Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]
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dry until it got sunlight the next day. Suddenly, someone set a cloak on
her shoulders. It was wet too, but was still warm from the body that had
worn it, and her skin relished the delightful heat. It was far too big for her.
“He’s a Taln Pole,” Taln said from beside her, looking at the Awakener.
“The Essence, I mean. Stone. He’s only moderately strong, but he should be able to make enough grain to keep the army fed—at least, on half rations.
It would be unwise to overtax him.”
Jasnah pulled the cloak tighter. Taln looked down at her, meeting her
eyes, and smiled. The shadows she had seen in him before were still there, but they were masked now. “I’ll tell you,” he said, obviously noting the
question in her eyes, “but not right now. Later.”
She sighed. “Very well.”
He nodded thankfully.
She looked down, away from his face. “Taln, I . . . I didn’t think you
would return. I assumed you were dead, that whatever you had planned, it
had failed. I told Meridas otherwise, but he saw the truth in me. I didn’t trust you.” She didn’t know why she spoke; her words sounded foolish in
her ears. Yet she felt a need to somehow explain herself, to expose what
now seemed like such a betrayal.
He chuckled. “I half expected to die myself,” he said. “Almost did,
actually. But then I felt it.”
“It?” Jasnah asked.
Taln held up his Blade—his own sword, the one he had taken back from
Meridas the night before he left. “The presence of my brethren,” he said.
“I feel them, through the sword. They’re here, Jasnah. Ahead, in the Holy
City. They’re waiting for me. I couldn’t die, not until I had found them and knew they would see to your safety.” He raised his head, nodding toward
the camp. “To all of your safety.”
Jasnah frowned. He obviously still held to his delusions. And yet, she
had thought that Lhan was delusional for saying that Taln would survive.
She looked up at Taln. So humble, yet so strong. So innocent, yet still
intelligent. Could she trust without believing? For a moment, she was
almost willing to do so.
“What would they be doing there?” she asked. “Your brethren, I mean.
Jorevan is ruled by a tyrant.”
“Someone controls the Holy City?” Taln asked.
Jasnah nodded. “He calls himself Lord Aneazer, and he claims to rule
the surrounding area, dominating the nearby towns.”
Taln frowned. “He has an army, then?”
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“A large one,” Jasnah said. “At least, for a single city, and for a despot in Riemak.”
Taln nodded knowingly. “It makes sense. This wouldn’t be the first time
we’ve been forced to work with undesirable allies, assuming there were no
others to be found.”
“It’s going to be difficult to get you into the city,” Jasnah warned.
“We’ll manage it,” Taln said, smiling.
She smiled, then paused, her logical side giving whispered warning.
“Taln,” she finally said. “Remember your promise. If they aren’t there, if . . .
for some reason, we don’t find the Heralds, you said you’d return with me
to Alethkar.”
Taln just shook his head. He reached out, touching her lightly on the
shoulder, and Jasnah felt herself blush slightly.
“Ah, Lady Kholin,” he said. “Someday you’re going to have to lose that
skepticism of yours. We’ll find them, you’ll see. You’re just going to have to learn to trust me.”
Trust me. His hand remained on her shoulder, almost tender in its touch.
Finally she just shook her head. “Well,” she said, “we shall see. For now, let’s take you to Meridas. I wouldn’t want to miss his expression when he
sees for himself that you have returned from the dead.”
chapter 69
DALENAR 6
Each boy Dalenar struck down seemed to have the face of one of
his sons. Aredor died a tenset times before him, his eyes those of every
Shardbearer Dalenar slew. Poor Renarin seemed to be every frightened
spearman, boys with lives and loves, but whose worth was rendered as
naught because they couldn’t face a Shardblade. Even Sheneres, now years
dead, appeared in the proud faces of the noblemen Dalenar fought.
Dalenar kil ed them anyway. This was war; this was death. Through most
of the Pralir campaign he had remained at the command tower, directing
the carnage from afar. This time he could not stay back—he could not order his soldiers to kill their cousins and brothers while he rested far from the terrible work. So, he fought amidst them, Shardblade making the air red
with his guilt.
He killed tensets of men. He fought with the horrible, full capacity of a
Shardbearer—a warrior virtually untouchable by regular troops. And yet,
that didn’t stop them. The men were Aleth soldiers, well-trained and disciplined. They attacked with coordination, knowing that it was occasionally
possible for a group of twenty to pull down a Shardbearer then slip past
his armor with knives or spearheads. They knew that if someone didn’t face Dalenar, he would simply cut through their ranks, decimating them anyway.
And so they died. Occasionally, one of Elhokar’s remaining Shardbear-
ers would appear to challenge Dalenar, and a duel would follow. Dalenar
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followed Protocol, but it was a dirty, battlefield kind of Protocol. He had slain five Shardbearers before the afternoon sun was overhead—most of
them young men who had, just months before, fought for honor in the
dueling competition.
Dalenar faced courtly acquaintances, distant cousins, and even friends.
These were the worst, for he knew some of them to be men of honor—men
who believed that it was their duty to follow the throne regardless of the king’s actions. Dalenar understood their decision; in slightly different
circumstances, he knew he would be with them, fighting at Elhokar’s side.
He killed them. Somewhere near late afternoon, he began to lose the
melancholy reticence that had afflicted him for most of the Pralir campaign.
Old spirits awakened—passions that were a memory of the old Dalenar,
the man before he became known as Tyrantbane, the man who had slain
hundreds on the battlefield, and had enjoyed every moment of it.
As afternoon passed, he began to fight with fury instead of shame.
Within his heart, he knew that this war was not about duty. He spoke
of Elhokar’s offenses and inability to lead, but the would-be honor within Dalenar would not accept those reasonings. As the anger came free, giving
him strength once simple resolve tired, Dalenar was forced to admit
that this was no war of justice. It was a war of vengeance.
As evening approached, it became increasingly obvious who would win
this day. Elhokar had suffered massive desertions the two nights before
the battle, and while many had not joined with Dalenar instead, some
had—including a fair number of Shardbearers. Elhokar’s towers fell early
in the battle, as per Dalenar’s battle-orders, and Dalenar’s Shardbearers
put heavy pressure on the infantry—forcing Elhokar to commit his own
Shardbearers to duels. By noon, the forces were balanced. By early evening, Dalenar held
a strong advantage. Without men to duel them, Dalenar’s
Shardbearers sheared through the regular troops almost unhindered.
Elhokar would not surrender. Dalenar had known that the boy wouldn’t,
and within the fury, Dalenar didn’t really care. He remained rational—he
hadn’t entered a mindless frenzy. Yet, he could kill without pain. Guilt and questioning were fed to the anger, allowing Dalenar to continue without
their annoying buzzings. The old, frightening joy returned—the thrill of a perfect battle, the excitement of facing a foe and proving yourself his better.
It wasn’t about fair contests or duels; it was about destroying, and knowing the power of having destroyed.
And then he saw Echathen.
His friend’s light blue Shardplate ran red with the blood of his enemies,
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many of whom lay in pieces at his feet. The ground was damp and pooling
with the lives of the fallen, and Echathen swept through a squad of heavy
infantrymen, his Blade easily cutting down the well-armored men, whose
bulk made for difficult maneuvering.
Echathen smiled as he fought. Dalenar knew that smile, he felt its
strength within himself. Yet, when he saw the pleasure in Echathen’s eyes, something shattered within Dalenar. He stopped mid-swing, though his
honor guard quickly finished off the man he had been about to kill.
Dalenar lowered his Blade and looked down at his bloodstained armor,
then at the bodies around him. Aredor, Renarin, and Sheneres looked back
at him again.
I cannot do this, he thought sickly. I cannot be this man again.
He stood for a moment, suddenly feeling old, sore, and impossibly tired.
Then he raised his blade and pointed toward Echathen, indicating for his
honor guard to meld with those of the Khardinar lord.
Echathen gave Dalenar a broad smile as he approached. “I feel alive
again, Dalenar!” he said. “Like before everything went wrong, before the
traitor, Pralir, and that fool boy took the throne!”
Dalenar could not express the disgust he felt for his old friend at that
moment. He knew, however, that he had to reserve an equal portion of
that same disgust for himself.
“The battle is going too long,” Dalenar said over the din of fighting.
Was it really that loud, or were his ears simply ringing after countless—yet ineffective—strikes to his helm? “We have obviously won the day; Elhokar
needs to surrender.”
“I don’t think he intends to,” Echathen replied.
Dalenar shook his head, scanning the battlefield. “I don’t intend to kill
every lad here, Echathen. These are our people—their only fault is loyalty to their king. Perhaps if we pull back, there will be more desertions tonight.”
“Pull back?” Echathen asked, waving for his honor guard to form a
perimeter so the to lords could continue talking. It was a barely necessary gesture—few squads of men were willing to attack a pair of Shardbearers
who seemed to have no intent on killing for the moment.
“Retreat when we’re winning so soundly?” Echathen asked. “Dalenar,
you know as I do that we need to continue. The victory must be decisive,
otherwise those factions loyal to your nephew might get ideas a few years
down the line.”
Dalenar looked up, toward the sun. There were still several hours of
daylight remaining, and Echathen was probably right. Show weakness now,
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when his reign was beginning, and Dalenar might have to fight another
war soon thereafter.
You’re already calling it ‘your reign,’ he realized. What of Ahrden? What of your promise to abdicate when the boy reaches age?
“It must be done, Dalenar,” Echathen said. “You must be firm—at least,
until we find and dispatch Elhokar. I’m surprised he hasn’t sought you out, actually.”
“So am I,” Dalenar said with a frown. Striking out to duel Dalenar
directly was exactly the sort of brash move he had expected from Elhokar.
“Perhaps the boy’s more clever than we give him credit,” Dalenar said.
“He’s fought with me for years, and I with him—he’ll know what I expect
him to do. That in itself is good enough reason not to do it.”
Echathen shrugged, then sighed slightly, stretching an arm where the
Shardplate was scarred from a duel. While the light of destruction had
not completely left Echathen’s eyes, it had abated somewhat. By unspoken
agreement, the two lords commanded their honor guards to lead them back
to safety, where they could rest for a time and reassess the battle strategies.
At their mobile camp a short distance away, Dalenar was pleased to find
that his engineers had managed to right one of the captured towers. As
Echathen went to replace his tarnished pauldron with a spare off a man he
had killed, Dalenar forced himself to climb the ladder up three flights to the top of the tower.
He ignored salutes, feeling his fatigue as he made his way to the front
of the tower and scanned the visible battlefield. The war was going even
more poorly for Elhokar than he had assumed below. The king’s forces were
boxed together with only marginal chances for a retreat, and Dalenar’s
forces were making headway on the fourth flank.
You foolish, foolish boy, he thought with a sigh. What had gone wrong?
How had the child turned out so differently from the father? Was it because Nolhonarin had been absent so often, campaigning to restore Alethkar’s
borders? Had it been because of his obvious favoritism of Jasnah? Despite
his reverence for the fallen man, Dalenar was forced to admit the grand flaw of his brother’s reign. Somehow, the great king had failed his kingdom in a way more subtle than he would have ever acknowledged—by ignoring his
heir, Nolhonarin had left his people with a failure for a king.
“That boy just doesn’t know when he’s beaten,” Echathen said, clomping
across the tower top. He stepped up beside Dalenar, handing over a waterskin.
Dalenar took a long drink. He was tempted to wash the blood free from
his armor, but it seemed a futile gesture. More would simply follow.
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“Perhaps I could make him an offer,” Dalenar said. “His surrender in
exchange for banishment.”
“So he could raise an army to come get back his throne?” Echathen
asked.
Dalenar shook his head. His musings were simply that—he knew what
needed to be done. He moved to go—there were still men he had to kill.
As he turned, however, he promised himself one reserved vow. He would
not enjoy the killing. The men he slew deserved that much, at least.
Echathen didn’t follow. Dalenar turned, frowning at his friend. “You
coming?”
Echathen didn’t respond. He leaned against the tower rail, squinting.
“Dalenar, do you see something—there, to the southwest?”
Dalenar paused, then walked back up to join his friend. He followed the
gesture. “There is something there,” he realized. It looked like a shadow, but there were no clouds in the sky . . .
“An army,” Echathen breathed. “By the Almighty, that’s why he keeps
fighting. He’s managed to get reinforcements from somewhere!”
Dalenar cursed, realizing Echathen was right. He pulle
d off his helm,
wiping his brow as he called for aids and messengers. He would not be
returning to the battlefield anytime soon—reinforcements changed their
battle plan severely, and he would need to direct troop reassignments.
“How many, would you say?” Echathen asked.
Dalenar looked up from the piecemeal battle map thrown together by
his scouts. The new army was close now—it was moving at a very quick
march. Only an hour had passed since Echathen had pointed it out, but it
was already nearing the battlefield.
“I don’t know,” Dalenar said somberly. “Looks like at least forty-thousand by scout reports.”
Echathen whistled softly. The Khardin lord had removed his helm and
gauntlets, and stood with his bald head exposed. He had wiped most of
the blood away.
“Don’t forget,” Dalenar said, turning back to the map. “You’re the one
who persuaded me to do this in the first place. You’re not allowed to get
timid now.”
“Oh, I’m not worried,” Echathen assured with a smile. “I just want to
make certain we have an accurate count—for when the ballads are sung.”
Dalenar snorted, but he could feel little mirth at the comment. The
reports were not good. His men were tired and wounded; their retreat
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would be slow. He had lost nearly a third of his force, and while Elhokar
had suffered far worse, that wouldn’t matter now. Dalenar’s troops could
not stand against three-to-one odds, especially if the reinforcement army
hadn’t been marching long.
The only option was to do Elhokar had not. Dalenar had cursed the boy’s
pride in not surrendering, but now the situation was reversed. If Dalenar gave himself up, most of his men would undoubtedly be spared—Elhokar would
need them too much, considering the losses he had suffered. Only Dalenar—
and probably his generals, Shardbearers, and high lords—would need die.
Echathen obviously saw the look in Dalenar’s eyes. “There’s not going to
be a ballad about this day, is there?”
“Not unless it’s one with a very depressing ending,” Dalenar said. “We’ll
try a retreat, but it took us too long to disengage. They’ll give chase, and they’ll catch us. After that . . .”