retreated again, weakened, puffing

  haggardly, before they could surround him.

  The three men approached in a close line, their postures daring him to

  attack. Merin continued to back away, forcing his mind to work, struggling against pain and exhaustion.

  There was a secret. Vasher had taug
ht him too well—Merin could sense

  what the dueling form was supposed to do, even when it didn’t perform as

  expected. He had felt the truth on several occasions.

  There were times when he knew he should have hit, but his attack was

  easily parried. It was almost as if . . .

  He didn’t have much strength left. Gathering his concentration, his

  energy, and his determination, Merin gripped his Blade in two hands,

  gritted his teeth, then dashed forward and jumped.

  The winds curled in and pushed him from behind. The flash of pain

  was expected, and in his moment of stubborn focus, Merin didn’t let it

  distract him. The winds carried him forward in an amazing leap, driving

  him toward the elder Shardbearer.

  If the man was surprised by Merin’s supernatural jump, he didn’t display

  the emotion. Only anger showed in his eyes—anger and satisfaction.

  Merin’s attack was obvious. The trajectory of his jump, the angle of his

  raised arms, made the proper parry intuitive.

  The Shardbearer raised his weapon with a curled lip.

  As Merin fell, he dismissed his Blade. It instantly changed to smoke,

  as always, but Merin didn’t quite let it vanish. Just as it began to change to smoke, he grabbed ahold of it with his mind, holding it halfway into

  existence—like the finger he could not see, but only because he ignored

  that it was there.

  His incorporeal Blade passed through the parrying Shardblade. Merin

  immediately called to his weapon, bringing it back from the edge upon

  which it teetered. Rather than taking ten heartbeats to summon, the

  weapon appeared immediately, growing firm in his hands again.

  The Veden man’s eyes widen in shock right before the Blade sliced

  through his unprotected head. Merin’s wind-fueled jump carried him

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  forward, past the dying man, with supernatural speed. The other two

  Shardbearers weren’t prepared as Merin landed before them, maintaining

  his fluid swing as he cut them both down in a single motion.

  Merin stumbled to a halt, and three corpses dropped to the docks behind

  him. He gasped in anguish and exhaustion, dismissing his Blade and reach-

  ing over to rip the bracelet off with a claw-like grip. As he dropped the jade, the air returning to normal, the pain in his arm dampened slightly—but

  not enough. He fell to his knees, sweat staining the wood before him as

  great drops streamed from his brow.

  Merin clutched his wrist with his uninjured arm, his entire body shaking.

  He struggled to remain conscious.

  After a few moments of dealing with the pain, he finally became aware

  of the strange stillness. He forced himself to look up.

  Eight boats stood along this section of the docks, and men crowed atop

  them, looking down at him with an eerie silence. Merin turned to the side.

  The dockworkers and other onlookers stood with equally stunned postures.

  I don’t blame them, Merin thought with a groan. I’m not sure what just happened myself.

  Ahead, a group was walking down a gangplank, their richly-colored

  clothing identifying them to Merin’s fuzzy, sweat-blurred vision. The

  regents.

  Merin climbed to his feet, then lurched across the docks, slowly gathering the Blades of the fallen men. He regained some of his strength as he

  worked, but the ache in his arm faded only a bit, and he found himself

  cradling it to his chest as he worked. When he was forced to move it to

  carry a pair of Blades, it felt stiff and awkward. Numb, yet painful at the same time.

  The regents and col ected nobility watched Merin’s work with a respectful

  silence. Finally Merin approached them, forcing himself to walk upright,

  with his tired head held high. The regents waited expectantly, but Merin

  ignored them.

  Instead, he approached Renarin and rammed a Blade point-first into the

  wood before his friend. “It’s yours, if you want it,” he said.

  Renarin paused, then smiled, reaching out to accept the Blade. “I suppose

  it would be a bit anti-climactic if I refused.”

  Merin nodded, smiling weakly. He turned to the regents, and let his

  face grow more stern. “What of you?” he asked. “What of these fleets?”

  “I think our soldiers have decided for us,” the head regent said, nodding

  to the side.

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  Merin heard the splashes even as he turned. White Veden cloaks flapped

  in the wind as the Lakhenran soldiers began to throw their officers over

  the sides of the boats. The silence burst, sailors and dockworkers breaking into exuberant cheers. They couldn’t have known about Merin’s goal, but

  somehow they sensed their freedom. The Lakhenran lords might have been

  quelled, but the once-kingdom’s citizens were more willing to fight.

  This time, Merin’s smile bore no trace of weariness.

  “These ships will not sail to the north,” the head regent said quietly,

  “though I know not whether our reward will be freedom or destruction.

  Either way, Vedenar will receive no support from us in this war.”

  Merin turned back toward the three regents. “That’s not good enough

  anymore.” He raised two more Blades, ramming them into the wood before

  the two regents who had been most supportive—leaving the third, bitter

  man out.

  “Not good enough?” the head regent asked as the third man sputtered

  at the slight.

  “These ships will sail,” Merin said firmly. “But they will join with Alethkar, not our enemies. You want to be free of Jah Keved? Well, you will have to earn it.”

  The chubby regent frowned. “Follow one master instead of another?”

  he asked. “What proof do we have that Alethkar won’t just occupy us

  like Vedenar once did?”

  Merin sighed. “None, and I’m too tired to argue with you. Take the

  Blades; we’re sailing north.”

  The two men glanced at each other, then reached forward to take

  the offered Shardblades.

  “Yours is at the bottom of the ocean,” Merin said to the third regent.

  “You should send someone to fish it out for you. Renarin and I get a suit of Plate; I don’t care what you do with the third set.”

  The man continued to sputter, but he immediately waved for a servant,

  snapping a few orders in Lakhenran. Merin ignored him, turning eyes

  on the collected soldiers. Some were yelling with the dockworkers and

  citizenry, but many of them were either staring at Merin or regarding the

  scattered corpses of the dead Shardbearers.

  Merin found the face he was looking for. He strode forward, waving a

  few people out of the way, then stopped before a familiar soldier—the man

  who had been their guard, the one that Merin had given his Blade to before entering the palace to meet the regents.

  “It takes a man of rare honor to give up a prize as fine as a Shardblade,”

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 629

  Merin said to the soldier. He rammed the final Blade into the ground before the man. “And rare honor deserves rare rewards.”

  The man’s eyes widened, then he looked up, his eyes thick with gratitude

  and wonder. Then, surprisingly, he knelt. “A Shardbearer must have a Lord,”

  he said. “Will you accept my Oath, my lord?”

  Merin paused. H
e wasn’t really certain if he was of the right rank to

  take such oaths. He opened his mouth to turn down the offer, but paused

  as he saw the soldiers around him. There was so much respect in their

  eyes—respect and determination. He would need both if he was going to

  help Lord Dalenar.

  We’ll fix it later, he told himself. “Very well,” he said. “I accept your oath . . .”

  “Kalden, my lord,” the man reminded in lightly-accented Aleth.

  “Lord Kalden,” Merin replied. “Your first duty is to spread the word that I want these ships ready to leave as soon as possible. We sail to Alethkar, where we will do to the Veden armies what I did to their Shardbearers

  today.”

  Merin thought that a fitting metaphor, but was completely unprepared

  for the shouts of exuberance and devotion the soldiers gave as Kalden

  translated his words.

  chapter 68

  JASNAH 15

  During the next few days of travel, Jasnah waited in quiet tension,

  expecting to hear the inevitable truth: that the scouts had spotted the

  Veden army approaching from behind.

  The report never came.

  The Herald’s army moved like a wounded animal, fleeing desperately

  for safety, yet hampered by its own weight and broken limbs. Despite the

  anxiety of being chased, theirs was hardly an organized, disciplined group.

  People slept in. Food was distributed inefficiently. Men squabbled, and

  when they approached towns, she often found out too late that some of the

  men had broken orders and sought out a tavern. Desertions continued—but

  strangely, recruits continued to straggle in. Apparently, any large mass of people drew attention, bringing men wanting work or refugees seeking

  sanctuary. Jasnah turned away those she could, but many were persistent,

  and inside she knew that if an attack came, they would need every soldier—

  no matter how unpromising—they could get.

  They traveled for four more days, entering Aneazer’s territory with little circumstance beyond the distant sighting of a few mounted men that might

  have been scouts. Though no one moved to challenge them, Jasnah was

  certain that this was only because of their size. Local or traveling squads would leave them alone, for now. An army of twelve hundred marching

  directly for Jorevan was obviously a matter to be handled by their lord